Quite some time ago, I posted a poll. It comprised a selection of five images, and I asked readers to choose which one they would like to be the inspiration for a new piece of erotica (you can go see the poll to remind yourself of the choices). Well, I figured it was time I delivered, so here’s the piece inspired by the winning selection.
The narrow, Formica-topped table beneath her is hard and cold against her bare back and buttocks. When the men tore her roughly from her clothes (the soundscape of her memory – tearing material overlaid with guttural murmurs – makes her shiver deliciously) they allowed her to keep her stockings. The thin material lends a sheen of warmth to the backs of her thighs and her calves, but she knows that’s not the reason why they didn’t strip them from her shapely legs. She saw the burning hunger in their eyes as they regarded her, utterly naked but for the nylon.
In spite of her vulnerability, their slavish predilection for the fetish makes her feel strong, powerful.
She lies in the darkness, listening to the seven men divesting themselves of their own clothes. The blindfold is a good one: not even a sliver of light makes its way to her eyes. Whichever one of them fastened the thick band about her head, they tied some of her hair into the crude knot. Accidentally or deliberate? It pulls when she turns her head from side to side, her hearing reaching out for her soon to be lovers. The discomfort is dwarfed by her excitement, her anticipation. The masculine scent of the blindfold’s leather assails her nostrils.
The room fills with heavy silence. They’re ready for her. She tries to imagine what they look like, standing around her, looking down on her. Are they hard already? Are they stroking themselves as they approach the lamb trembling upon their altar? In her mind, their eyes are narrow, covetous slits as they behold her. She wishes she could reach out to them, to feel their approach, to guide them to her, but the handcuffs fastened about her wrists are irresistible.
Strong hands cup her breasts, squeezing the malleable flesh, moulding it to suit powerful grasps. The palms are rough against her soft skin, both in the manner of their movements, and the quality of their flesh. Hands coarsened by manual work, by lives rooted in physicality. The thought brings a fresh flood of wetness between her thighs.
Her hard nipples are grasped, pulled, just hard enough to make her gasp with a mix of surprise and pleasure. The skill reassures her. They do understand her desires, her limits. Once again, she experiences that queer sense of being in control, even when she has none at all.
More rough hands now, slipping over the deep bands of her stocking tops, onto the trembling cream of her inner thighs. They pull her legs apart until her shoeless feet hang over opposite sides of the table.
They can see everything now, every vestige of her. There are more gruff murmurs of appreciation.
She’s never felt so naked, and the thrill that courses through her at the realisation is primal, overwhelming, delectable.
Another hand cups her mound, covering the tight strip of curls she fashioned herself in the bath that afternoon. The bloom of memory, of the suburban comfort of her four-bedroom house and the people who share it with her, does not prick or mock her. The life that resides within that shell is a million miles away right now, a pinprick of light on the far side of the galaxy. It makes her feel tiny and huge all at once.
I am living my adventure. Finally.
Now there are more hands – all of their hands – impatiently stroking her belly and her arms, gripping her calves, running over her hair and her slender neck. Powerful fingers entwine themselves within her luxurious locks. At the same time, she feels hot ragged breath between her thighs, and every inch of her skin ripples into gooseflesh. The hand in her hair turns her head to one side, and a smooth glans – aromatic in its maleness – presses against her lips. At the same moment that she opens her mouth to accept her first cock, a stubble-coated jaw presses insistently against her sex, and a ravenous tongue forces its way inside her sodden cunt.
She gasps sharply around the thick shaft. Its owner keeps his grip in her hair, thrusting into her mouth, fucking her tongue. In turn, she writhes against the tongue inside her, forcing her aching clit against the man’s nose. She’s on the verge of coming already, can feel the orgasm rolling towards her. Suddenly, there’s a jump cut, and her climax is upon her, erupting inside her, ripping through her like a moist tornado. Her body is a mass of sensation from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. She’s never experienced sensation like it, and she knows it’s only just beginning. It’s a dizzying thought in a mind already drifting away from reality into a realm of nothing but scent and sound and touch and taste and pleasure.
The tongue between her thighs withdraws. The cock in her mouth trembles and spasms, spilling and spurting between her willing lips. She laps at it greedily, enjoying the slick-salt of his seed, swallowing him with elation. Even before she’s finished, another hand is turning her to face the opposite way, and another cockhead is pressed to her still-wet mouth, oblivious to the semen that clings to her. Senses heightened by the darkness, she hears the unmistakeable sound of one of the men frantically working his hand over his shaft, and then he groans and she feels the warm spatter of come across her belly. At the same time, another bulbous glans presses against the fullness of her labia, parting her voraciously, and her body tenses like a bowstring as the stranger’s hard, thick cock thrusts into her most intimate depths.
“Oh, fuck!” she somehow manages to cry out around the shaft in her mouth as another craving is satisfied.
The minutes merge, becoming hours, but the appetites of the men are relentless.
She chose well.
Battered by a maelstrom of the most exquisite sensations, each time that she thinks she can take no more, can endure no further pleasure, their lust inspires her own greed to surprise her. At some point, one of the seven decides to release the handcuffs, and finally she fulfils the most furtive of her long-held fantasies: a man in each hand and one in her mouth, while she quivers before the thrusts of the thick cocks embedded in her cunt and her ass.
Eventually, it is over.
She gets unsteadily to her feet. Five years ago, she completed her first marathon. Now her body feels as it did then. She slips the blindfold off, wincing as she frees her hair from the knot. She doesn’t look at the men. Instead, she keeps her gaze down, looking for her torn clothes. A glance tells her not to bother retrieving them. Instead, she pulls her raincoat on over her come-streaked nakedness, slips into her heels and walks to the door. None of the men offers to help her, to escort her. None of them looks at her, or even speaks. They don’t make a single concession to her comfort.
This is not a place of concessions.
She smiles wryly as she heads through the dark, wet streets towards the taxi rank, back towards her life. Because if it had been a place of concessions, she would not have come.