Two erotic flashfics
Smut the first; 100 words.
(Inspired by my character sketch for Charlie Dixon)
prompt “Liquid”;
Language
There were words she wouldn’t say in English; fuck, cunt, cock. This woman, who would scream and scratch in orgasm, who drew blood with her kisses, who at kicked my buttocks as if she were spurring a horse, would not speak the words that described our lovemaking. It was another language that fell from her mouth in extremis, a liquid vowel-filled babble that— once it had been translated (with much blushing) for me— was as graphic and filthy as anything I’ve ever heard. The triumph of inducing the fuckwords that she’d learned from her first lover never palled for me.
Smut the second; 500 words, the challenge was to see how recognisable one’s writing is.
(12 people recognised me, the top score was 16, so I don’t feel too bad)
Prompt; “Transportation;”
Hard Driving
It’s like riding horses. Not a free and easy trot, but a wild careen cross-country, where you are standing in the stirrups, hauling on the reins, sweating as much as your mount.
It’s like driving the old leaf-sprung truck with manual transmission and no power steering.
It’s like driving the train that lunges below the city streets, rattling on rusted rails through labyrinthine tunnels.
It’s like the boat on the river; not the easy canoe, but the balky punt with its laborious pole.
It’s fucking hard work, and that’s the truth of it. But it is so worth it, to transport her this way; to hear her panting and sobbing, feel her fingers frantic on my arms and shoulders, her heels kicking at the backs of my knees— it’s worth the burn in my hips, the sweat on my back, the bellows-heave of my lungs. The hot scent of her, the silks of her hair flung across my pillow— makes it worth it, worth anything. I don’t care that the cock I’m fucking her with doesn’t actually feel anything. Ninety-five percent of me— is feeling everything.
Her breath is hitching, her face a snarling electric thing. All there is of her eyes is a glimmer of white between the lashes as she strains towards her goal. Whatever words she spun for me moments ago are spun away now. One hand of mine gets between us to feel for her clit, in the midst of the slip-and-slide— it’s so swollen, and my finger presses across that heavy rope of nerves just above it, while she arches and curls and shudders and stifles her cries in my shoulder; Fuck, baby, Christ… and at last her touch is gentle and my legs can tremble with all the effort that they’ve put forth so recently.
It’s like trucks, the great airbrakes shuddering all that bulk to a stop.
It’s like conning the tall ship into port, like guiding a racecar into the pit, bringing the freight train into the station.
Her legs untwine and let me withdraw from her, and she reaches down, lazily, and flips the buckle of my harness. Her hands are soft on my skin— but they travel over places that sting, or ache, from the mauling she’s just now given me. With my arms around her back, I roll over, bringing her above me. I want her heat, like the warmest of blankets, and she kindly pulls up the duvet from the heap at the foot of our bed, pulling it over herself and me. There’s a deep, slow kiss. Her fingertip travels over my face, lifting the sweat-heavy strands of hair away from my skin, and the tip of her tongue lapping at the beads of sweat on my upper lip— and I feel my exhausted body responding, my hips pulling up against her, my head rolling back for her teeth on my neck, and I’m waiting for her hands to travel to my cunt.
I’m so very ready.
