Find out all about the Smut by the Sea event - happening this Saturday, June 14th, in Scarborough, UK - and pick up tickets at smutbythesea.co.uk.
I'm also doing a reading and it's probably time I decided on a story. I think I'll pick an extract from the coming-very-soon More Smut for Chocoholics, which gives me a choice between some Aztec jungle femdom or two guys working in a brewery... I'll probably go for the brewery; you can't beat a pint of real ale. Here's the start of A Steamy Brew to give you a little taster....
“Here, new boy,
try this,” Nigel says, holding out a handful of little brown nuggets and once
again failing to remember my name even though I’ve been here three months now.
“What are they?”
“Taste one and
see if you can guess.”
“Is this a
trick? Is it actually edible?” Nigel’s always playing a joke on someone; he
makes me nervous. Or maybe it’s the line of his jaw that makes me nervous. Or
the thick hair on his forearms. Nigel usually disobeys his own brewery’s rules
about covering up to avoid scalds or burns, instead shoving his sleeves up
around his elbows. What is it about a bunched sleeve that I find so much hotter
than fancy shirt cuffs?
“Of course it’s
edible, would I tell you to eat something if it wasn’t edible?”
“Er, yeah, I
think you would.”
“Ah, you got me
there.” He reaches out his free hand and rubs his knuckles hard on my scalp, doing
goodness knows what to my hair. At least I’ve learnt not to put gel on it when
I’m bound to get a face full of hot vapours from the wort tun at some point
during my working day. But his hand in my hair gives me that tight little
feeling in my throat; it’s similar to trying to breathe through a mouthful of
steam, to be honest. “I would, you’re right, but not in this case. This is edible.
In fact it’s the food of the gods, it’s been venerated for centuries, millennia
even, more precious than gold.”
“It doesn’t look
like much. Looks like chopped up coffee beans or something. It’s not coffee, is
it? I can’t stand the stuff.”
“It’s not coffee,
but you’re not far off with the bean angle. Here, taste.”
He lifts a piece
to my lips. And I start to wonder if being put on the rota to work the bank
holiday was such a coincidence after all. Nigel just said it was my turn, that
everyone has to work a couple a year. But it means it’s just me and him in the
brewhouse today. And, as I wonder, I start to hope. Hope that perhaps he’s seen
me looking at him with more than a passing glance. Hope that my gaydar is
working and that he prefers blokes, and that he’s single, and that he’s open to
opportunity and that he might prefer a little blond like me to all the chunks
of manliness usually found swaggering around this place, chucking kegs about as
if they were scatter cushions. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no weakling, but some of
them lay it on a bit thick.
I part my lips
and let him push the nugget inside my mouth, feeling a tingle where his fingers
brush my skin. Christ, it’s been too long since I had a shag, I’m getting a
semi over the feel of one square millimetre of another man’s skin on me. Admittedly,
it’s a man I’ve been fantasising over, imagining him coming up behind me while
I’ve got my face over one of the hot brew vessels.
He lets the piece
of whatever it is go and pulls his hand away and he has this look of amusement
on his face and I don’t know if it’s because of what I’m about to taste, or
because he knows what’s going on in my head. And my crotch.
I roll it around
my tongue but get nothing beyond realising that it’s hard as a nut.
“Bite it. Go on.”
God, he’s
fucking with me. And God, I’m enjoying it. I bite.
And then I
splutter. “Fuck, that’s disgusting.” I spit out the pieces into my palm. “I
thought hops were bitter, but that. Fuck, it’s like eating burnt, I dunno,
walnut shells or something.” I do that fl-fl-fl-fl spitting thing where you try
to get every last speck of something out of your mouth, but still I can feel
the grit of it on my tongue.
No comments:
Post a Comment