I first got into flash fiction purely as a technical exercise over at ERWA. The challenge was to write a piece of exactly 100 words that was a real story (with a beginning a middle and an end) that also had erotic content. It was meant to help the writer to understand how to be concise.
It was quite frustrating at first. I would write something that was 220 words long and then have to précis it until it reached the 100 limit.
Of course, it turned out that that largely missed the point. It implies that you write a flasher by cutting things out. I’ve since learned that you write a flasher by condensing what you have to say. It’s a little like “reducing” a sauce in cooking – although there is less volume of sauce at the end, what’s left is much more intense; everything essential to the flavour remains.
Now when I write a flasher, I start with an emotion. Then I move to a situation. I end up with almost as much back-story in my head as I would for a 3,000-word story. Then I try to find the moment that best expresses the back-story and the emotion.
If you’d like to know more about how this is done go here
If you’d like to snack on some flash fiction then try any of the stories in this section. Most are exactly 100 words. All are less than 500 words.
The woman my lover made me
(c) 2005 by Mike KimeraI miss his grin when he undressed, spread wide below hungry eyes, mirroring my position, it was both challenge and tribute.I miss the bruises he left on my breasts, his blood-hot hardness skewering me, his lust flooding me, bursting the dam of my restraint.
I miss the glee in his eyes when I slid his soft-but-stiffening flesh into my mouth, engulfing and resurrecting him.
I miss being his mistress, his guilty secret, his unoriginal sin.
Refusing a life of loss, I grasp my sleeping husband’s sex, ready to discover if he will enjoy the woman my lover made me.
Stoking the embers
(c) 2005 by Mike KimeraWaking to find my shy wife taking me deep into her mouth, I know her lover, the man who taught her this, has left her.The first bruises he left on her breasts inflamed my envy. I, with my over-careful love of my perhaps-too-young wife, had never lit the fires her ungentle lover kindled.
Always, I met her shy lust with gratitude not the passion she craved, holding myself back, afraid to hurt what I cherished.
She looks up, a question in her eyes.
In answer, my fingers push roughly into her wet sex, stoking the embers he left behind.
My Favourite Houseboy (c) 2002 by Mike Kimera Paulo was my favourite Island houseboy. He had a sinful mouth and a remarkable capacity for pain. Sadly, he also had an attention deficit disorder; without attention he became disorderly. Then I would have to correct him. The other boys helped of course, strapping him down, taking turns to cock-gag him. He'd struggle beautifully while I spanked his smooth arse barehanded. Afterwards, when he thanked me, I would stroke his soft curls while one of the boys rewarded him
The heat of Paulo's spanked cheeks against my thighs as I buggered him is still my sweetest memory of Island life.
© 2004 by Mike KimeraI still lie on my side of our bed
curled ‘round your old shirt
scavenging your scent
sustaining my memoryI still feel your heat pressing into me
when I’m lying on my belly
letting my fingers
take your place
I still open my legs and offer my mound,
to your soft, skilled tongue,
trying to summon
a remembered caress
I still rage at you for leaving me alone,
gnawed at by fierce hungers
that you awoke
which never sleep
I still reach out for you when I wake
puzzled anew by your absence
slow to remember
your pointless death
(c) 2002 by Mike Kimera
My tongue lops his just spent seed from her swollen sex. It is a ritual with us: part blessing, part penance, part pleasure.
We have so many parts.
I was already his wife when we took her to our bed, believing ourselves predators, although she knew we were prey.
When I first shuddered to joy on her fingers, we all three knew I was hers forever.
My desire for her remains urgent, painful, insatiable.
She could have taken me away but she chose to stay with him, becoming our sole connection, our shared obsession, the hinge of our lust.
Why I swallow (c) 2002 by Mike Kimera "Swallow it. You know I want you to." I hate being squatted over like this, mouth open, tongue out, hoping the cum won't land in my eyes. "Coming ready or not." Fingers pull and stretch above me. Great gobs of cum slide out. I swallow but too quickly. The second load hits closed lips and drools across my cheek. "Good boy," she says, lowering her just-fucked cunt onto my face. "You getting hard eating my Hubby's cum, boy?" She laughs at my excitement. She knows what I'm waiting for.
"Ok" she says to her husband, "you can suck him now."
Doing it for Carla © 2003 by Mike Kimera He Grunts Spurts Rolls over Snores Same every time I loved him once Before Carla. Before I was reborn Before my real life began Legs up to hold his seed, Hand reaching for pleasure I think of her Soft tongue Firm fingers Smooth flesh Wide smile when she makes me come And come The memory of her peppered-honey taste drizzling into my mouth and the gently yielding sigh she breathes against my neck blossom in my mind bringing the release that blesses this act This child I’ve made tonight Will be ours Not his
I will make sure of that
I love her because... (c) 2002 by Mike Kimera I tell myself I love her for her breasts. Fabulous breasts. The best that money can buy. Look how she rubs them against me as she slides along my body, ready to 69. Or perhaps I love her for her talented mouth. She knows just how hard to suck and exactly where to press her stud-pierced tongue. These self-deceptions melt when she offers me the hot flesh that I truly desire. Gratefully I pull her thick hard cock into my mouth, feeling wickedly, joyfully decadent. Later, while she sleeps, I tell myself I will still love her after the operation.
The Third Word
© Mike Kimera 2006. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from firstname.lastname@example.orgPlease, DaddyThat’s what I whisper in his ear when I am spread and he is hard and
sweat is all that is between us.
Passes my lips like a promise or a plea, rousing his lust, stirring my
memories, mixing his need and my guilt
A prayer offered to this bar-met stranger, the right age but with the
wrong face, as he pushes into me
As always, pleasure and shame race through me, my present and my past
bound together. Perhaps this time I will finally release the third
Please, Daddy. Stop.
Before(C) Mike Kimera 2007Before I’d fucked my first stranger because she was near and warm
Before I’d paid to fuck my first whore because she was on offer and I had an itch to scratch
Before I’d let pornography fly-post my imagination with images that break people into parts and holes
Before all that there was Cassie
Who looked at me as if
the sun rose and set on my smile,
all the heat and heart of love was at my fingertips,
I was and always would be, all she desired
Cassie, who smelt of sunshine and cotton and tasted of honey and salt
Cassie, who had thick, heavy hair that she let me lose myself in
Cassie who kissed and caressed and sighed but who wanted us to be virgins in our wedding bed
Cassie, who was more than I deserved and less than I could live with
Cassie,who I walked away from without a backward glance, refusing to acknowledge, in the soft sadness of her sobbing, my own loss.
Now I ache for the wholeness of before, itch beneath the barnacles of after and pray for the strength to close gap between who I am and who I could have become.
© Mike Kimera 2007“Desire always outweighs the consequences,” he saidWith neither shame, nor regret, nor pride
But a bone-deep certainty, as final as the grave.
Glad of the all-concealing darkness, I replied
With soft kisses, deft touches, and low sighs;
Perfume sprayed to hide the smell of rot and fear
Deepening the darkness, he covered me once more
His hard hot hunger filling me and consuming him
With flames that showed me only guilt-filled shadows
He peaked, I spasmed, our lust crashed onto the shore,
Then his sticky tide ebbed, beaching me like driftwood,
Hollowed-out, abandoned and praying for freedom from consequences
Angela's lashes (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera "You asked for this," Angela reminds herself, hanging spread-eagled and naked. He'd let her hold the lash, long, slick, heavy as an eel. It could cut her. Scar her. He'd promised she would not bleed. It hisses through the air, then bites. A sting of surprise, then a line of pain burning across her buttocks. She is breathless when the second strikes. Tears flow. Screams echo. By the fifth she is aflame, unable to stay still, bathed in sweat and pain. At eight the come starts, flooding her.
After ten, he enters her, pushing her beyond pleasure and into prayer.
Shagging (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera "Fancy a shag?" she ses, pushing her little tits out. Not top totty, but the best on offer. I'm sorted with whizz. She's gaggin for it. The bogs stink of piss, no doors on the traps, lights fritzing. Perfect! One foot on the bog, dress hiked, fingers in cunt, she ses, "C'mon. Gerrit out." Pokerhard it pushes up and in. Fuckin TIGHT tart. "Harder. Fuck me harder." Slammin' her against the wall, grippin' her arse, bangin' and pushin' and bitin' her neck 'til I spit my spunk inside her. She's crumpled on the floor, still frigging, when I leave. Slag!
Bloodlust (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera You show less shock than most when you finally see me naked. Your fingers trace the fine white scars that map the progress of my trysts. You stay astride me, even when I draw the knife from under the pillow. Maybe you will be the one. "I've always needed blood for that last rush: the wound blossoming cherry-red; the line of pain drawn across my mind; the tart metallic taste drowning my tongue. But this cold-hearted lover, etching passion on my flesh, is no longer enough." You smile, take the blade from my hand, and begin our menagé à trois
A woman of affairs (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera My reflection in the mirror didn't look wicked, slightly flushed, more than a little pleased with herself, but not wicked. "Yet I am wicked" I thought, "after twelve years of faithful marriage and progressively less interesting sex, I've had an affair, well at least a fuck." My "lover", delicious word, was sleeping. I'd tired him out, poor thing. The sex had not been bad, thanks to his wonderfully talented tongue. His enthusiasm was great for the ego.
No wonder I had that just-fucked glow. I hadn't felt so alive in years. I knew I would do it again, and soon.
Little Jack Horner (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera Having often sucked and sometimes swallowed but never had it up me, I thought myself cherry; ripe but unplucked. On my knees with his plum in my mouth, feeling smug for snagging a hardbody and proud of making him so thick, I saw the condom as cute politeness, not evidence of a deeper intent. Pulling out, still hard, he whispered "Your turn Jack," and pushed me on my back. I expected his hand on my cock, but not the solid pressure against my ring. I tensed. He hesitated. "Pluck me," I said With a grin he slid his penis in.
Exchange (c) 2001 Mike Kimera Every summer grad students find her. "What was it like back then," they ask, "being his mistress?" The pretty ones get to come in. The skilful ones get to come back. Some of them learn from the exchange. "Your skin," the new one says. "Yes, it's all mine." "No - I mean it's so..." "Old? Wrinkled? Ill-fitting?" "Smooth. Cool. Different." "Different certainly from your firm flesh." "Just firm?" "No, this part is gratifyingly hard." "And are you? Gratified?" "I can take a lot of gratification." "Is that a challenge?" "No, it's a job requirement. Want the job?" "Mmmm yes ma'am"
Sunset swim (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera The setting sun gilds the pool. I swim through liquid light, lost in the water's warm embrace. The clamorous silence of the stranger, lone witness to my solitary swim, penetrates my calm. His ravenous gaze translates my movements into sensual display as, caught in the undertow of his need, I stroke slowly towards him. Rising from the water, standing defiantly close, I present my ripe wetness like a dare. His irises dilate. My nipples rise in greeting. The air crackles with his static lust. I earth the charge with a smile, then turn away, leaving only my fading footprints behind.
Age and sex (c) 2002 by Mike Kimera "This won't work," I say. Rolling my erection across her lips she says, "Looks like it's workin' to me." "I'm too old for you." "Afraid people will think you're my Dad?" she says, crawling up me, pushing her breasts against my face. "I'll tell them I like older men because they're so grateful." One hand on my chest, the other guiding me into her, she grins at me. "You enjoying my young tight wet body old man?" she asks, riding me with deliberate slowness. "God yes, I'm just scared you'll kill me before I'm 50." "You'll die happy," she says
Sauce for the goose (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera She'd lied when she said it wouldn't hurt. It hurts bad; but it feels good. I groan into the ballgag as she pushes the rubber cock further into my arse. "You like that don't you slut? You want it deeper don't you? Or is that harder?" If only I could reach my cock or if she would touch it. It is so hard it aches. This is what I get for pushing my wife to have anal sex. "Ok," she'd said, "but after you"
I laughed when she first donned the strap-on. I'm not laughing now; but I am coming
The smile that binds (c) 2001 Mike Kimera When I think back, it's not the leather-padded X-frame, spotlit in her basement, nor the cuffs on her wrists and ankles, nor even her ripe roundness, that makes me hard. It's her smile: wide, mischievous, gleeful. "Tie me. Please," she said. I hung her folded body on the cross, arms above her head, ankles strapped to wrists, the plump wet arousal of her labia on display.
Entering her, feeling her flesh grip mine, grinding her groaning sweat-slick body back into the leather cross, pounding her until we both flooded with lust,I wanted nothing more than to deserve that smile.
Booty Call (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera "Come on over baby, I need it bad tonight." Dolores. 2:00 am Wednesday. First call in three weeks. I want to say no. To hang up. To go back to sleep. "C'mere lover," her voice low, raunchy, "scratch my itch." Always the same. Hot sex then cold shoulder. Well not this time. "You wanna do me again like last time? You 'membering tha' time sugar? You 'member us slippin' an slidin' an you goin' in deep?" I remember the tight wet warmth of her, spasming on my cock. "Baby?" she purrs. I grab my car keys and head over.
Lucky Man (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera The sound of her climax scarred my heart. An involuntary, animal sound that she could not hold in. Eyes closed, yet still I saw her: split and ploughed, ankles held high by hands not mine, depths sounded with a speed and length and thickness I could but envy. Never for me had she made that noise. "It'll be exciting," I'd said, "I'd enjoy seeing you pleasured." When she demurred, I'd pressed. "Please? For me?" I'd persisted. She gave way. He was arranged. Leaving, he said to me, "You're a lucky man." "I'm not," I thought, "but I used to be.
Punter (c) 2002 by Mike Kimera Money in one hand, wedding band on the other, he stands frozen by the reality of his need. "Anal is extra," I say taking the cash. He shakes his head, his eyes fixed on my erection. "Oral it is then." I slide the condom over him and watch him shudder. "You can touch me if you like." His hand twitches but doesn't grasp my cock. He can barely grasp that he's here. Wickedly, I wank as I suck. He comes with my finger up his virgin ass. He returns to wifey relieved and ashamed. We both know he'll be back.
Blessed Memory (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera A year since Jenny died and still I smell her in my sleep. Waking, hard and hopeful, I'm pierced anew by the remembrance of my loss. My erection and my disappointment accompany me to the shower. The hot water on my face hides the tears she would have disapproved of. "Don't mourn," she'd said. "Live. Love. Think of me when you are happy." Eyes closed, I summon the memory of her gleaming wet skin and water-darkened hair. I pretend that her hand, not mine, strokes my straining flesh.
When release at last comes, it is, I think, with her blessing
Replay (c) 2000 by Mike Kimera The cybertap plugs into my skull and Julia is back. "Johnny!" Julia's voice smiles warmth and sex, then I am drowning in her scent, enfolded in her arms. Her love, always so physical, wraps me in a cocoon of affection. Kissing me, her open eyes full of promise, Julia presses possessively against my hard craving. "So you are glad to see me" she laughs, then freezes in place. "NO" I sob as the recording ends. Loss, as cold as her blood-drained flesh, drenches me. Death is cruelest to the living. Needing but not wanting her phantom warmth, I press REPLAY.
Remembrance of things present (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera For five winters she had waited in her cold bed for his return. Now, on The sunlit quay, she saw that he looked older, harder. New lines at eyes and mouth. Grey strands watermarking his dark wavy hair. His once beautiful hands scarred and dirty. She knew she too had aged, her body thicker and less firm, the shine of her youth lost in waiting. He could do better. He deserved better. Stopping before her, not touching, he drank her in. Her body ached with need. His callused hand against her face flooded her with lust. "Remember me?" he said.
The wall (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera I felt I would melt that night, the heat was so cruel, but I went, by moonlight, to meet you at our wall. You were there before me, tall and straight, impatience restrained, desire clear. The rain was sudden and unstoppable, like your kisses. The wild in you surfaced in that dark, a ripping, biting, penetrating frenzy that drank from my spirit and pinned me to the smooth hardness of the wet stone. Lightening lit, lust filled, coated in welcome rain, I writhed under you until all storms were passed and only the wall and the moon and I remained.
Sucking Harry © 2007 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from email@example.com Rose knelt and took Harry deep into her mouth in a single graceful move. Nervously, I took my place behind her, pressing my chest into her back and cupping her breasts When Rose released Harry and lowered her head to work on his heavy sack, it took all my courage so close my virgin mouth on Harry’s cock. Surprised by the heat and smell and the size, I gagged but still pushed forward The force of my own erection against my wife’s arse surprised me. “I told you you’d like it,” Rose said, grasping my hardness “Now make him come.”
Trinity © 2005 Mike Kimera. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from firstname.lastname@example.org She holds my aching cock, rests her shoulders against my chest, and sighs as her husband enters her. For two years as her lover and his friend I have been plummeting toward this union. He is blindfolded, protected from the sight of me. She is in charge. I... am stunned but happy. She squeezes me and murmurs, "Now." Entering her, I can feel him. We form an unholy trinity, joined and separated in the one flesh. The gravity of her passion pulls at us both until we splash against her shores. I don't know if I am blessed or damned.
With Thanks (c) 2005 by Mike Kimera When my wife takes me deep into her mouth, eyes closed, tongue twisting cheeks hollow, I know her lover, the man who taught her this, has left her.
I knew before I saw the bruises he left on her breast that she needed more than my over-careful love,
She was perhaps too young and I too long alone when we wed.
Had I responded to the eager grip of her tight flesh with passion, not gratitude, I might have lit the fire her ungentle lover kindled.
© 2000 by Mike Kimera email@example.comYou show less shock than most when you finally see me naked.
Your fingers trace the fine white scars that map the progress of my trysts.
You stay astride me, even when I draw the knife from under the pillow.
Maybe you will be the one.
“I’ve always needed blood for that last rush: the wound blossoming cherry-red; the line of pain drawn across my mind; the tart metallic taste drowning my tongue.
But this cold-hearted lover, etching passion on my flesh, is no longer enough.”
You smile, take the blade from my hand, and begin our menage a trois
Cunt (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera “C’mere, cunt. I need a fuck.” Beer-bloated, shit-faced bastard, dragging me by the wrist to the chair his ass flows over. “C’mon, cunt. I ain’t got all night.” Wagging his unwashed chubby and grabbing at my bruised tits. Smile. Shimmy. Spread. Slip it in. “Don’t just sit there, bitch, work your ass.” Smile. Arms around his neck. Hips grinding. He swigs his Bud from a longneck, finger pushing up my ass. “Want some bottle, cunt?” Ring clenching pain-memory. His eyes close. Never sees the ice-pick. Sounds like forcing dogfood from a can. “My name is Trudy,” I say. “Cunt.”
The Lesser Sin (c) 2001 by Mike Kimera “Please, Sean,” she says, “use the other hole.” For weeks now I’ve been “visiting” Mrs. Cassidy when her husband’s away. Doesn’t she go like a racehorse on speed once we get down to it? A shame it is to see a fine woman like herself never allowed a good gallop. But we’d not ridden this way before. “Ah now, Maureen, are you sure?” says I. “Father Michael says it’s less of a sin,” she replies, displaying a well-oiled entrance that looks a snug fit. It’s a tight, sweaty, pleasure-filled canter that we have. Catching my breath I whisper, “Bless you, Father.”