Flash

Well, I missed the deadline for the Desdmona stiletto Flash contest. That really chaps my hide, because I had a decent little story for it--500 words, no more. I know that professional writers spend a lot of time both writing and marketing their writing, and sometimes I wonder at my level of dedication. I could complain that between a very demanding little one and a job and another little one and a husband and a home that I just don't have time, but I know the best writers make the time.

On the bright side, I still go to my writing group weekly, and I've finished one of two stories due to them so I know I can still write after the 80K or so I wrote in November/December. I don't think I'm a prolific writer, though. I don't churn out story idea after story idea--my writing is a forced struggle every time. I literally have to chain myself to the computer and get it done. I enjoy the product, I enjoy getting the stuff out of my head, but it isn't what I would call easy work. Still, I'm not a quitter, so I'm still plugging away.

For your reading pleasure (whomever you are :), I present my Desdmona non-entry (adult content):

"Removal"
by Amelia June

Sssnick.

That is the sound the knife makes as it leaves its sheath.

Now the voice against my ear, all hot breath and sharp whiskers on soft skin.

“This is what you get, lovely, for wearing those ‘fuck-me’ shoes. I’m gonna fuck you now, and those shoes are gonna stay on.”

He means the five inch stiletto heels, strapy black with my painted red toes showing through the French silk stockings. The arch in my foot accentuated to inhuman curve, the length of my leg enhanced and feminized. I suppose I do have it coming, after all.

Cold blade slides under silk, a slight pull away from my skin, and a swift slice all the way down to my foot in one long stroke. The stocking falls away, split down the middle like some bloated melon. He does the other stocking, and I felt the air rush over my thighs. I freeze, afraid. Aroused. Anticipating.

His stiletto, my stilettos. Weapons of mass arousal.

“I’m gonna fuck you, lovely, gonna give you my cock.”

Zzzip.

That is the sound his cock makes as it leaves its sheath. It flops out of his denim pants, points at me accusingly. It blames the stilettos too.

Large hands paw at my backside. Silk dress bunches over my thighs and hips, exposing me. Gooseflesh raises the hair on my ass, rough hands become suddenly gentle as he caresses me. The shoes raise me to dick level, and the fat head nudges my opening. My own cock throbs plaintively.

“I’m gonna fuck you you fuckin’ fag, and there’s nothin’ you can do about it.” His voice sears my eardrum, his hands grip my hips in a vise. I have no escape. I want none.

At the last second before he enters me I feel the lube spill over my ass crack, even colder than the frigid air. One, two fingers push inside, then without warning his cock fills me. Grunts fill the air around my head. He fucks me, as promised. His cock is large. Familiar. Invasive.

I feel myself come on my thigh, where the stocking would have been. A drop of semen traces down, down, until it slides neatly under my arched foot. I slide forward, toes jammed into the base of the shoe.

He lets out a low moan, then unleashes his own stream of semen on my asshole. I shudder, then sigh. I am satisfied.

A wad of twenties finds a home in my bra.

“Same time next week, lovely. Bring the shoes. They suit you.”