A LATE MORNING --AN EARLY NIGHT PART 5--7 (EROTICA NARRATIVE)

A LATE MORNING --AN EARLY NIGHT

PART 5--7

(EROTICA NARRATIVE)

WRITTEN

BY

ARA FIG

2026

PART 5

Alle pushed through the side door of Beppy’s Alley Tavern just as the lunch rush died into its usual mid-afternoon lull. The place smelled like stale beer, fried onions, and the faint citrus cleaner Sophia always used on the bar top.

A couple of old-timers nursed drinks at the far end. Sophia Baleno—Sofi—was wiping down a table in a tight black tank and a short black skirt that rode high every time she bent. She looked up, dark eyes catching Alle’s, and tipped her chin toward the back.

They slipped into the narrow pantry off the kitchen without a word. Crates of wine, sacks of flour, the low hum of the walk-in cooler. Sofi already had a cigarette lit by the time Alle closed the door.

Alle pulled the small folded paper from the inner pocket of her sundress—product she and Franny had split from the gym bag someone left in a parking lot weeks ago—and held it out.

“E and a little blow,” Alle said quietly. “Same as last time.”


Sofi took it, weighed it in her palm, then grimaced.

“I don’t have it on me right now.”

Alle shrugged, already lighting her own cigarette off Sofi’s.

“I’ll front it. Pay me when you can.”


Sofi nodded, tucking the fold into her bra. The motion made her breasts push up higher against the low neckline of the tank.

Alle’s eyes stayed there a second too long.

Sofi noticed.

“What are you doing, Alle?”

Alle didn’t look away.

“I can’t help it, So. They’re so big.

They look bigger every time I see you.”

Sofi half-laughed, low and knowing.

“I know. You’re right. Happens a lot. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s sorta a turn-on anyway.”

Sofi’s mouth curved. “Can I feel them?”

“You want to touch them?”

“Yeah… if it’s okay?” Alle’s grin turned impish, quick and dirty.

“Sure it’s okay. Let me touch yours too then.”


Sofi stepped in. Alle’s hands came up under the tank, palms filling with soft, heavy weight, thumbs brushing the already tight nipples through the thin fabric of Sofi’s bra. Sofi exhaled hard through her nose and slid both hands up under Alle’s sundress, finding her bare—no panties—and cupping her smaller, firmer breasts, squeezing once, deliberate.

The kiss came natural after that. Open-mouthed, tongues sliding, smoke and mint and the residual taste of the morning still on Alle’s breath. They pressed into the corner where the shelves met the wall, bodies flush. Alle’s fingers slipped lower, under the waistband of Sofi’s skirt, finding the heat between her thighs already slick. Sofi’s hand mirrored the move, two fingers pushing up under Alle’s sundress and straight into the wet mess the car ride and the aftershocks had left her in.

They fingered each other slow at first, then deeper, panting into each other’s mouths, quiet little purrs and bitten-off sounds so the front of the bar wouldn’t hear. Alle’s free hand stayed on Sofi’s breast, kneading. Sofi’s thumb kept circling Alle’s nipple. Their hips worked in tight, matching rhythm against each other’s hands. Knees started to shake. Alle’s forehead dropped to Sofi’s shoulder. Sofi’s teeth found the side of Alle’s neck.

They came almost together—Alle first, a hard, shuddering clench around Sofi’s fingers, then Sofi following with a low, broken whimper, thighs clamping. Their knees finally gave. They slid down the wall in a tangled heap of bare legs and hiked skirts, still holding on, still breathing hard against each other’s skin, the cigarettes long forgotten on the pantry floor.

Outside, a glass clinked. Someone called for a refill. Neither of them moved yet.

PART  6

The riverfront condo in Bayonne sat under a sky the color of hammered brass. The heat was a living thing—thick, wet, pressing down on the asphalt and the metal railings until everything shimmered. Robbie Apollo pulled the black sedan into the shaded loading zone, already sweating through the back of his dark shirt. He killed the engine, stepped out, and felt the air hit him like a damp towel. Corrine’s luggage waited by the service elevator: two hard-shell suitcases and a smaller carry-on. He loaded them into the trunk without ceremony, the metal handles hot enough to sting his palms, then took the private elevator straight to the roof.

The rooftop terrace was all pale stone and low glass walls, the Hudson glittering dirty-silver beyond. Two lounge chairs faced the water. Corrine—fifty, still striking in the way only certain Italian-American widows managed—reclined in a deep wine-red silk robe that had slipped open to mid-thigh. Beside her, Barbara Giglione, forty-five, her late husband’s sister-in-law, wore black silk that clung to every soft curve the years had given her. Both women held tall Bloody Marys, the celery stalks already half-chewed, ice melting fast. Their bare legs were stretched out, polished toes pointed, the robes barely closed across heavy breasts.

They saw him and dissolved into tipsy giggles, the sound bright and girlish against the industrial hum of the river.

“You’re early, Robbie,” Corrine called, voice husky from the vodka and the heat. “Flight’s not for hours.”

Barbara set her glass down and stood. The black silk whispered open as she moved, flashing the full soft weight of her breasts, the dark thatch between her thighs, the slight soft pouch of her lower belly. She crossed the hot stone barefoot and walked straight into him, arms sliding up around his neck, body pressing flush. Her mouth found his without hesitation—open, wet, tasting of tomato and pepper and vodka—while one hand dropped to squeeze the growing ridge in his trousers in full view of Corrine.

Corrine watched over the rim of her glass, dark eyes amused and interested. She made no move to stop it. She never had.

Barbara and Robbie had been fucking in secret since the months after her husband’s death, whenever the opportunity and the need lined up. Rooftops, cars, the back office at the pork store, once in the guest bathroom while the rest of the family argued over coffee downstairs. Corrine knew. Corrine always knew. Today she simply smiled, slow and predatory, and patted the empty space on the wide daybed between the two loungers.

“Come sit with us, Apollo,” she said, using the old nickname like she had every right to it. “It’s too hot to stand there looking useful.”

Barbara broke the kiss only long enough to tug him forward by the belt. The two women moved like they had planned it—black widows who had already decided the fly was theirs. Corrine rose, the wine-red silk falling completely open. Her body was thick and lush: heavy breasts with wide brown areolas, soft stomach, full hips, the dark triangle between her thighs already glistening at the edges. She stepped in behind Robbie while Barbara worked his shirt open, buttons popping, mouth trailing down the damp center of his chest. Corrine’s hands slid around from behind, cupping him through the fabric, squeezing, then unzipping him with practiced ease. His cock sprang free into the open air, thick and already hard, the head dark and leaking in the bright daylight.

Barbara sank to her knees on the hot stone without ceremony. She took him into her mouth in one long glide, throat relaxing, the wet heat of her sudden and perfect. Corrine pressed against his back, silk robe discarded now, soft breasts flattened to his shoulders, one hand reaching around to roll his balls while the other pinched and twisted her own nipple. She bit the side of his neck hard enough to leave a mark.

“Look at you,” Corrine murmured against his ear. “Sweating already and we haven’t even started.”

Barbara pulled off with a wet pop, lips shiny, and turned her head toward Corrine. The older woman leaned down and kissed her sister-in-law deep, tasting Robbie on her tongue, while her hand stroked his wet cock between them. Then Corrine guided Barbara back onto the daybed, spread her thighs wide to the sun, and buried her face between them. Barbara’s moan was loud, unrestrained. Robbie watched for three heartbeats—Corrine’s tongue working, Barbara’s hips lifting—then climbed onto the daybed behind Corrine, shoved the wine-red silk fully aside, and drove into her from behind in one hard thrust.

Corrine cried out into Barbara’s cunt, the sound muffled and hungry. Robbie set a deep, punishing rhythm, hands locked on her soft hips, watching his cock disappear into her. Every thrust pushed Corrine’s mouth harder against Barbara. Barbara’s hands fisted in Corrine’s dark hair, holding her there, grinding up against her sister-in-law’s tongue while she stared at Robbie over Corrine’s back with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Harder,” Barbara ordered, voice wrecked. “Fuck her like you mean it.”

He did. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with the river traffic and the distant cry of gulls. Sweat ran down Robbie’s chest, down the valley of Corrine’s spine, pooled in the hollow of Barbara’s throat. Corrine came first, shuddering hard around him, thighs trembling, face still buried between Barbara’s legs. Robbie pulled out only long enough to shove Barbara’s thighs wider and sink into her instead. She was dripping, open, ready. He fucked her in long, deep strokes while Corrine recovered enough to straddle Barbara’s face, lowering her soaked cunt onto her sister-in-law’s mouth.

They became a single tangled animal under the open sky—Robbie driving into Barbara, Corrine riding Barbara’s tongue, Barbara’s hands gripping Corrine’s ass and spreading her open for better access. The heat made every surface slick. Robbie’s cock glistened with both of them. When he felt Barbara start to clamp down he reached forward, found Corrine’s clit with two fingers, and rubbed in tight circles until the older woman came again with a broken cry, flooding Barbara’s chin. Barbara followed seconds later, spasming around Robbie’s cock, a rush of wetness coating his balls and the daybed cushion.

He pulled out, stroked himself twice, and came across both of them—thick ropes striping Corrine’s soft belly and the undersides of Barbara’s heavy breasts. They stayed like that for a long minute, breathing hard, the sun beating down, the river sliding past below as if nothing had happened.

Corrine finally laughed, low and satisfied, and reached for what was left of her Bloody Mary.

“Still early,” she said, licking salt from the rim. “We’ve got time for round two before you drive me to the airport.”

Barbara only smiled, lazy and catlike, and pulled Robbie back down between them by the softening length of his cock.

The black widows were nowhere near finished with their fly.









BACKSTORY

(Robbie Apollo has "PUSSY PROBLEMS!")

FROM:

THE YOUNG SOPRANOS

(TYS) PART 6 VI

"RING OF TRUST"

https://youngsopranos.blogspot.com/2026/04/the-young-sopranos-tys-part-6-vi-more.html?m=1

BELLVILLE--NJ

SATURDAY

August 5th 2017

7:05AM

When suddenly A J. solidly back-handed

Robbie against his chest.

"WHAT THE FUCKS YOUR PROBLEM ROBERTO?!"

A.J. glares.

"OH--HE JUST HAS PUSSY PROBLEMS!"

Bobby laughed taking a big bite of a jelly-filled donut. 

"PUSSY PROBLEMS?!"

A.J. cracks a grin peering over at Vito.

"What kind of Pussy Problems Rob?"

Vito asked smiling back at A.J.

"SOFI CAUGHT HIM FUCKING OUT ON HER!" Bobby chuckles before he swallows hard.

"ROB?--GODDAMN IT!"

"ROB?--WHAT WERE YOU DOING?!"

"ROB?--WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"

They all began jeering him.

"I KNOW-I KNOW--I DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING?!" Robbie admits holding his hanging head in his hands.

"YOU WERE THINKING W/THE WRONG HEAD!"

"ROB?!" The others repeated Rob's name & laughed loudly together.

(WHO WAS IT WITH? HOW DID YOU GET CAUGHT?-WHERE WERE YOU?)

"He was fucking my cousin Tara Z. in the Girls Restroom at the RAT SKELLAR BAR

Benenth OLENA'S RESTAURANT when Sophia entered to catch them in the act--doing it!"

(FUCK ROB!--WHAT DID YOU DO?!)

"HE FUCKED BOTH OF THEM!"

Bobby laughed choking on his second donut. 

"ROB?!--YOU BASTARD!"

They all began laughing louder to shove slap & punch him around.

"Doesn't Sound like Pussy Problems to me?!" Vito teased.

"I hope you were at least wearing a fucking condom Rob?!"

"Did you have a rubber on Apollo?"

Robbie just raises his hands up over his head helplessly:

 "Nobody had one."

"WHAT?!--NO ONE HAD JUST ONE?!

& THERE WERE 3 OF YOU THERE?!" 

"WHAT CAN I SAY?!"

Robbie pleads.

"NOTHING.--Besides

You're an IRRESPONSIBLE FUCK!"

They all concluded shaking their head after a good laugh.

(CHRIST ROB!)

PART  7

Robbie pulled the black sedan up to the curb outside Beppy’s Alley Tavern just as the late-afternoon light began to thicken. Alle and Sophia climbed in—Alle still carrying the loose, overstimulated ease of the pantry, 

Sophia smelling faintly of cigarettes and the sharp residual tang of the product she had just taken. Neither woman spoke much on the short ride. Robbie drove with the same quiet focus he always used when moving between jobs, the Hudson light flashing off the side windows.

The Rat Skellar sat beneath Olena’s Restaurant, a low-ceilinged basement bar reached by a narrow flight of stairs that smelled of old beer, fried garlic, and damp brick. The floor was dark waxed wood, the kind that held every scuff and every drop of spilled liquor. A handful of regulars nursed drinks at the long bar. 

Sophia ordered food the moment they claimed a corner table—something heavy and greasy that would soak up whatever was still circulating in her system. Alle sat close to Robbie, one knee bouncing under the table. Sophia sat opposite, already tearing into a breadstick.

Tara Zoccone came through the low doorway like she owned the air around her. Full dark hair, tight top, the easy confidence of a girl who had never been told no for long. She spotted Robbie immediately. 

Without hesitation she crossed the room, bent over him, and hugged him hard enough to press her breasts against his chest. Then she kissed him full on the mouth—open, lingering, the kind of kiss that left no room for ambiguity—right in front of Sophia and Alle.

Sophia froze with a bite of food halfway to her lips. Her eyes went flat. She stood, spat the half-chewed mouthful onto the floor, and launched herself across the short distance.

She caught Tara by the full head of hair and yanked hard, spinning her halfway around, then drove a fist straight into her face. The crack of knuckle on cheekbone was sharp in the low room. Tara staggered; Sophia kept the grip on her hair and slammed her backward onto the waxed wood floor hard enough to make the nearest barstools rattle.

Sophia stood over her, chest heaving, voice low and lethal.

“Get up.”

Tara’s legs scissored. One heel drove up between Sophia’s thighs and caught her square in the stomach. The air left Sophia in a hard grunt. She stumbled backward, free-falling a step, and Tara used the opening to roll and scramble to her feet. The two cousins collided again—punch for punch, no technique, just raw force and bad blood. Sophia was heavier, denser, and the public disrespect of that kiss in front of Alle and Robbie had lit something ugly and protective in her. She drove Tara backward step by step until Tara’s shoulders hit the brick corner near the jukebox. Then Sophia’s fists and knees took over—short, punishing shots to the body and face while Tara tried to cover up and failed.

The backroom door banged open. Bobby Baleno and Donny Z came out mid-argument, both of them already reading the room. Bobby’s eyes went first to the blood on Sophia’s lip, then to Tara crumpled against the wall, then to Robbie standing a few feet away with his hands still at his sides.

“Why didn’t you break them up, Roberto, goddamn it?”

Alle leaned in from the table, voice bright with dark amusement.

“They were fighting over him.”

Bobby’s glare cut to her, then back to Robbie. He understood exactly what she meant. He always did.

“Who started it?”

Sophia wiped the blood from her fattened lip with the back of her hand, smearing it across her cheek.

“Your slut cousin started it.”

Tara pushed herself upright, one eye already swelling.

“You started it, you fat little bimbo.”

Sophia’s face twisted.

“I’ll show you bimbo, bitch.”

Tara’s voice cracked with equal heat.

“You already have—when you shared your man with me.”

The two girls lunged at each other again. Bobby moved faster this time. He hooked an arm around Sophia’s waist, lifted her clean off the floor, and started for the stairs while she still swung at the air.

“Come on, Sis. Tara got the message.”

He said it under his breath, almost a chuckle, the sound of an older brother who had broken up this exact fight more times than he cared to count. Donny Z stayed behind to deal with his own sister. Robbie watched them go, jaw tight, the taste of Tara’s lipstick still ghosting across his mouth. Alle only smiled, slow and knowing, and reached for what was left of Sophia’s abandoned plate.

Outside, the late sun was already sliding toward the river. The night was just getting started.





* * *

In the lowered-ceiling backroom of the Rat Skellar the air was already thick with cigarette smoke and old resentment. Bobby Baleno stood with his back against a stack of liquor crates, arms crossed, while Donny Z paced in front of him like a dog that hadn’t been let off the chain.

“I’m fucking tired of waiting, Bobby. Giuseppe and Patrick get made and I’m still out here sucking my own dick? We’re both grandsons of the Terminator. My mother was a Baleno. Nora fucking Baleno. Blood is blood.”

Bobby’s voice stayed low, but the edge in it could have cut glass.

“The Books are closed, Donny. The Don closed them. Not me. I don’t open shit. I don’t close shit. That’s above my pay grade.”

Donny stepped in closer, finger jabbing the air.

“Bullshit. You could’ve said something. You could’ve put a word in. You just don’t want me made. Admit it.”

“I stayed out of it. I mentioned it once and I dropped it. That’s all there is.”

“He knows. If the Don knows who I am, why the fuck am I still on the outside looking in?”

Bobby’s jaw tightened. The conversation was one more push from turning into something that couldn’t be taken back. Then the sharp crack of a fist meeting bone and a woman’s enraged scream ripped through the thin door.

Both men froze.

Another crash. Glass or a chair. Female voices overlapping in pure animal fury.

Bobby was already moving.

They shoved through the door into the main bar just as Sophia drove Tara backward into the brick corner, fists and knees working with ugly precision. Tara’s nose was pouring blood; one eye was already swelling shut. Sophia’s lip was split and bleeding freely down her chin. The waxed wood floor shone with scattered ice and a smear of red.

“What the fuck—” Donny started, but Bobby was already on them.

He locked an arm around Sophia’s waist, hauled her off her feet like she weighed nothing, and started for the narrow stairs without breaking stride. Sophia still swung at the air, cursing, blood dripping onto Bobby’s sleeve.

“Come on, Sis. Tara got the message.”

He carried her up the stairwell and out into the fading daylight, her legs kicking once before she went limp against his shoulder, breathing hard, the fight finally draining out of her.

Behind them the bar fell into a stunned quiet. Tara remained on the floor where she had slid down the wall, blouse torn at the shoulder, blood running in bright streams from both nostrils, both eyes puffing into dark, angry knots. She tried to push herself up and failed.

Alle stood a few feet away, arms folded, expression caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant obligation. She glanced toward the stairs where Bobby had disappeared with Sophia, then down at Tara. A long breath left her.

“Christ.”

Alle muttered.

She stepped forward, hooked an arm under Tara’s and hauled her upright. Tara swayed, blood dripping onto the already-stained blouse. Alle steered her toward the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms, one hand steadying her at the elbow.

Inside the small, harsh-lit bathroom Alle sat her on the closed toilet lid, wet a handful of paper towels, and began cleaning the blood from Tara’s face with short, efficient strokes. The blouse was already ruined—dark spatters across the front, one sleeve half-ripped. Tara hissed when the cold water touched the split skin under her eye.

Alle left her there, walked out to the ice machine near the service entrance, and filled a plastic bucket with cubes. She returned, wrapped a thick handful of ice in a clean bar towel, and pressed it gently against the worst of the swelling.

“Hold that,” she said. “And keep your head tilted forward so you don’t choke on your own blood.”

Tara’s one good eye fixed on her. Alle didn’t smile. She simply adjusted the ice pack and leaned against the sink, waiting for the bleeding to slow, the sounds of the bar slowly returning to normal beyond the closed door.



Alle walked Tara out of the restroom. The girl looked worse under the bar lights—face puffy and mottled, both eyes swelling into dark, tight slits, nose still seeping pink. The torn blouse clung to her in blood-stiff patches. She kept her head down, one hand pressed to the ice-packed towel Alle had given her.

Donny Z’s head snapped up the second he saw her. His glare locked on Robbie like a loaded gun.

“Look at you, Tara.” His voice was low and ugly. “This is all your fucking fault, Apollo. I’d kick your ass if—”

“If what?” Robbie’s head twitched side to side, scanning the room for ears. He took a step forward, shoulders already square. “You’d kick my ass if what, Big Boy?”

Donny leaned in, breath hot. “You know what—”

Alle felt it before it happened. Roberto was about to explode all over him. Robbie was a lot of things, but he wasn’t pussy. He didn’t stand down.

Robbie’s mouth curved into a hard little grin. He flicked a cigarette to his lips, lit it with a sharp scrape of the Zippo, and exhaled smoke between them.

“How about we just step outside? Unless you’re pussy, Z.”

“OK—OK—” Alle shoved herself between them, both hands flat on Robbie’s chest, pushing him backward toward the door. He kept looking over her shorter head, eyes bright and mean.

“I’ll send them both home beat up if that’s what the fat fuck wants—”

“Roberto—enough. Let’s go.”

“Anytime, Zoccone!” Robbie called over her shoulder, voice rising. “I’m your fucking Huckleberry!”

“No, Rob—come on. Let’s just go!”

Alle got Rob out the door and into the night air before the whole bar became a problem. Robbie’s hands were still twitching when he dropped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine growled. He sat there a second, jaw working, cigarette burning down between his fingers.

Outside, Bobby’s car was already gone with Sophia in it. The argument in the backroom, the question of who got made and who didn’t, hung unfinished in the smoke-stained air.

Alle buckled in. “Forget about him. We have to go check on Sophia.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You have to apologize to her.”

Robbie stared at her like she’d grown a second head.

“For what? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Whatever. We still need to check on her.”

“I’ll take you there, but you can go in. She doesn’t want to see me.”

“What do you mean? She was fighting over you, wasn’t she?”

Robbie snorted, pulling into traffic. “Was she? Or was she using me as an excuse to get Tara back?”

“Either case—it was still because of you. And you know I’m right.” Alle turned in the seat to face him. “Plus you have to consider Bobby’s feelings.”

“Bobby’s feelings? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What if Tara had beat my ass? How would you feel?”

Robbie’s hands tightened on the wheel.

“Well for one, Tara wouldn’t try.

& Secondly I’d fuck her fat-ass brother up.”

“You know what I mean, Rob.”

He was quiet for half a block. Then, quieter: 

“Yeah. I know, Sis.”

Alle let the silence sit until the tension bled off a little.

“Let’s go get this over with.”

Robbie flicked ash out the window.

“I’m still fucking hungry though.”

“I’ll call ahead and order two large Queenie pies to go.” She shot him a look. “If you got any money.”

“I got money. Don’t you?”

“What do I need money for? I have you.” Alle leaned over and hugged his arm, cheek briefly against his shoulder the way she used to when they were kids.

Robbie didn’t pull away. He just kept driving, the city lights sliding across the windshield, the night still open and unfinished in front of them.

. . .

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 ENTIRE

EROTIC AFTERNOON

PART 1--4

AFTERNOON EVENING & MORNING

IN WEST ORANGE

(EROTICA NARRATIVE)

https://ededprose.blogspot.com/2026/08/entire-erotic-afternoon-evening-morning.html

CREATED

BY 

EDED

DISCLAIMER:

ALL AI GENERATED IMAGES

CREATED BY USING WORD PROMPTS

MMXXVI