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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
Sex in the Rain Contest
First Prize

Come Back Another Day

“Sorry to make you work so hard, darlin’.”

Kizzy lifted her head, letting the softening shaft slip from between her lips. “Why do you think they call it a blow job, sweetie?” She swiped the back of her hand across her smile.

The mattress sagged as he hoisted a leg over her head and perched at the edge of the bed. He fished in the pocket of the jeans slung over the chair. “And it’s some job you do there, honey,” he said, waving the $20 bill between his fingers. “Ya know, darlin’, I’d pay—

“Ten times as much if I could afford it,” Kizzy chimed in. “Yeah, I’m a peachy cocksucker.” She snatched the bill and winked at him.

Kizzy remained sprawled on her belly, scissoring her legs while she absently rolled the bill into a cylinder. She watched him slide into his jeans and flannel shirt before he reached down and tousled her hair. “Don’t know about peachy, but you’re sure a sweet one. Mm mm, what you do to a man. Should be a crime.”

“It is in forty-nine states, lover boy.” Kizzy burst into giggles.

“Dizzy Kizzy.” He chucked her chin. “See ya next week, sweet cheeks.” The roar of rain amplified when he flung the door open, then muffled just as quickly when it slammed shut. She bolted from the bed and swept the small heap of crumpled tens and twenties, along with a half-full box of Trojans, from the bedside table into the open drawer below. She bumped it closed with her hip and retreated to the bathroom.

Raindrops pelted the window alongside the sink where she stood brushing her teeth. She reapplied her lipstick, her nose nearly touching her reflection to see beyond the haze etched into the mirror. Kizzy couldn’t resist pressing her lips to the glass, leaving a perfect imprint of a bright red cupid’s bow.

She stripped off her tank top, shorts, and panties, strewing them behind her as she made her way to the makeshift closet. She rummaged through the sparse row of hangers, stopping at the black dress with the bold flower print. It was a real find at Goodwill. Too large at her narrow shoulders, but he liked her in it. The way the hem flirted at her calf. The way she shimmied out of it without unzipping. Said it made her look like one of those classy, brassy dames from the forties. She smiled. Dames. Who talks like that these days?

She slipped the dress over her bare body and undid her ponytail, soft waves tumbling to her shoulders. She used her fingers to create a side part in her hair, letting it fall over one eye. A brunette Veronica Lake he’d called her. Whoever that was.

Before she could slide into her only pair of heels, the door creaked open and she turned to see him standing beneath the bare bulb just inside the doorway. Raindrops speckled his jacket and fedora. Her father had owned a hat like that. He also sported a neat salt-and-pepper goatee like her father had. Only these were softer against her cheek. Or maybe her cheek had calloused over these last two years.

Kizzy’s pulse pounded as she approached him. She teetered on tiptoe and lifted her face to his. When he lowered his head, the well of water collected in the dimple of the fedora spilled forward and breached the brim. Just before their lips met, a cool stream drizzled down Kizzy’s brow and trickled along the bridge of her nose. The droplets pooled at their lips and a shiver rippled through her, the rainwater conducting the electricity between them. She stepped into him, crushing her body and her mouth to his, the cotton dress wicking away raindrops clinging to his jacket.

He broke the kiss, leaving her lipstick smudged and her eyes dazed. His gaze never left her even as he removed his hat and jacket, flinging them toward the chair in the corner. Kizzy warmed under his scrutiny, a flush rising into her cheeks, keenly aware that her nipples strained against the damp dress that clung to her curves. He reached out to fondle the tiny silver cross nestled in the hollow of her throat. When he stepped toward her, she stepped back. Another step forward, another back until the delicate chain snapped and she tumbled onto the bed.

He crawled over her and she frantically bunched the dress at her waist with one hand and fumbled at his belt with the other. He lowered his head to mouth the silhouette of a nipple through the flimsy fabric. When she wound her arms and legs around his body, locking in him a cage of limbs, he heaved his hips forward and entered her in a single, practiced thrust. She expelled a lungful of air into his mouth, hovering a whisper away from hers. “Kismet, my Kismet,” he murmured repeatedly, like a prayer. Each word was punctuated by a plunge so deep she thought it might skewer her heart. He rose and fell above her and she clung to him until her body buckled and her senses flooded. At the moment he came, he laid his lips flush to hers, sealing her completely. Kizzy closed her eyes and basked in his shadow. When her body fell limp beneath his, he kissed her eyelids and toppled to his back beside her.

While rain drummed against the shingles, Kizzy drifted and dreamed she was inside a rain stick; a pebble glancing off a million others on their descent to the bottom of the hollow cactus. Just before she was dashed against the pebbles that made it ahead of her and crushed by the ones rushing behind, a sudden deluge against the roof startled her awake. Without turning her head, Kizzy reached over and her fingertips grazed the damp paper money on the mattress beside her. She turned her palm to the ceiling to let the cold rain splatter against it.

Anneliese de Charpillon is a suitably pretentious nome de plume. She writes mostly non-humorous erotica from her home in Baltimore, Maryland. Coincidentally, her alter ego is a published writer of mostly humorous non-erotica, and works from the same residence. Thankfully, they usually get along quite well. Mdme de Charpillon is evidently striving to set a record for the longest time taken to complete a novel, The Coming Out of Rosa. She has been known to exclaim, “Damn, I’m good!” at various intervals throughout her writing process, and is keenly aware that her bio contains eight adverbs.

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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
Sex in the Rain Contest
First Prize