I’m joining in with Wicked Wednesday this week, and I believe it is my first time doing so. So, I think that warrants a bit of an introduction, for those of you who don’t know it.
Wicked Wednesday is a weekly meme, hosted by the lovely Marie Rebelle. Every week, she sets an optional prompt (this week’s being “write a story from the point of view of a glass sitting at the edge of a table”), and you can either follow the prompt and write an erotic story/take a picture relating to the prompt or just write an erotic story/take a picture without using the prompt.
So, here’s my take on this week’s prompt, a piece of erotica titled At The End Of The Night…
It always begins when the large man in the apron places me and my colleagues on the tables. He meticulously cleans us, assuring that we at least start the evening without any spots or stains… it’s not how any of us will end the evening – some of us don’t even make it past the first hour. I pity them, lying shattered on the floor. They do miss out on all the fun.
At six o’clock in the evening, they trickle in. I’m ready, as always, to receive what’s coming to me. I always enjoy the variety of people who take me to their lips and drink whatever type of red or white or bubbled concoction they’ve picked from my full body. I like listening to them as well. Always such interesting secrets revealed…
Sometimes the daily grind can get quite dull, I grant you. Thursday nights, I mostly spend staring into the middle distance, envious of any of my colleagues who do get to indulge in the company of people enjoying wine and whatever the tall French man in the kitchen whips up at his stove. I envy the feeling of their rims being touched by lips, soft, large, voluptuous…
But then Friday comes along and all at one, I am filled with excitement. Friday is when I see Her.
She’s a regular set of lips who comes in every Friday evening. And because fate works in mysterious ways, I always end up being the vessel for her choice of poison. Her lips are the softest, most beautiful lips I’ve ever had the pleasure of feeling on the rim of my body. If I had skin, I am certain it would break out in shivers.
She enjoys my company as much as I enjoy hers, it seems. Not that she’d know it was me, always me that trembles with delight every time she pulls up the chair and sits down to fill me up with red, white whatever. She’s always alone, but never really alone because I am with her, and I am relishing in her fingers tracing the outline of my hard stem, her painted lips leaving a rosy red outline on my rim.
I think it is the closest I will get to what I’ve heard human beings call “making love”. I imagine she’s good at making love, whatever that really entails. I imagine it’s touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body and leaving stains and marks at the end of the night. I imagine it must feel good. It must make her feel like she’s truly alive.
So on the Friday she doesn’t walk in alone, a pang of a strange emotion makes me wobble on my very base. Two chairs being pulled back, two glasses being sipped from. One pair of strong, masculine hands stroking her fine, slender fingers. She laughs at his stories, he laughs at hers. They talk about touching lips, fingers tracing outlines, full body against full body… They talk about their love making, and I am at once forgotten, the sharp red concoction in my body resting as they talk and talk like people do in restaurants.
At the end of the night, the man in the apron collects me from their table, as they walk out hand in hand. He wobbles, and spills the remains of the red concoction over his white uniform. It’s fitting, I guess… it’s close to what humans call a broken, bleeding heart.
© Jillian Boyd, 2014
Read the other takes on the prompt and other Wicked Wednesday entries here.