New York City Confessions

By Aurora Rivers

The neighborhoods of the five boroughs are sizzling with stories people hardly ever touch.  Million of us pass me by every day but a few souls dared to enter my confessional.  Sometimes they want their voices to be heard, and others want to be lost in the third-person narrative.  Yet, these New York City residents had something in common, they want their real sensual stories to not be swallowed in the grinding hustle of this electric city.  Heterosexual, LGBTQ, from every walk of life - these stories come to you as diverse as the people from the Big Apple. - 47 pages, collection of erotica short stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aurora Rivers
• Release date: Mar 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215386927

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New York City Confessions

Aurora Rivers

Copyright © 2023 by Aurora Rivers

All Rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All events in this book are completely fictional.  Any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental.

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Cover Design by OliviaProDesign in Fiverr

Editted by Claire Kocy erotica_book in Fiverr

Published by Aurora Rivers:  https://at.tumblr.com/aurorariversworld/0kvyjiinn1te

Bless me Mother for I have sinned.

It has been 3 months since my last confession

~In the city that never sleeps, my fire burns amidst the fever pitch of noise and steel

In this concrete jungle we take each other, feed each other– sex in our hands, blood and bodies

Behind high rise towers, these are our secrets~

Bodega Girl

You don’t look at my face when you step into the Bodega two buildings down from your apartment in the morning—hidden behind regular makeup, light brown 90’s lipstick, and big hoops.  My brown hair is slicked back in a bun.  Your impressions of me are of a regular woman you hardly even pause to notice in her fullness, except to acknowledge maybe that I am taking care of you.  I am snapping that paper bag open with the perfect flip, placing your order inside, and calling out everything you just ordered.

Bacon, egg, and cheese on a roll.

Scramble eggs on a hero, toasted.

Everything bagel, toasted, light cream cheese.  Coffee—light and sweet.

Egg and cheese on whole wheat.  Black coffee, three sugars.

It’s a mantra that makes you feel secure and stable, the one thing you can always count on hearing at 8 AM before you head to work, to the classroom, to the office, to the parking garage.  I am there, and you know I got you.

Just the checkout girl, hitting the register numbers, getting your order right.  I look you in the eye because my service soothes you.  I just called your order and am about to take your money for it.  And if you want to add anything to your paper bag, like gum, mints, juice, or some fruit, I will fit it in.  I will also notice the rolled-up newspaper under your arm that you are about to give me extra money right before you tell me you are taking the Daily News with you.

Just a check-out girl, even though I am almost 30 and hardly a girl.  I look very light brown skin and brown eyes and am very Latina. That is all you know about me before you rush to work.  You don’t see a whole person in front of you.  You may be one of the many who don’t know; my name is Cynthia.

And for the longest time, I was happy with this routine between us. I was content to get my pay on Friday and stick it in a bank account before rent day, bills, or groceries.  I happily shared an apartment with my cousin, where she took the bedroom, and I converted the living room into a sleeping space.  Just a regular New York City woman, making it through.  Her parents lived in the Bronx while she somehow made it into a Lower East Side 1 bedroom with a landlord who still worked it out with the tenants, something that hardly happens these days anymore.  This was all I needed for the longest time, until one of my bills rose incredibly.

A girl gotta do what she’s gotta do, so I went to find creative means of income.  My credit card use went unchecked, and I paid the consequence monthly. I didn’t realize that what I saw would make me into a night-time person no one passing from the bodega would recognize.

I found the ad by chance and entered the establishment.  Somebody led me to the back room, a green room, and a glass chamber—a peep show stage.  Money pushes you to do many things you didn’t think you could do before.  I already knew I would become someone else when I saw that peep show stage.  I would need an inner transformation.

—

You see me—a young woman of dusky skin, earthy curls with a white bow, knee-high socks, and black patent leather shoes.  Dressed in a child-like fairy dress like the ones made famous by the brand Selkie.  I had made sure to find the perfect dupe of it to stand in front of you tonight.  Airy, ethereal, silken fabric that hardly comes to mid-thigh with the puffed sleeves.  When the curtain rises, I look still as a doll, mute as a child specter.  And there I stand as the iconography of something you recognize as forbidden.  You can already tell there is a luscious body beneath the silk. 

I reach out to you and beckon for you to touch the glass and make contact with me, even with this plexiglass barrier between the two.  Hoping that in your mind, we are meeting somewhere secret, somewhere innocent like the home of your youth, the summer camp we attended, a castle in the sky.  It doesn’t matter because, at that particular moment, I am yours to watch or even to touch.  When your hand reaches the plexiglass, I emanate that warmth from my skin.  You can’t feel it in my touch, but you can feel it in my expression and my body language.  Now your hand is my hand.  Now you are touching me.  When I rise to my feet and begin a slow dance with my hips swaying side to side, my hands will start brushing over exposed skin, the low neckline of my dress, and the space under my lip. Heavy-lidded, I look at you and ask, What do you want...?  I mouth those words enough for you to read them from behind the glass. 

Your gestures, hands, and lips demand what you want me to do. 

Show your breasts....  I pull my