#Lippie Entry: Dubonnet, by Robert S

An email submission for #Lippie, from Robert S.

Dubonnet

He had got there a good twenty minutes early.  She had told him they should get a booth in the front, near the window.  It had more character there, she had said, in that narrow space next to the bar.  The booths were more intimate.  They could talk, she had insisted, and the bar staff were close enough that you could order from the booth.  He already had a Martini in front of him and had drunk most of it, another reason to get there early and get a drink ahead.

The bar had a French theme:  Parisian posters on the walls, yellowing posters for Ricard and Dubonnet, and a lit sign for a Bar-Tabac propped in the corner by the door.  The bar staff were young and tattooed, and he looked at his hands around his drink and felt old and weary.

Then, looking out of the window at the street, the sun setting behind the railway, silhouetting palm trees against the horizon, he started to have doubts.  Why had she asked that they meet so early, in the last of the daylight, and asked him to sit near the window? She might want to take a look at him before she came in through the door.  She might already have passed by and decided that the reality did not match the fantasies that they had shared.

It had taken him a long time to persuade her to meet. Each time he had suggested it she had been keen, but then cancelled on him.

I will share the fantasy but not the reality, she had written. I need to be open about my strength and my fragility.

Just one drink, he had replied, and finally she had agreed.  He had let her choose the time and the venue,

He was nervous, and in her last email she had said that she was too. Beyond nervous, verging on terror, she had told him, and he had been surprised.  They had been writing for two weeks, a torrent of emails and texts after that first tentative message on the website.  

They had discussed the most intimate things, personal things: the failure of their marriages, the difficulties of balancing family and career, the difficulty of trying to develop a relationship in what little time they had left over.  He had told her that he was simply unable to offer the commitment required to maintain a romantic relationship, which is why he had resorted to that particular website.  She had agreed with him and their writing had moved on to their desires and fantasies, and now they were explicit in a way that he had never allowed himself to be before.  He had found himself exploring the darker parts of his desires, and she had too.  Now they were on the verge of that fantasy life crossing into reality.

I might not be what you expect, she had written.  I’m not petite.  I’m not a porn star with a hard body.  I’m a middle aged working mother.  I have flaws.’  But he had seen the photos.  She had not lied to him.  Voluptuous was the word she had chosen to describe herself and he discovered that he liked that, liked that she was a natural woman:  no lies, no make up, no surgery, and no enhancements.  He had read the thoughts and fantasies in her writing and he had liked them too.

He finished the last of his Martini and when he put down the glass and looked up, there she was.  He hadn’t heard the door, so lost in his thoughts.  He recognized her at once from her eyes.  She was wearing little make-up, just eyeliner around her hazel eyes, which were wary below strong eyebrows. The only other make-up was dark red lipstick, which contrasted with her pale skin.  Her narrow face was framed by tousled black hair that fell loose across her shoulders.

He found that he was staring at her, and had not spoken.  He pulled himself off the bench and put a hand out towards her in greeting. She looked at his hand and the way he was half standing in the cramped booth, and smiled.

‘Hello,’ he said, an unexpected croak in his voice.

‘Hi,’ she said, her voice soft, and he realized it was the first time he had heard her speak. She took his hand lightly in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze as if in reassurance, and this was their first touch.  He thought that he had not yet smelled her, and not tasted her.

He found his eyes wandering again.  She wore a simple black dress, open at the neck showing cleavage, a tiny edge of red underwear visible on one side. She had told him that she liked lingerie.  She had sent him photographs and he had stared at them.  Even now he could recall each one, and compare them with the woman in front of him.

He was aware of the imbalance: the number of photos she has sent him of herself.  He had only sent her one photo, a conventional portrait without a smile, professionally taken by a mate who was a photographer.  Hers were selfies, the lighting poor and the focus indistinct.  He liked that about them.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.

‘Just one,’ she said, and gave him a half-smile.  She looked towards the bar and her eyes widened when they landed on the posters and she said: ‘Gin and Dubonnet, please.’

He was watching her lips move, remembering how she had told him how much she liked to kiss: how she enjoyed the give and take, and how it was the beginning and end of everything for her.

He broke his eyes away from her lips and looked towards the bar but the girl behind it had been watching and had heard the order. ‘Two,’ he mouthed at her and she nodded.

She let go of his hand and sat down, and as she bent her knees to slide into the booth he saw that the skirt of her dress was slit up one side.  He caught a glimpse of a black stocking top against the curve of her hip and realized he was staring again, so he focused his gaze on her eyes.

He tried not to look down at the swell of her breasts, and not to think about what she had said about the sensitivity of her nipples.  They were still staring at each other’s eyes, not speaking, when the girl put their drinks in front of them.

She lifted a hand to sweep her hair back, and he caught a glimpse of the nape of her neck, where pale skin glowed against her black hair.  She lowered her hands to the table and wrapped them around her drink, her nails tapping against the glass.  They were painted the same shade of red as her lipstick, almost the same colour as her cocktail.

I like to dig my nails into my lovers back,’ she had told him.

She looked nervous now, that first burst of bravado evaporating.  He looked into her eyes again and she looked down at her drink and raised it to her lips and took a deep pull on it.

‘So,’ she said. ‘Does the reality live up to the fantasy?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You are exactly as I imagined you.  What about me? You’ve only seen one photo.’

She shrugged.  ‘It’s different for me.  Your words are what attracted me.  Plus, you didn’t try too hard to impress.  I was worried that it might spoil it, us meeting.  We couldn’t be as open with each other as when we were anonymous.  I didn’t want reality to kill the fantasy.’

‘Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth,’ he said, and he liked that it made her smile.

He saw her eyes soften, and he felt the connection they had made in their writing pass between them again across the table.

He stood up quickly, leaned across the table and kissed her.  She resisted at first, her eyes open and darting sideways, aware of the public place.  He put his hand behind her head and pulled her mouth towards his, and then he inhaled her, drank her in, and tasted her.

#Lippie Entry: Runway Hit, by @BilliousOne

The story below is an entry for my Lippie competition, by @BilliousOne.

***

I came to this erotica competition via a friend and got to thinking: would it be crazy to have a go myself? The fact that I haven’t written any erotica longer than a seventeen syllable Haiku seemed a minor impediment at the time, as did the fact that I am male and this is driven by lipstick of all things! So I contacted Charlie and she came up with “Runway Hit”. Being male I immediately thought of planes and the smell of burning fuel rather than the fashion show type of runway that was no doubt in the mind of the mysterious lipstick namer (now there’s a job!). I decided to re-locate an old fantasy. Here goes:

Runway Hit

She passed through the endless steel lined tunnels and walkways of Terminal 4 following signs for the Hilton Hotel, heels clicking, her summer dress swaying from side to side slightly as she walked. She’d nearly stayed at home, safe in an environment she could control; she’d nearly turned back at Paddington, so hesitant the platform attendant had pointed out the Heathrow Express was leaving; she’d nearly turned back when it arrived at Terminal 4. Yet here she was, walking down the last tunnel into the Hotel for what felt like strangest of meetings with a man she had never met; a man to whom she had never even spoken; a man who she knew full well was going to bend her over a chair and spank her.

They had met on social media, part of an informal network of people who shared erotic short stories, via each other’s blogs and websites. Hers were almost covertly sexual, beautifully crafted with clever metaphors and twists; his darker, more direct and filled with tales of domination and submission. At some point, she forgot quite why, they had started having private direct messaging conversations alongside their public blog exchanges.

A week earlier while relaxing at home, chatting with several people on-line as she liked to do, their communication had taken a strange and, for her at least, unintended path:

Her: I read a blog that described a spanking today. She made it sound so real, so intensely sensual

Him: Interesting. Have you ever been spanked? 

Her: Not really, I mean a bit but not so that it really hurt

Him: Would you like to be spanked. Does the idea of it interest you?

Her: Maybe. I’m not sure. I think the loss of control part might be fun. Would you like to spank me? 

After pressing send she had jumped up in horror, desperate to un-send a message that had been meant as rhetorical, but read more like an invitation.

Him. Yes. I would like that very much but I am in Paris and you are in London

Her: Well thank heavens for that then! I’m safe 

Him: But do you want to be?

She had invented a domestic crisis of some sort and ended the conversation, embarrassed. Yet despite herself she had been strangely aroused by the idea and it had stayed with her until two days later when an email had pinged into her inbox. Without any preamble it gave her an exact day and time to be at the Heathrow Hilton Hotel, where she was to wait further instructions. She was affronted by the email on so many levels; the assumption that she would ever consider meeting a strange man in a hotel; the assumption that she could just leave her business on a day of his choosing; the dictatorial way it was worded. She had written a reply expressing her disgust and severing their relationship but had let the cursor hover over send, unable to quite overcome the delicious taste of excitement, spiced with just the right amount of fear. In the end her reply had simply said: “Yes”.

As she turned into the cavernous but sparsely populated hotel lobby she heard a series of messages arrive in her phone. She knew she was already beyond the point where turning back was possible. Following the instructions (HIS instructions!) she took the lift to the twelfth floor and found room 1208. As she knew it would be, the door was slightly ajar. It was a suite! Shocked that he had both flown from Paris and rented a suite for this short meeting she looked around. There was a long glass window with an almost panoramic view of the runways, a jumbo jet lumbering into the sky on one while a smaller plane landed on the other. The suite was smartly furnished, all beiges and stone colours but, in the manner of hotels, was somewhat soulless. She nervously glanced at the one discordant note in the layout. A large curved leather arm chair had been quite deliberately positioned in the centre of the room facing the window, on its seat a pillow and a soft black blindfold.

Taking deep breaths to steady her nerves she moved to the bed room, removed her dress and folded it onto the bed. Perhaps because it all seemed so unreal that this could even be happening, she felt detached, as if observing someone else. That someone else looked at herself in the mirror and, seeing how her underwear accentuated the curves, the rises and falls, of her body, drew confidence from its still smooth skin and gym toned form. Moving back into the main room she stood behind the chair and put on the blindfold, defiantly leaving a small gap at the bottom. She leant over the cold leather of the chair, long stockinged legs stretched out behind, and rested her elbows on the pillow. She waited. She could feel her heart beating faster than normal, as if before a gym session. All she could hear was her breathing, rapid but shallow, and the muffled sounds of aircraft taking off and landing. She counted four aircraft landings while she waited and then jumped as the click of the door announced his arrival.

She heard him remove his suit jacket and hang it on a dining chair, sensed his approach and then glimpsed charcoal suited ankles and immaculate black shoes. Now she was breathing fast, the flow of adrenaline heightening her senses. Something that had seemed interesting as a vague fantasy suddenly seemed horribly real. She felt his hand rest on the small of her back. The hand seemed reassuring and she sensed that he wanted her to know she was safe. Her breathing slowed a little. But the character of his touch changed, strengthened. She pushed herself up slightly but met firm resistance, realising that now the hand was holding her down, pushing her against the leather. She heard the smack first, a loud intrusive sound, and then felt the heat across her bottom. She gasped more in surprise than pain, but smack followed smack, hard and fast, each more painful than the last. He paused at twenty, the room silent again but for her rapid breathing, almost panting as she struggled to deal with the surge of sensations flooding through her body. His hand returned with more force. She felt herself fighting a losing battle to control her reactions, gasping with each blow, pushing against the hand holding her down. But she was feeling other reactions. A combination of his powerful, unseen presence, the heat spreading from her bottom and the way each blow forced her clitoris down hard onto the back of the chair was making her hot and wet. The spanking seemed endless. Her whole world had reduced to the small space they occupied and that space was full of heat and pain. Just as the safe-word he had given her forced its way into her consciousness, he stopped. The downwards pressure of his hand was released and became once again a light reassuring touch. For maybe one minute maybe ten, he just stood there with his hand resting gently on her back while she fought to regain control of herself. He spoke for the first time, just two words: “well done”, and, retrieving his suit jacket, he was gone, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Needing to let loose a reservoir of tension and nervous energy she pushed one hand into her wet panties, stroking fast while the other rubbed and squeezed her hot, sore bottom, reviving the sensations of the spanking. She came fast and hard, slipping to the floor as she did so. Dazed, she gathered herself together and stood under a hot shower in the suite’s beautiful bathroom, at one point shaking uncontrollably in a release of pure emotion. Feeling better, in fact feeling beautifully calm and relaxed, floaty even, she dressed and, pulling the door of the suite closed behind her, took the lift down to the lobby.

His last message had said: “If you feel the need to talk about it afterwards, I shall be in the lobby bar by the piano”. She spotted him immediately, long legs folded, drink on the table, newspaper in hand. She had fully intended to talk to him; after all they had never met, never even spoken. But something stopped her. Maybe this was how their relationship was meant to be: a virtual, social media relationship, carried on in chatrooms and blogs; knowing each other intimately and yet not at all. As she approached he looked up, eyes staring straight into hers, eyebrows raised slightly in enquiry. She held his gaze and, confident now she was doing the right thing, offered him a quiet smile and a small nod and walked on, heading back into the airport’s endless tunnels.

#Lippie Entry: Rebel, by @Chiaroscuro

The story below is an entry for my Lippie competition, by the wonderful @chiaroscuro.

Rebel

She plays pinball and she feeds the jukebox. She’s done this for going on for an hour. A pound in the jukebox, careful, lip-biting, brow-furrowing deliberation, then walking but subtly dancing to herself back to the pinball machine. A pound in there and she plays and plays.

And it’s a constant effort to not look at her.

Nothing about her demeanour suggests that she’s noticed me, she seems totally, joyously unselfconscious. The pub is sparsely populated. A few old soaks drinking silently together. They’d be here alone, if they had to be. A couple of students from the university drinking the strongest cider they sell. Me, waiting for a perennially late friend. And her. And her.

Pretty and slight and pixieish. Jeans, an old t-shirt that she could fit into three times over, some dainty little flats that just make her seem smaller, no makeup. An absence of effort appears to have gone into her look but she is utterly, intoxicatingly at home with it.

I pretend to concentrate on some pointless smartphone game but i’m just tapping a blank screen. She stands, one foot on top of the other, toes turned in, in front of the screen as she, yet again, chooses the soundtrack to our afternoon.

Her fingers start pressing the buttons quickly, decisively. She’s hit a rich seam and a heartbeat later, the jangly, jagged sound of early Bowie floods the bar. Grinning to herself, she walks back to the pinball machine and plays, her hips flicking in sympathy with the flippers.

I watch her moving, more intently now that she’s so thoroughly absorbed. The hips, obviously, the t-shirt draped over them. But the line of her bowed head, her exposed neck. I imagine my hands, my lips on her. I imagine taking a fistful of that t-shirt and pulling her close, bending to kiss her before even knowing her name, before even hearing her voice. I imagine pulling her jeans down and taking her over the pinball machine. I imagine the feel of her lips on me, pulling me deeper into her. I imagine the taste of her and how her hands would feel knotted tightly in my messy hair.

I down my drink. Not because I want to, but because I want an easy excuse to talk to her. As I approach I hear her singing quietly to herself…

“…torn your dress
Rebel rebel, your face is a mess
Dumdeedumdee, how could they know
Hot tramp, I love you so…”

I pause as I pass her, timing my line so she can hold the ball in a flipper.

“Excuse me, could I buy you a drink?”

She frowns, ever so slightly.

“No, you’re alright. thanks though.”

I buy my beer and head back to my table. But it’s changed, she knows that she’s being observed and she’s still, her hips aren’t moving, suddenly conscious of herself. I’ve ruined it. My friend arrives and I’m grateful for his presence. We talk of work and sport and meaningless stuff.  Soon, I look up and she’s left, her half-finished beer next to the pinball table.

#Lippie: The Entries

The full list of entries to my #Lippie competition. Entries will be added as and when they’re submitted. Closing date is October 11th, 2015. Enjoy!

  1. Cockney by @19syllables
  2. Sin by @girlonthenet
  3. Flamingos and Wolves by @cherrytartblog
  4. On Hold by @mollysdailykiss
  5. Rebel by @loucheasfuck
  6. Impassioned by @innocentlb
  7. Costa Chic by @GoodnightAngela
  8. Lipstick Color by @cammiesonfloor
  9. Politely Pink by @CollaredMom
  10. Lady Danger by @Mansplanation
  11. Peach Blossom by @Juniper3Glasgow
  12. Flat Out Fabulous by @Katya_Harris
  13. Runway Hit by @BilliousOne
  14. Real Redhead by Peter Stone
  15. Dubonnet by Robert S
  16. Myth by @DarkJezebelle
  17. Syrup by @Absolutely_Ruby
  18. Cosmo by @vidabailey2
  19. Crème in Your Coffee by @fdotleonora
  20. Kinda Sexy by @RiaRestrepo
  21. Saigon Summer by @octogirlscares
  22. Highlights by @mandapen
  23. Fanfare by @IAmAnnaSky
  24. No Persistence Here by @VenaRamphal
  25. Hot Tahiti by @JillyBoyd
  26. See Sheer by @StellaKiink
  27. Brave by @Tomwatched

Lippie Entry: Cockney, by @19syllables

The story below is an entry for my Lippie competition, by the lovely @19syllables. You can find her on Twitter here.

Cockney

His voice is direct when he addresses me. I can’t write his accent, because I can’t speak the accent. It comes from within him, visceral and connected, as if he grew out of the ground on which he stands, and it is laced with lilt and twinkle that I can only marvel at. My reply jars in comparison. My voice is schooled, not grown in nature but perfected and corrected, glass-house propagated until each vowel is tight and clipped, no word left abandoned by its final consonant, the last of which tucks every sentence neatly in.

I skootch in under the awning to avoid the curtain of water cascading from the tarpaulin behind me. It keeps me closer than I’m comfortable, so I buy time with flustering of my umbrella, and the noises and bustle that English people make to convey their managing in wet weather. He stands calm until our familiar charade begins.

“Please may I have six figs.”

“Ripe now, or ready in a couple of days?”

“Ripe now”

He assembles his wide right hand and its squared-off fingers into a delicate bird’s head shape and tenderly pinches the top of each fig, feeling for just the correct amount of yield. He moves methodically from fruit to fruit. I breathe in long slow breaths, in and out, to fill the time in which I have no words.  The time in which I become aware of my breasts, warm inside my wet outer clothes, my nipples tightening as he moves between each pointed fleshy apex, our silence heavy around us. I’m unable to look away of his deliberate manipulation.

“…and I’d like 4 pears please. Are they good? Sometimes they can be so disappointing”

You see? I’ve used conversation, to diffuse the situation.  I have brought it back out, out from my warm clothes, and from my erect nipples ticking in my bra.  Back into the street in the rain, back to the safety of groceries and quality and value.

“Mine are always good. Have one.”

He passes me a pear, and takes one for himself. It’s a moment of shared appraisal so we stand, facing each other like wine tasters.

There isn’t a polite, disinterested way to eat a good pear, and this is a really good pear. We both sink our mouths into the flesh and quickly the whole fruit is wet and soft. It is so good that we don’t want to waste a single drop, of which there are many. They roll down our chins, our hands too wet to effectively address it.  There is only the sound of lips and sucking wetness.

To sidestep I decide to convey my positive review before I’ve finished. I use words like MmmMmmm, and Uuuungh and produce a sort of frown/smile to show that it is seriously good. He just eats and watches, a half smile on his face and his head tilted a little in observation. He seems in no hurry to get to the part where he puts fruit in a bag.

It is always like this. Soon I will leave with my fruit and vegetables, out from under the awning back into the rain. My skin charged and ignited by his touch when he gives me my change, (one giant, gnarly hand cupped lingeringly under mine to catch wayward coins). I will politely say “goodbye”, and “thank you” in my chiming Kensington tone, with perhaps, a jaunty observation about the weather. But as I walk away I’m still thinking about his pinching, cupping hands, them sliding up my dress to my soft and yielding flesh. Up my legs, to the softest skin between my thighs and to the apexes of my breasts. I think too about juice dripping. In my head he is tender and efficient, arrogant strength metred out with deliberation, knowledge and care. The muscles in my thighs and back feel tense and watery at the thought of it. I picture how he leaned forward to reach the furthest fruit, and I’m imagining myself bent at the waist beneath him, pressed into the vegetables, a frown/smile on my face and saying “MmmMmmm” and “Uuuungh” into the apples and pears.

***COMPETITION: LIPPIE***

Remember Polished?

Well, I thought it might be time to do it all over again, and I mentioned it to Kristina Lloyd, who has a great new anthology out, and she suggested a fresh take: lipstick.

I’m not a big wearer of lipstick, so instead of my own collection, this competition will be based around the names of classic MAC lipstick. It’s simple – if you want to enter, you drop me a DM, I’ll select a lipstick name for you at random and you write a piece of erotica using that lipstick name as a title. Sound familiar?

There will of course be a prize, the full details of which are yet to be confirmed, but which will definitely include a signed copy of Kristina’s anthology when it’s released in paperback. In addition, I’ll donate £1 to Refuge (up to a maximum of £30) for every story entered – and you can enter more than once.

If you’re tempted, here are …

… the Rules…

(1) Your story must be a piece of erotica and use the name of the lipstick allocated to you as, or as part of, the title. The more creative the story, the better.
(2) The post must (obviously) be your own work.
(3) There is no minimum length for posts, but they must be no longer than 1500 words.
(4) You may request more than one lipstick name and submit more than one story, but you must submit a story for every lipstick name you are allocated.
(5) You must post the piece on your own blog and link back to this post in order for your entry to be counted. If you’re having trouble with the link, DM me or drop me an email and I’ll add your post to the list of entries.
(6) If you don’t have a blog, but would like to enter, I’ll also consider stories sent via email (my email address is here)
(7) The competition closes at 23.59 GMT on Sunday, October 11th. Any entries submitted after this point will not be considered.
(8) You consent to me linking to your post in a list of all the entries once the competition has closed.
(9) Should you win, you are happy to share your mailing address with me (and Kristina!) for the purpose of sending your prize.
(10) The competition is open internationally.

If I’)ve missed anything, or you have questions, please let me know…

Charlie xx

Giving It Up Competition: The Results

I’m late with these – I’d have extended the deadline for another week or so, but I figured that after the whole of Lent, it was time for you to stop writing and get back to morel important things like chocolate, booze and wanking (oh, wait, that’s just me…)

Anyway, as ever when I run competitions, the calibre of the entries was pretty damn high, which makes making a decision about the winner difficult, to say the least.

Let’s start with Innocent Loverboy’s entry, seeing as he was quick off the mark to send it in. I really like the way he’s added extra elements of challenge to the prompt, and that he’s been inspired by music (he wrote it in 05.42 minutes, which is the length of the James track that inspired him. I love the short sentences at the start as well, which do indeed give a real sense of build up.

Jane at Jane’s Little Secrets is also a recent discovery, and one who shares the same problem as me: struggling to give up control. It’s totally worth it in this case, though, because the description of being fingered by someone who’s driving feels risky in more ways than one. And who isn’t turned on by an element of risk?

Absolutely Ruby’s gorgeous post imagines the day that she’ll have to give up a lover who’s both bad and good for her all at the same time. The remembered details in this – her first champagne cocktail, a much needed hug – enrich the piece and create a situation we’re almost all certain to relate to. My heart aches for her reading this, but at the same time, when she says ‘I will look back on our time and boy will I smile because it really has been fantastic’ it makes me smile too. A proper emotional rollercoaster of an entry, this one.

Lent by Strained Voices is a piece where the characters end up breaking the rules of Lent, and isn’t that always the most fun? It was the line ‘I can do whatever the fuck I want,” he said, holding her hips and plunging himself inside her,’ that really got me. Hot stuff.

TheShingleBeach is the third entrant to include a song lyric – it’s as if when we’re forced to give up the good stuff in life we turn to music to see us through. Loss appears as a theme here too, and heartbreakingly sadly, once again, especially because, fuck me, this couple have chemistry. We know they’ve been intimate for a while, because of the way she is pulled into the bedroom in ‘a practised tango,’ and it makes the end, with its lonely walk home and suitcase to be packed, even more poignant than it might otherwise be.

Collared Mom’s Lent is Rough was definitely the piece that made me smile the most – i could totally see myself wondering if tiramisu was fair game if I’d given up coffee – and here the main character still can’t stop her mind wandering to tiramisu even once she has a hot man on the scene! The descriptions, such as ‘I was grinning like a school girl that had just been given a pony for her birthday.’ are great too.

@Mandapen‘s Take It All is sadly not available for reading online, as she emailed it to me. It’s a great tale of a woman domming her partner for the first time. There’s no fear here of painting flawed characters – we learn that he is ‘an unreliable servant’ who often goes AWOL for ‘weeks, sometimes months’ or of viscerality: ‘great salty mouthfuls of her juice,’ both of which are things that i massively appreciate in fiction.

In the end though, I was torn between two pieces: An Older Man’s Breaking Conditioning and Euclidean Point‘s Giving Up Kink (which again, was sent to me via email.) The draw of the former is how fearlessly it eroticises something that I still think of as a relatively niche kink – water sports. Innate shame duels with the desire to please, and I love the way that the subtle tension of the piece dwindles to deep affection as it draws to a close.

Maybe Euclidean Point’s entry taps strongly into my kinks (and by ‘maybe’ I mean ‘definitely), but it also covers such ground so concisely. For example, ‘On our first date he opened doors for me and I lowered my eyes for him. The first time we were alone, in a hotel room, he spanked me and I sucked his cock while he pulled my hair,’ tells us everything we need to know about the characters in two perfectly composed sentences. And then, the final paragraph which captures both the strength and peacefulness in submission, and well as the sense it can give you of coming home. All these things combined to leave me with little choice but to declare this piece the winner, which means you can read it in full below. Congratulations, Euclidean Point – I’ll be in touch about your prize.

Charlie xx

Here is what happens when you give up your kink. 

It was his idea, to live as a vanilla couple for a month. Since meeting online we had each been entrenched in our defined roles – he was a dominant and I was a submissive. On our first date he opened doors for me and I lowered my eyes for him. The first time we were alone, in a hotel room, he spanked me and I sucked his cock while he pulled my hair.

We’ve been living together for two years now, and I want to be with him forever. His issue with this is my experience. I’ve had flings and half-hearted love affairs, but never a relationship like this. How can I know that it’s the submission I love, not just the fact that I can cuddle up to someone after a hard day at work?

He removed my collar on a Sunday morning. The sun was shining into our bedroom as I knelt at his feet. He carefully laid the collar in his bedside drawer, and then returned to me and helped me to stand up. The rest of the day was mine.

We cooked breakfast together, as we had done a hundred times before. I decided I wanted to go shopping, and I remembered to inform rather than ask him before I left the house. I managed a few hours of pleasant but directionless wandering before returning home. He’d brought me flowers. That night he gently took me into his arms and caressed my body. We fucked slowly and kissed passionately. I moaned in all the right places, and smiled at him afterwards. It felt empty and soulless, but perhaps it was just unfamiliar.

For the next few weeks he hugged me, kissed me, and asked about my day. Gone were the affectionate slaps on my arse. For the first time in years my pale skin was entirely without a mark or a bruise. All of our toys were sealed in a box in the corner of our bedroom, a box that I couldn’t stop glancing at out of the corner of my eye.

One day when he was out, I opened the box. Three weeks after sealing it all away, it was strange to see the neatly packed rope, a selection of clamps, canes, floggers and my favourite riding crop. I took out two lengths of rope and re-sealed the box. When he came home, I led him to the bed and almost had one of his wrists tied to the headboard before he even realised what I was doing.

He allowed himself to be tied, for his nipples to be pinched. I brought him to the brink of orgasm with my mouth and then stopped. He laughed when I asked him to beg. I teased him some more. He pulled experimentally on his bonds but having been tied to that headboard so much myself I knew exactly how to ensure there would be no escape. Eventually he persuaded me to give him his release. He never told me that I was in trouble, or that I would pay for this once the month came to an end. The next morning I packed the rope back into the box and it has been there ever since.

The last week of the month was difficult. I was really busy at work, and came home stressed and tense every evening. He cooked dinner, and rubbed my shoulders. Some nights he massaged my feet as I sat drinking wine in front of the TV.

Today is the last day of my freedom from submission. As I enter the bedroom he’s standing waiting for me.

‘You’re happy.’ He sounds resigned.

‘I am.’ I respond, smiling at him.

He steels himself before responding. ’You know I can’t give up for good, don’t you? But maybe we could just do it on weekends or…’

My grin stops him in his tracks and he searches my face for meaning. ‘I’m happy because the month is over.’

It’s only when the tension visibly leaves his body that I can see how much he has suffered. How careful he has been, how studiously he has denied himself to give me this choice. That he loves me so much he would be prepared to let me go rather than risk pressuring me into a submissive lifestyle that I didn’t want.

But I need it as much as he does. As I lean in to kiss him, he takes my wrists and pushes them behind my back. Then using one hand to keep my wrists pinned, his free hand roughly grabs my breast and pinches my nipple hard. We’re both smiling as we press our foreheads together in a moment of shared relief.

Tonight we will open the box in the corner of our bedroom and resume our familiar roles. The blank canvas of my flesh will once again carry the evidence of our shared passion, the lines and bruises that mark me as his. This is my freedom. This is my home. And I will never give it up again.

Giving It Up Competition: The Entries

To encourage you all to get your act together and write something for my Lent-themed Giving It Up competition, between now and the closing date (April 2nd), I’ll be adding links to the list below as and when they come in. I’d love to get a minimum of 10!

Charlie x

1. 05.42 by Innocent Loverboy

2. Giving It Up … Lent Style! by Jane’s Little Secrets

3. Giving You Up by Absolutely Ruby

4. Lent by Strained Voices

5. The Last Night by The Shingle Beach

6. Lent is Rough by Collared Mom

7. Breaking Conditioning by An Older Man

8. Giving up Kink by Euclidean Point

9. Take It All by @Mandapen

L (The Make Up Artist) + **Competition**

It’s almost the same shade as the lipstick rolling around the bottom of my handbag, but I want it, for the 1920s-style case as much as the name.

She comes over while I’m testing it on the back of my hand. ‘Do you want to see what it looks like on?’

I’m a sucker for other people doing my make up – I’ve never mastered the art of getting that polished look on my own. And she is, without a doubt, polished. Around her neck, a cursive L hangs from a delicate gold chain and her hair is a mass of carefully styled honey waves, but these softnesses are offset by her outfit, which is head to toe black, from her hot pants to her leather apron.

I’m inelegant and clumsy next to her, not helped by having to clamber onto what is essentially a bar stool. She swipes her brush through the colour and leans in close. I twitch, too strung out with life in general to stay as still as she wants me, and she giggles.

She outlines my lips in pencil and maybe it’s that that makes me feel like a blank canvas, like i could reinvent myself here, in Selfridges’ packed Beauty Hall. It’s noisy, hot, and bright, but I’m totally captivated by her. Her lips are ruby red, the kind of colour I dream of being able to pull off as my everyday look. She applies it straight from the stick, she says, and I girl crush a little harder on this rough-and-ready round the edges admission.

It’s strange, having someone focus so hard on your mouth when they’re not kissing you. She fills in between the lines, stepping back occasionally to appraise her handiwork. If I spent this long on my own make up, I’d never get to work.

‘I can’t get the pigment to even out,’ she says, as she continues to sweep colour over my lips. ‘It’s weird.’

Uneven, chaotic – this has been my mental state for months and I want to laugh at the fact that this gorgeous girl can’t make me look calm and sophisticated, no matter how hard she tries. Eventually, the frustration gets the better of her and she drops her brush onto the counter and swipes her finger roughly over my lips.

‘Ah,’ she says, ‘That’s better!’

Even before she hands me the mirror, I know I’m a sure thing. It’s no longer just the packaging and the name. It’s the sense that here, at 11.45 on a Saturday morning, I might have fallen a little bit in love. I pay, and she hands me the bag before turning her attention to the next girl looking for something pretty. Before I walk away, I linger for a moment by the testers and wonder what shade her lipstick was.

Love bite. That’ll be it.

*****

I joked to @Juniper3Glasgow this morning that I’d crushed on so many gorgeous women this week that I was thinking of giving up men for Lent. I think my love of cock will probably win out, but it did get me thinking that Lent is a great prompt for some flash erotica. And what better way to elicit flash erotica than to have a mini competition?

As I said on Twitter, the prize probably won’t be huge. And because at the moment I’m all about pick-and-mix selections of cute stuff, it’ll also be a surprise. And you’ll get the glory of winning, obviously. Plus, because Lent lasts for-bloody-ever, it’s a super generous deadline.

The Rules…

(1) Your story must be a piece of erotica on the theme of Giving Something Up. The more creative, the better.
(2) The post must (obviously) be your own work.
(3) There is no minimum length for posts, but they must be no longer than 1000 words.
(4) You must post the piece on your own blog and link back to this post in order for your entry to be counted.
(5) The competition closes at 23.59 GMT on Thursday, April 2nd. Any entries submitted after this point will not be considered.
(6) You consent to me linking to your post in a list of all the entries once the competition has closed.
(7) Should you win, you are happy to share your mailing address with me for the purpose of sending your prize.

If I’ve missed anything, or you have questions, please let me know…

Charlie xx

GT

With less than five minutes till the deadline for Exhibit A’s Sinful Stories 2 competition, I can’t work out how to embed Molly Moore’s gorgeous photo, the one that speaks to all my kinks, into the post! Argh! Anyway, you’ll find it here.  And my second competition entry is below…

***

It all started with Simon Jamieson in Year 9. All those dotted characters whose dots she could turn into perfect bubble hearts as she married herself off to him on the back of her English exercise book. Gemma Jamieson. Gemma Thompson-Jamieson. GJ. Mrs Gemma Jamieson. He turned out to be a cunt, though. Obviously.

All through her twenties it was the same story, worse even. She no longer met anyone she could see herself marrying, and the guys she did meet didn’t give a fuck who *she* was. They didn’t even call her Gemma – it was always ‘Baby,’ ‘Sweetheart,’ or even ‘Baby Gem,’ like the lettuce. She bloody hated salad.

Alex called her ‘Great tits,’ right from the night she met him. Somehow it was the best nickname she’d ever had. He called her other names, too: ‘Slut,’ ‘Whore,’ ‘Filthy bitch.’ Hard words that she found herself begging him to say. He’d hold her down and sink his thumbs or his teeth deep into her collarbone, her neck, her breasts. She was fascinated by the bruises that formed in the aftermath: the way they sprang up within hours where her skin was delicate and close to the bone, only to appear whole days later on the softer bits round her nipples and on her tummy.

Date night, to her surprise, was still a thing. He could fuck her mouth so hard it made tears stream down her cheeks, tell her to clean herself up, then take her out to dinner *and* let her share his dessert. Why had nobody ever told her it could be like that?

And dinner did nothing to sate his appetite for her. On the way home he’d fuck her in dark alleyways, shop doorways, bus stops. She remembered them all, of course, but none stood out more than the subway.

The subway made her feel vulnerable – that was why she loved it. He made her strip off her clothes, fold them neatly and pile them on the damp, filthy floor. He made her walk a hundred yards from where she’d left them, to the point at which the tunnel sloped back towards the road, and told her to keep watch. It didn’t escape her notice that no one was watching the other entrance, and nor was she sure what she was guarding against.

She heard the hiss of paint and swung her head round. In broad strokes, he’d sprayed her initials in the formation in which he liked to mark her: big and black and smudgy right above her heart and then two smaller, redder swellings either side of it. The formation in which he *did* mark her, there under his graffiti, the smell of solvent still thick in the air. He fucked her, hard, and then he got up and went to fetch her dress.

He’d reduced her to nothing more than a body. He’d sprayed her tits with his come and the wall with an elegy to her tits. She stretched. The concrete bit into her arse. Her grazes stung. It felt like coming home.

***Massive thanks to @Mollysdailykiss for permission to use her gorgeous pic, obviously. Thanks Molly! x ***