Erotica: The Bubble Dance

This is an excerpt from “Bubble Dance,” by Jeremy Edwards. Available in Best Erotic Stories, 2006–2015.

Before she came into my life, I never knew it was possible to chew bubble gum in a manner that could be described as “sensuous.” But, oh, that it is. Her jaw works with a rhythm reminiscent of slow fucking: smooth on the downstrokes, then back up in broken segments of release. Her tongue darts out to lick her lips from time to time. They look hot and succulent.

And my tongue mimics hers as I return to those other lips, darting here and there, letting the tip titillate her periphery for a while before I insert it.

When I poke it in and start painting her interior, Elaine moans, long and low. But, with typical virtuosity, she manages to keep her rhythm going on the gum.

I can visualize how her bare behind looks, hanging off the bench, the slight flush in those cheeks giving radiant witness to the pleasure she’s receiving. I’ve been longing for hours to make that ass happy. All morning and afternoon I watched Elaine navigate through her day, her bottom emphatically round in sober trousers, the undersides of the cheeks arcing into evidence whenever she leaned over her worktable.

Suddenly, as I tour her folds and begin to tease around her clit, I hear it: the hiss of a rising bubble.

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It’s a skill she acquired late—quickly making up for lost time. You see, Elaine didn’t chew gum as a kid. Tried it once, but didn’t have a taste for it. As she tells it, she was twenty-three when she had the revelation. She’d wanted to soixante-neuf with the guy, but apparently he didn’t like having his dick sucked. Desperate for something to put it in her mouth while he ate her pussy with single-minded dedication, she noticed a pack of bubble gum on his nightstand. And, not wishing to disrupt his rhythm by asking permission, she helped herself.

If her date realized she’d begun chewing gum in the middle of the cunnilingus session, he did not say as much. Meanwhile, Elaine got her own complementary rhythm going; and as the pleasure in her pussy built toward ecstasy, she found herself making a bubble to express her bliss.

Now she likes gum even better than cock, orally speaking. And I don’t mind, because not only do I get my lips all over her sex, I get the thrill of an erotic bubble show.

And so the sibilance serenades me while I dine on Elaine’s moist flesh.

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That first night she took me home, I observed that her apartment was decorated, wherever possible, in pink. Not “girly” pink, not pastel pink...bubble-gum pink. The lampshades, the painted wooden bookshelves, the rug on the bathroom floor...all pink as a ready-to-burst bubble.

“Orgasm is pink,” she told me that night, after I’d just given her one on her pink bedspread. She licked my ear to punctuate the thought, making an inward-spiraling swirl that for an instant seemed to turn the orifice into an ad hoc pussy.

And then there are the bubble-gum-pink panties, always those high-cut pink panties, stretched thin across the ripe bubble of her derriere. A confectionary layer that she wraps herself in, simply so it can be rolled down and she can be squeezed, fondled, and slapped back there.

The pink hues of her vulva, on the other hand, are darker, deeper, earthier ones. Here at the piano bench, those erogenous pink tissues tense with anticipation and bloat in delight. Above, I know that the bubble mirrors these developments—its skin swelling, its membrane pulled tighter and tighter toward the inexorable satiated collapse. Stage by delicious stage, Elaine breathes the essence of a woman alive with desire and its gratification into the sticky spheroid, nearly transforming it into an erotically overcome organism in its own right.

Halting for breath, I glance up at her nipples. They gleam proudly for me, sharp, pink pleasure-points that whimsically suggest a “pop” hazard for the bubble.