Exhibit A

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.

“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 🙂