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This month: Christmas carols and knife play. Rate each entry below in three categories: literary merit, heat and originality. Each month's highest-ranked entry will proceed to the year-end competition.
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From The Lazy Boys
by Carl Shuker
(Shoemaker & Hoard) |
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OVERALL RATING: 5.521
 
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And Kim had rolled against me and whispered something in my ear after the four of us had lain there silently for a long time and I had started kissing her; I had undone the buttons of her shirt and she was braless, her skin appearing gray in the moonlight and her young breasts just gentle swells as she lay there with her eyes closed, and I had undone her belt and the button fly of her jeans, pushed them down to her knees, slid my hand between her legs and inserted one finger in her cunt and had slid it gently in and out, concentrating really hard, trying to do it right, and when I heard her hissing between her teeth it had seemed shockingly loud next to my ear and Anna had woken up, Anna who I'd planned to try and score sometime over this New Year's and finally lose my virginity, and she and the other girl got up as I leaned over Kim and her open shirt, sucking on her nipple, and I heard Anna say guys, guys, don't and then I heard rustling and the door slam, me still sucking on Kim's nipple, Kim who may have been asleep at this point, and but I was too drunk and stoned and couldn't get the condom — this inaugural condom I'd brought with me all the way from Timaru with Anna in mind — to unroll onto my semi-erection once they were gone, me sitting hunched over on the edge of the futon in the strange moonlight playing with my dick, trying and failing to get an erection, and so but I tried to finger her again but she rolled away from me and pulled her jeans up so I had lain there with wicked head-spins looking at the moon out the skylight before eventually just falling asleep.
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From Haweswater
by Sarah Hall
(Harper Perennial) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.179
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They tangle arms, laughing, his face in her hair, and make their way out of the hotel grounds, messily, tripping on flowerbeds and over an abandoned bicycle. He is unused to an extra body on his back when he navigates the darkness. He is trained only to move his own body, as a solo hollow. But he finds her breast with ease in his practiced medium, his hand slipping between two buttons of the loose shirt.
You sleep in this? I sleep in my skin.
She laughs, moves away, but he has found her again and has her close. He gloats, showing off his ability to kiss precise bones across her shoulders, her ribcage, whilst she is clumsy in working buttons loose, naïve in tracing his anatomy. But he is overjoyed at her broken habit of denial, and she knows it. It gives him a new determination, fearlessness is pouring out of him. On the moors they move with speed, half-running over the springy ground, falling over peat gullies, the distance seeming further, the movement faster, when it is invisible.
They tangle arms, laughing, his face in her hair, and make their way out of the hotel grounds, messily, tripping on flowerbeds and over an abandoned bicycle. He is unused to an extra body on his back when he navigates the darkness. He is trained only to move his own body, as a solo hollow. But he finds her breast with ease in his practiced medium, his hand slipping between two buttons of the loose shirt.
You sleep in this? I sleep in my skin.
She laughs, moves away, but he has found her again and has her close. He gloats, showing off his ability to kiss precise bones across her shoulders, her ribcage, whilst she is clumsy in working buttons loose, naïve in tracing his anatomy. But he is overjoyed at her broken habit of denial, and she knows it. It gives him a new determination, fearlessness is pouring out of him. On the moors they move with speed, half-running over the springy ground, falling over peat gullies, the distance seeming further, the movement faster, when it is invisible.
On the ground next to the river he brings her legs up over his shoulders and she cries out without fear of being heard, her cry just another kill in the night landscape. Darkness camouflages noises as it masks vision, the ear will not recognize a sound without the balance of light, so the lovers are unbetrayed. He is brutal with her, selfish, superior within his knowledge of the turbid atmosphere, the pitch black, aroused by her sudden vulnerability, her nakedness under the old shirt. He is able to wrestle her arms back, she does not know the direction of his coming to her. Then tenderness, it is fascinating to guess her emotion and pleasure against him. From nothingness, the sudden shock of his lips at her navel.
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From The Blue Taxi
by N.S. Köenings
(Little, Brown) |
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OVERALL RATING: 5.273
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Majid struggled with her. What is this? He wanted at the very least, as Sarie had insisted that she liked, to stop and take her clothes off, give her time to fold her panties in a square and lay them on the floor before he rubbed himself against her. But Sarie didn't let him. She pinned his arms behind him, forced him backwards on the bed. Much too fast! Not like this! He yelped. But in this he had no say. She rose up mightily and straddled him, knees tight at his small waist. Majid Ghulam was trapped. He watched her in amazement. She pulled his trousers off completely and tore open his shirt. His hands rose up to touch her — soothe her slow her down — but she batted at them, fought them off. He protested, and she pushed him down again. Baffled, cold, he watched. She was terrible, a storm. How heavy, long, she was, how very tall and white. She smelled like city dust, like oil, the peels of unfamiliar fruit.
Majid struggled with her. What is this? He wanted at the very least, as Sarie had insisted that she liked, to stop and take her clothes off, give her time to fold her panties in a square and lay them on the floor before he rubbed himself against her. But Sarie didn't let him. She pinned his arms behind him, forced him backwards on the bed. Much too fast! Not like this! He yelped. But in this he had no say. She rose up mightily and straddled him, knees tight at his small waist. Majid Ghulam was trapped. He watched her in amazement. She pulled his trousers off completely and tore open his shirt. His hands rose up to touch her — soothe her slow her down — but she batted at them, fought them off. He protested, and she pushed him down again. Baffled, cold, he watched. She was terrible, a storm. How heavy, long, she was, how very tall and white. She smelled like city dust, like oil, the peels of unfamiliar fruit.
Majid didn't move, did not know what to do — did he want her? Did he not? He didn't have the leisure to decide. Towering above him, with one finger flexed and a challenge in her eye, Sarie moved her underclothing just slightly to the side, just enough for what she wanted. She clamped his hips with her big knees and shoved him upwards on the mattress. His head hit the wooden bed board, hard. "Do it," Sarie said. She pulled his skull to hers, and when, confused, he kissed her, she bit him on the cheek. And he pushed himself inside of her more fiercely than he ever had into any willing woman, even his Hayaam. Groaning, Sarie clutched the wall. She shouted. Majid Ghulam labored there until he felt his very lungs and heart would pop.
Afterwards, when he finally slipped from her, Sarie fell beside him, and he felt his limbs go free. He shuddered.
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From Surviving Mae West
by Priscilla A. Rodd
(Vandalia) |
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OVERALL RATING: 4.111
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Buy Surviving Mae West here
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After a bit of foreplay, I heaved onto his flabby body. He moaned. I pulled up. His eyes squeezed shut behind his thick spectacles. I lowered my hips again.
He dug his fingers through my hair and shouted, Baby, you're KILLING me.
My chest tightened.
You are killing me!
He thrust up into me, again and again, almost knocking me off while his hands clenched either side of my head, still growling. You're killing me, killing me, killing.
Fingers squeezed my larynx, cracking bones — this image ran up the back of my mind.
You're fucking killing me, he shouted, his fingernails digging into my scalp. His eyes popped open.
I forced myself to silently sing "Jingle Bells" as a distraction. My tongue dried up. So I didn't have to see his frozen face, I stared at my pale ass, bobbing in the dark mirrors around us. A floating ball of flesh. Jingle bells, Batman smells.
He grabbed my hair in his fist, and I reached down and kissed him slow and deep, which made him stop. Garlic. The first one I've kissed. The softness calmed him. Soothed me.
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Buy Surviving Mae West here
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IGNORE ME.
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From My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up
by Stephen Elliott
(Cleis) |
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OVERALL RATING: 7.262
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Buy My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up here
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I knew it was a knife right away, as soon as I felt the cold on my leg. She had run a rope over my neck so I couldn't lift my head. I felt the knife working its way across my body, not quite cutting me. I knew the knife was sharp, I felt my skin wanting to break. Then I felt the first cut. "Just a little blood," she said. "For me." She drew the knife below my penis and lifted my balls with the flat side of the blade. All of my muscles tensed and I started to cry inside the hood.
"Relax," she said. "There's nothing you can do one way or the other. Breathe." She waited but I couldn't catch my breath. She pulled the knife away, then gripped my balls tightly in her fist and I screamed.
"I said breathe. Breathe for your mommy." I tried to focus. I tried to breathe, and I finally did, I breathed in large, deep breaths, and she loosened her grip. I thought of the couch in the living room where I grew up and my mother lying there under a knit blanket for many years. "That's better. That's what mommy wants. You only have a couple of cuts on your leg and you're crying already. Now I'm going to put something in your mouth so you don't scream again."
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Buy My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up here
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I knew it was a knife right away, as soon as I felt the cold on my leg. She had run a rope over my neck so I couldn't lift my head. I felt the knife working its way across my body, not quite cutting me. I knew the knife was sharp, I felt my skin wanting to break. Then I felt the first cut. "Just a little blood," she said. "For me." She drew the knife below my penis and lifted my balls with the flat side of the blade. All of my muscles tensed and I started to cry inside the hood.
"Relax," she said. "There's nothing you can do one way or the other. Breathe." She waited but I couldn't catch my breath. She pulled the knife away, then gripped my balls tightly in her fist and I screamed.
"I said breathe. Breathe for your mommy." I tried to focus. I tried to breathe, and I finally did, I breathed in large, deep breaths, and she loosened her grip. I thought of the couch in the living room where I grew up and my mother lying there under a knit blanket for many years. "That's better. That's what mommy wants. You only have a couple of cuts on your leg and you're crying already. Now I'm going to put something in your mouth so you don't scream again."
I didn't know anything about safe words then. She peeled the hood to just below my nose. The gag was a large plastic puck with a hole in the center of it and it stretched my cheeks painfully and hurt more still when she pulled the hood back over my face. I heard the snap of the lighter and smelled the smoke. First her finger poked through the mouth hole in the mask and the puck and she ran her fingernail over my tongue, pressed it down. Then she flicked the ashes in my mouth. I could hear the paper burn away at the edges every time she took a drag and I was only able to moan like some doomed animal when she lowered the finished cigarette onto my ribs, dotting it out across my skin.
At some point, it may have been hours, she untied me and plucked the gag from my cheeks. I was very weak and tired and my body was shaking involuntarily and she turned me over. "Onto your knees," she said. "Like a puppy dog. That's a good boy." She placed pillows beneath my stomach and smeared me in Vaseline and she entered me from behind with her strap-on. She did it slowly, very slowly, and it didn't hurt as much as it might have. I had never been entered before. She leaned across my back, wrapping one arm around my chest and gripping my neck with her other hand, occasionally squeezing my windpipe so I couldn't breathe for a second. I cried again, but it was a different crying. I was very comfortable. I don't think I had ever been comfortable before. She rubbed her hand over my face, washing my cheeks with tears. "Yes," she said. "Cry some more. I like that very much." When she was done I slept curled in a ball facing her, my forehead against her collarbone, her heavy arm across my shoulder.
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