February 2014 challenge
You’re either a young woman, or a young man, somewhere between twenty, say, and thirty five. Make your selection from the following six possibilities. (We offer the ladies their dish of delicacies first; then the gentlemen have their chance. And since we are completely non-judgemental, whatever your sex, feel free to pick a canapé from either plate.)
You go to a party thrown by someone you don’t know very well. Having helped yourself to a glass of wine, you turn and survey the talent.
Over there, a young man is talking animatedly to a group of adoring young women. You realize you recognize him: he’s just had a new book published which has shot up the best seller lists, and been lavishly praised by the critics. In fact, you’ve just read it yourself, and loved every word of it. He catches you eyeing him, and you feel a frisson of attraction shiver between you…
You become aware that you’ve unconsciously been holding your breath. You break the connection between you, and scan the room. Sitting at the bar is an older man, with a flash of silver at his temples. He looks suave, sophisticated, rich. You recognize him, too: he’s appeared on the front page of business and news magazines. He developed some extraordinarily effective computer thingy that now helps power practically every laptop in the world. He’s one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. He has yachts and jets, mountain villas and an entire Mediterranean island! On his arm have appeared half the supermodels of the age. And he’s looking at you with indisputable interest.
Your heart’s fluttering now, and in some confusion you look away. Your eye lights on the most gorgeous hunk of manhood you’ve seen in years. His age is immaterial. It’s that body that causes the flutter in your chest to turn into a jackhammer, threatening to rip itself right out of your body! Mr Universe bulges with muscles. And every muscle sports its own tattoo. You’ve hated tattoes until this very moment – and now they seem like the sexiest adornments ever devised. His leather trousers fit sleekly over a behind that, in your disordered opinion, should have a public holiday declared in its honour. He turns. The muscles in those shoulders positively ripple! And you feel engulfed in his tropic gaze…
Clearly, you have to make a choice! Emboldened by a sudden sense of freedom, you rise and stride towards…
Your challenge now is to write a scene, in no more than 250 words, of what you might find on Page 52, which describes what happens with the sexy young writer; or on Page 69 (sorry, I couldn’t resist that), with the computer mogul; or on Page 111 with Mr Universe. It can be erotic as you like – or you can play against our expectations. It’s entirely up to you.
But if you’re a gent, and you’ve just grabbed a beer, you turn and the vision that strikes you first is that of an Aphrodite, tall and supple, in flowing garments that sometimes veil and sometimes reveal alabaster limbs. She’s an ethereal beauty, a goddess who’s come down to earth for this evening only and, ohmigod, she’s singled you out and her piercing eyes seem to reach into your very soul!
You gasp and turn and at once find yourself enmeshed in a very different trap. Because there, perched on two bar stools almost within touching distance, are two girls, both raven-haired, both green eyed, each a reflection of the other. Can they be? Yes! Twins! They’re a double entendre made flesh! They’re giggling together. The one whispers to the other. More subdued laughter. And the magic of the moment is the fact that you know that they’re talking about you! And then the one on the left (although it hardly matters which one it is) crooks a finger at you. It’s an invitation.
You look away for a moment, your heart thumping in your chest. And catch sight of a slightly older woman, a silver ring in one eyebrow, and a head completely shaven. Her skin is flawless. She’s the exotic creature in a zoo of mediocrity, a visitor from the future who’s deigned to grace a much blander age with her presence. She would look grotesque but for the fact that she breathes sensuality. As she uncrosses and recrosses her legs, you find yourself holding your breath. And then, with the sort of deliberation that feels like fate, she turns and pins you to the wall with brazen, smouldering eyes. She is dark heroine of a fantasy novel…
You’ll never have this chance again. You stand and head for…
Your challenge now is to write a scene, in no more than 250 words, of what you might find on Page 17, which describes what happens with the goddess; or on Page 173 with the twins; or on Page 213 with the bald-headed fantastic creature of your dreams. It can be erotic as you like – or you can play against our expectations. It’s entirely up to you.
And the winning entries are:
Maggie Clemson by Ekow Duker
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, reeling me in like her legs were part of some mechanical contraption connected to the invisible noose around my neck. I knew I’d be guillotined if I got the timing wrong but I couldn’t have stopped myself. Not even if if a red and white striped boom had come crashing down in front of me. My breath came in small desperate spurts until I was standing right in front of her and then my breathing stopped all together. The last time that had happened was when the Reverend Jeremy Clemson walked in when I was screwing his wife. I couldn’t even think of screwing this creature. Not when the heat rolled off her body in crisp sheets and the air shimmered and crackled around her like she was the epicentre of a cosmic storm. I was close enough to lick the smooth dome of her head but she ignored me like I wasn’t there. Tendrils of sandalwood mixed in with the dank smell of sweat reached up to my nostrils. That would be me, the sweat I mean. Maggie Clemson used to say I sweat so much she had to change her laundry day from Thursdays to Sundays. That’s when I screwed her, when the Reverend was away officiating at the afternoon service. But I didn’t dare think of screwing this goddess. Then she hooked a leg behind me and pulled me into her with one savage motion. Just like Maggie Clemson used to do.
Marilyn Cohen de Villiers
It was now or never. Jackie discretely checked inside her little black clutch bag. Reassured, she drew back her shoulders and her breasts thrust against the constriction of her new red corset. Maddie had laced her into it, her mouth a disapproving moue in her dressing table mirror.
“You’re asking for trouble, Jacks.”
But what choice did she have now that Mom was gone?
Jackie stretched her lips into a semblance of a sexy smile and shimmied over to the bar, praying the man’s security guard wouldn’t block her passage. She could see him monitoring her approach in the bronze mirror. She hoped the gossip was correct: that his taste nowadays was for blonde, young, tarty. He turned, a sardonic smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. She hesitated, her heart hammering.
“Hel-lo,” he said.
His gaze nuzzled her cleavage, drifted up her neck, lingered on her lips, locked on her eyes.
“Do I know you? You look familiar but …”
“No,” she said. “We’ve never met.”
His perfect teeth gleamed as he waved away his flustered security guard. “Please. Sit. Let me get you a drink.”
Relieved, she eased herself onto the high bar chair, watching his eyes follow the rising trajectory of her tight black skirt.
He clasped her limp hand and murmured: “Richard Sanbron. Call me Rich. Nice to meet you…..?”
“Jackie. Jackie Sonnenberg.”
He blinked as she extricated her fingers. She opened her bag. Withdrew the envelope bearing the legend “DNA Detectives”.
“Nice to meet you too… Dad.”
Well, hello there Mr Universe by Lydia Lee
I feel branded.
Burning on my cheeks, straining across my breast and exquisite aching where my panties should be, awareness of him tattooed and punctuated in delicious waves of desire washing over me.
Swallowing hard, I clumsily down my wine, some of it making a stickly path down my neck
Not skipping a beat, his eyes leisurely follow the drizzle.
His gaze lingers………..
The widening curve of his smile gives him away and I resist the urge to cross my arms.
As if drawn by the burning tide of my primal desire, he begins a slow walk toward me and I follow the arches of rock hard muscle straining against his white tank top.
My fingers itch to rip it off him, to dig intensely into his flesh. I clench and relax my fists; delicate goosebumps forming a crisscrossing network down my skin.
Overhead, the fans continue to whir.
Stumbling towards the wide open doors, the cool summer air outside assails my heathen senses and I take it in in short greedy gasps, every single pore awake, alert, aching.
Sensing him behind me, I turn and watch entranced as he strides forward voraciously, intent on his prey.
A frisson of excitement jolts down my navel as his warm breath tingles my skin.
Gently probing, his tongue begins to trail zig zag burning paths down my neck.
Rooted, like a wax statue, slowly melting under his searching, wanting, searing hands…..
I am branded.
Light from the two Tiffanys danced off Dr Grubana Petrović’s high cheek bones as she sat on a stool, cocking her head as she admired Lautrec’s Aristide Bruant. The Pilsner Urquell almost slipped from Harvey Newmans fingers as he took in curves that would have shamed many women half her age, her unassisted breasts straining against the thin woollen top. If there was one thing that put lead in his pencil it was the incongruous combination of silver hair, preferably cropped, and a flawless skin. Combine that with a formidable intellect and…faaaaarck, down boy!!
His language of choice was maths, and she was fluent, her work on the Poincaré conjecture legendary.
She suddenly turned, crossing, then uncrossing impossible legs to rivet him to the wall with a stare that made him gasp. Silently thanking Henri’s subdued light he took a few tentative steps.
“Dr Petrović…hi…nice to see you.”
“Ello Arvee…nice to see you too…and plees, call me Grubana. Dr Petrović wass my father.”
“Ok, doct…Grubana. Are you here alone?”
“Oh yes, Arvee, I am quite alone now. Goran and I…how you say…have split. It seems we haff different tastes. I am sure he iss now happy with Alan.”
He tried, unsuccessfully to discuss Fermat’s Last Theorem, when she placed a soft hand on his, leaned very close and whispered “Arvee, I haff some Vinjak at home…iss Serbian brandy. You would like some?”