Around six months ago, I wrote a story for a Lush Stories competition with the theme of 'quickie sex'. It didn't win. Why would it? And why would I be even remotely bitter about that? Anyway, I recently reread it and spotted a few flaws, a few wrinkles, and endeavoured to iron them out. I gave it a couple of hours, till steam filled the room and I couldn't make head nor tail of anything. That's when I usually say, 'That's finished then!' And so it was.
The story is called 'Three-minute warning', and I include a tantalising introduction below. The accompanying cover photo, by the way, is my work too.
Three-minute warning
I was plain and knew it. Didn't need anyone to tell me. Make-up and nice clothes were wasted on me, created a caricature, a laughable parody of sensuality. So usually - and wisely - I didn't bother. However, this day was a special day, a day when I had 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 bleached hair, caked lashes, and rouged lips, while laughing internally at the cheap blouse that strained to subdue my over-sized tits. And I knew she'd be shaking her head at my mini-skirted 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 my 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 solitary chair's creak barely masked my churning stomach's growl.
'Hughes.'
'Ah, yes. Hughes.'
The greying man in the middle had a kindly smile, yet it was also a smile that quite blatantly said, fuck these faceless four, for I make the decisions here. Despite their mainly cosmetic purpose, the faceless four somehow maintained their supercilious self-importance. 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, er, ample 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, nobody moved.
'Is that?'
'Oh, God!'
'It is!'
'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.
I approached the desk with justifiable trepidation. The tweedy receptionist smiled patronisingly at my bleached hair, caked lashes, and rouged lips, while laughing internally at the cheap blouse that strained to subdue my over-sized tits. And I knew she'd be shaking her head at my mini-skirted 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 my 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 solitary chair's creak barely masked my churning stomach's growl.
'Hughes.'
'Ah, yes. Hughes.'
The greying man in the middle had a kindly smile, yet it was also a smile that quite blatantly said, fuck these faceless four, for I make the decisions here. Despite their mainly cosmetic purpose, the faceless four somehow maintained their supercilious self-importance. 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, er, ample 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, nobody moved.
'Is that?'
'Oh, God!'
'It is!'
'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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