#MWBB Week 2-30 : Man On The Run

Sunlight coming through the window, lighting up the room, woke me, plunging light beams through my eyes, into my brain. I covered my eyes, “Mother nature, you’re a bitch sometimes,” the words raced through the parts of my brain that still worked, “Turn out those lights!”

Morning had arrived. It was time to get up. I had to go. That’s when I noticed her. Her arm, and leg draped across me, her head on my shoulder. Not a stitch on. Both of us, starkers. “Oh, yeah. No I remember.” I looked at her blonde hair, “Julie.”

I untangled myself from her, staggered to the bathroom, relieved myself. It wasn’t my bathroom, wasn’t my apartment. I remembered we’d gone to her place. Mostly ‘cause I was too ripped to drive.

As I stared in the mirror, I remembered us getting naked, and doing everything. I mean everything. Every way. She wanted it all, and I was happy to do anything she wanted. It had been a fun night.

After a few minutes of memories, I headed back to the bedroom. Julia got up, and made her pit stop. She came back, and didn’t ask. She threw the covers off the bed, and planted her head between my legs. I watched her head move up and down. After a minute, she stopped. We rearranged, her on her hands and knees, me on my knees behind her. And I watched every stroke I made into her.

Yeah, I finished.

We showered, I let my fingers play. She gleefully rode them as the soap and water washed away. We wound up back on the bed, her on her back, humping my fingers, me sucking her tits. She peaked, then pulled me on top of her. I wound up on my knees, her legs over my shoulders, as I stroked. I watched every stroke, which made it better.

After I finished, we got dressed, raided a breakfast place, and she took me to my car. “Let’s do this again,” she said. “Tonight.” She kissed me. “OK?”

“I’ll do this every night you want me to.”

Julia. The fifth in a string of women. I wasn’t looking for a soul mate, a partner, a girlfriend. I was looking for a sex. And when things got serious, I’d run away. Move to another apartment. Change jobs if I had to. Change my phone number and email address. I’d escape her, and find another lay somewhere.

And another one after that. Hell, I’d fuck every woman I could find. Because it worked. It distracted me. Meant I didn’t have to remember her. Didn’t have to cry. Didn’t have to hurt.


My Maya.

My heart, my soul, my life. Until the day she walked out. “I don’t love you any more.” That’s what the note said. “You’re not the same man I fell in love with.” She said I’d become stagnant, unchanging, dull and boring. She wanted more. She wanted someone who loved her, cared for her, didn’t treat her as a possession, a trophy.

She left.

So, I’d bang Julia for a while. A couple of weeks, or a month. Then, I’d leave. And find another woman to fuck. Then another.

No way was I ever gonna care for another person again. No way was I ever gonna hurt like that again.

Not after Maya.

558 Words

This is my entry for Year 2, Week 30 (Week 2.30) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.


#FinishThatThought Week 2-25 : White Whiskey

In the beginning, there was the table, me, and a bottle of whiskey. I opened the bottle and let a long chug burn its way down my throat. “Forget,” I mumbled. “Forget all about it, and move on. That’s what they said.” I took a second chug. “Forget my ass.” I growled. “Some things can’t be forgotten.” The third chug burned so much it brought tears to my eyes. I smacked the bottle down on the table, and growled.

I knew the whiskey wouldn’t survive the night. I knew it was the lucky one. It wouldn’t see the sunrise. I would. I considered turning the bottle up, and draining it as quickly as I could, no matter how much it burned. Perhaps if I drained the bottle quickly enough, I’d end up killing myself.

I wouldn’t. I knew that wouldn’t solve a damn thing. I was in another stage of my recovery. Another step through my grief. My Dad told me once, “There’s seven stages of grief.” Seven fucking stages. And no one knows how long each stage lasts, just that it’s different for each person.

I didn’t really want to find out how my grief process worked.

“It takes as long as it takes.” I stared at the bottle, read the label. “Smooth Ambler White Whiskey.” Looked like water. Sure packed a kick water never had. I can’t drink water. God, that stuff’s nasty. But I can drink damn near anything else.

I took another chug, so I could pretend I was crying from the pain of the whiskey burning my throat and didn’t have to admit I was crying because she was gone.

I heard that damn voice in my head again, “God made the rain to fall on the just and the unjust, the good and the evil.” I screamed, and punched another hole in the drywall. Left some skin from my knuckles on the plaster. The pain felt good. Distracting. “If I ever find the ass hole that wrote that, I’m gonna kick him. Right in the nuts.”

Hemorrhagic stroke. They said the blood vessels in her brain exploded and her brain died of oxygen deprivation. By the time they got her to the hospital, it was over.

I used to tell people she was part of me. “If I ever lose her, I’ll never recover. I’ll never be whole again.” I took another chug of the whiskey. She was gone. But she was still the only reason I wasn’t. She wouldn’t want me to stop living. I had to work everything out. Had to find a way to live. Because of her.

But first I had to let the wounds heal. Let my heart stop bleeding. The whiskey wouldn’t survive the night. And I’d hurt like hell when the sun rose. Sometimes, you do what you have to, to find yourself. And I would find myself. Eventually.

The sunrise was gonna hurt like hell.

489 Words

I wrote this for Week 2-25 (Year 2, week 25) of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.

#MWBB Week 2.27 : A Tale Of Greed – Waiting On A Dream

It was 3 AM on a Monday morning. The sun wouldn’t be up for nearly 3 hours, but Beverly was wide awake. She listened carefully to Lawrence as he snored to make certain he was sleeping. Once she knew he was in dreamland, she slipped out of bed, pulled on a robe and house shoes, and slipped out of the bedroom.

“Thank God the bastard’s asleep,” she headed toward the shower. She closed the door to the room, locked it, slipped off the house shoes, then let the robe slip off her shoulders to the ground. She studied herself in the mirror. Her breasts were still good, not sagging yet. Her stomach was still flat. Even after the two kids. Her legs were still lean, no dimples of fat, not muscle-bound.

“I’m still a sexy bitch,” she smiled. “Gotta stay that way.”

She turned on the shower, turned the hot water up, she wanted a hot shower to wash away the feel and smell of him. The more soap, the more suds, the better. “The things I have to put up with.” She wished she could wash him out of her brain cells, her memories. Instead, she had to deal with the memory of having sex with him.

Sex she didn’t want to have. God, it was awful to suck him off. Awful to let him get behind her, and bang away. Awful to have to moan, and groan, and pretend it turned her on.

The hot water felt good on the back of her neck and shoulders. She tipped her head back, into the water, let it soak into her hair. Her favorite shampoo made such a rich lather. It cleaned her hair so thoroughly, left it feeling so alive. As she washed the lather out, she held her head under the running water, let it flow down her back.

“Another day I’ll take a nap while the kids are at school, and he’s at work.”

Him at work. That’s what it was all about. Keeping him happy. Keeping him at work. Keeping him making money. The more money, the better. Beverly needed money to buy the things she wanted. Her phone, her car, her clothes. It all cost money.

And he made plenty of it.

She’d worked hard to find him. Harder to get him to marry her. Harder to keep him. All she wanted, really, was his money. She didn’t really want him. Or his offspring. Boys. Brats. Just like their father.

So, she had to screw him a few times a week? That wasn’t so bad. He always passed out after he finished. She always waited while he made his run to the bathroom where he pissed, then washed himself. “I wish I could wash everything away as easily as he can.”

She checked the clock on the bathroom wall. “Damn.” It was time to dry off, get back in her robe, head downstairs, and start breakfast for fatty and his boys. She knew not to put anything on under the robe. It was all part of keeping him happy. Keeping him at work. Keeping him making money. More money. For her.

It wouldn’t be long before she could afford that dress she wanted. All silk. God, the way it felt when she ran her fingertips across the material in the store. Another month, and she’d have enough to buy it.

As she feared, just inside the front door he had to kiss her goodbye and let his fingers find their way between her legs. “The things I put up with to get what I want,” she thought as visions of that dress danced in her head.

Greed stood in the corner of the room and laughed. He loved every minute of the torture Beverly put herself through every day. Just to collect a few meaningless trinkets. “That old saying’s so true, dear. You can’t take it with you when you die.”

He whispered in Lawrence’s ear, “God, you should really fuck her face tonight.”

Then he laughed for hours, because he knew, Beverly would do whatever it took to get the next item on her list. Why, she’d even sell her soul.

695 Words

This is my entry for Year 2, Week 27 (Week 2.27) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

#FinishThatThought Week 2-22 : She Wore A Red Dress

As quickly as she appeared, the woman in the red dress vanished into the woods.

“Did you see that?” I poked Harry in the ribs.


“That woman. In a red dress.”

Harry shook his head. “Now I know we’ve been walking too long. You’re seeing things.”

I shut up, then stared back at the place she’d appeared. That’s when she laughed, “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Harry glared at me. “Geezus. We’ll be back to camp in another hour, and you can eat ‘till you bust.”

She stuck her hand through an opening in the brush and gave me the “come here” signal. “Say what you want, Harry. I know what I saw.” I dashed into the brush where he hand had been a moment earlier, but she was gone.

Well, except for her dress. That was still in the brush. I picked it up. Red velvet. “Damn.” Visions of a woman running through the woods in nothing but her underwear danced in my head. I looked around, wondering which way she could have gone. She laughed again.

That was all I needed. A sound. A direction. I raced to the north-west. She left a trail. A red bra. Then, further on, panties, red again. A broken twig here. A footprint there. I followed her trail. “She wants me to follow her.”

I reached a stream just in time to see her vanish into the brush on the other side. “Geezus.” Yep, she was starkers. I didn’t slow down, taking the stream in three bounding steps, at full run. I plunged into the brush, fought through it, into a clearing. An alcove under the trees, branches and vines formed a natural ceiling. The ground was clear. It was silent. I couldn’t hear a thing.

She was in the middle of the clearing. Not a stitch on. Blonde hair reached halfway down her back. She motioned me to join her. Gorgeous naked woman in the woods, waving at me, smiling, giving me a full view of everything, and a smile that said, “Come here.” Of course, I walked right up.

She kissed me. Next thing I knew, she had me naked too. We had wild sex in the woods.

Turned out, that’s how she lives. Lures people in. Men, women, doesn’t matter. She picks a target, draws them in, has wild, anything goes sex with them. When the sex is over, she leaves.

When she left, I got dressed, headed back the way I’d come.

I never found my way. But I did get to see the skeletal remains of her previous conquests. Good thing I had a pen and notebook with me. It let me write this down. I hope it gets found before she suckers in another sap like me.

463 Words

I wrote this for Week 2-22 (Year 2, week 22) of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.