It’s that time of year again; the time where my friend Heloise West organizes a flash fiction hop I signed up for long ago and thought I had plenty of time to get done and then I end up freaking out a bit when I realize my time it up.
It’s also that time of year where ghosts and goblins are out and about. I’m super excited to be the Twinkie house this year. I used to love the one house that gave Twinkies when I was a kid, and now all my adult dreams will be realized on Halloween night as I pass out assorted Little Debbies, Hostess, and Drakes’ Cakes. You should have seen the mom steering her toddler away from the mass-produced cream-filled pastry shelf (to the tune of “I want that!” and “No! We are not getting those!”) while I piled them into my cart. I told my hubby my Twinkie plan and he said, “I thought those were for us.” All ten boxes? That would make the disgusted look that woman gave me legit, tempting as those sweet cakes may be.
So, anyway, my flash…well, I did two. The first includes my boys, Kyrie and Greg (who will star in my NaNoWriMo bloodletting this year, so it was great to get back with them for a quickie–a little foreplay for next week,eh?). Horsing Around is just under 1200 words and is probably more vignette than flash.
My second offering is about 300 words and is straight up horror. If you aren’t jiggy with it, don’t read it. I just wanted a bit more bite for my All Hallows’ Eve.
by K. Vale
copyright Kimber Vale
“No way. You’re not getting me in that thing.” Greg shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest in case Kyrie thought he’d be an easy push this time. Not happening.
“It took me two trips to get all of Mr. Ed home. Tuesday was your end and Wednesday I lugged my half. It was a total bitch.” Kyrie heaved the goofy brown horse head in the air to demonstrate.
Seriously, what play did the theater company ever use that atrocity for?
“I got trapped on the subway when I couldn’t get this huge freakin’ head through the crowd.” His voice climbed as he waved Pinto the wonder horse in Greg’s face. “I had to walk the three blocks back with this thing looking over my shoulder. With people staring at me! We’re not not wearing it!”
Like Kyrie didn’t love people staring at him.
“Well I’m really not wearing it. You do what you like.”
“It’s because you’re the backside, isn’t it? Come on.” Kyrie smirked. “That’s perfect for you.”
“So now I’m an ass for not wanting to dress like one?” Greg scowled in warning. I can’t believe this is gonna be a fight.
Kyrie clicked his tongue and dropped the horse head to press up against Greg’s chest. Apparently Plan A to convince Greg wasn’t working. Maybe Plan B involved a blow job; Greg might even find himself cantering down 5th Street later tonight, in that case.
“No, silly. I wanted you behind me because that’s where I love ya best. Then you could be grabbin’ my ass all night.” He wiggled his eyebrows and licked his lips.
Greg sighed and cupped the ass in question. “I was planning to do that in my cowboy hat and jeans. I’ll throw on a bandana if you’re after a little incognito role play.” He drew Kyrie closer. “It’s a costume video game tournament—we couldn’t even leave that thing on to play. Plus it’s pouring out, Kyr.”
“Lawyers.” Kyrie rolled his eyes.
A spike of electricity arced across the Manhattan skyline and touched down on the Empire State Building’s lightning rod as if an exclamation point for Greg’s words. He grinned. “We’d be a soggy mess in all that fur.” Greg leaned over, nibbling Kyrie’s lips to apply his own brand of persuasion while outside thunder boomed loud enough to rattle the glasses on the wet bar. “It’d weigh a ton.” Kiss. “Costume would get ruined.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. Of course, just tasting Kyrie always lit Greg’s fuse, and within seconds their tongues were slipping together, breath catching as Greg pulled their bodies as close as physics allowed. He kissed down Kyrie’s neck and across his collarbone, loving the soft sounds of surrender Kyr made.
“We could just stay home and play horse, if you want.” Greg slipped a hand between their bodies to get a rub on both their budding erections.
“Liv’ll be mad if we don’t come.”
“I’ll be mad if we don’t come.” Greg unbuttoned Kyrie’s tight pants and inched down the barrier between them until his fingers found the slick tip of Kyrie’s cock. Thunder clapped around them again.
Kyrie trembled and groaned. “You know I’m always rarin’ to ride you all night long, stud.”
“Giddy up. Liv can just miss us.” Greg fisted Kyrie’s cock, hugging tight as he pumped him slow. Silky skin slipped over Kyrie’s hot head and back down again.
“Mmmm.” Kyrie flirted his tongue over Greg’s lips while he worked Greg’s pants open. “Remember that time on the dining room table?”
“It’s a favorite of mine.”
“Well, it hardly seems right that none of those chairs have seen any action.”
“True. We never even eat over there, forget about fucking.”
“I can be old and shriveled and forget my name, but I never wanna forget about fucking.” Kyrie shook his head solemnly as he slicked a thumb over Greg’s wet slit. “Raw, dirty fucking. Sweet, soul-squeezin’ fuckin’. Fast and furious fucking.” He dropped to his knees and looked up at Greg with laughing amber eyes.
Oh, the fucking was phenomenal, but Greg wanted those eyes forever burned in his feeble old brain.
“Suck you so good you wanna put on a horse costume kinda fucking…”
“Ah haaaahhh…” Greg tried to be indignant but instead he drooled on himself as Kyrie swallowed his entire length.
Lightning lit up the night sky like July sun. The lights browned, recovered, and then cut out completely.
“Shit.” Greg breathed heavily into the sudden silence. What had been making noise? The refrigerator? Weird how he’d thought it was quiet before. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Kyrie’s mouth pulled off Greg’s dick. He stood, feeling his way up Greg’s body as if he’d be lost in the boundless sea of their black condo without continuous contact. “Pretty sure I’m not gonna see anything coming. Hoping I’ll still feel it, though.”
Greg imagined a whiskey colored eye winking up at him.
“Aren’t you glad we’re not on a train right now? Or stuck at Liv’s if they lost power too?”
“Yeah. Electricity’s an important sponsor of Halloween Gamer Bowl. Without it, the games just aren’t the same.” Kyrie shifted and fabric wisped over Greg’s fingers before naked skin replaced cotton. “I just wish I’d grabbed the lube before the lights…went down…in the cit-tay.” He did a damn good Steve Perry.
“Probably just a transformer. I still see some power out there. Or maybe that’s generators.” Greg reached up to where he thought Kyrie’s head would be and brushed over his ear before adjusting to run his fingers over soft shorn hair. “I can rustle up a flashlight for that lube, though.”
“Much obliged, partner, but I’m not against roughin’ it once in a while, provided you don’t need no newfangled electric to hock a loog.” Now Greg apparently had a Texas longhorn standing in front of him. The longhorn still felt very much like Kyrie’s though. Saliva pooled in Greg’s mouth as he gripped their pricks with both hands and Kyr’s fingers joined the party.
“Shouldn’t be a problem.” He slipped one hand over Kyrie’s hip before sliding back to knead his ass. “Think we can make it to the dining room without breaking any toes?”
“Yeehaw.” Kyrie let go of Greg’s dick and took his hand.
A tremor of excitement ripped through him. He could barely wait for the answering clap of thunder. Grinning, he let Kyr lead him through the darkness. He went willingly; he always did when Kyrie took his hand. And of course Greg grabbed the sweet ass in front of him every step of the way.
copyright Kimber Vale
He dissects his work with one sharp, critical eye. The remnants of its match hide under a frayed brown patch, and I picture a squint of skin over the occluded void. I marked him once. I relive it often; taste salted metal in my mouth while he toys with me. His shouts and slurs still echo in my head. It’s my one miniscule comfort as I cower on a soiled seat, cut adrift in a hell no God could imagine.
“Damn it!” He spits when he speaks. I flinch, but my bonds—arms, wrists, ankles, and the odious strap anchoring my head—make for barely more than a blink. “Missed a stitch right there.” He points and his finger flits over my lip. Fire blooms under the slight pressure. I would cry. I used to, but dehydration shut down the waterworks yesterday. Or maybe the day before. That’s fine. The first day he licked them from my cheeks and I retched behind my sutures.
The low moan I eternally exhale, raw meat throat or no, grows louder with each rip of the half-scabbed seam. Finally, my mouth is open, upper lip pelting lower with blood raindrops from bruised sky skin in the warped light-fixture-reflection before me. I gulp in air and vomit rusty screams for four ears only. I wish he’d come closer. I’d make it three.
He preps his needle again, hands sluggish as he focuses on my face instead of the lone silver eye trapped between his calloused fingers. He shushes me with his lips at first. Then he adds the cold push of steel and the burning rasp of thread. One fresh stitch at a time I fall silent but for my moans, swallowing down salted metal harsh as barbed wire. I don’t shed a single tear.
Let all of these other hoppers flash you, too!