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A Phoenix Fiction Writer Rising From The Ashes of Nonfiction




Crocodile Rock 
by Michael T. Martin

Before we were married, my husband was just one of many men vying for my favors. I had several lovers then and basked in the attention men constantly gave me. Maybe deciding on one was a mistake. He was handsome, athletic, intelligent, funny, tall, and he seemed to think I deserved goddess status because of the effect I had on him. Plus he was also more stimulating than the other men who just wanted to get me in bed.

After marriage I felt exalted as his wife, on a pedestal of his attention. He seemed to flaunt me to other men as his trophy, and I enjoyed that too. I was special, I was wanted, and I was happy. But then, after a few years, his passion wilted. His excitement waned. He mounted me almost perfunctorily, relieving himself rather than making love.

I desperately wondered why. I had kept my weight and figure. I was still long-legged and full-busted with what most people would consider an attractive face. I was attentive to him and did my best in bed. I bought “baby doll” negligees to spice up bedtime. I wore expensive perfumes promising passion. I didn't understand why he wasn't still excited by me. And, sometimes, I wondered if someone else was exciting him.

Being an elementary school teacher, I didn't mingle with many men, but men's eyes followed me in the supermarket, stared at me in other venues, occasionally giving me a double take. I felt validated by these other men, but not by my husband. He seemed to deny my being a woman.

Our school district governing board meetings were more male enriched. The high school teachers were largely male, the administrators were overwhelmingly male, and the governing board was about half and half. My husband never attended the governing board meetings, giving me the freedom to flirt with the men there.

I was often the center of attention from men before the meetings and during breaks where I made eyes, wiggled my chest, invaded their space, laid my hands on them for emphasis, and practiced the long dormant tricks of seduction I had learned in my youth. It was a joy inhaling their masculine scents while watching them trying to hide the bulges in their trousers.

Where my experience at home left me feeling dowdy and unattractive, the board meetings were where I rejuvenated. I just blossomed watching men becoming aroused merely by my presence and I became aroused by theirs. I began to want more than just flirting, however. I wanted to handle those bulges, to feel hot flesh in my hands. I loved the smell and taste of what made those bulges. Just the thought of touching nude men excited me.

At the same time, I also missed the emotional rush of sexual encounters with men. I longed for the uncontrolled overheated panting of men touching me. I longed for their frenzied excitement in mounting me. I missed their convulsive collapse on me. More and more I had an overwhelming desire to go after some man and drive him into wild exhilaration with lust, something I could no longer do with my husband.

The men in district meetings frustrated me though, because I felt constrained. My experience was that men became possessive if you slept with them, and I didn't want to referee who 'owned' me, or risk my husband finding out. I wanted a “one and done” isolated affair where I could pursue my prey, seduce him, ravage him, and then abandon him afterward.

One night in a pre-board-meeting group discussion an attractive man about my age mentioned to another member of the group that he was a vendor from another state traveling about the country to promote some educational program. I heard that he was staying at a local motel. His reference to the local motel caught my attention, so I moved to catch his attention.

I feigned interest in his educational program and after learning he was married with two kids, decided he'd be perfect for one and done. The board members began calling order and I told him we should continue talking after his presentation. He was amenable, but too reserved. It was still a sales call for him. I needed to sell him on something more.

My pulse began to quicken when he completed his presentation to the board. As he went to leave I intercepted him at the back of the room, where he agreed to discuss his program at the bar in his motel. I followed his car in mine, amused that the car radio played the song Crocodile Rock. I started tingling in anticipation, feeling a little like a crocodile approaching an unsuspecting swimmer as my body responded excitedly to ending my sexual famine.

Once inside the bar he didn't stand a chance. I hit him with my side glances, hair tosses, shoulder shimmies, lip pursing, leaning into him laughing, hand on his thigh, and feigned inebriation. I started toying with the pendant that lay in my cleavage, pulling my fingers slowly across my breasts while his eyes followed intently.

He started to stumble his words when talking to me and I felt a heady, even sadistic, empowerment watching him floundering in lust. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell his sweat, see his fidgeting, hear the stress in his voice. He was crocodile meat.

When I suggested that we go to his room it was like watching him drown in his lust. Once inside his room he tried to embrace me but I told him to disrobe me first.

“Careful with my clothes,” I insisted, “I don't want creases or torn buttons.” He eagerly unbuttoned and removed my dress and while he carefully draped it on the back of the chair, I reached to unsnap my bra, handing it to him. He froze, his eyes fixated on my still erect breasts, his mouth agape.

“You can take off my panties if you like,” I said sauntering up to him with a wiggly walk. He almost drooled from his open panting mouth. He started peeling my panties as I buried his face in my breasts. It had the desired effect, I wanted him frenzied, out of control, obsessed with having me, and I became wet watching him succumb. He pulled my panties down my thighs to my ankles then buried his face in my bush. He was more sporting than I imagined.

“I want your other end in there,” I said, pivoting away from him toward the bed.

It was then I saw the drapes over the sliding glass doors were wide open and two men sitting on the side of the pool were enjoying the show, their shocked wives aghast. Stupid rookie, I thought of myself. I quickly turned out the light that illuminated the room. I closed the drapes and slid onto my back on the bed, watching my quarry who was frantically disrobing himself.

The salesman was bigger than I expected. I hadn't handled him in advance and I was startled when he thrust into me, albeit a pleasant surprise. He was so excited, so frenzied, that he scarcely began penetrating me before spasms of rigidity wracked his body. Stiffly arching against me, ejaculating, he fell onto me, jerking rhythmically, moaning in my ear.

He was done, spent, within a minute. It was enough for me though. I was surprised at how enjoyable it felt experiencing his frenzied conflagration of lust. My husband may not be excited by me, but this man trembling between my thighs could barely contain his excitement as he huffed his breath, moaning in continuing pelvic spasms.

For the first time in a long while I felt fulfilled. I enjoyed being the crocodile. I had dragged this barely acquainted man under my power to a sexual climax in less than five minutes, with only a few wiggles and a suggestion. I had selected him, sought him, seduced him, and sexually slaughtered him on my own whim, and he was powerless to resist. Indeed I had seen him struggling to resist, floundering in lust, as I overpowered him.

I left him and drove home, still gloating about my conquest. I thoroughly enjoyed crocodile meat. As I walked from my car, inhaling the night blooming jasmine, I felt almost bloated with joy. My husband asked me from the couch about the meeting and I told him I got bored and left early, then excused myself to use the bathroom where I brushed my teeth to cover the smell of the alcohol. Then I felt comfortable again, and smug.

Re-experiencing the evening in my mind brought back the sensations of the salesman's size as I walked about my kitchen tidying up. I felt him still oozing into my panties. The bigger they come—the bigger they come, I laughed to myself. I shivered with excitement just thinking about my predatory evening as I calmly sat on the couch near my husband to watch television. He laughed at some situation comedy. I laughed at him.

In the days following I was amazed at how comfortable it felt to be free of my sexual frustrations from the situation at home and how empowered I felt having my self-esteem reaffirmed by my body arousing the salesman into a frenzy. I no longer felt dowdy, I felt sleek and enticing. I became a new woman comfortable in knowing I could still dominate men. I also felt comfortable knowing I would not have to worry about encountering the salesman again. It was perfect: one and done.

Only I wasn't done.


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