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.

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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?