La Cage aux Voyage---A Short Story

It's idyllic, the way he holds her hand and caresses her knuckles with his mouth.

Hot breath, her hands tremble with her knees and so many questions brim at the very top of her mind; no words, though, for any of them.

The elevator is slow, gilded, and she is reminded of a cage. Her cage hovers over hundreds of feet of open space as if she were being strung up in the Moulin Rouge, her cheeks reddened and her dress flouncing as they haul her up, up. Her garter snaps as he lifts her skirt and disappears under it, his tongue finding her moisture and jerking out in time with the elevator's ascent.

The crowd cheers as she grips the bars. Her mouth opens in a perfect "o" while smoke curls past the golden cage where she sits, perched on an immovable seat. The crowd is pulsing as it watches her, the man under her skirt moves his head from side to side and so does she as her dress threatens to come off completely from the heat and fire in her cunt. He reaches up, and in a swift motion, rips her flouncing costume in two, revealing creamy white breasts, slick with her wetness. The audience screams and moans in one hot-wink burst; the applause heightens her lover's tongue as he grows impatient with her trembling legs. His fingers thrust inside and she calls out, head falling back to meet the bars painfully.

And the crowd...well, the crowd goes wild.

Naturellement.

The elevator's bell sounds and he stands, chin slick and glistening with her. He smiles, picking up their bags and grabs her hand.

The room, to her, is perfect. Even the room number is perfect; the numbers slide off of her tongue as he inserts the key, the door giving it's green light...to enter.

Flowers stand on the table heralding their entrance; their perfume mingles with the heady perfume of sex and anticipation. She is back in the cage, gilded and everything French from the milled soaps to the striped wall covering. Wine is chilled with glasses, cut crystal with the word Love in frosted glass.

The wine will look so pretty with "Love" in front of it, she thinks.

Music plays and lights dim and she knows how he had worked to make it all perfect, just for her.

He slid off her dress and attached his fragrant mouth on her neck as she moaned and collapsed on the bed. Hands wander her body and lips and teeth press into her; an ice cube from the bucket plays along her nipple and the melting issuance slides delectably down her torso like a stream to an aromatic lake. She wants him to swim in her, drown in her eyes while his cock dives into her.

She hears moaning and it isn't hers; she hears breathing and it isn't hers.

The other couple on the bed next to theirs make their own music and as she watches them she calls out with abandon and releases herself to her audience, high above the air. She is her own trapeze artist swinging in her golden abyss, her hands fastened to the ornate headboard as she sings her swan song. He coaxes her orgasm from her body, then from her lips through his own and suddenly, two pairs of eyes alight on to her as her climax shudders through her, drowning her lover's hands and face with her juices.

And the crowd...well, the crowd goes wild.

(c) Trinity Wolf