We’re kicking off Week Two of my Two Weeks of Tasty Tasters, with a succulent guest blog from the wonderful Sharazade…
Something about traveling can bring your blood to the boil: Is it the exotic locales? The chance encounters with attractive strangers? The break from the routine? These nine sizzling tales of love and lust on the move capture a few of these scenarios: A single woman, wandering the dusty corridors of an old bookstore, runs across a book of erotic woodcuts… and a man with like interests. A slide presentation at an Alaska hotel has some of the guests squirming. A long train ride offers a young woman a chance to examine how she truly feels about her body … with two other passengers. Two lovers on a business trip to Japan confront their problems and their passions in a steamy outdoor bath. A man on a layover makes excellent use of his downtime. Told from both male and female points of view, Sharazade’s inventive stories of goings and … well, you know … will have you at the edge of your window seat, spinning your own fantasies about the unexplored potential of planes, trains, and hotels.
Why did I chose this story?
“Flaws” was a combination story for me, the combination of a problem and a setting. The setting is actually largely autobiographical—a long cross-country train trip I took in my 20’s. This was back in the dark ages, not only before I was partnered but before AIDS and a general fear of sex and strangers that I feel “out there” now, when meeting a sexy stranger on a train could indeed lead to an evening of “Well, why not?”
The problem is also one that’s been with me a long time, and it centers around attractiveness and confidence. Like the heroine of “Flaws,” I have long been told—and indeed, completely believe—that confidence is sexy. If you feel you look great, then you do. OK, but … what if you don’t feel you look great? Then you don’t. And you know it. And so how do you climb out of that hole? It isn’t a matter of giving yourself a stern talking to. You can’t just say, “OK, now I will believe I look great! Whew! Problem solved!” So I wanted to write about someone who knew intellectually about the value of confidence, and yet just didn’t have it. She does know on one level that the “flaws” she sees in her body are ridiculous, and yet … and yet she still feels them.
So when she meets a handsome stranger on an Amtrak train (which I can assure you is entirely possible), she’s both drawn to him and uncertain. This excerpt shows you the flaws she thinks she has and then what happens when that handsome stranger takes her back to his train compartment on the pretext of offering her to let him use his shower (see, being wealthier, he’s paid for a nicer compartment).
My nipples sag. Not my breasts; they’re not that large, for one thing, and I’m not that old. I mean my actual nipples. I have large ones, like pencil erasers. When erect—from cold or sexual arousal—they stick straight out. Men love that and give them a lot of attention (which is great because they’re also super-sensitive). But…when they’re just normal (at rest, you might say) they droop downwards. If I stood sideways and looked in a mirror, I’d see pert, full breasts…with sagging nipples.
So that’s one flaw.
As if sagging nipples weren’t enough, I also have a scar on my chest about an inch long, just off the center breast bone. It didn’t use to bother me. I’ve had it so long I just never thought about it. But Adam wouldn’t touch it. Seriously—he’d paw all over my chest but somehow miss that tiny patch of territory. That’s when I knew it was a flaw.
Even lovers haven’t seen all my flaws. A surprising amount can be hidden by artfully arranging clothing, or holding the body in the right position, or simply turning out the light. I read somewhere that Barbra Streisand won’t let anyone photograph her from her left side. The article was trying to make out that she’s a bit eccentric, but I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Then there’s my belly—that’s definitely a flaw. It’s not what you’re thinking. I’m not fat. I know that. I could even be called slim. But I have this roll of belly flab that will not go away. Dieting, sit-ups, you name it, it doesn’t work. I think I’ve spent the better part of my life sucking in my stomach. The best position for sex is lying on my back, so the flabby part sort of flattens out. Even better is if I have a pillow under my back so I can arch my chest. Plus, if my chest is leaning very slightly back, my nipples don’t sag. Then all I need to do is artfully arrange one arm across my chest to hide my scar, and I don’t look so bad. As long as I don’t move, that is.
Maybe my most embarrassing flaw is my pussy lips. Or lip. Because one is larger
than the other. No kidding. A pussy should be symmetrical, right? Each side the same? But the right lip is noticeably larger than the left. When I was younger, I thought it might be from the way I masturbated, like I’d built up the muscle on the right side by rubbing too much from that direction. I taught myself to masturbate with my left hand in an attempt to even things out. Of course it didn’t work, though at least now I’m an ambidextrous masturbater. Because my pussy looks so weird, I don’t like to let lovers look at it. I can usually arrange for the lights to be out by the time things get to that stage, or for the lower half of my body, at least, to be in bed under the covers. I’m a bit nervous about oral sex, too, even in the dark, although I sure do love the way it feels. Can a guy tell just from touching that something’s wrong with one side of me? I’m never sure, which makes it hard to relax.
His compartment is small, and I accidentally brush against him as I enter the room. (I was right; he is well-muscled.) The bed is actually a bunk with a lower and upper berth. There’s a full-length mirror on one wall, and a little doorway on the other side that must lead to the bathroom area. He has two suitcases, which seems a bit extravagant. Perhaps one needs a wealth of material to describe the deeds of Herbert Hoover, or maybe he’s just a clothes horse. Some men are. Now that I’m in his room, I feel a bit awkward. How exactly am I going to take a shower? Surely he’d have to leave for a while? But he makes no move to go, and I feel too shy to ask. To cover my nervousness, I lean over the bottom bunk and look out the window. Of course it’s dark, so I can’t see a thing. Now I must look like a complete idiot. Maybe he’ll think I want to see the stars or something.
Suddenly I feel his hand on me, on my side. Startled, I jump up and back into him—there being nowhere else in the little room to go—and now both his arms are around me, turning me to face him. He looks at me without speaking and brushes away a lock of hair with his hand. Oh. My. Okay, I didn’t know this was on his mind. I didn’t suspect this at all. I’m so naïve. Or just dumb. I don’t know what to do. I make a sort of a half move to go, but his arms are firm and keep me there.
And then he kisses me. Oh god. It feels so, so good. I haven’t been kissed in so long. His kisses are gentle, but firm, and … confident. Unbelievably sexy. I give in and kiss him back. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe he’d want to kiss me, but he does. Our kisses grow more passionate, and now his hands are traveling over my body, caressing my back, squeezing my ass, pulling me to him. I think again that I have to get out of here before it goes any further … and then I think, well, why not stay? Why not? I’m young, I’m single, I’m on a train, I’m here with an absolute dreamboat of a guy who wants me. Who cares if it’s only because he couldn’t find anyone better? He’s with me now, and it feels amazing. And with some new confidence that surprises me, I slip my hands under his shirt to feel his body. He takes this as a sign to remove his shirt. I was right—he has an amazing body, smooth and strong. And now his hands are under my shirt too, lifting it over my head.
Oh god. Oh no. I’ve just remembered. It’s not a flaw, exactly, because it’s something I can fix, but … I also have a few hairs that grow on my nipples, at the edges of my areolas. They’re not normally a problem. I just pluck them out. But I haven’t checked in several days, and I don’t know if they’re there now or not. The light in the cabin is certainly strong enough that he’d see them if he looked down. What can I do? I consider breaking away and saying I need to go to the bathroom. Then I could check for hairs and try to pull them out with my fingers if necessary. But won’t it look weird to leap out of his arms like that?
While I’m trying to decide what is worse—if I bolted into the bathroom or if he noticed a few nipple hairs—I’ve lost my chance. He’s got my shirt off and is unhooking my bra and … it’s too late. Each hand is caressing a breast now. I don’t dare look down, so I just close my eyes. His hands feel heavenly, touching me with firm, sensuous strokes, his fingers pinching my nipples. I feel that rush of warmth between my legs.
He bends down to kiss my breasts. At least I don’t need to worry about sagging nipples now, because they’re taut and erect, aching for his kisses and light bites. And then … he stands back up and moves a little away from me. I open my eyes to see what he’s doing. He’s looking at me. He’s looking right at my chest, touching as he examines me. He traces my scar with his forefinger. I look at his face to see what he’s thinking, but I can’t really tell. He runs his finger back and forth over my scar and then bends to kiss it. Yes, kisses it, as if it’s something desirable, while his hands cup my breasts, thumbs teasing my nipples. Then his mouth and hands are all over me, and soon I can’t worry about anything anymore—scar, hairs, anything—because I’m lost in the sensations. By the time he raises his head to kiss my mouth again, I’m desperate for more, and I find myself unbuckling his belt and fumbling with his zipper—much bolder than usual. He helps me remove his jeans, and I rub against him. He’s incredibly hard, and I rub his cock through the fabric of his boxers, teasing him.
He slides my pants and underwear down in one move, and I step out of them and pull his boxers down as well. We’re now both standing completely naked, kissing, hands roaming everywhere. I turn our bodies so that my backside is facing that awful mirror. I have a pretty good backside, actually, so I don’t mind if he sees it in the mirror. In fact, I kind of hope he does. With my front pressed into his body, my belly fat is hidden. My nipples aren’t sagging, my scar doesn’t bother him, and pussy lips don’t show when I’m standing up. So this is a pretty good position. The rocking of the train from side to side keeps throwing us slightly off balance, and we cling to each other for support, kissing and caressing.
Suddenly, I hear a key in the cabin door…
Huge thanks to Sharazade for sharing Flaws with us today- I am not exaggerating when I say it is one of my favourite erotic short stories of all time.
If you’d like to buy Transported, it is available from Amazon and all good retailers.