Who will win the French? Nadal has to be favourite, simply because since he first won it he has, I believe, never lost a match there. Djokovic has a great chance, plays with the skill and incisiveness of a surgeon, and on his day, with Boris Becker in his corner to swing those big points in his favour, can beat anyone. But Andy Murray surely has a chance? Andy - whose mum recently compared Sharapova to a teabag (it's actually a good and very fair comparison concerning strength and hot water) - though not at the peak of fitness after a back operation, has all the weapons to take on the world's finest and emerge victorious.
What's all that got to do with naked erotica? Well, you can't keep it up all the time, can you? Need a break from the hot pulsing dripping thrusting penetrating clutching gasping squealing screaming cum cum cummingness of sexual arousal... Phew! After all that stream of sexual consciousness, I find a need to cast away the sweat bands, skimpy shorts and rackets, lie in a darkened room and focus my mind on the job very literally in hand. And to help me on my way, here's an extract from a saucy story I published in an anthology earlier this year. The collection, entitled A lifetime in thirty minutes, contains ten stories all with a common theme, viz: concentrated moments in time where momentous events change lives forever. In Dicing with life, two online lovers engage in a titillating game of chance as foreplay to their long-awaited first sexual coupling. Quite unusually, one of the pair of dice they employ for the purpose narrates the unfolding flesh-beholding drama. Mmm, now that's what I call sport!
A lifetime in thirty minutes on Amazon
A lifetime in thirty minutes on Amazon
Extract from Dicing with life
Emily's tits sway alluringly and continue to transfix him. Delighted by his dumbstruck stare, she smiles wryly and strums her thumbs across both her nipples. They are so erect, I swear they produce a dull but discernible chord.
'Oh, God, Em!'
Eyes twinkling, she suggestively sucks her thumbs in turn then strums again, leaving the hard nubs glistening with her spit. Her voice is charged with exaggerated lust.
'I really want you to suck my titties, Nick... I mean really want you to suck them, but, ' and she pouts her lips, 'you can't touch me, can you?'
The tease tightens both their sexual screws till they squeak.
'Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.'
This time his profanity goes unnoticed.
Collecting himself, he scoops us up. We kiss; we hug; we part. Three and four, four and three - another seven, whichever way you look at it. Again, not good. He passes the cup to her. Another rattle and off we go again on our seemingly random computations. Bouncing, sliding... stopping. Ten. Round seven to Emily. She immediately sees the significance.
'Ah-ha! Double five! That means something... what was it?' Then she remembers the romance of ten minutes before. 'A kiss! I get a kiss.'
'Yes, you do. Well remembered!'
Her firm brown body is naked but for the faded and ripped blue jeans and she has undone those a little to tease him some more. He wears just a blue striped tie and black underpants. The bulge is big and there is a damp patch of pre-cum where his tip has been subdued for what seems like hours.
'Oh, and I won - so get ready to comply.' She coughs, eying the bulge; her throat is dry and lust suddenly overcomes her. 'Pants! Get the buggers off!' she roars.
'Is that your final answer?'
She almost screams.
'Yes!'
He stands slowly, a little stiffly, and pauses, hands on hips. At last. Hooking his thumbs over the elastic, he starts to push them over his thighs. Lower and lower. He watches her eyes grow wider and wider. His erection springs into view and she gasps. It bounces up and down and then settles. Now free from restriction it swells a little more. Curving slightly to his left and very fat, it protrudes about seven inches from his groin, pulsing and pointing to the TV as though straining to change the channel. He holds out his hands as if to say, 'This is yours. This is all I am.'
'Fucking hell,' she whispers, eyes blazing. 'Fucking hell fire!' She sinks to her knees, looking all the while into his eyes. 'And now the kiss...'
It's more than a kiss, but it starts with a kiss. He has never felt so much love given to him by such an overtly sexual act. She is loving him by holding his member in her lips, kissing her love into the one part of him that usually only gives. It is too much for him to bear. Now he wants her. Really wants her. And in a way he has never wanted anyone in his life
The realisation is shockingly disorientating. He feels tricked, yearns for the familiar certainty he can somehow find no trace of and discovers he no longer owns it. While searching desperately for something to replace it, he sees the woman at his feet, the beautiful sexy woman with his cock between her lovely lips. She starts to draw his tip further into her mouth, but he pulls away, reeling, suddenly knowing he is no longer in control. He falls to his knees beside her.
'Oh, Em,' he sobs, head in hands, 'Oh Em...'
'Roll the dice, big boy. Nearly there, my love.' She gently strokes his hair. 'Then I will have you inside me...' her thoughts complete the sentence, 'every night, for the rest of my life.'
They stay there for long seconds; his slender shoulders occasionally heave. This isn't how he intended it to be. Confusion dulls and blinkers his brain while his crying makes her love him even more.
He throws four and two, barely able to count our spots through his tears; she rolls six-and-one. Again she triumphs. He recognises this special seven immediately; a truly magical number where maximum and minimum combine to create something extraordinary. He thinks of himself as the number one: lowly loser for lying to everyone around him and lacking the guts to leave his loveless wife. Emily is the six: perfect, beautiful, true and dependable, a woman he cannot imagine living without. He has a moment's inspiration: maybe together, he and Em could also make something magical. It would make his life much more difficult to start with, but in the long term, it could be more worthwhile than anything he's ever done. As he searches unsuccessfully for a way to make it happen, he realises that for the first time in an age he has a decision to make, a vital decision, and is currently unable to face it.
He sniffs then recovers his composure and strikes a dramatic pose.
'You threw the dice and "magic seven" is the result. The Gods of chance decree that when such a seven is elicited, the rules are these:
You are the perfect six. You are my master.
I am the pathetic, worthless one. I am your slave.
You must bind me, own me, then do with me what you will.'
Crossing his wrists just above his rounded bum, he turns his back to her. She motions to pat a taut buttock, but remembers the no contact rule just in time. He said online that he'd never been physically up to much, but he looks wonderful to her: solid, muscular, and good looking in a quirky way and sexier than she could ever have hoped for. Now he wants her to tie him up and the thought excites her in a way she never thought possible. He's hinted at this sexy scenario several times, both in emails and in their chats.
'Bondage is about control... something about... I don't know! Being tied up makes me fucking hard! What else is there to know?'
And they'd both done those smiley faces, his winking, hers not, like this:
:-)
;-)
She could use his tie, but he's still wearing it. Then she remembers she won the round, so she roughly takes it from him as she imagines a 'Mistress' would. Their lips are almost touching, their bodies so close that occasionally her belly briefly brushes the tip of his tool.
'What with? This?' she asks, holding out the tie. The intricacies of bondage are a mystery to her and she is unsure of how to proceed. She hopes she doesn't really have to hurt him.
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