Eroticon is The Place To Be for any erotic writer. So - I went in 2016 and I want to attend in 2017 real bad. For inspiration, creative workshops and meeting up with great erotic writers. However, don't know if I'll be able to make it this year -moneywise. Wonderful to discover that publisher Sinfull Press has an Eroticon Competition. Although it is quite hard to write in English for a Dutch girl, here's my story. Hope you alle like it (and hope too win ofcourse!)
The girl under the bridge
On my way home from my temp job to my ragged old council flat, I crossed all sorts of shops, stands and people I had never encountered before. It was scary yet extremely exciting to discover this whole new world I never knew existed. I grew up in the burrows of Northern London and had no idea what life was about when I landed here. After losing my posh job in the City, nothing was like anything I was used to.
I was twenty-five and sincerely believed that my only goal was to live a comfortable life, in a comfortable house with a garden, a nice husband and 1.7 children. Until the day I lost my job as P.A. to the CFO of a large financial institute, I had done my share of good. I attended the right school, studied hard and landed myself a nice job. Once I took a freefall from the social ladder and entered the obscure world of unemployment, I came to understand I had been a foolish sheep that just went along, slowly orbiting in comfort without any passion.
Meeting her threw me into the fast lane of real life and lust.
She wore this absurd outfit: a pink plastic skirt, pink sneakers and a white top so tight her nipples pushed through the fabric. Her pink lipstick was almost fluorescent and shimmered in the harsh light of the subway-train. Even her bubblegum was bright pink. Considering her outfit, you would think she was only fourteen, but she was a luscious woman of at least thirty. Standing next to her in my grey office-outfit, I felt boring and invisible. I had to change lines and left her in the train, but much to my surprise I saw her again when I got out, waiting for the elevator. Ridiculously large headphones covered her ears and she moved her hips to some inaudible song. I couldn’t take my eyes of her. Her carefree aura, her long legs underneath that plastic skirt - she triggered a yearning for something I could not articulate.
I followed her when we got out on the street. She didn’t walk, she flowed. Her impertinent thighs strained her skirt and with every swinging step she took, I was afraid it might burst. Mesmerized I stared at the swaying halves of her ass. When she passed under the bridge, her noticing me was inevitable. Halfway she turned around and walked towards me. My heart pounded.
“What you want girlie?” she said perky. I blushed fiercely.
“Don’t know really, I am sorry. It’s just that, you look so…,” I stammered.
“I look so what?”
She pushed her bubblegum from side to side with her tongue.
“You jealous? I mean, I would be, dressed like that! A bloody shame if you ask me, with a gorgeous body like yours, covering it up like an Amish girl.”
I sighed. “I wish I had the courage you have. You look so… so attractively free.”
For a moment she stared at me, took a few steps and positioned herself real close to me.
“I think I like you,” she said.
I froze when she took my hand and put it on her waist.
“And I think you are dying to kiss me, aren’t you?”
I was dumbfounded, not able to move or even breathe.
“Come on,” she insisted, “you know you want to…”
With a shock I realized she was right. I wanted to kiss those bold lips, I even wanted to rip off that stupendous skirt and squeeze her provoking ass. Paralyzed, I had visions of me licking her neck.
She laughed and pulled me towards her, pushing her pelvis against my thighs. She forced me against the graffiti on the wall and kissed me aggressively. Her hands wandered over my breasts, found the buttons of my dull office blouse and snatched them open. Leaving large pink smudges of lipstick, she bit my nipples to hardness.
She then rolled up her skirt, lifted her leg en forced it between my thighs.
“Ever made out with a girl?” she panted in my ear.
“Never, God, I… never!”
I gasped when her hand opened the zipper and wriggled itself into my panties. Her fingers stroked my pubic hair, then slowly slipped between my labia en pinched my swollen clit.
Doing so she released me of the social straitjacket I had lived in for so long. Pinned against the pillar of the bridge she made me come real hard, dripping my warm juices over her dominant fingers. Within minutes she had transformed me from an acceptable office-girl into an alley-cat and I loved it.
“You horny little twit, here, lick yourself off my hand,” she said with a hoarse voice, putting her moist fingers between my lips.
Feeling brave, I caressed her nipples piercing through the fabric. In response she opened a few buttons, creased the cups of her bra under her big boobs and pulled me towards her. Rubbing my head between her firm tits I surprised myself by biting her white luscious flesh.
“On your knees little one, suck me there,” she moaned.
Right there under the bridge, in broad daylight, I licked, bit, sucked and penetrated her as if I had done nothing else in my life. I loved the way her thighs crushed my cheeks, the way her hands pulled my hair, the way she thrust her wetness to my eager receiving mouth. Her howling- like a small animal in need - when she came on my face, crushed my soul.
“Will I see you again? Where do you live? Please, let me see you again…” I was close to begging her.
“Donknow girlie, I'll see you when I see you 'kay?”
With her top still open she crouched on the concrete. I took her picture to capture this moment with her, to keep her close to me for the hours, weeks or months ahead of me, waiting for her under the bridge.
Molly (donderdag, 24 november 2016 19:32)
I love how it ends, the longing in that last line just leaves the reader wondering if she ever sees her again or not
Liza Daen (zaterdag, 10 december 2016 09:25)
I didn't win, but proud to be mentioned and happy wth the comments!
The story that didn’t quite make it was The Girl Under The Bridge by Liza Daen. What caught my attention with this piece in particular was how Liza took the vibrancy and the colours of the photograph and wound them into the entire story. It left me with a feeling of freedom, individuality and self-confidence which is exactly what I see when I look at the picture. But, there can only be one winner.