Wednesday, 29 September 2010

Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon: Round Six 'Fortune'

The latest flurry of hot short erotic fiction entries is now live:

Please vote for the best, and may fortune shine to the winner!

Cheers m'dears,


Sunday, 19 September 2010

Flashes In The Pan of Twitter

My Twitter friends Ruby and Aisling do inspire me at times. They tweet some amazing flash fiction erotica. This is 100 words or less. Considering once I had problems honing a story to less than 2,500 words, let alone 250, I felt I had to give it a try:


He was always spur of the moment. I never knew when. Out of the blue. A call. A text. A filthy email. 'Now?' he would ask, & I would come.

Running, tumbling on high heels. I always had to be ready. Professional demeanor hiding saucy undies, and sexy lingerie.

We didn't need it but it added spice to our fucking. The cream on the cake. His cream, coating me as he came hard & quick on my tum.

"That was nice." I purred. "Now do it inside me." I growl, wanking him back to hardness. Because I do know how to spur him on, always.


He never calls because in essense he wasn't absent. Seared raw scars of his deep, vivid penetration will remain long after any goodbye.

The burning stickiness of his cum warms me when his cuddles had grown cold and departed. And that memory will never leave my thoughts.

I know I am never far from his thoughts. I only have to whisper his name, and he will know, and get rock hard, upright, at my uttering.

Our fucks, although broken by other calls on our time, never really end. "Don't leave me." I sigh. He replies "Never." and I know he means it.

And you can follow me at if you like, too.


Wednesday, 1 September 2010

Erotica For All

For once, not a story but a heads-up for a new erotic blog by writer Lucy Felthouse:

- This is, as Lucy explains, for 'readers, writers and everyone in between', with author profiles, free reads, and a forum. Needless to say, I'm in there:

- and if you're an aspiring erotic writer, contact her via:

- and get in there while the iron is hot. And stays hot! One to watch grow...

Lucy aso has a submission call for her own anthology Uniform Behavior, the deadline being 30th September, so get scribbling, typing or - if you're on fire with your idea - smoke signals!:

Cheers, m'dears.


Sunday, 1 August 2010

'How... ?'

An erotic story by Sandrine Lopez


How did we end up this way... ?

Every single part of me aches and spasms. In a good way. One part in particular knows pleasure beyond pain. The pang of being entered, penetrated. Again.

I can no longer see you, even if the dark night masking us is giving way to dawn. Has it really been that long. How quickly time flies...

"Enjoying yourself?" he gasps from behind, each syllable parted with intense effort.

I'm nodding but being pounded so hard you can't tell anymore. My lip tears itself from being gnawed by teeth to allow a response.

"Fuck yes!"

How did I end up... ?

Halfway up the bedroom wall, pushed over the headboard to sprawl, arms wide, fingers clawing at the wallpaper, breasts and face pressed against the cold surface.

You put me there. But not against my will.

We started at the foot of the bed, clothed, late last night, or was it this morning, and journeyed up the sheets, shedding shirts, blouses, trousers and skirts on the way, to here.

How did we... ?

Meet? A club. A bar. A chance meeting. It happens, though rarely to me. Then he came out of nowhere, a man crafted from my daydreams, my nightmares. Not underwear wettingly drop dead gorgeous, neither terrifyingly ugly. His looks, somewhere inbetween. His character...

"What's a lovely woman like you... ?"

"Oh, please!" That's even older then me.

A shrug but he's not giving up. I admire perseverance.

There's a slight accent to his voice that suggests he's northern.

Even when he bends forward and whispers in my ear.

My eyes widen. Fingers grip my glass hard.

He leans back, casually but unforgiving. "What can else I say?"

I should have responded, "Anything but that." But in all honesty it sparked a response, a quiver deep in my soul of souls, I wasn't quite expecting.

"At least that's honest." I finally find the voice, slightly breathless now, to answer him back.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he suggests.

"Is that an unsubtle way of getting a 'yes' out of me?"

More than the hint of a smile. "For a woman, the pleasure is usually in getting something into you. Be it a delicious drink, an astonishing meal at a fabulous restaurant, or... "

"Point taken, thank you. Yes, please."

A raised eyebrow.

"I'll have a drink."

Because I think I'm going to need one.


How did... ?

I let him in, so soon? What happened to make me from cautious, not quite spinster-of-the-parish but getting close, to slut-of-the-moment?

As the cliché goes, a lady in public but a slut in...

My bedroom. So many barriers demolished in a single night.

By him.

How did... ?

One drink too many? No, we shared rounds. And pleasures. He's absolutely filthy, my coy blushes turning into hot flushes when he says things I wouldn't usually have laughed at but now...

"Do you know how absolutely fucking hard I am now?" He asks, completely shameless. A few people within earshot jerk their heads round, wondering if they misheard.

I'm aware we have a small audience. Taking a page out of his book, I lean in and whisper in his ear.

He raises his glass. "I'll drink to that."


And drink we do.

How did we... ?

After getting naked on the bed, he divides my knees and thighs, and conquers my pussy. All the giddy drinking and dirty explicit chat have dribbled through me until I am totally soaked down there. A fountain for him to quench his thirst for me.

I'm still blushing, flushing, absolutely gushing as I feel his lips snogging me, tongue fucking me, in the most explicit of kisses imaginable. I feel drained of blood, of moisture, as he sucks me dry. And then I have more wetness still for his needs.

"You're tickling me!" I wail, writhing bare on the twisted, disturbed bedding. And we've barely started.

His face unburies itself from below my muff, a hint of froth trickling from an open mouth. Which just leers, indecently.

"You're not usually at a loss for words." I note, punctuated with the loud beats of my heart, the indelicate spasms of ecstasy.

"When I've finished fucking you with my tongue," he promises me, "You're going to find out first-hand, how fucking hard I am."

There I gush again.


How did I end up... ?

With him between my thighs, spread with total abandon, with him hammering inside me like there is no tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. Only the clock shows tomorrow has already come, early hours of the day. He has come too. And so have I. More than once. Twice. Three times a...

"Lady...?" He prises open the flaw in our flirting, as we fuck. "Do you have a name?"

Now isn't really the time for introductions.

And it doesn't even come close to ending there.

"Do you like being fucked this way?" he wants to know. On my back. Pretty vanilla but the pressure of his stomach to mine is exquisite.

"Fuck yes."


I roll him over, straddle and ride him. He tries to reach up, touch me and molest my breasts but now I grab his wrists, pin his arms down and just do what I want. What I need. Pressure onto him, around him, impaled on him fully and blissfully. Ramming and thrusting the full ample weight of my body down, surrounding, until he gives in, gives it all up. Gives his moisture back, his wetness, a jet of pure juicy bliss, captured in thin latex but fighting to be free, like a pulled punch within my belly. Aches and spasms.

And gushing, once more.


How did I end up... ?

With my tongue down his throat? Everyone in the club was watching by then.

"Do I deserve a kiss?" he asked.

I shouldn't and normally couldn't but I wouldn't forgive myself if I hadn't. It's a tender smooch on the lips but as they touch, under the table his fingers have quickly, daringly, sought out my thigh, shot up my skirt and poked through my panties.

My eyes widen a second, but not the last, time that night. My lips part. His tongue runs over them. Aroused by his fine fumbling due south, my tongue is spurred to the challenge. No resistance back as he welcomes me in. Lets me taste his breath, sweet with wine.

How did we end up... ?

Halfway up the completely messed bed. We're running out of positions, out of condoms, surely not? He's insatiable, appetite personified but somehow I'm keeping up. Keeping him up. Finding out first-hand how absolutely fucking hard he is capable of staying, all night and into morning. I've lost count how many times now.

If the tally of scratches by my nails on his back, his chest, neck and arms are anything indication, not nearly enough times. Add to that the bitemarks on his shoulder, my own arms, back of hand and knuckles...

I try to imagine what kind of marks, unseen by me and only felt, he has left on my thighs as he clawed them apart. On my arse cheeks as he slapped his joy on them. Around my cunt as thrust his cock inside. How his friction brands me as he slip slides it back and forth, over and over.

What manner of score he is keeping, if any?


How did I... ?

Let him escort me home, swirling and snogging slowly up the street? Urgent pangs of need making me push him, or him shove me, into lampless shadows. Almost but not quite having the sex, right there and right then, we both want but just stop frustratingly, panting and gasping, short.

Clothes increasingly creased, pulled aside or fumbling through fastenings. Teasing. Caressing. Massaging. Rubbing. Frigging. Yes. No! Yes yes! Noooooo...

Not yet. Yes but no but...


How did I... ?

Yes yes yes yesyeeyee... yeeeeeehhhh!!!

Come so quickly? Ohmygod, I never used to...

How did he... ?

Do that? So intense, so sharp, so unbound. Not even sure he came that first time.

Just watched him unroll the condom, first of many - did he have that many? - over the naked tip, then my needs urgently rush-charged my fingers to finish smoothing it on, dressed for the job.

Intoxicating scent of him, smell of latex, feel of it warming from him under my palms. Featherlite, as his tentative teasing, guided by my fingers, slowly found, ground, me around him...


How did... ?

We manage that first time, still mostly dressed? Skirt hitched up, trousers round ankles. Was that the excitement? The daring? The sudden desperation of here, now, right fucking there and then? Constantly delayed from that first meeting, the chat, drinks, already foreplayed from Bar A to Bed B, just get to where your drives have driven you, him, us together.

How... ?

Loud did I moan, cry out and scream? I used to curse noisy next-doors when their bed banged against dividing walls, hearing them shout and swear, now I put them to shame...

No bangs to tell me to shut it. Perhaps they're out. Maybe they've got ears pressed to the wall for tips.

"I like you loud... " he pants.

Mantraed yesyesyeses become random obscenities, meaningless sounds. If I were religious I'd say I was speaking in tongues, new languages of pure lust, gift of a god among sex gods.

As if reading my mind...

"Worship my cock." he demands. "The same way I'm devoted to your pussy."

How did... ?

It become Sunday already?

New condom, new taste. And as loud as being gagged by his dick, thrusting over my tongue, allows...


How did I end up... ?

Halfway up the bedroom wall, pushed over the headboard to sprawl, arms wide, fingers clawing at the wallpaper, breasts and face pressed against the cold surface?

You put me there. I willed you to do it.

Sprawled wrists pinned by your hands, between my sprawled spread thighs, you pinning me further, deep, faster, harder than ever before. Just hours before.

Us both on knees, legs intertwined as kneeling, submitting to joined lust, allows.

My bare skin warms the wall. Your body burns my back, my bum. And between us, see-sawing, sizzling delights of the soul, the bodies. There's no love, attraction, just hunger... purely, simply, physically.


How did we end up this way... ?

Exhausted, clinging to each other, hanging half off what's left of the bedding, as if what's left of life within us, is everything, anything, that matters. Thin threads of consciousness snapping away to an uneasy, shallow-breathed slumber of aching limbs, quivering goose-bumped skin and naked bodies.

How did we end up... ?

Not meaning to fall asleep together? Don't remember stopping fucking, curling up round him. It just happened.

Waking, sudden shocking, limbs springing from each other. The warm light of day illuminating the realisation of what we did.

There should be words. There are none. Smiles, yes. Blushes. Realisations.

Slowly coming back together. Not because of need, but because it was wild, unexpected, sudden, intense beyond intensities.

Lying there. One arm round me, his other fumbling to the floor, discarded creased jacket. I smooth his tired muscles. He massages my bedraggled skin. Lips meet, a kiss. Not love but just thank you, fuck you, very very much...

His hand rises from the search, waves triumphantly. A single condom left. Our eyes find each other, a knowing glance. We can but laugh.


How did we... ?

End that morning? The urgency gone, lust fulfilled, the beast satisfied?

Not in the slightest.

"One more fuck?" The red square wrapper dangled in front of my nose. The smell of us on his hand, whole body, sweat and other dried moistures, tantalising my senses...

No point prettying up what it was, will be.

One long single morning shag, from dawning realisation to lunchtime feeding of each other.

Still insatiable. And so is he.

How did... ?

I take him so much deeper than before, wriggle around for mutual pleasure. He's already up and hard. Bringing me up to speed, slowing to take stock, letting me catch up, catch my breath, until we're both ready. Both there. Hold it. Make it last longer. No hurry.

How did... ?

We make it last? God knows. But we did.

Reenactment of all last night's positions, from bed bottom to wall sprawl.

How did I end up... ?

Halfway up the bedroom wall again.

You put me there. I liked it. Wanted to experience it, you, one more time.

Your hands over, fingers interlaced, with mine. Both on knees, bowing, bucking to each other. The cool wall soothes me from the slow sear of your chest to my spine, your hot stomach to my arse. Cold against the wet of my muff, as you go from dreamy rocking of your cock into my cunt, to pumping me mercilessly. Splayed, splated, flesh pressed to wallpaper, leaving an indelible imprint of perspiration there to reminisce under, for future fantasies.


Then, without remembering you'd departing, you're gone.

I lie there, dazed, amazed and sated, trying to remember...


I got there, breathing hard, from the sensations of rough touch and vivid penetration. Unwind the feelings back through time, and relive them again, enhanced by the sharp scents of our bodies, dissipating through the open window, and the vague marks of my moistened skin crucified on the wall above me.

I recall each one.

And how!


Saturday, 24 July 2010

'No Mean Feet'

An erotic short story, in just 250 words.
(see: for the competition proper)

* * *

"Olivia... come into my office for your assessment, please?"

Envious eyes watch as I wiggle on my stilettos. Obvious the boss hired me for looks, not skills though I'm as experienced as any. More so in other... requirements.

Rumours fly. That I fucked him for the job. That I keep fucking him for promotions. Not strictly true but some accuracy. I never asked...

The door is locked. Blinds closed. No-one sees but ears prick up from cubicles, like rabbits in long grass.

Assessments take twenty minutes. He's quick but thorough.

He eyes my stilettos, ones he secretly gave me. Broad ankle-straps topping five-inch heels.

"I want to chain you to my desk." Small padlocks and slender links tether patent-leather ankle-cuffs to adjacent desk-legs, spreading me. My skirt hitched up, exposing my bare ass.

He has a riding crop. With others, he whips his desk angrily at mistakes. With me, he slashes my exposed cheeks. Expression of pure lust before...

"You'll get a 10% rise." He offers. I accept. He's fair, but oh so firm.

Crack! I look back, eyes pleading 'more'. Value for money.

When my ass is red raw, he drops his trousers. Another generous rise, all several thick inches of it. The push and slap of him against my smarting cheeks mingles with penetrating pleasures. Welcoming squeezes make him cum powerfully.

Leaving the unlocked office after, I mince back to my desk.

"Sounds like that hurt." A co-worker murmurs.

More than you'll know. But less than it should.


Tuesday, 20 July 2010

'Some Like It Rough' Part 1

Gardening is such a chore but it has to be done...

Admittedly I'm somewhat neglectful. Other things to be done so by the time I'm back out there, the lawn is sprawling untidily, and the weeds have thrown a party among the roses.

The garden faces east so the sun rises over it. I'm always out early, racing the late summer dawn to prune and clear before it gets too hot. Come 9 a.m., a couple of hours work later, my jeans and long sleeved top are smeared with green stains and mottled with small burrs. Perspiration unpleasantly and uncomfortably stains me. Even with a hat on, my tied back hair is a mess of tangled strands, as overlong branches play catch with my scalp.

As I bend over, back-breakingly for the umpteenth time, I have a sensation of being watched. Of eager eyes burning a hole in my already sun-heated ass. I peer back, past my denim-clad thighs.

He's there.

Not sketching or painting this time, though he might be, in his mind's eye. Undressing me with his creative imagination. He's certainly getting a good peek if that unseen, indecent canvas, has me down to my undies, or beyond...

"Good morning!" He calls, aware he has been caught.

Straightening, I reply. "You're out early."

"I was enjoying the view."


I'm not exactly on his way anywhere I can think of. I can only hope I was his main intent. How did he know? Chance encounter? A pleasant one, if that.

Before I know it, he's through the gate. Quick glances to make sure no-one else is around this Saturday, and he has me in his arms, intruding my mouth in the most passionate and eager of snogs, knocking my hat back and off. My knees, above my wellies, grow weak and tremble. One hand grips his face and keeps him at mine. The other drops limply, and lets the secateurs fall to the earth.

Another garden, in my panties, tingles hotly. My body is already on fire from the sun. Now an inner heat is rising rapidly to its zenith.

Fighting for breath I claw him, reluctantly, off me.

"I'm such a mess... " I pant. "I must stink to high heaven, and I haven't even brushed my teeth."

"Don't worry, you're fine. Pretty fucking hot in a tomboyish way, what with the dirty jeans." He lunges at my mouth again, "And I'll give your teeth a rub while I'm... "

And I'm gagged by his tongue again for a second, longer, lingering smooch that sets alarm bells ringing... well, everywhere to be honest.

I'm caught between struggling less, submitting to his impromptu passion, and feeling so unclean, so dirty - and not just sexually - that I want to be at my best for him. Not jumped on between the rose bushes, as nice as that might sound. I'm not about to let him put on a show for the neighbours...

I've lost sense of time under his deep, intense kiss. Birds are singing... no, really they are. It's not a metaphor, at least not completely. Some are chirping away in the tree, in chorus with the ones in my head.

Held up by one strong arm, I'm aware of a fumbling at the zipper of my jeans. I gasp his name, as a strong hand slips in through the undone fastening and roughly massages my muff. I let out a stifled moan of pleasure as long adept fingers slip inside. My hips impulsively gyrate at his swirling, stirring penetration. It's been far too long since...

Then, as suddenly as it began, he's stopped. I'm left standing, swaying on far too unsteady legs, jeans open, nipples pertly alert under my thin top. Totally dazed by being left in the bright sun after the shadow of him on me. I blink at the daylight, at his unexpected abandoning.

I finally spot him at the gate, glancing back.

"See you later?" he asks.

"When... ?" Is all I can pant back.

There's just a wink, and he's gone.


I'm too aroused, too tired from the gardening, to continue, and the sun is burning hot now. I drearily collect up the boxes of cuttings and toss them near the gate to go up the dump later. Still more to be done, tomorrow.

And then, him again. Hopefully. After I've cleaned myself up. Made myself a presentable woman again, and not the soul sister to Worzel frigging Gummidge.

- - -

I'm having a long, lovely relaxing and well-deserved mid-morning soak in a hot cleansing bath. All the aches soothed away with water and moisturing soap. If he's planning on seeing me soon, I might as well tidy up the garden of my body while I'm at it. Shave my legs and arms. Should I do down below too? A little pruning and trimming is always good. Keep it neat. Smelling sweet.

My subconscious thoughts of him rise to the surface again, retreading the path he had already taken from my mouth, searing its way down through me, to where it counts. I'm still tingling there, and after tidying up down there, my needs overwhelm everything else and I fantasise it's his fingers inside me again, not mine. That he is spreading my legs and teasing me, gently at first and then far more vigourously, enthusiastically, drawing a hidden orgasm out with alternating softness and rough play.

That leaves me gasping, legs twitching, breasts heaving, half-submerged in the soapy water, part satisfied, part needing more than just fingers and imagination...


- - -

I try and keep my libido under control at the thought of him coming back. Just dabble and flitter round the house, making sure things are simple and tidy. Hoping he still has that daring, intruder-at-the-gate attitude of earlier.

I'm aware I'm touching myself a bit more than usual... a brush of my now oversized nips, braless, through my thin dress. That my panties are getting sodden again in anticipation, having to go upstairs, dab myself dry as best, change into clean ones, more than just once. The summer humidity isn't helping either.

By sunset, he hasn't appeared, and I've gone loopy with need, barely dented by disappointment. I toss myself on the bad, no longer caring about creasing the perspiration damped dress, and claw my vibe out of the bedside play drawer. Even though I'm cursing his name, his lack of courtesy at not even calling, let alone actually being here, it's still him in my filthy creative dreams. Legs akimbo again, tugging my panties to one side or slipping down inside the soft wet fabric, stretching it out until the shuddering buzzing shaft is held thereby itself, and my hands wonder up my body, tearing the dress open and caressing my attention hungry nipples...

Turn and slam my face into the pillow as I wish he would, me on all fours, his cock ramming into me without abandon. Like there's no tomorrow...

Push the vibe in, not pulling out, just further further harder everso roughly in... until...


Gnawing my lip to swallow the short sharp scream of a cry as I let go, kneeling thighs relaxing, almost bonelessly spreading out as I collapse slowly on the sheets, consciousness slips away in the most satisfying of orgasms I can hope for, by myself, on the spur of need...

- - -

To be continued...

Sunday, 13 June 2010

'Stick Or Twist'

An erotic short story, in just 250 words.

* * *

A game, with higher stakes...

Have I scored enough on you? Or you for myself?

Stick or twist.

Stay satisfied, perhaps, but playing safe. Or go further, higher, deeper, faster, harder...

Closer to bust.

Your breath on my breasts.

"Stick?" You offer.

"Twist." All the fucking way.

Suckle, my man, my baby. Sensations flood, engulf, as you feed on my swollen, sensitive nipples. Close to orgasm by your lips alone. Breathing twists. Shallow, hard, soft, quick...


A gasp. "Twist!"

Deeper, harder...

Swing my legs over your shoulders.


Stick yourself inside.

A whisper. "Twist."

Grab my thighs, held together. Twist, screw, push, thrust... pump!

Twisting my innermost on you. Round you. Until...

My hands twist the sheets in sweet, sharp torment. Body contorts, as if to be free from you, but resists. Wanting you inside until finished.

Spurty. Twitchy. Dribbly.


Twist from you. Your turn to lie. Mine to ask.


"Twist!" Naturally.

Take your hard cock, palming delicious stickiness. Slippy blend of us coating it. Twist it in my palm, let my tongue curl round the tip, down the shaft. Not stopping until it's clean, my saliva replacing the...


Your involuntary shudders as my lips kiss dry taut, trembling hot skin.

A moan. "Twist... "

A final grip, curving my fingers on trigger-happy nerves. My mouth over you.

Twist over your pubes. Feel your balls, full, hot.


And let you flavour my tongue.

Sweet stickiness twisting down my throat...


- - - - - - -

Sandrine's Note:

This was my first attempt for the first round of Alison Tyler's Smut Marathon, which I eventually rejected in favour of 'Twist Of You...' (my third attempt) but which, in hindsight and deference to comments from a few others afterwards, I wish I had used instead. But there you go...

You can see the second attempt at my other blog:

Alison Tyler's 'Smut Marathon': Round One Results

It says it all on her blog, so:

- I held in there, and am now busy typing away on my entry for Round Two, to be posted in a couple of weeks.

See you there.


'Holding On'

An erotic story by Sandrine Lopez

* * *

Too long. Way too long.

Only a small operation but the bed you occupied - before, during and recuperating after - wasn't intended for us both.

I'll be good. I'll wait.

Now it's the day before you're discharged. Final observations.

I promised.

And I was good to it.

But dear God... I have such needs.


Typical British weather.

You'd think by May the sun would be out and shining. But it is a bank holiday, after all.

Arm in arm we walk round the grey overcast garden. In distant trees, a woodpecker stacattos away.

My lust has made me daring. Under my coat I'm wearing precious little - just two items. I don't usually see you in pyjamas and gown, overdressed unnecessary bedroom wear, when we sleep naked. Like a male geisha, it's what I can't see now that entices. Wanting to know if I'm making you hard, needy too. Solid rigidity to my soaked wetness.

The cloudy sky threatens. A dark, gathering storm.

I know how it feels.

Growing arousal that no toy, no matter how good or intense, can sate.

Most other patients and visitors, those who dared out, have stayed close to the buildings. Fearing rain.

It has to be you...

We've reached the hospital garden's edge. Have to turn back, through the long weeping willows, and ornate benches. Until then, we are hidden.

One splash. Two.

I struggle to get the compact umbrella out of my large shoulder bag. To protect you, if anything.

Cloudburst. The heavens open.

A shrieking mix of surprise and delight, I push you under the shelter of the willow tree. Then you push me to the bark.

Eyes meet. Unspoken urges. You've missed me that much too.

The open. It's a fantasy of mine. The rain also.

The sudden, hard shower may only last minutes. Nurses will be checking to see whose inside and not.

My inside is even wetter than the rain splashed garden. No shelter there.

The drops drizzle down through the large mop of thin, yellow-flowered branches. I shrug off my coat, and exchange it in my bag for the large thin blanket we'd hoped to sit on, weather permitting. Spread it beside the trunk, as my thinner, little black dress gets damp and clingy.

And beside...

Peel off your gown and pyjamas, stuff them in the dry bag for later. Naked and, yes, gloriously, like the sun through clouds, your cock is stiff, stretching for the sky as if awaking from long slumber.

Feast for the starving, the denied.

I don't care how, I just want you inside. In the pouring, flooded storm of longing beneath the pale calm of my belly.

On all fours, my arse to you, pull my soaked, rain and juice, panties down. Stretched taut between parted thighs. Hair beginning to draggle and mess over my face. Blinded by damp wavy chestnut strands. I don't need to see, just feel...

Feel the thump of your knees on the blanket behind mine. The grip of one strong, large hand on my bum cheek as the other peels my wet dress up and cups, massages, a drooping breast. Tweaks my nipple from just pert to a full blossom, as rain drips off it. The cool air... the heat of us... the steam between as we meet.

Dress off, over my head. Bunch it, use it as pillow. Naked, except for my shoes.

I count all your fingertips, as they claw my arse. Thumbs delving to find my cunt, wet from the sprinkling of rain, condensating on skin and meeting the curves and folds, drenched from within. Then they meet, peel me apart like a peach, fluffy flesh revealing sweet juice...

You're inside.

Slow, huge, bit by gorgeous, exquisite, bit.

Bite my arm to stop the sigh, the moan, the cry, the growing scream...

It feels like it takes forever for you to sink right in. To the bushy hilt of your pubes, scrubbing against me.

Lip gnawed, teeth gritted...

One push. Two.

My heaven, opened wide...

A downpour of thrusts.

Rapid, woodpecker, knocking.

As you start to shove me, knees and elbows, blanket sliding on wet earth and grass, into the hanging curtain of willows. Dripping with rain. Sweat. Combined push you, pull me, of bodies in rhythm.

Lightning flash.

Thunder rumble.

Through the branches. Off the blanket. On my back.

Cold grass, slippery against my spine and bum. You spreading my thighs like the blanket... warming my front. Rain on my face as you hump me on the green lawn.

Rain inside. A sudden, hot torrent.

Open my mouth. Drink the rain. Shake my head, side to side, as my body shimmies under you. To the spring watering only you can shower into me. Burst into bloom like a desert flower.

Under the storm of you. Cherish that tempest.

Blinded by flashes, coloured hues, as you come, I come, as one. Weeks of turmoil, bedside grapes alongside impatient inner demands, tempered into moments of unbound physical mania.

Quickie as lightning. Sudden, intense, unleashing of energy, sparking into me...

No longer a cloudburst. Weather or you. Subsides to a drizzle.

Roll in the mud, the dirt.

Dirty as can be.

We needn't have rushed. The rain is here for a few hours. But you might be missed. I stand, legs apart, arms wide, face to sky, letting the heaven sent waters wash the mud and grass stains from me. A natural shower. Pad myself as dry as possible with the blanket before wringing out my dress, and covering up with my coat. Then you, back in your jammies and gown.

More lightning. The low growl of thunder drifting away.

Your storm is kept within, contained by the teacup of my soul, as we umbrella trot back through the gardens to the waiting hospital.


Next day I'm there to pick you up. Fully dressed this time, you tease. I'm naked under my coat, you may guess.

As if sympathetic to my urges, driving away from the hospital, rain starts to splash down again.

Passing deserted green fields, I notice a lay-by and pull over. Get out and close my coat round me.

"What did you have in mind?" You call out, then notice the puddle I stand over.

Peering down, you see it reflects straight up my coat, what you only suspected before. For a moment, the ripples steady and you get a clear, upside-down mirror view of my own dripping downpour.

Under trees and in dirty grass again.

Now we can take our time... if we choose.


Tuesday, 8 June 2010

Alison Tyler's 'Smut Marathon'

By way of an introduction, I thought it best to show what I write about. I prefer to call it erotica, others call it smut.

So on another blog entirely, I'm entrant - 1 of 15 - in Alison Tyler's first 'smut marathon'. Which is like the usual smut competition but on-going, by process of elimination.

The theme of the first contest is 'twist'. To be written in 250 words or less.

Round one is already up, and the URL is:

May the best erotica win.