Four writers for the price of one blog
Erotica by Redbud
She’s at the bank. She stands in line. The line is one among five. The plate glass windows, at her back, are floor to ceiling. They vibrate with traffic and flash with sunlight from windshields. A revolving door swishes quicker, then slows, then quickens. The marble floor is mirror smooth. The high heels of women click. The leather soles of men scuff. The pattern of the floor is that of a compass, shades of beige divided by borders of brass.
The air smells of ink, paper, cologne and make-up. She stands on the floor in black high heels. She wears a gray skirt that covers her knees. The woolen skirt fits tightly over buttocks, hips and waist. She wears a white blouse, a pearl necklace, and holds her jacket in the crook of her elbow. A black leather satchel is swung over her shoulder. Her hair is a dark brown and drawn back in a bun.
A man approaches behind her. He’s the next in line. She doesn’t notice him until he speaks. His voice is welcome, loved and a surprise. He tells her not to turn. He speaks quietly in her ear. She can hear the smile in his words. He tells her that he also has to make a deposit. She doesn’t turn. Her smile changes to another kind of smile as he continues. He tells her that he’s wearing her favorite suit – the sharp, Italian suit that is black. She knows he wears the leather shoes that pop when he puts them on. Oh yes, she imagines hearing them as he guides her into her own apartment. She imagines the press of his fingers, uncompromising, at the small of her back; and how that touch tingles in her tailbone.
For now, in the lobby of the bank, he tells her, whispering, that her business suit hides nothing. Everybody knows what she’s really like. He tells her he wants to bend her over, ruggedly pushed her to her hands and knees, and to hike her skirt over her hips. He has half a mind to do it – right now, right here in the lobby. With hips like hers, he says, nobody would be surprised. No one would object if he filled her from behind. No would be surprised if he tightly held her hair. With tits like hers, no one would think twice if she panted, if her knees slipped on the cool marble, always wider as she tried to close them. No one would bat an eye if he spurted somewhere in her belly, somewhere under the tight seam of her skirt.
He gives her a telltale kiss behind her ear, where the blood is tender beneath the skin, and the slightest wisps of hair rise. When she steps up to the black slate counter, she signs her checks with a shaky scrawl. She makes a mistake summing her deposit – just a little slip. The teller might or might not notice the telltale curvature of her spine or smell the involuntary scent of her thighs.