So here we have it! The fifteen entries to the first Smut Marathon challenge. The theme for the first contest was TWIST. I told the writers to take that however they wanted to. I said: "Give your story a twist, serve a drink with a twist, do the peppermint twist…" They had 250 words and 2 weeks to write. I'll keep the poll up until Friday @ midnight.
The sponsor for this contest is Good Vibrations! GV is giving away a free G-Twist (worth $82) to the winner! The writers of the two stories with the fewest votes won't continue on to the next challenge. I have a some special judges for the last round — I'll let you know who they are in a bit!
Entry #1: One Look
by Emma Hillman
All it took was one look.
Our lips met and fused, heat blossoming inside me at the feel of his hands shaping my hips, sliding down to cup my ass. When he broke away and began nipping a way down my neck, I started moaning. I couldn’t help myself, too lost in the sensations he was creating. How could he possibly know where to touch me like this?
Too bad he suddenly pulled back and said, “I don’t understand.”
“What?” I looked up at his tense face, only aware of the lust coursing through me. And he wanted to talk now?
“I don’t understand how this could be happening!”
I rolled my eyes. “Thin line between love and hate, blah blah blah. And, why do you care anyway? You’re getting some, aren’t you?”
“I hate you!” he reminded me, but that was hardly a newsflash.
“I hate you too!” I snapped back. “This is obviously a weird twist of fate, but I say we go with it. Can we please fuck now? I need something here!”
My words seemed to work. He became a whirlwind of flying hands and teasing mouth. When his lips closed around one engorged nipple and pulled, I grabbed the back of his head and closed my eyes. I didn’t know what the future held or whether we’d go back to being enemies in a few hours, but right now I didn’t care. He just felt too damn good.
Entry #2: Twist of You...
by Sandrine Lopez
Nothing replaces you but the spaces between your presence need debasing. No offence.
Needs become automatic, thinking of you, get frantic too. Gentle twinge, heat singes, sweet hunger.
Low growl of appetite, at night
Low buzz, as I twist the on/off end, send myself on empty cool bed, warm it with red fantasies of you.
Draw it slowly up my thigh, imagining your fingers, high, trembling up them. Your femme.
Drag it up the dark partition of my moistening cunt, shaking bluntness, sensing my wetting its shivering, battery-warm, plastic surface. Such bliss. Letting me believe you shudder violently, judder impulsively, as my pussy, unlocked, kisses your cock.
Let the damp tip hang over my clit, tickling it, bit by bit, before I can take no more and plunge it deep in my slit. Soaked with my spit.
Squeeze on it, pleasing, twist the end more, ramp up the amps. Push it, pull it, spin it, for the win. Within.
Withdraw, let it claw up my muff, not enough, raw on my buff skin. Shimmying, ripple, hot wet plastic on nipple. Feel them swell, hear myself yell. Bell ringing. Singing oh my god, it's you...
Doing me.
Rising. Writhing. Push it back down. Hand bashes. Colour flashes, rushing sounds.
Twist the end to high. A loud sigh. Cry. Dreaming of you, creaming. I'm screaming.
Orgasm, come, so fast, so strong. Was it wrong? Wishing of your cock? Ad hoc fuck?
Twist the end off. Got off.
On that twist of you...
Entry #3: SECONDS
by Willsin Rowe
My hair is sprawled across his chest, swaddling him against the approach of night. I run my fingers across his belly. He’s all softness; his green eyes, his pink lips. His body. His life.
Even his cock.
Already.
Ninety seconds ago. His face pressing down on mine, his mouth crushing me, his eyelids wrenching against each other, and themselves. His spine curling back on itself, driving his climax into me.
We’re still entwined like discarded coat hangers. His breath weaves through my hair, his fingers rest in the middle of my back.
His only hardness now is bone.
His thigh shifts, presses against me. It finds that little spot that his tongue hasn’t yet learned to. I turn my hips. My still-wet slit comes awake just as his breath confesses his slumber.
I feel something coiled up in my belly. A serpent, buzzing with hunger. It sups at his fluid, still simmering inside me. But I’m a watched pot.
The slick skin of his thigh stirs me. The serpent stretches, worms up into my chest.
I fill his smooth navel with heavy breath.
I grind his bones to make my bread.
I grab his cock and wring its bell.
His breath turns to voice. Both heads rise as one. Thank God for young men.
He blinks, a question creeping across his brow.
I squeeze him and smile.
“Please, sir...I want some more.”
Entry #4: A ROYAL TASTE
by Dadgum
Walt never dabbled in the local kink scene. But then he heard tales about "the Queen," who auditioned prospective lovers. It stoked the caveman part of his brain. He sent an e-mail.
The reply came: Wednesday, noon, Luxor, #413.
He got there early.
So had she. He was struck by her fine features and regal bearing; raven hair and summer linens suggested Cleopatra. She sat down her cell and surveyed him. "Pants off."
He obeyed, cock dangling thickly. She circled him, running fingernails across both buttocks. He stiffened, both his back and elsewhere. She reached under his shirt, tracing his chest and belly. He felt blood surge through him, but he was only in a semi-chub state. She drew her nails along his scrotum before palming his testicles and tugging.
Finally he stood at full mast. Smiling, she left him to bend over the bed. "Ten strokes," she said.
Surprised, dizzy, he moved his hands up her haunches, raising her skirt. She was fragrantly, flagrantly wet, taking him fully on the first thrust, and at those deepest moments she barked out a soft cry. He was mindful of her instruction, and after scarcely thirty seconds he withdrew, pained.
She righted herself and raised the phone, triggering an icon: SPEAKERPHONE OFF. Listening, she nodded, then: "Yes, your majesty." She beamed at him. "She will see you tomorrow."
"You're not the Queen," he said, turning it from question to statement as it left his mouth.
"No," she said, taking another appreciative tug on his cock. "I'm just her chubby checker."
Entry #5: Licorice Twist
by Dorla Moorehouse
I hear an innocuous tap, then the skin on my wrist lights up in pain, and blood rushes to my cunt. I look up to see Tony chewing on the end of the Twizzler he's just used on me.
"Stop sulking."
"You should have let me pick the movie."
As the film begins, I slurp my soda, creating a sound that fills the theater and makes the other patrons wince. Tony doesn't say a word, gives me three lashes across my cleavage. My nipples harden more with each hit, and my clit begins to pulse.
Twenty minutes into the action flick, I'm bored and horny. I ease my left hand into my pants, find my waiting clit. Tony sees what I'm doing and gives me a warning whip on the shoulder, but that only makes me hotter. As I rub, he takes out another Twizzler and lashes up and down the arm I'm using, trying to get me to quit, but only spurring me on. Then he grabs another piece and whips my nipples; even through the fabric of my shirt, I feel the sting. I bite my tongue as I come to keep from moaning. Before I can fully recover, Tony grabs my arm and drags me out to the car.
"If you can't behave, we're leaving. You'll regret your behavior when we get home."
But he's so hard he can barely walk; his threat is empty; I know he'll skip the punishment and fuck me.
Entry #6: Twisted
by Cat
“Cheater!” I yelled laughingly as my arms gave out and I landed flat on my back on the vinyl sheet that is the Twister game board. “There’s no nipple sucking in Twister!”
“I couldn’t resist but I’ll give you this round” you concede as you take off your shirt.
Strip Twister sounded like fun until I realized that you’d sold your soul making you some kind of Twister demon who never loses.
“Double or nothing” I suggest, thinking that your jeans and underwear equal my bra and panties.
“You spin first” I say hoping that having the last spin would give me an advantage.
You spin, I spin, you spin, I spin, until all hands and feet are placed on the game sheet. Having the last spin gave me no advantage as I find myself facing up with you caging my body.
“What do we do next with no free hands to spin?” you ponder, but before I can answer you offer your own solution. “I know I can invite a friend over to take care of the… spinning”.
My pussy clenches at the thought of introducing a third to our Twisted Twister, literally making my knees go weak, and with a gasp I find myself flat on my back on the game sheet again.
Ever the gamester, you say “for my next move, cock into pussy” and in a single smooth stroke you’re balls deep and I’m moaning.
I’m not sure who won but I’m definitely playing again.
Entry #7: Manners Make the Man
by Vida Bailey
He was so romantic, Ray was. So attentive. Those eyes lit with appreciation fixed on you, enrapt. It was so flattering. And the flowers. He never presented them with a flourish, looking for a pat on the head and favours in return the way some did. Instead he’d put them in a jug by the bed, or beside the bath he’d run me, on the hall table with my post, so I’d find them after he’d left me, sore and satiated and complete.
Such perfect ettiquette.
He met out of work last week. Leaning against the sunny wall in his black jacket, the old soft leather shining smooth. So handsome, behind his shades and happy-to-see-me grin. Such a sweet kiss he greeted me with.
It took me a second to notice the tip of the paddle that was hanging from his wrist, peeping out form his cuff. To recognise the expression on his face. To realise that he took my bag for me so that he could lead me firmly by the arm to a nearby quiet, yet still public place, where he would bind my wrists with his belt, and bend me over, put me on show. He’d bare my ass and play with me while I squirmed and then paddle me red and sore ‘til I was wet and pleading, twisting in his grip and begging to be fucked, not caring who passed by.
You have to love old fashioned manners in a man.
Entry #8: A Little Twist
by Evie Applegate
“How you do you turn this thing on?” Raquel asked.
“Mmmph ehmm,” was all Annabelle could manage by way of reply.
“Sorry.” Raquel did not sound sorry at all. As she bent to loosen the gag the tip of the strap-on came to rest against Annabelle’s lubed anus.
“You just give the end a little twist,” Annabelle gasped. Face down on the bed with her wrists lashed to the bedposts with a silken cord, Annabelle could not turn to see what Raquel was doing. She would have to rely on her other senses. She could feel the warmth of Raquel’s thighs pressed against her own. She smelled Raquel’s perfume, and beneath it the faint tang of her own achingly ready pussy. She heard Raquel fiddling with the harness, and the vibe humming into life. She gasped.
“A bit noisy, isn’t it?” Raquel remarked. “I imagine it’s quieter once it’s in. And speaking of quiet-” She reached up and replaced the gag.
Annabelle felt the tip of the strap-on just barely entering her. She felt Raquel’s fingers moving to stroke her clit, but that wasn’t what she wanted tonight. She pushed backwards against the rubber cock, trying to take more of it inside her, and was rewarded with a stinging slap across the buttocks.
“Not yet,” Raquel admonished, but the slap had almost tipped Annabelle over the edge. She bucked backwards again and this time Raquel thrust deep. Annabelle bit down on the gag as Raquel filled up her whole world.
Entry #9: Bending Genders
by Angell Brooks
I stood back, watching the vision before me primp before the full-length mirror. Long black hair twisted up in an elegant curl. My eyes followed graceful hands as they smoothed a satin gown down the lithe body I knew as well as my own. My cock throbbed, under the uncomfortable briefs. If this banquet wasn’t black tie, I’d have gone commando.
Caught staring, a lusty smile curled my lips. “Baby, you look so fucking hot. ” My hands grasped svelte hips. I kissed the soft skin that had been taunting me all day. “I really want to fuck that ass.” A sultry laugh caused a shiver down my back.
“Come on. Feel that.” I thrust against the object of my desire, my cock fitting right in the crack. A soft moan echoed. My trousers and briefs were puddled around my feet in record time. Fisting my hard on, I reached for the lube, the bottle squelching as I pumped some across my shaft. I used my free hand to part those perfect cheeks. I aimed at the puckered hole, moaning as the tight tunnel closed around me. After a few slow thrusts, I pumped in hard and fast, breathless gasps escaping us both. I knew it would be a quick one, and groaned as I shot my load. Pulling out, I used my briefs to clean myself. Then reached around the front of that smooth satin dress, grasping his hard rod beneath it.
“Later tonight, you can be the man.”
Entry #10: Twist
by Monocle
“Now, turn around and face me.”
I used to think I loved your smile. I used to think another was the
curve of your hip; still another the smooth sweep of your thigh. But
all those things are static.
“Don’t stop looking at my face. Don’t pay attention to where my eyes
go, or my hands, or anything else. Eyes on my face.”
A photograph’s smile is frozen. An image’s curve brittle. I realized,
not so very long ago, that I could not love such unmoving, dead
things, no matter how pretty.
“Open your legs. Wider. Yes. And bend your knees. More. Yes.”
What I love, the thing I love about you is that you are alive like
nothing and no one I have known. To watch you changing as your legs
move against the sheets.
“Now, hold still.”
I’m lying. I want you not to hold still – not to be able to hold
still. I want that smile on your face to twist into a wry, knowing
grin, or contort into an open-mouthed expression of passion. I want
to feel your hip turn and slide under me, as settle between your
thighs. I want to take your knees in my hands, press them up and wide
and open as your eyes widen and open on mine.
The twist. It is what I love. Your lips turning; your back arching;
your hands grabbing and wrinkling the sheets. It is what I need from
you.
“Beautiful.”
And, oh, how you give.
Entry #11: Entertainment
by May Deva
Rope slithers across my skin, between my legs, as a full, lascivious moon peers at us through the window. Silver shimmers across my body as you dance the rope over, around, down and up. My hands, bound above me, flex with the need to stroke your cock, draw it to me. Over, around, down and up. You dress me, careful as a couturier, in your desire. The twist of a rope; the twist of my heart as you lay claim to me deep in the velvet night.
“Please. Fuck me.” Quiet begging.
You chuckle, stroke your fingers into my liquid cunt and hold me there on tiptoes, pinned and wriggling like an exotic insect. Your other hand smooths my hair from my face then twists, a most effective rope of my own. Cunt, hair, brain - erotic pinball as you hit the bumpers and light the ramps. Slowly, so damned slowly, you pull your fingers out, across my clit, my whole body convulses on a fingertip. Cooling dampness marks your wake on my stomach. You cup a breast, weigh it in your palm for a moment, then bring thumb and forefinger together with my nipple between. The delicious slow twist of flesh that gathers in my groin and radiates, lava-hot.
Suddenly, I am bereft. I open my eyes, see you standing close by smirking. Your words penetrate my brain: “It’s a long night, my pet. I have plans.”
A long night indeed. I close my eyes, await your pleasure.
Entry #12: The Painter
by Scarlett Greyson
She watches my hands, always. Whenever I work I know I'll find her near, peeking through the sweep of her hair, eyes tracking my movements. Lindsay was one of the first visitors to my studio; now the most frequent.
The painting is near complete. I can feel her gaze on me as I add the smallest of final touches with small twists of my paintbrush. Never before has she stayed so long. I wonder if she realizes it's her portrait.
"It's beautiful," she whispers; she's so close my heart lurches. When our gazes meet my stomach takes a lazy tumble. I realize for the first time she's gold flecks in her ultramarine irises and there's a splash of raw sienna freckles across the bridge of her nose. A scent, crisp and bright as cadmium yellow twists through the sharp bite of turpentine.
Lips find lips; hands discover the shape of waist and hip. The hollow of her throat tastes of sweet sweat, her nipples tightening into peaks of Persian Red. Inch by inch I paint her body with my tongue just as I painted her image, filling my other senses with her. Her lust I taste and label as the rage of Scheveningen reds, my tongue delving, drinking, stroking. And when she twists her fingers into my hair, urgent, voice calling, I lose all thought of color, lost in the taste, the feel, the sound of her. My senses opened and caught, imagination ensnared.
Entry #13: A Question of Peppermint
by t'Sade
"I got you something."
At the sight of the jumbo peppermint candy canes in their cellophane
wrapping, her eyes lit up and her red lips parted with anticipation. I
smiled, watching her rip open the first one with delighted glee. I
felt guilty wishing it was me instead of the twisted red and white
candy in her mouth
"You know," I drawled, "you'd like anything that tastes like peppermint."
She looked up with candy-colored lips. "Maybe. Maybe not..."
Her eyes locked on me while she sucked it deep. I groaned and she
smiled around it.
"Want to find out?"
I froze, not really sure if I heard her words. She popped the stick
from her mouth and gestured to a nearby closet. "Let's find out."
"Just like that?"
She smirked. "I want to find out."
Inside the closet, she knelt on the floor. She fished my cock out and
her warm hands felt incredible. At least until her lips touched me,
rolling my tip on her tongue. She pulled back and made a face.
"What?" I whimpered, desperately needing more.
"Needs something," she said wryly. Unwrapping another peppermint, she
lined it up next to my hard member. It felt sticky and cool, but not
for long. She leaned forward and swallowed both, her lips sliding down
the twisted candy until they touched my balls. Warmth and stickiness
and that lovely tongue. Her lips rode back and forth, sucking and
licking until both me and the peppermint melted in her mouth.
Entry #14: So Close
by Madeline Elayne
Since the very second he turned off the vibe, I was desperate. I was so close to an orgasm that I was sure I could feel every pulse of my heartbeat in my clit. I twisted and arched my back; if I could just brush even lightly against him...But it was no use, the silk scarves wrapped around my wrists and ankles held me deceptively firmly and he hovered above me, staying just out of reach.
“Please...” I wanted to say so much more, but that was as much as my addled brain could get out.
He chuckled, and leaned over me, his breath hot on my ear as he suggested deliciously twisted.
“Would you do that for me, if I turned it back on?”
He growled—I whimpered a near-panicked “yes.”
That wasn't the last thing he asked me, either. It seemed like forever but it was probably less than a minute filled with a torrent of delightfully naughty propositions. And a litany of 'yes'es. He flicked the switch and the bedroom disappeared in an explosion of white light and bliss. The sensation was so marvellously overwhelming that it completely wrote over my memory of the previous few minutes. Yep, all of it. I can't remember even a single dirty thing that I had agreed to do. I was so very fucked.
Back
by Joss Lockwood
It was the most boring job she'd ever had, and she'd had a few. But there was this boy. That was the way she thought of him: a boy, even though they were both adults. Something about his sidelong grin when she cracked a joke, about the way a glimpse of the back of his neck made her insides twist, sent her straight back to girlhood, to crushes with all the force of adolescent hyperbole behind them. She'd always told her grown-up self, "Hey, it's not the end of the world if it doesn't work out with this guy," and believed it, the worst break-up taking only months to get past, her body and soul remaining intact in the end.
But this boy. This boy was different. He got under her skin. She couldn't shake the thoughts of him.
And the first time he kissed her - surreptitiously in the stairwell, only their lips touching, then tongues - her heart beat so hard she guessed he could hear it, pressed her hand to her chest to shut herself up, face flushed with the surprise of it all.
And the first time he undressed her she wasn't sure she'd make it, her groans matched by his, a feverish duet that would have drawn in even the most stoic of listeners, if there'd been any.
And the first time he fucked her, there were gasps, and shudders, and tears, and she wondered what exactly she'd been doing her whole life, before him.
Good luck, everyone!
XXX,
Alison
