As those of you who follow me on Twitter will have seen, I’m having issues with the Smut Marathon today – it’s causing me levels of anxiety that even I didn’t foresee and I’m having a long think about whether carrying on is the right thing to do (it probably isn’t, which means I almost certainly will – being kind to myself is something I am *not* good at.)
Anyway. I wrote two possible entries for Round 2, and I was really pleased with the one I submitted (and it got positive feedback, which backs that up, and is always nice). I’m not going to lie though, I was disappointed with how it did overall.
So, here is both it, and the other piece I wrote. Which do you prefer? Should I have submitted the other piece?
The restaurant is fancy and my behaviour is inappropriate, but I can’t help myself. I poke at the candle, watch as molten lava flows down its sides.
‘Little pyromaniac,’ he growls. ‘What did I tell you?’
I like to play with fire.
I break off bits that are newly solid, let the orange heat lick at them until they are liquid once again.
Suddenly, my game backfires. The candle splutters, dies.
‘Right,’ he says, ‘come with me.’
Outside, around a corner, we find ourselves hidden in the shadows. His lips meet mine. His hand closes around my throat.
My body melts under his touch. He is the flame, I am the wax, I am fluid beneath him, I drip, drip, drip as he burns me with his desire.
She’d taken two week’s leave from work, though the doctor had offered a note. It was easier like this: no questions, no sympathetic smiles, no loss of the person she’d once been.
With him, it had been harder. ‘Talk to me,’ he’d murmured, more than once, and she’d tried to smile through her tears.
‘It’s best if I work through this on my own.’
She booked a cabin, not far from Inverness. For five long days, she read, ate and slept alone.
By Friday, she knew it was no good. She needed help. She changed her flight.
That night, his flogger painted her cunt into a sunset, glowing between the mountain-purple shadows of her thighs.