Round 2, Match B: Tara Crescent vs. Kiki Howell

Here are the amazing (and amazingly different from one another) stories of the second match of Round 2. Comments are moderated, and will be posted anonymously by me on the main blog, once the voting period is over. Judges, please remember to post according to the guidelines laid out in this post on the main blog.

Please come join in the fun at the Hot-Off Facebook event, to share your general and generous praise of the stories!

Story 1

She was a curvy Irish redhead with curls that cascaded down her fair neck. Maeve O’Conner, president of our little kink society. Her body promised all kinds of carnal pleasure to the lucky man that ended up in her bed. Her eyes twinkled as she surveyed us, amused, aware and so very wicked.

If you win, her invitation had said, fantasies will be brought to life.

Me, I wanted to tie Maeve up and have her beg to be cropped. She’d plead so sweetly with that husky voice of hers. I’d mark her lush breasts in a rosy pink hue. My cock grew hard at the thought of thrusting between those soft round globes.

But Mistress Maeve wielded the crop and submitted to no man.

“What do you think she has planned?” a voice interrupted my lust-filled musings.

I turned towards my friend Patrick. “Not a clue,” I replied, trying to wish my erection away. “But I want to win.”

He grinned. “Me too, Colin.”

On the hotel floor, I played blackjack, roulette and more. The stacks of chips in front of me grew larger. I received whispered invitations from beautiful women but ignored them all. Tonight, I wanted something else.

When the hour was long past midnight, I’d done enough. There was a card in my hand, engraved with a room number. 300. I made my way up, only to see another man walk towards the same door. Patrick.

Both of us held up our cards. Both said 300.

“Is your fantasy a threesome, Colin?”

I shook my head. We’d shared women often, Patrick and I. This wasn’t fantasy territory for either of us. Curious, I opened the door.

A woman was bent over a spanking bench in the centre, the golden skirts of her gown pushed up to expose her naked ass. Her legs were pressed together, her succulent labia glistened in invitation and a jewelled buttplug protruded from her asshole.

Mistress Maeve. Restrained and ready for plunder. Submitting not to one man but to two.

“Maeve,” I scolded, grabbing a riding crop from the collection helpfully laid out on a side table. “I thought this was about our fantasies, not yours.”

She turned her head and grinned at us. “I thought we could meet in the middle, gentlemen.” She readily parted her crimson lips for Patrick’s dick and my cock strained against my trousers.

I brought the crop down and watched a red stain bloom on her pale posterior. “Ah, Maeve,” I said, taking a leisurely lick of her pouty pussy lips and hearing her throaty groan, “we are going to have some fun tonight.”

“Don’t stop,” she demanded through a mouthful of cock.

Patrick chuckled. It seemed pretty Maeve needed practice at being submissive. He reached down and pulled those creamy breasts from under the low-cut bodice, squeezing them till she moaned. On my end, I pumped the buttplug in and out of her asshole.

“Rule one,” I said firmly, “is that you aren’t in charge.”

Story 2

She floated through the aged, brick wall worn by time and elements. The sensation of atoms changing, rearranging, gave her a brief second of mirth which faded fast when her body materialized into the old hotel room numbered 234. Though but a spirit, the ghostly void where her heart used to beat ached, made the image of white gas she formed shiver in the sliver of light from a streetlamp that streamed through the broken window.

Every fourteenth of January she came here faithfully. Although, she visited several other times throughout the year too when the crush of emotions hit her. The edgy and harsh affections made her remember what it was like to be human, to have her lungs battle for breath. She hovered above the mattress now half fallen off the bed. The torn and tattered mess appeared to her a soft mass covered in crisp white. The sheets she remembered rested rumpled from a night of lovers wrestling through them, having tried to merely survive the overwhelming plight of flesh against flesh. Her vacant breast throbbed with the reminiscence of fingers sliding over her skin. Long gone nerves tingled, trembled under the remembrance of hands tough and calloused. His. Dead over a few decades too, she couldn’t understand why her lover didn’t come here as she did. At one time, in a world that had tried to beat her down, he’d given her life. Just a touch, a look, had made every wrong right.

The weight of his hands on her at one time had grabbed and soothed as hefty need gave way to love and adoration. This feeling lingered though no bodies existed save for those turning to dust in a couple of graves. She, a spirit reflected, forever remained, strongest here in this room where they’d first escaped the world to join together as husband and wife in a marriage forbidden. Now, only their love survived even the wages of time.

Inside her ghostly being the memory of muscles coiled, contracted, as her spirit wrestled again with the recollection of being entered by a man, stretched and made to tremble until robbed of the power to control her own body. Rational thoughts merged with flashbacks, and the blip of white smoke she remained tore through the dusty air.

Pulsing, swelling, hard against soft, she relived it all. The memory of a bite soothed by the brush of soft lips broke a heart that survived only in thoughts. This eternal blessed torture was all she had left. A crystal clear image of tight skin over the peaks and valleys of a man built of hard work existed eternally somewhere in a mist, an existence she couldn’t define or escape. Here in this hotel room the ghostly vestige of love — hot, sweaty and passionate. A need to be filled so huge it hurt a body that no longer existed yet seemed to fight to breathe forever remained.