A curious thing about writing erotica...

A curious thing about writing erotica, or at least erotica that you want to see published some day, is that you have more constraints on subject matter than writers of mainstream fiction.

If a mainstream author writes about underage sex it's an exploration of a rite of passage in contemporary society, or, as in the case of the wonderful movie, "Juno", an Oscar winning script.

If a writer of erotica does a story on the same thing, they place themselves beyond the pale?

Why?

Litigation. The writing of erotica is seen as exploiting taboo subjects to stimulate and pervert their audience.

Well, I write erotica but I also write whatever I think will make a good story.

I think the story below is both fun and thought provoking. It's fast, witty, sexy and not necessarily a comfortable read (I know, I'm SO modest).

Yet I hold out no hopes of seeing it published anywhere.

I post it here for your enjoyment. Please feel free to comment

Mary, Margaret and Me

© 2008 Mike Kimera. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk

“Good Morning.”

The voice that has woken me is female, young, playful in a slutty sort of way and I have no idea who it belongs to. I try to sit up in bed but my skull is membrane-thin from last night’s alcohol and my brain slops against it like an egg yolk hitting a windshield. I groan and decide it would not be wise to try and open my eyes.

“Y’don’t look well, Uncle Patrick. It must be the whiskey me mam was pouring down you last night.”

UNCLE Patrick. It comes back to me in a stomach churning rush. One bad idea following rapidly after another like staggers on a high-wire had brought me back to Mary O’Rourke’s door and, it seemed, to her bed.

“Anyone would think she wanted you too drunk to do anything, the way she kept filling your glass. Why d’ya think that might be, Uncle?”

That’s right. I didn’t fuck Mary last night. I got drunk. No. She got me drunk. Then she must have put me to bed. From the looks of things she must have stripped me naked before she tucked me in. Well I hope one of us enjoyed it.

“You’re a fine looking man. She’s not had a man like you these past five years or more. You’d think she’d want you sober and upright, not drunk and prone.”

I force myself to open my eyes. The light hurts but the view is worth it. At the foot of my bed is a girl of nineteen or so. She is wearing pyjamas that are tight across the arse and don’t have enough buttons fastened on the shirt. She’s looking at me like I’m her next meal and she’s really really hungry. I’ve seen that look before. Now I know exactly who she is.

“I’m not your uncle, Margaret O’Rourke, and if your mother knew you were in here she’d take a broom to you.”

“That’s right,” Margaret says, coming around the side of the bed, towards me. “You’re not really my uncle. She just wants me to call you that so everything will seem respectable.”

Margaret sits on the side of the bed, close enough for me to reach out and touch her. Her pyjamas are white with a little red cherry motif. It shows the girl has a sense of humour.

“She’s very respectable, these days, y’know. Right now she’s off at Mass. Can’t be missing Mass on a Sunday, can she? She’ll be there for an hour or more yet.”

Margaret stretches out on her side across the bed, just below my feet. She rests her head on one hand and holds the other behind her on her arse, placing the few shirt buttons she has fastened under a pressure they are unlikely to survive. Then she grins at me.

The pain in my head has started to recede. I can only think that this is the result of the blood in my body rushing south to give me the sturdiest of erections.

“Of course, she wasn’t so respectable when you and she were at it like rabbits on Viagra.”

With a flexibility that only the young would take for granted, Margaret sits up in a semi-lotus pose and leans forward. Her skin is creamy and smooth and her breasts are high and taut and God Damn It, I shouldn’t be looking at them at all.

“She’d have been my age when she was fucking you, wouldn’t she? Do y' remember what she was like then, at all?”

Oh I remember all right. It was remembering Mary O’Rourke that made me decide to stay the weekend in Dublin instead of going straight back to New York. Mary was my first lust. We burned for each other. She’d drag me into the backseat of her father’s car and straddle me like she was taking possession of her territory. Then she’d hold my mouth to her breast and fuck me, rocking slowly back and forth on my cock, muttering ‘fuck me y’ bastard,’ like she was saying the Rosary.

“She was beautiful. She still is. And you have a filthy mouth.”

“Oh, you’d be amazed how filthy this mouth can be,” Margaret says, looking me straight in the eye.

I swallow hard as I imagine her doing the same. God Almighty, how the hell did I end up here?

“They say I look like me mother”, Margaret says. “So does this remind you of anything?”

Margaret scoots onto all fours with her tightly clad arse pointing right at me, then, looking back at me; she works her hips in a slow but firm figure of eight.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Mary used to call that churning because if she did it long enough it produced cream and turned me to butter.

Mary was the best thing that ever happened to me. I’d realized that yesterday, after I’d finished my business and had let my mind wander to times past. She was fun and bright, and sexy as all get out. And I’d left her to find my fortune just when hers had taken a turn for the worse.

“Well, if that tent pole pushing up the sheet is anything to go by, you like what you see, Patrick.”

Margaret turns around and prowls slowly up the bed towards me as she speaks.

“I’ve a thing for older men, Patrick.”

Margaret’s arms are on either side of my legs now. She looks wonderful. I can positively smell the youth of her.

“Would you like me to do you, Patrick? For old time sake?”

My reaction isn’t planned. It is pure instinct. And it isn’t the kind of thing you brag about in the pub.

“Margaret O’Rourke, stop this at once!” I spit out these words as I shuffle backwards away from Margaret, like a drunk trying to get out of the path of a speeding car.

“Do y’not think I’m pretty, Patrick?” Margaret pretends to pout. Then her hands reach up to the buttons on her pyjama jacket and she says, “Would you like a closer look?”

It takes an effort but I look the other way and say, “I’m your father and you will stop this right now.”

Margaret doesn’t say anything. She just gets off the bed, walks to the door, opens it a little and shouts: “Ma, you were right. He knew all along.”

She looks back at my stricken face, grins and then adds, “Oh and he’s not a complete shit. I can even see why you fancied him… when he was younger.”

My head is in a whirl. What has just happened here? When Mary fell pregnant I’d was all set to go to New York and there was no way I wanted a kiddie to stop me. So I’d played the shit and said I’d no way of knowing that I was the father. Mary hadn’t argued. She’d planted her boot on my arse and told me not to come back, but she hadn’t argued.

“Margaret. What…?”

Margaret laughs. “The test was my idea. I knew all about you and Mam and how you walked out on us. When you showed up yesterday, I bet Mam that I could get you to admit who you are – Daddy. Now you’d better get dressed. Mam will want to speak to you in the parlour.”

“Margaret, I’m sorry.”

“No. You’re not. You’re surprised, embarrassed even, but you’re not sorry. And you’re not my father in any way that matters. Now get dressed and try to find where you left your dignity.”

I sit in bed for a moment, trying to take everything in. I realise two things. I have a daughter I am proud of and when push came to shove I wasn’t a complete shit. Which means that I shouldn’t keep acting like a complete shit. I dress slowly, take a deep breath and head downstairs to apologise to Mary.