Wait wait, so... you didn't finish 'Handful of Dust'? But... but that's the only way to get any closure at all! Not, you know, very healthy closure, but fuck healthy.

Actually, I just feel personally involved because I proofread it. At the first F2F, as it happens!

You proofread "A Handful of Dust" at the first F2F? I feel like I'm missing something there.

And I didn't actually finish it, no. I made people tell me the end, and then I ran away and read some happy smut or something.

I was a little worried that my favorite badfic author was losing her touch, since the only thing that amused me in her latest chapter was this:

“Hi, I’m Nikita Wirth… officer?” She asked, smiled and brought an instantaneous hard on to the stoic Monarch’s groin.

Damn he was too horny to do this whole thing without first finding relief; he should have taken the stewardess up on her offer. “Captain Michel Samuelle.” He added and she extended her hand to greet him.

Seymour who was having trouble controlling the dipping he was accustomed to offering Michael motioned with his hand and bowed his head for the man to follow him. Carla was serving the orange juice and coffee decided to set another place for breakfast. Walter and Jason stood from the table the moment Michael walked in and bowed in his presence, Michael smiled at the two and simply said hi, his accent and tone like honey to the women’s ears.

But then I checked the other story she's simultaneously writing:

She could have been totally nude and it would not have turned both men on as much as the glimpse of the silver string between two perfect cheeks, the fragile knot that held the sides of the bottom with strategically placed bows and the top that covered only the nipples.

---

Nikita went to move towards the man’s outstretched hand and Michael simply held her tighter, hurting her, rubbing himself against her hardly clad body and whispering, “No.” He slapped Nikita in the ass, immediately establishing dominance and started fondling her right there in front of the salivating Moroccan.

To say that Nikita was taken aback by Michael’s actions would be an understatement, Michael looked at her and sucked her lower lip into his mouth adding, “The other room, NOW, MOVE.” And then to the man, “Make yourself at home, we’ll be a couple of… err…a while.”

---

Michael threw Nikita on the bed, her body bouncing when it hit the mattress; she was so stimulated by this display of machismo superiority that she almost reached an orgasm with the simple moves.

Riiiiight. Because you know how us women are. So stimulated when men throw us around the room.

---

Michael held himself over Nikita, watching her expression of total ecstasy before the time they had spent apart could be reduced to memories and replaced by sexy sex and lust, nothing more. She mouthed as she watched him grab the different strings of her bikini with his mouth and open her like a most precious gift on a holiday morn, “Sarah my ass… you are mine.”

Not just sex... sexy sex.

Anya writes fanfiction?

"Sarah my ass"? Huh.

I think it's a plot point or something. With a missing comma. And not the name for some new weird sex thing.

t weeping with laughter

"Sarah my ass"? Huh.

I thought it was a very jumbled way of saying that her ass was his. Possibly I'm confused from all the talk of ass-owning in Tim's thread lately.

Not just sex... sexy sex.

Isn't that a Homer Simpson quote?

grab the different strings of her bikini with his mouth

I'm just imagining this like bobbing for apples... it does sounds like there are a lot of strings. And perhaps my favorite ever imagery:

brought an instantaneous hard on to the stoic Monarch’s groin.

Somehow it's not the man getting a hard-on, it's his groin. I always end up picturing the penis having a miniature penis of its very own, and then I end up with pornographic fractal imagery... it's not pretty.

Well, someone's got her groove back. NOT work-safe:

The woman’s body lay exposed only to his spellbinding green gaze, she was frozen with the knowledge that every nerve ending in her out of control body was pulsating with need for the sculpture before her. His abs made of granite rippled under a sheer clothing of anticipatory transudation a part of the statutory need to soon provide climatic release to the giver as well as the beneficiary; this designation to be determined at a later time.

---

Whispered promises from two people in love while in the throngs of passionate bliss, soft kisses and softer caresses accompanied by an unending pledge of amour and devotion, confessions of yearning each other and admissions of jealousy to the point of endangerment reverberated in the still of the chamber.

---

He was drawing circles that occupied her nipples, etching mammoth that floated on a bowing line from one hip bone to the next, dipping south in a flair of penmanship deep into the heated bush of the imaginary jungle surrounding the cave. Her breath was shallow, almost pleadingly begging for the pleasure to end, for Michael to stop his unyielding attack on her senses, but then plaintively imploring Michael to never stop. His relentless sketching continued painting on his virtual canvas his primitive figures, making them dance with the quiver of her tummy, the flexing of her clitoris, the crying of her cave.

The animal handler waved his magic whip and the figures fell one behind the other, telling a prehistoric story of wild monkey sex and the sublime creation of mankind. She was exhausted, lost in an unending wave of thrills that took her high with every lick, higher with every stroke, highest with every plunge of tongue or digit. Then to her unending gratitude he’d let her slide carelessly down the slope of ceaseless rhapsody after a careful nip or a tiny bite from the man’ skilful stellar mouth.

See, there's a whole cave painting motif going on...never mind.

---

“Oh god Michael, more.” Nikita semi- supplicated (semi because she was too far-gone to make much sense). “No… No… stop, stoppppp…. Don’t you dare to stop…Mykkkeeellll.”

Michael smiled again as he licked incessantly now the clit that was rock hard, placing a magical finger to the stone he asked, “What is it, stop, go, tell me my love what is it that you want?” He was pushing hard on the pebble, making it go round and round and in and out, pinching, prodding, a wayward finger dipping repeatedly into the cave, followed rapidly by one or two more of the digit’s complaisant brothers.

“I don’t know.” She cried, “I don’t know, this is just… no… there, yes, yes… that, oh no… stop” And as he moved she yelled, “Don’t you dare stop.”

“In that case I am in charge.” Michael told her raising both brows and moving one quick finger in and out of the entrance to her particular cave, making her juices begin to percolate.

He yanked with his teeth on a perky breast and then the other, positioning himself over her spread legs and picking them up to place them on his strong shoulders. He arranged a pillow under her elevated ass and he entered her sanctum hard, pulling out just as hard; in, out until he established the right rhythm. She was coming so often and so hard she didn’t know when a climax ended and the next one began, she cried and cried and came and came. He pumped and tweaked and drove the point home.

"Percolate" "throngs of passion" are my favorites..we have 300+ here. Could we make a throng of passion?