He pulls at the twining in her hair, releasing it, and it falls to her waist. He plays with it with one hand while the other traces her face, his thumb outlining her lips, pushing into her mouth, which parts to receive it. She sucks his fingers one by one, licking them with her pink tongue. She pushes her body against his, and the light from the flames reveals the transparency of her dress, and her supple naked body beneath.
The warrior briefly holds her close, and then pushes her away. He turns to face the other men, and with this unspoken command, they form a wide circle around the girl. The audience is rapt; they understand the sudden quickening of pace.
He removes his armour, quickly, and stands before her almost naked.
His arousal is evident, the outline of his thick cock fully visible against the thin cotton of his shorts. He is extraordinary looking – powerfully built, his sharply defined muscles ripple beneath skin that is now sheened with sweat. There is athleticism to his movements as he picks up his discarded sword and idly thumbs the sharp blade.
With a sudden movement he slices the girl’s dress open – it falls billowing to the floor around her feet. The action is both terrifying and arousing, the inherent violence within it pooling into the collective intake of breath from the audience.
The two central figures cannot take their eyes off one another as they circle each other slowly. This dance appears to be choreographed, such is the seamless way their bodies interconnect, skin whispering against skin. The heat rising from them is felt by the audience, who in turn remove some of their own outer garments, leaning forward so not to miss a second.
He strode to me in one long motion and his hand reached down to caress me, his gentleness a surprise as he cupped my breast. My pulse pounded in my veins as he ghosted his fingers across my nipple. “God,” he said, “I love you.”
I stood and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I love you,” I repeated back, and I kissed him. Our bare skin pressing together as my tongue entered his mouth was almost more than I could handle; it was like white-hot points of energy everywhere we touched. He wrapped his arms around me again and suddenly I was lifted from the ground. He moaned into my mouth as he picked me up and my legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. The pressure of his cock against me made my head spin. I needed him desperately.
He turned us towards the bed and then we were falling into it. I was disoriented for a moment and a breathy laugh escaped my lips. I unwrapped my legs from around him as he kissed me again. He pulled me up to him and we knelt there, breathing hard and fast. He reached around and grabbed my ass, squeezing at the tender skin. Then he took the hem of my shirt and lifted it over my head. He looked at me for a long moment and then bent his head and gently kissed my shoulder.
It’s the year 3055 and I’m sat on the bed inside one of the rooms within Hotel Sexbotica. This is one of thousands of hotels across the planet formed entirely from the mysterious ‘Sexbotica’ material, a remarkable substance that builds things and beings just for pleasure. Sexbotica’s recent enterprise is a chain of these hotels, which are not brothels – more like theme-parks for perverts. People come here to live out their wildest fantasies and since Sexbotica has been so generous in giving life to my silicone body, I’m thrilled to be of service.
The buildings are luxurious, but not too large – Sexbotica prefers to create an intimate environment with a few cosy rooms, each one containing a big cloud-like double bed; like the one I’m sitting on now, a wet room and a food and drink dispenser. While having your pleasure served at Hotel Sexbotica, you can eat and drink anything your body desires – Sexbotica always knows exactly what post-sex food is needed. My favourite is the pineapple-gold and sour cherry-rose ice-cream, but it only appears after the very best fucking.
“Drake, it’s time to get excited. Flo and Lester are 17 minutes away.”
The sound of Sexbotica is always sexy, even the hotel announcements. The words play in my ears and I feel my silicone skin shimmer. My first couple.
“Shall we swim?” Julien held out his hand to her and the air imperceptibly shifted.
Following him into the sea Matilda stumbled and thanked him as he caught her. He looked at her, smiling faintly, and did not let go. His fingers gently stroked the inside of her wrist as the water lapped their thighs.
They waded further out, the sea a dappled, jade blue, enticing them deeper.
Matilda laughed for the sheer joy of it, floating on her back and gazing at the heat shimmered sky.
Julien spoke of his life in Lyon, his honeyed voice lulling Matilda into a state of tranquility. His wry humour matched her own, and the hours slipped past. She felt the attraction between them, and the intangible yearning she had felt for months lessened; she felt untethered. She gazed at his mouth as he spoke, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Her reverie continued as her eyes drank in his body, waist deep in water, watching as a rivulet of sweat slowly trailed down his neck. She wanted to lick it. Suddenly aware of the silence she met his eyes. His smile suggested he had read her thoughts.
She takes my hand, leading me back through the house and up a warped staircase – the kind of staircase that gives you nightmares as a child. Hell, probably as an adult, if I had to climb it in the middle of the night.
The bathroom is large, old, and smells like lavender and mildew and goat’s milk soap. As I head towards the sink I hear a rush of water behind me. Astrid is kneeling on the fractured tiles beside the claw-foot tub, trailing her fingers under the hot stream. The low light creeps through its dusted cover and touches her, like age, like timelessness. Her skin the same colour as the cracked porcelain.
I try not to shake as she slides her hands under my jacket. Doesn’t break eye contact as she reaches under my sweater, and then my shirt, pulling them over my head. When her hands touch my skin every organ of my body flips over, and I reach out into empty air, looking for something to hold onto. She slips off my jeans, covered in paint and bits of apple, kneels as she slides them down my legs and I feel the only heat on my body spread across my upper lip.
I will be honest, it was Pa
Who dragged me on the Eurostar
To gawk at eleven spattered beards
Of vanquished knights, in that Carhaix field.
And the twelfth, with his victorious smirk,
Was to me just another eager jerk
Your highness this, may I call you Leodegrance that,
I wished Rience had conquered the prat.
But Daddy was to be won over
And dear Art became my hopeless lover.
His ventures at romance transpired pale,
Let alone the lovemaking. That Holy Flail.
O ‘Vere, next to you, bright stars seem dull!
Oh girls, be real, who would have come?
For you, my love, I’d invade the moon –
Go ahead, babe. See you soon.
Lord du Lac!
My pulse: a waning, withering nag
Learnt to canter
First those curls, how they made me glance a lot
That jaw that grin, I was in a trance a lot
His shrewd badinage made me want to chance a lot
His supreme battle feats
Only to enhance the lot
O Lancelot! Lancelot! Lancelot!
The surge, rush and excitement. My body having been so loved and adored, awaking once more after just being put to rest. Soft and gentle, still smelling of you. My cunt, something you had labelled as yours, began to pulse. Like a bird let out of its cage. Drunk on liberty. I had walked on my love. Away from the car, watching it drive away. I was like Little Red Riding Hood, steering from her path.
I didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t frighten; it was blind euphoria. Each passing figure imagined between my legs, beneath me. Sighing my name, the vessel in which they could reach nirvana.
The first place I saw was still open. Trust is a fool’s game. But I left as to catch the later window of somewhere that was perfect. Where I knew he would be. Him, the illusive him, that I needed, would be there.
I sat for a while, playing tricks. There is nothing as intoxicating as the first.
He walked over, that look, non-tactile foreplay. His eyes, two prophets foretelling the evenings exchange.
Walking into his apartment, drinks that were prepared but left untouched. Liquor, hard and angry. We sat, staring. His fingers gently rubbing my thigh, soft then hard. Slowly moving up to go down. Brushing over my breasts, the fabric of the dress rubbing my nipple, standing erect. He turned, got up to do something (music? I can’t remember) He knew the part. Sitting across from each other, distance being the only separation. Like a gunshot we were together, my body straddling him. Dancing to the betrayal. He didn’t know of you, so perhaps only I heard that melody? If he didn’t know, does it count as betrayal? Doesn’t someone else need to comply in the cheating for it to be cheating?
John considered her for a moment. He began to loosen and remove his tie.
“What?” Lucy was still laughing slightly embarrassed.
“Turn around.” John was deadly serious.
Lucy turned around – unsure what was going on. She peeked over her shoulder and saw him undoing the first buttons of his shirt. He looked at her. He didn’t smile.
“Put your hands over your head.”
Lucy put her hands over head in a lazy manner. John began to slide his hands up her body. His mouth flirted with her ears and neck but didn’t kiss. He took his tie and tied it tightly around her wrists. The satin pressed into her wrist pleasantly. Her pulse was pounding. His hands roamed up her t-shirt and grabbed her breasts roughly, rolling her nipple softly between his hands. Lucy let out a little moan and said his name, “John.”
“If you talk again I’ll gag you.”
Blood raced to Lucy’s groin. She felt John’s erection press hard against her bum. John unbuttoned Lucy’s trousers from behind and slid them down her legs. Her pants followed. John was on his knees and he began to gently bite her ass, his stubble scratching her cheeks