Port Wine & Pink Lace

By Chantale Reve

(Adults Only)

Gloria's commute takes a serious detour: New York City to Portugal and Brazil on the cost of a Metro Card. Sequestered in a subway car with a seductive stranger, she deigns to break her Vovó Gracília’s spell and sample the man's "amore portuguese."

For Adults Only

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chantale Reve
• Release date: Mar 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458172273

Chantale Reve

Corporate robot by day, lucid dreamer by night, Chantale Rêve lives to express her thoughts on the human condition through erotic short fiction (especially erotic mystery and suspense stories) and poetry. She is inspired by and enjoys the creations of other artists—from novelists and poets, to dancers, musicians, visual artists and chefs.Chantale is profoundly influenced by certain existentialist schools of thought, including Camus’ and Sartre’s; by the literature of William Shakespeare, Franz Kafka, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Kate Chopin, Ralph Ellison, Jean Toomer, Alice Walker, Anaϊs Nin, Henry Miller, Philip K. Dick, Richard Burton Matheson, James Patterson, John Le Carré, Ian Fleming, among others; the plays of Tennessee Williams; and by the cinematic genius of Hitchcock; of French and Italian New Wave auteurs Truffaut, Varda, Bresson, Antonioni, Bertolucci and Fellini; and—from the African Diaspora—of Melvin Van Peebles, Gordon Parks, Spike Lee, Kasi Lemmons, Julie Dash and Ava DuVernay.Chantale’s worldview continues to be shaped by her travels and by the images and messages in remarkable independent, modern and postmodern films—both past and present—from around the world.

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Port Wine & Pink Lace

By Chantale Reve

Copyright © 2010/2011 Chantale Reve

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Back when flashing panties on a subway car or bus was still a safe turn-on, I would feel a fluttering in my pelvis and a tingling from my spine to my pink petals at the mere thought of enticing a comfortably older man into spying on my slick vulva.  I liked watching him angle his head so that he could see my natural lube oozing from the darkness beneath my bunched skirt out onto my butterscotch thigh.

Those were the days when I could wear stockings without the fear of their elastic top bands rolling down to my knees. I could sit across from the geezer and not worry whether he was an undercover vice cop. My seating preference back then used to depend on whether there was a tangerine or marigold seat directly ahead of an older gent – one not elderly enough to bring out my Elektra complex, but one not so young that he could be arrested for sipping my favorite beverage: Port wine.

Those days, I’d hike up my plaid skirt subtly the way I first had done in Sister Anabel’s class when João saw my Wednesday panties, the ones with pink lace