Feast: Erotic Flash Fiction

Tags

Adrea Kore, cunnilingus, Female Ejaculation, Female Sexuality, Flash Fiction, men who enjoy women, Oral Sex

He is intent on making a feast of me with his mouth. Sometimes, yes, penetration is the dessert and this, the main course.

Crouching in front of me, he pushes my legs apart, then hauls me down the bed towards him, placing his hands under my buttocks, running them deliberately from the cheeks to the underside of my thighs. He leans into my flesh with his weight, causing my legs to tumble back towards my shoulders, and my sex to lift off the bed.

He likes to hold me there, hold my gaze, watch me noticing what his eyes are taking in.

I know he can smell how much I want his mouth on me.

First, he gentles me with his lips, his tongue, finding the soft silky place between my outer lips.

He licks and I sigh. I sigh and I open. I open and his tongue darts inward.

His tongue, curious inside me, and I am immediately wetter. He breathes into me. The warmth makes my womb contract, and release a small draught of liquid desire. An aperitif to prepare my lover’s palate.

He licks and I sigh. I sigh and I open … I know he is hungry and thirsty for me. I know he must drink and devour me. His hunger magics me into nectar and ambrosia.

He breaks me apart like a ripe peach, sucking on my flesh as the juices spurt out of me, drenching his face, dripping down onto the cushion beneath me. His tongue feels out and flicks the delicate ridge of the peach-stone in the centre of me … flicks and licks, sucks and delves. Mouths me, swallows me. And oh, I am fruit for his labours.

The man who loved cunt.

I am nothing now, but currents of pleasure, pleasure breathing in and gushing out, breathing in and gushing out. How can I hold such an ocean inside me? And he is drowning willingly. I will have to rescue him soon, surely. Send out a life-boat.

Oh God. The sheets.

He briefly comes up for air, and registers the sodden sheets beneath me. Panting, he moves my body to a drier part of the bed.

Sometimes, we begin in a bed and end in a wading pool.

And he is diving down again. And I want to taste what he is so hungry for, so I take his fingers within my hands and we enter my sweet honeyed place of earthy delights together.

Breathing in, gushing out.

I pull him up, sucking our fingers together as I look at him, all innocence.  Then his mouth is there too where our fingers are… and we are so voraciously, insatiably, hungry…

That it is time – for dessert.

*

© Adrea Kore 2013 (First published on Forthegirls.com – 2013)

This is one of my earlier pieces of erotic fiction, a piece I sometimes perform live at readings, exploring the playful, juicy, messy delights of sex.

The rights have passed back to me, and as I’m updating my fiction on my blog this month, thought I may as well share it. Enjoy!

Night-Sea Journey: Prose-Poem / Flash Fiction

Tags

Adrea Kore, Female Ejaculation, Female Sexuality, Flash Fiction, Mermaids, Prose-Poetry, Wicked Wednesday

Water Serpents II – Gustav Klimt

Inside, I am oceanic-eternal. Like a medieval map of the world, my reality spills over the edges of the known. My contours and deeps are uncharted; it is uncertain where I begin or end.

Here there be Mermaids …

I will sing to you, lover, sing of my mysterious sea-secrets. The endless undulations of me; pleasure filling me, chalice-like, with briny wine for you to sip from. Let my hair caress your hips, your mouth, like filaments of pale seaweed. Let it wrap about you, binding you to me.

Come, set sail upon me. Be my explorer, my cartographer. The stars are in alignment, love. Together, we are the journey.

Part me, as Moses parted the Red Sea, a miracle act, here, too. Your questing flesh, an expanding promise, riding high on my inner tides. I sigh out with pleasure in wet waves of release; contract, back, with the moon’s powerful pull.  Ebbing. Flowing.

Je suis la mer …

Sail me, in your boat of longing, as a brave sailor will. Sometimes, I am the calm of a tranquil harbour, lapping gently at your prow. Other times, I am surging waves, impossible depths, the suck and broil of hungry currents crashing against your sides, salt-sprays high over your star-seeking mast.

And here there be dragons …

I can shipwreck you, lover, leave you gasping for breath, disoriented and drenched on the coastline of my belly.

Touch me, leave your wet finger-prints as memories in the sands of my shores.  Dipping, spiralling, diving deep, you plunder me, asunder me.

Your fingers are learning me. Your fingers learn fast. Your fingers are listening inside me.

Secrets, whisper-dripped desires that fall from the walls of my underwater cave. Filling up the whorls on your finger-tips with the drawn-out pleasure of me.

Ebbing. Flowing.

You carry my secrets on your hands into the world. I imagine you touching your fingers to your lips when you crave the scent of mystery amidst the everyday.

Sail me to the land beneath the evening star; believe not the myth that it is always just out of reach. Drop your anchor down,

 down,

 down.

Perhaps you will not reach the bottom, but float suspended in me forever…

My contours and depths are uncharted. It is uncertain where I begin or end.

I am oceanic-eternal. A mermaid dwells in my briny sea-cave, and she will sing her siren song, whether I wish her to or not.

 

Men have drowned in me.

But you, you have lived to tell your tale. Tales of your night sea-journeyings.

When the stars are in alignment, lover, will you come sail me again?

 

© Adrea Kore, 2016

 

Myths about mermaids fascinate me; their link to feminine sexuality and the unconscious. My piece is part micro-fiction (flash), part prose-poem. I think I’ll be recording this one soon.

I’m delighted to find creative synchronicity this week has led me to Marie Rebelle’s wonderful “Mermaid” theme this week for Wicked Wednesday. Thanks, Leonora for giving me the nudge. Click the button to discover more mermaid explorations …

Dangerous Curves: Erotic Flash Fiction by Adrea Kore

Tags

Adrea Kore, BDSM, Desire, Femme-Doms, Flash Fiction, Published Fiction, sexual fantasies

The text said she had to see him. Now. He drove the coast route, tyres squealing, taking the curves way too fast.

That’s what she’d told him the first time.

“Slow down, kid. My curves are the scenic route kind.”

She’d slashed with her whip, millimetres from his cock. Bowing his head, he’d kissed her boots, begging for forgiveness. Jade.

From then on, he was hers.

What will be her pleasure tonight, he wondered. Last time it was candlewax. Dripped hot on his nipples. Take-away noodles forgotten beside him, he strokes his keyring, a miniature jade riding crop.

“To remind you to jump, like an obedient stallion, when I want you,” she’d teased, dangling it cool against his testicles.

Her tiger-clawed fingernails had inscribed welts in his back, her sex flowing like the Mississippi by the time she’d finished taunting him, and allowed him to fuck her.  Jade …

Finally at her doorstep. Mouth dry with anticipation, his tongue felt wound in wool as he announced his arrival over the intercom.

“Your stallion is here, Mistress,” he rasped.

The Lover’s Playground: Friday Flash #9

Tags

Adrea Kore, Desire, Flash Fiction, Friday Flash, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, sexual relating, sexuality

It had become their sweet mid-week ritual.

Pasta at their local trattoria, served in huge parmesan-laced bowls, with a shared bottle of red. Their legs, under the table, intertwined like strands of tagliatelle.

Afterwards, they’d stroll three doors down for gelati, choosing their cool palette of pastel flavours, sampling from each other’s cups as the sweet mounds softened in the summer-night air.

They’d walk home through the quiet back-streets, taking slightly different routes, yet always arriving at the playground.

Carrie had come to think of it as their playground. Their twilight play-time world, after all the children were gone for the day.

Along the back of old wooden palings separating a back yard from the playground, the words “Love is Love”, in florid spray-painted flourishes, always made her smile. They had joked that the graffiti artist was no philosopher.

Chris would settle her on the swing, seat generous enough to cup the ample curves of her very grown-up buttocks. Standing behind, he’d wrap his arms around her, swaying gently, allowing the swing to take their gravity. Then he’d start to push her, sending the little girl in her skyward, squealing, higher and higher.

Carrie had come to think of it as their playground. Their twilight play-time world, after all the children were gone for the day.

One night, while she was still dizzy from the swing, he knelt in front of her, running his hands up the inside of her thighs.

“You haven’t got any underwear on.”  He gripped the chains, pulling the swing towards his waiting mouth.

“Too hot …” she murmured, as his tongue delved into her depths. Head back, gasping, she swallowed stars.

Hurdy-Gurdy Love – Friday Flash #7

Tags

Carnival Story, Flash Fiction, Friday Flash

 

When first I collided with you on a dance-floor, you grasped my waist and lifted my feet from the ground, as if I was as light as fairy-floss. Your laughter, carnival-bright, sparked come-hither neon bursts of colour onto my skin. I was bathed in your razzle-dazzle.

Your hand in mine, up we went, up, in your whirling wonder-wheel. The world fell away beneath our feet. It was easy to lose all sense of gravity with you.

“Roll up, roll up,  for the ride of your life.”

Round and round we whirled, in your wonder-wheel of love. I was never afraid of heights, but your gaze made me dizzy.

Round and round we whirled, until we stopped, suspended, swaying seductively at the wheel’s apex. The view from beside you seemed spectacular, dazzling me with possibilities. You reached out and stole me a handful of stars. Rocking together in our carriage, hip-locked and suddenly, lip-locked. Our tongues were sweet with toffee-apple.

I lost myself in the hurdy-gurdy of your hands, melting like ice-cream under the warmth of your tongue. Lick me all over, love. I’m sticky with lust.

Your jeans disappeared like a magic trick, and I rode you eagerly, my carousel pony, hands grasping your pole. I glided, you guided, up and deliciously down.

You must have bribed the ticket-man.

With the rocking carriage, we made a giddy threesome. As I threw my head back, the stars swooped down to catch me.

“Marry me,” you whispered.

“Yes.” I laughed, in spite of the short, delirious courtship. It’s easy to lose your sense of perspective when you’re going in circles.

Round and round we whirled, my feet forgetting the feel of the ground.

You must have been friends with the ticket-man.

“Roll up, roll up,  for the ride of your life.”

Inevitably, what goes up, must come down. Gravity pulled us earthwards. I remember how my stomach lurched, as I finally stepped onto solid ground.

Perhaps I should have consulted the fortune-teller, took heed of the fore-warning in her outspread cards. I can see them now.

The Magician. The Fool. Death.

Your love was a cheap carnival trick, your proposal accompanied only by a cartoon ring from a side-show alley game.

You disappeared, with a swirl of your charlatan coat, in the middle of the night, as carnivals do. Leaving only the litter of your flimsy promises, strewn like ticket butt confetti across my bedsheets, and the sickly-sweet aftertaste of fairy-floss in my mouth.

“Roll up, roll up,  for the ride of your life.”

© Adrea Kore, August 2016

This little number is based on a whirlwind romance, and the flimsiest of marriage proposals I ever received. Never trust a marriage proposal that doesn’t come with a proper ring.

For more dizzy rides on the wonder-wheel, or to find out more how to join in the fun, click on the giant typewriter buttons, and write to F. Leonora.

 

 FOR WRITING TIPS & INSPIRATIONAL TWEETS  

High Tea Service – Friday Flash #5

Tags

erotica, Flash Fiction, Room Service Fetish

Although there was only one of me, I ordered tea for two.

The atmosphere of this five-star hotel, with its Art Deco gold and marble flourishes, was making me feel extravagant.

I put my finger to the old-fashioned “Buzz for Service” button. A novel feature in these online, uploaded times. One-touch service, before a mouse-click ever existed.

Moments later, the phone rings. Reclining on the panoply of pillows, I pick up the receiver.

“Room Service.”

“Tea for two, please. English Breakfast. And the High Tea cake platter.”

“Yes, Madame.”

If they kept insisting on calling me Madame, I was going to behave like one.

I stretch, enjoying the whisper of my new black silk slip against my skin, the cloud of white hotel robe open over it. Plenty of time before my two o’clock appointment with a publisher. Admiring my freshly pedicured toes, I saunter to the mirror to apply matching lipstick in ruby red.

There’s a brisk knock at the door.

“Hello, Room Service.”

“Come in,” I assent around my lipstick, casting a sideways glance. The door opens, revealing firstly the trolley with silver teapot and a three-tiered cake tray, then a tall young man, his tumble of curly brown hair fighting the neatness of his uniform.

“Tea for Two, Madame,” he announces confidently, looking about for the other occupant.

“Set it by the bed, please.” In the mirror, I admire his broad shoulders as he manouveres the trolley. I feel his eyes on my body, as I finish with my lipstick, then walk towards him, smiling.

“There’s just me. I love tea. But whatever am I going to do with all that cake?”

“Shall I pour, Madame?”

“Yes.” I watch his long, tanned fingers handle the teapot, seating myself on the bed.

“One cup or two?” His brown eyes twinkle, sending sparks across my skin. His gaze caresses my cleavage.

The Letters that Spell Your Name – Friday Flash #4

Tags

Adrea Kore, erotic fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Flash, sci-fi erotica, Typewriters

I imagine your fingers unfolding this letter.

I see you, sitting on your porch, a beer beside you, leaving imprints of soil from your garden in the margins, as you smooth it out to read. I see your mouth, moving over occasional words as you sometimes do.

I found it amongst the rubble of a residential street, lying under torn books and broken beams, somehow intact. Nearby, in a half-buried drawer, a fresh ream of paper. I salvaged it, brought it back to the shelter.

I touch my fingertips to the letters that spell your name, tenderly, as if touching your skin; your lips, your temples, the solidity of your palms. The letters leap and arc through the air on their metallic trapezes, marking the paper as my kisses long to mark the salted nape of your neck, warm from the sun. My fingers find you again through old typeface, find the memory of us in the spaces between letters.

Typing your name cracks open the place inside where I have buried my love for you.

The sturdy letters remind me of stories you introduced me to; tales of H. G. Wells and Bradbury.

The aliens are here, my love.

I type out my longing for your skin against mine, for the soft hunger of your kisses in the night. I type the memory of your hands, anchored inside me, as my back arched up off the bed. I type the memory of deep sleep with your body curved in protection around mine, the slow ebb and flow of your breath.

How I long for that now.

They have destroyed everything everyday. Now the unfamiliar, the broken, fills each day. We, the few who’ve survived, in scattered cities, are caught in a fear-filled limbo. Survivor guilt. Sure that we too, will lie down to snatch a few shreds of something once called sleep and not wake again to see the sun. The sun is not something they’ve yet managed to unmake.

Celluloid Dreams – Friday Flash #2

Tags

Adrea Kore, Celluloid Dreams, erotic fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Flash, Porn Film History

Wide-eyed, the actress on the screen freezes for the camera. Faux-lashed eyes are framed by a black mask, as the tinny shriek of police sirens escalates.

Clad in black, a wide shot captures her – the shattered glass on the floor, the racks of brassieres and flimsy negligees. The sirens grow louder as she drops her carpet-bag, and uses her teeth to remove her gloves like a stripper, wriggling provocatively out of her turtleneck.

Through the torpid haze of cigarette smoke, suspended in the chiaroscuro flicker of projected images, the cinema screen is barely visible. Pamela sighs, and pulls her camel trench-coat collar closer.

The close-up cut to the burglars’ ample buttocks and waspy waist jolts noticeably. Pamela winces. The so-called editor of this film lived in a downtown flop-house, subsisting on burgers and bourbon. He couldn’t do a professional film-splice to save himself.

Muffled coughs. The incessant yet indistinct rustling of clothing, particular only to these kinds of cinemas, pervades the auditorium.

Glamour films, he’d said. For a very discerning audience.

On-screen, the screech of brakes. The sirens stop. Naked except for her mask, abundant but perky breasts fill the screen, jiggling as the actress grabs at the nearest negligee.Cat-like, she steps into the store window, shrugging on the transparent baby-doll negligee. The camera hones in on her hips and bared pussy, her curvy thighs, before the negligee froths around her torso.  She freezes in a come-hither pose, as three cops burst in, wielding truncheons.

“Police!  You’re surrounded!”

With no obvious offender in sight, they stand, bewildered and bug-eyed.

She sighs. His plots were always so ridiculous.

Images of Lauren Bacall in tennis whites and Audrey Hepburn in chic cocktail gowns flicker in her mind’s eye. Her desire to emulate them.  She remembers her girlish excitement, meeting a film director. Harisson Marks. Her first film audition.

“Gonna make you a big star, baby. You’ll fill the cinemas.”

Hand of A Stranger – by Adrea Kore (Audio-Erotica)

Tags

Adrea Kore, Audio-Erotica, erotic fiction, Flash Fiction, Hand of A Stranger, sexual fantasies

Let the shimmer of my stockings under streetlights be your lure. I hear and don’t hear your stealth-clad footsteps, trailing me.

Block after block, past sordid bars and shut-eyed houses. I want not to know the dark lust you harbour at the glimpse of suspenders through my skirt-slit. Swishing so close to my sex, where you want your cock to be.

(If you exist, back there in the shadows.)

Hand of A Stranger is a dark little flash fiction story I often perform live. (For the audio-link, head to the bottom of this article, and the big red writing will tell you how) I’ve been told this piece is quite filmic, and I like to invite the audience to close their eyes when I read it – so the images and story can unspool across the screen of their collective closed eyelids. If anyone was peeking, I guess they would see how much I enjoy reading this one, savouring the sound and consequences of each word, each building image.

You could say this story was inspired by two things – my love of film noire  and my own relationship to what often is termed non-consensual (or non-con) sexual fantasies.

I have them. In fact, according to statistics, a lot of women do.

It may well have been the theme of some of my earliest and most recurring sexual fantasies when I was a much more sexually shy and inexperienced teenager.

I have written elsewhere that, “in engaging the reader, erotica seeks to arouse. But it may also confront. Provoke. And subvert. ” (Earthing Eros: The Making of Erotica)

And this:

Erotica writes into those areas of the human sexual psyche and behaviour that some other genres gloss over or shy away from. Erotica reveals the links between our inner psychological desires, motivations and our sexual actions. It can also bring into the light the contradictions between our inner sexual desires and our outward behaviour. What do we settle for? What do we secretly long for, and to attain that, what lengths would we go to?

The taboo in erotica is something I’ve addressed only obliquely so far, and it’s definitely a subject I will be focusing on in future blogs.

But – there’s other things going on here, aside from that.

This is a fantasy about a particular performance of femininity.

Stockings & suspenders. High heels & tight pencil skirts. Naivety. Vulnerability.

This is a fantasy about desirability, through the themes of pursuit and capture.

A deserted alleyway leers to the left.

You step close, bring your hand to my mouth, reel me into you, into the alleyway, deftly, like winding in a fish.

It’s an age-old, universal theme.  Found in medieval sonnets, classic romances, Shakespeare plays, and graphic comics. It plays out the idea that a woman is so desirable, that a particular man will pursue her and, at all costs, possess her.

This is a fantasy about loss of control.

But not really. it’s a sleight-of-hand concept, a paradox. When a woman constructs a fantasy for herself about loss of control, it’s her fantasy. She only loses control in the ways she finds pleasurable, and the other players in the fantasy behave exactly as she wants them to behave. So, on another level, she’s entirely in control. But to enjoy this kind of fantasy, one employs a kind of double-think. One forgets that one has constructed something in order to succumb to the will and desire of another. And the sexual imagination is adept at this kind of double-think, I believe,

This piece does contain explicit sexual themes and ideas that some may find disturbing and confronting. So please, make your choices around listening or not listening with a view to your own self-care. Thankyou – you have been cautioned.

TO SAY “YES” TO ME WHISPERING THIS STORY IN YOUR EAR – HOVER & CLICK OVER THE IMAGE BELOW …

It will take you to a site called Audio-Boom, and then, like a You-Tube Video, you’ll need to activate “play” to listen. I hope you enjoy … and you know I love feedback. ❤

Finally, this is also a fantasy about trust.

“My unspoken fantasy. Hidden in the crevices of my unconscious. But somehow, you have found me out.

All quotes from Hand of A Stranger – Adrea Kore 2013

(published on forthegirls.com 2013)