Alliteration? Absolutely!

DebR was kind enough to give me a nudge when I realized that while the entry was ready to post, I’d never actually MADE IT LIVE.

So here you go: The entries to the Smart Bitch Alliteration Contest – wherein our readers have to alliteratively describe some romance action.

Inspired by the alliterative writing of Amanada McKittrick Ros, the Smart Bitches have laughed their asses off at the following entries.

Please email your vote to Sarah and Candy by Saturday, October 21, midnight PDT. (And can I just say that I am so ready for daylight standard time? Whoever decided that we should move it back a few weeks here in the States needs to have a few minutes with my seasonally cranky self in the early am. As you were.)

Vote early, vote eager but just once, please! And now, without further ado, the entries!

Entry 1:

Carl couldn’t control his cravings. He carefully closed the confessional and crushed Connie to him, clawing at her clothing. She cooed as Carl clamped onto her caramel crotch, coddling her clit through the cloth.

Connie’s canorous cry carried throughout the cavernous cathedral as the corona of Carl’s colossal cock collided with her cotton-clad cunt. Crushed into the crease of her creamy, crimson cleft, the cloth clung to her clit. Carl cradled Connie’s caboose as he cleared a course for his cock. With a colorful curse, he completely concealed his cement column in her convulsing crevice.

They climbed to the cusp and clamorously crested, consummating their compulsions in the claustrophobic confines of the consecrated crèche and convincingly completing Connie’s contrition.

Entry 2:

Penelope palpitated as she perceived the pelt upon Percival’s pectorals petting the petals of her peaks into prominence.

“Please…” she pleaded, “put out my parched prairie pyre with your pulsing pride!”

“Precisely what I possessed in my plan,” he panted. “But as you are pure, pain will be present as I pluck your pristine pomegranate. —I will be particularly punctilious, precious.”

“I do not prize my pleasure—purloin my purity!”

He picked up her perspiring person and positioned his pole of potency to penetrate her pocket of passion. Piercing the pressure of paradise, he proclaimed his possession with a pealing POP.

Entry 3:

Cathy Cuthbert cursed uncontrollably, clutching the proof positive of her wretched rendevouz with Reginald, the retarded guard at the roller rink. The pusillanimous pee-stick proclaimed her pregnant! Why, when wilder women had ridden Reggie’s ten-inch tent pole, had her shoddy body not shunned his shimmering shot? Surely some devilish demon demiurge was wreaking revenge for her uninhibited use of his towering tool, his lengthy lighthouse that languished, unloved and unlovable in that tormented tenement. Would this moronic man-child make a fitting father for her firstborn? Time would tell.

Entry 4:

The ribbon wrapped red rose lay on her bosom, which blossomed so bountifully from the bodice. Silent breath bespoke the truth of silken slumber. Never would the cold clasp of death’s clammy clutch dare to darken the delectable décolleté of so desirous a damsel. Only a veritable and vigorous Valiant could raise in the resplendent rose of womanhood a blush of beauty and brightness of breath. When souls, long lost, find succor in sweet reunion, a tentative touch of lips, blooded and bold to those wilted and waiting, will bring forth the beatific bounty of lost love awakened.

Entry 5:

As Delilah dragged her dainty digits along the edge of her deep décolletage, desperate to deepen dastardly Duke Dominic Dunsmore’s desire, she dreamed of the day when the dues for her Dominatrix Dungeon Club would decrease her dependence on dallying with dudes like Dominic and she could dash off to Denmark and dance in delight with darling dentist David Delacroix. Damn, even Delaware would do, despite David’s unnatural desire for disgusting deli dishes. Delilah took a deep breath and hoped her dream wasn’t doomed. What would David do when he discovered she was carrying his daughter?

Entry 6:

The prone patient presented a profoundly preternatural display of priapism.

“Painful?” postulated his personal physician.

“Positively.”

“Persevering?”

“Particularly persistent.”

“Pitiful.”

“Precisely.  Prognosis?”

“Promising.”

“The path to preserve my potential posterity can’t be postponed.  Please proceed.”

From the patient’s perspective, the needle appeared perilously positioned. 

“Be prepared.  You’ll probably feel a little prick.”

Entry 7:

With her back being buttressed by the battlements, Coleen Collins clutched her claymore to her chest, and raised her gaze to face the fierce faceless foe behind the heavy helmet. She gulped and gasped as her lungs filled with smoky air thick with the sickly-sweet scent of her companions, recently cremated into crisp corpses.

At the seductive sight of her bosoms billowing beyond the bodice of her brass battle armor, the brazen, brutal barbarian (otherwise known as Knut the Knasty Knight) was startled into stating, “Wot! A wench! Are ye willin’ woman?”

“Never, knave!” Coleen keened, cruelly kneeing Knut’s nuts.

Entry 8:

Lucinda’s lush lady bits brushed Byron brazenly, teasing his terrifically magnificent manhood into rampaging rigidity. Sliding his sweat-soaked body boldly between Lucinda’s lovely legs, Byron’s breath became ragged, rising in pace as his pulsating penis penetrated her passionate womanhood. She whimpered while he wildly pumped his purple helmeted warrior into her wanton wetness. Gamely he ground his hips against her moist mound until, her vagina viciously
vise-like around his swollen staff, she cried her climax. As her sweet cream spilled down his straining sex, he furiously filled her femininity reaching for fulfillment until a rugged roar rang out his release.

Entry 9:

The vicious, vampiric viscount vaulted down the verticle valance, veered past the varnished vanity table, and with violent velocity grabbed the voluptous vixen. “Victoria! You vacuous, vain, vapid viper!” the viscount voiced vehemently. “Invariably you’ve vacillated and evaded me, vanishing like vapor, in favor of various vulgar vicars, varlets, vassals, and vagabonds—though I’m vastly more virile and valiant! Verily, I’ve voyaged to your vile village to visit my vendetta of vengeance on you; vindictively violating your velvety vagina and vacuuming vampiric victuals from your veins!”

Entry 10:
 
“Mirabella,” Marcus murmured, “might Martin move? “

“Oh, odds are, other than the organ, Martin needs nothing here!” Mirabella mourned.  “He can hie him to the Highlands, and in Higland, his happiness will hopefully happen!”

Marcus moved mock menacingly to Mirabella, meeting her magnificent, melancholy gaze.  “Thus, the three of us then, there to Thacker’s Throne adjourn for always, adored.”

“Marcus,” Mirabella marveled.  “Mary?”

“She defended my dearest.  Darling, don’t doubt!”

He held her, heaving, hard to his heart.

“Mirabella!  Marry me, my marvel!”

Clinging, clasping, crying curses, coupling, clutching creatures carried by the current of Cupid’s claim, culminating, came.