During December, I contributed a short story, Something Meaningful, to Tamsin Flowers’ 2015 Superotica Advent Calendar project (which, if you haven’t checked it out, features an amazing collection of sexy stories by some seriously good erotica writers). I intended to publish it here, too, once the Christmas craziness had subsided but, due to recent events, I got slightly sidetracked.
So, here (finally) is Something Meaningful for your reading pleasure. It’s a deliciously filth piece, if I say so myself, and if you’re a fan of D/s, anonymous fucking and, well, cum, I think you’re going to enjoy it …
“A soft, wet, well-fucked cunt. That’s what I’m looking for.”
The sound of my fork screeching over my pudding plate has half the heads in the restaurant turning in our direction. Normally, I’d be mortified (my mother taught me better) but so shocked am I by the words that have fallen so casually from his lips I barely notice the culinary faux pas. To the extent that even the stuffy-looking older man giving me disapproving looks from the table near the window fails to provoke even the smallest hint of shame.
Embarrassment has a quota. And the man sitting opposite me has just filled mine.
My hands shake as I take a sip from my water glass.
“What are you looking for?”
Such an innocent first-date question. So natural after all our easy chit-chat.
“How do you like the law?”
A sip of rosé.
“It’s fine. The pay’s good, the hours are shit. How about you? What’s it like being a librarian?”
A bite of silky, overly-rich foie gras.
Easy laughter as tender, slippery strands of linguine swing inelegantly from my mouth and brush over my chin.
The water thickens in my throat and I choke it down, all the while studying the smears of chocolate on my plate, avoiding his amused gaze. His words tumble over and over and over in my brain, heavy, damp clothes on an endless churning cycle, the drips rung out of them gathering, unwelcome, between my legs.
A soft, wet, well-fucked cunt.
A. Soft. Wet. Well-fucked. Cunt.
Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.
I don’t ever allow myself to say that word—normally, don’t even allow myself to think it. Not on purpose. Yet around and around in my head it rolls, a penny rattling in an empty drum, a black marble on an infinite run to an even darker horizon.
Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.
I shift in my seat, angry now, and glare at his amused expression. “I don’t think this is going to work out.” I try for dignity. Wrap myself in the unfamiliar cloak of hauteur—of refined stiffness.
“This date was a mistake. We’re not compatible.”
He smiles. “Aren’t we?”
The arrival of the waiter, bill in hand, prevents me from growling, fiercely, too fiercely, that No! No we’re fucking not!
I fuss with my handbag, straighten my dress. The door of the restaurant beckons and I’m tempted to leg it, but decide that would be unforgivably rude.
Be polite. Thank him for supper. Say goodbye. You’ll never have to see him again.
Alarmingly, the thought is both a relief and a disappointment.
Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.
He helps me into my coat, breath—moist, sweet, warm—tickling the soft, downy hair behind my ear. I want to spit at him, to tell him I neither want nor need his assistance—that he’s far too close. But, to my horror, the words refuse to come. I watch, distantly, as they fall away and tumble into a great black chasm.
Fallen souls cut loose.
Unfamiliar fingers curl around my forearms, ease me towards the restaurant door, the heat of them somehow searing me through layers of fabric.
“Tell me.” His voice is inkier, blacker than molasses. “Do you want to know what the best kind of well-fucked cunt is?”
The soles of my shoes sink into the words, rooting my feet to the floor.
The urge to shake my head is fierce. It is.
But I don’t.
And he laughs, deeply, the sound rougher than raw-hewn oak, the vibrations rumbling from his chest and into my back. Continue reading