"I'm sorry, Daddy." (FFF)

It's been awhile since I FFF'd. And I really wasn't sure I'd be able to find inspiration for this photo...but, I just started writing, and this is where it took me. Head over to the Flash Fiction Friday site to join in the writing fun!

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

“Will you spank me, Daddy...” Her slightly averted, pleading eyes, her bouncing pigtails, her pink-cheeked, smiling face..all of it framed by his naked, spread knees, made him smile. 

“Why, princess?” His right eye squinted as his lips curved up in a wicked curl.

“Because it’s my birthday.”

“It’s not your birthday, princess. Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying, Daddy.”

“Oh, but love, you are. You are lying, and you know it, don’t you?”

“Why would I lie, Daddy?”

“Because you want me to spank you harder, baby. And you know what, I ought to send you away right now for your naughtiness. But, you know what I’m going to do instead, my girl?”

Her smile had faded, a shamed blush taking its place.

“I’m going to spank you. I’m going to spank you so hard you won’t forget it. And the next time you feel the need to hand me such an unnecessary and silly story just to get what you want, you’ll be sent to the corner.” He inhaled and exhaled slowly, with great intent, as if he were counting backwards to keep his calm. 

He patted his lap.

She moved instantly, positioning herself across legs, her full breasts pressing into the outside of his left thigh, her belly pushing against his right.

“With every strike, princess, I want to you say I’m sorry, Daddy.”

Meekly, she whispered, “Yes, Daddy...”

Raising his voice slightly, he demanded, “Speak up, girl.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she said, clearly and obediently.

His hand came down hard to meet her bare bottom, leaving its telltale red print, like a semi-permanent tattoo.

Her voice rang out, in between each resounding smack, her rear-end quivering, “I’m sorry, Daddy!”

But she was not.

Things that go "mmmmm" in the dark

We live on a dark road, about a mile off the highway, nestled between cedars and maples. Our sky does not look the same as the sky above a large city. It's much darker, and shines with dense pockets of twinkling stars so numerous it looks as if a salt shaker has been upended.

When the clouds roll in, and the moon does its monthly disappearing act, it becomes so dark, you can't see your own hand in front of your face. And if you are paying attention to the crunch of the leaves beneath your feet, you might not even notice someone coming up behind you.

Maybe a pair of warm hands and the comfortable smell of recognition.

With one sense fully at the mercy of nature, the rest will be left to experience those hands with more intensity. The sense of touch...fingers tracing curves, entering crevices, exploring places in a way made more surprising by the inability to see them.

Smells...the wood stove smoke lingering in the still, cold air, kept low and closed in by the clouds, making the atmosphere seem heavier, the pressure of winter bearing down and making your bodies feel weighted and slow. The day's cologne and perfume will have withered beneath more natural scents, muskier and mouthwatering.

You might feel the heat of breath on your neck, a hot tongue licking at your nape, and the cool air immediately stealing the warmth. That will likely be intoxicating. The quick contrast. The shift in temperature.

That tongue will take away the salt of your skin, taste buds swelling with the sting, causing the mouth to water. It will come back for more, only this time, it will invade your mouth, filling it, pressing itself between your teeth, sucking.

The hands might make their way between your legs, probing, searching...and eventually finding your sweetest spot, already wet and ready...hot.

If you could see, in the darkness, you would notice the steam rising from the hand as it is pulled from the band of your loose evening clothes. The steam caused by your heat as it meets the bitter reality of night.

Best to go in...out of the cold...out of the dark...and into the warmth of the house. The subtle glow of the lamplight will be a cozy invitation to snuggle up on the couch and finish what has already been started.

The Last of Its Kind

(This is a Wicked Wednesday post...based on the prompt: Write from the point of view of the last tree standing in a forest. I have to admit, this stumped me, and I was ready to throw in the towel before I even started, but I ran the prompt past Mr. LL, and he came up with a cute idea - so I'm running with it.)

The Last of Its Kind

It's hot today. Humid as hell, in fact. Seems that during the growing season, we all tend to crowd, to the point of touching...even braiding ourselves together in places, or growing back into the ground beneath us to escape the heat and the suffocating closeness. 

And there's the darkness. Intermittent brightness blinds us, like being bathed in neon, but with it comes the blessed breeze, and we can breathe. For a moment, until we are covered again, kept from the light, left to stagnate. 

In this condition, we sweat. Like prisoners in a pit, we talk to each other, sometimes never knowing what the other looks like. It's just voices. 

Until night. Even though it's still dark, the cover is taken away, like low clouds that rise and let the moon gaze down upon the forest below. We rest and dry out, the cool air freeing us. And sometimes, the hands of the gods above literally brush through us, bending us gently, petting us like a cat. If they could only hear us purr.

Occasionally, there is a storm...a heavy darkness beats down upon us, crashing and mashing us to the ground, bending us, breaking us. There are casualties...losses...and we pull together and prepare ourselves for the post-tornado downpour, that washes us clean, separating us, leaving us breathless, tired, and weak. We curl into ourselves, shrinking and exhausted.

And then there is the inevitable disaster. We all know it will come. We are told from the moment we are born...warned that we may not even have the chance to fully develop...grow to our potential. And we live with the possibility. 

I've been lucky. I was born during the growing season...a time when the forest is let loose to become what it may. We don't know why it happens. But from time to time, it does. So, I knew it was only a matter of time.

Right now, I'm in the eye of the storm. I can hear the vibration, the rumbling beneath me. I can hear the screams in the distance, the tortured screams of those cut down in their prime. And I know it is coming for me. I try to be calm, to prepare myself. 

The vibration becomes a deafening growl, pounding and gnawing at the world around me. Dozens, hundreds of my friends and family...and those that were never close enough to know...are cut away and disappear, sucked up into the bright void.

And suddenly, I am alone, hidden in a crevice. Maybe I will be spared? Maybe the storm will pass and I will be left to tell those who are still waiting to be born?

Stuck to the ground where I stand, I hold on. I stand proud. I am willing to be sacrificed if it must be that way. But, I hope I am left to tell the tale. The last curling hair on a rolling hill between two giant mountains that grown downward. 

I can hear the voices from above...the voices of the gods. They have planned this execution. This "cleansing" as it were. This clear cut. 

They say it is for the best. And they run their hands across the naked landscape, barely grazing me. If they notice, they do not let on. Instead. a clean warm rain comes down and washes away what is left of the broken bodies around me, leaving smooth ground, ripe for regrowth. 

A large pink tidal wave brushes past me, barely missing me. It returns...again and again...digging deep into the widening crevice in front of me...a cavernous, hungry crater that invites the destruction.

I turn away. I can no longer bare to look upon the horror...the end of days. I will curl up...attempt to bury myself, hide beneath the ground. I can only hope they won't find me...the single hair left behind.

A Much-Needed Vacation

“What if I stripped down to nothing but my underwear and just stood in the middle of the aisle for everyone to see?”

“It’s against FAA regulations, Katherine.” Jim said it absently, while fingering through a magazine he’d taken from the seat pocket in front of him.

Her voice became high and strained, like a petulant child who wasn’t getting enough attention, “No it’s not...it’s against your regulations. You don't even know what FAA means. You’re boring, Jim. Just plain boring!”

“Whatever, Katherine.” Jim’s voice never rose. And his eyes never left the page.

“Oh, good God, Jim...what do I have to do to get your fucking attention?!!”

“Hmph...” Jim made a dismissive noise in his throat.

Katherine began unbuttoning her blouse. She removed it and then unsnapped her bra from the front, setting her middle-aged breasts free. She stood up, unzipped and unhooked the back of her skirt, and let it fall, revealing nothing but a pair of black thong underwear.

Several passengers gasped and began to mumble and whisper. Jim looked around him, wondering what all the fuss was about. He hadn’t felt any turbulence. He figured the drink service was making its way down the aisle and prepared to request a cup of coffee. Without looking at his wife, he inquired whether she’d like to have her usual glass of terrible airplane champagne.

“No, Jim. I think I’m plenty loose at this point.”

He finally realized she was standing, and without looking up, asked if she needed by, to use the restroom.

“Only if you’re coming with me, Jim. If not, that man over there looks plenty interested.”

Jim looked around for the “interested man”, saw several wide eyes, and realized they were all staring in his direction. He turned to face his wife, seeing her naked belly and full thighs. His eyes took the path of the rest of the audience; eyebrows raised in disbelief, he scanned up her body, past her subtly swaying tits, to her face. 

She wasn’t even blushing. 

“Honey, I think you’ve had plenty to drink.”

“I’ve had nothing Jim. Nothing. And I’m tired of nothing. I’m ready for something. Anything...”

Jim tried to cover his wife with his magazine, looking around nervously, embarrassed, but Katherine was having none of it. 

“I’m done being invisible, Jim...this is the first time you’ve looked at me naked in years...and gauging by the horror on your face, I’m sure I’ve made the right decision.”

“Divorce?” Jim gulped.

“Do you pay attention to anything, Jim? Do you even know where we are going?”

“You took care of the vacation arrangements, Katherine. I just packed my things and followed.”

The stewardess broke in on the loudspeaker above their head, “We are preparing for landing. I hope you enjoy your stay at The Essence Nudist Resort, and that everyone will get lei’d.” She winked and held up an armful of colorful leis. She continued, “I can see that one passenger is already in the spirit.”

At that, at least three other women took off their shirts. 

“Katherine?” Jim looked like a wounded puppy, confused and scared.

“Jim...you’re going to have no choice but to notice me here.”

Flash Fiction Friday photo prompt
limit: 300 words (sorry...I went well over that...)
keywords: FAA and service
forbidden words: flight, mile high club

Let Freedom Ring (FFF)

Ahhh...the 50s. The epitome of "America" at a time when things were just so damned...well...American. The fashion, the technology, the language, the "proper niceness". A perfect facade for reality.

Yesterday, I rewatched Revolutionary Road, and so today, for Flash Fiction Friday, the era of the 50s was fresh in my mind. Picture a perfectly groomed lawn, a perfectly straight fence, a perfectly laid quilt, and a perfectly dressed couple with perfect hair. The Jensens. Imagine them lying under the stars having a perfectly proper conversation...about the children, about the future, about the day and their wonderful BBQ party.

Imagine they've thrown back a few too many perfect martinis. And imagine their conversation becomes, well...more "real."

This week's requirements:

Key Phrase: "Let Freedom Ring"
Word Limit:  294
Forbidden Words: Independence, Revolution

"Let Freedom Ring"

(Source)

“Do you think if I fucked you with a firecracker fast enough it would spark?”

Mrs. Jensen giggled and raised her eyebrows at her husband’s ridiculous question, “You could imagine your dick is a firecracker, exploding its sparks into my cunt.”

“I love it when you talk dirty., Mrs. Jensen...How about I just fuck you, plain and simple?”

Mr. Jensen rolled his wife over, flipped up her voluminous skirt, pulled down her lacey panties, and marveled at the soft glow of her ass so white in the darkness of their back yard. The neighborhood was ablaze with the sounds and lights of the 4th. No one was the wiser that the lovely and proper Jensens were celebrating in their own traditional way.

With his pleated pants pooled around his knees, Mr. Jensen pounded the missus from behind and grunted out in time to his thrusts, “Get... your... flag... ready... mama..., the... bomb’s... about... to... blow...”

And as Mrs. Jensen came, she whispered, “Oh, fuck yes....” then loudly pronounced, “LET FREEDOM RING!” Of course...she was being silly. And Mr. Jensen laughed as she pulsed and tightened around his cock. Every year it was a new patriotic phrase, yelled at the top of her lungs to screw with the neighbors.

From across the fence, the responses “Hallelujah!” from one side and from the other side “God bless America!” made them both laugh, as they lay spent on the rumpled quilt.

“America...land of the wonderfully oblivious. I’m just grateful for the freedom to fuck my wife in the wide open.”

They lay on their backs, staring up at the sky, colored lights streaming down at the same rate that Mr. Jensen’s come streamed down his wife’s inner thigh.


Happy 4th!

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Just for fun...here's a little down home "real" Americana...I love vintage porn...

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This one is especially for you, Mr. LL...I figured you'd like those voluptuous tits and round hips...

On the Green Line to Arlington Station

Flash Fiction Friday

Key Words:  Parting, Station
Word Limit:  200
Forbidden Words:   Discreet, Forbidden, Tryst
Extra Credit:  Name the train and the destination

She could tell she’d had too much to drink, because she’d never be doing this otherwise--running her foot up the inside of a stranger’s leg on the train. He said nothing, but his smile was inviting. She shifted in her seat, subtly hiking her dress up just enough to “accidentally” expose herself when she uncrossed her legs. 

She was nervously pleased when he countered by leaning forward to “tighten his shoe laces,” taking the opportunity to gaze between her still parted legs. She thanked the gods that tonight she’d opted to go bare beneath her dress. 

He slowly and quite intentionally ran the back up his hand up the inside of her extended calf as he sat back up and re-situated himself in his seat. Licking his lips, he visually assessed her from head to toe one more time as the train rolled into the station. Then he stood up and held out a hand to her, without a word. She slid her hand into his, rising.

Yes, she’d had too much to drink. She could tell, because she’d never be doing this otherwise.

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I have to admit...this was tough. 200 words isn't much, and to have any story at all, it has to be tight. I like the challenge, though. It's an exercise in brevity and clarity, two things every writer should practice often.

Mile High Illusion

(Source)

Miranda had worked for Mr. Jordan for 15 years as the only flight attendant on his private jet. It was a sweet deal, really.

There were drawbacks of course.

Though she had a lot of time off, she was paid year-round to be on call. When Mr. Jordan wanted to fly, she had to be at the ready within an hour, sometimes less. It also meant she got to travel quite a bit herself. When Mr. Jordan went to Paris, so did she. When Mr. Jordan went to Dubai, Miranda did, too.

She knew several languages and had originally been hired, right out of college, as a translator by Mr. Jordan's company. Miranda moved up the ranks quickly, as she was professional, punctual, talented, and...let's be honest...attractive, young, and approachable.

Mr. Jordan wanted her to be the face his clients saw smiling at the door, her well-manicured hands holding the tray that would bring them champagne.

On this particular day, Mr. Jordan had requested Miranda's presence for a flight to New York with an overnight stay, a short trip that Miranda had been on dozens of times over the years.

She had prepped the cabin, fluffed the chair cushions, and stocked the refrigerator and cabinets with the expected essentials.

When Mr. Jordan boarded, Miranda smoothed her skirt and straightened her hat (he had always required that she wear a traditional stewardess uniform -- gloves and all). He greeted her as usual.

"Good afternoon, Miranda. I expect things are ready to go...you always seem to have everything just as it should be. I so appreciate your attention to detail." He nodded his approval and smiled as he moved past her toward his preferred seat, making himself comfortable.

"Can I get you anything before take-off, Mr. Jordan?"

"No, my dear. Just make yourself comfortable up front. I'll ring you if I need anything. For now, a bit of peace and quiet and solitude." He looked down at his open newspaper, his silent way of dismissing her.

Miranda made herself busy in the kitchenette (closed off by a door to ensure privacy to the passengers in the cabin).

It must have been 25 minutes or so before she heard the tell-tale ringing of the bell meant to summon her. But when she entered the cabin, no one was there. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and she began to look behind the seats (there were 12) to be sure Mr. Jordan hadn't fallen or been hurt somehow. Maybe a heart attack?...She was mildly panicked by his apparent absence. Finding the cabin completely empty, she went to back of the plane to knock on the door of the private quarters Mr. Jordan used as a sleeping room on long flights, and when he had sporadic (usually beautiful) female guests. Some, of course, were paid escorts. But, often, Mr. Jordan brought along women he knew to break up the monotony of being alone. He was busy. Too busy for a steady, committed relationship. But the man had needs, didn't he? And Miranda didn't judge.

She knocked lightly on the door.

"Mr. Jordan? You rang? Is there something I can do for you?"

At that moment she heard a clank and the voice of woman, moaning, and squealing. The sound was coming from the bathroom.

Miranda was suddenly confused. Mr. Jordan hadn't had a companion with him when he boarded. Unless she boarded after Miranda had left the cabin, which wouldn't have been at all the protocol. Was Mr. Jordan hiding his guest from her...or more likely, was he hiding Miranda from his guest? Why?

She walked toward the bathroom, at the front of the plane, near the door behind which she spent most of her time on these flights. She put her ear up to the door and prepared to ask if Mr. Jordan required assistance, but her hand stopped short of knocking when she heard the woman's voice again.

Her eyes grew wide and she inhaled deeply. She decided not to knock, but rather, stood motionless outside the door, listening.

She could hear the rhythmic pounding that made the internal activity obvious. And still, she could not move.

She knew that Mr. Jordan would not approve of her eavesdropping, but it was the closest she was likely to get to being in the position herself. She indulged her curiousity and kept close enough to hear but far enough away to pull herself together quickly if need be. The sounds were primal. Whatever he was doing to that woman, it must be amazing. Miranda found herself feeling a tinge of jealously. She also found herself feeling a tad...tingly.

Standing, with her back to the door, she closed her eyes and slowly pulled her short skirt up in the front, just enough to touch herself. She thought a moment about removing her glove, but figured it would be too hard to get it back on if the door opened too quickly. With her fingers moving against her quickly dampening panties, she wondered to herself, why on earth is he fucking her in the bathroom when he has a perfectly good private room at the back of the plane?

She bit her bottom lip and let her fingers quicken their movement a bit. A small sigh slipped from her mouth, quiet enough to not be heard over the ruckus in the room at her back. She leaned up against the wall next to the door, on the side where the door would open against her to hide her indiscretion.

She spread her legs a little more and tightened her calves and thighs, pink rising up her neck and cheeks. She shuddered and whimpered quietly, biting her lip again to quiet herself. She felt a tiny trickle of liquid down the inside of her thigh. She could feel the blood pumping in her ears, as her breathing began to return to normal. It was quick. She had always been able to do that on her own. A skill she had perfected over the years, blazing fast self-produced orgasms.

As her breathing slowed and her hearing cleared, she continued to listen to sounds behind the door.

"Miranda?"

Her eyes flew open, she quickly pulled her skirt down over her thighs and, gulping and very obviously and nervously flustered, she responded in a strained and unintentionally small voice, "Yes, Mr. Jordan? I heard the bell and became concerned that you were possibly injured because I couldn't find you anywhere and then I heard moaning from the bathroom and thought that you might be hurt so I stood here and listened for bit until I realized that you must have a guest that I didn't notice board the plane...I'm very sorry Mr. Jordan if I've disturbed your privacy in any way..."

She stopped to take a breath, and looking like a frightened guilty puppy who'd just eaten the side of the couch, she peered up at him through her lashes. What she saw was a unexpectedly mischievous smile. She straightened her gaze, as he began to laugh softly. Just then she heard the moans growing to a crescendo in the bathroom behind her.

"Wait a minute..." Miranda looked very confused. "If you're here...then who's in there?"

Mr. Jordan continued to laugh. He reached around her, his body close enough for her to feel his heat and smell his ridiculously expensive aftershave. Turning the knob to the bathroom and pushing the door open, he exposed his little trick. His smartphone emitted several deep throaty moans and a final scream of release, "Oh my God!"

She swung back around to face him, her eyes narrowing in question, "What is going on, Mr. Jordan? I don't understand..."

"I knew you'd be faithful to your curious nature...I knew you'd listen in. You do that often, don't you?"

"Of course not, Mr. Jordan..." She was fidgety and extremely uncomfortable with the question - even more so with the answer she knew she shouldn't give, "...but it's hard to ignore in such tight quarters...." She was quick to add, "It's none of my business and I never judge or talk about what happens here to anyone...I promise..."

"Miranda, you silly girl." He looked at her, lowered his head and tsk-tsk-ed.

"I'm not a girl, sir...I haven't been for quite some time." She was bit indignant in her discomfort.

"Had the operation then, have you?" He smirked.

"The operation?" Her quizzical expression gave way to an exasperated sigh. "You know what I mean...I'm not a girl. I'm a woman if you hadn't noticed." She breathed in fully and stood tall, ready to face whatever he might throw at her next.

"Oh, I've noticed. For quite some time, as you say."

"Mr. Jordan, I would be very interested to know what is happening here, if you would be so kind to enlighten me...What exactly is the purpose of this prank? Were you trying to trap me so that you could reprimand me or fire me?"

"Good God, no, Miranda. I wouldn't dream of letting you go. And I apologize for my dishonesty. I'm not sure where this adolescent behavior is coming from. Maybe you bring it out in me."

"Excuse me?"

"I was watching you."

"What!?"

"I wanted to see what you'd do...I wanted to see if you'd listen in. I was in the back quarters, watching through the peephole..."

"Watching me?" her cheeks grew hot, and embarrassment flushed through her, stopping, with the greatest intensity, between her thighs.

"I'm sorry, Miranda...forgive me. I shouldn't have. I really didn't expect that you'd..."

"Okay...stop right there, we needn't discuss it, I'm completely mortified at this moment..."

"You shouldn't be...it was amazingly erotic...and I feel like a giddy thief for having witnessed it without permission. I know it was wrong - and I'm sorry...but really, I couldn't stop. I was hypnotized by it. Unable to move, or speak, lest you stop."

Miranda looked at him with a mix of confusion and anger and shame.

"Mr. Jordan, I..."

"Tyler...call me Tyler. Let's start over." He reached his hand out to her, as if requesting that she shake it, which she did, reluctantly.

"Nice to meet you, Miranda. Would you like a glass of champagne?"

Miranda could think of nothing better than drinking away her humiliation.

"Yes...yes, I think I would."

She made to release his hand and turn to retrieve a bottle, but he held tight and pointed out that he'd already beaten her to it. He led her back to the seats and handed her over to the soft leather cushion, into which she sank and wished she could be buried whole.

He poured her a glass and held it out to her. Shaking a bit, she took it. He sat beside her and held his glass up for a toast. Hesitantly, she clinked her glass against his.

"To the next 15 years, Miranda. May they be a bit different than the first."

She drank the glass of champagne as if it were water and she'd just completed a marathon, and he refilled it just a quickly.

Good lord what have I gotten myself into? She thought to herself.

"What do you mean by "different," dare I ask?"

He reached across the armrest and touched her face.

"Miranda, yesterday I woke up and realized I was tired of being alone. And then it hit me....I'm not. You've been here all along, ready in an instant, always expecting my call."

"It's my job, Mr. Jor--"

"Tyler."

"Yes, Tyler, it's my job."

"No one just gives up 15 years of her life to follow some bloke around the world and follow his every whim simply because it's her job. Miranda...be honest. It isn't just me, is it?"

She swallowed audibly.

"You don't have to say it...just kiss me." He leaned toward her.

Holy hell, she thought. Right now, with little time to do so, she had two choices between which to decide - slap him and request that he have the pilot turn around this instant, or accept the fact that Mr. Jordan...Tyler...was not a normal man, and therefore would never have approached her as such. He would not call her and ask her to coffee, subtly referencing his interest in her. He would not be shy even appropriate. He was used to getting his way, without asking. The fact that he'd just requested that she kiss him was more accommodating and patient than she would have ever guessed him to be. This was him. And if she wanted him, she would have to take him as he was. Though many women would have refused his entitled way of commanding those around him, Miranda knew him for what he truly was. She also knew herself, and that he was right. No one gives up 15 years to follow some bloke around the world, unless she loves him. It wasn't explainable or justifiable. It just was.

She quickly downed the rest of her glass of champagne, and then leaned in to kiss him, the bubbles still dancing on her tongue.

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So I was NOT going to stay up late to finish this story. I had intended to do it early this morning. But then...life got in the way. And here I sit at 11:30 pounding out the tale, so I can submit it for Wicked Wednesday (the prompt was to explain how/why a flight attendant might be sipping champagne in first class). I didn't think I'd have a thing to contribute for this one, but as it turns out, I became quite entranced with my characters and couldn't give up until I finished. So, for what it's worth, I got it done, with 36 minutes to spare before the deadline.

Hope you enjoyed it...I'm headed of to bed now. Exhausted but pleased with myself. Just sayin'.

An Open Window

(Image and prompt source: advizortoall.blogspot.com)

Key Words:  Late, Eager, 
Word Limit:  250 (there's not much time)
Forbidden Words:   Anticipation, Wet, Hurry!

It's Flash Fiction Friday, folks! Let's see where this one takes us. My writing process with prompts is really just to start writing and follow the lead of the words. I often am just as surprised by the outcome as anyone.

An Open Window

He slid out of bed and padded, naked, into the bathroom. She climbed out after him, pulling on a fresh pair of panties.

She could hear the bathroom fan and the shower running, which was her cue for a little secret morning“self-love.” Shimmying eagerly onto the bed, she grabbed her vibrator quickly from the drawer, pulled the already damp crotch of her panties to one side, slipped it in, and turned it on slowly. Her legs, spread wide, fell open to the warm light of late morning that shone in from the large picture window.

The subtle vibration increased as she turned the dial a bit more. She sucked her lip and moaned quietly to herself, her head tipping back to expose her neck, her back arching as she reached a quick and relaxing climax, a nice release before the beginning of a busy day.

She let the vibration continue for a bit, as the warmth washed under her skin down to her toes and up to her cheeks. She would look freshly fucked over coffee, and he would probably know her little secret, but would say nothing.

She opened her eyes and let her gaze wander to the side window, but instead of endless blue sky, the shape of a man filled her view. She gasped, but then recognition brought a sigh of relief and an impish eye-roll.

Jumping out of bed in nothing but her little blue panties, she opened the window and leaned out just in time to catch the towel-clad backside of her husband running back around the fire escape to the bathroom window.

(sorry...269 words...just plain couldn't cut any more)

YKINMKBTOK

"Your kink is not my kink, but that's okay"... (Wicked Wednesday Prompt)

There isn't a person on the planet who is wired the same way. Not even twins. We have our own thoughts, our own needs, our own fantasies. The things that turn us on, sometimes surprise even us (I know, I've been there...like - "what the hell? he's got his hand around my neck, holding me down, and...wait! he's sort of choking me here! oh, holy hell...I like that...why the fuck do I like that? this is twisted..."). So, we know the internal sex lives of some other people could quite possibly shock the hell out of us (or not, depending on your experience level and your own kinky interests). 

Personally, I have no problem with anyone's kink. Even the more hard core kink is fine, as long as everyone involved is of age and consenting. And quite honestly, no one should be made to feel "unacceptable" or " weird" because they have "off-the-beaten-path" sexual desires (though it goes the other way, too. I've read plenty of blog posts condemning "vanilla sex" as being boring or "unevolved"...even "unnatural").

But, where the whole YKINMK becomes possibly NOK (not okay) is when we're talking about a committed couple. What happens when his kinks don't match hers and one person in the relationship isn't willing to fulfill the other's kinky needs? Oh, sure, it's easy to say we should be honest with each other up front before a commitment, but I don't know too many people who divulge their entire kinky self before marriage. It can take years to admit one's desires, especially if the person feels those desires might be "strange" or "off-putting". Not to mention that many of us develop as sexual beings over time and our desires and sexual interests change. That, of course, complicates things further in a long-term relationship. 

From experience, I know it's hard to go back once you've headed down any particular path, especially if you head down that path with someone and they like something you don't (been there, done that, too). It's not easy to say to the one you love, "Hey, I realize you really like <insert kinky activity here>, but I've tried it and it isn't my bag." Your loved one's disappointment might be palpable. And it will certainly hang around in your own head for some time ("I wonder if he'll be happy without <insert kinky activity here>?" or "Will she be satisfied now that she knows what she'll be missing?" "Is it fair for me to keep him/her from accessing this particular type of kink?").

Kink is one thing, but shared kink is fully another beast. Since all people change over time, it is almost unavoidable that at some point two people are NOT going to want the same thing. A couple has a few choices at this point...accept one path and follow it (without judgement or disappointment - which can be difficult and/or impossible depending on the people involved), allow both people to follow their own path separately but continue the relationship (difficult even in the most "open" relationships), agree to compromise somehow (also not necessarily easy), or ignore it and let the resentment take over.

It's easy to say YKINMKBTOK...unless you're married or committed. Because while his kink might not be my kink...I cannot disregard it, ignore it, belittle it, or force myself to share it. Somehow, I have to learn how to cohabitate (is that a word?) with it, knowing that it lives within him and wants to come out to play on occasion. 

Likewise, I have to admit MKIMKATOK (my kink is my kink and that's okay). I think my husband is kinkier than me...actually, I know that for a fact. Mostly, he's more sexual than I am (I think I may well be more "sensual"). He's more open sexually...more accepting of his own kinks and others', as well. Oddly enough, since I'm the one who writes about it, he's just plain more into sex than I am. He looks at porn. He thinks about and talks about and wants sex more often than I do. At one point, before children, we were matched pretty well in that. After kids, our desire levels and sexual interests began to head off in different directions. Basically, my sexual path became a grown- over foot trail that required a native tracker and a machete to navigate. So, I turned around and followed him down his wide-open highway of a path. It wasn't my path, but that didn't mean I couldn't enjoy the road-trip. Unfortunately, at some point, we pulled onto the Audubon and I couldn't handle the speed (getting off that SOB isn't easy, btw). He found the speed exhilarating. I found it terrifying...and still have PTSD. He wistfully reminisces about how much fun it could have been, though he'll accept the quiet country roads that I prefer, with the occasional "mudding" stint to liven things up.

It's a hard road to travel, when two people are in the vehicle and want completely different scenery. But there's always a compromise...when "your kink" meets "my kink (or lack thereof)" and becomes "our particular brand of what works...for the most part". I guess that's what a partnership is all about, right?

The Wrong God

FFF: 5 verses of 4 lines each
Photo and prompt provided by: http://advizortoall.blogspot.com/

The Wrong God

I kneel at the foot of my heart,
small and unable to move it -
even naked, I cannot make it feel
my old wicked temptation.

I pull at my hair, bite my own lips,
to feel the pain and taste the blood,
but despite the desperation
my skin and mind are numb.

I pray at the alter of my own desire
willing it to enter my body--
honey-slow and thick like cream--
my offerings continually inadequate.

I stand and turn to leave, head hung
low in fear and disappointment,
terrified I cannot coax to the surface
and understanding of my own devotion.

I look upward and inward, searching,
listening to the point of pain,
for any request I can fulfill,
suddenly realizing...I'm praying to the wrong god.

e-Lust #58...GIANT apology...self-flagellation to follow...

So, I submitted for e-Lust #58 and had my FFF story "Neverland" published. The rules state that I must post the entire edition within 7 days of publishing (which would be the 22nd of the month). It completely slipped my mind in all the craziness that is my life, but here it is (with my heartfelt apologies). You may now line up to punish me now.

__________________________________________xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

Photo courtesy of Pandora Blake

Welcome to Elust #58 -

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you're looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it'll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #59? Start with the rules, come back June 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Do NOT take my rapeplay fantasy away from me! Pulp Fiction “O” is for Outlaw No More

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Second Letter The Wake

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*

Why my breasts are sore today

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!  

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Orgasm Denial Games and Ideas What is “Normal,” Anyway? Abject Submission 3: Only the Gift Is All BDSM Sexual? #KinkySex A new Dom asked me for advice Let's Talk Sex Stigma What I want On Being Submissive Dildos in Wonderland - Fantasy Sex Toys

Sex News,Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

My sexual Assaults Risky Business What is feminist porn? Butt Plug Weekend (Humor) The Shaming of Slut Shaming Do Bisexuals Need To Be More Upfront? Why I Don't Support CatalystCon

Erotic Non-Fiction

The 'Good' Girl vs The Whore - Marriage Well Laid The sheer poetry of pegging a homophobe The Missouri Misery's Maiden Voyage On the Edge (Touch Your Cock for Me) Parking On A Dirt Road Masturbation: The Big Finish The four-day orgasm Dear lover

Writing About Writing

Imagining Disabled Characters in Erotica

Poetry

Simple Needs - a Lusty Limerick

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

On Happiness and Risk Sex addiction - a primer More Than Bend Over Boyfriend Toys

Erotic Fiction

Neverland X marks the spot Chain Links and the Rail Marshall The Devil and the Golden Ring A lonely day in Paradise Mine Is Bigger Than Yours Rub It Harder Face Splash – Part 1 Stray Kat Sneaky Sexy Snippet of A Work in Progress

Blogging

56 posts later ...

Pre-marital Sex? (FFF)

“Anika!”

She heard the shrill request for her presence slice through the silence of her room.

“Not now, Mom!”

She put her head in her hands, feeling the taffeta of the communion veil sift forward with her hair, grazing her bare shoulders. It wasn’t the same as the one she would be asked to wear, the stiff white cotton of a nun’s habit, but it would do.

photo provided by http://advizortoall.blogspot.com/

She felt so close to God, to the point that she could feel him humming through her whole body. It scared her, because she’d felt that desire before. With a man. God wasn’t a man, but his presence was safe, protective, commanding, and all-encompassing. And the thought of him filled her with want.

Her hand, palpably bare and eager for the ring that would signify her marriage to God, moved across her thigh, as she lay back on the white comforter of her bed. She spread her legs wide to the ceiling, opening herself up to the sky.

Her head rolled back and she licked her lips with a little moan. Removing her hand, raising both arms above her head, she lay exposed, knees up, legs splayed, and willed his energy to enter her, to take her. Her lithe, young body writhed, her breath caught, and she grabbed the sheets, the pillow. 

Without touching herself, she felt her skin become electric, her nipples and sex nearly vibrating on their own. Shuddering, she gave herself to the moment, back arching in ecstasy, and felt the orgasm rush over her body like warm water, flushing her cheeks pink.

(Just want to point out...I made EXACTLY 275 words, avoided the word "wedding", and DID NOT take the obvious route - I don't think.)

The Impotence of My Voice

There once was a chance which I did not take,
but take from me - it did - and deep enough
to fill my soul's ravine with longing ache
and guilt to rival that of cheated love.
Your wishful hands brushed my skin to glowing,
a fresh and growing heat below, blushed rose
the flesh of my cheeks -- my eager breath flowing --
this timid mind unwilling to expose
its deepest need. Biting my own taut lips,
choking on the impotence of my voice,
I imagine you, hard against my hips,
my words rising up, a willing, free choice.
  Instead, I held my desire close to me,
  robbing us both of its reticent beauty.

You know...I face the blank page (or screen) almost daily when I'm on a good writing streak. My mind doesn't close. I bite my lip in consternation and concentration. My forehead wrinkles with focus, and my eyes raise to the ceiling or look down in various patterns searching for the right words.

But, when another person is set before me, my throat closes up as if I were having an allergic reaction to my own thoughts, the words held down like dangerous bile that might set my tongue on fire.

Why, oh, why can't I say what is in my head? When it comes it me? When the right person is there to hear it and wants to hear it and needs to hear it? When the words are tight around the tip of my tongue, begging to escape...to hear themselves out loud.

So often, I can see it in his face, the need to hear me say something as simple as "I want you" or "I want you to fuck me." I know he wishes I would tell him my darkest pleasures, and speak of them openly..."I like it when you smack my ass...," "I like it when you bend me over and drip the cold, slippery lube onto my asshole...the anticipation...the surprise...the directness...it turns me on and I open up like a flower to the morning sun, taking you in slowly and hungrily...."

Why can I write that...but when he looks at me and asks me to tell him what I want, I glance away nervously and say, "I don't know..."?

He loves me more than any man on the planet and accepts me for who I am -- occasional instability, insecurity, and incessant imperfections included. And I can't even open my mouth. It's a special kind of impotence. Ironic even...that my fingers can fashion what my mind wants to say, but my lips can't form the words.

So many times, I've said nothing, when my mind was swimming. So many times, I've said nothing, when his gaze was unwavering. So many times, I've simply walked away, or rolled over in the darkness to the safety of silence, disappointed in my own inability to speak.

Neverland

Flash Fiction Friday - Photo Prompt - "The End"

"Tomorrow," she said, between the space in her front teeth.

"You've been saying that for weeks now." His eyes, normally blue, shone like black pools ready to consume her inadequacy.

"I know."  She looked away, holding his gaze in her periphery. She filled the role of cornered cat like a pro, brooding and sighing and licking her lips in discomfort.

"How long are you expecting me to wait for you to figure it out?"

"I don't know."

"Full of fucking answers, aren't you?"

She began to tap her fingers nervously on her bare thigh, noticing how her sweaty palm stuck to her skin.

The sand was beginning to grind painfully into her naked backside, and she could feel the granules, hot and intrusive, making their way into places where he hadn't been for weeks.

"This was a stupid idea."

"You have a better one?" He glared at her.

"Seriously, I don't see how not wearing clothes is going to make it easier to talk."

"The idea is supposed to be that it gives us nothing else to focus on but each other."

"Yeah...well...it's not working...or maybe it's working too well. Either way, we aren't getting anywhere with this."

"So, fuck it, then. Put your fucking clothes back on if you want and walk back the way you came...alone. I'm done fucking talking."

It came out more sharp than she intended, "So am I." She lifted her sand-covered hands, slid them together, and watched the grains drop like rain across her feet. Looking over at him, she found it oddly disturbing how her shadow hovered above him. If one were to gauge their activity by only that view, it would appear that his head was falling back in ecstasy rather than resignation. It was hard to look away...as the gray profile of her face defied her, moving up the inside of his thigh.

She glanced up, guiltily, to reassure herself that he wasn't seeing what she felt sure was impossible to not to notice. His throat was exposed to the sun, his Adam's apple bulging periodically with each swallow.

In the silence, as he refused to look at her, she indulged in her secret reverie, remembering what it was like to trace her tongue along the underside of his cock.

She closed her eyes and rose to her feet, brushing the sand from the backs of her legs, rubbing at the hundreds of tiny indents left behind.

Walking behind him, she bent to retrieve her sundress, lifted it over her head, and slipped it on slowly, her eyes wandering sadly back to him, sitting on the ground beside her.

As her gaze traveled back to her own feet, up her calves, and above her knees, she noticed how their shadows had shifted, his inky double now squarely between her thighs.

She found it sadly amusing that the most abstract parts of them were the only ones that wouldn't let go...the only parts that seemed to know just where they belonged.

She felt like Peter Pan, leaving her shadow behind to be with his.

Gathering her sandals in one hand, she pushed her hair out of her face with the other before collecting her bag and swinging it over her red shoulder. They'd been sitting in the sun for too long, saying nothing and going nowhere.

The dark version of herself spread out behind her, stretching, refusing to leave. It's only option was to fade...and disappear.

Borrowed Bodies

Okay...I wasn't planning on doing a second post today...but I made the (good?) mistake of checking out the FFF prompt (compliments of Thomas at Three Spelling Mistakes). It guess it isn't really a story, but this is what came out in response to the photo and the 200 word limit (required word "borrowed" and forbidden word "forever").

Borrowed Bodies

Our bodies are borrowed from ourselves and each other. We use them to ingest the world, tasting lovers with hungry mouths, touching them with greedy hands. Some are more interested in devouring skin, while others would rather lie back and be taken, like ripe fruit from a basket on the kitchen counter. That is my preference. To be blind-folded and mastered by a benevolent chef...a man who knows how to present me to the world, how to hold me on his tongue, how to pair me with a fine chianti, its red rivulets singeing a path between my breasts.

You kiss my stinging lips, sore from stretching around your cock...the kind of kiss that says, “I will be here, watching -- you are mine...always.” The kind of kiss that says, “Say nothing.”

I feel a second set of unsatiated hands in my hair, gripping with want. A searching tongue slips between my lips, exploring and preparing for conquest. I can feel the vibration of his need, an inability to contain what is within. Unlike you, he does not know what will become of him. There is a hidden vulnerability. And I crave it between my teeth like a cat does a mouse.