Lovers

By Kristan X

Real kink isn't like Fifty Shades of Grey. It's awkward sometimes. Strange sometimes. It is something that happens between flawed and vulnerable humans. There are angles. There are feelings. It doesn't always come out neat.

"Lovers" is a story about a kink relationship, told out of order and out of time in sixty short chapters, spanning from the day the unnamed narrator meets his unnamed partner until the day they are together for the final time.

This is a story that is explicit in its detail, pornographically hot, and intermittently sad. Like all real relationships, it is imperfect. It is highs and lows. It is about sex, among other things. Real sex. Sex between humans. Sex that isn't just a fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kristan X
• Release date: Dec 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370510825

Kristan X

I'm Kristan X - writer, sex nerd and (somewhat twisted) mind behind the professionally-filthy sex blog Lascivity. I'm based in Edinburgh, but travel extensively. I read a lot. I'm obsessed with psychology, sociology, games of all kind, true crime and tech.I am also indescribably perverted.I write dirty stories about things that happened to me. I write fantasy erotica. I write things that verge on being serious literature and I write things that are undeniably farcical. I interview my friends about thier sex lives, and I write guides to everything from anal sex to insertable toy cleaning routines. My bibliography is a messy, strange, wonderful portfolio of filth.

Book preview

Her

Whenever I try to write about her I find myself blank – not because there’s nothing to write, but because there’s too much. Where do I start? We were together for one-hundred-and-ninety-two days, measuring from our first meeting to the day she came to collect her things. In that short period I ejaculated inside her body ninety-four times. I knew every inch of her. I thought I could all but read her mind. She was, we pretended, my property – my slave, my cunt. Then, in the end, she wasn’t anymore.

My natural response to losing something is to write about it – to try and make it into a story. When it comes to her that’s beyond me. I can’t seem to make anything out of losing her. Instead all I have is a bunch of parts: memories and little gestures and thoughts and moments. Scribbled notes. A history written in text messages and emails. Whenever I try to put them together into something recognisable it’s never quite right. Never quite her.

Maybe all I have when it comes to her is the truth. Fractured, awkward, complex. Scraps that defy any meaningful order. She’s a million little details in my head. Memories and moments all mashed together. They don’t make a story, no matter what I do with them. But it seems important that I write them down. That I don’t forget her. That I make something, even if it’s chaos.

First Meeting

The first time we fuck is in her room in Holborn. Mid-afternoon. Quiet. We met four hours ago, and now she is underneath me and I am inside her, and she is shaking as I fuck her and my hand is in her hair, pulling her head back. My other hand is beneath her, over her cunt so that I can feel myself driving into her, feel with the tips of my fingers the point at which I enter her. Wetness slick and dripping. I release her hair and put my arm around her throat.

This is what you wanted, isn’t it?

Yes, Sir.

It’s what I wanted. From the moment I saw you. Every minute speaking to you I was thinking about pushing you down, holding you down. How wet and easy your cunt would be.

Oh god.

I force her legs a further apart with mine and kneel up. Put your hands behind your back. She does, contorting herself to make the position work. Her face is buried in a pillow, a few sweat-slick strands of hair glued to her cheek. I grab her wrists with both of my hands and buck into her hard, wild, my hips smacking against her ass. She screams and struggles. I hold her down.

Cunt

That is what I call her. When we play. Sometimes in a low voice as we walk together. In messages. In private. A name for her that nobody else knows. It is a sign. Ownership. She is mine. My cunt. My plaything. A beauty in that simple, spat word. A cunt is a hole, an absence of a thing. A void that needs filling – whose only function is to be fucked. There is a thoroughness to it. The most violent word I can think. But a cunt is beautiful too. A layered and powerful thing, which she is, through and through.

Vanilla

She is a barrister. Family law. For her, as much a passion as anything else. It’s giving people dignity again, she says. Hours spent unpicking the tangled mess of marriages years since gone rancid. She is young in her profession, and doesn’t talk about it often. She favours alcohol that is sweet instead of bitter. Hates courgettes, but will eat them if she has to. Loves sweets. Pick ‘n’ mix. Jelly. Any dessert. Ice cream. Has two fillings, both on the right lower side of her mouth. She reads John Berger because he can reliably make her cry just with words and that is a thing that she has never fully understood. She never tidies her room. Things stay where they fall, and there are stories in the untidiness of her space: letters opened and discarded, clothes strewn over the back of her desk chair, makeup smeared on the white of her pillow. Unusually, for a lawyer, she has little grasp of time. She sets alarms on her phone to remind her to do thing: get up, go to work, turn in requested notes. These things – the messiness, the penchant for sweets, the disorganisation – might make her seem childish, except that when she speaks in public her whole demeanour changes. She stands up straighter, and her voice adopts corners – brightly, sharply enunciated. She is twenty-four, but could pass for any age five years on either side. She draws, though not well. Her notebooks are bordered with trailing sketches. She enjoys the sensation, after a long bout of exercise, of standing in a shower and feeling sweat sluice from her skin. She doesn’t exercise often. Her favourite restaurant is a Lebanese place, one block from her house. They serve mint tea in glass mugs, into which she stirs four tiny spoons of crystallised brown sugar, the tea whirling in a vortex of green until it’s all dissolved. When she can, she watches trash TV. Fears nothing except moths, which always used to find their way into her childhood bedroom and get stuck inside the light fitting, beating their wings against the plastic until they expired, or until one of her sisters could be persuaded to come and put them out the window.

Body

In contrast with me there are no angles, no straight lines anywhere on her body. Her hips curve inwards to her cunt. Her shoulders are smooth, all graceful collarbones and tendon. Everything connects seamlessly beneath the surface. Even light seems to have a different, softer quality against the smoothness of her skin.

Her breasts are perfectly rounded – a handful each. When she first takes off her clothes for me she shrugs out of her bra without apparent pause, and only stops to glance at me, to read my reaction, as she hooks her thumbs into the hem of her panties.