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Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart
Short Provocative Erotica
Copyright, Elizabeth Woodham, 2012
All Rights Reserved
Cover Image, Copyright, © Marc Mauro | Dreamstime.com
Warning – Adult Content
Sexually explicit content from the start
Copyright Notice and Disclaimer
Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart
Short Provocative Erotica
Copyright, Elizabeth Woodham, 2012
All Rights Reserved
Cover Image, Copyright, © Marc Mauro|Dreamstime.com
Warning – Adult Content
Sexually explicit content from the start
Cover Image, copyright,
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Published by Secret Narrative
Provocative erotica designed to turn you on
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Contents
Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart
Toxic in all its parts, the beautiful Oleander, Nerium oleander, is considered by many to be
the most poisonous plant in the world. Two of the most potent poisons are oleandrin and
neriine, known for their powerful effect on the heart.
About the Author
About the Author
Elizabeth Woodham is based in London, England. Sometimes amusing but always sensual
and erotic, she wishes you as much pleasure reading her stories as she is had writing them.
Her Sugar Daddy features scenes that take place in Venice, Italy. Kat - Urban Cougar is
set in London and Sussex, England. Other titles by Elizabeth, writing as Secret Narrative,
include: Faithfully Unfaithful - Erotic Letters to My Cuckold, Edwin Percy’s Anal
Adventures, and Christmas Cuckold. Elizabeth's latest series, 'It's a Sin' includes, Lust,
Gluttony, and Envy, she is currently working on 'Wrath', ‘Pride’, ‘Greed’, and ‘Sloth’. Also
underway: September Storm and Cherry Blackthorne.
Visit http://www.eroticaexpress.com for further details.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SecretNarrative
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/elizabeth.woodham.14
Elizabeth Woodham blogs @: www.eroticaexpress.com
Contact Elizabeth via [email protected]
Nerium Oleander: Toxic Heart
We spent the evening cocooned in my flat, feasting on one another. The tip of your tongue
trailing my nakedness, leaving a wake of cooling moisture, making a circuit of my navel,
moving downward until the searching tip arrives at the crux of my clitoris, where your fingers
meet your mouth. Moving the hood of my cloak and parting the flesh as if exposing ripe fruit
for heavenly consumption, devouring me in a consummation of cunnilingus, the wet purplish
pink of my silken skin moist, and burning under your exploration.
I arch up a little to meet your mouth, fondling my own breasts, tweaking my nipples
between forefinger and thumb, pebbling them, intensifying the sensations pulsing
rhythmically just beneath my skin in ripples of exquisite sensation. Knowing that your cock
is hard and oozing essence, poised for entry into my tight, willing sheath, I move, urging you
upward, until the length of your body matches mine, you take your weight and I move my
legs around your waist, assisting your entry. You’re home, the flawless velvet of your skin
within the sleek folds of mine, and you are moving gently in and out, increasing pace as I
hold you tight, hanging onto you limpet like as you push home with a final ecstatic rush of
release. Your seed flooding me as I embrace you and wait for my breathing to calm, my
heartbeat to settle, we kiss, your lips on mine, my tongue invades you, greedy for my
aftertaste, prolonging the moment that I know you will exit, my sheath, my bed, my home.
And I waited for your text to say, ‘see you soon, thank you for a wonderful time,’
anything but nothing.
***
Leaving a suitable lapse, not wishing to inconvenience or chase you, not wanting to be a
nuisance or to arouse suspicion, I wait for almost a week, and yet you do not get in touch.
The day of our regular rendezvous arrives, and I ready myself as usual, going through the
ritual, choosing adored scents, your favourite lingerie, sheer stockings, rolled slowly up my
legs one at a time, fastening the tiny buttons of my suspender belt, slipping nylon clad feet
into killer heels, smoothing down my tight black dress, which accentuates my liberal curves.
I pour a large vodka over ice, top it up with slimline tonic, retrieve the jar of ready cut
lemon slices from the fridge, inhaling the pungent fragrance, allow it to zing on my taste buds
before I take a sip. Drop a slice into the glass with a small splash and neck a few desperate,
greedy sips before positioning myself on the window seat, glass in hand to watch and wait.
You do not show.
Nothing.
The approach to the house illuminated by a single street light, and not a soul passes
by, nobody to cause my heartbeat to quicken in anticipation, thinking it may be you. I do not
even have the luxury of the short, sweet thrill of spying an approaching figure. The street
remains silent and empty all through my vigil, seated there, at the window the entire night,
only moving to top up my drink or go to the bathroom.
‘He’s not coming back,’ says the mirror, lurching in and out of focus.
Finally, admitting defeat as the early slivers of watery, first light turn the inky sky
grey, and I abandon my shoes and fall into bed utterly pissed and fully clothed. I sleep
fitfully.
In my head, you have had an accident.
Thinking you dead. Must be dead.
No word, nothing. You must be dead.
Nobody would tell me.
I am a nonperson in your real life.
***
‘Pull yourself together,’ says my mirror, before I phone in sick at eight o clock, leave
a message on the answerphone, knowing I still sound pissed.
After that, I call you.
Your answerphone cuts in quickly, your voice jolts my reality.
‘Thanks for calling, I’m sorry I’m not available at the moment, leave a message, I’ll
call you back.’
I dial again, listening, something crawls inside me; a worm of dread is making a
home, burrowing into my gut.
Hanging up, I run to the bathroom and vomit, retching until there is nothing left to
spew, my stomach, ribs and throat on fire, my eyes and nose stream miserably.
‘You’re a wreck,’ the mirror reflects despair and stale makeup, mascara smudges
under bloodshot eyes, a mess of misery stares back.
I crawl to bed, and incredibly, sleep the day away, getting up when night falls, and
fetch another bottle, take it to bed and drink myself sober, talking to myself, making deals,
making pacts, talking aloud like a mad woman, my voice deep, gravel from tears and alcohol.
I ring again, this time a long, intermittent tone, instead of the typical shorter bursts,
announcing that you are in a different country.
‘It’s Leander, I’m worried. Call me. Please.’
***
Previously, shining with joy in the afterglow, I had made a vow never to call you at home,
but that was before the rules changed and now a relentless pulse beats exquisite pain from the
miasma of my memory.
I talk myself into waiting.
I need to update work, an explanation, it is after hours, knowing I’ll get the machine, I
phone in, leave a message, laying blame on a throat infection. It sounds feasible, my throat is
raw from crying, vodka and vomiting, I don’t care what they think, I care only about you, and
my one-track mind is focused as if there were no other course to take.
Where are you?
I crawl into bed, take a pill, and sleep.
I have never seen your wife, I have her image in my head, created by your vague
description, filling in the blanks myself, colouring her dull, and satisfied with my creation, I
console myself with my beauty juxtaposing her beast.
I wait another day, a final, mentally bargained day, clean myself up, make plans and
an appointment for my GP.
Immersed in water as hot as I can bear, skin rosy, sweating out the last of the alcohol,
disgusting myself with the smell as it leaves my pores, I sink beneath the water, allowing my
long dark hair to float around me, speaking aloud into the steam, my voice sounds strange to
my submerged ears. Coming up, water streaming from my head and face, I lather my hair
twice, and rinse using the shower attached to the mixer taps, knowing I feel better, because I
have to resist the urge to adjust the spray to jet and masturbate, I don’t have time, I’m making
plans.
The mirror says, ‘much improved but could do better.’
I call again, a last chance for you; my ideas have taken shape, waiting over. I dress.
I get your answerphone again.
I leave the cocoon of my house.
In the doctor’s office, I cry, sobbing, hiccupping my general despair, a litany of selfhate, driven by our affair.
I cannot stop, I cannot give you up, and until now, I have been a pushover. She passes
the tissues and gives me her ten minutes, writes out a repeat prescription for my tranquilisers,
and gives me a certificate for work.
‘Anxiety disorder’.
I don’t care. It gives me ten days. I will post it. Later. I cannot worry about work; I
can only focus on you.
I recall the lingering scent of that final shirt; freshly pressed fine linen. Inhaled.
Parting white.
At home, the mirror is silent; I listen intently, and still I cannot hear. I wait until the weekend,
my shaking finger presses the numbers that summon your home phone, she answers, and I
hang up.
Amazed at my audacity, I cannot think why I have never used the number before. Her
voice is sweet.
Jealousy surges and spikes through my bloodstream, popping into my head, and bile
fills my mouth. I wait and think. I dial again.
‘Is Nerium there,’ I ask when she answers.
‘No, he’s away at the moment, who’s calling?’
I hang up.
I will not ring your mobile again; you have had your chances.
***
‘It’s complicated,’ you said, when I asked about the future, in our post coital glow,
doubts attach your words, amplified by your explanation, which sounds hollow, even to my
cloth ears.
I drive to your house.
You have no idea that I know where you live, I ferreted out your address a blue moon
ago, keeping it against future need, strong, and secure in your obsession with me, I have been
able to resist a peek, but I now I want to see it. Suddenly, where you live matters, your
absence of the past few days triggering envious, avid curiosity.
What does she have that I haven’t?
Rolling to a halt at the kerb, I kill the engine and look up the long drive, which curves
slightly between tall hedges lining the entrance; the house sits side-on to the road the
spacious front porch points toward your manicured lawn.
I am not at all surprised by the imposing facade, and generous plot. An upmarket car
is parked near to the entrance, and that does not surprise me either, somehow, I guess I knew
that she would drive a sleek, car, the type that purrs, matching her voice.
My heart contracts, and the image in my head alters, I am redrawing the lines,
changing the brushstrokes, repainting her, erasing dowdy, daubing vibrant, and I shrink a
little more.
Forcing myself to drive home, using autopilot, I put the car away and prepare for bed.
No messages, no missed calls. Nothing.
It’s Monday, the ringing phone startles me, heart somewhere in the gap between
throat and mouth, the space often occupied by your erection. I answer warily; it’s HR from
work, enquiring after me, warming my cold heart a little. I agree to keep in touch, but
confirm my absence for the coming days.
***
The florist is helpful. I order a suitable arrangement, write a card, address it to you and tuck it
inside, ‘this afternoon is fine,’ I instruct delivery.
I wait, and in the meantime, I spend another night house watching. Her car is there,
yours is not. I watch the lights in various rooms come on, go off, go on, until darkness in all
but the upper floor.
The house broods. I slip my hands between my legs, opening them as wide as possible
in the confines of the driver’s seat. I watch as light floods one of the upper windows, I see her
moving form within, shadowy, ethereal; she doesn’t bother closing the curtains. She yanks
her top off in silhouette. I squint for a better look.
Making a decision, I get out of the car, lock it and make my way toward the grounds.
Crouching in your front garden, squatting close to the hedges, as if I am about to take
a pee. I stare up at the window, she has disappeared, but I imagine her inside, sprawled on top
of the marital bed, legs apart, and as I masturbate there, in the open air, partly concealed only
by the bushes. I think about what it would be like to lick out your wife, to taste her nectar,
and wonder how different she tastes from me.
As my orgasm approaches, I torture myself with thoughts of you screwing your wife,
fucking with her, a relentless coupling. Her climax engulfing you, as mine brings me to the
edge of reason.
Rising on limbs that feel disembodied, walking to my car, I lick my sticky fingers,
one by one.
Gaining sanctuary, I turn the key and drive home. Deflated.
***
I have nothing of yours to comfort me; I have no letters, no tangible gifts. You have never
given me anything that could be traced to you. For my last birthday, you gave me money.
‘Treat yourself darling,’ you said, ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t time to go shopping and I
don’t want to ask my secretary, obviously.’
Disappointment drove a lump into my throat, tears pricking behind my eyes, but I
presented my cheerful, upbeat face, and dropped to my knees, took your semi-erect cock
between my lips. Worked you, until you thrived, slid my way down your shaft, snuggling you
into the casement of my throat, and down a little way, paid you homage, swallowed your hot
and sour, drinking deep of your juice before you left for the night.
My doorbell wakes me, incessant, a finger pressed without pause.
Suddenly silence.
Fear shoots adrenaline into my veins as if with a needle, sparkling my senses.
My nostrils, and head clear, instantly alert.
I switch on the bedside light, heart hammering my ribcage; a tattoo beats in my ears. I
slip out of bed and slink silently to the door.
The peephole reveals nothing.
Nobody.
Chain in place, I open the door a crack, cold air from the hall fingers me.
Inert, on the outer doormat an envelope, stark and white against the dark matting.
I crouch down, reach for it without removing the chain, and slide it in.
Turning around, I press my back against the door to close it and make an inspection.
Nothing on the front, virgin white, unspoiled.
I turn it over, nothing on the reverse, bar a neat seal.
I sniff, hold it close to my nose, and inhale again, but the only odour, a dry, dead
whiff of paper. Nothing revealed - no spirit of sender.
Shaking fingers lift the self-seal flap. A brilliant white A4 sheet, folded in three,
trembling, unfolding black, stark, bold letters, dancing from page to eyes.
‘It’s over. Do not ring me again. Do not phone my home. I told you never to call my
home. You crossed the Rubicon when you sent the flowers.’
The first letter you have ever written me.
Toxic in all its parts.
My heart feels as if it has taken a cluster of bullets. Shock freezes my blood, and it
sticks, pooling in the chambers, which strain to pump, an unwound clock losing time, a
haphazard beat, a hiatus borne of exposure to departure.
The note falls from stricken fingers, flutters to the floor, as if virginal in white, pale
against the polished cherry underfoot.
Bare feet carry me to the bathroom.
‘Foolish girl,’ says the mirror, my face, petrified in an echo of agony.
I open the bathroom cabinet, and reach into the darkness.
***End***
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