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.