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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 1K Bedtime Flash Contest
Honorable Mention

Thief

Rain pounds on the tin roof and closes in around me. I curl on the dank mattress, craving a blanket for comfort and praying for relief. Three days Iíve lain here, blindfolded and bound, listening to the rain and trying to escape my thoughts.

On the first night, panic overwhelmed me. I whimpered, expecting the worst. The one with the donkey laugh ripped open my blouse, pummelling my breasts like they were stress balls. I tried to pull away, stumbled in my darkness. But the other one, the one that smells like Champion Ruby tobacco, rescued me.

Leave her alone, dickhead. His voice is soft but donít-fuck-with-me strong.

Well, what are we supposed to do with her?

Fucked if I know. Hostages werenít part of this deal.

Later that night, he feed me mandarin segments. I gulped them down, thankful for the sweet juice that moistened my dry throat. The hard wool of his sweater swept my skin, the warm homespun smell of lanolin mixing with the spicy tobacco. His lilting voice soothed me and I imagined a strong man with Irish blood – dark haired, dark eyed and wild.

The next morning, he fed me again. Afterwards he led me to the toilet, his hands strong and firm on my shoulders. I felt his erection against my leg. I flinched.

Donít worry. Iíve never had to force a woman in my life. But if you want it, you only gotta ask.

He led me back to the mattress and the rain got heavier.

When I thought of Tom, I wondered if he reached out for me absent-mindedly in the night. He will try to rescue me but will fail. I know that. But when I sleep, I donít dream of Tom, but of the one that smelt of Champion Ruby. Pulling me tight to his chest, slamming me into the rough wooden wall, fingers digging into my flesh, cock ramming me hard.

I wake up in a sweat.

Since that first morning he hasnít fed. He leaves that to the silent one with the heavy step, but sometimes he is in the room watching me. I can smell his scent and sense his eyes burning holes into my skin with the intensity of his gaze.

I try to forget the dream, try to forget the feeling of him against me, try to forget waking up with my cunt aching, wet and swollen. I try to think of mundane things like home and Tom. I make mental lists to kill the time like lists of childhood pets but I canít remember the name of the shy, grey kitten. And I listen to the rain.

Then he is in the room and I forget it all. I chafe in this black woollen suit, selected for a day in the office and routine tasks, not for a prolonged period of incarceration. In other circumstances, I might parade for him in silken lingerie and lure him with subtle looks. But those ploys arenít available to me here.

He kneels beside me and holds a cup to my lips and I am humbled in surrender, fear mingling with thrill.

He frees my breasts and strokes them warm. His breath is deep on my flesh. His mouth covers my nipple and his hair tickles on my chest. As he suckles, I strain against the ropes. I want to hold him, burrow my fingers into his hair.

As his teeth clamp hard, I gasp in pain.

Do you want me to stop?

No.

Good, because I donít fuck soft like your suburban husband.

I know that.

The pain in my nipples burns red and shoots through my body like fire until it settles in my clit; pain no longer.

He lifts my skirt and pushes his fingers into my knickers, teasing along my lips. I arch myself towards him. For five years, I have endured join-the-dots sex while this is mystery and trepidation and longing and I am on the frontier of something fresh. I sing with a spontaneous joy.

Then I feel the cold metal on my skin, a jolting reminder that this is not a game. The ropes binding my hands are for real. The blindfold isnít a kink. He slides the gun between my breasts, runs it down my belly, slicing open an edge of fear, but I canít stop now.

He drives it between my legs. I shrink back but my reluctance means nothing to him. Perhaps it spurs him on. He slips it inside me, chilling my fevered flesh.

I donít want this. The gun fucking inside me with its potential to explode, to obliterate, to annihilate.

I donít want it, but my hips shudder into a life of their own, convulsing like the death throes of a wanted man.

I donít want this. But he pounds it into me matching the rhythm of the rain on the roof and the world reduces to crimson sparks and the rain gets louder until I realise it isnít the rain but my own sobs echoing around the room and I remember that Mysky was the name of the kitten and I think maybe I hear the sound of a helicopter somewhere in the vastness outside and I donít care. This is it. These are the limits of my world.

Then everything goes black.

As a blanket of bliss envelops me, he pulls me to my knees. It wasnít loaded but this is. His cock forces its way into my mouth and I revel in this brutal mouth fucking. His hands twist in my hair and I am obliterated.

That is how they find me.


Kathryn O’Halloran is part couch potato, part femme fatale. Any day she doesn’t have to get out of her pyjamas is a good day for her. She was once told to write what she knows; despite that, she started writing erotica. Her first effort saw her winning a booty of sex toys and set her on a seedy literary journey. She finds the research gruelling but she goes at it with guts and determination.

After having several short stories published, she is now concentrating on her first novel-a spicy chick lit novel (she likes to call it clit lit). In her spare time she edits Lustre, an online magazine of Australian erotic fiction.

To find out more, explore http://www.kathrynohalloran.com


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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2004 1K Bedtime Flash Contest
Honorable Mention