aplus
04-22-2005, 02:59 PM
Another one of my plot twist flash fiction pieces.
Hate it or love it, but give me feedback...-A
One Night
Before I answer any questions, you should know this isn’t a pleasant story. Meeting her wasn’t scripted like some Hollywood romance.
We met through a phone dating service. She invented a fake name, Cinnamon, so the only authentic thing was the sound of her voice. Eventually, she began telling me secrets. I guess where there is anonymity, comfort and trust also exist.
After hours of bizarre communication, we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet at a nightclub. Surprisingly, her looks matched her spicy pseudonym. She had crimson-colored curls spiraling down to her backside, which moved side to side like a metronome. We flirted through a succession of drinks. Her pheromones made an olfactory cocktail, sweet perfume blended with something else, something uncommon, something only sexy women smell like.
By midnight we were back at my apartment. She removed her halter top, skirt, and thong, leaving only thigh-high boots. My tongue traced down to her moist crevice. She included me in the equation of pleasure by stroking my eager erection. My slippery d*ck soon plunged into her womb. I pumped in the missionary position for as long as possible until my genitals ached for a release. First a convulsion, then a spew, and finally an outpour filled her insides with glistening fluid.
That morning, I awakened to a note that said she’d call me later. But maintaining respect in the wake of casual sex is impossible. I assume that’s why she never called, so I followed suit. It seemed better that way, especially since I still only knew her as Cinnamon.
These were your origins, your prelude to life on earth. That’s how I met your mother and why we haven’t been introduced until now. I had no idea, my son, that you resulted from that one night.
Hate it or love it, but give me feedback...-A
One Night
Before I answer any questions, you should know this isn’t a pleasant story. Meeting her wasn’t scripted like some Hollywood romance.
We met through a phone dating service. She invented a fake name, Cinnamon, so the only authentic thing was the sound of her voice. Eventually, she began telling me secrets. I guess where there is anonymity, comfort and trust also exist.
After hours of bizarre communication, we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet at a nightclub. Surprisingly, her looks matched her spicy pseudonym. She had crimson-colored curls spiraling down to her backside, which moved side to side like a metronome. We flirted through a succession of drinks. Her pheromones made an olfactory cocktail, sweet perfume blended with something else, something uncommon, something only sexy women smell like.
By midnight we were back at my apartment. She removed her halter top, skirt, and thong, leaving only thigh-high boots. My tongue traced down to her moist crevice. She included me in the equation of pleasure by stroking my eager erection. My slippery d*ck soon plunged into her womb. I pumped in the missionary position for as long as possible until my genitals ached for a release. First a convulsion, then a spew, and finally an outpour filled her insides with glistening fluid.
That morning, I awakened to a note that said she’d call me later. But maintaining respect in the wake of casual sex is impossible. I assume that’s why she never called, so I followed suit. It seemed better that way, especially since I still only knew her as Cinnamon.
These were your origins, your prelude to life on earth. That’s how I met your mother and why we haven’t been introduced until now. I had no idea, my son, that you resulted from that one night.