flash fiction

The Change you Missed

Chances are, if you ever drank to get drunk, once or twice you’ve drank to the point of regret.  I certainly have.  It’s a terrible feeling to awaken to the knowledge that you’re not where you usually expect to be, then wonder what transpired.

The little story that follows tells of such a situation, and a surprising outcome, and through it all, a change in a life, or at least the possibility of one.

Stop, Slow, Stop, Slow

©  Craig J. Sorensen

You promised yourself it would never happen again.  Promised that you’d soothe your restless mind
in another way.  Promised you never again
wake up in . . . well

It looks like a doublewide, at least a quarter century old.  Neat as a pin, but showing its wear.  A train comes by so close, you can feel it in
your ass.

She’s turned away, a sheet over her jackhammer frame, and
you work to recall her face, but the dryness in the mouth and mammoth need to
piss are the only indication of what went on last night.  You remember, bit by bit, the bar you
migrated to starting at a classy pub downtown, just a stone’s throw from work.

You recall the bars, descending strata.  Never happy where you are, move on.  You lose count.  You wish you could remember.

You check the floor, expecting underwear next to the bed,
socks half way across the room, t shirt in the door, the rest an ant crumb
train to the front door, you do it like this. 
Impatience and passion, yes, but also it makes for an orderly retreat.  Step, clothe, step, clothe, step, clothe
until the door closes gently in your wake.

So unlike you, the neat stack of clothes on the Samsonite
chair, a suit and tie, t-shirt, underwear, socks, and her threadbare jeans and
tank top over the back.  What a pair you
two must have been when you left that last bar.

Birds’ songs ascend as the train rumbles its last.

She stirs. 

You freeze, knowing that she’s at that state where your
jostling the old bed will probably wake her. 
You lay still as a worm thrust from the ground by a sudden rain, the
caught in a cymbal crash of sun.  She
turns in profile, still sleeping.

A little more haze lifts, and you recall later last night, pool
played in a dive bar.  A girl who said
she held up construction signs on road repairs. 
Stop, slow, stop slow.  She beat
you at nine ball again and again.  Not a
thing about her was your kind of woman, and you wonder how you got here, no
matter how much you drank, no matter how deep your need.  And that need was deep last night.

That much you remember clearly.

She sighs, and you start to get hard.  Surprise at how you respond after what must
have passed last night.  Your desire is
deep, like it was before you left the office, maybe even more.  It is not the predictable drained sensation
steeped in regret that takes form when reason and cottonmouth set in.

You are harder. 
Harder.  It actually starts to
hurt.  Piss boner.  That’s it.

But you want her, want her bad.  You shouldn’t, especially when you already
had her.  Especially when she’s so . . .
so . . . so wrong.

She casts the sheet aside and shows off her muscular body.  You try not to look at the golden pubic hair
and note the way her knurled knuckles rub there.  Her eyes are on you, her lips are smiling as
her gaze drains down to the tent between your legs.  “Mornin’.”


Her fingers slide under the covers, up your thigh, and
cradle your balls.  The cool of her hands
is perfect, both soothing and exciting. 
“I’m glad you suggested we wait until the morning.”

Probably couldn’t get it up. 
As much as you drank . . .

Those cool hands join forces, one on your balls, the other
stroking your rod.  “Seem’s you’re glad
we waited too, but I must say, I never had so much fun just hanging out and
talking.  Especially when I was as horny
as I was last night.  And falling asleep
with that hard cock against my back?  Amazing!  Don’t know how you could stand it, but it
made me hot.”

“Uh, yeah, uh, that was great.”  You’re pretty sure you mean it.  You do know, that, as morning after regrets
go, not remembering what you talked about is a first.

She smooths the pre come that has drooled
into her hand up and down your shaft. 
Licks it, with a smile, from her palm like a cat cleaning herself.  She opens her body.  “God, I can’t wait to feel you in me.”  Her fingers feel perfect as she rolls a
rubber down your shaft.

You position between her thighs and savor her slick
walls.  She gives a huge, deep,
resounding, toe curling, lip stretching, jaw cracking sigh. 

You nearly come instantly. 
You’re glad when she says.  “Just hold
still so I can feel it all.”  You stay
still until the come that threatened to escape eases back.  You need to come, you need to piss, you need water, you need to

You need to breathe.

But you don’t do any of them.  You obey. 
You only obey.  Never your strong
suit, yet you do it well.  Buried to the
balls in her, and yet you push tighter, and are met with an approving grunt.  It’s strangely tender, strangely rough,
painful and yet you don’t want it to end. 
Your arms around her back, your legs entwined in hers.  Still and full of need.

It is Saturday, your day to rush around and get things done at home.  Well, every day is a day to rush around, you’re never stay
still, never patient.  So many reasons to
rush, and really, do you need one?

But your bodies begin to move together.  Slow, stop, slow, stop, she seems to turn
that construction sign, and you obey. 
You are happy, strangely happy.

“God yes, you feel so good in me,” she whispers in your ear.

Slow, stop, slow, stop, you listen to her breaths, her moans
her sighs as they ascend to a strangely gentle orgasm like a refined lady
sneezing.  Bad as your needs are, they are
superseded by the need to bring her another, see if you can make her writhe and
come like a grenade.

And you do, pounding hard in her, but slowly, slowly
ascending, your balls are hard as a wrecking ball.  You don’t want to come, but your body won’t
listen, and you shoot so hard in the rubber you feel you must have burst it.

She unfurls the rubber, and lets you go to the bathroom
first.  While she cleans up, you could
leave.  You look back at the bed.  Looks nice, and you lie down and wait for

Waiting, not your strong suit.  Glad when she comes to bed, and curls up
against you.  “Mind if I stay a little
longer?”  You ask.

“I was kind of hoping you would.”

You wonder how long it might be, and for once, you don’t
worry about it being too long.


By: Craig Sorensen

Collisions happen. 
Sometimes they are fatal, sometimes they are life changing.  Sometimes they are just a tiny space in time.

Perhaps a space that will be as easily forgotten as it

In my prior job, the corporate offices were in a building
constructed on a former pier that jutted out into the Hudson River.  Standing at one end, looking to the other,
could look like a three mile walk.

Naturally a fast walker myself, this could lead to a
less-than-appropriate pace.

One day, I was late for a meeting on the Manhattan end, a
woman stepped around the corner from the endless cube farm down the middle of
the building at just the wrong time.

No one was hurt in the collision, but I did feel awful about
running into her, and she was rightfully pissed at me, but the rapidity that
her expression softened stuck in my head.

It was no more than three seconds in my half-century of life,
an inconsequential moment, certainly not a pivot point in my life.  It might well have been forgotten if my
fiction writing mind hadn’t taken firm hold of the idea and begun to turn it

I wrote the formative ideas for the below not too long after
the collision, then set it aside.  I came
back to it, changed it, shifted it and grew it. 
Could it really work into a story someone might like to read?  I don’t know; this was what came
out.  I guess this was a flash fiction
exercise in “iceberg writing.”  Not
really a story itself, I built it on the idea of these two people, and set out
to illustrate them in tiny fragments of a single moment where they crossed,
showing only their gut reactions to an event, and hinted at a future.

Collision, ©2012 Craig J.

It seems this building has no end.  Narrow aisles like ladder steps, the
crossbars occupied by the oblivious staff members of our most recent

A Nevada desert road stretches to infinity.

No terrain.  No
rain.  My meeting is at the far end,
somewhere up there.  Ledger sheets will
lead to decisions that will affect the lives of every face that lies behind the
nameplates along the hall.  Nameplates I’ve
never bothered to read.  I turn my
wrist.  My steps lengthen and pound a
fast rhythm.

My arms rise in reflex, one hand braces on a wool clad hip,
the other arm steadies a narrow waist. 
Full breasts cushion my ribs like airbags deploy on collision.

“Bastard!”  I don’t
know the flower in her perfume; her breath is cayenne.

My voice goes up two octaves like a knee to the nuts.  “Goddamn!”

Juicy tears dangle from both sides of her chin.  Did I do that?  I grope for an apology.  Her pinpoint pupils are a tiny dot in a field
of cobalt – the cold winter sun through an old bottle.  Her porcelain skin gleams against the black
business suit, jacket half way on, her arms are suspended mid frame,
helpless.  Helpless.  I should ease away from her respectfully.

Astaire and Rogers wait for the music to start, but the
ensuing silence is more like the Novocain on an abscessed tooth.  We remain, frozen.  Her hand gathers my pink dress shirt into a
tight fist.  Her hip presses slightly
forward into the hasty embrace.

I release her.  “I’m
really am sor—”

“You should watch where you’re going.”  Her words are a whisper.  She gently pats my heart.  Her pupils widen, suddenly black as a
mourner’s dress.  Her nicked, thick
wedding band reflects the endless row of fluorescent tubes above.

“God, I am really sorry, Ms, um . . .”  I lift my brow.

She sniffs hard, pulls back, finishes putting on her coat
and wipes both cheeks.  “Huddleston.  I—me too. 
I didn’t mean it—I shouldn’t have called you—a—I mean, that.”  She smiles then continues in the opposite

I savor the last hints of her scent and my sudden, rare, ripe
guilt.  I look back and watch her walk
away.  She doesn’t look back.  Her pace looks angry, faster than my pace
when I ran into her.

I turn my popcorn hard on, something I regret almost as much
as asking her name, to twelve O’clock.  “Well
I am.  A bastard, that is, Ms
Huddleston.”  I say too quiet for anyone
to hear.  “Usually I am.”  I am late for my meeting, but walk slowly, and consider.

Don’t Change a Thing

By: Craig Sorensen

As the end of 2011 approached, I had lived over sixteen years at the same address. The longest I had ever lived at any one address in my life. I had been working for the same company, and for thirteen years been in the same job. For a man who had lived through a lot of changes in his life before that, it was an unprecedented trend of consistency. It gave me time to really pour myself into my passion for writing.

I got nice and comfy.

Along came an offer to move on to a new company, new city, new business. It was an excellent offer, and yet I hesitated. I was in a good place, despite some concerns about the future in that current job.

Yes, I hesitated at an offer that was beyond tempting.

Sometimes we find we don’t want change. Sometimes, it seems, change wants us.

Don’t Change a Thing

I said not to change. I wanted you, loved you, married you, just as you are. Don’t change, I said.

Not one of the long blonde hairs on your head, perfectly coiffed. Not your clear face, totally unadorned by makeup. Don’t change those bright dresses that light up a room when you enter, bare legs extending from your short dresses to ever-present sandals. That big smile that warms me when I’m feeling down. Your round glasses, so out of the step with the current fashion, magnifying your brown eyes like precious gems, begging me to take you, but first a nice dinner you made. You rise, knees close together, hands cross at your lower back, nipples that could cut glass. I reach up your dress, your thighs widen. “I’m yours,” you whisper.

“Yes you are,” and I lift you over my shoulder and haul you down the hall, toss you on the bed, your playful laugh at the urgency you so easily seduce.

But tonight, you suggested a restaurant where I’ve never been.

I wait.

I wait.

You have never been late. Someone turns my head as she walks into the room. Hair bobbed short, jet black and tousled. Meticulous makeup on her face. A conservative, dark dark dress with silk stockings extending from the low hem line. High heels clack slowly, and I can tell, despite competent grace, how unpracticed she is in them. I feel my brow lift higher and higher.

Your eyes suddenly a deep emerald green as you take the seat across from me, and act aloof. You don’t grab my hand the way you usually do.

How dare you.
How dare you!
Words fail me and my jaw falls slack.
I reach in my pants and turned the uninvited, uncomfortable thing to twelve o’clock.

Hardly a word spoken, we nibble on the appetizer you order. You suddenly hold up a key to a room in the hotel upstairs. I want to hesitate. You take my hand under the table and place it on your silk clad knee. I slide up and feel where the garter binds. You shove my hand away as if you didn’t invite me.

You pay for the half consumed appetizer. “No, there’s nothing wrong,” you say to the waiter, who can’t take his eyes off you. “My appetite just changed. A woman’s prerogative.” You nod my way and almost smile for the first time tonight. You stand up and wait.

Slowly, I rise.

On the elevator ride, I want to ask who you are, but I have some idea. I know there is a part of you that craves control, but rarely admits itself. I follow you. I worry. I am so hard as you unlock the door. I wonder what waits inside. You walk into the room and don’t turn on the light. “Come in. Get naked,” you command.

I hesitate. Briefly. “Yes, ma’am.”

Constants and Changes – by Craig Sorensen

There are those who don’t like change. A consistent life, in the office at 8, out at 5. Lunch at Mr V’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Friday night, leave the office half an hour early. Anticipation, he drives home a bit above the speed limit. He manages not to get a ticket.


A favorite meal, smiles across the candle-lit dinner table. A familiar face. Has she changed? Yes, of course. Thirty-seven years will do that. But changes so slow that only the Kodachrome photos on one side of the room from the many vacations to the Oregon Coast – every year during the first week in June, because it is off season and the room costs less – only those photos admit the aging process.

That steak was perfect, so was the baked potato, and he takes her hand in that familiar way, and leads her into the gently lit bedroom. Her modesty is as unchanging as her smile and her turquoise eyes, but she allows the bit of light he needs to unbutton her blouse, peel it over one shoulder, then the other. He kisses her soft and long, and unsnaps her bra. She acts surprised as it pops open, and they laugh.

They enter the bed, from the same side, and he disappears under the blanket. Her hips jerk when he opens them and presses his tongue deep into her. He knows every trigger, plays every note to perfection like a musician with his favorite song; it’s the one piece he plays every time he practices. Two orgasms shudder from her, and he’s so hard the tip of his rod pokes his abdomen. She feels so warm and soft as he slowly enters her, and posts up on his strong arms, and luxuriates in her body. She rolls like waves on the beach, bends his rod just the way he likes, circles his tight sac with her middle finger and he nearly comes too fast; she lets him off the hook. He wags his finger in front of her face, and she bites it.

They collapse together, encircle each other’s bodies tightly with intertwined arms. They move in a perfect rhythm and the old box spring sings in perfect time. They can’t last long like this. Not with the feel and smell of sweat eroding carefully applied perfume and cologne. No.

A great yell, a chorus, rings out from them. They kiss deeply through the orgasm.

Just once a week. Pretty much the same every time.

Exhausted, they begin to doze in the nude, the only night of the week that they do so. And tomorrow he will wake to eggs, bacon and toast, to greet the weekend.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”


Sometimes, erotica is all about the pivot points, and rightly so. Sexuality is a great changer. But one of the most memorable depictions of sexuality I recall from a young age was when a friend and I were sleeping outside one summer night, talking about sex, as we often did. For some reason, we talked about the very religious couple next door, and he described how he figured it happened between them. It was mundane, and plain, just as he intended it. Somehow, this always struck me as sexy.

My little vignette above is a bit of an homage to my old childhood friend’s supposition about the sex life of the middle aged couple next door. Maybe some of the best stories are about change, about pivot points, but that doesn’t mean consistency can’t be sexy.

Maybe it is the whirlwind that has been my life in the past two months that has driven me to write about a couple who finds passion amidst their very consistent lives together.

Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came along.

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