Erotique: Alex. Susan Lyons

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СКАЧАТЬ get horny for other students, but, though I’d occasionally thought a male student was cute or interesting, I’d never again felt sexual attraction.

      So, is my fantasy to be twenty-two again, meeting up with the nineteen-year-old Lincoln in a setting where we’re not teacher and student, and sex is permissible?

      Yeah, right. Not even the ritzy Erotique will be able to provide me with that one.

      No, what I really want is what my heroine, Madeline, also craves. Her because she’s a virgin, and me because it’s been so damned long since I’ve been with a man.

      I type, “To be with a man who puts my sexual needs and pleasure first. One who treats me as if it’s my first time, and makes me feel that way—as if my sensuality and sexuality are being awakened.”

      The next night, I step out of a taxi. A fantasy that starts in a dark alley, at a door guarded by a hulk in a tux? Hmm, that’s not the way I’d write it.

      I, on the other hand, look the part of a romantic heroine. The invitation said patrons could come in costume or not, though masks are mandatory. Choosing a turquoise-and-purple feathered mask from New Orleans, I’ve matched it with a long, slinky gown in a deep rich purple that makes my skin look even creamier than usual and my red hair more vivid. Under the gown, I wear a skimpy demi-bra and thong, both made of delicate black silk. I’m waxed and manipedied, and every cell of my body is alive with a combination of nerves, curiosity and arousal.

      Can Erotique’s Fantastique really deliver on its promise?

      The hulk inspects my invitation, gives me a surprisingly charming smile and ushers me through the heavy door.

      Inside, an attractive blond woman in a tux greets me. While she reads my invitation, I notice her gold lapel pin. A man and woman in flagrante delicto. Very hot.

      She looks up with a knowing smile. “Ah, Fantastique. You’re in for one special evening.”

      Mirrors cast multiple reflections as she leads me down the hall, where she turns me over to another woman.

      This one, middle-aged and pleasantly attractive, also wears a tux and the sexy gold pin. From behind an antique desk, she consults a book then hands me a key. “Take the elevator to the third floor, then go to room number 4.”

      Nervous excitement skitters through me. “Thank you.”

      “Enjoy your fantasy.”

      Am I really doing this? The club’s Web site says they screen their clientele rigorously, but all the same…sex with a total stranger?

      The lengths a writer will go to in the name of research.

      The lengths a sex-starved woman will go to to get a man-induced orgasm.

      As I ride up in the elevator, a rush of sadness—okay, it’s actually self pity—hits me. My heroines always find wonderful, outrageously sexy men who adore them, and the couples live happily ever after. I want the same happy ending myself, but it seems the best I can do is an anonymous encounter at a sex club, albeit a classy one.

      The corridor looks just like the hallway of any good hotel, though the rooms are spaced farther apart. As I unlock the door of number 4, nerves overcome my self-pity and it’s all I can do to step inside.

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