Guess what’s finished? That’s right! Flash is done! Mostly done, at least. I need to do some formatting work on it to figure out how I can add a table of contents without slapping on “Chapter One”, “Chapter Two”, etc., in front of each mini-story’s title. And then I’ll need to sneak that by the meatgrinder at Smashwords.
I can do this. I think.
Once I have that done, I can return to working on Sweet’s Dove, which is turning out to be less about dear Lucy meeting the laconic Sweet and falling in love, and more about Lucy’s own evolution, from the time she enters Judge Taylor’s household, to her joining the Boston bordello, The Graces. And then, hopefully, she will move out West to fall in love with Sweet, because stop hijacking my stories, brain. I had this one plotted out! Now you’re changing it!
On the bright side, it looks like this will mean a longer story and it also means I get to dip into some of my favorite erotic subjects, such as forced sex, attempts at forced orgasm, and dubious- and non-consent. Right now I’m in the middle of a scene where Judge Taylor has gotten his sweaty hands on some French tintypes to demonstrate to Lucy the proper oral technique.
Things are going to get steamy.
Seriously, check it out:
He held in his hands what looked like a large deck of cards. “I have brought you a present, Lucy.”
The Judge had only ever given me torment; I could only view any gift he might offer with wariness. So I remained silent and waited for him to fall on me. Instead, he sat beside me on the bed and spread the stiff cards so I could see their faces.
They were not cards after all but tintypes, wrapped in paper mats. The soft brown images were not the stiff portraits I was accustomed to seeing, but rather showed women in assorted poses, with varying degrees of nakedness. As Judge Taylor sifted through the pile, I was subjected to the sight of fleshy breasts, rounded bellies, gracefully curved and raised arms, with thick thatches of hair in the creases of each body.
I caught my breath and shut my eyes but he would not have it– I had not seen everything he wished me to see. His hand closed on my shoulder and pinched hard until I was forced to look again.
There, directly before my nose, was a different portrait. A man was standing naked below the waist, his shoulders and head cropped from the image. He possessed the same instrument my master had wielded on me, but his was inserted partially into the mouth of the girl who knelt before him, her hair unbound below her hips. Her eyes were closed, as I wished mine were, and there were words inscribed in the corner, fancy and flowing words. I, who could hardly read English, knew them to be in a foreign language. French, I supposed. It was known that the French were the most degenerate of the races.
“Do you see, Lucy?” The Judge shifted his hand from my shoulder to my chin, as if to help me direct my eyes. There was to be no glancing away; my entire field of vision was filled with that obscene coupling.
I thought I could detect, even in dull shades of sepia, the glimmer of moisture that her mouth must have left on that organ. I had never seen one so clearly and was grateful for the blurriness of the image– or I tried to be grateful. Beneath the thin cotton of my chemise, I could feel a heat gathering, the prickle of sweat or worse where my thighs pressed together. Traitorous body, to react to this. I could only hope that the Judge took my stiffness for disapproval.
“Do you see?” he repeated, and released my chin to seek the hands I had folded nervously in my lap. Seizing one, he pressed it to the buttons of his trousers. Before I could close my fingers against him, he had shaped my palm to the thickness that grew beneath. “Take me out.”
I knew better than to protest. Fumbling one-handed, I undid the buttons that kept the thin wool fastened and parted the layers of his underclothing to expose his flesh to the open air. And, because I also knew he expected it of me, I let my fingers curl loosely around his shaft. I tried to ignore the delicate weave of veins against my skin but every time he twitched with excitement, they printed themselves against my palm and fingers.
His hand returned to my shoulder and through pressure, made it clear he expected me to kneel as the girl in the tintype was doing. Oh God, I thought, save me from this indignity. Save me from this, and don’t punish me for the water filling my mouth. I cannot help it, please.
(See? I told you so. Look for Flash: A Collection of Erotic Shorts very, very soon!)