Slash fiction is fan fiction porn. It's when characters from some existing setting (often a television show) have a sexual relationship. I don't write slash fiction, because I don't write fan fiction. I'm personally opposed to it, but there's nothing wrong with it; just not my thing.
Flash fiction, on the other hand, is something different. It's fiction, written very, very fast. In today's case, 125 words (exactly). I wrote several brief stories, each relating around one of the tags used less frequently on this site.
I hope you enjoy
125 words of erotica
Anal Beads:
He bit his tongue when the first one
went in. Clenched his teeth at the second. Closed his eyes when the
third joined in, and whimpered at the fourth. He felt so full, the
pressure trying to burst out of him. He felt the string between his
legs, hanging out, dangling free while he was so tightly packed. He
whimpered, looked at her with the eyes of a sad puppy.
Then she pulled, yanking them out all
at once, with the cruelest speed. The movement, the pressure change,
the stimulated prostate, turned his whimper to a moan, his grimace to
a groan, and his feeling of being full to a wonderful emptiness as
orgasm flowed through him, leaving behind a pleasant memory and a
stain.
Bastinado:
He swung the cat of nine against her
sole, the riding crop between her toes. He smacked with the paddle,
he lashed with the switch. He sliced through air with bamboo, and he
laughed as she screamed. She moaned and she smiled, her feet burning
in pain, the rest of her in pleasure. He scratched the raw skin,
debated making it bleed.
She begged him to stop, but he moved
on. A thousand light taps in the same two spots. At first they were
surprising. Then annoying. Then painful. Finally, it became pure
agony. She begged and begged, but he kept on striking. Begging him to
stop was not the safe word. She was in pain, but he knew she loved
every blow he struck.
Bukkake:
The plastic made noise around her. A
clamp held her nose closed, forcing her to keep her mouth open. She
sucked on them, bit by bit, coming up just to breathe. Her hands a
blur, touching every one of them. She gasped in pleasure when cum hit
her skin, smiling as she felt it drip down her face.
She rolled it in her mouth, spitting it
out to let in a new cock or another blast, sucking it in to play
with. As they came, they were replaced by more, an unending stream.
She had cum all over her body, a puddle on the floor. It would take
hours to clean, and none of the cum was hers.
But it was worth it, every spurt.
Cupping:
As the air sucked out and pulled his
skin up under the cup, he thought about the image. She was an artist,
and he knew there would be a picture when she was done. Rings of
bruise, circles forming something beautiful. Until he healed, until
the marks faded, he would be a living canvas, an example of her art.
She moved them around a bit, massaging
the muscles underneath, spreading out the marks so bruises would not
all be the same. She shaded and colored, smiled at the image that she
formed on his back. He moaned at the delicious pain as she added cup
after cup. His back was her canvas, and this would be her
masterpiece. It would be a most beautiful agony.
Cuckold:
Tied to the chair, he watched a
stranger fuck his wife. She looked at him every so often, a smirk on
her face as she showed him a man who could give her pleasure. She
made noise with the stranger she'd never made with him. They put on a
show, and all he could do was watch.
It wasn't the first stranger he'd
watched fuck his wife. This was becoming common. There were some
regulars, but he never learned their names. That was never a point,
really. Who they were didn't matter; that
they were was telling.
They were right to laugh at him. Right
to mock. They called him cuck, made him say it too.
And he loved it.
Enema:
Warmth in his rear, a pressure on his
stomach. He bit his lip and focused on holding still, on holding it
in, though his body begged for release. He was stronger than his
instinct, and he forced his sphincter to stay clenched. His insides
swam, and he wanted it out, but not yet. He grimaced as his body took
a different track, giving pain rather than begging for release.
But not yet. Not without permission. He
didn't think he'd really have to drink it up if it came out, but the
fear was enough to give him a bolster to his will. He doubled his
efforts, sweat broke out on his brow, and he shook with the effort.
It hurt, but it was worth it.
Forced Homo:
It was the only way I could allow it to
happen. The only way my mind would let me do what I wanted. I wasn't
really forced, but years and years of conditioning wouldn't let me be
free. Wouldn't let me be myself. I needed help. I needed him to tie
me up, I needed him to gag me. I needed him to make me feel
powerless, to make me feel I had no choice. I asked him to do this,
and when he did, when my ass was first fucked, I loved every second.
I loved the pressure, I loved the feel, and I loved the rhythm. It
was wonderful, and it made me free.
But I couldn't have done it without
being forced.
Latex:
A second skin, holding in my sweat.
Breaking away my humanity as it covered every inch. I was no one;
could be anyone, could be anything. My new skin stretched when I did,
cleaned easily with soap and water. It smelled like heaven, and I
begged to stay that way forever.
I could be her doll, her toy, her fuck
slave. But she wouldn't let me. She couldn't. I had to take off my
new skin, at least for a while, to be safe. Drink some water; it
would make things better. Relax and come back to humanity for a bit.
Then we would put it back on, and I
could be her doll once more. I could be who I really wanted to be.
Needles:
They crunch as they break skin. Long
needles slide in and out and in and out again. A corset laced of
metal through flesh. Beauty and pain in a wonderful package.
We can whip the needles, bending them
under your skin. Make them pull the skin from the muscle, make you
understand why they are called surface piercings. The pain will not
stop. The needles will not break. They will bend, and so will your
skin. You will know the marks, and you will know the hits of the
flogger. They will not be forgotten.
And when we take care removing the
needles, once we've clean your little wounds, they will heal. There
won't be scars. Your body will forget.
But your mind will remember.
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