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  

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.”