Stories in the Tiny Worlds Sketchbook are like a pencil sketch with words; loose, unrefined and not wholly a thing. But I like them and think there’s something here you might like, too.
A lone spotlight pinned her like a secret too delicious to share, her curves carved out of smoke and shadow, her presence pulling audible gasps from the crowd. She stood there, the serpent of her performance winding itself around her body, bending and curling to trace every dip and swell. On that stage, she wasn’t just the moon—she was a celestial tease, the Milky Way spilling over the edge, impossible to touch but begging you to try.
Her face was framed in suggestion, the faintest shimmer on her cheeks and lips as red as the devil’s signature. No masks, no pretense, just the long, languid stretch of her neck, the dangerous angle of her legs slicing through the blue haze of light.
Beyond the glow, her audience were nothing more than hungry shapes—eyes glittering, mouths slack, shifting in their seats as their pulses found a rhythm she controlled. When the band played, their chords buzzed through her body like a low, intimate hum, setting her every move to a tempo of want. She had them, every last one of them, hooked and twitching on her line. A spilled drink here, a bitten lip there, the telltale sigh of someone losing control under her spell.
She moved like sin wrapped in satin, every flick of her hips a sly whisper, every stretch of her limbs a promise she’d never keep. They leaned forward, so desperate for more, and when she was ready to finish them off, she hit them where it hurt best—low, deep, and unrelenting. Her smile? A slow, wicked blade. Her glance? A hand sliding over their thighs, stopping just short of heaven. When she hit the final move, it sent shudders through their spines, starting below the belt and detonating somewhere between the heart and the head.
And she? She felt it, oh yes, tasted it on her tongue as their lust spilled out and flooded the air. Her skin gleamed like a satin sheet left rumpled after midnight, the freckles on her shoulders trembling in the light like secrets about to break loose. Her hair, tangled and damp, clung to her neck, a dark trap framing a vision of pale, irresistible decadence. Even she wasn’t immune to the fever—womanhood coiled hot in her belly, rising like steam, making her drunk on the weight of all those eyes drinking her in. She was the garnish in their cocktail of longing, the citrus twist that made the bitter burn just right.
When the band reached its climax, so did she. Beth was gone, buried beneath the heat and hunger. She was Veronica now, her name rolling through their minds like the moans they’d try to stifle later. She wasn’t just a woman; she was a possession they could never hold, a memory they’d take home like a stolen kiss.
They’d sit in their beds that night, their suits damp, their thoughts dirtier than their alibis. And when the sun rose, it would be Beth picking up groceries at the market. But when darkness fell again, and the lights dimmed, they’d come crawling back, their wallets open, their mouths dry, ready to lose themselves to Veronica once more.
Music to read by:
Red Arrow Inn - Mark Isham
Vivid sketch, I'd love to see it connected to something larger.
Extremely vivid for such a short story! Very well done, sir!