Category: Erotica

“Take them off.”

Kathryn let my cock slip out of her mouth and propped herself up on the pillow. “Why don’t you take them off for me?”

Brave move. Bad move.

“Ok, but if I have to do it for you, I’m not going to let you suck me again afterwards.”

I waited as Kathryn mulled that one over. We’d been passing my cock back and forth between us for the best part of half an hour. Her mouth. My hand. Her hand. She knew I wasn’t far off giving her what she’d asked for. Asked for as soon as I’d arrived home from work to find her sitting on my doorstep like a stray cat.

—

“I need to taste you. I’ve needed it all week.”

She said it as I jammed my key in the lock. Too hard. Yeah, my dick too. I glanced down and saw her looking at it. Big brown eyes, perfect hair and make-up – this wasn’t an impulsive visit. She curled a hand round the back of my leg and rested her cheek on my thigh. I could feel how warm it was even through my trousers. Kathryn got like that sometimes. Restless. Hungry. Hot.

The second the door closed, her fingers reached for my zip, and I knew she’d suck me off right there in the corridor if I let her, outside my neighbour’s apartment. It was tempting, but not quite what I had in mind. I wanted her somewhere private – somewhere I could unpick her and break her down at my leisure. Make her less pretty – and more pretty too.

I had to half-carry her up the stairs. Kathryn’s the best part of a foot shorter than me, but she knows how to turn herself into a dead weight, and her feet seemed to drag over every step as I pulled her along. That got logged away too. Months earlier, I’d told her how things were going to be. Yes, we can play, but each time you fuck with me, each time you’re defiant or disobedient or slow to do as you’re told, there will be consequences. I’ll take it out on your arse, and I’ll sure as hell take it out on that sweet little mouth of yours.

For the most part, that suited Kathryn just fine. She had a lot of strings to her sexual bow, but every now and then all she wanted was to have her throat fucked till she cried, and then curl up in my arms as I stroked her hair and kissed away the tears. Simple pleasures, right?

We made it to my room, and before I’d even kicked off my shoes, Kathryn had scooted over to the bed and stripped down to her underwear. No further though: that was always her way of telling me that she wanted it in her mouth and nowhere else, at least not yet. I was happy to oblige. She’s good at sucking cock – too good really, because she gets smug about it, and a bit too comfortable in the control it gives her. Any time that happens, I have to take steps to redress the balance, and that…well, that tends to hurt her more than it hurts me.

When I told Kathryn to take off her knickers, it wasn’t because I intended to fuck her. I just wanted to see her soft, lush body laid out on my bed: in the dictionary I carry around in my brain, that’s the image found next to ‘perfect’. I wanted to come in her mouth and over her tits; to smear it across her forehead and tell her what a good girl – what a special little slut – she was for showing up like that and sucking my dick. In other words, all I wanted was to make her happy.

“Why don’t you take them off for me?” After I’d given her a direct order? Yeah, bad move.

—

“Mm, please take them off. I’m really wet, so you can just put it inside me.”

I could see her point. It’s not like we hadn’t done it that way plenty of times before. She’d suck me, then I’d fuck her for a bit, or lie back and let her ride my cock. In the end, she’d still get to taste me, but only after having an orgasm or two of her own. This was different though. This required something different.

I swung round and rolled Kathryn’s knickers down off her hips. White cotton: the M&S Special. As I pulled them over her thighs, I felt the crotch – she was right, they were soaked through, to the point where the fabric almost looked translucent. Kathryn wriggled a bit, trying to force them down faster. There was something conflicted in the way she looked at me. Even though the decision had been made, I knew she was still trying to work out where she wanted my cock. Mouth or cunt. Cunt or mouth. Maybe he’ll change his mind and I’ll get both. Both would be great.

She got neither. I pulled her knickers all the way off and balled them up in my fist. So soft, even though she’d probably bought them years ago and washed them a thousand times. I knelt beside her, wrapped my other hand around my cock, and started to pump it up and down.

“No matter how many times I tell you, you just don’t learn. You wanted to taste me, right? Well you’re going to taste me. I’m going to come all over these knickers – I’m going to fucking ruin them, in fact – and then you’re going to suck as much of it out of them as you can.”

Kathryn’s eyes widened and her fingers moved instinctively down towards her cunt. I batted them away with the scrunched-up underwear, and as I felt the first twinge between my legs, I buried the head of my cock in the warm cotton.

“No no no, you fucking bastard.” Kathryn smacked the mattress in frustration. I closed my eyes and smiled, then everything went a bit fuzzy, in the way it always does when you get swept off by that rush of pleasure.

As the last few drops pulsed out onto my thigh, I squeezed the underwear in my hand, letting the cum soak through it. Kathryn tried to sit, but I pushed her back down and straddled her again.

“Don’t even try it. You brought this on yourself, you disobedient little slut. Now open your mouth – don’t make me do that for you as well.”

She moaned, and as her lips parted, I stuffed the underwear between them, and poked it all the way inside her mouth. As I felt my finger hit the back of her throat, she clutched at my arm and blinked, water starting to gather at the corners of her eyes.

“You can taste me now, right? I want you to keep sucking on those till I tell you to stop. If you do a good job, I might even get down between your legs and taste you for a bit. When we’re done, you’re going to put your knickers back on, go home, and make yourself come in them. Is that understood?”

Kathryn nodded. She took her hand off my wrist and I pressed two fingers against her lips, forcing them to close around her knickers. I watched her chest rise and fall as she struggled to control her heart rate and breathe through her nose. I rolled off the bed and stretched. There was beer in the fridge, and it had been a long day. A long week, really. I walked across the room and into the kitchen. Kathryn wasn’t going anywhere – not yet, anyway.

I shut the door behind me.

I’m in a relationship with my recruitment consultant. We’ve been together for over a month now, and so far everything’s going great. We email back and forth, speak almost every day, and each time she calls me my heart beats that little bit faster. In fact, just the sound of her cool, clipped, slightly detached voice is enough to make my cheeks flush and my cock stiffen.

Ok, it’s not what most people would consider a conventional relationship – for one thing, she doesn’t even know we’re an item – but the bond I have with Joanna is very intimate. She asks me about my hopes and dreams: where I see myself in five years, what I want to do with my life. We talk about the things I’m good at and the things I’d like to be good at. I open up to her about my weaknesses, and she comforts me whenever an interview goes badly. We share the same interests – running, wine, travel – and with her Polish parents my life in Warsaw is a good source of easy conversation.

Sometimes, just to change things up, I play hard to get. I let my mobile ring through to voicemail and then ignore her messages. I send gnomic replies to her follow-up emails. She’s a very demanding woman, so it’s exciting to push back against that. And while she’s never stern with me, if we haven’t spoken for a while there’s an edge to her inflection, and I can picture the furrow between her eyebrows as she frowns down the phone.

I can picture other things too. Filthy things. I stroke my cock and imagine her standing in front of me, fully-clothed, telling me what to do. She has an eye for detail, so her instructions would be precise and purposeful – her voice is low, and I don’t think it would waver, even when she moved closer and lifted her tight pencil skirt so I could please her with my tongue.

Or perhaps she spends so much time in control of things during the day that when she gets home all she wants is to be bent over the nearest hard surface and fucked till the last coherent thought tumbles out of her brain. I’ve thought about that – oh yes – and about the mornings too, when I’d interrupt her meticulous preparations for the day ahead to push my cock down her throat, or suck and squeeze her tits as she stands half-dressed in front of the mirror.

She’s good at eye contact, is Joanna – the one time we met in person, her gaze barely strayed from mine. I wondered afterwards what it would take to unsettle her. Would she still look me square in the eye if I fucked her arse just before she left for work, my cock smeared with her spit and lipstick? Would she button up the jacket she wears over her tight cream blouse, reapply her make-up, and give me a last, lingering look as she walked out of the door on trembling legs, ready for another day at the office? Would she bother to change her knickers if they were sticky with my cum?

I don’t think I’ll ever know the answers to those questions. We’ve had a very happy month together, but it’s nearly time for us to go our separate ways. Yesterday I had my final interview for the last of the three roles she’s been working on. We spoke afterwards, a warm, light-hearted chat as I walked to the tube station. At the end of it, she suggested that we might go for a drink or two, once the verdict’s in – her treat, to thank me for being such a good candidate.

I was flattered. I smiled. I politely declined.

That would be unprofessional.

This was written for Alison Tyler’s kink submission and rejected, in part, because the characters came across as too young. After re-reading it, I kind of get where that comment came from, though in my head they’re probably in their early-to-mid twenties. Anyway, I thought I’d post it here: let me know what you think!

—

Everyone remembers their first time. Alex and Kelly were lucky enough to experience theirs together, one cold afternoon in early February, when the snow on the ground outside lay as pure and white as the soft blanket and fresh sheets on Kelly’s bed.

Underneath that blanket they kissed, these two young lovers, and their trembling fingers took it in turns to remove the clothes they’d still been wearing as they’d tumbled into bed. A shirt was unbuttoned here, a bra unhooked there, and in no time at all Kelly’s hand was burrowing down into Alex’s underwear.

“God, I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. I can’t believe we waited till now to do this.”

“I want you so much, Kelly. Yeah, curl your fingers around it like that, baby.”

“You’re so hard! I never realised how big it would feel. Oh Alex, are you sure it’ll fit. Won’t it hurt?”

Alex looked down and saw Kelly’s hand wrapped around the thick shaft, barely able to make a fist. For a horrible moment, it felt like the laws of Physics were playing a horrible joke on both of them; that nothing so gloriously large could hope to fit inside the virginal tightness with which they both longed to sheathe it.

Kelly looked at the despair that flashed across Alex’s face, and immediately knew what to do.

“Get down between my legs and lick me, baby. Just for a minute. That’s it, just rip them off, I don’t care, and – oh fuck – yes, that’s the spot right there.”

Alex’s tongue was sure and steady, deft and skilful, as if it had found a natural home down there in the sweet spot that made Kelly purr with pleasure. It flicked and probed, till the tiny opening could accommodate a few exploratory thrusts, and then it pushed inside, causing them both to gasp in surprise and delight.

“Here, get my fingers nice and wet. I want to see whether I can get them inside you. You’re so tight, but I think you can take one, at least.”

Kelly sucked hard on Alex’s middle finger. A second digit soon found its way in alongside the first; they emerged a few seconds later, coated in saliva, and Kelly mewled at the sudden emptiness which they left behind.

“Please Alex. Please let me suck your dick while you use your fingers. I really need you in my mouth”

In a blanket-tossing, sheet-twisting frenzy, they each moved round, till his cheek rested against the inside of her thigh, and her breath warmed his navel. Alex’s cock stood high and proud, and Kelly licked it with a flat tongue; slowly at first, to savour its length and to allow this moment to sink in for both of them.

Meanwhile, Alex’s fingers adopted a similar rhythm. Languid and unhurried in their initial movements, they just parted the soft flesh between Kelly’s legs and held it like that, so the cool air could tickle the ripe, exposed core. When the first finger did finally enter, it curled upwards and stopped, just an inch or two inside. It slid silkily back out, then in again, pausing to allow Kelly’s muscles to clench around it : some things just feel too good not to take your time over.

Without needing to ask, each knew when the moment to accelerate matters had arrived. Kelly, mouth suddenly awash with greed, plunged down onto Alex’s cock, taking not just the head but most of the thick shaft deep inside; Alex responded by jamming two fingers in together and using them to piston in and out, matching Kelly’s fast, frantic, oral tempo.

“You’re so open now! I swear I could get three fingers in, or even four! Do you think you’re ready for me now, baby? I really want to fuck you and I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

“Yes, I’m ready. Your dick feels so good in my mouth, but I need you to fuck me. I’ve never needed anything as much as I need this.”

Alex pulled Kelly in close and they rolled together on the big bed. When they stopped, Kelly’s soft curls lay spread out on the pillow. Alex looked down at them and tenderly wove a loose tendril around the fingers which, seconds earlier, had been used for much less delicate purposes.

With her other hand, Alex reached for the pot on the bedside table and swiftly lubed up her cock. The strap-on felt almost obscenely large between her slim thighs, and Kelly’s ass was still really tight, but she knew that once she’d squeezed the first couple of inches inside him, he’d beg to feel the rest as well. He looked so adorably vulnerable, her beautiful man just aching to be fucked.

Kelly spread his legs. His swimmer’s body tapered down in a long V from shoulders to waist, and there was something graceful about the way he moved his knees back, either side of his chest, till he looked like one of his diver buddies, suspended in the tuck position. He watched Alex tease her dick down between his balls, and gasped as he felt the cool silicon, slick with lube, press experimentally against his hole. He tensed – they both tensed – and then, with an ease that brought a happy smile to Alex’s face, she thrust inside.

Alex and Kelly’s first time, like that of so many others, did not take long to reach a wide-eyed, toe-curling climax. Alex pressed down on the backs of Kelly’s legs till the kneecaps rested flush against the dips either side of his collarbone. She whispered words she’d never dreamt would come out of her mouth, and he responded, his hand desperate and shaking as it sought out his own erection. He was already leaking pre-come, each drop clinging briefly to the very tip of his cock, then falling into the valley between his chest muscles.

With the base of the dildo grinding into her clit, it didn’t take Alex long to find the gathering swell of her own orgasm. As she succumbed, she collapsed down onto Kelly, her strap-on still deep inside his ass. He held her to him, and they both felt his cock pulse once, then send a stream of come between their bodies.

Alex fell back onto the bed next to her lover. The snow continued to fall outside the window, and she knew that they’d be going nowhere that evening. That was fine; in fact, it was perfect. Alex propped herself up on one elbow, turned to Kelly, and with a mischievous smile said the words that everyone wants to hear after their first time:

“We are doing that again.”

The hooded figures filed into the back of the church, four from one side and four from the other. When all eight had entered, the back man in each line turned to pull shut the heavy oak door behind him. The soft whine of the early evening wind was instantly replaced by a stifling silence, and the torches on the walls seemed to burn a little brighter in their sconces.

The men stopped halfway down the aisle and bowed their heads. When they raised them again, their faces were set into grim masks. Each wore a dark brown cowl, clasped loosely enough for the cold air inside the church to raise goosebumps on the naked skin half-hidden inside. The men were lean and well-muscled, and when they passed through the torchlight it was obvious that the days spent grafting in the fields had tanned their skin a deep, chestnut brown.

Brother Simeon, on the other hand, was not brown. His body was smooth and fair, though no less stocky or powerful than that of his fellow monks. Even after being stripped and lashed to the altar, his jaw line retained a defiant jut; bent over and splayed across the hard black marble, coarse rope criss-crossing his torso, he looked almost like a racehorse mid-jump, coiled and tense where he should have appeared supine and submissive.

Brother Simeon was to be punished that night. Punished for each sin he had committed in the six months since he’d first strolled through the Abbot’s door, 60% carefree insouciance, 30% stonewashed jeans, and 10% steel; the kind of steel that men missed at first, but in time came to lust after and fear in equal measure.

When they reached the altar, the members of the disciplinary committee fanned out and unclasped their cowls, allowing eight soft pools of wool to hug the cold stone floor. Brother Stephen was the first to step forward. He was the oldest of the monks, and at 40 his hair was flecked with grey, but he still moved with an easy, supple grace. It was the tattoos on his dick that confirmed his seniority: 12 deep blue rings, circling his thick shaft, one for each novitiate he’d trained.

Brother Stephen walked calmly around the altar. He stood directly in front of Brother Simeon, slid a callused finger under his chin, and lifted it almost tenderly, till the two men were able to look each other in the eye.

“Simeon, you know why you’re here. Our God asks little of us: only that we work the land, harvest the crops, and fuck the women who come to us in search of the pleasure their boyfriends can’t provide. You’re a hard worker, and every man here would give his left nut to be blessed with your good looks, but every night you turn away the girl we send you. For that, you must be punished. Do you accept this judgement?”

As Brother Simeon opened his mouth to vocalise his assent, Brother Stephen tilted his hips and gagged him with his cock. Acceptance was irrelevant – this was their God’s will.

Quickly, Brother Saul and Brother Solomon swept in from opposite sides and descended upon Simeon’s trussed hindquarters. Saul was the youngest of the monks, a rangy stripling of 22 years, with a mere three rings inked around his dick. He knelt between his bound compatriot’s legs and carefully parted his soft ass cheeks.

Saul’s tongue had already brought countless women to shaking, sobbing orgasm in the two years since he’d swapped his novice’s tunic for the monk’s habit he was now permitted to wear. With Brother Solomon watching, and methodically applying holy oil to his stout cock, he dragged it between Simeon’s balls and up, till he was able to lap gently at the exposed hole. Saul was a serious young man, thorough and tireless in his work; again and again, his strong tongue deposited a milky pearl of saliva onto Simeon’s skin, before pushing it skilfully inside him.

Although his body shuddered and convulsed under Saul’s tongue, Simeon stayed silent. Brother Stephen’s huge dick filled his mouth to the point where he was forced to breathe through his nose, and a small puddle of drool had already formed under his chin, but he bore his punishment with the stoicism demanded by his order.

Brother Solomon laid the pot of oil down on the altar and eased Saul to one side. He was a tall man, with hawkish features, jet-black hair, and a coarse, clipped beard. Not yet 30, he’d still accumulated nine rings around his dick, though it was a testament to his prodigious length that there remained room for many more along the heavily-veined shaft.

Solomon pressed one hand down into the small of Simeon’s back. His dick glistened in the torchlight, and with great ceremony he positioned it between the prisoner’s buttocks. Brother Stephen nodded once: it was time. The muscles in Solomon’s ass rippled as he thrust firmly forward, deep inside Simeon’s tight hole; a low moan vibrated around Brother Stephen’s cock and echoed out into the church, where it was met by a rumble of approval from the watching monks. Solomon quickly settled into a heavy, percussive rhythm, sawing his dick in and out with deliberate force. It was not his job to bring pleasure to his compatriot; only to purge him of the sin which had wrapped itself around his soul. Harder and harder he fucked the helpless Simeon, until the altar itself appeared to tremble under the power flowing through his dick.

Only as he neared orgasm did Solomon’s movements become jerky and staccato; his knees buckled slightly, and with one final thrust he flooded Simeon’s hole with thick cum. After his dick had finished pulsing, Solomon pulled out, mindful not to allow any of his seed to fall onto the sacred marble. He walked back to his position on the outside of the semi-circle and Brother Saul replaced him, to penetrate Simeon’s ass with his tongue once again. Solomon’s cum tasted sharp and bitter, but Saul was not deterred; he knew how important it was to swallow as much as he could, to prevent any leaking out and defiling the altar.

Brother Silas was next to step forward. His easy, laidback manner had made him a favourite among the ladies who passed through the monastery’s doors; his endless stamina and curved dick, with its fat, plum-coloured crown and seven tattoos, only served to enhance his reputation still further. He fucked Brother Simeon as he fucked his women, allowing him a few seconds to adjust to the initial shock his girth never failed to induce, before rolling his hips and gradually delivering inch after inch inside him.

After Silas had shot his load, and Saul had sucked as much of it from Simeon’s hole as his tongue could reach, it was the turn of Brother Shiloh, followed by Brothers Seth and Samuel. When the last monk, Brother Sheva, approached the altar, cum ran in long streaks down Simeon’s legs, and his back and shoulders shone with sweat. Still he held Brother Stephen’s cock in his mouth, with a discipline and focus that his colleagues could not help but admire.

Sheva’s would be the seventh and final dick to enter Simeon’s body that night. As he thrust it into the tunnel that five others had already mined, Brother Stephen also abandoned his watchful stillness and began to fuck Simeon’s mouth with equal fury. The air in the church, cool and fresh just an hour earlier, almost shimmered with heat; it smelled – tasted, really – of a dark, rich musk, of the nine men whose sweat and spit and cum had been spilled in the service of their God.

The moment had almost arrived. Brother Saul reached underneath Brother Simeon’s body, and deftly unknotted the thin rope around his cock.

“Now, Simeon”, intoned Brother Stephen, “now your punishment is complete and you must release the sin from your body.” As he finished speaking, his dick swelled and he laced his fingers through the soft blonde hair of his young protégé. He and Sheva came together, pouring their hot semen into Simeon’s mouth and ass. The eight monks stepped back and watched the tip of Simeon’s cock flare once, twice, and then coat the stone surface underneath it with cum.

Finally able to slump down onto the altar and rest, Brother Simeon allowed himself a small smile. The punishment had proved even more enjoyable than he’d dared to hope it might. One thing was for certain: his sinning days were far from over…

This was mostly written a while back, after a trip to one of the London galleries. I was horny when I went in, even hornier when I came out, and this piece of flash fiction was my way of channeling that.

—

The air is always still here; it should feel sterile, but the paintings give it life, and as we walk into the gallery from the sticky, humid street, the arid coolness bathes our skin. But heat lingers, even as it evaporates from glistening temples and flushed cheeks; it lingers inside us, burning us up with every step we take.

It’s in the look you give me when I place my hand on the small of your back, underneath your shirt. It’s in the way my eyes wander distractedly over paintings that usually hypnotise me for hours; the way they return again and again to you walking beside me. And it’s in our desire, unspoken, but shimmering in the air between us, surrounding our bodies in a bubble of lust, hidden from the world outside it.

Every touch is accidental, yet seems pre-ordained. It’s been like this since we met: the quiet, pervasive awareness of mutual need, as if we will come apart unless we have each other soon. I step back and watch you move in front of me, tasting your sweat on my fingers where they have caressed the back of your shirt, and wanting to taste more of you. All of you.

You look over your shoulder at me, quizzically, playfully, and I smile. I’m thinking about tasting both of us now, my cum slick and hot over the lips of your cunt as I lick it from you, your juices mixed in with it. I wonder, do you know what I’m seeing in my mind? Do you know what’s getting my cock hard as I stand and watch you? You know – I think you know – and I walk towards you, our eyes never leaving each other until we’re standing so close that your hair brushes my face.

All that I desire is impure, forbidden, and I glance around me, surveying the pious faces that stare down at us, lovingly rendered studies in ecstatic devotion. I pull you against me, turning you so you can feel my cock pressing into your arse, conducting the heat between our bodies. I whisper, too loud for this silent hall, my voice thick and unsteady as we look up at a Renaissance nude, her eyes cast heavenward in search of the divine. “Do you see her? When I look at her, I see you. I see her expression on your face as you slide slowly onto me, curving your body around mine; taking me deep into the heart of you until we blur into one.”

There’s no space between us, no cool air to separate our bodies – even our clothing feels insubstantial, like it might just melt away. My fingers are on your arms, pinning them by your side, in the knowledge that if we move, we’ll fall into each other and never find our way out. I could fuck you right here on the hard marble floor and throw both caution and consequence to the wind; instead I hold you, every muscle tense, and feel the heavy press of desire warm my blood, until it feels like the summer storm is breaking around us. We will emerge into it, already drenched, and find our way to calmer waters, where the storms that rage inside us can be released.

Winner: Lost, by Charlie Powell

I’m not superstitious, and I don’t believe in fate. Still, when faced with a really difficult choice between two options, I have been known to resolve the dilemma by tossing a coin. Not because I think a higher power will intervene, but because my gut reaction to the way the coin falls invariably tells me much more about what I really want than any amount of soul-searching or logical analysis.

Confession: I spent about 20 minutes this afternoon trying to think of a good reason not to pick this entry as the contest winner. Eventually, I realised that if I put it up against any of the other eight and tossed a coin, I’d be disappointed not to see Charlie’s story land face-up. Unfortunately she’s a friend of mine, which will make handing over the 25 quid all the more galling, not least because in doing so I’ll be forced to acknowledge that she’s pretty fucking good at this whole writing business.

Why this story? Because it manages to make the suitcase both an incidental and an integral part of the action; because it delights in the marriage of language and sex, while using the former to expose vulnerability and establish control; and because the prose is tight, clear, controlled, and precise, even as the story reaches its filthy climax. It was the best of a very, very good bunch – smart, beautifully written, and really fucking hot.

So yes, well done Charlie (grr), and thanks again to everyone who took part or got in touch to let me know what they thought of the stories. I imagine I’ll find an excuse to do this again at some point in the not-too-distant future, so do look out for the next prompt/brief – until then, you’ll find me cyber-stalking the nine lovely people whose stories I’ve just enjoyed, one hand tucked discreetly inside my pants.

—

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Lost

‘You should buy a Kindle.’

I look up, glare at him. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s looking stupid in front of other people, especially when the other person in question is smirking and squeezing his dick all at the same time.

I brought back wine, hence why I checked in my case. Hence why the weight of it didn’t take me by surprise when I hauled it from the conveyor belt. But there’s no wine in this Samsonite, only a selection of garments in various shades of beige, two pairs of sensible shoes and a hardback French-English dictionary, well-thumbed but spine unbroken. Clearly those who favour beige are not up to speed with app technology.

I lift it out and flip it open, looking for a name in the inside front cover, but there’s nothing. I flick to a random page, and it lands on F. 

‘Dirty girl,’ he says, squeezing my shoulder.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you do. How d’you say “Fuck?”’

I thumb the pages, scanning down with my finger till I find it. When I do though, I can’t bring myself to say it. I have trouble asking for what I want when the language is familiar to me, the unknown makes it worse still. I’m reminded of classroom roleplays, of oral exams, of hearing myself speak and not recognising my own voice.

His hand slides from my shoulder to my nipple, and he pinches it hard between thumb and forefinger.

I love words on the page. I hate words in my mouth. He can read them, he doesn’t need to hear them from me.

‘Putain,’ I whisper.

’Nice,’ he says. ‘Let’s try another. How about “Fuck me?”’

My eyes skim the column of text. ‘Baise-moi.’

‘Louder.’

He’s standing beside me now, wanking slowly. I lay the book on the carpet and scramble to my knees. If I suck him, maybe he’ll stop tormenting me. But as I lean in to take him in my mouth, he takes a step back, leaving me grasping in thin air. An involuntary gasp of dismay escapes me.

‘You know what to do.’

I’m wet with the shame of it, and it turns out he’s barely started. For every word I utter, he thinks of more, barking them one after another and barely giving me time to find them.

Eventually, he grows tired of the game and goes hunting through the case in search of more fun. There’s a washbag at the bottom, and inside, a stub of a dusky pink lipstick. He has me get on my hands and knees and then he carefully folds my dress back. Another five words follow, and each of these is scrawled across my back and arse in waxy capitals.

There’s one word he hasn’t asked for yet. ‘Find “cunt.”’

As I’m searching, he pulls my knickers to one side, and slicks his finger up through my wetness. Then he’s right there with me, cock poised at the entrance to the very place I can’t find the word for. The pages flutter helplessly as I hunt desperately and my pussy is twitching with the need to have him inside me.

It’s not fucking there.

It’s not my fault, I protest – I’m not the keeper of the words. But he takes no notice, instead leaning over me and going all the way back to A.

Arse. Of course. Cul. I’m pretty sure you don’t pronounce the l, but not certain. Even as he makes me say it he’s spitting on his fingers, working the moisture around my tight hole. As he eases them into me I let out a deep moan. We’ve not done this before, but my body is grinding back against him, trying to take him deeper. He moves his fingers apart, slowly, stretching me. What’s tumbling from my lips now is as incoherent as the smudged lipstick prints on my back.

His cock replaces his fingers, and I gasp and keen as he slides deep inside me. He butts against me steadily, rhythmically, as he reaches round to fret my clit with one hand.  The carpet burns my knees, and it stings with every thrust, but I don’t care, because right now I am just as lost as my suitcase.

Runner-up: No Hope, by John D Stories

I read John’s story on my phone last week in between job applications, and I wasn’t all that impressed at first. It didn’t quite ring true, the focus on the mundane details of Rita’s trip was a bit annoying, and hey, ‘dogmaticism’ isn’t actually a word…

It was only today, when I read it properly, that I realised just how well-crafted this piece is. Those mundane details – the Ford Mondeo, the Argyle socks, the strawberry jam – actually help to establish Rita as a character you can believe in, and by building up that rounded picture of who she is and how she thinks, John makes the theme of mistaken identity a more powerful and believable one.

For some readers, the issues around non-consent might be a turn-off, or even a trigger, and I certainly don’t think this is a story that everyone will enjoy. However, for the hot sex, the clever use of the suitcase, and also for Rita’s ultimate triumph, ‘No Hope’ ended up being my second-favourite of the nine stories.

As the runner-up, John wins a copy of Kinksters, by the lovely (and very generous) Giselle Renarde – you lucky boy. I’ve published his story in full below, but you can also find it here, with the rest of his work.

—

No Hope

The growl of the engine reverberated angrily in her small compartment; her knees pressed against her chin, vibrating tortuously as she struggled in the car boot, desperate to bring relief to the tired, cramped muscles in her body. All she wanted was to be watching the banal stream of pointless entertainment from her Saturday night television, while wearing her wine-stained onesie and swigging from a bottle of Rioja. She wanted to be home, but somehow found herself in the back of a car boot, winding down country lanes.

It was her usual weekly flight; Copenhagen to Manchester, for arrival in Saturday’s early evening. She even had her usual seat, next to the window, and had sped through passport control and baggage claim in no time. It was usual. Everything was normal, until she reached the bus terminal, and she was grabbed from behind and bundled into the back of a waiting car.

No time to scream, barely time to fight; the cold, gloved hands of her attacker forced her into the open boot, ripping her handbag, containing her mobile phone and valuables, from her grasp. But what could she remember? Little details, Rita, she reminded herself. Little details, she had to be observant. The car: it was green; she remembered that. A light green, faded like pea and mint soup. It was a long car too: a bit like a Ford Mondeo, and her attacker had black facial hair. Little details.

She strained over the roar of the car engine to listen to any clues to where they were going: places, accent, anything, but couldn’t hear a word over the spiteful roar of the car. Her hands hurt as she punched the metal boot, and her shoulders ached as she tried to force the seat, but her compartment remained solid; immovable and inflexible: she was stuck, beholden to the will of her captors.

She struggled to stand when, 30 minutes later, she was hauled from the boot into a cool, brightly-lit area, and fell onto the floor, scrabbling quickly towards the exit as a couple of shapes descended upon her. She screamed, her voice echoing around the large space; bits of straw on the floor, and the feint smell of cow shit: it was a barn, she knew that much.

“No one can hear you Jane,” her captor barked. “No one.”

Rough hands grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet, and dragged her to a large wooden bench. Her lungs burnt as she screamed, pleading pointlessly to her attackers; she wasn’t “Jane,” they had the wrong person, but they ignored her. How did she let herself get in this situation?

Could she have screamed louder, or kicked harder? Could she have done anything more to protect herself from her attackers? She went running in the park every evening after dark and had never been approached, but somehow she was snatched from the centre of a busy International airport. How?

Doubt and fear stalked her mind as she thrown roughly over the wooden furniture; a pair of hands fastened rope to her right wrist, forcing her further over the bench so that her weight uncomfortably rested on her breasts.

“Let me go!” She screamed, her left arm flailing and resisting the immovable bondage of the rope offered, but a sweaty hand squeezed her wrist and pulled her shoulder forward as he restrained her. She yelped in pain; her body seized with fear and terror as the men walked around her in the cold inhumane space.

How many? Four? Five? Six? They had all donned Anonymous masks except the ring leader, and he barked out instructions. “Tie her legs apart. Get her clothes off.”

“No!”

“And get a gag on her.” Rita shook her head, as a hard, uncompromising ball was forced into her mouth; roughly and soullessly.

Her hands curled into fists as her heart pounded against the cold, barren wood of the furniture. She felt slightly dizzy, detached, desperately hoping her experience was a vivid dream caused by an exceptionally ripe piece of Blue Stilton. She pleaded with fate to release her from her nightmare, clawing at hope that the cold steel of scissors cutting her clothes were no more real than the feeling of circulating air against her thighs, the forced parting of her legs or the unwelcome touch on her buttocks.

Ankles, scuffed big black shoes, and green Argyle Socks: the view of the man standing in front of her recorded as she filed the memory away: little details, she reminded herself, might be important.

“You’re going to love this Jane.” She growled into the gag: why wouldn’t he listen; she was not Jane! She felt she was being examined, probed by the dozen eyes in the room as they scrutinised every imperfection on her body. How dare they! She tried to force her legs closed, knowing that there was passing judgement on her intimate areas, as a cold, hard object rolled up her inner thighs.

But not any object: it was vibrating! She groaned into the gag: they meant to force her into arousal, and she struggled helplessly with the unseen bonds, digging the rope deeper into her pale skin. The pain mattered not: she was anxious to spare herself a humiliating violation and desperately flailed, pushing her body against the wooden bench as the vibrator was pushed against her skin.

It was low; a gentle, warm setting: a subtle hue of agitating arousal skipping lightly over her thighs and sex. The man wrapped his hands in her hair, jerking her head sideways as his dominating voice whispered into her ear. “We’re going to make you come like the slut you are!”

She whimpered; unable to resist and answer; the gentle hum of the sex toy rattled in her ears, drowning out the sounds of her heavy breathing. She tried desperately to think of non-sexual things: the price of Strawberry jam, the new supermarket in Wilmslow or the sparkling views over the Cheshire plains, but the relentless wand, pressed against her unwilling cunt, tingled her senses.

She stubbornly refused to acknowledge the sensations; it felt so different to when her last boyfriend would use her toys on her: he would probe her body gently, sliding the vibrating wand over every inch of her arousal, and then, as he pushed it up against soft hole, he would use his tongue to delicately swirl messages on her clitoris: come for me, I love you, fuck me, you’re gorgeous.

This time, she had none of those sweet messages. The soft murmurings of the toy were replaced with stronger, more determined pulses; she closed her eyes, focusing on ignoring the feelings from her sex. It was her versus the toy. Willpower versus the wand. Mind versus matter. She would not let the vibrator win, desperate to retain her dignity and refused to submit to its quivering power.

She tried; tried to resist as fear dominated her concern, but her body betrayed her. The unrelenting dogmaticism of her battery-powered nemesis, taking her deeper towards her unwanted climax. Her clit throbbed as she fought to beat every snatched breath and lust-addled whimper of her climaxing body.

But the men didn’t stop, they upped the power, as her body sent wave after wave of orgasmic delight, forcing undulating groans of desperate desire to escape from her body. All resistance was futile, her body ravished by orgasms and her unable to stop the wand, forced against her sex.

She pleaded with her eyes and twisted her body, as they laughed; they were savouring her humiliation and degradation, but she barely registered their reaction. Her body heaved and contorted with the sensations, and she was almost disappointed when the wand was removed.

“Let me go!” She spat into the gag, knowing that nothing but murmurings could be heard.

“Little cunt wants a bit more, guys,” the man shouted over the top of her and picked up a couple of toys from a table, kneeling down in front of her to display the giant strap-on dildo and the tube of Deep Heat. “One in your cunt and one in your arse if you give us any trouble Jane,” he warned. “But I’ll let you choose what goes where!” He laughed as he left the two items in her view: a reminder of the fate she faced as her buttocks were fondled and patted.

A man walked behind her as she struggled again with the bonds. Her mind floated, anxious to put her situation out of her mind when a belt landed on her backside. She screamed, pointlessly, as blow after ferocious blow of leather punishment landed on her sensitive skin.

The humiliation tore through her; the pain of the degradation as the men watched her beating, fear tingled at her anger; not since she was eighteen had any man dare to lay a finger on her. She silently implored for release; her soul vibrating in agony at the echoing smack of her torment, while her bare buttocks sung in painful indignation at her treatment.

But they continued, thwacking the leather paddle against her naked bottom with powerful strokes; her mind wandered in self defence. Suddenly, she was the errant Victorian school-kid, the medieval witch or the Roman rebel: smacked and tormented for the sadistic pleasure of the powerful. Anything but the naked and bound project manager, tied up in a remote barn by unknown strangers. She was anyone but Rita.

Her skin tingled as the straps were lay across her back; the gruff voice spoke above her and the sound of feet leaving the barn. Her heart jumped; her skin shivering to the touch as hands touched her wrists, freeing her.

“There you go Jane. Kidnapped, orgasmed and spanked, humiliated live on the Internet.”

“Stop calling me Jane,” she spat, ripping her hands from the untied ropes. “That’s not my name.”

“Of course it is! You’re Jane Trent!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Don’t fuck with me! I know as you spoke to me. You’re Jane.”

“I’m not!” She screeched. He looked him closing a laptop lid balanced on top of a blue suitcase, with the yellow flower on the front. “And that’s not my suitcase.”

“It was! You were holding it.”

“Mine doesn’t have a yellow flower. Mine’s blue but without the flower.”

“Oh shit!” He cried, the walls loudly echoing his profanity. “But … but … you picked up the wrong suitcase! Jane Trent paid for … this! We sorted it out on the ‘net.” Rita stepped away from the BDSM equipment and rubbed her sore bottom. “She said she’d be on the flight from Denmark with that suitcase and we were to take her and do … this. You’ve got to be Jane!”

“I’m not!” She yelled. He picked up the purse from her handbag. “And leave that. It’s mine.”

“Rita!” He spat as he looked at her work ID card. “Who the fuck is Rita?”

“The woman you just violated, asswipe!”

“I didn’t … it was … ummm … I’m so sorry. It was just a little misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding!” She cried. “You sexually assaulted me, and you call it a misunderstanding! Where the fuck are my clothes?”

“We destroyed them,” he admitted, looking sheepish. “It was part of the deal. She wanted us to. It was her fantasy.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “That’s what we do, act out people’s fantasies. We set it up with her, and she’d be holding that suitcase, so we knew it was her. We do fantasies and you never gave us the safewords we agreed.”

“Because you didn’t agree in any fucking safewords with me!”

He hummed. “Sorry.” He shrugged.

She snorted and her eyes narrowed on the floor. “You act out any fantasy?”

“Pretty much,” he admitted.

“Pretty much?”

“Yeah, well, some fantasies we can help with. Some, we can’t.”

“You mean only ones when the woman is powerless?”

“You said that, not me.”

Rita picked up the twelve-inch strap-on that she was threatened with, and held it out in front of her. “I’ve always wanted to fuck a man up the arse with one of these,” she said smirking. “Live on the Internet. It’s my fantasy.”

“Err … love, I …”

“Bend over. I have some lube,” she said as she picked up the Deep Heat. “ … or I’ll report you to the Police.”

“Fuck!” The fearsome glare on the naked, confident woman stepping into the strap-on, told him he had no hope.

Even with only nine entries, picking the winner of this short story competition has been a pretty thankless task. The good kind of thankless, obviously – I’m never going to complain too loudly about having to read a load of quality smut – but still, elevating one above the rest wasn’t easy.

Before I get to the winner, I want to briefly mention some of the things I enjoyed most about the other entries. With Anna Sky’s ‘Butterfly’, it was the wistful beauty of her closing line that I loved: the butterfly pinned to the board, probed ‘…until the novelty wore off, bright colours fading.’ The purple-and-black panels of the silk-boned corset, and the temporary charge it gives the sex between her two characters, are reframed right at the end, and the reader is left to consider the impact of familiarity and time on relationships.

After reading ‘Happy Consequences’, by Septimus Warren Smith, I’m pretty sure the author could earn herself a hefty commission from nJoy; the toy her character finds (and uses) is described in wonderful detail, and I don’t blame Carrie for wanting to hang onto it for another day or two. The whole piece felt like a celebration of female masturbation, which I loved as well.

For sheer kitschy fun, the story title I enjoyed most was ‘Madam Madonna’s House of Pain’, by Cherrie Jubilee. Madam Madonna herself turned out to be lip-smackingly wicked, and by the end of the story I had a clear picture of what she looked like and who she was. I also really liked the closing line, and the hint it gave of what might happen next.

After reading ‘The Suitcase’, Vida Bailey’s story of the travelling sex-toy salesman and the woman who uses him to test the merchandise, I found myself craving a good spanking, which is not generally something I fantasise about – testament, I think, to the way Vida captures the relationship between pain and arousal in her description of the punishment handed out to poor Gareth. It’s a hot, filthy hotel-room encounter, and I was fidgeting in my seat by the end of it.

I thought the cleverest entry came from Charlie J Forrest, and I had to read ‘Emotional Baggage’ a few times to tease out the full story. Charlie’s writing style is smooth and laced with a sense of playful mischief; I especially loved the image of ‘bruises to be admired, bruises to be smoothed over with arnica and kisses’, among various other well-crafted vignettes.

‘MissTaken Identity’, by Oleander Plume was the only M/M entry among the nine, and confirmed the author as a reliable source of high-quality gay smut. I thought that the deliberate switch of the two suitcases was a great twist, but the story really came together around the cross-dressing painter with the big dick, an extravagant, exuberant character who I believed in right away; his seduction of the strait-laced middle-aged businessman could’ve felt far-fetched in less skilful hands, but instead was fun, kinky and hot, all at the same time.

The final ‘honourable mention’ goes to ‘Open Me’, by Malin James. I love stories that play with the psychological aspect of D/S, and Malin sets this up perfectly, with the jaded road warrior jolted into life by a mystery woman, who immediately burrows inside his head and finds the right buttons to push. Even though disobeying her command would have brought with it no negative consequences, I instinctively understood why he chose to submit. For the surprise and delight it conveys, I also loved this line: ‘He was a grown man wearing panties, and he was fucking satisfied’.

Seven down, two to go. I’m going to announce the runner-up and the winner in separate posts, so I can publish each piece in full, after explaining why I chose it. Look out for those later today!

11pm GMT has come and gone, and so has the deadline for entering the short story competition I launched here last week. In total, there were nine submissions, which I’ll be reading and jerking off to carefully evaluating over the next four days. The winner will be announced on Friday: in the meantime, please take a look at some of the fantastically creative ways in which the various authors decided to tackle the brief (hyperlinks to be added as/when pieces are made publicly available).

1. Open Me, by Malin James (@MadeleineMalin)

2. Miss-Taken Identity, by Oleander Plume (@OleanderPlume)

3. Emotional Baggage, by Charlie J Forrest (@CJForrestauthor)

4. Madam Madonna’s House of Pain, by Cherrie Jubilee (@cherriedelights)

5. Happy Consequences, by Septimus Warren Smith (@SeptimusReviews)

6. Lost, by Charlie Powell (@sexblogofsorts)

7. The Suitcase, by Vida Bailey (@vidabailey2)

8. No Hope, by John D Stories (@johndstories)

9. Butterfly, by Anna Sky (@IAmAnnaSky)

Many thanks to all of you who took the time to write something. I hope I can do justice to the effort you put into these stories by picking a worthy winner.