Welcome to another week of smut! Writing challenges can be found far and wide, and this one has just one goal – to inspire you to write!
We’ve been rolling around rather well here for a while, so I thought I’d mix it up a little. Starting today, the prompts, while still being mostly random, are going to have some sort of tie between them for each month. For instance, the rest of May will be colors, June will be sensations…essentially, the months will have a sort of theme to them. This will allow those who enjoy working on a larger scale the option to do an overreaching arc of stories, if they like, while still offering up the differences that I’ve grown to enjoy in the offerings each week.
The result of all of this, I hope, 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, without further ado, let’s get this thing rolling! To join in is as simply as 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.
Her name is Vivian. Vivian Alisha Thorne. In my head I call her Blue. In bed I called her slut, whore, and any number of other words no one would ever think to call her.
We met at one of those posh, overdone fundraisers. I never would have thought to find the daughter of the city’s richest man, the money behind the mayor, the governor, and half the state representatives, sporting a shocking crop of blue hair.
But I did.
And that alone made me cross the room to ask her name. Even though I knew.
She took me home that night. Took me to her loft apartment in that artfully scarred building. Vivian’s perfect composure barely cracked as we left, the murmur of rumor and supposition rising, flood waters filthy and turbulent.
No one would dare pass up the delicacy that a Thorne taking home a caterer offered.
I still don’t quite know what it was about me that made it through her perfected armor of flirt, dismissal and cool disdain. Blue. Yes, she had that cold ice queen thing going for her, that’s for certain.
She doesn’t need it anymore, but she had it then.
The loft was ill-lit by the streetlights below. Shadows stretched, strange reaching creatures, across the polished floors. Her fingers twined with mine, shifting from the grasp she’d used to pull me after her.
“I didn’t ask,” she whispered, her voice nothing but air flavored with tone.
“Ask what?” My free hand rose and stroked from her brow over and down her neck, the texture of her hair like the plume of some exotic bird. She arched and twisted into my hand, a low sound slipping past her lips.
“Ask if you wanted to come home with me.” She hadn’t. We’d not spoken but a handful of words before the event picked us up and spun us off into the appropriate directions, me for the kitchens, her for the stage.
“I’m here, aren’t i?” I whispered.
Her mouth answered my statement, not with words but with the softest press of her lips against mine. My lungs ceased. I felt my blood grow blue and bluer, losing oxygen, as the press turned into a kiss into a devouring.
Vivian took me to her bed. One moment we were grinding against one another, fighting for the upper hand, the next she tipped me back into her bed and climbed up me.
Light slanted across us illuminating her brilliant blue eyes. She matched, some little voice in my head observed. Blue hair, blue eyes, blue blood. Sleeping with a woman descended from generations of blue collar workers.
She undressed me the way a child unwraps a present; tugging and tearing at my clothes until she could get to her goal, all frantic expectation. I just laid there and let her. There was something sharp and dangerous in her gaze, like steel tempered to blue, an edge gleaming in the night.
Her teeth found my nipple, her fingers my cunt. I opened under her, arched into her, my fingers buried in that shock of blue hair. It was like fucking an electric current. She zapped through me, into me, over me. My first orgasm came like a bolt of lightning, my second shimmered through me like the sizzle of a fresh nine volt battery pressed to the tongue. The third woke me and I hummed, a live wire, ready to take her.
At first she said no.
When my mouth teased hers open and my tongue slid along the curve of her lip she retracted her negative, replacing it with an urgent “oh god please yes.”
Did I think her cold? She was hot, so hot. I pressed my face into the jungle humidity of her cunt and consumed her. My tongue slipped from clit to slit and back, up and down, over and around until her hips jerked in attempts to follow me. I pushed her clit until it hardened, pressed my teeth against it and felt it soften and retreat, teased my tongue against that bundle of nerves so softly it lurched back to life, seeking my touch. Her fingers twisted into mine and she rode against my face, rocking and bucking.
Her orgasm flooded us, once, twice, three times and then again. She begged softly for a reprieve and I slid my fingers free, licking them clean, a cream-fed cat.
Her name is Vivian. Vivian Alisha Thorne. In my head I call her Blue. She is my love, my lover, and my friend, and no one would dare call her cold. Not anymore.