All or Nothing At All

I have had to sacrifice some Erotic Fiction to the Gods of Quality this week: the idea is still 100% sound but my execution? Not so much. However, I am planning some space to shove it into Thursday’s WiP Extravaganza, and so it will see the light of day at some point in March. It also makes me realise that I ought to carry on this series, but not at the expense of anything else. Therefore, I have decreed that April will be Short Story Month, and at least one thing I write during that period will be entered into a Contest.

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I already have some stuff on the table, but as we don’t have March scheduled as yet, it is going to have to wait. That’s been a bit hamstrung today by me spending close to four hours in the car as a taxi service in the snow, but I’ve made some solid progress, which means I am confident everything will be ready to roll on Thursday. Also, Novel Progress is STILL GO. That’s looking really positive, as it happens. I’m not ready to pitch this yet, not until it is done and I’m happy with it. After that, it is going to get sold for all its worth.

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Optimism and creativity remain high. This should hopefully lead to some random shiz occurring in the next few weeks (looking at you, output from Experimental Poetry.)

Even if it is cold outside, I’m keeping the grey matter ticking over nicely.

Poetry Archive :: The Slightest Touch

This week, because VALENTINE’S DAY, I decided to throw a little erotica into everything. That means I should probably warn you that these five Haiku are about SEX, there are MAN PARTS involved and it’s probably one of the most fun things I’ve written for a while. There’s not enough stuff about adult relations on Twitter which is sympathetically done. We all know about the body parts in the DM’s that NOBODY ASKED FOR but this is loving, consensual and perfectly normal. Oh, and there’s a money shot.

Enjoy, and always remember to use protection.


The Slightest Touch

Sensitised, moving
Side to back; your arrival,
Waking arousal.

Coarse flesh, rough hands brush
Back to hip: pulling closer
Face blurs as lips touch.

Lost in joint passion
Blessed manipulation
Bodies twist, reset.

Looking down to you,
Hands grasp: shifting weight above
Organ pulse inside.

This slightest touch starts
Chain reaction: from life’s spark
Little death our end.


12 Spots to Moan :: Fertility; Rights

As it’s Valentines Day, I felt that there should be some love-related tomfoolery to celebrate. Therefore, here’s a VERY NSFW Short story, which will form part of my 12 Spots to Moan short story collection.

Have a Nice Day, and always remember to love yourself.


Fertility; Rights

Their divorce had been messy and hugely unsatisfying, effective reflection of a wasted life together. Christine had no qualms allowing Russell both house and car, wasn’t concerned that the deal skewed so far in his favour. She’d never cared for the material: that last straw between them had been net worth mattered more than shared experience. The money quietly funnelled away to accounts in her maiden name when his indiscretion became apparent years before amazingly never came up in proceedings: her skill playing Stock Market Futures meant departing husband provided a present that was more than secure. At thirty-eight, there was still a chance at another life, but right now she wasn’t interested.

Christine Frances wanted to travel far more than pretending to be happy with somebody else.

Her tiny scarlet hire car had made a slow crawl across Europe during the last three months, finally depositing the woman in Italy. Of all the places visited, this was the one which felt most comfortable: the French obsessed about her accent, the Swiss over her single status. Nobody in Italy had seemed to care at all about anything except accentuating happiness and comfort, especially in her current pension. In fact, since arriving ten days earlier at the red brick complex she’d been treated as something akin to royalty. There is no desire to complain either: with full board paid until end of the month, this beautiful and largely unspoilt area is hers to explore at leisure.

The Pertosa Caves are blessed relief from the heat of the Italian summer, drought in the area becoming something of a concern for local landowners. This guide-book is in awful English but Christine can grasp the gist, as place heaves with schoolchildren and pilgrims coming to offer their prayers to a particularly worn and battered statue of some long-forgotten patron saint. Christine however is more concerned with the state of her own body; the contraceptive coil she had fitted to regulate menstruation before departure had effectively stopped all bleeding. For a while she’d not been concerned, because it made life considerably simpler, but now…

The sensations had begun the night she’d arrived, after the voluptuous middle-aged landlady had served an amazing dinner of fresh pasta with a brilliantly rich fruit dessert. After months of no sexual desire at all, body had painfully reminded her that she was able not only to feel arousal, but was often in its thrall until satisfied. She’d ended up masturbating in the shower at 2am so there was chance of sleep, and the simplest things had become steadily more arousing as time had gone on. Before there would be a couple of nights a month where ardour would rise then fall, but not now. For the last week, all she had been able to think about is sex.

That thought suddenly draws her eye to a part of the cave’s natural construction behind the statue, seemingly unnoticed by anyone else.

She stares with increasing amazement at a particular stalactite, suddenly illuminated in a shaft of sunlight from an opening above. It is thick and long, jutting almost contentiously out of the soft, worn rock, damp and moist. There’s an undoubted head to the formation too, slightly larger and fatter than the shaft, and just staring at the thing is making Christine uncomfortable, flustered. Nobody else seems to even register its presence but it is all the woman sees or wants, because the urge to fuck herself against it is now overwhelming and desperate. The arousal hits lower body instantly, dampness spreading as a flood, breasts hard and irritable beneath the flimsiness of her cotton top.

Noise from the assorted throngs is silenced, and all that matters is the stone: she can imagine it, penetrating hot flesh, cooling the desire within. It almost calls to her, a song of need and satisfaction, suggesting the impossible could become real, brilliant. Go home and eat, then take an evening stroll. The cave entrance closes just before sundown. Return here and satisfy yourself, give your pleasure to the Earth, and it will reward you in return. The woman stands, whole body aroused, as world blithely continues its existence around her.

She has never imagined anything so wanton in her life and now this was all that mattered.


It is hard to look casual, slipping in with the last round of pilgrims and nuns, dressed as conservatively as she can manage. Christine’s underwear is loose, easy to remove and she’s stolen a small bottle of olive oil from her pension’s dinner table, because lubrication is likely to be a problem. It’s at times like this that she wishes her breasts were bigger, that she’d love more flesh beneath her own hands to manipulate, the same with her arse. Mostly she was too thin, and maybe it was time to stop punishing body for the sins a loveless marriage had intensified.

Tonight she would wait until a full moon lit the cave and then indulge desire: she’d bought a sleeping bag to accommodate sleep until the complex opened, when she’d slip out unnoticed. Christine’s body is already vibrating with anticipation, thrill of deviancy and impropriety combined. She waits until the gates can be heard being locked, lights turned off, making anticipation and arousal all the greater. With torch light from her mobile phone as guide, slowly the metal railings that keep visitors from the cave area are negotiated. Moving carefully down onto slippery stone floor, the small alcove where stalactite juts upwards is all that matters.

She is concerned that there’s insufficient space to fit, that ground beneath knees will be harsh and unyielding, but the base of the area is soft, springy and slightly damp. Stripping naked, Christine prepares to position herself, massive head of the rock inches from her already soaking wet opening. The oil seems like an afterthought but its use is more stimulation, moving and pouring it onto the top of the stone where she rubs first hand then crotch, feeling consistency of nature under shaking body. The surface is almost warm to touch, smooth hardness that now needs to be felt inside as well as out, and so she positions herself to begin.

Flesh and stone contact, settle: with first movement body expands without aid. This is far larger than anything she’d ever accommodated, including her ex-husband’s fist. Expecting both pain and resistance as a result, neither are forthcoming: pushing against the stone, her body swallows the head whole in one motion, leaving Christine gasping with amazement.

She is frozen, rock solid: part of this whole is no longer enough.

Body shudders at realisation, that as she moves down it will fill upwards, unyielding and permanent, and so body begins to shift, crotch moving closer to dampness beneath. Each tiny shift makes breasts harden further, increases already frantic heart-rate and finally, amazingly pubic hair and labia collide with soft, springy moss. Christine is shaking uncontrollably, unable to contain the pleasure simply gained by filling herself and has to struggle to remain upright as a result. Clitoris screams to be stimulated, urging completion of an orgasm already in progress, yet hands go to breasts instead, oil on flesh that is oddly pliant, strangely liquid under smooth fingers. As she massages it is as if the flesh expands beneath her touch, swelling and hardening as she twists nipples, increasing pleasure at the point that cunt hits moss.

Then floor shifts beneath, faintest of upward thrusts.

Christine’s not sure if she’s hallucinating due to pleasure overload or that perhaps there’s an earthquake in progress, but the movement is unmistakeable now, stalactite rising and falling as her body remains frozen, intractable. Breasts that barely existed have grown to grapefruit sized, heavy balls of flesh she refuses to release because the pleasure they’re sending to her lower body will not be interrupted, regardless of the increasingly surreal nature of this situation. Closing eyes she gives herself completely to pleasure and there is sudden pressure on her clit, unmistakeable, repetitive massage and it doesn’t matter how, just that this never stops, because she is so close now to a series of orgasms that threaten to rend body asunder.

Touches appear everywhere, kisses on arse and stomach, caresses behind her ears, backs of knees. Every sensitive spot is stimulated simultaneously and the thrusts are now fast, urgently pushing the point inside that blossoms with the same sensations outside, connected to breasts and the back of her neck. She begins to gasp, not caring about being discovered, pleasure needing to be vocalised. Still there is no apex to the sensation, simply building intensity that is become maddening, almost blinding. Are her eyes open or closed? She looks down and a hand is reaching up, another rising from the warmth of the cave floor, grasping willing hips as she begins to ascend, other hands holding legs in place as the thrusts within her become frantic, blurring to a speed that should split her open but only serve to further intensify this pleasure.

Christine’s breasts have increased to watermelon size, hardened balls that bounce without pain, only intense sensation from their massive nippled tops to connection at her crotch. She expands too at hips, earth’s mossy hands on swelling expanses, becoming a goddess, Botticelli swells and falls. No fat or waste, simply muscle and skin, warming as the red blush of orgasm spreads from chest to stomach. The reinvented body finally explodes, screams of pleasure multiple and unbridled, echoing around the cave walls as release floods everything in a massive wall of water.

Her orgasm, spark of primal awakening, is truly enough to move Earth itself.


Christine is suddenly conscious, in the low wooden cot at her pension, to surprise at her location. Lying inert, the passion of an almost endless orgasm still resonates through flesh and bone, yet here she is in her own bed. After dinner, when she’d come up to the room to collect backpack with sleeping bag, had she simply fallen asleep and dreamed the entire experience? Feeling down to her crotch there is no wetness, but strangeness to being which causes sudden alarm, enough to move body from lying to sitting. Looking down, with mounting amazement, her torso is not as it was.

Getting up to stare at the naked form in an ancient, patina-stained mirror by hand-carved dresser, Christine Frances is no longer wafer thin with an exposed ribcage. This body now curves with weight; taut, strong muscle plus a light tan. This physical form she had always craved, but had no idea how to achieve. Turning, the sound of laughter in her mind is as amazing as the thunder which echoes throughout the Pertosa Valley. Rain outside, torrential yet calming illuminates the truth… she’d been carried from the cave, returned here by the Earth itself. Bathed and pleasured by something not of this world, her release served as catalyst: explosion that returned not simply life and prosperity to the Valley, but to its ancient, sleeping protector…


This human’s fertility had awoken something very old, far less interested in virgin worship, which craved specific forms of energy to survive. Now She was again awake, coursing through this woman’s body, continued need maintained a level of chemical complexity to both feed from and grow… There was no need to sacrifice this fragile form, but reward it for joy provided… and there were already others. The local women knew these truths via stories and songs, would soon queue to give their offering to the cave.

With each one the Valley would become more fertile.

The ancient statue of the last human Vessel of the Goddess had already been removed from the caves. Christine’s new form would be sculpted and placed in its stead. The First would be to whom prayers were offered, in return She would share the secret of transformation… plus means to maintain its potency. For that, Her followers had already been prepared, feeding Christine special food and awakening within desire long lost. It was time to communicate directly with the new Vessel, securing mental link between Earth and human going forward.

Thank you for trust given back to this land, making whole and full again. In return, your wishes are granted. We ask in return for continued passion and our flesh anointed. All that you require will be provided. As you pleasure us, we will maintain you.

The scarlet-clad landlady stands at Christine’s open door, Hand of the Goddess, ready to help provide the next step forward. In open arms is a warped, ancient wooden box: inside which sits a massive offering, made of living cave stone.


 

Tell it How It Is

This month’s theme is well underway, but I’m hoping to add to the output with the addition of some additional items. This will (hopefully) demonstrate I’ve organised my time effectively enough to be able to write extra content. As we’re in the month of love?

Time for some long-overdue erotic fiction.

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The first of the two short stories were inspired by the current UK renaissance of the Women’s Institute: to give you any more details will spoil the plot, but the visual clue should be enough (hopefully) to pique the interest. It’s also based on a favourite piece of Black Lace erotic fiction, which I’ll see if I can pull out and link to once the piece goes live.

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The second piece concerns a much overdue Italian holiday for a recently aggrieved and divorced middle aged woman. It is a story of awakening but at a cost. Again inspired by a Black Lace short story, it’s my attempt to examine the stigma of body confidence, and how belief in yourself is far more significant than anybody else’s desires or affirmations.


I’m hoping to have the first of these two available to read on Valentine’s Day, with the second on the 28th… so, until then…

February Content :: Get It On

After six months of Patreon curation, I’ve begun to grasp that themes are really very useful for focussing the mind. Whether it be a Book of the Month or simply a strand of associative subjects, planning in advance is utterly essential not simply for cohesion. With February marking nine years of Warcraft blogging, I decided to take the easy route for inspiration this time around. This isn’t about romance, however. I’ll leave the hearts and flowers to others, my Month of Lurve is all about the stuff nobody talks about during daylight hours but still counts.

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Next month’s short story (serialised on Twitter and then reproduced here in complete form) is a cautionary tale based in an ‘alternative’ England where it is men who are considered as both fairer and weaker sex. Ignoring both tradition and dress codes in a show of rebellion, two lovers decide to build a better future for themselves in the most public manner possible… plus there’ll be the regular weekly selection of Micropoetry and Haiku on a number of subjects relevant to relationships in the 21st Century. I also have some other ideas, and if time permits there may be some erotic fiction on offer.

Well, we all know that’s how this works after dinner and a movie, right?

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With video and music streams to complement all this, I’m already rather excited about February’s schedule. What this announcement does is confirm that I’ll be working on the longer form of next month’s content starting today, thus maintaining a constant stream of TOP QUALITY GUBBINS from month to month. If this all works out I’ll also make time for the personal projects I wish to complete, and (hopefully) encourage more people to throw cash at me. I’m not gonna lie, this is the long term aim of all the hard work, and hopefully consistency will end up as its own reward.

Without further ado, let’s get to it.

Book of the Month :: Throw 6 to Start

Throw 6 To Start

As the second sun goes down, Riz wonders if he’s done the right thing.

This is closer to disaster as he’s ever flown, far too late to start wishing the journey had never been undertaken. With Pleasure Planet Pixel in darkness, there is less than a rotation before the Game he’s attending begins, yet Desi is nowhere to be seen. Next time, if this all goes to plan, they’ll not need to take separate transports and can travel as an item.

That word has a comforting ring.

‘Oh, you weren’t lying, you did miss us: we are truly touched!’

Their hand on his arm sends every hair erect, frisson of desire inevitable and inescapable. Turning, they are still in the complimentary spacesuit, not bothering to change after arrival. Iridescent pearl skin shimmers: brilliant light from the nebula above, ethereal beauty that transcends this solar system plus thousands of others. His devil stands, head slightly tipped, reading every thought without care or permission. In their imagination they’re already entwined in the luxury hotel bed, his fears being sucked from a tired and tense body: the Earthman begins to relax.

Riz knows this last year of stress was worth every moment: the prize is already in sight.

‘You were the one who said our lives were getting predictable, so we did consider making you wait, but thanks to the Slingshot mechanical failure that will be the last transport of the day. We could have taken layover until the morning, but there’s too much to do.’

‘I’m sorry we fought at the Terminal. I… sometimes it’s easy to forget how much you can hear in my head.’

‘You have nothing to worry about, Lover Boy. The day somebody else attracts that primate brain, then we’re the one in trouble. Until then, it’s our job to make sure that your pleasure centres are never left wanting. We are VERY good at that task, and intend to only improve over time.’

They kiss him, mouth tart, alcohol and need both all too obvious. The relationship’s odd-fitting, even now: sometimes motivation gets misplaced in a sea of pheromones and sloth. However, his liberation is close: hatched over the NeuralNet, virtual chat room for those with debts that conventional employment would never pay off. The human who loved being fucked by everybody but eventually was screwed by his own naivety, and the Centuran androgyne with a flair for the overly theatric.

If it all worked out tomorrow, both of them would finally be free.


‘Do you believe in fate?’

They’ve woken tangled together but instead of pre-dawn intercourse it is discussion. Desi will know he has nerves that need to be assuaged: they wrap both mind and body around him, cocoon of reassurance, allowing Riz to awaken far better than would happen with stimulants. The question is taking time for them to process, and only now does he grasp why –

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’

‘Oh, we grasp the human concept, don’t worry. We have an equivalent, we were just trying to work out a visual metaphor to explain.’

Centuran culture is not about words: as a race of telepaths, verbal language is largely redundant. Instead comprehension is based around imagery, often complex fractal patterns that have evolved directly from the very stuff of the Universe itself. The image Desi places in Riz’s brain however is very human: they’re at the last casino visited, win at which removed all but 5% of their joint financial debt. He stands and throws two dice, but then catches both before they hit the table.

Fate is the development of events outside a person’s control, regarded as predetermined by a supernatural power. You throw the dice, and it is fate that decides the numbers. For us, fate is that which cannot be affected by our own minds. We can control the dice in flight and precisely dictate the number that falls, but are unable to truly influence the person throwing.

Their voice in his mind is musical, soothing cadences that make their kiss far more potent than any given by his own kind. That’s what attracted him to Desi, he could indulge an almost constant need for stimulation with a being who had evolved simply for that purpose. Their race didn’t procreate in the same messy fashion as bipedal humans, so there was no need to concern himself with the physical and once that had happened… sensation stopped just being about release, biological offering.

Orgasm takes place in a different way: no body cavities, contraception irrelevant. His body and brain are warped, sensation shuddering from fingertips to follicles. The most intense and beautiful experience that Riz has ever felt, on demand, and which never gets old. There’s a small part of his brain that knows they should be at the Game venue, working out the best place for him to sit so they can still covertly communicate, but today he just lets them engulf his primal brain completely.

The sensation is so great, he passes out with the pleasure.


The water is incredibly cold: Riz is immediately awake.

It takes a second to realise an ice bucket was upended over him, he’s naked and tied to a chair, and that Desi is being restrained by a couple of Law Enforcement automatons. Only two things could have caused this sudden downturn in circumstance: random attack or deliberate action. Causality is a subject Riz knows a lot about: studying Freakonomics at NYSU for four years, working at Church built for the worship of Saints Levitt and Dubner. There wasn’t an outcome that couldn’t be tied to another if you were smart enough to play the algorithms…

This Game was one of many that the WolfIsi Group had manipulated for the last decade, without fail. By coming here, he’d guaranteed that his loan company would notice, and do what always happened in situations where they thought a client was about to escape control. As contract was signed not in blood but DNA, his body remained their property until such times as all existing monetary debts were paid in full: before then they could invoke repossession of that material at any time. He had anticipated them striking at the venue, but as they haven’t, that’s not a problem.

He’d also like to be more clothed for this, but no matter.

The WI officer’s uniform is starched to within an inch of rigidity, yet looks like it could disintegrate at any moment, straining across her huge, genetically-enhanced biceps. The woman’s face regards him not with pity but in a way that could almost be respect: the rules of this engagement might yet be about to change. Maybe they’re not here because of potential collateral loss; perhaps someone finally saw through this deception.

‘Mr Monteverdi, I must say it has been some years since we had a client come this close to completing their payments on time. You are to be congratulated on your industry.’

‘Thank you, I took it upon myself as a personal challenge to pay off this loan on time and to the penny.’

‘Which you will do by simply winning a round of the Game tomorrow, which my superiors feel sure you’ll be more than capable of achieving. That however would mean we’re unable to maintain you as collateral, and under the circumstances this will cause us an issue, especially with the amount of money you seem capable of regularly providing.’

Riz had read the old case files on Fully Paid Loans until he could recite them from memory: in three hundred years, only a handful of clients had escaped death by invoking the clause he would now be forced to use. It would all hinge on the Officer not grasping the significance of Desi, something that now needed to be confirmed…

On cue, comes invasion of his mind: their hands cover his eyes, slim fingers caress earlobes. No-one else is aware of the Centauran’s real identity.

‘Under agreement terms I invoke the Double or Nothing clause in my contract. Details of intention to do so are posted in three public forums plus via time-delayed message on SocalTwetwerks.’

The Officer blinks at Riz, clear confusion etched on hardening features, before headset implant prompts understanding. Robot spiders will be crawling the Solar Internet, confirming that the naked bloke in the chair just completely changed the game. He’s forced WolfIsi to allow him a chance to become debt free with one random action, at the discretion of the Officer. They have fifteen Earth minutes to decide what it will be: in the previous cases coin tosses (which were believed to be weighted to the company’s favour) had decided the outcome, but since all forms of physical currencies became redundant at the end of the century and his contract hadn’t been updated to reflect this due to clerical oversight…

Desi is a mask: beautifully smooth skin, pert yet full, heavy breasts that defied gravity, surgically added slit at her groin to make sure no-one ever checked the DNA details too carefully. It was amazing the number of people who didn’t: she just looked like a human with a skin job. That’s what the desk clerk had her registered as, which might yet be useful, depending on the intelligence of the Officer. According to the Citizens Advice Worldnet, races with a human equivalent IQ of 70 or lower made the best Enforcement teams, being able to understand instructions yet not argue with contentious interpretation…

Riz is confident: all bases are covered, regardless of what happens next. He’s about to gamble the loan he took for gender reassignment to completion, and win.

‘They said you might do this. My boss read your file really well. Thanks to you, there’ll be a new amendment to the standard proposal in the New Year. You should be proud you found a loophole that we’re now going to close.’

Respect turns inevitably to condescension: the Officer pulls from her pocket a small recording unit. If it’s on record, they have to play fair. WolfIsi Legal will now be well aware that if they try and bury him, this part of the Universe will know about the fatality very fast, thanks to many and various messages sent to a lot of very important and high profile media outlets.

Riz made sure nothing was left to chance.

‘Thanks to Clause 27b/6 in your contract, we have the right to substitute an alternative form of random action for the Double or Nothing gamble.’

Riz loved games from an early age: in a world where everybody could work out the odds, he’d taken gambling a stage further. That’s why Desi had been sought out, means by which to take probability and bend it to his own ends. The biggest trick was to lose and make it look as if it wasn’t cheating, by warping the Universe itself to his ends.

‘You have to predict the number on these two dice. That’s our offer. I’m waiting.’

Large, long table by the Hotel room door is picked up, almost dropped in front of Riz’s restrained torso. He has fifteen minutes to accept this offer or lose the Double or Nothing get-out completely. In his head, possibilities land: dice will be remotely controlled by one of the Law Enforcement units, so they fall exactly as dictated. The units will have been picked so they cannot be hacked or interfered with. Just like coins before, belief is that any final result completely controlled by the Company is intractable.

Desi is smiling in his head. Not a small and quet but loud and brilliant, promise of so much once this debt is finally paid. They love the simian, unconditionally, because no other human mind they have encountered was so good at predicting all the outcomes, and playing to win.

‘Six. You’re going to roll a six.’

As the dice are thrown from the giant woman’s hand, Riz decides he quite likes being tied to chairs.


The Love Seat

I have been playing about with Adult Fiction in the last few weeks. Here is my first effort.

THIS IS NSFW AND CONTAINS SEX AND RUDE WORDS.


They had known each other for just under a decade, yet this was the first time that Daniel had asked Jaimi back to his new home.

She knew full well why this had happened, just simpler if they ended up at her place or Tim’s vast family home. The split level Docklands flat had been bought for conquests, then short-term relationships, but it was never for friends. That’s not how Daniel worked, since the horrendously acrimonious divorce six years previously. Married at 21, the man had been devoted for a decade before being cuckolded, then just went the other way. The last four years had seen him sleep with pretty much everyone Jaimi knew from the magazine, but never had he once tried it on with her. In many ways that was a blessing, because knowing Dan as she did, Jaimi was pretty certain it would only end in tears.

The three of them had been friends since secondary school: this picture on the large, darkwood dresser is one she’d forgotten was taken, but there they are: Timothy Christopher Abbot, Jaimi Green and Daniel Nathan Crosswell, standing together in the school blazers of St Clemens Sixth Form College. The frame’s a light beech, soft under fingers that have begun to numb, last Tequila Slammer already regretted after a deadline that had pushed everyone to the limit. The pressure and release of publication was something she was beginning to resent, that maybe working in coffee table publishing wasn’t the way the rest of her life should be spent. These other pictures are eclectic, unusual: Daniel’s daughter Tess as a Dalek, beautiful woman she knows is his mother and another unrecognised, faded black and white from somewhere in her friend’s unspoken, indistinct past.

‘That’s great aunt Jane. She worked for the Resistance in France in the 1940’s. Great uncle Mark used to tell me stories about her.’

‘I bet she was an amazing spy. If anything like you, she’d have men eating out of her hand.’

‘Her real power was discretion. I’ve never grasped the skill of keeping my mouth shut.’

There’s something odd about Crosswell tonight, pronounced since they left the Mexican restaurant and fell into their favourite bar. His normal bravado has slipped, almost cautious around her, with none of the normal demonstrative extroversion that made this tall, slim man seemingly irresistible to anyone who passed his orbit. Come to think of it, they’d spent a lot of time with each other of late, since the last girlfriend left. That pneumatic blonde had complained he wouldn’t commit, too dedicated to work and friends. Jaimi didn’t see a problem; these women didn’t understand that some men needed more space than others to function correctly.

She turns from the dresser, taking in a large, open-plan living space, before staring with disbelief at the large piece of furniture placed by the spiral staircase that leads up to the bedroom. It sits by the floor to ceiling window, ideal place to watch the world below, yet obscured from prying eyes with clever use of exterior foliage. Jaimi thinks at first it might be a solo recliner, but the width is all wrong, curves far too smooth and intentional for something that might be pretending to be artistic. Then her brain makes the connection, back a year to the special insert they produced on innovative British designers, and the penny drops.

‘This is Chase Barker’s Love Seat, isn’t it?’

Dan blushes, surprising for a man for whom pretty much anything went, given half a chance.

‘I knew you’d remember. It isn’t the original, but one of the second edition pieces he’s made. When they went into commercial production I knew I needed one.’

The item had caused major ripples when they’d featured it, that ‘Spaces’ architecture and furniture magazine was not the place to pedal items for sexual pleasure, but Dan had stuck to his guns and she’d felt compelled to back such passion. The whole was beautifully produced and manufactured: so what if its soul purpose was allow you to fuck someone in all manner of interesting ways? The thought of this piece of wood and high quality upholstery in an almost shameful deep purple, allowing her to be penetrated whilst perfectly supported in any number of positions, made Jaimi shiver. Amazed that Dan is staring wide eyed as she walks to it, a big deal is made of letting hand skim the top of the fabric, enjoying the feeling attention gives.

‘I have to ask: what’s it like to use?’

‘I have no idea. I’ve not christened it yet.’

Their tension is now unmistakeable; Dan can’t look at her directly, and Jaimi wonders at the merit of allowing alcohol to dictate her actions. Normally when drunk she’d sleep on Tim’s sofa and drive back out of town the next day, but with both his kids suffering from chickenpox, they’d decided not to add to the stress. Jaimi’s flatmate had her boyfriend over from Dublin, and so it seemed only fair to push Dan for a place to stay, considering how close he lived to the bar they’d ended up in. Except now, all she could think about was being naked, splayed face down on the soft, warm purple upholstery, being slowly fucked from behind. You’ll destroy the best male friendship you’ve ever had, it’s not worth the pleasure reminds an increasingly uncertain conscience, instead allowing the chair to act as support and nothing else.

Sinking into the soft yet firm padding, her body begins to shudder, amazed that common sense is ignoring everything except increasing arousal. Maybe, in the morning, if she still felt the frisson, there might be some consideration of consequence, but for now relaxation mattered more, right up until the moment when Dan’s eyes finally met hers. His need is almost painfully apparent, and a flick of gaze to the front of his jeans confirms she’s not imagining the tension. One of the reasons why this man was never short of a partner was the fact he provided both depth and girth, a fact that Tim had been jealous of since their teens. Jaimi laughs, nervous giggle of wonder, that she needs to be filled confidently by him without remorse.

‘Will you let me sleep here tonight?’

‘Is that where you want to stay, J?’

‘Absolutely, in fact I don’t think I want to move ever again. This thing is more comfortable than the original, it’s almost unreal.’

Only now does Dan break her gaze, and she’s aching at the loss. He almost runs away to make coffee and there’s no conversation at all, which is never the way this works. It’s been at least three months since the senior designer turned up at work with anyone, now Jaimi comes to think about it, and she has to ask what’s going on.

‘So, who’s going to be the lucky woman who breaks this thing in?’

‘I was hoping that might be you.’

‘Excuse me?’

Two cups of his favourite dark roast are on the low wooden table by the window and Dan comes to squat beside the chair, none of the confidence that would normally be expected this close. In fact, much of the recent behaviour suddenly makes sense seeing him almost kneeling, supplicant to her languor. No recent conquests, lack of sexual innuendo… and hands, which would have reassured by now but instead are placed behind his back.

‘I’ve been thinking a lot about what I am. I miss being in a stable relationship. Looking at Tim’s kids, knowing I might want try and do the family thing again… and then I don’t know what matters. Until you walk in a room, and everything just stops dead.’

She had never considered herself a looker or terribly smart, letting art become both signature and personality, and that’s how Jaimi lived her life. Hair colour changed almost weekly, makeup undoubtedly an afterthought, living in jeans and a small pile of t-shirts since forever. Dan never told her anything but the absolute truth: hearing him almost whisper the admission in growing twilight makes her entire body shudder. It would end in tears because she’d wanted sex with him since the graphic art job was landed, and always thought the last thing he ever thought about was her body, so it had never really mattered.

‘You’re not fucking with me, are you Dan?’

‘That’s all I’ve wanted to do for the best part of a year, I just never knew how to broach it.’

Her laugh is sultry, possibilities blossoming below the waist. He’d needed alcohol to lose inhibition; the chair had been enough for her. Watching him straddle the width of the frame and her hips with a care that is as erotic as it is warming, Jaimi gives into the moment.

‘I don’t want to push you into anything you don’t want to do -‘

Sitting upright, pulling body to her before mind can be changed, uncertainty is kissed away. The sudden swell of need within consumes both rationality and common sense, lost to this first contact and better than she could ever have hoped for. His mouth’s warmth is glorious, tequila-flavoured and cigarette tainted and then they’re both horizontal, his weight a welcome restriction and liberation combined. Jaimi’s body simply melts, passion leeching into nimble hands as he’s stripping her, removing clothing with a speed that’s impressive, considering the amount that’s been drunk.

‘You’re absolutely sure you’re okay with this J?’

‘All I want now is to know how it feels to orgasm on this chair. You’d better be as good as I suspect you are. Fill me and then fuck me, please.

Expecting clothing to be shed Dan doesn’t, instead turning chair away from the window, before Jaimi feels herself begin to rise. In less than twenty seconds horizontal becomes a forty five degree angle, yet she remains on her back. This chair’s a step up from the original: that one didn’t have motors, or this non-slip material, preventing a dangerously aroused body from heading for the floor. Presented at Dan’s eye level, completely naked, she is surprisingly without embarrassment or inhibition.

‘I want to make sure you’ve come before I do. I have no idea how long I’ll last, and this has to matter.’

His honesty had often been a shortcoming, but Jaimi’s grateful, as he kisses first one breast and then the other, before sucking on both nipples in turn. That’s all that happens for what seems like forever, repetition making crotch begin to sing, waves of pleasure she has no problem in losing herself within. The moans, which would normally be restrained during the first time with a guy, are allowed to issue unbridled: one hand slips to left hip, the other vanishes, before there is the unmistakable sense of vibration where her behind is cushioned. The lower half of her body is being stimulated, arse cheeks gently massaged: now she’s close to an orgasm without even contact with her sex.

Feeling chest begin to heat, shudders down a tense back, Dan’s tongue’s at her clit, flicking with a skill that means an explosion’s inevitable: sweet bliss spreading through her entire body which is extended, accentuated by the vibrations beneath. Jaimi screams into the now dark room, unbridled pleasure emphasised by alcohol plus long-suppressed desire. She knows that’s not it, however, that inside her body is a bigger prize waiting to be claimed if he’ll only undress faster, and the chair shifts down, returning to a near horizontal position. His mouth is at her ear, words fuelled with a need understood only too well.

‘You want to turn over J?’

‘Oh fuck, you know I do.’

‘That was the reason I bought this. When you lay down on the original and stuck your arse in the air to piss off Alice Taylor? I knew then I ‘d want to fuck you that way first.’

She recalls the look of horror from the Finance Director, offset by Tim’s cheeky wink as she had climbed off that Love Seat. This chair is still vibrating as she scrambles, turning front to back, and settling into place clit’s suddenly re-stimulated, this time by the furniture itself. She can hear the last clothing shed, rip of condom packet, gorgeous hands on her hips, pressure against cunt that is as joyous as she’d anticipated until the shove inside, one thrust to fill completely. Then he stops and she knows why, because this might all be over instantly and that would be a shame.

‘I can feel the chair. Through you. Fuck me that’s good.

The grip is exquisite, firmness in hands she’s always found attractive, powerful until there’s a stroke, confidence built, thrust at a time. With no desperation to complete, instead desire drives, to enjoy the vibration that joins them, slow arousal of her internal muscles that becomes hypnotic, addictive. Mostly sex and alcohol meant dangerous and needy, but Jaimi’s happy at the slow, steady pace Dan keeps, the way whole body begins to heat again under repetitive friction. Sobriety is mixing with the edge of lost inhibition and somehow this makes his movements harder, stronger as the chair and her become indivisible. He’s lasted far longer than expected and now there’s a moan, and another, breathless as she pushes up and back to meet him, and the internal spasm happens without warning, sudden and joyous. As she comes his rhythm falters and then it’s a shudder, and again, gasp of a man who’s earned his reward for patience and honesty.

Jaimi’s mind slowly returns to the moment, chair still quietly buzzing until a hand moves to silence the motor, before pulling out and away. The blissful post coital hum is stronger than she can ever remember, listening as he pads across hardwood floor to dispose of the condom, then pick up the coffee mugs, before breaking the silence.

‘That’s the best six grand I ever spent. Your coffee’s still warm: I have straws somewhere from the last time Tess was here, if you like you can stay put and I’ll feed you.’

Now there’s a laugh, from deep inside, before she moves to face her new lover. Naked he looks even better than imagined, and with no work until Monday there would be plenty of time to explore him at leisure, but for now the coffee is taken from a willing hand and drunk in one hit, before returning the cup with a grin. Now her thought isn’t just need, but something deeper, and the decision to listen to reason remarkably ends up as being wrong.

‘Why did it take you so long to suggest this, Dan?’

‘Maybe I was just scared, perhaps I was just waiting for the right piece of furniture. You were the only person who supported me in getting the original into the magazine, who didn’t get offended when it was apparent what you used it for. I suppose that was when I grasped you and I were more alike than I’d ever realised. I may not be the fastest when it comes to understanding what I want, but I got here eventually.’

Jaimi rises, amazed at her own need to fuck again so soon, coming to stand beside him as everything else suddenly is of secondary importance. This was the best way she could possibly have hoped to have started her weekend. As their mouths fuse, there is no regret in any of her actions.

Normally she’d want to spend two days in bed after a deadline, but this chair gave her other ideas.