Flash Fiction Friday: A Pretty Face

(Source image: “Hillary” by Bradley Thurber)

He acknowledged the absurdity of requesting admission to his own car, especially since he was holding the keys.  But each time he unlocked the door – going on two hours now – she locked it again.

Demanding that she let him in hadn’t worked.  Though he knew she’d be able to detect the scent of desperation, he adopted a conciliatory tone:  “Baby, please!  I’m already late for work!”

 “I’ll open up if you let me drive.”  He’d refused the first ten times she asked.  Now, though, he saw that it was the only way.  When he promised, she shook her head.  “Keys.  Now.”

He proffered his keys toward the open passenger window.  She snatched them and quickly started the car.  By the time he realized what was happening and made for the door handle, she was gone. (135/135)

Behind the Scenes 

This story was much easier to write than some I’ve done for Flash Fiction Friday.  On a couple occasions, I dated the kind of woman who might have locked herself in my car, cajoled me into relinquishing the key, and then driven off without me.  (No, that never actually happened.)  Because of this, I decided that rather than crafting a story about a guy who spends a carefree day tooling around the countryside in his impeccably-maintained 1952 Hudson Wasp with a beautiful, shapely woman in the passenger seat before pulling onto the side of a rural road for some sex, the story I told would be the exact opposite.  I’d question what that says about my attitudes toward women, but I have to think that anyone who’s read this blog for any appreciable length of time knows that they’re generally positive.

No, this dark story stemmed merely from a desire to think outside the box, so to speak.  My first thought upon seeing the prompt photo was that the girl depicted sure was pretty.  Dark, lush hair.  Attractive eyes.  Rich, red lips.  Sexy stockings and heels.  Bonus points for having her skirt hiked up a bit, revealing a lovely backside.  Numerous happy and sexy stories flashed in my brain as I took in the scene.  Ultimately I decided to go a different route.

The required phrase this week was “…the scent of [noun]…”  Rather than using an actual scent – perfume, the woman’s hair, sweat after a particularly vigorous episode of backseat sex – I knew as soon as I decided which story I would tell that it would be a metaphoric scent.  Once I began writing, it was clear that I would refer to the scent of desperation.  The first draft of this story, in which I ran out of words three quarters of the way in, included the required phrase from the beginning, but I forgot about it when writing the final draft.  While proof-reading, Jill reminded me of the omission, and I had to trim a few words.

Deleted Scenes

None, though I can admit to having a difficult time making the story, as originally envisioned, fit within the 135-word allotment.  Certain bits of plot detail, notably why the male character didn’t just open the driver’s side door, push his girlfriend aside, and get in the car, had to be truncated or excised completely, as did mention of whichever deep-rooted self-respect issues made him powerless to demand better treatment.


The song I heard in my head as I wrote was Johnny Rivers’ 1966 hit “Secret Agent Man”, specifically the line “A pretty face can hide an evil mind”.  I even used a portion of that line for the title.  However, other than that line the song didn’t fit.  Additionally, I considered Bel Biv DeVoe’s 1990 song “Poison” as the line “Never trust a big butt and a smile” seemed to fit the story perfectly.  However, as a musical genre I don’t think new jack swing fits either.  “Female of the Species”, by Space, had already been used in a previous Flash Fiction Friday installment, and I saw no reason to repeat myself.  Since I keep coming back to guitar heavy rock, “Bad Girlfriend” by Theory of a Deadman, or “Crazy Bitch” by Buck Cherry would provide a suitable audio track.

If you’d like to take part in the fun, or see who else participated this week, check out Insatiabear.

Bedding Christine

Last week, I wrote about my former boss, Christine.  As I mentioned in the final paragraph of last week’s post, Christine and I eventually gave into the sexual tension that I’d like to believe was simmering beneath the surface from the first day that we worked together.  Over the course of the past week, I felt as though I’d set up the pins but had yet to actually knock them down.  Because of this, I am going to tell that story today.
Two years after the incident I described in On a Break, I was twenty-six, on the cusp of twenty-seven.  I was single, my girlfriend and I having taken a permanent break, and I worked at a different job.  The specifics of that job are irrelevent, but it’s worth mentioning that I was making less money, and for a couple months each year I would supplement my income by returning to my old job four nights a week in order to help Christine and company get through a particularly busy stretch.
One evening, while I was alone in the office, Christine called my cell phone.  She was at Costco picking up provisions for the next day’s Executive Board meeting, and asked if I could help her unload her car when she arrived.  I said of course, and she asked if I needed her to pick up some fast food or anything.  I was touched by her offer – Christine was always very sweet – but I told her no thanks  as I’d picked up dinner on my way in.
Most evenings, the time flew by as Christine worked late right alongside me.  We’d talk shop, discuss movies we wanted to see, or rock out to Metallica and AC/DC right at our desks.  But for the past two weeks she’d been leaving work before I arrived.  In theory I enjoyed the solitude as it allowed me to work unfettered, but in reality it was boring and lonely.  Seeing another human being for even five minutes, while carrying cases of sodas and pallets of bottled water, was a nice diversion.
Forget sex; that hadn’t even crossed my mind.  Yeah, I still had the hots for Christine, but rather than it being an everpresent phenomenon as it was when we worked together all day every day, my attraction to her had for the last couple years been on the back burner.  Besides,  at the moment I was hung up on a cute young barista who worked at the Starbucks a block from my apartment; Christine was, I’m sorry to say, old news.
But she didn’t look like old news when she walked into the office and strolled across the common room.  Her brown hair was tied back in a pony tail, her eyes unobstructed.  Her lips were soft, shiny, and pink, curving upward into a pretty smile when she saw me.  Her expression was warm and inviting, more of a friend than a boss.  I asked her how she’d been.
“Not too bad,” she said with a shrug.  “Things have been so hectic with the kids the last few nights.”  Her tone changed to one of urgency, almost excitement:  “Oh!  You know Greg moved out, right?  Did I tell you?”  She had not, and I told her so.  “Yeah, three weeks ago.  We’re taking some time apart.”
“That sucks,” I said, even as I realized that she didn’t seem upset.
“It’s just temporary, but we hope it’ll be for the best.”  She walked into her office, while I resumed my filing.  As I worked, she called out to me:  “Have the janitors been by yet?”
I leaned into her office doorway and replied that they had, about forty minutes earlier.  Christine stood in front of her window, closing the aluminum mini-blinds.  “Forty minutes,” she said absently.  It didn’t warrant a response so I didn’t give one.  She turned to see me in the doorway and invited me in, adding, “You want to fuck?”
I hesitated a couple seconds before giving her a noncommital “Sure.”  I didn’t want to sound too eager, certainly not as eager as I felt.  I’m not sure why this was, but the last thing I was hoping to do was betray the reality that what I was thinking was more along the lines of a sure and gleeful “Hell yes.” 
Christine wore a long-sleeved white sweater that flattered her curves and made her pillowy breasts stand out beautifully, and a pair of black jeans tucked into matching boots that reached mid-calf.  Not for long, though.
She spoke again:  “Turn off the lights.”  This time without hesitation, I flipped the switch on the wall and Christine’s office was suddenly dark.  The only real light came from the fluorescent fixtures on the common room ceiling, but for good measure I shut the door, leaving the room even darker.  Faint blades of dying daylight cut between the blinds, casting strips of vague illumination on Christine’s desk and on the walls.  She gestured to her desk chair, and I sat.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness.  In front of me, Christine was a fuzzy specter, slowly lowering herself to her knees.  My cock sprang up as I felt her hand on my thigh, and she placed her other hand over it, cupping it and caressing it.  
“Is this okay?” she asked.  I was surprised by the question; I didn’t expect her to second-guess herself.  I attempted to tell her that it was, but for some reason I couldn’t make any words happen.  Christine took my silence as tacit approval, and opened my jeans.  Her grip was confident, firm but not tight and certainly not uncomfortable.  She gave me a moment’s worth of pumps, raising me to diamond-hardness, and then replaced her fingers with her tongue.  She licked with long, elaborate strokes, the sort with which a child might lick an oversized lollipop.  Even though it was almost totally dark in the room, I imagined her licks to be showy and exaggerated, even theatrical.  
She closed her mouth around the head of my cock and lowered her head, drawing in my length as deeply as she could.  I felt her nose press against my stomach, my cock reaching the very back of her throat.  She held this position for a few seconds, then came up for air gasping and panting.  In response, my cock throbbed for attention.  I took off my T-shirt and tossed it in the general direction of Christine’s office door.  At the same time I felt her mouth once again encircle my head.  She sucked vigorously this time, her lips not reaching the base of my cock but instead moving faster, paying particular attention to the sensitive frenulum, and then my balls.
Christine worked her hands into my jeans, and with a tug she signaled that she wanted them gone.  I raised my ass off of her desk chair and she pulled my jeans to my feet, leaving them bunched up atop my shoes.  She gave me a few more licks, and took her mouth away.  I was disappointed momentarily, my mood lifting when I heard the clatter of her belt being unbuckled.  This was going to be very, very good.
I felt her bare legs against mine, and then her hands on my shoulders.  She drew her nails gently down my chest, then leaned close and pecked softly at my neck in the darkness.  Soon her lips found my own, kissing me with passion and desperation.  She clung to me like it was the end of the world.  Her lips tasted like wild cherry as her mouth opened, and her tongue felt just as good as it had on my cock.  I groped in the darkness for her full, generous breasts, feeling a surge of triumphant joy as I found them.  Her skin was soft, delicate like that of a ripe plum as I caressed them, my thumbs coming to rest on her nipples.  

She raised one leg onto the chair, and I felt her bare foot against my hip.  I wanted to caress her thigh, maybe find her pussy in the dark and see how wet she was, but I didn’t.  As our kiss intensified, I hoped she would just get on the chair and straddle me, but she didn’t.  Eventually she worked her leg behind my ass, and climbed up so that she was sitting on my knee.  She took my hand in hers and we traced a path down her stomach, coming to rest where her legs met.

I could feel her heat on my fingers as I deftly parted her lips, her wetness engulfing me.  I pressed two fingers into her as with my thumb I stroked her clit.  Christine still held my hand, now guiding me in order to show me exactly what she liked.  She moved her hips in time to my rhythm, the intensity of our dance growing by the second.

“Do you have a condom?” she asked when our lips had finally parted.

“Yeah, I said, trying to think of a way to gracefully retrieve my wallet from my jeans, still down at my ankles.

Christine dismissed my efforts, fumbling on her desk for her purse.  Mere seconds passed before I was wrapped in latex and deep inside her, her ass bucking up and down against me as she rode each upward thrust.  She was energetic, and had no problem taking what she wanted.  She asked me to stroke her clit again, and the sounds she made told me that my efforts weren’t wasted.

The first time she came, she nestled her head against my shoulder, burying her mouth in my neck to stifle her cries.  Her pussy clenched around my cock as her body rocked slowly against my own.  She undulated against me, and soon she was climaxing again.  By her fourth, she was sucking my neck insistently, and when she had her fifth, I came right alongside her.  I wasn’t expecting that.  My groans were deep and intense, cacophonous yet somehow in harmony with Christine’s own sounds of release.

She remained astride me as we caught our breath, then returned her mouth to my neck.  Her kisses were gentler now, like a gazelle grazing in a field.  I felt beads of sweat dripping from my forehead into my eyes and down my nose, and I tried to shake them off without distracting Christine from what she was doing.  She stopped kissing my neck and kissed my mouth instead.  I held her close, feeling her breasts against me, our hearts beating more or less in sync.

Finally, she spoke:  “That was fucking great.”

Though Christine and I maintained a working relationship for a couple more years, that was the only time we ever had sex.  I often wish I’d gotten to lay Christine in a bed, or maybe on a sofa or some other place more comfortable than her desk chair in total darkness.  In fact, maybe I should have titled this post “Desking Christine”.

Flash Fiction Friday: Stairway to Heaven

(Image source: “On the Stairs” by Samantha Wolov)

Before they could make it up the stairs they fell to the ground, peeling off each other’s clothes in a fit of frenzied passion.  They kissed hungrily, desperately, their hands pawing at each other’s flesh like playful kittens.  She found herself frantically trying to lower his double knit slacks even as he reached beneath her skirt to pull her panties aside.
The shag carpet ensconced her as he opened her.  His first thrust took him deeper than she thought possible.  The hair on his chest was rough and scratchy against her breasts, his lips pleasant and soft on her neck.  As she clasped her legs around his back, she was glad that she’d drawn his house key from the bowl. (120/122)
Behind the Scenes
I wrote this week’s Flash Fiction Friday challenge in a matter of minutes; other than my usual momentary “What three words can I cut to make it fit?” conundrum, it was one of the easiest ones in recent memory.  In addition to the photo prompt, participants were asked to write a story that was between 68 and 122 words, and incorporate the phrase “…rough and scratchy…”
The first thing I think of when I see the prompt photo is “crazy seventies hair”.  That’s not to say that the photo was taken in the 1970s, or even that it is meant to represent the 1970s in any way.  But for some reason the unkempt mop on top of the gentleman’s head makes me think of that glorious decade that saw my birth.  There really isn’t anything that specifically identifies my story as being set in the 1970s, though chest hair, shag carpeting, and the last-minute mention of the hookup occurring at a key party seems to cement it firmly in that era.  There wasn’t sufficient room to mention any other period detail.
It bears noting that I originally planned to use the required phrase to describe the shag carpeting and not the gentleman’s chest hair.  But it’s been years since I’ve had contact with shag and I don’t remember what it feels like.  Are the fibers all that scratchy?
Deleted Scenes
None.  I had no delusion that I’d be able to write more than a relatively small passage, and budgeted my words accordingly.
It’s got to be “The Hustle”, by Van McCoy.  It was in my head the whole time I was writing.
If you’d like to take part in the fun, or see who else participated this week, check out Insatiabear.

On a Break

The summer I turned twenty-four, my girlfriend and I took a break.  We’d been together for a year or so, and we were pretty serious.  We weren’t exactly talking about being together forever, but we cared about each other – the word “love” had been spoken – and we enjoyed our relationship.  So why were we on a break?  As with the other breaks we took, this one was because we both wanted to have sex with other people, but the thought of having an open relationship simply didn’t occur to us.  At any rate, even if it had I question whether we would have been able to handle it ethically and respectfully.  We certainly wouldn’t have been able to deal with the judgments of others if the nature of our relationship was found out.

My boss, Christine, was thirty-four.  She was very attractive despite her advanced age – which, I must point out, was younger than I am right now.  She had long brown hair, pretty eyes, full lips, and smooth, unblemished skin.  She usually wore thin white blouses and long, billowy skirts with boots.  Sometimes she wore tight jeans.  I’m pretty sure that she was the subject of every single work wank I carried out at my desk while employed there.  It didn’t hurt that, despite the fact that she was married with two kids, Christine was a die-hard party girl.  At least once a week, she’d take the office staff out for drinks.

While out at a bar one night,  Christine kissed me.  On the lips.  It was sudden and quick, just slightly more randy than a familial peck, and nowhere near the full-blown makeout session that I would have preferred.  For the last couple hours she’d been drinking some concoction that included Galliano and vanilla liqueur; I was under no delusion that the kiss had been motivated by passion for sexy twenty-four-year-old Jack, or that that Christine had somehow forgotten about her husband watching the kids at home.  I knew it was the alcohol.

Christine apologized.  “I shouldn’t have done that.”  I could tell she meant it sincerely; while she didn’t blush, she couldn’t look me in the eyes.  Despite her tendency to cut loose and party after work, Christine was the ultimate professional.  Other than putting on her headphones and rocking out at her desk, she was very big on protocol during business hours.  I knew that the guilt she was feeling came from the perceived lack of professionalism in what she’d just done, moreso than it did in the violation of her marital vows, or in the thought that she’d crossed a boundary with regard to my own relationship, which she knew was on a break anyway.

“No harm done,” I said.  It was true.  She and I were the only ones there.  The other person who was drinking with us had gone to the restroom.  It hadn’t even occurred to me that Christine had deliberately waited until we were alone, which I suppose would have made the alcohol less responsible than I previously thought.  After a few seconds’ silence, I added, “I liked it.  I’ve wanted to kiss you for awhile.”  I omitted the part about her mouth not wanting to be my first choice of places to kiss.

It was a two-block walk back to the office.  We cut through the parking lot, and our drinking companion got into her car and left.  I was about to do the same when Christine asked if I could help her with something in the storage room.  Oh fuck, I thought.  Here it is.  I’d read enough Penthouse Forum to know where this was going.  In fact, I vaguely recalled a porn film I’d seen in which a young office boy was seduced by an older woman in a position of authority.  In fact, if I recall correctly they were doing something in a storage room when the sex began.

As she unlocked the building, I anticipated ripping the blouse off of her fine form, letting it fall forgotten to the floor.  As we walked down the hall to our office door, I anticipated peeling off her nearly-skintight jeans, revealing long, slender legs that would spring open instantly.  Once inside the office I anticipated the taste of her pussy on my tongue, and wondered if she trimmed, shaved, waxed, or did none of those.  I imagined that I could already smell her arousal.  I remembered the condom in my wallet; it had only been there a week or so.  I wondered if Christine carried condoms.

She led me to the storage room.  “Can you get a new toner cartridge down?” she asked.  Interesting lead-in; I was surprised that she didn’t begin by removing my jeans and giving me head.  The night was young; obviously that would come later.  I brought out the ladder and set it up in front of a large cabinet that almost reached the ceiling.  I climbed up four rungs and took a new toner cartridge from atop the cabinet, then brought it down and handed it to her.

As I put the ladder back in its place, I asked her if she needed me to install it for her.

“No”, she said, heading into the copy room.  “I can manage.  Thanks for getting it down.”

She wasn’t carrying herself with the air of a woman who wanted to get laid by a guy ten years her junior.  I hated mixed signals.  I still do.  I followed Christine into the copy room, where I found her installing the toner.  I wasn’t exactly sure where to go from here.

“You sure you’ve got that?”  Dumbest question I could have asked.

“I got it,” she said, closing the front panel on the copier.  “All done.”  I stood there for a moment, awaiting her next move.

“So are you sticking around, or – “

“Yeah, I’m going to finish up printing these reports before I go.  I’ll see you tomorrow.  Sorry again about earlier.”  Christine took playing hard to get to an entirely new level.

Christine and I eventually did have sex, though not for a few years.  I’d left the job, she and her husband were estranged, and it just sort of happened.  If it didn’t, I might have titled this post “The Second-Hottest Girl I Never Fucked.

Last Night, Part 3

Read Part 1 here.

Read Part 2 here.

When I was able to move again, I rolled onto my side.  Instinctively I tried to pull Jack in for a deep, passionate kiss.  But I couldn’t because I was still bound, my wrists and my thumbs cuffed together by solid, unyielding metal.  Seductively, I flicked my tongue at him and he leaned in, pressing his open mouth to mine.  He placed his hand under my neck, supporting my tired muscles, and kissed me voraciously.

“It’s your turn,” I said after our lips had parted.  I expected him to turn me all the way onto my back, straddle my chest, and throat-fuck me.  Or better still, raise me onto my knees and, with my hands still restrained behind my back, loom over me while I sucked his cock.  And while I was hungry for him, anticipating the familiar taste and the telltale throb of his member between my lips, I was very pleased when he instead turned me once again onto my stomach and raised my hips.  I knew what was coming.

Jack’s hands were warm against my cheeks.  He spread me open once again and I waited, face pressed into the bed, anticipating his next move.  After several tense, breathless seconds he shifted his weight, and rather than feeling his expert probing tongue on my ass it was his steel-hard cock against the slick lips of my pussy.  He didn’t make me wait long before plunging into me as deeply as I’d ever felt him, filling me completely.  His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back to meet every powerful forward thrust.

I love it when Jack holds onto my hips while he rides me from behind.  It’s exhilarating to feel his fingers against my flesh, his hands pulling me insistently onto him.  Other times his hands find their way to my nipples or my clit, and although I do love that, when Jack is fucking me doggy style there’s one thing that I want his hands to do more than any other.  When I felt him twist my hair around his fingers, I wondered if I was married to a mind reader.  He pulled deftly, lifting my face up from the blankets  in which it had been buried, and continued to pound.

I knew he was close when he began to huff breathlessly, and in seconds his sounds turned into intense moans of orgasm.  As he flooded me with burst after burst of hot cum, Jack collapsed against my back.  I felt gentle kisses on my neck, then my shoulders.  I wanted to reciprocate but I still couldn’t move, partially because of his weight on top of me, and partially because of the restraints.  At last Jack removed them, setting them down on his nightstand.  My arms were tingly, not used to their newfound freedom.  So he took me in his arms and we kissed, and then we went to sleep.


Flash Fiction Friday: On a Summer’s Day

(Source image unknown; provided some time ago by the lovely Lexi)

The shorts were tight, her denim vest hugging her breasts.  She liked the looks she got from men as she walked.  Soaking up their lascivious smiles, she flipped her hair seductively, returning their hopeful winks with a hint of mischief.
As she reached the end of the boardwalk she unbuttoned her top, pretending not to see their wide-eyed stares.  She let the garment hang from her shoulders and unbuttoned her shorts, dropping them to the pavement.  She wore no panties.
Casting the top from her shoulders, she stood at the edge of the boardwalk and leapt into the water. (99/100)
Behind the Scenes
For the first time in eight weeks, this Flash Fiction Friday prompt was provided by Insatiabear.  The requirements were one hundred words or less (barely made it!) and the phrase “…a hint of mischief…”
I looked at the prompt on Tuesday and didn’t immediately have any concrete thoughts of what the story would be.  I liked the idea of portraying the young woman as a free spirit, the sort who might walk through a crowded public market or other venue – in this case a boardwalk – so scantily clad that most would consider it indecent exposure.  However, after taking a long look at the prompt photo the story wasn’t exactly writing itself.
I returned to the prompt on Thursday during a rare half hour of silence, and simply began writing.  In this case while the story didn’t write itself, it was more or less effortless.  While the hundred-word limit added to the challenge, I knew going in that I wasn’t going to be able to get too in-depth.  What resulted was less a story than a vignette, a window into the life of the character depicted that provides insight into who she is, and hopefully leaves the reader wanting more.
Deleted Scenes
As is my bent, I planned on ending the story with some manner of twist.  I considered that the young girl’s shameless striptease and au naturel swim is actually a figment of her imagination, and she’s stuck working a desk job on the hottest day of the year – a job that coincidentally happens to overlook the thriving boardwalk where her imaginary walk occurred.  Additionally, rather than being the sort of vibrant, adventurous woman who would take such a walk, in reality the protagonist is a frumpy, unconfident person who aspires to that sort of freedom.  In the end, I couldn’t make it fit.  It’s just as well; the story works as a vignette.
The story originally began with “She traveled along the boardwalk, feeling the warm summer sun on her skin.”  This was cut due to lack of space.
This vignette is all about confidence.  I considered Liz Phair’s “Extraordinary”, but given the overly mainstream feel of Phair’s 2003 self-titled album from which it came I considered that “Extraordinary” would’ve made the preceedings feel like a chick flick.  From a musical standpoint a better fit might be her 1994 song “Supernova” – the tempo seems a better fit – even though it’s a woman’s ode to a prospective lover and not an ode to herself as is “Extraordinary.”  For a more fast-paced, urban accompaniment, Neneh Cherry’s “Buffalo Stance” would work as well, especially with its “Who’s lookin’ good today?” refrain.
If you’d like to take part in the fun, or see who else participated this week, check out Insatiabear.

Last Night, Part 2

Read Part 1 here.
When I got into bed, Jack produced a pair of handcuffs and thumbcuffs.  Planning to use these in our Sinful Sunday shoot, he suggested I put on a black bra and a black thong, as they would contrast nicely with my skin and make for some visually interesting shots.  After I did that, I got onto my knees, and he pulled my arms back, fastening the handcuffs around one wrist and then the other with a definitive ‘click’.  I felt the familiar cold of the metal clamp tightly against my skin.  It had been quite some time since I’d been bound in this manner.
Feeling the other cuffs close around my thumbs was a new sensation.  They had been in Jack’s nightstand drawer for years, but we’d never used them.  He clicked them into place until they pinched my thumbs.  It was a strange feeling.  Even if the handcuffs were removed, I would still be unable to move my arms until the thumbcuffs were taken off as well.  He asked me to lower myself onto the bed with my ass in the air.  But without the use of my hands I just couldn’t do it.  I wasn’t used to being so dependent on him, and it made me nervous.  Per my request, Jack helped lower me onto the bed, my face coming to rest on a fuzzy light brown blanket.  
As he began snapping pictures, feelings of claustrophobia came over me.  I gasped for breath, more out of fear than out of any actual obstruction.  I heard Jack speak reassuringly as he continued taking pictures, but after awhile I had to adjust my body onto one side just to convince myself that I could if the position got to be too much.  Jack took a few pictures in the new position, and then gently set me down on my face again.  I was much more comfortable now, knowing that I could move out of this position if it became necessary to do so.  I didn’t have to move much, though.  Jack was the one who climbed onto the bed, and then a nearby chair, in order to get the shots he wanted.  
The photoshoot lasted an hour or so.  Most of our photoshoots tend to last that long, yielding in some cases more than two hundred pictures.  However, this was the first time that I spent an entire shoot so restrained.  I was very relieved when Jack set the camera down, though he didn’t remove the cuffs.  Instead, I felt him pull my thong aside.  I gasped with anticipation.  Would he finger my pussy?  Slip his undoubtedly hard cock deep inside me?  No, he had other plans.  Just what those plans entailed became apparent when I felt his tongue.  And not on my pussy, either.

He spread my ass wide, stroking with long, strong movements of his tongue.  His fingers eventually found my clit, engorged and throbbing with need.  As the palm of his hand cupped my pussy, Jack’s able fingers moved in a circular fashion, swirling around my erect, desperate bud.  The rhythm of his hand matched that of his tongue, and it wasn’t long before I was lying in a puddle, slowly catching my breath and very satisfied.


Last Night

Jack joined me in the shower.

I love it when we get to shower together.  It’s such a thrill to be naked anywhere, but there’s something so intimate about being together under the hot spray, basking in steam and slippery lather.  We joke about conserving water, and we pretend that it’s all about getting clean, but it’s really about getting dirty.  Jack started by kissing my neck, that one spot just below my ear that would certainly have gotten me wet if I wasn’t already.

After a few minutes spent making out and groping, we began to soap each other up.  I washed Jack first, and then he returned the favor.  He paid special attention to my hair, knowing how much it turns me on to have skilled fingers massaging my scalp.  I’m not joking, I get physically aroused.  In fact, I was so aroused that when he was done he spread my lips and began to stroke my clit with his fingers.  I steadied myself against his chest and buried my face in his shoulder as I braced myself for orgasm.

It was a particularly intense climax.  After I came, I spent a few moments catching my breath before dropping to my knees and taking Jack’s cock in my mouth.  As I did, the shampoo ran from my hair onto my back and my shoulders, dripping down my body and onto the shower floor.  I reached up to play with his nipples, then down to cradle and caress his balls.  While it was happening, I thought of the times when we were dating and we’d come in from a late-night swim in an icy swimming pool and take a hot shower in order to warm up.  The shower would always end with me giving Jack a blowjob, and swallowing his cum.

History repeats itself.  As I thought fondly of those exciting shower blowjobs, Jack tightened his grip on my hair, told me he was cumming, and let loose.  As he moaned lustfully with release, I felt his warm, sweet offering flood my mouth faster than I could down it all.  I took him as deep as I could, feeling the last few spurts hit the back of my throat, and then when he had finished I lovingly licked him clean.

We turned off the shower and dried off.  It was time to get into bed, though we wouldn’t be sleeping for quite awhile.


Flash Fiction Friday: Model Release

Source credit: Met-Art.com

Trish didn’t want to get naked.  That was evident by the way she kept her legs crossed in front of her, purse clutched tightly to her body.
“Why don’t you lose the purse?” the photographer suggested.  Trish swallowed hard, but then followed the direction she had been given.  Her hands trembled as she relinquished her purse.  Her eyes betrayed fear, even shame.
Trish knew that nudity was stipulated in her contract.  She had already accepted payment in exchange for baring all.  But she couldn’t clear the mental hurdle staring her in the face.  Beyond her own fear, she worried about what her parents would say if they found out.  
“You’re nervous.  I know you are.”  The voice was warm, reassuring.  “Look, fair is fair.  If it’ll make you more comfortable, I’ll take off my clothes too.”  Trish looked up.  “I wouldn’t ask a model to do something I wasn’t willing to do.  Would you like that?”
Trish nodded.
The photographer quickly got undressed, then stepped behind the camera.
“Your turn,” she said. (172/175)
Behind the Scenes
This week, Ram the Sunlover‘s Flash Fiction Friday assignment featured the above prompt photo and the required word “payment”.  Additionally, rather than a maximum word limit, a range of between 171 and 175 words was imposed.  In the past I’ve been accustomed to writing Flash Fiction with either no minimum word count, or else a much wider range between minimum and maximum.  The narrow range required careful writing and very deliberate wording.
It is not necessarily a judgment of the prompt itself to say that I found this week’s challenge relatively uninspiring.  Although I spent more time than usual pondering the photo and considering possible story threads, I was unable to come up with any solid ideas with my usual speed.  There have been weeks in the past where it took a long time to think of a story, but this week I questioned whether I’d be able to do it.
I’m not sure why this is; I found the image itself aesthetically appealing, and briefly considered having the young lady pictured be a photographer at a department store photo studio.  This could have made a semi-comedic story; people come in to take family portraits only to find that the photographer is naked.  But I abandoned the idea when I acknowledged that while there are some Flash Fiction Friday regulars who could pull off such a radical idea, I’m probably not one of them.
Despite the image of a naked woman behind the camera, I chose to leave the gender of the photographer ambiguous until the final line of the story, wherein the revelation that the photographer is female is something of a plot twist.  The title, “Model Release”, refers less to the legal document signed by the subject of a photograph allowing its publication than it does to the model’s eventual willingness to be naked on camera.
Deleted Scenes
In writing this week’s story, I managed to pace myself pretty well.  In fact, I brought in the first draft at 169 words, two words short of the minimum.  Thus, there is no material written for this story that didn’t make the cut.  However, before coming up with the idea I actually used, I had a completely different idea – more like a seed, admittedly – that I actually wrote half a paragraph of before losing interest.  I’ll have to keep it handy should it fit a future Flash Fiction Friday prompt.
“Porcelain” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

On Display

I lie on the bed, my legs splayed garishly for your enjoyment.  The strip of material stretches thin, my pussy glistening visibly underneath.  I hook my thumbs inside the waistband of my panties, lifting my ass up from the mattress and sliding them off.  After discarding them at the foot of the bed, my hand settles between my legs, fingers quickly landing on my clit.

The first few strokes are strictly for show.  I’m only getting warmed up.  I stare out, locking eyes, fancying that I can read your thoughts.  You stare back, focused, unable to hide your lust.  My fingers move slowly and deliberately, more determined to put on a sexy performance than to bring pleasure to my swollen, aching bud.

Though I can’t see it for myself, I know you must be aroused.  As one hand continues its dance over my slick, hungry pussy, the other brings one of my breasts close to my mouth.  My lips can’t quite reach my nipple, but a tongue certainly can.  You gasp at the sight, and I manage to stifle a giggle.  I’ve got you eating out of my hand.

Thoughts of your arousal fill my mind.  I lean back, resting supine.  Though I can see nothing but the ceiling, I feel your eyes on me.  I imagine your hands wandering over my body, your lips kissing parts of me that have never before been kissed.  In my mind I can feel your weight on top of me, your hardness filling me up.  My body throbs with desire.

I slip two fingers inside myself, pressing up on my G-spot before withdrawing them and caressing my clit.  My strokes are no longer strictly for show.  I don’t know when it changed, but I am now a woman on a mission, intent upon my own pleasure.  I won’t stop until I’ve climaxed.  Whether my performance arouses you is strictly incidental.

Yes, I’m aware that you’re watching, but only barely.  Nothing matters but my orgasm, looming over me like a shadow.  Each flick of my fingers pushes me closer to the edge.  And when I reach the edge, one last stroke sends me over.  I climax noisily, shamelessly, unconcerned with who might hear.

Now it’s your turn.  Come use my body for your pleasure.