I just put the finishing touches to a story. Then I attached it to a query letter and kissed it goodbye. Wishing it good luck as it wended its way through cyberspace. I hope that it doesn’t suffer too much at the other end under the harsh sting of the editor’s red pen.
Now I need a new project to pour my creative juices into. I present below the starting paragraphs of two different stories. I would welcome comments on which, if either, is worth pursuing to its climax.
1 – Mistress
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
The World Record for holding your breath is somewhere up around 20 minutes.
Twelve Mississippi. Thirteen Mississippi.
That guy is a freak though, both mentally and physically.
Twenty One Mississippi. Twenty Two Mississippi.
When I was at nursing school, we were taught the rule of threes. The average person is in serious trouble if they are deprived of food for three months, water for three days or air for three minutes.
Thirty Eight Mississippi. Thirty Nine Mississippi.
For the man in the street, two minutes starts to be dangerous. Even one minute feels pretty darn stressful.
Forty Six Mississippi. Forty Seven Mississippi.
Just give it a go now. Hold your breath and count seconds. How long until it starts to get uncomfortable? How long until you lungs are burning and your face feels like it is turning purple? How long until you think your eyes might pop out of your head?
Fifty Mississippi. Fifty One Mississippi
Now imagine that someone else is holding your breath for you; exerting power over your very existence. Imagine that you have no idea when, or even if, they are going to let you inhale again.
Fifty Seven Mississippi.
Wouldn’t that be a mind fuck!
Fifty Nine Mississippi.
On ‘Sixty Mississippi’, I ease the long, pliable strap-on out of the bound man’s throat. He gasps and coughs then sucks in great gulps of air. I give him 6 good, big, deep breaths and then force the plastic dick back past his tonsils once more. One Mississippi. It’s a hard job but somebody has to do it.
2 – Hunting Moby Dick
Call me Lucy. Not ‘Loo Seat’ like my big brother still does on occasion or ‘Loose-y’ like some of the girls at Uni used to; although they did have a bit of a point there to be honest with you. In a way, yes, I am hunting for my very own Moby Dick. I don’t mean a real dick, they aren’t that difficult to come by, even big white ones. My Moby Dick is a giant elusive orgasm. It’s not that I’ve never had one, I’ve had thousands, but, to extend the metaphor, they were all ordinary workaday climaxes, your Humpbacks and your Southern Rights. Just occasionally though, I have caught sight of something much bigger. In the oceans of my sexual pleasure I have glimpsed, from time to time, a fleeting fluke or flipper, a dark shadow in the distance that hints at a real whopper if I could just chase it down.
I remember when my quest began, several years ago now, with the first time I hunted and harpooned a big O. I came to fuzzy consciousness one morning, a half forgotten dream of naked flesh in my mind, a butterfly feeling in my stomach and a wet line in my knickers. I was pretty sure that I had just cum in my sleep. I thought it was only boys who did that, but apparently they don’t have a monopoly on the wet dream. So I determined that if it should happen again I would wake myself up and experience it fully. It is for this reason that I remember, so very well, the dream that I had the following night.
I was a cheerleader for my school’s rugby team. I knew straight away that this was a dream because; a) my school didn’t have cheerleaders and b) if they did then I am pretty sure that I wouldn’t have been on the squad. My team had lost and honour dictated that the cheerleaders from the losing school had to sexually satisfy the winning team. There were five of us on the squad and we entered the victorious team’s changing rooms with a mixture of fear, excitement and determination. Inside, twenty or so semi-naked men waited. Of course they included all my favourite crushes of the day. They were sweaty, well-muscled and riding the testosterone high of the victorious gladiator. The five of us did a quick choreographed cheer. ‘You beat our side with daring toil. To the victors go the spoils’. (Like I said, if we had had cheerleaders, I wouldn’t have made the squad). The words were accompanied by shaking pom-poms, cancan kicks that flashed naked pussies and ended with us bending over and flipping up our short, little skirts to reveal pert, bare asses. After that it was on.