The contest challenge was to include photography. A lot of my stories veer into kink, which I obviously do NOT have a problem with, but I wanted to try for something a little straighter.

Pictures at an Exhibition

“Come see,” he said. She curled next to him on the sofa as he brought the slideshow up on the laptop. “Tell me which one you like the best.”

They were all out of order. A close-up of her lips covering the head of his cock. “I like that one,” he said, his hand sliding along her thigh.

A full-length profile shot of them kissing, fully clothed. G-rated even, except that the image emanated a decidedly X-rated tension. “Nice,” she murmured.

Angled naked torsos, in high contrast black and white. She looked for a long moment, tilting her head, sorting out which parts were which. “Hmmmm.”

A brilliantly juicy close-up, his cock nestled just at entrance of her cunt, awash with her wetness. At the top of the frame, her clit burst between two of her fingers; at the bottom, his hand wrapped around the base of his cock. She blinked. “I remember that,” she said. “But I don’t remember the camera being that close.” He laughed gently. “Zoom lens.”

He clicked again, and she pulled in a breath, stunned.

The camera caught the slightly rough texture of his skin against the impossible creaminess of hers. The lines of his fingers sunk into the yielding curve of her breast. Her arousal evident in the flushed tightness of her nipple, the arch of her spine. His passion and possessiveness eloquent in the fierceness of his grip.

Her reaction inspired him. And life proceded to imitate art.

Creative Juices

From Alison's contest -- the theme is writing. My entry did respectably in the poll.


The blank yellow pad mocked her. Through the window, a breeze carried the sound of a lawnmower droning and birds tweeting, offering no inspiration whatsoever.

“Vagina,” she wrote. Ugh. Jane scratched through the word.
“Vulva. Labia.” More ugh. Why were there no good words?
“Tunnel, channel, sheath. Glove?” Hmmm. Maybe.
“Center, core. Folds.” Potential. Approaching overused though.
“Dewy blossom of womanhood.” Heheheheh. No.

Desperation. She tried the thesaurus: “Vagina: no results found. Did you mean vain, virginal, angina, avian?” Yeah, there’s a big help.

The problem was, this *character* was very verbal during lovemaking. She wanted to tell her lover “ah, god, do that again. I love your cock buried in my….” My what? Tunnel? Slippery folds? Not.

The mower’s hum cut out, then the screen door banged. Sean moved to the doorway, gulping down ice water. “How’s it going, honey?”

“Not good.”

He hugged her. “Anything I can do?”

“Actually…yes.” She pulled him toward the bedroom. “I need your throbbing manhood in my sheath.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Sliding together, they fell to the bed with wordless caresses, kisses, sighs, moans. He slid his fingers into her, and she was ready. Inexplicably, she giggled. “My dewy blossom,” she gasped.

He ignored that, working his fingers and rubbing hard little circles over her clit. “No,” she whispered, almost inaudibly. “Want you inside--”

He paused at that. “Tell me again.”

She moaned. “Please… I *need* your *cock* buried in my *cunt* when I come…”

With that, she found her juice.

Fast Green

About 2 weeks ago, Alison posted her latest contest idea, inspired by an editing goof she'd made. I read as far as this part: "Anyway, this leads to my new contest. Write me a 250-word piece about search and replace. No, kidding."

"Search and replace? "I thought. "Weird. What?" I, ahem, *may* have skimmed the rest of the post. And this is the story I came up with, before I realized that she actually WAS kidding:

Fast Green

“Oh no you did NOT!” I shrieked. I was covered in the stuff.

He smirked.

“Tam,” I moaned. “it’s *everywhere*! This stuff stains, you know.”

He stood back, surveying the damage. “I know. But you asked for it.”

True. I knew he was trying to work at the patio table but the sunshine beckoned and once I was there, stretched out and oiled in my teeny bikini, I couldn’t help but tease him a little. Even so, his hands were steady, competent: applying the stain, fixative, and specimen to each slide, documenting and numbering each one.

Finally I gave up trying to distract him – he wouldn’t be distracted anyway—and rolled onto my back, leaving my top behind, and dozed a little.

Drip. Drip. Drip. I was sweating.

No, not sweat--bright green dots from his precise little medicine dropper dotted my chest, my belly, my thighs.

He picked up the garden hose.

My eyes narrowed. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

He did. Dripping, I tackled him, soaking through his T shirt and cargo shorts. Then I was under him, his erection hard against my pubic bone, and his eyes dropped to my speckled chest. A dime-sized dot lay in the two-o’clock spot of my left aureole.

Bending his head, he kissed the spot. Sucked on it, lightly bit. Color rose, obscuring the green blemish.

“Don’t--” I scolded.

“S’okay,” he mumbled, moving to another dot. “Same stuff as food coloring.”

One by one, he searched out every mark and replaced it with his own.

You Decide

From Alison's Tie Me Up contest. One of the reasons these contests work for me is that they're fairly short-term, preventing me from my usual paralysis of overthinking. After I posted it, I thought I wanted to rewrite it, with more repetition of the "you decide" line... but it didn't work. I like it just like this. This is also the first one I sent to Alison that was written from scratch for the contest.



I don’t want you to ask permission. I don’t want to help you figure how to attach the ends, or whether that’s gonna mar the furniture or leave a hole in the plasterboard.

I don’t want you to ask if it’s too tight around my wrist. I trust you to hurt me without damaging me. Tie my legs apart – leave some play, so I can buck underneath you, or tie them so tight I can’t move. You decide.

I pull hard at the bonds, making leather creak and metal clink, but I can’t get loose. Good. You’re so good.

Sometimes the torture is that you barely touch me; feathering over my skin so lightly I have to hold my breath to be sure you’re really there, but what I want is hard, fierce – I want your nails on my nipples, your teeth on my clit. Your palms skate up my thighs, feeling the tension you’ve created, the tendons standing out hard. Your thumbs push into my cunt, peeling the lips open like skin off an orange.

I love everything you do when I’m tied down, when the only movement I can manage is lascivious whether I mean it that way or not. I love the nibbles, the slaps, the pinching and squeezing and sucking, but more than anything I love the moment you bury your cock in me, knowing that I cannot resist you, even if I wanted… I am wide open, spread, yours for the taking.

Two Strokes

This is another piece that I carved out for an Alison Tyler contest, from a longer story I'd been working on. Totally thrilled that it took first place in the poll, too!

Just his voice on the phone aroused me. “Imagine that I’m there with you. You are nude, kneeling. Your gaze is straight ahead and down. But out of the corner of your eye…. tell me what you see.”

“Your shoes. Leather, polished. No tassels.” He laughed; I was encouraged.

“What else?”

A sigh. “A strap. Just the end…”

“Describe it. Size, color, texture?”

Eyes closed, body humming-- I saw it perfectly. That lovely strap. “It’s old and worn,” I said dreamily. “Soft and flexible, buttery. A little uneven, bleached, too wide for a belt. Your weight shifts, the strap disappears. But then I feel it, touching my back, my waist, my ass. I wait, floating…. Until that first stroke. Not terribly hard, but the second is harder, and lands on top of the first. It will hurt to sit. And every time I do, my face will flush and my cunt will pulse like a beating heart.”

Drawing a shaky breath, I pause, needing air, needing his voice.

“Well.” That rich voice sounded thickened. “That was… enlightening. Two strokes? Is that all?”

“I don’t-- if you—“

Another chuckle. “Trick question. Shall we meet?”

No hesitation. “Yes. Yes, sir. Please.”

…

He hung up, drank deep from his ice water. Though he considered himself experienced, jaded even… he was sweating. Her silky contralto voice, the fantasy so erotic in its simplicity. He knew she didn’t know exactly where to go from there, but he did.

Two strokes, indeed.