The following is a special presentation of the Not Quite Right Podcast,
in which we discuss in detail entries to our ****** flash fiction competition,
the Not Quite Right Prize for Flesh Fiction.
This episode contains adult themes and is not appropriate for listeners under the
age of 18.
And ma'am, if you're still listening, that's on you.
Something doesn't seem quite right.
Hi, welcome to Not Quite Right.
I'm Ed.
I'm Amanda and it's time for the category winners of the Not Quite Right Prize for
Flesh Fiction, and I hope you're sufficiently prepared.
It wants to come because it's going to get a little bit steamy in here.
It's already a little steamy.
It's quite steamy as always and not quite right.
HQ just how we like it.
And normally I'd say we're at the pointy end,
but I know you don't like when it's too pointy.
So maybe we should say we're at the the thick,
bulbous end because in this episode, we'll be revealing the winners of each
category as well as the overall winner of the Not Quite right prize of Flesh
fiction.
And we'll be not only revealing the winners, we'll be reading them out.
So that's six sexy stories coming your way.
I am already hot and sweaty so this is going to be an interesting exercise in
the 90s.
Young the night is young, the moon is full of calm.
But before we start, tell them Amanda what our contestants can
win.
So each category winner will receive 100 Australian dollars,
an annual pass to the not quite right prize.
So if you'd like to enter our regular competition,
you'll be able to do so for four rounds.
So we, it's a quarterly competition.
Now we had anticipated that these results would come out a little bit sooner and
that that would be a 2026 annual pass.
But of course, we've been a little bit LAX.
So we're going to roll that forward and we're going to say the next 4 rounds of
the competition you will have free entry to and that gives you access to win a
share in 4000 Australian dollars each round.
So $16, 000 all up publication there as well as
here and perhaps the pointy trophy of the Not Quite right prize for flash fiction.
So we would love to bring you into our little community of flash fiction writers
there.
And you know if you've done well here, you can absolutely do well there too.
And we welcome ****** fiction, We certainly do.
Obviously it's got to be a great piece of fiction as well.
But yeah, we're not shy about it.
So, and we hope you won't be either, but I don't know,
I don't want to preempt anything.
But we do of course, have some not quite right prize
participants in flesh fiction as well.
So if you have already purchased an annual pass for this year,
we'll figure that out.
We'll reimburse you and we'll figure it all out.
So not to worry with that.
Each of the category winning stories will of course also be read on the podcast
right now, which is an honour in itself.
The fact that you have forced me to read it and get through my giggles and give Ed
a **** load of editing work to do is good fun and a very huge part of the prize.
And of course you will be published in our Flesh fiction collection.
And we've said already, but it bears mentioning again,
that many more stories than what made our long list shortlist category winners will
be invited to participate in our Flesh fiction collection.
And we intend to release several volumes.
Yeah, there's going to be, the plan at this stage is 3 volumes and
we've already started work on that.
And we will be getting in touch with people as soon as the results start
coming out.
So stay tuned for that.
And hopefully you're one of those authors.
There were so many fabulous stories, so we really look forward to that.
But of course, all these top stories, the winners,
the category winners here today will be among them and we look forward to that.
And another little extra bonus aspect of the prize is that the Romance Writers of
America will waive your membership fee and provide you with a digital toolkit.
So we'll be getting in touch with the winners here today with the details for
that.
But hopefully that will spark something further,
continue you on your ****** or romance writers.
And finally and perhaps for some, most importantly,
we will of course be sending a little toy as well.
Because you know, who doesn't like to play every now and
then?
That's it.
If you've played the game, you want to win a prize.
So among those prizes, we have the Satisfier curvy app
controlled air pulse clitoral stimulator.
We have the Satisfier Twirling Fun Tip Pinpoint Vibrator and the Bush Gloss
Rechargeable Bullet vibrator and they all come from Adult Shop.
Adult Shop is Australia's largest online retailer for adult toys.
They're the destination for passion and pleasure.
Since 1999, they pride themselves on offering an
extensive selection of innovative and game changing toys at unbeatable prizes.
Absolutely.
Thank you so much Adult Shop for sponsoring our competition.
It's been great fun and we're so glad that we're able to offer these fun prizes
courtesy of you.
So thank you so much.
And for those of you who are either ineligible at this point for a prize or
who don't receive 1 today, check out Adult Shop.
You can get your own prize.
******* it, treat yourself.
Why not?
But also in addition to that, we have another prize or our category
winning stories today, and that is the satisfier sexy secret
***** vibrator with app control.
Love, a bit of app control.
And that comes from love and lust, Gosford.
And that means you can stick that in your panties and give control over to someone
else, right?
You could just go to Jamberoo.
OK, tell me what's happening in your mind
palace right now.
I've gone to Jamberoo.
I've gone to Jamberoo with your vibrator on and who's got the controller, you know?
OK, I control the action controller.
Jambaru.
Jambaru hit us up with a sponsorship for flash fiction.
So inappropriate.
But no, on this occasion that prize is sponsored
by Pearl from Love and Lust at Gosford.
And Love and Lust is a little independent adult shop on the Central Coast,
Australia.
Yeah.
And I will say, like, obviously many of our listeners are not
from the Central Coast, but for those of you who are,
there's a store in Gosford and then there's another store in West Gosford.
I drive past it all the time.
Do you now?
You don't stop in.
I haven't.
Oh, you should because I have, right?
And I went in and Pearl was there and she is so lovely.
I've never been in a sex shop before, at least I don't remember going like
actually goody 2 shoes here.
******* goody 2 shoes.
But like I have OK, and I did and it was eye opening to say
the least, just eye opening.
But you know, she's so lovely and it's not if you're
like me and you're a goody 2 shoes, it's very intimidating.
You think I'm not going to walk into this thing shop, but it was fine.
And you know, if you had questions, she would answer your questions.
So I would encourage Coasties if you're curious, absolutely go into the shop.
She'll help you out and it's not going to be weird.
It's going to be totally fine.
And you walked out of there with bags is what I've heard.
I actually did.
And finally, and to be clear, it's one prize each for our category
winners, but we have a couple more prizes to give
away.
And so we have two of the tentacle ****** **** sleeve with a vibe.
And you can either use your imagination or you can go on our website to find out
what a tentacle ****** **** sleeve with vibe is.
But those come from Odyssey Toys, and Odyssey Toys Entwined desire and
darkness into every creation, crafting objects of seduction that
captivate both the eyes and the senses.
Each piece is a masterpiece of temptation, where beauty and pleasure collide.
Hello.
They are incredibly fantastical, I have to say.
We've seen them in real life.
Yeah, close up, close up.
I mean, they're in their packaging.
They're still in their packaging.
But yeah, some very intriguing objects there,
things that make you go as well as.
So one of these items will be going to each of our category winners that we
mentioned today and the stories that we're reading.
So lots of great prizes, totally worth entering this free
competition.
We're very grateful to our sponsors for making it possible to offer such great
prizes.
Absolutely.
And there's more and there's more because our winner will also receive some
additional things.
So we'll get to that when we get to the what was it?
The bulbous end?
It was the bulba sand.
It was the thick Bulba sand.
Thick bulba sand.
Must know.
I I must.
So we'll get to those when we get there.
But thank you again to our sponsors and shall we get to it?
Shall we read, read some stories?
Let's read some ******* smart.
And so before we get into it, that could almost use a, a yeah,
I think it should go for it.
We do have the innuendo jar locked and loaded and ready for penetration.
I just penetrated it right now with a dollar,
another dollar that we'll be going to eat.
Lucky winner that we'll announce on Patreon.
You, you got it in that time.
That makes a nice change.
And we've got about 150 at the moment, 150 Australian dollars and let's see
growing top that up.
I think.
I think we'll be filling it nicely.
Oh my God.
OK, how many dollars is all of that?
I'm going to put 2, so these stories will be in no particular
order except that we will have the winner last.
But we'll be reading out all of the category winners.
And we're gonna start with literary erotica.
Everyone's been waiting for this moment.
I'm really excited.
I know.
I'm so excited to share these winning stories.
So I'll shut up now and I will let you.
I'll let you do the honours.
Oh, my God.
Was that a kiss or a sniff?
Was a sniff.
Don't have to use tongue.
Oh, my God.
You're gonna get a paper.
I can't help sniffing paper.
It's a problem I have.
They are literally like hot off the press.
They are.
You just got a new printer.
I did get a new printer and and you're just.
No, I'm just exploring, exploring the the delicate folds.
All right, I'm in the mood now.
OK.
Are you in the mood?
I've been in the mood.
All right, let's do it.
Come on.
Literary erotica.
Let's go.
So the winner of the literary erotica category is Liver Spots by Martin Tolton.
Warning.
Finally, some sleep would have been nice.
Sun's bright, got to stop putting the urn on the window
sill.
Gap in the curtains.
Oh my God, really can't be bloody is the morning
glory.
John Thomas is resurrected.
The return of Stiff Willy.
**** is back in the house.
Swear that filigree on the urn is bloody.
Grinning, Take that as the nod and give it a rub.
Oh God that feels good, it's been a long time.
Hand swap.
Make it feel like someone else is doing it.
Always enjoyed watching you do it.
Something hot about the purple helmet popping in and out of your tight little
fist.
Have to paint a liver spot by my thumb where yours was.
Odd what a turn on that turned out.
Looked like a little tongue licking the lollipop.
Proper *****.
Up and down, up and down.
Happy days.
**** that's good.
**** that's so ******* good.
Well, that didn't take long.
Not much of a surprise.
Must have been six months.
Christ, ***** everywhere.
****.
No tissues.
Well there wouldn't be would there?
Nobody bought them.
No point faffing about.
Use the duvet cover.
It's time it was changed anyway.
Yep, getting a bit ripe.
Six months is definitely overdoing it.
Such a bloody palaver as I remember.
Really a two person job shouldn't have a super king right?
No time like the present.
Where did you keep the shady stuff airing?
Capital be a good bet.
Now what was the story?
Turn it inside out first then grab each corner.
Christ almighty how much material do these things have?
Who has an 8 foot arm span?
Have to get a smaller bed.
OK, now it's just having a ******* laugh.
How does a grown man get trapped inside a duvet cover?
You must be ******* yourself.
Who's the ghost now?
Jesus Christ.
Can't see a thing.
Oh, for ****** sake.
This is ridiculous.
Where's the ******* bed?
Ow, ****.
All right, stop the blubbing.
Be British.
It was a fall, that's all.
No harm done.
Hips a bit sore, hand hurts punching a wall does that,
Pelic?
Lay the duvet out on the bed.
Pull the bloody cover up, little by little, one side,
then the other.
Slow, calm.
Do not look at the urn.
Don't want to Chuck you out of a first floor window when walking downstairs.
Look at the stairs, not the bloody urn.
One fall a day is enough.
And stop talking to the thing, it's ridiculous.
Not like you.
She can hear anything she's roasting down below or floating about on a cloud.
Not much interest in duvet problems anymore.
All right, love, There you go.
In the front window where you like it.
Oh, for God's sake, give over.
It's a pile of bloody ash.
Weetabix would be nice.
Surprise, surprise, Nanin in a toast, then two slices of mouldy bread left.
Pick out the penicillin bits and stick it in the toaster.
It'll be all right.
Couldn't make this up.
The pluck bit's a browner.
Toast.
Got liver spots all over it.
You really are taking the **** from your bloody cloud.
What?
Can't be.
Who gets a ***** from liver spot?
Toast.
Second ***** in the same bloody day.
What's going on here?
Head's getting scrambled.
Get outside.
How long has it been?
Too long?
Bit of a walk, fresh air in nature, Good for the soul and for sad nutters who
talk to cremated people.
Maybe a bit of shopping, Some Weetabix fresh bread,
unless rancid butter wouldn't go amiss.
Lovely day, feels different.
Nice to see a bit of sun.
All the girls out in their skimpy finery.
These spandex legging things look like they're painted on.
I swear you could make out the *****.
Oh God, she's looking at me, must have been staring.
Look away, walk on.
An old bloke leching at young hottie.
Bad look get arrested these days anyway.
Too young to have liver spots as hands, though, for heaven's sake.
Not again, JT.
Get back in your bloody box.
Freaking me out.
This.
Something must have exploded in the bonds.
Get down, nob.
Little Miss.
***** *** clocks you rising from your slumber.
It'll be lunch in the cop shop.
Not a bad store, this.
You always liked it, didn't you?
My little ash pile.
Good wine selection OK Weetabix, check.
Tissues check.
Bread, check.
Sod self checkout.
Not doing their bloody job for them.
The old deer till 6 seems friendly chatting to everybody.
Can't stand these surly checkout boards.
Never hurts to give a smile.
To be fair, not been dishing many of those out for a
while myself.
Stitch one on.
Get the pearlies on the show.
Oh my God, she's got to leave a spot right in the
same place.
Laugh or bloody cry, but do not get a *****.
Think about something else.
Do not wash your hands bobbing to and from the scanner out without any major
embarrassment.
Now what?
What the **** is going on here?
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression.
Been there, done that.
Where does ***** like a teenager wild for a liver spot ****.
Feeling some stress thing?
What now go home.
Bit more DIY.
Should have brought a banana just to watch her Bob it on the scanner.
For heaven's sake lad.
Get a grip, go back in, chat her up too soon too weird after 40
bloody years.
How's that even done?
Hello darling.
I love your liver spots.
Fancy a drink?
Better get home and have a chat with the lady of the urn, for Christ's sake.
Not that again, Let's get home.
Blubbing and ****** are not acceptable in public.
Kettle on.
What now?
75?
Good for maybe another 10 years.
Get out there.
Keep living.
Horse from the tubes, beeping ******* monitors.
Liver spot, wristband, cannula, face whiter than the pillow.
Get that picture out of your head right now.
Just **** ***.
Tea.
Make the tea better, Good cuppa.
Get out there.
Easy to say, New face, new quirks, new wrinkles, lot to get used to.
Just a bobbing hand with a world placed liver spot would be easier.
Nice picture.
Heaven's sake JT, are you back?
Why not stress Buster?
Got tissues?
Well, that was surprisingly nice.
Again, twice in a day.
Must be 10 years since that happened, right?
Whatever weirdness is going on, let's try going with the flow.
Friendly lady with a nice smile and a beautifully placed liver spot.
Everything starts somewhere.
Direct approach, Frighten her to death.
Who do I know that works there?
Get a bit of background, maybe even an intro.
Bloody hell, it's like back to school.
My friend fancies you.
So what worked then?
Pretty sure young Jamie works there.
Go back.
Forgot butter anyway.
God this place is a shithole.
Better sort that if we're back on the pool,
leave the lady of the urn in the window or put away in a cupboard in case I get
lucky.
Dear God, it's an urn full of bloody ashes.
Just get back up to the shop.
Good lad Jamie, despite all the **** taking.
So a recent widow moved up here, closer to the kids,
no local social circle.
Nice lady, bit teary sometimes.
Knocks off at six.
He'll put a word in for me.
OK, wait for her to clock off.
Time for a pint to steady the nerves.
Remember to buy mints, don't want to turn up smelling of booze.
Here she comes, Showtime.
Hello there, did Jamie mention me?
Looks a bit startled.
Maybe he shouldn't have had the second point.
Still shy, smile and a half nod.
He tells me you're on your own.
I'm on my own.
I wondered if you might fancy a drink or a bite sometime.
Not too bad, Haven't fallen over or anything J TS
behaving himself could do to stop the bloody shaking,
though she looks sympathetic.
Nice.
Touched the little pat on the arm.
For ****** sake, you are kidding me.
A bloody tear.
This is too embarrassing.
Just go.
What's she saying?
Something about Jamie giving me a decent write up.
Nice to have a bit of company.
Deep breath, coffee.
Then he's all right.
Like the way she smiles a lot.
This could go somewhere.
Reckon the lady of the urn we'll be OK with it.
They get on.
That liver spot is mesmerising.
It's daddy boy, keep it together.
You weird her wanting to know all about my bunions.
Suppose we've all got our kinks.
Not a deal breaker.
So congratulations, Martin, what an epic story.
And this absolutely fits in the literary erotica category.
It's very much a stream of consciousness kind of story with so many delicious
little details in it.
And I absolutely love this from the first read.
And I think what stands out probably most prominently is the very bold and
confident take on the theme.
So of course, the theme for this competition was making
the unsexy irresistible.
And Martin has clearly gone with liver spots on this occasion.
Yeah.
And look, I think we said this on the Long list
episode or one of the episodes, that one of the little gripes I had with
some of the stories were when the unsexy thing was just an older person and that
just being the unsexy thing.
But what made this one work was that perspective and that stream of
consciousness and the fact that we were getting, like, a sensitive take on that.
And it wasn't just, like, old is ugly.
It was highlighting the beautiful things about being old.
Yeah.
And I think making it feel really resonant and real, like,
what is this guy going through?
He's clearly still trapped in his grief, but also ready to start moving on from
that.
And fortunately for many of us, we're not in that position yet.
But many of us, if we are lucky, we'll end up there at some point.
And it's interesting to imagine that, to imagine that point of loss,
but you know, still being human underneath that too.
And the fact that you can make the liver spot the crux of the matter in this story,
I think was really, really clever.
And of course, you brought it in at crucial moments
throughout the story.
You didn't just kind of believe it there as a gag.
You used it and you played on it and you made it feel really real and resonant.
And that little moment at the end there with the bunion.
So we all have our kinks.
I think that was perfect and and so funny and so much subtext too.
We're talking about this other woman.
You know, she's she's got a tear.
She's clearly experiencing her own grief, I would say through that subtext there.
And so, you know, I I wish them well.
This couple, I hope they **** on for years.
And just the fact that the liver spots obviously reminding him of his wife is
very romantic, you know, really ****** ** kind of way.
But like very beautiful and like the erotica here.
This is an ****** fiction contest.
And look, it did make the unsexy irresistible.
I think.
I think it really meant the brief.
The ****** content here was not like a sex scene.
It wasn't.
You never see them **** at the end, as you just so eloquently put it.
But we do.
Sorry.
It's British, right?
****.
Yeah.
****.
I'm sure the British say **** sometimes.
They might just for fun.
Yeah, but it is erotically charged and it's
full of that desire and there is, like, sexual content there.
So, you know, it ticks all those boxes.
So well done, Martin, on winning this category,
the literary erotica category.
Absolutely.
Congratulations.
All right now, so moving on to our next category winner,
and I'm very excited to read this one.
This one comes from the other category and you might describe this as an
historical piece of ****** fiction.
And I believe this was an early favourite of yours.
It was actually, and this was one of the 1st that I read
actually, because you marked it as a favourite.
Oh, hello.
Well, you marked it as a favourite.
And so of course I was like Ding, Ding, I'm going to read that one immediately
and it was fabulous.
So without further ado, we have Whirligust by Sarah Royston.
The Stagecoach rattles across the Moor.
I try not to stare at the voluptuous woman opposite me.
Her blue silk gown is fashionably low cut and the coach jounces with every pothole.
My cheeks grow hot.
She catches my eye and smiles.
I'm Georgiana, she tells me she's an actress.
Asks where I'm heading.
Catherine Ferrer, I mutter, self conscious in my ugly dress.
I'm travelling to Spain to enter a convent.
She appraises my wedding band and morning weeds.
A widow.
Poor thing.
I don't know how to respond.
I'd barely got used to being a wife before my husband was skewered by a
Roundhead spike.
Now I'm a widow, soon to be a religiosa.
I chose none of these names.
They fit me as poorly as this dress.
Must be lonely.
The satin slipper nudges my ankle, slides up my car.
I jerk away.
She's beautiful, but I'm My half formed desire is aborted
by a commotion on the road.
The coach shudders to a halt, sticking her head out of the window.
Georgiana gasps.
A highwayman.
I clutch my skimpy purse.
This is all I have in the world.
Don't worry, sweetheart.
She squeezes my hand.
I've dealt with his kind before.
How?
I'm an actress, darling.
I can be imperious or bawdy.
Her face shifts as she speaks, a picture of outrage, Dignity,
then a lecherous Lear, perhaps a quivering Sparrow.
Her voice and posture become delicate, fearful.
I'm amazed by the trick, but before I can ask how she does it,
there's a wrap at the door.
She gives hurried instructions.
Over that hill lives a cunning woman called Sally.
She's helped me before.
Go to her.
She'll take care of you.
The door flies open with a bang.
It's him, the highwayman, a tall figure in scarlet and black face
hidden by a mask, a feather in his hat and a pistol in his
hand.
He bows with a flourish.
Step down, fair ladies, Georgiana whispers.
When I wink.
Run.
She totters out, tremulous, lifting her skirts much higher than
necessary, then swoons into the robbers arms,
grabbing a handful of his hair to yank his face towards her cleavage.
She winks at me.
I leap from the coach and run Hanford by stupid petticoats.
I don't get far.
A trip on a Bramble crash helter skelter down a quarry side, twisting my leg.
My mind blurs with pain.
My eyes still burn with those glimpses.
A scarlet jacket, a feathered hat.
A thrill.
Not lust, but yearning.
I black out.
A woman is bending over me.
Her dark hair is streaked with silver.
Her eyes are shifting blue.
Grey.
Firm hands rub an ointment on my shin.
It smells of clove, spice and methicoline.
Bittersweet.
At once, the pain begins to fade, hazy.
I remember Georgiana's instruction.
Sally.
She nods, then tells me to lie still, let her medicine do its work.
Bluebells nod about my head.
Their fragrance mingles with the drowsy, rich scent of the ointment.
My eyelids grow heavy and being nozzles, A dainty silken belle.
I dream I'm parting skirts like petals, pushing them up to soft thighs.
I shouldn't.
I stir, try to rise.
Sally dubs my lips gently with the ointment murmurs Let go.
Suddenly I am the bee nosing into the wide open bell, my long tongue reaching,
licking, teasing, seeking the honeyed liquid at her heart.
I find a few drops but want more.
I withdraw and plunge straight into another flower.
This bell is smaller.
I must wriggle to get inside.
Soon her petals embrace me, stamen smearing pollen all over my legs.
I suck greedily, yet I am thirsty still.
The third bell is even narrower.
I smell her untouched elixir.
A gift just for me.
I try to go slowly, I can barely fit inside but the scent
drives me wild.
When I can't hold back any longer I bite her,
ripping the silk till I can push deep inside.
The flower shivers and I taste her nectar at last, an intoxicating rush.
Just as suddenly I'm back in my own skin, gawky and graceless as ever.
I watched the bee fly off, sated and gold smothered.
I'm bewildered by this dream, like none I've ever dreamed before,
afraid yet longing to dream again.
Sally strokes my hair.
When I can't stand, she helps me limp to her cottage.
My leg is badly hurt.
She says I can stay while at Mends.
We share her bed, talking late into the night.
In the darkness, something sparks between us like
gunpowder.
I realise it was her medicine that let my spirit fly.
I whisper.
Do it again, please.
She lights a candle and fumbles for the ointment, smears it on her lips.
Her eyes turn black as slows.
I kiss her, hesitant at first, then hungrily feel a giddy Vertigo as my
soul soars free.
We flit through the window to the tangled, moonlit garden.
Entranced.
We slip into new forms, taste the world with other tongues.
I soon tyre of moth wings and satin petals.
I crave something darker, dirtier.
We play as worms, twining in a love knot.
Snails.
Slimy and enmeshed, she becomes a spider, makes me a helpless fly.
She binds me in silken cords, nibbles my abdomen,
spreading a delicious numbness.
I give my body to her gladly, longing to be consumed.
Our shared journeys become a nightly ritual.
By day we forge a friendship like no other.
I grow to love her strange, shifting beauty.
With her bittersweet potion, she grants me a fleeting taste of freedom.
But always at dawn, I wake in woman form.
A dead ash tree stands at the garden gate.
Green yaffingales throng to gorge on its beetles.
A whirligust of woodpeckers, she calls them.
I like the word.
It reminds me of the delirious Hurley Burly when she whisked me out of my skin.
One hot afternoon I see a different woodpecker, Scarlet and black.
I watch him, proud and gaudy, hammering the trunk,
and feel a stab that yearning again.
Give me the ointment now, I say.
Sally fetches it, scoops A dorb.
This time instead of touching my lips, she slides slick fingers between my
thighs.
The rush is more intense than ever and once I'm feather clad,
my bird heart racing, I preen my shining chest.
She shifts to pouring herself into the rock blackened tree.
I need you, she says.
Something gnaws within me.
Only you can set me free.
My strong feet grip her, my beak and iron spear.
I start to poke her, tentative, afraid of causing pain.
Harder, she begs.
Drill me.
I don't need further invitation.
I find a rhythm, pounding her like storm rain,
like the lightning that strikes over and over.
I was made for this.
She gasps more.
Are you sure?
Yes, yes, yes.
She's screaming now.
I feel the beast moving inside me.
Please.
Faster, deeper.
Splinters fly, her tree body yielding beneath my hammer
blows.
I'm lost in the thrill of my power.
Suddenly I'm close to my prey.
Instinct takes over.
I grab the squirming thing.
The fat bulk fills my mouth.
The juice is bursting.
I swallow it all.
I come to myself, sweat soaked, still jerking my neck,
cradles Sally as her shaking subsides, feel the loss of my beak, an amputation,
the dragging weight, breasts and belly lump, and as clay.
I bury my face in her shoulder.
This isn't my true form.
Change me again, Sally, please, she murmurs, drowsy.
You can shape your own clay, my love, if you know who you want to be.
As she falls asleep in my arms at last, I understand.
Like a robber, I lurk by the road until I hear the beat
of hooves.
He's unmistakable, that scarlet jacket, that cocky hat.
Naked.
I step into his path, force him to pull up sharply.
Come to me, boy.
He hesitates.
I smile, slow and lazy, like an actress, like a witch.
I'm like whatever I want to be.
Lick my lips.
Mesmerised, he dismounts.
I see the bulge of his breeches.
Sally tethers the mare as I lead him by the hand into a grassy glade.
Take off your clothes.
Mute, he obeys.
The bold red jacket falls at my feet when he's stripped bare.
Sally picks up his pistol and points it at him.
Go, go, puppy run.
Her voice is whiplash.
He turns his tail and flees.
Whimpering, I pull on the breeches.
They hug my thighs but leave them free to move.
Heart racing, I fasten the hefty belt, the supple leather boots.
The jacket is a perfect fit.
This is no trick of potions, no fleeting fever dream.
This is me.
Sally drinks in the sight, I sparking with desire.
Such a dashing gentleman.
Will you be riding off to plunder buxom damsels?
Maybe later.
I return her wicked grin.
Right now, my business is with you.
She raises a sly eyebrow.
What do you want from me, you rogue?
I twist her neckerchief in my fist and pull her close.
Everything.
O well done, Sarah.
What a tale that was, Tale of old time debauchery and carriages
and buxom ******* or whatever the words were.
I feel like that is the definition of debauchery.
Do you know what I mean?
Like if you had to put in a dictionary would be this, this story?
I felt this one was like for me, first of all, there was the visual aspect.
I loved like the period drama of it all.
It's like 17th century, imagine 16th, 17th century kind of environment.
And I loved those fantasy elements, the the bee and the worms and all of the
the sexual acts described like in metaphor in that way.
I thought that was really evocative and like,
gave this whole other character to what was going on.
Yeah.
I mean, this story could have easily fit into the
fantasy and supernatural category, I feel.
But it did have that historical aspect that set it apart.
It's so funny because does sex actually happen in the story?
It absolutely does.
But it's all expressed in this kind of literal birds and the bees kind of
situation, the woodpecker stuff, it's very, very spicy.
But what I also loved about this, and it would be remiss of us not to
mention it, but it's telling a story of somebody who
has, I guess, gender dysphoria.
And that's something that gets a lot of airtime these days.
But if we go back in history, didn't.
Yeah, right.
And would have been a a much more challenging proposition for someone to on
any level, whether it's about gender or literally
anything to fall outside the bounds of what society expects and what society
deems is acceptable.
So I found this a really nice exploration of that and subtle.
It was very much told through this characters own specific journey.
But this arc of them becoming the robber was really beautiful.
I thought, like they're just assuming this identity
that perhaps they've always had and they've made these realisations
throughout the story.
And I think that's what sets maybe this competition apart from our regular not
quite right prize for flash fiction as well.
There's more words to play with and I feel like this story really used those
words to its advantage and made the most of them.
And you said this was an early favourite for me.
And it was.
And I think it expresses, I guess, what I was hoping to get out of this
competition.
We kind of went into it, I guess wanting to explore a little bit
more depth in ****** fiction was one of the things that we wanted to see.
And this is the story that is ****** fictions of highly sexually charged,
but it is also deep in its themes and what it explores and all of these
elements around gender, as you mentioned that the character kind
of goes through, it's just identity, identity and you know,
sexual awakening and all, all that kind of thing feed into it.
So it's a story in itself.
It's not just a piece of erotica design to get you off.
It's a thematically rich story.
So love all those things about it.
One thing I just wanted to bring up though,
is that there was a little bit of a challenge with this story and,
and something that I guess we had to grapple with as we were landing on our
shortlist.
And that was this rule that we had around consent.
Now, our rule was that all parties to sexual
activity in the story needed to be consenting adults.
And, and you could be a little bit loose with
that definition.
If you're going to be an alien, OK, but you have to be be kind of like an
adult alien, that kind of stuff.
But this story, she's drugged, right?
And, and that is a crucial feature of her
awakening in this story.
And so we did talk about that at length.
Like, is that OK?
You know, clearly she's happy with the outcome.
And so there's no question as it relates to how this person feels about the
outcome.
But of course, drugging someone, not cool.
Not cool at its most basic level.
And so we did have to talk about it at length.
And I guess what we decided was that in this story, it was ambiguous.
Yeah.
The medicine that's talked about could just be medicine.
These could just be dreams that are happening,
that are things that she's provoked to dream anyway and that she's dealing with
as she's going through this experience.
And I guess we made an argument for it.
We gave it the benefit of the doubt and went with the interpretation that allowed
us to see it as being consensual, which of course the ultimate outcome is.
And so, and that's, that's what we wanted to do.
We won't want to just arbitrarily strike stories out.
But it does bear mentioning that drugging someone,
even if the outcome is a good outcome, is not the way to get what you want.
Yeah.
And it's it was a tough decision we had.
We we had to think about this for several stories.
For this one, I guess for me, what tipped it over the edge was it is a
first person narrative.
And the issue of consent is not raised by that first person protagonist.
And they don't raise this as an issue.
They don't raise this as something that they didn't consent to.
Yeah.
And so if that's the case, I feel that it gets a pass,
at least for this competition.
Like, obviously, we're talking about writing competition.
We're not talking about real life here.
Yeah.
But we're not encouraging any Stagecoach ointment escapades by saying that.
But Yeah, Well, no, no notion.
Love a Stagecoach ointment escapade.
You just gotta check that they're cool with it.
Yeah.
Just ask.
You know, it really does help to ask, but truly,
like there are multiple interpretations.
We've gone with the favourable interpretation on this one.
You know, it's a wonderful story, so I'm glad we could make an argument for
it.
As you said, it was an early favourite for you.
It is a beautiful story.
The character in this story is very happy with the outcome and so on that basis,
really, really happy to award it the category win
for the other category.
So well done, Sarah.
So our next category is ****** romance, and our winner is actually a little bit
of a dark romance.
I think we showcased some lighthearted romances on our category episode.
Yeah.
And I think there was some confusion about that.
I think there were some people who wrote dark romance stories and then felt there
was no home for them and put them in the other category.
But romance doesn't have to end romantically with a happily ever after.
Romance is just about the relationship between two people.
So we did see some dark romances, and yeah, this was one of them.
So the winner of the ****** Romance category is Praise Song by Wes Robel.
They pulled us out of the woods when I was 18.
Most of the others didn't remember much about their parents anymore,
or their homes, but I at least had held onto my address,
whispering it over and over at night, just in case such a day finally came.
So when the agent asked me my name, I told her they called me Harmonious here,
but my parents named me Charles.
And when the agent asked me where my parents were,
I told her they lived at 1549 Grace St in Robbinsdale, MN 55422.
And when she asked when I had last seen them, I started to cry.
But I told her August or September 1999.
I was so little then I sobbed.
Do you think they'll recognise me?
They didn't.
I could tell right away, but my father hugged me and kissed the
top of my head.
My mother took my hands in hers and told me it was OK.
I was home again, as if that was all it would take for the
three of us to feel at ease.
I went upstairs to my room, which had the television in it now,
and the liquor cabinet where my wardrobe had been and a couch in place of my bed.
Then my father told me it folded out and that I was welcomed to sleep on it until
they found me something more permanent.
I knew they thought I was never coming back.
I met with a counsellor through the state, the most overwhelmed woman I'd ever known.
She advised me to keep my chin up, to stay busy,
find some hobbies I might like, to take my prezocin for the nightmares,
and to never go looking for the other boys Father Jonah stole.
That time in your life is over, she told me.
Don't go digging around for people from the past.
They're trying to move on, same as you.
But I knew it, Minister.
I knew the day we were saved wouldn't be the last time I saw your face.
I turned 19 in October that year.
I dropped out of the GED programme when I found a job at the guitar store setting
up instruments for kids I never got to grow up with.
Then came 2021.
The producer for a documentary about Father Jonah contacted me,
promised me a lot of money.
I'd sing for him.
I told him I'd only do it if they could help me track you down.
I never heard from him again.
I got on the apps one Sunday while my parents were at church.
They always went without me.
I couldn't do it anymore.
The ceremony, the music.
And that at least they understood about me.
I started with Facebook but hadn't accounted for just how many people were
online.
I didn't know your given name.
You were always minister to me because that's how Father Jonah baptised you.
And that's who you were when I was kidnapped and brought to his choir at six
years old.
You were eight then.
And when he coaxed us to sing together my first morning in his woodland Chapel,
our voices liquid and clear, searching for the Lord harmonious,
he declared.
And for the next 12 years, they called me.
Nothing else.
I thought I'd be able to just scroll and scroll through all the men in Minneapolis
till I saw your face.
God, if only there were a way to search by
bodies, I'd have found you in 10 seconds flat.
Your shoulder blades and the small moles constellated between them.
Your slim waist.
Your graceful neck, the long pendulous limbs just like mine.
If the algorithm could have taken my hand and pressed it against skin after skin,
man after man, I'd have known when it was you.
Believe me, Minister, I've tried out there, man after man,
skin after skin.
None of them are you.
In my worst moments, I worried that the raid on the compound
had nothing to do with Father Jonah at all,
but some law we had broken with our kiss.
It was summertime moonless that night.
We were in the Conservatory, binding booklets with the scores for
Father Jonah's latest hymns.
He had been in one of his states ever since Resolution escaped earlier that
week, composing 18 hours a day in his bedroom,
letting choir practise and faith studies fall on the older boys like us.
Our eyes had grown tired in the Lantern light,
bodies overwarmed by the sweltering air.
We'd stripped off our shirts, and the sweat on our bellies appeared to
ripple from the Lantern small flame.
As usual.
I sight read the sheet music as I fastened the pages together into hymnals,
softly feeling out the ornamentation in the soprano parts to prepare myself for
morning rehearsals.
You watched me as you often did, listening intently as I sang.
I still remember the hymns name If I were hungry, drawn from Psalm 50.
If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the world is mine and all its
fullness.
I sang that refrain again and again, tongue dancing along the intervals until
you rose from your stool and stepped around the table,
pressed your mouth against mine.
I put my hands on your chest, my first instinct to push you away.
Then I kissed you in return, slid my palms around the small of your
back, brought you in closer.
Neither of us knew what we were doing.
We acted solely on instinct, on where our lips and tongues wanted to
be.
I had no context for life then outside of Father Jonah's teachings on God and His
love.
And so I thought, this is what He made us for.
I thought this is how He thanks us for our stewardship of the earth.
I thought so.
This is why we sing, to praise Him for the capabilities of our
bodies.
We were up all night finding new uses for our mouths, our hands.
At one point you paused to extinguish the Lantern flame,
and that was the only time I told you no.
I wanted to see you, to know that every time I opened my eyes,
it was still you whom I was with.
I pressed my cheek against your stomach, your thighs.
I leaned you back against the table and fell to my knees,
kissing your hardness and a long scar below where Father Jonah cut you to
preserve your sweet, childlike voice.
My own scar throbbed between my legs, a phantom ache in my missing parts.
Then you joined me on the floor and curled yourself around me,
and with your fingers made me forget for time that I was ever whole.
It was just before dawn when we heard the noise.
Like a shot or a clap of consequential Thunder,
the agents battered down the door to fire the Jonah's cabin and dragged him into
the courtyard, handcuffing him face down in a carpet of
pine needles.
They stormed the dormitory and LED the boys outside in their pyjamas,
frightened and bleary eyed as a woman from victim assistance brought them juice
boxes, squeezed each other's hands one last time,
then threw on our clothes and stepped out into the sunrise.
Resolution had found his way out of the forest.
We were being set free.
You found me in the park in late June, another moonless summertime night.
I was sitting beneath the lamppost, praying to be cruised,
be taken in the bushes behind my bench.
I knew it was you as soon as you rounded the curve, the footpath.
So much had changed since I last saw you, but not the way your arms swung as you
walked, a slight hitch in your skinny hips.
You wore your hair down past your shoulders, and as you approached,
I saw your arms were covered in tracks.
Minister.
I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
He stopped as if I had struck you.
From the look on your face, I was afraid you were going to run off
into the darkness.
After a moment, he said.
It's Emmett now.
Emmett, I said, trying the sound on my tongue.
It's me, Emmett.
I'm Charles.
Your face trembled and broke and you threw your arms around me, sobbing,
kissing me like someone was coming to pull us apart all over again.
Charles, he cried.
I thought I'd never find you.
It's been so many years.
I searched all over.
God, I've needed you.
The night was warm, but you shook and shivered against me.
Can we go back to your place?
I never really found somewhere it's better like this, I said,
rubbing your back.
I took your hand and LED you off the path back to where no one might find us.
Here, I said.
Let me show you.
So thank you, Wes, for your story and congratulations on
winning the ****** romance category, the hotly contested category.
Yeah, second largest category and winning it
with like a non traditional romance story.
Yeah, not one.
You would you wouldn't put it up in a a Museum of romance.
But no, absolutely what we might call a dark
romance, It is very dark.
I mean, there are obviously themes more than
themes of abuse here and like religious and I'm not sure if you'd say sexual
abuse, but like, definitely physical abuse taking place
here.
I think you can imagine this sexual abuse, yeah, coming through as well.
I mean, we're castrating people or like
essentially.
So that's a factor.
But I mean, what comes through is that longing and
that, you know, that connection with someone and like,
that's a common thing that people speak about.
People have been through a trauma together and connecting based off that
trauma and feeling like a really heavy bond with that person.
And, you know, no judgement about whether that's a good
or a bad thing in this situation.
It is a real thing and it's something that they are working through together.
And they're obviously both dealing with a lot of **** that is an outcome to that.
So very dark.
But also that romance element is very powerful.
Yeah, they're obviously extremely, deeply connected.
I think one of the things that maybe I found challenging about this story in
terms of rating it more highly throughout the process was that it's not sexy.
You know, it's sad.
The overwhelming feeling is sadness and like missed opportunities.
And, and although these two feel like they're
meant to be together, they've come together through such awful
circumstances and of course, like, therefore suffered trauma as a result and,
and in their adult lives are still struggling, clearly.
And so it's not like, oh, wow, this is sexy.
You know, it's like, this is really sad.
Yeah.
And so that's the thing I think I struggled with as an ****** piece of
flash fiction.
Certainly it's a piece of flash fiction with sex as a component.
But as erotica, I didn't find it hot.
You know what I mean?
It's too sad for it to ever be hot.
Yeah, I look, I agree that that's the case.
It is overwhelmingly sad.
And no one is reading this to get off.
Hopefully no one is reading this to get off.
I mean, that's a problem in itself.
But I think, you know, literature is a like, it's a,
it's a wide net.
And I think that it's worth exploring dark themes and sad themes in fiction as
it is elsewhere.
And because, you know, people are inherently, like, ****** in a,
in a way.
So all of those elements are present inside people.
So why wouldn't they be present inside a story?
Yeah, by no means does that detract from the
story, but it's what makes the story powerful.
I guess when you're having an ****** fiction competition,
you're like ****** romance.
You know, you want it to be like this spicy sex
scene where everyone's does like there's a fountain at the end, but like, go on.
He just like locked your lips.
Now he's going to say, well, there was a fountain at the end.
But then I remember they didn't have any balls, so there wasn't.
So that's I didn't want to say at the my thought, OK, OK.
But yeah, you know, we're expecting like it's ****** romance,
like we're expecting a couple to come together and for there to be fireworks
and spice and for it to be and happily ever after and all of these things that
you might want from a romance.
And we did have other stories in this category that were like that.
And so it is a challenge, and it's something that I guess we kind
of debated when we were judging these stories,
but ultimately this was the story that we felt was very powerful,
the one that affected us emotionally.
And yes, being sexy is one thing.
And of course we did want to make the unsexy irresistible.
Yeah.
And that was a huge part of what we were looking for in these shortlisted stories,
but also moving and being a piece of fiction that hits US hard.
And the and this story did.
And I think that's what saw it rise to the top.
And that's not to discount the stories that were very beautiful and sexy and
spicy because of course we loved all of those too.
But this is the one that stood out above the rest in the category.
So well done, Whiz.
All right, well, I'm excited.
Let's move on to the next category.
So our category winner.
And this time it's 4 ****** comedy and this was our most popular category.
It was so takes a lot to stand out.
It does pay the jar and this was one that got me instantly.
I I enjoyed this very first read and I'm so happy to see it as the category winner.
Of course, ****** comedy being one of my favourite
among the categories.
And so our winner is Love on the Landline by Ivy Craven.
My old girl might be as thin as tissue and shrivelled to a whisper,
but every now and then she speaks to me softly, very softly,
and I thumb through her withered pages.
I'll brush against her walls and the folds that hold secrets of lovers past
until she moistens and fluffs up again like a sponge cake.
Ever since my Ian passed, she's been stirring more often.
That timid little voice of desire I remember hearing when I was young is
growing louder.
I suppose there's no one around anymore to keep me in check.
All my married life I'd been a Good Wife, modest, a pillar of virtue.
Of course, Ian and I would have our relations every
now and then.
Not that it ignited much passion.
It wasn't like in the movies when the lady's thrown onto the sand by a man with
his shirt billowing and ocean waves crash over them in the throes of their
lovemaking.
Felt like he was fixing a car.
Turn this knob, oil her up.
He'd Rev his engine, check it still worked and then, oh hum,
I'd be fixed till the next service.
Ian didn't like it when I had my urges.
He didn't think it was decent of a wife.
I learned soon enough to lock that animal away and submit it instead to the regular
tune UPS.
But now Ian is gone, I suppose I can let her run free.
I guess you can say that I've become a very ***** lady in my autumn years.
Lately, the stirring down below happens at the
most unexpected times.
I find myself holding the plush flesh of a ripe tomato and biting my lip.
The dog's wet tongue on my leg is enough to make me catch my breath.
A light breeze beneath my petticoat will have me grasping for my crotch.
It all started innocently enough, a light brush of the fingertips against
my cotton knickers every now and then, just to see if she still worked.
Then I'd started creeping my hand beneath the faded fabric.
Pretty soon I was moistening my finger with my tongue the way you do before
turning the page of a book and plunging into the depths of my old girl.
And oh, I can make her go.
It was like being reacquainted with a long lost friend.
We make our acquaintance quite often.
Now, if you must know, I live a simple life out here in the
country.
I Potter about in the garden, watch the telly, cook simple meals,
throw the stick for the dog.
There's no one I need to dress up for, no one but myself to wash up after,
and I can leave the bed unmade if I please.
I can sit on the porch with my cup of tea, look out onto my little garden and let my
imagination roam.
While I am happy keeping my own company, I do wonder what it would be like to feel
the weight of a man against me again.
Maybe this one would love my girl the way I can, the way I like.
I suppose I'm too old for that now.
It's not like I can doll myself up, go to a dance,
send out a fish hook and wait for a bite.
No one gives me a second glance anymore.
I'm just a little old lady, just a scone making senile old bitty.
But they have no idea the things I imagine, the things I want to do.
The day someone finally replied to the soft cries of my old girl was like any
other.
I was out in the garden as usual, wedding the flower beds,
when I heard a ringing.
I looked up from the dirt, startled.
It was my phone.
It hadn't rung for years.
My knees creaked as I got to my feet and started shuffling toward the front door.
The old Rotary dial in the kitchen wailed like a cat.
Out of breath.
I snatched the phone from its cradle and lifted it to my ear.
Hello.
There was a bit of a delay, and then a voice as luscious as melted
chocolate poured out of the receiver.
Hello, this is Vishnu from Community Bank.
Am I speaking to the lady of the house?
Yes, yes, speaking.
I'm calling with a very exciting offer for you.
Oh.
I gasped.
I could hardly believe my luck.
What stroke of fate had bestowed this God on the end of my landline?
He sounded very young and handsome indeed.
I clutched my hand to my breast and listened eagerly.
Now can I know who I have the pleasure of speaking with?
This is Ruth.
Ruth Spencer.
That's a lovely name.
Ruth, how nice to meet you.
May I take a few moments of your time?
I felt that familiar quiver.
My girl was awake and she had started with her whispering.
Oh Vishnu, you can take all the time with me that
you need.
That's what I like to hear.
Ruth, are you currently satisfied with your
financial situation?
I don't know if satisfied is the right word for it.
Vishnu.
In that case, I think I'm ready to satisfy you with an
exciting opportunity to invest in our crypto coin industry.
Vishnu, tell me more.
Tell me how you'll satisfy me.
I licked my lips and hiked up my petticoat.
If you make just a modest investment with us, your return will be very large.
Oh yes, I love a large one.
How did you know I like things big?
A man chuckled on the end of the line.
My girls started to pulse with excitement.
Ruth, I think I can tell already just what you
like.
If you're ready to go ahead with me, I can help you make a small deposit into
an account today.
We can start building our investment relationship now.
Now.
Vishnu, no need to rush.
Tell me more about this relationship of ours.
You're a smart lady, Ruth Spencer.
I can tell it's wise to be cautious when committing to an investment partner.
I'm not afraid of commitment, Vishnu.
I'd just like to get to know you a bit better.
These are my hard earned savings after all.
Ruth, I will make your savings explode.
Oh, he was too much, this one.
My fingers slipped beneath the fabric of my knickers and I started to rub my girl
for all she was worth.
You're a naughty man, Vishnu.
Tell me more.
I have years of experience, Ruth.
I make small, delicate investments, grow into roaring fires of opportunity.
My girl ached deliciously beneath my hand and I let out a small moan.
You put your trust and a small amount of money into my possession.
We could make something truly spectacular together.
How much do you want?
I said, stroking myself eagerly.
As you said, Rutha, you like things big.
That is $10,000 sound to you.
Trust me, it won't stay that small for long.
Tell me how big it gets, Vishnu.
Oh, Ruth, it could just keep growing and growing.
I'm an expert at making it last.
Sounds like you're the man I've been waiting for, Vishnu.
I said breathlessly.
I need your credit card number now, Ruth.
I fumble for my handbag on the kitchen counter with my free hand and took out my
credit card.
I'm ready, Vishnu.
Maybe those 16 little digits.
Ruth, Tell me slowly.
5520, 3718.
Are there any more numbers on that card, Ruth?
I giggled girlishly, winding my finger around the telephone
cord.
I'll keep telling you if you keep talking to me, I'll keep talking to you, Ruth.
I want to make sure you get them right.
I'm just as excited about our investment as you are.
OK?
Yeah, they come 86 before I started panting
furiously.
That's it.
Keep going.
You're almost there.
I was almost there.
Waves of pleasure radiated from the tips of my fingers to my toes.
Vishnu must have felt it ebbing from the phone line.
Are you with me, Ruth?
I know there's more in there.
I got to my knees like a dog thrusting my fingers in and out of my old girl.
I began to whimper and moan.
I'm here, Ruth, what comes after 4?
Then I erupted in a violent explosion of ecstasy.
My cries reverberated around the kitchen.
The world began to spin luxuriously.
I lay down on the floor, flushed and full, the receiver dangling above my head.
Ruth, Ruth, are you there?
I grasped the receiver and slowly pulled myself to my knees.
Oh, ish.
No, I whispered.
That's enough for today.
Now I think you better call back later.
But Ruth, what about our investment?
Don't worry, I'm still interested.
You can make another deposit tomorrow.
I said clicking the receiver into it's cradle.
So thanks, Ivy, for your story.
I love the voice in this story.
Absolutely.
I don't feel like I did it justice.
I tried.
But like, the voice in my head is a great job.
Oh, thank you.
The voice in my head is so much more fun than the voice I was able to convey.
So I encourage people to, when we do publish these in the
collection, to, to give it a read and give it your own
voice.
Yeah.
But you know, all of the lovely little double entendres
and the use of the old girl and it just all came together basically.
Oh, didn't no, I agree.
And we talked about this in previous episodes just about how like the unsexy
thing was being old.
Like **** *** with that.
You know, it's not unsexy to be old.
And that's not what this story was even about.
The story, the stories unsexy thing, at least as I imagine it,
is the telemarketer.
And you know, Ruth has a good imagination.
She managed to make good of that.
Hmm.
And also, you know, you've got those personal details that
fill that character as well, like her years of marriage and the lost
husband kind of and being repressed in that relationship as well and just
feeling like, all right, well, he's gone now.
So it's my time.
It's my time.
It's Ruth's time, ***** and we're here for it.
Go, girl.
Yeah.
Go old girl, if you will.
Yes, indeed.
And it's a happy ending as well, you might say.
Yeah.
Hang on, I remember commenting when I first read
this story that this was exactly the kind of story I was hoping to receive in this
competition.
Someone who had taken an unsexy thing and really gone with it, you know,
and really given it the attention it deserved to make it sexy.
As humans, we can literally, if we want to turn anything sexy if we
want.
Yeah.
And, and frequently do, Right.
And this was a perfect example of that happening.
And I I really appreciated that.
I appreciated Ivy leaning into it, not pulling any punches and making it as
sexy as possible.
It's good fun.
I think that's called on the Internet.
Is it rule 34?
Oh, on the Internet.
I don't know.
You tell me.
Please do it up just to make sure I'm not talking ****.
And Rule 34 and I quote, if it exists, there is **** of it.
Yeah, I think that's what we're doing here.
Yeah.
Not quite right.
Prize for Flesh Fiction.
We're trying to plug those remaining gaps, I feel.
I mean, fill every crevice, every nook, every cranny, or granny, if you will.
We'll fill every granny.
Every granny.
I think that's a.
That's the tagline for a dating app that may not yet exist.
I hope it exists by the time I'm a granny, and if not, I will feel that niche.
So congratulations Ivy on winning the hotly contested ****** comedy category.
Absolutely.
There were so many epic stories in this category,
so for you to stand out is is a huge achievement.
Thank you, Ivy, and congratulations.
OK, so let's move on to our second last
category, our penultimate category, and it is in this case, Kink and Taboo.
So the winner of the Kink and Taboo category is Ablation by Javier Bateman.
I have been told I love too deeply, in a way that is unsettling, unseemly.
I am in a ****** little bungalow with a dark haired man who feeds me whiskey I
don't like and smells so heavily of cigarettes that it should make me sick.
He leans back on the couch.
The image of evangelical masculinity, a God given right to punish and condemn
desire, like a Roach, crawls up me.
It settles inside my throat and macerates my mouth.
How am I meant to love less?
How am I meant to feel less deeply?
How is everyone else not needing to tip their head back,
feel the click of their jaw as it unhinges itself, disarticulated,
limp like a paper doll, and devour.
He blinks.
It reminds me of a lizard, flicking its tongue against its own eye
to keep it moist.
They bulge out of his too gaunt face, but I'm here,
holding his gaze despite the way it seems to make my skin crawl.
He takes his time, languid, loose, leans forward to pull his smokes from his
jacket and lights up in front of me.
His eyes are on me.
Under his gaze, I'm keenly aware of myself as a thing,
a body like a sack of meat.
And he is rocky, circa 1976.
The room is thick, the air sour with the smell of his body
permeating like rot throughout the house.
I feel my fingers twitch against my thighs like little worms.
I'm concerned by the image my brain conjures, my skull held by him,
my lips parted and wet, the string of saliva connecting us only
for it to be crushed into things pulpy and pink.
I'm more concerned about why the image makes me throb.
The silence is overwhelming.
How are there words for what I want to say?
I've scoured dating apps to find a man who seems revolting.
I've chosen him as my best possible match.
I'm here to deprave myself, and he is here to deprave there is
kindred understanding I can see in his eyes,
a soft recognition of self in the other.
It's there, and it's desperate in a way that would
have my friends pity me and **** me if that isn't so hot.
I can hear the blood thrown in my throat and against my eardrums like a rush of
waves.
Want to smoke?
I shake my head.
My insides are liquefying.
I'm burning up.
I'm at risk of frothing out of the confinement of my body,
spilling out blood, intestines, desire all over his floor like a crime
scene.
He takes a long drag before ashing it over the edge of his seat.
He tilts his head to the side slightly, assessing me.
The stomach lurches.
With a curled finger he motions me towards him,
spreading his legs on either side to grant me the best seat in the house.
My body moves with embarrassing urgency.
I fall forward onto my knees audibly, hiss slightly at the sting,
but feel myself clamber over to him desperately,
like some horrible in between of baby and beast.
I settle between his thighs.
His hand presses against the side of my face.
From here, I can smell the sour, sweet Tang of **** pressing against his
pants.
His hand is not exactly gentle, but not unkind.
He rubs the pad of his thumb against my cheek,
and I try to ignore the stench of tobacco that seems to live in every pore of his
body.
You're pretty, he murmurs.
It's not intended as a compliment.
I feel unclean in the most biblical of senses.
Do you want to be pretty?
My heart shudders, crawling its way up my oesophagus.
I shake my head, just barely.
He may not have even noticed it where his hand not on my cheek.
When I do so, he smiles in a way that promises nothing
but violence.
My body seems to sing at the threat.
I tremble huskily.
He says open your mouth.
I'm pliant and moan as he unceremoniously shoves his **** down my throat,
moving the hand on my cheek to the underside of my jaw and his other hand to
the back of my head.
He sighs like he's sinking into a bath, and I glow.
Good, I feel good.
He pulls out almost all the way before thrusting back in,
******* my mouth at a brutal pace.
It's as if he's trying to rearrange me from the inside out.
My tongue moves sloppily around him, barely getting a chance to press against
the veins of his **** or slide against his foreskin before he moves frenzied,
deeper, faster.
His hold on my head makes me feel like a Fleshlight.
I'm barely moving.
I'm being moved, an orifice to **** some sexy vacant eyed
object.
My **** twitches in my underwear and I groan, guttural, animalistic,
with my mouth full of him.
I think of the devil on his goat legs as he stands up slightly now bent over,
******* my throat open, giving a voice to the wet sounds of my
mouth, the garbled aimless noises being pulled.
He throttles me from within.
My mouth is pulpy and pink.
He moans some half gargled thing, his throat slick and clawing with what I
can only assume is smoker's lung mucus.
I picture a knife driving into me, gouging out soft parts of my body.
There's a niche to the left of my chest I think I could fit him into.
In no version of this story is this a man that I should fit into my life.
He pulls his **** out fully and I whimper.
My throat is too empty, I can't feel the slap of his balls
against my chin or smell his sweat against the curl of his ***** pressed
into my nose anymore.
He snorts and I'm pinned in the sticky, sweet heat of mortification and desire.
Get on all fours, I want to **** you open.
I'm nothing if not malleable.
I allow him to manhandle me, push me down against the rancid smelling
carpeting, feel the bristling of fibres against my
cheek as he presses his hand to the back of my neck.
There is a weak voice somewhere in my brain,
something saying danger just softly enough that it sounds a little like a
heartbeat.
There is a louder voice, too whiny.
All he says is more.
He shoves my tracksuit pants to my knees and kneels behind me,
pushing more of his weight against the back of my neck.
I feel the cold of him spitting against my ******* and Yelp froting against the
carpet and my bunched up pants.
I can feel the head of his **** press against the tight ring of muscle of my
******* and whine loud, almost embarrassingly.
Sparks flicker up my spine.
My **** throbs painfully between my thighs and **** it hurts.
He pushes forward.
I was just barely able to get the head of himself into the tightness,
the heat death of my body.
The drag of his **** inside me feels like the same heat of a tattoo gun against my
hip.
****.
He groans, and my God, it sounds like poetry from his mouth.
It must be the prettiest he's been to me the whole night.
He presses his mouth against my shoulder, panting, wet and open, mouth like a mutt.
His teeth scrape against my back.
I writhe, push up on my hands to press my back
closer to his chest, neck tilting back, an invitation for the beast to tear me
open.
My want twists and pulses in a way that disgusts me.
He bites the soft flesh of my neck where it meets my shoulders,
and pushes himself about halfway inside me.
My insides protest, pain so startlingly sharp that I feel,
finally, my erection droop slightly.
His tongue lathes the wound he gave me, almost apologetically.
His hips draw back slowly, and then I'm winded yet again as he
pushes back into me.
I cry out.
Oh.
There may be words coming from my mouth, but they're so slurred that they barely
count.
We are twitching mass of slick, shiny bodies.
His breathing is laboured and ragged against my back as the pain dulls to a
hot ache.
I feel myself wriggle under him, trying to match my hips to his slow deep
thrusts, trying trying to be 1 body.
He gasps and with a shuddering shove comes inside me.
I groan, feeling his *** feel me and his ****
pulse before I come ungracefully myself.
His **** goes limp and he's pushed out almost too quickly by my ******* and I
hiss at the rush of cool air.
We lay like this for some time.
The smell of his home becomes unctuous sex, sweat, nicotine and dark things.
I don't want to put to words I learned from him and others what kind of creature
I am.
So congratulations, Javier, thank you so much.
And what a wonderful, powerful story to take out the kink and
taboo category.
And I think we're talking taboo here, right?
And I have to say this scene for me really evoked the TV show Euphoria and
the storyline of the character jewels.
So this character who's going off and having sex with problematic men in a
hotel and I don't know, almost like self flagellating,
like punishing themselves about this.
And it's dark, it's disturbing, it's sad, but it's also incredibly powerful and
very character driven.
We're very much in the characters perspective here.
We talked about this in the last story, but you're wanting sexy stuff, right?
And while this was deeply sexual from beginning to end,
it wasn't sexy in a way like wasn't turning me on.
I mean, I'm speaking for myself here.
It was very sad.
It was disturbing.
You know, you feel sorry for this character.
That's not the grounds upon which you build a super spicy scene usually,
but very, very emotionally gripping and powerful
and and a very strong story for that reason.
Well, look, we don't choose what we find sexy.
And I think that's what this story is about.
It's about feeling loathing, I guess, and self loathing for one's own
attraction and what you're attracted to.
You know, it's dark.
And we spoke on previous episodes about the kink and taboo category and some
challenges that we had with it.
And there were a lot of dark stories.
You know, this one rose to the top because,
you know, was so sexual, so explicit and charged,
but also all those elements of story does have that character.
And it does have more depth than just the surface level sex.
Yeah.
And I think a lot has to do with the conflict, right.
But I just wanted to call out some lines that really spoke to me.
And I felt very powerful and relatable, you know,
not necessarily with this character specifically, but just this feeling.
And the line was how am I meant to love less?
How am I meant to feel less deeply?
How is everyone else not needing to tip their head back,
feel the click of their jaw as it unhinges itself, disarticulated,
limp like a paper doll, and devour this idea of being someone who
just, like, you're being told chill out.
You're just like, no.
And that's what this scene is, right?
It's very much like, I know this is too much,
but this is what I want.
And I think that's what's powerful there.
And just as an extension of that and very much linked to that thematically.
But he blinks.
It reminds me of a lizard flicking its tongue against its own eye to keep it
moist.
Yeah.
And that's such a powerful image.
Again, kind of disturbing, I guess, but such a really cool image to evoke.
So some really, really powerful lines in this story and
this story really effects actively mixes all these visceral elements like the dark
ones and The Dirty ones along with like the really sexual ones in a way that also,
yeah, just using emotional and powerful and
like intense.
And and this is the experience of many people in the world.
They they just are intense.
They feel things very deeply and and it takes a lot to fill that need for
intensity, I guess.
And this that's what this scene did for this character.
It met that level of intensity that they needed to feel alive, almost.
And I think that is what, for me, mirrored euphoria.
Yeah.
And what brought that to mind for me, it was very, very powerful story.
Again, not so much sexy for me, more just deeply moving.
Yeah.
So thank you, Javier Bateman, for your story.
And congratulations on taking out the kink and taboo category.
I just want to ask you, Ed, how you feel about reading out these
********** stories.
Yeah, Well, I'm not gay.
And so these are, is it making you gay a little bit?
No, we talk about this in the in the long
list episode.
I'm I'm pretty sure about the fact that like,
it doesn't really matter what the gender of the characters is.
It's all about the emotion, what they bring to the story.
So like this is outside of my comfort zone and outside of what I would like
read generally.
But you know, the story itself is great.
So I didn't really have a problem.
I feel like you did it justice.
Oh, thank you.
So well done.
And so finally, after all these amazing stories,
we get to the overall winner.
So this is not only the winner of the category,
but the winner of the entire competition.
And the astute among our listeners may realise that this story comes from the
fantasy and supernatural category.
And you said earlier that this is your surprise standout category for yourself.
Yeah.
So no wonder that this is the winning story and cream, as it were,
rose to the top.
MMM.
This isn't the creamiest of stories, I have to say.
Oh, what was the creamiest of stories?
No, I'm.
I'm just saying this is a dirty story.
It's literally lots of dirt in the story.
Quite literally.
So this, this again, isn't just the category winner, right?
This is the winner of the entire competition and as such,
wins some extra prizes.
OK.
So #1 the number one thing that we must mention is the trophy.
Yeah.
So those who are familiar with our not quite right prize for flash fiction
trophy, the famously pointiest trophy ever.
So the winner will win something very similar.
Yeah.
But it will be a unique, one of a kind flesh fiction trophy.
That's right, but still pointy, which is in point, which is in point.
It's very important, very important.
Also very important.
They will also win.
Perhaps more importantly, depending on what your attitude might be,
but 500 Australian dollars, not too shabby.
A little investment perhaps towards your writing career, $500 is great,
but that trophy is priceless.
It's a one of a kind look.
Do you know what they get both.
So they're they don't even need to decide what their favourite is.
They will also win an annual pass to the not quite right prize for flash fiction,
which will give them the opportunity to share in additional prize money.
It's 4000 Australian dollars each round, so every quarter $16,000 in a year.
And so free entry to that competition.
Hopefully a bit more fun.
And again, we mentioned earlier in this episode,
but we're welcome ****** fiction, bring it on romance, whatever it might be,
fantasy and supernatural, we welcome it with open arms.
Just arms or you tell me we're just open.
Let's put it that way.
In addition to that, as with all of our other category winners
in this episode, The Romance Writers of America will waive
your membership admin fee and provide a digital toolkit to help you on your
romance writing journey for Australian authors.
If this to be an Australian author, you will receive also a 12 month
membership to the Romance Writers of Australia valued at 129 Australian
dollars.
Finally, you will also receive a 12 month platinum
membership for Adult matchmaker.
Again, this is for Australian entrance only
that's valued at 335 Australian dollars.
And with thanks also to Adult Matchmaker as a sponsor of this competition.
We've mentioned it before, but it bears mentioning again that if you
enjoy smutty stories, you need to get your *** over to Adult
Matchmaker.
They have an entire blog which is steamy stories written by people in their
community, and I've been on there.
Have you been on there yet?
I haven't actually.
Oh my God, get on it.
It's been hot.
I should have gotten on there before I wrote my story.
I might have gotten some inspiration.
Maybe there is something for everyone.
So if you are enjoying the spicy stories, I I might even go so far as to say it
gets even spicier over there on their blog.
So something to look forward to.
But also, of course, we're going to read the story now and the
story will appear in our flesh fiction collection.
In fact, it will be our very first story in Volume
1 and I am so excited to publish this story.
It was a standout from the first time I read it.
I believe it was a standout for all three of us judges who read it on first reading.
And so naturally it should rise to the top.
And although I'm nervous, I'm very excited to read it and share it
with the world.
Yes, super excited to reveal the winner of the
prize and this story, which as he said, was a standout for all of us and super
sexy.
So let's hear it.
So without further ado about nothing, the winner of the Not Quite Right Prize
for Flesh Fiction 2025 is As They Like It by Hester Prem.
The moon is up.
He must come.
Moonlight transforms the shadows beyond her greenhouse into woodland.
It overlays her serious face on the glass.
Rosalind has already tugged out the Combs and pins that cage her hair.
She has thrown off her clothes, the daring above the ankle skirt,
the ordinary box, pleated blouse, corset, drawers and sturdy shoes and donned
Paisley silk dressing gown.
He likes to undress her before having her on the day bed in the corner,
but she does not want that slow tease tonight.
The muscles between her legs beg for him.
Their ache drove her wild.
Today she dug the kitchen garden like a demon.
The men used to ignoring Lord Coxley's strange daughter doomed to spinsterhood,
had stared.
She had imagined tossing her spade aside and lifting her skirt to reveal her
drawers.
She had pictured herself stretching the open crotch seam wide to reveal the V of
her hair.
Is this what you can smell, boys?
She scoops compost into a small terracotta pot from a tin bucket on the
table and makes a hole with her index finger.
Will he come tonight?
Does he still want me?
Movement among the trees, A detaching shadow.
Rosalind ducks her head over a wooden tray of cosmos seedlings,
snatches up a pencil and uses it to lift out a plant.
She places the seedling in the pot and Pats the compost down around it.
Next, the old piano stool swivels as she works
mechanically.
Fill a pot, make a hole, prick out, add seedling, press down.
Breathe, Rosalind.
She squeezes her thighs together and the ache draws out,
worsens The thud of her heart fills her head,
yet she hears the hinges of the iron door creak at the pad of his feet.
Her breasts begin to swell.
She knows he is naked.
He is always naked.
Next, pot stay on task.
The steady rhythm of his feet causes her to imagine it swinging side to side,
or perhaps it is already risen and engorged.
And then he is there, hugging her from behind,
leaning in over her shoulder like a regular man would.
Laughing, Hazel eyes, full lips, tawny hair.
He smells of fresh wood shavings like he's newly hewn.
Each time he comes to her, his smile is knowing.
Can't wait, my lady Rose, Is she too obvious?
Her blue blood rebels.
Oh, hello, she murmurs.
Wait, please, I must finish this tray.
Carry on, he whispers.
I will watch.
The playfulness in his voice prickles her skin.
Steadying her hands, she fills 1 pot after another,
very aware of his chest rising against her spine,
of his bare thighs straddling her stool, and after a few moments of a strong nudge
against the small of her back, she uses an earthenware jug to water the
pots she has filled, and the splash reminds her of the
moistness between her legs.
God, how she wants him.
Why has she stupidly locked herself into this task?
When she fills the next pot too quickly, he says Careful, you're spilling compost.
Compost and soil are precious to him.
She discovered his fixation during their first meeting alone together in the
kitchen garden.
He had worn a cotton shirt, moleskin trousers and work boots,
so she had assumed he was a new hire until the dirt on her palm caught his eye.
He had taken her hand, cupped it to his mouth and licked it
clean, his tongue rough as bark.
Its abrasiveness drove her dizzy.
Your name, Sir Orlando, a character from her favourite
Shakespeare play, As You Like It, who falls in love with a Rosalind.
A lie, obviously, but she had not minded.
Then, as Rosalind ****** out plant after plant,
fills hole after hole, he licks his lips.
His hands slip from her waist, trail down her thighs to her knees.
Another pot when his fingers are rush up the silk of her dressing gown until they
brush her skin.
Next pot.
His hands skim up her thighs towards home.
Yes, yes.
Casually she spreads her legs and his fingers coast right past her ache to toy
with the coarse hair above it.
It is delightful.
But she wants to scream.
Orlando, please.
Impresses himself harder against her back.
Prick out another.
She scoops compost into a pot, inserts her finger to create a depression,
and his hands ease her open.
These two index fingers slip inside.
Her legs tremble.
Is this a new game?
She plunges her finger down to the hole in the pot's base, and he delves deeper.
She circles her finger slowly, churning the decomposed matter,
and his fingers sweep, making her walls throb.
She retracts her finger from the pot, then jabs it back down into the hole.
His fingers retreat, then push against her clenched muscles.
So tight, Rose.
Too long without me.
Simply rose now.
Yes, cloudy fortnight.
She pants out as his fingers dip again.
She loves his fingers.
He withdraws them much too soon as she tries to ****** them back.
He swivels the piano stool round and there he is,
standing before her in all his naked glory.
His chest hair arrows down towards his erection.
He crouches before her, licks her pot soiled hand clean,
then guides it towards her ache.
Do as I did, Rose.
I'm not certain I ought.
Trust me, I know what you like.
She purses her lips.
How do you know?
Instead of answering, he lays his sticky index finger along the
length of hers and points the way in.
Their fingers enter together.
She gasps, expecting it to feel wrong, to touch herself like this,
but it does not.
He removes his finger, another lick and then he grasps his
erection and begins to work his hand up and down it.
Rosalind is scandalised that he handles himself so, but she is entranced too,
and oh, her own hand is moving.
She explores the shape of her secret interior and every touch is a delight.
Slow and 1st, then quicker, keeping time with the motion of his
clenched hand if someone were to pass by the greenhouse now.
The idea of it thrills her.
She pitches her pelvis higher the moment she tips her head back and looks up
through the glass roof at the Crescent moon.
His breath touches her, swelling.
He is breathing her in, and then his soft mouth,
his rough tongue are there.
She watches his head Bob, her wet fingers find his face,
and then the ecstasy comes.
It starts near her tailbone and sweeps forward, wave upon wave of utter bliss.
She is too choked to cry out his tongue.
Lapse and lapse, she strokes his swallowing throat.
Eventually, when he speaks, his voice is raw.
My root needs its beautiful hole.
Come here, then, she rasps.
Let me be your pot.
She undoes the tie of her dressing gown and lets the silk fall to the flagstones.
She shifts her bottom forward to the stools edge,
then leans her elbows back on the table and points her breasts towards the night
sky.
His erection glistens.
He widens her legs, steps between them, and drives his enormous route home.
Her wet walls stretch and swallow him until their pelvises kiss.
He glides back, then thrusts.
The stool jolts, The pots rattle, the seedlings quiver.
She whimpers, for he is butting hard against a sweet
spot hidden deep inside her.
Until now.
She wants to cry out his name, but the name is wrong.
He is not an Orlando, just as she is No lady.
The bucket is close by.
She shifts her weight onto 1 elbow so her opposing hand confessed compost.
She Grimes her heavy breasts, her stiff *******.
Her hand lingers, squeezes her sensitive flesh.
His eyes are closed.
He is panting, consumed wholly in the act of planting
himself as deep as he can go.
As he Rams her, she spirals higher.
A new tingle starts near her tailbone again.
Yes, she cries out.
A better name for him.
Forest.
His eyes snap open.
There is something ancient and unknown in their Hazel depths,
but she wants to know it, know everything.
She wants to know all of him, not just as a man,
but as the creature he really is.
Beloved Forest, she says.
Eat.
Forest beholds her soiled chest, bears his beautiful teeth and swoops.
Oh, his fiery mouth, oh his abrasive tongue.
His thrusts quicken, sharpen the table jerks, pots,
topple his caked lips, suck her ****** to a razor point.
Rosalind moans, digs her fingers into his hair and arches.
A hot gush explodes against her triumphant walls.
Rose.
His cry shakes the greenhouse glass.
The soft Tufts of his hair change between her fingers.
They become green leaves and her bliss roars.
So thank you so much, Hester Prim, and congratulations on not only taking
out the fantasy and supernatural category, but the whole damn thing.
You won flesh fiction.
You ******* won.
Holy ****.
Out of almost 500 entries, yours rose to the top.
And I'm not sure that you know this about yourself, Hester, like that.
You are a smart writer.
Are you learning this for the first time?
I actually know this author.
I know that they have written sex scenes.
I know that they right romance and apparently they're calling is the smart
side sexy plant dude.
I'm here for it.
Sexy plant dude was actually a recurring theme.
Yes, comp.
We had a few sexy plant stories which surprised me because it never had crossed
my mind.
Maybe it's a female gaze situation.
We love plants.
I I really ******* love plants, I have to say.
Your wife, do you love plants this much?
A little.
Your wife went to like 5 nurseries today.
That's true.
You need to reflect on that.
It's true, what goes on in the nursery stays in the
nursery.
She was talking about how dirty and muddy one of them was.
So, you know, she was having a great time.
Not to drag you into this, Sorry, Sharon, but also, well, you know,
learn something new every day.
And today I learned about the female gaze and plants things.
But this is one of those stories that I think, you know,
we've we've spoken about like monster sex and the whole fantasy genre in the past
on other episodes of the podcast and kind of tried to tease it apart and work out
what makes it tick.
And I think this is a great example because reading this story like it's a
plant man and he has characteristics of a plant.
Mm hmm.
But it works.
It totally works.
I mean he's very much also still a man yes.
And I mean, this is one of the ones we've talked
about not getting a lot of fairy smart because of course,
fairy smart gets a lot of airplay in pop culture.
And this is probably more in the realm of fairy than it is maybe monster.
You know what I mean?
Like it's got that sort of natural component to it and it works.
And it's not my thing.
I have to say.
Like this is not something I would go into the competition thinking that I
would choose as the winner.
But it got me.
It was very real and raw.
And it's like making the monster very specifically your desire.
And I think that's what works here, that for this character, this monster,
this plant man met her where she was at.
She's like, I'm the weird spinster lady.
I don't fit in with society.
But this guy, this is where I'm at, you know?
And I think that's, there's resonance in that,
in feeling like the outsider, in feeling like no one understands you
and then finding someone who does.
Yeah.
And we learned this lesson with every good flash fiction or flash fiction story,
is that the character is the most important thing thing and the emotion is
the most important thing.
And we get like her longing in the story and her desire and the antagonist.
I guess if that's the right word and the story is the manifestation of that desire,
so be it.
Human, plant, monster, it doesn't really matter in the end.
It's really just speaking to that emotion.
And it bears mentioning that it was ******* hot.
Yeah.
You know, we've had some other category winning
stories that are like, ****** but sad or or disturbing.
And this one is just ******* hot.
Like everyone's having a good time.
And there's something to be said for that.
In ****** fiction, there's conflict still.
And this is something that we saw in some of the stories.
It was like, do you want to have sex?
Yep, let's go bang and great.
But from a storytelling perspective can be less satisfying.
Whereas in this one, we did still have that push and pull,
the conflict, the kind of character arc of just really
coming to accept who she was as a person through this relationship with this
character.
That was really Marvel as well.
And that's what made this story stand out above all the other amazing stories.
That's right.
So really well done, Hester Prim on your story and
congratulations, the pointy trophy is coming your way.
It is a pointy trophy.
It is not girthy and bulbous, but it's a little bit girthy.
I mean, I've never mentioned it.
If you were confident about yourself and about trophies,
I guess if it was the only thing at hand you can make do.
I wouldn't recommend it, no.
But you will also be receiving some other fun things,
so maybe just hold out for those before you resort to the trophy.
But like, I'm not ready to let this go.
This has been so much fun and just so many amazing, powerful, sexy, hot stories.
We have been enjoying them in the privacy of our own homes.
We have now had the pleasure of sharing just some of them with our audience now.
And of course, there are many, many more.
So I think we mentioned earlier in the episode that we're hoping to bring 3
volumes of **** binders of minders of hot **** something for everyone, right?
A little bit of everything, whether you like the fantasy and
supernatural, something a bit more literary,
the romance, not just dark romance, but happily ever after two.
And I can't wait to bring that to the world.
And I hope that you, all of our listeners, buy copies of these books.
But also let's make it go ******* viral.
If 50 Shades can go viral, why not flesh fiction?
Let's read them out on the trains.
If someone asks us about it, let's share the love because this has
always been a labour of love for us.
It's been a free competition.
We've donated our time, of course, our lovely guest judges have donated
their time.
And all we want is to just bring more fun to the world.
And so I hope you help us in that goal.
And so the Flesh Fiction Collection, the first volume,
will be coming very soon in the first half of this year,
and another two to follow.
And I just wanted to let everybody know we will be including our own stories in
the Flesh Fiction Collection won't tell you which volume they'll appear in,
and we won't tell you the name that they're submitted under either.
Maybe you'll figure it out.
Maybe you'll sense it on some deeper level.
I hope everyone enjoys.
And if you figure it out, send us an email.
Yeah, send us a message, Adm slide into our DMS,
let us know that you enjoyed our stories.
And also a reminder that we are offering Bare Devils as part of this competition.
We normally do Daredevils as part of our regular competition where we will read
out a story and we will critique it on the air,
share our thoughts and RIP it apart.
Yeah, it's pretty hard.
Learned from the experience and we're doing the same thing now with flesh
fiction.
So if you've entered a story in flesh fiction and you want to become a bare
devil, you will have received an email
explaining exactly how to do that.
So I think we have three people as of the time of recording who have signed up to
get a whipping from us.
I can't wait to whip you.
We can't.
And there are three more spots.
So whether they get taken up or not, I'm not sure how many more people will be
confident enough to take that whipping.
But we're here to give it to you if you want it.
And so it's a little bonus.
We have badges for this competition for flash fiction as well.
If you head over to the website and go to the honour roll on the website,
we have badges there for everyone who longlisted or higher,
but also little bonus badges for stories that had a little bit of something that
we wanted to just call out.
Yeah, there's a lot of fun little extras there.
So go and check out the honour roll.
Whether you made the longlist or not, you might find a little surprise there.
And I hope that you celebrate your fellow authors who have achieved in this
competition and promote their work elsewhere.
I know this is a little bit of a maligned area of fiction,
but deserves to be in the spotlight.
Absolutely.
So grab your badge, throw it up on social media,
and just **** it.
To hell with it, Just do it and listen.
On that note, if you decide that you want to ditch the
pen name and come out of the closet as an ****** fiction writer, get in contact.
We are more than happy to give you your real name on the badge so that you can
share it with pride, because I am so proud of every single
person who entered this competition, including you, Ed, and including myself.
Including you entered twice.
No comment.
But, you know, I put myself out there.
I wrote some **** you know?
I know that is, like, a lot.
And everybody who entered this competition wrote a lot.
Yeah.
A lot for themselves, Like, more than they would be comfortable
sharing normally.
And ******* good on you.
Yeah.
It's been so much fun getting out of our comfort zone.
Yeah.
We appreciate everyone who's done the same for us.
Absolutely.
And of course, as always, it's subjective, You know,
what we chose as how winning stories and our and our long listed stories may have
been different for other judges.
And if you loved your story, it's important that you get it out there.
So please do submit it for publication.
And if you do find a forever home, let us know.
We love to celebrate with you.
Yeah.
More so than regular flash fiction, this is particularly subjective.
Absolutely.
So, Yeah.
You know, I think a big question on the lips of
entrance, so to speak.
Hang on, why do you always have to take it to a
hand gesture place?
I'm giving it $2.00 because that's a lot.
121 for each lip.
Oh **** OK.
But another big question on the lips of our entrance is are we going to do this
again?
I guess the answer at this stage is I don't know.
It's been a a tonne of work for us.
There's a lot of reading, there's a lot of recording.
It's all of the things that go with it and you know,
the the free comp and prizes, not the thing that would stop us.
It's all of that other work.
Yeah, right.
So absolutely.
So I would love to do it again, but if we do do it again,
it probably will be a paid com and we would need to think about the parameters
and when we're going to fit that in and all that kind of thing.
So it's not happening this year, let's say at least that.
Yeah, there's a lot to think about.
But listen, we had the best time and I'm not ready to
let it go.
So we do still have our Baredevils, which I'm looking forward to.
But in the meantime, I do hope that the flesh fiction
collection, the three volume collection fills that
gap for people.
You know, the gap deserves to be filled.
Does you know it's aching to be filled once it bad?
And we may end up reading some stories as well on our Patreon feed down the track.
Who knows, we might just get bored and on a trip
down flash fiction lane and just want to read some really dirty ****.
I'm always ready to go down flash fiction lane.
You've got one of those cards that they stamp with like 10 visits.
I get a free coffee on the 10th.
1 The free flesh at the end of it, a random flesh from the bag.
Who knows what will it be on that note.
So that about wraps it up for Flesh Fiction 2025.
We hope that it was as good for you as it was for us.
But that's not the end of Not Quite Right.
Of course.
We will be back with plenty more content.
We have the Not Quite Right prize for flash fiction and all of the episodes
that go along with that.
We do have a long list and a shortlist episode for that competition very similar
to this one.
We read out all of those stories, and we also have a regular podcast that
we do sometimes in these days, and we're looking forward to releasing
another episode of that at some point soon,
and that will be featuring the writing of Edgar Allan Poe.
So stick around for all of that, you perverts.
But until then, right on yeehaw.
Thank you for listening to Not Quite Right.
If you'd like to reach us via email or follow us on social media,
you can find all the links on our website notquiterightpodcast.com.
That's WRITE.
And if you enjoyed the show, we'd love it if you could leave us a five
star review on your favourite podcasting app.
Something doesn't seem quite right.
OK, let's **** this puppy.
I want to intro with a little bit of a skit.
OK, I don't know my lines.
OK, maybe we'll add Lib and then if it sounds
all right, we'll keep it in, and if not, we'll do it again.
Are you ready?
Yep.
You can assume when I say let's **** this puppy that I'm ready.
Hi.
Hello.
I'm Ed.
I'm Amanda, and it's time for the category winners of
the not quite right Prize for Flesh Fiction.
You ready?
Mm.
Hmm.
You got your.
I don't want to go too sick.
OK, Well, it's like it's too late.
Listen, I'm dissociating.
OK, Good.
OK.
And this is entertainment.
No, no, I'm trying.
Well, I'm trying to work out where this line is
between being extremely pervy and just like being entertaining.
So I'm not going to be like as you have you lubed up.
I don't want to say that that's a bit too far.
That's a bit direct.
Is there something I can pull back on?
And I hope you're sufficiently prepared.
Wants to come because it's going to be highly sexual.
Thank you for the content that that was the least sexy way said that in the whole
world.
I've never been so turned off in my life.
Because we'll be announcing all Say it sexier,
if I could say it sexually intercourse.
Because in this episode, we'll be revealing the winners of each
category, as well as the overall winner of the Not
Quite Right Prize for Flesh Fiction.
I'm just here to make noises.
I don't know where we're going with this.
I don't know where I'm going.
I'm just ******* talking.
This is going to take all night.
I'm glad we started here.
The night is young.
The moon is full of calm.
Inside you there are two werewolves and they're burning.
Oh, and they're playing ice hockey.
They're playing tonsil hockey.
My favourite kind of hockey.
I've got to be careful.
**** knows what you're going to use of what I'm saying.
Anyway, B5 four farm and I won't because I did
have a rhyme.
No, say it.
Well, the rhyme has come.
So you just oh, come.
OK, because you're gonna go on bum.
You gotta go on B5 four farm.
I smell the *** bum.
I smell the the *** a pre filled bum.
Pre filled.
I'm trying to syllables.
I like my bums pre filled.
You know what I mean?
No, I don't.
I don't really, you'll have to explain that one to me
because I've heard a lot of things, but not that one.
That's that's new.
Proper ***** up and down, up and down.
Happy days.
**** that's good **** that's so ******* good.
Giggle break, I'm just going to bite the microphone
while I wait.
Just a little.
Nibble, nibble, just a cheeky nibble, nibble, nibble,
little rat who is nibbling on my ****.
Send us your dirtiest palms.
If you make us **** ourselves, literally we will give you $1000 just at
any time open call out anytime.
Don't waste your time.
Only if I'm going to **** myself.
Do you reckon when that guy's having sex is like how to pronounce **** ****?
I have thought about it extensively and you can put it in the dossier.
In the dossier.
Yeah, Not really, but, yeah, No, But I think what's happened is that it's
triggered that part of your brain, but you haven't actually consciously
explored it.
Yeah, exactly.
It's like it's in there anyway.
It's in there deep, is what you're saying.
It's not in there deep, is what I'm saying.
It's in there.
Shallow.
OK, Give it to me.
Shallow.
The hottest sentence in the English language.
I want you to put it in, but not very far.
I want you to just take it out immediately.
Like before it even in **** sakes.
I'm already struggling so just ******* read the story.
I told her what?
Sorry I just read.
I read out of the corner of my eye, harmonious, but I read it as humongous.
She came and she was like, what's your name in the store?
******* in a different direction in my ***.
That was gay as **** man.
I was so gay as ******* gay man.
Get it out.
Go, go, go get it out.
Are you OK?
Go for some hockey for some reason.
Same.
Alright, Shall we?
At this point you just say hockey to me.
I'm like let's ****.
I've literally watched 1 1/2 episodes.
I need to.
That's all.
I'm obsessed with it and I haven't even watched it.
You can't even make it through a whole episode.
I know it's just because because of reasons.
I do know I got my friend Tara into it and she's like texting me.
She's with one hand, and I'm like, I don't ******* care.
Good for her.
Watching that show kind of turns me into a gay man.
Have you ever been a lesbian?
Have you ever been turned into a lesbian?
I'm actually not into, like, lesbian stuff.
OK.
Like, I know, I know.
It's very popular.
I'm not into gay stuff either.
Like, obviously I feel like I don't belong
there.
You know what I mean?
Like, then you're not invited.
Yeah, I'm not invited into this.
It.
It is a funny cultural phenomenon because why are all the women,
the middle aged women finding it hot?
It's very romantic.
I think that's a big part of it because gay men are more attractive than the
straight men, generally speaking.
Like they're neater and more.
No, it's, it's not about the men.
It's about, I think it's about the story.
You know, people have been talking about it's
yearning and that's it.
It's like really, it's the story.
It's very ******* romantic.
It's very good.
Oh, ****.
I have to be an old lady in this one.
I'm not putting on a voice.
I don't think I know how I feel about old ladies.
Can I stay apparatus?
We think if you go too hard, I'm out for work.
You're going to have to give it to me.
Shallow.
I couldn't have done that.
It was time.
It would have meant a lot to me if you just sprayed that all over the floor.
You know, man, you're right.
The old lady **** really gets you.
I don't know, maybe maybe it's morphed from like joke
to, you know what I mean?
I do.
OK.
Not funny anymore.
No.
Well, no, it's still funny.
You're gonna start making calls.
I'm gonna start to vulnerable old ladies.
Is it in nursing homes?
They're ***** in nursing homes.
That's the thing.
Haven't you heard that?
I have heard that there's some like rampant STD's and **** 'cause they're
like whatever.
******* yeah, yeah.
Get me.
I've already got.
Yeah, I've already.
It's like, I'm Mr.
Burns.
I'm Mr.
Burns.
All the illnesses alike.
I was going to say, why did we shut the window?
Then I remembered about birds.
Yeah, but I'm.
I am.
I'm really moist.
Sparks flicker up my spine.
My **** throbs painfully between my legs and eyes.
Thanks for telling me where my **** is.
Oh, it's your ****.
I thought it was.
This was forgetting to character.
It's going to be so much fun packing those ****** and just cupping them gently,
just really delivering.
The only thing is to buy some new boxes from the post office because they're not
going to fit in the book box.
Too big, too girthy.
Well, you can fold them up.
They they allow for the box with you.
Yeah, Yeah.
You just have to make them fit.
You just have to stretch the box, not only just the number of entries,
but we increased the size of the submission box.
I'm, I'm just like, we increased it made it so big.
And let me say that again, we increased the length of the
submissions as well.
So to 1500 words.
And why not?
Why not increase it all the way?
Barely fits the submission box.
My root needs it's beautiful hole.
Come here.
Then she rushed.
Let me be your pot.
Stop it.
******* breathing.
Sorry.
I'm like go on.
I mean, I take it as like positive reinforcement,
but still this is an interesting career that we've chosen.
Are we done?
Go on, you're so etcetera.