Lush short story competition
I scraped a third place in the last but one (in the category of quickie sex), snaffled $50 and gained several new friends and numerous new admirers. As many of them quickly found out, flattery goes a long way with me: once their blisters had healed and their carpel tunnel symptoms had subsided, several even stayed on first name wanking terms with me. Which is a bonus all round.
Here is an entry of mine for an earlier comp that didn't get placed, but was apparently in close contention and caused much gnashing of teeth amongst the judges. Well, I like to think so. How did it not win? Fuck knows. Anyway, here is a taster. Hope you enjoy it! :) xxx
Three minute warning
I'm plain and know it. Don't need anyone to tell me. Make-up and nice clothes are wasted on me, create a caricature, a parody of sensuality. So usually, wisely, I don't bother. However, today is a special day, a day when I have to try my best to look my best and thus open myself to ridicule.
I approached the desk with justifiable trepidation. The tweedy receptionist smiled patronisingly at my caked lashes, rouged lips, and my cheap blouse straining to subdue my over-sized tits. And I knew she'd be shaking her head at my mini-skirt, fat arse and too-high heels as I following her pointing finger and clomped lift-wards. Well, fuck you, bitch, I thought, fuck you, though behind the sneer there cowered the shy, plump little girl who'd never even been kissed.
The lift doors pinged and closed slowly behind me. Smoky mirrors taunted me. Averted eyes insulted me. Twenty floors nearer to Heaven, Hell awaited. A five-headed bespectacled and besuited Hell, wielding slashing pens and posing withering answerless questions. I tugged my knickers from the crack of my arse, adjusted my groaning bra then breathed deeply and stepped into the fray.
The monster bade me sit. Its glassy eyes devoured me; its many mouths curled in hungry incredulity.
'So...' papers rustled, 'Miss...'
My chair's creak barely masked my stomach's growl.
'Hughes.'
'Ah, yes. Hughes.'
The greying man in the middle had a kindly smile, yet it was a smile that quite blatantly said, fuck these faceless four, I make the decisions here. Meanwhile, the faceless four somehow maintained their self-importance, despite their mainly cosmetic purpose. I babbled.
'Susan Hughes. I'm seventeen. Just finished my stage one secretarial. I've always wanted to work...'
A slowly raised palm silenced me. I deflated.
'Quite. We'll come to your qualifications shortly, er, Susan. Mr Jackson,' he coughed, turned to his left, and raised an eyebrow at one of the faceless four, 'would you like to...'
A siren. The siren. Everyone expected it. No one expected it. Open mouths and pasty faces. For long moments no one moved.
'Is that?'
'Oh,God.'
'What the fuck do we do?'
Scrabbling hands extricated phones. Shaking fingers stabbed. A host of terrified expletives followed. Were they stupid? Didn't they watch the news? Communication systems are always the first to go. I sat on my hands, rocked to and fro, my lips curled in morbid amusement. This room is the last I shall ever share, these faces the last I shall ever see. We are equals now. No amount of money or status makes a jot of difference. Death simply doesn't give a fuck.
'Fuck?'
I stood. Tore open my new blouse - its pristine presence was pointless now - and jiggled my cantilevered tits at them. Greyhair bellowed.
'Sit down!'
For the merest moment, I wavered, but it was only a moment. I had three minutes. We all had three minutes. What possible sanction could sway me from my course? It was a concept my young flexible mind grasped instantly. Their blinkered crinkly brains would take a little longer.
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus eleven further stories in ' The Big Bag of Sexy Allsorts', a tooth-rotting collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
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