Smut Marathon 2019
My contributions to the 2019 Smut Marathon. I’m hoping to have the time and energy to write about my first writing competition foray, but for the moment, I’ve just collated all of my entries.
You can everyone’s contributions and the results at http://smut.rebelsnotes.com/tag/smut-marathon-2019/
84) OK, Cupid
No bells, no trumpets. Only a catch of breath and a rush of blood,
hers and his, as he tips an imaginary hat and strolls closer. She’s
wearing her best smile; he, his favourite shirt. Pictures have done
proper justice to neither.
The winged cherub smirks, and carefully takes aim.
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6) Perfect Camouflage
He was rock hard. No woman had done that, just by staring – staring with ‘come to bed’ eyes. She only had to ask…
His cheeky grin drilled an ache between her thighs. She smiled back,
chest banging inside her like no lover had. Yet. She licked her fangs.
Plastic costumery, he smirked to himself as she approached. Such sweet irony. Wannabes made delightful prey, incredulity and terror spicing their rich blood; piquant sauce.
She prowled closer, all belladonna eyes and sultry pout, flicking her gaze at the fire exit and back to his impish, eager smile. “Shall we?”
“I’d be delighted.”
He let her lead him. Drank in her musky aroma as she hiked the tight red skirt and pushed him to his knees. Sighed in satisfaction when she clenched and shuddered around his darting tongue. Licked his lips in anticipation.
Froze in shock as her wooden stake ripped through his ancient flesh.
“The pleasure was all mine.” whispered Olivia Van Helsing to the still-warm ashes scattering on the night breeze.
Continued from #32 Night Eyes by Ina Morata
54) Customer Service
He’s nervous.
“Don’t be afraid now honey. What would you like us to do?” I ask kindly.
He gulps. “I’d like to, um, I’d like you to ah, suck my, uhm-.”
“You’d like a blow job?”
“Uhuh.”
“And you may have one, my friend, for the princely sum of-” I name my price. He has cash.
“Would you like to help me take off my shirt?”
“Oh yes please”. His fingers trembling. “Oh…..wow…”
“Do you like what you see?”
“Very much. Can I…..touch?”
“You may. That’s it, right there. Lovely. What nice hands you have. Look how well they fit me. Warm and strong. Mmm, perfect“.
“You have such soft skin”
“You are a nice lad. Tell me if I’m going too fast for you. If you want
me to stop” I remind him, trailing my fingers down to his lap.
“No, that’s good, don’t stop, please”
“Oh, you like that?”
“Yes. That feels great”
I slide his zipper open, reach inside. “Still with me so far?”
He nods vigorously, clasping the arms of his wheelchair as I free his swelling dick.
“How do you like it?”
“Slowly. Oh yes. Like that. Just like that. Ahhhhh”
39) What The Housemaid Heard
I’d never set out to listen at a keyhole. But sometimes you just can’t help overhearing something that’s none of your business. And sometimes you linger a moment, because what you hear is so unexpected, so intriguing, it compels your attention.
They’re old school friends, I gather. From her Ladyship’s time in Switzerland. A kindly friend to visit, I thought, when she arrived. Company for her Ladyship, a distraction from fretting over the Earl, God rest his soul. A success in that respect, I’d say.
I was polishing, that exotic old wood and jade statues, they get so dusty. And it was just by chance I dropped a figurine on the rug, so close to the wall. That was when I heard them. Little gasps – I thought for a moment she was weeping, but then, a soft giggle. Murmuring. Rustling. Sighs and moans. I found myself yearning to see. So curious; yesterday I’d have taken no interest in the idea. Now I can think of nothing else. Perhaps tomorrow, I could contrive to polish the doorplates.
Lying in my bed, I lick my finger, stroke my nubbin; did they do this? Eyes closed, picturing a red-lipped mouth upon me, long-fingered hands delving. Pressing my own hand hard to my nethers; this too? My breath comes as fast as hers, rubbing myself harder. My fingers, their tongues, lips and thumbs; coaxing urgent hunger onwards, until teeth flash, fists clench; yes, this was the savage joy I overheard.
12) Dirty Girl
The shower room lightbulb is dead.
Fuck it.
She’s too tired to change it now, She’ll shower in the dark.
The first blast of water is, as always, shockingly cold. Somehow, in
this lightless, echoing space, her usual annoyance at forgetting to duck
out of the way before it warms, is replaced by a chilly thrill.
It feels like punishment.
She presses herself against the wet tiles, crosses her wrists at her back.
A naughty girl, being taught a lesson.
Nipples hardening against the cold tile.
The water starts to warm – forgiveness in torrents – and she turns to embrace it, face tilted upwards to meet its benediction.
Fumbling for the soap without sight; an inevitable, clattering escape as it shoots from her grip and rebounds off the walls.
Dammit.
She stoops, scrabbling for the escapee, only to encounter a suction cap-based dildo.
Dirty girl.
How to get this dirty girl clean?
With one hand, she secures the suction cap to the glass shower door,
with the other, she reaches up and twists the temperature dial. Cold
water is purifying.
On all fours in the dark, cold rain, she eases herself onto the
punishment stick. Gasping and shaking her head to dislodge the sodden
strands of hair plastering to her cheeks, she begins to move.
Back and forth, the knobbled non-slip floor hurting her palms and knees,
the silicone inside her tugging against her lack of lubrication. It
hurts.
She likes to hurt.
“Hurt me” she whispers to the shadows, and imagines snickering in the splashes around her.
“Fuck me” she hisses, and moves faster.
It’s not enough, and she’s shivering. Back to warm water.
Kneeling, she bends her head to taste herself on the jutting dildo.
All the way in now.
Right to the back of her throat. Impaled, spluttering, she reaches
around to spread her cunt wide and fucks the warming silicone with her
mouth while hot streams pour down her face and off her breasts. She
inhales water, coughing and gagging, pushes herself away from the glass.
The dark is safety and danger, comfort and isolation. She turns off the
shower, lets the sudden silence ring in her ears, stands motionless and
dripping between fake-stone ceramic and misted glass she cannot see. Her
pulse still throbs in her cunt and clit, bruises bloom inside her
throat.
Where the fuck did she leave that towel?
3) Something old, something new
The day my divorce is finally settled, I celebrate by desecrating my bridal gown. It could perhaps have been salvaged, even with red wine staining the bodice, and a tear in the long, heavy train, but I can’t face the effort. Besides, it might be just as unlucky for the next wearer as it was for me.
“What the fuck is that?” squawks Chris when she catches sight of the dress spread out on the living room floor. “Honey, you are fucked up” she laughs when I explain. This, in Chris-terms, is an accolade. “I’ve always wanted to do a girl in a wedding dress” she grins wickedly, tugging gently on a handful of my hair “On top of it works just as well”. She clasps the back of my head, kisses me hungrily and hard. “Take off your clothes.”
My knees are patterned in red by the brocaded bodice, my hair tied
back with strips of lace torn from the skirt hem, to keep it out of my
way while I press my face deep between Chris’s thighs. She stands over
me, one hand on my head, the fingers of the other spreading herself for
my circling tongue. Her legs tremble and her hips jerk, salty, musky
come slicks my cheeks and chin. As she sinks to the floor, I wipe my
mouth on a handful of satin, mop her dripping cunt with another. She
catches my eye and we giggle like children caught with chocolate-smudged
mouths.
“On all fours now, babydoll” she commands. “My turn”.
She slides a finger across my gleaming-wet labia, eliciting a gasp and a shiver of delight from me. I drop my head, arch my back, thrust my aching cunt towards her.
“Stuff that into your mouth” she says, pointing to the ruched and ruffled skirts beneath me. “As much as you can”. While I fill my mouth with fabric, her finger moves in languid strokes, smearing and spreading my wetness with the delicacy of a calligrapher’s brush, then sliding inside me, back and forth. Then two fingers, harder and deeper. Three, moving faster. I’m squirming, moaning into the drool-soaked satin crammed behind my teeth. Another finger, and now her hand is moving in short, hard little jabs, jerking muffled gasps from me; a ventriloquist bringing her slutty life-size doll to life. Relentlessly she fucks me, filling and taking, seeking and claiming. A sudden tearing sound, the fabric of my despised dress ripping under our tension. “That’s it, babygirl” she croons, recognising the tautening of my thighs and belly, the tightening of my cunt muscles. “Make some noise. Sing for me”
I spit out the mouthful of material, shudder, howling at the ceiling and ride her hand over the cresting wave. Hot liquid rains from my twitching cunt, patters onto ragged fabric; my first squirt a fitting valediction to the last traces of my unhappy past. The dress is ruined. I am released.
9) Serrature d’Amore
This is the first time Tim and Lara have left their hotel room since arriving two days previously and tumbling straight into the four-poster bed. Despite their insatiable hunger for each other however, it would be remiss of them to come to such a picturesque spot and stay indoors all the time. A walk to the Lovers Bridge – Ponte degli Innamorati, according to the guidebook – seems ideal. Although, regretfully, it will require getting dressed, at least for a while.
“I don’t understand the purpose of this.” says Lara after a few moments of intense concentration.
“It’s a tradition. Couples attach a padlock with their initials to the
railings and throw the key into the water to symbolise their unbreakable
bond.” Tim explains.
“Does that mean they have to end the relationship if the padlock is removed?”
She’s not joking or being sarcastic, Tim reminds himself silently.
“No, it’s not like a contract. It’s just… a symbol. A ritual that makes people feel good.”
“Ah,” Lara nods, light dawning. “It’s a set of actions with cultural
associations that trigger the release of dopamine and oxytocin to
facilitate peer bonding. Now I understand.” She walks along the bridge,
studying the array of engraved, painted and plain padlocks dangling in
stacks from the railings.
Okay, not the most poetic of takes, Tim chuckles to himself, gazing with appreciation at her generous curves swaying beneath her maxi-dress.
Lara sees the world with high-res clarity, is on a mission to understand the purpose and function of every pixel. He finds it endearing, educational, occasionally baffling; wishes he were smart enough to give her all the answers she seeks.
She’s stopped looking at padlocks and is staring at the ground,
shuffling her feet. He reads uncertainty, vulnerability in her stance as
he reaches her, waits patiently beside her for the question he senses
is imminent.
“Do you…. do I…. does it make you unhappy that I’m not-“ she gestures
vaguely at the hardware-festooned fence “-like that? Romantic? Is it….
is it a disappointment for you?”
Tim wraps his arms around her.
“I love you exactly as you are.” he says with absolute honesty. “When
you say or do things, I know you mean them and you’re not just saying
what you think is expected of you. If I ever feel disappointment about
that, it’s because my expectations are unfair, and I never want to hurt
you, especially for something that’s my fault.”
Her hands creep around his waist until she’s hugging him tightly.
And then, because she’s so close and so beautiful, because she smells
of sandalwood and sun cream, because he adores her, Tim feels a hard-on
beginning to twitch to life.
Damn! This is not the time! he scolds himself. We’re trying to have a Tender Moment here!
It’s too late. Lara has noticed.
She raises her head, looks at him with a rare direct gaze, smiles.
“I believe you.” she says, and squirms against him. “Also, I detect that you are becoming sexually aroused.”
She shifts her hips, grinding herself harder against the
rapidly-swelling bulge in Tim’s jeans, sliding her hands down into his
rear pockets.
“Your body is giving me pleasure; look-” Her nipples have hardened,
prominent little nubs under soft cotton. Tim rolls them gently between
his fingers and thumbs, spreads his palms to cup her breasts.
“You are glorious.”
“I’m very wet now, and I would like to be naked with you.”
Her clipped, precise phrasing sends a wave of desire surging through
Tim’s blood. Dirty talk is so much better when every word is carefully
chosen and neatly arranged by someone who only says exactly what she
means.
“You make me happy,” Lara murmurs. “Dopamine and oxytocin and serotonin.
That’s happiness. That’s what I feel when I’m with you.”
Tim nibbles at her earlobe, traces tiny circles on the soft flesh with the tip of his tongue.
“Back to the hotel?” he whispers.
“That is a good idea. Being naked here would not be appropriate.”
A mischievous grin dimples her cheeks. “Although it would be quite exciting.”
“Well then, let’s go and be exciting in a more appropriate place.”
“Yes. And tomorrow….. maybe we could buy a padlock?”
8) The Red Palace
In virtual reality, neon never fails. No tawdry fizzing, flickering tubes here; bright lights and fun times glow around the clock, across the calendar.
It’s why we come here. To be our pure selves in a realm where the only constraint is choice and fantasy is the language of deeper truth.
Oh yeah, and to get our kicks. Pain without damage, brutality without blood, all the fun and none of the fallout, that’s what the Red Palace holds. The best BDSM v-club on the net.
I’m looking shit-hot tonight, even if I do say so myself. Check out my silver body harness, the matching silver shorts, my glittery platform boots! Channelling some serious 1970s glam rock vibes here. Spiked hair and go-faster eye paint; I’m fucking irresistible.
Her name is Melody, and she says I’m tasty. Slowly twirling her
blonde curls around her finger, glancing up at me coyly over the rim of
her gin glass. I swear to god she licked her lips just now. Signals.
Her preference icons align neatly with mine, great compatibility. My tags read nonbinary brat, loud and proud. She’s switchy in all shades and flavours. Serendipity.
“So,” she’s murmuring “what’s on offer tonight?” We both know she’s not asking about bar snacks.
“Whatcha looking for? Something hard-and-heavy, or more slap-and-tickle?
Boys who like girls who do girls like they’re boys?” I nicked my go-to
line from an old Britpop track. Subversive and bass-heavy, just like
yours truly.
“Oh, I love that song!” she squeals, and the bar AI picks up the hint;
industrial synth segues into Blur’s pumping beats. Melody leans forward,
offering me an eyeful of plump cleavage and a confidential whisper, “I
remember when it came out. I’m older than I look.”
“How old are you, Grandma? Old enough to handle the Big Bad Wolf?” Yeah, ok, I’m leering. But hey, so is she.
“Maybe I could show you a few tricks, Junior.” She knocks back her gin, climbs off the chrome bar stool. “Lead the way.”
I rent a private room here. An arch-roofed alcove, red-lit in neon. Just enough space between the double bed and the mirror-back door to fit three or four close-entwined bodies.
Door checks first. Green across the board, no flags on our records; no bugs in our codes. We choose our fun from mutual menus, giggling with anticipation. Swipe to confirm. Game on.
Melody’s red dress morphs into slashed black leather, a riding crop materialises in her left hand. I have no idea what she looks like in the flesh, don’t care. This is who she is in her own mind tonight. Good enough for me. And damn, she does look good, all curves and confident charm.
She points the crop at the floor. “Kneel for me, Junior. Show me some skin.”
I gesture away my clothing and sink to my knees, grinning. The light
touch of the crop trails across my taut-muscled chest, up under my chin,
down again to tap my nipples. Stroke and tap. Slide and slap.
“That all you’ve got?” I smirk, and she steps forward to grasp my throat
in one hand and press the crop handle across the back of my neck,
holding me in place.
“Wait your turn,” she rasps, and buries my face in the warm, musky nook
between her thighs, grinding herself against me. I reach a hand up under
the leather, slide two fingers inside her slick cunt, thumbing slow
circles over her clit. She staggers slightly and shifts her grip to my
shoulder, writhes python-like against me as I work my fingers deeper
inside her.
“Do yourself too.”
My other hand balls into a fist, jammed down between my thighs. Humping
your own hand while fingering someone else takes co-ordination and
timing. I reckon I’ve got it down to an art form.
When she gasps and shudders, melting onto me in a panting heap, I
retrieve my hand and lick her salty-sweetness from my fingers.
Delicious.
“Now it’s your turn.” snickers Melody; she’s got her breath back and is
brandishing a new prop. Chunky black ribbed dildo protruding from an
assembly of black leather straps and chrome rings, the harness dangles
from her index finger, swinging in a pendulum as wide as her wicked
smile.
“Over the bed, head down, arse up.” she instructs, swapping dress for harness in a system-magic blink.
“Do you like this?”
The tip of the dildo nudges between my cheeks. In answer, I reach backwards, spread them apart in invitation. “Hell yeah.”
Cold, slippery lube trickles into my crack.
“Ask me nicely.” demands Melody, working me open with a slowly-circling finger.
“Please, Miss. Please fuck my arse with your biiiig fat cock.” I
wheedle, looking over my shoulder with widened eyes and a saucy pout.
“Well, since you’re being so good…” She eases the dildo inside me slowly, all the way to the hilt. Then-
“Hold on tight-“
-she thrusts, hard, deep, unforgiving strokes, how I like it. The slap
of her skin meeting mine resounds in the small space, backbeat to my
moans and her hoarse, effort-laden breathing; a hymn of praise to the
joy of rough fucking and free spirit.
Virtual, baby. This is what it’s for.
5) End of Eden
“Obviously I didn’t mean to get you kicked out of Eden.”
Lilith is practicing her reunion speech; the End of Days is close at hand and sometime soon she’ll be face to face with her only love – and her oldest enemy. She wants to be as thoroughly prepared as several. No screeching rageflights off into the sunset, no wriggling around doing covert ops in gardens, no revenge plots; this time she’s going to be a grownup dammit. She’s going to apologise. Gracefully. Get over herself.
“Didn’t mean you get you both kicked out, I mean.”
Yikes. No. That doesn’t sound good at all. Lilith weighs up the conundrum of truth versus peace and harmony; decides that one tiny white lie of omission shouldn’t undermine her genuine attempts at reconciliation.
Better not mention apples then.
She drifts into reverie.
In the honeyed afternoon sunlight, Eve’s dark skin is burnished with a golden glow, her eyes amber-lit and afire with mischief. Soft curves, hard planes; an easy life of leisurely forage for fruits and roots, berries, nuts and leaves has padded her stomach and hips, honed her upper body, calloused her feet.
She is perfect. By definition, in fact: the only woman in existence must therefore be a perfect woman. That’s what Adam tells her when they lie peacefully together under the stars, says Eve, and Adam is usually right about these things.
Making puking noises is difficult when one is disguised as a snake, so Lilith manages not to.
Instead, she drapes her smooth coils around her friend’s warm limbs, revelling in the pulsing radiance of Eve’s body heat.
“Look” she says “how pretty we are together.”
Eve laughs with delight, the touch of the snake’s skin against her own
awakening an unfamiliar hunger in her. It’s hot and sweet and sharp in
her belly; a little like the feeling she gets when she and Adam join
together, but more. So much more. Her thighs part of their own accord,
her breathing accelerates.
“You’re not really a snake, are you?” Eve whispers, her face so close to
Lilith’s head that Lilith can taste her breath. “You’re Someone. Like
me. Like Adam.”
“Like you.” hisses Lilith. “Not like Adam.”
“Show me.” demands Eve. “Teach me how you do it.”
“What do I get in return?”
“Whatever you want.”
So Lilith shifts to her true form; pale human skin, all angles
and sharp bone from her millennia-long exile, red curls tangled and eyes
like glacier ice.
“Oh!” says Eve. “You’re perfect too.”
And then comes Adam blundering among the fruit trees, calling for his mate.
Lilith finds herself grinding her teeth. Adam.
What a dickhead.
What a dick.
What a lovely dick in fact; it had always been Lilith’s favourite part of him, and she resented being separated from it.
That first day, she had been mesmerised, newly-created and wondering at the world; the sight of Adam’s fleshy, curved-slightly-to-the-right cock lolling insolently against the dark tangle of tight curls beneath, had been the most wondrous thing of all.
She sinks to her knees, instinctively knowing what she wants,
what he desires, and tilts her gaze upward to meet his eyes, opening her
mouth.
“Yes.” he says hoarsely, nodding his head for emphasis as she guides his
twitching cock between her lips. Soft, pliant flesh is heavy on her
tongue as her lips close around its increasing solidness, and he exhales
deeply, pushing his hips forward, himself further into her mouth.
It’s becoming harder, heavier by the second, so Lilith starts to suck, a
little more intensely, and then a little more still. Bobbing her head
in time to his rhythm, feeling the smooth, slick tip butt against the
back of her throat; Lilith tastes salt and swallows, suddenly aware that
his hands are grasping her shoulders, clutching, stroking, rubbing as
he groans his orgasm to the sky.
Adam’s knees buckle. He slumps to the ground as his
wildly-beating pulse slows. After a while, he opens his eyes and a
faintly puzzled smile settles on his broad, handsome face.
“Well, say something then.” prods Lilith, once the tinge of
companionable wonder to their silence has worn off and only a residual
awkwardness remains.
“Hello,” he grins happily. “I’m Adam.”
And then he lies back on the lush grass, closes his eyes and falls asleep.
Lilith is grinding her teeth and clenching her fists.
Adam, the First Man, that idiotic, happy-go-lucky buffoon. Stretch him out and he falls asleep, show him food and he eats until it’s all gone, give him the faintest whiff of competition and he’s ready to do battle. He should have been the one banished, not her!
Blood starts to trickle from the half-moon cuts Lilith’s long nails have made in her palms.
She’s not very good at this forgive-and-be-at-peace stuff.
Deep breath.
If she’s honest with herself, she might have contributed a little to her banishment from Eden. There was that small matter of the dildo…..
Lilith is admiring her handiwork; a replica dick she has carved
from a fallen branch. She realises that the disadvantages of the
flesh-based version being attached to Adam have become insurmountable.
He’s been pretty unimpressed when he finds her indulging in her
craftship, stomping around and shouting about emotionally unavailable
she always was, how she never showed him affection, how she’d rather
open her legs for him than her arms. Lilith unleashes her grievances
back at him; why would she waste her affection on a man who ignores her
advice, scoffs at her opinions, contradicts and condescends to her and
sulks when she does anything better than he can manage? If he thinks so
little of her, he can fuck off out of the forest and leave her in peace
with her new toy.
He turns to storm off, and, overcome with rage and frustration, she hurls the wooden dick at his departing back.
Violence is not permitted in Eden. In the blink of an eye, Lilith finds herself outside the garden walls, alone in the dry air and dust of the desert. She mutters curses under her breath as she walks away towards the horizon.
All right, she shouldn’t have thrown the dildo. But he deserved it, far more than she deserved to be banished for doing so.
And then he’d been given Eve; docile, sweet, affectionate Eve who thought Adam was simply marvellous no matter what he did, while she, Lilith, could only seethe and scheme from afar. And scheme she did.
A smirk sidles across Lilith’s angular features.
Disguising herself as a snake had been a stroke of genius. Wriggling through a loose stone in the outer wall of the garden had been a doddle. Being back among the grass and trees and life inside the garden had been bliss. Making friends with Eve had been easy, spending time with her an unexpected pleasure.
Eve’s cheeks are flushed, her breath still hitching and her pulse racing as the unbearably sweet ache ebbs to a throbbing ember in her core. Raising her head, she squints down the length of her outstretched body to meet Lilith’s gaze.
“Here” says Lilith, holding out one hand. “You sound hungry. Have an apple.”
Eve reaches out to take it.
