SPRING 1997 EROTIC FICTION CONTEST
Contest Judge: Will Brame

Our Spring '97 contest drew dozens of entries from aspiring SM fiction writers, covering
a wide range of fantasies. Here are Will's top three choices for a permanent place in our
Erotica Library.

My pick for first place in the Erotica Contest is "Masquerade," by KBugher. This is one of the few erotic stories I've seen which succeeds as a story. The eroticism is somewhat subdued: in fact, that's the story's strength. The kinky sex is a real part of the plot, unlike most erotica where plot is usually just a flimsy excuse to get wet (or hard, or whatever turns you on). Really, what more can one want? Gothic bondage, vampiric sex--this story has it all. I have a special fondness for the O. Henry plot twist at the end.

Second place goes to "Winning for Him," by Anthony Hilbert, of the UK. What I particularly liked about this story is that it was both highly imaginative and true to life. The setting is a gay SM club where a contest among male slaves is taking place. The narrator is one of the slaves. Everything about him is real: he has a weight problem, and he isn't the most handsome man in the world, but he is going to give his all to win for his Master. His Master is an ordinary laborer, but he is nonetheless accepted as a peer among dominants and other Masters. This story has a lot of depth--the more you read it, the more you can find. You should also enjoy reading about the most exciting race this side of ESPN!

The third story, "Fall From Grace," by barekatt, is a triumph of talent over technique. Barekatt is not yet a polished writer but her instincts are oh so good. Here is where we cross my Apollonian/Dionysian divide: in other words, while I admired the proficiency of the other entries, this one made me hard. It's about a naughty slavegirl caught red-handed, as it were. As for the rest of the story, I can best say that this is one Master who has found a punishment to fit the crime.

P.S. The author informs me that she greeted the news that she won by "doing Snoopy's happiness dance all over AOL." It's a pity we can't have a GIF.

Congratulations to all the winners! Enjoy!

Will

THE WINNERS

FIRST PLACE:
MASQUERADE, by KBugher
A Gothic tale of attraction, bondage and fangs.

SECOND PLACE:
WINNING FOR HIM, by Anthony Hilbert
A slave goes the distance for his Master.

THIRD PLACE:
FALL FROM GRACE, by barekatt
A naughty girl gets what's coming to her!

She saw him as soon as she entered the ballroom. Standing alone in a corner, a glass of champagne in his well-manicured hand (a ringless hand, she noted). His midnight hair fell across his shoulders, nearly blending in with his tuxedo, and even from across the room she could see the vibrant blue of his eyes peering through the simple black mask he wore.

Fixing her gaze squarely upon him, she threw back her shoulders and approached him with her best bimbo strut, hips swaying and breasts bouncing. "Mmmm, I just _love_ champagne," she whispered breathlessly when she reached his side. "Do you mind?" she asked, sliding the glass out of his grasp.

Her lavender eyes lowered beneath her full lashes as she drank, pretending not to notice as his eyes dipped uncontrollably to the low-cut neckline of her sapphire gown and the enticing view it offered. Handing the glass back to him, the tip of her tongue caught the remaining droplets of champagne shimmering on her full, pink lips. The light bounced off the blue stones in her mask, creating small prisms in her platinum tresses and reflecting in her eyes as she looked up into his face.

"So what's your name, handsome?" she asked, running a pink fingernail up and down his arm.

The man smiled, revealing glistening fangs. "The rules of the ball say we're forbidden to reveal our true identities until the unmasking at midnight," he replied. "But if you wish, you can call me Barry."

"Barry?" She giggled. "That's not a very vampiric name."

"Vampires come in all forms," he reminded her. "And what shall I call you?"

"Mansfield, Monroe, the name doesn't really matter, as long as the package looks right," she replied seductively.

Barry's eyes strayed once more to her cleavage. "I suppose you're right," he agreed, "but I'll call you Jayne for the sake of convenience."

"Then Jayne it is," she said, striking a cheesecake pose and blowing him a kiss.

The lights dimmed as a ballad drifted through the air. Wordlessly, Barry led her onto the dance floor, pulling her close as the music surrounded them. "You know that you have to spend the rest of the night with the person you're with at midnight," he whispered huskily, caressing the silky skin of her back.

"I think you're making these rules up as you go along," Jayne retorted playfully.

Barry shook his head, his soft hair sliding over the hand she rested on his shoulder. "I assure you, I'm not."

Jayne looked doubtful, but changed the subject. "Why did you choose a vampire?" she asked.

"Maybe the vampire chose me."

She reached out to touch the tip of a fang. "They seem so real. Where did you get them?"

"I've had them so long, I really don't remember," Barry replied, whirling her to the edge of the dance floor. "Would you like some more champagne?"

Jayne smiled. "I'd love some."

They danced and drank champagne until the enormous clock at the end of the room began to toll midnight. When the twelfth chime sounded, glittered confetti began to fall over the dancers and Jayne began to remove her mask.

Barry gently grabbed her wrist. "Don't ruin it."

Her smooth brow wrinkled slightly.

Jayne smiled. "Alright." she agreed softly, lowering her hand.

"I want to be alone with you," Barry whispered, and again Jayne consented.

Once they were upstairs in Barry's hotel room, he crushed Jayne against him, kissing her passionately. "I've wanted to do that all night," he finally said, his breath ragged with passion.

"What took you so long?" Jayne pulled his mouth toward hers once more.

As they moved toward the bed, they shed everything but their masks. Jayne lowered her head to run her tongue around a small silver hoop Barry wore through his right nipple. Sliding the tip of her tongue through it, she tugged gently, drawing a murmur of approval from him.

He eased her to a sitting position on the bed and bent to retrieve her stockings from the floor. Taking her hand, he began to tie one end of a nylon around her slender wrist. A slight smile played across her lips as she understood what was about to happen.

She lay on her back, her hair fanning out on the pillows and nearly blending in with the snowy sheets. Barry straddled her waist, his silky hardness caressing her stomach as he tied her hands above her to the headboard. His tongue delved deeply into her mouth once more, his body stretching out on top of hers. Her tongue toyed with his fangs, running across their sharp tips.

His mouth moved from hers down to her breasts, then to her stomach and the golden softness beneath. She writhed and pressed her body against his, tugging at her restraints, wanting to touch him.

Kneeling, he raised her hips up off the bed and slid inside of her. Jayne bit her bottom lip, her hips moving with his, her hands grasping the nylon strands above them. Their thrusts gained intensity until they spent themselves in a passionate frenzy.

Their breathing beginning to slow, Barry removed her restraints, rubbing the red marks left on her pale skin. His tongue traveled over them and down her arms to the damp skin of her neck and breasts, sampling the salty taste of evaporating sweat. His fangs sank into the sensitive flesh near a rosy nipple.

Jayne cried out, pushing him away from her as she sat up. "Jesus!" she grumbled, examining the shallow wounds.

"I'm sorry," Barry apologized, finally removing his custom-made fangs. "I thought it might be a turn-on. I didn't know it would hurt that much."

Jayne looked up at him, her full lips parting in a glistening smile. "You have to be quick," she purred, "so it's over before the person even realizes what's happening." She seized him by the hair and buried her fangs in his neck.

A race night, my Master said. He wouldn't tell me more, so I'll have to wait.

He likes to leave me to find things out. The first time He took me to the Club, as we stripped off in the locker room at the entrance, I was afraid He would be ashamed of me. I soon understood. The Club is for Masters as young and fine as Him, it's themselves they are there to show off. It doesn't matter if their slaves are balding and paunchy, skinny or ungainly. The slaves aren't there to be shown off, they're there to be humiliated and degraded for the Masters' amusement.

The last special night He took me to, He made up my face in a clown's mask, with red nose and green fright wig, and strapped to my hips a four-foot long erection of pink foam rubber. Thus equipped I was set to fight an absurd fencing bout with another priapic clown, with our Masters behind us with crops driving us on to belabor the other with our grotesque weapons, while the watching crowd jeered, whistled and threw peanuts.

Tonight my Master wears his knee-boots and harness, and puts my collar and lead on me; then He straps my arms behind me in the single-sleeve that holds my wrists to the opposite elbows. That's ominous. The only reason He bothers with the sleeve instead of handcuffs is to leave my bottom clear for punishment.

As I follow Him into the long clubroom I'm overwhelmed again by the sight of all those powerful strutting young Masters, arrogantly half-nude in their boots and straps, slaves kneeling at their feet or crawling behind them. I can feel myself getting hard, and try to will it down, then just hope that Master won't notice. This is why He calls me Slut. Before I was His I'd go with any tough boy that gave me an order, and He often reminds me that only the Providence that looks after fools and sluts kept me alive till He took control of my life.

Master sits at the bar, pulling me to my knees beside Him. As I kneel He gives my erection a quick painful tweak, just to let me know that my disobedience has been noted to be punished later. He takes the beer the bartender had ready before He reached the bar and drinks hard; then He grabs my back hair and pulls my head up to crush His mouth to mine, and floods my mouth with beer. I gulp it gladly. When He's had enough to drink He's just as likely to give me His second-hand beer from His cock as from His mouth; I'll drink either and thank him.

The slave next to me is kneeling between his Master's legs, head pillowed on his Master's thigh, eyes blissfully closed, his lips and cheeks flexing gently as he sucks with a slow rhythm. I'd love to do the same, but that isn't Master's way, so I kneel and wait while our Masters talk over our heads. The other Master has a mobile phone and pager holstered on his belt, and the stainless-steel accents of the City; my Master has big hard hands cracked by mortar, and a Geordie snarl; but here they're just Masters together, talking as equals of the training and use of their slaves.

Then they're moving from their stools, and Master jerks me to my feet towards the middle of the room. A couple of lanes have been marked with gaffer tape down the length of the carpet; at the near ends stand things like tea-trolleys on wide castors, with straps hanging off them here and there. I can see how a slave might be fastened bent over one, legs hanging down behind to kick it along, while his Master whipped him to greater efforts. I'm not fit or light, but as they stand me on a bathroom scale, making cruel jibes about not needing any handicap weights, I resolve that Master won't have to beat me to make me run my best. He'll beat me anyway, that goes without saying, but I'll run my heart out for His sake.

I'm watching them strap my competitor to his trolley, and stack weights on it because he's lean and bony, when I realize that Master is picking up my legs and strapping them under me. I'm fastened to the trolley unable to move it in any way! And the MC is handing Master a fearsome looking paddle, a couple of feet of shelf plank with one end cut down to a handle. "One lap paddling," he says, "one lap poking and a suck finish. Right?"

"Right," say Master and his rival, taking up their positions. The MC stands his own slave in front of him and raises his switch. "On your marks... Get set..." His switch cracks across his slave's arse; pain explodes behind me as Master brings that dreadful paddle round square across both my buttocks, and with a howl I roll a few feet forward. Another frightful smack, another brief roll along, and between yells of pain I almost weep with chagrin. I won't have a chance to run for my Master; I'm to be propelled down the racetrack by His paddling arm, as helpless as if I were a ball He's kicking.

Master has clearly worked out the most effective place to hit me to get the most distance, and is placing every stroke there. I have the wild idea that each pitiless blow is doubling the pain of the last one, and I know that a doubling series soon tends to infinity; the blazing agony in my buttocks certainly feels near infinite. More for a distraction than from real interest I snatch a look at our rival. He seems to be dropping behind, he can't keep up with Master's pace. The cheering, catcalling onlookers start a steady handclap, and both the racers obligingly match their strokes to it.

Then a blow lands on one hip, making me swerve a bit, and the next on the other, swinging me back on line. Master can't have missed by accident. Once, for a bet at the bar, He laid six cane strokes across my bottom on exactly the same line. By the last stroke the single welt was a raw gash that took weeks to heal, but there wasn't a mark on either side. While his friends cheered and the disgruntled challenger wrote a cheque, he kissed me and whispered "Well done, Slut." He knew what it had cost me to keep perfectly still under that torture, without a flinch or shudder to spoil his aim.

The next stroke is on one thigh, the next on the other. After so many blows on the same aching spot it's almost a relief to be hit somewhere else. Oh, Master, I love you, you're losing ground in this race rather than put me through more pain than I can stand, I'll make it up to you somehow, I swear. Though we're not losing much ground; our rival is definitely flagging, missing the beat of the handclap and knocking his slave from side to side of the track.

Then at last I roll across the line, and slump down trembling and exhausted. Vaguely I know that timers are announcing a finish seconds apart, and slaves are turning me around to face back down the track. Oh my God, not another lap - no, what did the MC say?

OH! Master's hands are fondling my burning bottom, bringing me agony and delight. A fingertip icy with lubricant strokes my anus, eases in, withdraws and returns with more chill-wet gel. Then a hot smooth tip pushes, prods, forces its way in, stretching me till I whimper through my teeth, filling me further and further. My face burns with shame, I could cry. From our first visit I've dreamed that He might fuck me in front of His friends, show them I'm worth something to Him, and now He's making it part of this cruel game. He grasps my hips and forces Himself in till He grinds Himself against my bruises, and I hear Him say coolly to the MC "Okay!"

"Ready?" the MC asks our rival. "Remember," he grins, "no pushing with hands. And you come before the finish, you're out. Get set -"

Smack! And Master thrusts into me, His cock driving even deeper, crushing my sore flesh as He pushes me along the track, bumping my bruises to the rhythm of His strong legs. My last spark of pride is gone, I'm worth nothing but to be a plaything of Him and His cruel friends who laugh at my hot face and my frantic squirming in my straps as He fucks me down the room. Come before the finish? How little they know, He could go on shafting me like this all night.

Then my dazed mind makes sense of what's happening in front of us. At the end of the track, two slaves are being tied standing against chairs, facing us. Their Masters with mocking tweaks and tickles tease their cocks hard, and roll bright red condoms onto them.

A suck finish, the MC said. My heart leaps: I can do something to win this race! And I will, Master always says my tongue is the only properly developed muscle in my body. I'll have that slave sucked dry before our rival has got his mouth open. I'll win for Him.

My Master is coming, i can hear his boots as he walks down the hall. My heart starts to race, i don't know what he is going to do, he is so mad... The door flies open and the light of the hall shines in on me as i kneel naked in the corner. My knees are spread achingly wide and my hands are clasped behind my neck--i try not to look in his eyes, i don't want to see his anger and disappointment. He just stands there in the doorway, as i hear his heavy breathing. Time is agony as he doesn't say a word, but i can see the white fire of his knuckles as he clenches his fists. Even before he speaks the tears fill my eyes.

"You worthless bitch!" he spits at me. He steps closer and i flinch. "I give you everything you need, I give you a home, I see that you are safe and well cared for. All I require of you is that you serve me faithfully." He steps closer and again i cringe. He has never hit me in anger but he has never been this mad.

"Oh, don't you worry, I'm not going to strike you. Oh no! I'm not letting you off that easy." His laugh is a low rumble of cruel promise. He flexes his hands like he wants to tear something. "I wouldn't touch you now!" he hisses. "You have embarrassed me in my own home. What the hell do you think you were doing?"

He starts to pace. My tears are falling onto my breasts. "I bring an old friend in to see my best slave and we walk into your cell to find you with your hands between your legs, drooling like a wild animal." He swings around and grabs my collar and hauls me up onto my toes. His other hand shoots out and four fingers shove in to my pussy and his thumb locks down on my clit and he squeezes it in a vise grip. I suck in a giant gulp of air, fighting not to scream at the sudden agony.

"Don't you make a sound!" he barks. "This is mine. It's for me to use." He suddenly drops me, and i fall to the floor with a whimper. "You want to sit in the dark and cum like an animal. I can arrange that for you."

"Get up!" His voice lashes me to my feet. "I'm certainly not gonna touch you now," he says. "Go open the wardrobe." I walk over to the closet as the Master snaps on the lights. "Put in your plugs. Yes, both of them. Do it quickly." I snatch the first plug from its shelf and put the tip of the lifelike dildo against my pussy as i reach for the KY jelly. "You don't need that, slut, just shove it in--now!"

I bite my lip to keep from crying harder and obey, whimpering as i force the dildo deep inside. Then i lean over and put the butt plug in. It hurts at first but my heart is in so much pain i barely notice. "Put your chastity belt on. Pull it up another notch. Tighter! And your harness, tighten the clamps around the nipples. Now your trainer." My head snaps up--he knows how much i hate the gag and blindfold. "Yes, put it on, I don't want you to get sidetracked. I want you to concentrate on your pleasure. Now your ankle cuffs, get your bracelets and come to the center of the room. Put on your leash."

My leash hangs from the center of the room and hooks to the back of my halter. Master used to use it to hold me when I slept in so i wouldn't wander at night. "And now snap your cuffs behind your back." As they click into place i hear the motors start. I am lifted off the floor as my harness tightens around me. I am hanging in my cell unable to move or see or speak. I hear air hiss and my gag starts to inflate and then my butt plug. He has both set higher than i usually have them. The world is shut out. Now the vibrator buried within the cock dildo begins to hum and i gasp at the sensation, fearful that my gathering excitement will anger Master.

I hear the heavy tread of his boots as he steps close to me. "You want to be fucked," he whispers close to my ear. "Well, now you can be fucked all night."

I whimper again--I would beg for mercy, or for the fulfillment of his threat, but i can't make words.

"Maybe I'll just go out of town for the weekend," he says coldly. Drool is already dripping down my mouth and my body is quivering in rhythm with the vibrator. I hear him snap off the light. I hear the scrape of his boots on the stone threshold as he goes to the door. "You were my favorite" he whispers, and slams the door as he leaves.