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‘Flash Fiction’ Category

  1. Let Go, Baby

    April 23, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I was snuggled under his arm as we watched Game of Thrones in bed. Despite losing myself in the story and the feeling of his warm body next to mine, I could feel a tight coil of tension at my center. The stress of worrying about the future and mourning our impending separation was my constant companion. The mornings were easiest when I had work and caring for my child to distract me. By the time sir returned home for dinner, though, I could feel tears threatening. I knew it was about needing a physical release for the emotional tensions of my day, but I was reluctant to give in to it. I didn’t want to be Debbie Downer, and I really didn’t want sir to begin associating his return home with a deluge of my tears every time he walked through the door. So I mentally placed those coils of tension in a small box somewhere around my stomach, and tried to ignore it.

    After the program ended, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand to set the alarm. Sir disentangled himself from the bed sheets and got to his feet to go to the bathroom, I presumed. To my surprise he strode to the closet instead and began digging through the toy bag. I watched in disbelief as he pulled out black clover clamps and walked over to my side of the bed.

    “Stand up and take off your pajamas,” he said.

    My mouth dropped open in disbelief, and I stopped myself a second before asking why out loud. Asking for an explanation of sir’s motivations would only get me in hot water.

    I did as he commanded, and he took a seat on the edge of the bed. He watched me intently, one hand on his lap and the other holding the clamps that I loathed. Finally I stood in front of him wearing only knee socks, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

    “Step out,” he said and motioned for me to spread my legs.

    My heartbeat kicked against my chest, and I took a tentative step. His expression was pleasant, but I heard the underlying hint of steel in his voice. His hand went to my crotch, but I backed away. I stared at the clover clamps glinting at me in the dim light.

    “I can’t handle clover clamps on my pussy,” I said.

    Panic blossomed through me, and I found myself shaking my head. My eyes were wide, and that box inside me where I had kept the day’s fears was threatening to spill open. There was no way on God’s green earth that I could tolerate the merciless clamp of metal on my sensitive nether regions. The thought was overwhelming. I couldn’t do it. Not even for the man I loved.

    Sir laughed. “You say that like you think there’s a Door #2 or something. There’s no other option. Come here.”

    “I can’t do it,” I repeated and shied away from his questing fingers.

    “You’re going to do this,” he said, “or I’m going to beat you with a wire hanger.”

    If he had threatened me with any of our usual toys, a cane or whip or flogger, I would have dived for the alternative. But a hanger was so outside our usual play parameters that I recognized it as a true deterrent. Plus, I had seen Mommy Dearest. Did I think he would actually do it? Probably not, but I understood the message beneath the uncommon implement. Sir was dead serious.

    My voice caught in my throat. In that moment I knew there was nothing to be done but submit. I could feel the emotion welling in my throat, along with defeat, and there was no denying that the avalanche of feeling contained within me would break free. Tears slid down my cheeks as I slowly stepped forward and gave him access to my labia. I couldn’t bear to watch him apply the clamps, so I shut my eyes and looked away. My tears fell faster, and I started to shake. Big hiccupping sobs shook my chest as I felt sir’s hands move from my pussy to my breasts. Still I refused to look.

    His fingers gently teased my erect nipples as he clamped them, and the familiar weighted chain felt cold against my skin. Relief that he wasn’t going to clamp my pussy washed through me, but it couldn’t stop the torrent of emotions that had been unleashed. I continued to sob as sir murmured endearments.

    “Just let go, baby,” he crooned. His lips grazed the underside of my breast, and then he kissed a clamped nipple. He gently caressed my skin with his hands as his lips planted sweet kisses over my chest.

    As he wrapped his arms around my waist to pull me even closer, I rested my cheek on the top of his head. Finally my tears were spent, and I took a ragged breath. I felt exhausted and empty, exhumed of all tension and sadness.

    “Thank you,” I whispered.

    Sir sat back on the bed and carefully removed the clamps. “I think you really needed that.”

    “I did.”

    “You know, I was never going to put these clamps on your pussy. That would have been mean.”

    I shook my head and felt a small smile bow my lips. “You really are a champion mind fucker.”

    We crawled into bed and returned to the positions that had originally started our evening. I snuggled into his side, my head on his chest, and I took my first deep breath of the night. Deep feelings of love and gratitude swept through me, and I pulled them tight around me like a blanket. I wanted the moment to last forever.

     

    IMG_2233 Smashwords

     

    Want more stories of a good girl being naughty? TALES OF A FILTHY GOOD GIRL by Heather Cole is now available on Nook, , and Smashwords.

     

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,,, | 5 Comments

  2. The Missing Tea Strainer or Kink in the Afternoon

    September 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Master had been specific in his instructions, and he had relayed them carefully to Miss so that every detail could be satisfied. As with all his tasks he wanted her to succeed, but she also knew that any failure on her part would be met with swift correction. Those were never good days. Stifling a shiver, Miss hurried down the main stairs, one hand trailing the polished mahogany banister. Her slippers were almost silent against the thick Persian rug. The closer she came to the kitchen, the stiffer her posture grew. By the time she faced the others, she no longer resembled her master’s companion that occupied the upstairs.

    Miss stalked along the line of domestic staff as they stood in readiness for afternoon tea. The master of the house had expressed a desire to take his tea by the lake, and his staff had scurried to rearrange the repast from indoors to out. Miss was responsible for coordinating them all, and she tugged at their skirts to make certain they hung properly. She pinched the tender sides of underarms to make certain they paid attention and fired questions in rapid succession, expecting a nod of agreement before she had finished the sentence. Her attitude was one of military precision, and the intensity of her inspection made the scullery maid devote some thought to fainting.

    “You need a hat, Marguerite, or the sunset will turn your complexion ruddy,” Miss scolded. “Master dislikes his girls looking like farmhands. You have the cello, I see. You’re going to play Bach’s concertos, yes?”

    “Yes, Miss,” Marguerite replied with a curtsy.

    “And you have a stool to sit upon?” Miss thrust a straw hat into Marguerite’s hand and gave her a pointed glance.

    “Yes, Miss. But I’ll need help carrying it all out to the lake. It’s difficult managing the cello and bow in addition to the stool.”

    Cold blue eyes stared at Marguerite as a silence grew between them. Miss stared at the girl as if she had never before in her life encountered such a bold specimen. Embarrassment stained Marguerite’s cheeks a deep red, and finally she dropped her eyes to the floor in defeat. She should have known better than to mention it and risk Miss’s temper.

    “I’ll… I’ll somehow manage it,” Marguerite stammered.

    “Of course you will,” Miss replied and briskly rubbed her hands together as if she were dusting off a bug.

    Next in line was the scullery maid, and Miss surmised from the woman’s quivering body that something had gone amiss. “Did you assemble everything as instructed?” she asked.

    “Yes, Miss,” the scullery maid said. “I have the tea service and the linens, the hot water and the tea, of course.”

    “Excellent. Then we’re ready to adjourn to the lake?”

    “Well, there’s a slight problem.” The scullery maid’s eyes squeezed shut, and Miss heard her inhale deeply. “I can’t find the tea strainer.” Out came the girl’s breath in a rush.

    “What do you mean you can’t find it? We use the damn thing every day. How on earth could you lose it?”

    “I don’t know, Miss. I swear I don’t. Yesterday I washed it and put it away in the cupboard just as I do every day.” She wrung her hands. “I swear, Miss. I’ve searched the kitchen top to bottom.”

    The expression on Miss’s face could only be described as a gathering of thunderclouds, but when she spoke, her tone was low and quiet. Her hand lashed out like a snake to grab a fistful of the scullery maid’s auburn locks, and she yanked the maid’s head back to expose her throat. Whimpering, the maid clutched at Miss’s skirt with frantic fingers.

    “Now see here, girl. You are going to find that tea strainer in the next ten minutes or Master won’t be able to have his tea. If he can’t have his tea, he will take it out of my hide. Your failure becomes my failure. And the tender skin of my backside is worth more than you’ll ever earn in your worthless life. Mark my words, girl, if I must bear the lashes for your mistake, I will deliver them to you with none of Master’s restraint or benevolence. Do I make myself absolutely clear?”

    The maid was crying now, great sobs wracking her chest.

    “Don’t waste our time with tears. Go find the strainer.” Miss released her, and the maid staggered. Clutching a handkerchief to her red nose, the scullery maid dashed out of the room.

    Miss sighed loudly and threw up her hands in disgust. “I swear, Marguerite, even if she finds the stupid thing, I may still string her up as an example. I can’t have you girls thinking that this sort of thing is acceptable.”

    “No, Miss,” Marguerite murmured.

    Thank goodness she only had to play the cello.

    afternoon tea aged

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | 8 Comments

  3. Late Nights

    July 26, 2012 by Heather Cole

    I stared through the glass wall of the office at the harbor below, the lights from the tourist cruises dotting the dark water like fireflies. The usual clatter from the company was silenced and the floor deserted. I clutched a pile of file folders to my chest as a reminder of why I was in his office. The lamp on the desk beside me offered a small pool of light against the bulky shapes of office furniture and bookshelves. I heard the door shut behind me with a soft click and then caught a whiff of cologne. My skin twitched when Jai touched me, seconds before I heard his voice in my ear.

    “Turn around,” he said with only a trace of an accent.

    Butterflies erupted in my stomach, and I grinned at the dark horizon. “Make me.”

    He growled something incoherent and with one hand released the clip that held my chignon in place. His fingers scraped against my scalp as he grabbed a handful of my hair while his other hand slowly wandered down my ribcage to my waist. His fingers dug into my side as he pulled me against him, and I could feel his erection pressed against me through the fabric of my pencil skirt.

    “Are you saying that you don’t want to look at me? I’m amenable to that.”

    Jai pushed me towards the desk, and I stumbled in my heels, dropping the files to the floor so I could catch my balance. I heard the metallic clink of a belt being loosened and then a zipper sliding on its metal teeth. My heartbeat ratcheted up with anticipation.

    I attempted to turn around then but he caught me with a fistful of hair. Slowly, inextricably, he pulled me to the desk, allowing me enough of an angle so that I could see his grin and the charcoal pinstripe of his designer suit with my peripheral vision. My palms were slick with sweat against the smooth wood, the buttons of my blouse poking into my sternum. My eyes fluttered shut when I felt his palm brush my thigh.

    “Tell me,” he demanded.

    I bit my lip and squirmed until my ass grazed his pants. He laughed and shifted his grip to the back of my neck. I had exactly three seconds to wonder what he was planning.

    The sting of his hand against my ass stole my breath, but I welcomed the pain.

    “Tell me.”

    He yanked my skirt up and swung again. The force of his palm against my flesh inched my body along the desk.

    “Say it.”

    Another hit.

    My panties were drenched, the warmth and pain of his hands driving my need. Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I shook my head and clamped my lips tight. I wanted to relish the power of withholding as long as possible. I waited for another blow but none was forthcoming. Instead he pulled down my underwear, his long fingers reaching for my swollen clit.

    “You know what I can do to you,” he murmured, “what we can do together. Two words and you can have it all.”

    His clever fingers stroked closer to the lips of my vagina.

    “Say it or I leave you here.”

    He held me like a butterfly pinned to a mat. In that critical moment of overwhelming desire and need, I craved both the reward and the pain. In the end, though, I always gave him what he wanted.

    “I’m yours,” I whispered.

    He laughed again, because he had never doubted it.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | 8 Comments

  4. Flash Fiction – The Birthday Present

    June 5, 2012 by Heather Cole

    The moment I opened the door, I knew she was a present for me. Standing on my welcome mat in a sundress of white lawn, her curly auburn hair captured at the nape of her neck, was a vision of alabaster skin and green eyes. The vision came complete with a light dusting of freckles decorating her pert nose. She looked innocent. Fresh.

    She flashed me a smile and then her gaze dropped to the ground. I recognized the signs at once, the subtle physical cues of a submissive in training.

    “Mistress sent me,” she said in a firm tone.

    “Of course she did.”  I smiled and fell silent, waiting to see what she would do.

    My friend was breaking in a new sub, and she had called several weeks ago to tell me about the birthday present she was sending. I didn’t know a lot about the woman in front of me except that she was fairly new to kink and that my friend described her service as “enthusiastic.”

    She shifted her weight back and forth, and then green eyes flashed up at me. “Are you going to let me inside or just stare?”

    I pushed the door open and motioned her inside, barely managing to cover my expression of shock. I expected her to wait in the foyer for further instructions, but she breezed past me without another look in my direction.

    I breathed deeply, inhaling her scent of honeysuckle. Thin sandals were secured around slender ankles, and the idea sprung to mind of her tied and helpless across my bed. As I watched her lithe form disappear down the hallway and into my living room, my fingers itched to lay a crop across the white expanse of her back.

    “Cheeky,” I muttered to no one.

    Ignoring my unexpected guest for a moment, I padded into the kitchen to get a glass of iced tea. I nibbled absentmindedly at my lip and pondered what to do with her. She was beautiful and unruly, and I recognized the unspoken challenge in her eyes. I knew it intimately, because not so long ago I had been in her shoes challenging the control of my Master. But I had little practice topping submissives. The planning, the plotting, the anticipation of a submissive’s needs was exhausting, in my opinion. What the hell was I going to do with her?

    Previous to my present’s arrival, I had been spending the morning hard at work. My hair was back in a high ponytail, and I was wearing my glasses. Dressed in yoga pants and a ‘kinky nerd’ t-shirt, I was nowhere near sexy or mentally prepared for a scene. For a moment I entertained the idea of calling my friend to tell her just what I thought about her catching me off-guard, but I knew that was exactly the reaction she hoped for. Damn Dommes and their mind fucks.

    By the time I made my way to the living room, my present was curled on the sofa as she leafed through a magazine.

    “Did your Mistress give you specific instructions?”

    “Yes,” she said, without glancing up.

    I waited for her to continue, but as the silence stretched between us, I felt the first bite of an emotion I hadn’t expected. Irritation.

    “Care to elaborate, or are you a gift I’m only supposed to admire. Not unwrap?”

    “Mistress said that you’re a slave.”

    “I am.”

    She shifted on the couch, one foot tapping against the floor. “Why have I been gifted to a slave? You can’t Top me.”

    She was correct in her own way. Domination didn’t come easily to me. I enjoyed brief periods of it, but in my heart I was a slave to my Master. But if there was one thing I couldn’t abide, it was a sassy newbie throwing labels in my face like confetti. I had earned my collar, and if I had anything to say about it, she was going to do some serious work towards hers tonight.

    “The simple truth of submission is that no one can Top you without permission. Answer me this:  did you deliberately and willingly accept your Mistress as your Domme?”

    “Yes. Of course.” She frowned.

    “And you willingly entered her service to train as her slave?”

    My present nodded.

    “Then your Mistress gifted you to me for the afternoon.” I tilted my head to the side and watched the emotions flicker across her face.

    “It doesn’t matter who you are then.” She stared over my shoulder, her voice soft. “If I trust my Mistress, if I wish to be her slave and complete my training…”

    “Exactly,” I said. With a loud sigh I stood up and stretched. “You always have a choice and a safeword, but I need to know what you’re going to do. I have a deadline, so if you’re only here to chat and be bratty, I’d prefer to do it after writing hours.”

    Her green eyes widened and then dropped. Her fingers began their twisting dance inside her pockets. “I choose to submit.”

    The words passed her lips, and I was suddenly in motion, a fistful of her silky hair tight in my grasp. I pulled her head back with a vicious tug and watched as her full lips parted with a gasp. I kissed her hard on the lips, my teeth snagging her lower lip as I pulled away. I slowly pressed into the rosy flesh until she winced and growled into the pink shell of her ear.

    “Thank you for your submission, my present, and in return for it I intend to beat your precious ass. Now go to your knees, little girl, and address me properly before I get my toys.”

    “Yes, Mistress,” she answered.

    I traced a fingernail along her spine as she knelt to kiss the arch of my foot. Goosebumps traced across her skin and she shivered.

    Oh how I loved a good birthday present.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | 1 Comment

  5. Flash Fiction: Change of Plans

    April 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    “I’m feeling slutty tonight,” he said. He knotted his wingtips with a decisive motion and stood, staring at me in the reflection of the vanity mirror.

    “Alright.”

    I concentrated on threading a gold hoop through my earlobe and felt his words in my gut as if I had eaten too much ice cream too quickly.

    “Looks like it’s the corner bar then.”

    I didn’t change out of my red dress and heels. My only concession to this evening’s new plans was the string of condoms I added to my purse. I wasn’t the architect of tonight’s fantasy come to life, and like some masochistic Girl Scout, I decided to be prepared for anything.

    Two hours later we were ensconced in the dingy hangout, our best dinner clothes standing out like beacons along the coast of the bar’s midnight patina. I tapped a heel on the rung of my bar stool and shook my head slightly. It was the third potential I had rejected that evening. Women flocked to him. They always had. Something about the deadly combination of his slightly nerdish glasses and devil’s smile were a siren’s call to almost every vagina in the vicinity, but I always had the final say in who was to become his plaything for the night.

    I finally settled on a petite, young-ish woman, painfully thin with long blond hair. Almost the exact physical opposite of me. We drove her to a nearby hotel as he explained that I would enjoy watching him fuck her. I remained silent, observing her take note of the details of our clothes and the make of our car. When her hand settled on my thigh, light as butterfly wings, I knew she had committed herself.

    At the hotel he stripped off her thin top and micro-mini as I settled into a corner chair with a splash of whiskey in a hotel glass. Something inside me eased at the knowledge that she wouldn’t be able to please him fully. She was too much inexperience and not enough flesh to cushion his sharp desires. Even after he turned her over his knee for a brief spanking and had freed his cock for her to suck, I felt reassured.

    I stood silently, letting the thick glass drop to the desk, the sound almost completely obscured by the sounds of her enthusiasm. My dress fell to the floor with a soft swoosh, and I stalked towards them. His gaze turned from unfocused to sharp as he watched my approach, his eyes hungrily sliding from my heels, to the stockings and finally my corset and gold collar.

    I tapped her on the shoulder, almost laughing at her startled expression. “Let me show you how to do this properly.”

    I barely had time to brace myself before he had a fistful of hair and was pushing me to my knees. I wasn’t graceful, and he wasn’t gentle. Forcing his way past my lips and deep into my throat, I almost gagged on his thick cock. He didn’t slow his rhythm, the grip on my hair forcing me to meet every thrust. I stared up at him, watching the nuances of desire flit across his face, knowing that he was mine again.

    When he came, there was nothing but the sound of his guttural cry and the taste of cum. He collapsed back on the couch with a boneless motion.

    “She’s gone,” he said.

    It was only the two of us again.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  6. Flash Fiction: The Fourth Glass

    April 4, 2012 by Heather Cole

    It began with a glass of white wine, followed by two more. The bar had been her refuge for most of the party, and she had chosen one tucked into a corner, far from the path of her relatives. Partially obscured by a tall potted palm, she perched on a barstool, clutching the stem of the wineglass for support. The silk of her Halston dress had begun to itch, making the gold bangles at her wrist click together with an irritating sound.

    After the third glass, there was a man to buy her a fourth. She didn’t recognize his sandy blond hair or the gray-blue eyes that crinkled at the corners, but she instinctively understood the expression on his face. He wore a nice suit but fidgeted with the collar, and after paying for their drinks, he held out his hand.

    “Let’s take a walk.”

    They didn’t go far. They found a ladies’ retiring room and lurched through the door in a tangle of hurried caresses and searching lips. One of his large hands cupped the back of her neck, nudging her chignon into disarray, as his other hand found its way underneath her skirt. She eagerly spread her legs and opened her mouth to his searching tongue.

    With a quick shift he had turned her around to face the large mirror hanging above the vanity. She heard the sound of a belt being loosened and a zipper, and then he was inside her. A moan escaped, and she braced both hands against the glass as his body rocked against her ass. The glass fogged with her breath, fingerprints streaking the surface. As her orgasm edged closer, she rested her head on her arms and savored every brush of his hands against her skin, desperate to remember everything.

    Category Flash Fiction | Tags: , | 2 Comments