It’s been an exciting few weeks, and before I announce the winner of our Eroticon 2017 competition, I would just like to say that everyone who entered should be congratulated. Out of all the stories I’ve read, there isn’t a single one that didn’t deserve to win for one reason or another. Each writer took the prompt in a slightly different direction which made for some wonderful and varied stories, but for me, there were two entries that really stood out. I had to reread them a few times before I finally decided.
The story that didn’t quite make it was The Girl Under The Bridge by Liza Daen. What caught my attention with this piece in particular was how Liza took the vibrancy and the colours of the photograph and wound them into the entire story. It left me with a feeling of freedom, individuality and self-confidence which is exactly what I see when I look at the picture. But, there can only be one winner.
And the winner is……..
Ella Scandal with I Am My Own Desire.
I LOVED this story because it sends a very powerful message; that exhibitionism is all about self-desire, self-pleasure, and self-confidence.
So Ella, watch your email and pack your bags, you’re off to Eroticon 2017!
And to everyone else, thank you for entering our competition and we would love to hear from you all again. Also huge thanks have to go to Molly Moore for all her help setting up this competition and for her wonderful photograph.
Links to all the stories can be found on this page, and here is the winning story:
I Am My Own Desire
I never thought I’d find myself doing what I was about to do. Never thought it for even one minute. But it was happening, and the terror that bubbled up from my stomach was equalled only by the absolute exhilaration of my situation.
Keeping my eyes away from the small group of people who were watching me, I took a few more steps into the subway that ran beneath a now unused road. My fingers trembled as I unlaced the top of my pink and white dress, so I took my time, trying to make it look like I was intentionally exposing myself as slowly as possible.
Not sure how much they wanted to see this early on, I stole a quick glance at the group. Their arms were folded over their chests for the most part, but the one with the shaved head was pulling on her bottom lip with her thumb and forefinger. The one with the afro was beside her, nodding slowly in what I took to be approval.
Still walking, I slid my hands down my body, snagging the hem of my dress. Goosebumps bloomed all over the bare skin of my vulva when the cold air hit it, but as soon as my hands reached my navel the fabric fluttered back down again, hiding what I’d so briefly shown them.
Then my hands were on my neck, stroking the warmed metal of the collar the One had instructed me to wear. I hadn’t seen them when I’d peered into the little gathering, but I knew they were there. It was now or never. Still, I’d do it slowly. I didn’t want the reveal to be over too quickly, I wanted them to savour it. To savour me.
My fingers were still shaking as, still walking in slow, measured steps, I tugged the bodice of my dress down. Despite my nervousness, my confidence rose with each inch of my chest that was revealed during this, my erotic catwalk. First the fleshy rise, then the quickly hardening, rosy brown nipples, and finally the curved undersides. I lifted them, delighting in the weight of them in my hands.
They were mine, and they were beautiful.
Once I was level with the group, I stopped, turning slowly until I had my back to them. Blood rushed to my head as I leaned forward and touched my toes, most of it to my cheeks. My legs were parted, and I knew exactly what they could see. Fleshy lips, dusky pink, puckered opening. I frowned at my pink trainers. Could they really see it? All of it?
To be sure, I wrapped my hands around the back of my thighs, scratching the skin hard enough to leave red lines, clear for them to see. As soon as my palms touched my ass cheeks, I grabbed two fistfuls of flesh. Parting, exposing, showing. Were they aroused by what they could see? I know I was.
Each second that passed made my pussy convulse, and I was sure they’d be able to see my anus twitching from where they stood. I slid a finger over it, pleased they couldn’t see me smile when I heard their approving hiss rise in the silence.
“Against the wall.”
It was a quiet command, delivered with reverence, but spoken by a voice that made me respond as though it had been barked by a dictator.
Cold, graffiti covered concrete at my back, I rested my hands on my knees, keeping them together as I slid down the wall. My dress rode up behind me, leaving my skin vulnerable to the rough, defaced surface. It scratched and stung. I liked it. The One knew that, too, because they chuckled softly. It must have been my lust doped smile that had given me away.
Abruptly, I parted my thighs. It was so cold, probably because my pussy was so damned hot. It was wet too, and it needed to be touched. And that was why I was here. To touch it, to make it pulse and throb so that the One and their closest friends could watch and know how much I wanted it.
Sounds reached my ears. Wet sounds. Squelching sounds, and not all of them from me. Loudest were the ones that came from my fingers dipping in and out of my vagina, but the quieter ones came from the group. Vaginas being penetrated by their owner’s fingers, palms being spat on and cocks being violently stroked.
They were masturbating. All of them. With me. Over me.
I didn’t look up to catch a glimpse of the One, even though I wanted to. They had told me that this was about me, not them, and not their friends. It was about my sexual freedom, my sexual expression, and my sexual gratification. The others were masturbating to further arouse me.
I could feel it now. It was building inside of me, tightening and tensing, making my body vibrate with the need of release. Oh, the sounds! My pussy was sloshing, splashing the ground with little jets of fluid. The others were panting, inching closer to where I crouched.
Would they come on me? Would the One let them?
The first of them let go with a guttural moan, and I knew who it was. I still stared at the ground, but I knew who it was that peppered the concrete at my feet with white beads. I knew how those beads would taste, and in that moment I fervently wished they were dripping down my throat.
Parting my legs wider, I looked at the roof over my head, huffing out soft cries as my vaginal walls clamped around my fingers. I pulled them out with a yank, smiling again when I heard the other’s quiet gasps of orgasm, of their delighted surprise when my orgasm sprayed their boots and trainers with hot ejaculate.
I rested against the wall, completely spent. The One had been right. There was something delightfully exhausting about being the object of your own desire, especially when you were the object of everyone else’s too. I wanted me, and as soon as I caught my breath, I fully intended on having myself again. And they could join in this time, if they wanted to. All of them.