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
Book
Purchase Link:
https://www.amazon.com/Crackles-Heart-Divergent-DaKharta-Rising-ebook/dp/B0112B2SOQ
Goodreads
Link: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8634657.Adonis_Mann
Author Website: http://adonismann.com
Excerpt:
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.
