Tag Archives: flash fiction

Erotic Fiction: Motion Capture

Image courtesy Creative Commons

Image courtesy Creative Commons

She is naked, kneeling above him, straddling his legs while he strokes his cock, trying not to come.

She wants to photograph him.

She wants his widening eyes, the flash of his teeth, the sinking into himself. Small transformations, complex and quick, moving under his skin. They are who he is when he is with her like this. Deep water currents. She wants to capture them.

She picks up her lens and frames his face. Just his face, not his body, chest up. She knows his body, his salted scent; touching his skin is like touching her own. It’s his face that changes. His face holds a world, a fluid, changing landscape she cannot fully know.

She sways above him and angles the lens. She wants his face when he thrusts, when he tries to stop, when she tells him not to come; the serrated edge when he starts again, the veins in his neck, the strain of his jaw, the throb and pulse of who he is now, and now, and now. She cannot get enough.

She hates impermanence. She would freeze time if she could; catch slivers in an icy sphere and hold it in her palm—magic for when reality beats too hot against her skin. But there are no spheres or magic. Only now, and now, and now. She cannot take it in. Not everything at once. But freezing him in glass and pixels and plates brings something like permanence close.

She’s wet and getting wetter, flushed and hot – too hot for frozen spheres. Her hips move like he’s fucking her. Like she’s fucking him. Her lens captures what it can. They are close, so close his knuckles brush her damp, trembling thigh. She pants like he’s panting and burns through film.

“I can’t,” he says. “I have to come.”

She doesn’t know how many times he’s said that, or how many times she’s said no. She’s captured his face every single time with her icy, clinical lens. But she cannot capture this—the rolling, feverish fullness of where they are now.

“Wait. Just wait,” she says.

Her cunt brushes his cock as she sets the camera down. She can’t hear through her pulse, the rushing, liquid heat of the blood beneath her skin. The heat drips out of her, onto him, into them. She leans down and strokes his face with her burning fingertips.

“Look at me,” she says.

He does, and she sinks down. She keeps her eyes open, though god they want to close. She wants to see his face, caught between her hands. She is still taking pictures. She wants to memorize his face. Now and now and now. She watches and he comes. That one, that picture, is hers alone.

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Fiction: Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard's Eighth Wife (1938)

Gary Cooper & Claudette Colbert in Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife (1938)

A few week’s ago, I wrote a post called Death and the Maiden in which I mentioned Angela Carter’s story “The Bloody Chamber”. That story is an adaptation of the Bluebeard fairy tale, my favorite fairy tale in the entire world…which probably says a lot about me. 

Given that it’s been a bit serious around here lately, I decided to lighten things up with my own adaptation of the Bluebeard story. I wrote “Bluebeard’s Clever Wife” a couple of years ago and it’s been languishing in a file ever since. It’s not erotic, sexy or even remotely hot, but I do think it’s kind of romantic…in an Addam’s Family kind of way. At the very least, writing it made me smile. Hopefully, reading it will do the same.  

Bluebeard’s Clever Wife

Once upon a time, a girl married a man. He had a shady reputation, but he gave her flowers and she thought that was nice. Plus, he was rich – not that she noticed, of course. So they married, and went to live at his castle, which was large and very isolated because he liked his alone time.

One day, shortly after they married, he told her that he was going on a business trip. He gave her the keys to every lock in the house and said that she could open them all, except for one.

“Don’t, under any circumstances, open that door,” he said, pointing to a large, black door with a big iron lock and a No Trespassing sign. “If you do, I’ll have to kill you. Fair warning.”

Then he left.

The bride was an obedient and dutiful soul, so she waited until he’d left to go to the forbidden room. What she found shocked her. Bits and pieces of his former wives were scattered about like puzzle pieces. Hands, torsos, heads… the place was a wreck. Unable to stand the mess, she went to work reassembling the ladies until they were all lined up, neat as pins.

She was just congratulating herself on a job well done when her husband came back home. Apparently, the whole thing had been a test! When he discovered her in his secret room, he was understandably upset, but she impressed upon him importance of keeping things tidy. Then she showed him her improvements, which included a clever little bucket for miscellanious parts.

Bluebeard was so struck by her logic, and by the convenience of having everything close to hand, that he quickly forgave her with a hearty laugh. From that day forward, he left the door unlocked, while she, inspired by her husband’s hobby, took up the study of anatomy. They lived happily ever after.

Erotic Fiction: Coming Pretty

"Lying Nude" by Egon Schiele, (1911).

“Lying Nude” by Egon Schiele, (1911).

I want to come pretty, she thinks.

She likes being polished. It’s comfortable and safe. But the climax that bows and contorts her body is a tangled, jagged thing. It lingers and lashes and loosens her. It pulls at her veneer.

Her hips jerk. She bites her lip, and sucks the wound. Oddly, she often comes pretty – controlled, obedient orgasms with lovely, feather-light sighs. The sighs are sexy. Beautiful. Hot. But never pornographic. No. Never that. She has a fear of sounding porny. She’s not the porny type….

She sounds porny as hell with him.

I want to come pretty, I want to come pretty.

She doesn’t come pretty. Not close. She comes as she did the first three (or four) times – messy and out of control. It’s terrible. Scary. Contorted and ugly. Her lip’s bleeding. She’s four orgasms in. But something inside her is shifting. She’s starting not to care. Incredible, she thinks. She never doesn’t care.

She shudders. He makes her want too much. His fingers find her hips. She lives balanced on a needle, straining, resisting. She can’t afford to fall. She is charming and lovely, delightful and sweet in restaurants and bars. But in the warm half light of the small, quiet room, she is a thing that needs to be fucked.

She rises up above him, temporarily distilled. She’s become her body’s response. Jerking hips. Grinding thighs. Slick, plump, cunt. Her muttered curses sound scripted. Porny. Awful. But they are real. Honest and un-pretty. Raw and authentically her.

His tongue and teeth push impulses up through layers of ego and skin. She feels giddy and young, in thrall to herself. She would love to give him orgasms that show her at her lovely best, but the weight of his pleasure cracks her veneer. He will always get her instead.

Coming pretty is not enough.

Erotic Fiction: Drive

Tilly loved hands.

Strong hands, slender hands, hands with bony knuckles and a sprinkling of hair, hands with thick fingers that could break her in two. It was a man’s hands she noticed first. Not his ring finger, (that was a secondary concern), but his hands.

Steering wheel and plack thigh high

“Drive” by Happy Come Lucky

Would those hands satisfy her if she ended up in bed with the bank teller, the grocery clerk, the guy sipping scotch at the bar? Would they stroke up her spine and hold her hips tight, fingertips digging in hard enough to bruise? Would his fingers slide between her legs, not probing but suggesting, coaxing, so that she spread her thighs without meaning to?

That’s what she wanted. Hands that mapped her skin and made her feel alive. A man could have the face of an angel with a pretty mouth to match, but if looking at his hands didn’t make her wet, there was just no fucking point.

Adam had very good hands.

They were clever and quick – strong but not coarse, with long, square-tipped fingers and knuckles that were slightly too broad, but oh god, the way they filled her….

She was thinking about his hands when she dressed that night – short little scrap of a skirt, and black thigh highs with a wide, decorative band instead of plain elastic. She could almost feel his fingertips brushing over the pretty, latticed tops as she slid them up her legs and settled them in place. She skipped the panties altogether. She loved being bare. She felt plump and slick. She felt like an invitation.

Tilly got in her tiny car, the one Adam had deemed reliable when she’d bought it the previous year. She was short on time. His flight wouldn’t arrive for  an hour, but the drive always took longer than it should. Besides, if she stayed home, she’d end up touching herself and Adam had told her, expressly, that he wanted to make her come as soon as he got back. She knew what that meant. She thought of his hands. She pulled out of the driveway as if her presence at the airport would bring him home sooner.

She knew how it would go. There would be sweet kisses at the baggage claim that made old people smile, and tons of I missed you‘s and I love you‘s, which were words she didn’t take for granted. Not ever. Not one bit. But they weren’t the words she needed to hear. They weren’t the words that made her ache.

Tilly, baby…can you drive while you come?

Yes, Adam. You know I can.

Tilly flushed and shifted in her seat. They’d been doing this for so long that her body had a conditioned response. Slowly, she parted her legs, heart hammering as she evaluated the road. Nearly empty. Safe.  She imagined him reaching over from the passenger seat with his long, wide-knuckled hand as she drew her finger shyly up her leg, toying with the tops of her stockings as she did.

Adam’s fingers would curl over the edge of her hem and draw her skirt up before they slid slid between her thighs, not probing but coaxing, just the way she liked. She would part her legs without meaning to, careful to keep her foot steady on the gas, while he dipped his fingers into her sticky heat.

Tilly’s legs parted and she tilted her hips, inviting her own fingers in. She hesitated. Then she dragged a finger over her labia, rubbing lightly as she did, before gently circling her clit. She sighed, watching the road carefully as her hand went to work in place of his.

Her skirt slid up further, pooling in her lap as she arched her hips again, trying to press against anything – the steering wheel, the safety belt – anything that might resist and press back.

Tilly’s breathing quickened as the car sped forward. Automatically, she tapped the brakes as her finger traced circles over her frustrated clit. She made a little sound, an unhappy little groan, as the orgasm began to simmer just beneath her skin. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to come. But she couldn’t. That wouldn’t be fair, and even if it were she wanted his fingers to finish the job. She wanted to suck them clean when he was done.

Tilly moaned again, testing, edging, pushing herself. She was pushing herself hard. The little car shot forward as she danced along the edge. She was on the verge of coming when she snatched her hand away, slamming on the brakes as a deer leapt into the empty road.

“Fuck me,” she murmured. “That was close.”

The orgasm receded, but only just as the animal bounded away. Gingerly, Tilly shifted gears and edged back into the lane. The seat beneath her was sticky and she ached – the climax was still there, patiently waiting, coating her thighs. Waiting for Adam to come. She rolled down the window, relieved when the cold winter air hit her too hot skin. It really had been close.

For a moment, her fingers traced over her stocking tops, soothing herself as she did.  Then she double-checked the road before easing back into the lane. She was anxious to get to the airport. The sooner she got to the airport, the sooner they could come home.

Want to hear me read it? Click on HERE for the audio version.

And lastly, thank you to Happy Come Lucky, whose image inspired this story.

Fiction: Jack Rose & the Old Fashioned Girl

Jack Rose loved nothing more than the little seam that ran up the back of a woman’s leg. That thin, straight line led to beautiful things—garters and silk and soft, soft skin—all the things a man never saw until a woman was nice and mussed up.

backseamTrouble was, there weren’t too many of those seams to be had anymore. It was an old fashioned fetish for an old fashioned time. Sure, there were girls all dolled up with bright red lips and dark, inky eyes, but they weren’t the real deal—too much make up, to much dye, too much of everything, including trying too hard. The stockings they wore didn’t lead to silk and skin. More often than not, they ended in elastic so tight it could have kept foreign invaders out.

Platform hipster heels with a too short dress…. That was all fine and dandy for some guys, but not for Jack Rose. Jack wanted the real thing—a girl whose silk stockings glossed against the sway of a skirt that ended just below the knee. He wanted to trace the ridge of a real seam that ran straight and true all the way up her leg before he buried his face between her thighs. He’d been wanting that for a real long time. He’d gotten lots of near misses in hipster heels, but he’d never quite struck gold.

Then she walked into his bar—a lanky brunette with a wicked jaw, straight out of Dashiell Hammett. She wore a little tailored jacket with a tailored skirt that flared just below her knee. The minute he saw her, the whole place faded to smoky black and white, and he hadn’t even seen her legs.

The place was nearly empty. She had her pick of seats, but she slid right onto the stool directly in front of him.

“What’ll you have,” he asked, wiping at the spotless bar with a rag.

“An old-fashioned. Thanks.”

She looked expensive to the touch. Her angel face was smooth and unpowdered. Only her lips were made up, a ripe, gorgeous red that made him want to take a bite.

“You know how to make that, right?”

Jack started. He hadn’t meant to stare.

“Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat. “Yeah, darlin, I’ve got it covered. You’re just the first person to ask for one in more than five years.”

She grinned then, showing dimples and pretty, white teeth.

“I guess I’m an old fashioned girl.”

Jack didn’t know what to say to that. All he knew was that he was dying to see her legs.

“Night, Jack!”

Jack looked up and waved as Sam and Kyle, a couple of die hard regulars, headed into the quiet night. “See ya, guys,” he called.

The place was empty now.

He took his time muddling the sugar with the booze. Then he set the tumbler in front of the girl.

“Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

“Do me two things and it’s one the house,” he said, wishing he still smoked.

“I don’t know how badly I want a free drink,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “How about you tell what you want me to do, and I’ll tell you how I pay.”

Jack smiled. He liked her. He liked her way too much.

“Sure,” he said, pouring himself a bourbon on the rocks. “First thing. Tell me your name, gorgeous.”

She nodded, shifting slightly in her seat. Jack watched as he took a sip, imaging that she’d just crossed her legs.

“Sure. My name is Myrna.”

“Myrna,” he murmured, nodding. It felt just right in his mouth.

“That’s a pretty name you’ve got.”

She smiled and leaned her elbows up on the bar. “Thanks. What’s the second thing?”

“Stand and up and turn around.”

Jack met her eyes just as her soft, open gaze shuttered. He rushed on, trying to explain.

“It’s nothing weird, I promise. It’s just… Forget it. Never mind. Drink’s on the house.”

Jack knocked back the rest of the bourbon with a clatter of ice against glass. He’d blown that one all right. Might as well start closing up.

“Wait,” Myrna said, smooth as fifty year old scotch. “I think that’s a fair trade. Providing….”

“Providing?”

“It’s a hell of a good drink.”

“Honey, that I can guarantee.”

Jack closed the till and watched as she slid of her stool and took three steps back. Then she slowly turned around. Long, black seams ran up her legs, from the heels of her spiky shoes to the scalloped edge of her hem.

“How’s that,” she said, meeting his eyes.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Not bad. I’d say we’re square.

“Like I said, that depends on how good your old-fashioned is.”

Still watching him, she sat back down and took a sip. She closed her eyes as her head tipped gently to one side, exposing the pale skin of her throat above the collar of her blouse. There was pleasure all over her face. He wondered if that’s how she looked when she came .

“How’s that,” he said.

“Oh… I’d say we’re square. In fact,” she said, opening her eyes, “I may owe you more than my name and a look at my legs.”

“Yeah?” Jack said, setting the rag aside. She was too damn good to be true.

“Yeah,” she said. “Why don’t you make yourself another drink?”

“Sure,” he said, “why not?”

With steady hands, Jack made himself an old-fashioned. Then he went around the empty bar, stopping just long enough to flip the closed sign over before taking the seat next to hers.

“What’s your name,” she said.

“Jack. Jack Rose.”

“Really? Jack Rose?”

“Yeah. My mom loved Hemingway.”

“That’s funny. I do too….”

A delicate flush colored her skin from collarbones to cheeks, as she slowly crossed her legs. Taking the invitation, Jack placed a hand lightly on her knee. When she leaned into him, he ran his hand down the back of her leg, over the perfect ridge of the seam. She sighed and bit her cherry red lip, as the scent of bourbon and sugar and Chanel filled his head. Goddamn. He wanted to muss her up.

Jack moved his hand back up her leg, pausing at her hem. She nodded, pulse skittering in her neck, so he allowed it to drift up her skirt, past the garters that kept those stockings in place, to a pair of silky knickers that were already damp and clinging to her sex.

Jack leaned in and kissed her. He loved an old-fashioned girl.

THE END

Note: I just wanted to quickly thank F. Leonora Solomon for our wonderful, wide-ranging conversations. This story was inspired by our mutual appreciation for the 1940’s and vintage underwear. She is a woman made of loveliness and class. Click here to read her drink – the Amaretto Sour.