Little City Vibes
by Sandra Kishi Glenn
(This is a short erotic piece I wrote for a fetish magazine a few years ago, and it became the seed from which Dangerous later grew. High art it's not, but you may find it amusing. Among other things, it's an experiment in writing erotica without any bad words.)
TODAY AT LUNCH I embarked on a secret mission. Now that I have a key to your apartment, you should expect the unexpected. On your kitchen counter, where I know you place your keys and purse after a hard day at the office, I’ve left a note.
- Meet me at the Little City Café.
- Corner of Union and Powell, 7pm.
- Make sure you’re wearing what’s in the bag.
And beside the note is a pink-and-black gift bag from Erotic Pleasures. Pink wrapping paper hides something deep within its suggestive, petal-like folds.
- Meet me at the Little City Café.
- Corner of Union and Powell, 7pm.
- Make sure you’re wearing what’s in the bag.
And beside the note is a pink-and-black gift bag from Erotic Pleasures. Pink wrapping paper hides something deep within its suggestive, petal-like folds.
# # #
At 5:45 that evening I’m still at work. I know you've just found the note when my muted cell phone begins vibrating. I don't even check the number. Instead of answering I scoot my chair forward, slip the phone under the desk and let it buzz quietly between my legs. You let it ring a long time, for which I’m glad.
# # #
It's eleven minutes past seven as you enter the café wearing your little black dress with spaghetti straps, a small purse clutched in your left hand. Deep burgundy lipstick and a framing of tomboyish brown hair gives you a delicious semi-goth look. Before the glass door swings shut behind you a leafy gust of evening air swirls about your bare legs. I savor your lost-kitten look before you see me sitting near the back of the café. You rush to my table.
"You’re late," I scold as you sit. I catch the scent of patchouli, mingled with the familiar fragrance of your shampoo.
You mumble something about the traffic, but I’m too busy drinking you in with my eyes. Your cheeks are flushed and it’s not entirely because of the cool night breeze; there’s a hesitancy, a delicate insecurity about you I find sinfully delicious.
I ask the metrosexual waiter for a carafe of the house chianti while ignoring the question marks in your eyes. I can easily imagine your surprise at what you discovered deep within the wrapping paper: a curved pink plastic object, shaped like a shield but thicker, fitting easily, though heavily, in your palm. But that is not its intended placement. No, the thongy bands attached to its corners are meant to hold it snugly in a much more intimate location. The diagram I included left no doubt as to its proper use.
"You’re so bad, you know that?" you say in hushed tones. But I don’t answer; it’s much more satisfying to keep you in suspense. That’s when you notice the slim, pink, lipstick-sized remote control in my left hand, and the nature of our game becomes clear. An uncertain smile plays across your lips.
I hide the control discreetly beneath the table when the waiter returns with our wine. As he fills your glass I give one of the buttons a quick thumbpress. The device strapped to you may be almost completely silent, but it generates a spine-curling vibration at this setting. (I know. I tested it.)
This wrenches a delightful "yip!" from you, confirming you have worn it correctly.
To his credit, the waiter fills your glass without spilling a drop, even though his gaze flashes to your outburst. I can scarcely keep from laughing while he pours mine. "Are…you ready to order?" he asks with a puzzled expression.
"Give us a minute," you say huskily, blushing behind painted nails. "God damn you, don’t do that!" are your first words when he is out of earshot.
"What, this?" Another quick buzz. But this time you are more prepared, and respond only with a slight jerk and a muted "mmph!" And now we’re giggling like high school girls, though your glare suggests a hint of indignation. "Stop," you blurt as you raise the wine to your lips. "Don’t you dare make me spill this!" It amuses me to relent for the moment. Long enough to study the menu, at least.
By the time the waiter returns we’ve calmed down somewhat. "Have you two ladies decided?" I point to you with raised eyebrows, indicating you will order first. And beneath the table, I’m clicking the remote, waking the sleeping vibe to a gentle purr. Not enough to derail you, just distract. You lower your head as if swallowing unpleasant medicine. "I’ll. Have the. Fettuccine alfredo. Please." Did you just shudder? I know he sees the twin evidences of arousal pushing against the clinging fabric of your dress.
The vibe goes up a notch and you have difficulty getting through the choosing of sides. Soup, not salad. No bread, thanks. All very amusing for me.
"I she all right?" he asks. I assure him you are, and order my usual: penne all'arrabbiatta, house salad.
Whenever you try to speak, you get a jolt of the high-power setting. I want you quiet, entirely focused on the insistent throb between your thighs. I can tell it is having an effect by your deep breathing, your slow undulations, the way your gaze shifts to infinity behind me.
The other diners have noticed your distress, too, and what they make of it I can’t imagine. Most have a kind of perplexed amusement. A middle-aged man with a crew cut, two tables over, looks like a cop, or maybe a paramedic. He’s got a watchful gaze that suggests he’s ready to give you CPR or the Heimlich at a moment’s notice. How far can I push you without triggering him into action?
Our food arrives. The waiter watches you out of the corner of his eye as he places the dishes before us. "Are you two all set? Can I get you anything else?" You shake your head, no, and he goes away.
Now the fun really begins. I raise the vibe a couple more clicks and watch you fight to maintain motor coordination. You seem to be concentrating on something a million miles away as you chew absentmindedly. When your brow wrinkles and you drop your head slightly, I am forced to back the vibe down a bit, because I want to make this last. The vibe is definitely having an effect, and you only manage a few bites of your pasta before giving up, placing the fork down and gripping the sides of the table. Head down, you try to glare at me but the vibrator owns you. I know you feel the first pebbles shaking free before the inevitable avalanche.
There's a drop of alfredo sauce on your lower lip which you are too preoccupied to notice. I briefly admire the way it moves with your quivering mouth before reaching across with my napkin to wipe it off. It's a strangely maternal gesture which draws some looks from the other diners.
I click the vibe to its highest setting. As your hips rock the vibrator touches the chair and produces a soft, rhythmic buzzing sound. You hear it too, and try to still your movement, but it's hopeless. A lock of hair has fallen over your face and you’re panting, tendons tight on your hands as they grip the sides of the table.
People are openly staring now. I sit back and sip my wine as if nothing were happening. Mr. Paramedic is watching you closely and talking to his dinner companions, wondering in sotto voce whether he should render assistance.
Sounds begin to come out of you. A slight whimper, a choked sob, I notice you’re trembling all over. The avalanche is just about to break free. This ought to be good.
And then it happens, the first shudder of your surrender. "Oh, god..." you gasp, as quietly as you can. Within your iron grip the table rocks, causing the wine in our glasses to swish for several seconds. You, dear, are never so beautiful as when your soul rips free of your body, in the throes of le petite mort.
Eventually it subsides. But the worst is yet to come. When your pleasure fades and you flip into hypersensitivity, the rape of the vibrator becomes torture. You squeal and writhe on your chair before leaping up to stagger to the ladies' room, spilling your wine onto the tablecloth, and the floor, in your haste.
Every eye in the restaurant, customer and staff alike, follows your stumbling flight from the room. I can imagine you ripping the thing off the moment the door has closed behind you.
Mr. Paramedic, who had risen to his feet at your distress, decides you're not going to die and sits back down.
All those eyes turn to me. An uncomfortable silence falls.
I brush my hair back and smile self-consciously. I want to bust out laughing, but I keep a grave face and raise my hand placatingly. "It’s totally fine, really. She has this medical condition…spontaneous, um, orgasms…she just forgot to take her meds. She’ll be okay."
The crowd absorbs this. A fork falls noisily onto a plate. Now It’s their turn to be embarrassed by my frank admission. A quiet murmur rises and Mr. Metrosex rushes in to clean up the mess.
"I’ll need the check, please," I ask as he sops up the spill on the floor. He nods and rushes to the cashier, thinking the sooner we are out of there, the better.
When you emerge, sheepishly, you are targeted by two dozen pairs of gleaming, prurient eyes. You seem to shrink a dress size in embarrassment before rushing back to retrieve your purse and grip my arm roughly. "We’re leaving," you whisper hoarsely in my ear.
I drop a fifty on the table and let you drag me out roughly into the swirling night air. Your nails are going to leave marks.
And later, much later, when you and I are entwined on my bed, your nails rake a little harder across my back in sweet revenge.
Copyright © 2006 Sandra Kishi Glenn
"You’re late," I scold as you sit. I catch the scent of patchouli, mingled with the familiar fragrance of your shampoo.
You mumble something about the traffic, but I’m too busy drinking you in with my eyes. Your cheeks are flushed and it’s not entirely because of the cool night breeze; there’s a hesitancy, a delicate insecurity about you I find sinfully delicious.
I ask the metrosexual waiter for a carafe of the house chianti while ignoring the question marks in your eyes. I can easily imagine your surprise at what you discovered deep within the wrapping paper: a curved pink plastic object, shaped like a shield but thicker, fitting easily, though heavily, in your palm. But that is not its intended placement. No, the thongy bands attached to its corners are meant to hold it snugly in a much more intimate location. The diagram I included left no doubt as to its proper use.
"You’re so bad, you know that?" you say in hushed tones. But I don’t answer; it’s much more satisfying to keep you in suspense. That’s when you notice the slim, pink, lipstick-sized remote control in my left hand, and the nature of our game becomes clear. An uncertain smile plays across your lips.
I hide the control discreetly beneath the table when the waiter returns with our wine. As he fills your glass I give one of the buttons a quick thumbpress. The device strapped to you may be almost completely silent, but it generates a spine-curling vibration at this setting. (I know. I tested it.)
This wrenches a delightful "yip!" from you, confirming you have worn it correctly.
To his credit, the waiter fills your glass without spilling a drop, even though his gaze flashes to your outburst. I can scarcely keep from laughing while he pours mine. "Are…you ready to order?" he asks with a puzzled expression.
"Give us a minute," you say huskily, blushing behind painted nails. "God damn you, don’t do that!" are your first words when he is out of earshot.
"What, this?" Another quick buzz. But this time you are more prepared, and respond only with a slight jerk and a muted "mmph!" And now we’re giggling like high school girls, though your glare suggests a hint of indignation. "Stop," you blurt as you raise the wine to your lips. "Don’t you dare make me spill this!" It amuses me to relent for the moment. Long enough to study the menu, at least.
By the time the waiter returns we’ve calmed down somewhat. "Have you two ladies decided?" I point to you with raised eyebrows, indicating you will order first. And beneath the table, I’m clicking the remote, waking the sleeping vibe to a gentle purr. Not enough to derail you, just distract. You lower your head as if swallowing unpleasant medicine. "I’ll. Have the. Fettuccine alfredo. Please." Did you just shudder? I know he sees the twin evidences of arousal pushing against the clinging fabric of your dress.
The vibe goes up a notch and you have difficulty getting through the choosing of sides. Soup, not salad. No bread, thanks. All very amusing for me.
"I she all right?" he asks. I assure him you are, and order my usual: penne all'arrabbiatta, house salad.
Whenever you try to speak, you get a jolt of the high-power setting. I want you quiet, entirely focused on the insistent throb between your thighs. I can tell it is having an effect by your deep breathing, your slow undulations, the way your gaze shifts to infinity behind me.
The other diners have noticed your distress, too, and what they make of it I can’t imagine. Most have a kind of perplexed amusement. A middle-aged man with a crew cut, two tables over, looks like a cop, or maybe a paramedic. He’s got a watchful gaze that suggests he’s ready to give you CPR or the Heimlich at a moment’s notice. How far can I push you without triggering him into action?
Our food arrives. The waiter watches you out of the corner of his eye as he places the dishes before us. "Are you two all set? Can I get you anything else?" You shake your head, no, and he goes away.
Now the fun really begins. I raise the vibe a couple more clicks and watch you fight to maintain motor coordination. You seem to be concentrating on something a million miles away as you chew absentmindedly. When your brow wrinkles and you drop your head slightly, I am forced to back the vibe down a bit, because I want to make this last. The vibe is definitely having an effect, and you only manage a few bites of your pasta before giving up, placing the fork down and gripping the sides of the table. Head down, you try to glare at me but the vibrator owns you. I know you feel the first pebbles shaking free before the inevitable avalanche.
There's a drop of alfredo sauce on your lower lip which you are too preoccupied to notice. I briefly admire the way it moves with your quivering mouth before reaching across with my napkin to wipe it off. It's a strangely maternal gesture which draws some looks from the other diners.
I click the vibe to its highest setting. As your hips rock the vibrator touches the chair and produces a soft, rhythmic buzzing sound. You hear it too, and try to still your movement, but it's hopeless. A lock of hair has fallen over your face and you’re panting, tendons tight on your hands as they grip the sides of the table.
People are openly staring now. I sit back and sip my wine as if nothing were happening. Mr. Paramedic is watching you closely and talking to his dinner companions, wondering in sotto voce whether he should render assistance.
Sounds begin to come out of you. A slight whimper, a choked sob, I notice you’re trembling all over. The avalanche is just about to break free. This ought to be good.
And then it happens, the first shudder of your surrender. "Oh, god..." you gasp, as quietly as you can. Within your iron grip the table rocks, causing the wine in our glasses to swish for several seconds. You, dear, are never so beautiful as when your soul rips free of your body, in the throes of le petite mort.
Eventually it subsides. But the worst is yet to come. When your pleasure fades and you flip into hypersensitivity, the rape of the vibrator becomes torture. You squeal and writhe on your chair before leaping up to stagger to the ladies' room, spilling your wine onto the tablecloth, and the floor, in your haste.
Every eye in the restaurant, customer and staff alike, follows your stumbling flight from the room. I can imagine you ripping the thing off the moment the door has closed behind you.
Mr. Paramedic, who had risen to his feet at your distress, decides you're not going to die and sits back down.
All those eyes turn to me. An uncomfortable silence falls.
I brush my hair back and smile self-consciously. I want to bust out laughing, but I keep a grave face and raise my hand placatingly. "It’s totally fine, really. She has this medical condition…spontaneous, um, orgasms…she just forgot to take her meds. She’ll be okay."
The crowd absorbs this. A fork falls noisily onto a plate. Now It’s their turn to be embarrassed by my frank admission. A quiet murmur rises and Mr. Metrosex rushes in to clean up the mess.
"I’ll need the check, please," I ask as he sops up the spill on the floor. He nods and rushes to the cashier, thinking the sooner we are out of there, the better.
When you emerge, sheepishly, you are targeted by two dozen pairs of gleaming, prurient eyes. You seem to shrink a dress size in embarrassment before rushing back to retrieve your purse and grip my arm roughly. "We’re leaving," you whisper hoarsely in my ear.
I drop a fifty on the table and let you drag me out roughly into the swirling night air. Your nails are going to leave marks.
And later, much later, when you and I are entwined on my bed, your nails rake a little harder across my back in sweet revenge.
Copyright © 2006 Sandra Kishi Glenn