In Search of a Story

"OK, so it's the Literotica Nude Day story contest, opened already, and you've decided to give it a late run?"

One of my characters, Alex, casually flicked the pages of the story being written, waiting for the ink to dry before he turned to the next page.

"Oh, this page is blank."

Well yes, of course it is. It's not been written yet. For a university graduate, sometimes Alex isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.

He makes up for it by being six foot tall, a long lean body reasonably fit from swimming. The kind of lightly muscled body that the quieter girls go for, with a mop of long, golden blond hair that always goes far lighter in summer, setting off the light tan he gets after a couple of weeks in the sun. Plus, he's a Leo, so I can run with the king of the lions trope if I feel I must, which, I confess, I have, several times.

Alex doesn't do the kind of intense, driven swimming, up and down the pool following the black line swimming, time measured by tumbles at each end swimming. Twenty, thirty, forty laps. Not that kind of swimming at all. Alex doesn't have the stamina nor the macho nor the patience for stuff like that. Also, I was never particularly a team player myself, and generally avoided locker rooms if I could. So we don't do jocks, cocks and socks stories.

Having said that, Alex was a second favourite body for an older guy in college for a while, and the first favourite was several inches taller, so perhaps the material is there. Two good looking lads and a Marquis de Sade look alike? Second thoughts, probably not. Or possibly not, depending on taste and inclination and the time of day.

No, Alex is not the sporty type, he's too lazy for that. His swimming is the type you do at the beach, at the town pool (if the sea isn't nearby but the girls in bikinis are, glowing with beads of water trailing into their cleavage), or in the streams and rivers cold in the mountains.

Whilst he has done one or two of the mountain stream or Scottish loch swims, he's pretty keen for me not to use those experiences in a story.

"Shrinks the cock too much, boss, and shrivelled tiny balls are not a good look."

Fair call. That'd be a whole extra paragraph, just to get a bit of heft on before stepping out of the water and striding up the rocks to the girl sitting wide eyed but coy by the side of the lake. Plus, mountain air is too cold in winter, so the girl would actually be freezing her tits off and all huddled in her anorak. And if it was summer, flies would be everywhere. Either way, not the best starting point for a tall tale with a happy ending.

"Hmmm, looks like we've just eliminated a walk in the woods and an encounter with a delightful nude hiker as our theme, eh boss. Too fucking cold. Shame in way, though, coz her nipples would have been huge from the cool air." Alex paused, "maybe you could write those nipples in somewhere else?"

Well yes, I could, but again, goose bumps and blue lips from the cold, it's hardly fair on the girl, is it? So I'm with Alex on this one. No nudes in the woods. OK, let's turn the page and think of something different.

There's one thing to be said for Alex, he can actually make a handy narrator because he's got a mind of his own and can run with it into some strange situations. Also, he's got a bad habit of stealing women I know, or women I have known, meeting them in stories, and generally having his way with them. What this means right now is, I've got another source of advice handy, because the bastard is sitting there with one of my favourite women.

"What we could do," ponders Ella, "is send Alex up to the north coast and put him alone on a seven mile beach. Surfing in the nude is guaranteed to get a rise from all the rough and tumble in the waves, and he can come out of the water with his cock already thickening against his thigh...."

Ella might be on to something, and I've not written her into anything yet, so this could work. Alex will gave to grow up a bit though, because Ella's in her early thirties and knows what she likes and gets what she wants. She won't want a mere boy, just turned eighteen. Our Ella will want someone who's learned a thing or two about women, or at least knows what foreplay actually means. It's not counting to four and diving straight down.

She's warming to her theme, and I think she might have something going here.

"I can be the wild and free hippy girl, the greenie environmentalist nature girl, and the free spirited earth witch, all rolled into one. It's probably best if I have a shack back in the dunes somewhere, at the end of a long road a long way from town. I can run across the dunes after a long day doing something - you're the writer, you'll have to figure that bit out - and see the golden Adonis lying on the sand...."

"Oh, I get it," says Alex, "I'm going to be the one who gets sand up his ass and in his eyes, while you go down on my cock, which of course has hardened nicely as it swings while I walk up from the surf. And because the sun is so gloriously warm, I've taken my shaft and am idly stroking it."

"Hey, nature boy, if you're gonna get naked for this damn story, you gotta get naked. If you're on a beach, where the fuck do you think the sand is going to go? I thought of it first, so why should I get the sand all through my ass and pussy?"

She looked at Alex with a wry smile on her face, her dark eyes sparkling with glee.

"I mean, I am assuming that you will be so hot that I'll be dripping wet at the sight of your hard cock with its big purple-red head, and if my cooze is all wet, there's no way it's going anywhere near sand."

"Fucking women, always want it their way. Boss, can you write us a really big towel or a blanket?"

Not really, because you'll have to walk 45 minutes down the beach to get away from the families and the kiddies: a) you'd have to carry it all the way down the beach and you're a lazy shit, and b) how would you know you'd need a big towel? You wouldn't meet Ella until she came over the dunes.

You'll want me to write you a tent and a camel next. Who do you think you are? Lawrence of fucking Arabia?

"Fuck. Can you at least write me a nine inch and really thick cock so the bitch gags on it? If I've gotta put up with sand up my ass, she should have to stretch her lips and do some work for a change. Fucking hippy chicks, swanning about in tie-die blouses and wrap around skirts."

"No, it's nude day, remember. I'll be coming over the dunes in all my dusky, naked glory. Besides, you can do naked, the boss needs me to do nude. You need a set of glorious curves to do nude, with just a tiny pair of ear rings." Ella stopped, posed, and pondered. "Hey, maybe I could have a belly piercing, or even better, labia rings. I've always wanted some of those."

No, there are several problems here. First, I can't write a niner for Alex. I have to start with what he's got because that's all I know. What's wrong with his eight anyway? It's a couple over the Kinsey average (remembering that old Alf was out with his ruler in the late 1940s and early 1950s, and things might have changed since then, what with better diets and folk growing taller nowadays), and has made the eyes of several women light up. Several of my women, too.

Just had a thought - what if the Kinsey average is still the Kinsey average? That's gonna look odd, all of those tall guys you see in the street (or in the gyms I don't go to) with a disproportionately smaller todger. They've all going to look like the statue David. Awkward, lol.

Moving on....

Secondly, I've got leading characters squabbling already, before they even start in a story. It'll be like a movie where the leading actor and actress don't get on, and we all know what turkeys they turn out to be.

Thirdly, and this one's the clincher, these ideas so far have just been localised nudity. And that's no big deal, because it's what we expect a couple or three or a small group of people to get down to when things heat up.

No, we've got to come up with something that takes on the idea of nudity in public, where you shouldn't be nude; or if it's OK, things get out of control. Besides, Laurel has said in the rules that we shouldn't just take a normal (define normal) story and set it in a nudist camp.

"We've got another problem as well, boss," says Alex, who has been counting. "We've already got 1500 words and nothing has happened. You've already written a stupidly long preamble elsewhere, we don't need another one. The readers, if we've still got any left, will be getting fucking bored. They're not here to read a script conference."

"He's right, for once," Ella cuts in, "the readers are here to get a nice wet between their legs or a thickening in their jeans. You're the writer, boss, you need to lift your game."

Fuck.

"Already done, boss. Nicole Kidman: last line, Eyes Wide Shut."

Smart ass. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Hugh Grant, Four Weddings and a Funeral."

Will you shut the fuck up, the pair of you? How the fuck can I think with you jokers making so much noise? I'll shut the book if you're not careful. Have some fucking respect for the writer, won't you?

I need a coffee. Fuck, this should have been easy. Bloody competitions, eh?

Now I'm turning into a fucking Canadian. Jesus wept.

--- ooo OOO ooo ---

"Do you reckon you can do this?"

Ella was on the other side of the little cafe table, one of those cast iron ones with open lace work on its top, white painted and circular. She was sitting with one leg propped up on the third chair, her knee high and the thin cloth of her dress falling between her thighs, the whole long length of her tanned legs showing.

She looked at me, twirling her hair in her fingers, twisting a long fall of dark brown, almost blackness, down one side of her face and over her shoulder. She looked down to her lap, deliberately dragging my eyes with hers to see the dark folds of cloth between her legs.

"It's hot," she added, and picked up the folds of her dress and lifted the cloth from the top of her thighs, revealing the dark cleft of her bare sex. She let her thighs spread wide, as if the heat was the reason she needed to splay her legs, to cool her centre.

"God, not if you do that, even before I start," I answered, a small rising pulse in my groin.

"But you need to get used to seeing dark slits and flashes of hair, if you're going to make it down the street, across the square, and up the steps of the town hall. We need the prize money, Alex, else this holiday gets cut short. We're nearly broke now."

We were half way through our own version of a grand tour of Europe and had ended up in an FKK resort in Austria. The resort, which was almost the whole village, was running an oddball competition, the prize money well worth winning. But it involved a long walk through the town.

The thing was, all of the folk in the town were enthusiastic naturists, and the competition required me to walk about 500 metres through the whole town. My challenge was to not react to the display of naked bodies that would be before me; dozens, hundreds of people maybe.

Their challenge was the complete opposite - their task was to get a reaction from me, in the face of their provocation. The good folk of this town could do whatever they chose to trigger a response from the competition entrants.

The guide books noted that very few people managed to get through the walk without an erection or a dampness between their legs, so the prize pool was like an escalating jackpot. It would appear that the town folk looked forward, once a year, to a day of wanton excess and debauchery.

Ella wasn't helping my concentration, as she now dropped her fingers to the bare breast which was delightfully curved, her dark nipple clearly visible through the low slung arm hole of her sleeveless dress.

"Come on Alex, you've got to concentrate on maths or recipes for cooking banana cake, something to take your mind off all the bare flesh. I don't know." She was head coach. "You've got to focus. But not on me, not on my gorgeous breasts nor my wide open sex, just begging for your tongue or fingers."

We'd talked about this the night before. I had to numb my mind from the potentially arousing sights and sounds that would be thrown before my eyes and ears. But I was beginning to think Ella was getting a bit carried away with her coaching. Did she want me to win the money or not?

Damn. Is sine opposite over adjacent, or is that cosine? Probably both wrong, but anything would be a distraction.

"OK, I've just got to get this done."

I squared my shoulders, gritted my teeth, and got to my feet. The owner of the cafe came up to me and tied around my neck a big square of coloured cloth with the number 3 on it, and a ripple went through the watching crowd.

"Contestant Number 3 has started his walk, ladies and gentlemen. Do your worst." The tinny sound of the town's tannoy system echoed off the walls, startling a flock of pigeons which rose, wings clattering, into the sky.

The owner of the cafe was the first to spin her seductive trap. She was a woman somewhere in her early fifties I would say, but incredibly well kept for her age. Her hair was cut short around her head, a sexy grey, and her eyes sparkled with mischief as she planted a full kiss on my mouth, her bare breasts, small and still firm, pressing against my front. My nipples tightened and a thread connected to a nerve in the base of my cock. A twitch.

She ran one finger around the back of my neck, her touch a lightness that brought a shiver to my skin. Oh no, an older woman. She would know every trick in the book, how to please a man, and more importantly, how to please herself. I love older women, I learn so much from them.

I politely lifted her hands from my neck, and turned to the long street, its cobbled stones curved and patterned down the hill.

"Have you met my daughter, Hilde?" the proprietress whispered in my ear, her tongue the faintest tip of wet on the lobe. Fuck, I'd not even started walking, and there was another pulse in my groin, as a curvaceous blonde smiled up at me, the red tips of her nipples rouged and tight, topping the roundest breasts I had seen for quite some time.

Of course her name was Hilde, how could it not be in this idyllic hamlet? The twin twists of her long, golden plaits fell down past her tiny waist, the ends of each plait tied to each other with a bright red bow. And of course, the red bow rested on her delightfully plump belly, just above a wide spread of blonde hair at the base of it.

Ella, help! I'm not going to make the distance. I looked around but she was already walking down the street, and had entered into the spirit of the competition. She too had to strip nude, or my prize, if I made it to the town hall steps, would be forfeit.

I knew those delicious peaches far too well, and if I followed her with my eyes it would be over, even before I took a step. So I pulled my eyes away from the memorable sway of Ella's hips, her long stride tightening her cheeks, her dark hair falling around her shoulders.

I can do this. The cold links of the thin chains shifted over the skin of my chest, grazing my nipples. Don't react, don't react, it's just the pull of metal on my skin. I managed to numb my flesh against that physical sensation, but it was getting more and more difficult to drag my eyes away from the orgy that was starting up in front of me.

As I walked away from the cafe I passed a horse and cart, the big dray horse just standing there, its rear hoof tilted and resting on its front edge. In the cart itself there were a number of straw bales, broken open and making a bed for a young couple.

As they saw my eyes fall upon them, the young woman began her rise and drop all upon his long shaft, her breasts bouncing on her slim torso as she rode him. Fuck, they'd deliberately waited until I was right in front of them before they started fucking, his hands grappling on her full orbs. She looked straight at me, smiled, and I could clearly see her mouth the silent words

Ahh, got to keep walking. There's a tightness in my groin now. Don't rise, don't rise.

Behind me, I heard a cheer as another contestant set out. I looked back, and there was another guy shuffling forward, his eyes to the ground, his hands in front of his groin. Again the tinny sound of the announcement echoed through the streets. Good, two of us moving down the street meant the efforts to distract and entice us would have to be split. Maybe they'll shag themselves stupid before my walk is done.

Hey, the other guy's idea of looking down at the roadway in front of him is a good one. By looking down I wouldn't be as distracted by the sights of people around me, naked people. I can do this, and if I have to steal techniques from the opposition, so be it. I put my head down and managed ten or fifteen more steps.

But then, with a clang and a thump, the top of my head collided with the bottom of a low hanging sign, right across the top of my eyebrows. I clutched my head and fell to the ground, lying there stunned on my back. Ow, that fucking hurt. Fucking quaint old European villages with tiny buildings. What, was the place occupied by dwarves and midgets, back in the sixteenth century when it was built? Who would hang a sign that low?

As I lay K O'd on my back, the current day town people added insult to injury. Instead of rushing to my assistance, or walking around me, the good folk of this town just stepped over me. As they're all nude, this meant I had a worm's eye view of crotches and legs. This wasn't so bad when a young beauty walked over me, because I could look up and see her tidy crack and the twinkle of her pink asshole. But the old guy who did the same? Far too much information, a long hanging cock and a pair of balls as big as a goddamn ram's.

This was descending into farce now, and I began to worry about my writer's chance of ever getting any points in this bloody competition. His challenge seems to be as hair-brained as mine. Whose idea was this, anyway?

This is just getting ridiculous. Lying on my back on some cobbled street is not the right way to treat any self-respecting narrator.

Still, the chances of anybody getting a rise from me now were severely diminished. And the chances of any reader even remotely getting aroused by any of this, fuck, they're long gone. Unless there's some real sick tickets out there. Surely there's not a niche for unconscious porn? Bloody well hope not, anyway.

"Alex, get up, you've got to keep going."

It's Ella, come to give me some moral support. She crouched beside me and the sight of her dark little snatch with its tidy trimmed hair revived me. Not too much though, I couldn't afford to get too distracted. I knew the honey taste of her too well, and....

"Alex, no, stop thinking that, whatever it was. I saw your cock thicken, and if I can, so can the umpires. Focus."

I looked around, but couldn't see any of those severe women in their crisp, white coats, their clipboards, and their glasses. The brochures had pictures of a trio of buxom beauties, their hair piled high and carelessly on their heads, whose job it was to patrol the streets of the town, inspecting for errant flesh and wettening lips.

They were the only town's folk allowed to wear clothes. If you could call a coat that short an item of clothing. From the photo I'd seen, it was more a suggestion than something you could buy in a shop.

Beside me, I saw Ella shift herself so she was crouching over a gutter. With a sigh she let flow a gush of steaming piss, which splashed onto the cobbles, trickling down the gutter. I looked as her asshole twitched with the final squeeze, and the shine of her lips glistened

"What was that for," I asked. "Is the boss going for the fetish crowd now, hoping to scrounge some scores that way? Fuck, your twin sister will be here next, and he'll go for the lesbian incest vote as well."