Smut #02

halfway between the gutter and the stars

(continued from Smut #01)

… urogenital triangle.

You wince, sensing that I have changed my tone, not to mention my vocabulary. What was, before now, a titillating tease, has become a subversive text, designed to evoke (or perhaps provoke) laughter rather than sensual arousal.

This is, of course, is due to feedback from the silent majority who decided not to bother viewing this post. I mean – only 31 views? C’mon – even the Dinosaur post just after that got 47 views! I reckon people are just not into pure smut.

You ignore the mysterious and potentially threatening figure standing over you and consider addressing me directly.

Of course, you can see as much of me as the protagonist of any story can see the writer of her fate, which is to say – nothing. But still, you prop yourself up on one elbow, breasts bobbling beguilingly and speak into the air.

“Wotcher mate!”

Yep, you’re affecting an Australian accent for reasons of your own.

“Eh?”

The watcher; that is to say – the figure watching you, sounds puzzled.

‘Nah, not you, Sunshine – him over there. The writer.”

“What writer?”

The faceless figure continues to put a puzzled expression on the face that none of us can see. The sunbather can’t see it because the sun is behind the figure. I can’t because I haven’t bothered to write a character sketch. And our readers (oh, wait – that’s you, and you are the sunbather through some tautologically twisted rendering of the relationship between reader and character) have not been told by the writer (that’s me) of what this face looks like, much less what sex this figure is.

“That one sitting at his dining room table writing this story.”

“Oh. Okay.” Nonchalantly, as if the unacceptable has become merely unreasonable and then, by a logical loop-the-loop, forgivable in the light of your still bobbling breasts.

The figure squats down and becomes a golden skinned teenage boy. When I say teenage, I mean late teens. Old enough to be legally entitled to be beguiled by your you-know-whats, and yet young enough to be moulded into whatever you desire him to be for as long as your holiday lasts.

“Listen,” the boy begins; a semi-serious expression on his face, “my name is Ayman, and I think you are the most sexiest creature on that towel!”

You lay back on the towel, swallowing a sigh of disappointment and wishing it were water. You could do with a nice, cold glass of water much more than cliched compliments.

“And so, now we know each other,” he continues, “would you like to buy a bottle of cold water?”

He hauls a blue ice bucket on wheels into view and suddenly, your interest is piqued; which is quite unusual because you’re not really sure what it means. You decide to Google it later and raise yourself up on your elbow again.

“How much?” Although you will pay any price.

“For you, sweet lady – a kiss.”

You look into his eyes – the most delicate shade of light brown amidst an almond shape and surrounded by the smoothest skin. You tear your thoughts away from moisturiser and smile …

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15 thoughts on “Smut #02

  1. Pingback: Smut #01 | robertcday

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