by Gia Sola
Title Page
PLAZA EROTICA
by
Gia Sola
Publisher Information
Plaza Erotica published in 2012
by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
Copyright © Gia Sola 2012
The right of Gia Sola to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Plaza Erotica
She feels like she’s on the edge of Gehenna. Like the Devil himself is assaulting New York City. If she could catch her breath, it would be too hot to handle. If she could unchain her heart, she couldn’t make it pound faster. But she doesn’t think she has that kind of control. And now she’s lingered too long in her bath - as if she had all of eternity left to live.
Oh, but the warm scented water has lulled her back to dreamland, dissolving her waking life like the salts she’s emptied into the claw foot tub. It holds her captive by a vision which she welcomes. It’s a vision conjured up from some ancient ache, materializing in the inky spaces behind closed eyelids. The scene always opens the same - with the specter of a beast in the guise of a man. He summons her to join him for a midnight swim. She steps toward him but is shy under his admiration, and she blushes when he runs his hands along the white flesh of her breasts, shivers as he slides the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders. Ah, but then he lifts her, whilst standing tall on muscular legs, balancing their weight on his long coiled tail. It’s her favorite fantasy.
She lets precious time elapse before relinquishing her hold on herself, keeping that vision in her mind’s eye, keeping her legs splayed over the sides of the tub, while her breathing and her heart rate slow down and return to normal. Once out of the water, she wraps a towel around her waist and pads to the closet to choose a wardrobe for her tryst - an afternoon rendezvous with her corporeal lover.
Her selection today is his favorite - a body-hugging dress with scooped neckline and built-in bra, strappy sandals with four-inch heels. She wears no jewelry, save the turquoise barrette to hold back her hair; and when she studies herself in the mirror, she admires the lone, wet tendril that didn’t get caught in the clip and now curls about her neck like a black mamba. Satisfied with her look, she turns to pluck a panty from her drawer, then puts it in her bag and snakes her way out of the building.
Mid-day foot traffic is light. With a clear path to maneuver, she can make up for lost time. Blazing along Park Avenue with long-legged strides, her taut thighs strain against the fabric of her damp silk dress. The white heat of the pavement sparkles beneath her feet, searing through the soles of her blue Jimmy Choo’s.
“Damn,” she says when a strap breaks and her foot slips over the edge of the shoe. Now she’ll be late. He doesn’t like it when she’s late. Compliance may be under her control, but discipline is under his. She could hail a taxi. Or not. Suffer the consequences. Or not.
Halfway down the block, she sees a chance for some playful provocation, and decides to tease the rough young men in boots and blue jeans muscling over jack hammers as they plow into the hot, dirty street. She saunters past them, smiling. They hold onto their tools while following her curves. “Hey Hot Mama,” one of them yells, “the Devil’s gonna get you!” Appreciative calls and whistles follow her down the block and she laps up the compliments. But attention is nothing new to her. Men have been hot on her tail all her life. She likes the game and she plays it well, sometimes changing the rules as she goes. Sometimes not.
Of course, there aren’t any rules which can’t be broken. And yet she’s willing to be restrained by them. It’s a paradox within her, where desire flows like the tide, rushing forward with abandon, meeting resistance at the ebb. Stepping off the sidewalk into the sea of traffic, she waves her fingers in the dense, cob-webby air until a cab tacks it way across the intersection and sails to a stop at her feet.
“The Plaza Hotel, please,” she tells the driver.
“Hot as hell, ain’t it?” he says.
His remark goes unnoticed and unheeded because her attention is captured by the naked city skyline. The gothic structures and grotesque spires suddenly remind her of something - but she can’t fathom what. This ritual of riding through the concrete canyons has the undertone of a memory lost, but not forgotten. It’s somewhat disconcerting.
And yet, she’s not distracted from reflecting upon her enigmatic lover, remembering the night they met. It was Christmas Eve. They were both guests at Abelard’s party at the club at the top of the sixes, 666 Fifth Avenue. She was a newcomer. He was well known. And he’d made her laugh like no one before him. It was his eyes that first attracted her. And still, she gets caught up in them. Dark and brooding, his eyes may shelter his thoughts, may hide emotions. But they can’t mask his passion - even when they’re steely, they show lust.
If ever there was a question about laughter and lust being excited at the same moment and by the same thing, she’d finally come to learn the truth of it. She likes to speak her truths in metaphors, telling her friends she’d “fallen under his spell,” that she’d learned a new game of chess where he’s her “king,” and she’s his “queen.” It’s a diabolical game they play, a little cat and mouse-y game. It’s a game of amusement and a play for control.
He wields the scepter today, by having her come to him; giving instructions when to arrive, what not to wear. “Be on time. Wear nothing but your dress.” She may like what she gets when she follows the rules, but she loves what she gets when she’s bad. She’d teased herself in her bath today - teased the cabbie and the construction crew too. Now she muses about which role she should play - whether the dutiful one or the Devil in the blue dress. She’ll keep her lacy panties tucked inside her purse until she makes her final decision.
She is hot. She’s a Venus mound on the edge of eruption. And anticipation fuels the fire within her. The summer air, too, is volcanic. The heat is stifling in the street, in the car. She dabs at her forehead, dabs her damp décolletage. The sweat from her midriff seeps through the fabric of her dress and trickles down to her nethermost parts. He likes those parts. And she likes what he does with them. Their love is a trinity: it’s romantic, there’s a kind of attachment, and their sex is often wicked.
When she steps out of the car at the Plaza, she falters and reaches for the broken strap at the back of her shoe. It conjures up a vision of the strap hanging on the back of his door. There’s shared strength in that long loop of leather. Its vitality devolves from the grip on the handle to the tails that tickle before striking.
Challenge and provocation may test the will, but who has the power? She’s torn with ambivalence over this recurring rhapsody, finding it at once erotic and repulsive, finding pleasure in succumbing both to the desire and to the struggle to suppress it. It’s enough to make her wet all over.
He keeps the suite at the Plaza for nights when he needs to be in town. And what he needs on those nights is a detail he’d never shared with his family. His wife stopped playing games when they’d started having children - that was five years and two sons ago. Now he plays his own games at the Plaza without her.
The Central Park vista was his reason for taking t
his apartment. He locks his door and walks across the parlor to the large bay window. It frames a view of the symmetrical tree line, the meandering pathways, Bethesda Terrace, and the Ramble leading to the blue sparkle of the lake. He gazes out at the lake before moving to the mirror in his bedroom.
Some might think it odd that he can admire himself in such a way, but he likes his own reflection. The face before him hasn’t changed in years. No wrinkles, no receding hairline, no bags under his deep-set eyes. He raises a brow over his eyes. They’re a big part of his magic, he knows. And he knows that’s how he often gets his way.
He knows about a lot of things. He knows his lover will be late today. He knows what she will say. “It was hot...something broke.” It’s all a game to her. It’s life on earth to him. Sometimes he’ll flash his steely stare and she’ll obey. But oft times not. He’s not unused to being challenged - there are many who defy him. But this one is different - she has an element of control. He doesn’t like losing control. And yet, he knows it’s what fuels his desire. And desire drives his destiny, his memories, his deeds and his thoughts.
Now he hearkens to those sensate memories of this woman who would reign over him - the sound of her breathing, rhythmic and rising; her deep-throated laugh; her cool demeanor, her hot porcelain skin. He’s hard against his pinstriped pants as he hangs the strap on the back of the door.
The panties are in her hand when she steps out of the cab. She puts them on once alone in the lift. She barely has them up and her dress down when the elevator opens on his floor. Ten minutes. That’s all she’s late. But she knows it’s against the rules. He makes the rules. And he’s a master at these games, confident in his ability to win and to control. It’s an attribute she finds at once repulsive... attractive...and compelling.
The hallway is dark, except for the glint of the sun through the window at the far wall. Her ears throb to the beat of her heart, even as strains of Mahler find their way through his heavy wood door. She stands before it as she gains some composure.
But he appears at the portal before she can knock. “Hello ma cherie,” he says, leaning forward to nuzzle her neck. “You are late.”
“I couldn’t get a cab when the buckle on my shoe broke.” She offers a contrived excuse - a new rule she just invented. She lifts her foot to show him, and losing her balance, she leans against his chest to steady her stance.
“I try to teach you good manners,” he says.
“No, you teach me bad ones.”
Sliding his hand beneath her dress, he fingers her fanny. And slipping a digit under the string imbedded in her furrow, he rips the panties off.
“You know the rules,” he says. “Now you’re obliged to give the Devil his due.”
She throws her head back and laughs at the silly cliché. And when he reaches a long arm around to the back of the door, she straightens her dress and squares up her shoulders to look him in the eye. Sometimes when she’s in his lair, she just can’t do it...but sometimes the will wins out.
This time, she makes it clear that she wants her own dominion, knowing he’ll find it tempting, even if he thinks he can’t allow it. “Oooh, and what makes you think you’re the Devil?”
He brings the leather lash to his side. The end is coiled on the floor like a snake. With a flick of his wrist, he makes it writhe. Then he flicks it again so the strap slaps the floor. The sound makes her shudder.
“Oooh, what makes you think you’re a Devil?” he mocks. He has the lash dancing along her toes, between her feet. It slithers around her ankles and wraps her legs with a smart. When he pulls her close to kiss her, she smells his excitement, tastes her own fear.
His kiss draws a droplet of blood. He tells her it tastes like honey, and stepping to the side, he drops the whip behind him. “There’s a honeypot between your legs. Show it to me,” he says. “Pull up your dress and show it to me.”
She follows his directions and when she turns, he places one hand on the pulsing wet flesh while slapping her bare ass with the bare palm of the other. She likes it but it makes her body quail.
“As this pains you, so it does me,” he says. “And as it shall please you, so it pleases me.”
“I’m not sure about this,” she tells him.
“Oh yes, you are,” he says, releasing her. “If at first you were dripping sarcasm, now you drip joy on the carpet.”
“The sun will dry it,” she says, looking toward the window where a beam of light has found its way through the curtains. He doesn’t like the light. He shields his eyes and moves to the dimly-lit boudoir. She trails him, and then she slips out of her dress and does as she desires, for their mutual pleasure. Until her hot lava flows into the cleft on his chin.
She takes her time going limp - using those moments to study him as he gets up and backs away to get undressed. She admires the undulating terrain of his arms, the lean muscled line of his legs. When he turns toward the window, she regards his shoulders, his neck, the palpable strength of his back. Once he’s naked and walking toward her again, she trains her eyes on his golden erection. She knows if she wants, she could win this man’s heart. But his tool of the Devil has a mind of its own.
“Are you watching me or my dick?”
She laughs. “You really do think a lot of yourself.”
“I’ve heard that before,” he says. “Truth is, I think a lot of you.”
“Truth is, sometimes I’m scared of you. Even if you do call me your queen.”
“Sometimes you scare me too,” he says. “I guess I like to be scared. Come closer.”
She gets on her knees and crawls toward him, getting close enough to see the tremble of his lip, close enough to hear him take a silent breath, close enough to feel his temperature rise. She reaches for his hands. But he hesitates, eyes downcast, keeping his arms at his sides. And now believing that she does, indeed, have the rest of eternity, she patiently watches as his power becomes flesh.
“I’m not sure about this,” he says.
“Oh yes, you are,” she says, nosing under his divine grace. “You like it. And your pleasure is about to drip joy on the carpet.”
Ah, but then he moves onto the bed and throws her back against the sheets. And for the rest of the night, like a great wild bull, he rides her, hoping in the morning she’ll be tame.
A Dream Come True
Mephistopheles. Oni. Abaddon. Iblis. Satan.
The Devil has many names and conceptions. It can take any form. It’s an odoriferous wisp of smoke or a bone-chilling draft of air; a sweet-tasting apple, a seductive siren call. It may have the body of a man with undulating muscles that travel across wide shoulders and down arms hard as steel. It may also reside in the soft, scented curves of a woman.
Is it a diabolical villain possessing evil, invective intentions? Or is it a sympathetic character who’s been ousted from Paradise for having a mind of its own, damned to a life roaming the history of time, searching for answers while aching for someone to love?
We cannot see what is not there.
Luke wasn’t looking for love but he found it. He tells me his story over a bottle of cognac while sitting at the bar of the El Cubano Room, where he’d met the object of his affection at an affair I’d hosted six months before.
“She’s an enigma,” he says. He says sometimes she behaves like a Devil herself. And then he muses aloud as to whether she is.
“Perhaps you’ve finally met your match,” I say.
I know when I say this I’m overstepping my bounds, and I know he doesn’t like it. I know he doesn’t like it because he flashes me that unnerving look of his. It could stop a train. So I apologize and he accepts. And then he insists on starting at the beginning.
“Everything evolves from the primordial soup,” he tells me, as he loosens his tie. His hand vibrates like a tuning fork. He grabs the lapel of his
jacket and holds it. “It’s cold in here,” he says, smoothing the fabric. He wears expensive threads.
It was cold that night. New Year’s Eve in New York. He’d been planning a trip to Rio but couldn’t get a flight. So he showed up late at my party. Now he admits all he’d expected to find was more of the same - the same food, music, people.
I nudge him, asking, “Same games too?”
He pulls a card out of his breast pocket. It’s a farewell letter from Maya. He lets the note drop to the bar, and then he looks at me over his reading glasses and that Roman nose of his.
“Abelard, I rarely find my kind of game at that kind of party.”
But whose game was it? I remember the night well, and offer a gentle reminder that he hadn’t known her an hour when he’d talked about wanting to corrupt her. I’d chided him then, suggesting it was too late, that he was already enchanted.
He exhales an audible sigh, takes off his glasses, and then he runs a hand through his long tangled hair. His brooding eyes turn liquid as he begins to narrate the tale of all that happened that night. He gives me details I don’t want to hear. But he needs to talk so I indulge him. He talks until the cognac bottle is empty.
You know the way I work, my friend. I walked into the club about eleven with the notion of walking back out by midnight, unless I found myself a sinner. It wasn’t the first time I’d been to an affair billed as “the party of the century.” By this point in my career, I’ve been to them all. It’s always a challenge to find anyone interesting, or even inspiring. And yet, I guess I hadn’t given up on that thing called “hope.”
So there I am, standing alone against the wall while surveying your A-list guests, when a rush of cold air follows her in through the door. I don’t recognize the face, held high on a long neck. But I like the way she moves - sensuous, slithery. And I like her dress. It’s the color of red Bordeaux - stylish, classic, and it clings to her like the skin of the grape.
