15 Erotic Stories BUNDLE: Huge Collection of Individually Sold Short Sex Stories

by Danica Williams

  Soon she stepped into the main sitting area of Theatre Satine; a lavish centre of dark beauty that never failed to steal her breath.

  Fronted by a classic set of stained glass double doors, the club’s walls shone with a rich sheen of rose brocade wallpaper; a glorious surface that itself shone as a backdrop to various examples of erotic artwork. Each of these luminous oil paintings depicted a gorgeous young couple in the throes of erotic ecstasy.

  Seated at one of the lace-covered tables that occupied this theater—which, for all intents and purposes, doubled as a private club—was Zelda Martin, a prominent seamstress who owned one of the busiest clothing shops in London.

  A longtime friend and associate of Ballet Noir, this slender, raven-haired Englishwoman crafted many of the lush, lavish costumes that marked Noir performances.

  A strong supporter of the arts, she’d also single-handedly funded several of the troupe’s shows.

  “Zelda!” Swooping down upon her smiling visitor with a warm, maternal hug, Bethelyn claimed the seat beside her; staring in blatant admiration at her petite, olive-eyed guest. “You look lovelier than ever.”

  “I’m also wealthier than ever,” Zelda squared her slender shoulders, running a smoothing hand through the folds of her pink velvet skirts. “The queen has commissioned my signature rose gown for the occasion of her birthday ball.”

  “Splendid!” Bethelyn applauded, adding with a shrug, “If you seek a place to invest some of this money, we are planning a wonderful new production at Ballet Noir.”

  Zelda tilted her head, gracing her hostess with a captivated smile.

  “So pour me a magnum of your best champagne and tell me all about it,” she nodded.

  One hour and a good number of bubbly glasses later, Bethelyn had given Zelda a full account of “The Phantom Lover”; the spellbinding novel that was sure to make the perfect Noel ballet.

  “I only hope we’ve secured the rights,” Bethelyn folded her hands on the table. “The author came to see our show a few weeks ago, and she left in a huff when she beheld our…” she reddened in spite of herself, “after show activities.”

  Zelda let loose with a raucous laugh that echoed throughout the theater.

  “Blimey, that’s the best part!” She winked. “Now don’t misunderstand, the pirouettes are nice,” she allowed with a wave, “but the orgies that take place after the show are truly sublime.”

  Matching her laughter, Bethelyn clapped Zelda’s back and sat back in her chair.

  “So tell me dear,” she tilted her head, “Can I count on you to fund our show?”

  Immediately sobering, Zelda took a long sip from her crystalline tankard as she considered this question.

  “I shall,” she said finally, “only this time, Bethelyn, I want something special in return.”

  “Name it!” Bethelyn smiled.

  Her grin dissolved seconds later, as she heard the stated condition.

  “I want an evening with Ian.” Zelda’s tone was firm and unyielding as she leaned across the table. “If he agrees to be mine for one night, I will fund your show in full.”

  Bethelyn shifted in her seat, entwining her fingers tight.

  “I am afraid, Zelda, that Ian is not available,” she released on a sigh.

  “Not available?” Zelda scoffed, tossing her mane of raven hair to divinely haughty effect. “Before he came to you, dear lady, he was ‘available’ to half the matrons in the ton.”

  “And in the time that has elapsed since then, I’ve enjoyed his attentions myself,” Bethelyn smiled, but only briefly. “As of late he’s been spending a great deal of time with Moira Bentley, the author of ‘The Phantom Lover.’” She grinned again at the mention of Moira. “Moira’s book changed his life, and the woman herself has given him life. For the first time since he came to me, Zelda, I see light in his eyes. For the first time he laughs and smiles….”

  She paused, an uncharacteristic sheen of tears filling her azure eyes.

  “He’s a man again, and he’s a man in love.”

  “He’s a man I desire,” Zelda interrupted, unmoved by Bethelyn’s show of emotion.

  Rising from their table, Zelda fixed Bethelyn with a pointed look as she turned for the door.

  “No man,” she snarled, “no money.”

  ****

  “Ian!”

  As much as Moira loved her beautiful manor drawing room—with its cherry wood furniture, red brocade wallpaper and plush ivory carpeting—she found that its most beautiful accent came in the form of a newly arrived visitor; a tall, muscular man who managed to dwarf his delicate feminine surroundings—not to mention shame them through the sheer force of his incredible masculine beauty.

  Boasting a silken fall of auburn hair and wide, dark eyes, Ian also sported carved cheekbones and full, sumptuous lips; a mouth made all the more sumptuous when pursed in a kiss.

  Sweeping her up in his arms, Ian pressed that succulent mouth to hers as he cradled her to him. Their hands clenched between them as their tongues entangled, their bodies clinging in a passionate clench that made their hearts race.

  The pace steadied as Ian massaged her shoulders with warm, nurturing hands; his lips continuing to woo and coax hers as his hands mimicked his movements.

  Finally Moira broke away, cupping his face in tender hands.

  “Well blessed good eve to you too Guvna.” She chuckled in spite of herself. “How are you Ian?”

  She trembled as he took her in his arms once again, staring into her eyes with a raw, bare hunger that shook her to the core.

  “I’m desperate for you,” he growled, running his fingers through her soft dark hair as he buried his head in her neck. “Why have you never returned to the theater?”

  Breaking their clutch, Moira took Ian’s hand and lead her lover to the prized floral settee that marked the center of the room. Motioning for him to sit, she once again took his hands in hers and fixed him with a sincere gaze.

  “Ian, I really look forward to seeing my novel produced on your stage,” she nodded. “And I would indeed like to spend more time with the Ballet Noir cast, one member in particular.” She nudged him with tender affection. “Only you must admit, Ian, that my last visit to Theater Satine was,” she paused, grasping for the right words, “just a mite unorthodox.”

  Ian shrugged.

  “Well I suppose one would call an impromptu fit of orgiastic ecstasy, coupled of course with a blatant show of erotic vampirism, to be just a bit unorthodox,” he twitched his lips, obviously trying to suppress his laughter.

  “Yes, just a bit,” Moira grinned in spite of herself, adding with an awkward gesture, “I may need just a bit more time to adjust to your way of living.”

  “Perhaps this will help.”

  Reaching into the deepest pocket of his long, black velvet coat, Ian withdrew a small rectangular card, handing it to Moira with a mysterious smile. “This is our proposed lobby card for the new production.”

  Moira’s eyes flew wide as they beheld a miniature work of art; a miniature painting with a border of roses, that depicted two performers interlocked in what appeared to be an intimate dance.

  She immediately recognized the title of the show, “The Phantom Lover”; she ran her fingers across the scarlet block letters that formed this title on the face of the beauteous canvas.

  Next she touched the image of the male dancer depicted on the card; one that bore an uncanny—and very becoming—likeness to her own Ian.

  “You’re beautiful,” she breathed, her fingertips seeming to memorize every curve and line of his face.

  “Thank you,” he chuckled, gracing her cheek with a grateful kiss. “I fear, though, that my beauty does not equal that of my leading lady.”

  “Really?” Stiffening beside him, Moira reluctantly shifted her gaze to the image of the phantom maiden; the one who would portray Micheline, the heroine of The Phantom Lover.

  She immediately recognized the woman’s full-figured form, as well as her
fair skin, wide dark eyes, and long ebony hair. Furthermore, this dancer posed in a scarlet-hued dress that looked eerily similar to her favorite frock.

  “Ian,” she breathed, “You’ve found my twin! This woman not only likens my heroine,” she trembled in spite of herself, “She mirrors me, in every way.”

  Ian smiled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.

  “She is you, love,” he whispered in her ear.

  Eyes flying wide, Moira turned to pen Ian with a disbelieving stare.

  Then she started laughing. Hard.

  “Me, a ballerina?” She howled. “I fear I couldn’t dance if you dropped a flock of fire ants into the deepest reaches of my petticoats.”

  Ian laughed.

  “Since I met you, love, I find it difficult to dance—or do much of anything else—with anyone else.” He squeezed her shoulders, nipping her ear with an appreciative tongue. “I asked Bethelyn if she would allow you to dance the lead, and she immediately agreed.”

  Moira shook her head.

  “That’s lovely Darling, but really,” she arched her eyebrows, “as I so ably demonstrated the night we met at Theater Satine, I’m a writer—not a dancer.”

  She took in her breath as Ian swept her in his arms; burying his head in her neck and coating its nape with ardent kisses.

  “I’ve taught you many wonderful things since that night,” he growled, his hands enclosing her waist. “Did you not enjoy those lessons?”

  Moira answered him with the flush of her cheeks and the swiftness of her breath.

  “At least a bit,” she gasped out, giggling as he reached up to rub her breasts through the surface of their confining cloth.

  “I thought as much,” Ian winked, adding more seriously, “Really though Darling, I did notice a great deal of grace and ease in your movements that night at the theater—along, I might add, with a healthy dose of sensuality.”

  “Well I wonder why that might be,” she tweaked his nose. “I was never asked to dance that much at society balls, so I could never ascertain my talent.” She shrugged. “Perhaps I could try my luck on the stage.”

  “Wonderful!” Ian applauded, adding with the sly waggle of his feathered eyebrows, “Care if I try my luck with you, lass?”

  Moira rolled her eyes.

  “Behave!” She graced his shoulder with a playful slap. “We should at least have dinner first. To the dining room with you, you beautiful rake!”

  ****

  Across town another woman tossed restless in her bed; her movements rousing her golden haired lover from the depths of the deepest sleep.

  “Bethelyn?” His silky reams of golden hair falling soft across his forehead, Noel—a male ballet star and one of the leading draws of Theater Satine—opened his angelic blue eyes to greet a new evening.

  In the light of the bright luminous moon that shone forth through a nearby window, Noel’s bronzed, golden haired perfection was truly a sight to behold; yet Bethelyn could manage only a small smile as she turned to address him.

  “Good eve, my beauty.” She ran the back of her chubby hand down the length of his carved cheek. “Did you sleep well?”

  “You didn’t.” Noel frowned immediately, running a comforting hand down Bethelyn’s back. “You look as though you haven’t slept at all.”

  “Why thank you, young man.” Bethelyn rolled her eyes. “Did I not teach my young men at Theater Satine to sing a woman’s praises at all times?” She slid a single condemning finger across Noel’s perfect lips. “Only words of glowing praise should pass those lovely lips.”

  Ignoring her scolding words, Noel wrapped his arms around his lover and tilted his head against his.

  “What troubles you, my lady?”

  A sighing Bethelyn sank in his arms, running a soothing hand through the strands of his long blond hair.

  “This morning I had a meeting with Zelda Martin, the investor behind many of our shows,” she explained. “I asked her to fund the production of The Phantom Lover, and she agreed—with one condition.” He sighed. “She wants Ian in her bed.”

  “Ian?” Jerking upward, Noel shook his head in a show of utter shock. “He is in love with Moira.”

  “I know.” Bethelyn nodded. “Yet before he knew Moira—indeed, before he even knew me—he made his money in women’s beds—not on a stage.”

  “He has changed,” Noel insisted, once again taking a concerned Bethelyn in a warm, tender embrace. “We all have, with thanks to you.” He squeezed her shoulders.

  Managing a small smile, Bethelyn tweaked Noel’s sculpted nose and moved away from him in the bed.

  “I have money of my own, but not enough to do justice to the magnificent images that Moira composed in that book.” She shook her head, then, waving him from the bed, “This is not your worry, young man. Go and prepare for tonight’s performance.” She graced his shoulder with an affectionate nudge. “I think I’ll stay up here this evening, to conjure some sort of a plan.”

  ****

  An hour later Noel stood outside the front door of Theater Satine; an elegant portrait of ivory stone arches, stained glass windows painted in lustrous fashion with all the hues of the rainbow, cast iron gates and—flanking these gates--statues of sweet winged cherubs who beamed in greeting.

  The designated doorman for that evening, Noel also smiled at the long line of guests who awaited entrance into the theater; adding a wink or a sultry pout for the benefit of the females.

  …at least one of whom seemed impressed by the gesture.

  “Good evening Noel!” Dressed in a long gold lattice work dress that showed off her slender figure to nice effect, Zelda Martin stepped forward to clutch the hands of the smiling, handsome doorman. “Did Bethelyn post you out front, to lure hapless females into the theater?”

  Noel chuckled, taking Zelda’s hand in his and kissing it with warm, soft lips.

  “In your case, Miss,” he winked. “I certainly hope it works.”

  Before she could respond, Noel swooped down upon her like a ravenous hawk; pulling her to him as he delivered a second sumptuous kiss--this one to her lips.

  “Could I possibly ‘lure’ you into meeting me backstage?” He whispered against her mouth, running his massaging fingers across the back of her hand. “I’d love to show you the new dance steps I have learned…privately.”

  His eyes flew wide as Zelda wrapped a snakelike arm around his waist; giving him a quick and unceremonious slap on the rump.

  “Meet me after the final curtain,” she growled, eyes wild with desire.

  Sending a salacious wink in the direction of a blushing Noel, she turned and walked with purposeful steps through the entrance of Theater Satine.

  “That lass has accomplished quite a feat, Noel.” He immediately recognized the deep, sonorous voice of his next visitor. “I did not rightly think it was possible to make you blush.”

  Noel raised his gaze to face a smirking Ian, already dressed for his lead role in that evening’s Ballet Noir production. At his side was Moira, who graced him with a gentler smile as she offered him her hand.

  “It’s lovely to see you again, Noel.” She blushed prettily as he kissed her hand; her tender flush a lovely accent for her gown of scarlet satin.

  “And you look most lovely this evening, Miss Moira.” Noel tilted his head. “It is good to see you back here at Theater Satine. I was afraid we had frightened you away.”

  “Oh no,” Moira snorted, punching his shoulder. “You will find, dear Noel, that I am made of very strong stock—and, furthermore, that I have a very open mind.” She reinforced her words with a short, sharp nod. “It takes quite a lot to drive me away.”

  “And it always helps when we offer her the lead role in her own production.” Ian nudged his companion, winking as he did at a chuckling Noel.

  Moira gaped in mock indignation, planting her hands on her lips.

  “I’ll have you know that had nothing to do with it!” She sniffed, adding in a low voice, “Well, virtuall
y nothing at least.”

  The trio laughed as Noel waved Ian and Moira onward into the theater.

  I must say Ian has excellent choice in ladies, he mused, watching as the happy couple walked hand in hand in the opposite direction. I’ve never seen him this happy—and I intend to protect and preserve that happiness at any cost.” He pursed his lips. I’ll go in his place to the witch’s bed. And I shall make her forget him.

  ****

  An hour later Moira sat at a front row table at Theater Satine, marveling at the spectacle of the theater’s main performance area; a tiled stage fronted by a long red velvet curtain, and bordered by a gold framed mural of ethereal cherubs in flight.

  She basked further in the spectacle of an angel in motion; or at least her Ian likened an angel as he danced alone on stage, stepping and swaying a graceful line through a maze of beautiful and bountiful props: endless bouquets of radiant florals, roses red and gold, pearl pink carnations, and lavender water lilies gathered in golden urns that bordered the stage on all sides.

  As much as she memorized his every move, thrilling at the sight of his flawless pirouettes and smiling as he swayed and sashayed, she also felt a degree of uncertainty as she witnessed his performance.

  He and the other dancers have such natural grace, and heaven knows they’ve been learning and training in their craft for years on end. She leaned forward to focus on Ian’s feet, which seemed to float on air. And while I certainly feel confident enough to see my work performed on stage, I don’t know that I’m ready to perform it.

  Seeming to read her thoughts, Ian stopped stock still at the center of the stage; fixing her with an intense, unnerving stare.

  Oh no, she fixed him with a look that was vaguely threatening—in a loving way, of course. He means to bring me onstage.