Flash Fiction Friday 10-28-11: "Sex on Dark Wings"

(Source image: "Battire" by Gernot)

The night air was heavy with promise. I breathed hard as I stroked, loving the exposure, feeling the explosion build.

Then, behind me, the tenebrous whir of leathery wings. I turned; she alighted. Skin pale as the moon, round heavy breasts, tresses of ebony, lips red as blood...delicate black wings.

“So glad I chose this rooftop to begin my hunt this evening,” she murmured. And began walking toward me, her gaze devouring my every inch.

“Uh.” Play the host, that's what you do for unexpected guests. “Uh, can I, would you like a drink? Some wine?”

“Oh no,” she purred, still moving in that slow stalk, eyeing my hardness deliberately. “I do not drink.....wine.”

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today, this near-Halloween day, was to use the slightly spooky picture above and write a flash fiction of 80-120 words. Additionally, I wanted you to use this H.P. Lovecraft word in your fic:

"...tenebrous..."

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:

Truthfully, from the instant I chose this photo there was really no question about what direction I was going with it. The idea of the temptress, the succubus, the sexy female vampire -- all of these get plenty of play in many an erotic fantasy, and I'm no different. Maybe I wouldn't react so calmly if I was caught on a rooftop with my cock in my hand by a bat-winged temptress who obviously wanted fresh meat, but not blood, but hell, who knows?

And yes, I know her lips are black and not red. Sue me. :) 

Happy Halloween! 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 5-20-11: "Another Day in Paradise"

(Source image: "C.L.U.M.B.A. and Maria in Hong Kong" by Igor Vasiliadis)

The briefcase's click was loud, much louder than it had any right to be. But Maria could barely hear it for the hammering of her heart.

The leader's eyes played over the neat stacks of bills in the case, coldly calculating. He leaned over and spat something in machine-gun Russian to one of his associates, then straightened.

“This is not Cold War era,” he said, sneering. “Russia does not raise fools. You are short by at least fifty thousand.”

The Yakuza boss sitting on the other side of the table raised an eyebrow. Like the Russian, he leaned over and spoke to his associates; as with the Russian, his rapid-fire Japanese was too fast for Maria to follow. Then he shook his head.

“She is not worth it,” he said. He stood, and his men stood with him. “No deal.”

The Russian spat. “I see that Japan does raise fools.”

Bolts clacked as MP5 submachine guns swung up to point at the Russians. More clacks as the Russians drew their own weapons. The threat of bloody apocalypse hung heavy in the air.

Maria's voice, bored, broke the spell. “Oh for God's sake,” she said. “I'll make up the difference myself.” She swung off the table and took the Yakuza's arm. “Let's go.”

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 100-220 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...heavy in the air..."

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 is, I think, the first time I've written an FFF that only hints at eroticism and sexuality. If you like, keep looking at the picture so you can see how lovely and sexy Maria is, even half-nude, and keep that picture in your mind while you read. But I was more fascinated by the story behind this one, what sort of intrigue might be going on in this back room of a seedy bar.

No, there's no briefcase on the table (it looks like a tray of poker chips to me, or possibly some other board game), but I saw it in my head as a briefcase full of money. And then I wondered why Maria was the only one who was missing her clothing, so I decided that she was being displayed because one of the sides was selling her to the other one.

Then I did some thinking about how someone being sold into slavery would feel, and suddenly there was the last twist: what if Maria wasn't horrified or terrified or upset by being sold, but gets off on it? So if the deal looked like it wasn't going to go down because the buyers hadn't brought enough, what would she do to make sure it did go through? Why, chip in the remaining amount herself, of course. And then follow her new owner home and submit to his every whim. Because the very idea gets her all shivery and wet with excitement.

Disturbing? Maybe. All I know is that's where my mind went this week. Your mileage may vary.

Also, yes, I know the participants are Chinese, not Japanese (the pic was taken in Hong Kong, after all). I don't care. I made the two sides into Russians and Japanese because that was how I saw the tale in my head.

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 3-18-11: "Broken, Beaten, Scarred"

(Source image: "I Am So Hidden" by China Hamilton)

The tile was cool and smooth against her bare feet. Her eyes were hopeless, lost, through the eyelets of the mask. Her breasts heaved with suppressed emotions, her whole body shivering as if in a high wind.

The door swung wide and he entered. She twisted to face him, arms crossed protectively before her. Shock skirled across his face and was gone in an instant.

"My God," he whispered. "What have they done to you, my darling?"

Trembling, she reached up and removed the mask.

And he smiled, the sun bursting through clouds. "Is that all?" he murmured, reaching up to caress her scarred visage. “You had me worried there for a minute.”

And he kissed her passionately, hands moving over her body, and she responded ardently, though the tears still trickled down the ruins of her face.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 85-135 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...cool and smooth..."

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 picture fascinated me. At first I had planned a sort of Phantom of the Opera tie-in, with the Phantom taking a lover from among the dancers and musicians of the Opera House, but with a twist -- that he would require her to hide her own face while they made love. I decided against that one because it seemed there'd be very little intimacy with the faces of the participants hidden, but it's still given me ideas for some semi-anonymous fantasies that may yet see life here (I understand that semi-anonymity can be a powerful turn-on, at least in some of the stories I've read). We'll see.

In any case, the approach I wound up going with actually came over me when I happened to see a woman on TV whose husband had left her after a horrific burn accident left her scarred. I'm one of those old-fashioned people who thinks that love does conquer all, so I promptly wrote this sort of fairy-tale approach (fairy tales AGAIN; I really do need to stop that) where our heroine had been the victim of horrible torture that left her face scarred but her body intact. Naturally, she is terrified that her lover won't want her anymore. Most men, I think, would look only at the body and still be titillated, but would they react well if and when she removed the mask? Our heroine's lover isn't at all fazed by it, but (as seen by the TV show I watched) real life is not always so forgiving.

So, after last week's lighthearted take I go right back to the introspective darker stuff. What's my mind coming to? I don't know. Let's see what you all come up with.

Please note that for the past few weeks I have been 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.

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

Flash Fiction Friday 1-7-11: "Deluge"

(Image provided by Sephani Paige, original source unknown)

The world had fallen in thunder and ruin around her ears. How could she have been so blind?

She'd been charmed by those good looks and his ready wit, missing the vicious glint dancing in the depths of those unreadable black eyes. A mistake, and a nearly fatal one. Now she lay prostrate in the alleyway, clutching shreds of her clothing, bruised and torn, aching head whirling, his foul cum still leaking down her thighs.

A rumble overhead announced the gods weren't done fucking with her yet. Droplets of pain fell on her upturned face and danced staccato steps along her spine. They tore away, at last, the last remnants of self-control. Silently, she wept in tandem with the raindrops, wondering just how she could ever go back to her life after what had been done to her.

(Click for details on FFF!)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 106-206 words. Additionally, I provided a key phrase I wanted to see used somewhere in the submission:

"...droplets of [[any noun you choose]]..."

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 don't know what it is about the new year that tends to make me melancholy. You'd think that it would be a time of happiness and rebirth for pretty much everyone concerned. So it is for most (and for me as well, this year), but for the life of me I just can't shake the deepening sadness that tends to creep over me for the last few days of the year and the first few of the new year (witness, for example, this piece that I wrote for New Year's last year). Maybe it's the result of having spent too many New Year's Eves alone with no one to kiss. Maybe it's the fact that I'm too damn introspective for my own good. Maybe I'm just depressive and need to snap the hell out of it. Maybe I'm just overanalyzing and I'll be right as a trivet again after I kill a few children and old ladies (as Stephen King would say). Maybe none of these.

Even without that, though, this picture would tend to make me sad. Try as I might, I couldn't turn it into anything happy; there's just something in her posture and the expression on her face (what little you can see of it) that says to me she's anything but happy. Maybe the rest of you had more luck with it.

In any case, I hope your own holidays and New Year's have been much more cheerful than this. As in the past couple weeks, there is no participants list this week as I am traveling for personal and business reasons. Look for a return to normality on Monday, when I will be returned from my travels and once again be collecting participant lists and leaving comments on everyone else's entries. There will probably be a more cheerful picture as well, to help wash the lingering bad taste of this little tale away. And, as always, if you have any photos or artwork you'd like to see in a future challenge, please send them my way. Thanks to Sephani Paige for this week's photo. 

-- 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

Halloween Flash Fiction Friday 10-29-10: "Til Death Do Us Part"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

"....is Hard to Do"

She'd been fighting it for some time but now her control broke. Tears welled up and overspilled, sliding shimmering trails down her cheeks. A lump formed in his throat as he watched but he willed himself not to go to her.

"It has to be," he forced out, his voice raw. "We've been ripping each other to shreds for months now. I loved you once, and I think I still do, but I have had enough, now and forever, amen."

Her head came up, her jaw tightening. A hint of the old imperiousness flashed in one of her glittering green eyes. "You've had enough?" she said dangerously. "You've had enough?"

She stalked angrily around him, a painter sizing up her subject, a panther sizing up its next meal. "What if I haven't had enough?"

He turned in place, facing her as she circled. "Goddamn it. This is just what I'm talking about -- you won't, or can't, see reality when it's right in front of your fucking face. I am so sick of battling with you over every little thing. So damned......tired."

A spark of humor flashed. "You ought to be, after a night like last night."

"Not what I meant and you know it. I'm not going to deny that it's been fun in bed..."

"And out of bed, and on the stairs, and over the couch, and on the kitchen counter," she singsonged, grinning despite the tears that still trickled down her cheeks.

"Shut UP!" His roar was a cannonblast in the small room. "For chrissake, do you think this is easy for me? Or fun?"

"........No," she finally said, her voice tiny drops of water emerging reluctantly from a faucet.

He nodded grimly. "Then you understand what I'm saying."

"Yes."

"And you know why this has to end before one of us ends up dead."

The silence stretched, became humid, thickening palpably. His gaze held her, like a pin in a wriggling butterfly. She squirmed in agony but he wouldn't, couldn't, release her.

"...........yes," she admitted at last. "But damn you for being so.....so intangible. I never really had you, did I? Even when my claws were sunk deep in your back, I was never really touching you. Never really touched you." The tears began flowing again.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were raw and red as well. "Don't believe it for a minute," he said heavily. "Your hooks are still set deep. I don't know if I'll ever get them out."

She came to him, and this time he didn't pull away. He crushed her against him, meeting her mouth with a savage kiss. She drove him back against the wall, hard. Pictures crashed to the floor. He drank from her mouth, lips and tongue plundering her, being seared in the heat that had burned him so many times. Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut against the tears that still trickled free. He reached up with a thumb to capture one, and slipped it into his mouth to taste her pain, forcing himself, scourging himself, still kissing and kissing and kissing her.

Her hands went to his belt. Leather whipped free, was flung aside. The button popped off as she tore his fly open. She darted a hand inside, slid it beneath his boxers; he groaned as her fingers found his cock, pillow-soft at first but rapidly changing in her grasp. His own hands pulled her T-shirt up and over her head (she muttered angrily as it caught beneath her chin), then she was pressing against him again, the maddening weight of her breasts setting his blood afire.

He reached up and tweaked one nipple, hard. She shrieked and promptly bit his shoulder, just as hard. Blood trickled as she released him. Another battle scar, he thought hazily, and then he was very busy moaning as she pulled his boxers down to his ankles and began massaging his cock with deft, sure strokes. Squeezing him upward, pointing him skyward, getting him painfully hard in a matter of seconds, she smiled sadly at him, then shimmied out of her shorts and panties and swarmed up his body. He pulled one leg upward and felt her slide it round to rest on his ass; he hiked her up a bit more, his hands going to her ass, lifting then dropping her, spearing up and in.

They both bowed their heads, even as he began pistoning in and out. Their breath came fast but no words were spoken. There was only the dark, silent haze that rose and enveloped both of them time after time. She ripped strips from his back over and over; he left bitemarks from her breasts to her earlobes, each nip stabbing her all the way to the heart. Crying, she rode him harder. Weeping, he drove her harder, fingers digging into her shoulders, mouth rasping against hers, stubble tearing the soft skin of her lips. He could feel her heat scorching him. He could feel his savage thrusts bruising her.

The storm built and built. They savaged each other with words, with gestures, with everything they had. They fought this last battle right down to the bitter ending, her finishing cry a tearing howl, as if she'd been gutshot. Bare seconds later he screamed as well as he gushed inside her, feeling a part of himself leaching away with every spurt, powerless to prevent it, hopeless to describe it. She bounced and bucked and jerked against him as she came and came, hammering elbows on his shoulders, leaving fresh bruises. He retaliated, spearing her with the last of his fading strength, wishing it would be enough, knowing in his heart it never would be.

When he began softening and slipping from her she was forced to drop to the floor, stepping away from him. He watched as she pulled her clothes on, grimacing as overstretched muscles rebelled. He knew the feeling, he thought ruefully as he dressed in silence, feeling the ache that always swept through him after they'd been at each other. The ache that seared, the ache that destroyed.

The lingering ache that would always be with him. He watched as she clacked swiftly across the room to the door. The words rose unbidden to his lips, an entreaty, a surrender, a plea -- but his throat locked and the words died. And the door opened, and she flung one last tearful glance his way, and sketched a kind of salute. He raised a hand in response, feeling absurdly inadequate, feeling the hot bile rise in his throat, feeling the self-hatred surge, knowing this was all they could do, all they had left.

And then she was gone.

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday 7-30-10: "Clawing for Purchase"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Flash Fiction Friday 5-28-10: "Rituals"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Group Post: "Make Me"

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Flash Fiction Friday 4-16-10: "Gun Love"

Photo by Mark Stevens.

He strained against his bonds. Ropes creaked but held firm. His cock strained against his pants, trapped like him.

She paced back and forth, a restless lioness, revolver dangling loosely from her pretty paw. Her body glistened with sweat and the wetness of her obvious excitement.

“I really get off on this part,” she sighed, and licked slowly, deliberately, along the gun's barrel. He imagined that tongue caressing his gun, and he moaned. She turned, and grinned a predatory grin.

(click for details on FFF)

Your challenge for today was to use the picture above and write a flash fiction of 62 to 82 words. Nobody's checking word counts, 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).

We had a good group of participants this week. Why not go check out their take on this FFF?

Soren Ambrose:  http://amorousdays.blogspot.com
Spring Flower:  http://agirlsgottahaveoptions.blogspot.com
Gray:  http://mygrayline.blogspot.com   (please welcome Gray to the group, this is her first time playing along with us!)
Jonsbabydoll:  http://thebloggingslave.com   (another new arrival; stop by and say hello!)
Curvaceous Dee:  http://curvaceousdee.com
Sephani Paige:  http://sephanipaige.wordpress.com
Nilla:  http://vanillamom.wordpress.com
Snow:  http://snow9.wordpress.com
Library Vixen:  http://libraryvixen.com
Katia Spade:  http://katiaswritings.blogspot.com
Lila:  http://que-sinverguenza.blogspot.com/
Diable Incarne:  http://conningdevil.blogspot.com/
Luna Mauvaise:  http://lunamauvaise.blogspot.com

Check back here on Monday for the next challenge! And if you have an interesting photo you'd like to see used for a future challenge, please send it my way.

-- PB

Late Arrival: An Airport Encounter

(A note to anyone stopping by via e[Lust] -- welcome! I hope you like what you see here. Drop in anytime.  -- PB)

Most airports are chaotic, disorganized masses of humanity even at the best times. During holiday seasons, however, they become something to stagger the imagination. It's normally my policy to spend lots of time people-watching when I'm stuck at an airport for one reason or another, but I was far too distracted for that this time. Part of it was the unfamiliarity aspect, as I pushed my way through crowds of folk on the slideway taking me closer and closer to my destination; strange airports are interesting places, but not good if your nerves are already strung to the breaking point.

As they were now. God knew, I'd spent enough time emailing her, flirting with her, leaving risque comments on her journal and chatting with her into the wee hours. I figured we knew each other pretty well after the details and photos we'd shared, and the filthy things we'd told each other we'd commit upon the other's person. But to fly halfway across the country just for a meeting like this....was I out of my fucking mind?

Then my eyes lit on her, waiting at the point where we deplaning passengers get disgorged into the flow of outside humanity, and my doubts dissolved, swept away in a tide of lust. Obedient to my brazen demands, she'd dressed in thigh-high boots, a black miniskirt, and a green sweater-top. Impish delight danced in her eyes, glinting from behind her glasses....and oh, yes....she'd worn the collar. Its black leather was a stark contrast to the chrome rings spaced here and there around it. Perfect for snapping something onto.

Perfect, yes. I reached into my travel bag as I drew closer to her and pulled out a silver chain leash. Our gaze locked for a second -- I swear sparks flew -- and then her eyes slid away, to the chain I was holding up. She stiffened and then relaxed again, so quickly I could only wonder if I'd really seen that glimpse of fear. And then she shivered all over and slowly, deliberately, closed her eyes.

I waited, but they remained closed. I stepped closer, close enough to take in her scent -- a heady mix, the leather of the collar, a hint of jasmine, and a stranger scent that I identified, much later, as old, dusty paper -- and placed a hand on her shoulder experimentally. She shivered again but held still. Her lips parted and I heard a faint whisper: "Yes."

That one simple word broke a dam somewhere inside me. The dark raging current that poured through swept all rational thought away. It didn't matter anymore that this was my first time meeting her. It didn't matter that we were starting to draw strange looks from passersby. It didn't even matter that we were in the midst of a crowded airport with no privacy to be found anywhere. All that mattered was that she wanted this as much as I did, and that she belonged to me utterly.

No time like the present to claim the prize. I grasped her by the throat, lifting her chin, and snapped the leash onto one of the trailing rings from her collar. Her eyes flew open at the nearly-inaudible "clink"; there was something dark and wild dancing in their depths. I released her throat and she sighed softly and nodded....no, bowed. She was bowing her head in an attitude of deference.

Oh, I like this. That dark tide was still sweeping me along. My pulse throbbed. My vision was dimming. My entire body was tingling. My cock was painfully hard in my jeans -- when had that happened? It was all going so fast, so fast. My head whirled. All I knew was one thing...that I had to have her.

Now.

Her head was still bowed, but it jerked up quickly, wild and proud, when I pulled on the leash and began leading her along. She came with me eagerly, pressing close, barely even requiring a tug here and there to indicate my will. I kept sneaking glances at her exquisite body, moving and flexing alongside me; curve of hip, sideswell of breast, globe of rounded ass. I could feel the heat from her, could still smell that scent, could sense the electricity crackling between us. This was all woman.

And all mine. I saw a possible haven ahead: a pilot disappearing into the pilots' lounge. I could think of nowhere else that would offer us even a modicum of privacy. Time to brazen it out. With her still walking obediently alongside, I pushed my way into the lounge. Three pilots looked up, eyebrows raising into the stratosphere as they saw her, collared and chained, at my side -- but then their normal arrogance began to assert itself. "Who are you?" one of them demanded. "This lounge is reserved for pilots only. You'd better...." His voice died away, however, at something in my gaze, and I could see he was uncharacteristically flustered.

Still carried along by that dark river, I jerked my head towards the door. "Out. All of you." Two of them bolted almost at once, hearing something that brooked no argument in my voice. The first hesitated, then left as well, but fired a parting shot as he did so: "I'm calling Security."

Once they were gone, I slammed the door and locked it, dismissing them from my head, sweeping the first stirrings of panic away into a closet and slamming the door. Time enough later to deal with that. She was more important. She was all that mattered. Filling my head, racing through my bloodstream, filling my cock to bursting -- she might be utterly mine, but in a way I was utterly hers as well. Time to do something about that.

"We've little time," I said rapidly. "This would have been better suited for privacy, for a hotel room, but it's too late. It was already too late when I first saw you. So: no dissembling, no equivocations. Are you Mine?"

She nodded once. No hesitation. That dark gaze again, burning, searing.

"Do you want it? Now?" I shook the leash, gently, for emphasis.

Again the nod. "Yes. More than anything."

And the last vestiges of control were swept away. I slammed her against the wall, crushing her mouth with my own. Her hips thudded against my crotch, her hands clutched at my ass, pulling me against her. Her tongue was hot, seeking, twining insistently against mine. I pulled back a bit and felt her hands working at my belt buckle and the snap on my jeans; great minds think alike, I thought, as I yanked her miniskirt up. Oh, bliss; she'd anticipated my wants enough to go commando today, and her bare pussy was only inches away. My fingers explored, pushed deep, no time for niceties; her wetness gushed over my hand. She was dripping.

I wanted her mouth on my shaft, wanted to feel her hands encircling the base and playing with my sack as she took me deep, wanted to feel my balls tighten as I spurted into her eagerly sucking mouth. But both of us were too far gone, maybe had been from that first electric contact, hand on shoulder. My jeans slid down my legs, her fingers grasping my hardness firmly, squeezing, stroking. She hiked up one leg and hooked it around my ass and her other arm went round my neck. "Now," she whispered, those burning eyes still locked with my own.

I drove in hard and deep, groaning with the sheer pleasure of it. Her head came down on my shoulder and she bit deep to stifle a scream. Then she was bucking against me, hips thudding forward to meet my thrusts, arms clenching, fingernails digging into my back, gaze once again locked with mine. Primal delight, primal urges, pure unbridled sexuality; she was dripping with it like her cunt was dripping with her girl gloss. Burned by the flame, but loving it, I thrust harder and harder into her, lifting her further off the ground each time, legs and calves straining with effort, one hand on her thigh helping spread and lift her, the other one sliding up further, still gripping the chain locked to her collar, pressing against it and pinning her in place. A grin rippled across her face and was gone, replaced with that same intense look of -- what? concentration? Lust?

Perhaps "capture" was the word, I thought dimly as I kept slamming into her, her body flexing against mine, rising to meet me. Every time I met her eyes, they captured me. But it wasn't an ownership thing; or at least not in the sense of her owning me; instead they seemed to be saying "Yes. Take me, I'm Yours. I belong to You." If there was any other message hidden there, it was hidden well; all I could see was desire thrumming along every nerve, something pure and clean, a strange contrast to the dirty things we were doing to each other.

Minutes. Short, delicious minutes, but only a few. I felt her pussy clenching around me; a sharp "uh!" was her only sound, but the look in her eyes and the heat of her pussy left me no doubt she'd just cum hard. My balls drew tight; my cock swelled; my breath caught; my hips slammed forward almost of their own volition. Without warning, the fire burst through me everywhere, sweeping over me and pouring out of my cock as I erupted into her, thickly, forcefully, and seemingly endlessly, spurting and spurting as if I was trying to hose down the burning heat at her core with my own burning seed.

But flame only begets more flame. I pulled back and out of her after long seconds, those dark eyes still locked with my own. With trembling hands I pulled my jeans up, and with shaking hands she pulled her miniskirt down. Still we stood there, still staring, neither of us sure what to say.

I was first to break the silence. "Mine," I whispered. And "yes" she whispered back.

"We'd better get out of here," I managed, voice still hoarse with pent-up desire. "Come on." I pulled on the leash and she followed close by my side; we left the lounge at a dead run, as if the hounds of hell were at our heels, and maybe they were. Still, one thing was definite: this visit wasn't anywhere near finished. Oh, no.

There were things we still needed to do. Urgently.

-- PB

Blinded and Bound

(A few weeks back I asked what you fine folk would like to see here. Spring Flower requested a story on blindfolds and binding, so without further ado....)


God, I can't believe the cliches, she thought. Heart fluttering like a bird trapped in a cage -- check. Blood rushing to my face -- check. Trembling like a leaf in the wind -- check. Wetness trickling down my thighs -- definitely check. Why is it this is affecting me so much?

Maybe it has something to do with the shock of it all. I wanted him to surprise me the next time he was feeling frisky, but didn't expect anything like this!

"This" was a dead-eyed, austere husband, who met her at the door after a long day at work. "This" was him ordering her coldly to "get those fucking clothes off, now." "This" was him ripping the shirt off her back and using a knife to cut her panties free when she wasn't fast enough to suit him. "This" was him snapping a dog collar round her neck, pulling her by its chain to the bedroom, and looping the chain through a ringbolt in the wall over the bed.

"This" was him locking two fur-lined handcuffs around her wrists and shackling those to the bed's headboard. "This" was him pulling her legs rudely apart, and more shackles around her ankles; shackles that went to the corner bedposts.

"This" was him standing there, observing her clinically, drinking in her mingled fear and delight -- how far, precisely, would he take things? "This" was him reaching into the bedside drawer and bringing forth a soft velvet cloth, then lifting her head gently, sweetly, but relentlessly. "This" was him wrapping the cloth twice round her head, over eyes and ears, cutting off most sound and all light and vision.

"This" was her breath coming hard and fast. "This" was her tongue, moving nervously over suddenly dry lips. "This" was the slow hot pulse between her legs, the throbbing beat which was already increasing in intensity. "This" was the beads of sweat forming on her shivering skin. "This" was the growing wet spot beneath her as her excitement trickled down the insides of her thighs and soaked the bed below.

"This" was her voice, begging in a cracked and broken tone she'd never heard from herself before. "This" was his own cold tone in response, faded through the muffling cloth, moving around the bed, taunting her as her blinded head whipped back and forth, trying to follow him. "This" was the epithets he was using on her, scoring her psyche as surely as if he were cutting her with a flechette: Slut. Whore. Cunt. Tramp. "This" was the flood of emotion those words brought forth -- the expected rush of guilt and shame, but also a dirty pleasure, a secret pride at being so well and truly Named.

"This" was him trailing his fingers over her trembling body, whisperlight caresses at odds with his harsh words. Playing gentle circles over her belly, her nipples, her breasts. Tangling in her hair for a quick, sharp pull that brought tears to her eyes, then soothing the hurt away with more caresses on her face. "This" was her suckling eagerly at his fingers as they crossed her lips; "this" was him admonishing her "no" with a gentle smack on her cheek; "this" was him leaning in to place soft kisses and licks all over her writhing body.

"This" was him suddenly invading her cunt with his fingers, thrusting hard, rudely, with no finesse. "This" was his thumb dancing gently on her clit, somehow perfectly in tune with the throbbing of her pussy, at odds with the seemingly untutored fingers. "This" was her gasping and shuddering, wracked with pleasure, moaning his name. "This" was her hips bucking upward to meet his plundering hand, traitor body awakened by his ministrations. "This" was his mouth now replacing his thumb, his tongue lashing over her clit relentlessly, driving her hard and fast towards orgasm.

"This" was the disappointment she felt when he halted suddenly, fingers yanked free, mouth and tongue pulling back just short of tipping her over. "This" was the howl of anguish that burst from her till her throat was raw. "This" was him covering her mouth with his own, stubble rasping against her, bruising her with the savagery of his assault. "This" was his body weight coming down hard upon her, denim shirt brushing roughly against her hard nipples, making her moan into his mouth. "This" was him driving upward, forward, into her, stretching and filling her till her eyes rolled and turned helplessly beneath the stifling blindfold.

"This" was a relentless, hard rhythm. "This" was sensation so pure it made her brain burn and her soul sear. "This" was him biting at her nipples, lightly at first, then harder when she whimpered and thrust her tits harder into his mouth. "This" was their bellies smacking hard against each other in a quickening beat. "This" was her silent cry as her cunt clamped around him in clenching approval. "This" was his animalistic grunting as he fucked her harder and harder. "This" was him sitting up, grabbing her thighs tightly enough to leave marks, using them to pull her against him. "This" was her monotonous chant of "yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah" as he plundered her. "This" was her orgasm exploding through her like a bomb, a nova rushing outward from her liquid center all the way to her tingling fingertips and toes. "This" was him pounding into her, longer, faster, harder still. "This" was him pulling back, out of her, then working his cock feverishly, splattering jets of his cum all over her sweaty body: belly, tits, chest, neck, one or two droplets even on her face.

"This" was her breathing hard and heavy when at last he'd finished coating her. "This" was him disappearing for a long minute, then returning with a soft towel. "This" was her whispered "thank you", seemingly unheard as he cleansed her with the towel and caressed her body's curves lovingly.

"This" was a benediction, a coda, as he pulled the blindfold free and unlocked her shackles, but left the collar round her neck. "You're welcome, my love," he murmured against her throat as he lay close, enfolding her in warmth, brushing away the tears that were starting to flow now.

-- PB

The Devil Inside

(A bit late for Halloween, but what the hell.)

Smoke, hubbub, pounding music, fumes of sweat and alcohol, perfume and colognes, leather and latex and vinyl. It was fairly standard, as Halloween costume parties go.

It was also, he mused, extraordinarily boring. Not a target in sight, not a conversationalist who could keep up with him, not a single interesting individual worthy of attention this evening. Then again, so many of them had gone overboard with their costumes, while he'd favored the understated approach. No pitchfork and bright red-tailed spandex getup here; he'd chosen a sober grey double-breasted suit, dyed his hair black and slicked it back from the temples, added a bit of rouge to his cheeks, trimmed his goatee so it came to a fine point -- small things, really. His one concession to the devil motif was a pair of tiny horns he'd affixed to his forehead with spirit gum and prosthetic makeup. They were barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. But most people hadn't bothered looking, all night.

Wait a second. That looked promising. Oh, she was a looker, all right. Masses of ash blonde hair tumbling around her creamy white shoulders. A figure that would make hourglasses weep in envy, shoehorned into a clinging diaphanous dress of purest silver that left everything and nothing to the imagination. Purest silver in color, it seemed constructed of cobwebs and moonlight. He wondered idly how she'd gotten here without being arrested. Thigh-high slits on the sides revealed tantalizing flashes of leg as she turned this way and that and the full points of her nipples were clearly visible. Clearly she was enjoying something about this party. Her face, though, was utterly impenetrable, inscrutable, revealing no hint of what she was thinking.

And -- what the fuck? -- an argent halo glittered insubstantially over her head. Stranger still, no one seemed to be paying her -- or it -- any attention.

Surely not, he thought. What's she up to?

He sidled through the crowd and touched her elbow. "Pardon me, my dear," he intoned.

She turned, apparently unsurprised. "Yes?"

"As someone in the business" -- he didn't say which one, knowing she knew full well what business he was in -- "I'm curious about the halo. Draws attention, doesn't it?"

"Only when I allow it to," she answered. "Now that I've drawn yours, I don't need it. Does it bother you?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Bother? No, not exactly. It affects me, that's for certain, but not in the way you might think."

She raised an eyebrow of her own in response. "How then does it affect you, pray tell?"

He smiled grimly at her phrasing. Deliberately, he ran his eyes up and down that statuesque body, then -- just as deliberately -- looked down at his crotch, where his excitement was showing rampantly.

The halo flickered and died over her head. Her lips parted and her eyes smoldered. "Ah," she said, articulating the word very deliberately. "I see."

He slid around behind her, arms encircling her waist, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. "Was this your idea, or that of the Presence?"

She sighed and leaned back against him, pressing her softness against his burgeoning hardness. "Mine. I'm so God-damned tired of His holier-than-thou attitude. He created sex, why is He so uptight about it? I haven't been laid in centuries. This is the Night of Mischief; His attention's elsewhere tonight and I figured no one would miss me."

He chuckled and ran his hands up her front, cupping the weights of her breasts. "I've always enjoyed corrupting you types. I guarantee you'll enjoy yourself, if you'd like to accompany me to somewhere more private." He punctuated the last word by tweaking her nipples sharply, and she gasped, her hips bucking involuntarily back against him.

"Yes, I do think I'd like that," she murmured, undulating against him in a manner that was swiftly stoking his interest -- and his passions -- to a high flame. "How shall we do this?"

He grinned, and took her hand. "The bathroom's unoccupied." She trailed after him, quiescent for now. They stepped into the bathroom and he closed the door behind them; a flash of ire seared and sealed the lock. "Don't want to be disturbed, you know," he remarked offhandedly.

He put both hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. "Tell me, my little Seraphim, what do you want this night?" He knew the ritual: she'd pretend aversion for a token time, then cooperate eagerly, the formalities of her protestations having been satisfied.

But she surprised him by dropping to her knees in front of him and drawing down the zipper of his pants. "To worship this," she said softly. "To take in the profane and make it sacred." Her small hands went inside, caressing, feeling the weight and length of his erection; he growled subvocally as her fingertips rippled up and down. "To feel what I've been denied for so many years."

Abruptly she pulled downwards and his pants fell around his ankles. His cock, hard and red, stood out like a prod, pointing directly at her face. She looked up at him then, and there was in her eyes such a look of lust that even he was swayed by its force.

"Or, not to put too fine a point on it," she purred now, "to have you fuck my brains out." Her hand went to his shaft and grasped it firmly. He gasped at how cool and soft her fingers felt around his heated flesh. She began stroking him, gently twisting her grasp around and around, squeezing him downward and then upward, milking the first drops of pre-cum free. Her hot tongue darted out to taste the pearly beads. "Better than pearly gates," she whispered. Her tongue laved his head, spreading her saliva and his pre-cum all round. "Much better."

He groaned and raised her to her feet. His hands roamed now, all over her body, questing, caressing, stroking, and then clenching and grasping hard. The fabric of her dress tore with a barely-audible thrumming sound, and her breasts -- marvels of shadowed rondure -- spilled free. He manhandled them, squeezing and tugging, mashing them together, cupping them, hefting and pulling. She gasped and threw her head back. "Yes," she sighed, "like that. Oh, yes, like that. Harder. Bite them!"

He did as he was told, feeling her hands still twisting and caressing on his cock, now slick with her saliva. Worse yet, he was rapidly losing control in her grasp. He growled deep in his throat as she milked the head, making circles around the mushroom tip. A particularly apt touch drew a rattling, ragged gasp from him and another from her as he bit harder on her nipple. "Christ yes," she moaned. "Oh, fuck me. Wanted your cum first but I can't wait."

"You've much to learn about devils," he grunted as she began pumping his shaft, hard. "We excel at teasing....but we can stay hard as long as we want."

"Ah, so?" she grinned wickedly. "Then let's have it. C'mon. I want that devilcum all over my tits." She began pumping him in earnest and dropped to her knees again, presenting him with a tempting target, working his shaft with enthusiasm and skill he'd rarely felt even from the lower-circle demonesses. He howled his delight as his burning seed erupted and splashed all over her tits, streams and spurts flowing and coating her creamy white flesh with even more whiteness. "Yes, yes, yes," she moaned, working him harder. "More. More! I want more!" He reached down inside and kept it going, erupting and erupting, all over her hands and forearms, all over her tits, splashing and splattering over the ripped remnants of her dress, drooling down her legs and pooling on the floor.

Finally he stopped, afraid he'd drown her before he'd even gotten into her, but she surged to her feet and engulfed his lips in a savage kiss. He felt his hot cum smearing all over his suit and tore furiously at it, wondering why he wasn't as nude as she was, or at least close to it. Buttons flew and cloth fell to the floor as he pulled her hard against his bare chest. "Mmmmmph," she moaned into his mouth. "Need it now. Give me that big hard cock. Want it in me. Now. Now!"

He ripped savagely at the shreds of the dress around her waist, getting them out of the way. In a twinkling he had spun her to face the mirror and slammed her down on the counter. She sang a high crystalline note of pure voiceless need and spread her legs as far as she could; he accepted her offering and drove home into her, hard and deep.

A red haze filmed his vision. This was what he was. He snarled and his hands clenched; the fingernails grew till they were claws. One hand clapped hard on her shoulder, yanking her against him; the other came down with a loud crack on her ass. She yowled in delight and began shoving back against him as he pistoned into her, fucking her deep and hard. And he began reviling her, savaging her with words as he savaged her body: "Slut. Filth. You're all the same -- so pure and holy and good when He's watching, but give you a little taste of the good stuff and you're all over it. You can't get enough. I could fuck you for days and it wouldn't be anywhere near what you need; you'll be begging for more cock even after I've bruised you inside, filled you with gallons of come, clawed and shredded your flesh, fucked you till you were damn near split in two. Isn't that right?"

"Yeah," she gasped. "I want it. I'm a dirty slut. I want cock. I'm meant for fucking. Take me, use me, pound me, fill me. Fuck my filthy hole with that big devil cock. Give me more of that hot steaming seed. I want it so bad."

And he drove into her. In. In. In. Harder and faster. She was gasping, screaming, her hair flying about, her eyes blazing, locked with his in the mirror as he pounded her harder, deeper, faster. Their bodies blurred together, pounding and thrusting in desperate frenzy. Time stretched and flowed, everything in the universe drawn down to this one unholy mergence. They fucked and they clawed and they scratched and they bit. He banged her from behind till the countertop shattered. He threw her against the wall and she jumped onto his cock again, wrapping her legs around him so tight he felt something creak. He drove her to the floor and had her there, leaving claw marks on her shoulders, her waist, her legs, her breasts; she left him unmarked but took everything he threw at her and begged for more.

Eventually even immortal flesh tires, but not without a final climax. He drew her down hard and fast, clenching her ass, pouring his essence into her in a fiery river of pleasure so great it was agony. She shrieked filthy words in a voice made raw by lust and rough use, and he howled imprecations at her, calling her slut, whore, succubus, finally grunting oaths in bastard pre-Druidic language as the pleasure overwhelmed him. They collapsed together to the floor, neither one truly sated yet, but knowing that their time here was done. Such a union isn't meant to be, after all.

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday #8: "Captured"

She raised her head, weakly, as she floated back to consciousness. Agony flooded through every pore and she inhaled for a scream. The hard core of rubber in her mouth prevented even that elemental release.

Stretched, pinioned with chained shackles at each extremity, splayed in a horrible reminiscence of “Vitruvian Man”, she hung exhausted in the prison of her pain.

And yet....

Wetness ran down her legs, her traitor body responding to the sensations awakened inside her. Images skirled through her mind, how he had taken her to the deepest depths and the most dizzying heights.

She wanted more...

(This, though a bit darker than my usual tastes, is my entry for Spanky and Tiggs's Flash Fiction Friday Challenge #8: 100 words on the photo shown above. Want to play too? Then stop by and check out the guidelines.) 

-- PB

Insatiabear

Tonight I am definitely feeling like the Insatiabear. I don't know where the hell this came from (all right, shut up, it was probably the fact that I was browsing all you folks' hot writings for the past several hours), but right now I am, to put it bluntly, horny enough to fuck a rock. This isn't a gentle burn here, it's not a wish for snuggling and spooning and lovey talk. Oh, no.

No, this is hard and hot, savage, a dark fury. It's a desire to pounce and rend and tear. It's a wish to devour and be devoured, a crackling, towering inferno of lust. It's a wish to fuck and fuck and fuck, to slip and slide in and on and around you, fingers and tongues and cock and pussy and tits and hair and sweat and cum and oh god, yes, right there. It's imagining everything imaginable, a playground of flesh where anything can and does go, a series of scenarios, a plethora of positions, a symphony of screams. I want to cum in your pussy, on your tits, in your hair, on your back, in your laughing mouth. I want to make you cum with fingers, tongue, toys, vegetables, and my own cock. I want you from behind, on top, on the floor, in the shower, against the wall, in a chair, sprawled on a table, everywhere and anywhere. I want it until both of us are raw, sore and exhausted, until I can't get hard anymore and you've run out of pussy juices. I want to ruin clothing, bedsheets, carpeting, upholstery and wall decor.

And then I want it some more.

That's how I'm feeling right now.

-- PB

Flash Fiction Friday

Empty, hurting, exhausted, used and discarded like a toy. How could she have known it'd come to this when she answered a comment about her HNT pic?

She'd thought, “there's no harm in just talking to him”. Then she'd thought “there's no harm in meeting him”. Then, no thought at all as his cock vanished down her throat and she vanished in a red haze. Such power....

***********

This is my entry for Spanky's Flash Fiction Friday: 69 words about the picture shown above. She looks sad and tired to me, so no matter how I wanted to create something pleasant, it kept turning into something different. If you want to play too, go see Spanky's post.

-- PB