Flash Fiction – Wild Fire

It was the kind of kiss that started wild fires. He took her hand and held it with his in her lap. He leaned across the console. “Every touch is a promise,” he said, and his voice was soft and deep and warmed her like aged whisky. His lips brushed her nose, and she closed her eyes and instinctively tilted her head. How did she know to do that? It was not only their first kiss…

“But you’re not allowed,” he said, and the tip of his tongue brushed the cupid’s bow of her lip. “To fall.”

 

December 2, 2016 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something or someone not allowed. Maybe it’s about gender, race or other intolerance. Maybe it’s the cat who paws at the door, but not allowed inside. Maybe it’s a trail where dogs are not allowed. Go light, go dark, go where the prompt leads you.

Observer

collage-34
Mindlovemisery’s Writing prompt #187

Upon awakening each morning she wondered who she would be. For this day, a gust of wind past a yawning window. Or something small and beautiful and dying, going nowhere at all.

She bathed and dressed in solitude, taking great care with an appearance that would go unacknowledged. Small tasks completed gave a sense of satisfaction while awaiting the arrival of the soul she would be today. How that arrival might color her view of the world, the one she sat in the shadows and quietly observed. In the blazing Technicolor of a fantasy dream-coat? Or bleak grays, inky blacks and washed out whites? In the sepia tones of memory? Or the pastel gossamer and silk of youth and hope?

Upon awakening each morning she felt the temporary flutter of her heartbeat and wondered how many she had left. She awaited the arrival of the soul to tell her how to feel about this one. Whether it was dark and sad or bright and lustful, she embraced each as the feeling of being alive, an observer of the life outside.

Friendship

This blog has been quite the experience. I know I’ve said it before, but I’ve been with WordPress for almost a decade. I’ve run four different blogs and the longest one I kept running for about eight years. It was under my actual name, and was a way to keep widespread friends and family informed. It served as a farm journal, a picture journal, a horse training journal, a cookbook, a public sketch pad and a year long Christmas letter for whoever wished to drop by.

Then I launched Felicity. Felicity was a way to shed the expectations of a small community, and a smaller family. I found myself needing to express thoughts and ideas that wouldn’t be acceptable to those who knew me. I know that may sound harsh, and you may be thinking, well those people love you, and will love you no matter  what, for who you are.

The real world doesn’t work that way. They may still love you, but in my case, I would no longer be acceptable to them, and I would need to be fixed. Changed. Remolded into that neat little Christian package so I could sit on the front pew with the rest of the preacher’s family.

Felicity happened because I was no longer able to squeeze myself into that rigid expectation. I felt myself bursting, needing to stretch and pull things out into the light for my own sake and no one else’s. And I have made some amazing discoveries on account of it.

Not only that, I have made some amazing friends. And today is a special day for one of them, my girl Kat. We’ve known one another for two years now, and we’ve been through some rough shit together. Kat is one of the first people (my DH aside, but he’s under contract 😉 ) who met me on my own ground, and accepted me for who I am, not who I was supposed to be. She has supported me, championed me, propped me up, mowed me down, and sent me pictures of really fucking big spiders (thanks a lot for that, sis 😉 )

Today is her birthday. And I wanted to publicly wish her a happy one, filled with all the best things life can give her. I hope all you folks will stop by her corner of wordpress and do the same.

Thank you, Kat, for being here for me. Happy birthday!

 

Hope

14

Linny also spoke of the dogs. We readied the bunker and I gave order they were to stay in it at night rather than the house, and for her to always lock the twins in if she had to leave them for any reason. She helped me with a patronizing air. I knew she was going through the motions, that she was humoring me because she knew I wouldn’t go otherwise. But I would. I did know. I couldn’t make her do anything. I couldn’t make her love me, or want me. I couldn’t make her stay when times were good. I couldn’t be with her any more than I could be with Anna. I couldn’t be with anyone, in any reality. I was no more alone now than I’d been then. Perhaps less, because there was Hope.

She spoke of them in passing, with a dismissive air.

“Don’t underestimate them,” I said.

“Jesus, Jim,” she sighed. “Everything with you.”

“You’ve been out here long enough to know what fear and hunger can do. Take conscience away and you have them.”

“So fucking dramatic.” She climbed out of the bunker and into the bright yard, taking my flashlight with her, leaving me in the dark. She stuck her head back in and called to me. “Next you’ll be saying to watch out for the rats. Or the cockroaches.”

I wondered how she could be so flip and unaware. How could she not know that these smallest of creatures would reclaim the planet? Who was to say the next species of intelligent life wouldn’t evolve from one or all of them?

Humankind was no longer running the show.


Previous                                                                                                                                                    Next

Novel

SoCS

 

It was a novel idea, that love thing. Pretty, all wrapped up in ribbons and candy hearts with saccharine messages stamped on them and roses on Valentine’s… those things proved it, he said. Of course I love you. I gave you Belgian chocolates at Christmas. And took you to see that crooner you like on your birthday.

I believed it. Believed those things made up the romantic notion. That was before you, though. You never sent me flowers, or chocolates, or took me out to dinner. Instead, you made me feel wanted, craved. Gave me a reason to get up in the morning. The most intense feelings came when you taught me about things, things that interested you, things that helped me. You brought out my best.

Novelty wasn’t what I needed. I needed something abiding. I needed more than that love thing, and that is what you gave me.

 

 

Thank you to Linda for a great prompt. Head over to SoCS to be inspired and for the participation rules!

Hope

13

The first time I saw the dogs we were what I estimated to be about three miles from the house. We were preparing for my departure by stockpiling as much as possible in the bunker. It wasn’t much, but hopefully enough to keep them alive until I returned.

I wasn’t sure of the shape at first. It was a distant spot on the horizon. Or it seemed distant; it looked like a dog, but small. First one, then two. They hadn’t seen us yet. But I lifted Hope onto my back anyway, her arms around my shoulders and legs around my waist. I hushed her humming. “Papa?” she whispered. I heard the fear in her voice.

“It’s okay, honey. Let’s just be quiet a while.”

Her arms hugged me and affection put a smile on my face. She needed me, my little girl.

We drew closer more quickly than I anticipated, and I realized they weren’t far at all. They were just very small. Lap-dog size. A chill chased the momentary relief. Here I was picturing Kujo, or snarling packs of powerful wolf-like animals. These were a ragged bunch of ankle-biters. I had the vague hope as I skirted them, that they were too domesticated to be organized. Bred to sit on cushions and eat out of cans, surely their pack behavior was long gone.

One lifted its tiny head and pinned us with bulging, tearing eyes. I kept my own forward and walked on. The dog went back to its sniffing and yipping, and we passed otherwise unnoticed. I counted half a dozen that time.

Once out of sight of them and certain they weren’t trailing us, I set Hope down. She walked slightly ahead of me, studying the smooth stone that was ever-present in her small hand. She’d been clutching it when I found her, and to my knowledge, she never put it down.

We’d walked almost an hour before I saw them again. Seemed to be slightly more of them, but I thought they were the same ones. Another chill ran up my backbone and lifted the hairs under my collar. Were they tracking us? Anticipating? Traveling parellel before drawing back into our sight? I called to Hope. She was too far ahead.

As I got a closer look I realized this was a different pack. The alpha was a King Charles, I guessed. Probably once silken waves of white and chestnut with large eyes and a pushed in snout to give an endearing look… now, lips drawn back to reveal broken and bloodied teeth, missing patches of fur and the rest a hopelessly tangled matt of dingy gray.

I called Hope again. She was still studying the stone, still walking ahead. I lengthened my stride, keeping one eye on the spaniel. The rest seemed uninterested, but this one trotted parallel fifty yards off our left, and I watched it’s swimming eyes move between me and Hope. I forced myself not to run. Not to shout.

A distant, high pitched howl. Another chill. The dogs all stopped and looked in its direction, as did Hope. She looked back at me, fear registering on her face. I thought she was going to run for me, and I held up my hand. The Spaniel was still stalking her, now closer to her than I. I slowly raised my hand to her, caught her eyes. Why did it not acknowledge the howl? Hope stopped as I instructed, stood very still and fixed the spaniel with a stare. Her face was set, and she suddenly looked far older than those years I’d attributed her.

Before I could register what she was doing, she drew back her arm, the one holding the stone. Her aim was true, her pitch deceptively strong. The dog was maybe twenty feet from her, and I heard the stone thunk off its skull. A small, hollow sound, like an acorn off a whiskey barrel. It was shortly followed by a yelp, but time was moving slowly. I was running now. For Hope.

But there was no need.


Previous                                                                                                                                                    Next

Hope

12

She’d said nothing more since mentioning the dead man. I spoke to her, asked questions, but she always smiled and if she said anything, it was just “Papa,” as though the next words from her lips might be telling me not to be silly, or to stop teasing. But she started humming.

At first it was jarring. Not because it was loud, or unpleasant, but just because it was. It was in a land of nothing. She did it in a disjointed, broken sort of way so they were notes without melody. As we walked there were fewer breaks between, and songs began to emerge, and they were those that I sometimes sang to her. I found myself humming Proud Mary with her. She would begin the tune to The Odd Couple and pause, and I would join in and show her the missing bridge, and she would follow.

So we walked and hummed. I checked the compass frequently, as it seemed for all my walking we should have come to the city – a city. Would I know when we had? Or was everything decimated to the point that one was no different from another? Perhaps all that steel and concrete had been reduced to dirt and ash; which would mean there was nothing left to salvage. No food, no clothing, no hair conditioner.

“We may have to move,” I told Linny late one night. She was preparing to go into the children’s room where she now slept every night. To keep an eye on James, she said. Hope slept in the middle of our bed. This had been the arrangement since the night of her nightmare.

Linny’s sunken eyes widened. “What do you mean?” I realized she looked old. Thirty-two and she looked fifty. I wondered if I looked as old.

“There’s nothing left out here, and I can’t walk far enough. I’ve yet to find whatever’s left of Newton, or Chesterfield, Sioux… At the pace I walk, I should have at least come up on one of them by now.”

“We can’t move, Jim.”

“I think we should stay together.” Part of me knew that if we split now, things would never be the same. We would officially become individuals, and individuals were inherently vulnerable. “And if we stay here we’ll starve. All of us. Not just James.”

“You’re talking about sacrificing your own flesh,” she accused.

“No. I’m talking about fucking saving it. You.”

Her jaw knotted. “You’re an ego-maniac. You can’t make those kinds of decisions on your own. There are others out there, and they’ll find us.”

“There’s no one out there,” I said.

“Where’d she come from then?” She flung her hand in Hope’s direction.

I felt an unreasoning anger rise towards her, towards her refusal to accept the child. I bit it back, bit my tongue until my eyes watered and I wanted to sneeze. “I don’t know. But there’s no one else out there. And we need supplies.”

She shook her head. “You go. Do what you must. Take her with you.”

“Linny-”

“No. I’m not leaving my house.”

“You’ll die in your house. What’s left of it. And so will they. Is that what you want?”

Her eyes fixed on something that wasn‘t there. “Better than out there. Take Sarah and Evan. I’ll keep the twins here.”

I didn’t think she understood what it meant, the likelihood that I’d return, the likelihood that she could keep the three of them alive for the length of time it would take. But I couldn’t force her. I couldn’t make her see the foolishness of it, when her heart and mind wanted to hold on to the tattered scraps of her memories.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I said.

She didn’t look at me again. Only walked from the room without any acknowledgment stronger than silence.

Silence was the strongest.


Previous                                                                                                                                                    Next

Sunday with Daddy

It had been a long weekend. A lot of silence between them. She wasn’t sure what was going on. He’d fucked her that morning then left the house, said he was going to check out a gun show and maybe stop by the music store… she’d wanted to ask if she could come along, but for some reason today it felt best to let him go.

It was quiet when he wasn’t around. Not that he was noisy. But he moved a lot. He kept busy. And even when he slowed down, napped on the couch or in the wicker chair in the front room, he snored. She took comfort in his presence. Even the snoring made her smile. Sometimes she watched him sleep, watched the lines fall away, the years melt, imagined the curious little boy he’d been before worry and responsibility laid their loads on him.

She heard the door off the kitchen squeak on the one hinge. He kept oiling it, and it kept squeaking. He came in from the garage. She finished folding the towels and stuffed them into the linen closet, and went down the carpeted stairs on bare feet. She was in her cleaning clothes; blue jean shorts and an oversized T-shirt with no bra. She didn’t wear make up. And fingers passed for a comb in her preening vernacular. As she stepped off the landing she heard the TV. She stuck her head around the door and he looked up and smiled. “Hi baby girl.”

“Hi Daddy. Did you have fun?”

“I did. Found my strings.” He motioned at a paper sack on the coffee table.

“Would you like me to bring the guitar up for you?”

He patted the cushion beside him. “No, sweetie. Come here and sit with me.”

That made her happy. She sat next to him and settled under his arm. She smelled his warmth and deodorant and felt the prickle of his whiskers as he pressed a firm kiss into her hairline. “I missed you,” he said.

She smiled and looked at the TV. “Who’s playing today?”

He turned her face toward him with his index finger. “I’m sorry.” His eyes were dark and warm, familiar.

“For?”

He kissed her nose, and his fingers trailed absently along her jaw and down her neck. Her entire body knew their path, their destination, and her heart sped and her nipples peaked in invitation. “I haven’t been very nice this weekend.”

She tried to shake her head. His hand came back up swiftly to firmly clasp her chin, his other arm tight around her.

“Don’t do that.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Don’t excuse me. Just forgive me for being a dick.”

His hand left again, and before she could say anything his mouth was on hers and his hand covered and kneaded her breast. He growled in his throat. She knew it was because of the absence of a bra. He preferred her this way.

Her hands went to his neck and she shifted to straddle his thighs, sitting on his lap, kissing him with the fire he always lit in her. When they broke, he looked up at her. She felt him throbbing between them through his khakis, through her denim.

“I want you for supper.”

“I need to shower,” she said with a grin. “And actual supper is in the oven.”

His grip on her hips tightened, fingers digging her flesh. He kept looking at her, holding her blue eyes, holding her hips, and he’d begun a gentle but insistent rhythmic push with his pelvis. Her own answered. It was instinctual. It was the need they ignited in one another.

He took her mouth again, his tongue brushing hers, probing deep, tasting. He fucked her mouth with his. Invading and retreating, breaths mingling, and those gentle thrusts became urgent.

He pulled back as his hands went to his belt. “Get them off,” he said casting a look at her clothing. His voice had a rough edge and her excitement flared. The sounds of football faded into the background. She stood and stripped in front of him. Quickly, without fanfare. His cock was in his hand and he pulled and stroked it. She fixated on the shining dew leaking and running. He looked hungry. Everything about him looked hungry and masculine. She felt the trickle of her own juices.

A groan from him as he looked at her. Always for her that moment of discomfort, shyness, vulnerability with all her flaws on display for him. But he would growl, take his hand away just so she could see the independent twitch and wave of his cock. He knew she thrived on his arousal. He knew exactly what to give her to make her need to please him.

She didn’t ask. She dropped to her knees on the soft carpet between his. He said, “Yes, little girl,” as he reached to touch her face. She caught his hand, and sucked his thumb into her mouth, their eyes still locked. She licked over the ball and let her tongue slide over the nail before taking it all the way, rolling her tongue to cup it like a taco. She held him there, tasting his flesh, teasing.

She sucked as he took it back, and there was something intensely erotic in the exchange. The anticipation. Her other hand was wrapped around his shaft. She hesitated, knowing well what would happen when she did. His hand on her head, pulling her face into his groin. There was no teasing, no denial today. There was only Daddy needing his cock sucked. Needing his perfect whore’s hungry mouth.

Needing her.

She loved this feeling. Of kneeling naked before him. Of his strong thighs surrounding her body and the stiff fabric against her bare skin. Of his eyes watching her and the sight fueling his arousal. His hand in her hair, sometimes resting lightly but possessively, others guiding her movements, her speed, her depth. It was a dance they performed well together, for maximum satisfaction. Never the same twice, but always perfect.

He filled her mouth, her throat. His flesh was rubbery and pillowy over the tip, swollen and hot… it was her favorite. Those textures, like a ripe plum. She scraped her teeth over him as though to leave an indentation but no mark, careful not to rupture or bruise. She sucked, gently then harder, and the tip of her tongue swirled and danced over him until she found his slit… gingerly playing there, tracing; such intimacy… to suck and taste, hoping he would feed her, her hands always working along his shaft, around his balls, a finger straying to stroke lightly over his asshole now and then. Her eyes always finding his again.

She paused briefly to give her jaw a rest. She bumped him playfully against her chin and lower lip, darted her tongue out to flick his frenulum. Smiled up at him. “You taste good, Daddy,” she whispered. “I love sucking your cock. I want to swallow you. I want your hot cum, what you made for me,” she whispered as she gently squeezed his full balls.

His reaction was an intense darkening, a deeply growled “Fuck!” and he stood and pulled her up. He pushed her onto the couch where he’d been sitting, his pants around his ankles, and he held her head with one hand wound in her short hair while the other guided his cock to her lips. “You’re going to make Daddy feel so good, baby girl. Open.”

She did, but not all the way. Only enough that he could push through her lips. Carefully wetting and wrapping them over her teeth, she braced against him and felt him push, felt the throb, heard the groan as she provided friction on his shaft while her tongue worked over him. He paused, reveling in the onslaught of sensations before beginning to thrust with some rhythm. Pushing deeper and deeper… faster. Her hands on his ass feeling his muscles contract. She had the vague passing thought that she was probably leaving a spot on the sofa cushion. Then he was blocking her airway.

She relaxed. Closed her eyes. She thought of the intense pleasure she was giving him, the things he would tell her he’d felt later, when they lay close together and he sheltered her with the same body that was taking from her; all those things only he told her because only he knew how she needed to hear them. When he pulled back she inhaled deeply and looked at him through watery eyes. He thrust again. Both hands on her head now. His pubic hair tickled her nose. She loved the heat from his body, his scent. She heard him saying words, words like take it like the little bitch you are, take Daddy’s fat cock, Daddy’s good whore swallowing his cock… And every word excited her on a level she’d never quite understood.

She knew when he came, when she tasted the salt and bitter of him, her cunt would throb and ache and long for her own release.

He pumped a few more times, giving her time to catch her breath before the last one that shot a hot stream of seed against the back of her throat. She cupped his balls to feel the contraction. She loved that moment. His release. His body climaxing, the throb of his cock and the grunt as he spasmed. Tears ran as she struggled to swallow, and he pulled back, but not out. He knew she wanted all of it. She needed him like a drug. She felt him over her tongue, one spurt after another, each hot and thick. A little ran out the side of her mouth over her chin. As his contractions eased, she sucked him gently, again touched her tongue to his opening and felt the drops pushing out. She moaned around him. She needed him now, needed him to get hard again and fuck her.

He knew.

“Suck, baby. Make me hard again so I can fuck your beautiful sloppy cunt.” He lifted her breasts, thumbing over nipples so sensitive that she moaned again. And she suckled and teased and pulled at him. She dipped her two middle fingers into her cunt, then looking at him, offered them. He took them and sucked them clean. “Again.”

Again she fed him her juices. Each taste, each firm suck had him hardening.

He finally pulled away and in a swift movement pulled her up and spun her, made her kneel on the couch, hands braced on the back. And he filled her in a single brutal thrust, all the way to her cervix, his hips pressed hard and forcefully against her ass. A firm smack with his open hand. Then his body against hers, his hands crushing her breasts, and he was fucking her like an animal. Hard, fast. And she was screaming with every thrust, begging him for more, calling his name.

He fucked her until she orgasmed over his cock, her juices flooding over him, and he came again. He kept fucking her till he softened and as his cock left her she felt his arms catch her as she sank down.

He laid down next to her on the narrow couch, his body half hanging off, and he held her close, tasted her sweat and tears and his cum on her lips. Kissed her and touched her while her shaking stopped and pulse slowed. His spent cock pressed intimately against her soft belly.

The referee’s whistle sounded over the hum of the audience, and the sun was falling in the autumn sky, and the smells of roasted chicken and baked apples mingled with the musky odors of sex and skin.

Just another perfect Sunday with Daddy.

Hunger

SoCS

 

Warning: Sexual Content

 

The light in his eyes the first time they touched her. A gaze could scrape, could scald, could caress. He thought he was hungry, but he had no frame of reference for what real hunger was. The eyes devoured one curve at a time, from full breasts and round hips to the gentle valleys of collar-bones and throat and contours of cheek and chin. Arch of brow, Cupid’s bow lips. And his gaze ignited.

This one was of average height, handsome in the way confident men are handsome, silver at his temples and clean-shaven. He had nice teeth. Blue eyes. The tail of a tie stuck out of the briefcase on the floor by his feet. Shined shoes and open collar.

The flush consumed her and the dance was over as quickly as it began. One kiss and he was hers, to take, to have, to finish. Body pressing her back to the cool wall in the alley behind the bar, his inhibitions gone, he pulled back from her and looked into her eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered.

He thought he knew hunger.

But no one knows hunger like a succubus.

 

 

Thank you to Linda for a great prompt. Head over to SoCS to be inspired and for the participation rules!