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It’s time to showcase the work of a guest writer. This is the second piece by this writer to be published in the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. Hello hello hello, my brother and sister bloggers, writers and Flash Fiction Fanatics.
The month of August is coming to an end. But it’s been a good month of blogging for the Old Soldier. I published new writers, signed up new subscribers and increased the readership of The Gazette, the most dynamic flash fiction blog on the Internet.
Remember, the writing contest ends on October 1, 2010. Get your story end as soon as possible.
Now for our feature presentation.
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Heat Wave
It was one of those stifling hot summer evenings when not even the air conditioner brought much relief, nor the fan in the bedroom window. Alicia was sprawled out on the king-size four-poster bed, watching the large-screen TV up on the wall. She had her legs spread out and her negligee pulled up to the top of her thighs to catch at least some of the circulating air from the fan, her pale breasts nestled into the lacy silk of her top. She moaned every time the fan wafted some air over her body, periodically adjusting her body on the bed.
Jeremy was lying naked beside her, coping with the heat in his own way, only one eye on the TV, the other on the luscious body sprawled out beside him. After a while, the temptation of his half-naked wife became too much for him, despite the heat. He turned over on his side and reached for her breast. Alicia sighed deliciously as soon as he touched her, as she always did. She loved having her breasts in his hands. Jeremy quickly slid his hand underneath the silky material and let it come to rest against the luscious globe. Alicia moaned as her proud nipple hardened against the palm of his hand.
“Aren’t you too hot for this?” she sighed.
“I’m never too hot for this,” Jeremy parried.
“Of course you’re not,” Alicia smiled. “You never are.”
With that, she lifted her body slightly towards him, pressing her breast again his hand and moaning deeply with satisfaction and desire.
“You make me feel so good,” she whispered against his cheek.
Jeremy let go of her hot breast and slid his hand down over the sensuous gown and down over her bare thigh, then slowly up the soft inside of her thigh, a trembling snake slithering towards a delectable morsel, closer and closer each time without ever quite touching the treasure.
“Stop teasing!” Alicia moaned. “I can’t stand this anymore.”
“You like it when I do this,” Jeremy reminded her. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No, no,” Alicia protested. “Don’t stop. Of course I like it when you do that. But I do want to feel your hand on me.”
Jeremy let his hand glide up and down her thigh a few more times, teasingly, promisingly, coming dangerously close to his ultimate destination, until Alicia bucked against his hand and he grabbed her dripping vagina, like a thirst-stricken traveler grabbing a long-desired bottle of nectar.
Alicia groaned deep down inside her being and pushed her aching pelvis against his desperately awaited hand. He took hold of her with determination, rubbing her diligently, expertly, until she pressed herself against him and started to tremble with the onset of her orgasm. Jeremy intensified his ministrations, moved his index finger to her clit, and teased it and fondled and massaged it until he could feel the rush of fulfillment take hold of her body and she screamed through a delicious, all-encompassing orgasm.
Jeremy gave her a few minutes to ride out the aftershocks and catch her breath, then climbed on top of her and easily slid into her well-lubricated opening. He could feel her interior muscles tighten around him as she sighed with deep pleasure and sucked him further and further into herself. Within a few minutes, she heaved her pelvis against his, and he squirted into her at the same time as her orgasmic contractions sucked at him and drained him of his treasure.
They cried out together as they grabbed at each other and flung their arms around one another, two people drowning in the throes of absolute pleasure, and rocked against each other in the fantastic delirium of their simultaneous release. He stayed on top of her for a while, both gasping for breath, feeling their hearts beat against the other, moaning and groaning unabashedly in the afterglow of their union. Then he rolled off her and they sprawled out on the bed beside each other, their fingers entwined, their rapidly beating hearts echoing their individual rhythms.
The heat didn’t matter anymore at all.
The End
Bio: Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of various genres. His work has appeared in several hundred publications around the world. His erotic stories, poems, and essays have been widely published in print as well as on-line, including The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Sex in the City, Paris, Clean Sheets, The Erotic Woman, Oysters and Chocolate, and Black Heart Magazine.
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New Flash Fiction by Stephani Maari Booker
August 10, 2010 — pittsburghflashfictiongazetteToday’s guest writer shows us how innocently racism can begin in our society. The truthfulness of the writer’s insight may surprise you.
Hello my brother and sister bloggers and writers and Flash Fiction Fanatics. The Old Soldier is always claiming that the flash fiction form is capable of providing insight into any subject that a writer can think of. It’s just a matter of writing short on long subjects. And our guest writer today has done just that.
If you would like to try your hand at writing short on long subjects, send me a story. I’ll work with you to showcase your talent in the Pittsburgh Flash Fiction Gazette. All you have to do is read and follow the submission guidelines. The submissions tab is at the top of the page.
Now for our feature presentation.
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Coloring
The large sliding-glass windows of the rear wall brought cloudy afternoon light to Lynette and Tabitha’s drawing and coloring work on the dining table. An open box of Crayola 64-color crayons sat in the center of the table. Next to the box were some scattered sheets of white paper.
Lynette was using a Burnt Sienna Crayola to color in a neatly drawn dog; being older and bigger than Tabitha, she sat back in her chair with her feet flat on the floor. Tabitha’s knees were on the seat of her wooden chair; her body was leaning against the table and her head was resting on her left arm as she used her right to draw on a piece of paper.
Starting with an oval drawn at the top of the sheet, Tabitha began creating a lady with a long, slender neck, sloping shoulders and a thin, square torso clad in a buttoned blouse, a suit jacket and slacks, and shoes with laces. The lady’s hair was drawn with long strokes that started from the top of her head and curved around her shoulders. The facial features were tight and fine: little lemon shapes with dots inside for eyes, a pointy crooked “L” as a nose, and a small curve for a smile.
With the form of the lady complete, Tabitha put down the pencil and reached for the crayon box to choose her colors. Periwinkle was for the jacket and slacks, Sea Green was for the blouse, and plain old Gray for the shoes.
When Tabitha was finished coloring the lady, she looked up from her paper at Lynette. “Lynette, look,” Tabitha said, smiling as she pushed the paper toward her friend.
Lynette turned her head to peer at Tabitha’s work. After a short pause, Lynette said, “You need to color her face.”
Tabitha’s smile shrunk a little at the comment. She didn’t know what to say; “That’s nice, Tabitha” was what she usually got whenever she showed Lynette a picture she drew.
“Why don’t you color her face?” Lynette continued, pushing the paper back to Tabitha.
Tabitha looked at the lady’s face; she didn’t see anything wrong with it, or anything that coloring it would make better. Responding to Lynette the only way she could, Tabitha looked up and shrugged her shoulders.
“You don’t want her to be white, do you?” Lynette’s nose wrinkled. “You can’t let her be white!”
Tabitha still said nothing. She hadn’t thought about the lady being white or black; she was just drawing a pretty, sharp-dressed lady. As she kept thinking about it, she realized that she just didn’t want to put any crayon over the lady’s face. Her features were pretty and perfect, not to be covered up with harsh messy scrawls. Still looking at the picture, Tabitha shrugged again.
Lynette took a crayon out of the box and tossed it on the table toward Tabitha. “Here, make her light-skin-ded,” Lynette dictated. “At least then she’ll still be black.”
Tabitha looked at the crayon. The color: “Peach.” She picked it up and then began rubbing the tip delicately on the lady’s face.
The End
Bio: Stephani Maari Booker is an editor for the African-American newspaper Minnesota Spokesman-Recorder. “Coloring” is excerpted from an unpublished book entitled The Tabitha Times. Another excerpt from this book, “Playing House,” appeared in the Spring 2005 issue of Blithe House Quarterly, an online journal of GLBT short fiction. Feel free to visit Stephani’s web page for more information about her work: www.mnartists.org/Stephani_Booker
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