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Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Mystical Nights by Adonis Mann

Greetings Readers, Writers and Precious Patrons! In case you were unaware, May is National Short Story Month. As part of this month, representatives from the All Authors Publishing House will be stopping by to share snippets of their short stories.

Today Adonis Mann stopped by to share an excerpt from Mystical Nights, a story that was featured in Crackles of the Heart.

Title: Mystical Nights
From: Crackles of the Heart: Divergent Ink Book 1
Publisher: All Authors Publishing House
Genre: Mild Erotica
Author Website:
She only came to me at night. Like an abysmal dark silhouette against a moderately dark pavement which glistened with the scarce light of the moon. Her presence was undeniable. I liked it that way. It kept the mystery, and in turn, my interest.

A gust of wind caused the white, sheer curtain on the only window in my room to dance. The light from the new moon permeated the room causing blue-gray rays to cross its expanse. Yet, there she was. A phantom. A phantasm of desire and wantonness. Real and surreal. A combination, though inexplicable, also intoxicating. The way she swayed her hips. The way she used her hands to lift the thick tresses of her hair just enough to allow her figure to come into focus. Black against pale gray. The rhythm of her movement seemed natural yet mystical. A temptress, a jezebel.

Oh, how I longed to feel her against me!

Only at night. The light of day had not blessed me with the sight of her. The sun, had yet to shine its splendor on her enchantment. Even still, I remained captivated by the incarceration that just she could furnish. I was a fool, yes. A grand nitwit for allowing her to seduce me this way. Nevertheless, I gave in happily—delighted with her snare. I wanted to be her pet. I wanted her to be my master.
A few scant things were barely visible in the sparse lighting. The bows of a bikini top and bottom at the bridges of her shoulders, as well as the curves of her hips. The heavy waves of her hair that fell like streams down her sides and back. That was it. Yet, it was always enough.

“Michael,” she whispered. Her voice like a mellow breeze on a fine spring night. “Touch me.”

Her wish was my command. Getting to my feet, I walked slowly to her wafting shadow and wrapped my hands around her waist, content to dance to the beat of her silent drum.

“More…!” she demanded. “Touch me here.” Then she took my hands, tracing her shape slowly, she placed them on her breasts. The firm and tender mounds melded to the imprints of my fingers as I massaged them.

“Yes…” she moaned.

“Why haven’t you told me your name yet?” I asked, just as I had hundreds of times before.

She never rose her voice more than a whisper, and I was certain that this was a mind game, a murmuring of lust traced with sensual innuendo. Still, I basked in its indulgence. “My name isn’t important. But … this is.” With those two final words she grabbed my manhood and stroked it with command.

It was hers, I was hers. That’s the way I liked it.