Wishing to add to the Pamela series, I wanted a second series of stories that differ in a number of ways. These stories will all be shorter, in fact, exactly the same - 1,000 words. They are to be written in a very different style, and one that I am totally indebted to another of the Literotica family, Pointyplay for her inspiration. Coming across her creations I was immediately taken by her ability to generate erotic tension with few words, leaving much of the story to the reader's imagination. 'Less is more' would be her mantra. I was, and still am, utterly captivated with the first of her stories that I read: The Window. Read it, and enjoy being aroused.
So, this is the first of my efforts in this genre and I would, very much, welcome constructive feedback.
***
The routine, tradition, whatever one might call it.
Trip to town on Saturday afternoon, meet the guys.
Couple of pints, laugh and joke, footy on TV.
What could be better?
Well, one thing ...
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Skip the footy, leave the others.
Just a few streets away, down by the quay.
The 'Pleasure Parlour', why not?
Booked a slot ... didn't quite mean that!
Three o'clock until four, done.
-- -- -- --
Five days to go, excited.
Couldn't stop thinking about it.
Pick a girl when you get there, no 'reservations'.
What would I like?
Blonde, brunette, redhead, who knows?
Skinny, slender, curvaceous, voluptuous?
Four days to go, seemed a long time.
Three days, sort of on the near horizon.
Starting to feel a little nervous.
Two days, nervous isn't the word.
Just don't turn up, why not?
Who's to know it was me?
Gave a false name, no phone number.
Must happen all the time, no-shows.
But the excitement, the thought of it.
Tomorrow is the day, a firm conviction.
Going to do it, yes, no backing out.
-- -- -- --
Standing at the bar return.
Weight moving from one foot to the other, nervous.
Newspaper unread on the counter.
Cool beer to hand, untouched.
Focus alternating from the barmaid's denim-clad arse to the clock.
It must have stopped.
Ten minutes to three, time to go.
A narrow street, somewhat unloved.
Sensing my footsteps on the pavement.
Heart in mouth.
Five stone steps, ascending.
Hearing the sound of my appeal.
A click and it opens, entering.
Climbing the stairs, musty and unlit, signage indicating left.
Too late to pull out now.
-- -- -- --
Middle-aged receptionist looks bored, lacking in natural light.
Counter showing pictures of wares for hire.
Like a colour brochure for paint.
A matrix of possibilities.
She shrugs, marking some with a cross.
Unavailable, occupied, busy.
Spins it around, perhaps twenty remaining.
Pondering, like a child in a sweet shop.
Waiting, playing with her dank hair.
A fingertip, she nods, expressionless.
Crisp banknotes counting out.
One hour, no more, no less.
Pointing to a door, trying to smile.
-- -- -- --
Door after door, sconces guiding the way.
Number 17, at the far end.
Stepping slowly, egg-shells for nerves.
Carpet almost bare, countless shoes.
Patting inside pocket for wallet, reassurance.
Knocking quietly, holding breath.
Opening.
Waiting for me, no doubt a message.
Smiling, a slight bow, hands together.
She is beautiful.
Glancing around the room.
Side table and chair, water jug and glasses, a clock.
The bed, freshly made.
And her.
-- -- -- --
Moving to unfasten her ankle-length satin robe.
Holding up a hand.
Wait, slow down, not so fast.
Let me enjoy looking at you first.
Stopping, she walks over to the window.
Dark hair is long, way down her back, loose.
Turning.
"What would you like to call me?"
The brochure gave her a name, saying that.
