Switch

by Simon von Wolkenstein

You are all members of a writing group meeting on the subject of erotica. There is homework to read. There are about eight of you. Your gender is evenly balanced between men and women. There are no boys or girls here tonight. The evening feels weirdly like a spring night misplaced in another season. Although you have all met many times before to read your stories you may as well be meeting for the first time tonight. It is like a blind literary date and some of you laugh nervously at this suggestion. After the usual small talk and the ordering of the take away you choose from amongst you who will read first.

switch.

You are a member of the writing group with a reputation for cutting to the bone. You have been chosen to read first for this very reason. You are the stiff drink to get the others through the evening. You shall warm their insides and get them over their initial fears. You smile at this thought. You look down at your hands and pick up the first page of your story. You are vaguely aware of the curve of your own shirt in your peripheral vision. You begin to read.

switch.

You are listening intently to the story as she reads it but all you can think about as she reads it is how would she sound if she were reading your story. Or more importantly how she would look reading your story. The story that you have carried inside you your whole life. Hidden even from yourself until this writer’s exercise revealed it during the last month. You watch her mouth as if lost in thought but your focus is intense. You watch her upper lip moving up and down sticking softly against her bottom lip for a split second before separating again. Vowel sounds invite you in whilst consonants seem to block you. You bide your time and on the gentle uptake of a explosive ‘B’ you slip into something more comfortable. Second gear. Now you’re moving. You stand up slowly and move towards her while she reads. The others ignore you thinking perhaps that you need to relieve yourself. And oh but you do. You see that she notices you as you kneel down in front of her, her eyes darting from the story and back to your eyes. The others in the group are lost in her story and have closed their eyes. It is all about eyes. You reach up and touch the corner of her mouth while she is reading. Your fingertip rests gently and acts as a focus for the friction of her lips. She keeps reading mindful of disturbing the atmosphere her story has set up for the others. You read her lips like braille but as her story builds your finger slides down her cheek and across to the skin under her earlobe. From here you draw a straight line down the soft skin of her neck to her collar bone. You slip sideways over the fabric of her shirt and find the bump of her bra strap. This is your new north and you navigate your finger down towards the equator of this unexplored land. The gentle curve of her breast rises and falls as her breath drives the story forwards. You find the importance that is her nipple and you delay your passage for another paragraph. She makes eye contact with you again but keeps reading. You press gently enough to feel the most gentle of resistance in return. You get up and return to your seat just as she finishes her story.

switch.

You are a relative newcomer to the group but what you lack in attendances you make up for in energy. You read next, standing before the others. Your voice is warm and filled with energy and the women in the group re-align themselves for the long haul. Your story is quirky and quickly enters a zone of moderate arousal. You had expected this and planned ahead by wearing loose fitting garments that drape around your body hiding the excesses of personal flamboyance. But you have miscalculated and the clothes, all silks and polished cottons, find no purchase on your skin and begin inevitably to slide off.

switch.

He is delicious. You had promised yourself that you wouldn’t use that word tonight but you can’t help it. It springs to mind. He springs to mind. He stands before you reading his story and he is delicious. He is not usually your type but it has been so long and the alignment of something astrological must surely be to be blame. You start to take his story personally and soon he is just talking to you and you alone. You begin to mentally undress him. It is a slow process. To your surprise you realise that he is being undressed by gravity. It is much faster. Now you can relax and enjoy the show. The gentle motion of his adam’s apple seems to accelerate the process. The neckhole of his silk shirt is far too wide and slips down to reveal the curve of his shoulder and then collapses down his arm to his wrist. He blushes and you see a wave of scarlet flash through his exposed skin. He keeps reading but shakes his hand free to hold the story clear of his falling shirt. This motion of his arm flexes his bicep enough to brush the shirt edge over his nipple, where it had caught, and down to gather around his belt. Acting as a deadweight this fabric pulls on the other side of his shirt which catches around his other elbow. His shoulders seem to spread out forever like a wall waiting to be scaled. His story continues and you shift in your chair. It is having a slight effect on you. And on him as well. The collapsed belt of his shirt weighs down his pants which begin to slide off his hips and so on. And so on and so on. But they catch on something and now too embarrassed to continue reading and too aroused to stop he turns away from you and uses his free hand to try and disentangle something in his pants. His voice falters but the story continues. His pants hang low from behind revealing a polished bottom framed by the white cotton pants caught at the front on some unseen fulcrum. You imagine getting up and helping that polished bottom. Sliding your hands around their curves and then under the cotton around to the front to help him disentangle himself. You press your face against his back and you listen to his breath catch somewhere inside. Your hands are warm now and his warmth has spread to the rest of you. A flush of something travels up your spine and you are aware that you are back in your chair listening to his story. He finishes, rearranges his clothes and sits down looking relieved but dishevelled. You let out a long low sigh.

switch.

You are known in the group as the disorganised woman but you are never late with your homework as it means so much to you. It is your house that the group is meeting in tonight. The third piece is being read by the groups’ quiet achiever and he is definitely enjoying himself tonight. You listen with your head resting on your hand and unwillingly let yourself be carried along by his boyish abandon. You find yourself being affected not by his story but by his obvious excitement at using such naughty words in polite company. His excitement is contagious and his blunt toilet door language begins to have the intended affect. He doesn’t hide behind any metaphor and it is clear from his story what he would like to do with you. You stop yourself there. You rewind a little. You re-establish a professional listening distance. Just as you are settling back the doorbell rings. It is the food. You make your apologies and head for the door while he continues the story. From the door you can look back and see him reading and he can see you. The others cannot be seen. You have timed this perfectly and your innocent suggestion of the local Italian take-away masks a deeper plan. You open the door and, yes, you have been rewarded. It is the same delivery boy as last time and the time before. The same delivery boy who looks at you in that way which makes you melt. The same delivery boy that is dying to deliver more than just the food. He gives you that devastating smile and you say ‘yes’ inside. You are blunt and in a hurry and already halfway there from the evening’s stories. You unbutton your shirt and reveal your bra. He puts down the food on the step and you fold down the front of your bra to expose your nipples. He turns his delivery cap backwards and bends down to kiss you. You stop him and reach for a small container of sweet chilli sauce from amongst the take-away. While you pour this onto your breasts he bends down and presses his face into your pants. He breathes deeply and you feel the heat of his breath send a message to your inner thighs. You grab his head and redirect his energies towards your over sauced breasts. His enthusiasm is more than you could have hoped for and while he cleans you up you make eye contact with the storyteller back down the hall. He has seen what is happening and is valiantly trying to watch you between every word. He doesn’t want to miss a second. You have been pushed back against the door by the delivery boy whose pizza warmed hands have made their way inside your briefs and are now working their way around to your front. You bite on your lower lip and look at the ceiling.

switch.

You are trying to read your story. You thought it would be the most astonishingly erotic part of the evening. ’A tour de force’, you hoped the others would say. You had even hoped for applause. But you were wrong. Now you don’t give a shit. You want to stop reading and take over from the delivery boy down the hall. His inexperienced doughboy hands trying to give her the four seasons when you know that all she really wants is your supreme with pepperoni. You are having trouble breathing and your cock is bent sideways in your underwear in a slightly uncomfortable way. You are both trapped by circumstances. Your audience is appreciative so you can’t stop reading. You can’t adjust your pants and draw any more attention to yourself. You read the words but what you see makes you want to scream. She is back against the wall now and she has moved his head down to her belly and below. She has lowered her pants to her knees and her legs are straining against the fabric trying to force themselves further apart. She is undulating slowly and appears to be riding on his tongue. Your tongue is dry and your throat is hoarse. You have a searing headache. She is suddenly very still and your eyes lock together. The delivery boy struggles for air. It is as though she is trying to absorb a shockwave that is passing through her and any extra movement will deflect its energy. And then it is finished. She pays the boy and redresses. She watches you watch her and she picks up all the dinner and carries it back to the group as you finish your story. There is applause for your story but you hear nothing only the sound of her chilli stained shirt swishing as she passes you.

switch.

You are very pleased with yourselves so far. Your grown-up attitudes and healthy respect for sexual writing have once again shown that you are all masters of penmanship. No one appears to have lost their cool yet and everyone is so polite and helpful and distanced with their criticism. You eat the food and listen to several more stories until there is only one left for the evening.

switch.

“You have been expecting a simple story for this evening’s finale”, I say. “but I’m afraid I must present you with a masterpiece.”

I stand up and begin to read what I have written. I start with a simple setup. A group of oversexed writers have all agreed to bare their souls on a weekend away from partners and spouses. A rich individual makes his country home available for such things. The cost is prohibitive but everyone finds the money.

On arrival the eight or so authors are met at the door of the mansion by a butler and maid. They are both very beautiful and are clothed in transparent plastic outfits. They greet us through heavy West Indian accents. We are led into a small alcove filled with candles and incense. We are asked to remove our clothes. The candles are blown out so that we can barely see. We are surprised and nervous and keep well within our own personal space. Any accidental touching is followed by whispered apologies. Nervous chit chat follows while our clothes are taken away. The room is heated and we feel both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. The floor is suddenly wet and we imagine that in their fear some writer’s bladder has been released. But we are wrong. The waters pour in and swirl around us. We are lifted off the floor and carried into the hallway by the warm rose-scented currents. Our bodies forced together. We bob and slide and roll around each other. We reach out and push away from the corridor walls. We have lost our personal space and feel not so much aroused but liberated. The waters carry us around bend after bend. Our feet can’t touch the ground but we feel no fear. At last the doors ahead, seeming to signal the end of our trip, burst open to reveal a massive room filled with tall stained glass windows and a two-storey fireplace. The waters deposit us in front of the fire before being drained away by massive stone and iron grills on the floor. We land gently and crawl over to the massive fur rug that lies in front of the fire. There are no towels but the radiant heat dries us within minutes. We lie on our backs and catch our breath all our bodies touch each other now. All our inhibitions and embarrassments have drained away with the warm waters that transported us there. A huge bell rings in the room announcing the arrival of something else.

I stop reading for a moment to check my audience. They are spellbound and now warmed by the story ready for me to take them further. I ask them all to humour me and ask them to remove their clothes and walk with me to the bedroom where I will finish the story. It is late and we are tired but they all agree. We undress. Once there I suggest that I need a certain tone in my voice to complete the story. A certain level of arousal that will transform fiction into reality. A certain tremor to ones vocals that can only be achieved, in my case, by being inside a woman. Before the astonished group can draw breath I choose the earthiest woman in the group as my partner and I see by her expression that she is both relieved and excited. She comes forward and lies with me on the bed. The others arrange themselves around us. There is no room for modesty. After a quiet moment between the two of us, she whispers to me to continue reading. I gently rock back and forth while I read; her slow breathing becoming the story’s counterpoint.

A huge bell has been ringing in the chamber, I remind them, and the writers, all breathing heavily on the fur rug, get up on their elbows to see what is coming.

switch.

He moves within me while the story continues. I am moderately aroused but laziness best describes my state. It is like a massage given by a friend. Warm and playful and filled with pleasant sensations that promise nothing in particular but you don’t want it to stop. His story continues but nothing more appears to really happen. I am starting to think that maybe he was just after a free fuck when ...

switch.

I take a breath and continue reading. This is it. My moment of truth, the revelation of my own sexuality unexposed for the first time and laid open for the others to bask in. I feel like eroticism incarnate. I have worked so hard on my brilliant story that I can hear the praise already. An unexpected twist throws the story into a entirely different narrative. What started as a sensual piece de resistance now reveals itself to be an erotic science-fiction masterpiece. I read the final mind altering paragraph:

“The chamber filled with writers fades away. The writer’s weekend was all a dream. Or rather an insidious attempt to corrupt the beautiful Rushka’s morals through alien mind manipulation.

Rushka awoke and found herself strapped to the engorger. Her massive breasts rising and falling like comets. Her tanned thighs tied down by the zirconium leather straps. The holovid announced the arrival of the alien scientist, Grackle. The electro doors slid open. Out in the space murk beyond she saw it. Grackle lumbered towards her his massive stong clacking eagerly for that cross-species union. She closed her eyes and tensed her vaginal muscles firing the atomic switch that all noviates held within them.

Her vows of astro celibacy were worth more than life itself.”

I pause, put down my story and then look up to receive the acclaim I know I deserve.

switch.

Perhaps you have overstepped the mark. The others in the writers group are very angry and the earthy woman is livid. She pushes you off her and shrieks “Is that all?” Is that it? It isn’t the outcome you had imagined. The others jeer, pull on their clothes and leave to go home. There is no praise from anyone. The atmosphere once redolent with eroticism is now cold and icy. Everyone is dry, soft and frustrated. There has been no release for them this evening, no final climax. You are the annoying phonecall that interrupts sex, the insistent knock at the door that cannot be ignored. You are the hole in the last condom. Perhaps the brilliance that appeared to radiate from your story has become clouded by your own ego and all that remains is the dim light of a 25 watt bulb. You try and explain but are shouted down. The earthy woman punches you. The others feels ripped off and their anger is palpable.

You reach inside your mind to grasp the dim 25 watt bulb of your sexuality and switch it off.