Bear with me... or even bare with me... I'm a little groggy this morning. But we have results in for our first round of the Smut Marathon. I have to say, once I enter the stories, I forget who wrote which. So this will be a reveal for both of us. Or all of us.
First Place: The Lake House Den by CJ Lemire
Second Place: Library by L.C. Spoering
Third Place: The Tiny Cabin by Laila Blake
This was so close. The stories were only separated by a single vote from one level to the next. In fact, there were multiple stories that received the same number of votes, so I'm just going to list the rest without saying places:
Scenes with Fantastic Locations by D. Sadie
The Garage by Serafine Laveaux
A Bar in Bologna by Tamsin Flowers
A Hole in the Wall by Molly Moore
Pulse by Preston Avery
A Long, English Beach by Victoria Blisse
A New Orleans Apartment by Jillian Boyd
Return to the Scene by Aisling Weaver
Far Away from Civilization by Marie Rebelle
The Assault Course by John D.
Anticipation by Angell Brooks
A Sturdy Wooden Cabin by Andy
Now, because we had a glitch with the voting, I'm not going to exile anyone from this round. We're all adults here. We're all going to play fairly in the future. Consider this a freebie. I'd feel bad otherwise.
I'll be contacting all the writers with a new challenge today. Hope you're all game to continue. I'm totally excited about what I'm tossing your way!
Stop back soon, because I have a photo of my hot friend I'm going to put up for a little reader entertainment.
XXX,
Alison
P.S. I believe if you click the image of the poll, the picture gets bigger. The stories are not listed in the order of the most to least votes.
Dear Smutters (and others),
Unfortunately, there seems to have been some poll manipulating on this round. So I've decided to restart the voting and try again. Please stick to one vote per customer. Poll will run until midnight tomorrow.
XXX,
Alison
Here we are at the Smut Marathon—Round 1. This was the assignment:
Please pen me a 200-word (maximum) description of your ideal setting for an erotic story.
That’s it. Ta da! Do not go over the word count.
Of course, me being me, I did not remember to ask the writers to title their pieces. Some did, some didn't. I slid titles in for the polling to make things easier—so I'm apologizing if I stepped on any toes. I'll remember to ask next time.
What do you do? Read the 15—yes, 15—anonymous entrants and vote for your favorite. Poll ends at midnight on April 30th. Winner will be announced on May 1, and I'll be handing out the new assignment at the same time. Please feel free to share the link with your friends, families, strangers, neighbors, dog-walkers... But authors, don't reveal which piece you wrote until the voting ends. Then I will add the author name to each story.
Oh, I posted the pieces in the order I received them. I'm trying to do all of this fair and square. Every once in awhile, it gets a little oblong...
Entry #1: A New Orleans Apartment
A New Orleans apartment, looking out over Bourbon Street.
Midnight. Mardi Gras.
Even for the late time of night, the heat weighs heavily and all the windows in this apartment are open.
It’s sparse, filled with mostly noise from outside and the smell of cheap cigars and third-hand whiskey fumes.
The bed is unmade. Strewn around it are a variation of Mardi Gras beads and the odd piece of clothing.
A half drunk glass of scotch sits on the bedside table. There’s a desk in the corner, with an antique typewriter on it. One sheet of paper, one line of uninspired words in thick, black ink.
It’s the air that gets you though. It smells like old sweat and cologne and Mardi Gras pussy. And the faint trickle of disappointment lingers in the background.
*****
Entry #2: The Lake House Den
The sweet dawn light poured through the floor to ceiling windows of the lake house den, basking the room in soft pastels, attempting to probe its night secrets.
The removable wall panel on which the dartboard hung remained secret-agent silent about the St. Andrew’s cross concealed behind.
The whips, canes, rope, clamps, dildos, vibrators, plugs, lube, and other pervertibles hid from the sunlight, tucked away in the armoire against the far wall.
The exposed ceiling beams gave no hint about being structural, such that a suspension ring lashed to them with a leather strap might create the perfect anchor point to fly her from.
So what if the round table in the corner was a good height and diameter to bind her atop, her head hanging off one end and her ass perched at the other, to present her holes perfectly for fucking? Such thoughts surely had no place in the innocence of morning.
If the tatami mats seemed well suited for relieving the stress of time on her knees, and the candles on the mantel burned at the ideal temperature for drizzling on delicate body parts, that was just coincidence, right?
Nothing to see here. Move along.
*****
Entry #3: Scenes With Fantastic Locations
In erotica, the setting is best when it's involved with the story. A cozy basement make-out session is one thing, but knowing that they had their first fight on the couch only a week before makes it more precious. It adds an edge to the scene beyond just three people exploring each others bodies during tearful apologies which turn to curious exploration.
I have a fondness for fantasy and sci-fi. This leads into scenes with fantastic locations: floating motes of light over a shadowed pool, an asteroid crater, or perched on top of trees in the rain. But, what really gets me off is knowing that the shadowed pool might be haunted and that the asteroid is minutes away from being pulverized. And fucking on top of the trees? It really depends on who owns the trees and what is below.
Settings are just as much of a character as the people involved. A childhood kitchen has more poignancy than just a table to fuck on. I want the emotions to rise as someone grips the edge of the table, remembering how they carved their initials on the top or it fell on them during a makeshift BDSM scene.
*****
Entry #4: Far Away from Civilization
An adventurous young woman rows down the river in a small boat, enjoying a lovely wind still summer’s day. Unintentionally, she falls asleep in the boat after a light lunch. She does not notice that her boat slowly drifts down the river in the light wind. At a sharp bend in the river, her boat drifts under overhanging branches and towards the shore. The young woman wakes up when strong male arms scoop her body out of the boat. She screams and tries to free herself, but the man holds her tight and carries her to the encampment where he lives with a group of men and woman, far away from any kind of civilization. This group lives according to their own rules, which are very different to those that the young woman has been used to all her life. The leader of the group takes a fancy in the young woman and claims her to be his property. She fights, she hates, she tries to escape, but she does not only fight and hate him. She fights the feelings inside her and hates herself for developing tender feelings for this savage man.
*****
Entry #5: A Long, English Beach
It’s a long, English beach with sand gradiated from fluffy-white boiled rice to the darker, brick coloured wetness that clumps like spilt sugar in a saucer. The sea sparkles and waves, dark as ink and bright as day depending on the angle of the sun. There are people around, dog walkers and families but if you walk along the beach the crowd thins out and you’re suddenly alone, dwarfed by the sea wall and free to do whatever you please, naughty or not.
Behind the towering wall is a road and on the other side there’s amusement arcades and shops selling rock, fudge, ice-cream and Fish ‘n’ chips. The scent of doughnuts and salty air, the calls of fishermen selling their wares blends with tinkling music from the amusements and the ring of prize bells with the clunk of dropping coins. There are quaint cafes and souvenir shops. There’s hustle and bustle all around but movement is languid; everyone’s on holiday and out for enjoyment. Laughter echoes from young and old and the air vibrates with the potential of long days filled with opportunities to have fun. It isn’t home, you’re free to be, to do, to fuck.
*****
Entry #6: The Garage
Thick shafts of sunlight penetrate high windows to splay across cinder block walls and stained concrete floors. In the shadows a wire cage sits chained, padlocked, the lone guardian of zip ties and duct tape and clamps of all sizes. Within reach dangle belts, thick rubber and nylon, growing stiffer with time. Some bear curious twists, more shackles than belts now.
Massive doors open revealing the pits, their gaping slits guarded only by lone gratings that slide tirelessly along the dark chasm. Shadows swell within its depths, defying the sun as it seeks to enter. Twisted tangles of hose cascade from above, their slickened skin gleaming, their pumps leaking lube. Deeply ridged vacuum hoses dangle limply beside, their raspy inhales barely audible beneath the insistently pulsating air compressors and the metallic clinking of chains as they strike the massive hoist frame dominating the far wall.
A dark sheen of oil embraces all surfaces, slipping and slicking wherever contact is made. The slightest caress stains and defiles, impossible to remove. Even the scent overwhelms. Sweaty and musky and ripe, it forces itself upon you, into you, claiming you. By stain or by scent, the garage marks you for its own.
*****
Entry #7: The Tiny Cabin
Licking at the old and weathered wood of the pier, the ocean sends wave after wave against the sand several feet below us, the sea foam sizzling as it quietly disintegrates. The air is sticky and salty, but finally a cool breeze is blowing in the last light of the day and a torch splutters on the banister. Somewhere far away, the horizon is still visible – a patch of sky still orange and violet where it meets the sea. Outlined against it in the distance is a boat with billowing sails – I watch its slow progress towards the edge of the word.
Like the pier and the banister, the cabin is made of wood that has grown grey in the violent coastal weather. I am sitting at the side of the bed you carried out here, the white cotton sheets smell clean – a little stiff and starchy to the touch -- and the salt has not yet defeated the scent of laundry detergent. White curtains flutter through the open French windows of the tiny cabin, as if moved by the smell of frying fish wafting through the door or the low-key, crackling music from the record player.
*****
Entry #8: The Assault Course
My naked body shivered in the cool breeze wrapping itself around my torso, chilling me to the bone. It stung my mud-caked shins and wet thighs. It bit into my exposed nipples and iced my fingertips. It whistled through the trees around me, providing a soundtrack for my torment.
I focused on the array of slides, swings, nets and challenges in front of my eyes: the assault course was the scene of our first date and her first victory. I could still taste the earthy mud in my mouth from being thrown face first into the silky, algid earth. I could still feel the bruises on my bare body as I was hunted, diving under cargo nets into filthy puddles or scaling large wooden structures.
I had a sixty second head-start, but I'm now tied naked to the tree, illaqueated by the elegant manager and helpless as she giggles nefariously from behind me. “You can't resist me,” she smiles, and the nude woman kisses me on the shoulder. “You're mine now,” she whispers in my ear. And I was, exposed and vulnerable in her playground.
*****
Entry #9: A Bar in Bologna
You asked about the setting? A bar in Bologna that I happened upon while walking through the city one night after dinner. Intrigued by throbbing music and a mess of hipsters spilling out onto the sidewalk, I pushed my way in through the crowd.
The room was dark and the air hung heavy with cigarette smoke, patchouli and sweat. Chandeliers of deep red glass cast virtually no light and the mottled mirrors lining the walls reflected only shadows. The music was so loud I could feel the drumbeat reverberating in my chest like a second heartbeat. I sat down on a red velvet banquette at the back and noticed my body was vibrating against the cushions in time to the bass.
The place was heaving and everywhere I looked I saw exposed skin; the hard, sinewy flesh of youth, ripped forearms and shoulders, abs and backs. All covered with dark tattoos that rippled as their owners writhed to the music. At the next table, a boy swept his ponytail aside to reveal a skull on the nape of his neck.
A bar girl with wind-sculpted cheekbones and a fierce undercut asked me what I wanted.
I ordered absinthe.
*****
Entry #10: A Sturdy Wooden Cabin
Early sunlight shines on the granite walls that stretch thousands of feet upwards into the deep blue sky painting them the warm shade of an open fire. The valley floor is littered with impossibly tall trees reaching straight up towards the hot sun. Their bark is a deep ochre and they are surrounded by lush green meadows. The sound of a fast moving stream somewhere nearby is audible now but will be masked by the sounds of people when the coach loads of tourists arrive later. Water flowing in the stream is ice cold, cascading from the frozen mountain peaks above. The silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional cry of an eagle soaring overhead.
Nestled between the trees, barely visible to each other are sturdy wooden cabins. Each cabin has a large walk in shower, easily big enough for three. The beds are oversized with soft cosseting mattresses and a tall post at each corner. Furniture is simple and sturdy, carved from local wood and timelessly elegant. The main living space is dominated by a large stone fireplace with a soft bearskin rug stretched out in front.
Solitude and privacy are absolute, until the tourist hordes descend.
*****
Entry #11: Library
Top of the stairs, to the left, and straight on through the stacks. The library always seems to be the last on the agenda when it comes to funding, and it shows, giving the whole place the air of something from not just different lifetime, but a different century altogether. The sounds of the outside are deadened here, and voices go instinctively soft the further in you venture. There is something magical, dangerous, enticing in the journey.
The shelves groan under the weight of decades of books, and dust, settling like snow over the surfaces. The wood is worn smooth in spots, the oil of hundreds of hands; there is a sort of musk in the air, like the smell of flesh, of human contact, the sighs of books, the perfume of pages, the breath of the anticipated.
Speaking seems sinful here, but who will tell the tales left behind—the long dead authors of the forgotten tomes? They are easily forgotten in the filtered sunlight through the warped glass of the windows. This is a hidden world, right out in the open.
*****
Entry #12: Return to the Scene
Bette's diner hums with the familiarity you can never quite call home again. Jake's bulk, somewhat larger and topped by less hair, dominates the grill and Vera still wears catseye glasses and laddered silk hose, seams snaking. Nope, not home now, just as it wasn't eleven years ago, no matter the hours spent clearing tables and slapping the wrists of truckers and football players.
Soon someone else would make the bells ring on the plate glass door with its taped-up signs for turkey shoots, bingo, three-day revivals. Someone foreign to this time capsule who might just break it. The air went hot and beads on a tall glass of tea dripped. No one watched her sit in the corner booth but everyone knew where she sat. The chrome table edge winked, the chipped formica gaped a toothless smile on rounded corners. Nothing changes, everything changes, it all stays the same.
Vera tapped her pencil on the counter. A cropduster's trail sputtered over the gravel lot. The twin props rubbed the consideration into a smear of pesticide and dirt. When the sunny cloud of dust settles a motorcycle leans just beyond the expanse of windows.
*****
Entry #13: A Hole In The Wall
The lock slides across the door with a satisfying click which echo’s briefly around the tiled room. The lighting is aggressively bright and glaring, emphasising the stark whiteness of the space and the porcelain that lines one wall. Every sound seems to be magnified into something louder more intense than it really is; the swing of the door, the low buzz of conversation from outside, the sound of a zipper followed by what appears to be a cascading waterfall of liquid trickling and running away down the pipes but it is not water. Water doesn’t smell warm or human and it doesn’t carry that clawing musky scent that men leave behind when they piss. The whole place reeks of male, the stench fills the air emphasising the filthy dirty nature of all this but it the perfectly round hole in the partition between the stalls that really gives away the squalid use of this place. Peering through the hole into the empty cubicle beyond, the walls are adorned with the standard graffiti signatures nestled amongst a parade of hot offensive language and accusations. A décor of words left here by others for those who come next to cleanse themselves in.
*****
Entry #14: Anticipation
Fifteen stories up, with the fiery sun setting into the city skyline, the evening beckons.
Through the clear glass patio doors, chaise lounges are arranged artfully on the sand coloured deck. Spaced properly and topped with luxurious cushions, they are big enough for two to play, and any seat will give you a view of the city at its finest hour.
A hot tub, set into the wood in the corner bubbles in anticipation of bodies filling it tonight. The deck is firm, brand new in contrast to the older building. The whole block is brick and mortar, built to last, not to fulfill some architects unrealized art school fantasies. A standing shower is next to it, out in the open, for all to see.
The brick is warm to the touch, rough in some place, worn smooth in others. The view from the ledge is orgasmic. The lights of the city awaken the night, bringing out the beautiful, the carefree, the adventurous.
The hidden speakers sound the call, the smoky layers of jazz inviting one and all. The whiskey sits in its decanter, surrounded by empty highballs.
Just waiting for guests to arrive, and the adventure to begin.
*****
Entry #15: Pulse
This space is a warehouse and most often dark, dingy, dead. Tonight, though, it pulses with life, with energy. Sequential bright white spots and beams of neon pink, cerulean and yellow paint the air in a kaleidoscope of Technicolor. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Bodies fill the cavernous space, close in a way that everyday life would never allow - moving, swaying, bleeding into one another, a rhythm that could only be called synchronous. Pulse, pulse, pulse. The smell of beer and cheap spilled rum plus musky fresh sweat, smoke, and lust gathers all who enter here into a pocket of unanimity. Pulse, pulse, pulse. Then there is sound. The reason they have all come. That pure sweet pulse, pulse, pulse of lyrics and voice and instrumentation joining to create something unto itself, something transcendent, something alive. Effortlessly this force connects each human being with the instinctive pulse, pulse, pulse in their own body, their own soul, that same pulse, pulse, pulse that echoes, mirrored and transmitted from one to the next, to the next. Everyone here knows the beat. Everyone here knows the words. Everyone here is enraptured and hungry, hot and needing. Everyone here is pulse, pulse, pulse.
*****
There you have it. Fifteen completely different answers to the same challenge, which is why I can do new and fresh anthologies year after year. Every writer has a unique viewpoint. Don't you love these?
XXX,
Alison
Welcome to the Smut Marathon II. I invited these writers to join the circus with me. So I guess that makes me your kinky little ring leader. I received more entries than I could include in this round—so I'm holding onto the extras for another contest. (I went by first come, first served.) Let me introduce you to the stars—alphabetically:
Andyis English and an utter caffeine addict who loves to read, particularly Sci-Fi, Fantasy, Horror and yes - Erotica. He's been happily married for 15 years and has always harboured a desire to become a published author. When he passed the dreaded ‘40’ threshold recently he decided it was time to start his journey from reader to writer so started to transfer the contents of his filthy mind to the written word. An Engineer and geek by trade he dabbles in photography, cars, cycling and writing as hobbies.
Preston Avery resides merrily by the sea with her husband extraordinaire, three darling mutts and pack of wild children. She works and lives with only slightly less than reckless abandon and loves reading and writing almost as much as she adores red velvet cake. Her work is featured in the anthologies The Big Book of Orgasm, Geek Love, and Morning, Noon, and Night. She is currently living in a fantasy world where she pretends to have the time to write a novel.
Laila Blake is a linguist, currently working as a translator and English teacher in her home-town of Cologne/Germany, where she shares her apartment with a spirited kitten called Nookie and obsesses about obscure singer-songwriters. She has yet to find a genre to settle down with and for the moment, flirts with a great number of them. At this time, she is most dedicated to romance and erotica. Her first novel BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON (www.lakeside-series.com) was released in April 2013 and she is avidly working on wrapping up its sequel. Find her at www.lailablake.com.
Victoria Blisse is a Mother, Wife, Christian, Manchester United Fan and Award Winning Erotica Authoress. She is also the co-editor of the fabulous Smut Anthologies.
She is equally at home behind a laptop or a cooker and she loves to create stories, poems, cakes and biscuits that make people happy. She was born near Manchester, England and her northern English quirkiness shows through in all of her stories.
Passion, love and laughter fill her works, just as they fill her busy life.
Jillian Boyd is an author, smutty blogger and unashamed geek from London. Her stories have been published by the likes of Constable and Robinson, Cliterati and (soon) House of Erotica. She started writing erotica in 2011, on a mission to blow smut wide open (excuse the pun). When she’s not blogging, smutting or geeking, she can most likely be found reading about crime and other insavoury things. She lives in London with her partner. They like baking cakes, going to the movies and being generally very geeky.
Once told that ‘Life is too short to live in beige.’Angell Brooks lives in technicolour dreams as often as possible. Translating that into naughty tales to titillate and tease is a challenge she gladly accepts on a daily basis. When the voices in her head decide to give her a break, she sees her city as an adventure to be taken – the live music, the theatres, the clubs and pubs and interesting people all around. There is never a dull moment, and she embraces it with truth and love. Find her in anthologies by Cleis, Harlequin and December Ink Press.
John D is a married father of two based in Cheshire who has been writing smut for a few years. He attended Eroticon 2013 in March and hopes that his writing will now improve considerably with the feedback and help he received over that weekend. He likes to write about strong, female characters, loving relationships and will often try and put an element of humour into his work.
In the words of one reviewer, 'Ms. Flowers has a way of describing sexual tension that forces itself upon your own body. (It's) ...sharp, flowing and very interactive.' As a naughty girl on a journey of self-discovery as an erotic writer, Tamsin Flowers is as keen to entertain her readers as she is to explore every aspect of female (and male) erotica. Hoping to touch you on your most erotic zones, she writes light-hearted stories that are sexy and fun, perfect for reading on your own or with someone in whom you have more than a passing interest...
Serafine Laveaux penned her first smut in college on a dare and only recently has returned to it. Her work has appeared online and in anthologies including Best Women's Erotica 2013 and she has several novellas currently published through Blushing Publications. Currently she resides in a small Texas town with her husband and assorted pets.
CJ Lemire lives near the juncture of the New England woods and the deep blue sea. By day he toils away in the wacky world of high tech, and on nights and weekends he listens to the voices in his head and writes down their kinky stories.
Molly Moore is the writer of one of the UK most successful sex blogs, Molly’s Daily Kiss. Her blog has recently be listed as the No. 1 blog on the Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012.
Molly is the founder of Sinful Sunday; a project to encourage bloggers to have fun with their cameras creating erotic images and also The Pussy Pride Project; a celebration of all that is wonderful about pussies.
Her blog is marriage of words and images and most of her writing is based on her own experiences and contains strong autobiographical content. She lives a 24/7 D/s based relationship as a submissive woman.
Marie Rebelle is the author of the blog Rebel’s Notes and creator of Wicked Wednesday. Besides a writer, Marie is also an artist. Her paintings and drawings are all of an erotic nature.
Her writing was dormant for years. In 2010 she was back, ready to conquer the world. Her main goal is to see her work published in 2013.
Marie’s blog is a collection of words and images and has explicit auto-biographical content. She writes about her D/s based relationship with her husband, sexual interactions with others and her erotic fantasies, often illustrated with her personal photos.
D. Sadie is the fragment of a writer's persona, focusing on not a specific genre but a certain tone of erotic writing. She prefers the worlds of fantasy and sci-fi, even for erotica and enjoys exploring the themes of submission and wonder in places filled with tentacles, magic, and Things That Man Was Not Meant To Fuck. Her writing is filled with rich details and complicated relationships that frequently lead to longer and more involved pieces than the usual short stories.
She writes in the worlds created by t'Sade, including the fantasy world of The Nine Sisters.
L.C. Spoering usually answers to the name Lorrie, and rarely anything else. She has a degree in English writing from University of Colorado, and a lesser degree in sarcasm earned from the days of yore on AOL. A storyteller since she started talking, she now spends her days writing, cleaning, cooking, reading and contemplating the universe through various pop culture lenses. She will be appearing in an anthology near you in the next year.
Chasing knowledge, life, and love, Aisling Weaver has lived up and down the interior of the Eastern United States. She can read your tarot cards but won’t, will sail any month of the year but so far not on the ocean and hasn’t walked a mile in your shoes but has lived her own life barefoot. She writes by the seat of her pants following the strings of her heart. Her books can be found in anthologies and through her publisher http://www.BurningBookPress.com
Holy fuck. That took hours! I hope the post looks okay on your screen. The text kept going black on black for me, which makes proofing slightly difficult. Now I have to take a deep breath and then I'll toss out the first challenge. Authors, if I've fucked anything up, hit me with a note and I'll fix asap.
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