Yes, much like when I wrote my ill-fated attempt at Goth gangsta rap, I'm noding drunk again. This time, I'm attempting to merge the world of heavy metal, despite being still very much the sausage fest that it's ever been, with the low-quality bodice ripper. And so, with several large tins of beer inside me, not to mention a few generous helpings of Ricard, I set off to see just what the juicy bits in a questionable romance novel might look like if it had a bit of metal up its ass.
Erm... MATURE CONTENT WARNING... ahh, soddit, you're definitely piqued now.
So. Here goes nothing. I hasten to add that this is a work of fiction and no offence is intended by it and any resemblance to actual people is completely unintentional. Also, I used both hands when typing this.
Soon enough, the rain abated and the clouds overhead cleared enough to show some semblance of moonlight spearing its way through the clouds, although it appeared strained, refracted as it was through the last dregs of rain which were still emptying up somewhere over Hamburg. Mark twitched irritably in his half-sleep. The sound of huge, fat raindrops on the canvas above his head had done little to enable him to sleep off any of his liquor-induced haziness, as they thrashed down like a million far-off blast beats. In all, he would not have claimed that a night such as this uncomfortable and mud-caked one on the seemingly endless camping fields of Wacken, was particularly romantic. He mused that while there could be romance in passionate throes during a thunderstorm, the participants in this particular tryst would have more between them and Thor's excesses than a few microns of canvas.
But then someone rapped, or rather scratched, at the front flap of his tent. Cursing, Mark crawled over the hell of dead stubbies and fumbled for the zip. Jerking it upwards, a slim, slender, yet supple hand with black painted nails slid into his tent, followed by another one, then by the rest of its owner.
"Sarah," Mark said, with some small surprise. "What are you doing here?"
Sarah slithered into his tent and positioned herself uncomfortably - yet at the same time very comfortably - alongside him. She put her finger to her lips. "SSsshhhhh," she went. "Don't talk about it," she said and the next thing he knew she was planting a humid, sensuous kiss on his lips. He was slightly taken aback by this but then again he'd not had any cause to make iron before the forge, let alone strike while it was hot, since Tanya Kemppalainen's wardrobe malfunction during Soulgrind's set the previous day. In any event, her hands were all over him, albeit not the parts he'd rather they were all over, but then given recent comings and goings, or lack thereof, if her hands were all over those parts it would indeed be all over, so that was for the best, overall.
Sarah was clearly drawing a reaction from inside his trousers. Brewer's droop was a concept unknown to him, however, at this point he was more alarmed by the fact that he last changed his underpants on Tuesday and he was dimly aware of the first stirrings of evolution therein. But to be fair, he then realised that Sarah's nethers had been encased in leather for the past few days quite snugly and so she would not be in a position to complain. He reached around behind her and yanked off her shirt, as if overcome by some wild animal lust, revealing a gently pouting belly and her taut, aching, pendulous, swelling, large, plump, succulent, astoundingly deep, rosy-tipped breasts held reluctantly in place by a black lace bra from which they were overflowing and dangerously close to escaping. He knew that if he released them from their translucent fabric prison there would no doubt be a significant amount of synchronised mammary undulation. Her nipples were, as previously mentioned, rosy tipped and inviting and he wanted to put them in his mouth even more than his mate Geoff's double-sized bottle of Polish vodka. Her hands were down between his legs, fumbling with his trousers, when -
"Mark!", she exclaimed. "You've got the horn already, you filthy, FILTHY, boy!"
"No, actually, that's actually my drinking horn. I got it off the Viking stall for €25.00."
"Oh," she grumbled. She thrust the offending Norse paraphernalia to one side and pushed him down against his gradually leaking airbed. She was kissing his face and neck greedily like she was trying to suck his soul out. There was something about him, she couldn't quite work out what, that was driving her mad with lust. Maybe it was the coarse yet silky feel of his hair, which was even longer than hers, although his was brownish and shaggy whereas hers was like a midnight river sailing down her back... Maybe it was the beginnings of a beer belly (though it was not yet large enough that he could claim it was a fuel tank for a sex machine). He certainly could not have stood in for a Boris Vallejo painting, anyhow. But this was not dissuading her as she took his hands and primly positioned them on her pert and peachy posterior.
The raven beauty, with icy blue eyes like a lake of limpid tears in the frozen Northern lands had her hands in the back of his trews and was squeezing his buttocks while her lips traced over his neck and shoulders. All of a sudden she ripped off his shirt, which left him somewhat divided whether to object to the fact she'd just ruined an extremely rare item of merch from Bolt Thrower's 1990 "World Eater" tour or whether just to ignore it to avoid spoiling the moment.
Ahh, soddit, you can't buy feminine attention of this quality on Ebay, he thought, and unclipped her bra with one hand, like a five-legger spider taking a fly roughly from behind. (Speaking of which... actually, Mark thought it best not to get ahead of himself. Getting head, however, was robustly on the agenda.)
Spilling forth came her glorious femme-flesh, on which he fell like they were the last two beers in the world. Soon enough, his first and last fingers were not the only horns he'd stuck up that day. Although certain other fingers were shortly thereafter employed in a manner which could be described as "stuck up," but somewhere else entirely, rummaging and rumpling like a squamous rapier in that most secret split lock of her sex. She inhaled as sharply as an icicle and he was dimly aware, out the corner of his eye, the dark shadow of a groping hand (hers) on his plenipotentiary instrument. Such a wanton action caught his undivided attention, which was also an apt description for how he now stood. With lascivious, lambent licks she traced the contours of his chest, then south, south inexorably, a southwards advance that everyone had wished General McClellan would perform, to see whether he would salute it now it had been run up the flagpole. He did so. Mark yanked down his trousers, and pants also, with an unnatural urgency, revealing his package to who was now its second greatest admirer.
Sarah grabbed onto it, not roughly, but firmly. A longing ache thrummed between her legs as she lapped at him, her tongue winding round it and underneath. Mark grunted and shifted.
She looked up from her handiwork. "Mark, I want you now. I mean, right. now. Ever since I accidentally groped your backside while you were crowdsurfing to Die Apokalyptischen Reiter."
Mark was lost for words, but then decided actions spoke louder and with one swift movement rolled her under him and buried his face in her crotch. Sarah was mildly alarmed by this but then decided that at least he wasn't beating about the bush. Except he was. But not like that. Which did occur to her and she started to giggle but then felt something different, something warm, something wet, and something slippery on her pearl that made her take in a sharp and sudden breath. And then giggle, but in an entirely unrelated manner. Giggles gave way to groans and moans and grunts as Mark busied himself in curls and lips and -
"Oh yes... yes... right... there..." she murmured. Mark heard nothing. This was partly because he'd ruined his hearing systematically over the last decade and partly because his ears were blocked by her not unpleasantly shaped thighs. He could smell her secret feminine yet earthy scent right from its source and it made him want to... do things. But not just yet. Soon, but not yet.
They took each other slowly at first, and neither of them thought that it could be so... delicious. Even though neither of them had spoken a hundred words to the other beforehand. Mark suspected that was probably the reason. Soon enough, although it was some time later, but both were wrapped up in the now of it to really have much track of time during their perpendicular pas o doble, their supine tango even, they tensed and imploded together, and Mark was filled with a sensation not unlike hearing a Rhapsody guitar solo for the first time, but ten thousand times stronger, while Sarah, at the critical moment, bit down on his shoulder hard enough to draw blood.
They parted reluctantly and dressed each other equally reluctantly.
Just before she ducked out, Mark grasped Sarah by the wrist. "Will I see you again?" he asked her.
She leaned in and kissed him on the lips. "Come to my tent tomorrow night. I have Jaegermeister, and maybe other liquors, as well..."
Mark curled up and went to sleep with a big grin on his face.
The next morning, he crawled out the tent and joined his mates for a "thrasher's breakfast" of double pepperoni pizza and a stein of Franziskaner. "Eyup chaps. How's life?" asked Simon, one of those mates.
Mark grinned. "Can't complain. I have beer, and last night I got my ashes hauled."
"Really?" one of the other said.
Then as one, they all went, "Brutal!" all together.
I must admit that I am indebted wholeheartedly to J. L. Ferri's "Sex in the Romance" which deconstructs the "juicy bits" from many a bodice ripper and then tries to put them all together at the end. I also admit that I lifted the phrase "synchronised mammary undulation" from his efforts.
The "I got my ashes hauled," "thrasher's breakfast," and drinking horn incident are all from personal experience, however.
(Node 24 of 30 IRON NODES.)