Tag Archives: flash fiction

Delphine

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Delphine is having a clear out. It’s been three months since her husband left and she’s ready for a fresh start.

She has already filled two bin liners with clothes, dithered over whether to keep her wedding photos (not the professional ones, they cost too much to bin, but the ones the guests took – Delphine and her husband had left disposable cameras on every table. The idea had seemed cute at the time), and got rid of all the novels her mother-in-law bought her as gifts. She’s never read a single one.

She moves on to the cupboard under the TV. There are so many DVDs, so many board games – so many things to not have in common with someone. Perhaps it’s no surprise it didn’t work out.

Behind all the DVDs and games though is a box she’d almost forgotten about. A box full of VHS tapes – of home video footage. But this is not footage of weddings, christenings or birthday parties, this is recordings from the bedroom in the first year of marital bliss. It seems incredible that the man she could no longer bear to lay beside, let alone have inside her, was the same man who let her film all these tapes with a second-hand video camera, but somehow that’s the truth. For the first year of their marriage they made the tapes, in the second year they watched them together, and in the third year Delphine watched them alone. Since then, they’ve been forgotten – the thick layer of dust that coats them is testimony to that.

Watching them now is not an option. She no longer has a VHS player, and even if she could find one, on Gumtree or somewhere, she can’t imagine her therapist having anything good to say about her filling her time watching sex tapes of her ex.

And yet. The thought of the videos alone has made her wet. She slicks her fingers between her folds, finds herself drenched. An idea comes, just before she does. Perhaps she doesn’t need to watch them. Perhaps she could just…

She fetches a piece of A4 paper and a Sharpie. In big letters she writes ‘Free to a good home.’ She carries the box downstairs, leaves it next to the bins.

And then she waits.

Fond memories (attempting Smut Marathon 2019 Round 3)

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As another of the judges has pointed out, the dialogue round came a lot earlier in this year’s Smut Marathon, and I think was harder has a result. So, because I like a challenge, and I also had FOMO, I had a go. This is the result. I don’t think it’s particularly sexy/smutty, but I don’t mind it as a piece of writing. I’d be interested to know what other people think, so please feel free to comment.

Fond memories

They’re in a pub they never came to together. She gets her phone out.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ he says. ‘I trust you.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘We agreed we wouldn’t fight, remember?’

‘I don’t remember agreeing to anything of the sort.’

‘And I don’t remember asking you to do this.’

‘This is what normal people do when they break up, Finn. It would be weird to keep them.’

‘Nothing wrong with weird.’

‘Look, just watch me delete them, and then I’ll go. Let’s not make it a big deal.’

‘If you could only keep one, which would it be?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I don’t want to keep any of them.’

‘Not even…’ he takes her phone, scrolls. ‘Not even this one?’

‘Why are you doing this?’

‘Because I don’t believe in destroying fond memories.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Finn, it’s a bit of a stretch to call a photo of your dick a fond memory, don’t you think?’

‘No.’

She deletes the photo right in front of him. He gets up, leaves.

Her phone beeps. It’s him. Or rather, him. Button-fly jeans, favourite T–shirt, rock hard cock.

‘Sure you don’t want this?’

No.

Caroline

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Caroline likes to make gifts. Sometimes it’s chocolates, sometimes biscuits, occasionally a bottle of sloe gin, but more often than not, it’s pickles.

Her boss, Andy, loves nothing more this a burger, medium rare, with a couple of beers on the side, and although he doesn’t know it yet, Caroline loves Andy so, for his birthday, she has big plans.

She’s found a recipe online. It’s simple – just sugar and vinegar, mainly, but Caroline likes to put her own special touch on stuff – it’s why she took calligraphy classes, so she could make immaculately neat labels.

But for Andy, her plan for personalisation is different. Truth be told, he probably won’t even notice it. She’s certainly not planning to reference it on the list of ingredients.

Normally, she has her groceries delivered, but for Andy, she goes to the supermarket. She chooses carefully – she wants something that’s a good size, sure, but this is for Andy, not for her, so the colour, the firmness, the freshness – all of these things are more important than the length, or even the girth.

She thinks about Andy while she fucks herself with it – thinks about his big hands wrapped around a nice, juicy burger, or clutching a bottle of beer. She comes in just a few minutes, but that’s in keeping with the quick and easy part of the recipe, she supposes.

Then she chops it, douses it with the vinegar and sugar and gets to work decorating the jar.

Pickled cu-cum-bers, she notices, as she carefully spells it out. She’s never spotted that before, but from now on she’ll never see that word any other way.

Bonnie

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Bonnie likes to flirt with other people’s boyfriends. It’s just another boundary she likes to overstep, the same way she could never stick to her curfew or hand in her homework on time.

She always did the homework – eventually – and she never stayed out all night. She just wanted to see how far she could push things. And the same is true with guys. She doesn’t need to fuck them to fuck with them – she can do it with just words.

First, she befriends them, makes it clear that she understands they’re not single, that sex isn’t on the cards. She goes drinking with them, buys the beers, wins at pool, darts, mini golf. Then gradually, she stops hanging out with them. Instead, she stays home and sends message after message after message.

No sexy talk.

No nudes.

Perhaps the odd ‘x’.

And just enough messages to know that whoever picks the phone up first will never have quite the same confidence in their relationship again.

Amelia

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Amelia is content. It’s been a long time since she felt that way, a long time since she’s been free of the urge to do something – anything – to jeopardise her own happiness.

She’s good at jeopardising her own happiness. She’s always been best at working independently – never was a team player – and this is no different. She doesn’t need to kiss other boys or fuck around on Tinder to throw a perfectly solid relationship into disarray: all she has to do is retreat into her own head.

With Will, she hasn’t had the urge to do that and it makes her feel … good? Does she trust him more because he’s less attractive than other guys she’s been with? Because he’s older? Or because he wears baggy Y-fronts that have gone grey in the wash?

Yeah. One way or the other, he makes her feel safe.

She can hear him now, upstairs in the shower. He’s singing something she can’t quite make out, although listening more carefully, she decides it might be Lana del Rey.

Adorable.

On the table beside the sofa, last weekend’s newspapers – and the ones from the week before – are still piled high. She reaches across to extract one of the glossy supplements, but then she realises that his phone is sitting atop the stack. It would be just like her to send it accidentally crashing to the floor and then have to explain to Will that the cracked screen was the result of her clumsiness, not a fit of jealousy at seeing a message from another woman.

Except. When she picks up the phone to move it, it’s not a message from another woman she sees, but messages. Plural. Ten, at least. Maybe even a dozen.

All from Bonnie.

Whoever Bonnie is, she thinks, she’s verbose as fuck.

Hey, where’s my conflict? – on writing solo sex

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IMG_9294

It’s a truth universally acknowledged (or it should be), that the things that other people like best are not always the pieces you loved writing.

Little Silver Bullet came from nowhere, and not, all at the same time. Since the Smut Marathon Round 4 assignment (‘One character. One sex toy. No brand names.’) was announced, I’d been percolating a different piece. Not a different toy, I should say – in real life, toys are one of the few areas where I put efficiency and function way ahead of brand – and I’ve been repurchasing this pretty much since I turned eighteen (no, they don’t stock it anymore and yes, I’m worried).

The story I planned to write – the story that, until I decided to write this post instead and until Little Silver Bullet did so well I don’t want to betray it by writing an alternative and asking which people prefer – also featured a bullet vibe. But I’d envisaged an office Christmas party, a solo woman working with a team of extremely sexist and corporate salesmen, and a Secret Santa gift designed to undermine her. I’d pictured her slipping off to the loo in a city bar, and getting off as she pictured them fucking her one by one. The t story would have come straight from my fantasies, but LSB? LSB came straight from my *heart*.

The unnamed protagonist could be me. It is fiction, but I’ve been there, many times. And I think lots of women have. I think that’s why it resonated. It’s not a clever story, it’s just an honest one.

Clever is one way to stand out in something like the Smut Marathon, but writing clever can be exhausting (although that said, the clever entries in this round blew my mind). You can spend so much time trying to think of the alternative angle that you forget to write something that’s true to you. And – I know it’s my bugbear – clever should never override story, in my opinion.

Although I’d written and submitted this piece by the time I attended it, this round made me think a lot about a writing workshop I went to recently, a workshop which I tweeted a bit about but never finished my thoughts on, hence this post.

The theme of the workshop was generating new story ideas and, at the start of the session, we were asked to write down the following things:

  • three names for fictional characters
  • three names of places (geographical places or places in e.g. the home)
  • three objects.

We then had to cross out one of the character names, one of the place names and choose one of the objects and then do twenty minutes free writing with the five words we had left. And … it works. It makes you write.

Afterwards, the instructor explained why it works. It works because all good writing needs conflict (much easier when you have more than one character) and progression (moving from one place to another guarantees physical progression at least). The object is intended to embody whatever the theme of your writing is, although I’d be inclined to say that that’s a optional extra and depends how much you like symbolism in your work.

The Smut Marathon assignment only technically allowed for one character, which makes  creating conflict REALLY FUCKING HARD. I, along with many others, decided to interpret this as meaning you could only have one character in the room, participating in the actual masturbation scene, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t mention people who were in your character’s thoughts/fantasies – as it turned out, everything I voted for took this approach.

Lots of the feedback I’ve seen on this round suggested that readers were disappointed that more of us didn’t pick more ‘out there’/unusual toys. I’m happy to admit that I think most, if not all, of the stories that did take this approach were really creative, but I still don’t think it was the only way to do a good job in this round. Think about the sex writing you’ve loved most – it doesn’t follow that you’ll always like anal scenes more than missionary because the former is technically more exciting.

It’s the human in the scene that matters, not the silicone.

 

Katy

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I’m doing an online writing course at the moment – as ‘real me’ – and this week, for homework, we had to write up to 800 words taking a stereotype and portraying it in a complex way. I only wrote 500 words for that homework piece, but tonight I’ve been working on it some more, because sure, I only dreamt Katy up for the Smut Marathon, but you know what, since then I’ve kind of fallen in love. So here she is again, fleshed out a bit more…

***

There is nowhere in the living room for anyone to put down their cup of tea. Every surface is covered with cards – Congratulations! Good luck!, A New Baby Girl! – or flowers – big pink lilies, ripe with pollen, roses still in bud and the first tulips of the year. There’s a fancy cake from the local independent bakery and champagne for those who want it. Katy has half a glass, but no more – that way she knows it will have worn off by the time her daughter is ready for her next feed. Sarah teases her for this – Katy could always put away a bottle of fizz, two even, on a particularly good night – but really, no one is surprised. Katy adapts. At parties, she’s a party animal. At work? Professional as fuck. And in the bedroom? Filthy. Her friends know that because she tells them, and they have no reason to doubt her. She’s honest about who she is in every other area of her life, so why would she lie about how much she likes sex?

She’ll be good at motherhood, obviously. The cards might say good luck, but ultimately, her friends know she doesn’t need it. Everything Katy touches to gold. She graduated from Cambridge with a first-class maths degree, a place on a hugely desirable grad scheme and a boyfriend who not only equalled her in ambition, but also adored her. Plus, somehow, alongside her drive to succeed, she’s always made the time to have fun. Lots of fun. And now, after a straightforward eight-hour labour, she’s the mother of a baby girl. A baby girl who, at barely a week old, already sleeps through the night. A baby girl who is just as beautiful as Katy herself.

But on some level, her friends can’t quite believe it. She never seemed to have the kind of sex that would make babies, is what everyone is secretly thinking. Katy used to fuck so hard she’d make the walls shake in their university halls. She was a shrieker, never afraid to let people know what a good time she was having, and when she needed to pee after sex she’d walk to the loo stark naked. Girls were afraid to invite their high school boyfriends to stay for fear that, if they turned their back for one moment, they’d disappear, only to turn up in Katy’s bed, apologetic, sure, but ultimately unrepentant. And yet, other women didn’t dislike her for the way she behaved. Katy didn’t care what anybody thought and they loved her for it.

No one expected her to be settled by twenty-six, though. It’s been the topic of everyone’s group chats for months. How has she managed to have everything so sorted so soon in her life? Where were Katy’s fucked up years? How has she managed to bypass a whole shitty decade while everyone else still feels like they’re wading through treacle, barely able to feed themselves, let alone a kid? Because sure, Tom’s a nice guy, and he’s good-looking, too, but it seems like only last week that he and Katy got caught fucking in the jacuzzi at the hotel where her parents’ 50thwedding anniversary celebrations were being held. It was her cousin that stumbled in on them – her cousin who was sworn to secrecy but still ended up sharing everything on Facebook in the end. Even Katy’s mum found out. And yet, somehow, she got away with it.

Because Katy sails close to the wind, sure, but luck is always, always on her side.

Three months later

Her friends still love her because, when she’s with them, she doesn’t seem like a mother at all. Even when she brings the baby, she’s the Katy she always was. It’s just that now her tits are on show for a different reason.

Tonight, she’s childfree. Tonight, she’s late. Tonight, she has that just-fucked look in her eyes.

Tom follows her, clutching a bottle of red. He’s wearing jeans, a checked shirt, and, as of thirty minutes earlier, Katy’s juices, smeared from jaw to collarbone.

‘Filthy boy,’ she’d said, fingers on his neck as she lifted herself off his cock. ‘Filthy, filthy boy.’

At dinner, the wine flows. The laughter grows louder, the conversation sillier. They play ‘I have never,’ and Katy has done it all. Anal sex? Obviously. Threesome? That too.

During spin the bottle she winds up kissing Mike. Mike is her best friend’s husband. Nobody minds. Kissing boys is what Katy does.

The evening winds down. They drink coffee. Someone asks, ‘Bit dark, but if you could only save one thing in a fire, what would it be?’

‘Tom,’ Katy says, when it’s her turn to answer. ‘Obviously.’

Her friends are silent.

She doesn’t seem like a mother at all.

Smut Marathon Round 2

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As those of you who follow me on Twitter will have seen, I’m having issues with the Smut Marathon today – it’s causing me levels of anxiety that even I didn’t foresee and I’m having a long think about whether carrying on is the right thing to do (it probably isn’t, which means I almost certainly will – being kind to myself is something I am *not* good at.)

Anyway. I wrote two possible entries for Round 2, and I was really pleased with the one I submitted (and it got positive feedback, which backs that up, and is always nice). I’m not going to lie though, I was disappointed with how it did overall.

So, here is both it, and the other piece I wrote. Which do you prefer? Should I have submitted the other piece?

Little Pyromaniac

‘Stop it.’

The restaurant is fancy and my behaviour is inappropriate, but I can’t help myself. I poke at the candle, watch as molten lava flows down its sides.

‘Little pyromaniac,’ he growls. ‘What did I tell you?’

I like to play with fire.

I break off bits that are newly solid, let the orange heat lick at them until they are liquid once again.

Suddenly, my game backfires. The candle splutters, dies.

‘Right,’ he says, ‘come with me.’

Outside, around a corner, we find ourselves hidden in the shadows. His lips meet mine. His hand closes around my throat.

My body melts under his touch. He is the flame, I am the wax, I am fluid beneath him, I drip, drip, drip as he burns me with his desire.

At Peace

She’d taken two week’s leave from work, though the doctor had offered a note. It was easier like this: no questions, no sympathetic smiles, no loss of the person she’d once been.

With him, it had been harder. ‘Talk to me,’ he’d murmured, more than once, and she’d tried to smile through her tears.

‘It’s best if I work through this on my own.’

She booked a cabin, not far from Inverness. For five long days, she read, ate and slept alone.

By Friday, she knew it was no good. She needed help. She changed her flight.

That night, his flogger painted her cunt into a sunset, glowing between the mountain-purple shadows of her thighs.

Sharing by @Kris_Gallagher

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The below is an entry for #FreshlyPolished by @Kris_Gallagher.

Sharing

It had long been on her list of desires, and they’d talked about it from time to time over the years but never acted on it for one reason or another. That year he decided it was definitely going on the agenda,they were getting more experimental in their sex sessions,and the time was ripe to add another woman to their bed.

Finding a suitable guest for the encounter was tricky,as was finding the right time for it to take place. Fortunately aesthetics weren’t an issue as they had always shared a similar taste in women. As varied as those tastes were,there had always been some overlap. It took a few attempts, one or two casual meetings that lacked chemistry before they found the willing guest to invite into their bedroom antics. An ad on an adult orientated site had led to them meeting, but until she saw their guest playing with her blonde hair and smiling across the table of the coffee house they had met at, R hadn’t been sure about the whole idea moving from fantasy into reality. Now she felt a grin tugging on her own lips,thinking about the fun that lay ahead. Even as she kissed her goodbye, R felt a thrill from feeling a nipple piercing pressing against her,and unexpected bonus to proceedings. Arrangements made, they two ladies parted ways for the time being.

The night of the encounter arrived,and he had glasses of imported bubbly poured for the ladies, a bourbon old fashioned for himself whilst R was in the shower. The bedroom was set but he felt the need to sit and relax before sharing the woman he adored. Open minded though he was,sometimes jealousy could kick in unexpectedly. He and R had already discussed limits with N, going over certain ground rules to try to keep everyone at ease. . He heard R finish up in the shower,and grinned as he saw her exiting the bathroom in a sheer white nightgown that he always loved seeing her in. He had just handed her a glass when the buzzer went,announcing the arrival of their guest for the evening.

R made herself comfortable whilst He buzzed N up,unlocking the door to greet her. A welcoming hug and a quick kiss on the cheek were enough to hide his sudden onset of shyness. N made her way to the sofa beside R and leaned in for a far more adventurous kiss as N undid the ties of her overcoat. Whatever was on display clearly worked for R as she grinned,pulling N closer as she did so. Finding himself somewhat surplus to current requirements, He made himself at ease on the other sofa and settled back to enjoy the view of the woman he adored worshipping another woman. The glass cradled in his hand was enough of a distraction to settle his nerves as R kissed the throat of their guest before slowly making her way downwards. A glint of colour between his lover’s thighs caught his eye in the dim candlelight. Being the tease that she was,she was wearing her jewelled plug and had painted her nails to match. K leaned forward on the sofa to get a better view as her fingers tapped against the plug and her waiting cunt. He watched eagerly as she slid her fingertip along her vulva,almost beckoning him closer before wagging her finger to tell him “No,not yet” as N ran her fingers through his lover’s hair,leaving him to watch on the sidelines,sipping on his bourbon and trying to ignore the growing stiffness in his jeans.

K sat,watching impatiently,as R pushed the thighs of N wider apart. R was clearly revelling in the task at hand because K could see her fingers slick with her juices as they worked at her vulva. Fucking hell did he love that sight. It wasn’t long before K found himself reaching for a condom to slip on and join the ladies as they moved from the sofa to the bedroom…

K’s memories of the following hours were a tangle of limbs and snapshots of the action unfolding,his clearest memory being that of fucking R in her throat as her head hung off the side of the bed whilst N was sucking on her clit. He was happy to let the ladies dictate the pace,this was R’s evening and he was more than satisfied watching it unfold to her pleasure

After their guest had left,he crawled back into bed,nestling behind her naked curves,his body fitting perfectly as it always had. His hand found hers as he kissed her neck,a grin on his lips as he slid back into her. Some things were just too good to share…

Cute as a button by @IAmAnnaSky

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The below is an entry for #FreshlyPolished by @IAmAnnaSky.

Cute as a Button

The touch of her hand as she brushed mine made me look, but I dismissed any ideas as soon as I glanced up. The waitress was cute and contemporary, suited to the hipster coffee shop but not my type. But the prolonged contact between us, before she pulled away, intrigued me.

I reached out to catch her wrist and felt the flutter of her pulse against my fingers. She relaxed into my grip, seemed to welcome it. When I searched her face, her eyes told me a different story from the colourful, carnival veneer of ink on her forearms.

A look of relief flashed across her face when she recognised the facade of tattoos and piercings didn’t fool me. I knew she wasn’t invinvible. Her eyes told me she was vulnerable, wanted someone to love her, protect her, but make her feel alive. In that brief moment as our eyes connected, I wanted her. It made me feel something I’d not felt for a long time. An aching hunger in me rose.

I scribbled my number on the back of the receipt, left a tip and left, thinking I should forget her. But she stayed in my head. And later on, when my phone showed an unknown number calling, my hand shook as I answered. My hands never shake but somehow, this time they did. It was her.

She came over that night and allowed me to worship her. I laid her on my bed, tied her wrists and moved my mouth over every inch of her body. She moaned and writhed beneath me. And I kissed and sucked every inch of her, from her shoulders to her soft belly, to her sensitive inner thighs. I massaged her calves and insteps, feeling her unwind beneath my hands.

I kneaded her shoulder and her breasts. Pinched her nipples and watched the bursts of hurt transform into pleasure. Raking my nails up and down, I left angry red marks and then soothed them better. Pleasure. Pain. Pleasure. Pain. Until they were one and the same in her head.

And when she couldn’t bear any more, I lowered my mouth to her cunt, pinching and massaging her labia to hold her open as I tasted her over and over. I found her sweet spot and when she shuddered with need, I slipped two fingers inside her. All the while, moving my tongue in tight little circles over her swollen clit.

When I curved my fingers upwards, stroking in that come-hither motion, she came so hard. She contracted in desperate, squeezing motions around my fingers. I kept my mouth on her, my fingers steady, the aftershocks carrying her to somewhere else. A total release. And when she was fully sated, I held onto her, whispering I would keep her safe.

I wanted to make her feel safe; I really wanted her to stay. I felt alive, invincible. Something I’d not experienced in a long, long time. She’d awoken a need in me, one that I thought was long-buried. All I could do was hope.