"Stakes Up Higher" an erotic short story by Donnie Magazino

Can a city smell like sex?

Las Vegas somehow smelled like a sweaty, doggy-style shagging in the backstage makeup room during a Wayne Newton show. Even the steady rattle of slot machines, floating above the chatter of polyester-clad fortune seekers, conspired to make Eric horny. This place taunted, brazenly ready for anything.

In years past, before the kids, before those awkward dinners alone when Eric stayed up late grading papers, before the extra flab, he might have been  tempted to urge his wife into a Vegas romp; to stay in an outrageously stylish hotel room. But that jet-lag scowl she wore already told him “no”. This was compounded by his gawking stare at the cocktail waitress' long, sturdy stems.

After a quick try on a slot machine and a wallet-draining visit to the blackjack table he spotted his wife gesturing upward as if to say, “I'm tired. I'm going up to our hotel room to drift into a forty hour nap.” He nodded and spun around seeking some fun that wouldn't result in immediate divorce proceedings.

He found only more avenues of sin: cocktail waitresses sporting dangerously playful pouts; adventure-seeking cougars one drink away from giving a blowjob in the parking lot, and sweet-smiling jailbait with 38 double-Ds. Was everyone in this tawdry town on a mission to send him home with a pants-expanding erection? He'd have to cool down before joining his wife upstairs. Not an easy task with such unabashed carnality displaying itself at every turn. After another quick try on a slot machine, he headed for the elevator, shirt tugged down to conceal his mischievously swelling manhood.

Inside the elevator, that Vegas vibe still rattled away. Even the Elvis song – Hunk of Burning Love – piped in through tinny speakers teasingly chronicled his rock-hard dilemma. Then a second passenger came aboard and he had to contain himself. Good luck.

She boasted silky blond locks a million times sexier than his wife's frizzy nest of dark red hair. Her lips glistened with a slick sheen that promised a soft, tender touch and her wordless half-grin announced an awareness of the torture he was enduring. Luckily she was clad in a trench coat, probably concealing an assortment of curves that would have sent him into an even greater state of torment. But his imagination happily stepped forward to fill in the blanks. And as the door closed and she stepped to his side it was all he could do to stifle a gasp.

He also had to imagine her eyes, tucked away behind sunglasses. They could have been aquamarine or a haunting shade of hazel. After an accidental brush from her hand, he was sixteen again, uncomfortably sharing space with a gorgeous girl he could never have while sporting an engorged cock that begged for contact.

"So… enjoying Vegas?" he offered.

She nodded. This was worse than death.

"I’m Eric," he said, just trying to kill the silence.

She leaned into his trembling body, and whispered, "Irena."

"Is that Russian? Because I seem to recall a Chekhov novel with –"

She silenced him with a kiss, one arm clasped around his shaking shoulders, the other deftly pushing a button that brought the elevator to a stop and killed the lights.

But the King still faithfully crooned away, soul on fire, chest a-heaving. The darkened bodies melted together with an intensity that seemed natural, inevitable. His hands fumbled for entry into her coat while trading heated kisses and feverishly grinding legs.

Once inside he grabbed her waist and propped her against the wall. There were more clothes to come off, more body parts to explore, but the breathless pair seemed determined to savor every second of this, every aimless lick, every bite, every thrust that sent its target into another wave of shuddering passion.

Soon she was facing the wall, hands gripping the rail as her lover shredded every scrap of clothing from her passion-heated body. And then a pause.

"Beauty Defined" by Elena Vasilieva

Her back arched inward, easing her ass into his face, athletically showing her eagerness, her desire to be filled with him. And in case the hint eluded him, she squeezed out an “I’m ready” between heavy breaths. But now it was his turn to torture.

His hands traveled from both inner thighs to her ready love-mound. A moist tongue followed and lost itself in the maze of her dripping wet cunt. He teased her with licks and tickles, finding the sweetest spot, taunting it with the promise of heightened joy, only to find another spot, and another, and another. The moans eased out of her like the final spurts of a dying vacuum cleaner.

"I want you inside me," she ordered. And he rose from his knees only too happy to comply.

His hungry cock poked for an opening, hoping to ease inside, but was denied entry on its first few tries. Undeterred Eric composed himself and slowly found his way to her promise land. He then probed deeper and deeper still, filling her up and finding parts insider her she'd seemingly forgotten about.

They locked into a rhythm, dancing their way, step by step to the very peak of this mountain, each of his thrusts growing in power, growing in fury, growing inside her, unlocking something that jolted her head back and her mouth wide open, her eyes squeezed violently shut. And with each of these spasmodic moves he countered with shuddering steps of his own: quivering hips, rubbery legs, a suddenly board-stiff back.

Everything collided together in his and hers Earth-rattling climaxes. She sputtered out the choppy grunts of a non-English speaker in the throes of agony and he stayed inside her shaking body until the waves had rippled past them, still echoing like the sweet song of a choir.

He wanted the lights on, so he fumbled with buttons and levers and switches until his mystery vixen was showered in a flattering glow.

And there she was, in his arms like she belonged there.

But his clumsy return from the light switch caused a collapse. Their weakened knees dropped together and found a firm home on the elevator's plush carpeting. Their sudden fall sent Irena's wig and sunglasses tumbling away, revealing a frizzy nest of dark red hair that floated above the widened eyes and mischievous grin of his once-frigid wife.

"You naughty girl," he said with a chuckle. And they shared a giggle that might have belonged to a much younger couple; a bright-eyed pair still relishing the first taste of each other's warm bodies.

Originally published Septembr 2009