Voting Thread: The Cardinal Sins of Carnal Writing

[BlackShanglan]

Yes, my much beloveds, the long-awaited and much dreaded day is here. The entries are in, the works are complete, and the thread is due to be posted.

For those not familiar with the contest or rules, the original thread can be found here. In short, each author chose one commonly reviled technique typical of bad erotic writing and attempted to do something good with it. Some chose to parody the technique and commit the sin with utter flair and flagrancy; others, more missionary in spirit, attempted to rehabilitate the theoretically unredeemable. Below are the results of their efforts.

Each story has been posted with a subject line that indicates the nature of the sin the author chose to commit. We won't be voting by poll, largely because somehorse didn't realize that it couldn't add a poll later to an established thread, but we will tally votes for both "Best Story" and special categories. I'll do this using a votecard posting system like those we've used in various voice challenges. If you'd like to vote for one or more of the following categories, please post a vote card to this thread with your votes for:

Categories
Best Story: The best-written and most enjoyable embodiment of the author's chosen sin.
Best Parody or Comic Piece
Guiltiest Pleasure
Most Disturbingly Hot
Best "Serious" Rehabilitation of a Sin


Please post your votes before the 5th of April. On the 5th I will tally all votes, declare the polling stations closed, shred all ballots involving the word "chad" in any way, and declare the winners. The "Best Story" winner takes the title "God Emporer/ess of Cringe-Inducing Porn" and the coveted silver cup inscribed with that chief of all bad lines: "I kiked down the door and camed on her fase."

Once the voting is over, I will also (if the authors agree) identify who wrote each story.

Shanglan

(ETA): Stories are posted in the order received. If you have not yet submitted your story and still wish to, please do PM me; I will add it.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#1: Celebrity stories that involve dull, annoying, or repulsive celebrities.

"Perfect Strangers to Love"

When a young Mediterranean shepherd had shown up on Larry Appleton’s doorstep, his first inclination was to send the boy packing. Last thing Larry needed was someone else to take care of; he could barely make the ends meet for himself.

“Please help me, I’ve nowhere else to go.”

There was something in Balki’s eyes, a kindness, which ultimately swayed Larry. Balki was young and boyish, almost innocent. All he wanted was the chance to be an American. It would only be for a while, Larry told himself, until Balki could get out on his own. They were distant cousins, but blood was blood. Family took care of each other.

Balki was learning about America; it was taking time. The boy wasn’t stupid, just culturally impaired. His antics were both frustrating and endearing.

There were things Larry needed to change to make Balki comfortable. The men were still sharing Larry’s slumping old bed after weeks of cohabitation, simply because they couldn’t afford another.

Often they awoke in a tangled embrace and avoided the subject of involuntary intimacy over breakfast. For Larry, the memory of something swollen and hard pressing against his ass lingered through the day. Larry knew it was wrong on many levels and forced himself to think of his relationship with Susan instead.

Through the noise of the city night, a storm woke them. Larry found Balki’s arms wrapped around his waist. Hail clacked against the windows with such fury, Larry worried they might shatter.

“What is it?” Balki clutched his cousin.

“Sssh, it’s just a storm. Don’t worry.” Larry stroked Balki’s hand.

They were silent for moments, with heartbeats to rival the thunder. Gradually, the storm subsided, replaced by relief. Balki’s head nestled against the crook of Larry’s shoulder.

“Is it over?” Balki said.

Larry told him it was. Balki’s grip on Larry loosened and he rolled over to face his frightened cousin. Balki took Larry’s hand, placing it on his bare chest.

“My heart’s like a drum.”

Larry felt the heartbeat and let his fingers caress the silken hair of Balki’s lean chest. Balki drew in his breath and nipples tightened when Larry’s palm passed over.

Balki moved closer, until their pelvises met, thrusting narrow hips to his cousin’s fuller body. Larry gave in to his darkest desire; their hard cocks rubbed through cotton boxers. Balki ran fingers through Larry’s luscious chestnut curls, pulling his face near for the kiss.

Larry let himself be kissed. It was a breathless wrestle of tongues and tender whispers of lips mingling, drinking each other down into the dark. Together.

Larry’s cock ached near breaking when they stripped off their shorts. Balki took Larry’s thickness in hand, coating the palm with cream.

“It’s so big,” Balki observed.

“Do you want to suck it?”

Balki knelt between his cousin’s spread thighs. He stroked the fat cock and gave it a few cursory licks before going deep down on it. Balki took it all the way into his mouth until his nose brushed glossy curls.

Balki jerked himself as he sucked, loving it, getting off on it. Balki fisted his long, uncut cock, drizzling his hot arousal across Larry’s calf.

“Stretch out, so I can suck you.” Balki obliged, stretching his lean body across Larry’s until his lengthy cock was aligned with Larry’s mouth.

Drawing back foreskin, Larry licked the delicate tip of Balki’s cock, so gooey and fragrant. Balki sucked harder, deep-throating Larry’s cock.

Larry moved Balki lower, tonguing the boy’s sizeable balls one by one, rolling them across his lips. Balki reached back to beat off as Larry’s tongue slid into his tight asshole, probing and prying.

Larry spread apart fleshy cheeks of Balki’s ass, tongue fucking him until he quaked and moaned incomprehensible delight. Balki thrust back, riding his cousin’s hot tongue.

Unable to wait, Larry eased Balki onto his knees and grabbed a bottle of lotion from the bedside table and lubed them both.

“Are you going to fuck me now, Cousin Larry? Are you going to stick your big dick in me?”

Larry took one more moment to eat his little cousin’s mouth-watering asshole. He squeezed the plump cheeks of Balki’s ass, making Balki beg for his dick.

He rubbed his dick against Balki’s tight hole, pressing inside. Balki was tight, but the wide head of Larry’s cock slipped in easily. Balki knew how to take a big cock.

Reaching, Larry took Balki’s erection, pumping as he fucked the boy’s horny ass.

“Oh, baby, you’re so tight.” Larry pounded him. Balki clenched, coming, raining hot semen on sheets below.

“Fuck me hard. Give me your cock.”

Larry was close, undone by pleasures and textures of his exotic lover. Streams of sultry come flowed in the recess of his cousin’s sweet ass.

Come-drenched, the cousins embraced, alone with the beats of their hearts in the relative silence of the apartment.

“I thought you told me you were a virgin?” Larry said.

Balki moved, straddling Larry’s hips and smiled down at him. His cock was hard again.

“You only asked me about women. Don’t be ridiculous.”

 

[BlackShanglan]

#2: Failure to include any dialogue or use of highly clichéd dialogue

Note: This one also took on, at no additional charge, the sin of the ridiculous and overblown metaphor.

"Fire in the Foundry: an Exercise in Metaphor Torture"

She was a tinderbox. Her body lit fires. She was nothing but so much tightly packed heat, from the flicker of her really red hair to the sparks flashing under her black stiletto heels. She scorched the air, made it waver and dance. Every man in the bar wanted a handful of her and stared, hard, knowing he wasn’t allowed to play. Momma wouldn’t like it.

Of course all the women hated her as soon as they scented the danger in the wind. How could they help it? They boiled and simmered in every corner. Competition was hot and stakes were high. Who was she to come along, swaying tropically in that knee length skirt slit up-to-there, smoky eyes and sizzling lips, and outglow their little embers? They couldn’t shovel enough coal to match that furnace. Twenty seven hands wrapped white knuckled around icy glasses or bottles of beer, and twenty seven arid imaginations pictured extinguishing all that concentrated intensity. Of course, nothing really could. She wouldn’t have the decency to vanish in a puff of red and black smoke. Wet, she would just smolder more, and every male within a mile would ignite from the flare. She could melt wax with her breath and another woman’s husband with a long look.

The owner checked the air conditioner thermostat and flipped on the overhead fans. She leaned across the bar to whisper her order and the bartender’s sweat rained as he nodded. She got her plastic cup of whatever – the bartender handed it to her instead of just putting it on the paper napkin on the bar, so he could singe his fingers and test his nerve – and she smiled at him as she pressed her dollar bills into his palm. She strolled across the bar room like she didn’t notice the burning eyes. She knew without looking that everyone was just another moth. She picked up her coat, flung it over one shoulder, and strode to the front door, taking July and August with her. Puddles in the chairs froze as she blew out.

Only one man could follow that heat trail. Several of those lesser lights snuck glances at him where he sat in a corner booth, hands wrapped around his beer bottle. He had his own luster, his own mysterious shine, cool and smooth. Men tried not to meet his eyes when he walked by, and women tried to catch them, despite themselves. When the door clapped shut on the gust of icy air, he got up, threw some bills on the table, and walked his titanium struts after her.

She might have sensed him, from the way she posed in the parking lot, her coat still draped over her shoulder, standing between cars. Pillows of fog rose around her as the cool, wet evening air hit the afternoon-warmed asphalt. Her plastic cup sweated on the hood of a car.

He muscled his way between sleeping metal steeds and pulled her to him with one hand at the small of her back. She bent and swayed as her arms entwined around his neck, her coat collapsing to the ground. The streetlight dimmed, perhaps in embarrassment, as his hips shoved hers hard against the fender. His fingers trailed steamily along her arm, wrist to shoulder, then down the tight fabric of her blouse; the cup of her armpit, the curve of her breast, the dip of her waist, the swell of her hip. He grabbed her skirt and peeled it up, her white thigh a glowing filament over the dark bands of her hose (those bands that teased and peeked around the up-to-there slit, taunting, daring), wadding the fabric in his fist and grinding his button fly into the bare flesh now exposed between her legs. Her mouth left scorch marks on his face as her nails dug into his back.

His other hand pulled metal buttons free from their tight denim embrace, freeing the coiled spring of his sex and rubbing it into hers, striking sparks with the friction. She buried her face in the bend of his neck, tightening her arms to draw him even closer, the rounds of her bare buttocks sliding onto the car hood, sending the plastic cup tumbling and spilling over the paint. The long heels of her shoes pressed into his back pockets. He eased back, teasing, his metallic eyes reflecting the glints in hers, then thrust forward. She slid over the car hood’s polished surface, only his hands and her straining thighs holding them together.

He bucked into her hard, rocking like a steam locomotive, making the car’s springs creak and groan, the moving billows of fog concealing and revealing. She squirmed, her fingers wrapped in shredded cotton from his shirt, her legs clenching, muscles in her calves shuddering as her inner conflagration blazed, finally sufficient to reach his melting point. He poured his molten essence from the crucible of his loins into hers. Steam tenderly infiltrated the fog and enwrapped them both as the car’s springs relaxed with a groan.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#3: Characters with extreme and/or impossible anatomies

"Dear Diary"

Dear Diary,

Last night I was with Jake. Again. OHMYGOD you just can’t imagine how incredi-fucking-ble he is!!! We finally did it. FINALLY. I still have his cum running out of me – I need to shower but I wanted to tell you about it while it was still fresh – the memories, that is, not the cum in my panties.

Anyway, he took me to this frat party, and we ended up in some back room. The only light was from this really cheesy lava lamp, and I’d smoked a bowl with Becca before we went, so I was all relaxed and shit. I wanted to suck his dick, so he let me. Let’s just say I about fell out of my pants when he pulled out that monster. I swear it had to be at least 18” – as long as my forearm almost! No wonder his frat brothers call him the Anaconda. I think that’s a snake, isn’t it? My anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon! But I digress….

I could barely get my hand around him, and there was no way that big boy was gonna fit down my throat. But using two hands and a heck of a lot of tongue action and suction, I managed to get him groaning and moaning. It didn’t take long before he was begging to fuck me, just like I wanted him to. But first, I made him eat me. He licked my cunny like a man in the desert, and when he started sucking on my perfect little clit, well, I about saw stars. I was climbing the walls I wanted that hunk of man meat in me so bad. I think there may have been a few other guys in the room, but I didn’t care. Jake was all I could think of – that, and his enormous dick. I thought only black men had dicks that big, but I guess maybe not.

Before I really had time to think, Jake bent me over the pool table, which was good – I didn’t want to see that big log of his aiming at my tight, tiny little cunny. But I sure could feel it. Every single inch, going deeper and deeper – I had no idea I could stretch that far. Thank god he went slowly, but I could feel every ridge and vein as he slid in, and I was beginning to think he’d never get it inside me all the way when I felt his balls slap my thighs.

He reached around me and grabbed my titties. I think he might have made some comment about how perfectly perky they were. For what I spent on them, they better be! Just cuz god didn’t give me a perfectly matched set of 36DDs didn’t mean I didn’t deserve them! He was pulling and twisting my swollen nipples and kneading my tits, all the while he was pounding me with that gargantuan dick of his. God it felt so good. I’ve never been fucked like that before, ya know? I guess Candi was right – a good fucking with a dick that size can make you forget about everything, and I think the weed must have helped. Being relaxed like that made it easier to fit him inside me.

I was begging him to make me cum – but he just laughed. That really pissed me off, until I felt someone down below us on the floor spread my legs and start sucking my clit like a peppermint. That finally set me over the edge – that and Jake sticking his wet finger up my ass. And when I started cumming, he shot what must have been a quart of cum inside me. I could feel it being squeezed out – cuz he was still shoving that monster inside me – and it was running down my thighs like a river. The next thing I knew, he had me flipped over and was feeding me his big dick again – I swear I’ll never look at a cucumber the same way again – and told me I had to lick him clean cuz he didn’t want to go home all sticky. That’s when some guy busted out his camera phone and started taking pictures of me with that baseball bat of Jake’s halfway down my throat. Call me a slut, but at that point I just didn’t care. Someone was still licking my clit and fingering me, and I squeezed out another little O before Jake finally pulled out of my mouth and put his big beefsteak away.

Damn, that was good. I finally figured out who was eating me out that whole time, and I have to say I was quite surprised. It was Becca of all people – I had no idea that girl played for both teams! And we have a study date this afternoon – I think I might just be studying anatomy with her instead of B-law. She has this fucking gorgeous set of titties that I can’t wait to get my hands on. Talk about perfect. I wonder if she bought hers too. I bet her nipples are huge.

I’d better go shower before Becca gets here. Don’t want her having sloppy seconds!

XOXOXO….me

 

[BlackShanglan]

#4: Egregious spelling and/or grammatical errors.

Please note that I originally placed this story in the wrong category! The category heading is now correct. -- Shanglan

"Pied Piper"

He called his self the Pied Piper, and Rusty said he’s just like in the fairy story. I don’t know ‘bout that, but Lord Almighty he could play like the devil his self—he made that fancy guitar wail in the night like no man shoulda been able. I laid down before him like a dog, I did, whimperin’ and howlin’ along with the rest.

Mama Fay told me he was back after the town had run him out for playin’ on the Lord’s day but I didn’t see him for a week after that. I spent my days pickin’ cotton ’til my fingers bled, and my nights pickin’ a banjo, tryin’ to make a little bit extra to get us fixed, me and Mama, and maybe head us outta Mobile before winter come. I kept tellin’ Mama I wanted to see them mountains, the ones with the snow on the tops that I saw pitchers of in Big Lem’s books.

Rusty, she made me come wit her to see him. Mama said I was gonna get Rusty in trouble, hangin’ round with her, me a sharecropper’s daughter (leastways ’fore Papa done got killed) and her a colored girl—but Rusty didn’t bother ’bout that and me neither. I didn’t think people noticed, cuz we was both poor and pretty much invisible anyways.

Rusty, she said let’s go, but Mama, she say he was bad mojo, and she warned me not to. But Rusty, she come and walk me home that night and she say he gonna play for us girls this time, real special, just for us! I figure she meant me an her, but when we got there, they was bustin’ out the whole place, and they was all juiced up and jumpin’, just girls—white and black alike, everywhere!—dancin’ like they didn’t know how not to.

Getting in weren’t easy, we had to jam and jiggle our way through. I seen him sittin’ on a chair, leanin’ back against the wall wit his guitar. He seen me, too, and then it was me pullin’ Rusty along, tryin’ to get close. There was too many girls up here—I even seen the mayor’s girl, Lucy—all pressin’ together, grindin’ they’s hips to the music with each other.

I leaned back against the wall, just to have somethin’ to hold up, and Rusty, she lean back against me, and I wrapped my arms ’round her waist. I didn’t think nothin’ of it, it seemed so natural to be rollin’ together to the music, my hips cradlin’ her hips, rockin’ together like Mama used ta do when I was a babe.

His eyes were on us, and his hands moved like some voodoo, the music comin’ faster, and me and Rusty, we were rolln’ faster with it. I dunno what really happen, but somehow we got all twisted up together, me and Rusty, and we was kissin’ on each other like we thought we would drown if we didn’t. She was rubbin’ her whole body up and down me, pressin’ me into the wall, and I wanted to feel her sweet, hot flesh, and I started takin’ down her dress.

She didn’t say nothin’, but she started workin’ on my dress, and before I could say devil-don’t-make-me we was naked together against that wall, still rubbin’ and chafin’ up against each other like nobody’s business. Rusty had these tiny little titties, and she was pressin’ ’em against my great big ’uns, our nipples rubbin’ together in time to the music.

I put my hand ’tween her legs and she spread ’em open for me. She was wet and thick like molasses. I was, too, and her fingers shoved up into me and we worked it out together, kissin’ and touchin’ and rubbin’ each other in that dark room with the music pulsin’ through us like our hearts beatin’ and our blood pumpin’ and our juices flowin’ down our thighs.

I hooked my leg ’round hers, so’s our bodies can’t slip away from each other, cuz she’s shakin’ and jerkin’ and wailin’ against me. I look over an see him watchin’ us, his eyes glowin’ like fire, and then I’m buckin’ against Rusty, too, feelin’ waves of love an heav’n rollin’ all through me, ’cept it feels like I’m possessed by something and maybe it is the devil after all.

Weren’t no girl not naked in that room, and he played and played and played us until we was all tangled up together by dawn, mewlin’ and cryin’ like a pile of black’n’white kittens. He left us there in the mornin’, and I heard him whisper when he walk by “Next time, maybe dey’ll pay me for da gig.”

There was a big scandal in the town, and they woulda lynched him if they coulda found him. They never did. I think about him when I pick my banjo for Mama, sittin’ on the porch and starin’ off at those mountains in the distance. I think about him, and I wanna cry.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#5: Excessive use of unusual punctuation (or lack thereof)

"Breathless Stargazing"

As I lay on my back, with Mary pounding up and down on my erection, and trying hard to think of any else but the arousal she was inducing, I attempted to identify the stars visible through her flying blonde hair as she determinedly continued to prove her assertion that she could make me reach a climax before she did, yet the stars did not seem to be as distracting as her body, so I reflected on the events leading to the current scenario, particularly our meeting at the Conservation Volunteers conference when we had all agreed to monitor the Nature reserve during the week before and after Earth Day, to prevent poachers snatching the wildfowl for restaurant tables, and Mary and I had been assigned to this particular night, since we were the only people who weren't attending the special showing of the film 'March of the Penguins' because both of us has already seen it, separately with our now ex-significant others, who had both become ex-significant because neither had appreciated the film and had expressed reservations about our respective strongly-held commitments to nature conservation, and that had led to the arguments that turned our significant others into ex-others and Mary and I into sympathetic listeners to each other's unhappiness and now into a partnership of nature guardians and sharers of a double sleeping bag that contained Mary's impatient thrusting and my gritted-teeth resolve to hold back my release until either she had tired or had worked herself to an orgasm of her own, neither of which appeared likely at the present while her swinging breasts slapped against my torso, diverting my mind from the beginnings of our relationship, so I tried again to identify the stars, such as Spica, Arcturus and Bootes that should be in my view at midnight on Earth Day to the South of Polaris, if only Mary's hair wasn't lashing across my face reminding me that she was nearly as tall and well-built as I am, and possibly fitter as she showed no sign whatever of slackening her ferocious attempts to make me climax, and the stars seemed less interesting than the shadows in the planes of her grimacing face, nor as interesting as the scent of her perfume accentuated with the heat of her body that writhed over mine so sensuously, her legs entwined around mine, her arms supporting her weight above me until she suddenly dropped her breasts to my body, her lips seeking mine and her tongue ruthlessly probing between my teeth, driving all thought and sight of the stars from my mind and making me believe that I was about to lose the wager in the next few seconds unless my mind could discover some other deviation from the arousal she was almost certain to achieve in the next few seconds, but the word 'deviation' made me think of possible scenarios for the plot of a short story about Earth Day that would combine nature conservation with a sexual encounter, possibly the sort of sexual encounter that I was now enjoying with Mary, and that thought detached me from my unresisting body almost to the extent that I felt as if I was looking down at the wriggling sleeping bag from an elevation high in the trees above us, a viewpoint perhaps of a curious owl or other night creature who would be wondering what we humans thought we were doing in the cold woodland at midnight on Earth Day, if an owl thought that Earth Day was any different from any other day which it probably didn't because I doubt that even the most advanced owl has any concept of the idea that Earth Day has any relevance whatever to its nocturnal task of hunting food to keep the owl alive, and that thought reminded me that Mary and I were supposed to be guarding the wood from the depredations of known poachers at which task we were manifestly failing because any poacher would hear our coupling form a considerable distance and divert to another part of the wood to pursue their illegal activities undisturbed by the distracted so-called watchers, because whatever Mary and I were doing it could not be described as watching or protecting any wildlife whatever, rather frightening it away or disturbing its sleep with our, or rather Mary's energetic activities, and that thought unfortunately returned my mind to her pressing lips, her probing tongue, her thrusting hips, her clutching arms, her warm cunny, her soft seductive breasts, her enfolding perfume, her caressing hair, her silky skin and with those images I lost the wager.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#6: “Purple prose” – excessively ornate, rich, and/or elaborate literary style.

Excerpt from: A Far Cry From Heaven

He saw, suddenly, what she offered him. In a temple of silver stone with slick falls of smoke-coloured curtains, a goddess reclined, supine on a dais of marble, her hair as long and black as the litany of her sins. Her skin was alabaster perfection, silken fire in the gloaming, sheened with opalescent radiance where lunar light touched her. He drifted closer, on twilight breezes scented with jasmine and the skin-tingling perfume of blood, bright and bold as red poppies in a field, over a courtyard whose sand shifted and sparkled beneath him. He knew what this shimmering dust was, madness and sacrifice, and dreams shattered beyond repair, the terrain of a realm given over to the majesty and mastery of pain. And here she rested, this creature of forgotten nightmares, of mist and moonlight and the gods' twisted delight, here she lay still and silent on her altar, as though she was the sacrifice.

Eternity took a breath, and his vision crystallized into the perfect clarity granted only in the moment between last breath and first, that little space of infinity between incarnations. He could taste the blood on her crimson lips, cold and flat on the tongue, without savour or scent, the vessel that had brought it to her having long passed its mortal coil. He could see now the black iron shackles that bound her to this place, with chains like black vines that snaked away into shadow, runes glinting silver in the light as she stirred.

They held her here, like some exotic cat captured and paraded before kings. She was not the goddess he had supposed, she was the holy font they drew their blessings from. The blades would come, each to their priest, and open that flawless white flesh, spill her magic and mystery into the chalices for those who begged immortality at the feet of the gods. They saw her as a gift, she saw them as parasites and peasants. She would kill them, if she could. She stirred and shifted in her dreamless slumber, long silk-lace lashes flickering against cheeks as cold and pale as the marble on which she was chained. What he had assumed was sable cloth that shrouded her shifted and changed into a swathe of her own hair, draped artfully across breast and thigh. She was chastity most pure, and the exalted whore, all at once.

The flicker of torchlight drew him back from that crystalline vision, to relive another's reverie. The priests in their long gilded robes, ceremonial blades absorbing the light and giving nothing back, dusky and forbidding in each left hand, right hands grasping a chased gold goblet. And still the lady slept, caught so deeply in her torpor nothing beyond the gods themselves could reach her. They came for the prophecy that fell from those garnet-carved lips, and for the bounty of her sanguine blessing. The ritual knives gleamed dully in the torches as they rose and fell, and she screamed silently red from a dozen gaping mouth, wept roseate tears that glowed like melted rubies from a dozen blind eyes.

He felt the first faint tremor of the lady's voice before the priests did, insubstantial as he was, so attuned to the breath of the the darkness. That first faint shimmer of sound that rippled against his soul and seared it with a backlash like a forest fire, crisping his essence and leaving him as light and brittle as ash, rendering him blind and deaf for the moment it took the gods to call her from her slumber, to roar her name into that echoing underworld she drifted in.

When the first chain broke with a sound like cathedral bells rung by mad demons, he could not find the breath to scream, even in silence.

When the first throat opened in a wash of vermilion devastation, the first heart was torn still pulsing its life into the ivory skin of her poet's hands, he could not find a tear to shed for them.

She rose from a bed of blood and flesh, glowing like a star, and glided off the dais, chains trailing in her wake like handmaidens. She stood before him, and it was as though her skin opened its pores and drank down the thick blackened blood of her faithful fathers, leaving her as untouched as virgin snow, cloaked in the breathing warmth of the night and the sweet copper penny fragrance of blood. Her eyes found his, eyes that held the sorrow and wisdom of a thousand lives, a million nightmares that she could not hide from. A single tear, as red as a rose, made its way down her cheek to fall and tremble on the crest of her high, proud breast.

"Is this what you want from me? This hell?" He could taste sorrow in her words, as dark and sweet as a lover's intimate kiss. Her eyes held his, as blue as the star-touched night, as old as Methuselah, as tempting as Eve's apple. He could almost see her wings, broken and twisted, scarred and blackened and burnt.

He thought suddenly of a book he had read as a child, about a vampire prince and his brides whose souls he had drunk away. A far cry from heaven, and a long way from home...** He knew who she was now. What she was. She was one of the lost, who hadn't made it through the gates of Eden before they closed. She was one of the fallen, who could never get to heaven on wings too shattered to fly. The golden flecks in those tragic eyes shimmered, and he was falling again...

 

[BlackShanglan]

#7: The dreaded "mirror scene" description device

A New Point of View.

She wakes up slowly, stretching and enjoying the feel of…

Suddenly she’s up on her hands and knees, looking left and right, sniffing the air, running her fingers over the soft, warm cotton below. A flicker of remembrance lights her eyes and a pink flush comes to her cheeks. She continues to kneel, naked on the bed, every tendon in her body straining as she assesses the danger level of her new surroundings.

She takes in the sun-bleached wood walls, and the matching floor. She is puzzled by the lack of flowers, trees and bushes, this cannot be part of her home. Her home has a heartbeat, and everything in here is cold. She remembers more about how she got here. A trap! She had been tracking her dinner through the tall grass, in the shade of the trees and then suddenly hard bars were all around her and she couldn’t escape.

The panic fills her once more and she springs off the soft platform, her bare feet sinking into the soft, short grass-like fibres on the floor. She remembers the male coming. He was surprised to see her, upset at first- like the lion who does not catch his prey, but then his dark, eagle eyes locked with hers and she saw and smelled lust.

He opened up the hard barrier and she ran at him screaming, baring her long, ragged dirt encrusted nails. She was not sure if she had grabbed him or if he’d wrapped her in his thick arms but she had raked her nails down his back and he growled a reply, digging his teeth into her neck. Yelping, she pulled his hair and he pinched her breast and soon they were rolling around in the cool grass and he was on top of her, his penis prominent and then plunged inside of her.

They had coupled animalistically, with rough passion and aching lust. She’d watched so many of her friends indulge in copulation but never felt it for herself, being the only one of her species, But he was a male to her female and she had fucked him hard, fearing she might have to kill him afterwards.

Now she’s here in this dead place, he must have dragged her here after they had coupled. She runs her hands across the walls, trying to find a way out and jumps back as her fingers hit against something metallic. Looking up she sees something amazing-another female like her.

She reaches out timidly to touch her and pulls the hand back as it touches the ice cold sheet. It’s not another, it’s her. She’d seen herself in the watering hole, muddied and rippling, this was so much clearer, like clean water made solid. She stares at her reflection boldly now, intrigued by the image before her.

She notices that her eyes are green like moss and they’re wide like the tiny monkeys who would chatter to her from high up in the trees. Her hair is like a nest. It’s the same in colour, texture and shape, filled out with twigs and moss and not at all like the male’s sleek, soft hair, lying flat like that of her friend the spotted cat.

She feels her hair, then slips a hand down to her throat and the bite marks he’s left on her. He had marked her as his. She bares her tiny teeth in an alligator -like smile as she remembers that she too had left her mark on him. She will not submit and she will be like the female lion, in control and in charge. No scrawny, sleek male will defeat her.

She had marked him in more places, she was sure. Scratches would decorate his strong back and bite marks around his tiny, flat breasts. Looking back at her reflection she notes the difference between her lush mountains and his bumpy plains, deciding hers are far superior and bigger equals better, all animals know that.

However he is far bigger than she lower down. She skims a hand down her stomach and into the wild fur at her crotch, opening up her lips and examining the tiny bump therein. She -notices how slick it becomes as she remembers his bump-his large, spongy hardness. There is no doubting he dominated her there, she could not deny it.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

She hears his call and turns to face him, snarling. He is showing her his dominance, proudly waving between his thighs. She throws herself at him, wanting to hurt him and to escape these confines. But he brushes her off, slapping her down onto the soft bed that she had woken up on before, then climbing over her.

“I caught you, and you’re mine.” He growls, dipping inside of her, slipping into her sheath.

She bares her teeth at him, all the more determined to control him, as the pleasure floods her body. She knows he is under the spell of her smell. It is him who is captured, not her.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#8: "Orange Juice Dialogue" (banal or pointlessly mundane dialogue)

(Untitled)

Cassandra pulled her ragged old robe tightly about her body and stumbled downstairs, the angry cry of the alarm still ringing in her ears. For the last twenty one years she had made this trek every weekday, down the stairs, turn right in the foyer, through the living room, to the kitchen. With the kids off to college, the only change had been having to cook one breakfast instead of five in that whole time. Even the breakfast itself was no break from the monotony.

One egg, poached. Two slices of dry toast. Two links of sausage. A half glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee, black. Chester was a creature of habit, from his breakfast, to Wednesday night sex. Everything was neat, orderly, preplanned and went off like clock work. The routine and his violent fits when she tried to be spontaneous had crushed the spirit out of her years before.

Today was different though, today she was deliciously sore, her pussy throbbed and she felt alive. All because of the exchange student they were hosting. Chester’s idea of a tax break. Cassandra’s idea of sexual nirvana. The little Portuguese girl had seduced her and spent the entire day and night, Chester’s late night at work, fucking Cass to exhaustion.

As she entered the kitchen, she beheld Yulia and her body reacted instantly. The dark haired girl smiled and grabbed her books. Cass didn’t know what to do when Yulia grabbed the front of her robe and pulled it open. Before she could get her addled brain to react her lover had pulled her panties aside and slid a short, fat vibe into her pussy. She then snugged Cass’s panties up tight to hold it in.

“For me, keep it in all day,” the girl whispered in her ear and then was gone.

Cass went about making Chester’s breakfast, the little machine buzzing happily inside her. It was only mildly uncomfortable at first, but soon became pleasant. By the time Chester entered the kitchen, it had become downright distracting.

“Good Morning,” he said, brushing her cheek as he hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair.

“Good morning,” she replied.

She placed his plate before him, with the food laid out just so and then sat heavily in her chair across the table. It was all she could do to keep from yelping as her bottom hit the chair and drove the little intruder deeper into her now throbbing canal.

Chester unrolled the newspaper, placing the rubber band on the arm of his chair with all the others before taking a bite of his egg. Cass was squirming, trying to find a position where the little vibe wasn’t so distracting, but she soon realized the diabolical little device’s secret. No matter how she positioned herself, it was providing stimulation, but that stimulation was far enough removed from her clit to keep her from reaching a climax. So instead of pleasure, it simply provided a continuously escalating notice of it’s presence with no hope of taking the edge off of the building tension.

“I see the mayor is running again,” Chester observed.

“Is he?” she squeaked, blushing furiously at the shrill sound of her voice.

“Quite. We’ll have to write him another check I suppose. Could you take care of that?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Dear. The egg is quite good today.”

“Egg?” she gasped, crossing her legs and squeezing her thighs tightly together.

“Yes, my egg. Are you all right? You seem flushed,” he said, glancing up over the edge of his paper.

“Just a hot flash,” she managed.

“Oh. Have you seen Dr. Morgan?”

Dr. Morgan. Dr. Zchivago. Dr. Doolittle. Who the fuck cares? Finish your fucking breakfast and get out before I explode!

“Yes dear. He knows about them.”

“Did he give you something for it?”

No you ignorant buffoon. He told me to get laid more often. Why the sudden interest in my pussy? It isn’t Wednesday.

“Yes dear.”

“Capital.”

Cass moved to take a sip of her coffee and felt the warm slickness as her panties pulled tightly across her mound. Despite herself she gasped in pleasure.

“Too hot?” Chester inquired without looking up.

Oh yeah. Way too hot. I haven’t been this hot since I stopped wearing crinolines. Not that you would notice you fat fuck.

“Just a bit.”

“Add some water.”

All the water in town won’t cool me down, bub. Yulia will when she gets home from class. I bet the devious little minx is really enjoying imagining me here, panties slick, pussy soaked, nipples hard as rocks and going crazy for her cock. God, I love that girl!

“It’s fine.”

“Indeed, very good. We’ll have to pick up that brand again.”

Pick up whatever you want. Pick up Juan Valdeze and his jackass too for all I care. Just pick your fat ass up and get out of here before I loose my mind!

“I’ll remember.”

“Very good. Well, I guess I’ll be off. Enjoy your day.”

Oh, I will. I will.

“I will.”

 

[BlackShanglan]

#9: Numerical measurements in descriptions of characters’ anatomies.

(Untitled)

Six eighty seven. Six eighty eight. Six eighty –

“Hi, Jonas.”

- nine. Fuck it. I hate when she does that. I mean, I like her, but goddamn it.

“Hi Shelley.” Five forty-five. I can see the clock behind, ten, maybe ten and half inches across the face. Paper. Bread. 1538 Market. 1.79 a loaf.

“Your usual?” I nod. She’s back there. 64, 65 inches up. 30 inch waist. Weird dimensions. Big tits. Thirty-five, forty cubic inches each in those babies. Goddamn it, they’re mighty fine. Figure sucking on a couple of them.

Evening Standard. 75 cents. A dollar down, E58934738, change. 25 cents. 25%. .25 in the dollar.

Fuck it. Fuck you. Like I can help it.

Shelley smiles. She’s got poodley hair, three, three and a half circles every two inches. Sort of a melting woman. Soft. Hundred fifty pounds maybe. Hard to tell in that cardigan. $16.75 at Harteman’s this weekend only. I saw the flier.

She puts coffee in my hand. She’s nice that way. Coffee. 1.25 dollar twenty-five in my pocket –

She stops my hand. I like it when she does that. Touches me.

“It’s OK, Jonas,” she says. Soft. Kinda husky.

I can’t really smile. Fuck knows I want to, but there’s these pigeons, six, seven overhead, wheeling, and then it’s five, then seven, then six, because the top of the newsstand keeps cutting them off. I never know how many are coming back. Five. Seven. Eight.

“Jonas.”

Four. What the fuck? But I really like her.

“Shelley.” I kinda-smile. I’m tryin’, goddamn it. She more-smiles back. Like, brighter. It’s good.

Eight. Thank fuck. Five. Seven. She’s looking at me.

“You’re late today.”

Five forty-seven. Yeah. Bread closes at six. Thirteen minutes. 87 bus was out. 35, then the 23, ten, fifteen stops. Way too many.

I look up at her. Seven. She’s waiting.

“Yeah,” I mumble. “Bus was out.”

“I get off at six.”

Six. Five. No, six. Clock. Not pigeons. Whathefuck?

“Oh. Yeah? You, uh, … wanna walk home?” She’s nice. Big-titted. Soft. Cute. I like her.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

Smiles. Fuck, where’d the pigeons go? I go look. Twelve and a half minutes. She hands in her apron. We walk.

I can’t talk. Forty-seven. Forty-eight. She’s good about it. Like, she tries once or twice, but she stops. Not mad-stops, like “fuck you I was tryin’ to talk to you,” but sort of … nice-stops. Four hundred twenty-two and right. That’s the lobby. We stop.

My place. Fuckin’ wind-up toy. I don’t know her place. Could be a lot of steps. Maybe a bus. 123 or the 17, this time of night; number 5 to the Gardens, maybe. I don’t know where to take her.

“Sorry.” I’m fucking up. But she kinda … I dunno. I just don’t care about the fucking pigeons, you know? She sort of smiles.

“You want me to come up?” She asks it maybe-yes. I nod. It’s yes. Fucking … yeah. Yeah, you come up.

Four flights. I hate elevators. The stairs all have eleven but the last has twelve. She’s tired. Nice, though. No complaints. I like that about her. I mean, I’m not … you know. And she doesn’t give me a bunch of shit. She’s panting – twenty-five, twenty-six breaths a minute, getting’ up that last set. I feel bad. I take her hand, ‘cause she’s draggin’ herself up the rail. She smiles. Fuckin’ ace. She’s catchin’ her breath. I’m touchin’ her hand. It’s kinda … hot.

Three doors. My place. The door’s hardly shut and we’re up against it. Kissing. Tasting. Shelley. My hands slide up under her cardigan, $16.75, Harteman’s, this weekend only, and then I feel her stiff nips poking into my palms and oh, like I fucking care. Goddamn, it’s good. Warm. Soft. She’s got to be more like 165 but fuck it’s good.

It goes fast. Frantic hungry sucking at tongues; her big tits cramming against my mouth; then she’s zipping at me, fuck, fuck, it’s six-oh-eight, I fucking swear, I can see the clock on the oven, and she’s sliding down me. Don’t stop, thirty-seven years I swear no one has ever yes 5.26 inches it ain’t fuckin’ much but unh! Her lips close and she’s smiling and I crack my head on the door as my body jerks and my spine twitches and fuck.

I worry for like a half a second about lasting. Then she smiles up at me. It’s fucking perfect. You don’t know how much I love this woman.

It comes. Oh, fuck, it comes.

We slide down. Fuck if I know where I am. I like her, though. I want to tell her but I’d just fuck it up. Maybe she knows. She curls up against me and I touch her. Warm. Close. It’s fucking amazing.

It’s hours before I know what time it is.

 

[BlackShanglan]

#10: Any story beginning with the words "This is a true story ..."

(Untitled excerpt)

This is a true story. Honest. My friend told me all about how it happened to her cousin’s niece’s (on the other side of the family) best friend, and I checked Snopes and it’s not listed as an urban legend, so it really happened, right? Right.

Lonna pulled her glasses a bit farther down on her nose, then looked around to see if anyone was watching. There were few patrons in the library this sunny Saturday morning, two staring into the monitors of the library’s open computers and one prowling somewhere in the Theology section. She scrunched the skirt of her grey suit between slightly sweaty palms and smiled a tiny little smile. Years of library school, six weeks of training, and the Powers That Be had finally decreed that she have a shift to herself. Granted, nobody visited the library at nine a.m. on a beautiful May Saturday, and the volunteers would start arriving at eleven, but for now, Shanglan Memorial Library was all hers.

Sighing, Lonna turned to the stack of books she’d gotten from the overnight book drop, picked up the handheld scanner, and started scanning the books. Once she scanned the spines, Lonna slapped the books onto the library cart for the Senior Volunteer to put back on the shelves. She sighed as she scanned, enjoying the peace and hoping the volunteers would be late, since she, as Junior Librarian, was out-ranked by the Senior Volunteers. Lonna knew in her heart that they wouldn’t be late. They’d be perfectly on time as always, and then the jokes about redheads and new people and years of college to be a librarian would begin. She scanned a book, slapped it on the card, sighed and then decided sighing was too Victorian for a sunny Saturday morning, and began practicing her “Shhh!” A good “Shhh!” had to be quiet, of course, but it also had to be penetrating and at least mildly hissy. Scan. Slap. Shhh! Scan. Slap. Shhh! Scan. Slap. Shhh! Scan. Slap. Shhh!

“Excuse me, Miss?”

Scan. Slap. “Shhhit!”

Lonna dropped the book in her hand onto the floor and blushed. Not only had she been caught “Shhh!”ing, she’d made noise. As her face made an effort to match her hair color, she knelt to retrieve the book.

“Oh, I am sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you!”

Lonna looked up into a smiling face haloed by a mop of dark brown curls. She stood up, clutching the book, and found she still had to look up to see the gentleman. He winked at her as she brushed off her skirt, and held a hand over the counter towards her.

“I’m Brad. You’ve got a very nice Shhh.” He winked.

Lonna blushed even harder, then wished she could manage to not blush—a red face never went well with red hair. She’d looked in the mirror and seen the evidence with her own eyes.
“I’m Lonna,” she answered, setting the book on the counter so she could take Brad’s hand. She felt a tingle as his long, warm fingers clasped hers and held on a bit longer than necessary. Her breath caught in her throat as he released her hand and just looked at her with warm, gorgeous brown eyes. “Just like a basset hound,” she thought, “except somehow sexy, too. How may I help you?”

“You can start with telling me if that bun is shellacked in place.” Brad grinned, and then sobered when Lonna blushed further and reached up to touch her hair.

“It isn’t, sir. In what manner may I help you?” Lonna’s voice had gone colder than penguin’s feet in contrast to her flaming face. She bit the inside of her cheek and stood ramrod-straight in the ‘attentive but irritated librarian’ pose she’d learned.

“I’m sorry. That was too personal.” Brad smiled down at her. “I just think it’s a shame to have all that gorgeous hair subdued like that.” As Lonna started to say something, he held up one hand. “Never mind—I do need to check out some books, in fact.”

Lonna’s eyes widened and her heart pounded. Her very first checkout, all on her own! No volunteers, no superiors, just her and the checkout computer. She braced herself with one hand on the back of her chair, hands suddenly sweaty. “Oh please let me do this right,” she thought. She extended one hand towards Brad. “Card, please.”

Brad gave her his library card, and she looked at the name on the card. “Dr. Miller? But you’re so young!” Lonna could have died then and there. Talk about being personal—what the hell kind of outburst was that for a librarian? “Oh, dear, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. We’re even now. And I’m not a doctor doctor, I’m a PhD. English Lit, in fact.” Brad was smiling again, and the smile did something to Lonna’s knees. The PhD did something to her brain and those brown eyes seemed to be doing things to bits that spinster librarians never admitted to having.

“I, uh, see.” Lonna took a deep breath and turned the card over. Holding it tightly in her trembling fingers, she moved to swipe it through the reader. On her first try, she dropped the card. On her second, the card hung up in the machine halfway. On her third try, she flung the card sideways. She pressed her hands to her temples as Brad silently went and retrieved the card from near the New Fiction shelf. He surprised her by letting himself behind the counter.

“You’re not supposed to be back here!” Lonna gasped, wondering to herself if it was possible to die from blushing. It felt as if her grey linen suit was smothering her, every blood cell in her body was partying in her face, and not only was she blowing her first checkout, she was doing so in front of a gorgeous man. She wanted to die.

“It’s all right.” Brad reached out and turned Lonna around so she was again facing the computer. “I’ve been on the other side of the counter for thousands of these. You just let me show you how to do it.”

 

[Guest]

Vote Card

They were all so wince inducing, all so...well, so bad! And damned good at it. Here are my votes (and it was hard to choose!)

Categories

Best Story: The best-written and most enjoyable embodiment of the author's chosen sin. #9 (Untitled)



Best Parody or Comic Piece - #5 Breathless Stargazing

Guiltiest Pleasure - #4 Pied Piper

Most Disturbingly Hot - #8 (untitled)

Best "Serious" Rehabilitation of a Sin - #9 (untitled)

 

[Roxanne Appleby]

My congratulatiuons to all the writers here. I have only scanned these so far, but what I have seen all appears brilliant. Well done, all, and well done Shang for conceiving and executing the project.

 

[Guest]

 

[Kev H]

Best Story: The best-written and most enjoyable embodiment of the author's chosen sin. #9 - just...WOW!

Best Parody or Comic Piece #5 *chuckles* it read easier this time around...should I be worried?

Guiltiest Pleasure (not really sure what this category means, but since I do not want to leave one blank, #8)

Most Disturbingly Hot #7 *lusty growl*

Best "Serious" Rehabilitation of a Sin #9 (hope I can vote for one twice - this just fit)

Little extras like this really make the AH a wonderful place. Thanks Shan.

 

[FallingToFly]

Okay... maybe I was reading Shang wrong... but I thought that the polls for voting were going up on the 5th so everyone would have time to read and decide their votes?
:S

 

[BlackShanglan]

Thank you for the kind words, Roxanne and Kev - you are very kind. I hugely enjoyed the submissions and the contest. I am deeply torn over the entries - I want to for for all of them, for they all do superb work! I suppose I should be thankful that I decided early that I would not vote (since I know all of the authors), but they are all such excellent work. Thanks to all of the authors for some outstanding work! There are so many individual lines I want to rave about, but I will wait until the voting is done.

Shanglan

 

[BlackShanglan]

Okay... maybe I was reading Shang wrong... but I thought that the polls for voting were going up on the 5th so everyone would have time to read and decide their votes?
:S

No, sorry for obfuscating that issue. I was not able to include a poll, so the voting is being done by posts to this thread. Votes may be posted any time between now and the 5th. I will tally votes on the 5th.

Shanglan

 

[Guest]

Okay... maybe I was reading Shang wrong... but I thought that the polls for voting were going up on the 5th so everyone would have time to read and decide their votes?
:S

I beleive you have UNTIL the 5th to vote, as the polling function won't work with the catagories. You can use the "vote card" in the original message to sort out your votes. Each story is numbered.

 

[BlackShanglan]

I beleive you have UNTIL the 5th to vote, as the polling function won't work with the catagories. You can use the "vote card" in the original message to sort out your votes. Each story is numbered.

What she said.

 

[Selena_Kitt]

Oh... I thought a poll was going up, too... wish it was anonymous...

obviously, that won't work, considering the categories... o well...

haven't read them all... but wow... some amazing work!!!!

 

[Guest]

Oh... I thought a poll was going up, too... wish it was anonymous...

obviously, that won't work, considering the categories... o well...

haven't read them all... but wow... some amazing work!!!!

If anonymity is important, I suppose you could create a proxy name for the purpose of voting. I doubt that any of the authors will take you to task for not voting for a particular story, though -- I know for me, the fun was in the writing and the reading!

I'd considered voting for my own story but I liked the others SO MUCH BETTER....

 

[Selena_Kitt]

If anonymity is important, I suppose you could create a proxy name for the purpose of voting.

eh, too much trouble...

a poll would have been automatically anon, but that's alright... I don't worry about what authors will think about voting/not voting, I worry more about the kind of "sheep" mentality that can happen when people see voting happening for something... there can be a tendency to vote for that one because "everyone else did" kind of a thing... *shrug*

but this isn't the pulitzer prize or anything... I think we're all safe...

 

[FallingToFly]

Best Story: #4 (I'm sorry, I'm voting for this twice, because the imagery made me shiver)

Best Parody or Comic Piece #5

Guiltiest Pleasure #6

Most Disturbingly Hot #4 (I think because I have had a thing for Gambit since I was a child)

Best "Serious" Rehabilitation of a Sin #9

 

[BlackShanglan]

Anyone who cares to vote anonymously may PM me with votes; I will add them to the tally. The original intent was in fact to have an anonymous poll, but I did not realize that the program would not permit me to add a poll once the thread was posted. As it does not appear possible for me to add a poll, this seemed to be the next best solution.