Seven new erotic tales from the author of Stories to Make You Blush
Seven erotic short stories that drawn on everyday life and celebrate love and lust in the most delicious way. Enjoy an invitation to slip backstage at a rock concert, or bask in the sun on a Mexican beach; takes in which manhood is at issue and pleasant surprises are unveiled in a department store dressing room...A joyful exploration of sexual desire.
These stories of sheer pleasure, like fantasies revealed, will charm you with their sensual humor and tenderness.
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About the Author
television. She lives in Montreal, Quebec.
Read an Excerpt
More Stories to Make You Blush
Seven New Naughty Tales
By Marie Gray
Sourcebooks, Inc.Copyright © 2007 Guy Saint-Jean Éditeur Inc.
All rights reserved.
Caught in the Act
I remember that morning very well, Wednesday, October 12. Now, there was a morning I never should have gotten out of bed! When the alarm clock rang, pulling me out of a deep slumber, my wife was still sound asleep, her flannel nightgown buttoned up to the neck, her face smothered in "rejuvenating" night cream. I vaguely recall that I'd been having a dream before the alarm went off with its god-awful racket. I dreamed that my tender spouse, divested of both nightgown and cream, had slid under the sheets and was heartily sucking me—something she hadn't been inclined to do for many long years. I love her dearly, but at this stage of the game, our relations are increasingly platonic.
But back to the morning of October 12. I'd had a bad cold for about a week. The day looked pretty gray, though at that hour it was too dark to tell for sure. A little voice in my head kept urging, "Stay in bed! Treat yourself, just this once! When've you ever been sick?" I was sorely tempted. It's true: I'd never taken advantage of my sick days. I thought of how wonderful it would be to shut off the damn clock and sleep all morning in the warmth of the conjugal bed. But duty called. I like my work. I'm a security guard for the Fashion Gallery department store, and after many long years of service I spend my days comfortably seated, watching monitors that display whatever's happening in different parts of the establishment.
But I didn't get the job—a job made in heaven!—because of my pretty face. I could spend the whole day sitting without having to do rounds of the departments. I didn't have to carry a weapon (I hate firearms!) because I was out of harm's way. Not that much ever happened. I had only witnessed two armed robberies in my entire career. Not bad for almost forty years of service. Still, I far prefer the security of my job, especially at my age. I don't want to be chasing petty thieves or loitering teenagers. And let's be frank: why would I spend the day standing when I could be sitting?
They also had to find someone who would keep his mouth shut. The Fashion Gallery had no intention of letting people know that they followed their women customers right into the fitting rooms! That would've been a disaster. All sorts of organizations would've stuck their noses in, and that would've been it; no more cameras in the fitting rooms. And yet, it's right in these little booths that most shoplifting occurs.
In any case, it was me who got the job, thanks to my experience, discretion, and professionalism. And I've caught more than one woman shoplifting! Sure, it'd be tempting to sit and watch the fitting rooms all day; the ladies who shop at the Fashion Gallery are usually fairly well off, beautiful, and elegant. But I'm too old for that kind of nonsense, and I secretly hope our competitors choose their employees with care when it comes to handing out this kind of task.
Anyway, that morning it was the call of duty that gave me the courage to resist the coaxing of my inner voice. With great difficulty I hauled myself out of bed, casting an envious glance at my better half (still sleeping), and headed for the shower. I thought I'd forgotten my dream, but the memory suddenly returned at the sight of my erect member under the spray of hot water. I imagined the mouth of my sweet Margaret gently taking it prisoner, and licking it with appetite like she used to do, back in the days when she slept naked and without face cream. Absentmindedly, I soaped my cock, sliding my hand up and down, feeling my heart beat faster. When was the last time I'd stroked that lazy rod? I was pleasantly surprised by my state of desire and thought of waking Margaret to share it with her. But the moment passed, and I figured she wouldn't be quite as receptive as my hard and swollen member. I came with a shudder, hurried to clean myself up, and went to work.
The morning was slow. Not a single thing happened to break the tedium, that is, not until She made her entrance—the one who would wake my groggy instincts with a jolt and turn my life upside down.
I first saw her on the monitor for the main entrance. She was around twenty-five, blonde, classy, and beautifully groomed. I see pretty women come through those doors every day, but this one was enough to knock the wind out of you. She seemed in a hurry, like a lot of customers who come looking for a specific item over their lunch break. She headed straight for the lingerie section. I watched her body, her every move. She moved gracefully despite her elegant high-heeled shoes and form-fitting suit. Her hair was perfect—not a strand out of place—and I was sure she was wearing one of those alluring and very expensive perfumes like Shalimar or Opium. At the women's lingerie section, she removed her gloves with a slow and deliberate gesture, which gave me a hard-on for some inexplicable reason. She looked so sure of herself!—probably the difficult type who demands top quality and flawless service. Luckily, the young salesgirl knew her stuff. She suggested a few different styles and showed her to the fitting rooms. I took a deep breath. It was the chance of a lifetime, but I told myself there was no way I was going to take advantage of it, except it would've taken superhuman strength to resist. I was at a loss to understand why I felt this sudden, irresistible attraction to a woman I didn't know. I'm usually so respectful of our women customers' privacy, but I was totally unable, in body and mind, to take my eyes off the fitting room monitors. Instead, I tried desperately to guess which one she'd be given. The clerk led her to number three. The beautiful stranger went in. I gave myself a one minute time limit, barely enough even to get a clear view of her. After that, I told myself, I would go back to my responsibilities.
Before I go on, I should explain that I've always been faithful to my wife in thought, word, and deed. Last month we celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. I was moved, happy, proud, and considered myself lucky to have spent so many years by her side in quiet happiness, free of dramas; and I hoped to spend the rest of my life that way. I'm still hoping! I may be moved by the sight of a pretty young woman wearing a skirt that's too short, but that doesn't mean I don't love my wife, even if I sometimes try and guess what's underneath that skirt. These things happen! I think Margaret still loves me, too. If not, she wouldn't be so sweet and considerate with me. Our children left home years ago, and my wife and I still enjoy each other's company. The quiet evenings we spend watching TV with a couple of beers prove how comfortable we are together. It's modest, but it's cozy. Still, it's been awhile since Margaret stopped watching her weight or wearing flattering clothes like the woman in the store.
The cameras in the fitting rooms are behind the mirrors. I could see her gorgeous face more clearly now. Her careful makeup brought out her pale eyes whose color, unfortunately, I couldn't see. All you can see on these blasted screens is umpteen shades of gray! But no matter, she was a striking beauty. She hung up her purse on one of the hooks and with her long fingers unbuttoned her suit jacket. I told myself that was enough; I wouldn't watch her take off her blouse, skirt, and the rest. But under the jacket she wore nothing but a bra. A cleverly folded scarf had created the illusion of a blouse. I'd been caught at my own game! It was too late to tear my eyes away. I was mesmerized. Her magnificent brassiere was made of lace, and as she unhooked her skirt, I saw she was wearing matching panties. The skirt slid to the floor and she slowly picked it up, hanging it up carefully so it wouldn't get wrinkled. Why did she have to be wearing those stockings that miraculously stay up on the thighs? They were very pale and silky, enveloping her willowy legs and resting on her white skin. With precise gestures she took off the bra, then slipped off the panties, before removing the new lingerie from the hangers. It crossed my mind that she shouldn't be taking her panties off—they ask the customers to leave them on when trying on clothes—but this thought vanished from my mind as quickly as it had arrived. She had a splendid body: big firm breasts, a narrow waist, rounded hips, and flat stomach; I knew she was a real blonde from the pale bush between her legs. She turned and I admired the roundness of her buttocks, the slender and elegant back, the slim arms hooking up the new brassiere, and sliding the panties up her luscious legs. The lingerie set suited her to perfection; the salesgirl had given her admirable advice. The lace was so delicate you could see her nipples and the little shadow over her sex. She examined herself with a serious look, turning to study her body from different angles, obviously asking herself if the items were really what she wanted. After a few moments her face lit up with an angelic smile. She liked what she saw; her mind was made up. I was hoping she would try the other bra-and-panty sets that she had brought in, but she didn't. She was satisfied on the very first try.
She started to get dressed, taking off the new lingerie, which allowed me to admire that fabulous body in its nudity before covering it up again with chic clothes. She went out and paid for her purchase, a little smile of satisfaction on her face as she waited for her package. The smile stayed on her face as she went through the store. I gave a nervous little jump when, just before going through the door, she turned, looked back, then raised her head to the camera over the entrance. I blushed like a teenager who's been caught red-handed. I had the strange feeling she knew I was there; that she guessed I had been greedily watching her and found her beautiful—so beautiful that when I got up from my station there was an obvious bulge in the lap of my pants, like the center pole of a tent, pointing straight up and hard.
* * *
That evening when I got home I could only mumble a vague reply when Margaret greeted me with her eternal, "Paul, is that you? Did you have a good day?" I hurried into the bedroom to take off my clothes and jumped in the shower to cool down my fevered thoughts. She found it strange that I was taking another shower, but I explained that there'd been trouble with the air-conditioning and it had been hellishly hot all day. I was filled with a horrible feeling of guilt telling her this lie, and I went over and kissed her. I was as surprised as she was by the tenderness and depth of that kiss. She stepped back, turned red with confusion, and fixed me with her most piercing gaze—the one you couldn't hide anything from.
"What's going on with you? Come on, out with it!"
I took a deep breath.
"Well, actually, I was thinking of you all day. I know I'm not good at showing it, but, I love you. It's been a long time since I've told you. That's all."
She laughed and gave me a big hug.
She made me an excellent meal, and as I watched her bustle around the kitchen I felt another surprise erection coming on. I felt awkward as a schoolboy, even though we'd been married so long! But it had been years since our passion had cooled, and I don't think either of us knew how to break the little layer of ice that had grown between us. Should I show her right away how she had affected me, or be more subtle and try to get her to come to bed early? I couldn't make up my mind and asked myself so many questions that my erection drooped back down to where it came from. In the end it was a night like any other, with us sitting in our separate chairs, watching TV.
* * *
The next day, Thursday, October 13, she made another appearance—the woman I'd already started to call "my" customer. Same time of day, same hurried look. She went straight to the lingerie section and picked out one of the bra-and-panty sets she hadn't tried the day before. I didn't even attempt to turn away this time. The same old guilt shyly raised its head, but it was far from stopping me. This time I made myself right at home in front of the screens for fitting room six, and watched the beautiful stranger. She started with the same routine as the day before; this time wearing a dress with buttons that she undid one by one to free her divine body. She was wearing a pretty black camisole that looked like it was made of silk, and adorable stockings, black as well. Her body began to move to the rhythm of music I couldn't hear. I watched this lustful little dance, mesmerized by her fluid movements. She ran her fingers through her hair, then trailed them down to her shoulders in an intimate embrace. She fondled her full, luscious breasts through the silky fabric and I could see her nipples grow erect, begging for a caress. But instead of her breasts, it was her thighs her hands were caressing, gently massaging the velvety white flesh. She kept on dancing, bending down and spreading her legs. I saw then that her sex was covered only by the barest wisp of lace to which her fingers were moving dangerously close, as if answering some irresistible call. All at once she straightened up, as if realizing what a strange situation she was in. She looked around confused, like someone waking from a dream. She hurriedly pulled on the lingerie she'd brought in with her, but seemed disappointed by the way it looked. She quickly got dressed again, left the fitting room, and handed the bra and panties to Nicole, the salesgirl. She hurried out of the store, leaving me panting at the edge of my chair, feeling let down and far too excited for my own good.
That night I mumbled the same excuse to Margaret, then escaped into the shower and jerked off with wild abandon. What was happening to me? Why did that woman have such a hold over me? I'd masturbated more in the past two days than in the last twelve years put together!
* * *
Friday, October 14, I went to the job preparing myself mentally for "my" customer's visit. It didn't seem likely that she'd come three days in a row, but after the previous day's display I could only hope she would return to satisfy my horny curiosity. I tried to muster the strength to resist, in case she did come back, but I knew it was a lost cause. I'd dreamt of her the night before and woke up feeling sheepish, looking over at my dear Margaret, sound asleep and unsuspecting. I felt like a liar and a louse, as if I'd cheated on her. I was mad at myself, but at the same time tried to convince myself that I hadn't done anything wrong. And in reality, I hadn't—it was just my mind and body that had behaved like a couple of jerks.
When I saw her come in at the usual time I desperately tried steering my eyes towards the other screens. In a few fractions of a second I saw her select a pale negligee. Not long after, Nicole guided her to the fitting rooms. That was all it took. Again my eyes were glued to the screen, and all my good intentions were gone with the wind.
She was completely undressed except for her stockings and shoes, but instead of putting on the negligee she grabbed her thick hair and piled it carelessly on top of her head. She took a look at herself, again pivoting to get a better look, then let her hands slide down her neck to her breasts, lightly stroking her erect nipples. She leaned forward and picked up the silky camisole that I suppose she'd been wearing before. Was it beige or pink? I could only imagine its wonderful, subtle harmony with the color of her skin. She rubbed it over her generous breasts then wrapped it around her waist, letting the delicate fabric tickle her round buttocks.
Excerpted from More Stories to Make You Blush by Marie Gray. Copyright © 2007 Guy Saint-Jean Éditeur Inc.. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
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