Tag: Romance (erotica)

Flash: Thebe Loses Day Job (attempt 3)

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of Ambro at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Surviving the first three days of the Nymphs and Satyr club’s Halloween competition meant Thebe needed to call her day employer and beg for time off. She hadn’t expect it to go well, and she was right. Bryson fired her.

Fortunately the $3,000 she had already pocketed from making it this far would easily cover her until she found another retail position. Her night job had given her a week’s vacation before signing in, so she had something if she was kicked out tonight.

Thebe wished she could talk to Rhene, her best friend who dragged her into this mess. But since Rhene had pulled a blue and white domino and Thebe’s mask was the green and black of forest, her confidant was on a different team. Celestial to her team of Nature nymphs. Their two teams, plus Fire and Water, made the four-way competition. No contact or collusion between teams except during head-to-head matches.

She really could use an ally. The competition was not only between teams, but also had one winner. Each day saw another woman kicked off each team. Thebe still wasn’t sure how her two hundred and forty pound ass had gotten this far. Sure her six foot frame distributed the weight so she wasn’t a butterball like Cristina on the Fire team who weighed the same but was an entire foot shorter, but Thebe knew her teammates hated her chunky butt. The mix of team and individual results drove paranoia within and without the teams. The high-scoring Water team was pulling away from the pack in more ways than one. Thebe gave them one more day before self-destructing.

Having used up her one personal call for the competition, and her daily break from one-way mirrors and web-cameras, Thebe returned to her team’s room for a quick shower as the rest of the girls got their daily privacy break.

Thebe played it up for the camera as water sluiced over her. She was pretty sure she had gotten a following on the members-only website. No way her teammates hadn’t put her head on the chopping block. Yes, Daisy had been a no-brainer the first day, but since then … According to the other girls, who have actually watched this competition on the web, ejection votes were only part of the mix. The winning team gets to “immunize” one member from each of the other teams. The object is to weaken their chances by forcing the other nymphs to keep weak players.

The balance of the decision came from audience. People could pay up to $100, $10 per each keep vote. Anyone making it five days gets to take home 10% of their supporter’s payments as a bonus. So Thebe soaped up her D-cups, trying to find the balance between titillating and tawdry. 

Meryl was tawdry and had come screaming in the room yesterday. Once during the week each competitor can find out how the vote work – she could find out how everyone voted on every team for that day only, or she could find out how her team voted that particular day plus her standings for every day before. … Meryl’s slutty and superior behavior was playing well for the hard-porn audience the competition catered to, but not her team. After Meryl’s initial rant about how many ugly and fat girls were in the competition this year, including but not limited to Cristina and Thebe, Thebe hadn’t changed her eject vote once.

Heavy breathing echoed through the speakers signaling the next competition. Thebe wrapped a towel around her and rushed into the main room.

A photo shoot, each girl dressing up as the winner. The Nymph Mistress to a Satyr Master. The shoot would be in the Elemental mask and nothing else.

Seeing no reason to dress , Thebe followed the other women into “magic” room. Today it was a …

(and this again is too much for a simple flash I am aiming for)

(word count 643; first published 3/3/2019)

Flash: Hidden from the Surface

Erin Penn

Image courtesy of alexisdc. at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Rating: Mature

“Not ready yet, my dear.”

Cheyanne glanced over her shoulder in annoyance at the vampire lord who bought her body and soul, but not her spirit. “I would be if your brother didn’t keep unzipping the dress.”

“Garrett.” Clayton admonished, a touch of exasperation lacing his voice.

“I can’t help it, Clay,” the ghost formed between the woman and the silver-backed mirror. “This body should never be covered up. Especially these bazongas.” He reached for the large breasts the loose dress top revealed, the dark brown tips drawing into points as his cold presence brushed against them.

“While I agree with the sentiment, our guest and I are expected at a gala within the hour.” The younger brother approached the warlock-kin’s back and grasped the zipper, sliding it up her back.

Rather than keep eye contact, Cheyanne turned back to the mirror where her master remained invisible. Garrett hadn’t fully formed, so she could focus past him. Knocking his insubstantial hands out of the way, she pulled the top into place as the fabric tightened with the closure. She worked hard to appear resolutely angry when the ninety-year-old vampire raised her hair to kiss the back of her neck, and the ghost, who had died in his teens, continued to play with her nipples through the beaded fabric.

One day she would kill her father for enslaving her, and maybe when she raised him from the dead with her rapidly developing necromantic powers, she would thank him for selling her to the brothers.

(words 253; first published 2/24/2019)

Flash: The Archer (Part 2) – The Reaction

Erin Penn

Image from freedigitalphotos.net

Rating: Mature

Banging open its doors, the metro bus traded another group of afternoon commuters with a tide moving out and a wave moving in. Susan stared outside hoping people would take the hint that she wanted to be alone. She still debated trading her car for cash. Now limited to public transportation, the trip between her apartment and her department store job went from a short fifteen minutes if lights were with her to over an hour unless she hit the transfer jackpot. Today the commute home was exceptionally bad after being on the wrong bus for five stops.

Someone in her peripheral vision paused by her row, dragging her out of self-flagellation.

“Is this seat taken?” a smooth baritone asked. Susan forced her eyes to look at someone directly. Her eyes started at the belt buckle and crawled up. Past the sweat stained shirt declaring a name of Billy working at DJ’s Recycling. Over the dark almost beard hiding the shape of Billy’s chin. Stopping a moment to trace the purple scars scratched into the man’s face. To finally focus on two of the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Her heartbeat stopped.

The bus lurched and restarted her heart. “No, please sit.” Susan tried to ignore her tightening breasts and moisture pooling in her nether regions as he took her up on the offer.

“Billy” he said, offering his hand. Susan stared at the well-scrubbed pink hand before gripping it. All she could think of was his callused tips dragging across her nipples. What was happening to her? Her fantasy life usually was limited to the camera and software at her apartment.  With her behind the camera, outside the action.

“Susan, Susan Freeman.” She responded before reluctantly removing her hand from his warm grasp. She half turned in her seat as his wide shoulders encroached on her area, bringing her wide thighs into direct contact with his uniform encased legs. The surge through her system sent her mentally inventorying her apartment for working batteries.

“Nice to meet you Susan … Susan Freeman.” He responded in a voice that made her insides crawl, and her hands itch for a sound board. What a great narrator’s voice.

“James Bond fan?” She responded, hoping to hear his voice again.

“More like movie fan.” He said turning his body towards her. His lips parted in a smile so perfect she would have given up a day of chocolate to film it. “You?”

“Oh, something much worse.”

The man’s expressive face shrank in pretend horror, the recent scarring hardly noticeable in his constant animation. “No, not a critic!”

“Worse than even that.” Leaning forward she shared in a whisper. “I am a wanna-be. A wanna-be-director.”

The bus came to a stop causing her to glance outside. One more stop, she thought.

The response of “Really?” had turning back to the first man she ever wanted in front and behind the camera. “How badly are you wanna?”

Very, very badly wanna, she thought. To think she wouldn’t have met him if she hadn’t daydreamed her way on the wrong bus. “Enough to sell everything I got to get my own RED. My friends think I am crazy.”

He nodded. “Art students usually are. Which school are you attending?”

She shook her head, her brown curls bounced off her plump cheeks. “Not a student. Remember I had to buy a camera. Students have resources.” Susan focused on the driver’s head four rows ahead. “I created a couple shorts using a camera phone I posted to YouTube. They got a lot of hits. I always loved movies and writing, with the Internet response the bug bit big time. Now I’ve sold pretty much everything and spent every cent on equipment and software. Don’t even have money for rent this month.”

She refocused on Billy as her depression came rolling back. “I’ve been so stupid.”

Consideration crossed his face. “How many hits?”

She almost reached up to kiss him. No one had ever asked that. Not her co-workers, not her friends, not her family.

“About 12 million between the two.”

His blue eyes blinked. “Twelve … million?”

Smiling happily at the first person who seemed to get it. “The Moonpie Werewolf got more hits, but I feel Vampire Twister is the better of the two. “

“Those were yours?” he gasped. “Hon, hate to break it to you, but you got talent. Stupid would be not trying.”

The brakes squealed indicated another stop. Double-checking, she stood to get off. He stood letting her by. Feeling reassured someone liked her work, she disembarked. Sure, twelve million hits indicated interest and the ton of comments helped – but actually talking to someone who like it! She started floating towards her apartment.

Behind her came the perfect rolling baritone again. “Hey hon.”

Her body turned to face him. The other commuters scurried away. She debated responding, but seeing his face again outside the bus made her heart race. In for a dime, in for a dollar – as she had been telling herself for months now. “Yes?”

“Look. I don’t normally come this way. Got some buds catching the game at a sports bar tonight and I need to get food before male bonding with alcohol. Want to grab some pizza?”

She smiled sadly. “Sorry, don’t have any money.”

“I’ve got plenty.” He waved a hand over his face. “Car wreck two months ago. Lawyers are still working out the details, but the other guy is rich and they don’t want it to hit the courts. I’m set for the rest of my life if I don’t live large. I just got to accept no woman will ever look at me again.”

Susan grabbed the fallen hand and started pulling him to her apartment. “No woman ever look at you again? Really? God, just wait until I got you in my sights.”

In for a dime, in for a dollar “And between my legs.” She added.

(Words 993; first published 12/12/2012; republished 2/10/2019)

Flash: Undercover

Erin Penn

Rating: Mature

“God, I hate undercover.” Malcolm started peeling out of his business jacket. “I swear if one more woman pinched me, I was going to slug someone, most likely the good-for-nothing bouncer.”

Sally stepped out of the kitchen to watch her man get comfortable. His sculptured chest was from weights and gym workouts, but for honest reasons instead of just to look good. He had to be ready to run a mile or swing a ram after pushing a few hours of paperwork at the station. The upside of his using a gym to make his muscles instead of hard labor was his hands stayed soft and subtle to stroke her just right. Her lower regions loosened, remembering how he had stroked her last night.

“Your own fault for speaking the language,” Sally pointed out. “You blend better than anyone else on the force.”

Malcolm unbuckled the S&M harness he was wearing under his street clothes and put it beside his unloaded piece in the small safe in the front closet. He rubbed his regulation weapon a moment, partly in longing, partly for luck. The present assignment didn’t provide a place to hide the gun. He had to depend on his backup across the street hoping they were listening in on the wire sewn inside the harness if some shit went down.

Crossing the room to kiss his wife, Malcolm admitted. “Cost of a misspent youth.” He tucked a curl behind her ear while they held each other in a light embrace. “But eventually I will be old and fat and they won’t send me on these trips.”

“Somehow I am not seeing the fat, my love. Instead I see distinguished, which means you will still pull undercover until you retire.” She teased before stepping back into the kitchen area.

“Don’t say that.” He rolled his eyes before following her. The table was already set. Sally pulled the last simmering pot from the stove. “Though I admit this gig is better than most. I get to come home every night to your cooking.”

Sally smiled, ducking her head to hide the blush. The look in his eye said he was glad to come home for more than just the food.

“So how was your day at the daycare center?” Malcolm asked changing the topic away from his work before they hit stuff he wasn’t supposed to talk about. Occasionally they did anyway. She was a better sounding board than the police psychiatrist, and sometimes brought things to the table his fellow officers could not see.

After the dinner table was cleared and the dishwasher started, Sally and Malcolm went to the living room bumping hips. The honeymoon was far from over despite the wedding being two year in the rearview mirror. Metal on Malcolm’s hip jingled as they walked.

“Mal, you forgot to put away the handcuffs.”

Pulling his wife past the television towards the bedroom, Malcolm growled, “I didn’t forget.”

(words 490 – originally appearing at Breathless Press 5/30/2013 for the 12/18/11 Sunday Fun – See the picture that inspired the story! – As I do not know the copyright permissions, I have not copied it here; republished in new blog format 12/9/2018)

Flash: Scrimshaw

Erin Penn

Copied from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nantucket_Whaling_scrimshaw_E.Burdett.jpg
This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.
Photograph taken at Nantucket Whaling Museum, Nantucket, Massachusetts. September 15, 2008

“Can’t you buy anything?”

“Sorry buddy, but these are all standard and I got plenty.” The shop owner’s voice laced with barter avarice. “Unless you are willing to come down in price.”

“I am only asking a quarter what I paid for them.”

The deeper male voice managed to keep the whine of desperation back, but Felicity could hear the fear of grounded spacer clawing its way out of the too heavy, and yet too empty belly. She knew the answer even before the owner gave it, and she could tell the spacer knew it too. She glanced up for the stock, mostly in recognition of the man’s ability to keep the panicked dread clamped down.

Wow, now that is someone who didn’t skimp on zero-G exercises. Arm muscles bulged a bit as he gripped the scrimshaw case. Black hair was beginning to grow in, so the man was losing hope. At least five days growth. The clothes hung just a little on him, so he hadn’t been grounded too long. Most likely why he still had scrimshaw to sell. His box looked banged up, so he wasn’t some newbie whose captain left as a lost cause before the novice blew up the ship. Her eyes wandered over the portside overalls, becoming more interested in the puzzle the grounded spacer represented – and admittedly his looks – than the store stock, until she noticed the series of loops on the left side attached to two forks.

Wait, a harmony? They never have trouble finding work.

“I pay a tenth of market price for used goods. Sign says so out front, Jack. You get a quarter for unique pieces.” The seller moved his assessing equipment below the counter. “Ain’t much comes through here, but I can sell used goods to people who come to this backwater hellhole.”

“I got one handmade.” The harmony stroked his case. “A Candlewood, he … I … I got to eat.”

Hard-edge sarcasm destroyed the comradeship sales pretense the shopkeeper had welcomed Felicity into his store. “You got an Abbot Candlewood?”

“No, no, his brother, Clevon Candlewood.” The engine specialist held his box protectively against his board chest.

The merchant paled a little. Everyone knew the Candlewood’s ability to make scrimshaw beads. Some made their living from the beads, while others just did it as a pastime. While Abbot was prolific, Clevon was the better artist by far, but he did it between terraforming gigs.

“You got providence?”

Tears streamed down the guy’s face. His head jerked in a nod.

“Hold up.” Felicity didn’t realize she was going to speak until her clear contralto broke the venue. The two men turned as one. “A Clevon Candlewood you say?”

The harmony shuttered. Baring his desperation to a land jackal was one thing, but in front of a fellow spacer…

“The keep here can’t give you what it’s worth, needing to pay gravity charges. I’m willing to give passage to the Paradise Links for a Clevon.”

“Passage ma’am?”

“Yeah, you would use my bunk when I’m on duty, and food would be rationed and typical zero-g gruel, unless you work a little, but we could contract something out.” The shopkeep looked ready to interrupt, but she had a regular run and often picked up a bead passing through. The route was far enough off the main many of his mass-produced pieces were discontinued and she was able to fill in holes in her collection. The man was a jackal, an honest one because his providences were always spot on, but he still was a dirt breather, and he was easily distracted by the cash of the now. “You can wrap me the Mother Goose Cupboard and transfer the ownership file to this chip.” She tossed a thin blue stick to track providence of the artwork. Both the bead and the stick would be added to the box clamped under her bunk.

“Oh, I can work. Still got all my tools.”

“On you? Cause I lift in two hours, burn starts in one, and we got to get you to close all your books and open the ships before leaving.”

“Yes ma’am. Carrying everything on me now.”

Felicity reassessed his outfit. He had to have sold everything else. Only two forks didn’t bode well for an experienced harmony. He had loops for eight. But she wasn’t hiring him to keep her ship flying through the discord, just offering transport.

And maybe bunk space. He wasn’t crew, so, for once, that option was open. Unless he signed on for something. His sculptured arms looked strong enough to hold her all night. She shouldn’t have offered the work possibility; she hadn’t been properly lifted since, damn, since before she got her stripes nine years ago. Only one or two dirt breathers at a Links. Could she sneak in bunk requirements if he was only on for three stops or would that be unethical? You know the answer to that Felicity. On the other hand, if he was full harmony – she would need to find out his certification level – that would put them equals according to spacer guild rules. Nah, with two forks best she could hope for is a failed apprentice. Still harmonies tended to play outside the rules; she also heard they always found the right note to hum for a woman.

(words 890; first published 11/13/2013; republished new blog format 12/2/2018)