A clever erotic tale with a modern twist
“Impromptu” an erotic story by Renatto Garcia
Outside it was late July and the heat afforded the Valley very little mercy. But inside the suite the air conditioning was flush on her bare skin, bristling the tiny beads of moisture on the hairs along her arms and the thin patch between her legs. The room lights were off as she walked from the shower, never reaching for a towel, caught in collusive shadows that concealed her from the world. She walked across the bedroom to the windows, her feet sinking into the soft carpet, leaving faint prints in her trail.
The sunlight poured in fiercely, but spanned only as far as the bed, framing on the floor a perfect rectangular boundary of light and darkness. At its edge, Katie’s toes floundered.
From where she stood she overlooked the 101 rolled back with cars as far as her eyes would reach. The sun bounced off the metal hoods and glass and even the asphalt seemed to melt in the heat, fusing the rubber to its surface.
He would be sitting in traffic now, about ready to pull his hair out. Somewhere near Sepulveda Pass on the 405, surrounded on both sides by flatbeds and fourteen-wheelers, passing beneath Mulholland, approaching the 101 split. He would have the windows rolled down, she was certain. Maybe thinking about Valerie or one of the other skinny sluts in his office. He’d be smoking cigarette after cigarette, discarding and lighting them almost simultaneously, relying on them to keep him sane during rush hour. He would have tugged his tie down, pulled open his collar. His shirt would be clinging to his back and chest, both damp with sweat. He’d be trying to ease his breathing; perhaps with his eyes shut, try to negate the stifling heat, the smell of exhaust in his nostrils, the tightness in his legs, the burn in his chest from the cigarettes, the overall, general, L.A.-traffic based damn feeling of hate for the world!
Katie glanced to her left. In that corner of the cheval mirror, her reflection stared back at her. A smile tilted the right cheek, turned the ends of the lips up. Maybe it was the heat that she’d just escaped, or the shower that had washed its remnants away, or the way the two mixed to create a sort of languid boldness within her. She felt lush and heavy with sexual urge, her body opulent with prurience and smooth contours, and those curves of her hips and the expansive heaps of breasts suddenly rimmed with lasciviousness. In the mirror, they looked–ravishing, worthy of being ravished.
"Mirror Mirror" by Stephen Perry
Katie stepped into the light.
She let the sun roam over her, touching every bit, licking every spot she would demand later that he minister to. The heat evaporated the moisture left from the shower–steam rose from her, from her neck and her stomach and between her ample breasts, those minute chaplets pinned to the tips of her nipples.
Traffic would be killing him.
It was time for her to spark some life in him again.
She snatched the package off the bed, turned it over, and dropped its contents over the silk covers. She glanced back over her shoulder at the mirror. Her backside was a marvel, truly. Something to grab onto for dear life, he’d said. And he often had. That smile, though, her smile–it’d be a shame when it no longer graced her expression, but for now the sight of that grin made her the full embodiment of sex.
She was ready in record time.
On her cell, she sent him a text:
WHERE ARE YOU?
Quickly, he responded:
SO CLOSE TO VENTURA, I CAN SMELL IT. WISH I WAS WITH YOU
Right answer. She dialed his number; he picked up after the first ring.
“I’ve gone shopping,” she said. “And I want to model for you.”
“Hell, I’ll be lucky if I make it in twenty minu–”
She struck a pose in front of the mirror, snapped a picture, and sent it to him.
“Damn,” he said, voice genuine. “Christ, baby, I’ve always maintained that black was your color–but that is–”
She did look good, damn good, in the black bodyslip dress. She slipped one of the straps down her arm, then the other, tugged it over the black Le Mystere swirl bra and the tender white flesh eager to overflow. She snapped off another picture, sent that as well.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
She moved swiftly, as if possessed, grabbing and flinging garments in a flurry.
“Jesus, what are you trying to do to me?”
His phone beeped again. Another picture. Dressed in an eyelet embroidered baby doll. In front of the mirror, she bent slightly at the waist and knees, placed her hands on her thighs. Her breasts hung down beautifully, abundantly.
“Oh...”
Then one in a red baby doll made of lace and satin weave. Her fingers teased the cut-away front, just far enough for a glimpse–of sumptuous thigh, waist, of no underwear beneath.
“Ah...”
She could hear his mouth water, sense the temperature inside him rising two notches, easy. Other things would be rising, too, no doubt about it. Another beep, another picture. On the bed, arched backwards in a jacquard tapestry satin corset, front unleashed, allowing her rich bosom to surge forth against Venice lace.
She was breathing hard from exertion, changing outfits and snapping pictures, and just the excitement had made her knees weak. From the other end, his breathing mirrored hers.
“You weren’t kidding,” he said. “It was a shopping binge.”
“There’s one more. The most important I’ll wear tonight.”
“Can’t wait.”
She pressed the SEND button.
She gave him just long enough. Long enough to tap the VIEW icon, long enough to train his eyes, to take in the frame, the reflection in the mirror, the clothes littered on the floor and the bed, every article she’d worn heaped in piles. No centered sight of her. She gave him long enough to maybe scratch his head, look closer. Long enough to notice a moving figure, blurred in the corner of the picture, but the ivory flesh was visible. Solid throughout (the color of nakedness), and the sonorous mounds that led and the firm globules that followed. Then she said:
“Hurry home.”
Before she hung up, she thought she heard the sound of peeling rubber, tires screeching against pavement, as perhaps he made a sharp cut into the exit, heart racing, blood pumping, hands squeezing the steering wheel.
No thought in his mind for Valerie, or any of the skinny sluts from the office.
Originally published January 2010