Smut Marathon, Round 4

I’d drafted three stories for Round 4 and had trouble deciding which to submit. In the end, I went for the one I thought was most well-written, with most character and backstory. One of the others I’m holding back for redrafting, because I think it has potential to be a better story without the word limit.

As always, there are entries which are beautifully-written, some which are brilliantly original, some foam-at-the-gash sexy, some which (for me) were good, hot stories let down by clumsy style or grammatical errors. As a first-time participant, I shouldn’t – and don’t – expect to get very far in the competition, but it’s forcing me to evaluate my writing with a more critical eye and temper my self-indulgence with attention to character, style, story arc and ‘appeal to market’ factors.

I’d thought my first effort might be too fragmented, anonymous, too list-like to be of merit, but looking back; I now think this was a more original idea and has more sexy content. So here it is for your enjoyment (hopefully!)


Voice Mail

On waking, my first movement is to reach for my phone. One missed call, unknown number. One new message.

Muffled voices, their words unintelligible, tones unrecognised. Just a random pocket-dialling. I roll my eyes in exasperation and am about to erase the message when a fragment of sound catches my attention. Was that…

…a stifled moan?

Clinking of metal… belt buckle?

Rustling of fabric…

Hissing indrawn breath, whispers riding a gusty exhalation of approval. That sounds just like

Liquid, greedy lip-smacking, heavy breaths and soft grunts. …oh my god, it is.

I close my eyes, imagine these anonymous strangers whose intimacy has accidentally found its way to my ears.

…His head bowed, bearded cheek distended and pulsing with the questing thrust of cock-hea chunky, coarse-haired fingers cupping his skull

…Thighs spread wider on the chair, hands bound behind her as she watches lipstick and her own wetness combine in smears across her jgirl’s chin.

A man and woman fucking hard and rough, grinning their delight into each other’s sweaty faces.

Strangers flicker through my mind as I listen intently at this digital keyhole. I can feel myself swelling in response, pulsing to the rhythm of their breath, so I squirm and writhe to rub my suddenly-sensitised skin against its enclosure of cotton.

Abruptly, the soundtrack halts

“End of message. Press 1 to save, 2 to replay-“

I press 2 and kick off my pyjama shorts.

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