I've decided to post these two porny fics (ficlets?) together as they're inspired by the same subject, and as you'll likely find, have similar themes running through the writing. The first piece I'd written mid-year while approaching the throes of a fangirly crush, although I didn't really know it at the time. For some reason (my musical whims take me into strange places!), I'd been listening to a lot of Rihanna, which makes it obvious as to why the location of this fic is a nightclub, and one of her tracks is the story's title. There's probably not much to the plot, the usual girl meets hot guy, they hook up, etc., etc., but I hoped to make it a little different by trying to deal in certain, erm, realities, if such a scenario were to arise and unfold in this manner. While I was intending to write a sequel which would delve further (probably into darker territory), I kinda fell for someone else. Oops. That isn't to say I won't get back to this one sometime in the future ;)
Despite being a Catholic, born and bred, I don’t classify myself as the religious type, although I have pondered over the idea. God’s jokes are always the funniest, bar none.
In hindsight, that is.
Stuck at the bar, I gritted my teeth, nails drumming on the fake mahogany veneer, anticipating my drink to arrive, say, sometime within the next millennium. Meanwhile, Rhianna’s “Don’t Stop The Music” is packing out the dance floor. Fucking hell. Hidden among the throng of thirsty patrons, I consoled myself with leisurely observation of the tired, lamentable drunkards lined up like birds on a wire, perched at their respective stools, partaking in their poison of choice.
Over the night I’d been spying a glance here and there between dance stints, wondering if it was really you moping at the head of the flock on his lonesome, wallowing in one lager after another. Hoping faith would defy common sense for once in my life. Sense that insisted this dive was positively the last place on earth a notable person like you would be caught dead in. Surely not with this trashy crowd, same old homogenous Barbies dolled up to the nines paired up with their lads, whose idea of fashionable is an abstract graphic-heavy designer t-shirt with tatty jeans, underwear half hanging out. You know, because it’s cool.
Chestnut fringe fanned out, floppy, like a rooster’s comb, the sullen figure in question definitely didn’t fit the trendy lad mould, notoriously conspicuous in a crisp, clean shirt, conveniently distracted by a couple arguing outside the toilets nearby. My distant curiosity soon caved into awe, swallowed up by tides of recognition numbing at each turn, the distinctly slender form of that neck, sideburns short and neat, blending into stubbly growth which rendered the artfully carved angle of your jaw line, unique and divine in a way nature herself would adore.
I was right. All the photos in the world couldn’t possibly do justice to the real thing. Not even close.
Casual in simple white cotton, near-translucent fabric silhouetting that immaculately trim, smooth stomach, corkscrewed waist flowing neatly into a long pair of fitted dark denim boot-cut jeans. Slim, faintly hairy wrists bared through dangly, unbuttoned cuffs rolled up halfway, sprouting into hands, constantly busy with action. One held a beer, ready to feed upon the frothy amber fluid, while the other rested at the bar, propped up by its elbow, pale fingers idly twirling a black cocktail straw, strung along thumb and forefinger down to the ring and pinky digits, and back again. Nimble hands, like that of a magician, almost hypnotic.
Mental images attacked me in a quick cut barrage, the sweet spell of those hands pinning me by the shoulders, squeezing breasts and thighs, express desire to concoct fire from flesh, gliding down the length of me, at once dispersed at my navel. I gasped, that scorching chill across my bushy expanse slicing open my legs, longing to snatch the seat of my pleasure, probe inside me fundamentally, completely, leave me with nowhere to hide.
Very much like you were now, simply by looking into my eyes. Probing right through to the heart of me. Devoid of the wary flash of annoyance I had anticipated, nor blank with shock. Indeed, your eyes were, in actuality, brilliantly steeled velvet, approving, possibly even beguiled, alcoholic glaze swept out by a renewed focus. Immediately, I felt flushed with embarrassment. For my most intimate imaginings to be laid bare to a stranger was agony enough, let alone if that stranger happened to be you.
A good girl caught with her sticky hands in the cookie jar. A good girl gone bad.
There was a knowing twinkle in your pupils as you continued to watch me, expressionless, taking another gulp of your beer, emptying the glass. By this point, I was certain my cheeks had turned bright red, burning with the belief that you were divining precisely what I was feeling and thinking. With these cursed chocolate orbs for peepers, it was nigh-on impossible to conceal emotions, a problem you would well understand. While you might have been taking the piss out of me, deliberately salacious in running your tongue slowly along your upper lip, combing off the layer of white foam, my gut was telling me the transparency went both ways. But there was only one way to find out for sure.
“Sorry...I know it’s rude to stare,” I uttered, peering at the sparse coinage clinking at the bottom of my purse. Hailing down the barman with my drink, I dealt him a twenty pound note, took my change and collected the raspberry vodka. “I’m sure you’d prefer to be left alone.”
As I turned to leave, you assumed a firm hold on my shoulder, suspending me in motion, the squeal of a stool being pulled up at your side. “Apology accepted, and no.”
Whatever remained of my heart rose into my throat, its trippy thumping choking up all the excuses I had started to make up for myself, overwhelmed by the shock of your touch, inane, innocent contact upon my body. Or was it?
“Some company would be appreciated, if you aren’t otherwise occupied.”
I paused, considering your proposal, even though we both knew what my answer would ultimately be. “Sure. Why not?”
Lofty barstools invariably tended to be a problem for someone of my modest, petite stature, especially when trying to sit on one wearing five-inch high heels and a short, grey skin-tight dress without suffering some sort of wardrobe malfunction. The novel sight of a young, tipsy woman seriously pondering her approach to climbing onto a seat was evidently of amusement to you, punctuated by a mischievous smirk. Delirious with booze and adrenaline, my limbs jangled under your persistent eye, intent upon me stuffing up, tension amplified by my own will. Particularly given that I privately hoped I’d eventually end up naked in your arms too.
“I thought it was rude to stare.”
Unblinking, you flicked the straw away, entertaining yourself instead by meditatively tracing the rim of your glass. “I was merely concerned that you might be in need of help.”
“Oh, really?” To your less than oblique allusion, I feigned innocence, shrugging, palms upturned, yielding to your offer. “By all means, feel free to assist.”
My cynical front didn’t hold up for long, effectively dissolved upon confronting this mortal embodiment of my most intimate fantasies, your startlingly taut physique topped by a muscular chest, its tangy pang of cologne smacking me into a stupor, mixed with sweat that in these sterile fluorescent lights gleamed against the dab of hair poking out from your dishevelled collar. Eyes widening, my lips parted instinctively, soaking in these textures, the fine softness of that hair covering your delicate skin, of flavours, the palpable taste of you hinted at the tip of my tongue. Before I had a chance to react, though, my waist was taken up in your steady grip, lifting me cleanly – and gracefully, I might add – onto the cushioned seat.
Laconically, without a word, you slinked back into your spot beside me, promptly setting about ordering another drink. Charades and facades would come as second nature to you, I assumed as much. Anyone could have been fooled into concluding that you didn’t care one iota about the skimpy state of my dress, which had ridden up the entire length of my thighs in the process of you sitting me down. Except for those few select seconds afterwards, a fleeting glance of satisfaction at my lap, thick with lust, dripping like my juices you fuelled. I wasn’t wearing any underwear.
“My, my, aren’t you the gallant gentleman,” I remarked with equal nonchalance, sipping on my vodka. “And thanks.”
“You’re welcome – I endeavour to please.” A line I might have seen as a cheap sleazy crack, rather than an earnest comment, if not for thoughtfulness suddenly capturing your discernibly freckled features, smoothing them calm. It therefore took me quite by surprise when you leaned over, fingertip hooking gently onto the pendant of my necklace, outlining its letters. “Carmela, is it?”
Your nose hovered a mere inch away, bottom lip quivering ever-so-slightly. From one pair of formidably loving brown eyes to another, this was a silent exchange, for permission to be granted. As if there would be any doubt over what we both wanted.
“David,” you murmured through yeasty breath, offering your hand.
I shook it, grinning. “I know.”
“I know you know. Just wanted to get the formalities out of the way.” Beaming serenely to yourself, you returned to the pint placed on the coaster in front of you. “You Aussies sure love to party.”
“I’m due to leave next week, so it’s my last shot.”
“Ah, making hay while the sun shines.”
“You could say that. I’m not sure what that quite means for you.”
“Aye.” Glass lip poised to your mouth, your steady exhalations lightly fogged up its clear surface. “Maybe you need to tell me more about what I’m letting myself in for.”
Alcohol flowed freely over the course of our conversation, hours breezing us by with talk of family, friends and work, branching into intricate tangents around the differences and commonalities between us, in terms of politics, culture, general views about the world. Gracious and enthusiastically obliging in your manner, you proffered your intellectual insights and experiences to this, at times, animated exchange, ably parrying at my manic pace with lethally cutting humour like few men I’d known.
Verbal foreplay never ceased to turn me on, teasing, exploring one another, testing out those limits. Through the haze of my spirit-fuelled bliss, I could nonetheless sense the gaps, how you deftly skated around certain private details that might give the game away.
“So, what brings you here, anyway?” I asked, sculling the last of my vodka.
Ensconced with the golden base of your umpteenth beer, you worked at aligning the coaster to be parallel with the bar mat. “I suppose there are times when you just want to get away, from everything.”
You consumed the remaining liquid with a sigh. In ruminating over the possibility of an explanation, your lips pursed together, face pulled taut, like a drum, those vivacious, soulful eyes molten, glowing metal cooling hard. “You’re a smart girl – join the dots.”
Right there and then, I wished I could have gouged my eyes out with a cocktail straw for being so blind, so bloody stupid. I should have just stuck with the facts. Why else would a guy, who already has a girlfriend, end up alone at a bar drinking himself senseless? Flirt with another girl? Speculation was rife, spreading wildfire through my head, guilt raging in my conscience. After all, I might be responsible for making matters worse. A home wrecker.
The choice lay in my hands.
Red nails glinted under the lighting, clutching at my purse. “I can’t. This is all wrong.”
“Only if anyone else finds out. And you don’t exactly strike me as the type who kisses and tells.”
Heeding my nod and wave, the barman tended to his next patron. For a while there I had deluded myself into thinking I was no longer an outsider, peering into your fishbowl existence. How naive I was. In good faith I’d opened up to you, hoping that you might eventually do the same, exhibit a certain degree of integrity that would incur your favour, or at least your respect. Who was I fooling? I could tell you my deepest, darkest secrets, and it would all be for nought.
“Oh, you won’t have to worry--I’m a loyal fan girl. My lips are sealed. This conversation never happened, and you were never here. I’ve just been caught up with yet another sad sack of shit drunk who should really head on home before he does something he’ll come to regret.”
Those words sunk you, head ending up suspended, lowly in my grasp, struggling to stay afloat. You, the big-wig actor, lonely and dreadfully pissed, yearning to reach out in spite of yourself, instincts that order you not to trust, trapping me in the same little stereotyped box with you, the idol and his worshipper, never to be equals. Alas, poor Yorick.
“Look, I think it’s best if I go.” I urged, rising from the stool. It pained me to the core of my bones to leave you this disconsolate, slipping gradually from me, back into a new pint. But what other choice did I have?
Rewind back to the start, when I was keen to immerse myself into the fray, indulge in the delirium of bump and grind on the dance floor, perving at the hot lithe bodies glowing in a rainbow of flashing lights which pulsed with the throb of the baseline pumping loud. Pretend for a few more hours that I belonged with this crowd of try-hards.
Of course the goal of blending in with the masses would never prove enough for me. Inevitably, I was compelled by the thrill of tempting fate, my wilful rebellion against the prevailing rhythm of the universe that seemed content to toss tedium in my path. On countless occasions throughout my life, I discovered that, time and again, the universe would push me right back...hard.
So I learned to stop resisting. Let the chips fall where they may.
“You’re always thinking in terms of what you ought to be doing,” you mused to a mysterious apparition in the distance, barely contained exasperation faultering your haughty tone, “but what do you truly want to do?”
If only I could be sober enough at this juncture to lie. Damn.
“I want us to get the hell out of here. I want to spend the rest of the night fucking you in a million different ways. But it’s not as simple as that.”
“I know. It never is.” Sad resignation cast its shadow across every inch of your face, cuff softly grazing my wrist, that priceless touch displaying such gentle veneration of smoothness, my skin, the curve of knuckles around my satin purse, simple enjoyment from moment to fleeting moment. Beholden by the sight, I sat down again.
If I was to walk away, I would have to right there and then. Or else I would never be able to.
“A million ways in one night? That’d be a fair challenge,” you noted, divesting me of my purse and extracting the last twenty pound note left, which you then used to order me a cocktail. Casually as you like.
“When you haven’t even gotten me into bed, I’d say so.”
“Who said anything about bed?” Without batting an eyelid you handed back my purse. “Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, but you and me, we’ve both kept our noses relatively clean for a while, pleased everyone else before ourselves. Which is all well and good.”
Unperturbed in your train of thought despite my bewilderment, you served the golden coloured beverage before me, a Malibu Sunrise. “Haven’t you thought about what it’d be like to cross those lines?”
I picked up the straw and began stirring, watching the ice cubes bobble and clink and swirl. For the first time tonight your proposal didn’t feel like the long awaited punchline of a joke, ready to smack me in the face. Hot air just coalesced into something real, a possibility that could be grasped, and held. “Yeah. I’m just not willing to settle for someone who’d be half-arsed in their efforts.”
“Neither would I.”
At last, there was the deal clincher, that killer smile of yours, whose spindly reach extended forth into my chest and ripped out my pounding heart. Finally, you’d made an admission that couldn’t be Googled on the internet. Personal truth about yourself.
“Then show me.”
We found the perfect place to begin. Grey, imitation marble walls scrawled with declarations of love and hate, exposing ugly creamy laminate, each carving with its own story to tell. MICHAEL 4 JANICE 4 EVA. CHERYL IS A BIG FAT HOAR WHO LOVES HEAD – CALL 0432 976 853 begin_of_the_skype_highlighting 0432 976 853 end_of_the_skype_highlighting. Inside this grotty toilet cubicle, you honoured my demand for the second time tonight, pincering my waist to hurl me up against the door, slamming it shut, my back jolted violently with a cry. For so long I hungered for this, never genuinely conceiving that these dreams would ever come to fruition the way I’d imagined. Desire that, from the start, I’d always sensed in you, unleashed, sparked by the wayward feel of metal rolling about your mouth, insistently biting at the jewelled studs lining my ear as you leaned in to lever my calves around you, revelling in their sleekness, dress hem rising with my legs, crumpling apart at your bidding, proceeding to halve me as though I were a delectable piece of fruit.
Cocooned within, I peeled away your shirt, that tight plane of skin irresistible to my appetites, grazed, lapped and kissed red. Circumspectly, while I playfully tugged at the fine tufts of hair scattered across your chest, you combed back the greasy hair dangling loosely, obscuring my face.
“We could still go somewhere a little more pleasant, you know.”
Somewhat dazed, I stared, lapsing into a grin. “Fuck off.”
“Alright, fair enough.”
The buzzing sound of a zip inclined me towards your fly, catching your hand already there, that gave way to fleshy hardness, cock long, incomprehensible to my palm, your kiss prying at me, tongue circling endless fullness. Fullness craved elsewhere, I trailed the lipstick smeared red across your rampant mouth, rounding out a whimper with a few mere strokes, jaw sandpaper dribbling over my chin, sucking at my throat. As reward for my persistent agitation, you tore at my dress to smother my breasts, swallowing their flesh whole, nipples taken between your teeth and chewed up, delighting in my howls, neck craned, uncoiling and arching in unison with your savagery.
Gaze adrift, panting hot into my chest, I was your trick, conjuring peculiar angles and curves, arm sweeping over mine at 3am to pin me fast by the wrist, corralling the small of my back. Content at mounting my body into position, legs entwined, heels digging into your buttocks, you admired this active projection of yourself, cute and shiny exterior all wild and messy with sweat, undaunted by the monster that lurked within. You knew it well.
Our reverie was broken for a minute, a flush from the next cubicle, door creaking, followed by water gushing, the clip-clopping of heels outside. Gleefully enjoying my squirming, you utilised the brief distraction to fetch a condom from your back pocket. I slapped at your hand in astonishment, packet flung out the cubicle, my groin bucking into the toothy lips of your fly, coaxing you to enter.
“Just fuck me.”
Tongue curled over your bottom lip, you weighed up the idea. “Are you sure?”
“Feel me and find out,” I replied, hair sprouting between my knuckles as I pulled you close.
Any doubt on your behalf was extinguished by that snarl, teasing at my lips, your initial thrust flawless, nearly making me come, moaning at the mould speckled ceiling, incandescent bulb harsh, blinding. Resolute now, you ground me hard against the door again, scrambling for the top edge of the stall, my nails clawing at the wood as you grew deeper and longer, touching upon that sweet spot so very few could reach. Spasms echoed inside my womb, the rhythm of you within me reflected in the melodic drum beats throbbing in my ears, enveloping us in orgasm, mine, then yours shortly after. We sat still for a few moments folded in one another, gasping for air, trying to fathom this cyclone that had just swept us up in its wake.
Shit, we could seriously have woken the dead with our carry on.
Your thumb stroked my cheek, blinking, as though seeing me clearly for the first time. “Do you still think this is wrong?”
“I don’t know. Should I have reason to?”
I uncoupled myself from you to sidle over to the other side of the cubicle, wedging myself reluctantly between the toilet bowl and the wall. There was barely enough space for the door to be pulled open past me, leaving me to shuffle out first, where a petite young blonde woman was waiting, rather sour faced, to go to toilet. Aside from her darkened mood, I might have thought her pretty, and vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on how she struck me so.
On either side, I noticed the other two stalls were empty. We were the only three people here. Oddly, the music and commotion which blared through these walls felt silent...except for the rumbling of a chuckle behind me.
Here it was, the punchline ready to smack me right between the eyes when I really should’ve seen this coming. A punchline dealt by this joker, who bore the most devilish expression imaginable as he took my hand and led me out of the bathroom, ignoring her completely.
All this time, she’d been waiting for us. Or more to the point, for you.“Maybe,” you whispered. “Just maybe.”
The second piece (definitely a ficlet!) is one I wrote as a bit of practice to warm up in preparation for the sequel to Question Existing. I'd come across the starting paragraph in my notebook, and thought it merited some fleshing out, so to speak. Here's the finished product:
My Hidden Little Secret
As the sun sets behind the hills over to the west, the night is remarkably calm, given our proximity to the sea. Over the balcony we can see its rolling currents glittering faintly on the horizon, beyond the steep bushy incline strewn with eucalypts, broken up by blocky weatherboard houses of various colours and sizes that sporadically dot the rugged surrounds. Here, where the Milky Way lies unfurled before us in its wondrous entirety, this infinite blanket of sparkling diamonds, it’s a different world for both of us.
“Is it always like this here?”
His familiarly fresh, tangy scent greets the air around me, the cologne I bought for him before I hastily departed from London to return to Melbourne. To be truthful, I needed to escape the right royal chaos, trapped in a hurricane of precarious midnight rendezvous at hotels and secret dinner dates organised with the precision of covert military operations. Once, I’d seen that life as a fantasy to be dreamt about, all that exhilaration and danger fuelling similarly frenzied and manic sex. Before long, I’d lost grip on myself again, immersed in his ways, obliged to oblige him at every turn. Otherwise there was no way this was going to work.
Sadly, when the novelty wore off, I just couldn’t deal anymore--that old cliché about needing space and time to find yourself. So I went home. What I hadn’t expected was that he would dare follow me.
Or that it was possible to convert a pale-arse Scot into a bonafide beach bum.
Lips twitching into a lazy grin, I prop myself up against the balcony railing, arms folded, aligned with the grainy wooden surface. “During summer, more often than not.”
Distinctively tanned slender arms encircle my waist, draping himself over me, clutching me tight, chin propped up on my head. Mind weighed with thought, always wondering, planning, judging. Even when relaxed he was never quite able to keep completely still. Just like me.
“Then I really should visit more often.”
“You should—it could be your little slice of paradise, if you wanted.”
He sighs, a palpable release heaving from his chest onto my back, of what I didn’t quite know. Although I had my ideas, we weren’t really at the point where I felt comfortable speculating frankly about his reasons for coming all the way over here. Part of me was afraid of finding out what was contained in that veritable can of worms. The other part simply didn’t want to question this peculiar intersection between us, spanning opposite hemispheres of the earth. I just wanted to let it be. Let him be.
“God, I could stay like this forever.”
“Nah, you wouldn’t. You’d go nuts with boredom after a while.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” he rebuffs with a purr, twisting me around by the waist to grab hold of me with a kiss, hands sweeping every corner of my body, switching gears effortlessly, to my endless wonderment. Fingers strum the hollow of my vertebrae, nagging at the bows securing my black paisley bikini in place while simultaneously slinking underneath the thin waistband of its corresponding briefs, stroking my bottom, its flesh cupped firmly in his palm. “Why would I ever get bored when I’m with you?”
Speechless, I groom at his fringe, the sea still coarse and damp in the mess of scruff atop his head, holding those simple words and their sentiment, that could only be guessed at, hugging them close.
My life shared with his. Our future written in that smile, right from the first moment he saw me, knowing and understanding all at once, both of us arriving at precisely the same truth, although he didn’t realise it at the time. That gorgeous fucking smile, which consumes me with delight, each and every time it rises on his face, like the morning sun, warm and soothing and cleansing.
Normally my reaction would be instantaneous, a reflex for me to smile in return. I couldn’t now. I rest my palm upon his chest, heeding its gentle rise and fall, stroking the fine wispy bush of hair covering his flesh wherein the source of this surprisingly steady throbbing rhythm resided, frighteningly adamant in its urgings, that spoke to me in a language no-one else could understand.
There would be no turning back from this.
He cradles my neck, leaning me precariously over the wooden handrail, lips caressing, softly nipping mine, as if reliving the rush of those tingly sensations for the first time.
“I need you to promise me something,” he whispers into my mouth, deep and low, snatching at me between my legs, dabbling at my clit, that sweet, sweet dose of pleasure seeping through me, wet and slick and inviting.
“Anything,” I gasp, mesmerised by the fluid nature of movement, shoulder blades and back rippling and wiry at the same time. This beautiful symphony of muscle, bone and flesh, whose angular features fit so neatly into my palms, which constantly left me, a staunch atheist, marvelling at what possible forces could be at work here, beyond my comprehension, in my favour.
“Promise me that you won’t ever tell a soul,” he murmurs, cum gleaming thick upon the fingertip he presses to my lips, “that this will remain our hidden little secret.”
Caught in the crosshairs of a gun, nail slowly, teasingly scoring the length of my chin and throat, down the centre of my chest, I struggle to breathe. Behind those dark irises, a fervent alloy of faith, desire and longing, enough to drive one to the fartherest reaches of the planet, I could see gears turning, the rational, pragmatic machinations of deliberate action. He knew I wore my heart on my sleeve, precisely as he did. Yet he was expressly ordering me to live a fiction, every time I slipped into a smile, every dreamy reverie brought about by the thought of him denied, lied about and covered up as if it was some heinous crime. I couldn’t. There was no way I’d bear it.
He knew, and he understood.
He kisses me gently before proceeding to knead me hard, floating blissfully upon the silent agony of his ministrations, in a dream. No matter whether I’d declared a truth or a lie, I would remain his, tucked away in this faraway land, a treasure reserved solely for him to possess.
Forever and always, his hidden little secret.
Now that I've cleared the decks with these older completed works, there'll be new fic pieces from now on. New...and exclusive to DW :)