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.