So the feedback and results have been posted for Smut Marathon round 5. The prompt was to take a story from the previous round (a masturbation scene involving a toy) and re-write it from the perspective of the toy. I wasn’t looking forward to it, and it took me at least a week to even select a story. Once I did, it took a few drafts to come up with something I was pretty okay with.
I definitely agreed with the few comments that pointed out the problems with my story – how, indeed, could the toy know anything about events that happened before it was made? I’ve added a few details to hopefully deal with that issue. I have also taken to heart that my stories tend toward sad and are possibly not “erotic” enough for many readers. So my challenge for round 6 is to steer clear of tears and step up the sex. I’ll see what I can do.
The original story that this is based on is from round 4 (“All that Remains” by Exhibit A), and now that I have made it through round 5, I have taken the liberty of minorly revising this piece. Not being constrained by word count is freeing.
The air was cool, and the bed warm when the idea formed a seed inside your mind. Your fingers gently drifted across his flaccid cum-slicked cock, reading the ridges like braille. A smile pulled at the corner of your lips as the seed split open and became a comprehensible idea, which you whispered into the afterglow. The subtle blush in your cheek blossomed crimson as you explained, “I want one that looks just like you…feels like you…inside of me.” He raised his brow in consternation and let your idea waft into the sex-tinged air.
But your idea became an obsession, and the molding kit arrived a few days later.
He was uncomfortable, when you sucked him to full-erection, placed the bands around the base of his scrotum, and then quickly covered his shaft in the molding gel. But he groaned in compliance as you licked upward along his treasure trail toward his navel. You kissed his neck and sucked his earlobes and grazed your fingertips across the translucent purple skin of his constricted nut sack until the gel hardened completely.
And now you sit here, months later, and alone, on your bedroom floor, feeling guilty for your wet cunt, grief fighting for control of your thoughts. You spread your legs and watch yourself open in the mirror. You’ve been closed for too long. Gripping me tightly, you run my tip from the base of your slit to the tip, nudging it in just a bit to press against your clit. Your head lolls back, hair trailing just above your hips in calligraphic curls, and you let your knees fall open. Using two fingers to spread your lips, you wrap your mouth around me to coat me in saliva, and then ease me into your cunt slowly.
I can feel the softness of your walls closing in on me, the darkness enveloping me. And I can smell the sweet sadness of your desire. Your memories seep into me, a blend of fog and color and muted laughter. Maybe, in some way, a part of him resides within me, the past expanding my depths and emitting a substance that merges with yours in an intoxicating, addictive way. Maybe that is why you almost always choose me.
I am not him. I am not his flesh or his heat. But I am something like a shadow of him — missing the details, but not the essence.
You move to your knees and press me into the floor, my base secure on the weathered wood, and you bare down on me with your full weight, nearly plying yourself in half to take all of me into you. And you ride me, in meditative slowness. You spend what seems like hours simply holding me inside of you, refusing to move, your skin filling in all my crevices.
And then you begin to undulate quickly, hungrily, fucking me, angry that there is not other part of him to hold on to, and I can feel your body vibrating intermittently with sobs. As heartbreaking as it is, I can only imagine that he would have liked the feeling of it, the pulsing and the intensity. Your cunt tightens around me, and I know from experience where this will lead.
In the black, I succumb to your flood, and I send up a silent prayer to the one who gave me this life.
You fall back and lean against the bed, your head resting on the white duvet. Legs, weary and shaking, knees bruised, you lose yourself and your sadness for a moment by concentrating on the slowing of your heartbeat. I can feel it and hear it like the muffled beats of music in a house a few doors down, the bass slowly fading out at the end of the song.
And I panic, momentarily, in a way I didn’t know silicone could do. Because each time you rain down over me like crashing waves, you wear just a bit of me away…my substance and my borrowed memories.
If I must die, let it be like this, buried to my base inside of you, feeling what he felt, knowing what he knew, and somehow knowing you. Like some key to a door between now an after, I am linked between you and what is left of him, a memory that is fading faster than you would like. His smell is gone, and you can no longer conjure his voice in your ear. But, I am here. For now. And as you stand, weak-kneed and emotionally spent, removing me from the floor, your torn heart builds another layer of callous.
Grief born of lost love is like that — all-encompassing. It claws and sucks at you, emptying you until you lay spent at its feet forced to decide whether you will remain there or rise.
It is a terribly sad, yet terribly necessary thing, and you are coming closer, love. Each time your stretch yourself around me, you make room for something new.
One draft that I wrote of this story involved the toy being sort of haunted by or housing the spirit of the lost lover. I didn’t like it as much, but I did add a few details to this draft that at least hint at the toy being connected to him, as it explained how the toy might know what happened before and while it was created. I’m not sure if that fixes the problem, but that was the intent.