Image: Manfred Heyde
I apologise. Profusely, profoundly, whole-heartedly. For I am about to inflict upon you one of the worst things imaginable: appalling erotica. Intentionally appalling erotica.
Yes, you read that correctly. And it’s all thanks (?!) to my Resist the Erotic Euphemism (A.K.A. Don’t Let Me Plunge Your Coffee Bean) post and some tantalising response tweets from Curvaceous Dee and Lunabelle.
Our collective mission: to write the most cringe-worthy erotica imaginable using horrible sexual euphemisms. You thought my stick figures were bad? Phtt! Be afraid. Be very afraid.
Take #1 …
He parted her milky drumsticks, dipping his head to inhale the musky Febreze drifting from her down there area.
“Quite the lady of the night, aren’t you?” he whispered, his lips a mere breath from her jam tart. “Tell me, do you always let random billionaires you meet on the 5:10 from Waterloo navigate your love canal?”
He laughed, cutting off her would-be protest and touched a mini truncheon to the shell of her fiery fuschia pearl. “Yeah, right.”
Dipping his head, he touched his oral sword to her flamingo orchid and ran it between the pouting petals, savouring the sticky milk of magnesia pooling between them. Dysoned her swollen love button into his hungry mouth. “By the time I’ve finished giving your front bottom a good night-sticking …”
She pressed herself against his lips in a way that would get her banned from Blogger.
“…you’re going to be nothing more than my pretty little pork sword scabbard …”
She groaned in protest.
“… my tarnished little love custard connoisseur.”
“I don’t … I don’t think-”
“You don’t need to think.” He inserted a substantial hand sausage into her va-jay-jay, felt it contract greedily. “The only thing you need to concern yourself with is dancing the Macarena on my beef bayonet.” She shivered. “Taking my rod of velvet-coated steel wherever I tell you to.”
Slowly, deliberately, he eased his hand pencil from her body, trailing the marscapone-covered tip downwards until it came to rest against her not-exactly-easy-to-get-into cinnabar cavern. “Open wide,” he muttered, plunging her coffee bean, watching with fascination as the protesting rubber band slowly gave way and her chocolate starfish flared outwards to accommodate the thickness of his knuckle-boner.
A guttural groan rolled from her throat, caressing his ears.
“Feel like a tea party at the Savoy?”
“Seven lords and a crumpet it smarts, you cad!”
“Does it just?” He dropped his head, working her Volvo with his cherry smackers even as he began to slide his finger gently – ever so gently – in and out of her reluctant back door.
She flexed her baby canon, her body stiffening as the water wings of her tradesman’s entrance deflated around him.
“That’s the spirit,” he growled.
“Please! It’s too much!”
He didn’t cease and desist. Paused only to whisper against her salmon hydrangea how outstandingly good she tasted – to admire her lightly precipitating body as he finally released her to slather a viscous, water-based pharmaceutical product on his violet-hued spongy stem.
“Good girls,” he crooned, pressing her pins back, savouring her groan of ticked-off acceptance as he notched his fireman’s helmet against her cafatiere, “take what they’re given.”