Demandez. It was the buzzword of their relationship at the start.

Ask me. Tell me. No, *beg* me. Say please.

It would help, perhaps, if it wasn’t written on the mirror. That’s how he thinks of the food now as a reflection of him – every roast chicken, every perfect patisserie, every carefully reduced sauce – it’s a slice of him on a plate. 

A slice taken out of their relationship.

Once upon a time, he’d had time for her. Had left the kitchen in fact, that night they met, to ask what she thought of the food. At least, that was what he started by asking. He finished by writing his number on a napkin. 

Napkins are disposable. 

Now, he doesn’t ask her anything, and she doesn’t ask him, either. Not the coupley stuff, like ‘What do you want for dinner?’ (He brings leftovers from the restaurant), nor the ‘Where do you want my cock?’ or the ‘Shall I come in your cunt, or your mouth?’ Where she wants his cock is in the long, stolen afternoons they used to share, not the post-midnight hours they’re confined to now, once he’s showered off the scents of his true love – the garlic, the chilli, the oil from the deep fat fryer.

She might tell herself, one day, that she made a last ditch attempt to save it. She sat in the restaurant, at the table opposite the mirror, and she even dressed like a mistress – all black, red nails, lots of cleavage. 

He stays in the kitchen. 

At six, the first guests start to arrive. She gives up her table to a party of four, and heads home. She should leave a note, she thinks, somewhere where he’ll see it.

When he comes home, in the early hours, there’s a word on the mirror, in lipstick.

Adieu x

Postcard Flash #03: Tender is the Night

I finally stopped letting Fitzgerald intimidate me…



She finds a copy of ‘Tender is the Night’ in a second-hand bookstore a few weeks after they end it for good. It makes her cry all over again. It was his favourite, and even though she has bad school memories of ‘The Great Gatsby,’ she’d read it anyway. More than the book itself, she likes the trivia around it – the way it was rewritten after Fitzgerald’s death to make it more acceptable, more palatable. She sympathises with that – the inability to tell the exact truth about something because nobody else quite *gets* it. From the very start the best bits were a series of occasional moments that she revisited time and time again in her head – sucking his cock in a dark alleyway after their first date; the flowers he bought her two weeks in; the butt plug he gave her after six.

You couldn’t share those moments with other people – they always wanted the chronology, the forward momentum (not to mention that the words ‘butt plug’ made them wince.) They wanted a proposal, marriage, babies – something they could relate to their own experience. Theirs wasn’t a story you could sell, and almost everyone was glad when he left her. But months later she still revisited those memories – dipping in at will. Treating them more like poetry than a novel.

Postcard Flash #02: Music at night

Too late for Masturbation Monday this time, but here’s another piece of postcard flash.IMG_5242IMG_5243

She agreed that it was rude of the neighbours to hold a party on a stifling Wednesday night in summer when everyone was sleeping with their windows open. It made her giggle, though, the way the bass from the disco drowned out her cries when he fucked her leaning against the windowsill, her hands splayed on the tired paintwork and her skin revelling in the cool breeze from outside. 

He spun her round eventually and pushed her to her knees, not letting her suck his cock until he’d teased her with it, wiping her juices and his precome across her lips and cheeks. When he did let her swallow his length, it pushed it deep immediately, so the smeared juice on her chin mixed with her free flowing saliva. Tangled in her hair, his fingers grazed her sweat-slicked scalp. She was, quite literally, a hot mess. 

His breathing quickened and she knew he was close. Suddenly, he pulled his cock free and came *everywhere* – she was covered from her fringe to her tits. The music went on – louder, it seemed, now the two of them were sated. He got up, threw her dress at her and muttered ‘Back in a sec.’

When he returned, he was grinning. ‘We’re welcome to join the party.’

‘But I’m covered in…’

‘Dare you.’

And sticky and contented, they danced till dawn.

Postcard Flash #01: New Biology


I’m blogging more than I have in recent weeks, because I think writing breeds writing, and I miss it. I have a box of postcards depicting vintage Penguin book covers and I had no idea what to do with them – I’m not a big sender of old school mail. And then I remembered F Dot Leonora’s Sticky Note fiction, and wondered if I could do something similar. Pick a postcard at random and then write a piece of erotic flash inspired by the title on the card. By linking it to Kayla Lord’s great meme Masturbation Monday, I hope i’ll be inspired to do it on a fairly regular basis. This is my first attempt. I hope you enjoy.

Semen was to High School what strangers were to Primary: *the* thing to be afraid of. After all, you could get pregnant even if he didn’t come inside you. So at first she made the mistake of thinking she craved his come because it was transgressive, the same way she craved unknown sex in dark alleyways. The sex was good, even with condoms – he knew how to tilt her hips just so, and she came more easily than she ever had with anyone else. But her own wetness coating her skin afterwards wasn’t enough – she wanted to know what it would feel like mixed with his. ‘How long?’ she wondered. How long did you have to have been fucking before you could talk STD testing and alternative methods? He seemed to know what she wanted, asked if she’d like him to come in her mouth, on her tits, her face. And it was close to what she’d hoped, but not quite there. So she got tested, without telling him, went on the pill. When she told him, he had a surprise for her too: his own clean results. In the weeks that followed they fucked bareback time and again, and with the trace of him inside her, she learnt something new. Semen was indeed the source of new life – it made *her* feel alive.


More Masturbation Monday here…