Here is the full text of my Smut Marathon round #6 entry. I had to cut a lot of it to get to the required 650 words (I have posted that version at the bottom).
The Fortune Cookie
(title in Smut Marathon was “Your Fortune Awaits”)
From outside, the restaurant looked inauspicious: brick, painted glossy black, glimmered in the sun, a traditional red awning hung over the red door, and a neon sign above silently announced its identity as The Fortune Cookie.
Amile looked at the business card he held shakily between his thumb and forefinger and then at the numbers beside the door. This was it. Placing his right foot in front of his left, he willed his body to move toward the door.
The windows were tinted, so even as he moved closer he could not see inside. Somehow, that made him feel calmer. The darkness drew him.
He wrapped his hand around the handle of the door, pulling the latch down with his thumb, and pushed it open. The hostess looked up from behind her podium and smiled at him, in a suit of charcoal gray and matching fedora, framed by light from the outside.
“Welcome to The Fortune Cookie,” she said in her small twinkling voice, “Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes,” he said, a bit too quickly, sounding shaky and unsure.
Her head tilted a bit, and her eyes glittered. The softness of her unmarked youthful features and the absence of make-up, sans the long black lashes and classic red lipstick made the whole situation feel unreal to him.
“Amile…Amile Juneot…” he stuttered.
She smiled and looked down at her register, running her red nail down the side of the page and then stopping to check a box next to what he presumed was his name.
“Right this way, Mr. Juneot,” she turned and walked slowly and confidently, her small frame swaying like a snake as she led him down the red carpeted hall. She stopped at a door on the right and opened it, standing beside it once inside to let Amile pass.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” she smiled again and bowed her head before she left the room and closed the door behind her.
Amile glanced around the room. Each wall boasted what appeared to be a classic Chinese scroll painting, centered perfectly; however, upon closer inspection, he realized they were reproductions of ancient Chinese pornography. A large oval table in the middle of the room was surrounded by six chairs, and a red leather-bound menu sat in front of one of them. He moved toward it, pulled out the chair, sat, and took the menu in his hands, opening it and moving his eyes up and down and over the contents inside.
There was a light knock at the door, and then a man, dressed in black, entered and walked toward him, stopping at his right side.
“Have you decided, Mr. Juneot?”
“Y-yes,” Amile stammered, “I think I’ll try the number eight.”
“Very good, sir.”
The server took his menu and left him alone in the room again.
Moments later, another knock at the door announced her presence, and as the door began to open, Amile straightened up, clasping his hands on the table before him in an effort to control their shaking.
She was clothed in a knee-length cheongsam, patterned with yellow and black embroidery, her hair braided and collected at the base of her neck, decorated with yellow and white blossoms.
She smiled, but said nothing, as she walked, barefooted, toward the table and pulled out the chair opposite him, fluidly stepping into it and then crawling across the table to kneel before him. Reaching to either side of her cheongsam, she hooked her fingers beneath each of the side slits and pulled the dress slowly up her thighs, leaning forward a bit to slip the fabric over her backside. She let her body slide to the side and moved her feet out from beneath her, spreading her legs. Leaning backward on to her elbows, a demure smile on her red lips, the young woman presented her perfectly shaved mound to Amile.
His eyes widened, and he licked his lips, pressed them together and breathed in deeply, gathering his wits.
He reached out and touched the inside of her smooth thigh, allowing himself to rest his entire palm there. His skin was warmer than hers, and slightly damp, but he’d stopped considering his own anxiety. Carefully, he inched his hand downward, placing his other hand on the outside of her other thigh.
And that is when he lost his composure. Both of his hands wrapped around her hips, pulling her toward his face. He kissed her there, between her legs, as if he were kissing her mouth, taking her labia between his lips and running his tongue along their wet, pink insides. He sucked on her clitoris as if it were the tiny dip between the peaks of her upper lip, and he looked up at her face with longing. Her lips parted, and the corners of her black-brown eyes creased upward in a smile. She exhaled deeply, and he felt her whole body offer itself up to him. Amile closed his eyes and let his tongue find her by the heady gardenia scent of her skin. He licked her from taint to clitoris, up and down, pushing his tongue in deeper with each pass, until he finally reached the doorway to her inner depths. He let his tongue enter her, curling it to fit and move deeper. His cock pressed uncomfortably against the fabric of his pants, begging to breath, begging to follow the path of his tongue. Every cell within him wanted to follow that path.
But that option was not on the menu. Nothing could penetrate her but his tongue. And he wasn’t to mark her skin with his hungry grip. The hunger in his hands warned him that not grabbing her would be impossible, and so he moved his hands to grip the table cloth on either side of her, bunching it behind her and using it as a strap to pull her closer, pressing her pelvis against his face as he rubbed his nose against her clit and his cheeks and chin against her mounting wetness, covering himself in her glistening perfume.
Amile kissed and licked and sucked until the young woman was dripping and wriggling and wimpering. Her back arched and her head fell back, exposing her porcelain neck. He felt her hips tilting upward, her thighs tightening against the sides of his head, as she lifted her body to writhe against his mouth. Her orgasm exploded, sweet molten lava spread across his tongue and gushed to fill his cheeks. And he held her there, the perfect circles of her bottom in the palms of his hands, inches from the table.
Amile held her juices in his mouth and kept his lips sealed against her until her movements quelled, her weight increasing in his hands as the orgasm released her. Gently, he lowered her body to the table, slid his lips together, and sat back in his chair, swallowing the sweet nectar.
She sat up, letting her legs and feet dangle over the edge of the table. A few tendrils of her hair had fallen loose and a light sheen of perspiration glistened on her forehead.
Scooting forward, she slipped off the table to stand before him, where she pulled her cheongsam down over her hips and straightened it. She smiled at him, took hold of a napkin from the table, and reached forward to wipe the corners of Amile’s mouth. He was breathing heavily, and his hair was disheveled, his skin still slick with her wetness.
Setting the napkin back on the table, the young woman turned and, with one quick smiling glance back, left the room.
Amile ran his fingers through his own hair, and pressed his hand against his erection, adjusting it uncomfortably and wishing, with sudden intensity, that he could release it.
He heard the door open, and the his server entered, holding a small silver platter, upon which rested one fortune cookie, centered on a white paper doily. He placed it before Amile, bowed his head quickly, and backed out of the room. Amile reached out and took the cookie between two fingers. Breaking it in half, he uncovered the tiny white slip of paper held within. It read, “Before you receive, you must give.”
He looked back at the young woman, who smiled and stood on tip-toes to whisper in his ear, “You have given well…”
She planted her feet on the floor, her black-brown eyes offering a whole new hidden menu of delicacies to enjoy.
Here is what it became with the necessary cuts to reach 650 words…
The hostess’s small frame swayed like a snake as she led Amile down a red-carpeted hallway. She stopped, opened a door, and stood beside it, inviting Amile to enter.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” she bowed her head and closed the door behind her, leaving Amile to survey the room and find his seat at the head of the table. There awaited a leather-bound menu, which he collected and opened.
There was a light knock at the door, and the server entered, “Have you decided, Mr. Juneot?”
“Yes,” Amile replied, “Number eight.”
“Very good, sir,” the server bowed, took the menu, and exited.
Moments later, she entered, clothed in a cheongsam, patterned with yellow and black embroidery, her hair braided and collected at the base of her neck.
She smiled and dropped her gaze as she walked, barefooted, toward the table, fluidly stepping into the chair opposite Amile, then crawling across the table to kneel before him. Hooking her fingers beneath each of the side slits, she pulled her dress slowly up her thighs and leaned her body to the side to move her feet out from beneath her. Bending backward on to her elbows, the young woman spread her legs and presented her perfectly shaved mound to Amile.
He reached out and touched the inside of her smooth thigh, allowing himself a moment to rest his entire palm there. And then he wrapped both of his hands around her hips, pulling her toward his face. He kissed her there, as if he were kissing her mouth, taking her labia between his lips and running his tongue along her wet, pink folds. He looked up at her face with longing and then sucked at her clitoris as if it were the tiny dip between the peaks of her upper lip. Amile closed his eyes and licked her from taint to clitoris, up and down, pushing his tongue in deeper with each pass, curling it and entering her as far as his mouth would allow. His cock pressed uncomfortably against the fabric of his pants, begging to follow the path of his tongue.
But that option was not on the menu. And because he also wasn’t to mark her skin, he gripped the table cloth on either side of her, bunching it behind her, using it to pull her closer, pressing her pelvis against his face as he rubbed the bridge of his nose against her clit and his cheeks and chin against her mounting wetness.
Amile kissed and licked and sucked until the young woman was dripping and wriggling. Her back arched, and her head fell back. He felt her hips tilting upward, her thighs tightening against the sides of his head, as she lifted her body to writhe against his mouth. When her orgasm exploded, sweet molten lava spread across his tongue and gushed to fill his cheeks. He held her there, the perfect circles of her bottom in the palms of his hands.
Amile kept his lips sealed against her until the twitching quelled. Swallowing her sweet nectar, he gently lowered her body to the table and released her.
She sat up, scooted forward, and slipped off the table, where she straightened her dress and stood before him. Smiling up at him, she took hold of a napkin from the table and reached forward to wipe the corners of Amile’s mouth.
That is when the server returned, holding a small silver platter, upon which rested one fortune cookie. Amile picked it up, broke it, and retrieved the slip of paper held within: “Before you receive, you must give.”
He looked back at the young woman, who smiled and stood on tip-toes to whisper in his ear, “You have given well…”
She planted her feet on the floor, her black-brown eyes offering a whole new hidden menu.
Here was the feedback I received:
Very nice! You have well developed the atmosphere of a high class oriental bordello, without giving away too much. Also, your story hinted at a bigger plot. (nbrplaza)
This might sound petty, but we’re told what the server was wearing the second time she entered the room. That felt odd, like she might have changed since she took his order. (And then I got nearly to the end and found out that the “she” in the cheongsam was someone new, not the server. I would have liked to have been told that, because I automatically applied the pronoun to the ‘nearest’ character, the server). The smut seemed awkward: him looking at her face while she’s bending over backwards, rubbing his cheeks and chin against her wetness like he’s motorboating her fanny, not even touching her to pull her closer because he mustn’t “mark her skin” but then lifting her anyway, etc. There was an implausibility/inconsistency barrier between me and any eroticism. (Marsha Adams)
I just couldn’t connect with this character. Who is he, why is he there? And I think because the young woman in this is not engaged in the sex in anyway discernible I didn’t particularly find it a sexy read. (Molly Moore)
This one I really like! I can appreciate using a quick backstory to get you into the action so you have more words to dedicate to the eroticism. Description was fantastic, and although I had to google what a cheongsan is, I’m glad I did. It made my experience all the better. There’s really nothing I can complain about. Well done! (forbiddenwriter)
Goodness this was a fantastic story. It was original and made this kitty purr! I voted for this one! (crapkittenwrites)
I liked the way you inverted the traditional narrative here by having him be the one who serves the woman first. Sadly, I didn’t personally find this erotic, but that may well be a personal taste thing. (Charlie Powell)
Beautifully erotic. The beginning made me expect an obvious story line, but then the twist was fantastic! (Aurora Glory)
A good use of the prompt, but even though this is a good story, it didn’t do it for me. There was something missing to it. I cannot decide whether it might be because I wanted to know about the fortune cookie earlier or whether it was something else. (Marie Rebelle)
As you can see, the feedback is very mixed, which tells me…I just need to keep doing what I do. It works for some and doesn’t for others…for seemingly arbitrary reasons. I guess that is the nature of writing (and reading) fiction, eh? But, in a challenge like this, it can be particularly frustrating for the writers.
Mostly, what I find, is that the judges don’t really love my writing. It either isn’t erotic enough in the right way, or it’s too sad. In fact, because of that, I specifically avoided anything sad and tried to step up the explicit sex this time. It didn’t help. The judges still didn’t like it. The public votes tend to be the thing that keep me in the game. And, without giving anything away, the next prompt really sets me up for writing exactly what the judges seem to dislike. So, wish me luck! I’m going to need it. And I think what I’m going with is this…