Rain

She thinks of her every time it rains like this, slow drops trailing like tears as she hums a tune.

A teen girl’s image shimmered — the petite bit of spunk with penny-bright hair and bronze freckles, smelling Heaven Scent, swinging her doll-like while Richard Harris crooned.

The teen became the woman, herding her own tiny children around a Thanksgiving table while explaining why her sister and brother-in-law were such assholes to their first-born.

Recollection limned the red-headed spitfire who’d said sotto voce, You weren’t the first baby but the second, disclosing the truth of grim wedding day faces in a washed-out black-and-white photo.

Rain evoked the truth-bearer, who loved the niece whose parents could not make themselves accept the replacement created after the shotgun.

He’s a good man, your father. He didn’t have to, but he did.

It wasn’t enough to be good, bruises proved. Better was needed, but never attained.

But this secret kept; she never knew.

Before her ginger mop faded, or her tongue’s edge dulled, cancer snuffed the light-bearer.

Before her teen-aunt's favorite song - released the year she graduated and married - slipped from memory.

MacArthur’s Park is melting in the dark...

__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 197
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 13
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Chalkboard

Surveying her handiwork, she nearly stepped on his foot while wiping her chalk-dusted hands on her apron.

“I’m sorry, but that quote isn’t by Shakespeare,” he whispered over her shoulder, his breath tickling her ear. She spun around, looking first into an athletic, broad chest and then upward, meeting his amused eyes.

“I was hoping to meet someone who knew that,” she smirked.

“Yes, it’s a quote by Arrigo Boito often misattributed to the Bard.” He smiled more broadly, exposing his dimples. “I’d love to discuss this over coffee, though.” His raised eyebrows queried his hopes.

“As soon as I’m off duty, say 10:00 p.m.?” Her own arched brow and a saucy smile answered and challenged.

“But you must tell me the source of this quote, and whether used in an opera.”

He grinned, delighted. “Ten it is, right here.”

She nodded. “Deal. I’ll be waiting. How can I help you now?”

“A table for two, suitable for a business lunch. My client will be here in a moment.”

As she gestured to a waiter, he leaned over her shoulder again, to whisper, “Verdi’s Falstaff, Act Two.”

She smiled back.

And they knew.

___________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 196
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 10
Photo prompt: origin unknown

Parnel

Having brushed out her silken chestnut tresses, she watched me approach in the mirror. I stooped to kiss her milky white shoulder before taking her by the hand to my bed.

“Come, my pretty parnel. Show me what my gift has purchased.” She pushed me back into the depths of crisp sheeting, crawling over me cat-like, on the prowl.

“Mmm, my lord, you’ve bought my gratitude not with gems but this impressive cockstand,” she purred before running her warm, wet tongue along my hardened member. She rose over and astride me, taking me into her sweet nether lips before sinking down onto my shaft. Her nipples teased my chest as she settled into a rhythm.

“Oh, thank you,” she moaned as she rode me, her pace quickening as she approached her bliss. I was swept along with her, the pull of her climax pushing me into sweet oblivion.

She woke me sometime later with a soft kiss. “Thank you for the lovely necklace, though I really enjoyed role-playing more than the jewelry, dear.”

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, love.” I reciprocated with a lingering kiss of my own.

“But next time, I get to be the prostitute.”

_____
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 25 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Parnel

Bar Fly

My physician won’t be happy about the cigarettes; he’ll be pleased, though, that his work has not been in vain. Likewise my therapist will feel gratified her efforts are yielding results.

After their investment in me, I feel attractive. I can see I’ve drawn attention; the men my friends are dancing with give me the eye. They follow the outline I’ve drawn by subtraction, my legs, my shoulders, the softer flesh revealed for viewing. My voice, smoke-enhanced, lures them in for an even closer look.

I’ve hunched over, hiding from them, just like any other vulnerable woman might when exposed both physically and emotionally. With time, practice, and healing, I’ll follow one of those hungry-eyed men to the dance floor.

As much as I hate to admit it, my doctors were right; there can be no more hiding. I needed to get out and assume normality if I’m ever going to be normal again.

A new normal, though, one I can feel every time I shift in my seat, one I choose every time I pass through the right door.

A new, normal woman.

_____ Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse Words: 184 Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 8 Photo prompt: origin unknown

Salty Dog

As an annual rite of spring break, she fixed a Salty Dog—vodka and freshly squeezed grapefruit juice over ice in a highball glass with a salted rim.

She took a big sip of the tangy-sweet beverage as she made for the hammock slung between palms on the private beach, shedding clothes along the way.

Emerging from the cabana, tall-dark-and-handsome followed, embracing from behind his lovely snowbird flown south to meet him.

“Hey, can I fix you a nice, cold—oh, never mind. I can see you're all set,” he said, kissing the shoulder closest to him.

She’d set her glass on a nearby table, licking grains of salt clinging to her lips. Wordlessly she prodded him into shedding his board shorts before pushing him into hammock behind them. Her knees met the sand as her long hair tickled his thighs.

She wrapped her now-cool mouth around his shaft, stroking his growing tumescence between her briny-tart lips until he was fully erect and his breathing irregular. Cupping his sac with her ice-chilled fingers, she mouth-fucked him slowly until he came, shouting her name.

Releasing him softly she said with a smile, “When you're up for it, I could use another salty dog.”

__________ Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse Words: 200 Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday - Week 24 via Rebecca Grace Allen Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Salty

Cajole

He roused slowly from a dream in which he was enveloped in her warm, lush scent, lying in beneath the tickling tendrils of a living willow. Blinking, the trailing teasing of the leaves above his face remained. He'd awakened with her hair twining over his nose and brow.

The sensation of her dark locks winding their way over him recalled their last joining, during which he cajoled her to ride him until he could take no more. Her hair enveloped them in a dark tent as she leaned forward, moaning into his mouth as she came again. The rich, breathy sound called forth his own orgasm, as if a siren had summoned his manhood to her bidding. He was hers, emptying his loins and his heart as she sighed her pleasure.

The recollection pulled at him just as her moan had last evening. He wrapped himself around his sleeping siren, his own heat next to the wetness of hers, hoping she would emerge from the depths of her torpor soon, to call him to her service again.

He would gladly dash himself on her bewitching vessel if only she would awake, and soon.

_____
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 193
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 23 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Cajole

Needy Kitchen

Needing less than a trip to a therapist but more than a self-help book, she leapt from the bed and walked toward the kitchen. A bag of flour plopped onto the counter, along with a lone tear.

Once mise en place was complete, she took out her frustration on the ingredients before her. Pour, push, pound--her arms wreaked out a shape, her hips swaying as she tortured the emergent dough.

As smooth as a baby’s bottom, the soon-to-be-bread nestled in the bottom of a bowl; she began to clean the counter, salty trails along her cheeks now ghosted with flour.

“Love, I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish because I’m scared,” he whispered in her ear as he pulled her into his chest, his hands clasped together over her belly. The tension left her as she slumped into his embrace, sighing as she relaxed.

His hands roamed, one caressing a nipple, the other parting her wet warmth. Her desire rose as he kissed softly below her ear.

Now ripe with want, he swept her into the bedroom, pulling her astride him in complete submission to her hunger.

“Come, open your kitchen, my little chef. Let’s put a bun in your oven.”

_____

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse

Words: 200
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 22 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Theme: Need, Word prompt: Kitchen
Awarded Honorable Mention

Give In

“Give in.”

“No.”

“Look, I'm home. I'm done, mustered out, here forever. So give in.”

“I have to pee. Let me down.”

“No, not until you give in.”

“But we're so happy now. You're happy, right?”

“Yeah, I'm ecstatic. I'd be whatever is beyond ecstatic if you just gave in.”

“I don't want to fuck this up. Things are good, just the way they are.”

He shifted her weight, pressing her back a little more firmly into the wall, grinding a little closer at the same time. He meant business; he hoped she felt it.

“Look, I can wait all goddamned day. Just give in.”

“No.”

He leaned his head forward, until his forehead pressed against hers. She could taste him without even tonguing him, he was so close.

“Give. In. You already said yes, everyone else knows.” He clutched her a bit tighter, closing his eyes as he entrenched into position, commitment settling across his face.

She shifted her hands from his warm, firm shoulders around his neck, relaxing into him.

“Okay. We'll get married this weekend. But I really do have to pee right now, love.”

_____
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 188
Originally submitted to fan fic flash fic - Week 1
Photo prompt: origin unknown