FFF - Lick

She gave the treat a lick and all I could think about was the various ways her tongue could please me. All that time in lock-down and now here we were, out and about again, with her squeezable flesh just inches away, bare for the world to see. She had chastised me for smearing the paint before we left the house, and now all I wanted to do was smear it some more, let the neighbors see, I'm not proud. And all of her was mine.

---

Just a brief moment. Can't do much more in 90 words. From a distance this "outfit" might fool you, but get within a certain radius and there'd be no fooling anyone. One wonders why this couple chose this way to celebrate the end of lock-down restrictions, but imagine the sweet agony of being an exhibitionist at a time like that.

I like that you can see the place where the paint has been smeared a little, on her left arm. This isn't a pristine picture. Steps have already been taken.

---

Speaking of taking steps (you knew that was coming, didn't you?) you can head over to Max's blog and take the first step in a long road of enjoyment by throwing your hat into the ring and writing a little flash fiction. It's only 80-90 words. How hard can that be?

FFF - Meat and First

like a piece of meat like a piece of meat she told herself this was the only way and they inspected her up and down flesh giving way to cold sterility only she wasn't only she knew she wasn't and they knew she wasn't because why else would they be here like a piece of meat and when he chose her she was pleased in an impersonal way like she'd won some prize open my legs close my heart like a piece of meat she was consumed and then discarded like a piece of meat

---

I don't usually do stream of consciousness but with such a short word limit it seemed more reasonable. Think of it less as stream of consciousness and more as a tone poem. It's informed a little by my own experiences, though I've never been on display for the use of the customer, nor have I ever felt myself merely a piece of meat. Okay, so I've felt that way but not in this context. Sometimes partners make one feel like one could have been anyone, and that's not cool, but this is different.

Fuck it, I like this picture and I'm going to do another.

---

When he opened the door she was there, naked as the day she had been born, legs wide, face worried. His heart was in his throat. "Do I please you?" she asked simply, looking like the fate of the world hinged on his reply.

"Very much," he assured her, and she relaxed a little, though when it came time for him to shed his clothes too, the nerves were there for both of them, despite knowing that this was the way it would be.

He was hard as her tiny nipples which gave away her desire. He needed no preliminaries, nor did she. He got between her legs, those beautiful long legs which wrapped around him instinctively, and he adjusted himself until his head was at the entrance, then he slowly eased forward. Her eyes were closed, but there was no twinge of pain when he entered her, warm and inviting, wet as he was hard. This was right. This was expected.

They didn't kiss at first, not until he had bottomed out in her, her pelvis shifting to accommodate his pressure, her legs pinioned between them now, arching her back, opening her to his thrusts. Her mouth opened and sound came out, soft sounds of pleasure, which he muffled with his own mouth until their tongues were entwined as he began to thrust more forcefully.

When pleasure overtook her, it was all he could do to thrust home and spread his seed inside her, his manhood pulsing once, twice, then retreating, though he knew this was only the first of many such times.

"Do you think it will happen now?" she asked him after a moment of bliss. "Do you think I will have your child?"

"No way to know," he assured her, already growing hard again.

---

This one is much more tinged with my own experience, though again, only partially. There's just something ritual about the look of the picture for me, I guess. But that's probably me reading myself into it.

---

Speaking of reading myself into it, you can read yourself into it by going to Max's blog and joining in the fun. I bet you've got something fun to say about this picture. It's crying out to be used for inspiration. And no one else needs to know you were inspired the extremely bad segue above. You can claim you were just browsing and decided to join in. But I'll know. And I'll judge you.

No I won't. If lousy segues are what it takes to get more people playing, I'll make even worse ones. I haven't even begun to approach the bottom of the barrel, let along scrape it. So I guess you could also be motivated by not having to experience the true depths of awfulness that I can scrape together, in a segue.

You do know what a segue is, right? Oh dear, maybe people don't. A segue, pronounced "SEG-way" like those ridiculous self-balancing scooter things, is a bridge between topics, like, say, a discussion of the literary merits of a particular piece of erotica and an imprecation to join in the erotica-making. A good segue seamlessly shifts topics. A bad one calls attention to itself and usually starts with "speaking of" when no one was speaking of it.

No shame in not knowing this. I delight in teaching people new words.

Speaking of new words, one often learns them by reading (which is why I know what words mean but not how to pronounce them) so even if you're not going to join in the fun of writing erotica, you can enjoy reading what has been written by heading over to Max's blog. He's got oodles of archives and such. And he doesn't use terrible segues or patronize you by assuming you don't know what words mean. Really, he's much better at this than I am.

FFF - Turnabout

 

Officer Hupke liked being a cop; he liked the authority and he looked good in the blue uniform, or at least people seemed to think so. But what he really liked was arresting pretty women. They would do anything to get out of jail, and he was happy to oblige.

Like Darlene, part-time stripper, full-time trouble. Hupke busted her regularly, for possession, for drunk and disorderly, for whatever he felt like, really. But she'd never seen the inside of a cell because she could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch and she had no illusions, unlike some of the girls he had to help see the light. She sometimes saw him coming and offered to fuck him before he even tried to bust her. And she was pretty hot too.

That night, he nutted twice, the sex was so good, and she even offered him a taste of what she was holding, which made it all the better. Darlene had seemed particularly happy to see him that evening too. Hupke let her fool around with his uniform a little as a reward. She looked hot in blue.

The next day when Hupke went to the precinct, everyone avoided his eye. He was called in to the chief's office. IA wanted to see him. Apparently there were pictures, and Darlene was nowhere to be found.

---

The limitations of the form meant that I couldn't tell exactly the story I wanted to tell, but this is close enough. She just looks straight into the camera like she knows it's there, because I figure she does. I'm also proud of being able to work both required words into the first sentence. I could have gone with a female cop, but where's the fun in that?

---

Speaking of fun, Flash Fiction Friday is supposed to be fun, and part of what makes it fun is seeing all the different ways people interpret the picture and the assignment, and the more people there are, the better it is, so you should go to Max's blog and join in the fun. Or at least have the fun of seeing the other interpretations. I'm not going to carrot or stick this: FFF is fun, and it'd be more fun if you were playing, and that's really all that matters.

But I am going to encourage you to visit Max's blog if for no other reason than that it gives him pageviews, and he deserves them for being our host every week. You could leave a comment thanking him. You could spread his link far and wide so others will see it too. That, I'll encourage you to do.

FFF - Rolled

The whores sat back, sagging tits revealed but as yet no snatches in evidence. Their hair may once have been in fashion but now all it did was remind him of the urban legend where a gal didn't wash her beehive for so long that actual bees took up residence. He'd always thought it was just a funny story. Now he hoped these two weren't the kind who didn't wash regularly.

The older one had a sardonic look on her face. Her voice could have cut glass when she said, "You want us to undress you or are you in a hurry?" He was in no hurry.

The younger one had been what had attracted his attention. Girlish in a cute way when she had her clothes on, now she just looked like more tired street meat. Still, she looked at him with a smile, not shy, just smiling. He stripped down to his underwear and she kept smiling, so he appreciated that.

They took turns sucking his cock when he asked for that. After all, what was the point in his first threesome if he didn't get to watch two ladies fighting over his manhood, right? Honestly, they seemed more into each other than him.

"Which one do you want first?" the elder's voice rasped like sandpaper over his brain. He indicated the younger one. He hoped she was a little easier to take.

She smiled again and pulled off her panties with little fanfare. Then she lay back on the bed, legs spread, waiting for him.

The injection stung a little, which was how he knew it  had happened. When he woke, he was naked, they were gone, and so was his wallet.

---

I don't know why this one gave me so much trouble. But trouble it gave me. I initially wanted to do something more interesting with the story, but in the end I couldn't make it work, so the whores, like my inspiration, fled and left our protagonist lonely.

The look in the one in black's eyes was really what I wanted to capture. She looks like she's saying, "Seriously? You expect us to fuck you?" But I wish I'd been able to do something more interesting than just two hookers rolling a john. Just kind of depressing and mundane this week.

---

Surely you can do better. Surely you can take one look at this picture and summon up a flash of inspiration which blows mine out of the water. Head over to Max's blog for the rules of the week and throw your hat into the ring. These gals deserve better than this. You can give it to them.

FFF - Watermelon Man

"Hey Watermelon Man!"

And he would hack the juicy fruit to pieces with practiced ease and I would devour it, the sticky red chaos all around me. It was a ritual.

Until one day, "Hey Watermelon Man!" as he came around the corner only it wasn't him, it was her. She handled the knife a little more slowly, and the pieces of cold, crisp melon were different somehow. But one look at her fresh face, and who was I to judge?

Later, when I had lapped all the sweetness I was going to get out of the rind, she returned, her face looking more care-worn, beads of sweat glistening on her brow. She had cast aside her shoes and unbuttoned the top button of her dress, and as she slouched down and sliced one of her remaining supply, she looked lonely.

"Hey Watermelon Man!" and I laughed to show I was joking. Her eyes lit on me and she beckoned me over and we silently shared the fruit, warm now from the sun.

And who am I to say that that was the beginning of our love?

---

So there's this jazz song called "Watermelon Man," and that's all I could think of, except this was clearly no man.

I'm doing it a bit differently this week. I've written something which I believe cleaves to the requirements, but I'm not going to verify the word count while I'm writing it. Then I'm letting it sit for a bit and I'll come back and do what edits need to be done. Because while simply putting words on the page is a good exercise, editing them to make them work is equally good exercise, and fortunately Flash Fiction Friday provides a mechanism to stretch both muscles a little.

I'll write more about the editing process when I do it, but the writing process is mostly as usual, except I decided that there would be no dialogue other than "Hey Watermelon Man!" How many different ways can you say those three words? Probably more than I've used here.

And the editing process was nonexistent because I managed to, without counting, write precisely the number of words necessary to fulfill the challenge. I am the champion! Sorry if you were planning on an in-depth discussion of editing. I'm not touching a thing.

---

You're probably expecting me to make some reference to stretching muscles here and then to exhort you to go to Max's blog and join in the fun, but I'm not going to do that this week because it doesn't seem to work. You're adults (I hope, anyway; if you're not, I hope you have a parent's permission to read this). You can figure out what you want to do. I respect your agency.

FFF - Check Up

So Daddy being Daddy, even on vacation he couldn't keep from monitoring me. "I just like to make sure my girl is taken care of," he said when I brought it up with him.

"Before I had you I managed to go more than a day without being taken care of," I couldn't resist saying. He sounded a little crestfallen and I mentally promised to make it up to him when he got back.

The next day, a smart-dressed young man knocked at my door. "Bill sent me over to check up on you," he said.

"I told him I was fine last night," I groaned. Just what I needed, a man around the house when all I really wanted to do was have a nice evening in.

"No, you don't get it," said the smart-dressed young man. "Bill said I'm supposed to check up on you, and that's what I intend to do." And courteously but insistently, he shut the door behind him and started taking my clothes off.

I was a little shocked into silence at first, but then Baby came roaring out and I was putty in his firm but tender hands. "Bill said he likes you smooth," said the young man, running his hand over my hastily-shaven pubis, feeling the stubble from too many days without. "'Baby should be smooth,' that's what he said. So hop to it, into the bathroom and let's make sure he comes home to a smooth Baby."

I'd never let a man shave me before, and at first I was awkward and shy, but his hands guided mine in putting the cream everywhere he felt needed it. "He wants pictures," said the young man, and there was a hint of a smile.

"And after?"

"After, Baby can have a treat if she's good."

---

These are supposed to be Flash Fiction in that they're short, not that I write them in a flash, but the past couple of weeks time has gotten away from me and I've written them very close to deadline, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. It forces me to ignore my inner editor and critic and just put words on the page. And isn't that the point of the exercise after all?

Anyway, the lateness of the hour means that despite there being two word limits in this week's rules, I only went for one FFF. Sorry. I'll try to do better next time.

I'm a lousy sub so I don't really know what D/s should be written like, so instead of doing Master and slave, I went with something a bit more familiar. Not that my father ever told a young man to undress me to make sure I was trimming the hedges in his absence. He didn't need to. But anyway, this is not, unlike some of my stories, real incest. It's just a D/s relationship with a bit of a twist to make it easier for me to grok, maybe? I don't know. Hopefully I haven't fucked anything up too much.

---

But you'd be fucking up majorly if you don't go to Max's blog and take part in this week's Flash Fiction Friday. It's not a competition, unless you're competing against yourself. And if it were a competition, it would only award prizes for most forced segue, and I'd win every week, so don't even try to top me. I don't know. I'm not going to appeal to your better judgment. You should just play with us.

FFF - Honey Pot

My baby makes hotcakes
And they come out tasting like glue
Oh lord my baby makes them hotcakes
And they hard as rubber too
But when her honey pot is flowing
There's nothing else I wanna do

The blues droned lazily from the phonograph and Lucinda wondered whether her shift would be over before she lost her shit and punched someone. A string of men with grabby hands and pinching fingers and no respect for the waitress. And Bobbi was out sick leaving the whole diner to be served by little ol' Lucinda.

When the stranger hopped off her motorbike and strolled into Ray's, The Nicest Place in Town, Lucinda plastered a pleasant smile across her lips like her job depended on it, and said, "Howdy ma'am, what can I get you?"

The stranger paused, looked Lucinda up and down, and said, "What's good today?" Her skin was glowing, her lips slightly moist, and Lucinda found herself wondering just what this woman was doing in town.

"Cook makes the best..." she began gamely, but the stranger interrupted.

"No, no, I'm asking you. What is good about your life today?"

The diner was crowded, but to Lucinda it was as if all the noise had fallen away and she was alone with the stranger. "Not much," she admitted.

The stranger smiled. "I believe I'll have you, naked, drizzled in honey, and I'll take it to go," she said.

Lucinda grinned. "Billy Ray, I quit!" she shouted, then flung her apron from her like the chains of servitude broken. Half an hour later, as she spread her legs for yet another helping of honey spooned over her dripping pussy, she wondered just who this stranger was, but it didn't matter much.

---

I don't know. You come here expecting me to explain, and all I can do is say that Lucinda just happened. I started out with a completely different idea, where the husband doesn't think sugar is healthy and his wife convinces him otherwise, something like that, but it wasn't working. And then there was an imaginary song on an imaginary radio, and Lucinda was having a bad day and it seemed like she could use something different. The stranger isn't an author-insert, but I certainly arranged for her to arrive when she did.

---

Speaking of things just happening, it might seem like Flash Fiction Friday just happens every week, but what is involved is a fair amount of effort from Max to bring us the image and the rules, then a certain amount of work from those who participate to bring the image to life in words. Don't take it for granted. Max is awesome for doing it every week, but the way to pay him back is to join in and write something, because it's so much more fun with more people. Why not head over to his blog and check out the rules this week. There's still plenty of time to get one in, as the sailor said to the girl.

FFF - Beckoning

Irina held out the crimson lace, her face devoid of emotion.

"I can explain," I began, then realized that I couldn't explain.

"You might have done me the courtesy of telling me I was being replaced, at least," she spat, throwing the incriminating evidence at my head and stalking away, her hazel tresses swaying in an echo of her hips.

"Not replaced," I managed, snatching the panties from my face. "Augmented. Assisted? Please?"

She slammed the door of our bedroom in my face.

"I think that went about as well as could be expected," Sara said from the couch where she still lay, spread like a two-dollar whore, ass still bearing my handprints.

"What do you care? She's going to leave me, not you." It came out nastier than I intended and I cringed, waiting for fireworks.

"I care, Daniel, because I'm only fucking you to get to her," said Sara, as if that was the most normal thing in the world to say. "She'll come around. Now get back here and get me off again. You're cute when you're confused."

And when Irina appeared some time later, her eyes widened as Sara beckoned her with the same carmine panties.

---

I had other ideas but this was the one that got written this week. I love panties, as you probably know, so it was more a question of limiting myself to 200 words than anything else. I did have to bust out the synonyms for colors because I couldn't just say "red" and be done with it, but also because synonyms for colors are fun.

---

Speaking of color synonyms, why not bust out your own? I didn't use "scarlet" or "vermillion" or "ruby." There are whole worlds of color I didn't touch, and you can use them to write your own Flash Fiction Friday entry. Just go to Max's blog for the rules of the week. You can also see who else is playing, but frankly you should play first and see later, because you'll be so impressed with yourself if you do, and then you can read everyone else's and know what good company you're keeping. Or not. The choice is yours, but I think you're making a mistake if you don't.

FFF - Power

"Ikhan for strength. Ushan for purity. Elboril for endurance." As Marta spoke each sigil into being, she traced its delicate filigree with the brush, then ran the tip across the ink stone.

Kaja remained perfectly still, as she had been taught. No words must interrupt the ritual. But her nose itched and she badly needed to piss.

"Perai for beauty." Marta's brush dipped delicately toward the pink lips between Kaja's legs. This was always her favorite sigil to trace on her partner's willing body, and it reminded them both of nights spent together in the training house, before they were granted the status of the adept. Kaja's cheek reddened slightly and she felt a quiver in the tips of her fingers, but she pushed feelings aside. Not now. Not so close to completion of a different kind. "Affa for speed," continued Marta's slow, steady enumeration.

When all the points had been anointed, the lines dried, Marta put aside the brush and examined her work. "I cause you to be," she intoned. "I call you into life. You are made powerful by all the sisters who have come before you." She sketched a sigil in the air in front of Kaja's eyes, and the ink on her skin burned suddenly, then vanished as if absorbed by a sponge.

Kaja could finally scratch her nose, and she did so languidly. "How do I look?" she purred, the Art in her blood seductive and strange.

"To die for," said Marta with a sly smile. "He won't know what hit him."

---

I could have written more of this. I might still. I know the characters are either Chinese or Japanese but I've chosen to interpret the picture loosely in the service of a more interesting story.

Now that I think about it, another way I could have gone is that they're attempting to write something important on her body so it won't be lost, but if that's the case, they're writing too big.

I don't know whether this is yet another story where Lexi writes about seductive female assassins, or whether "to die for" is simply a metaphor, and Kaja is going off to be a courtesan or something. The prescribed word count came up at the right time to keep it vague, so vague I kept it.

---

If you want to write less vague things, or more vague things, or even if you just want to see what others have written, head over to Max's. It really is more fun the more people who play though, so you should throw your hat into the ring and write one. Please? Pretty please? I'll... I don't know, but if you're a first-timer I'll do something nice for you. I'll show you my tits. You've seen those already. Never mind. Just go write something. It's lots of fun and we're all very supportive.

That sounded desperate. I'm not desperate. Don't write something. See if I care. I'm going to go pout now.

FFF - Gradient

 

Hostels are such a crap shoot. When I went to the front desk to book a bed, they only had a room which already had three people in it. But it was either that or sleep on the street, so I took it. "Be careful, they're already asleep." Yeah, that was on-brand for me; if they were asleep while the sun was still up, they'd probably be up at 3 am to do yoga or drink kombucha or some shit.

But when I quietly eased the door open, there they were in all their assortedly-tanned loveliness, three sets of blue eyes stared at me, and one of them murmured, in a delightful accent, "Oh good, a man to share." Things got very busy after that and I revised my opinion of hostels up a few notches.

---

While walking up the strand
three lovelies hand in hand
got sun a bit more
than they bargained for
and came out unequally tanned.

It may have seemed unplanned,
and their bare flesh I eagerly fanned
to relieve all their hurts,
but I came on them spurts
of semen as hot as a brand.

From their room I've been totally banned,
As a poolboy been totally canned.
As they put it to me
"If your face we see
You will find yourself unmanned."

The rejection I can stand.
My performance they regularly panned.
But I'm trapped on this isle
and it might take a while
to swim back to the mainland.

So I sit here in the sand,
soothe my wounded ego, and,
because my mind's eye
can their asses still spy,
stroke my cock to beat the band.

---

Two of one length this week because while I knew I wanted to write a poem (it's Max's fault for giving so many rhyming options) the other story I felt like writing didn't seem to need the length. Then I was just going to write a poem and to hell with the length requirement, but there were a few rhymes I hadn't used yet, so I used them and it wound up just meeting the shorter length requirement. I couldn't have kept it going to the longer one I'm afraid, even if I reused words, which I didn't want to do.

It's doggerel, not quite limericks but closer to that than anything else. I think I can be excused the deviations from form because they're in the service of a longer poetic form than a limerick. Also, "unplanned" is a different word than "planned" so you can't fault me for ignoring the forbidden words.

I kind of wanted to write something about how they're like a paint chip card, which is where the title came from, but the idea didn't go anywhere.

---

On the subject of ideas which go places, pretend you're an idea and go to Max's blog where you'll find the assignment for the week. Then pretend that idea was better than my segue and write something for us. We want to read your paint-chip analogy, we really do.

FFF - Assignment

He held me in his firm grip, the leather back of the sofa warm beneath me. "Ask me for it," he said softly.

I was only lightly restrained. I could have sloughed off his touch like a snake sheds skin. Naked as I was, I knew where the knives were. He would bleed out before he even knew his artery was open.

Instead I replied, just as softly, "Please, make me cum."

He slipped his hand lower and I shuddered. They warned me that the worst assignments were personal. They were right.

---

There weren't any avenues I explored which allowed me to get away from the essential BDSM-ness of the picture, so I went with a twist that let me enjoy myself a little. I'm just not that into BDSM stuff. Nothing wrong with this picture or the assignment at all though; the picture is great, even if it kind of backed me into a corner. I'm hoping that others will have been more inventive than I have been.

---

Speaking of others, you can join their number by going to Max's blog and using the assignment as a jumping-off point for inventiveness. Then just let him know you're playing. It's that simple.

FFF - What It Looks Like

 

"I want to know what it looks like to you." So we tried. We tried in the kitchen, her leg up over my shoulder, but that pose just suggested things to me and I dropped the phone in my rush to stick my tongue so far up her snatch that I was licking my unborn children.

She stopped me and insisted, so we tried it in the living room, her panties already shed, her legs splayed wide as she leaned over the arm of the sofa. I got a blurred picture that time, but any thoughts of another were driven from both our minds as my cock bottomed out inside her, my balls slapping her clit with every thrust.

"Come on, you're not taking this seriously," she gasped finally, pushing me away.

So we tried in the bedroom, all her clothes and mine gone to that liminal space clothes go between body and floor, to be found later under couch cushions or tangled around doorknobs. She lay back and immediately was up again, stroking my throbbing shaft, the head down her throat and then back inside her warm wetness again, the phone gone to that liminal space too, all thoughts of anything but lust forgotten.

Her legs wrapped around me, pulling me to her pelvis, and I just ground myself as deep as I could, deeper and deeper, feeling that tension spread, until we both came at once. No stopping after that, either. Something kept me hard, and I completed her again and again, the rush in and out driving my ecstasy higher and higher until I spent myself inside her for a second time.

In the afterglow she rolled over to me and said, "You're really a poseur, as a photographer."

"You wanted to know what it looks like to me," I sighed happily, and we left it there.

---

This picture is great, except he's pointing the camera too high to really get a good shot of the goods, as it were. Still, I'd love to see the photos on his phone.

I'm not sure there's anything I can add to the story this week. It worked out to be roughly the right length, and I stopped when it got to the appropriate point. I like the idea of a liminal space where things we discard in our rush to fuck go. Not sure where that came from. My noggin, I guess. "Poseur" was harder to work into the story than I anticipated, and I feel like I cheated, a little, but when don't I cheat a little?

---

Speaking of cheating a little, you can cheat a lot by going to Max's blog and submitting a story which has nothing to do with the picture, is too long or too short, and includes all the wrong words. We won't judge you. But by the same token, half the fun of the exercise is the limitations, so why not go and give the assignment a try? It's free, easy, and it'll work out those writing muscles.

FFF - Bloom

 

Mama always said, "Protect your bud, darlin'. Don't go showing it off for no man." She took me aside on the day it sprouted and told me all about the growing things, about new life and old earth. And when the time was right, she said, my little sprout would blossom into something magical.

Now try telling that to every boy who tries to get to third base and gets a handful of thorns. "Oh, someday it'll be magical," ain't what a guy wants to hear when he was kind enough to try to fingerbang you behind the Sno-Cone stand at the fair, or in his car on prom night, or any other of a million places a gal might go to be with the one she'd decided could deal with her little growth.

I came to hate my bud, hate all it stood for. I went further and further looking for someone, anyone to pluck it, despite the sharp prickers all around. But even the most desperate of gentleman callers was weirded out by the thought of sharing me with, what, a nature spirit? What was it, even?

I was drinking, as usual, trying to get up the courage to try one of the dispirited guys at the bar, as usual. Maybe one of them... And I saw her, and I swear my little bud twitched in my jeans. Our eyes met, and no words were necessary. She took me back to her place, and when she pulled down my pants, she didn't even comment on the beautiful rose, apart from stroking it lightly. Not a thorn in sight. I had bloomed at last.

---

silken petals
and the smell of floral perfume
and she's
drawing me closer
drawing me in
her garden in full bloom
root
stem
and bud

I'm inside her garden walls
and we can frolic
in the long grass
rain
or
shine

later
as her bower cools to twilight
and fireflies dance
I wonder
is she really here
with
me

to wake would be pain
she murmurs
drift away mortal
drift away
to hurt
no
more

---

Two this week, a little magic in both. I don't really have much to say about the first one, apart from it being several months too early for Pride, I guess. Coming out is coming out, though.

I should mention that both of these fulfill the minimum word requirement exactly, for their respective lengths (there are two length requirements to choose from this week and far be it for me to let that challenge alone again). So I couldn't have deleted any words. They're all necessary. So there.

The poem... I've always been partial to La Belle Dame Sans Merci as both a trope and a poem, but I think you need to understand the faerie's side of the story. Is she really without mercy, or is she simply of different stuff than we are? Anyway, this poem's not really about that, it's about death.

Kidding, not kidding.

The end of each stanza trails off in a languid way, which I quite like. If I were in better form and had more energy I would have tried a Keats pastiche, but you get what you get.

---

Speaking of getting what you get, you can make it so we get what you give if you head over to Max's blog and enter into this madcap world of flash fiction with us. Was that a segue or what? Yeah, all the cool kids are doing it, and you're a cool kid, so why aren't you doing it? Jeez, what do I have to do, draw you a map?

FFF - Gloria

 

"You're supposed to be an angel," he growls. "How can you debase yourself like this?"

"Mortal," I say, putting just a bit of the divine into it. "Mama wants to cum at least twice before she unties you." And with that, he can't say anything else because my angelic vulva is basically cutting off his oxygen supply and he has to lick or suffocate.

It wasn't always like this. I used to appear to mortals in my austere, winged form, all messenger-from-the-heavens and pure. But that changed with him. I found myself gazing at the most perfect being I'd ever seen, and I've seen the Big Guy.

But he was so holy. So devoted to his faith. He wouldn't countenance a dalliance with a mortal woman, let alone someone like me. All my pleas were for naught.

So what's a gal to do? Not a gal, technically, but you know what I mean.

The only thing that saved me was that I sing when we make love. And he's writing the songs down. And that's the only time I'll let him listen to me singing. So he plays along, doesn't struggle too much against the knots that bind him, that kind of thing.

"I feel an aria coming on," I gasp, and I swear he licks faster at that.

---

I don't know, she just looked angelic.

I had to work pretty hard to make this fit the assignment. Several sentences fell by the wayside, and the original beginning was cut to make room too. Plus then I had to work in the words "knot" and "naught" without feeling silly. I hope I managed.

This story speaks to me in my corruption-of-virtue, but I think it's more a celebration of sex and love. And why wouldn't an angel expect head? I think all women should expect head, and if angels don't technically have genders, they can still expect head.

---

Speaking of expecting head... yeah, I've got nothing but a non-sequitor to  go here. Head over to Max's blog where you can find the challenge of the week and join in the fun. I won't say it's more fun than head, but it's more fun than not expecting head.

FFF - Things Go Pear-Shaped

 

I swear to God, I know how to pick 'em. Now I'm no fool, but when Eddie, you know Eddie, says he can get me into the Weeping Anus show for two bills, and he only needs a little extra in return, well, Eddie's no slouch in the extra department, so I figured, gravy, right? And there I am waiting for him when this truck pulls up, couple of mooks looking like Saturday afternoon on Long Island hop out, and I'm standing there expecting what, exactly? Not what happens. Not remotely what happens. I shouldn't have worn nice things for Eddie but a lady likes to be presentable, you know. So the one mook asks me, straight out, if I put out for teamsters. Hell yeah I put out for teamsters. I put out for anyone, you know that. And he gets this shit-eating grin on his face like I just declared it Christmas Two: Electric Boogaloo, right? I mean, anyone would, I guess. I'm a fuckin' catch and no mistake. So there's me and two of Gambino's best henchmen in an alley, their pants are around their ankles, the promissory note has been exchanged, and I'm gearing up when Tony Bennet's Biggest Fan goes totally slack-jawed, like the wiring burnt out somewhere. I look over and his pal's doing the same routine. And it wasn't anything I did because they were hard as hammers a second ago, right? And then the world goes blank for a minute or two, I think. It was like one minute I'm getting ready to give head to Paulie Walnuts, the next I'm on my back on a cold table, and there's probes and shit going on, you know, like you hear about in the tabloids, and I didn't see any aliens but no doubt they were there. And then a film splice and I'm standing in my skivvies on the sidewalk next to Eddie's guitar shop. Fuckers abandoned me to go probe some hicks in Yonkers, probably. But whatever. The show was wild, they left me my jacket, and Eddie didn't complain about my neon pubes, so I'm calling it a win.

---

I was going to write both a short and a long one, but I like this one enough that I want it to be its own thing. I have no idea where it came from. I started writing it, she had a voice, and then she was telling me the story and I was just writing it down.

---

Speaking of telling stories, Max provides, free of charge and out of the goodness of his own giant, erotica-filled heart, the prompt each week and all you have to do to join in is take all the words that come out and form them, clay-like, into a story. Or if you prefer, you can take all the words that exist and remove the ones that don't belong until you're left with the picture in word form. Or maybe just sit down and write a fun little story and don't worry about it, like I usually do. There's nothing simpler and it's good for you. How often can you say that about looking at porn?

FFF - Better

 

The doctor says I'm doing better. Ponder, if you will, the state this life of mine might be better than. Do you see the problem? Tell me you see.

The cat is back. I tried to tell the orderlies but they won't listen. The cat is back and this time I promise I'll behave. This time I promise. The cat.

No. I reached out and let it sniff me and it was like I was back in his bedroom, only that cat was gray. I think. He kissed me and I promise I'll behave. This time.

No time like the present. The drugs are wearing off like they always do and the cat is back and this time I won't behave, I will follow. Back through the grove of trees, back to his bower, back to his arms. He cannot reject me. Not again.

---

So short this week. I could have written a lot more, but maybe it's best kept short.

Something very melancholy about this image. I don't know why. Not that the cat is black; I love black cats and think they're perfectly cheerful. Maybe just the face of the woman.

Anyway, I think you can read this in a number of different ways, so please let me know which way it read to you, if you feel up to it. I have my own ideas, but I don't want to bias anyone, and frankly if I couldn't work it into the story as written it doesn't deserve to be there.

---

Speaking of the story as written, you can go over to Max's (everybody comes to Max's) to see other takes on the picture and challenge, and maybe to throw your own hat into the ring. I'm linking to the challenge page as always (because I post this before Max posts his roundup) but you're smart. You can find the others.

FFF - The Price

 

"Behold, the Knife of Ages," intoned Elder Xi, holding aloft the blade and drawing it quickly across the throat of the unfortunate victim, who, his eyes still fixed on mine, expired in a pool of blood.

"I have need of it," I said flatly. The black gloves on my hands itched with perspiration, or was that anticipation.

Elder Xi snapped her fingers and an underling rushed forward, porcelain skin matching the pot and cup she carried. "Drink of this bitter herb and see thy fate," the Elder said, her aged voice rasping in my ears.

Without hesitation, I gulped down what was offered, my gaze captured for a moment by the servant's ample bosom. Then the drug took hold and my vision swam and reformed, and I was standing on a precipice overlooking the castle of my brother, and it was burning brightly.

Then my blood slowed and I felt without seeing as the servant, her true form revealed, put her lips to my neck and drank deep . Betrayal, no. Merely the price that had to be paid for the work ahead.

---

No idea. Well, okay, sort of an idea. I saw this picture and immediately all I could think of was sex doll, because that's what it looks like. I know it's probably actually a 3D render, but she looks plastic. And there's something to be said for going with first impressions, but they don't call me difficult for nothing.

So I ruminated on it for a while. More than a while. I'm writing this perilously close to the deadline, actually. What can I say? This week has been a busy one and while I attempted to come back to Flash Fiction Friday a number of times, I kept being stymied by my first impressions of the image.

180 words is barely enough to scrape together a good description of something, let alone a plot, and I think I've been hamstringing myself for the past few weeks trying to "For sale: baby shoes, never worn," when I really should just write vignettes and if there's a plot, great.

Which led me to the decision that I was going to write something which had nothing to do with the image and just hope that the fertile imagination of the reader would fill in the blanks where I couldn't. So Elder Xi sacrificed a victim using the Knife of Ages, and I figured I could write another 150 words or so about that and...

But I couldn't do it. I couldn't pull the trigger. I had to involve the image, so I involved it in some meaningless way, only I got toward the end of the little vignette and wouldn't you know it, she turned out to be the real mover and shaker of the piece and I should just quit while I'm ahead some days.

None of this should be read as criticism of the challenge, by the way. They're supposed to be challenging, not easy. I'm trying to stretch muscles which have lain dormant for lo these many months and years, and I'm not quite up to my old form but each time I push myself a little, I get better. Maybe one day I'll be back to writing Beowulf pastiche.

Yes, this one isn't particularly sexy. Sorry not sorry.

---

One thing I'm not sorry at all about is participating in Flash Fiction Friday, hosted as always by the inimitable Max. Visit him to see the challenge and other takes on it, because while I can pretty much guarantee that no one else included the Knife of Ages, I bet there are sexier takes. 

And if there aren't, you have no one to blame but yourself. You can join in and write that sexy story you thought we should obviously have written. It was staring us right in the face, and we didn't, but you can. Join us. Grasp the Knife of Ages and pay the price for your power!

Something like that.

FFF - No Peeking

 

He didn't know how to approach her about the competition, so he scouted out her usual partners, made note of when they entered and exited, and drew up a practice schedule which would leave her available during her peak hours. Then he practiced his pitch until he knew it backward and forward. When she answered the door, all his carefully-planned words fled. "You're with the Sexual Olympics, right?" she said. "Sorry, but you're too late. I already signed with Hungary."

---

I made love to his eyes every night, knowing he would be there at the window watching, stripping off my uniform, pulling down my underwear and letting my hard cock spring out. I could almost feel his eyes on my shaft as I stroked it, coming closer and closer, then finally spraying the glass in front of his face with ropes of my semen. I knew I could never have more than his eyes. After all, he was the minister and I was just a lonely Boy Scout.

---

Two jokes in vignette, or perhaps two vignettes in joke form? The second one came to me first, but I initially couldn't make it work, so I wrote the first one, then decided I'd write another and the second one resolved itself to my satisfaction.

I don't really know where either of them came from, just that the guy looks like he's clean-cut which made me think of Boy Scouts, and also made me think of boarding schools where they do things like rowing, which made me think of sporting competitions, which... you get the drift.

---

This was a fun challenge this week. If you would like to take part, head on over to Max's, where you'll find this and other challenges. If nothing else, thank Max for his continued largess in playing host to these flashes of fiction.

FFF - Lamp

They all told me to just forget about it. But I couldn't. I couldn't get the image of electric sex out of my mind. It had to be just so. That seminal moment in my life when the stars aligned and I knew, really knew, that there was a force for good in the universe. That smell of ozone and excelsior, the angle up to a blinding brightness, and that first feeble stirring in my loins which I would later know was an erection.

I couldn't get it up now, at all, not even thinking back to that day. That's sad, I know, but after so many years, I also knew that I was hopelessly devoted to a long-buried relic of my father's time. Sure, they sold them, but it wasn't the same.

And then she walked into my room wearing those tights and her top laced up like a Christmas present and I knew what I had been looking for. "Ralph, I thought maybe this might help," she said, her voice pitched like the hum of a hundred watt bulb as it draws power. "You can turn me on if you like."

I liked. And there was no prude of a mother to stop me now as I ran my hand up her shapely thigh, feeling the jolt of orgone inside me as I realized she might have been wearing stockings but there was nothing between me and her blinding brightness. She giggled and looked down at me from the table, but I was concentrating below. Sure, there were two legs now, but twice the fun, right?

I took my major award to bed shortly thereafter, and while the costume might have come off, she still glowed with every thrust.

---

I just had to. It was all I could think of when I saw the picture, and while I don't want to tarnish a cherished holiday classic, the idea of Ralphie in middle age, successful but unable to leave his father completely behind, in his penthouse apartment with his trophy... well, maybe it read, and maybe it didn't.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you're probably better off, but suffice it to say that I'm making reference to A Christmas Story, specifically the scene with the leg lamp.

This one didn't really speak to me, picture-wise, except in this way. I don't find the image particularly erotic (and that's totally fine; not everything is about me, and I can write things inspired by non-erotic images), and like I said, all I could think about was that damn lamp

---

Did you know that you too can join in the fun of tarnishing cherished holiday classics (or not, as the case may be) by going to Max's blog where you'll find the rules and image for the week? You don't have to post your work anywhere, but it's more fun if you do, and we're a supportive crowd. Just think: you could be next week's winner of absolutely nothing, but if you're a newbie maybe people will stop by and give you plaudits. I'm really selling this, aren't I? Seriously, it's more fun with more people, and Max is just getting it started up again so there's plenty of time to join in and be here on the ground floor as it were.

FFF - Group Project

 

So much can be said in silence by the dewy tremble of a nibbled lip or the shudder of anticipation and longing. They'd said all that, but their project still beckoned, its grim timeline calling them away from the delights of the flesh and back to reality more than once. Her panties were missing somewhere in the stacks and he longed to reach up and grasp her firm buttocks as she cheekily descended the ladder, tome in hand, her nipples straining dangerously against the fabric of her blouse. If only. If only. But the book she had retrieved was about the Treaty of Utrecht, dry, old, and nothing like the glimpses of her slit that she let him catch. They were still on the opening paragraph when the bell rang and the period was over. Now they'd have to take it home with them.

---

I, like most of you I imagine, detested group projects when I was in school. Half the time I wound up doing the whole thing myself to save myself the effort of having to work with others, and the other half we were all like-minded people who divided up the duties so they could be done with a minimum of working together. Occasionally I'd get a small group of people I liked, and that's when things were often the worst, because none of use wanted to do the project, we just wanted to hang out together.

I have never been bottomless in a library where I needed a ladder to reach the top shelf. That's partially to do with my freakish height, and partially to do with having been to a limited number of libraries where a ladder would have been necessary for anyone. I have been sans panties on ladders before, and it can be just as big a tease as it seems like, but the combination of no panties, ladder, and library has not occurred to the best of my recollection. Honestly, library sex is hard to pull off.

That the guy in this story didn't just grab her hips and bury his face in her when she was on the ladder shows a lack of initiative on his part, but he's probably young and inexperienced, so we'll forgive him. Feel free to write fanfic of what happened after they went home in your head, if you like.

---

Speaking of fanfic and group projects, did you know that you can participate in the best group project ever? Just go to Max's blog each week and check out the Flash Fiction Friday assignment, then write something which fits, or doesn't fit (if you want to be a rebel) that assignment. Then on Friday it'll be like you've turned in part of our group's weekly project, only the teacher is sexy and wants to see you after class for extra credit. Something like that.

FFF - Unbroken

Hands, rough but gentle, slide over my knee and I'm back in high school again, a nervous boy feeling me up in the sunshine of a cut afternoon class. I shudder and he stops and becomes old again. "Am I going too fast?" he asks me softly.

"No, just remembering." The fingers slide up again and I stay in the moment this time, reaching down to hold his work-toughened skin against my bare thigh.

"Nervous?"

"It's been a long time."

"I've loved you for longer."

Down slips the fragile scrap of lace protecting my deepest secret. I can hear the voices condemn me to Hell and I refuse to listen this time, refuse to push him away. A tear escapes my eye and then his hand is on me, on the fluttering heat of my... no. No. I no longer have to live that way. I no longer have to fear men's hands.

"It's lovely," he says kindly as his fingers spread me. "Were you afraid I'd be able to tell?"

"A little," I try to say, then sob with relief.

"Baby, you're beautiful no matter what," he sighs into my ear as his fingers go to work.

I believe him. Dear God, I believe him and the ache inside me fades into pleasure. "Oh Daddy," I whisper as it overcomes me.

---

I'm not sure where this one came from. I'm also not sure I have that much to say about it. It could be about a number of things, I guess. I started thinking about it in one way, and then with a few tweaks it became more vague, or more universal maybe? Hopefully it speaks to something in you, regardless of what.

---

Did you know that you too can join in the fun of Flash Fiction Friday? It's easy. Just head over to Max's blog and check out the challenge for the week, then write something. Seriously, no one cares if it's perfect. Just throw your hat into the ring. You'll be happy you did.

FFF - That Wild Look

 

She twirls and asks you, "Are you scared of me?"

You reply, "No, I'm just scared that someone will see you."

"Who cares? Let them look!" And she spreads her carmine overcoat wide, her skin pink from the cold wind, tiny nipples erect like your cock, in defiance of the chill.

"Fuck me, right here, on the street!" she gasps, rolling her hips wantonly.

"Gina, we need to go inside again, where it's warm..." you begin. She looks at you with that wild look in her eye, then it's as if she sees herself reflected in your gaze and she shrivels. "...before we get frostbite," you finish quietly, seeing the transformation. Her coat sags closed again. The life is gone from her eyes.

Later, in your room, you try to make excuses. You were only worried for her. You'll try again, maybe somewhere less crowded. If that's what she really wants. And it seems to mollify her a little. The spark returns. The two of you awkwardly embrace. She pulls out your now-flaccid member and tries to massage it to life. But you both know there's nothing there.

In the end, she falls asleep facing the wall. You can't tell for certain, but you think she might have cried. Maybe that was the sparkle you saw in her eye. Not the real thing. Just a facsimile.

You can't sleep. The winter night is long and you spend it staring out the window, trying to recapture in your mind's eye the look on her face as she teased you. Trying to will it into life.

In the morning, she leaves you, as you knew she would.

---

This got darker than I started out. If you can believe it, I started out writing something about Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf. It didn't work. It wasn't working. I tried rewriting it several times, and each time the exhibitionism of the picture defeated the form I was trying to force it into.

So then I stepped back, started something totally different, and wound up being super heavy and depressing. It's not a depressing picture at all. It's cute, it's slightly wanton, and she almost seems like she's being lifted by unseen hands. And I had to go and be all sad with it.

One thing I will say: writing in second person present tense is not something I usually do. Hell, I rarely write in the present tense period. But I decided that, if I wasn't going to be as inventive with the story, I would at least try to flex my writing muscles a little with the form. I'm super out of practice.

---

Did you know that the best way to get practice is to practice? And you can practice by heading over to Max's blog and playing along. He's back doing Flash Fiction Friday and I for one couldn't be happier because I certainly needed some practice. It's like riding a bicycle; you never really forget, but if you don't do it for a few years when you get back on you wind up looking foolish for the first few pedals. Something like that.