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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2005 Erotic 2000-Word Short Story Contest
Honorable Mention


Of course I was excited, I had no choice but to be. I mean, every girl just wants to get married, right? So why did I feel such a cold stony lump in my stomach as I pushed open the door to the wedding dress boutique my friend Emma had said I simply ‘must’ get my dress from?

I had known Ben since university. We met in my last year and our balmy, lazy summer cemented our future together. When I was with him, the outside world was a distant arrogant interruption to our days of picnics and languorous, hedonistic al fresco lovemaking. I felt nothing could replace or exceed the feelings I had for him and the desire I had to always be with him. Five years on, I was panicking – so clichéd it was embarrassing. Before Ben, I didn’t do relationships, just unrequited lust and fleeting partnerships. But I had been happy with Ben, although I missed my freedom. Experience was not something I lacked, so I knew these doubts had nothing to do with worrying I hadn’t sampled all that was out there and all that crap. I had just always been ferociously independent, and I knew that I wasn’t ready to surrender that.

“Excuse me, Madam? Can I help you?” A soft voice like the sound of a soft long resonating note from a cello made me start. How long had I been standing there, head cocked to one side, a doomed expression on my face?

“Yes, sorry,” I uttered, distracted by the sound of her voice, “Emma Mathesbury recommended you to me. I’m Sarah Cole, I phoned yesterday? I’m in dire need of help with a dress ... ”

I was determined my wedding would be simple, and I was in no way the typical ‘Bridezilla': neurotic about flowers, obsessive over whether Aunty Margaret would mind sitting next to whatshisname. Bullshit. It was to be small, family only. But my scaling down didn’t extend to my appearance – I was going to look fuck-me fabulous.

The dressmaker was a beautiful, serene creature, her face free of the frantic stress-lines I associated with anyone working in fashion. As she invited me through to the back of the shop, or ‘the viewing room,’ I noticed how elegantly she moved. Every step she took was as if she was walking down an aisle, measured, graceful, her pink heels making a satisfying series of taps on the gleaming wood floor. She was the same height as me, with dark features, glossy hair pinned back harshly in a way that exaggerated the air of confidence. A vintage pencil skirt of dark tweed hugged the smooth contour of her hips and was teamed with a sexy secretary blouse with real pearl buttons, though few were done up. Mischieveously, her pink balconette bra peeked out at me as she reached to the rack of sample dresses in a welcoming gesture, introducing her creations to me.

I surveyed the gowns and saw she specialized in sumptuously soft fabrics. I wanted to inhale each dress through my tingling fingers as I ran my hand along the silks. They were all extremely understated, plain sheaths of gleaming, rich cream – old-fashioned glamour.

“What is it you’re after?” she asked, her voice inviting and assured. I was in no doubt from her tone that any ideas I had for my dress were of no consequence. She knew best, she was in charge, and she would show me how I could look beautiful enough to do her dresses justice.

“I am at your mercy. I just want something simple, elegant. These are all breathtaking. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“We start by getting you undressed. We need to disassociate you from your work clothes, otherwise we will never choose the right one for you.”

Obeying another of her graceful gestures, I lead the way to the cubicle. The light was muted and calm. The room was curtained off with the same heavy, luxurious silk she made most of her dresses from.

“So where do you want me?” I said with a hint of daring in my voice. I had no idea why I had such an impulse to flirt with her. Perhaps it was her composure; I wanted it to infect me. I shrugged off my black, damp, city coat, shoving it to one side of the room. I began to undress and slung my suit trousers over the back of the dressing room chair. I was standing in my underwear when I noticed her watching me in the mirror.

“You’re beautiful,” she said. “We will make a bride of you. So many of the sad creatures that walk through this door, I am lost as to how to make them look half decent, but you are ... incredible.”

Blushing, I searched for the creature she described in the mirror, but failed. She walked into the dressing room, tapping on her high heels. She stood behind me, and I breathed in the spicy waft of exotic perfume that swam through the air as she lifted her tape measure across my back.

The cold plastic felt out of place in this soothing, warm haven, and her hands sent icy spiders scuttling down my bare back, dispersing round my thighs. She pointed to my arms, telling me to “raise” them, a stern nod of her head her only other command. She continued taking various measurements, speaking only in monosyllables.

She was captivating. As her hands moved across my skin, my back, my waist, thighs, knees, bottom, I realised I wanted her. My heart pummeled my ribs as her gentle hand lazily grazed my breast to measure my bust. My nipples rose with her slow touch. I had been with women before, experimented whilst at school, but cheating on Ben had never crossed my mind until now. Perhaps I was just another discontented bride looking for one last fuck? I no longer cared. I couldn’t be bothered to consider the ethics of the situation in any depth. My body’s urges drowned out any voice of doubt I might have had. I had felt empty as I walked into her shop, but now with her next to me I shuddered with desire. All that mattered was her, and I felt sure I could die waiting for her hand to brush my chest again. I turned slowly when I noticed she had stopped moving her tape. I met her big, dark, dewy eyes. I wondered for a lonely second if I had misread her silence. But when I saw the smooth skin above her pink bra rise and fall a little faster, I knew I hadn’t.

Reaching out, I stroked her hair, watching her eyes close slowly in anticipation as her gently parted lips moved towards mine.

The kiss dispelled any doubts as she moved her warm tongue between my teeth and my lips melted into hers. She tasted of cinnamon, and with each rolling movement of her tongue, the flutter between my legs began to turn into an ache. As our mouths fell into an urgent, rhythmic embrace, I felt those delicious fingers climb my back. Her hands were warm where before they were cold, the excitement creating a heat around us. She traced my bra with her hands and unhooked it with knowing ease. Shrugging it off, I reached slowly for the cold, round, pearl buttons on her blouse, cupping her full bosoms in my trembling hands as the blouse fell from her shoulders to reveal her pale, smooth body. Charged by the penetrating kiss, she quickly stepped from her skirt, slipped her hands around the cheeks of my bottom and drew me to her, pushing her groin to mine, urging me to the table used for measuring and cutting fabric, lengths of rich silks draped over it, caressing me wherever she was not. I was oblivious to the shop, my mind dedicated to enjoying her body, her touch and smell, her shivers of pleasure as my hands explored her curves. Her lips moved from my mouth to my neck and my clitoris hardened, making my breath come quicker and quicker. I sat on the table to stop my legs giving way as she looked provocatively into my eyes and took my nipples deep into her wet mouth, her tongue flicking, sucking, playing, all the time keeping that penetrating stare.

Still, neither of us spoke. The relief when she moved from my breasts down to my stomach was almost climatic. I slipped my white bikini briefs to the floor. I parted my legs, now numb with longing, the thumping between them my only consciousness. As she knelt down and gently, slowly stroked my inner thighs. Memories came rushing to me. Her movements evoked the excitement I felt the first time a woman knelt before me. It was a rush no man had ever given me. Moaning, I clasped her back with my feet, my toes gripping her soft skin, every nerve on fire as that exotic, warm tongue met my moist labia and her fingers glided round the opening of my vagina. She teased me, licking round but never touching my swollen clitoris. I threw my head back and pushed her into me with my legs.

Finally, blissfully, the bumps of her red, wet tongue glided across my desperate, aching clitoris, stroking it, making the spiders reappear and run from my vagina, across my stomach, up towards my throat, a deep pain erupting from my pelvis as I came. My legs fell from around her back as she stood and looked at me. Her mouth hung slightly open with the numb feeling I knew she must feel from bringing me to such an insistent and intense climax.

I drew her to me to bury my mouth in hers. Standing up from the table, I continued to kiss her. I reached to her dark pubic hair and began to circle her hot clitoris with my thumb. She was so close to coming, her vagina smooth, warm and damp from the excitement of giving me such pleasure. I enjoyed feeling her velvet skin become sticky from wanting me. As I began to bite her ear playfully, not letting my thumb stray for a second, she began to rock into my urgent strokes, grinding herself against me, pushing my thumb harder onto her skin. With one last thrust she clasped my shoulder and bit her lip to stop herself from wailing.

“My god, my god,” I repeated, my voice rasped from within my shaking body.

“Don’t go,” she panted. “Don’t move. The shop. Locking.” We began kissing once again, kissing with that post orgasmic fatigue that made kissing all the more glorious.

As she untwined her limbs from mine and pulled my coat round her. She left to lock up the shop. I turned once again to the mirror. I looked at my body, tracing with my eyes the paths her tongue had taken. I saw myself stand straighter. I felt more at ease than I had in all of the weeks since poor dear Ben had knelt before me holding his ring. I thought of how the dressmaker had knelt before me, too.

The heavy clouds of doubt and pain cleared from my belly. “Fucking hell,” I sighed. A new calm came over me. I knew then the wedding dresses were never meant for me. My dressmaker approached me, with her self assured beauty and knowing smirk, the smirk one only has after an orgasm. I realised then that she was where I wanted to be.

“So,” she started. I was excited to see her eyes were smiling from behind her sweaty, dark mane, and I giggled.

“What’s your name?” I finished.

I have always enjoyed writing of all disciplines, but early on realised it was short fiction which really held my interest. My first erotic story was inspired by D.H. Lawrence’s poem, “The Piano.” Written whilst I was still at school, it received some raised eyebrows from the teachers, but I was hooked. Writing erotica is the most powerful aphrodisiac, and I feel entranced when working on a new story. I can never imagine doing anything but writing, and I am currently completing my first volume of short stories whilst finishing a degree in English Literature. Aside from fiction, I write regularly for the travel section of the award winning Cardiff University paper, Gair Rhydd – so really I have a passion for all forms of escapism – literal and lexical!

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To: Pippa Bennett

Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2005 Erotic 2000-Word Short Story Contest
Honorable Mention