At the end of last year Tamsin Flowers – friend, erotica author and all round groovy lady – was kind enough to invite me to participate in her Superotica advent calendar: a smorgasbord of sexy story excerpts from a variety of different writers, designed to raise the old blood pressure (in a good way) in the lead-up to Christmas. I was unable to promote it on Chintz at the time, what with my move abroad, but I’m doing so now, festive season or no festive season, because it’s absolutely worth checking out if you’re into hot ‘n’ dirty reads; the quality of the calendar is excellent and the authors involved, including Alison Tyler and Justine Elyot, top-notch.

Anyway, brave lady that she is, Tamsin chose to include a snippet from an unpublished story of mine, Dark, in her line-up. Centred around erotic humiliation, it’s a tale I’ve had kicking about on my hard drive for a while now (I’m hoping to find a home for it in an anthology and am thus holding onto the full version with a death grip) but, as we head towards Valentine’s Day, I thought you were all deserving of a smutty little morsel to get you past the cheesy hearts and flowers currently coming at us from all sides. And it’s been a while since I posted some of my own stuff on Chintz.

I hope you enjoy this little taster of Dark; I’ll let you know if and when it finds a place beyond my laptop so that you can read it in its entirety.

Jane
xxx

PS – Tamsin’s up to yet more mischief with Superotica Valentine posts; she’s currently on Day 9, so hurry on over and catch your smutty selves up!

 

DARK

‘Give me a number.’

It takes me a moment to work out what you mean. My normally agile brain is completely sodden, struck dumb beneath a chaotic waterfall of thoughts.

You want to know if I’m okay. To gauge if this – whatever this is – is too much.

My lips part, a number that I know will bring everything to a halt perched like fluttering bird on the tip of my tongue. But then I press them together again, caging it in. Forcing myself to think before I let it fly free.

Am I scared?

Yes. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. And like most sane people, I fear the unknown. This you, the you that’s managed to surprise me, is someone I’ve not met before. At least, not in a way that’s made such an impression. I think he frightens me a little. But … I’m not entirely sure I dislike the feeling. Really, it all comes down to whether I trust you. Whether I believe you’ll stop whatever it is you’re doing if it transcends beyond what I can bear. Do I believe that?

That answer is easy.

Yes. Absolutely.

So what is the number, then? I’m not hurting. I know you’re here with me, even if I can’t touch you. But I am further from my comfort zone than I can remember being for some time. Amazing, the games your mind can play with you.

Think, think …

A different bird flies free of my mouth, ghosting across the air between us.

‘Six,’ I hear myself croak. ‘Six.’

‘Hmmph.’ A satisfied grunt. Has my answer pleased you? Was it what you were expecting? I can’t see your face, so I have no idea.

‘Position her, please.’

What?! What do you mean ‘position me’? Who are you talking to?

Even as I ask myself these questions, prepare to voice them to you aloud, hands, firm but gentle, wrap around my upper arms and press into the curve beneath my bottom, pulling me backwards and down. I yelp in fright and kick my legs in panic – partly because the hands are not yours and partly because I don’t want to fall – but then I feel something firm meet my upper thighs and I steady. It feels like the hard edge of table. I’m dragged backwards over its surface until the backs of my knees hit the edge, and then someone cups the back of my head before pressing their palm against my sternum.

The unspoken command is unmistakable. Lie down.

I do.

The clinical detachment in your voice as you instruct an unknown someone to raise my dress and lift me feet onto the table is mortifying. Yet even as I feel fingers circling first my left ankle, then my right, the skin of my soles pressing into the smooth wood, I feel something else.

Humiliation. And it is making me wet.

Worse, exposed in this way, my legs crooked and spread, I know you can see that shameful truth. As can whoever else is with you.

A laugh. Not yours. ‘Quite the little whore, isn’t she?’

Oh, god. My skin tightens and burns with embarrassment, even as a sly feeling of pleasure at the base assessment spreads insidiously through my chest.

There is a smile in your voice as you answer, ‘Yes. She is.’

‘Pretty cunt, too.’ Another man’s voice this time, casually observant, as if he were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather.

‘It is a rather lovely pink. Especially when it’s wet like this.’

The rattle of ice in a glass, as if someone has tipped a drink to their lips.

‘Perhaps you’d like a closer look?’

‘Please.’

The burn of embarrassment turns into a prickling inferno. I suspect I know what you’re going to say next.

………………..

 

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