Category: Erotica

“Wind down your window.”

“I-I can’t. Someone will hear us.”

“No, someone will hear you. Now do as you’re told, or you won’t be allowed to come today either.”

It was Sunday when I’d last given Lucy permission to have an orgasm. Sitting in my car at 5.30 on Thursday afternoon, the prospect of having to endure another night of fitful, fidgety sleep in what was fast becoming a puddle of her own arousal swiftly overcame any fear she had of being overheard.

The electric window buzzed down and disappeared into the door of the car. Fresh air swept in, hitting Lucy’s flushed cheeks as she turned away from me. We were parked up in a side street, not far from her flat. There was still enough daylight to make out the rusty red bricks of the terraced houses that extended up towards the main road. Lots of houses equalled lots of people: Lucy knew that one as well as I did.

For most of the 20 minutes since I’d pulled out of her office car park, Lucy had seemed almost giddy. Four days without an orgasm for a woman of her needs would not have been easy at the best of times, but I’d really pushed hard this week. I felt no guilt about telling her to edge for 20 minutes with her vibrator each night, bent over the bathtub as I watched her on Skype, knickers stretched down around her ankles.

Nor did it seem unkind to send her off to work each morning with a toy inside her: butt plug on Monday, when she was still feeling relatively composed; love egg on Tuesday, her cunt now starting to ache and tighten each time she thought about sex; the dildo she’d asked for on Wednesday, the one she shyly told me reminded her of my cock – it was heavy, and fell out of her if she tried to walk, so we compromised on that one, and each time she went to the ladies that day she fucked herself with it, counting the strokes out loud, mobile clamped to her ear, till I told her to stop.

The blow jobs though? Yeah, they were a bit cruel. Lucy loved giving head, so when I sent her out into town and told her to find a couple of guys to suck, I knew she’d be a hot, squirming mess afterwards. Apparently they were rough with her too, taking it in turns to push their big dicks down her throat in the alley behind the bar, as she squeezed her thighs together and desperately tried to control the throbbing in her clit. They watched each other come over her face and the generous cleavage she’d been ordered to display that night. She waited till they’d gone back into the bar, then cleaned it off with her blouse and wrapped it loosely around her, sticky with spunk.

Still, she’d made it through till Thursday, so as I turned onto the highway that led back to her place, Lucy leaned over to kiss me, a big smile on her face. The poor girl really did think it was over. Now here we were, no more than a mile from her front door – from an end to her torment – and she was kneeling on the seat with her head hanging out of the window, waiting for me to touch her.

“Pull your skirt up.”

It was a grey skirt, just short enough that I knew the guys in her office must all have wondered how her soft thighs felt underneath it. Her fingers gripped the hem and she lifted it up around her waist. I briefly considered ripping her black tights, or slitting them open with the pen-knife in my pocket, but really I wanted Lucy to be the one to expose herself to me. I tapped her on the arse and she jolted like I’d just touched a live current to her skin. Slowly, she peeled down her tights and spread her legs.

“Good girl. Now I’m going to fuck your cunt with my fingers. If you come, I’ll drive you home, drop you outside your door, and head straight back down to London. And you won’t see me up here again. Understand?”

Lucy nodded furiously. She understood. There was no need to tease her clit, or wet my fingers with saliva; Lucy’s cunt had suffered through four days of agonising arousal, and I met no resistance as I pushed inside her. I used two fingers, the two she liked, and I pressed down on the front wall of her cunt with short, rough, jerky strokes.

I’d killed the engine and the street outside was silent, so when Lucy moaned I heard it float into the late afternoon sunshine. My fingers slowed, and I thumbed her clit till she gasped again, louder and just that little bit more desperate.

“Is there anyone walking down the street? I bet you’re so horny right now that if a guy came up to the window and unzipped his jeans, you’d suck his cock in full view of everyone, wouldn’t you?”

Lucy’s answer to that question wasn’t given in any language I recognized, but I knew what she was trying to say. Yes, she would. Still, I wanted more.

“Come on, you little slut. Tell me how much you want it.”

“I won’t. I won’t say it.”

“You won’t say it: you’ll shout it. And you’ll do it right now.” I pumped my fingers in and out of her and she clenched against me, dangerously close now.

“I want a cock in my mouth”, she shouted out of the window. “I want a fucking cock in my mouth, you fucking bastard.”

“That’s my girl.”

I pulled Lucy back against me, and flicked the switch that sent the window back up, closing us off to the world outside. I kissed the top of her head and held it in the crook of my shoulder; held it there all the way home.

We pulled up to Lucy’s place just as the last of the daylight drained from the sky. Her head felt heavy, almost as if she’d been drugged, and when I eased her up it took her a few seconds to fumble for her handbag and open the car door. I followed her out and down the garden path. It was time.

Lucy’s front door opened into a narrow hallway, with a corridor through to the kitchen on one side and steep, uncarpeted stairs up to the first floor on the other. It was the latter that she fell against on shaky legs, one bare knee whacking hard against the third step. I pulled her upright and moved one pace back, into the open doorway.

“Do it for me now, baby. Make yourself come.”

Lucy didn’t need asking twice. One hand disappeared under her skirt as she bent over; with the other, she braced herself against the stairs. When I looked to the side, I saw her face reflected in the hallway mirror, through the banisters. Her mouth hung open and I wanted to kiss it, to bite down on her top lip and curl my hand around her throat. Later…later for so many things.

Her cunt remained hidden behind the modest drape of grey wool that covered her arse. It didn’t matter though. I could see her toes starting to curl, the big one poking through a hole in her ruined tights.

“I’m going to…I want to…please, oh please, OH PLEASE.”

Even though I’d given her permission to come, the last few weeks and months had conditioned Lucy to keep asking for my approval. This time I stayed silent. Four days, seven hours and 18 minutes since her last orgasm, Lucy jammed her fingers against her clit one final time and screamed out, a long, low wail of pleasure and relief that echoed around the hallway. She collapsed down onto the chipped white wood and pressed her forehead against it. I watched her for a minute, maybe two, waiting for her breathing to slow. When I saw her body go limp I stepped back into the cool evening air, closed the door behind me, and walked to my car. Lucy would need her sleep: it had been a long four days, and her next task would begin tomorrow…

I was horny when I got off the plane. Actually, I was horny when I got on the plane, but two hours of reading through an erotica anthology and thinking about the weekend from which I was flying home had left me seriously on edge by the time we landed. I leapt up from my front-row seat as soon as the engines died, and stood by the cabin door. My dick was visibly hard, which earned me an appreciative grin from the air steward who’d been sneaking glances at it throughout the flight. I studied him for a moment: bleached-blonde hair, long fingers, tight arse…but a bit too well-groomed for my tastes. Sure, he probably sucked cock like a pro, but he wasn’t really the kind of dish I fancied tucking into.

When the door opened, I clattered down the stairs and jumped into the waiting shuttle bus. I had time to wedge myself into a corner behind the driver’s seat before the next passenger made it onto the tarmac: perfect! I once sat at the counter in a sushi restaurant and watched the diner opposite me just stare at the conveyor belt for the best part of ten minutes, almost hypnotized by the variety of dishes moving slowly past him. Well sometimes I get that way with people. I just want to look at them, even if I have no intention of putting my chopsticks to good use when I see one I like.

The first ones to board the bus were the two businessmen who’d been sitting across the aisle from me. They wore dark suits and both looked a few years north of 40. One tapped away distractedly at his phone as he walked, but the other moved with energy and purpose. I thought about how it would feel to unzip his trousers and pump his cock with my hand; imagined him loosening his tie and gripping onto the hand rail behind him as I lowered my mouth over the swollen head.

Next was a young family: angry parents dragging tired, uncooperative children behind them and steadfastly refusing to make eye contact with each other. They were followed by an old man with deep lines on his face and a flat cloth cap on his head – unmistakably Polish – then a couple of teenage girls, lithe and coltish, but still unformed.

The trickle became a flood, and as the noise level rose it grew harder to pick out the details. A woman my age, speaking into her mobile in rapid-fire Polish. She was tall, and her blouse stretched across her chest in a way that exposed a flash of her bra between the buttons, but there was something cold about her facial expression. It matched her shirt: tight and uncomfortable, with no hint of mischief around her eyes. Behind her a woman carrying a small black valise. At least 50, I decided, though she wore it well. Her skirt ended just above the knee, and I found myself wanting to run a hand under the hem and up her inner thigh, till I reached the top of her stocking. I imagined her flying in to meet her younger lover – surely she was already wet with anticipation, wet at the thought of his hard stomach under her fingers as she lowers herself onto him.

I still wanted something more though. My dick pressed along the zip of my suit trousers and nudged up against the waistband. It felt restless and impatient, and I ached for someone to press their hand onto it through the soft wool; to cup my balls and run a finger up the shaft from base to tip.

Just as I was beginning to give up hope, I saw her. She squeezed between the two businessmen and stood opposite me with her suitcase, no more than a metre away. Her hair was black and fell down around her shoulders. She was dressed in black too, but that couldn’t disguise the fullness of her figure: big, round tits, and a happy roll around her stomach that she probably passed off as puppy fat until a couple of years ago. Rubenesque – wasn’t that the word? Yes, and she looked like she’d get off on being painted nude, maybe on a wooden chair that she’d leave smeared with her juices at the end of it, when she stood up to leave, shaky with lust.

Her boyfriend was a couple of seconds behind her. He stood next to me, a lanky, kind-faced young man who fiddled with his iPod while I studied his girl. I realized that although she was short, everything else about her was big – maybe a bit too big for anyone to peg her as a classic beauty, but her eyes, her lips, her tits, her arse, her soft belly…they all stirred something deep inside me. I wanted her to kneel on the floor of the bus and look up at me under her long lashes. I wanted her mouth on my cock – soft sucking at first, but then something rougher and deeper, that would leave her lips feeling bruised after I’d finished thrusting between them.

I wanted to take her into the toilets inside the terminal, while her boyfriend waited patiently for the rest of their luggage. She’d brace herself against the cubicle door and I’d fuck her from behind, two fingers shoved inside her mouth and my other hand curled around her waist. I’d come with my cock pressed against her arse-crack, so my spunk would shoot all over her lower back. She’d thank me afterwards, with just the hint of a catch in her voice, and I’d know that when her boyfriend made love to her later in the evening, her mind would be back here, craving the weight of my body against hers.

It took the bus less than five minutes to reach the terminal. As it bumped and swung its way between the stationary aircraft, I tried to capture the details that would allow me to see her again later, at home, when I closed my eyes and jerked off on the sofa. She only looked at me once, just as the bus came to a halt. I held her gaze for a couple of seconds, then the doors slid open and I waved her out in front of me.

I’ll never know what that guy in the restaurant was thinking or feeling as he watched the sushi plates roll by. Maybe he didn’t see anything he wanted, or maybe, like me, it pleased him simply to study each one in turn, waiting for the perfect dish to appear. Sometimes it’s enough to watch, and to imagine how a thing – or a person – might taste. Sometimes that’s all the body needs to make it hum with pleasure.

I’ve never run a short story competition – hell, I’ve never even entered a short story competition – but sometimes, when you have an idea, you just have to go with it.

I was waiting by the baggage carousel at Warsaw Airport this evening, drafting a story in my head about the bus ride from the plane to the terminal (hotter than it sounds, honest). A suitcase rose up from the delivery belt, onto the carousel, and I instinctively went to grab it, thinking it was mine. At the last second, I realised my mistake, jerked my hand away, and let it roll past, to be picked up by another passenger further along the line.

That got me thinking: what if I had picked it up? What if I’d wheeled it through Customs and out of the airport? In reality, the answer is probably ‘nothing very interesting’, but in my already amped-up brain, a whole host of sexy possibilities presented themselves.

So many, in fact, that I decided it would make a great prompt for a short story. And that’s where you lot come in. I don’t want to write that story: I want to know what other people can do with it. I met so many brilliant, talented, pervy, kinky, altogether awesome people this weekend that the thought of having a bunch of them – as well as a whole host of other great writers out there – do something with this pretty basic idea makes me very happy.

Anyway, here are the details:

The prompt

You (or your protagonist) pick(s) up the wrong suitcase at the airport. This mistake is only discovered after leaving the terminal: it could happen while queuing for the shuttle bus, or in a taxi, or hours later in a hotel/apartment, or somewhere else entirely.

The rules

1. Stories should be no longer than 2500 words. However, this is very much a limit, not a target: if you have a great idea and can get it down on paper in 250 words, that’s fantastic, and stories of all lengths will be given equal consideration.
2. This is an erotica competition. You can blend in other genres, but fundamentally something sexy should happen at some point. It can be M/F, M/M, F/F, any combination of Ms and Fs, trans, or just a hot piece about one person and the wrong suitcase. It can also be as graphic/explicit as you like – there’s no need to tone down the language or turn dicks and cunts into throbbing members and flowers in full bloom.
3. You can post your story on your own blog/site and send me the link, or just email it to me directly. You own the piece, so can do with it as you please outside the competition, but to be eligible for the prize you must be happy for me to post it here in the event that you win (and then probably go and wank over it afterwards).
4. First (and indeed only) prize is £25, or the equivalent in the winner’s currency, to be paid via Paypal.
5. The deadline for entries is 2300 (GMT) on Monday 17^th March. Winners will be announced (and the prize paid) by Friday 21st March. I’m a fast reader.
6. As with all the best sex parties, multiple entries are permitted.
7. The winning entry will be the one I like the most. I’m really curious to see what people come up with, so I don’t want to set out a whole load of judging criteria here. Write what interests you, or makes you horny, not what you think I want to read.
8. UPDATE: The lovely Giselle Renarde has very kindly offered to provide a runner’s up prize, in the form of her anthology Kinksters. Given that it promises ‘Wild Group Sex, Bisexual Fun and Kinky Pleasures’, I can’t think of a short story collection I’d rather get my hands on.

This is just for fun: I’m not looking to put together an anthology, nor indeed to embark upon a new career as someone who judges short story competitions. That said, if the response is good, and if people enjoy doing it, I’m not going to rule out running another one at some point in the future!

Happy writing 🙂

You only touched me once. It happened after I had lowered my gaze in an attempt to please you: you slid a white-gloved hand under my chin and lifted it, forcing me to look into your big, brown eyes. I shivered then, and not just because the floor felt cold against my knees and shins; there was a depth and a playful cruelty to the way you studied me, as well as something I couldn’t quite read, dancing around the edges of the connection between us.

I was naked. You had made me strip for you, then just left me there, kneeling by your desk while you sipped wine and finished replying to your editor’s email. He was another man in search of the pay-off you weren’t going to give him: every night your leading lady entered the bedroom of her husband’s noble guest, to torment him with the sight of her beautiful body; and every night you had him send her back whence she came with nothing more than a single kiss to dampen the fire in her loins. You believe in the erotic power of delayed gratification, in writing and in life, which is why you ignored me for so long.

Finally, you stood up, tall and lithe in the black dress that clung to your body all the way down. You opened a drawer in your desk and pulled out your soft white gloves. You brought them close enough to my face that I could smell the perfume dabbed discreetly onto each wrist, then you tugged them onto your fingers, one after the other, with an unhurried grace. I looked at the ground, and that’s when you brought my face up to yours: you wanted me to see all of it, I think.

I watched as you leaned back against the desk and lifted the skirt of your dress. Even after just a short time together, we no longer needed words to communicate our desires to one another. I shuffled forward, till I was between your legs. I put my hands on the backs of your thighs and slowly moved them up, the strong muscles in your runner’s body flexing impatiently. When I kissed your clit, you ground onto my tongue; when I pulled away, even just for a second, you twisted my hair around your fingers and yanked at it savagely, unwilling to allow my mouth any distance from your cunt.

You came with my lips clamped against you, once, twice, before the biggest shudder of all arrived and you pushed the back of my head hard into your wetness. By the time I emerged, swimming with lust, you had regained your composure. With one gloved hand you gestured to me, a vague command that I knew meant public degradation of some kind. I half-stumbled to my feet, but you frowned and motioned me back down.

“Just touch yourself for now. I want to see you come.”

I licked my hand and twisted it up and over the head of my cock. Your dress was still hiked up around your waist, and I couldn’t stop staring at your plump, flushed cunt as I repeated that basic action: spit, grip, and jerk with short, white-knuckled strokes, each less controlled than the one before it. You bit down on your index finger in pleasure when you saw me come; I blushed at how eager I was, but secretly I already loved how slutty you could make me without even taking off your clothes. My cum puddled over my wrist and the floor beneath me; I extended one arm towards you, and traced my tongue up the inside, till I could taste myself on the soft, blue-veined skin at the base of my palm.

I looked up at you expectantly.

“Good boy”, you said, and sashayed past me to sit on the tiny sofa beneath the window. I turned in time to see you lift the dress over your head. I ached right then, desperate for you to offer me your hand and pull me inside you. Instead you raised one arm, till it formed a mirror image of mine. I understood immediately: while you wore the white gloves, I would not be allowed to touch you in that way. The realization that I was there merely to please you made me incredibly happy. It was my privilege to submit to your will; to entrust my body and mind to you.

Darkness, and your voice in my ear. They seduce in different ways, but both leave me wanting you; your warmth pressed alongside me in these long hours before dawn, and your words soft and rhythmical, filling and soothing my mind. Our heads share one pillow and I turn so that we can whisper to each other across it; there is no-one to hear us, but anything louder would break the spell that we’ve woven together in the perfect, aching moments between one joining and the next. You’re making love to me now with your words, and I have to respond, telling you in faltering tones of my desire for you, my need to know everything that you desire in turn.

We can lay ourselves bare and open like this. Holding nothing back, we can each explore the other’s erotic world: playfully, hungrily, tenderly, as our bodies press closer, still tingling with the physical memory of being locked together. Our senses feel gloriously over-stimulated: the taste, the smell of our fucking envelops us, and we’re drawn in by it, an instant trigger for all of our best and most primitive urges. I find your bottom lip with my teeth and pull on it slowly, loving how softly you rest your palm against my chest when I kiss you. It’s our words that have brought us here, to a bed that bears the happy weight of our love for each other, and folds it around us, enhancing arousal that already burns with an intense heat. We have chosen each other in both the light and the darkness, and being cocooned like this has only made me want you more. My cock is hard between your legs, poised, waiting. This time the question is a silent one, as my fingers gently squeeze yours. You look up, and squeeze mine in return. ‘Yes’, you whisper, and at that shortest, simplest of words I slide firmly inside you…

After giving it wistful, lustful glances from afar over the last couple of years, I finally decided to bite the bullet and make a pass at Eroticon 2014. To my surprise and delight, it said yes, so we’ll be getting up close and personal with each other in a little over four weeks from now. Over to Cilla Ruby Kiddell for a little light interrogation:

What’s your name?

It’ll be on my badge, unless there’s an embarrassing mix-up of some kind. I’ll give you a clue though: it begins with C and rhymes with ‘maspian’*

What are you most looking forward to about Eroticon 2014?

The free t-shirt and pen. Wait, what? Hm, clearly this is a very different sort of conference…

What are you most nervous of about Eroticon 2014?

You mean apart from being given the wrong name badge?

What do you hope to get from Eroticon 2014?

The free t-shirt and pen. Yeah, that one got old fast. I hope to leave Bristol having met interesting new people, learned something about writing erotica that I can apply to my own work, and beaten Harper Eliot at Scrabble. If I could also avoid running into my brother in the street, that would be great.

What is your bad erotica writer’s pen name?

Todgasaurus Jizwiggle. Née Lovebucket.

(EDIT: Oops, I read this one wrong. I thought I got to choose a name for myself. Turns out I’m actually Mingella Orificcicle – classy.)

*One of these is a lie.