Before I get to the (somewhat overdue) judging, I wanted to showcase the contest entries that don’t have a home of their own. Four of the 11 stories were sent to me by fantastic writers who are active elsewhere online or on social media, but who haven’t (yet) dipped their toes into the blogging waters; one of them has asked me to keep her story completely anonymous, but the others all deserve to have their work read by as wide an audience as possible, so here they are!
If you enjoy what you read below, please do show the authors some love in the comments and on Twitter – and for that matter, make sure you check out the other seven stories too! The winner will be announced shortly, so look out for that announcement later tonight or tomorrow. Thanks again to everyone who entered, and to the lovely people at Sh! London for providing a very generous first prize…
One fundamental truth about the language of sex is that some words and expressions are immediately, viscerally hot, while others are really, really not. Tell me to touch your cunt, for example, and a knot of desire somewhere in the pit of my stomach will twist just a little bit tighter at the sound of that hard ‘c’ and the tight, spitting ‘t’ that follows. Say it to the next guy whose hand is between your legs and it may have no effect whatsoever. It may even turn him off.
I’ve written before about one of the phrases that does it for me, and actually I only need to think about those four words again now – and about some of the scenarios connected to them – to feel myself starting to get hard here at my desk. The one I have in mind this morning has been going round my head for the last few days, ever since a Whatsapp chat with another blogger. We’d both read this really terrible post [EDIT: subsequently deleted], and after I’d joked that I might write a response with the title ‘5 reasons why feminists are better in bed’ we started brainstorming ideas:
‘Feminists will sit on your face with wild abandon.’ They will sit on your face.
Stairs have become a bit of a sex cliché. Whether it’s the (super-hot) scene from The Thomas Crown Affair or the starting point for any number of late-night drunken hook-ups that have finally made their way back to someone’s apartment, stairs and shagging are both a wonderfully impractical combination and just kinda…wonderful.
My flat is a 2nd/3rd floor walk-up, and over the last two-and-a-bit years I’ve had a lot of fun on its various staircases and landings – plus the balcony, of course. It’s one of many things I’ll miss, so this week I took the opportunity to enjoy it for the final time…
I spent this afternoon packing up my apartment, ready for the big move next weekend. It was tiring, thirsty work, and by the time I reached a natural stopping-point I was both hot and sweaty. My flatmate was out, so I decided to relax properly with a glass of wine, and reflect on the 2+ years I’ve spent living here. I’ll be doing a lot more of that over the next few days, I’m sure, and I’ll probably write about it at some point: the ups and the downs, the filthy highlights, what I’ll miss…and of course what comes next.
For today though, I was happy just to raise my glass and silently celebrate the end of an era. Cheers everyone…
“What happens when people open their hearts?”
“They get better.”
Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about threesomes over the last few years, it’s that getting started is the most awkward bit – even when you have it all figured out beforehand. I knew what I wanted to do a couple of Fridays ago. I wanted to fuck Jenny’s throat till my cock was coated in her spit. I wanted to leave her naked and trembling on the floor beside my bed while I went downstairs to fetch Livvy. I wanted to push Livvy up against the wall and kiss her hard, then find her bare cunt with my fingers and stroke her clit.
I wanted to lead her upstairs and open the bedroom door. To show her Jenny, kneeling like the good girl she tries so hard to be – still ready and eager for cock. I had this crystal-clear mental image of Livvy scrambling up onto the mattress, dress already hitched around her waist; of sliding one hand around the back of Jenny’s head, fingers twisting up into her long blonde hair, and using the other to unbuckle my jeans…
From there the plan got kinda hazy, which is exactly how I like it. Sex is a bit like going on holiday – it’s good to be prepared, and to have a basic idea of what you want to do when you get there, but if you map everything out to the nth degree you’re not really going to experience it. Spontaneity FTW, in other words, which is why I’d kept things broad.
As a sign of how hectic(/disorganised) my life is right now, it’s taken me two whole weeks to add this list of contest entries – apologies to everyone who’s already submitted! Here you’ll find links to all the stories that have been posted publicly, as well as details of the ones I’ve been sent by email – I may create a separate space to publish those, so keep an eye out for that.
I’ve not yet read any of the entries (I like to save them all till judging time), but I hope you enjoy them – given the calibre of the authors involved, I think that’s pretty much a given!
- Yorkshire Puddings, by Hannahlects
- Plait, by Hannah Lockhardt
- On the Cake, by Luda Jones
- Jaffa Cakes, by Anonymous
- Plaited, by Brekken Jameson
- Plait, by @19syllables
- The Viennese Whirl, by Scanderella
- Amuse-Bouche, by Hannahlects
- The Chocolate Loaf, by @BibulousOne
- Drizzle, by SubsMissives
- Gingerbread, by Helen Scott
It’s pretty much the first rule of running marathons: no matter what you do with yourself afterwards, you’re not allowed to take your medal off for the rest of the day. Luckily my afternoon plans didn’t extend far beyond a bed, a book, and a lot of cuddles…