25 Things to Do in a Dull Town at Lunchtime #10: write pornographic fiction

Will they, won’t they? Hell, yeah, you know they will!.
Pic: http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

I’ve always enjoyed playing story consequences – the game where someone starts writing a story then passes it on to the next person to continue. So when one of my colleagues brought in that book everyone’s going on about – you know, the one about a virgin who implausibly gets into sado-masochism – and started reading out the dirty bits, to much hilarity, it got me wondering if a bunch of journalists could do better with a spot of collaborative smut.

I started the story with a heroine implausibly called Goldie Chauval; this is the ‘porn star’ name of one of the blokes in the office – you know, you take the name of your first pet and your mother’s maiden name and together they almost always make a combination that’s hilariously inappropriate.

The scenario is that Goldie finds herself strangely attracted to a colleague, Smokey Spink, during the morning meetings and you know that sooner or later they’re going to get it on.

Erotic fiction isn’t easy to write, as we found. Between the seven of us who contributed to the story, we found it strangely difficult to get down and dirty. Every time Goldie and Smokey looked likely to finally get down to some hardcore action, the writer du jour got cold feet and emailed the thing off to the next person. Hence the bulk of the tale consists of tongue-in-cheek suggestiveness and childish references to manhoods and throbbing body parts. One contributor got so coy that he had Smokey apparently getting a bit peckish and cruelly walking away from a womanly-moist Goldie to go and buy a packet of savoury snacks.

I had to do a little light editing to make it fit for public viewing: for one thing, the names of the main characters kept changing for no apparent reason, which disrupted the flow of the story somewhat; and for another, there were some shocking typos considering the writers are all people who are paid to correct other people’s English. (“You can’t expect me to worry about grammar when I’m in the middle of an exciting bit,” replied one colleague when I asked if she knew any good sub-editors.) The colour of Smokey’s eyes changes during the course of the story too, but I let that go.

Anyway, here is our effort. We had to leave it at the point where Butch Simms the security guard catches them in the act, as today was my last day. I hope my ex-colleagues will continue the story to its.. er, climax.. ’cause it was just getting interesting. Or if any readers would like to carry the tale on by leaving a comment, do feel free!

Writer 1: 

“Come on everyone, it’s time for the morning meeting,” said the chief sub. Most of the team stretched languorously, reluctantly dragging their eyes away from their Facebook pages and ambling across the open plan office chatting casually about their weekends, but Goldie Chauval, the new temp, sprang up from her swivel chair, eager to get to the meeting, because it was the first chance of the week to take a really good look at ‘Smokey’ Spink. 

Like every morning at 9.30, he would be sitting arrogantly perched on the edge of his desk, his muscular forearms, bared by his rolled-up shirt sleeves, folded across his chest, his shirt casually unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalising amount of chest hair. She looked at him a little too long, not realising until he turned his burnished copper eyes upon her with a sardonic half-smile, that he was aware of her scrutiny. 

Writer 2: 

“Before we start the process of filling in the yellows and greens on my chart, would anyone like to work late tonight?” he slavered, those copper eyes betraying an awakening of his over-active loins. “How about you, Goldie?” he continued before anyone else could volunteer. “It would be useful to acquaint yourself with what we call ‘the cut and thrust’.” At this, the other female members of staff looked down towards the cheaply carpeted floor where they too had sacrificed their dignity to Smokey for the sake of their careers and another day’s graft at The Sausage Factory.

Goldie, in a display of teasing naivety, told Smokey she could always do with a little extra. The hairs on Smokey’s arms stood up. On this, he had no choice other than to sit down and hand over the meeting to his deputy, Clive. As Smokey mapped out in his mind the geography of Goldie’s body, and Goldie unwittingly ran the tip of her tongue over her front teeth, Clive was into the third colour of the day on his chart. Red.

Red for danger.

Writer 3: 

For the rest of the day Goldie couldn’t take her mind off Smokey. She wondered how much work he wanted her to do and how often she would be expected to stay late. Mainly, though, she was thinking about how manly his chest hair was and how she wanted to run her fingers over its curly mess. At 4, she got an email:


Just to warn you that there will be slightly more work than anticipated tonight. It’ll be hard but I’m sure you’re up for it. The sooner we get down to business, the less the pressure, after all.

See you at 5.


Writer 1: 

Goldie had been starting to regret her flirtatious response to Smokey’s request for some ‘overtime’: had he really been insinuating that what was actually on offer was some ‘under’-time? If so, her agreement could lead her into the danger zone: never mix business with pleasure’ was the commonsense mantra. But what if he had meant nothing by it? What if she was about to make a terrible fool of herself? On the other hand, what if she was never to experience the fibrous frotting that only those with an intimate acquaintance with the office carpet could testify to?  

Even receiving the email did little to calm her anxiety. She felt as though everyone knew her secret; she felt her face flush every time Smokey looked in her direction, the metallic flecks in his eyes flashing. She noticed the gold Rolex Oyster Submariner on his wrist and wondered, not for the first time, how it would feel to have that cool precious metal rub against her hot, bare flesh as he stroked her naked thighs. 

Writer 2: 

Smokey could barely concentrate, his eyes glancing towards Goldie’s desk as the countdown to the liaison de plancherbegan, his imagination on overdrive, his manhood broiling. The other female members of staff started clustering around Goldie, perhaps offering advice, pondered Smokey, perhaps warnings, perhaps encouragement, perhaps threats. Ping! went an email into his inbox. It was from the publisher ,who was desperate for the weekly stats, those pieces of data that confirmed how much or how little work the staff had been doing. Smokey’s manhood relaxed; the diversion was a relief. Spending most weeks doing little else than providing sexual services to the female members of staff and walking around the office with a clipboard that marked him out as “important”, he had had time to compile the numbers in advance and fired them off to the publisher with a deft flourish, much as a concerto pianist completes a performance, hand raised high into the air. 

The crowd around Goldie had dispersed but she had a worried look on her face. What was there to worry about, she asked herself, as Smokey, his passions doused by the details of the workflow charts, ambled over and put his hand on her shoulder as his manhood reaffirmed his lust.

Writer 1: 

Goldie dared not look at him so she could not see the turbulence going on in Smokey’s lingerie, but she could senseit, with the unerring instinct of a woman. She had created a bit of under-garment tumescence in her time – that was for sure – but, had she only known it, never anything to equal the rollercoaster ride that was Smokey’s manhood as he leant across and…

Writer 3: 

…reached for a piece of paper on her desk. The back of his hand brushed her breast, and she felt a frisson that she had been missing for much longer than had been comfortable. She gasped. Smokey smirked and hid it by peering at the article Goldie was editing. He knew he couldn’t contain himself much longer. “What’s this you’re working on?”, he barked. Before she could reply, he added, “I’m sorry, come with me.” As Goldie tried to keep up with his brisk pace, she saw the rest of the office preparing to leave for home. Were they knowing glances, or was it just her? 

Writer 4: 

He turned a sharp corner and ducked into the meeting room, Goldie walking double time to keep up. When she finally found him, he was leaning against the wall, waiting. She closed the door quietly behind her, her heart pounding, the blood rushing through her ears like a roaring ocean. “So…do you think you have what it takes?” Smokey asked quizzically, one eyebrow raised. “Takes to do what sir, I mean Mr Chauval…” She started nervously as she was aware that lights throughout the main office were being turned out. Were they going to be stuck here all night? What about the night watchman, what if he caught them? Caught them at what? Why would he want her? He could have anyone, it was just her over-thinking things, but apparently her body had already caught up with her thoughts. Her knickers were soaking… 

All of a sudden they were plunged into darkness… Taffy Mallard, the “late-sub”, had obviously just wrapped up for the day and was shutting down the office. The tension was palpable, her breaths short, his deep. She felt her way around the table, guided only by the warm glow of the street lights through the blinds and the tiny red dot of light that was flickering from the projector until she was stood rigid in front of him… 

Writer 5:

The air between them was a thick mixture of sweat and aftershave. She was sure he could hear her heart pounding in the silence that seemed to go on forever. Smokey walked round behind her, subtly brushing his arm against her making her tremble with, what? Fear? Or was it anticipation? She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he got closer, his hand reaching for her waist. “Take off your skirt,” he growled in her ear, his rock hard member pressing against her, his hands fumbling to unbutton her blouse. Goldie spun round to face him, and saw the look of desire in his eyes. A car rounded the corner, casting light on Goldie’s now exposed breasts, heaving with excitement. Smokey couldn’t take it anymore and pushed her hard against the wall, reaching for her panties….

Writer 6: 

“Sorry love I’ve got to go home and do the washing up,” he said. With that he strode out and bought a packet of Quavers from the vending machine before leaving her and the office alone.

Writer 7:

Alone. The word echoed round her empty, though beautifully formed, head, with its luxuriant waterfall of artfully arranged chestnut tresses. Alone – so shaming, so redolent of failure – alone was what happened to other people, the sort who didn’t exfoliate daily (the carpet was so good for that!), whose nails were chipped, who wore underwear rather than lingerie (she lingered lovingly on the lacy intricacy of the word as it slipped silkily through her thoughts)…. Goldie did not do alone. 

She turned her head slowly and became aware of a brooding presence watching her, his gaze steady, appraising her coolly like new, raw copy from an untried tyro journalist. A giant of a man, whose blue eyes seemed to look straight into the maelstrom of emotions that were sending pleasurable shudders of anticipation through every sensuous curve and nerve of her eager body.

Writer 6:

“Oh Christ what am I doing?” breathed Goldie, her chest heaving with anticipation.

“Don’t speak. Don’t think. Let’s just fuck like there’s no tomorrow,” purred Smokey as he reached down her abdomen and into her cotton panties. She followed this move with a gentle gasp and arched her back. His rough mannerisms and raw masculine sexuality were too much for her to resist and she totally gave in at that moment. She ran her hands through his thick mane of hair, grasping slightly each time the pleasure emanating from below swam to her head in a glorious rush of sexual energy.

Swiftly he turned her around and bent her beautifully curved frame over the plywood table. Grabbing the power cable for the projector, he grasped her with his powerful yet reassuring arms and tied her hands behind her back. She was now totally at his mercy .. and yet this was all the more alluring and thrilling. She couldn’t believe what she was doing and how much she liked it, but it was too late now as his quivering member drew up between her legs …

Writer 1: 

.. and he groaned as he mounted her like the stallion he was, his huge throbbing organ possessing her inner goddess in one desperate thrust. As they began to move together in the heat of the moment, her eyes opened wide as she heard the sound of the door opening. “Gerroff, there’s someone coming” she whispered, but it was too late. As Smokey rolled off, his still-turgid manhood erect and glistening softly in the light from the corridor, like delicately-twinkling fairy lights on a Christmas tree, an authoritarian voice barked: “What’s going on here?” and Goldie blanched in shame and fear. It was Butch Simms, the head of security, and his eyes ran over the scene in front of him with a strange lasciviousness. 

To be continued…… 

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