Two Flash Stories

"How did I end up like this?" 

by Miles Naismith 

She was on the beach, in darkness except for the pale light of a waning
Moon.  It was a Caribbean beach, and it was the first day of their
vacation.  She was on her knees on a towel, her head resting on her
forearms. 

Conscious of her nakedness, she thought, "There's only one reason ever
to be in this position . . . and I don't think I can stop." 

Elizabeth and Carter had shed the stress of the city, where jobs,
children and quotidian demands lay, when they unpacked their bags in
the resort that afternoon.  She had shed some of her inhibitions too,
choosing without his urging to wear to dinner the backless (thus
necessarily braless) sun dress she seldom wore in public. 

The resort encouraged the guests to mingle, and had put them at a table
with another couple about their age.  They had hit it off famously.
Tom and Mandy both worked in high pressure high tech jobs, and were
eager to be wild and naughty.  Their enthusiasm was infectious, and the
fruit drinks with little umbrellas had added fuel to the fire. 

They had ended up on the beach, and with half hungry taunts and dares,
had shed their clothes to swim in the warm water. Afterward, they
hadn't dressed as they made risque comments and laughed at their own
wit.  The women kidded the men about the evidence of their interest in
the proceedings, each secretly eyeing the other's husband with the same
intensity that the men eyed them. 

Suddenly Mandy was sucking Tom.  In an act that surprised herself,
Elizabeth took Carter in her mouth.  Even alone, in their own bed, she
seldom did that. When she looked across Carter's body at Mandy, Mandy's
head hid Tom, but the steady to and fro was quite adequate to signal
what was happening. Then, in almost dreamlike slow motion, Mandy turned
toward her and stretched out her hand to Carter's groin. 

She drew his erection away from Elizabeth and engulfed it with her own
mouth.  Then she pushed it back to Elizabeth.  As the women shared
Carter, Elizabeth felt Carter's hand slide up between her legs to
finger her.  A gasp from Mandy suggested he had done the same to her. 

In the dim light Elizabeth had seen Tom get up, but it was still a shock
to feel his fingers join Carter's in discovering the wet evidence of
her excitement.  It was another shock when Carter withdrew without
objection. 

Hands on her hips pulled her back, up on her haunches, head down and
back arched, then the fingers moved back to increase her desire.  Then
it wasn't fingers any more. 

"How did I end up like this?" 

.............................................................. 

Things That Go Hump In The Night 

by Miles Naismith 

From ghosties and ghoulies and long leggedy beasties, And things that
go bump in the night, Oh Lord, deliver us.  - Ancient Scots prayer 

"All right, I'll do it," she had finally said, "but don't blame me if I
break out in giggles." 

He had been so tentative, yet so hopeful, like a puppy begging for food.
 She had been amused at his request, and had decided to give in long
before she told him  she would do it, just to watch the expressions on
his face.   Still, he was her love, and even though it was stupid, a
silly man thing, she had decided that she could force herself to play
her part.  Besides, the pitch darkness he had specified would hide her
blushes. 

That was how she had come to be here, naked under the covers, the echoes
of timid little extortionists' cries of "Trick or Treat" having long
since died, waiting for her  husband to dress up like a burglar and
come "ravish" her --  his adolescent Halloween rape fantasy. Idly, she
yawned, wondering where he could be.  It was already late, and she was
tired.  When she could wait no longer, she slept. 

Her dreams belied her disparagement of his fantasy.   She dreamed of
being "ravished" by a gentle, handsome stranger.  She half-heartedly
tried to protest, to push him away, but he gently pinned her hands, and
caressed her.  Her body slowly began to give in to passion. Her
breathing  quickened;  she panted.  Inexorably, but gently, he pried
her legs apart.  The pressure of his weight on her pushed her into the
mattress.  It felt so real. 

Suddenly she was convinced that it *was* real.  She willed herself to
awaken, to throw off the veil of sleep, to struggle in truth against
him.  But she couldn't shake the thickness of her senses, the lazy blur
of enervation, and she was not sure that she wanted to, in any event. 

She felt her hips buck as he pushed his erection against the entrance to
her body.  It felt hot, literally hot. And so did he.  All over.
Though it was completely dark, she saw him in her mind's eye: inhumanly
handsome, built like a Greek god, the epitome of sex, his naked body
tightly encased in smooth, dark crimson hide, and somehow she felt she
was right. 

Spurred by some sense of duty to her husband, she moved her hands over
his body, grabbing and pushing, trying randomly to move away. "But this
is my husband, I should let him have his way," she thought, confused
and unconvinced. 

He felt like hot, smooth leather everywhere she touched.  The head of
his penis felt so warm that she imagined that it might be glowing
against her vagina.  As it probed for her opening, she turned her head
to him, to his face, and felt more hot leather.  Then her hands were
swept together and held above her head again.  His other hand continued
its caresses. 

"John?  Is that you, John?" 

"You sure were unlucky to run into me tonight, poor lady," came the
breathy whisper. 

The incongruity of the answer, like the puerile dialogue of an Ed Wood
movie, reassured her.  It had to be John and his fantasy. 

Suppressing a giggle, she also tried to suppress an image of Dan Ackroyd
in the fetish store, in the full leather  BDSM suit complete with face
covering hood, from that stupid movie, Exit to Eden, that John liked.
But hands continued to caress her breasts, and the hot poker below
found its target. 

Still not quite awake, as if in a waking dream, she felt herself
penetrated.  "God, he feels big tonight!" she thought.  The passion
that had arisen before suddenly arose  again, and even his idiotic,
whispered chant  -- "You sure were unlucky to meet up with me tonight.
I'm going to fuck your cunt and come deep in your pussy, poor lady!" --
hadn't  destroyed her mood. 

He had driven all the way in by then, seeming bigger and longer than she
remembered.  Then out, and in again.   And again.  And again.  With
each stroke her excitement increased.  Then she found herself hovering
above, looking down at herself, like those stories of people who had
died and had seen themselves on the operating table.  She saw her
spread legs, her knees forced outward with each thrust.   She saw her
breasts bounce as each clenching of his butt drove him home again.  She
saw her face, distorted with  lust, as she desperately sought release.
Then she found herself back inside her body, panting with her need,
until she finally convulsed under him, trying to squeeze the invading
member inside her with her vaginal muscles, rigid with temporary
paralysis, shuddering in the downslide of the most intense orgasm she
had ever felt. 

But he was not through.  Pausing until she relaxed, he then resumed his
stroking, having lost none of his stiffness.  Again he pumped her up,
like successive breaths into a child's balloon, until the balloon
burst, and she dissolved in orgasm.  And as she came down, she felt him
come -- literally felt him come.  Each spurt was noticeably warm,
almost hot, inside her.  She had never felt anything like it.  The
sensation made her come again. 

Then he was gone.  Completely. 

"John?  John, come back, John," she called.  But no answer came, and the
blurry, dreamy state deepened into involuntary sleep. 

The next morning, she awakened to a pounding at her door.  She looked to
her right, becoming concerned when she saw John's side of the bed
vacant . . . the moreso when she looked through the peephole and saw
him outside. 

"Don't even ask," he said.  "Did you take the phone off the hook?  I've
been trying to call all night." 

"No, I didn't touch it.  But where have you been?" 

He looked down, face red.  "I went to the car to change into this
costume and locked my keys inside.  My wallet too.  I was trying to get
in the car door when the cops showed up and arrested me.  I got that
straight, but I need your keys to get in my car now." 

Suddenly she realized that he was dressed all in black.  Black jeans,
black sweat shirt, black stocking cap. But not a bit of leather
anywhere. 

"Thank Heaven," she whispered to herself, "it must have been just a
dream after all." 

Meanwhile, elsewhere . . . . . . . . . 

Damn, I screwed up again.  I can accept that she wasn't a virgin --
they never are anymore.  But comprising the virtue of a faithful wife
scores almost as many  points.  And Heavens, she practically invited me
into her dream, and she knew deep down it wasn't her husband she was
fucking.  And I was so careful:  the crucifix on the wall, the first
communion banner in the child's room, the CCD notice under the
refrigerator magnet . . . she had to be Catholic!   What the Heaven was
she doing on birth control pills?   Doesn't she read her own dogma?  I
know I should have checked, but she was Catholic!  A load of stolen
sperm  wasted.  Too bad I can't produce my own sperm and go find  a
substitute to knock up before reporting in. Beelzebub is gonna be
pissed, but what's a poor incubus to do in these decadent days?  And
besides, it's not like the succubi will  have any problem collecting
more sperm in this culture.  I sure hope that Dan Ackroyd thought
doesn't get out though,  or I'll never live it down.  Oh well, she was
tight, and she squealed like a pig when she came.   Sometimes there are
compensations that can even make up for the demonic fury of Ol' Bubby.
Consoled, he floated down into the  Pit.

• The Christmas Bombshell
• Fancy Spread for a Picnic