This is my fifth post for Smutathon 2018! Eight of us are spending 12 hours today furiously writing erotica, blogging about sex, taking filthy photos, and generally producing smut in all its glorious forms, to raise money for the Abortion Support Network. To find out more, to enter our sex toy raffle, and most importantly to donate to an excellent cause, click here!
As my 5th Smutathon piece, I’m going to write my Round 7 entry for the year-long erotica contest I entered in January: Smut Marathon (confusing, I know!). Unfortunately the Smut Marathon entries have to remain anonymous till the public voting has taken place for each round, so I can’t post it here today. Instead I’m going to share the six previous pieces of writing I’ve submitted, starting with Round 1’s 30-word metaphor and finishing with the 650-word story I wrote for Round 6.
I’d say I’ve been really happy with two of my six pieces, pleased enough with another two, and relatively unhappy with the remaining two. I’ll leave it to you to decide which is which!
Round 1
Assignment:
Write an erotic metaphor. Specific requirements:
– only one sentence
– give your word a one-word title
– your metaphor is a maximum of 30 words (excluding title)
Entry:
Gorge
Fawad took the scenic route; he wound his way in leisurely fashion through the rolling, jasmine-scented valley of Atosa’s body, and resolutely ignored the gushing stream that ran through it.
Round 2
Assignment:
Write a flash fiction story using one of the entries from the first round. Specific requirements:
– the entry you use should NOT be your own
– the entry you use should NOT be altered
– the number of words does not include that of the entry you choose to use
– your flash fiction story is 100 words plus that of the entry you choose
– give your story a two-word title
Entry:
Model Boyfriend
Sunlight streamed through the open window, setting fire to the millions of dust particles that danced across the cool, high-roofed studio. In the gloom below, a different dance reached its final movement.
The three lovers twisted into a knot of flesh, bearing no identifiable shape to the witness in the chair. Kate preferred it that way. Abstraction was often the catalyst she needed; her mind imposed order and clarity where her eyes could not.
Fingers flexing around her pencil, Kate sought and held Sam’s gaze. Even as his body tensed and twisted in silent pleasure, he stared back at her, unblinking. He nodded once. I’m OK. This is OK.
You know I’d do anything for your art.
Round 3
Assignment:
Write an erotic character sketch of an ‘imperfect’ character
‘imperfect’ is written between quotation marks because you are to decide in which way your character is ‘imperfect’. What I don’t want is ‘perfect’ characters who has everything going for them.
Entry:
The Hunter
Given the choice – and at 6’2″, with visible cheekbones and a hairline that started no further back from his forehead at 39 than it had at 19, it was a choice he enjoyed on a regular basis – Harry preferred to fuck married women.
Pricked by conscience, he’d once spent an uncomfortable couple of hours trying to construct a moral argument for his active pursuit of other men’s wives, before admitting to himself that he didn’t much care either way. Married women were just a lot less complicated.
Harry had strived for simplicity and emotional self-reliance his whole life. “You’re an only child, cursed with siblings,” his sister had told him, not unkindly. Early forays into conventional romance had ended with less oblique verdicts on his ability to form meaningful connections with other people.
But married women weren’t looking for meaningful connections. Not the ones Harry sought out in coffee shops and morning gym classes, anyway. They wanted to talk and flirt; to fuck in haste and repent at leisure. Most of all, they wanted to feel special – without the risk of ending up in bed with someone who genuinely thought they were. And that suited Harry just fine.
Round 4
Assignment:
Write a hot, erotic masturbation scene where your character uses a sex toy.
One character. One sex toy. No brand names.
I want sizzling hot stories; stories that will make the readers want to wank!!!
Your masturbation scene is a maximum of 300 words.
Entry:
All That Remains
You’ll think me cruel, but even now I find it hot to recall just how uncomfortable you found the whole process at the time. “Goop – there’s goop on my cock,” you said, and I smiled in mock sympathy while I lathered on the rest of the moulding gel and tugged gently at your balls, silently praying you’d stay hard for just a few more minutes. Long enough for it to set.
No-one told me grief would feel this horny. Strong emotions breed strong emotions, I guess. Either way, I’m here now with your cold, hard, only-slightly-misshapen erection in my cunt, and it feels a hundred times better than any of the fancy silicone dildos gathering dust in my bedside drawer.
How much better? You remember the way I used to clench your dick each time you paused mid-stroke and just pressed it inside me? How your noises – stop, whoa, go easy, that’s too much – only made me do it even harder? Well I’m squeezing this fat fucking toy now for the same reason I squeezed you then: because I can’t stop.
I’m squatting on the spare room floor, in front of that big mirror your mum gave us, looking straight through myself. I’ve been here so long that my clit and knees are rubbed raw, and still my cunt aches for something solid. Meekly, mechanically, I comply.
Will I wear you out like this? Your weight feels glorious, but I worry, my love! Can that obnoxious girth survive the desperate way I’m grinding onto it? Each time I allow myself to come, the torrent of jizz you force out of me feels like white water on rock, smoothing it down till there’s nothing left.
And I hate that. I don’t want you to be gone.
But I really can’t stop.
Round 5
Assignment:
Choose one of the masturbation scenes from round 4 (not your own) and write an erotic scene from the perspective of the sex toy in the chosen scene.
Entry:
Silver Service
‘A dinner here is never second-best’ – that’s been the motto of this house for centuries! From masked balls and banquets to intimate dinners a deux, we’ve seen the lot, and no guest has left our culinary cabaret unsatisfied. So when they took me out of storage last week and said I was going to be a silver service spoon again, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind…
The previous master – a boor and a dilettante, by all accounts, with the poor taste to match his morals – never much cared for anything older than he was. We all heard stories of the terrible indignities suffered by the ‘artisanal’ tableware laid out at his parties. One shudders to think of it now.
But I was made in Paris! Hand crafted by Charles Christofle himself, in fact, though that doesn’t mean much to people these days. Not to young Lucy, that’s for sure, who despite her pleasing aspect (and even by modern standards) appears to be, at best, a rather mediocre maidservant.
She has spirit, I’ll grant you. And an eye for the new master, which suggests a level of aesthetic appreciation – or marital ambition – beyond that of most in her position. For all her clumsy table skills, the girl doesn’t lack dexterity either. I’ve rarely been handled with such smooth, easy competence, and from this one might surmise that her real talents lie outside the dining room.
I wonder who else sees that. The master? Maybe. She wouldn’t be the first common-born lass to catch a nobleman’s eye in this building, put it that way. Some of them even ended up in the seat next to him, happily using the finest tableware, rather than laying us out.
Or pushing us in. I suppose Lucy is using me, if you think about it. I shouldn’t mind: too long I’d been rusting (needing so much more than thrusting), and it’s not like this is any hotter than the consommé I’ll be dipped in later tonight – nor will the master’s mouth grip and drag along my curves with a less insistent rhythm than the walls of her eager vagina. Though I hope he’ll be equally pleased by the outcome.
So I’ll keep my counsel and hope for the best. Not that I have much choice. At the end of the day, it’s just a different form of service.
Round 6
Assignment:
‘fortune cookie’
Entry:
The Visitor
Jen swore under her breath and wriggled furiously. I took a moment to bury my face in the hair covering the back of her neck – still soft, despite a week of lukewarm campsite showers – before tightening my grip on her arse.
“Stop teasing and give me your fucking cock.”
“I am giv-“
“All of it!”
I pulled back and rubbed the tip along her vulva again. It was stuffy inside the tent, but too quiet everywhere else to risk unzipping the door and letting the cooler night air inside. Giving Jen all of my fucking cock was unlikely to help with either the temperature or any attempts to avoid waking our neighbours. They were all friends by now, sure, but there are limits.
“Maybe I want them to hear us.” As usual, Jen was a half-step ahead of me.
“Them…or him? Tom?”
Without waiting for a response, I pushed my cock all the way inside her. Jen shuddered and groaned – louder than strictly necessary, I thought – and I moved my hand round to cover her mouth.
“Shit, what was that?” We both froze. The snapping sound hadn’t come from the woods at the edge of the campsite, but from the crude firepit we’d built just outside the tent, drunk on summer heat and cheap Chinese takeaway. I sat up and turned on the lamp.
A hesitant cough broke the silence again. Jen looked at me and raised an eyebrow. Her fingertips grazed idly up the length of my cock. Neither of us made any move to cover our nakedness.
I shuffled towards to the door, feeling my erection bob awkwardly between my legs. Outside, a large shape mirrored my movements, till it was close enough for me to hear slow, even breathing. I opened my mouth to speak, and stopped abruptly when his voice floated through the darkness.
“I wondered whether…if you’d like to…”
I glanced over my shoulder, already knowing what I’d see. We’d talked about it so many times – in bed, in bars, in feverish text exchanges while one of us tried to stay cool at work – that her vigorous nod felt only like a final confirmation of something we’d already agreed.
I unzipped the main flap and smiled up at him. Tom lost his footing as he stooped to enter the tent, and I reached for his hand with mine – less to prevent him falling than to ensure he landed on the airbed next to us. He rolled onto his back, and I heard Jen’s breath catch as the lantern above us set fire to the fine, blonde hair covering his bare chest.
“Kiss him,” she whispered, her fingers digging into my thigh. “I want you to kiss him.”
I swung a leg across Tom’s body and brushed my lips over his. I felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth – the same boyish smirk that had made Jen squeeze her thighs together when we sat round the campfire, then carefully guide my hand between them in the darkness.
“Fuck, that’s hot.”
Jen’s voice shook as she spoke. Tom pushed his tongue inside my mouth, then gasped into it, his breath hot against the back of my throat. I didn’t need to look over my shoulder to see Jen’s mouth on his cock – I felt it in the way he squeezed my arms, and in the rise and fall of his chest under me.
In the way our bodies melted together.
~
At sunrise, I stepped over Jen and Tom – burrowed into each other in the gloom – and made for the toilet block. The sharp pain in the sole of my foot made me stop and wince. I looked down and understanding dawned.
I brushed the fortune cookie crumbs off my skin and plucked a scrap of paper out of the dirt. Messy, smudged handwriting stared back at me.
Uh huh.
Of course.
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