An erotic short story, in just 250 words.
(see: http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/06/give-it-twist.html)
* * *
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...
"Stick?"
A gasp. "Twist!"
Deeper, harder...
Swing my legs over your shoulders.
"Stick?"
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.
Sticky.
Twist from you. Your turn to lie. Mine to ask.
"Stick?"
"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...
"Stick?"
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.
Busting...
And let you flavour my tongue.
Sweet stickiness twisting down my throat...
*end*
- - - - - - -
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:
http://sandrine-lopez.livejournal.com/#post-sandrine_lopez-4273
Sunday 13 June 2010
Alison Tyler's 'Smut Marathon': Round One Results
It says it all on her blog, so:
http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/06/everyones-winner-baby-thats-truth.html
- 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.
Sandrine
http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/2010/06/everyones-winner-baby-thats-truth.html
- 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.
Sandrine
'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.
*end*
* * *
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.
*end*
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:
http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/
May the best erotica win.
Sandrine
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:
http://smutmarathon.blogspot.com/
May the best erotica win.
Sandrine
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