Heat Wave - Part 2 - Erotika Short Stories for Women (Adult Short Stories for Women Series)
Authors: E.M. Flemming
An
Adult Short Story
by
E. M.
Flemming
Copyright © 2013 E.M. Flemming
All rights are reserved.
You may not distribute this book in any way. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, retransmitted, or downloaded, in any form, or by any means,
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is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic
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copyrighted materials.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, places, events, or other locales, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
1
I didn’t answer the text messages,
nor did I bother returning the phone calls from Amy. That was for Robert
Dorning to deal with. That was his problem now, not mine. At least, that’s how
I looked at it. But, I was still torn about how I felt. I was torn about
whether or not I should feel a twinge of regret or remorse. I didn’t at that
very moment. And as I exited the swanky hotel and hit the streets of Fifth
Avenue again, I was happy the evening temperatures gave some sort of relief
from the sweltering summer heat wave that was in full swing.
Robert Dorning.
I don’t know, but the name just didn’t have the same ring to
it anymore. I guess, since I had envisioned sleeping with my best friend’s
husband for so long, and lusted for the hot embrace of his very well-built
physique ever since I could remember, that once the deed was done, it wasn’t as
exciting anymore. The thought didn’t thrill me that much now. In fact, now I
was just slightly concerned about the fallout. I think that’s because I wasn’t
quite sure how he was going to handle the situation. Was he going to tell his
wife what happened? If so, that would probably mean the end of any semblance of
our friendship with one another.
As a taxi was hailed for me out in front of the hotel, I
wondered for a moment, how it was all going to play out. Was it going to be
some big dramatic situation? Was Amy going to start an all out war? Or, was she
going to forgive me, and blame it all on her husband? Besides, it’s usually the
guy’s fault in situations like this, isn’t it? I know I egged it on, but I
certainly didn’t plan that presidential suite myself. I didn’t pre-arrange all
those bottles of wine, to ensure we got good and liquored up. Sure, I played into
the situation, just like any other female would who’s hot for a tall, dark,
handsome, and very rich guy.
I wasn’t sure at all how it was going to play out, but for
now, I know I needed to get some of this off my chest, and there was no better
way I could think of to do that, than to write about it. I certainly wasn’t
about to get on the phone with Amy and spill the beans, nor was I too tired to
head home and go to sleep. I literally had just woken up, so I was full of
energy. No, I needed some sort of creative outlet, and I couldn’t think of any
better way to do that than to fire up the trusty laptop, and pound out some of
my frustration on that keyboard.
Writing is the way I know how to cope with things, and in a
sordid life like mine, you have to be able to deal with the emotions. If I didn’t
write, I wouldn’t be able to cope, and I would probably just live in the past.
I would live in regret, and fear. Sure, I’m human, and I have emotions and
anxieties, but I don’t dwell on them. Some people hate me for being the way
that I am, but the naysayers don’t bother me all that much. I know that the
ones who attack me the fiercest, are the ones with the biggest skeletons in
their own closets.
But, regardless of what happens, you might be thinking that
I asked for this situation. You might think that I brought all of this on
myself. Well, maybe I did. But regardless of who actually caused it, you need
two to tango. And, we all tend to put ourselves into situations like this from
time to time. I don’t know about you, but things tend to get a bit boring for
me when there’s no drama in my life. So, somehow, some way, I’m able to find
the drama, no matter where I turn. Or, maybe it’s that the drama finds me?
Well, regardless, it just seems to happen. But I’m not sure if I would trade it
for the world. Really.
My mind raced with those thoughts, and the thoughts of the
afternoon’s events as I hopped into the taxi. But, even though it was dark out,
the hot summer heat was still somewhat uncomfortable. This time around,
however, I was glad the cabby had some sort of air conditioning.
“Where to Miss?” he asked.
“Park and 81
st
please,” I said. I was looking
forward to getting back to my place and unwinding, having a hot bath, then
sitting down in front of the computer with a cup of coffee. Yes, it was
nighttime, but I lived off coffee. I could drink coffee at any point in the day
or night, and be okay. When I was ready for bed, I could just sleep. The coffee
wouldn’t keep me from sleeping. I’m not sure why that is, but I’ve always been
that way. Everyone that I’ve ever come across thinks it’s strange, but that’s
just the way that I am.
“Are you here on vacation?” the driver asked. I guess I was
leaving a hotel room at night, and I did look like I was going out somewhere on
the town, but, unfortunately, I was just heading home.
“No, I live here. I was just visiting with a friend who’s in
town. He’s staying at the hotel.” Well, that was a big lie.
“A friend?”
“Yes, a friend,” I said. The cab driver looked at me
suspiciously. Was he trying to read my mind, or just undress me like every
other cab driver in the city? I could see him casting some clever
misconceptions in his mind about who I was or what I did for a living.
“Which building?”
“Right here, over on the right hand side please,” I said. We
had pulled up to my building, and good old Ernie, the doorman, was outside to
open the taxi door for me.
“Welcome back, Ms. Beckett,” he said. He was always so
friendly.
I paid the fare, got out of the taxi, and caught his eyes
checking me out once again. I guess I couldn’t blame him for being a man. Did
you know that men think about sex once every seven seconds. Yes, that’s 8,000
times per day. Eight thousand. And I thought I was a freak. When I read that
statistic, it all made much more sense to me. Men are obsessed with sex. Well,
so am I, but they are much more obsessed with sex than I am.
But sometimes, I don’t mind it. I don’t mind that a man
undresses me, and wants to devour me, especially when those men are as handsome
and rich as Robert Dorning.
Oh, Robert Dorning.
I guess the name did still have a certain charm to it. I
guess I was still at odds with myself. I was trying to block him out, but part
of me wanted to let him back in. And by “back in,” I mean, all the way in. Yes,
it was some good go we had at it, and well worth it. But hopefully I’ll still
feel that way once I’ve finished dealing with the fallout.
I’m still unsure of how it’s all going to play out, but as I
walked through the front doors, and across the marble and limestone lobby of my
building, I thought about it all again. I thought about him touching me,
sending shivers through my body. I thought about how my body quivered and ached
for him. I thought about how much I shuddered when we both climaxed. And as the
elevator doors closed, all I could think about again was Robert Dorning.
It was a good feeling being back in
my apartment. There’s something so endearing about coming home, back to your
own place after a night (or a day) out on the town. I don’t know about you, but
home is my little sanctuary. As hectic as my mind – and libido – can
be at times, I have the comfort of unwinding when I’m at home. It’s where I can
relax, and work all at the same time. And walking in that evening, it felt
good, really good to be home. I’m not used to drinking, and having those drinks
early with Robert Dorning was a bit of a shock to my system. I had a really
good friend who I watched die due to a struggle with alcoholism, so I promised
myself I wouldn’t partake in any sort of excess drinking.
As I looked at my laptop, I became excited to start tapping
away at the keyboard. The romp with Robert Dorning really got my mind stirring,
and I needed to vent. I needed to figure out just what was going on in my mind.
Sometimes, I couldn’t understand it myself. The fact that I went ahead and slept
with my best friend’s husband could be found deplorable to some people. But
somehow, and some way, I was able to reason it in my own mind. I was able to
justify having sex with a married man. I’ve done it before, and I’ll do it
again. But all of this certainly makes for a very interesting lifestyle. I
think it goes without saying that the type of drama and excitement this kind of
event creates, makes normal relationships look extremely dull. I think that’s
where I’ve had such a hard time – with normal relationships.
To me, it has to be exciting. I have to want to devour the
man that I’m interested in; otherwise, it’s just plain old boring. I’ve been in
relationships in the past, where things just got stale. You know how that goes,
right? After a while, you just stop caring that much. You stop caring about
your appearance in front of them, you stop caring about having sex, and you
just stop caring altogether. That’s where my hang up lies. I’m so afraid to get
into a serious relationship, that I think I just defer to having sex with
people I know are not available.
So, all of this got me thinking, and I really needed to get
some of this off my chest. I knew I couldn’t talk to Amy, or any of my other
close friends, for fear that word would spread. But there was one thing I
could: write. I took to my laptop in a fury of words that came tumbling out of
me like wildfire. My fingers were cruising at a mile-a-minute, and it felt
good. It felt good to unleash my inner most deepest, and darkest desires, right
there onto the screen. It was as if I was spilling my mind out in front of me,
because the words were traveling as fast as I could think of them. It was
liberating, in fact. It felt so good to be able to transfer all of that energy
into some sort of creative outlet.
Now, I write for a living, but even before I started doing
so, I began to unleash my emotional tirade into words, and it was cathartic. If
you haven’t tried it, you should sometimes. There is something so absolutely
therapeutic about transferring those emotions and thoughts into words that
nothing else seems to come close. Sure, I could go and speak to my shrink, and
pay four hundred dollars an hour, but who needs that? I might be crazy, but at
least I feel good about it. Know what I mean? I took my time and energy to
translate what had happened between Robert Dorning and I at the hotel this
morning, into a book that I was working on.
Here’s the plot. The main character, just like myself, finds
herself entangled in a situation with a married man, but with a twist. As my
fingers were flying across the keyboard, I began to write out the worst
possible scenario of what happened after the deed was done. Amy – or her
equivalent character in the book – sets out to kill the main character
(that would be me), by hiring a hit man. Dramatic? Yes, I know, but that’s how
my mind works at times.