Flash Fiction Friday 5-25-12: "Auto-Eroticism"

(Source image: "Hillary" by Bradley Thurber)

The rain was slashing sheets across the windows of my Chevy. The engine ticked, cooling. Jazz played softly on the radio, the players noodling around, no particular destination in mind. The scent of the leather seats was strong.

"So," she said, looking at me calmly. "How long's it going to be?"

"Before what?"

"Before you make your move, you adorable idiot. You knew we wouldn't see anything up here, not with it raining like this."

"Um. Well, I....."

"Oh, shut up." She leaned towards me...and kept leaning, down into my lap. Her fingers worked quickly at my zipper and in a twinkling, she had me in her mouth. I groaned, and my hands wound into her glossy black hair.

She looked up and grinned at me, letting me slip free. "That's better," she breathed.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 100-135 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...the scent of [noun]..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:

I've always wanted to have sex in a car, but none of my partners has ever been interested. Maybe some day. I looked at the gamin grin on this girl's face, and the rest of the scenario fell into place effortlessly: a rainy night, parked on a secluded embankment high above the city, soft jazz on the radio, and some steamed-up windows. Mmmmm. Delicious...particularly if your partner happens to be as bold as this one appears to be. Please, no references to "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights".

If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 4-29-11: "A Stolen Kiss is Sweetest"

(Source: Untitled image by Will Santillo)

God, why did I let myself be dragged into this? Liz thought. She scanned the room, looking for someone, anyone, who had two brain cells to rub together. These people are like a flock of chattering magpies. Lots of noise, not a damn thing to say. And I'm too hot and this wine is terrible and that music is crap and god, I hate this.

And then her eyes fell on Adele, and Adele turned and stared back, pinned Liz to the wall with that searing gaze, ignited her from crown to toes. And Adele smiled a long slow smile, and mouthed one word: “Bathroom”.

And Liz stumbled robotically towards the bathroom, heart hammering, breath already coming hard and fast. How does she do this to me every single time? she wondered.

And Adele followed, the lock clicking behind her. She advanced, bearing Liz back, Liz's mouth opening to accept Adele's hot tongue, feeling Adele's hands ripping her blouse open, wanting Adele's nipping teeth on her hard nipples, Adele's fingers buried in her pussy, wanting Adele, all of her.

Adele pulled back, grinning. “My lovely, lovely Liz,” she purred. “I have something for you.”

And Liz's eyes went wide as Adele opened her slacks to reveal the biggest strap-on Liz had ever seen. She shuddered, and spread her legs. “Oh yes, baby,” she moaned. “Now.”

“Right now,” Adele agreed, and thrust hard.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 120-240 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...hard and fast..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:

I'm always curious about lesbian and gay relationships. I've read a lot of stuff that indicates one of the pair usually plays a dominant role, "playing the guy" if you will. Adele and Liz are my attempt to play out that kind of dynamic. I kind of wish I had more room to develop these two, and may do so later on. I picture Liz as the academic, intellectual type, possibly a scholar or an art gallery owner, overtly feminine but hiding her sexual appetite from the world. Adele I see as head of her own business firm, the kind of woman who dresses in business suits and wears her hair short, looking like something out of a Patrick Nagel print, knowing that people call her "butch" and not giving a damn about it. I imagine that she met Liz at her gallery and immediately moved in, knowing that Liz wanted someone to guide and teach her, finding to her surprise that Liz was enthusiastic and very unlike the drab personality she presented to the world.

In any case, I found this picture delightful, a moment of pure passion between two people who are obviously very much into each other. Lust? Love? Infatuation? Or just a power exchange? It seemed it could be interpreted lots of different ways. I think it's all of those, for these two. And I think it's hot as hell. I hope you enjoyed the pic and challenge this week.

Please note that I am no longer collecting the participants list. If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 4-1-11: "Gray Eyes, Grave Matters"

(Source image: "Dita's Bear" by Sean McCall)

“Yes?”

“Lew Wainwright. You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, please come in.”

She had cloudy gray eyes, peering at me through a smoky haze. And a voice that sounded like it was lost at the bottom of a well: frail, timid. She wore a drab dress that tried but failed to hide her figure. I admired the architecture as she walked ahead of me.

“Drink, Mr. Wainwright?”

“Sure.”

The neck of the bottle chattered against the glasses as she poured. She was nervous about something, but damned if I could tell what. She downed half hers in a gulp and wandered away across the room.

“Mr. Wainwright...”

“Make it Lew, please.”

“Lew, then,” she agreed. “Thank you for agreeing to help me.”

“I haven't.”

She looked confused. “But...”

“I said I'd come out and listen. I still haven't heard anything about what's eating you.”

“All right, then,” she said softly. “Here.”

I whistled. The photograph she'd handed me showed her in a position only a husband should see.

“Blackmail?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I want these destroyed. If you can find them, and the man who took them...”  She shivered, then: “You can have what you see here.”

I laughed. “That's the bunk, sweetheart. What's to keep me from taking it right now?”

And she shrank back into the recesses of the sofa as I approached, gun already in hand.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 100-200 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...smoky haze..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:


I've been reading entirely too much crime noir lately -- Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Ross Macdonald, Cornell Woolrich -- and so when I went hunting through my stash of FFF pics and saw this boudoir-style pic, I was immediately catapulted into a seedy world where all femmes are fatale, all private dicks are world-weary, and everyone double-crosses everyone else. I was on fire with possibilities, and I came up with several little tales. Only one problem: I'd forgotten about the short word count. I simply couldn't shoehorn it down to anything less than the 248 words I have here without leaving out important bits. So, for the first time I've gone over my own word limit.

That said, I do mostly like how this turned out. Some of the sleuths in crime noir fiction are almost as scummy as the criminals they hunt. Sam Spade, for example, has an affair with his partner's wife, strikes a woman, beats up a suspect for information, lies to the police, and laughs when the woman who loves him is sent to jail. The world isn't black and white in crime noir, but shades of gray. I wanted to reflect some of that -- a private dick who decided to take his reward before he'd wrapped up the case the dame brought him. His first name is a nod to Macdonald's Lew Archer, one of the best of the crime noir series.

Writing in this style is damned hard, though. Good crime noir is sparse, terse, barely descriptive. It's not just the dialogue and the phrasings, it's the atmosphere in general. I can enjoy the hell out of reading it, but I am never really happy with the results when I try to emulate it myself. Hopefully you do like it.

Please note that I am no longer collecting the participants list. If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below using the widget. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. Your cooperation is appreciated.


In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.





Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. 


-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 2-18-11: "...And When She Falleth"

(Image source unknown, but it just begs to be called "Precipice". Photo this week provided by Lexi.)

She stood on the edge, looking down into emptiness. The wind sliced her to the bone, carved her up in shivering chunks and left her spread over the landscape.

Such a long way to fall. She tightened her hold on identity, grasping for the shreds of sanity that he'd left her. She tilted her head, staring down still, poised on the precipice of her own making....

….and fell.

Fell screaming, calling out his name, body dissolving in a rush and whirl of light and sound and heat. Plummeted, still calling his name as she sundered and burst from within.

Afterward, she lay clasped in his embrace, listening to thunder within. Silent tears trickled forth unfelt.

“I've never seen you let go like that,” he whispered. “I feel humbled.”

She rolled into him, clutching him tighter. “Hold me,” was her only answer.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 115-148 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...poised on the precipice..."

Nobody's checking word counts, or for the key phrase, but you're only cheating yourself if you break the rules. Unless you're doing it to earn a spanking (in which case, see me after class).

Special Bonus Director's Commentary Track:

This pic was dark and turbulent but it was nevertheless arresting enough to practically leap off the screen at me when Lexi sent it my way. There was really no other possible choice for this particular week.

I made a conscious effort to take the darkness shown here and spin it another way. One of my ex-lovers used to keep very tight control over herself when we were making love; she would enjoy it, but would never really let go enough to fully experience the pleasure we were creating. Then one day she really did let go, and damn near cracked a window with her shriek of ecstasy when I sent her over the edge with mouth, fingers and tongue. The aftermath transpired a bit like this story -- me, astonished and humbled by the power of her release, and she almost crying with the relief of tension and deliberate release of control. There were many more orgasms after that one, but none that quite matched that one exquisite moment. Even now, I remember it (and her) fondly.

Please note that this week, as with the last couple weeks, I am trying something different with the participants list. If you are playing along this week, please leave your link below. It will appear in the text of the post itself, not in the comments, so everyone that's playing will be listed here. This frees me from having to chase people down to find out if they're playing or update the Friday post several times for late entries. We'll see how this works out.

In any case, the participants list is below. Go check them out, and thanks to all who played along.



Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. Thanks to Lexi for providing this week's (plus a few others which I may use later on).

-- PB

You Infuriate Me

You infuriate me. You really do.

It's unfair -- criminal, almost -- that any one woman should have a body like that. Legs that go approximately up to your chin, hips that swing like they're on ball bearings, an ass that strains the fabric of your tight jeans, breasts so perfect in their marveled rondure that poets write epics about them. Full lips, sparkling mischievous eyes, a pert nose, windblown tousled hair that begs me to wind my fingers through it. And, damn it all, you know it well, and take full advantage of it. You snap your fingers and I dance. You whistle and I come when you call, panting like a dog. Your merest touch commands obedience, even though I hate myself with every fiber of my being for being so weak.

I rage. I rage against the icy eyes that hold me captive, the slight, slight smile that makes my knees go wobbly and my brain turn to tapioca, the low sultry voice that gets me hard by reading the telephone book. I rage against the failings in my character that let you control me so easily, against my damnable lack of anything resembling willpower. I rage against my distinct lack of experience, the product of too many years spent in solitude, the fact that your amazing femininity in and of itself gives you the puppet strings you need to make me jerk and dance about in spastic twitches.

You infuriate me. Running a finger along my lips, feeling me tremble under your touch. Running your hands along my back and neck softly, fingers caressing, stroking my hair. I shiver and gulp under your touch, knowing the whole while that it's the touch of a mistress caressing her dog, helpless to resist, not even knowing if I want to when even that slight touch sends such sparks, flaming desire dancing along every nerve ending.

How many times? How many times have you tormented and teased me? How many times have I gone home with balls aching, rod straining my jeans, hoping desperately that I could get home before spilling my desire? How many times have I failed miserably, gone off hair-trigger, under your slight caresses, wet spot forming in my jeans as I buck and snap like a shrimp on a dock, my essence spraying not into your warmth, but into the cotton prison of my underwear? How many times have you looked at me with amusement dancing in those eyes, stroking the ridge in my jeans till I forgot myself and reached for you, to be met with a stinging slap that crossed my eyes and rang carillon bells in my head?

Upon my oath, I'm not a violent man. But I tire of being your pet. One day the tables will turn. One day I will see fear in those eyes. Will see you back against the wall as I advance, rage burning low in me, burning, burning, till it's a tossup which is more intense -- the dull heat at my groin or the rage flaming at my core.

There will be violence then, yes -- but not hands-and-fists violence. Only the violence of rent clothing, of being slammed against the wall hard enough to bruise your back, of my mouth on yours, stubble rasping, scratching your tender skin. The violence of buttons flying, pinging off the lampshade nearby, of my hands plundering your breasts, squeezing and mauling them till you cry out with pain and humiliation. The violence of ripped panties, of jeans around your ankles, of being bent over the couch, ass raised, legs thrust rudely apart. Of a hand between your legs, feeling the awakened heat, a chuckle torn from my throat gone raw with suppressed lust.

Because this is what you wanted, isn't it? You'd played me like a master violinist, tightened my strings till I nearly snapped from the pressure -- but "nearly" being the key word. Had raised my passions and ignited my rages till I gave you what you needed -- a dominating, hard fury that finally tore away any semblance of control and propriety in your too-tight life and let you surrender to its dark wash. You wanted this more than anything else -- wanted to be taken, possessed, used roughly and brutally till there was nothing left in your world but pure, raw sensation.

And I'll take it, too. Driving hard and fast, taking what's been mine all along, had I but known it. Plunging deep, plunging hard, angry steel merging with your liquid center. Screams of anticipation, of rage, of fear and shame and delight. Of ecstasy. Invading you, battering, leaving marks on your flesh, scarring and searing your soul with rippling flames, binding you to me now and forevermore.

Fire cleanses, fire destroys. But only in the fires of a forge is the strongest steel made. Links that can never be broken.

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 10-1-10: "Rumblin' Train"

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