Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. Yes this is another one.
The goal is two-fold; for writers, a weekly challenge to keep the, err, juices flowing. For readers, you’ll find all the stories linked off at the bottom of each week’s prompt. Are you game? Will you try your hand at some on the fly writing? Will you expose your work to new readers, will you read along and find new authors? I do hope so.
So, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is this;
Write a story with the prompt as your title. Today’s will be :
Tweet it with both the prompt hashtag and the hashtag #FuckMeFriday
And lastly add it to the links at the bottom of this post.(note, if you don’t want to tweet it or don’t have a blog, I invite you to post your story in the comments section.
There’s a moment when everything slows. She holds my gaze as tight as the rope looped loose in her hands will soon capture me. I watch her pupils dilate and contract, revealing green eyes gone towards hazel, dusking like a fading bruise.
She blinks and my eyes track down the pale length of her neck, over the ball of her shoulder as it bunches, pulling her hand up to deliver the rope to the bedpost. “Not tonight,” she says. My pulse beats in the hollow of my throat, no, not beating but fluttering, a moth striving to find the way through the glass to burn on the glowing filament. “You’ll hold still for me because you want to, won’t you, my dear?”
What is fear but anticipation flavored with the crisp, copper tang of danger?
I swallow, the sound loud in my ears.
No more instruction than that and I back away until the bed hits the back of my knees and drops me to the mattress. She follows, crisp white shirt tucked into faded, worn jeans, bootheels clicking on that shiny hardwood floor. Night slithers into the room, surrounding us into crepuscule without any of the vibrance of sunset. A tremble ripples down my spine. There will be no light, no twinkle of stars or the soft embrace of moonlight.
“Will you follow me into the dark,” she asks, the lone lamp in the corner casting her features into the realm of mathematics, all angles and plans. With hands and feet I pull myself back onto the bed, lie back, and exhale my answer to the ceiling as I close my eyes. “Yes.”
My skin pebbles in the instance before she presses over me, jeans dragging a rough caress between my thighs. Beyond this room other people go about lives that never venture beyond dusk. Never explore the dark to find the secrets hidden there.
Her breath fans over the swell of my breast and mine catches in response. The next sound is as distinct as a scream. Metal slides over metal and the first kiss of it against my skin shoves a tiny mewl from my throat.
“Yes or no, Serena.”
As surely as she takes control of me she hands control back. She shifts, straddling my hips, the heat of her cunt radiating into mine through the denim barrier. And she waits. Patience personified, a sharp-toothed dangerous beast waiting for the right moment to seize her prey. Without opening my eyes I can see her; head cocked, still expression, eyes dilated. I can feel her energy coiled atop me, a spring awaiting release.
“Are you. . .” I ask.
“Yes. This will be permanent.” That tone of voice tugs at my clit. It’s the same one she uses when she pushes me to the edge and makes me beg for release.
Instead of relaxing the tension steps up. I breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. My mind buzzes, a kicked beehive, agitated by the suppression of innate responses. She lays the blade against my skin, tilts it on edge.
“I got to see a set of obsidian surgical tools yesterday,” she says, her voice sliding into her professional range, withdrawn and clinical. My entire being freezes as a hot line blooms across my breast. “They’re exquisite and oh so sharp.” Images flash. A shiny black blade, blood welling from a cut before the pain registers, so dark against creamy skin.
I cannot speak. My voice is sheared away to nothing. “I couldn’t bring myself to buy them,” she continues and my stomach flutters as she repositions her blade. “There’s no history to them, no story.”
I’m ready for the next slice and the pain slices across vision, staining it red. And I know. I know what knife she’s chosen to mark me with, what instrument she wields. She forewent her father’s medical bag. I open my eyes and meet hers, watching as she lifts her grandfather’s straight razor, the one he kept from his day’s as a barber, the Wild West’s stopgap doctor, to her mouth and licks the edge.
My blood stains her lips. She sets it aside, leans down and kisses me. I’m devoured in a rush of hot copper, her and I. She pulls away, sits up, and reaches beneath her to find me slick, oh so slick. When did that happen? When did I start to flood?
Her mouth is a smear in the shadows, her white shirt a rorschach test. My breast throbs and glows, lines tightening as my nipple follows suit. Her fingers press at my clit, hard then light, swipes then circles until my hips are rising to meet her, following her movements, my body her orchestra to conduct. Each touch twists me tighter, her legs holding mine shut, forbidding my bodies wanton desire to spread wide.
I will beg for more.
And more. But the knife is only the beginning of the perfect torture she has planned for out expedition into the sides of ourselves rarely acknowledged. She catches my clit between her fingers and presses. “Not. Yet.” Words are clipped and my head somehow manages a jerk of assent. She drags her fingers free and I cry out, the absence of pleasure tearing my voice free as pain had not.
I tremble when she reaches for the pearl handled blade again. Dusk is but the beginning of night. And we’ve hours to go.