Ready, set, write! (The non-public entries)

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…

On the Cake, by Luda Jones

When she barked my name I came stocking-feeted skidding into the kitchen. And paused. It didn’t have that hot busy feel it did when she was really up against a deadline. There was a stillness. Everything wiped down and clean. She had her apron on. She was leaning with her back to the counter.

“Finished?” I asked.

She smiled, her only-just-begun smile.

On the kitchen table stood the cake. It sat on top of its flat-pack box which was just waiting to be assembled and the dangly ribbons drawn up and tied around it, ready to go.

I stared in amazement. The icing – no. Icing was so last century, icing was a school party, your sticky bairn’s face. This here and now, was glaze. Gleaming and glossy. Blue. A nebula of blue. Midnight here, cerulean there, ice where the light caught it there. In the top left quarter there was a squiggle of white chocolate, and atop that, a half-dozen halves of fresh golden cherries which glittered with lustre dust, just a little. The lightest, lovingest tap.

“It’s beautiful.” I said.

“You’re beautiful. Strip.”

“Everything?”

“Everything but the stockings. Quickly.”

I obeyed, trying not to think about the apron, and the eyeful of armpit and ribcage I got when she shifted her weight. How it rose to a peak at the pocket.

And the rose-patterned paring knife in one hand with her finger tapping the tip. “Quicker than that.”

I half-tripped out of my knickers and tossed them on top of my bra and dress.

She put the knife back in its block, loosed the straps of her apron and let it fall. Underneath she wore her cupcake nipple ring and a strap-on.

In my experience something of that size would tend to be Very Serious jet black, or the boring shade of beige that people call Flesh. But this one was dawn on a distant planet, dreamy pastel swirls of green, blue, pink, violet. It looked like something she’d confect. Her sex toys were like her cakes, exquisite, expensive and bad for the health.

“Bend,” she said.

I did, pivoting and touching my toes just to show off.

“Nice, but I meant over the table.”

The table was against the wall. There were three sides I could have bent over. All of them would have put me in the way of the cake. My hands started towards its cardboard platter – “D-do you want me to mov–”

“I do not,” she said levelly.

I chose the long edge. That way at least I could support myself with both hands both sides. I bent over till I was about a foot above the cake.

“Lower.”

“But – but what if I spoil it?”

“I would strenuously advise you not to.”

I went to maybe six inches. Heard the faint squeak of a lube bottle. She stood close behind me, against me. Running short baker’s nails down my back, buttock, hip, squeezing and toying.

Her fingers dipped round to find my clit. She traced slow circles, soft and sensual. A ladylike wank, not the workout I give it.

I breathed out shuddery in arousal and frustration. I was worried I’d mist the surface of the cake. I could smell it, gently sweet – it even smelt calm. Which was more than could be said of me.

My face loomed wavering and blue in the flawless surface. Like I was under the sea. A maniacal earworm, seizing as they tend to do the worst possible moment, struck up in my head, Under the sea, Darling it’s better, Down –

“Careful now,” she said, and pulled me on like a sock.

I yelped. I jerked forward, just barely stopping myself from faceplanting in the cake by gripping the table. She drew back slowly, then rammed back in, clutching my hips.

This wasn’t my style. Face down ass up, that’s the way I like to fuck. Pressed flat, offering myself like a bitch on heat, grinding back onto the other person’s cock. Loving the carpet scrapes or the caress of cotton. Loving forgetting to breathe. Not this, not shakily suspending myself, staying too much in myself, elbows starting to quake while she hilted me on her cock again and again.

She started moving quicker, deeper. There were filthy sloppy noises and me whimpering with the strain, trying to focus, stay grounded even as all I could see was deep infinity blue, I could fall forever into it. But though my hands sweat-slickened treacherously I stayed upright, just.

She hit that unbearable, perfect angle, like she was punching something inside me that wasn’t meant to be touched but couldn’t be left alone. She fucked and I flowered for her fucking. I felt I was opening wider with every thrust even as I fit her, skin-tight.

Then a shifting. Nothing external had changed, I was still in this predicament. But I went calm. Steady in my juddering body. Everything was clear. My aching arms were sure as trees. Somehow I could be at once poised and wild, controlled and – that gloriously old-school word – wanton, and it would all be ok. Between my animal flesh and my obeying self, everything would be taken care of. All I had to do was be good.

I felt her chase her own orgasm against the base of the strap-on, a sharp cry and her nails vicious on my flanks. I couldn’t, surely, I was too belaboured and focussed to –

It happened so quick it was almost a shock. I bent low then arched up into her, above and beyond the cake, clenching the table like I could splinter it. Noise howling out of me, no words, none needed. She’d chuckled our first time together when I, good little sub, had begged for it, begged her permission. Your pleasure is yours, she’d said. Everything else is mine. I came and came.

When I could see straight I looked down at the cake. I felt her jaw against my ear as she looked too. It was imperfect. There was a tiny smear, one spot where the glaze was marred to a dusty-dull blueberry bloom. And a little sapphire of icing ruched up on my right nipple.

Quietly she went tut, tut, tut. Reached back to the work surface for the palette knife.

“Oh” I said, giving it wide-eyed innocent hope even though I knew that would aggravate her, “you can fix it then?”

“No,” she said. “It’s very bad.”

I was expecting it, of course, the thin steel whack across my arse, but I still jumped and squealed. She steadied me with a hand on the small of my back and then she laid down a volley of blows, fast and hard. She was strong – all that kneading and mixing. She could be merciless. She was.

For my part, I was still trying not to damage the cake though it was far too late, that one little flaw made a ruin of it. I might as well just writhe around on the table under the surprising degree of pain that a thing for smearing icing on other things can inflict –

“I’m sorryyyyy!”

“I can tell,” she said drily, tapping my fat soaking lips with the palette knife. My bottom was scorching. I felt thoroughly spanked, sore and loud and ridiculous. And like I could come again.

I mashed my pubic mound into the table. Rubbed myself off against it, doglike between the wood and her desultory, amused smacks when she saw what I was doing. The heat in my arse and in my cunt met, kissed and swelled together; alchemic, strange, like something baked…

I dropped to my knees, then, once the last shocks of it had travelled through me. Couldn’t help it. Rested my cheek against her thigh. After a time I looked up at her through sweaty fringe and bliss, and I said

“I still can’t believe those fuckers went for a chocolate fountain!”

“I know!”

“Shitehawks!”

“Ingrates!”

“Still, you got the deposit at least.”

“It’s an ill wind,” she drawled, and with two fingers she scooped glaze, buttercream, sponge, crème pat, up to the knuckle, and held them to my lips as gentle as a kiss.

 

Plaited, by Brekken Jameson

Slowly she scraped the bread dough from the bowl and piled it on the counter. Her mind began to wander as she slowly kneaded it back and forth, hypnotized by the rhythm. It had only been a couple hours since he left her bed; she could still feel him all over her.

Dividing the dough in two she began to roll it out against the cool granite. As it began to extend beyond her hands she couldn’t help but think of his cock. She loved the way it felt, especially before he got hard. It was like a secret glimpse of something she shouldn’t see, a peek behind the curtain before the show. That was when she liked to touch it, to taste it, as it sprang to life against her tongue.

The ropes of dough extended beyond the work area. She scattered a bit more flour around the counter, careful to prevent stickiness. That was never something she worried about with him. She wanted sticky, messy—the air full of the heady aroma that lingered post-fuck. He loved that smell; he loved that smell on him.

Truth be told, she loved that smell as well, especially when she detected it long after he’d gone. It always left her wanting more. More hands in his hair, more lips on her breasts, and definitely every inch of him pushing into her from behind. She would never say no to him. It wasn’t possible.

The crispness of an autumn breeze blew through the window. Her nipples sprang to attention, much the way they do when he touches them, sucks on them. They fought the cotton of her shirt, desperate to feel the freshness of October air. It was the same look that caused the twitch in his cock the previous night. The look that drew him into the kitchen, pulling her down on him so he could lick and bite them as she straddled him on the cold wooden chair.

The strands of the dough moved between her hands; they were like limbs tangled, knotted. She crossed them over, deftly moving from one to another without thought, just habit. That was how she thought of him, a habit, an addiction. Having him in her bed, limbs entwined as he delivered the very fix she always craved, she didn’t just want him; she needed him. She needed to feel the pressure as he squeezed her underneath him, to hear him as he said her name while he fucked her, and to feel the hot wetness inside of her as he finished.

She tucked the end of the plait under and carefully moved it to the pan. With a soft brush she delicately rubbed over the surface to remove the extra flour before the final proof. As she covered it she couldn’t help but feel the satisfaction of her work. Much like she felt with him as he carefully wiped a small puddle off her breasts; it was as invigorating as the brisk fall wind through the window.

Because to her, it didn’t matter if she was giving or receiving, climax or not. She ached for him. And she knew she could not live by bread alone.

Plait, by @19syllables

Three parts, twisted together to make a single strand.

Mark

Mark watched her and wondered how she could make such a complex thing seem so simple. Behind her head, with quiet dexterity, she separates her glossy hair into three, fat strands, smoothing each to make them manageable and compliant, then deftly weaving them into a single rope

He’d always thought about watching her fucking someone else, the liquid thoughts of another man’s cock slipping into Rebecca had spilled out of his fantasies and flowed into conversation with her with ease. Thoughts about her greedy legs pulling someone else into where he felt so at home filled him with an unfulfilled longing he didn’t quite understand. Now he couldn’t remember why he was surprised that she was so open to the idea. Yes, she had a habit of making complex things seem simple. Beautiful, sexy, brave Rebecca.

He glimpsed her looking at him as he walked from the kitchen to the sofa with his glass of wine. They’d agreed he’d sit opposite them to watch, and he wanted her to seem him getting into place but she was already moving towards the knock at the front door. This really was about to happen.

Ben was bigger than he’d expected and had a confidence that Mark hadn’t banked on, a strong physical presence, relying on well-practiced action over words.  Although he politely acknowledged Mark’s presence he had clearly taken the couple’s preferences for him to be a bystander on board and became immediately busy in making Rebecca feel at ease. The curtain was lifting on the scene Ben had conceived, instigated and directed; the scene in which Mark had cast them as the protagonists and himself as an audience member. He watched Ben deftly navigate the etiquette of greetings, and wine

Ben

There it was; that familiar, delicious thrill of unknown promise as he waited on the landing outside the flat. He was used to situations like this; he often browsed for opportunities to join couples, to be part of their intimacy without being part of a relationship.  To him it was the best of all worlds, hot, varied sex and no commitment; just how he liked it.  The trick was to keep small-talk to a minimum and get straight to action. Small-talk made things complicated, and complicated was not want he wanted.

He was pleasantly surprised when Rebecca opened the door, they’d chatted plenty on-line, but Face-Time had short-changed her of some of her animation and sparkle. He kissed her hello, lingering a little as if to reiterate and confirm the purpose of his visit. She responded with warm, doughy lips, that didn’t speak, but clearly told him ‘yes’.  He sipped the wine she’d poured him and set aside (as wine can trip you into a small-talk situation) preferring to put his lips on her cheek and neck, pulling back to look at her face as he undid the buttons of her shirt.  Minimal conversation, just smiling, consented action.

This was his natural habitat, a beautiful, willing woman opening easily to him, but also it fed into his testosterone-fuelled competitive nature, he aimed to quite undo her, right under the very nose of her loving partner, he aimed to fuck her in a way Mark wished he fucked her.

He felt her little hand slide into his jeans and circle around his cock, his cue to take them off.

Rebecca

“This is what I wanted, isn’t it?”

Written, it seems like a question, but it wasn’t, it was a reminder; her own mind reiterating what she already knew, looping these whispered words back into herself to reassure her nervous reflection as she fixed her hair. In truth this was what she wanted, but in the pacing moments before the Ben’s arrival she spoke them to herself for courage.

She and Mark had chosen Ben together, his easy chat and open face had made him the obvious choice for this adventure, but the reality of his footsteps on the stairs outside the flat pushed this former confidence to the back of her mind.  She cast a look over to Mark in the kitchen just before opening the door but his face did not reflect her own last minute nerves.

The kiss Ben gave her as she closed the door behind him dispelled many of her misgivings, she’d worried that when he arrived she just wouldn’t feel attracted to him and thoughts of the ensuing awkwardness and niggled her, but that wasn’t going to be a problem.  She poured him some wine, which he sipped and set aside. He seemed well versed in keeping a strong forward momentum.

She helped him with her blouse and then his jeans, slipping her hand in the open button fly to get her first impression of his cock, it felt solid and efficient, keen to spring from the denim.  As he slid his trousers off she took a seat on the sofa directly opposite her Mark as they had planned, but her eyes fixed on Ben as his body was quickly revealed.  She opened her mouth instinctively as he stepped towards her, accepting his cock and exploring its unknown contours with her tongue and hands.

Mark

Mark saw Ben exhale as he slid his cock between Rebecca’s lips, the way his shoulders relaxed and widened reminded him of the intense, enveloping pleasure Rebecca’s mouth was. His own cock twitched in his pants now at the thought of it.  By the time Rebecca was naked and Ben’s face was buried between her legs, his fingers deep inside her, Mark was finding it hard to keep his emotions in check.

He shifted positions, cleaved by his own thoughts. The scene was so hot, just as he’d envisaged it, and he’d got himself a ring-side seat. He could have just reached out over the coffee table and touched them; Rebecca’s soft pale skin, the colour of pastry and usually available to him to stroke and knead, now oddly off-limits as the weight of Ben pressed onto her. He felt the sharp edge of his own jealousy for the first time, not a sharpness that honed him to an elegant point as he’s imagined, but a jealousy that dragged him over the whetstone, rasping and gritty, over and over with each thrust of Ben’s muscly arse, driving into his girl.

Ben

One foot on the floor and a knee on the sofa, Ben curled Rebecca’s copper plait around his hand to pull her little pale body on to him, his large left hand spread over her waist, thumb on the hard bumps of her spine and his fingers curling downwards towards the softness of her belly. He felt as if, like this, he controlled all parts of her from above, like a puppet master, he could feel her relinquishing herself a little more with every push.  Even each of her exhalations were voiced, sound pushed out from within her by his own physicality. This is what he browsed for on the internet, a stranger in a strange room his temporary plaything, and her boyfriend, agog and silent admiring his skill.  He looked over at Mark, his face now pale and shiny, head tipped to one side in open mouthed observation, his dick hot and hard and red in his hand.

Mark

He was struggling to get on top of his feelings. God, it was hot seeing her like this, a pink flush rising on the skin of her neck and chest as her orgasm started to clutch at her. Golden tendrils escaped her neat braid and curled near her cheekbone, catching on the light sweat on her face, the muscles in her thighs shaking a little now.  But his mind didn’t know how to process the sight of Ben’s commanding presence, not only was he soundly, deeply fucking Rebecca, but now, he was looking straight at Mark, not a passing a glance, but a challenging gaze. But what unsettled him most was Ben’s lips; was that the slightest hint of a smile?

He’d orchestrated this whole scene, he’d expected to feel some form of jealousy, god he’d yearned for it, but the eye contact made him feel belittled; as though he’d been caught peering in, uninvited, from the edges, and caught with his dick in his hand, beads of come leaking from the tip at that.

Rebecca

In his profile there was something about Ben’s which attracted Rebecca to him, a sort of confidence in his ability, but in the following days when she’d revisited these words she’d worried that perhaps if it wasn’t confidence, but arrogance (such similar traits; one so attractive and one so repellent).  But now, brought to the very precipice of herself by his tongue and flipping swiftly over onto all fours at his bidding, pleading with him to put his cock in her, (“urgh..now, please, fuck me now…”) his confidence seemed entirely founded.

She pushed hungrily back on to him, one hand forward on the arm of the sofa to give herself a physical foundation to better meet his thrusts. She flexed a little at the waist and hips to find that angle, that perfect slant; adjusting and adjusting, then finding it.  Her focus narrowed down onto to that delicious intensity, Mark’s presence opposite them driven to the peripheries of her consciousness.

All three players in this scene were dancing to Rebecca’s lead, each waited and wanted and willed her orgasm on. She tensed, arching into its warm, spreading glow, welcoming it at the centre of herself then allowing it full rein to radiate to her edges. Ben came hard too, the tightening of Rebecca’s cunt and the little boy expression on Mark’s face together too much now. Mark, his hand tight on his cock came just after them, his milky come arcing upwards and his raspy gasps the last of the three of theirs to settle in the quietening room.

Rebecca

She lay face downwards panting and stretched out the dissipating orgasm in her arms and legs. Her hair, loosed now, fell over her face. Undone.

Ben

Ben ran his large hand down Rebecca’s milky back and allowed his latent smile to spread across his face. Released.

Mark

Mark felt around for a familiar emotion to which to moor himself. Unravelled.