Flashers & Poetry

Gem-size erotic tales that sparkle

The Clockwork Heart
by Helen E. H. Madden © 2009

The whole affair was only supposed to last an hour, a passing whim never to be indulged again.  Still, Jonathon couldn't stop trembling as he turned the key, winding up the mechanism that powered the doll.

And oh, what a doll it was.  Jonathon stared as the silver-skinned figure whirred to life.  Jointed limbs flexed with precision and grace.Gold wire hair gleamed in the lamplight.  Glass eyes glowed.  The lids fluttered once... twice...

His mechanized lover smiled and stood.  "Hello.  My name is Adam.  How may I please you?"

Jonathon's voice caught in his throat.  His wife, prim and proper in corsets and petticoats, never asked such a question.  Even if she had, the woman couldn't satisfy him.  But this automaton, this machine? Jonathon touched the sculpted body and swallowed.

"Adam.  Could you kneel please? Yes, and open your mouth..."

They made love to the rhythm of Adam's ticking heart, a beat that slowed and stopped all too soon.  When the clockwork man grew statue still, Jonathon's heart stopped too. One hour wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

He wound the key again.  The glass eyes came alight.

"Hello. My name is Adam.  How may I please you?"

But It's Only the Wind
by Sophie Orlee © 2009

Sultry, oppressive heat lurking in the endless depths of darkness.

Slightly tamed by the nocturnal union.

In a dream-like haze it happened.  Fingerlike, it crept through the nighttime window; slowly, sensuously grazing over the soft body. Hopeful, the semiconscious figure arched forward, wanton, only to meet nothing.

Undaunted wind stretched to reach out farther, stronger this time, eagerly seeking, caressing the curvaceous form, begging it to respond.  The aching figure, bound, instinctively drawn towards a lover's caress, only to be disappointed, again; nothing.

Now conscious, the room is dark, silent, stilled.  A single soft, famished body warmed but never sated.

The Huntress
by Nick Nicholson © 2009

The mirror reflects the accoutrements of the huntress: Manolo Blahnik stilettos, black Versace dress, Bulgari earrings and necklace, cosmetics by Lancme. Finishing the application of lipstick, a sanguine red, she opens her mouth in the shape of an O, thinking, Oh yes, this will garner three, maybe four, cocks tonight. She imagines the obscene swollen heads of vein-streaked phalluses entering her luxurious mouth, one after the other, then closes her eyes in anticipated ecstasy.

She turns and leaves, enters the night.

Her reflection remains trapped in the mirror, the face distorted, the mouth hideously distended, monstrous, frozen, awaiting her return.

Conjunction
by Malcolm Miller © 2009

Emeritus Professor Andrew Thorley, PhD, MA, FRAS, had a rooftop patio on the apartment to which he had retired, alone, after the death of  his wife. Here he was able to set up an excellent small telescope, attached to which was a special video camera which had once belonged to the observatory. Overtaken by technology, it had been discarded, and he had quietly appropriated it on his retirement.

In his room was the wall-sized screen of his viewing centre.  With the remote controls he quickly steered the telescope to the object he sought. The air was steady as a rock, and the image sharp.

It was a far cry from the days when he had begun operating big instruments in the freezing cold of a dome on winter nights.  First had come computers and a shirt-sleeve environment for observers, then completely automatic programming from one's office as huge eyes, mirrors large as houses, saw the unimaginable.

As the two people in the distant apartment shown on the screen tore off each other's clothes, he sat hopefully holding his still flaccid penis, sure that this would be the night to see the conjunction he wished for.

Curtain Call
by tzr © 2009

He stands in the wings, waiting for the siren's call. Her soft, smoky  scent entices him. His body strains forward, eager for that first  taste. Closing his eyes, he breathes deep. His skin feels hot and  tight, stretched over bunched muscles that twitch and burn with  anticipation. Heat curls low in his gut. The flesh below stirs: never  satisfied, it hungers for tonight's feast.

Eyes open now, he peers into the darkness, keen to sense her mood.  She's paid his price, and he's her eager paramour. Will she want to  be wooed and gently coaxed, feigning innocence as he draws her close?  Or will she come to him, bold and brash, grasping for her pleasure?

Sweat gathers on his brow and his breathing quickens. It's almost  time. He can feel her rhythm now; she wants satisfaction. He steps  forward.

Each night she comes to him anew. Tormented by her secrets, desperate  to know her deepest desires, he empties himself in her open arms,  finds release in her dark embrace.

Down Boy
by Julius © 2009

They'd agreed; they'd try the bondage thing.

Despite his size Roy would likely be the submissive. Little Peggy was, by nature, the leading, controlling type.

Trouble was, Peggy's attempts at dominance were often outweighed by Ron's imposing presence.

At best friend Sue's suggestion, Peggy phoned "Domtrixie's Trix Inc." Trixie listened, sympathised and listened some more. An appointment was made.

Ron answered the door.

Trixie topped six two in the heels. A tight-laced corset offered him wondrous cleavage, at eye level. She slapped the riding crop on a thigh-high boot.

"You the puppy needing training?"

Trixie stepped forward, Ron stepped back.

Global, dangerous
by Nikki Isaak © 2009

Science Institute writer Phillip Hart studied the dimly-lit walls of the Shaft of the Animal People.  Hundreds of skinny cave-art figures copulated in stick-blocky poses.  Some wore animal masks. Some held crude phallic symbols.

All of this, painted 16,000 years ago - threatened by black fungi, caused and fueled by global warming,  other sources of heat - and all I can think about is-

Arrica Erickson, fellow Institute writer, earth-mother curvy, shifted her flashlight in the cave.  They stood close together, in the tiny space.

She turned, her hand lightly brushing his outer thigh - again.

Phillip's erection grew.

"Sorry," Arrica smiled, looking as uncomfortable as he felt.  Sweat beaded on her forehead.

Phillip smiled back.  "Can't be helped."

Arrica said something else.  Phillip, embarrassed, zoned.

Excited by a painted figure near him, she darted forward to look at it; her hand brushed his erection.

Arrica gave him an odd look.

"Sorry - again," she flushed.  "We should talk about this elsewhere - we've been in here for a while, and our body temperatures increase fungi spread. .."

She exited the cave.

Phillip, hot and wondering, followed.

April Cinquains
by Jane Kohut-Bartels © 2009

All are
deeply asleep.
There is nothing to keep
the moon racing to open arms.
Embrace!

Try it.
Soften your heart.
See what solace it brings.
A velvet glove that caresses,
tender.

Water
washes my fear
away like small, pale sins.
Then I begin to go naked,
shedding doubts like snake skin,
Dancing!

Three Cinquains On Love
by Rose B. Thorny © 2009

Passion
my sun
touching with fire
soaring, burning, melting, sated
You

Night
falls soft
embraces my soul
safe, warm, pleasure pool
Lover

Morning
smoldering eyes
soft ash embers glowing
memories, two hearts, one love
My sun

Cinquains
by Nick Nicholson © 2009

i will
drill a hole in
my head & let you in
lie naked inside my mind for
a while

a night
emblazoned with
dark carnal stars and an
untitled girl screams a song in
my soul

There it
is (desire) a
cold electricity
scorching my veins (a dead river
reborn)

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