#FinishThatThought Week 2-37 : Florence

Florence was the most irritating person I had ever met. Was. That’s the key word there. That woman had been a tease for years. Like she relished torturing me, making me miserable, pointing out what I couldn’t have.

Oh, the countless times she leaned over my shoulder, her knockers right next to my eyeballs. How was I supposed to not see them? How was that suppose to not be distracting? I used to wake up at night from dreams of finally being able to touch them. Touch them and much more.

Casual Fridays were torture. She wore jeans. Painted on jeans. Oh, those legs, and those buns! And she walked around all day, those hips swaying, like a damn hypnotists watch. I kept telling myself, “Don’t look! Focus on your work!” But it was useless. I kept seeing her hips moving across my computer screen. I kept seeing those legs that went forever.

She always walked up behind me, put her arms around my neck, whispered in my ear, “Let’s do lunch.” Hell, I’d have eaten cardboard dipped in chalk just to sit across a table from her, and pray she leaned forward.

The worst days were when she wore the boots and the leggings. It was like those things weren’t there. They fit every curve of her, showed off every bit of her legs, hips, thighs, butt. I’d get home from work, and have to take a shower. A cold shower.

Everything would have been OK if she’d have followed through. If she’d have finished what she started. Instead, she always walked away. She bumped my hip in the hallway at least once a week. Her hip swung right into mine. “Oopsie!” She always looked at me with this smile and said, “Control yourself, big fella.”

Every Friday as we left work, she grabbed my hands, put her fingers between mine, gave me a peck on the cheek, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

Florence tortured me for years. Anyone could see that. Always hinting. Always teasing. Always staying out of reach. Not anymore. I finally had enough of her torture. She won’t be irritating me anymore.

Just talking about her and the things she did to me have me all spun up. Made me all hot and bothered again. Those knockers I could never touch. Those hips, those legs, that mouth, those buns. Once they were out of my reach. Not anymore. Now, every time I remember the torture she put me through, I go to my basement. She’s there. Naked. And I can finally do all the things she never let me do. All the things she made me want to do.

445 Words
@LurchMunster

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I wrote this for Week 2-37 (Year 2, week 37) of Alissa Leonard‘s Finish That Thought. Please, go read all the creatively shared stories in this week’s challenge.

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#MWBB Week 51 : Put Your Lights On

“You need to get more sleep at night,” she leaned forward, propping her head on her hands, her elbows on the restaurant table.

I sat there thinking, “Jesus, don’t say anything”, as I caught a good view right down the front of her shirt. Right between her knockers. The pattern of the lace on her pink bra revealed to my eyes. My fingers screaming, “Damn, I’d like to feel that lace!”, my mouth screaming, “Those sure would beat the hell out of a burger and fries!”, and my brain cells screaming, “She’ll slap your face across the room if you say or do anything related to what you’re eyeballs are drinking in!”

It was one of those views that you get. It’s there, but only for a few heartbeats. And you never forget it. And you sit up late at night, wishing you could sleep instead of wondering how her knockers taste, and if she’d be upset if you spent an hour letting your fingers explore the lace on her bra instead of exploring her.

“Yeah. I know.” I fell back to a safe answer. And safe behavior.

She reached across the table, her fingers lacing through mine. Every nerve cell in my hand screaming, “God! I’m in heaven!” while I tried to decide if I should let my fingers move, or remain frozen, like cut from stone. And my brain cells screamed at me, “find a way to acknowledge her action, but don’t give any hint how damn good it feels!” and I wound up with my hand softly holding hers, and my fingers screaming how much they wanted more, and my brain cells directing traffic again, “Behave, you slime! She’s concerned for your well-being. Maintain self-control.”

“What keeps you awake at night?” God, don’t look into her eyes! You look into her eyes, you get lost, and go stupid. And don’t look at her mouth either, ‘cause you’ll end up wondering what it tastes like, how it would feel to press her lips to yours, and to play exploratory games with tongues.

I stared at the table, then at our hands on the table, “I just don’t sleep well.”

“What do you think about?”

“Stuff.” I picked up my soda with my free hand, and took a big chug, big enough the carbonation caused my throat to burn, before I set it down. I even took the time to set the glass down softly, so it made no sound as it touched the table. And I kept my fingers on it, drinking in the cold of the ice filled glass.

What was I supposed to say? “I think about the things my body feels. And the things it wants to feel. About everything my fingers touch. My fingers never shut up. They feel the damn air as it moves past them. I can brush them endlessly, for hours, against velvet or terry cloth. And just be oblivious to everything else.”

“Maybe you should talk to a doctor about it.” Damn her and her eyes. Blue, no less. Blue eyes. And there I was, staring right into them.

My brain cells screamed, “Look away! Look away!” But I couldn’t. Any more than I could forget that view of her pink bra, and the valley between her knockers. And if I did manage to look away, I’d it wouldn’t make any difference, ‘cause I’d have spent hours that night staring at the ceiling of my room, remembering the exact shade of blue, and what it felt like when I finally slipped up and looked.

I managed to break away, and look at the table again. Then at my soda. “Maybe.”

And my brain cells screamed at me, “Find a way to get through this, and get back to work, so everything becomes safe again!”

Then I answered, “But I think it’s just a phase. The time of year. It comes and goes.”

That’s when she let go of my hand. And my fingers cried. They howled like little boys do when you take away their favorite thing. And she sat back up, and I caught one last glimpse of her chest.

And the world was safe again.

687 Words
@LurchMunster

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This is my entry for week 51 of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

#ThursThreads : But It’s Not Enough…

“Have I told you what an idiot you are?” James let his beer bottle thunk down on the bar.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” I answered. Letting my own bottle thunk down. “Only about a zillion times.”

“Then how come you never listen to me?” James shook his head. He had a valid point. Sometimes, I was just flat stupid. “Turning off your brain cells, listening to your pecker again.” He took a big chug of his beer. “You know that’s always trouble.”

Yeah. I knew. I stared at my beer. Michelle. She was absolutely stunning. Any guy I knew would be happy to call her their own. And she’d been mine. Until I saw Stacy. Sexy, hot Stacy. With those hips that swayed as she walked. Those perfect knockers. It was like my brain cells just quit working.

We had an affair. Me and Stacy. Damn, but she was fun. But, she was trouble too. And I knew if Michelle ever found out.  And she did find out. And I went home one day, and my keys didn’t work. And I couldn’t call her on the phone. And her lawyer walked up and handed me the papers. Divorce. Just like that.

“You had the perfect girl, bean-dip,” James took another chug of beer. “But it’s not enough for you, is it.” He chuckled. “Was Stacy worth it?”

I laughed. Paused. Grinned. “Yeah. She sure as hell was.”

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I wrote this flash fiction piece with the intention of posting it to the #ThursThreads challenge today. But, that was not to be. Sigh. So, I’m putting it here, on my blog. All 243 words of it.

 

There She Goes

As a guy, let me be honest. There are times when guys disgust me. Like when they gather in a group. One thing always comes right out. Sex. I mean, for example. Three or four guys at work go out to lunch one day, as a group. What do they do? Sit at the table, stuffin’ their faces, and commenting, quietly of course, about the women they see. Especially the ones waiting on tables. “Did you see the ass on that one? Momma! The way it moves from side to side when she walks?” And “Day-yum, how’d she get them jeans on?” And “I’d love to hug her ass that tight!” And there’s always that guy that says, “Oh, baby. Come sit them buns on my lap. I’ve got something for them.”

”Hey, guys! We have boobage over there!” Followed by the mandatory, “Come on, baby. Lean over. That’s it! Yes!” With one of the guys going, “Mmmmm. Now that’s what I call desert. A little whipped cream. A little chocolate. I could eat them.” And they all see the one that comes in wearing that barely there top, secretly wishing the buttons on it would give up the ghost. “Just to see those with nothing on ‘em would make my day.”

When they watch a hot chick eat, things get even worse.“Aw, damn. I’ve got something you can eat.”

There’s the body art guessing games. “Wonder how far that paint goes up her leg?” With his buddies going, “Wouldn’t it be fun to find out?” I mean, seriously. Trying to figure out if she’s wearing regular panties, a thong, or nothing? “She’s got a pierced tongue. Look.” As the guy next to him says, “I wonder what else she’s had pierced? Like maybe her knockers?” And the guy across from him adds in, “Maybe she has one of those rings?” One of them always asks the question, “Do you think she shaves?”

Then there’s the ranking system. “That one’s bang worthy. Oh, yeah, dude. I could bang that,” or “Cute, but not good enough. Wouldn’t bang that one.” As they all stare while one walks by, “Look, guys! Look! There she goes! There she goes!” As they all moan, “Awww, baby. Don’t leave.”

And they all know they’re never gonna a get a piece of any of ‘em. That women are too smart to play that game. That they’re just dreamin’.

And you say you wanna be a part of that? One of the guys? You want to belong? Boy, you just enjoy being the odd man out, ‘cause I’m tellin’ ya. You don’t know at all how lucky you are that you don’t have to play that stupid male game.

This piece was created for the 10th Friday Night Write, hosted on Sweet Banana Ink, where the prompt is music that acts as the catalyst for your creative muse. There are some amazing works there every week. Please go explore them.