Sunday, 18 September 2011

'Song Of Solomon'

by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

News, good or bad, travels fast but these were head on, a train wreck of colliding ideals.

For Sol, it was something to believe in, made redundant in the recession. For Vix, something giving meaning to their relationship, of a few years. Sol had grown distant, distracted by job seeking, feelings of worthlessness, not even interested in her, emotionally or intimately. She hoped it didn't mean he'd met someone else, in widening social circles of career centres and interviews.

That evening, they both reached their flat together. Vix could see a renewed light in Sol's eyes. Has he guessed, she thought. Or perhaps he's finally got a job!

As they got in, both started, "I've got something to tell... " before stopping and laughing.

"You first." said Vix, glowing with anticipation.

"I don't know how to explain..." Sol started, smiling. The first time Vix had seen him genuinely happy since being jobless "I met these people a while back, and we got talking. They were from church, and seemed so friendly."

Oh, thought Vix, who was a humanist, an atheist.

"I'd never really thought much about God but what they said made sense after all I've been through. I... gave myself to God today." He beamed the smile of someone who had seen the Light. "I'm a born-again Christian."

"Right... " Vix replied slowly, uncertain of how to take it.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Sol looked in her eyes for confirmation. Vix tried to nod, then shake her head, rolling it bewildered.

Sol tried to break the awkwardness, "What's your good news?"

Vix opened her mouth soundlessly, a tear rolled down her cheek.

"I'm... pregnant."


They sat at opposite ends of the sofa. Vix tried to make light of Sol's news with a half joke, "I suppose that means a celebratory shag is out of the question?" She felt like she hadn't been touched, let alone held, kissed or fucked in years, instead of weeks.

Sol frowned. Bad move, Vix thought. Shit, another girl is bad enough but how do you compete against God!?

"I thought you'd be happy for me." Sol broke the silence.

"Yes... " Vix replied, meaning no, "You're happy, I can see that." More tears rolled down her cheeks. "Are you happy about... ? " She held her stomach, the weeks old baby-to-be within.

Sol couldn't return the sentiment. "I need to pr... think... about it." The aborted word was pray. For what, Vix thought? Her lost soul? Forgiveness? That they never got involved?

"Fine." Vix said, standing. "I suppose I... we.... should go." The change, including the young life within her, was intended to cut. Back to my parents, she guessed. How the fuck do I explain...

Sol stood and held open his arms, realising he wasn't meshing his new Christian outlook with reality. Reluctantly, Vix fell into them, sobbing.

"I still love you Vix... " she heard him say, "Perhaps more now than ever, but... "

But, Vix thought, I'll always be second fiddle to... Him.

She still had no option, tearing herself away to pack a bag, and face the music of her Mum and Dad.


"Don't worry dear, I'm sure he'll get over it." Mum said, as she plonked tea in front of a tear-stained Vix.

"For pity's sake Mum," Vix replied, "It's not an illness, like flu." Sick in the head maybe...

Dad was more pragmatic. The death of a young nephew years back waylaid his faith. Difficult to believe in an all-knowing, all-loving God when a beautiful, lively child had died tragically. Vix had followed in his footsteps, recalling the wail of despair at the news... the only time she had seen him cry.

"You two need to talk." He said, "I mean, it's not like he's done anything bad, is it?"

Bad? Vix recalled listening to a Richard Dawkins lecture, about delusions of God people held. What made them cling to superstition, believing in myth and creation over truth and evolution, against overwhelming evidence. She could only see Sol in that misguided light now. Until otherwise, she couldn't bear telling Mum, let alone Dad, that she was going to be a parent too.

That night, in her old bedroom, she hugged herself, wishing Sol was his old self. That like her small, unborn child he was buried inside her, feeling her deep love for him. As had been habit of late, deprived of his body, she let her hand wonder between her thighs, delighting in the sensations before frigging herself to dark, lonely sleep, wishing of him.


It was the weekend before Vix plucked up the courage to return. Sol wasn't there but astonishingly, the flat had been tidied, polished, even hoovered. That was so unlike him. Had they brainwashed him? Drummed in an Eleventh Commandment... thou shall do the housekeeping? A single good thing out of bad.

Being 'home' made her needy... too many happy memories returning. Wanting Sol badly but it was unlikely he'd be up for a shag. Ever. If out for his usual Saturday wander, it'll be hours before he returned. Not even caring to undress she got her vibe out and threw herself on the bed.

On her back she teased its shivering length over her drenched panties before tugging them off and pushing it gently in. Its shaking sensations were no substitute but you make do. Thighs widening, skirt hitched up, she fumbled inside her blouse, tore inside her bra to massage her nip, as the other hand guided the vibe around and in. She hadn't used it in a while, preferring the natural warmth and skin of her fingers, and the batteries were dying, a low throbbing but that was better than its high, bee buzz, setting. She imagined Sol inside her, vibrant, hard, hot, losing herself to fantasy. Her 'God'... passionate, full of fire, creating worlds, a whole universe, of pleasure within...

Her urgency to be hammered gatecrashed any modesty and, grappling the skirt zip to loosen it, ripping open her blouse and tugging the bra free to rub her breasts, she thrust the vibe deep inside her wet cunt, ground it over her clit and in, over and in, over... in... She lost control almost instantly, ripples of raw ecstasy shuddering over the rubbery shaft, cries and squeals torn from her throat. As her orgasm crashed through her, Vix pulled the vibe out, letting its warmed, wet shimmies play on the sensitive skin above her muff... more dirty dreamings of Sol cumming on her, the hot spurts sizzling and arousing. Fuck, that used to be so horny...

Tears of bittersweet relief streaming from her eyes, she tossed her head to one side and saw...

Sol was in the bedroom door, holding a shopping bag, watching with shocked expression. Dizzy from her climax, she struggled to sit, pull her skirt down, her blouse together but by the time she had, all that was left of Sol was the loud slamming of the flat door. Gone.

Shit'n'fuck! Vix swore inwardly. If religion hadn't built the coffin for their relationship already, that had nailed it for sure.


Tearful, Vix waited on the sofa all day, and it was dark by the time Sol returned. No lights on, he assumed she had gone, and started when he realised she was there. She stood and pressed her shaking body against his.

"I'm sorry," she cried, "I don't want to lose you. I miss you that much."

Sol held her gently, "I miss you too." And Vix could feel, against her stomach, that he did. "But we need some... self control."

She nodded an understanding she didn't have. Make it work, she thought, do what he wants. For now. Don't throw it all away...

As he wiped away her tears, she asked, "What can I do to make it up to you?"

Sol realised he was almost asking the impossible but she had to have faith in him, his new friends. "Would you... come to church with me? Tomorrow?"

Vix sighed. It meant nothing to her but, yes, for him... she agreed.


It wasn't so much unpleasant as just lost on Vix. A community church, evangelical. What they called low religion, less ritual and more social. Lots of hugging and smiles. But there seemed a blind, sheep-like following to the leaders, the elders. Do as you're told. It clashed with her ideas about questioning. Parrot-fashion recitals from a book two millennia past its sell by.

After the lessons, there was fellowship. More mixing and hugging people you didn't know but had common faith in God. Trying to smile alongside Sol, they became a faceless crowd to Vix.

Except one among the milling multitude that suddenly shook her. Oh my god... him!


She had a vision... flashback a few weeks.

Andi's party. Sol was working late, bless, so she'd gone alone. Too much drink, uppers and pounding tunes were potent uncaring aphrodisiacs. Vix slammed her body round the lounge dance space until she collided with his... Nick, mate of a friend of Mel's. Gorge, deep blue eyes and a dark devilish goatee. Wasn't long before they were wrapped round each other on the sofa, snogging like there's no tomorrow. Her hand slipped inside his jeans, stroked his massive dick, while his clawed up her dress, inside her knix and pummeled the pounding wet heat of her vaj until suddenly, she came on his fingers with loud urgent pants, smothered by his tongue and drowned out by the music. No-one saw or cared, each lost in their own dances, highs or smoochies...

It was obvious Nick recognised her too. Not knowing where to look...

Shit you're amazing, Nick mouthed to Vix, and half-shouted in her ear, let's fuck! They dragged each other through the loud, writhing party, past couples wrapped in half-dressed ecstasies of their own, floor, stairs, landing. One empty bedroom over the lounge shook from the hellish sound system below, the beats an anthem for their bodies. Vix fumbled with Nick's condom but gave up, lust overwhelming her, just wanting him inside... animal with need. Naked... carnal... savage... Over and over, each fuck mixing with the next. Sun peeking through curtains as the sound system fell silent and they collapsed together, heaving with damp burning exertion and exhilaration...

No words after... just looks. A secret, one-off night of abandon. Forgotten...

Until now.

Vix had got back to the flat by Sunday afternoon. "How was it?" Sol asked. She recalled Nick rocking her world. "Fucking A!" Then she dragged Sol to bed and fucked him too, with every unbound inspiration Nick gave her. "Musta been some hell of a party... " Sol panted as Vix's thighs finally released him. She just nodded, the biggest, silliest, shit-faced grin ever behind her hanging curtain of red hair. That week, Nick was laid off... they hadn't fucked since.

Nick whispered to some other guys, all looking at her. What were they saying? Then she lost them in the crowd.

"What did you think?" Sol asked, beaming, his faith renewed by the service.

Vix was distracted, replying half-heartedly. "Yes, very nice... "

Someone beside pushed paper into her hand. A glimpse of Nick walking quickly away. She couldn't read it with Sol there. It was probably his telephone number. She was left bemused... why would Nick want her when Sol didn't?

At home, while Sol cooked lunch... another good new thing... she opened the crumped note.

It just said, in bold red marker, WHORE!

A terrible accusation but it hinted at the truth.


Vix could barely eat. Sol could sense her tension, even if the threatened tears were not obvious enough. He reached over and held her trembling hand, caringly. "What's the matter, love?"

She had thought the church of ignoring the truth so she had to come clean herself. Confess. She showed Sol the note, and told him the whole sorry, sordid story about Nick. No holds barred. If their relationship was over, perhaps this was the best reason for him, not just her, to say so.

If Sol was angry or saddened, he didn't show it openly. But Vix knew him well enough to know it hurt, deeply. Like those statues of Christ with an open heart, or crying tears of blood. There was a long, contemplative silence before Sol rose slowly, and hugged her. Still caring, loving.

"I forgive you." he told her. "Perhaps I neglected you too much before, working long hours, and then..."

Vix sobbed her heart out, tears of thankful joy for him mixing with the sadness of her betrayal.


In the week, just as Vix was thinking things might just be alright, she bumped into Nick and some of his mates again. Christians they might be, friends through faith of Sol, but they hissed "Whore!", "Witch!" and "Adulteress!". One picked up a stone and aimed it her, slashing her cheek. Vix bit her lip, held her head high, and ignored them as more pebbles bounced off her back. Sol mattered more to her.

That evening, he saw the cut, the blood on her blouse as he sorting the washing. "Nick?" he asked. Vix's tearful silence confirmed it.

"Come to church with me on Sunday." Sol requested. Vix shook her head. "For me?"

Vix sighed. A vague nod.


It was obvious Nick had been spreading the word. Chairs emptied around Sol and Vix, isolating them. Accusing, persecuting glances and stares through the sermons and lessons. When the Leaders and Elders welcomed open prayers from the congregation, Sol stood.

"It's come to my attention that..." he looked around, briefly singling out Nick, "Certain people here have been saying unkind things about Vix." And his hand fell to find hers, resting on her shoulder. "She may not be with us in God, but is this how we welcome people? Make them want to find God, in their own way?"

A lot of eyes followed Sol's gaze to Nick. Surprisingly, he stood defensively.

"Do you know what we... she... did? She forced herself on me" His eyes burned into Vix. " She tempted me."

There was a collective gasp. The church Elders looked at Vix. Their Leader asked, "Is this true?"

Vix nodded but Sol countered, "I say, let they who are without sin cast the first stone. Vix has already confessed her part to me. I say, there was no resistance to any temptation from Nick. Both are equally to blame. Considering who is, and isn't, in God here... which should have been stronger?"

Concerned, the Leader rubbed his chin. "Can all concerned see us afterwards please... "


If Vix was expecting the Spanish Inquisition, she was wrong. Most of the church Leaders and Elders were her parents age or younger, and they expressed a parental concern when discovering she was expecting as well.

She repeated her tale, word for word, with Sol nodding that this was he had been told. No embellishment or exaggeration.

Nick tried to blame Vix for everything. Bumping into him deliberately, touching him down there, even suggesting having sex was her call, her demand. "She was like a woman possessed." The Elder countered why he was at such a party in the first place. That just put him in the way of temptation from anything... drink, drugs, let alone anyone.

There was one consideration Nick knew nothing of. Vix looked at him. "I'm pregnant... what if it's yours?"

Nick went white as death, not having an answer. Sol was equally shocked but held Vix's hand tighter.

"Vix," the Elder addressed her, "You made a bad mistake but you confessed, accepted your blame, and are sorry for it. That counts a lot here. The Good Book says, 'hate the sin, not the sinner'. Sol has forgiven you. As that is his wish, we do too." He smiled at her, and Vix returned it. A sign of mutual respect and understanding across the divide of beliefs. Good and bad on both sides.

As for Nick, he had lied, tried to absolve responsibility, and spread evil words. The Elders said they would deal with him. Vix had visions of a rack before Sol told her it meant serving the community as punishment.

Sol looked at Vix, "What you said... could the baby be Nick's?"

She nodded tearfully, "I messed up. You... him... same day. Could be." She hugged him for dear life. "I've been so dishonest."

Sol got down on one knee. "Then perhaps... I should make an honest woman out of you. Vix, will you marry me, after all this? I'd like the baby to be born inside wedlock, even if..."

"Oh, God yes!" Vix squealed. The Elders looked surprised.

"Oops... sorry." She added. More happy smiles of understanding.


The rest of the year was happier. Vix and Sol came to an understanding not to discuss religion. She let him have his times... grace at meals, time to pray, as long as he didn't ram it down her throat. She even got a letter of apology from Nick.

A registry office marriage was fasttracked, and Sol's church had a blessing ceremony for them.

As Vix got bigger, the Elders invited her in to pray for the baby, lay hands on the growing swell of her stomach.

The baby, a young girl, was born on Christmas Day. Like Joseph before him, Sol wasn't the actual father witnessing the birth. Another miracle, even if the conception was less than immaculate.

Would Sol have forgiven this and Nick, Vix thought, if he hadn't found God? For once she let Him, if he existed, have that one, and said a small prayer of thanks to existence, however it got there - divine creation or big bang - if nothing else...


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

I can't remember what the exact inspiration for this was... I know I was searching through my own experiences, as I tend to, for story ideas. I have to confess I'm the sort of person who likes to make their characters work for their 'rewards'. And good God, did I put poor Vix, the main character, through a literal hell.

I could write for both sides from real experience. I've been an atheist, a born again Christian, an apostate, and went to Anglican, Baptist and Evangelical churches. I didn't want to paint either side as right or wrong, so there is good and bad on both. Vix, the humanist and atheist, makes a mistake. Nick, the Christian, isn't as good as he makes out. Sol tries to do the right things, according to his new beliefs. The Elders too.

All are human. All are fallible.

In accordance with the submission guidelines, this had to be edited down to 2,000 words. The editorial feedback was positive, as I was ' be applauded for taking on potentially controversial subject matter' but in many ways it tried to do too much for a short story, even in this, the original draft, running to just under 3,000 words.

I hope you enjoy it.

'Not So Cold Call'

by Sandrine Lopez

- - - - - - -

I hate being interrupted by the phone when I'm writing but sometimes...

Cradle the phone under my neck and still try to type.


"It's me."

Sometimes, some person, one person in particular at the moment, I don't mind. In fact...

"How are you?"

"Extremely hard. Exceptionally horny."

"That's always good to know." I reply, and try to imagine. You draw and paint, capture images. I've only got words so my thoughts become a stream of nouns, variations on cock, and adjectives like stiff and burning to describe it.

"Not with you absent, it isn't."

"I'm sorry." Type a bit more of my current erotic story in the pause. "Where are you?"


Ooooh, could you be outside, waiting? Writing has got me in the mood...

"Close by?"

"Sadly not."

Unseen by you, I pull a face. I've been typing all morning, and I could do with a break. And some inspiration. Not that I've got a block or anything but you always bring out the best, the filthiest, of my writing.


"No. Still away. In a hotel."

"Shame it's so far." I sigh, "A dirty weekend in a hotel sounds fun."

They tumbled into bed, late on the filthiest of Friday evenings. No plans to leave it through all of Sexy Saturday and perhaps most, if not all, of Sordid Sunday... in all for her it was going to be a Wicked Willy-filled Weekend.

"It's not the weekend."

"I'll make do." I laugh.

Another pause.

"What are you doing?" You ask.

"Writing. Still."

"Anything dirty?"


"I'm missing you, you know."

My eyes water slightly. A twinge in my heart. Butterfly fluttering in my belly, and lower down.

He left a gap in her days, her soul, her body, something only he and he alone could fill...

"I miss you too. Loads."

"Wish you were here."

"Me too."

Another awkward pause.

"Do you know what I'm doing, right now, while I'm listening to you?"

I blush. It seems fairly obvious.

Stroking his long hard dick. Slow, sensuous caresses, palm over veins, while thinking of her...

"A bit of a waste." I sigh, wishing I was there, more so than moments before. Then it would have been for a nice snuggle. Now...

You say my name, draw it out long and slow, making it into a question.


"You know how I painted you?"

"How could I forget?" You jerking off to get me to play with myself. The sharp intensity of suddenly climaxing in front of you, while you stroked paint onto canvas, stroked yourself yet didn't cum. Until I was ready. Then you, or rather we...

Coupling... long, slow, afternoon fucking...

"That was very inspiring." Another pause. "You use words. Paint me a picture with them?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You've inspired some very special paintings." You tell me. "Tell me what I inspire in you."

"You want me to talk dirty?" I glance around instinctively, even though alone. Typing on a keyboard, jotting notes in a pad, that's easy. Vocalising them, except in privacy and intimacy, I'm not so sure...

"That would be nice." You reply. "Think of it as my story. I paint you. You write me."

The words aren't difficult. They usually come easily.

"How do you want me to start?"

"Describe me. Don't be literal, be creative."

How would I do it with one of my characters? Conjure up a picture, and the most vivid, most recent, is you naked in the studio, as you undressed, standing erect. Ever so fucking erect...

"He was... " I begin, not wanting to fall on cliché descriptions. He didn't paint the surface me, it was always a subtle blend of what I could be, and what he liked, sensed, in me. So... "Being an artist, an expression of confident sensuality that life had painted in the shape of a man."

"That's nice. Not that dirty though."

"I'm getting there. Erotic writing isn't just one fuck after another."

"Now that idea I do like."

"You would."

"And you don't?"

"Didn't say that."

"Then say it. Express it. Get creative on me."

"Are you still jerking off?

I don't have to see his grin. "You tell me."

I've seen how you do it. I know your technique. Describing it shouldn't be... so hard?

So wonderfully, gloriously, deliciously, mouth wateringly - and other things wateringly - hard.

I don't even have to concentrate, call up images in my mind, you just penetrate my thoughts with it, whether I want it or not. And I do want it.

"And being a painting," I continued, savouring the words, my dirty talk, "An expression over reality, he was larger than life. And largest of all was his cock."

There's an appreciative murmur back.

"At least, that was how it expressed itself." My mind wondered, filled with it, "In his hand, stroking it and caressing it like a tame animal in his thrall, it was beautiful and livid, waiting to be unleashed. The ruddy, tight skin and proud, bulging red head as it stood high, made it seem attentive, anticipative, as his master caressed it, cared for it."

"Creative, but still not quite dirty enough..."

"Fuck you!"

"Yes, please!"

Right, you asked for it...

"To absent lovers," I mimicked his voice, by way of introduction "He said, raising his hand as in a mock toast, before bringing it down hard around the hot rigid flesh of his cock. Thinking of her, he kept his hand firm, tight as he knew her cunt was. Ramming his fist up and down, wanting it to be she he was pounding. That she was wrapping her thighs tightly round him, thrusting her hips, her soaked pussy, onto his dick, in time with him..."

A few grunts, a gasp. "Better... "

I could recall him in the studio again. He was almost vicious on himself. How could that not hurt? But then, I wanted that vigorous strength, no holding back, as well, for myself. That finest of lines between pain and pleasure.

As I held the phone to my ear, I could hear his breaths, tearing from his mouth with exertion. Strange to think his lips were almost touching the receiver, as mine were, but separated by so many miles. Kissed it, in the hope he might feel it close to his lips.

His panting, hot breath over the phone. I imagined him, mouth close to my ear, heaving against me.

My free hand falls from the keyboard to settle on my knee. Slowly finds its way up my thigh.

"Still there?" He gasps.

"He pumped his cock into the hot grip of his palm." I carried on, my own increasing breathless lowering to a husky whisper, "Burning dribbles of pre-cum were already issuing from the dark, bruise-coloured tip. As he fucked his fingers harder, he feel the savage sting of his climax busting from his balls, searing its way up inside his stiff shaft until... "

"Yes... ?" You gasp in reply.

"Until... " And I'm already losing myself to the fantasy of your cock, needing to bury itself under my belly and just have its own wicked way, or at least the way I imagine it wants me. My fingernails catch on the thin stretchiness of my panties, tug them out the way.

"Until... ?" You urge.

A slender digit, no match for him, even super-sized by how tenderly sensitive I am, slips inside my cunt. It is swelling and wetting with the thought of him. Hot with the flush of lust.

"Until... he could control himself no more." I murmur sultrily. Because I am losing mine too. "Until he was past the point of no return. No force on God's Earth or universe could stop him. It was a trigger pulled... a shot released... "

Another choked roar of effort, the need to satisfy oneself. Himself. Myself. Ourselves. It began by wanting to be the one to make him cum, so that separated from me he wouldn't wander. But now I'm caught up in his distant climax. I've got him to that point, the edge of that precipice, and I'm teetering with him.

"Ooooh Godddd... " I hear him gasp. Is he cumming already? I bring another finger, then a third, to bear inside. Cup my muff tightly in the heel of my palm. Rub it frantically, up and down, catch the swell of my clit, dry but suddenly awash with the wetness from my flickering, fucking, fingers. I want to be there when he is. At that same moment...

He begins to call my name, swallows on it in mid-syllable, his climax burning into his consciousness until he loses it in some parallel existence of pleasure. Neither aware or unaware, only knowing that total, consummating crash and burn. My hand blurs into how I imagine his moves, needing to free his cum, spurt hotly in the air. I wish I was there to catch it...

He finishes my name, and I know he is finishing his wanking, a fading noise in his throat, transmitted across the miles. And just when I think our crossed moments have passed, I find the trigger for myself, pulling my fingers out and flattening my palm, down, hard, dragging, then up in a long, slow rub over labia, clit and muff to my tum...

A twitch, a shudder, an unfolding, and I fall over the edge with you. You climaxing, letting go, ejaculating high in pulsed white squirts. Me rippling, flowing, trembling, relaxing as only orgasms can. As one, our voices become a single appreciative hum of bliss and physical satisfaction, sharing the telephone line between.

And we hadn't even touched each other.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

- - - - - - - -

Sandrine's notes:

This is the long version of my Twitfic 'Call'. I was halfway through writing it when I decided to have a go at a shorter version for Twitter. Then I came back and finished it. Strange how things work out...

Saturday, 17 September 2011

'The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...'

by Sandrine Lopez


The view from the stage is always frightening, awe-inspiring, but you grow to live with it. Maybe a hundred expectant faces, full house again, waiting for you to entertain and enchant them.

To rapturous, colourful applause I take my place in the loud spotlight, mike in hand, thank the staring unknowns and begin my song. There's a buzz as their eyes falls on me, like a swarm of lazy bees.

'The colour of your words,
The sound of your gaze,

Whispers become tinctured.

This, my song, conveys...'

One gaze on me has the sound of a pitch-perfect tuning fork, lone note among the swarm. My eyes search among black murmurs and scarlet whispers an unvoiced sound. Dark urgent scratches on paper. Nearby to left.

I swirl a little dance, scanning the audience, and catch him in the periphery of rainbow vision. An artist sketching, his intense study whines up and down as his eyes bounce between the stage, me, and his pad.

Found out, deep blue eyes moan into disappointment. He closes his pad and, at the end of my song, as the cacophony of clapping builds up into mixed spectral encores, my artist ups and heads for the door.

The scrape of his chair, the sound of his footfalls, black with sadness.

One chance. I sing and make up the words, the tune, a cappella, as the musicians glance pingily at each other for a cue that will never come.

'Mr Artist, please don't go,
Your sketches enthrall me so.

Show me your etchings,
And I'll sing for you please.

Quiet drawings, loud paintings,

My days are filled with these...'

The crowd are surprised, follow my own silently pleading stare at his back. He turns, aware the crackling spotlight of over two hundred eyes, as well my own, now hold him as unwitting star of my song.

I don't even know his name. But mine is picked out in red posters all over.


A stage name but I know no other now.

I applaud for him, and let him return, resigned to meeting me, as the audience clap too. But I want a private viewing of his work, and introduce the next act before the manager's angry screaming glare kills me, so I can led my artist to my dressing room and see.

"What's your name?" I ask, as the applause fades to grey, and we dodge the dancers waiting in the wings.


A single deep name, blue as his eyes, tinged with passionate purple.

I bite my lip as he tentatively, shyly, shows me his sketches. Only in grey pencil but they are alive with song, not necessarily mine, capturing what I do best. Even if I alone hear it. Maybe his talent will make others think of the music his art inspires.

He has waited in silence, as I scan the few pages he had time for before I outed him. I flip up the next but his hand slaps angry red over mine.

"Please... don't look at that." Frightened, pink shy urgency.

But I already have.

Fully detailed drawings of two lovers entwined in different positions. They are beautiful, well observed and crafted. Then the likeness of them strikes me with a noise like thunder.

The woman is me. And the man him.

My excitement at being the focus of his art had already swelled and wet my appetite.

I'm flattered and scared at the same time. He is handsome, slightly wild, a dream I can never have. And here he is, right next to me. Tears fall from my eyes not because I'm hurt at the pencil premonition, but because it can never be.

"I'm sorry." Lucas apologises, "You shouldn't have seen that... until... "

He can no longer stop my hands as I flick through his pad. More indecent yet astonishingly vivid depictions of us. My face one of bliss, his of untold need and rapture at his cock, hidden inside me and undrawn, only hinted at in blurs of implied sketchiness.

"I want you, Chantal."

I shake my head because, oh my dear God, I want him too. "I can't."

Lucas closes his pad greenly, naively getting the wrong impression.

"Because," I explain simply, greyly, "You might kill me."


His place, later. Not a date but the dropping of delusion.

"I have synaesthesia." His confused stare whines like an anxious puppy.

"It means my senses are mixed. Sounds have colours. Sight has noises. I thought you might have realised from my signature song... "

The Colour Of Your Words, The Sound Of Your Gaze...

"Oh." Lucas replies, his penny not only dropping but rolling around the floor in dizzying, bemused circles. "So you weren't just being lyrical?"

"That's how it is for me." Explanatory azure.

"So why would that kill you?" Puzzled purple.

I sigh a deep yellow sigh. "My synaesthesia is so intense, anything beyond simple experiences could drive me mad. Or my heart just stop beating with shock. Or open up more synaesthesic pathways. Could you handle scents that feel like touches, a field of flowers groping you? The heady bouquet of wine throtting your neck? Tastes that are so strong they deafen or blind you while eating? A sensory overload... It's bad enough now, coping with small audiences, even with therapy to stay focussed at so many distractions. Singing is one discipline for the sound."

"Are you sure?" Queerly coloured question, its meaning multi-hued.

"I'm not a virgin." I sigh, this time sepiaed with history. "I learnt the hard way... "


His name was Vic.

I was 17, he 18.

I thought it would be wonderful, his sweet nothings painting vivid, beautiful colours around us, as he held me, made love to me.

And at first it was.

His cooing, caring whispers were subtle hues and shades in our bed, the like of which I'd never heard before. The soft sound of him in me was warm reddy-orange. The gentle slappy-slap pummelling of his stomach on mine peachy.

His gasps were colourful butterflies dancing in air, my moans and sighs rainbows for them to circle.

All is love. All is hue and light. Fluorescents and pastels.

We did it over and over, new young love wrapped in every colour known. I was too inexperienced to know what 'plateaus' were but each time he satisfied and fulfilled me, I needed him more until my whole body trembled audibly. Then I screamed a long kaleidoscopic cry of absolute ecstasy as he filled me with his heat. Warm hues bled like mixing dyes and crackled together like flames.

I felt his eyes on me, concern he had hurt me. It was the most lifting, pleasurable experience ever. Every part of my soul burned with his love. I felt I would die if he ever left my side.

I very nearly did.

The noise started.

His deep meaningful, caring gaze seemed to hum in my ears. It grew louder, more intense. I must have looked in pain.

"What's wrong?" His look one of traffic loud intenseness.

Make the noise stop, please...

"Tell me what's wrong!" The questioning stare roars like a crowd cheering a sport.

Hands clapped over ears. Stop it, please... !

His eyes terrifyingly penetrated mine. A cacophony of angels singing, bells ringing, the whole noisy world in my head...

Sight became noise became colour became sound.

Over and over.


"It must have been like going insane." Lucas murmured almost inaudibly, neutrally. Understanding.

"It took me months to just acknowledge being alive." Brown statement. "Years before I could even begin to be among people again. Each synaesthesic state set off the other. Singing helped. I could control notes and tones, not let them control me. But that's why I can't be with anyone. Losing that control could..."

Colourless, unfinished. Another sketchy implication.

Lucas spins round on his feet, his swinging gaze dopplering loud then quiet like a resonant lighthouse. He finally stares at the open pad, its most intimate sketch bared to us both. "Then that drawing is as far as we go, together."

"Unless you get me some earplugs. Blindfold and gag yourself so you don't look at me or speak to me." It's intended as a humourless joke. More browniness.

Lucas may be creative but it's not a kinkiness, even as necessity, he can accept. He wants to see the full blossom of my womanhood under him, on him. More inspiration for his sketches. And if I could, I'd be a willing model. He has inspired me to sing once, and I'd like to again.

But for now we have to part on those terms. He is always welcome to my performances, just don't sketch me again.



Strangely I dream in black and white, like old movies of fragments of my life now and then, distorted in that cracked mirror of the subconscious. The only time sound isn't coloured.

I awake with a start, in total darkness, the weird silence only 2a.m. can bring.
Nothing to see, or see me. No sound to be heard, or coloured.

Revelation is black.


Over the phone, Lucas' filtered words have scratchy, child-like scribbly colourings.

Life had dealt me a hand that could have been a gift but had become a gilded cage. I'm working on an escape. Taking back control so I may lose it with him.

A gamble, admittedly.


I wear the dress Lucas sketched me in on stage. I feel like a teenager again, the one who lost her virginity and sanity as one.

Only this time I want it to be different. The sanity part at least.

That nervous tingling anticipation, senses dangerously heightened as my thighs tremble, knees knock a unusual shade of green, until the doorbell rings gold.

It's nearly midnight, black and quiet in the deserted cul-de-sac where home is. Lucas is in shadow but his "Hi!" is brilliant red.

The lighting is low throughout. His gaze a muted murmur of indecision. He knows the stakes too.

I explain quickly, simply, whitely, and can only wish you accept. Together in darkness and silence. Our bodies as one, but never seeing or hearing.

A clutched straw. Sanguine in colour and hope.


We strip by bedlight and lie beside each other before switching it off.

In the near soundless dark, Lucas could be anyone. We daren't even say each other's name yet. But I set about memorising the unique contours of his body with my fingers and lips, that take the place of sight. His artist's eyes sightlessly, noiselessly, paint passion on me with muted kisses and caresses.

It's been over ten years since I last did this. I've read books and magazines, seen films, and tentatively played with myself in place of having no other. Delicately, carefully making sure I still had control where desperately I needed to lose it to enjoy fully. Frustration redefined.

Ten years of wanting, needing. As crammed into these moments as the noise had been in my head, way back. A decade of control fighting to be lost. I think the musical scales to keep me focussed as Lucas' fingers slip their way inside, so big and long compared to mine, yet gentle.

I want to do this, never having the chance before. Take his cock in my palm, cradle it like a microphone, and sing my silent song. Mime to the unheard music with my tongue and lips. A performance to die for.

When he cums, I give a slight pinky hum of surprise as I savor his taste. Hoping to God my pleasure, as well as his, doesn't trigger another unexpected, unwelcome sense. Fuck, his flavour is amazing. Swallow loudly, an off-white gulp.

Lucas lays me back and I let his body cover mine, my thighs wide and welcoming. Our breathing has become all, memories of butterflies and rainbows now vividly re-enacted. Fluttering blindly in the dark, strobe flashes of faint colour.

I want to say his name and can feel he aches to say mine, only once if not over and over, as his damp recovering hardness strokes against my soft yielding pussy. Finds its way in.

"Lucas!" I gasp. His name glows like orange fire in the night. His lips find mine, smooching me into silence again. I'd like to think he's being passionate and lustful but have doubts it's simply to keep me sanely quiet.

Any movement causes sound, and our bed creaks lightning blue flashes. Liquid splashes as he fucks me swirl aquamarine, like sunlight underwater. The scales in my head grow discordant, undisciplined.

With Lucas spent once already, I'm ahead in this race now. I tear his lips from mine.

Fuck sanity.

"Fuck me, Lucas, fuck me... " Blood red, electric blue, vivid violet.

His terror is tension within. My nails claw his back. Insanity's rainbow.

"Chantel..." My name picked out in horrified hues, exploding like a firework. Then he lets go with every fibre of his body. As he fills me he gags me with his tongue again. This time its my other lips singing against the mike of his cock. Sensations and sounds ripple back and forth. His feedback is awesome.



Insanity possesses me, but it is the madness of desire and need, pent up over more years than I care to count. I roll Lucas off and straddle him.

By now, our eyes have grown accustomed to the dimness, and while we don't, shouldn't, see each other properly, we are silhouettes in the dark bluey grey, hints of reflected highlights from the moon through the curtains on our glistening skin.

The bed continues its electric spark creaking, as Lucas bumps his hips up into me. The pleasured pain as he grips my thighs, spreading them wider as I grind myself all over him, is a mix of tastes, all sweet. I squeeze on his shaft as I bounce like a young girl on the trampoline of his groin.

Lucas rests one hand inside my thigh, his thumb rubbing on my clit, his other hand cups a shivering breast and caresses a nipple. Drives me wild.

Being crazy has never been better.


Finally, best of three, he dogs me. Slams my face with a whooshy, feathery lilac thump into pillow, which I bite to stifle my growing need to cry out.

His noise behind me, slappy, thumpy, grindy, is like purple and pink heartbeats. I'm no artist but draw and colour my own version of Lucas' sketch of us doing this in my mind's eye. Detail with psychic pencil every contour and vein of his cock inside me, which the delicate, sensitive folds of my cunt magnify and map out. Try to capture the wetness and vitality on paper. Watercolour would be better, perhaps.

I'd do it better in song. Let the pillow fall from my teeth...

'Mr Artist, fuck me please,
Grind into me, let me squeeze,

Against you, inside me, more.

Pound me Lucas, be real dirty.

Want you to fuck me, for sure.

Cum now, cum sweet, satisfy me... '

And he does.

Where I expected painful spasms in my head I get delicious ones everywhere else.

His hands, one slapping my bum, the other steadying my shoulder. Sour and sweet.

The shuddering thrusts as Lucas's cock gushes into me flavour my tongue with sparkling wine. As intoxicatingly heady. The sensations as I cum too, vibrant ripples between my thighs and stomach, splash like crystal clear spring water in my mouth. Jumbled clutchings at my waist, as he lets me milk every last drop from him, taste like different coloured jelly beans, one after the other, then mixed together.

Finally, like honey, he sticks to my back. Sweetmeat of his skin on mine.

Touch has become flavour. Acquired tastes.

Perhaps with Lucas, I don't mind.


Satisfying himself I am still sane, still his, Lucas cuddles me to sleep. His arms round me, our legs entwined, recall every flavour I've ever enjoyed, each first new satisfying, fulfilling texture on my tongue.

When we wake, still in curtain-pulled semi-darkness, I tell him of my new taste in him. He worries. So do I. But that's life.

I make him promise to teach me how to paint, control colour. If song works with sound, we may cope.


My song gets new last verses.

'The bright hue of your cries,
The taste of your touch,

Sweet flavour 'tween my thighs.

Want you, need you, so much.'

'The quiet song of your look,

I once said never, but then,

Under you my body shook.

Lucas, please fuck me again...'

But they are one-off performances, only for you.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

Saturday, 10 September 2011

'By The Burning Of His Skin...'

by Sandrine Lopez


It was a gorgeous orgasm of a sunset.

The glowing orb plunged into the horizon, splashing red blush over the sky. The seagulls sang at the joining, a sympathetic climax in urgent bird cries.

Louise stood in aroused awe, at the consummation in scarlet light and fire.

Self-admittedly, she had a fetish for red. Guys wearing red tight-fitting, sport tops. Driving racy bright-red cars, guaranteed to get her red-bloodedness flowing. Ginger tops... deeper the hue, longer and thicker the strands, much the better. She could run her fingers through that forever, revelling in the beauty of its flaming colour.

Now the very air itself was pure red. Louise's pulse raced, as she considered how hot it made everything, everyone, on the beach look.

As the red sun penetrated, disappeared, into the sea, she saw him.

His hair was bright, almost unnaturally red. A blazing shock of waves from under his cap. Even with the fading crimson sunset illuminating him, she could tell he was burnt, almost lobster-red. Louise was mesmerised by the sore reddening of his skin.

She had to find out more.

Shimmying through the crowd, Louise made her way to his side. As if formed from her innate desires, he also wore a faded reddish tee, separating dark shorts and shades.


Her heart pounded, matching the beats of the drumming beach party anthems. The day's heat had already made Louise glow with perspiration. She was aware of the dampness in her kini pants. How perky she was through her top. If that wasn't a red rag to any bull of a guy, she didn't know what was.

Stuff silly intros, she thought, go for the kill.

Louise took his raw jaw firmly in her fingers, turned his face to hers, inhaling the strong coconutty scent of sunblock, and kissed his lips before he could react. It quickly became a snog, as her arms draped round his neck. His surprise softened into returned enjoyment. Her tongue swirled into his mouth. Pleasure as he tasted back. She forgot his soreness, her body closing in around him. One bare leg rising to wrap round his thigh.

"Woooo, Roy!" One of his mates called, "Who's your friend?"

Through Louise's embrace, a shrug.

His mates applauded. Louise didn't relent. Only the need to breath again tore them apart.

"Hi!" Roy finally found his voice.

Louise gasped back, "Hey."

"What was that for?"

Aware of the attention - very aroused attention, if the unsubtle stretching of Roy and his mate's shorts were indication - Louise whispered in his ear and led him away, to the fanfare of more clapping, whistles and cheers.


Louise couldn't stop smoothing Roy's immaculate ruddy skin. Covering his muscular arm, the toned redness of his legs and, as he shed his tee, the burning firmness of his body above his shorts. He must have been topless most of the day.

"Wow, you weren't kidding." Roy murmured, "You really are into red."

"Is it sore?" she asked, hypnotised by the colour. It fired her like no other guy had.

He smiled as her hands explored. "In a nice way, when you do that."

The sky now graduated from dying flame through ultramarine overhead, to a spreading deep purple. Under it, they lay on a towel spread over still warm sand, in a private niche of a cove. Far enough from party voyeurs, yet near enough to hear the music. The not-so-subtle pounding soundtrack to their love-making.

Or would be. After considerable time making out, Roy wasn't exactly pouncing like Louise wanted. He hadn't been so coy when being snogged in front of his mates.

"Tell me?" she asked.

Roy had kept his shades on until now.

"I'm just not used to... this kinda attention. Usually girls are a bit freaked."

"You mean the hairdye?" Louise giggled. "Shit no, I've used that colour myself!" She looked him in the eyes. Caught the flutter as his gaze darted, as if nervously, from one eye to the other, as if searching for meaning. Only it didn't stop. He had a twitch. Looking closer, the ghost rim of contacts.

Reflecting the sunset behind her, his eyes had a hint of wine red. She could get quite intoxicated on those.

"The contacts don't put me off, either." Louise cooed, tenderly.

Hardly freaky. Self-conscious softie.

She didn't want to be tender. Urges to be vigorous. In the moment. Her blood was boiling, red-lining beyond unvirtuous appetite.

Reassured, Roy put his arm around her. It was difficult for Louise to just cuddle. Just lie there taking in hussshhhh-ssshhhh of the waves lapping on sand, as if nature were telling her to take it easy.

With measured intent, Louise curled round him. Hand on chest, counting the thumpity-thumps of his heart, wondering if he could feel hers, drumming away in rapid time to the party anthems. Pressing against that delicious scarlet skin. Keeping her inner animal leashed, for now. Each move a calming, coaxing massage, not the hot rough ride yearned.

"Are you cold?" Roy asked.

As if! Louise squirmed closer. Becoming as one with him as possible without... actually...

"You're shaking." He added.

Yeah, the DTs... delicious titillation... dirty trembles... denied tongue...

Denied no more. She went for the win again, gagging him with her lips. Tasting the inside of his mouth. Her thigh had long edged up over his shorts. Super-sensitive skin feeling how blissfully hard his cock was through them.

She was surprised when, while still snogging, Roy gently pushed her thigh down again. Instead of showing annoyance, Louise slid her hand down his stomach, lower still, easing into his shorts for an exquisite massage of...

More frustratingly, Roy delicately took her wrist and stopped her fanciful fishing trip. Only letting go when her fingers were safely outside his shorts.

Fuck this! Louise thought. If he's not in the mood, I am. I'll have my own fun, and if he wants to join in...

Her finger delved down again. Into her indelicately dampened kini pants. Their lips still locked, she gave an almost inaudible sigh as her nails teased the bare sensitive mound. Let the tips part herself until the tender bud of her clit trembled under her touch. With no desire to hide her urges, the massages quickly became vigourous rubs. Louise moved her thighs apart as far as their embrace allowed, so she could manoeuvre a finger into the slippery eagerness of her cunt.

As the tingles intensified, spreading through her body, Louise pressed home her killer snog. Her hand pushed and rocked deeper, quickening until...

Just as she was about to get off, smooching Roy mercilessly as she shamelessly fucked herself with two fingers, he drew back for air, asking, "Are you doing what I think..?"

Shit! Louise cried inwardly, on orgasm's edge. Not now...

She gnawed her lip, eyes struggling from closing so she could relish his burnt face.

"Just... keep..." Her words, gasping. Her body began to tense and let go in climax. She couldn't stop the tumbling avalanche of arousal as a nail found her g-spot. Then no force in nature could prevent her from coming.

"Kiss..." Louise's mouth jumped his, tongue flung between his lips, penetrating his yelp as she came. Half-sprawled, half-collapsed, her body twitched with pleasure, splashing out in tidal waves as her own skin flushed almost as red as Roy's.

She sucked in breaths as tiny sobs of ecstasy, embarrassed at the show she had given. Roy had pushed his tongue into her mouth, another delightful trigger for her orgasm. She let her mouth drop from his, her head nuzzling down his neck until it rested on his chest. All she could hear was his pounding heart, drumming faster than the distant club beats. She was pleasingly surprised when he stroked her head softly, sympathetically. Brushing her hair from the clinging veneer of perspiration coating her trembling shoulders.

They lay like that for several long silent minutes, as the glow of Louise's orgasm flowed through her, warming them against the cooling summer night.

"That was... awesome." Roy finally whispered. "I've never seen... had a girl... well, do that for me."

Louise still felt she couldn't look him in the face quite yet. Her eyes focussed down his red body to his shorts... the hard cock pulling them taut. Tentatively, her fingers crept down to it again, until her hand was intercepted once more.

"Why the frights?" she asked, too directly. "Am I coming on too strong? Are you a virgin?"

"'Course not!"

"Then what!?"

Roy gnawed his lip. Let Louise put her hand on his shorts this time. She edged the waistband down to reveal unburnt skin. Even in twilight she could tell it was unnaturally pale, almost white. She pulled more away until she could, at last, see his erect cock. That was pasty also, contrasting against reddish-mauve veins and engorged blood stiffening it. After a moment, he pulled the shorts back up.

"You see?"

Louise wasn't quite sure what she had seen. The ruby-like veins were quite a turn-on. Never before had they seemed so vivid, so etched out of a guy's skin, like raspberry ripple. It just made her hornier, if possible.

Their eyes met, "So you burn well and don't tan."

"You've seen my lens? Prepare yourself for a shock." He dabbed each eyeball with a finger and took them out. His irises were deep pinky-red.

Louise sucked in a low breath.

Roy began to put one lens in again quickly, "I knew it was a mistake..."

"No, no!" Louise caught his wrist. Let him put them away before staring into the gorgeously red eyes. Not quite red but close. Forget blues, greens and browns, here were a couple of gazes she could quite fall into.


"So you're not freaked?" Roy asked.

"Fuck no!" Louise muttered, mesmerised. "You're an albino?"

Roy nodded. "I prefer 'has albinism'. It's a condition. Not what I am."

"You know much I love red..."

"Yeah but... it's still a shock for some. Especially up close."

Louise couldn't stop looking with full-on attraction. "They're beautiful."

Even burnt, Roy was obviously glowing with embarrassment. "Really?"

"Oh fuck yes!" She leaned forward. "Smooch?"

Roy closed his eyes and puckered.

"No... eyes open."

Roy smiled and did as he was told, looking into each other across the tiny gulf of a deep, lingering snog.

Surfacing, minutes later, Louise asked, "So, now I don't mind, do you still wanna... y'know?"

It was late, edging into morning. The town lights were dimming, the club sounds muted. Even the whoosing tide had slipped down the beach to give them some privacy.

Roy had an idea and, whispering in her ear, took Louise's hand and gathered up their stuff.


It took some while to reach his small room. A converted attic, with low ceilings and a dormer window, in a back-end of town B&B without even a seaview.

"So what was it you wanted to show me?" Louise asked.

"Patience, hon."

"Been too fucking patient all evening so far."

Roy fumbled in a bag and produced some condoms.

"Can we use mine?" Louise likewise dug in her bag and pulled out some square sachets. Tore one open to reveal...

"Red condoms?"

"Naturally." Louise giggled.

"They look like kiddies balloons!"

"So let's party!" Louise said, pushing him on the bed playfully and tugging his shorts off. In the dim lamplight, his chalky unburnt skin didn't seem so stark. Highlights for the skin, she thought. Why fucking not?

She straddled his knees, soothing the coloured latex softly over his nicely-sized cock.

"Well it doesn't quite match your complexion." Louise joked, kneeling up to consider her handiwork, "But I'll make do..." Then she started giving him the gate-crasher of all blowjobs.

"Jeez Looooouise!" Roy hissed through gritted teeth as her energentic sucking and palming sent his mind sizzling through the top of his skull. Louise chuckled, or as close as with a mouth full of condom-flavoured cock, as his jac heated her tongue and squished pleasantly in the latex bubble. She flicked it around, making Roy give out moans of indelicate ecstasy.

"My turn!" Louise said, stroking the limp limb playfully with her nails.

"Fuck! You're insatiable..." Roy's voice was a hoarse whisper as he gathered his shattered senses.

"If you weren't the colour of boiled lobster, I might be able to resist you... just."

She let him tissue away and bin the used condom before assailing him with another red rubber, as her horniness fingered him to rock readiness again.

"Do you have a favourite position?" Roy asked. Louise got on all fours and hunched her face on the pillow. With her still on it, Roy tugged the bed round until she faced the dormer.

"Hey!" Louise protested. She eyed the horizon, contrasting with backlit sky, through the window suspiciously. Almost morning already? "You haven't got a mate with a cam out there, have you?"

Roy pointed out, grinning, "Smile for 'You've Been Framed'! Course not!" He slapped her bum playfully. "This is what I wanted to show you. Ready?"

"Like you need to ask, redskin?"

He was kneeling behind her, pushing inside slowly. Louise gnawed her smirk with a satisfied sigh. Imagined his burning skin, the red hair, the glowing fulfilment. Blood-hardened skin surging through blood-swollen, horny sensitivities. She had been on simmer for way too long.

Roy gyrated his hips, wriggling and plunging, pulling and stirring. One hand edged up her back, steadied her shoulder, the other caressing, guiding her hips back to his with indulgent rhythm. Louise saw his game, and raised it briskly, complementing his flow and ebb, until they rocked as one.

She remembered the Sun, searing into the sea. His heat was solar, blazing through her cunt, changing its nature forever. Her breathing had been irregular, aroused and erratic, ever since she saw him. Now it came in staggered little eeks and low staccato moans as he filled her, pumped her. And she pumped right back.

There was a flash of red light in her half-closed, rolling eyes.

A hard slap to her buttock, and Roy's hand on her shoulder pointed. The room was filled with scarlet fire as the Sun's first red rays camera-flashed through the window. Dawn. A big, beautiful red-sky-at-morning, more fiery than the sunset. Louise became one with it, wild fantasies as light squinted into her thoughts, charged through her excited nerves to meet the pending climax of Roy coming hard into her. Of the roaring, the bell-ringing, in her ears, and the completely-off-her-face sensation squelching and pulsing round him. Her eeks not so little now, her moans high and loud.

The Sun warmed the room but Louise was already outshining it. She collapsed on the sheets with Roy tumbling nicely on her scorched bare back. His weight wonderful on her body, his cock still twitching inside, making her quiver, as the aftershocks of sex subsided through them.

"Good morning, red-hot lover." Roy whispered in Louise's ear.


Sandrine's notes:

This was my submission for Filament magazine's 'Red' issue way back... whenever. But it didn't even get a response, let alone feedback. Perhaps it wasn't that good, or pushed the 'red' a bit too much...

Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog

Thursday, 1 September 2011

'Shape Of Desire'

by Sandrine Lopez

Do wishes, dreams, fantasies, have edges? A shape you can define... ?

Mine is slender. just enough curve to keep guys interested. Not that there's any lack. But I'm loyalty, faithfulness, defined. I love my boyfriend John. It's nearly our first anniversary together.

Then why am I so... bored?

He's not far off tall, handsome, dark. But somehow, somewhen, we got in a rut. The physical side of things, so wonderful at first...

"John, it's a bit late? I've got shitloads of stuff to do tomorrow... "

His hand creeps up my thigh. I want him too, but there have few nights recently where we haven't. Trying to be responsible here...

"Stop it!" I slap his hand away, playfully, as forcefully as my dwindling resistance allows. He doesn't believe me. To be honest, neither do I.

"You know you want to... " He nibbles my ear, pokes his tongue in...

Giggling like a little girl, I playfight him off. He can't keep his hands off me. Not long after, I can't help myself either.

"Tit for tat!" I yelp, dragging his shirt off as he fairly rips my blouse open. "Hey, play nice, I need that later."

He laughs at the word 'tit'... typical! His bare arms show nice tats too... I run my tongue up one, tasting his arty scars. His searches out my exposed nipple, suckles it, then more of me, into submission.

We're a writhing, barely dressed, chuckling twist of entwined limbs, joined bodies. The fun of mock wrestling melts into the joy of shared, heightened pleasures.

We giggle after too, like naughty kids...

Memories, the feel of him still on me. In me...

When did that stop, John? Where did the fun go? We're more schedule than spontaneity now.

Yes, busy work lives... tick. Don't live together yet, own homes to run... check. It's still good but fucking him, and him fucking right back, should be mind blowing. Knocking socks off. Tickles all over. Forgeting who I am! Like it used to.

Where was I? Oh yes... shapes of desire.

I guess our relationship has gone square now. We're two lines, opposite sides, of a box, separated by routine and habit. It happens...

Our anniversary is next weekend. I plan cards, gifts, surprises, as any girlfriend should. And, down the pub after work, chat with mates about them.

"You think John'll like this?" I go through my checklist, after the latest spending spree. A quiet murmur of 'uh huhs' and 'yups'.

They're not even looking.

I follow their stares. As one eight-eyed creature, a quartet of female lust has homed in on the very cute bit of guy ass, tight slacks draped to perfection, hanging from the bar. Very nice, but...

Back to reality. One more round, then home to party plan.

I'm surprised no-one fights me to get the drinks. As luck has it I find a space next to Mr Cute Ass. Intuition tells me four pairs of laser sharp sight are burning holes in his bum.

"Hiiiiiii!" A smooth voice, deep with intent. Sing-song tones. Embrace, snog, and 'sleep with me', rolled into one short word. I sense, rather than hear, the collective gasp behind me. Part of me I thought dormant stirs.

I rattle off my order, about to pay when a dark, chocolate-coloured hand waves a twenty.

"My pleasure, for you girls." I've resisted so far but now have to look him in the eyes, sultry brown, molten cocoa, a gaze that penetrates like...

Pins and needles...

"Thank you." I blush. He tsks and shakes his head. Takes my chin in a strong, gentle palm and kisses me fully. My pursed lips suddenly unlocked by the key of his tongue.

"No, thank you." My body takes moments to catch up with my whirling mind. His taste in my mouth lingering. When my eyes open - shit... when did I close them? - he's gone.

"Your change, miss?" The barman drops coins in my hand, along with a slip of paper. One lapse of consciousness later, I'm sitting at the table again, surrounding by open mouths and wide eyes.

"You absolutely lucky slut!" Laughter all round.

Swig my drink down in one. "Sorry girls, love and leave... "

Standing, I drop the coins in my purse and uncrumple the receipt, only it's not. A name and a number. It can only be Mr Chocolate. I should throw it but instead...

Good evening, this is your wake up call.


I am getting to that shape... believe me.

Without even knowing, John and I have dwindled to two points.

A third point makes a triangle.

His name is Clem.

Amidst preparations, my thoughts drift to Mr Made-Of-Chocolate Clem. Chocolate is my weakness. Now the god of Chocolate tempts me even further. Not talking calories or pounds added to my weight but whole fucking kilos. Of him. On me. Fucking.

A single taste, like a drug, expands to addiction. A name and number. Stare at it for whole lunch breaks alone, John-less nights. A need. A fix.

I wake in the John-less bed, the night before our anniversary eve, dark around me closing like a sheet manifestation of Clem, until it presses on my bare hot skin. Then realise my fingers are between my widened thighs, delving, slipping into heated wetness, digging further...

Another embodiment, wishful naked urges, of him.

Cold sweats. Hot flushes.

My lust is wide-eyed awake now. I need to nip its bud that evening after work. Call him to decline, politely.

Only it doesn't quite work out that way.

"Let's meet and talk about it." His deep, mesmerising voice suggests.

I can but obey.


When I get to the bar, the same we met in, Clem is chatting away with an all-too-familiar face.


I feel like I've been set up. Entrapped. Then realise it's John's regular too - where we met. Habit made me careless. Coincidence brought them together. Biting my lip, I step forward and say, "Hi."

Both John and Clem turn, thinking I'm addressing them alone. In a single motion, they lean to kiss me...

I should be glad, somehow, but can only wince when they pause, glance at each other and...




A moment everyone tries to avoid. Do I fancy Clem? If I'm honest...? Do I still want John? Think so. Rules tend to say, end one relationship before starting another. Get over it. Clear rebound territory. Unless you drop someone for another. Not the first time, I doubt the last. On the other hand, the first law of wing-walking says...

Decisively, John hugs me and kisses with passion. It's like home, welcoming and comfortable. Familiar. Yet that can breed contempt. Has it already?

Then, as if challenged, Clem sweeps me in his arms, plows a burning channel between my lips with his tongue again, one side to other, before letting go. The pins and needles return, vengefully, pricking where I'm most sensitive. Arousal redlines into breathlessness.

I've barely steadied when John takes me, a heart-stopping smooch you only dream about, his hands almost crushing my pelvis into his groin. The largest erection ever awaits, separated only by fabric, decency and time... mainstays of civilisation. My insides do a heated, soaked, backflip at its pressure.

It's probably the crudest of clichés but Clem is now a wild tribesman, claiming his woman. With a low growl, his embrace is untamed, animal, predator on prey. His kiss is ownership, body and soul. What he lacks in size he makes up for in compact hardness, jungle diamond, cutting through my glass relationship. Forget him, his mouth explains wordlessly, I am all you will ever need...

Score at half-time... two-all. Just.

The barman slams his palm on the top. "Oi, you three... if you want to cause a scene, do it outside!"

We've acquired a small audience around the pub. I take John and Clem, one on each arm, and we exit hastily, stage left.


My nearby studio flat.

I can sense John wanting to protect me but Clem is laid back. As if he can taste victory in my attraction, a humid panting need, alone. Bring it on, his body language responds to my excitement and John's petulance equally. I angle myself between them.

"Look," I begin, "It's all a big misunderstanding... "

"He is your man, yes?" Clem has an uncanny grasp of the obvious. I nod, shamefaced. He roars with laughter. "He is handsome. I like him."

A pause while I pick my jaw up from the floor. Then John's which is beside it.

"I am new in town. Making friends. I like you both to be my friends, yes?"

As disarming apologies go, that's pretty unbeatable. All's well that's ends well, you're probably thinking. That's not really a triangle, is it?

It gets better. Or worse, depending on your point of view...

Clem embraces us both, group hug all round. He looks at John, kisses me again, deeply, passionately, with a laugh. We all laugh. Then he looks at me, kisses John with the same vigour, and roars with joy. John and I, sort of, don't...

"All friends!" Clem claims.

Excuse me while I check that dictionary definition again... ?

"You do not mind I chat your man up?"

Normally I'd be jealousy personified if another girl so much as glanced at John. Even though I think things have cooled, I understand how he feels. But another guy?

Am I smirking now at the thought Clem was actually hitting on John in the pub as well?

"So... " Searching for polite ways to ask, "'re bi?"

Clem spreads his palms outwards, "Girls... guys... why discriminate? I love you all."

I am so glad that's sorted.

"But I am better lover. The best. Fact."

If ever a more daring gauntlet had been thrown down, I'd like to hear. I'll admit Clem has the edge. John plays safe - symphony compared to jazz. Once I learned John's tunes, able to sing duets with him, I always knew where the notes were going. Clem improvises, makes it up as he goes. It's all new. That's his appeal.

"I think... " I begin, surprising myself, "I'd like proof of that."

Clem folds his arms, nods knowingly at John. "The lady has tasted, and finds you wanting."

Thanks Clem... wouldn't have put it quite so indelicately. But yeah, with you in spirit...

To my further surprise, John picks up that gauntlet - sorry for mixing metaphors but things are now pretty stirred anyway - and runs with it.

"Perhaps," he tells me, "Clem is right. You're not as good a kisser as he is."

Now I'm jealous.

Triangles were never this complicated in simple geometry...


My bed, more specifically my naked body, has become a game board. Black versus white, like chess, dark against light, as far as my guys are concerned. Competitive sex, winner takes...

Hey, did anyone actually decide what the prize was?

Clem and John, bare as myself, one either side, pick up from where they were in the pub. My lips bounce between theirs, mulling on their respective snogs. Clem still the innovator, explorer of every part of my mouth, kissing so hard he almost grinds our teeth together, setting me in exhilarated edge. John there to caress and comfort with his tongue.

Their bodies advance over mine, a creeping barrage of skin, hot flesh pressed, sometimes slipping over, or sticking to, the damp perspiration slowly covering us all. I can hear their hearts in stereo, and when they synchronise, it makes my own pound faster, match the rhythm.

My head cradled in John's arm, and with his free hand, habitual stroking I know so well. Clem breaks formation, kneels up to use both hands on me, in tandem with his mouth, fingers and tongue in deft manoeuvres down from my neck, gently attacking a breast, claiming the nipple on it, finding ribs under skin, falling into my belly button. Then the last push towards my exposed muff, and beyond...

Dark plays to win.

John flips over, his lips and tongue at my toes, quivering over them, alternating suckles and licks, then working upwards. It's an old trick but massaging my legs relaxes me blissfully. Thumbing my calves, a hand strongly pummling each thigh, he gains territory like a pro.

Light... my fire.

To John, I am home ground, experience the advantage. Clem strikes me as always on guard, learning with every step. Each taste of me remains fresh to him. I gain from his child-like elation, permeating with new discovery.

The two players raise the stakes of the game. Touch and tease burns into naked arousal, appetites to be satisfied. I've been hot since John's first kiss, horny after Clem's, now my blood boils as both seek to better the other. I might be the trophy but it's win-win for me either way...

For the first time, their hands meet over my mons, pausing in a finger face-off. Clem slips down, easing my parted thighs wider with a slight flick. John cups my whole pussy in his palm, blocking him as one tip swirls deeper into my softly soaked slit. Suddenly the oppressive proximity, the subtle drowning in two men, means nothing compared to that first tender penetration. The one spot round John's finger is all I am, and it finds voice in a single shuddering gasp. Need in hands searching, finding steadiness by gripping a rigid erection near each hip.

I can sense Clem batting John's hand aside, then... intimate sensitivity counts two, three, all four of his fingers, powerful and long, slicing, rippling inside. John's single finger was bliss, Clem is pleasure almost to pain, as I'm stretched, opened. Just as I think, body and mind on fire, that awe - delight and fear - can go no further, John is there too.

Somehow he worms index finger and thumb alongside, tight against each other, then parts them delicately inside me. Widens them, widens me until I can take no more. He gently grips Clem's fingers and eases them back out, massages his palm slowly over my whole aching cunt, soothing me towards a resolution for round one. The release makes me spasm involuntarily under his welcome caress. As I climax loudly, both John and Clem find a side of my open crying mouth and kiss it.

"So I was better, yes?" Clem sounds less certain now.

The room, their two faces so close to mine, stops spinning through the afterimage fireworks of orgasm. Pale sun of John, dark eclipse of Clem...

"Together... " I gasp, "You were both incredible... together." Not exactly a lie but would familiarity with Clem diminish sex the same way as had with John? Maybe competitiveness makes both keener, stops either from becoming complacent.

I want to know more... want both inside me. Does Clem fuck with the same creativity, that noble savagery, as his kisses? And can John learn from it like he just did?

Can John even bear the thought of Clem fucking me? Not just discretely in an illicit affair, but right here, right now, right in fucking front of him?

As if reading my innermost forbidden thoughts... okay, perhaps the expression on my face as I contemplated that, gave the game away... Clem rolls onto me. Slips right into me, without so much as a by your leave.

"Fuck!" I gasp.

That wasn't a request, Clem.

But he does anyway. I should be resisting, complaining, for John's benefit if not mine, even if curious, craving, for this black bi boy. Surprisingly, John doesn't leap to my defence either. I feel him holding my hand, tightly, reassuringly, then...

As Clem has lowered his lips from mine, down my breast to my nipple again, John kisses me. A repeat of that lovely smooch in the pub.

Have they taken my saying, that together they were incredible, literally?

My soul, our year-long cosiness, goes out to John. He parts my lips as only he can know how. Embraces and cuddles my shoulders. He can still make my heart beat fast.

Down below, Clem's pubes are rougher than John's against my muff. Brillo pad rough, and he scrubs me in ways that would get any oven sparkling. Just don't put a bun in there...

Clem isn't as big as John but what he lacks size-wise he more than makes up for innovatively. Recall my own fingers pretending to be him. I was nowhere near in practice. He seems to rush round inside, child in a sweetshop, hurrying from side to side, up and down, to feel all of what's on offer. Finding points that give me pleasure, twitch and quiver, to those inner responses, he revisits them and makes them his.

Exuberantly, energetically, his.

John's lips wash my neck. "Fuck!" I pant, again. This time, it's pure longing. For either. Both.

John's tongue shags my mouth. His pushes match Clem's rhythm, whose cock is on overdrive now. My hips are arching round him for a multiple. His teeth nibble at my nip.

My arms reach up, one clawing at John's back, the other pulling Clem to me, compulsions for him to be closer than close. Grab his chocolate arse and make sure he's as deep as possible. Thighs wrapping, feet locking, up, over, round, behind.

Give me that sweet creamy chocolate goodness...

And he does. God with a cap 'G', does he!?

Fever breaks my senses. Bursts of glowy perspiration on my body, as one by one, each topples like dominos. Eyes blinded by colour, taste of John in my mouth dulling against the matchless flavour of Clem's cum twanging like taut elastic beneath my belly. All I can feel is skin pressed to mine... I no longer know who is which. The sweet but sharp scent of my guys' sweat dripping on me. And the rushing roar in my eyes, that drowns out our chorus of shouts and sighs, to become the song of angels, accompanied by bells ringing, very loudly.

Enough of the metaphors already, girl!

My twat is opening and closing round Clem so fast, it's almost like a small round of applause. Again, maestro!

Didn't I just say... ? Back to the moment... the sex...

I'm at death's door. I must be dying. Going to heaven. Surely.

Clem has just fucked me the great-grand-daddy of all fucks. If I thought sex had become tame with John, here it is again in all its glory. It's like having new batteries. Oooh... did I just think that out loud? Or being plugged into the mains. I feel my hair is standing on end, as goosebumps prickle all over.


This time, because I can't decide. It would be too crass to ask John and Clem to change places, have the other fuck me as I snog his competition. See who is really best.

Wouldn't it?

"A tie... " I finally get enough breath back to whisper. "You're both... fantastic."

Clem looks disappointed. So does John. To them, I'm copping out, skirting choosing an outright winner.

Gnawing my lip, a big glowy, orgasm-inspired lightbulb of an idea flickers, then shines bright above my very messed hair.

"Why don't... you two choose?" I decide. "After all John, you said Clem was a better snog. Perhaps you should check that for certain, then see if I'm as good under you?"

My eyes dart back and forth, looking for approval. Clem seems up for it, if his wet, dark cock hardening in my palm again is any indicator. I grip John's for a sign. He's not going limp, at least.

"Best of three?" I smirk, and slip deeper in the pillow, guiding my two players' lips together to kiss each other over me. There is no resistance.

"So when you two have finished," I sigh contentedly, aware of their musky perspiration continuing to drip on my face and breasts, scented with potential, "I'll be waiting down here... "

So that's our new triangle, our new-found shape of desire. A three-sided relationship, personified by my mons pubis... the lowest, darkest point is me and what I am. The other corners point to John and Clem. Our square may have lost a side... but it gained an edge.

Maybe it won't last beyond this night. Perhaps it will.

The clock chinks to midnight.

Oh... Happy anniversary, John darling.

I hope.


Victoria Blisse's Sunday Snog