Plaza Erotica , livre ebook

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 this 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...a