Flashers by Helena Settimana

The Other Shoe
© 2008
The Other Shoe

"Hand it over, your Highness!"

The duke, flanked by a pair of burly guards, confronted the naked prince, who lay curled up in a ball on his bed, clutching something to his groin.

"No!" the prince shouted back.  "It's mine.  She left it for me!"

"But your Highness, the king gave orders.  We must find the woman who bewitched you, and you possess the only clue as to who she is.  Now please give it here."

"Don't wanna!"

The duke rubbed his temples.  "Look, I promise you can have it back when we're done."  When the prince still didn't move, he added, "If we find this woman, you know what we'll also find..."

"Her other shoe?"  The prince sat up suddenly.

"Then you'd have the pair," the duke said.  "What do you think of that?"

Reluctantly, the prince slipped his cock out of a delicate glass slipper and handed the footwear to the duke, who passed it to one of the guards as they left.

"Eeew," said the guard, noticing its milky contents.

"Just be glad it's not a thigh high boot," the duke muttered.  "He'd have filled that, too."

Get a Clue
© 2008
Get a Clue

"I'm sure you're all wondering why I called you here this evening."

The man in black stood before the library fireplace and glowered at the assembled guests, in particular the gravid redhead beside him.

"One of you impregnated my partner, Agent Scarlet."

He jabbed an accusing finger. "Was it Mrs. White with the vibrator in the hot tub?"

The accused rolled her eyes.  "You can't impregnate someone with a vibrator, moron."

"Colonel Mustard then, in the kitchen with a salami! You chased Scarlett all weekend."

The old man fretted.  "But she runs too fast.  I couldn't ketchup."

"Mrs. Peacock!"  Black tore away the lady's gown to reveal a jockstrap. "Or should I say Mister Peacock?  You're certainly well equipped for the job."

"But I'm gay!" the transvestite declared. "And don't bother fingering Professor Plum.  He's a fruit."

Black turned to Scarlett.  "Who did the deed?"

"I did."

An angular figure with an oversized cranium materialized out of thin air.  He kissed Scarlett on the cheek.

"Mr. Grey?  Scarlett, how could you?"

She shrugged.  "He promised me the stars.  And alien implants for my breasts."

Black dropped to his knees, gawking at Scarlett's gravity-defying bosom. "I want to believe... they're real."

Corkscrew
© 2003

There's this chick in the library—her expression is like radioactive judgement. She thinks I'm a slut. I ooze saccharine at her on my way to the stacks. I've found books on Greek art you can't see in museums—orgies; fucking things you can't think about. I stare at them until I can't take it anymore. In the can, breathless, quaking, I roger myself in the ass with this telescoping bottle opener I keep in my purse, one foot on the toilet. Later at this party—shrill—she demands a corkscrew. Helpful as a Girl Scout, I offer her mine.

Territorial
© 2003

As a kid, Jack played wild at the island—a pink granite leviathan bristling hemlock and pine in a saltless, slate sea. Adolescent; ran clammy and panting in the resiny forest and wrestled his undisciplined desire, spurting into the rustling soft needles of the bush floor. He remembered now; needed this. Last year, he reclaimed it from the Jacobs, who took it in the recession of ‘82. Strange. He had to come on it—make it his own. His back humped in echo of the shore; I watched as his spray dried on the stony bank.

His, again, at last.

Whorse
© 2003

In the barn, he tethered her blinkered head to the crossties. Alongside, dark shadows shifted in their stalls. Her stilettoed, strap-y "fuck-me” hooves clattered on the sloping concrete.

She shook her ass—fractious, impatient; pouting pussy winking at him. He fumbled buttons on his squeaky new leathers, breath ragged. "You a fine filly. Ride my Clydesdale, sugar.” Pushing aside her nylon tail, his drooling cock bobbed, purple, before crowding her womb like a stone fist.

"Harder!” she cried.

He bit her neck when he came. Unsated, she eyed the restless gloom and whispered, "Baby, I want...something...bigger...”

Fatima 
© 2002

She lay with her legs held together. Beautiful... God. I cupped her thatch. She moaned, loosened. My tongue sought her cleft, rimmed her pink mouth - then it struck me - she was missing parts: the tip of her clit, inner lips.

I watched, questioning, as tears streaked her cheeks. "I still feel. Put your hand this way.”

I held the heel of my palm on her; letting her rock, slid my fingers tight inside - pressed up, in. I cried like a baby when she came. Fatima laughed. "They'd have to do more than that to tame me.”

I felt like war.

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