Category: Erotica

This is the continuation of a piece I wrote a couple of weeks ago, inspired by Girl on the Net’s super-hot MMF fantasy…

(CW: spanking, rough D/S play, humiliation)

The Director

We scroll through the dating site together on your battered old laptop, one lazy Sunday afternoon. I watch you more than I watch the screen; we’re stretched out on your bed, my leg slung casually across the backs of your thighs, and as you click on each photo your feet take it in turns to tap away at the pillow behind you.

You bookmark the ones you like, filing them away for further consideration. You’re nothing if not methodical – a quality I find amusing and arousing in equal measure – but I can tell you’re already finding this a little overwhelming.

“Just five? Really?” you say. “I can’t persuade you to make it eight…or ten…?”

You wriggle one arm down under my body and rub the front of my jeans.

“Cut that out. Yes, just five. Ten would be too anonymous, I think. Make sure they’re as local as possible.”

I like seeing your brain at work. The way your finger hovers over the mousepad, poised to strike; slowly you whittle down the list, and even though it’ll make my job a little harder, I’m glad you’re not talking me through your criteria.

The final cut takes a good five minutes. Back and forth you go between their photo galleries, and the short bios underneath them. I kiss your neck, just under the ear, and study the two guys as you flick from one to the other. Tall and blonde; dark and stocky. Wide, open grin; diffident, almost shy smile, half-turned from the camera. Long, slender fingers curled around a thick cock; no nudity at all, just a hand placed awkwardly over bulging boxer shorts…

With a small sigh, you remove the sunny blonde from the list and shuffle the laptop over towards me. As you roll onto your back, I can see your nipples pressing hard against the t-shirt you keep stealing from my apartment. I want to make you come right now, all over my fingers, again and again, till your cunt is plump and pliant around them; I want to…but I won’t. Not yet.

The following morning I log into your account and send the same message to all five of the guys you picked. I know you could monitor the conversations I have with them at any time, but just as you trust me to set this up and keep you safe, so I trust you not to break our agreement.

48 hours later three replies sit in my inbox, and of those two jump out right away (‘Dark and Stocky’ doesn’t quite cut the mustard, I’m afraid – turns out that diffidence extends to his efforts at online communication too). After short conversations with David and Niall, I agree to meet them both on Thursday evening, one after the other, to make a final decision. The timing is tight, but workable.

I swing by your house beforehand to grab food. You’re quiet, and I can’t tell whether it’s apprehension or excitement. It’s five days since your last orgasm – maybe you’re just pissed off. When I leave, your goodbye kiss is followed by a sharp, pointed nip at my neck. Come back, it says – come back soon.

Later – much later – you curl your body into mine and pull the duvet over both of us. A hopeless fidget most nights, you’re almost preternaturally still as I wrap my arm around your chest.

“So…did you decide on the guy? What’s he like?”

I pull you closer, yawning against the back of your neck. You look round in irritation, but it’s not faked – scooping you up like this makes me feel more relaxed than I’m often able to articulate.

“Of course I did. And you know I’m not gonna tell you that. Fuck, don’t pretend you even want to know.”

—

We do it at my place. Are you nervous? Honestly, it’s hard to tell. Neat and composed, you kneel naked on my faded bedroom carpet and face the door, your long, straight hair falling down your back.

“Look at me,” I say, and you turn your head, eyes wide and unblinking. I hold up the blindfold. “You still okay with this?”

You nod once and that’s all I need. With my thumb and forefinger I grip your jaw and force you to stare straight ahead again, the stairs down to the hallway visible through the open door. Your head doesn’t move again, even as I tie the blindfold tight around it.

He’s due any minute, but still, I can’t resist opening my jeans in front of you. The clink and pop of belt and button is enough to part your lips in automatic response, and your tongue pushes out in search of my cock. I hold the head of it there for just a few, shivery seconds, till the underside is slick with your saliva.

You flinch when the doorbell rings. I pat your cheek and lay the palm of my hand flat on top of your head. Stay right there, it says. Good girl.

He’s wearing heavy workman’s boots, which thud against the stairs as he follows me up. I step to one side when we reach the top and he comes to a sudden halt, his eyes fixed on your kneeling body.

“Here you go. See what I meant now? She’s ready and waiting.”

He takes a couple of long strides towards you, body angled forward as if he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing. You look fucking beautiful like that, your hands folded demurely in your lap and your hard, pink nipples surrounded by a sea of tiny goosebumps. This time your mouth opens more hesitantly, gaping at the air in front of you; you’re clearly expecting his cock, but when it butts against your lips a soft, startled gasp still vibrates out from the back of your throat, into the room.

“Don’t be fooled by that innocent look – she’d suck cock all day long if she could. Just take her mouth however you want it. She likes it rough.”

I watch your cheeks turn scarlet, but your shoulders neither shrink nor slump; there might as well be steel running up through your spine, it’s so straight. Settling down on the edge of the bed, I find it hard to keep my hands out of my own jeans as he starts to rub the jutting head of his cock over your outstretched tongue.

Without warning, his hips tilt forward and fully half his length disappears inside your mouth. He thrusts twice, three times, as if testing how easily you can take him, and even though his cock is thick enough to make me wince a bit, you make no attempt to pull away or force him back out.

“What did I tell you?” A sudden burst of pride almost makes it hard to speak. “Now come on, fuck her throat. Like we discussed. Make her choke on it.”

It’s the first time I’ve seen you try to swallow anything this big, and as he feeds more of his cock between your lips I glance down at your hands to check you don’t need to tap out. They remain clasped together – trembling a little perhaps, but more from the force of his shuddering thrusts than anything else. There’s no way you can actually suck him – all you can do is stretch your lips around his cock and let him set his own rhythm.

The look on his face is just something else, and for a second I want nothing more than to take off your blindfold so you can see how much he’s enjoying your mouth. It’s as if he keeps expecting to meet resistance, and can’t quite believe how smoothly his cock keeps sliding down your throat. The effort is visible only in the way your neck muscles strain with each thrust; in the spit that bubbles out at the corners of your mouth and leaves his balls shiny and wet.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” His eyes screw shut in an effort to maintain control. “I’ve never had a mouth this fucking good. She’s too much, man.”

“Right? I should hire her out properly. She’d love that too, believe me. Her cunt will be so wet right now – here, check for yourself.”

I reach over and drag you up off your knees, ignoring the way you whimper as his cock pops free from your lips.

“Grab an arm and help with me her. Get her up on the bed.”

Between us, we spread you out on your back across my mattress, your head hanging down off the edge. He climbs up between your legs and his large hands force your thighs further apart, fully exposing your cunt.

“Fucking beautiful, right?” He stares down, waiting for permission. “Go ahead, touch it. You’ll love how wet she gets with a couple of fingers inside her.”

His thumb traces up between your labia; it’s glistening by the time he reaches your clit, and I watch him brush it in circles around the hood. Your back arches up so far that the skin ripples over the ribs beneath it, and you push your pelvis out towards him, craving more.

“Mate, she could come right now if you keep touching her like that. The little slut needs a bit of a reminder who’s in charge here. Ok, watch how I do it, then you take over.”

Reaching down your body, I press my middle three fingers together and settle them over your cunt. You know what’s coming, and your head swings desperately to the side, seeking out my cock.

“Look, she wants something in her mouth to keep her quiet. You’ll see why in just a second.”

Flexing my wrist, I tap my fingers sharply against you. His hands are fanned out and around your thighs, pinning you to the bed, so only your upper body responds, jerking and tensing each time I sting your skin.

“Like this, yeah? Nice and hard – you’re not going to break it.”

My fingers are wet when I take them away from your cunt. I force all three inside your mouth as he starts to spank you, and the greedy way you suck them clean is almost enough to make me come. I can hear the smack of his hand with each stroke, as he warms to the task. I know you’ll be so sensitive afterwards that just the tip of my tongue on your clit might be too much for you, and I nod at him to continue.

His other hand pumps desperately at his cock, as I stand back and fill your mouth with mine. The angle is perfect – I can thrust all the way inside, with only a steadying hand on your chest to keep you from sliding out of position. You’ve never had your cunt spanked for this long before, but the adrenaline seems to be masking any pain; he’s getting closer and closer, his arm straining as he leans over you, and his jaw set.

“Do it! Just jizz all over her – that’s what she’s here for.”

I’ve barely finished speaking when cum spits out of his cock and stripes your belly. It might be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and although I want to hold back – want to wait till he’s gone and I can fuck you properly – I can’t help myself; you can clearly tell it’s coming, because you clamp your mouth tight around my cock and your hands reach up to hold the backs of my thighs, pulling me in even deeper.

I open my eyes again to find him resting on his haunches, lazily stroking your clit as his cum dries on your stomach. Wiping away the sweat that’s dripped down onto your face, I pull my cock out of your mouth and reach for the box of tissues.

“Here you go, take a couple of these. No, not for her – she needs to be reminded what a dirty slut she is…you’ve just given her the perfect souvenir.”

He shrugs and wipes at his cock with a tissue. I know how badly you want to be filled right now, but you remain silent, perhaps hoping that patience will be rewarded. And it will – just not right now.

When he’s finished buttoning his jeans, we shake hands and I gesture towards the door.

“You can see yourself out, right? Thanks for coming – that was perfect. And if you see us around town at any point…well, no need to say hello. It’ll just be our secret.”

I wait till the door slams behind him before I join you on the bed. Your cunt is still pink and open, shimmering with unmet need. I pull off the blindfold and settle down between your legs, pulling you towards my waiting mouth. This bit I want you to see.

I finally wrote something for my own Christmas erotica meme! This short story takes Clarence Carter’s ‘Back Door Santa’ as inspiration – I hope you enjoy it.

—

30 minutes.

That’s how long we get.

Every Saturday morning at 11.00, I hear the front door slam, and I watch from my bedroom window as he leaves the house. He moves with purpose, his neon running shoes a blur across the tarmac right from the start. Knees pumping high, he lopes down our quiet, residential street till he reaches the entrance to the park.

Only when I’m sure that this week is the same as all the others – that he’s not going to turn back, hand smacking into his forehead as he remembers the keys left on a bedside table or hanging up in the kitchen – only then do I slip away from the window and out of my flat, into the shared hallway.

Lana is always waiting at the top of the stairs, white robe wrapped loosely around her dark skin. She turns away before I reach the top, leaving me to hustle up the last few steps in time to stop the heavy wooden door from swinging shut. She’s already halfway along the corridor by then, hips swaying as the robe starts to slide off her shoulders and down her body, falling away into a loose, billowy puddle on the teak floorboards.

Their bedroom is directly above my kitchen; I hear them going at it sometimes, late at night, her low moans accompanied by the rattle of the bed frame and, finally, Tom’s sharp, staccato climax. I raise my glass in a silent toast to his metronomic reliability – and to her sweet, hungry, fucking insatiable cunt.

Each week I stop in the doorway to admire the view. Not just Lana, spread out across the cream sheets like a medieval princess, but the street outside, winding its way between the redbrick houses and flowing into the lush green of the local park. If we’ve timed it right, a tiny splash of red will bob out of the trees, moving with a rhythm and purpose that are clear even at this distance. There’s a hint of a smile on her calm, serious face whenever she sees him run past.

My shirt gets tossed over a chair next to the wardrobe, onto a pile of Tom’s neatly-folded jumpers. I don’t need to be naked – not for this – but Lana likes to smooth her hands over my shoulders and down my back; to feel the warm skin under her fingers as my head dips between her legs.

She doesn’t set an alarm, which no longer makes me nervous; I’ve learned to trust her instinctive awareness of time (or perhaps her sense of self-preservation). Our half-hour window precludes drawn-out foreplay, so it’s always a relief to find her already wet. Sometimes that’s because she’s freshly-fucked, and on those Saturday mornings I can taste him, beaded between her labia, or slick against my tongue as I push it inside her cunt. The silver streaks smear her thighs and stick to my face like war-paint.

I’m careful not to leave traces of my own. My fingers press lightly into Lana’s belly, holding her in place without bruising. I don’t use my teeth. Instead I lap slowly at her swollen clit, curving around the hood and flicking under it with soft, teasing strokes. She doesn’t make much noise, and I glance up every now and then to see her head turned to face the window, lips pressed together in a dark-red bow as she gazes off into the distance.

When Lana comes, her whole body shakes. It all happens very quickly, with the first gentle tremors swallowed up in seconds by big, violent waves. I used to back off at that point, until the day she grabbed a fistful of hair and pinned my face against her cunt, my mouth opening again more in surprise than any conscious decision to resume licking her. She can hold onto her orgasm for minutes at a time – or maybe one just blends into the next – and that’s the bit I love most. It’s the hook that keeps me coming back, I think.

Afterwards, she sits cross-legged on the bed and watches as I button up my shirt. I do it slowly – a reverse striptease – waiting for her to crack and throw a cushion at my head, or chivvy me out the door. For her mask to slip.

For her to say goodbye.

It hasn’t happened yet.

I won’t lie, I’d feel better about the whole thing if he was mean and unfriendly; if he was boring, or even just a crappy husband. He’s not though. He’s a nice, solid, steady guy, and he loves her very much. He just won’t eat her out – and I will.

29 minutes after his neon shoes hit the pavement, I leave their flat with mussed hair and lips that taste of her each time I run my tongue over them. In the hallway I stop to pick up the mail, leaving Tom and Lana’s on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs, ready for him to collect. I close my door quietly behind me.

I try to be a good neighbour.

Earlier today, Girl on the Net posted this REALLY FUCKING HOT piece on her current MMF fantasy. I read it, reread it, and immediately had to scurry downstairs for a quick, frantic, slightly dizzying wank.

After I’d sorted myself out, I sent the link to @theotherlivvy, who unsurprisingly had questions…

“Wow, that is ridiculously hot. Damn, that girl can write! So…which of the three roles do you like the most? Which would you want to be??”

My response?

“God…that’s SUCH a hard one!!!”

…and I wasn’t even talking about my cock. Because the truth is, I want to be all three of the people in that scene, and it’s almost impossible to choose between them. On the one hand, that’s the beauty of being a switch – I like to control just as much as I like to be controlled, and I’m sure as hell going to enjoy myself either way – but it also makes decisions like this one a real headfuck at times, especially when the whole scenario is just so overwhelmingly horny.

In the end, I decided to write up each of the roles as I see them – or as they’d work for me, anyway. That’s actually going to mean four posts in total (for reasons that will become obvious as I write them…); the first of those puts me in GOTN’s shoes as the Leading Man, letting my partner take control and direct the action…

The Leading Man

I’m perched on the edge of the bed when he comes in, and I’m naked. You stand up to greet him, your hand caressing his neck as you plant a lingering kiss on his parted lips. Maybe he’s an old friend or maybe you’re meeting him for the first time – it doesn’t really matter either way. What matters is the way you saunter back across the room, smoothing down your dress with one hand and tugging him along behind you with the other.

I try to avert my gaze, but your eyes find mine and drag them up till I’m staring at the two of you, waiting expectantly in front of me. I’m still hard – you sucked my cock just before he got to the hotel – and I catch him looking at my erection with almost professional detachment; it’s not the part of my body that interests him. Slowly, you pop open the round metal buttons that stud the front of his jeans; the flourish with which you flick your fingers across the last of them would be theatrical, if it wasn’t for the calm, serious expression on your face.

Your hand slips inside and I look up in time to see your cheeks flush with satisfaction.

“Fuck,” you almost purr. “Oh yes, you’re going to love this. So fucking thick.”

You don’t show me though. Not yet. I can see your wrist jerk as you stroke him, his head flung back and his crotch pushed out towards me. His cock is outlined against the denim – you’ve pulled it out of his boxers – and the only thing more obscene than the way it juts out to his hipbone is the grin on your face as you see me staring at its profile.

“That’s right, baby,” you say, your hand still moving inside his jeans. “And you’re going to take every last inch of it.”

You’ve already pulled the desk chair over to the side of the bed, close enough that you don’t even have to step to one side before falling into it. I start to slide myself down from the bed, but he doesn’t want me on my knees, and after a quick glance across I can tell that you don’t either. You’re settled now though – happy to give him a bit of rope before stepping in with instructions – and for a second I don’t know what to do. It’s just me and him now; you might only be inches away, but you’re not here to offer reassurance or hold my hand. You’re here to watch; to bear witness, as I take him all the way to the back of my throat.

His cock springs out like a jack-in-the-box; it’s so aggressively large that I find myself wondering about the physics behind its containment. I don’t even have to look at you again to know that your face has been pulled up into a feline smirk. My eyes squeeze shut – I want him to make the first move – but his hand cups my chin with a gentle, encouraging strength, and before I know it I’m sliding my lips forward, over the tip and stretching down, down…oh god, down till it feels like my jaw is going to crack from the strain of being forced open.

I barely register his fingers in my hair till he yanks my head back, tilting my face up towards the ceiling and rubbing his length along my cheek. I can hear you whispering to him, but the words run into each other in a way my stunned, woozy brain can’t quite follow. He grunts over his shoulder in a tone indicating assent, and before I know it my mouth is stuffed full of cock again.

“Get it nice and wet, baby,” you whisper, close enough to my ear that I figure you must have abandoned the chair. “Show him how much you want his dick inside you.”

I gasp for breath, releasing him for long enough to fill my lungs with oxygen before he seals my throat shut once more. His weight forces me to grind down onto the cotton sheet and my arse clenches around your butt plug, sucking it even deeper. I moan along his shaft, suddenly scared that he might come in my mouth like this, just as I’m finally ready to bend over and feel him split me open.

This is why I trust you though. Why I let you bring him here – this stranger – and why I’m choking and drooling all over the base of his cock in a hotel room high above the sleeping city. Your hand rests on his forearm, light enough that I barely feel his body twitch in response.

“Just like we discussed, right?” Your voice is steady and firm. “Slow and deep. Ease him into it. Then I need you to fuck him hard. Don’t hold back. I know he can take it – and I know he wants to take it. Remember who’s in charge here.”

Before I can scramble away, his hand clamps down on my shoulder, pinning me to the mattress. He pulls the plug out of my arse unceremoniously, tossing it aside as I gasp at the sudden feeling of emptiness. I struggle to lift my head but he’s hidden from the chest down, and it’s only when I hear the squelch of your fist on his dick that I realise what you’re doing.

You wipe the excess lube on the sheet, then settle down next to me, your face turned towards his looming bulk. His hands rest under my buttocks and he lifts me off the bed, fingers digging into my skin. The swollen, velvet head of his cock nestles comfortably against my entrance; he’s in no hurry now, and I find that the moisture on which I was drowning just a few minutes ago has fled my mouth, leaving me struggling to swallow.

We’re both waiting for one thing. You fan out your fingers across my trembling thigh and press down hard, as if you’ve reached a decision. Your voice is honeyed and warm; unrushed, despite the arousal vibrating through it.

“Mm, ok. Yeah. Action…”

For the second year running, I’m one of the featured writers in Tamsin Flowers’ Supererotica Advent Calendar. Once again, you’ll find me behind door 15, this time with a piece that pairs unlikely bedfellows in the form of ‘sexytimes’ and ‘Croydon’.

The story is called Upward Management. Here’s an excerpt:

Until that day, I’d never really thought of myself as dominant, and I still couldn’t tell you what’s different with her. I just know that when I looked down to see her big eyes staring up into mine, refusing to blink or look away even as the tears formed, something shifted inside me – or perhaps just clicked into place. I wanted to slide my hand under her chin, clamp it tight around her jaw, and thrust my cock as far down her throat as I could get it. What I found more shocking than my own desire, at least back then, was that Georgina clearly wanted that too.

In one sense, the location is entirely incidental to the way the action unfolds – neither brutalist architecture nor concrete car parks are unique to Croydon, after all. However, the story couldn’t really have been set anywhere else, and even though the kinky office power games got layered on top, it’s one of London’s least-loved boroughs that sits at the heart of what I wanted to write. Well, that…and a pretty stunning red dress. I don’t often have sex that I know I’ll later turn into fiction, but this was definitely one of those occasions…

We slipped out of the bar together on a quiet Sunday evening in mid-September, and I marched her back towards East Croydon station. The back of her neck was damp with sweat; I pushed my fingers up it, into her hair, tugging just hard enough to tell her how wound-up she’d got me. Even though we were catching different trains, I knew I couldn’t go home without fucking her – the dress alone had made that impossible.

The car park was pretty grim, but somehow that just made it hotter, as did the people we occasionally saw (or heard) walking along the street outside. The office block next door was dotted with light – people getting a head start on the working week, perhaps, or more likely a building security guard/cleaner. Anyone looking out of the window would have seen everything.

She knelt down in the middle of Mr Hardwick’s parking space (that particular detail had to stay) and slid my cock all the way to the back of her throat, her lips kissing the base. Around us the air felt still, cold, and deathly quiet, and each stifled moan I made as she sucked me seemed to echo out off the concrete pillars, into the space beyond.

I had to push the hem of her dress up over her perfect arse in order to fuck her. She bent forward, and her cunt was already so wet that I couldn’t have thrust in slowly if I’d tried. I clamped my hand over her mouth – she’s incapable of staying quiet without external assistance – and took her like that, quick and hard. It wasn’t a pretty fuck…

My heart still pounded afterwards, as we walked the last couple of hundred metres to the station. I could feel her body trembling, and as I turned her hand over in mine I saw that it was scuffed and grazed from the car park floor; smiling, she pointed to her pale, bare knees, each now decorated with a dark smudge.

“War wounds,” she whispered, and reached into her handbag for her Oyster card.

—

So yes, thank you so much to the lovely Ms Flowers for hosting me again this year, and for putting up with my terrible deadline management. Her Supererotica project has brought together some insanely talented writers, so I’m honoured just to be a part of it – I look forward to seeing who else is still to come!

Right, I don’t yet know exactly how this is going to work – whether I’ll create individual posts each day or just update this one – but for now consider this the OFFICIAL home of the daily prompts for the erotica meme I enthused about in puppy-like fashion last night!

The rules are simple. Each morning between now and the 25^th, I will post a different Christmas song/carol/hymn somewhere on my blog (probably here). To join in on a given day, all you have to do is create a piece of erotic fiction/faction, sex writing or erotic photography, using that day’s prompt as the title. Get it sorted within 72 hours of me putting up the prompt, send me the link, and I’ll stick it up for everyone to see. It’s as easy as that!

There aren’t any length restrictions, and I have absolutely no desire to police content – just keep it legal, respect consent, and don’t be a dick. Outstanding contributions will be recognised in some way – I just haven’t yet decided what that’s going to involve! Keep checking back for further details…

For now though, here’s prompt #1, and it’s a stunner of a modern Christmas pop song, first released by The Pretenders in 1983.

Where are you going to take it though? Long-distance love? Impulsive festive break? Santa on a really big sleigh ride?  Either way, let’s all agree on one thing…Chrissie Hynde, FTW…

Have at it!

So last night I made the big mistake of tweeting the following:

I’VE JUST HAD THE BEST IDEA FOR AN EROTICA MEME

— Exhibit A (@EA_unadorned) December 3, 2015

Now I know what you’re thinking. He was drunk. He was drunk. He was definitely drunk…and friends, I’m afraid I can’t deny it. I was pretty fucking shitfaced.

BUT…here’s the thing – it really was a genuinely decent idea. A decent idea with just one teeny, tiny problem…

Look, even at the best of times I have a vastly over-inflated view of my ability to take on the world, and I get tremendously excited about the most insignificant things. This you all know, I think. Before I get into the detail of this whole thing then, a quick story… [EDIT: feel free to skip these next few paragraphs – they’re not that interesting/relevant!]

—

From the age of 15 to 18 (and beyond, when university etc allowed it) I played badminton* every Saturday morning with three school friends. It was a fierce rivalry over the years between two well-matched doubles pairs, with absolutely nothing at stake besides weekly (and annual – we kept count!) bragging rights – in other words, how all non-professional sport should be.

We generally booked a court for the following Saturday’s match as we left the leisure centre, but from time-to-time that wasn’t possible. On one of those occasions, I found myself in the centre of town with two of the guys a few days later, having lunch; we were maybe 350 metres away from the place where we played, and as we got up to leave one of them suggested walking over to make the booking in person.

“Walk? Walk??” I said. “I bet I can run over there right now, book the court, and get back here, all in under…four minutes.”

“Four minutes?! That’s easy,” one of them replied. “I bet you can’t do it in three-and-a-half.”

“Yeah? How much?”

“Five point head start on Saturday. Hey, make it ten if you like. There’s no chance you’ll make it…”

So of course that’s what I did. In my school clothes I sprinted across the Waitrose car park, dodged traffic on the busy road next to it, and skidded into the leisure centre’s chlorinated lobby; in stumbling, breathless tones I chivvied the ancient receptionist through the booking process, and wheeled round the second she finished.

I made it back with two seconds to spare. From that moment on in our wider circle of friends, three-and-a-half minutes became known as a “Christophe”, and…HONESTLY THIS SAYS NOTHING ABOUT MY SEXUAL PERFORMANCE, YOU SHUT UP OVER THERE

Ahem.

—

The point is that I’m drawn to ridiculous challenges, and I suspect that will always be the case…but even if I haven’t entirely learnt to reject my competitive instincts, I have at least been able to temper them through the years. And that’s important, because…

Last night I was listening to Christmas music. A lot of Christmas music. 2000 Miles…Stop The Cavalry…Fairytale of New York**… As I sang along, an idea took hold, and I found myself unable to shake it off.

What if, I thought…what if I pick a different Christmas tune EVERY DAY between now and the 25^th, and write a piece of erotica based on the song title? Wouldn’t that be cool? People would love it! AND CHRISTMAS IS AWESOME – EROTICA IS AWESOME – OH GOD, I COULD TOTALLY DO THAT!!

Except no, I really, really can’t.

I’d last, like, three days. I just don’t have the time or the willpower to write that consistently, and I’d drive myself mad trying – more maddening still, I’d then hate myself for flaking out. Worst of both worlds, right?.

Still, I didn’t want to abandon the concept entirely. There are so many Christmas songs out there that lend themselves to erotic fiction! And more importantly, so many fantastic authors who could turn them into something really cool…

So here’s the plan. From Sunday I’m going to post a new prompt EVERY DAY, both here and on Twitter. That prompt will be a Christmas number of my choosing – whether hymn, carol or pop song. I have a list already prepared, so this will happen. Anyone who wants to join in with that day’s prompt may do so – all you have to do is respond with

1. A piece of erotic fiction
2. A piece of erotic ‘faction’
3. A piece of sex writing
4. An erotic photo

No restrictions on theme, length, etc – just make it sexy and make it fit the title. If you can, write it that day, or if not, within 72 hours of me posting the prompt. Do all of those things and I’ll link to it on a separate, dedicated thread – I may even give out prizes/Xmas presents for the ones I really love!

The beauty of this is that there will be a new song every day, so you can just join in with the ones that resonate or inspire, and ignore the ones that don’t. I plan to write for about 5-6 of them myself, but that may change depending on how well/badly the meme lands overall. There is no restriction whatsoever on how many stories/posts you guys decide to contribute – hey, if you think you can succeed where I’m (pre-emptively) failing and write every day, PLEASE DO.

And yeah, that’s about it! The first prompt will go up on Sunday morning, and I’d absolutely fucking love it if a few of you could join in/share/generally kick off about this. It basically combines two of my very favourite things – Christmas and smut*** – so expect me to be banging the drum on this from now till the 25^th!

—

*Badminton’s cool, ok??

**I accept that a couple of these may not be known to non-British audiences – am aiming for a slightly broader mix of song titles over the next three weeks!

***Yes, fine, Christmas music and smut

They say good things come in threes…where guest posts by Ella Dawson are concerned that could not be more true*. After Slush in August 2014 and Camille in January this year, Homecoming is yet another mini-masterpiece, and I slightly hate-love her for it. I could pick out any one of a dozen – a hundred – exquisite lines from this story, but actually it’s far better if you just go check them out for yourself.

Instead I’ll say this: Homecoming is a story I couldn’t have dreamed of writing at 23, and even at 34 I’d be really proud to have my name attached to it. This girl is going to go far – hell, she already has – and erotica is lucky to have her. Enjoy!

*Or do they come in fours? (Hint hint…)

—

She didn’t miss college. Honestly, she didn’t. The outrage, the noise, the up-jumped rich kids letting loose on the weekend as if their lives were so hard. Being a college student made everything feel so urgent, and the slow burn of adulthood suited her better. Every so often she still wound up with her head in the toilet, but at least it was her toilet and there was no term paper to write through her hangover. Her friendships were based on mutual interest instead of proximity and the collection of drunk memories. Plus, if she wanted to spend her Saturday night watching the newest Netflix original series, there was no one to judge her for it. There were perks to graduating.

But the sex… She missed college sex. She missed frantic, reckless, relatively anonymous sex: meeting someone at 11pm and knowing his body by 2am. Every weekend was a different sweaty culinary palate. Sex in the real world was structured; it wasn’t safe to go home with strangers when that meant Uber rides to unfamiliar neighborhoods, missing keys and fingers too tight on her wrist. Sex post-college was a geographical puzzle because good sex meant traveling. Good sex meant train tickets to a guaranteed enjoyable time with someone she could trust. It didn’t necessarily mean new. But with him, it meant exceptional.

He, of course, was still part of college. So that helped. There was some Peter Pan syndrome to explain why she was here, lurking in the back of the library at just after midnight. Her skirt was too tight—her thighs were a little thicker than they had been senior year, the last time she’d had an occasion to slink around wearing a pleather miniskirt. That was the real college anyway: messy, uncomfortable, and goddamn desperate to fuck. It had been a while. She checked her phone again. No new texts, but Theo had said he was on his way over. It couldn’t take more than eight minutes to get across the—

“This is a terrible idea.” She looked up from the screen and while she didn’t exactly lose her breath, it quickened more than she’d expected it to. They’d been having sex for years so the sight of him wasn’t a striking revelation, but she hadn’t seen him dressed up to go out since she graduated. Since then it had been comfy clothes in their hometowns, tank tops and shorts and the occasional button-down if they grabbed dinner. She’d forgotten how he was on campus: everything about him was intentional here, right down to the tight black shirt under his jacket. He looked like that when they met each other.

Theo swatted at a dark lock of hair that had swept across his forehead and politely ignored the awed look on her face. He leaned over her shoulder to open the bathroom door, heat radiating from his body. God, he smelled like sweat and cigarettes and laundry detergent from the school store—familiar and very much home. “This is a high traffic area. Drunk freshmen love the vending machines over there.”

“I don’t care,” she said, studying a cord of muscle in his neck. She followed him into the small bathroom as the automatic lights winked on. Theo studied the two stalls before picking the one on the left. “Bucket lists are important. This is the only item I have left.”

He raised his eyebrows but smiled and extended a hand to her like a driver helping her into a limousine instead of a college senior pulling her into a dirty bathroom stall. The stall was darker than outside and they blurred into each other, her hand still in his, his warm breath spilling across her face. “Anything I can do to help,” he offered as her back pressed gently against the stall. “I always aim to please.”

And then he was kissing her, slow and firm, and the snarky comeback she’d had to his cliché fell away. It never failed to amaze her how much she loved kissing him. When you kiss someone for years, you learn every trick and brush and moan, but it had always been like this with him, even at the beginning. Their kisses were both urgent and luxurious, a mixture of what took you so long and this feels like just yesterday. His body melded to hers and her stupid skirt twisted up her waist in the crush to get him closer. One of her legs hooked around his calf and he groaned as her hips jerked. She smirked against his mouth—he was usually the quiet one.

“Are you laughing at me?” he murmured, lowering his lips to her neck in retribution.

She huffed, one of her hands tangling in his soft hair. “Maybe.” He nipped at her collarbone and she yelped.

“You would be a terrible spy,” he said. One of his hands slipped between her legs and his fingers found her wet. She’d forgone underwear, having thought ahead; she had imagined every twist and turn of the fantasy on that long train ride upstate. He recovered from that surprise remarkably well. “You’re going to get us caught.”

His belt was clunky and he helped her shaking fingers unhook it and push his jeans and boxers down. “I’m not the one who won’t stop talking,” she said, watching him idly stroke the length of his cock. Her voice was a joke at this point, ragged and low. For once he listened to her, and then his mouth was crashing against hers even as he gently picked her up and let her wrap her legs around his waist. She reached one arm up to grab onto the top of the stall, but she was mostly relying on his strength to keep her upright. “Oh god Theo please—”

Fucking Theo was like kissing Theo: years of trust and precious seconds of desperate electricity. It was always new somehow. This time he was nervous; she could feel it in his tense spine, in the way he buried his face in her shoulder. But she trusted him, and her own judgment, and this bullshit fucking campus, and every time he thrust into her he pressed up against nerves they’d only discovered after she graduated. You get to fuck like an adult after college. You learn to demand what you want, which was: “More.”

His grip was tight on her ass to keep her up and she knew there would be a huge red mark once they finished. This would be all over her, bruises at her neck, sweat glistening in her hair, their eventual climax dripping down her thighs. He was so polished but she never wanted to be like that again; she had learned the fun was in the destruction of who you were supposed to be. What she wanted was this, a brutal fuck from someone she loved, new memories staining the place she became herself, or a version of herself, once. Her hand found its way under his shirt and she scratched evidence down his back. More frantic, muffled gasps against her neck—her head knocked against the stall and she couldn’t feel it. Didn’t care, more like. Not about that or the fabric of her skirt squeaking against the plaster or how she was slipping just a little now, but she trusted him, she trusted this disaster of a feeling. It was breaking and changing and falling all at once, it was home and white and hard and his hand covering her mouth because she is close now yes there please there now she just and… and…

His orgasm was more graceful than hers, mostly because he was trying to keep them both upright and maintain some semblance of control. But he crushed her against the wall in an uncomfortable, surprisingly pleasant embrace and she wasn’t thinking, just noticing the little fragments of words escaping from his lips. Her name, mostly. He always said it differently from everyone else, like it was a gift. Like some sort of stupid dorm room miracle.

And then he was pressing a wad of tissue paper into her hand, and she wiped herself off as he buckled his belt. She remembered where they were and saw all that green-grey tile and flickering, murky light. It was a Saturday, and it was just after midnight, and now she knew what it was like to fuck Theo in the bathroom of their college library. Bucket list complete. Except—

“I think I prefer beds,” he said, and he reached out and carefully tugged her skirt back down. “Specifically mine.”

Her grin tasted twenty-one years old.