Erotic
Friction Fiction

"Alabama legislators have banned the sale of sex toys in their state, apparently afraid that women who use them will lose their affection for men and turn to vibrators and dildos for comfort, affection, and sexual pleasure.

If a tiny vibrator can inspire that much insecurity, just imagine how they'd feel if they knew that some sex machines can weigh 450 pounds and move at a rate of 6500 RPM - while others are manually controlled and look like erotic fine art furniture, ideal for any stylish home".~ DarkLady

LAIR
688 and the One that Got Away
by Alicia Norman

copyright 2007

Kylie tried to kiss me.

We were both at a club called Out of Control, which was located on 688 Spring Street. Regulars simply called it 688, and it was the place where most night crawlers felt at home.

I had been after Kylie for months to go with me, but she'd demurred, feeling she wouldn't fit in. She had a point. I was a black goth chick, and she was what one would call a "cheerleader" type. She was also beautiful, with strawberry blond hair and a bitchy attitude that was a cover for a myriad of issues. Once we got there, she insisted I dance with her. I obliged, expecting the typical chick dancing formula ­ sex it up and hook the interest of a couple of male hotties.

Nope.

Sweatheart put her arms around my neck, tilted her face up and parted her lips in an obvious invitation…

Who knew she would take the name Out of Control so literally.

I was a newly emerging bi-curious and it was tempting.

But I knew Kylie ­ I would never hear the end of it once she sobered up --

I made an excuse, disengaged and sauntered towards the bar to get myself a bottle of water (I didn’t drink or get into drugs, in the circles I traveled, I wanted to be fully aware of myself at all times). I made my purchase and spun around to head back on the dance floor, running smack into a muscular wall of chest, and spilling my newly opened Dasani all over it.

The muscles belong to Brandon Lee’s clone. He was even dressed like the Crow, in a mesh shirt, tight leather pants that had to take a Houdinian effort to get in and out of, and combat boots.

Black lipstick accentuated full lips which were curled into a harsh scowl.

I was in love.

A beat later, I noticed the vampiric lass he had leashed behind him. She was Morticia gorgeous, draped in black velvet, with long dark hair and a killer gaze that told me she was slowly dissecting and torturing me within her mind. It was an interesting picture. Most of the Goth's I knew had friends who leaned towards the bondage lifestyle, but didn't indulge themselves. I was one of them. Sure, I could get a wee bit kinky, maybe even own a fuzzy pair of hand cuffs or two, but whips and chains was something I didn't see in my future.

Even so, there was something oddly alluring about this striking couple, he standing there in such a commanding pose, and her, submissive but far from plaint, a black dog color around her swan like , moon white neck accented by a bejeweled leash.

They looked at me like I was a bug on a windshield.

“S-sorry ­“ I squeaked out before he sighed and walked around me.

Certain I had blown any chance of actualizing my Crow and Black Goth Chick fantasies, I went back to my friends, ignoring Kyle’s hurt looks and my male buds inane chatter about drug induced hi-jinks.

Then I saw him -- near the dance floor, bidding me towards him with a hot, white gaze.

My heart nearly leapt in my throat, threatening to strangle me. I glanced around, not once, but twice, to be sure he was looking at me. From across the room, I sensed his impatience.

When I was certain it was me he was staring at, I started towards him, only to have him smirk and walk away.

A search for him turned up nothing, and I started to think I had imagined the whole thing when damn if he didn’t pop up once again. I headed towards him. He disappeared -- again.

This went on the whole frickin’ night. Every time I told myself I was not going to give in to this silly game of cat and mouse, he would show up in another part of the club and I, like an idiot, would chase him, sure as Captain Ahab, that I would capture the elusive white

I went home that night highly aroused and frustrated, my mind swimming with dreams of sensual encounters and potential meetings. I found myself heading over to 688 every weekend that followed.

(continued next column)

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He answered. Chain. Kewl. I racked my brain trying to find something that would match the kewlness of “Chain.” Damn. I had nothing. “Alicia.” I replied, “I’ve seen you around, and, well… was wondering…” “Would love to ­ we’ll talk…” Chain grinned at me and walked away, leaving me in seventh heaven. The night wore on and Chain was, once again, MIA.

I searched for him, eager to chat a bit more, when, out of the blue, a gorgeous man, prime Gap Ad material mind you, pulled me into his arms and kissed me.

I had talked with the gentleman earlier in the evening and some mild flirting transpired, but nothing, I hoped, that made him feel such actions were in order. First reaction ­ slap him! Second reaction ­ wow… good kisser … Okay -- he was more than a good kisser -- the man placed a toe curling , I don't-know-your-name-but-I-just-might-sleep-with-you kiss that almost made me throw all caution to the wind. Almost. I finally pulled away, ready to tell him off despite the head spinning kiss when I looked up and saw Chain at the foot of the steps leading to the dance floor ­ he had come, probably to rescue me, and saw that the handsome rogue's kiss had floored me a bit more than even I would have liked. The look on his face said it all. Before I could approach to explain, he turned and walked away… I never saw him again. Regrets? Not really. The dreams I had about the man were worth the price of admission, and probably far better than reality. Besides, there was something more tantalizing erotic about the exchange that could have been ruined by getting to know him. In the end it worked out for the best and I am lest with sexy memories o f the one who got away.

If you like this story by Alicia be sure to come back for more... in our next issue :

TRYSTS AND CONSEQUENCES