Here we are at Round 2. Thank you for your patience. This was a particularly exciting challenge (to me) because we are building on the information shared in Round 1. I asked the writers to... well, here is exactly what I said:
Choose a location described in Round 1. Any location. Except the one you wrote. Keep the
location in your mind as you write a 200-word (max) character description of
someone who might venture to the location.
Keep in mind that while creativity counts, you can expect
(those of you with a little foresight) that you might be asked to include this
character (male, female, trans, etc.) in an erotic story in the future. So
please, a) no underage. And 2) consider penning a character your readers might
like to have a literary romp with. (I mean, you might enjoy describing the next
hunchback of Notre Dame but will you want to see him fuck? Maybe. That’s up to
you.)
Give your character sketch a title. Makes it easier for me
with the poll. That doesn’t have to count in the 200 words.
What else? Oh, yes, you won’t know which locations the other
writers have chosen. I don’t mind doubles, triples, etc. We’ll all find out who
chose whose when the stories post and the authors are revealed.
And now... the entries. Remember, they are posted anonymously. Authors, please refrain from sharing which one you wrote until after the voting ends. I posted the pieces in the order in which they came in.
Entry # 1: Zach Kormer
Zach grabbed a towel as he crawled out
of the swimming pool. The familiar smell of chlorine followed
after him as he headed straight for the showers with water dripping of his
slender body. It was only three months ago that he graduated high school
and he still managed to keep his swimmer's form that almost won the
state championship.
As he entered the lockers, he passed two
taller guys as they were heading into the pool. He smiled and
shook his head. Everyone was taller than him. On a good day, he was five
foot even... in shoes.
He used his towel to pat dry his long
black hair. It reached the small of his back. With his height and body,
they used to tease him about looking like a girl when he grew it out,
but he donated twice a year to cancer survivors and refused to stop
just because everyone said he'd look better in a skirt.
Passing through the lockers, he noticed
he only had a half hour before he had to be at work. It was a thankless
jobs of cleaning cabins for a small resort up in the
mountains, but he enjoyed the quiet.
Entry #2: Like Nobody is Watching
She was like a mirage – an image that
didn’t fit. She made you want to rub your eyes just to make sure she was still
there and not a strange shimmering thing that vanished with a cooler breeze in
the overcooked streets.
Barefoot, a pair of simple flats
dangling from her fingers, she seemed to be balancing on the mounds of her toes
from buttery smooth cobblestone to cobblestone. Her chin was tucked against her
chest, carefully avoiding any of the narrow gaps.
She wore what looked like a man’s shirt
and pair of jeans cut-offs, so short they vanished under the starchy cotton
that was too long but puckered and stretched around her pillowing breasts and
made her look extraordinarily and gloriously bare. Her stature added to the impression
- small and compact but with curves, wide hips and round, tanned thighs that
most women had long been shamed into hiding. She wore no make-up but her eyes
and lips looked puffy and soft, as though she might just have wandered out of
bed with that tangled pink hair, an odd dreamy thing playing on the
cobblestones and soaking up the heat of the ancient city.
Entry
#3: Beauty
Routine
A toilet flushed. A tap ran.
Tom ambled across the bedroom, his newly
shaved scalp glowing in the sticky Louisiana heat. He was naked save for the
stainless-steel chastity cage, its locking pin fed through the piercing in the
head of his cock.
He’d been a wrestler in high school.
State champ. Team Captain. The physique was still there, mostly, buried under
the subsequent years of hard living. Ink covered his chest, arms, and back: the
early tats carefully selected and artfully placed, and the bender trophies that
filled in the gaps.
From the bedside table drawer he grabbed
a purple butt plug and a flip-top bottle of AstroGlide. He knelt on the bed and
poured lube over the neon colored silicone. He leaned forward, placed his
forehead on the mattress, loosened up his ass with a lubed finger, and placed
the head of the toy at the opening. A single thrust and it was inside. He
pressed on the base until he felt his hole pucker around the plug and suck it
in.
He waited like that, ass up and head
down, arms draped loosely by his side.
The clock ticked.
Entry #4: The Predator
Fletcher sipped the green heat and
watched the writhing bodies around him. He took note of tattoos and naked flesh
and pondered his next move. Even though the heat in the club was stifling he
kept on his long-line leather coat over his thick shoulders and lithe muscles,
oblivious to the body heat.
His long, silken brown hair swished
against the leather as he knocked back the last of the powerful absinthe. He
nodded and another appeared before him almost like magic. Anyone watching him
would have noted his body language. He held himself tightly together but with
the languid self-confidence of a cheetah eying up his prey.
If you met his gaze you’d be stunned
by the deep green that echoed the colour of his drink and would wonder about the
jagged scar, white and raw just below his jaw. He was very aware that he was
causing a stir among several women at the bar. He knew he looked good and wasn’t
afraid to use that to his advantage. When he saw a beauty that struck a chord
he flashed her the secret weapon, his smile. It talked of wicked sexual
indulgence and she was powerless to resist.
*****
Entry #5: This Girl
Ten
pounds of sugar in a five pound bag, that’s this girl, all pink bubble gum lips
and hair that sparkles in the brief flits of sunlight through the standard
English cloud cover. She’s all hips and ass and tits crammed in a shirt that
features a faint dampness in upended C-shapes below the stretched faded text:
London Is For Lovers.
She
sticks out, this girl, not like a sore thumb, but like a finger with slicked
sparkly polish on the nail, pressed into pillowy flesh. Bare feet and curls in
her eyes, she bounces more than walks, giggles more than talks, and if it weren’t
for her accent, heavy, flat, middle-American, one might take her for a ringer
on the midway, ready to lure you in.
Entry
#6: Title:
The Bookworm
Michael yawned and rubbed his eyes.
Getting up early to write before work was helping him to knuckle down and
develop his book but it was hard work. The chapter he’d just finished had been
based on his exploits with a previous girlfriend and the memory always caused a
rush of blood to his groin, today was no exception. Standing up, he stretched
and crossed his apartment, heading for the shower. He glanced in the full
length mirror as he passed and paused to reflect on the naked image it
revealed. His new fitness regime was definitely working, his stomach whilst
still not a six pack was noticeably flatter and showing some signs of muscle
tone, his shoulders were broader and his arms and legs were no longer the weak,
skinny things he’d had for most of his life.
“Getting there” he thought.
Cycling to work was getting easier, he
locked his bike and as he climbed the stone steps he realised he didn’t even
get out of breath anymore. Things were definitely looking up. He smiled to himself
as he pushed open the doors and the familiar smell of massed books welcomed him
like a warm embrace.
*****
Entry #7: New Orleans Boy
He stands naked by the window, staring out with unseeing eyes, his
arms hanging loosely, an empty whiskey glass in one hand. In the glow of the
streetlamp, he’s a bronzed statue - lean, youthful, well-hung. There’s no
softness to his body or in the expression on his boyish face. A heavy sweep of copper hair adds
height to his high forehead and there’s a kink in his nose where his father
broke it. Bee-stung lips and wide-set eyes flecked with gold. The burnished
tone of his skin comes not from the sun but from the finest dusting of grainy
freckles; the surface beneath is creamy white.
A Mardi Gras shriek reminds him that the night is waiting. He
drops the tumbler hard on the desk and it cracks. He curses, running a hand
through his quiff. In one fluid movement he picks up and pulls on tight leather
pants, stretched at the knee through wear but still sculpted around his high,
tight butt. Scuffed biker boots, ripped T-shirt. From the bed he grabs a
short-handled flogger which he shoves down the back of his waist and, with tails
streaming out behind, he heads for the door...
*****
Entry
#8: Legs
The crunching sound of the
gravel under her feet echoes on the warm summer wind. Birds in the trees sing
in happy tones. She walks slowly, swaying her hips, exactly as instructed.
Adrenaline rushes through her body as she gets closer to the cabin. Her
self-consciousness shows in the cautious way she places her feet with each
step. Her long legs are accentuated by high heeled shoes. The black lace tops
of her stockings are clearly visible under the short black dress. A white
button-down blouse completes the picture. Her long brown hair moves in the soft
wind. A blank expression hides her nervousness. Even though it will be another
week before the tourists descend on this place, she has a feeling that more
than two pairs of eyes are watching her. One, two, three, four, she counts her
steps. Only a couple of meters more before she reaches the door of the cabin.
The birds are gone. The wind is quiet. Nature is holding its breath, as is she.
She looks up and see them: two men watching her from behind the big window. She
exhales loudly. What do they have in store for her today?
*****
Entry
#9: Aimee
It's impossible for Aimee not to catch
any man's eye; her tall, elegant frame and long, black hair is clearly
inapposite in the airless testosterone-filled garage, where masculine voices
and the deep throaty roars of powerful engines dominate.
Her driven expression permeates the
crude aggression of the audible chatter, and she casually adds stains to her
stains on her faded blue dungarees where the grease from the vehicles are
routinely wiped from her hands. She smells faintly of engine oil and diesel,
and as she adjusts her clothing in the sweltering heat, the brightly-coloured
dragon tattoos on her arm becoming visible for a fleeting moment. If you get to
know her better, she may reveal a psychedelic butterfly on her shaved mons, but
few men know this.
Aimee is the youngest child and only
daughter from a farmer's brood of seven. In her youth, she learnt
extensively about farm machinery from her brothers, and later about satisfying her
lustful yearnings in secluded barns from the many farmhands. As fiercely
independent as a lion, and no less vicious, Aimee needs control and domination
from her partners, but few men can tame a wild minx, and even fewer are
prepared to try.
*****
Entry #10: An Unlikely Wrench
A stiff spring breeze grasps at crisp, white cotton, carrying the
scent of myrrh and vanilla into the garage's dank staleness. Meredith shoves
the overhead door away and wrinkles her nose. “Guess Uncle Thad didn't change
much.” Her bootheels ring through the building, the opposite garage bay groans
open. The wind plays through the newly opened space and around her, setting her
curls free from her collar, baring vivid ink and golden skin. The art spins and
scrolls from her neck beneath her shirt and peaks out again at her left wrist,
all abstract shapes and curves.
Chrome winks from the leather about her wrists as she turns up her
shirtcuffs. Links of chain shift around her waist as Meredith pushes the pit
grate with a scuffed toe. “Bet Uncle Thad didn't expect to be leaving this
place to us, eh Bruce?” She looks out at the silent, slouching bulk of her
beat-up truck and sighs. Could she be mechanic to Eston, pop. 679? Her bark of
laughter echoes and she's still chuckling as she pulls the main breaker,
setting machinery into motion. From bar wench to town wrench. I'll fix
y'right or fix y'up.
*****
Entry
#11: Choose Me
She
owned the room, wherever she was. Tonight, the flounced denim skirt rode up
over her muscular creamy thighs, red and black striped socks pulled up over her
knees worn under twenty-hole battered Doc Martens.
Her tits defied gravity, a black bra
visible under the sheer prim blouse she wore with faux pearls, as if she were
going to a garden party. Black hair, streaked through with white, fell straight
down her back, reaching her pert ass.
The short, manicured nails of one hand
gripped a black leather jacket. A cigarette burned to ashes in the other, the
filter smeared with fuck-me red.
But it was never the clothes that made
you sit up, take notice, with a hard cock or wet cunt. It was her stature, her
attitude. It was the way those latte coloured eyes fixed on you, as if
she saw all your secrets, and the smirk that said you’d have more to keep
before she was done with you.
You want to be the one to conquer her,
even though, inside, you know you’ll be on your knees for her, begging by the
night’s end.
‘Choose me’ is your last thought before
she claims your soul.
*****
Entry #12: Edele
The sand is almost
burning under her bare feet, but she enjoys it because it’s something she can
feel. Walking along the beach in the last light of the day, her frizzled red
locks sway in the breeze. Her weary green eyes are scanning the landscape. She’s
tired of running from her own mind. Her body smarts under the heft of the miles
she has walked today. Her chest heaves and her ample breasts strain against her
bra. Salty tears sting at the back of her eyes, but she knows she’s close so
she has to grin and bear it.
And then she sees it.
A tiny grey cabin, weathered by seaside weather conditions. The horizon is
still visible and as she runs towards the cabin, she wants to scream because
her lungs feel like they’re going to burst. But it doesn’t matter. Once she
lies herself down on the bed and closes her eyes, there will be nothing left
but her, the smell of fresh fish and the crackle of the old record player. Her
favourite song. He’d remember. He always did.
*****
Entry #13: Underneath
She is not what she seems beneath the
dirty overalls and greasy hands. To everyone else she is untouchable, almost
rude, but they come here anyway because she is good at her job, fixing their
cars no matter what seems to be wrong with them. They pay her willingly and
hurry away. She scares them, especially the men, but not me. I know
differently. I know that underneath the standoffish demeanour and the tomboy
look there lingers another woman.
I smile when I see the way
they treat her; the other men, like she might bite them if they get to close
but she has done it on purpose, creating a protective field around her, because
if they knew they would never leave her alone. If they knew she would have no
choice but to be the little slut she is all the time and she can’t bear that
thought. It surprises me though, how unobservant they are. The moment I saw her
I knew, but it was her smell that really gave her away, once you cut through
the acrid stench of gas and chemicals that surround her it is there, the
unmistakable odour of sex.
******
Entry #14: Home
He is lost. He knows exactly where
he stands but inside, he lacks the quintessential compass that has always
guided him. Purpose.
Ever since he was small, it was bases.
He was a natural. The crack of bat on ball, the thrum in his fingers that came
the same instant, the hammer of his heart in his chest as he pushed toward
first, second, third, home.
In college he was still consumed by
baseball, but mastered rounding bases of a more human and feminine nature in
the off-season. He was a natural at that, too.
Even when he hurt his knee and lost his scholarship, he kept focus. Content with his recreational league and
with coaching. Bases. Training others to run in circles.
At 27, he is lost. He knows when it
happened but not precisely why. He is sure that it’s not only because of what
she did to him, though. Just one day, the bases weren’t enough anymore and now
he wanders, aimless without them.
He drifted across the Atlantic in a 757
and stands, sand in his toes looking to the waves for something. Purpose. A
reason to run. A reason to go home.
P.S. Poll will run until May 30th!
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