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EROTIC SHORT FICTION 2

The below coming-of-age tale of heterosexual physical discovery is generally very mild in nature, although some readers may still be offended by certain moments. Please turn back now if you are of a sensitive disposition. An utterly pathetic anti-pornography law, masquerading under the righteous banner of protecting vulnerable people, has recently been implemented by conservative elements within the UK government. You now have to have your picture taken if you wish to access adult material online. This law will suffocate our privacy and bring danger to those working in sensitive areas. I hope my artistry below will safely fly below this dark new radar of censorship. My heart goes out to anyone and everyone affected by this miserable new period, in a country quickly being strangled by villainous conservatism. Wank with freedom, my kinky sisters and brothers!

ORANGE POP

Two college students get together to undertake some extracurricular activity that does not feature on the institution’s official syllabus.

 

DISCLAIMER: ALL CHARACTERS INVOLVED IN SEXUALLY EXPLICIT ACTIVITY ARE 18+ AND ALL OPINIONS EXPRESSED WITHIN THE ENTIRELY FICTIONAL SERIES OF EVENTS BELONG TO THE CHARACTERS AND NOT THE AUTHOR.

England, 1970

The potential cast members for Bradbury Gate College of Art and Technology’s annual open production, this year an eclectic variety show, were to be divided into four groups: actors, singers, dancers, and others. Simple enough, one might believe, but the lineup of auditioning bodies had become somewhat apprehensive about what “others” could possibly mean. Whilst the director would have final say over whom went in what quarter, the performers were allowed the opportunity to volunteer for whatever they were best at. Or, at least, what they felt they were best at.

This was an amateur affair, after all, so skill-ranges had to be determined as the auditions went along.

Vicky Roach had risen her hand to try out for the acting group. She enjoyed soap operas on television and going to the theatre with her parents, often reading books alone in her room out loud, acting the dialogue parts with a great deal of gusto.

Archie Finch had volunteered for the singing group. Despite his lecture-mates enthusing over Merseybeat and rhythm & blues bands, Archie preferred lighter pop songs. He kept this relatively to himself, not wanting to unsteady the social boat, although he did find himself miming and dancing along to the various pop shows that had become a staple of modern television. More often than not, this behaviour caused concern with his conservative father.

Flamboyance was not a desired outlet in the Finch household, but the cheerful boy dismissed this attitude as “old and boring”.

Vicky and Archie were both disappointed, therefore, when they found themselves slotted into undesired performing groups. Vicky was deemed a competent enough vocalist to be placed amongst the singers, whereas Archie was tragically slotted into the mysterious “others” category.

Our two protagonists only knew one another casually in passing, often quite literally down the cavernous college halls, but they were still able to detect the disappointment on each other’s faces as the lots were drawn.

“The director doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Vicky said to Archie, muttering conspiratorially so as not to cause a stir.

Archie, who had noticed the girl discreetly shuffling over to him, nodded with due exhaustion.

“He’s probably right though, I can’t sing!” Said Archie, looking over at the freshly posted list of what “others” might refer to. “Oh right, I’m a set painter now.”

Vicky groaned and rubbed Archie’s shoulder sympathetically.

“That doesn’t stop you singing as you paint!” She said, with a conspicuous burst of positivity.

Even she did not know where it had come from.

Archie looked the girl up and down surreptitiously. She was tall and gangly, with short, light-chestnut hair with “curtains” falling down to her eyes. She was known as something of a “tomboy” about campus, and not to be trifled with. Archie did not find her to be intimidating though, just more of a kindred spirit.

“What do you think you’ll sing?” Said Archie, looking down at his hands that had not once touched a paintbrush.

“I don’t think I get to decide,” Vicky said with a shrug, “but hopefully nothing from an opera or any hard rock!”

Archie chuckled, the sardonic tomboy mercifully lifting his spirits.

“Mr Stevens seems more like a musical guy.” Said Archie, eyeing the director with venom. “Sometimes I think he miscasts things as a show of power.”

“Good for him.” Said Vicky. “His loss!”

Archie, not used to long periods of social contact, began moving away into a corner, purely out of habit. The true limelight he reserved for when he wanted to sing. Dark corners were his natural setting, so it seemed.

Not used to being dismissed so easily, Vicky skipped merrily over to said corner and brushed Archie’s mop of bright-blond hair from his scowling face.

“Why don’t you come back to mine to rehearse one day? I can give you a crash course in painting, and you can tell me when I’m flat or sharp!” She said, her positivity now boiling precariously close to the rim of irritation.

Upon hearing the words ”flat” and “sharp”, Archie glanced briefly down at the girl’s chest, then replied with one of his patented shrugs of low-energy disinterest.

“I meant whether I’m singing too low or too high, you devil!” She said, giggling lightly. “We should get the setlist this afternoon, so why not come home with me after that?!”

With his musical hopes dashed, Archie honestly cared neither one way or another. This was also far more effort he was originally willing to put into the occasion, so he much preferred just going back to his own home and singing in front of the television and his disapproving father.

“Cool, I’ll wait for you outside after then!” Said Vicky, ignoring Archie’s obvious unwillingness to provide her with an answer.

On their way back to Vicky’s house, nestled within the leafy suburb of Claremont, the two students read the director’s setlist and full call sheet, making satyrical comments regarding who in the production would be singing or dancing or acting or “other” to what.

“She’s too fat to prance that high!” Said Vicky.

“Yeah, and he’s not gay enough to sing that!” Said Archie.

They both roared with laughter and found themselves lost in their own little world of mischief.

Vicky’s house was a pleasant semidetached rental, decorated with a feminine touch where femininity was allowed, and masculinity where it was required by the patriarch. Vicky’s room was the smallest of the two spares, with her bed set against the wall opposite the single-glazed window.

“Dad refuses to upgrade to double, so it gets a bit chilly in here!” The girl said, rubbing warmth into her arms.

“My dad’s like that too.” Said Archie, standing awkwardly in the centre of the four walls, not knowing how to conduct himself in a girl’s bedroom.

“Sit where you like!” Said Vicky, taking a tumbler from her bedside table and heading out the room. “I’ll get you a drink of squash.”

 

Of the furnishings on offer, Archie noted, was a tatty armchair shoved into the far corner, the armchair clearly having been handed down to Vicky through multiple generations. There was also a creaky office chair at the desk under the window, which looked about ready to topple over. Then there was the bed. It did not feature the pink finish and frilly embroidery Archie expected from a female, but Vicky was not your average girly-girl.

Playing it safe, Archie went over to the bookcase by the armchair and sat cross-legged on the floor to catalogue the girl’s literature collection. There was nothing on display that would usually interest him, but Archie was not above trying something new. He resorted to pulling out whatever book had interesting spine artwork, which he acknowledged was not very discerning. But, he reasoned, one has to start somewhere.

“There you go! We’ve run out of squash, so I dug some fizzy pop out of the fridge for you!” Said Vicky, placing the plastic bottle of orange soda down on the bookcase, inches from Archie’s blond mop.

“Thanks,” said the boy, taking a hearty swig as he leafed away with curiosity, “you’ve got loads to read here!”

Vicky squatted down on the carpet next to Archie and grimaced with embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a bookworm.” She said, picking out titles at random, which became something of a nervous tick. “See anything you like?”

“Nah,” said Archie, trying his best to straighten the order he had spoiled, “I’m too thick to read stuff like this.”

Vicky chuckled and put an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“Don’t be silly!” She said. “I’ll pick you out something to borrow before you go!”

Archie nodded and stood to take a finishing swig of the orange pop. A burp rose deep down in his belly, which he was successfully able to suppress. When he dropped the empty bottle into the girl’s wicker bin basket, he noticed she was now sat coquettishly on her bed, widthways, with her back to the wall. She patted the empty space on the duvet next to her.

“Come sit with me.” Vicky said, with a tone that implied refusal would be of great offence.

Not being the sort to make a social faux pas lightly, Archie delicately climbed onto the single bed and shuffled gently a clear foot away from his hostess.

“Closer, silly!” Said Vicky, clasping Archie’s hand and yanking him playfully towards her. “I don’t frighten you, do I?!”

Archie shook his head and bounced his backside over so that his right arm was touching Vicky’s left.

“No, I’m just not used to being in someone else’s house.” He said, resting his hands demurely in his lap.

“I’m the same,” mused Vicky, throwing a single homeless sock onto the desk opposite, “I’m not really into collecting friends.”

Archie snorted and shrugged once again.

“Do you want to practice some songs then?” Said the boy, conversation not being a honed skill of his either.

“I’m okay just to sit here for awhile.” She said, unfolding the setlist once again. “Looks like they want me to sing a song about football.”

“I think the World Cup’s on.” Said Archie, staring up at the ceiling, which featured crayon illustrations assumedly scribbled there by the room’s current occupant.

“I just hope they don’t want us to sing one about being in the showers afterwards!” Said Vicky, chuckling dryly.

“Yeah, but the boys would probably like to see that, I bet.” Said Archie, not expecting himself to push the conversation in such a provocative direction.

“And some of the girls too!” Said Vicky, self-consciously noting that many of her statements came pre-fitted with exclamation marks. “Would you like to see me in that sort of thing?!”

The devastating silence that followed most likely registered quite high on the Richter scale on a seismometer belonging to a lonesome seismologist in New Zealand on the other side of the planet.

Long sentence, that. The author sincerely apologises to you, patient reader.

“I dunno.” Said Archie, shrugging the most important shrug of his life.

“Would you look at my tits?” Said the girl.

Shrug.

“And if I turned around, would you look down at my bum?”

Shrug.

“Then, if I turned back, would you peek between my legs?”

Not a muscle on Archie’s body moved, except for one in particular.

“If you shrug one more time, young man, I swear I will get another bottle of pop and pour it over your head!” Vicky said, rubbing Archie’s leg lovingly.

This broke the rising tension perfectly, with Archie letting out a nervous laugh that included a knowing cough on the end as icing.

“Would you be offended if I did?” He said, becoming more and more concerned at the shape of his jeans, specifically around the zip and button region.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t.” Said the girl, giving the boy a cat-like head “boop” of affection.

Archie suddenly pushed himself off the bed and made for the bedroom door.

“Where’s the toilet?! Drinks go right through me!” He said, rubbing his groin symbolically, which only served to make the tightening sensation worse for him.

“Just across the hall, honey.” Said Vicky, with a wry smile.

Inside the agonisingly middle-class bathroom, Archie stood and relieved himself into the bowl. The pastel hue of the toilet seat complimented the pastel quality of the entire room. It was all very civilised, from the expensive bar of department store soap, the immaculately-folded towels intended for use by guests that never came, to the potpourri dutifully blocking out uncivilised odours.

Archie desperately tried not to offend any of the inanimate objects watching with his stream of fizzy orange piss.

After flushing as quietly as he could, Archie splashed his face with cold water and stared hard at his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror, hoping above all hopes that the person looking back at him would take over the trickiest moment of his life. It did not, so the boy sighed and ambled back through to Vicky’s bedroom.

The first thing he noticed upon exiting the bathroom, was a soft piano ballad emitting from the girl’s record player, possibly the one she wished to practice. The second thing he noticed, as he now stood at the bedroom door, was a pair of nickers, lying strategically in the centre of the floor. As Archie looked up from the discarded underwear, his eyes fell upon Vicky, who stood completely naked against the bookshelf, her elbows resting on top of the pine furniture.

“What do you think?!” She said, a pensive grin attempting to mask her own uncharacteristic shyness.

This was not the time for shrugging, Archie knew at least.

“You look really n-n-nice.” He said, in a barely-audible stutter.

Vicky held out an inviting hand.

“Come dance with me.”

Archie shuffled forward and took her hand.

“Is this the song you wanted to…”

Vicky shook her head and placed the boy’s right hand on her shoulder and left hand on her bare hip.

“No, this is just for us.” She said, as the two began to sway rhythmically from side-to-side and circle delicately on the spot.

After a few minutes, the song changed to one with a faster tempo. Vicky pulled slightly back from the trembling boy and glanced down at his attire.

“Well, I don’t want to be the only dickhead standing here naked.” She said, her sassy confidence returning. “Drop your stuff on the armchair, will you?”

Archie had never timed himself undressing at night, having neither the need nor interest to, but he felt pretty confident that he was now down to his underpants in record time. Despite Vicky’s own model of inhibition, Archie was somewhat apprehensive about this last item of clothing, so he looked over to his hostess for some sort of encouragement.

“Go on!” She said, rubbing herself in anticipation.

She noted, as Archie’s frayed Y-fronts were slung onto the mounting clothes pile, that they contained what boys referred to as “skid marks”, which she decided it best not to comment on. Instead, she stored the build-up of laughter in her head for much, much later.

Archie returned to his dance partner, this time his erect penis pressing lightly against her bellybutton.

“Sorry.” He said, looking down at the wayward body part.

“Why are you apologising?!” Said Vicky, reaching down and giving the boy’s dick a loving stroke. “That’s what it’s there for, silly!”

Archie laughed nervously and placed his hands back in their original dance positions.

“What do we do now?” He said, his knees weakening.

“We do this.” Said Vicky, leaning in and pressing her lips to his.

Archie had kissed a girl once when he was younger, but he remembered more the faded memory of that moment, rather than the truth of the event itself. Vicky lead the way though, much to his relief. She pushed her tongue into his mouth and found his own. She tasted of bubblegum. He tasted of orange pop.

“Am I doing it right?” Said Archie, pulling away slightly.

Vicky just nodded, taking the boy’s hand from her shoulder and allowing it to graze her breast. The tips of his fingers ran over her nipple, before being guided down further to her tummy.

“Keep going.” She said, in a soft whisper.

The boy’s hand finally found and cupped the warm area that the girl’s nickers had, until recently, so frustratingly covered up. His middle finger, in particular, stroked the moist opening with gleeful curiosity.

“It’s all yours.” Vicky said, directly into Archie’s ear. “That’s what it’s there for.”

From somewhere within the depths of the boy’s stomach and groin, came a growing surge of uncontrollable adrenaline. He would forever describe the sensation as a “white light”, but adjectives had never been his strong suit. The sensation condensed from what felt like a rain cloud into a bubble and finally into a jet of excitement. He clasped his penis and began tugging at it.

“Oh no!” He said, squirting cum over the girl’s pale stomach and then up to her chest.

Vicky caught much of the fluid with her hand, not wanting the fluid to stain the bedroom carpet, then began rubbing what she held over her torso, as if it were the family’s expensive department store soap.

“I’m really sorry!” Said Archie, bending over in crippling ecstasy. “I didn’t mean to!”

Knowing how sensitive boys were at being laughed at during such moments, Vicky chose to simply smile and lick her fingers clean.

“See? I showed you how to do some painting!”

Archie laughed and mopped up more of his cum as it continued to escape the tip of his weakening erection.

Vicky bent down and wrapped her mouth around it and sucked what remained from the boy’s shaking body.

“Did you enjoy that?” She said, pulling Archie back within her curves and giving him a tender kiss on the cheek.

Archie nodded, panting with exhaustion.

“Oh golly, did I get any on the floor?!” He said, his social awkwardness returning like a boulder tumbling down a mountainside.

Vicky shrugged.

“Fuck if I know. Nobody cares. Let’s just keep dancing for a bit.” She said, scraping the record player’s needle back to the slow piano ballad.

As with his attitude towards his undressing habits, Archie had no idea, nor the interest to know, how long the pair stood there swaying in the scent of potpourri. All he was aware of was that he did not want it to end. For all he knew, it did not end, and the two were still standing there, naked and trembling, to this very day, with everything that would come after it being just a bad dream. But Archie soon became conscious that the world around them was still going on, so must they also.

Once the pair had gotten dressed and sat back down on the bed, words began to return to their lips.

“I think mum’s home from work soon.” Said Vicky, pushing herself back off the bed and selecting a book from the shelf. “I’ll put this in your satchel to try out.”

After giving Archie a short synopsis of the novel, which he failed to pay attention to, and dropped the book into his bag, Vicky fished the bottle of orange pop that Archie had thrown in the bin.

“Oh and here.” She said, handing it to a confused Archie.

“It’s empty.” He said, still at a loss.

Vicky perched herself on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on the boy’s knee.

“I know, but I want you to fill it.” She said. “When you get home, rinse it out, then run some tap water until it’s halfway up.

“Uh, okay.” Said Archie, bemused.

“Then, each day until our next rehearsal, I want you to wank into it.”

Archie’s gaze shifted from the empty bottle to his hostesses twinkling eyes.

“Whu-why?!” He said, with a stammer.

Vicky shrugged.

“Because I want you to.” She said, playfully swiping the top of the boy’s blond mop. “Be sure to fill it up with your sticky cum as much as possible.

Archie looked back at the bottle and wondered how long it would take to fill up half of it

“Then what?” He said, scratching his head.

“Then give it back to me.” She said, not believing anything she was proposing to be out of the ordinary. “I want to be able to take a sip every day you’re not around and add a splash to my bath.”

Silence.

“I want to feel you all over me, inside and out.” She continued. “Got it?”

Archie finally nodded, deciding that, while he had yet to hear a request as strange as this one, perhaps it was a good place to start.

So, for the next fortnight, Archie came and went about his daily business, keeping the half-filled bottle of water in a safe place so as not to be disturbed by nosy parents, filling the rest of it up as and when he masturbated. At this point in his life, that meant twice a day. At least. It was trickier to aim down the bottle’s rim than simply squirting into his usual dirty sock, a sock which now lay rejected beneath his bed.

This bizarre bottle challenge was finally one he was prepared to rise to.

When he eventually turned up for the production’s next rehearsal, Vicky was nowhere to be found. As Archie searched about the place, he could feel the warm bottle of water and semen in the satchel by his side. As the rehearsal was about to begin in earnest, he gave into impatience and approached the director, the incorrigible Mr Stevens.

“Excuse me, sir, but where is that Vicky girl that was here last time?!” Archie said, ignoring the fey dictator’s mean-spirited eye roll.

“What group is she in?!” The director said, tapping a pen loudly against his beloved clipboard.

“Singer.”

“Oh, that bitch quit!” He said, gesturing to his new call sheet. “She moved away. Warned me about it actually, so god know’s why I let her sign up.

Archie gasped and visibly sank into himself.

“I guess she doesn’t want that book back then.” He said to himself.

”Your sweetheart, huh?” Said Mr Stevens, showing a modicum of sympathy. “Girl’s will do that to you, I’m afraid.”

Archie nodded, for reasons he would never fully understand.

“She left a note for you, now that I think of it.” Said the director. “One second, babe!”

As Mr Stevens fluttered away to his office, Archie stood there sinking into abyssal despair. The noise in the rehearsal space died away in his ears, even though it began to rise. There were shadows where there was bright light. Emptiness where groups of students mingled. Screams where there was laughter. He felt like a mouse amongst monsters.

“Here you go, babe.” Said Mr Stevens, shoving a neatly folded piece of ruled notepaper into Archie’s clammy hand.

The words contained within held less emotion than a synopsis one might find on the back cover of one of Vicky’s many books. He scrunched the note up into a ball and threw it into the industrial bin, along with his embarrassing bottle of wank, outside as he stormed off the premises. After continuing on briefly past a corner, Archie stopped, spun on his heel, and returned to the bin to retrieve the note. He flattened it back out as best he could, then slipped it into his satchel.

He would never read its neat handwriting again, but he committed himself to the task of keeping it stashed away. The location of it he could not now tell you. Perhaps it was secreted within the pages of his own burgeoning book collection, or in a box of ancient odds and ends up in the loft.

1978

The best part of a decade’s worth of grotesque fashion later, as he sat in the larger of the three Bradbury Gate theatres with his subsequent wife, Linda, whom he had met at university studying botany, Archie believed he spotted Vicky Roach amongst the play’s supporting cast. If it was indeed her, it meant she had allowed her hair to grow long and her confident aura to fade. Linda, knowing her husband much better than Vicky had or Archie ever could himself, noticed a wave of darkness passing over her partner’s gentle features.

“I love you.” She said simply, brushing the signature blond mop from his watering eyes.

Archie had not shrugged since the afternoon he had spent with Vicky.

“I love you too.” He said, with a crooked smile. 

He leaned across and kissed his wife on the cheek.

Sitting on the other side of Archie was the pair’s 5-year-old son, Sebastian, who had inherited his father’s love of pop music and dancing in front of the television. As well as his blond hair, albeit slightly browner. Archie very much approved of his son’s flamboyance, remembering how much the boy’s departed grandfather would not.

Upon hearing some quiet whimpering, Archie leaned down to his diminutive child.

“What’s up, soldier?” He said.

“Can I have some more sweets, daddy?!” The boy said, a glimmer of hope in his eye.

Archie retrieved the bag of sugary snacks from his wife, which the couple had snuck in past the disinterested theatre attendants, and poured a few into the boy’s cupped hands.

“There you go.” Archie said, the house lights dimming for the performance’s second half.

“Thanks, daddy!” Whispered Sebastian. “I love you!”

Archie kissed his son on the top of his head.

“I love you too, my little darling!”

“Can I have some orange pop too?!” Said the boy, licking sugar from his fingers.

Archie’s expression went blank.

THE END