Writing Exercise - Guess the Voice

[TheEarl]

Right arthers, tis time for another voice exercise. The rules are the same as always: Submit a piece of prose under 800 words to me via PM on the topic of the week. I'll post them up here anonymously. When the deadline passes (Thursday 9th), I'll put up the list of entrants, plus a couple of dummies, so that we can start guessing who wrote what.

All welcome. The challenge for this week is to write on the subject of When the lights went out.

Off you go.

The Earl

 

[Guest]

When the lights went out, I thought about her. I sometimes think about what she's up to. Being far away from her, thinking about what she's doing in my absence isn't good for my mental health. So, I try to think of her less. It's been difficult, but practice makes it better I hope.

For example, I'm not thinking about her at all right now.

The end.

 

[Virtual_Burlesque]

When the lights went out, I thought about her. . . . For example, I'm not thinking about her at all right now. The end.

My guess!

It's ChilledVodka!

 

[TheEarl]

When the lights went off, I had been champing at the bit for nearly five minutes. I saw Biff Morton leave the family room where his party was taking place, and knew that the time to make my move would come soon.

I had diligently memorized the room, and all the impedimenta cluttering my path between where I sat poised to move, and Deborah Seaton, the hottest cheerleader to attended Sturgis-McCrea High.

In three days, Deborah would leave for college, while I started work at the feed store. My friend and fellow conspirator, Biff, had agreed to give me this opportunity, by plunging everyone into darkness during his farewell party.

While our unofficial chaperone, Biff’s mother, Gloria Morton, scuttled about in her usual ineffectual manner, I would have ten minutes make-out time before the lights came back on.

That was ten minutes of unchaperoned darkness in which to ravish Deborah Seaton!

It was probably my only chance. She had spurned all my requests for a date. For all those brush-offs, I would get this brief opportunity to see — or rather feel — what I had missed, as well as get even with her for all those painful rejections.

I heard the crowd gasp as the lights were extinguished, and began to make my way across the darkened room. Someone else must have also moved, because I stumbled over them crouching upon the floor.

I landed heavier than I intended, with my outstretched hand pressing onto an extremely soft and yielding mound of flesh.

“Oh!” a female voice inhaled.

In an instant, I traced the source of that sound, and pressed my lips to it.

Sprawled across my victim, it took me a second to work both hands onto her breasts, and a few seconds more to yank the blouse out of her skirt band, and push it out of my way. For a moment her bra defeated my best efforts, then the catch parted, and Deborah spilled forth.

I wished to place my lips upon her hardening nipples, but dared not, for fear the muted objections already escaping past my lips would become intelligible.

At the back of my consciousness, I could hear that I was not the only one taking advantage of this darkened privacy. Some moans, giggles, and kissing sounds were audible in the darkness.

Sliding my hand down her body, Deborah’s flesh felt softer and more inviting than she appeared just to the naked eye.

Grabbing a handful of skirt, I yanked it up above her hips, then plunged my hand down, worming my way within the heated juncture of Deborah’s clasped thighs.

It was amazing how little persuasion Deborah required before her legs spread invitingly. Another second followed before her panties were whisked down Deborah’s loins.

It was then that Deborah’s reaction became somewhat of a hindrance. Not that she fought me off, but rather, she grasped at me with her arms, her legs entwined about me, while she pressed her body so closely, it was difficult to open my fly, let alone lower my trousers.

Once I had finally accomplished that, I was inside her with a single thrust. She was so wet, I felt no hindrance whatever to my entry.

In my wildest dreams I had not anticipated intercourse. All I had expected was a couple of intimate feels of Deborah’s gorgeous body. Suddenly, I was penetrating her and fearlessly seeking further penetration, while she earnestly clamped herself to me, and aided in her penetration.

The sofa beneath our striving creaked with an age-old rhythm, while in the background, somebody snickered at our noise.

My only rational thought at the time was that if the lights came on and we were discovered, either Deborah would have to announce publically that I was her new boyfriend, or else she would be named the biggest slut in town.

I had lost all track of time, but certainly more than the allotted ten minutes had passed. At any time I should expect the lights to snap on, and the two of us be caught.

Still I did not stop. I could not stop. Had any fear of discovery troubled me, I still would have been unable to find the resolve to stop.

With a chance to deceive the entire town into believing that Deborah Seaton was my new girlfriend, why should I want to stop?




When the lights came on, no one was more surprised than I.

George Morton, Biff’s father, had replaced the fuse, and what he saw illuminated before everyone’s eyes totally enraged him.

Wrapped about me, penetrated by me, and just at that moment experiencing an eardrum piercing orgasm, was not Deborah Seaton, but Biff Morton’s mother, Gloria.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

"You can touch it, but not inside, and the only thing you get is my butthole," Joanie said.

Her mouth closed over his cock.

"Let me lick you."

Joanie considered. "You serious?"

"It's supposed to be the best feeling."

Tim waited an eternity, wishing he could see her face.

"Okay; nothing inside, remember."

"We can do both at once."

He shepherded her into position. She held the root of his cock and waited. Her hair was matted close to the skin. He kissed it and parted the curtain with his fingers. The slot between was a complex set of folds. He kissed it more deeply, and let his tongue run over them.

"Oh!"

He stopped. Was he doing something wrong?

"Do more."

The smell was a surprise. He'd heard the fish jokes, but they were wrong; it was delicious and indescribable. Fish had nothing to do with it. He licked avidly. She was juicy.

Joanie closed her eyes and paid extreme attention. It was like shooting pains, thrills along the nerves. Her muscles down there clenched. She pressed the back of his head to make his touch firmer, lifting her hips and grinding into him. That tongue! It's every move caused exquisite sensations. She lifted her leg to open up more and urged him lower. Under the sparkle of little thrills there began a hum, a deep response from her pussy, more intense by the second.

"Go in with your tongue!"

"You said--"

"Just go in, I never knew!"

"Suck me, too."

"Right! No fingers!"

She hadn't done enough so that sucking cock was routine, exactly, but the life of a Christian girl required quite a bit of it. This time, though, she couldn't concentrate. Tim's hips pumped it in and out; it was easier just to let him fuck her mouth. He smelled really good, too; the whole experience melded together excitingly. The more she drove her cunt at his mouth, the stronger the little thrills became, but there seemed to be more. There was a sweet build and then it would fade and build again. If it could build more, there would be something really marvelous, she was certain. She whimpered and ran her tongue over the pumping cock.

The confusing mass of folded flesh had organized itself as Tim explored. The inner ring of ruffled lips stood out now, a springy nub at the front, and between was the opening into the center of her. She kept squealing and pounding into his chin, so he clutched a hip to damp down her violence. He wanted to dig deep, he wanted all the juice there was. Time, swim practice, principals, hearings, his disappointed mother and angry dad-- open pussy under his tongue trumped everything, with one exception.

<i>If I don't get her butt soon, I'll come this way, he thought</i>. "Joanie! I gotta have your butthole! Quick!"

It wasn't quick. She had Astro-Glide, but she knew nothing about what to do. She handed him the bottle and told him to grease her with it first, and he did what seemed best to do. The slick little asshole let his finger in easily. He spread more lube into there and then set her on her knees.

"Stop holding it closed!"

"I'm not, it's just doing it. Just a second!"

"Relax it!"

"Push hard, but like, go slow!"

Then it happened. "Yes!" both young voices exulted. Right to the root.

"Keep it relaxed, Joanie. God, this is hot!"

The two enthusiastically adjusted their position for a good deep angle; the tentative strokes became firmer and faster. Joanie liked every bit of it. This was really nice, but the licking had been incredible. She had not come under his tongue, and she didn't now, but now she knew where the goal lay, and she would certainly pursue it.

The clinging ring of her young ass and the soft void behind it drew a very rapid and strong come from him. He could only feel it sink into there for a short time before a nearly unbearable twinge came at the head and the familiar tiny clutches of muscle at the base released pulse after pulse, bolts of pleasure the length of his cock. His legs shook, his toes curled tight. His eyes squeezed shut and deep chest noises came unbidden from his open mouth. He could remember nothing so intense in all his life.

He had loved Christian girls before. Gladly he had come in their abstinent mouths, a hank of their hair in hand, growling to them to swallow. But this was apotheosis. Christian buttfucking, he speculated, may have converted the heathens of the world to the worship of gentle Jesus. Did the saints always bring teenage abstinent girls and Astro-Glide when they went into the mission field?

The Earl

 

[Songcatcher]

An F for the first one. Too dated.

50% for the second one.

I am a good judge.

 

[Liar]

I refuse to take part in these excersisies unless you cut down the maximum length of those pieces to half of that. Mine will be too easy to guess - it's the one that never got written because 800 words is a bleeding oddyssey to write for me. Or maybe the only one that ends after 150 words.

But go on, it's a hoot to read all your stuff.

 

[TheEarl]

Liar: Doesn't have to be 800 words. There's been a few entries into these things which were barely 200. Comme ca:

Jennie wished the lights would go out. Then perhaps she could convince herself that the grunting bear rutting behind her was a figment of her imagination. Perhaps less like a bear, she thought, and more like a squealing pig with its paw caught in a trough. Or in this case, a hole. A damp hole. For as much as he repulsed her, the black wiry hair covering the sweaty, fleshy frame that would make a rugby player think twice about tackling him, the breath that stunk like a brewery, the way he treated her nipples like he was tuning nobs on a radio, their was something intensely arousing about the size of his hands groping her small, pale body, and the way he moved her like a rag doll as he ploughed into her like a mack truck.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

Lizzy made up the fire, trying to remember the way of it. It was so easy to throw on coal as she did every day at home – at Lord Vayne’s house, she corrected herself, and turned fiercely back to her task. She’d forgotten the work that her younger siblings were put to, scavenging any scraps that might feed the meager glow, and the constant task of keeping it alive with as little fuel as skill could manage. Now she had it all to learn again, propping the fading tongues with the shattered stave of an old barrel.

She turned to her father, wrapping the blanket about his feet. It was the best they had, worn but clean. He’d asked her why she was home from her service, and she’d told him – God forgive her – that she’d been given a night and a day while his lordship went to the country. Not that she’d fooled him. She’d seen the worry in his face and the blind searching of his clouded eyes, though she’d covered the catch in her throat with a laugh that rang almost true. She prayed that he would ask no more until her mother returned. She was still away, laboring late to earn a last few pence at her piece-work. Lizzy would wait; she could not bear to tell her shame and ruin more than once.

Lizzy watched Milly tend the other children. She was grown so that her shift hung scarcely past her knees, and she looked solemn-eyed and worried at Lizzy as she spooned porridge into wooden bowls. Lizzy took the last from her hand and placed it quietly back in the cupboard. She would not take the food from their very mouths. Tomorrow she would try to speak to him. Surely he would give her her wages. Just that, and no more; just to see them through until she found a new position. She bit her lip, watching Tom and Milly, whose skins were as pale and waxen as candles. A new position. Somewhere far away.

At last she sent them to bed. Tom and Milly, troubled but silent, took the little ones with them. As she went, Milly clung to her softly a moment. Her eyes met Lizzy’s; then she went up the narrow steps.

Lizzy knelt down by her father’s chair, kissing his hand, and felt him rest it gently upon her head. Then he spoke.

“Read me a line, Lizzy. We’ll pass the time until your mother comes.”

His voice was kind but rough with concern. His lined face was deep with pity, and she knew that he guessed her trouble. She could not bring herself to speak it; it was too much the ruin of all his hopes in her. But she went to the books, those few beloved volumes that even poverty could not force him to sell. Near the end a tattered cover spoke to her, and she took it in hand. She sat at his feet and as the dusk thickened to darkness, she opened the book and read, staring into the dull, dying glow of the embers. She needed no page to guide her through the verse that had spoken in her mind every hour of the past weeks.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom – is to die.

-- Oliver Goldsmith, “When Lovely Woman Stoops to Folly”

Tears rose up in her eyes, blurring the red-gold fire until she choked on the last line. She buried her face against her father’s coat and wept.

At last she heard her mother enter. Lizzy closed her eyes. She would be kind, but it was a kindness Lizzy could hardly bear. To look upon her, beaten down with constant struggle, and bring her the news of her own shame and disgrace – it was more than she could do. She saw already the hurt in her eyes, the grief that would come to her, worn thin with the grinding burden of poverty. To bring one more sorrow to her, to add one more weight to the load she had born so long and so fiercely – it bowed Lizzy’s head, and she clung to her father in the barren darkness. He held her to him as the slow, heavy steps drew close and stopped by the dying fire.

A hand touched upon her shoulder.

It was his.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

Great. Just great.

I spent thirty minutes getting to my hotel. In the dark. In a city I don't know very well. And the clerk told me, politely, that she doesn't have my reservation. Or any openings. Or any help for me.

What was I supposed to do now? It was after midnight in Milwaukee. No, wait, I should be accurate. In a pissant suburb OF Milwaukee. I drove all the way up here from Chicago for a gaming convention and made a reservation so I could pass out after a full day, and they don't have anywhere for me to stay.

I sniffled a little as I walked out of the air-conditioned, lighted lobby of the hotel into the muggy, hot night air. But I couldn't cry. I had to do something.

I looked down at the blacktop, then up at my car, sitting in the parking lot. I twisted the key, angrily, in the lock and bruised my fingers.

Ah, pain. Oh, God, that was a bad idea. I hissed at the sensation as I shook my sore fingers out, sat down, and shut the door with a bang. I hoped the bastards inside heard it. All of them. Residents, employees, people who happened to be near it, all were bastards.

My peanut butter and jelly sandwiches had filled the car with their delicious scent. As usual, I hadn't eaten anything all day, preferring to wait until I got to my hotel room. As I teared up at the thought of my own private, dark, cool room, I distracted myself with the promise of food.

Why not? The hotel management could spare me five minutes in their parking lot after doing this to me. I snuggled down into my seat, sniffing loudly, and grabbed a sandwich from my bag, wishing I was lying on my cool sheets, breathing in the safe darkness of my room. The flavors burst through my sadness, cool sweet grape and sticky nuts, and soon the food was gone.

I pulled an apple out, feeling a little more cheerful. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Or thirsty. The apple wetted only a little of my dry throat, making me ache for more and wish I could get a nice cool glass of water. Its tartness made me even more thirsty.

I had to go find something to drink. Any place that would be open at this time of night would probably be able to help me. I swallowed and started the car, driving toward the lights I saw down the street, sparing one last curse for the hotel management and the guests who'd stolen my reservation.

There was a hardware store (closed), a used car lot (closed, but brightly lit), and then a convenience store on the corner. And glory be, it was open. Open, lit up, and populated. A man entered while I watched, nearly overcome by my intense disappointment and joy.

Somehow I found a parking space and entered. Then I stopped. The place was overrun with truckers and a woman who could have played a truck stop waitress in any B grade movie. I felt entirely out of place in my gaming convention T-shirt and yellow shorts and waited to approach the counter.

"What's wrong, hon?" the woman shouted across the store to me.

I told myself that at least they were cheerful and bit my lip, walking forward to see her. "Um, I'm from out of town and my hotel lost my reservation…"

With a pop, all the lights and sound in the bustling store went dead. No person made a sound. Then the chime above the door sounded as a man called out, "Hey, anyone in here? A transformer's probably blown. The whole block was dark back to the Roadside Inn!"

I started to laugh. I couldn't help it. Poetic justice. The Roadside Inn had denied me service. I blessed whatever God had blown the transformer in retribution.

I actually ended up doing okay that night. I spent less than fifty dollars on a crude motel room down the road, a place a friendly trucker had recommended. I eventually slept, despite the loud groans and moans of orgasm from the room next door. I even left without getting a disease from the dirty floor and undoubtedly filthy sheets. But the turn-around was when the lights went out.

They didn't get the transformer fixed until three days later, when the convention ended. I didn't shed one tear over that.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

I grip hold of Stuart's hand. What the hell is going on? I hear a giggle from the corner and some suggestive slurpy kissy sounds from somewhere in front of where we are sitting. I strain my ears and hear an array of suggestive moans and groans and I swear I hear a zip being undone. Stuart's other hand takes advantage of the dark by grasping at my breast, his fingers kneading the flesh.

I’m torn. Stuarts groping feels so good but people might see. The lights might flick on at any moment and my co-workers could see what a wanton sexual being I really am. Fuck it! My lust takes me over and I decide to go with the flow.

I wrap my arms around my lover and press my wet lips to his, kissing him deeply and passionately, conveying my lust to him, both of his hands are now on my breasts, squeezing them, massaging them making it so I feel electric sensations throughout my body.

He claws open my blouse, and pulls down my bra, I know I should really be protesting but the dizzying kisses and lustful heat of his body against my own is too much for me to bear.

I rub my hands over his strong, broad, masculine shoulders, I continue rubbing as I move onto his chest. Shakily I undo a few buttons so I can stroke him and play with his nipples, echoing what he is doing with my own breasts.

My eager fingers move on down to his trousers, I un-clip the button and peel down the zipper to free my lover's aching and rapidly growing cock.

Stuart forces me back, until my head hits the arm of the sofa; he is soon upon me, mauling my tits with his mouth, devouring them. I can feel his cock pressed against my thigh as he works a hand up under my skirt, bunching it up as he goes till I feel his cool fingers caressing my hot skin, his fingers creeping up to my crotch and stroking at my wet pubic curls.

"You slut," He hisses into my ear, "No panties in public. My sweet, delicious slut!"

His fingers dance over my lips, trailing tingles up to my clit, massaging it till I begin humping back at his hand. His lips drop to my nipple, I watch his outline as he envelops it in his mouth and gasp as he begins to slowly, rhythmically suck upon it. His body shifts and I feel him parting my legs wider with his thighs, his cock probes at my pussy and starts to part my labia,

"No," I whisper forcefully, "not here, not in front of everyone!"

"Oh Sweetheart, no one's paying us any attention. They're all doing their own thing, come on lover, I can feel how wet you are. You want my cock in your cunt don't you? Let me fuck you baby, I want to fuck you now!"

His impassioned plea combined with his cock nudging at my opening is too much and I part my legs and thrust up my hips in silent supplication to him. I feel him spear me, I shift my legs so they are hooked around his waist and I bite my lip at the delicious feelings running from my pussy, through my body.

"Oh Yeah," I whisper into his ear, "you fuck me so good baby, fuck me lover, Yes fuck me!"

Stuart picks up the tempo and I muffle a moan of sheer delight as my cunt spasms joyfully around him.

And then the lights go on.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

When the lights went out, Johnny Barker stopped breathing. His heart thudded loudly in his ears, inhibiting his ability to hear properly. Had he been older, he would have cursed, but he’d faced punishment for that far too many times. He had no plans on making that mistake again, not with three months worth of grounding still to come and a bar of soap, his teeth marks still notable in its surface, sitting at the kitchen counter.
Grandma was too old-fashioned. Punishments were never time-outs, or no television until you apologize. Either a whipping with a switch from the yard (and it still surprised him how much something so narrow and flexible can hurt your butt when swung the right way – and Grandma knew the right way to swing it) or having your mouth washed out. He wondered if any of the other kids got such punishments. He could have asked them, but he wasn’t sure they’d tell. They got a bit unsocial with you after the tenth time you pushed them off the monkey bars or drug them through the mud puddles under the swings.
Some kids were too sensitive. They cried over those things. Cried.
But they weren’t his concern just then. His mind came back all too easily when he heard the pitter-pat of small feet moving nimbly across the wooden floor. He pulled the covers up to his chin regardless of the sweat he felt breaking out all over. Why couldn’t they just have been dreams? Why? Just bad dreams telling him what he had done was wrong? All those thing she’d done to them were wrong?
Because dreams aren’t real, son, a voice in his mind returned. And dreams won’t make them happy; not with you.
He started to cry, but quietly. He hadn’t decided yet that waking Grandma was better than dealing with them, though the idea had occurred to him as soon as the lights had extinguished.
More than one set of pitter-patting feet, he could tell, coming from several directions at once, but how many exactly he couldn’t tell. Had no clue. He exhaled then, the breath long and shaking, trailed by an involuntary whimper, then held his breath again, having given himself away.
Could they tell exactly where he was?
As if in response, a few quick steps were followed by a scraping of claws and one landed carefully just a foot or so from his head. He flinched back, causing the small creature to purr. It moved slowly forward, its paws kneading the blankets with each step, the purring becoming louder.
A second one landed on the other side of his head, and two more at the foot of the bed. They were closing in, kneading the blankets all around him, the purring sound seeming to sink into him as they hummed together in chorus.
Why had he done it? Because he’d needed attention? No. He hadn’t intended for anyone to find out, and no one had, so far as he knew. Except they had known, somehow. Or they’d found out.
And they’d come to get even. How many had come? Far more than he’d hurt, he knew. He’d only hurt three that he could recall. The one he’d doused with gasoline and lit on fire, the one he’d dipped in water and thrown out in the snow, and the one whose tail he’d tail a string of old shoelaces to, pinning the other end of the string beneath a cement block, and tossed from the roof of the small apartment building he and Grandma lived in.
Three cats, in all, and here were how many, all come to pay homage, just as he’d dreamed they would.
But in the dreams, there had been no purring, no sadistic pleasure in what they’d come to do. One licked at his ear lobe, while another slipped gracefully beneath the covers at his feet. When its tongue, rough and warm, touched the tip of his pinky toe, he tried to jerk his feet up to his chest, but they wouldn’t move.
The one to the right of his head, now accompanied by two more furry little demons, leaned its head closer and exhaled heavily, warmly into his ear.
“Johnny,” a voice whispered. “You’ve been very bad…”
Talking? Talking cat?
And why not? They’d come for revenge, after all. Not exactly something a normal cat would do. Why not a talking cat? A demonically possessed talking cat?
The one at his feet sank sharp, needle-like little teeth into his toe. He opened his mouth to cry out but emitted no sound.
“That’s right, Johnny,” the voice whispered. “Don’t make a sound. We’d hate to have to punish Grandma for interfering.”
A second bite, this one on his ear lobe.
“A long night awaits you…”

The Earl

 

[angelicminx]

bump!

 

[TheEarl]

Fear trembled through her body. Silvia was in the midst of walking the ten blocks to her home after a late night at work when the power went out all over the city. Since she was a small child she had been afraid of being alone in the dark. Things happened in the dark, scary things. Each click of her heels on the concrete sent a shudder through her soul; it was the only sound in the eerie darkness.

Ahead of her and to her left was an alleyway. The light of the full moon wasn’t enough to illuminate the opening and her anxiety increased tenfold. Images danced in her head; the horrors of what could happen to her when she passed. Predominate in her mind was the image of being pulled into the alley by strong, unknown hands. Hands that clamped down over her mouth before she could scream for help.

Darting a glance over her shoulder, she quickened her pace. If she walked fast enough, she could get past the entrance to the alley, before the terror overwhelmed her and left her frozen in her tracks. Part of the flutter in her belly was fear, but the other part, the part that surprised her, was excitement. What if there was someone in the alley waiting for an unsuspecting victim to pass? What if that person wasn’t a real danger at all? What if…

With a quick shake of her head, she broke off that train of thought. It was ludicrous to fantasize about a tall, dark stranger taking her by force. You’ve read too many pirate stories, girl. She chuckled aloud, doing her best to dispel her fear. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she thought she detected the hint of cologne in the air. She laughed again, Brain’s just playing tricks on you; get that thought out of your head. There’s no one around this late at night.

Heels still clicking out the staccato sound of her quickened pace, she passed the alley. She had just released a sigh of relief when a strong arm grabbed her around the waist and she was pulled backward into what felt like a solid stone wall. The person behind her must have sensed her mouth opening to scream because in the next instant a calloused hand clamped over her mouth and she was lifted off her feet. He, she could only assume it was a he from the strength in the hand and arm on her body, brought her fear to life when he carried her into the alley she had just passed.

The man whispered in her ear, “I’ve been waiting for you, Silvia.”

The blood in her body turned to ice and her heart seemed to stop beating. He knew who she was! Recovering from her shock, she began to struggle in a vain attempt to get away. It was no use; she might as well have been fighting a steel trap. He carried her farther into the alley and pushed her into a hard object she could only guess was a wooden crate. The edge of the object pressed into her belly as he pressed into her from behind, forcing her to bend.

Trapped between him and the object, she felt his arm release her waist. Seconds later his hand released her mouth and a cloth was pressed into it as again she opened it to scream. Forced to breathe only through her nose, she smelled the cologne she had dismissed as a figment of her imagination when she’d passed the alley a short time ago. She felt the hem of her skirt being lifted and berated herself for her decision that morning. In an effort to break away from her inhibitions, she had decided not to put panties on and had chosen stockings instead of her usual pantyhose. There was no barrier against his violation of her body.

“Oh, my dear Silvia, I have loved you from afar for so long and now I will have you.”

His breath against her neck sent a shiver down her spine. The corniness of his words made her suppress a giggle. I’m not the only one whose read too many pirate stories. She felt his hands slide over her buttocks and into the slit of her pussy. A touch so gentle and loving that her body responded with a gush of moisture. Mortified by the arousal of her body to this stranger’s touch, she almost missed the unmistakable sound of his zipper.

Tense, with fear or anticipation she didn’t know, she waited for the feel of his cock against her pussy. It didn’t come; instead she felt his hands stroke her back.

“Relax, querida. I want only to love you.”

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

Click.

I collapse on the blood-soaked bed. The darkness helps shroud me from my surroundings, from my hands, from the eyes waiting on the cusp of the mind.

In dark, there is solitude.

Quiet.

Black.

I drop the knife softly on the carpet, listening to its sickening thud. I should have dropped it handle first, I recall too late. The sound echoes, it seems, in the gloom, the half-shifting shapes of the crap motel room.

I attempt sleep, thinking the darkness may aid the endorphins to a quick demise. Unfortunately, such does not seem to be the case. I toss and turn and stare at the ceiling. A car passes outside causing the shadows to sprint in a chaotic experimental play. Shapes and figures swirl like something French resolving to the face of Becky.

Oh God, Becky. Her blood still stains my hands. I want desperately to wash it off in the bathroom sink, but…No, the sink is out. My mind is momentarily paralyzed by the memory, lighting in Technicolor horror on the inside of my eyelids. I strive to shake it away, the image of the poor kitten and so much red.

It’s impossible. I pull myself into a deeper ball, the wetness, squelching uncomfortably beneath me. Just pretend it’s a waterbed, I tell myself for the hundredth time.

Nothing seems to help. I should be making an escape, an attempt to flee in the night, to make my way across state lines, but what good would that do? Would it erase the image of red Pollack paintings from the inside of my lids? Would it bring back Becky? Would it make her dance before me? Would she forgive me? Tell me it was all right and encourage me to keep running?

No. No, it wouldn’t.

So, I lay in the puddle, the stench of sweet iron pervading my senses, my black isolation. I see the line of faces staring at me, sobbing, pleading at me. I try and scream at them to stop, to apologize, to make some half-assed excuse of my own impotence, but my own throat stops such perjury of my soul and I merely begin to emit soft mews.

Broken, I curl up further into a ball. I imagine that my life is a ball. A spiral. The images speed around as I fall into it, let it swallow me; cover me in the blame that I deserve, the condemnation of a thousand Hells. I sob into myself, but it just makes the red run down like…

So weak, I am. I can’t even force myself to confront the truth of what I have done. But my mind, in its twisted revenge on me, forces me to confront it over and over. The ax blade flashing in the moonlight as I swung it again and again into the body as it gurgled on last plea for life. The blood covering my face, marking my sin on the ledger forever. I try and justify it. I had no choice. Not after Becky’s blood had stained my hands. Not after the sink. I crawl deeper into the dark. Into the black. I feel a door. It slips out of my grasp and I hear the sound:

Click.

I am adrift in the night, the darkness, the black, but constantly like flashcards the red images fly and the blood on my hands, my face, my breasts, refuses to flee.

Defeated, I cry. And don’t stop until a morning that never came.

#

The cops broke in the next day, kicking down the door and pointing their guns into the dismal gloom.

“Holy fuck,” the rookie cried, rushing outside to vomit.

“This is Rorschach’s work all right,” the senior detective muttered bitterly. “Damnitt, too late again.”

“Um, sir,” his junior partner muttered to his left as the senior detective looked forlornly at Becky’s mutilated corpse.

“What,” he snapped back, feeling the rage of impotence fill him.

“I think you need to see this.”

The senior detective looked up angrily and then followed his partner’s gaze. He remained silent for a good long second. “Is that…who I think it is?”

His partner nodded in similar reverence.

“But how,” he continued.

His partner nodded to my curled up figure on the bed.

“Is she still alive?”

“That’s a complicated question, sir.”

“Poor girl,” he said, tousling my matted and blood-soaked hair. “Do we have a positive ID?”

“Yes, these two are the missing women and this face matches the composite sketch for Rorschach. The cat in the sink seems to match the description the neighbor gave.”

The senior detective looked down into my face again, into my eyeballs, locked behind the door in the motel room and cursed once more.

“Sometimes, I hate this job.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, let’s call Forensics.”

The Earl

 

[Whispersecret]

Great idea, Earl, but far too hard for me to guess. You have to be very very familiar with a writer to be able to identify the voice. Looks like you have some good writers, though.

 

[cantdog]

Great idea, Earl, but far too hard for me to guess. You have to be very very familiar with a writer to be able to identify the voice. Looks like you have some good writers, though.

That's the challenge of it. We've had to read piles of each other's stuff. The Earl will ultimately close submissions and post a list of contributors, plus two dummy names, and we'll all read up madly on the list of people so we can guess better.

 

[cantdog]

Generally, we do a pretty lousy job, all the same

 

[Songcatcher]

Generally, we do a pretty lousy job, all the same

True.

 

[angelicminx]

Generally, we do a pretty lousy job, all the same

Some are better than others at guessing.

BTW, I meant to tell you months ago, and just realized that I never did leave PC, I loved your weasel stories. I printed them out, to the horror of my husband as a huge stack of paper rolled out of the printer, and took them into the bath with me.

 

[TheEarl]

Great idea, Earl, but far too hard for me to guess. You have to be very very familiar with a writer to be able to identify the voice. Looks like you have some good writers, though.

You don't have to guess - I quite often submit and then leave others to guess (I'm terrible at it!) and of course, I'm banned from guessing this time cause I know all the answers.

The Earl

 

[TheEarl]

The dark was shocking in its abruptness and Katie jumped, spilling her drink. A second ago she’s been staring into the crowd, bored out of her mind and debating whether to go home. The bar had been empty of interesting people, devoid of anyone with even a trace of individuality and Katie had been stifling yawns at potential suitors. Then the next moment shadows had enveloped the room, as quickly as someone turning on a dark switch, and the bar had suddenly become a very different place.

Even the tacky neon lights above the bar had gone out and Katie shivered. Faint shapes moved in the gloom, the hint of an outline, the vague mist of a bodyshape. No-one seemed willing to raise their voice above a whisper and, all around her, Katie could hear the uncertain shuffling of feet as people meandered, lost in the darkness.

She closed her eyes, trying to control the icy surge of panic that threatened to consume her. ‘It’s just a power-cut, it’s nothing to be scared of,’ she told herself. ‘For fucks sake Henderson, it’s just a power cut.’

Someone brushed past her, fingertips trailing familiarly over her shoulder and Katie shied away. Who was that, where had they gone?

Suddenly she felt a breath on her ear and a voice murmured to her, “I’ve been watching you, standing aloof, standing so beautiful apart from the crowd.”

She turned, but the figure had moved away silently. A shiver rolled down her back as she stared into the all-encompassing blackness, trying to find who’d spoken to her. Who’d been watching her? Katie hadn’t noticed anyone of interest in the bar, let alone someone with the audacity and front to try this.

Fingers slid up her arm and the voice spoke once more. “My god you are so sexy.” Katie turned her head, trying to catch a glimpse of her admirer, but he’d disappeared again.

Who did this guy think he was, playing the cat and mouse stalking game? Sure it was flattering and more than a little intriguing…

The warm brush of his lips to hers came before she was even aware he was there. Heat washed through her and Katie closed her eyes, feeling his hands in her hair, brushing against the soft skin of her neck. His tongue caressed her lower lip and Katie felt her body press against his, her every logical thought overthrown by the delicious warmth of the kiss.

Then he was gone, as though magicked away. Katie kept her eyes closed, wanting to preserve the feeling. The taste of his lips still tingled on her tongue and she could still feel his hands on her hair.

She opened her eyes just as the lights flickered back into life. The crowd shuffled around aimlessly, still not sure what to do with itself and the hubbub of murmur grew as people discussed anodyne plans with their friends. Katie searched the faces, looking for her man, looking for the one in the mundane throng with style, with such effortless élan. She would be able to spot him, she was certain.

The crowd looked just as it had before.

The Earl

 

[cantdog]

I printed them out, to the horror of my husband as a huge stack of paper rolled out of the printer, and took them into the bath with me.

Delightful.

They were such a lot of fun to write. It's my sole foray into the category, a BDSM farce. I'm very happy you liked the thing, Minx.

 

[angelicminx]

Bump

 

[TheEarl]

Okay, you now have till the end of today. Exams mean that time is now very very flexible!

The Earl