By Lisabet Sarai
In my post two weeks ago, I talked about how my body responds to music, and how my characters often mirror these feelings. To demonstrate, here’s a snippet from Exposure: An Erotic Murder Mystery. The protagonist of this novel, Stella Xanathakeos, is an independent, self-confident woman who just happens to make her living as a stripper. Like me, she answers when the music calls.
Sex, blood and betrayal: it's all in a day's work.
Stella is just minding her own business and having a bit of fun, working as an exotic dancer at the Peacock Lounge. Through no fault of her own, she witnesses a double murder and gets pulled into a shady dance of deceit with political bigwigs, mob bosses, dirty cops and scheming widows. Now she's everyone's target; her only chance is to sift through the lies and expose the truth.
Ginger’s routine is hot and raunchy. She wears an animal print jumpsuit, gold and black. She shakes her tawny hair around her face like a mane. The costume is all zippers. Little by little she sheds pieces of the skin-tight garment to reveal the real skin underneath, creamy dark brown, glistening with sweat. She’s a jungle cat, sinuous, dangerous. I imagine I can smell the musk from way back here. My nipples tighten to aching nubs under my silk blouse. I squeeze my thighs together, creating ripples of sensation in my cunt that grow more intense the longer I watch Ginger’s performance.
By the time she’s finished, I’m actually panting. I’m amazed at my reactions. After all, I’m a professional. I know it’s all show business.
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the after-effects from last night, the explosive sex cut short by terror. I don’t care. I’m having a wonderful time. I’m glad I came.
Who’s next? I wonder. Then the music starts, and it’s like someone plunged a knife into my heart. Chris Isaak. “Wicked Game.” My song.
Before I realize what’s happening, I’m walking between the tables, making my way to the stage. It’s like I’m in a trance. I climb the stairs to the platform, swaying already in time with the haunting tune.
The audience realizes that something odd is going on. The men fall silent, their eyes following me as I move dreamily around the stage. “Strange what desire will make foolish people do,” the singer’s hoarse voice croons as I slowly unbutton my jacket.
I shrug and it slips from my shoulders, making a green puddle on the stage. My blouse is beige silk, high-necked, buttoned up the back. My nipples poke lewdly through the fabric of the demure garment. I cup my breasts, slowly stroking my thumbs across the protruding flesh. Pleasure shimmers through me, sparkling in the shadowy chasm between my legs.
I scan the audience, but I’m not really seeing anyone. I’m not using the stare. I don’t sense any particular person’s lust. I’m just floating in the sea of their collective desire.
I turn my back on the audience, working the buttons of my top. My hair is coming loose from my businesswoman’s twist. Tendrils keep getting caught in my fingers as I struggle to release myself from the confining embrace of the silk.
Finally I get the last button undone. In triumph, I pull it over my head, turning to face the audience as I do. The clips holding my hair in place surrender completely. Black curls tumble over my shoulders, hiding my breasts.
I flick my hair back and smooth my hands over the satin of my bra, caressing the fullness it hides and constrains. The song rises to a climax. My sex spasms every time I stroke my fingers across the smooth, taut fabric. My tits ache for freedom, for nakedness. I reach for the front clasp of my bra, eager to release them.
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