Flash fiction is a super-short story, usually written to an extremely strict word limit. They are bite-sized pieces of fun - but the tighter the limit, the more of a challenge to tell a story!
Cherry (100 words, first published in the anthology 'Surprise', ed. Tinder James)
‘Trust me,’ he says.
I trust you.
‘You know I love you. With every beat of my heart.’
He ties me to the bed and pours kirsch into my navel. Lapping the liqueur, he kisses his way up me. I quiver at each sweet impact. His mouth is like fire. He kisses my nipples and they tingle, burning. Runnels of kirsch trickle down the soft swells to pool on my breastbone. I cry out with need.
He slides his body over mine; mouth cherry-sticky, cherry-red. As his teeth shear into my flesh I realise: he has no heartbeat.
Picture Perfect (250 words, first published in the anthology 'Dirty Thoughts from the Back of the Room', ed. Ruby Kiddell)
Look at you, up there on that podium—you look like you own the world. One arm raised to the cheering crowd, one around your beautiful wife. She's blond and perfect and you've told everyone she's your bedrock. Adoration shines in her eyes as she watches you, although your own gaze sweeps triumphantly outward across the faces of your supporters.
You're going to save them. You've promised them that you'll bring back old-fashioned values: decency, honesty, family. You'll save the nation from the liars and the pornographers and the flabby-minded liberals.
Funny, but right now I can't help picturing you the way I know you so well, in private. The jut of your erect cock, marbled with angry veins. The hairy wall of your stomach glistening with sweat, as I take your dick deep in my throat. The sudden gush of your ejaculate over my breasts, pearling on the coral of my nipples.
And yes – most of all I picture the brace of your shoulders and the lines of your back as I delve between your spread ass-cheeks with that big black rubber strap-on you love so much. And the way the disapproving pucker of your hole gives in to its insistent push, without resistance—as weak and yielding as any liberal morality. You pant and moan and twist, trying to work me deeper inside you: deeper, harder, and more brutal.
“Fuck — Yes — Harder!” you beg.
Yes: of all the photographs in my possession, that's the one I like best.
Disciplinary (130 words)
I approach my manager’s door, heart thumping.
I’d had the office camera because at Housing we have to keep a record of the state tenants leave a home in. At home overnight, I'd let my boyfriend snap a few private shots, downloaded everything and handed the camera back to John at work. Forgetting to wipe the chip.
The pictures are of me face-down on the bed. Hands tied behind my back. Thighs spread to reveal my juicy pussy. Bum-cheeks flaring red, puffy from the slaps of the paddle. SPANKING SLUT drawn in lipstick across my shoulders.
I knock and enter. John is sat behind his desk. He gestures at the camera. ‘You know what this is about?’
‘Misuse of council property. It’s a disciplinary offence.’
‘So. Over my knee.’