12 comments/ 7500 views/ 3 favorites In Search of a Story By: electricblue66 "OK, so it's the Literotica Nude Day story contest, opened already, and you've decided to give it a late run?" One of my characters, Alex, casually flicked the pages of the story being written, waiting for the ink to dry before he turned to the next page. "Oh, this page is blank." Well yes, of course it is. It's not been written yet. For a university graduate, sometimes Alex isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. He makes up for it by being six foot tall, a long lean body reasonably fit from swimming. The kind of lightly muscled body that the quieter girls go for, with a mop of long, golden blond hair that always goes far lighter in summer, setting off the light tan he gets after a couple of weeks in the sun. Plus, he's a Leo, so I can run with the king of the lions trope if I feel I must, which, I confess, I have, several times. Alex doesn't do the kind of intense, driven swimming, up and down the pool following the black line swimming, time measured by tumbles at each end swimming. Twenty, thirty, forty laps. Not that kind of swimming at all. Alex doesn't have the stamina nor the macho nor the patience for stuff like that. Also, I was never particularly a team player myself, and generally avoided locker rooms if I could. So we don't do jocks, cocks and socks stories. Having said that, Alex was a second favourite body for an older guy in college for a while, and the first favourite was several inches taller, so perhaps the material is there. Two good looking lads and a Marquis de Sade look alike? Second thoughts, probably not. Or possibly not, depending on taste and inclination and the time of day. No, Alex is not the sporty type, he's too lazy for that. His swimming is the type you do at the beach, at the town pool (if the sea isn't nearby but the girls in bikinis are, glowing with beads of water trailing into their cleavage), or in the streams and rivers cold in the mountains. Whilst he has done one or two of the mountain stream or Scottish loch swims, he's pretty keen for me not to use those experiences in a story. "Shrinks the cock too much, boss, and shrivelled tiny balls are not a good look." Fair call. That'd be a whole extra paragraph, just to get a bit of heft on before stepping out of the water and striding up the rocks to the girl sitting wide eyed but coy by the side of the lake. Plus, mountain air is too cold in winter, so the girl would actually be freezing her tits off and all huddled in her anorak. And if it was summer, flies would be everywhere. Either way, not the best starting point for a tall tale with a happy ending. "Hmmm, looks like we've just eliminated a walk in the woods and an encounter with a delightful nude hiker as our theme, eh boss. Too fucking cold. Shame in way, though, coz her nipples would have been huge from the cool air." Alex paused, "maybe you could write those nipples in somewhere else?" Well yes, I could, but again, goose bumps and blue lips from the cold, it's hardly fair on the girl, is it? So I'm with Alex on this one. No nudes in the woods. OK, let's turn the page and think of something different. There's one thing to be said for Alex, he can actually make a handy narrator because he's got a mind of his own and can run with it into some strange situations. Also, he's got a bad habit of stealing women I know, or women I have known, meeting them in stories, and generally having his way with them. What this means right now is, I've got another source of advice handy, because the bastard is sitting there with one of my favourite women. "What we could do," ponders Ella, "is send Alex up to the north coast and put him alone on a seven mile beach. Surfing in the nude is guaranteed to get a rise from all the rough and tumble in the waves, and he can come out of the water with his cock already thickening against his thigh...." Ella might be on to something, and I've not written her into anything yet, so this could work. Alex will gave to grow up a bit though, because Ella's in her early thirties and knows what she likes and gets what she wants. She won't want a mere boy, just turned eighteen. Our Ella will want someone who's learned a thing or two about women, or at least knows what foreplay actually means. It's not counting to four and diving straight down. She's warming to her theme, and I think she might have something going here. "I can be the wild and free hippy girl, the greenie environmentalist nature girl, and the free spirited earth witch, all rolled into one. It's probably best if I have a shack back in the dunes somewhere, at the end of a long road a long way from town. I can run across the dunes after a long day doing something - you're the writer, you'll have to figure that bit out - and see the golden Adonis lying on the sand...." "Oh, I get it," says Alex, "I'm going to be the one who gets sand up his ass and in his eyes, while you go down on my cock, which of course has hardened nicely as it swings while I walk up from the surf. And because the sun is so gloriously warm, I've taken my shaft and am idly stroking it." "Hey, nature boy, if you're gonna get naked for this damn story, you gotta get naked. If you're on a beach, where the fuck do you think the sand is going to go? I thought of it first, so why should I get the sand all through my ass and pussy?" She looked at Alex with a wry smile on her face, her dark eyes sparkling with glee. "I mean, I am assuming that you will be so hot that I'll be dripping wet at the sight of your hard cock with its big purple-red head, and if my cooze is all wet, there's no way it's going anywhere near sand." "Fucking women, always want it their way. Boss, can you write us a really big towel or a blanket?" Not really, because you'll have to walk 45 minutes down the beach to get away from the families and the kiddies: a) you'd have to carry it all the way down the beach and you're a lazy shit, and b) how would you know you'd need a big towel? You wouldn't meet Ella until she came over the dunes. You'll want me to write you a tent and a camel next. Who do you think you are? Lawrence of fucking Arabia? "Fuck. Can you at least write me a nine inch and really thick cock so the bitch gags on it? If I've gotta put up with sand up my ass, she should have to stretch her lips and do some work for a change. Fucking hippy chicks, swanning about in tie-die blouses and wrap around skirts." "No, it's nude day, remember. I'll be coming over the dunes in all my dusky, naked glory. Besides, you can do naked, the boss needs me to do nude. You need a set of glorious curves to do nude, with just a tiny pair of ear rings." Ella stopped, posed, and pondered. "Hey, maybe I could have a belly piercing, or even better, labia rings. I've always wanted some of those." No, there are several problems here. First, I can't write a niner for Alex. I have to start with what he's got because that's all I know. What's wrong with his eight anyway? It's a couple over the Kinsey average (remembering that old Alf was out with his ruler in the late 1940s and early 1950s, and things might have changed since then, what with better diets and folk growing taller nowadays), and has made the eyes of several women light up. Several of my women, too. Just had a thought - what if the Kinsey average is still the Kinsey average? That's gonna look odd, all of those tall guys you see in the street (or in the gyms I don't go to) with a disproportionately smaller todger. They've all going to look like the statue David. Awkward, lol. Moving on.... Secondly, I've got leading characters squabbling already, before they even start in a story. It'll be like a movie where the leading actor and actress don't get on, and we all know what turkeys they turn out to be. Thirdly, and this one's the clincher, these ideas so far have just been localised nudity. And that's no big deal, because it's what we expect a couple or three or a small group of people to get down to when things heat up. No, we've got to come up with something that takes on the idea of nudity in public, where you shouldn't be nude; or if it's OK, things get out of control. Besides, Laurel has said in the rules that we shouldn't just take a normal (define normal) story and set it in a nudist camp. "We've got another problem as well, boss," says Alex, who has been counting. "We've already got 1500 words and nothing has happened. You've already written a stupidly long preamble elsewhere, we don't need another one. The readers, if we've still got any left, will be getting fucking bored. They're not here to read a script conference." "He's right, for once," Ella cuts in, "the readers are here to get a nice wet between their legs or a thickening in their jeans. You're the writer, boss, you need to lift your game." Fuck. "Already done, boss. Nicole Kidman: last line, Eyes Wide Shut." Smart ass. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. "Hugh Grant, Four Weddings and a Funeral." Will you shut the fuck up, the pair of you? How the fuck can I think with you jokers making so much noise? I'll shut the book if you're not careful. Have some fucking respect for the writer, won't you? I need a coffee. Fuck, this should have been easy. Bloody competitions, eh? Now I'm turning into a fucking Canadian. Jesus wept. --- ooo OOO ooo --- "Do you reckon you can do this?" Ella was on the other side of the little cafe table, one of those cast iron ones with open lace work on its top, white painted and circular. She was sitting with one leg propped up on the third chair, her knee high and the thin cloth of her dress falling between her thighs, the whole long length of her tanned legs showing. She looked at me, twirling her hair in her fingers, twisting a long fall of dark brown, almost blackness, down one side of her face and over her shoulder. She looked down to her lap, deliberately dragging my eyes with hers to see the dark folds of cloth between her legs. "It's hot," she added, and picked up the folds of her dress and lifted the cloth from the top of her thighs, revealing the dark cleft of her bare sex. She let her thighs spread wide, as if the heat was the reason she needed to splay her legs, to cool her centre. "God, not if you do that, even before I start," I answered, a small rising pulse in my groin. "But you need to get used to seeing dark slits and flashes of hair, if you're going to make it down the street, across the square, and up the steps of the town hall. We need the prize money, Alex, else this holiday gets cut short. We're nearly broke now." We were half way through our own version of a grand tour of Europe and had ended up in an FKK resort in Austria. The resort, which was almost the whole village, was running an oddball competition, the prize money well worth winning. But it involved a long walk through the town. The thing was, all of the folk in the town were enthusiastic naturists, and the competition required me to walk about 500 metres through the whole town. My challenge was to not react to the display of naked bodies that would be before me; dozens, hundreds of people maybe. Their challenge was the complete opposite - their task was to get a reaction from me, in the face of their provocation. The good folk of this town could do whatever they chose to trigger a response from the competition entrants. The guide books noted that very few people managed to get through the walk without an erection or a dampness between their legs, so the prize pool was like an escalating jackpot. It would appear that the town folk looked forward, once a year, to a day of wanton excess and debauchery. Ella wasn't helping my concentration, as she now dropped her fingers to the bare breast which was delightfully curved, her dark nipple clearly visible through the low slung arm hole of her sleeveless dress. "Come on Alex, you've got to concentrate on maths or recipes for cooking banana cake, something to take your mind off all the bare flesh. I don't know." She was head coach. "You've got to focus. But not on me, not on my gorgeous breasts nor my wide open sex, just begging for your tongue or fingers." We'd talked about this the night before. I had to numb my mind from the potentially arousing sights and sounds that would be thrown before my eyes and ears. But I was beginning to think Ella was getting a bit carried away with her coaching. Did she want me to win the money or not? Damn. Is sine opposite over adjacent, or is that cosine? Probably both wrong, but anything would be a distraction. "OK, I've just got to get this done." I squared my shoulders, gritted my teeth, and got to my feet. The owner of the cafe came up to me and tied around my neck a big square of coloured cloth with the number 3 on it, and a ripple went through the watching crowd. "Contestant Number 3 has started his walk, ladies and gentlemen. Do your worst." The tinny sound of the town's tannoy system echoed off the walls, startling a flock of pigeons which rose, wings clattering, into the sky. The owner of the cafe was the first to spin her seductive trap. She was a woman somewhere in her early fifties I would say, but incredibly well kept for her age. Her hair was cut short around her head, a sexy grey, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she planted a full kiss on my mouth, her bare breasts, small and still firm, pressing against my front. My nipples tightened and a thread connected to a nerve in the base of my cock. A twitch. She ran one finger around the back of my neck, her touch a lightness that brought a shiver to my skin. Oh no, an older woman. She would know every trick in the book, how to please a man, and more importantly, how to please herself. I love older women, I learn so much from them. I politely lifted her hands from my neck, and turned to the long street, its cobbled stones curved and patterned down the hill. "Have you met my daughter, Hilde?" the proprietress whispered in my ear, her tongue the faintest tip of wet on the lobe. Fuck, I'd not even started walking, and there was another pulse in my groin, as a curvaceous blonde smiled up at me, the red tips of her nipples rouged and tight, topping the roundest breasts I had seen for quite some time. Of course her name was Hilde, how could it not be in this idyllic hamlet? The twin twists of her long, golden plaits fell down past her tiny waist, the ends of each plait tied to each other with a bright red bow. And of course, the red bow rested on her delightfully plump belly, just above a wide spread of blonde hair at the base of it. Ella, help! I'm not going to make the distance. I looked around but she was already walking down the street, and had entered into the spirit of the competition. She too had to strip nude, or my prize, if I made it to the town hall steps, would be forfeit. I knew those delicious peaches far too well, and if I followed her with my eyes it would be over, even before I took a step. So I pulled my eyes away from the memorable sway of Ella's hips, her long stride tightening her cheeks, her dark hair falling around her shoulders. I can do this. The cold links of the thin chains shifted over the skin of my chest, grazing my nipples. Don't react, don't react, it's just the pull of metal on my skin. I managed to numb my flesh against that physical sensation, but it was getting more and more difficult to drag my eyes away from the orgy that was starting up in front of me. As I walked away from the cafe I passed a horse and cart, the big dray horse just standing there, its rear hoof tilted and resting on its front edge. In the cart itself there were a number of straw bales, broken open and making a bed for a young couple. As they saw my eyes fall upon them, the young woman began her rise and drop all upon his long shaft, her breasts bouncing on her slim torso as she rode him. Fuck, they'd deliberately waited until I was right in front of them before they started fucking, his hands grappling on her full orbs. She looked straight at me, smiled, and I could clearly see her mouth the silent words Ahh, got to keep walking. There's a tightness in my groin now. Don't rise, don't rise. Behind me, I heard a cheer as another contestant set out. I looked back, and there was another guy shuffling forward, his eyes to the ground, his hands in front of his groin. Again the tinny sound of the announcement echoed through the streets. Good, two of us moving down the street meant the efforts to distract and entice us would have to be split. Maybe they'll shag themselves stupid before my walk is done. Hey, the other guy's idea of looking down at the roadway in front of him is a good one. By looking down I wouldn't be as distracted by the sights of people around me, naked people. I can do this, and if I have to steal techniques from the opposition, so be it. I put my head down and managed ten or fifteen more steps. But then, with a clang and a thump, the top of my head collided with the bottom of a low hanging sign, right across the top of my eyebrows. I clutched my head and fell to the ground, lying there stunned on my back. Ow, that fucking hurt. Fucking quaint old European villages with tiny buildings. What, was the place occupied by dwarves and midgets, back in the sixteenth century when it was built? Who would hang a sign that low? As I lay K O'd on my back, the current day town people added insult to injury. Instead of rushing to my assistance, or walking around me, the good folk of this town just stepped over me. As they're all nude, this meant I had a worm's eye view of crotches and legs. This wasn't so bad when a young beauty walked over me, because I could look up and see her tidy crack and the twinkle of her pink asshole. But the old guy who did the same? Far too much information, a long hanging cock and a pair of balls as big as a goddamn ram's. This was descending into farce now, and I began to worry about my writer's chance of ever getting any points in this bloody competition. His challenge seems to be as hair-brained as mine. Whose idea was this, anyway? This is just getting ridiculous. Lying on my back on some cobbled street is not the right way to treat any self-respecting narrator. Still, the chances of anybody getting a rise from me now were severely diminished. And the chances of any reader even remotely getting aroused by any of this, fuck, they're long gone. Unless there's some real sick tickets out there. Surely there's not a niche for unconscious porn? Bloody well hope not, anyway. "Alex, get up, you've got to keep going." It's Ella, come to give me some moral support. She crouched beside me and the sight of her dark little snatch with its tidy trimmed hair revived me. Not too much though, I couldn't afford to get too distracted. I knew the honey taste of her too well, and.... "Alex, no, stop thinking that, whatever it was. I saw your cock thicken, and if I can, so can the umpires. Focus." I looked around, but couldn't see any of those severe women in their crisp, white coats, their clipboards, and their glasses. The brochures had pictures of a trio of buxom beauties, their hair piled high and carelessly on their heads, whose job it was to patrol the streets of the town, inspecting for errant flesh and wettening lips. They were the only town's folk allowed to wear clothes. If you could call a coat that short an item of clothing. From the photo I'd seen, it was more a suggestion than something you could buy in a shop. Beside me, I saw Ella shift herself so she was crouching over a gutter. With a sigh she let flow a gush of steaming piss, which splashed onto the cobbles, trickling down the gutter. I looked as her asshole twitched with the final squeeze, and the shine of her lips glistened "What was that for," I asked. "Is the boss going for the fetish crowd now, hoping to scrounge some scores that way? Fuck, your twin sister will be here next, and he'll go for the lesbian incest vote as well." In Search of a Story "No, I just needed a piss, so while I was down here, there's the opportunity. You know me, I'm a time and motion expert!" "Yeah right. Motion, maybe, but you're always late for everything." I touched my head, and realised there was a drop of blood from where the sign had hit me. "Can you go to the Kombi and get me a band-aid?" I was sitting on the cobbles now, my feet in the gutter (avoiding the stream of Ella's pee), and I could see the sky-blue Kombi van parked up a side street, its twin square windscreens reflecting the glitter of the sun. Had someone stuck those flowers on the side? I didn't remember them being there before. Ella returned, and fixed up my head. She dusted me off and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. "You're doing well, Alex. One of the girls in the competition just got eliminated for showing a darkness between her legs. Seems that a trio of strapping young farmers without their lederhosen was too much for her." She grinned. "I could see why, their cocks were identical, all hard and long." She grinned again. "They must have been triplets. Or maybe it was the little bells they had tied around their pricks that did her in. Poor girl, she sounded like a remake of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The bells, master, the bells. Still, that's one less in the competition. You've just got to get past the next test, and you're done. You can do it." I don't think I can. The burgermeister of this town is just an evil bastard. Arrayed before me, on both sides of the street leading up to the town hall, are two rows of naked men and women. On one side, a row of boys, guys and men of every age and every size, all arranged from smallest to largest. In every way. A row of thrusting erections, rising proud from fit bodies, fat bodies, all kinds of bodies, their hands idly stroking the different sized shafts to keep their cocks hard. And on the other side, facing them, a similar row of girls, ladies, women, every height, every tit size, every shape. There were girls with no breasts, just puffy thick nipples and long, lean torsos; all the way through to big girls with huge bosoms and multiple bellies. There was a body shape and gender here for everyone. Both sexes catered for, every inclination, every ideal girl or boy, man or woman. Nobody could get through this gauntlet without finding at least one person to their taste. Even the sci-fi and alien crowd were catered for here. Standing just behind the perfect girl (boy - insert your own (trans) gender and description here) - stood a tall, oval eyed dude (dudette? - insert unknown gender options here), with a small suitcase by his long toed feet, with a sticker on the side. Roswell or Bust. Hmmm, must be lost, we're in Europe. As I say, the burgermeister is an evil bastard, and there he is, at the top of the steps, grinning. And fuck, he's got Ella, tied to a chair beside him, her beautiful sex spread wide. The final test is to climb the stairs, my eyes able to look nowhere else but into the depths of my partner, my Ella. As I said, an evil bastard. The next five minutes were hell. Everywhere I looked there was a flash of flesh, a curve of tit and a length of cock, red heads, blondes, brunettes, shaved bald heads, short hair, long hair, Lady Godiva's hair, Rapunzel's hair. Great thick patches of pubic hair that would have given John Ruskin an instant heart attack, all the way to smooth and shiny mounds that made Barbie look like a hairy crack whore. In my groin, I couldn't help myself, I felt a tightening. Don't show, don't show, don't show. Keep going, keep going, you're nearly there. Ella's divine darkness beckons. Close your legs, you silly bitch, don't make it so hard for me to do this. And then a little, innocent voice rang out from the crowd, a child's young voice, ringing high through the air. And the whole place fell hushed and silent, and I quivered. I was revealed. "Mummy, he's wearing...clothes." --- ooo OOO ooo --- "Jesus, boss, that was hard work. I didn't think I'd make it." The three of us were sitting back at the cafe, coffee cups clattering, doing the debrief. My hand was getting sore from writing. "Fucking Ella though, fuck, she was going out of her way to make it hard for me, right from the get go. And peeing, for chrissakes, did you have to do that?" Ella's all innocence. "Hey, I was busting, all right, and the queue to the toilets was a mile long. Besides, if you hadn't hit your head on the bloody sign, I wouldn't have been crouching down beside you. Who would hang a sign that low, anyway?" They both turned and looked at me, suspiciously. Wait, no, it wasn't me. You've got to blame the short asses who built the place for that one. I just write this shit, I'm no architect. "And boss, another thing, did you have to set it in 1972? That was so humiliating. I'll never live this one down." He looked at Ella. "Please don't tell any of the others, please?" What do you mean, set it in 1972? I didn't do that. "Yes, you fucking did. The sky blue Kombi van with the square screens. It sure as hell never had those flower stickers on it when we bought it. Did it Ella? Help me here." She turned her big eyes to me, questioning. "No, Alex is right. Why did you have to do that? I hate tie-die, and poor Alex. That was pretty unfair." She reached over and took his hand, solid with him for the first time in what, nearly 5000 words. It's not often that Ella stands up for Alex. I'd not realised I'd written that amount of empathy into her. I guess I owed them an explanation, because it was pretty cruel. Pretty funny, but cruel. At that point a kid walking past stopped, recognising Alex and realising who it was. "Hey man, you looked like one of those lame assed disco bass players, with your tight satin high waisted flares. Fucking bright orange, man, that cracked me up. And those fucking boots! Man, no wonder you hit your head on that sign. I laughed till I cried. Even the gold chains and the medallions. Far out, man, dig your shit. Rock on. Disco, yeah!" And off he went, jiving. Alex looked at me with a filthy stare. "See, that's why it was so hard to do the walk. You humiliated me in those clothes. No wonder there was so much pressure on my groin. How the fuck did those guys ever get their tackle into those pants? You bastard. You did that for a fucking competition?" "But look on the bright side, Alex. You won the prize. None of those girls or boys could ever get a rise from you. Not in those pants." She smiled at him, the most lascivious smile, it even made me jealous. "Not like I can...." And her finger traced a curious line, meandering up his thigh, just a single finger-nail digging into the denim. I saw a shift in his jeans. Or did I just write that for him, to make up for my meanness? "But boss, do you reckon you'll get any scores at all from those Lit readers? They're a fickle bunch, and let's face it, you didn't hit any genre, and you sure as shit didn't write anything remotely arousing." "Be fair, Alex," Ella rides in, "we didn't help much because we were always bickering like a pair of silly school kids. You were such a tool in the beach scene, I lost patience with you, and then you ignored me this morning. I was shitty all day because of that." She looked down, a bit sheepish and apologetic. "I know you had a competition to get through, but I was feeling so horny." She looked at Alex again, and her eyes softened. Oh good, they've finally made up. Thank Christ for that. "But the points, boss, we gonna get any? Do you need to write in some readers?" Idiot, what are you thinking? There are enough conspiracy theories already about the scoring of the contests, dodgy scores being swept, all of that. I don't need to add to it with my own made up readers. Wasn't the Roswell gag enough for you? Fuck, you'll have me down on the grassy knoll and in the NASA hangar behind Houston Control next. No, there's only one thing for it. I'll have to rely on Ella. --- ooo OOO ooo --- Ella turns to the reader, and looks her or him straight in the eye. Don't look down, not yet. Her gaze is intense, almost hypnotic, the pupils of her dark eyes dilating and contracting, and you are aware that there is a stillness in the room, but the slightest sense of movement; a silence, but the faintest sense of sound. Ella's neck arches back, and there is a tension in her body. Her throat is taut, and with a single finger she brushes a lock of her long, lustrous hair from where it has fallen over her cheek. She blinks, and her dark eyes shift focus, turning from some inner thought, some private sensation, to the reader in front of her. She smiles, and the smile is ambiguous. Is it seductive, is it playful, is it gentle? Ella's moods shimmer and shift with the wind, her mood can change with each exhalation of your breath. Don't look down. Follow the line of her finger tip as it moves slowly down her cheek and just touches the side of her mouth. Her lips are full, luscious, and ever so slightly parted. The delicate tip of her tongue is a redness between those full lips. She moistens them, such a tiny bit, and her lips glisten. Follow that single finger as it traces over the line of her jaw, into the shadow where her jaw line touches her throat. The movement of her finger is so slow, but its arrival inevitable. On the shadow of her throat a faint blush is spreading, and the silence in the room grows louder. It's your heartbeat, and you can't hear it, but it's just a little faster. Ella's finger is at the base of her neck now, and she splays the fingers of her hand over the top of her chest, and hides the blaze of freckles starting there. Her skin is dusky, tanned, but not so dark that the delight of freckles disappears. She is a creature of the sun, and the faint golden down on her arm shimmers in the light. The movement of her hand is a caress, a warmth on her own skin. Follow her hand down, it's a trail, a trace, the faintest pathway over her skin. Ella lingers, her finger tips are longing, but her hand is curving upwards now as it meets the high curve of her breast. She is so slow in her movement, each tiny inch of progress, and her arrival is inevitable, is a tease and it's a torment, but she luxuriates in the tension caused on her own skin. Look down now, but not past the line of her nipples, which are full, and long, and tight, and pull up the ends of her breasts. Her breasts ache beneath the skin, and Ella presses the palm of her hand over the fullness there and the hot heat of her nipple. The heat of her hand soothes the sharp fill of pleasure in the heat of her flesh. Ahh, Ella gasps as the pads of her thumb and forefinger tighten and squeeze on the other nipple, and she sighs as she twists. The dark nub is tight and long, and imagine your tongue swirling upon it, and the hot heat of your mouth sucking the end of her breast, swelling between your lips, and your teeth the gentlest bite. Close your eyes and taste the sweetness of those nipples on your tongue, and the dusky scent of her skin. Breath her in. Ella. Savour her rising scent and known there is a circling movement of her fingers, slick now between her lips. But don't look down. Oh no, don't look down, not yet. Just savour the faintest scent, and listen for the faintest sound. Ella is all senses, but she hasn't whispered yet. Her slow moving hand drops from the fullness of her breast and the heat of her nipple, sideways one way across her ribs and the other way across the top of her belly, and her hand rises as she takes a sudden deeper breath, a gasp. She is breathing faster now, her belly rising and falling like a cat stretched long in the sun. The centre of her belly is slightly rounded, her navel a double crescent moon of flesh spiralling into darkness, and her finger tip explores the little dip as it wanders past. There is the faintest, faintest trail of the softest hair, starting from the cradle of her navel and trailing down the centre line of her belly. But don't look down. Follow the line of her hand and her fingers slowly moving, gliding in circles over the lovely curve of her belly. Ah God, her skin shivers as she touches that most sensitive bit, just inside the height of her hip. Her belly quivers, but still her movement is so slow. How can she bear it, because you can't, not any more. You want to look down, but you know you can't, not until the slow luxury of her touch releases your eyes, her finger tip pointing. Ella stops. The room is still and silent, no movement here. There is a moment between heart beats when time stops forever and forever is a very, very long time, drawn out and seductive and forever. And you can't wait. But you must. Because Ella hasn't finished her movement. Not yet. Look down. The tops of Ella's thighs are primly closed together, just a faint triangle of hair at the base of her belly but her centre all hidden. Both of Ella's hands rest, palm down on the tops of her legs, her fingers spread wide and gently resting on the inside of her thighs. "Look up," she commands, and your eyes are drawn to her face, where her eyes are wide and her pupils dark. She smiles, and her smile is slow and mysterious and you cannot read what it means. But her smile is in her eyes as well as on her lips, so you know it means the most. "You can look down now." And you do, your eyes immediately drop to that spellbound place that is her centre and her seduction, and it's still hidden. Your heart beats faster now, as you will those long, slender thighs to part, to reveal her darkness and her light. But her will is stronger than your will, and however much you want, she denies. You cannot see it, but you sense a smile in the room, and Ella slowly, oh God, she does everything so slowly, begins to part her thighs. Her hands remain on top of those long lean curves but her fingers grip her flesh, she can't wait either, and slowly they part. As they do, your eyes remain fixed on the exact centre of her, the place you know will be dark, and split, and you know, you just know, the edge of her lips will glisten drops of honey dew. Her legs part slowly, oh so slowly, and there is a dark shadow between the long sides of her thighs, and the hair is coiled, short and black and soft, gently curved from the triangle covering the base of her belly. It's a dark place, holy and enchanted, and has been haunted by a demon lover and a woman wailing. Ella's fingers drop between her legs, and her breath is coming in faster pants as her fingers enter between the wetness of this dark place, and then she moves up her fingers onto her pearl, and her breath deepens and thickens, and a momentary lust is forced upon her and her hot centre shudders and her fingers slip in this place of pleasure. Your eyes are watching because hers cannot see, her eyes are shut tight. Ella leans forward, squeezing her fingers tight between her thighs, and the bountiful vision of her hot, wet centre is gone. And she leans forward and drifts one finger, ah fuck, that scent, one finger so near you can scent her; one finger to just touch your lips, and oh fuck, you can taste her. Ella leans forward, and her face is beside yours and you turn your head to hear, because you know the words will be whispered, and the whisper will be like a ghost on the air. Every sense in your body is alive, and you nearly beg for her whisper. With the vision of Ella's dark centre still imprinted on the veil that is in your mind, you lean a little closer so you can feel the drift of her breath in your ear, and you hear her whisper: "You know you want to, you know you can. My dusky darkness must be enough, surely, good reader? "You know you want to, so go on, just do it. Just put your finger on that tiny place, and press that fifth star. "Go on, do it now, just for Ella. Just one little vote? Go on, you can do it." Her breath sighs, and her whisper lingers, and you do it. A five vote. Just for Ella. --- ooo OOO ooo --- "Hey boss, you keeping an eye on those time zones. You don't want to get confused, being on the other side of the world, and all that. You need to submit this on time, don't miss the deadline. Not after what I had to go through. "Ella though, wow, how good was she? Where'd you find her? Damn." No, we're good regarding the day. We've still got a couple of hours to go on the 12th July, yeah? "Um, boss, the competition closed on the 11th...." Fuck. Don't even think it, just don't.