The Seductress by Ronald MacLennan

               

It was our annual New Year’s Eve party.  A traditional black and white tie affair. The party had been in full swing for at least an hour before I noticed her. The band was playing and the guests were dancing. In hindsight, the fact that she slipped past me without me noticing was unusual. My eyes are like radar at these gatherings, scanning for any new or intriguing faces. Somehow, she slipped past my awareness until the moment she stepped into the grand ballroom.

I was pouring myself a drink, my usual gin and tonic, when I felt the atmosphere shift. It wasn’t just me who noticed; the room seemed to pause as she appeared in the doorway. She wasn’t wearing a dress or a top, or even pants. In fact, she wasn’t wearing anything at all.  She stood around 5 feet 7 inches in height and appeared to be in her early twenties, I’d say. Her dark hair cascaded in wild waves over her shoulders, and her lips were painted a crimson red.  She casually sipped wine from a golden chalice, which she held in her right hand.  She looked like a high-end fashion model of sorts.  Her nude body, a perfectly sculpted work of art, commanded the attention of every person in attendance.  The pearly, firm roundness of her B-cup breasts caught the light just so. Her pink areolas were puckered, and her nipples were erect, pebbled against the cool air of the room, looking as though they yearned to be fondled. Her stomach was toned, her waist dipped in sharply, her hips flaring out suggestively.  Her legs, long and lithe, seemed to go on for miles, terminating in a pair of delicate feet with red-painted toenails.  Each step seemed to be a graceful glide, her bare feet making no sound on the polished wood floors. The lights above caught every curve of her firm, perky B-cup breasts and illuminated the well-maintained patch between her legs. Everyone at the party was captivated by her presence. Even the band stopped playing as each member jostled to get a better look at her.

“Who is she?” I whispered to Greg, who was standing beside me, absently stirring his whiskey with his finger as his eyes tracked her walking into the ballroom.

He blinked at her. “Beats me. You think she’s with Paul?”

Paul was the host, a gregarious type who loved an eclectic guest list. It wouldn’t have been completely out of character for him to invite someone like her on a whim. Still, even Paul usually demanded that his guests wear clothes. After all, this was a formal event, and everyone was dressed in black and white ties and evening gowns.

“She’s just… standing there,” I expressed, sipping my drink to mask my unease. I had to pinch myself. “Am I hallucinating, or is she naked?”  I remarked. The woman tilted her head slightly as though she’d overheard me. Her smile widened, and her green eyes—deep and dark—locked onto mine, as she smiled at me flirtatiously.  I nodded and smiled back at her as she made her way further into the ballroom. 

By now, everyone had zeroed in on the thin, tidy, well-kept, hairy patch between her legs, expertly trimmed and maintained, nestled like a delicately placed landing strip. It was carefully groomed and manicured to perfection. A tiny strip of hair so fine, it looked like spun silk. The moist crevice in the center glistened in the light.  Her every movement was electrifying. The air around her pulsed with erotic energy. The provocative glide of her hips, the roll of her breasts, the seductive sway of her bare ass—all of it served to titillate the entire party.  She continued to steal into the ballroom, her hips swaying like a pendulum. She knew the effect she had on the crowd. She reveled in their stares and relished the power she held over them, knowing exactly what they wanted and what they craved. She would give it to them, but first, she would tease them just a little bit more. Just enough to drive them wild with lust and longing. 

The room itself seemed to pulse with energy, as if every eye in attendance were riveted to her ass, her breasts, or that manicured patch between her legs. Her body magnetized them, drawing them in like moths to a flame. She wanted them to look at her, to desire her. She reveled in their attention, craved it like a drug. And they could not look away, could not tear their gaze from the erotic masterpiece before them. Her hips swayed more provocatively as she crossed the ballroom, her body language screaming for attention, beckoning all who saw her to come hither and worship at her altar.

“I should… uh, say hi,” Greg stammered, though he didn’t move an inch. Before I could respond, she strode toward us with chalice in hand, sipping her wine, her bare feet making no sound against the polished wooden floor. Every step seemed deliberate, a slow unraveling of tension in the room. By the time she stopped in front of us, the grand ballroom had gone completely silent.

“Hello,” she said, her voice low and velvet-smooth. “I