Miranda Kate’s Mid-Week Challenge : 2019/01/13

NOTE: Before reading further, be aware of the following. The content of this story may not be appropriate for everyone, and discusses sexual behavior.


Jacki stayed there, on the wooden floor, aching all over. The only thing she could do, really, was pull her knees up, and maybe raise her head. The team had removed all the rope, and gotten her down, quickly. She appreciated that. They’d get paid too, she knew that. The studio would make sure they got plenty of cash for taking care of her, and helping produce the pictures and the video.

That’s what it was all about, she knew that. Nothing personal. Nothing she wanted to do. It was all about the cash. “Men will buy anything, they can get their rocks off to it.”

After a few minutes, she tried to sit up. One of the crew offered to help, but she declined. “Not ready yet.” She rested on the floor a bit longer, and tried again. The second time, she made it up. Her toes and the bottoms of her feet felt like a million little needles were being stuck into them, but she knew it was only the return of her blood flow to them. Normal circulation, returning to her body.

She looked at her wrists. No broken skin, or visible signs of bruising. They’d done a good job. She checked her legs and ankles. Plenty of tracks where the rope had been, where it’s had held her motionless, and helpless, hanging in the air.

First thing she needed was to reach her dressing room, where she could use mouthwash, brush her teeth, and get a long, hot shower. She wouldn’t look at any pictures or videos until the next day, she was too exhausted to deal with them today.

One of the crew offered her a bath robe. She smiled, nodded, and wrapped herself in it. It was nice of him to hold his distance, and not help her get into it. At that moment she felt she’d had enough contact with men to last her for months. She walked, slowly, and barefoot, through the chaos of the studio to her dressing room.

She started with mouthwash to kill the taste, and then brushed her teeth several times. She used the mouthwash once again, because she liked it’s taste better than the toothpastes, both of which were miles ahead of the slime she’d had to consume on the set. She wondered, “Do men really think we like doing that?”

The hot water in the shower was perfect. Everywhere it touched her, her skin let out an, “Ahhh…” She used soap everywhere, made piles of lather, then rinsed off. Then soaped up two more times before she felt clean. Then, she stood under the water, and let its heat soak into her.

It took time, but she needed to take time. Already she was doing the math. This was going to be her most lucrative production yet. She knew it. The studio knew it. The crew knew it. One that would never show up in a movie theater. Pictures that would never be in a tabletop book. But, that was OK.

She’d make a fortune.

Jackie got dressed, jeans, and an old flannel shirt. Her favorite. The socks felt great as she pulled them on, they came almost to her knees. Then, her favorite pair of sneakers. The ones with the holes on the side, so her toes were cooler in them.

She ran her fingers through her hair, de-tangled it, and brushed it back. Then, pulled on her favorite jacket, the one with the hood that she never seemed to wear. It was dinner time. She was hungry. “A nice sandwich from the sub shop on the way home. That’s what I need. And the biggest damn soda they sell.” She paused, looked in the mirror, and smiled, “And don’t forget the cookies. Those are the best part.”

Jackie left the studio, and went to the sub shop, where she picked up her dinner, and headed home. Along the say, she thought once more about how many men would spend oceans of money to get more pictures and more videos of her being screwed by other men. Men you never got to see the faces of. Because. If you couldn’t see their faces, you could pretend it was you.

It was the best paying job she could ever have had. Another couple of years, and she could retire, and never have to work again.

“I know. I know. Not all men.” Jackie watched the road as she drove, “But it’s more men than anyone admits. And I wonder how many of them are church pastors, or store managers, or that nice man that’s such a gentleman.”

It was OK. Let them be slimes. As long as she got paid, and paid well, she was OK with that.

817 words
@mysoulstears


It’s week 89 of Miranda Kate‘s Mid-Week Challenge. I never know what the picture will cause me to write. I get an idea, and have to let the words happen. This week, these words showed up.

You can read about Miranda’s small fiction challenge here. Please, go read Miranda’s short tale this week, and any others that showed up. The tales are always little works of art, crafted with words, meant to be shared, and enjoyed.

 

Advertisements

#MWBB 3.07 : My Little Blue One

[Caution – Adult content. Read at your own risk.]

“Thank you, God, for that little blue pill,” Anthony silently prayed as he screwed another girl on the sofa in his apartment. “Because of that pill, I can do this.” He stroked for all he was worth, and enjoyed every stroke. He wanted more, so he started unbuttoning her shirt, “And it’s not like she’s a girl.” He opened her shirt, then fumbled with her bra until he got it pulled away. “She’s 22, maybe 23. She’s a grown woman.” He put his hands on her chest, then attacked her breasts with his mouth. “God, this is good!”

It wasn’t long until he finished, and briefly collapsed on her. After a few moments, his pulse calmed a bit, and he got off her, went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. “I’ll have to try her again, on another day.” He smiled at himself in the mirror, “Maybe next time I’ll fuck her ass.” That thought excited him, “Yeah. I’ll do that next time.”

He finished pulling his clothes back on, then returned to the girl. She was still out, she hadn’t stirred at all. “I’ll never get over how well that powder works.” He remembered putting it in her water bottle while she wasn’t looking. Just a quick dump, and the power dissolved in a couple of seconds. It knocked her out. She’d done everything he wanted, and never batted an eye, never resisted, never struggled.

Anthony pulled out his smart phone and took a few pictures of her. He took pictures of her breasts. Then he spread her legs, and took pictures of her genitals. “More for my collection.” As a bonus to himself, he shoved his fingers in her. She never twitched. He smiled, and took pictures of his fingers inside her.

When he finished taking pictures, he pulled her bra back in place, buttoned her shirt, put her back in her underwear and pants. “Like nothing happened.” He raised her head and put a pillow under it, then covered her with a blanket. “Like nothing happened. Like it was all a dream.” He placed her shoes neatly by the side of the sofa, so she’d have no problem finding them if she woke during the night.

Then, Anthony went to his room. He downloaded the pictures from his phone to his computer where he added them to his collection. The added pictures brought his collection to seven girls. He liked to stare at the pictures, and fantasize about them begging him to fuck them. “Make it hard, and deep! More! More!” About them moaning with each stroke he made. About them saying things he wanted to hear, “Fuck my ass! Fuck my ass!”

He carefully shut down his computer, so she couldn’t check it when she woke. He did a hard reset on his phone to clear all the data. Then, he went to sleep. “She was a good fuck. It felt good to feel her from the inside.”

When he woke the next morning, she was already gone. She’d left a note. “I’m sorry I passed out.”

Anthony laughed, “I’m not. I’m plenty happy you did.”

Lust sat in the corner of the room watching Anthony, and quietly laughing. “Ah, the joys modern medicine, date rape drugs, and little blue pills.” He wondered how much havoc Anthony could cause before he inevitably got caught. He hoped it was much more. “Try for a redhead tonight, my man. Try for a redhead.”

As he headed to work, Anthony thought it would be nice if that night he could fuck the butt of a redhead.

Lust smiled, “That’s my boy!” He settled on the sofa for a nap, “Could be a fun night.”

622 Words
@LurchMunster


And so goes year 3, week 7 (Week 3.07) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. This week the prompt is the song, “My Little Blue One” by Cowboy Mouth. Please, go read the other stories in this week’s challenge.

Pictures And Paintballs

“Have you seen Joey’s garage?”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Shy shook her head, “I still can’t believe what’s in it.”

“OK. You’ve got me curious. Tell me what’s in it.”

“He’s set up a target practice range in his garage.”

Yeah, that would be Joey. “And this is a surprise?”

She laughed, because she knew him having a target practice range in his garage was not a surprise. “No, that’s not the surprise.”

“What? He uses real bullets? Like a shooting range?”

I liked it when she laughed, it made me feel better. And I never felt good, so her laughter was important to me. “No, silly.” She waved her hand. “Not that at all.”

“Then what’s he done that so strange?”

“You know he hates politics, right?”

“Yeah, man. Does he ever.” Joey always change channels on his TV when a political ad came on. Even if ads were on 37 consecutive channels. Hell, he’d watch a program on how to use makeup to make smokey eyes on a guy before he’d watch those damn ads. “He always says they should shoot everybody.”

Shy grinned, “He means it.”

“What? Why?”

She laughed some more. “You’re gonna love this.”

Shy swung her arm in a big arch. “Joey’s printed pictures of all the people running for President.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He hung them in a line on his garage wall.”

“Oh, shit! You’re kidding me! Tell me you’re kidding me.”

She shook her head, “The bastard spends time each night reviewing the headlines for stupid things the candidates said, and he shoots that candidate’s picture with a paint ball every time they say something stupid.”

I laughed so hard I couldn’t breath, and my ribs ached, and I had a headache.

Shy patted me on the back, “Breathe, honey. Breathe.”

“God, damn. That’s funny!”

She nodded, “He said he’s had to print several copies of Trump, Cruz, and Bush, ‘cause they keep getting covered in paint.”

I don’t think I’ve ever laughed as hard as I did that night.

Shy laughed plenty too. “I’m telling you, either Joey’s a crazy son-of-a-bitch, or he’s a genius.”

When I could breathe I answered her, “He’s both.”

That night, we watched the news before bed, and wondered how many times Joey had to shoot his paintball gun, which pictures he’d had to shoot at, and how he could afford that many paint balls.

#MWBB – Week 2.16 : Buena

Jack looked at his handiwork, hanging from the wall. Two people, one man, one woman, both naked, both posed where he wanted them. He wondered if the wall was more alive than them. He carefully checked the wall for damage and stains. “Can’t have those. They’ll ruin the scene.” He quickly wiped away any bloodstains he spotted on the wall.

Things had gotten easier, with time. He’d run out of nails, and glue when had made his first masterpiece, it took more than he expected to get their poses right. Of course he had pictures of them. He had pictures of all his work. This was his fourth masterpiece. It wouldn’t be his last, there were others to create. There were so many possible ways to pose two naked bodies.

“They wonder why I use bodies, I know,” Jack spoke quietly to the couple in his latest masterpiece. “Because bodies are more realistic than paint, or clay.” He adjusted the woman’s hair, carefully brushing it out of her eyes, then adding more hairspray to hold it in place. He checked their body positions, making certain their body parts fit together properly. The woman on her back, stuck to the wall, her legs jutting out. The man between her legs, his hips thrust forward.

“I really must find a better way to keep them in place,” he shook his head, looking at the strips of wood, tied to their limbs, holding their arms and legs in their eternal poses. “One that doesn’t show as much in the pictures.”

Jack took pictures from every angle. Shots of body parts, and full body shots. “It’s important to capture both the details, and the entire picture.” He stopped several times, to adjust details in the poses, “There, that’s better.” And he resumed taking pictures. “That should be enough.” He shut his camera off. “See, Mother? I am an artist. You said I wasn’t. You said I’d never be good at anything.” He pulled a faded picture of his mother from his camera bag, and faced it at the bodies. “See, Mother? See? I make beautiful works of art, don’t I.” He carefully placed the picture in his camera bag.

He made certain the curtains to the room were open, so the world would see his work when the sun rose. Then, he turned out the lights, and headed home. He locked the room as he left, and carefully placed a small, wooden plaque on the door. “Buena #4,” he read the plaque, “The fourth in a series of masterpieces.”

He smiled as he walked the hallways, to the stairs, then the building’s exit. “It was Buena, indeed. I wish everyone could see that. Could understand that.” He sighed. “I do good work!”

Jack went home, and used all his hot water in the shower. If felt good to let the heat soak into his shoulders and neck. He could feel his muscles relax. He ate a small breakfast, and washed it down with a glass of orange juice, the kind with pulp. Real juice. Not that processed crap. Then, he stretched out in his bed. As he drifted off to sleep, he started planning the body positioning of the couple for Buena #5. “It will be my greatest work.”

Jack slept well that night.

549 Words
@LurchMunster


This is my entry for Year 2, Week 16 (Week 2.16) of Jeff Tsuruoka‘s Mid-Week Blues-Buster flash fiction challenge. Please, go read the other stories in the challenge.

#Rebirth : A Waste Of Time

“Have you watched him?” Kelly smiled as she pointed toward Edward.

“No.” Kelly admitted. “I’ve never been here with him.”

The two walked through the Camellia garden, taking their time, drinking in the colors and shapes of the Camellia blossoms filling the trees. “You should watch him.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

Cynthia watched Edward walk among the trees, with his camera. Edward stopped often and took another picture of another Camellia bloom. Sometimes, he took a dozen pictures of booms on a single tree. Sometimes, he took a dozen pictures of a single bloom. “What am I supposed to see?”

“Him.”

Him? She saw him five times a week at work. She talked with him, ate lunch with him, swapped birthday cards with him. Edward was her friend from work.

They followed Edward through the trees, keeping him in sight as he moved from tree to tree. He moved in circles, and zig zag lines. He stopped at a tree, took pictures, then looked around, spotted another tree, and made his way to it.

Cynthia checked the time on her watch. Twenty minutes of walking from tree to tree. “What is he doing?”

Kelly giggled. “He’s remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

Kelly didn’t answer. Cynthia shook her head. Twenty minutes staring at trees. Taking pictures with no rhyme, no reason. He had plenty of pictures. How many pictures could he take of Camellia trees and their flowers?

“He has thousands of pictures of Camellia blooms.”

“He does?”

Kelly’s smile was a relaxed, happy smile. “And he still takes more.” She watched Edward moving around a specific bloom, trying to hold his camera to take the best shot, with the best framing and background. “Don’t you wonder why?”

“It’s a waste of time.”

“Is it?”

Cynthia wanted to scream, “Yes! I have things to do! Places to go! A life to live! Deadlines, and commitments. I can’t be here, wasting time, wandering through a bunch of trees, looking at stupid flowers!”

“Why is it a waste of time?”

“What?” Surely, Kelly knew she’d asked a stupid question.

“Why is it a waste of time?” Kelly’s grin told Cynthia she knew everything, every reason taking pictures of flowers was silly, and a waste of time.

“You know.”

“So tell me.”

Cynthia took a deep breath and shook her head. “It’s his day off. He’s got things to do. A home to take care of. Laundry to wash. Dishes to wash. A lawn to mow. His family to take care of. Groceries to buy.”

“Yes. He does.”

“He doesn’t have time to wander around, taking stupid pictures.”

“Watch him.” Kelly resumed watching Edward, her eyes alive with color, and light, as if seeing something beautiful, something special. Cynthia had seen that look, she knew what it meant.

“What are you watching?”

“Just watch.”

She watched Kelly, as Kelly watched Edward. She realized Kelly was stopping at the same trees Edward stopped at, looking at the same Camellia blooms he looked at, watching him to see where he went, what he looked at.

“He always finds the prettiest blooms.”

Cynthia looked at the Camellia blooms too. Pink, red, white, and variegated, pink and red, pink and white, red and white. All of them different. Some just starting to open. Others in full bloom. Bright green leaves, others dark forest green, others almost pastel green, dark green, almost black veins laced through them.

The petals of the booms weren’t solid colors. Some looked like velvet. Others were like the leaves, veins of color laced through them. Pink with pink veins. Red with black veins. White with white.

She found herself carefully examining Camellia blooms. Their colors, their textures, their shapes. She found her eyes drinking in their colors, trying to burn them into her memory, so she could see them when she closed her eyes. So she could dream of them at night.

Cynthia watched Edward move from tree to tree, “He doesn’t care about the pictures, does he.”

“He doesn’t.” Kelly smiled, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

“He’s not here to take pictures.”

Kelly didn’t answer, moving to another of the Camellia blooms Edward has stopped at. Cynthia joined her, the two of them drinking in the sights Edward lead them too. Cynthia forgot about time. About responsibilities. About everything.

“Do you understand?”

Cynthia felt lighter. Less encumbered. Less trapped. She closed her eyes, and had to smile. “I want to look at more flowers.”

“Tell Edward.” Kelly pushed her toward Edward. “He’s been here dozens of times. He knows where all the flowers are. When they bloom. When they peak. When to find them.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to bother him.”

Kelly giggled again. She marched up to Edward. “Cynthia wants to see more flowers.”

Edward grinned, nodded, and off he went. They followed him, through the camellias, to a paved path to another part of the garden filled with Azaleas in full bloom.

He smiled at Kelly. “Will this do?”

All she could do was nod.

“You’re welcome,” and he smiled. She’d never seen his eyes so alive. She watched him walk through the Azaleas, many so filled with color, and with blooms, she couldn’t even see their leaves. Some towered over her. Some were tiny bushes, barely knee-high. Some lined walkways with walls of color. Pink, red, almost orange, white, and even blue with white middles. Oceans of blooms.

“I told you to watch him.”

Cynthia giggled.

“Do you know why?”

“He remembers, doesn’t he.”

Kelly laughed.

“He remembers what life is.”

Kelly drank in the colors and fragrances of the Azaleas. “Yes, he does. And every time he comes here, it brings him back to life.”

Cynthia couldn’t argue with her. Just by watching Edward, she’d felt her heart and soul wake up from the sleep she put them in each day when she became a responsible grown up.

“He remembers.”

“Shut up, Kelly. I have Azaleas to look at.”

They both laughed.

#ThursThreads Week #78 : Will It Come Back?

Stacy had stretched out on her side of the bed, as she did almost every night, her head propped on her pillows, reading again. She read every night. Mostly paranormal or historical romance novels. She read several each week.

I went downstairs, sat on the sofa, turned on the TV, and surfed the ‘Net using my tablet computer. Another night of TV in the background as I perused technology and science news sites, reading about cosmology, optical computing, clean energy, and anything else that caught my fancy.

I knew, when I finally gave up, and went to bed, I’d find her asleep, with the lights still on, and her book on my pillows. It was what our life together had become.

As I sat on the sofa, I looked at a few pictures of 20, 30 and 40-year-old women on a modeling site. It was a close as I’d come to sex in years. I vaguely remembered sex. What it had been like. The fun we’d had. And I wondered, that night, as I had so many times before, what happened. Where had the sex gone? Where had the romance gone? But I never asked, “Will it come back?” I knew it never would.

We’d grown too old and tired, and long since lost the energy it took. Now, she got her sex from her romance novels. I got mine from pictures of naked girls. That’s all the energy I had left.

244 Words
@LurchMunster


I wrote this for Siobhan Muir‘s #ThursThreads, Week 81. Please go read all the entries in this week’s #ThursThreads. They are good reading.

#FSF : Accident

It looked like an accident. Twisted metal, shattered glass, radiator fluid, oil, and gas pouring out everywhere, discoloring the road. People shouting into their phones, calling for help, holding their cameras aloft, taking pictures. Shock and disbelief filling their eyes, knowing they’d witnessed people die in a horrible collision between two cars. I closed my eyes, nodded, and drove off knowing everything had worked according to my plan.


Here’s my weekly attempt at Lillie McFerrin‘s flash fiction challenge, Five Sentence Fiction. This week, the prompt is Accident.

Please, go read all the other entries to this week’s Five Sentence Fiction. It’s amazing what creative people can do with just five sentences.