Yes, folks, it’s time for another heaping helpin’ of lusty goodness. Grab that coffee, put your feet up (the boss won’t mind) and lose yourself in these fine fictional fabrications.
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First up, from Audrey from Dangerously Daydreaming:
Supply and Demand
It’s all about supply and demand. So here’s to another day in hell. Imagine waking up in a drugged stupor every day. Never knowing exactly where you are. And forget crying out for help. The weak don’t survive here, but neither do the strong. This is my life now. And it started so innocently.
I needed a job, desperately. Since the downturn of the economy I hadn’t been able to find steady work. Then I saw it, an ad for a tour guide program. It was everything I dreamed of and hoped for. They were looking for young women who wanted to travel the world, work with people, make great money doing it, and would be willing to learn foreign languages. I was in.
When I went in for the interview I knew something was wrong. Intuition, premonition, whatever you want to call it. The interviewer was smarmy with his oiled hair, reaking of cologne, and sitting too arrogantly in his Italian-made suit. He told me to sit down, asked about my family, my past, nothing about my job history. A few minutes later some thugs ran up and threw a bag over my head until I passed out.
That how I got here, but that’s not the worst part. The awful truth is why I’m here, drugged into oblivion, locked up like an animal.
The “customers” come at night. The pay up, use us, abuse us, and walk away. I’m part of a multi-billion dollar industry that profits off of using my body to satisfy someone else’s carnal urges. Supply and demand. The people who keep me here are no worse than the people who pay to use me.
I’m a slave and I’m waiting for death to bring me freedom.
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From Isadora at insidethemindofisadora: (Click here to view and comment on Izzy’s blog)
“Ruby”
Her name was Ruby. She loathed it. The color a deep red; deep as the wounds she carried with her. She was tired of being told it was a strong color. The only thing she felt strongly about was her anger and resentment for her mother. A prostitute who wore red because the men she accompanied prized the color. Was this a joke she was playing on her? Ruby means nothing to me. It’s blood color; a sign of death. A death, I would take pleasure in.
The doorbell rings.
Flowers from my Tom arrive.
Oh no, red roses.
He’s sent dozens of them. Angrily, I grab for the attached card.
It reads –
“Ruby, my delicate red rose. Scatter these petals towards and upon your golden bed. I want nothing more than to smell the fragrance of you lying upon them. Your white satin gown against the red roses will captivate my eyes with a glow that will leave me blind with shameless immoral want. I will devour every tiny part of your skin. There, you will tremble, as I approach to bring you to heights that only I can bring you to. Ravenous for your body, I will gently show you my heated desires. Quivering, you will beg for more. I will never let you long for more. It will be a night you will want to remember forever but, perhaps, will have no more”.
A glow covered Ruby’s body. She felt something for Tom. It was so hard for her to give into her feelings. Men were users. They had evil and salacious needs. Her Mother showed her that. All of those men had been eyeing her since she was young. They all made her feel like a piece of meat. Her Mother was their prize catch, not her. She hated them; she hated them all.
But, now, here was Tom. Yes, he was 15 years her senior. She liked the idea of his greying temples. She didn’t mind when he showed her his fatherly caring ways. They had not been intimate yet. She had wondered why. Then, she put it out of her head. After all, wasn’t that what she had wanted; a man who would respect her. But – tonight seems different. His instruction for the red roses was very specific. The notecard with the flowers was very erotic. It felt lurid and scandalous all at once. Tom – my quiet and gentle Tom – was making lustful commentaries. It felt odd; yet, flattering. Ruby felt sensual but distressed.
I have to relax.
A bath – yes – a bath. She thought.
It will help me relax.
Ruby grabbed her glass of white wine and drew a foam-covered bubble bath for herself. As she soaked, she melted into the hot water. Her thoughts went to the evening ahead. Her body quivered as she thought of his intense longing. Ruby was starting to feel an unbridled sexual desire.
Toweling dry, she could feel her skin glow with coveting abandon. Her satin white gown against her skin felt luxurious. As she lied upon the red roses she let herself feel free.
In her dreamy smolder, she felt Tom lie upon her.
How did he get in? She thought.
His lips offered amnesia. She let herself feel him ravage her. She was free.
In the radiance of their burning longing; they lay. Ruby was floating with feelings she never thought she would have had.
Then, she felt a sharp knife in her heart. She opened her eyes and there he stood with the bloodied knife above her.
Oh, Tom.
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And from Peg at Peg-o-Leg.
There’s No Accounting For Lust
Kat wiped her sweating palms on her skirt and gripped the steering wheel, hard. She drove the car mindlessly, thoughts turned to the coming meeting. It had been a week since she’d seen him.
Her body flooded with sensation, arousal fighting with guilt. She should not be doing this. Her husband, Eric, was perfect by anyone’s standards. Successful, affectionate and as handsome as she was beautiful.
She wasn’t bragging; her beauty was a physical fact, like being left-handed. The handsome prince and the beautiful princess married and lived happily ever after. Or at least 13 years worth of ever after. Then, six months ago she had met him. Her lover.
Eric thought she had yoga class on Friday afternoons. But after she dropped her son Jason’s duffel bag at school, she would rush to meet the man who now filled most of her dreams.
Her main regret was that Jason would be hurt when they killed his father.
They were lying in one another’s arms, passion spent when he first suggested it. “Katarina.” He began, idly stroking her back. Everyone called her Kat but him. He always used her full name, growled in a way that made her melt.
“I cannot share you with him.” Her lover continued, “We must do something.”
She had been shocked at first, but such was his hold over her that the idea had taken root and now seemed inevitable. Nobody made her feel like he did. Eric must die so they could be together.
Kat pulled into the school parking lot. Classes were over for the day and just a few cars remained as the staff wrapped up.
She walked briskly to Jason’s locker, duffel bag in hand. It had been her idea to drop it off so he wouldn’t have to lug both bag and backpack on the bus on Fridays.
As she approached the front door the principal, Mr. Janowicz, came out of his office. He smiled at her approach and said “Good afternoon, Mrs. Henderson.” His deep voice had a faint Polish accent and his slight bow was a courtly gesture from another era. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“I brought Jason’s bag to him.” she explained, gesturing to the backpack in her hand. “It’s his usual Friday night sleepover at Aaron’s after basketball practice.”
“Ah.” Mr. Janowicz smiled.
A teacher walked by them on her way to the front door. “Goodnight Miss Cuthbert.” the principal said and Kat took the opportunity to study him surreptitiously.
He was a slight man, slender and only about an inch taller than she. His sandy colored hair was already starting to recede. He was altogether ordinary looking, unless one took the time to look past the thick glasses. His bright blue eyes were keenly intelligent.
“May I trouble you for a moment, Mrs. Henderson? There is a matter I wish to discuss.” The principal gestured toward the open door to his office. Kat smiled her acceptance and preceded him into the room. Her glance took in the decor with its guest chairs, long couch and wide windows, now shaded against the afternoon sun.
She stood before his desk and heard the door close behind her, then the soft snick of the lock being turned. She tensed at the sound, sensing Mr. Janowicz approaching behind her. She did not turn around.
It seemed ages but it was mere seconds. She felt more than heard his low growl on the back of her neck. “Katarina.”
A faint quiver ran along her spine and her head fell back, heavy on his shoulder.
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Whew, is it hot in here, or am I Fifty Shades of Menopausal?
If you haven’t submitted your entry – please do. We all love reading them – and you might just win this round…
k8edid 