Note: I’m going to endeavor to have the weekly post up on Thursday mornings in order to give people the time in all time zones to undertake it.
Twitterotica themes have been hanging around for some time, with various writers tackling weekly challenges such as #wankwednesday and so on, and writing challenges far and wide are abundant. Yes this is another one.
The goal 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, welcome to the linky love edition of Fuck Me Friday. All you have to do is 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.
~ Rush ~
It was one of those things you never expect. Out of consideration I accompanied my mother to service that Sunday morning. Winced when the minister asked the trustees to stay after and shrugged at her apologetic look.
So I sat, fidgeting in the back pew as the congregation thinned, passing through the eye of the steeple, a needle piercing the sky, a thin thread of faith dispersing, pollen on the wind. The ever irreverent side of me wondered how many beyond these walls found themselves allergic.
It took all of ten minutes for the sanctuary to empty. The tension making my headache eased. I actually liked the church when it was deserted. Even on the cloudiest days the stained glass windows spilled golden light through it, painting it warm and welcoming.
I twisted to find a slight woman little older than I in the doorway to the rectory. “Yes?” I thought I recognized her, but my mind refused to offer up a name.
“I’m Emma, the pastor’s sister.” Emma. Of course. How could I not know her? I blinked and she touched my arm. “Your mother asked me to let you know the meeting is going to go on a bit.” My thoughts narrowed to the tiny point of contact where her Emma’s fingers still touched me arm. “If you’d like, I’m just working on some things for the next service, you’re welcome to come over for a sandwich or coffee?”
I think I nodded. I don’t remember speaking, only following her like a lost puppy out of the church. The rectory kitchen gleamed with care. Wood smooth and polished, glass catching and refracting sunlight into tiny rainbows.
Emma matched my silence. I mirrored her at the table. She flashed a small smile and turned her attention to the lengths of soft gold in the middle. I watched in fascination as she slid one through her fingers, turning the dried rush into a celtic cross with a handful of deft movements. My stomach seemed to twist in concert with the broad blade of grass.
The hot line of pain slicing through the web between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand woke me from my daze. I hissed and dropped the rush I hadn’t realized I’d taken, its edge wetted like a quill with my blood. Before I could pull my hand to my mouth Emma’s cool touch held it. My heart mocked me, beating against her fingers instead of in my chest.
How long had I adored her? I couldn’t say. She visited from time to time, marking years off in my life with smiles and quiet looks.
Her slender fingers dragged through my palm and over the fine slice. “How long have we known one another, Kate?” Her tongue flicked out to swipe the drop of red from her fingertips. Something in her expression shifted, both stilling and growing feral at once.
“A long time,” I exhaled, my hand still in hers. Her lips, so red, curved into a smile. I wanted to taste them. Discover their flavor. Cherry? Raspberry? Or sweet copper tang from my own blood.
The tip of her tongue slid along my parted skin and I melted from my chair to my knees before her. “Oh god.” The words slipped from my lips, a prayer to some hungry god I couldn’t name.
“Not by far,” she said. Emma pulled me to my feet. “Wait here.”
My gaze followed her, hungry and needy and confused. She ducked through the door and returned moments later. “Come with me.” My fingers met and twined with hers. She led me through the rectory and out the back. A tiny cottage nestled at the back of the church grounds, sheltered by great willows trees that brushed our heads in wispy benediction.
“Emma?” She stepped through the door and waited for me, dark eyes gone darker. “Are we doing this?” I wanted to add ‘at last’. I ached to reveal how long I’d wanted her with some irrational desire I couldn’t fathom.
“All you have to do is say ‘yes’.”
Emma’s bedroom matched the woman. At least, the little bit I saw when following her. Warm colors, tidy, everything tucked away into chests and drawers.
I wanted to discover what she hid. Delve into her hidden spaces.
Her mouth found my hand again, teeth dragging a line of sensation down my fingers and to the base of my thumb. I moaned aloud when she bit into the flesh.
“Kate.” She exhaled my name, warm breath slithering over my skin, audible desire that crawled into me and pulled at desires I’d buried and denied. When her mouth closed over the slice in my skin my knees buckled again. Nerves sparked to life, hot and cold, pain and pleasure, colliding and rushing to pulse deep and hard between my thighs.
Not a flicker of resistance remained when she crawled over me, pushing me back onto that cold, smooth floor. The heat of her mouth held every nerve of my body in thrall until her fingers slid beneath my skirt.
She fucked me, pushing into me in time with the pull of her mouth. Throb of my cunt matched by the sharp pain of her tongue teasing tang and copper from my parted flesh.
A rush. All because of a rush I hung lost in the uncontrolled approach of my own orgasm at the hands of a woman I’d thought nearly a saint. When my muscles clutched at her she slid her mouth to mine.
I lost myself to her then. Tipped over the edge into some crazed, sparkling abyss that pulled me up and out and through. Her lips tasted sweet. Her tongue like a penny melting in languid heat. I sang my pleasure into her, filled her with it, flooded over her and into her.
There were dark bits floating though my vision when I met her gaze, muscles of my stomach firing at odd intervals, rhythm lost, leftover electrical signals jerking at my body in the echo of her fuck.
I hung, teetering between her mouth and fingers. Undone on the razor’s edge of a rush, waiting for her to twist me back into shape.