Lust

The poet Rumi said, “Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.”

I recite this line over and over in my head as you writhe and wait for me to finish these photos before we join our flesh.

You are in my lens as I aim the camera upon your form.

You are in my eye as you return my hungry gaze.

You are in my heart as I focus upon the tear forming at the corner of your eye.

You were in me long before we met, and I in you.

You perfect me now in our joining, soft meeting firm, sweet melting sharp.

Your image reveals what I am inside, the part of me that has always been you and yours.

Though I cannot fully satisfy my lust for you while I’m away, I capture your lusciousness here in my lens before embedding the taste of you on my tongue, the perfume of you in my nose, and feel of you on my skin.

I’ll be reminded by these photos of the man I can be, made better by you.

I’ll recall the better man I have become, the one in love with you.

________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 47 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: lust

Poker

“Surely you understood when the first hand was dealt this was a risk.”

“That you would cheat and wear more clothing? No, I really hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He took another sip of his drink as he contemplated the silken skin of her rounded bottom parked on the green baize of the gaming table.

“Cheat? Me? As if you have any room to talk. Your less-than-subtle signals to your friends to fold was hardly above board.”

“Well. They’re gone. You should thank me for the favor.”

“Thank you? Whatever for?”

“They won’t be here to witness my capitulation to your superior gamesmanship, love.”

“Yes, there is that. I’d like to collect my prize now, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means, please do.” Utterly bereft of clothing, the loser leaned back in his chair, revealing his aroused interest to her view.

She stood, pulling the corset’s laces slowly, teasing his erection with the trailing ends.

He could take no more; he pressed her back onto the table, pushing himself deeply into her warmth again and again. Her legs around him, chips and cards flew as she came and he followed.

“I won,” she sighed.

Sated, he smirked. “Me too.”
__________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 200
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 42 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: tease
Awarded Honorable Mention

Bait

I am a vain man. I mark my body irrevocably with beautiful art to enhance my tight, well-trained flesh.

I am a suggestible man. I yield, caving into his appeal to my vanity, promising photos of my latest ink.

I am a tempted man. I take the bait when he asks to kiss me, running his lips and tongue along my skin, licking the furring that trails below my waistband.

I am a hungry man. I throw myself at him as if starved, nipping along the warm flesh of his ribs, biting at the salt-sweet skin of neck.

I am an eager man. I can’t remove our jeans fast enough, tearing at his zipper and my fly as he continues to photograph my eagerness.

I am a throbbing man. I grasp his cock and mine in between us, feeling the pulsing of our blood as I stroke us in unison.

I am a desperate man. I bite at the foil on the condom, slop wildly with lubricant as I kiss along his raspy jawline, stretching and stroking him beneath me.

I am a buried man. I am home, balls deep in him as we match each other’s frenzied pleasure.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 39 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: bait

Sparks

Sparks fly as the lamp meets the floor. The preternatural surviving light casts up, not down. We disregard the glittering broken glass, our hunger seeking another shattering force in the cotton-muffled quiet.

We cleave ourselves like twin sets of inverted contrasting shades, poised before blending, paused but a moment, then stirred.

Your breasts are shadows engulfing my face as I search like a babe in the night to suckle. I feast rapaciously upon your inky skin as your nether-mouth makes its meal of my willing flesh.

Fingers clutch evening-ripe fruit as dusk-imbued thrusts churn our pleasure. Shadowed wine melds with savory meat, twain mixed into ebon-hued desserts of desire.

Our palms palpate shaded silk, tongues taste luscious lux, all racing toward a black hole limned by seconds between breaths. Benighted gasps delineate proximity with their ravening pace toward an unlit destination on a darkling horizon.

We launch ourselves finally into blinding honeyed light, an explosion within uniting us at the point where we become brightened breathless one.

Fed and sated, we descend as if from twilight clouds. Though separate once more, we are joined in the glistening darkness of completion where sweet sleep awaits our arrival at night-colored doors.
__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 38 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: sparks

Pearl Necklace

They replaced recollections of a food-poisoned wedding night with a do-over: fine dining dressed in wedding attire, a limo ride home.

Tonight he carried her across the threshold instead of joining her at the hospital.

They were needy after recovery, work, and celebratory preparations. By the time he kicked the door closed behind them, they wanted each other—immediately.

She clutched at him, afraid to be parted again, her hunger urging her on.

Her dress fell away as he clawed at her fastenings. No fancy corset this time; she learned the hard way it meant little. In his desperate scrabbling to bare her flesh, he broke her pearl necklace.

“So sorr—”

“No. Don’t apologize.” She pressed her lips to his to stop his words, stepping out of the gown to kneel down upon it.

“But—”

She stopped his words again, with her warm, eager mouth, working his turgid member with her lips and tongue in rapid strokes.

“Love, I’m so close—”

She pulled away, using her hands to finish him. looking into his desire-heavy eyes as he moaned through his release.

“There. A new necklace.” She smiled, craning her neck to the side, to show her now-relaxed husband her handiwork.

________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse Words: 199 Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 37 via Rebecca Grace Allen Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: pearl necklace

Hollow

Awareness washes over him like the morning light. He is as close to her as he can be without actually inhabiting her skin.

She is fetal-curled, unfurling as his warm hand drifts along her cooler skin. He wants to satisfy his hunger, to complete himself with her, in her. He can feel her wakefulness dawning as she stretches.

"Thompson said sex without love is as hollow and ridiculous as love without sex," he whispers into the soft shell of her ear before kissing her fully awake.

"You fill the hollow, though. This is so much more than sex." Her eyes flutter as her senses rouse to his voice, feeling the length of his heat pressed along her thigh.

She rolled toward him and wound her arms around his neck, finding his lips with her own.

“I know. You fill me utterly. I love you.” Her leg wrapped around him, his heat found hers.

“I love you, too,” he sighed into her mouth, as she welcomed him within.

_________

Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse 
Words: 167 Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 36 via Rebecca Grace Allen 
Photo prompt, 2 of 2: origin unknown | Word prompt: Hollow 
Quote attributed to Hunter S. Thompson

Irrumatio

“I have something for you,” she whispered in his ear, running her hands down his dress shirt. She loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar.

“Yes?” He unbuckled his belt as he stepped out of his oxfords.

“French art,” she growled, taking two steps back before untying her wrap dress.

“Mmm-hmm?”

“Gainful knowledge.” Her dress slid off, silk puddling on the floor.

“Continue.” He opened his zipper as he watched her intently.

“Gamahuche,” emphasized by the release of her brassiere and its plummet to the floor.

“And?”

“Fellatio.” She stepped out of her pumps.

“Ah.” He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

“Flute playing.” Her panties dropped onto the discarded attire.

He couldn’t choke out another sound, mesmerized as she took a step forward and dropped to her knees.

“Irrumatio,” she whispered as she reached into his boxers and pulled out his tumescence. She ran her tongue around the head, savoring the crystal drop that greeted her as he reached complete erection.

There were no more words for some time, only the soft sounds of pleasure as he took the offering of her plump, lipsticked lips and her warm, soft mouth.

__________
Copyright © 2013 Femme Malheureuse
Words: 199
Originally submitted to Sinful Sunday—Week 31 via Rebecca Grace Allen
Photo prompt: origin unknown | Word prompt: Irrumatio

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

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

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

Zipless

Entry #31 - Truly Anonymous Twilight O/S PP Contest

Title: Zipless (originally posted at FanFiction.net)

Picture Prompt Number: Nbr. 36 (guitar) (See SparklyRedPen's Ficspiration Gallery)

Pairing: Bella x Edward

Rating: M-Mature for adult themes

Word Count (minus A/N and Header): 3670

Summary:
She thought she deserved more; he made it clear she did. She only needed a little push to realize the truth. AH ExB

Warnings and Disclaimer:
Warning: Characters in adult situation involving consensual sex.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. Copyright 2012 - Do not copy for translation, republication, or re-transmission/transfer without express permission of author except for personal consumption as a downloaded mobile product on a mobile device.

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Zipless

The pub was hot and close, steamy with the body heat of so many people standing cheek by jowl within its confines. There was standing-room only, every cranny filled from the seats in front of the windows at the entrance, to the booths along the wall across from the bar, to the fireplace area inside the inglenook next to the band's dais. A haze of human-generated moisture hung in the air above the crowd, reeking of perfume, aftershave, and alcohol. The air vibrated with the energy of live music pulsing through the low hum of many voices.

She stood at the far end of the bar, her right thigh resting on the edge of a stool where the counter met the wall. Her friends had paired off and left her behind already. They'd offered politely to escort her home, but she knew they really didn't want to do that. She'd have been cooped up in a cab with two people doing everything possible not to fuck each other under her nose. She didn't want to deal with another reminder of her status—a much-neglected girlfriend relegated to third wheel.

As packed as it was, Bella didn't have the drive or the strength to push against the crowd pressing into the pub to listen to the band. She opted to stay put, wait out the last set, let the crowd ease, and then make her way home. She had nothing else to do that warm summer's evening; why not simply stay put here at her usual watering hole? She liked the band anyway. This would be her treat to herself: a night out, lost in anonymity, listening to music.