FlashFiction. I wanna see some skin. (Week 4)

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pris·sy
[pris-ee]
adjective, pris·si·er, pris·si·est.
excessively proper; affectedly correct; prim.

The deadline for this flash is Friday at 11:59 PM (MST).

The same rules apply (100-200 words, use the word prompt, and please comment with your twitter handle and word count).

Please share this link with all your friends, and if you know any other writers, please get them to join us.

 

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13 thoughts on “FlashFiction. I wanna see some skin. (Week 4)

  1. Word Count: 200
    Name: Just call me Wolfy
    Twitter: @thewolfswriting

    Every day he watched her walk by, the dress she wore proper and conservative. She hid behind the plastic oval-framed glasses, her milk-and-honey skin free of any makeup. He loved how she kept her hair swept up at the side, but let it flow freely down her back. Waves of mahogany that floated on the air as she walked past him. He remembered the first time he had touched her hand, the sound of her voice when she asked his name. His lips curled up in a smile when she turned and grinned at him, her eyes sparkling when she nodded her head to the side.

    He rose from his seat on the park bench to follow her around the back of the college library. It was the one place that was uniquely theirs. The one place where she let her hair down and forgot to be prissy for just a little while. It was the place where they had their first kiss. He wrapped his arms around her from behind as he held her back against his chest and kissed her neck, his fingers moving against her thighs as he dragged her skirt up to reveal a little skin.

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  2. Word Count: 199
    Name: Megs
    Twitter: @sparklymeg

    Click, clack.

    The tap of heels across the parking lot. He watches from the shadows, his cock straining against his jeans.

    Prim and proper, sunshine silk tied in a prissy bun on top of her head.

    She clenches around him as he pulls her hair out of the bun and fists it in his hands.

    Her hips sway as she nears the car.

    She moans so deep when he sinks his fingers into her hips as he takes her from behind.

    She bends over the trunk as she arranges folders, ass sticking up in the air.

    Such a tease. She’s bound to know he’s watching, waiting.

    She slams the trunk shut, blowing out a breath, seeming to collect herself for a few seconds.

    He slinks out of the shadows, pulling her to the wall at the edge of the parking lot. She yelps, the surprise on her face quickly turning to desire when she sees her husband.

    He chuckles, nuzzling into her neck.

    He cups her ass, sliding his hand lower, edging the hem of her skirt up.

    “Baby…” He encounters lace and flesh mid-thigh, sucking in a breath. “Who’s this for, teacher girl?”

    “Just for you, Mr Principal.”

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  3. @melfin80
    181 words

    Seeing her all prim, prissy made him hard as a rock. That innocent appearing angel on the overpass was sin incarnate beneath him in bed.

    He couldn’t resist grabbing her arm as she walked past him. The gasp & flash of recognition in her eyes urged a sinister grin upon his face. His fingers bit in the soft skin of her arm as he held her close. The scent of lavender and arousal filled his nose as his hand jerked at her skirt and fingers rubbed over knit stocking, feeling for the lace and bare skin atop.

    His breath was hot, scented with cinnamon gum as he whispered “mine” against her cheek. Her small whimper was all the response he needed. He released her quickly & she stumbled as he briskly walked away.

    She leaned against the rail, taking a few depths breaths as she straightened her skirt. A sly grin formed on her face knowing when he reached into his pocket for that next stick of gum and found her lacy panties instead; she’d have the upper hand once again.

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  4. Word Count: 193
    Name: Baiyo
    Twitter: @Dasbaiyo

    “It’s been a while.”

    “So it has.” Diane answered, inhaling his musky scent as she nuzzled him and rested her head on his shoulder.

    “So, um, as much as I love you dropping in, what are you doing here.” Clarence gasped nervously. Even though he didn’t want to admit it, something in him always ignited when they were together.

    “Can’t we just live in the moment?” she implored, her warm brown eyes seemingly penetrating into his soul.

    “We can, but uh, we should go somewhere more private?” he whispered, suddenly aware of the increasing looks turning in their direction.”

    “I think I saw some empty conference rooms across the way.” she replied, nodding breathlessly.

    “Not a good idea. Not good at all. And don’t you have somewhere to be?” he asked, hating himself for ruining the moment.

    “I do.” she frowned. “I just wanted to say, hi.”

    “Can you come to my place? he asked, hopefully. He didn’t want to seem eager, but they did need to settle a few things.

    “So at six then?” she replied, easing out of the embrace. Though she hated it, she really did need to get going.

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  5. Word count: 100 words, on the nose
    Twitter handle: @AnnaLund2011

    ~~~~~~~~~

    That’s what everybody else saw: the prissy exterior, the cool and haughty—neat, but oh, so fucking prude—just lame.

    That pristine side had been honed, polished, tweaked into bloody perfection.

    It took him all of twenty-three seconds to tear it all down and get her into those six-inch heels and silk-seamed stockings. Twenty-three seconds of complete bliss, because the chase had been so thrilling.

    Then, a lifetime to make it up to her, to bow his neck, and obey.

    Because that kind of prim? It is innate, it doesn’t change.

    He was stuck with forever.

    More the fool him.

    ~~~~~~~~~

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  6. 110 words. I think.

    Summer and winter.

    Day and night.

    Jeckel and Hyde.

    Exquisite.

    All mine.

    From nine to give, so prim and proper to the outside world, prissy even, with her hair wound into a tight bun, white silk top, smart blazer and black pencil skirt. The only concessions made to her conservative attire were her black patent leather heels and those fuck-hot stockings. You know the ones with the seam up the back?

    Hell yes. Those.

    Those tempting reminders of what she becomes when the work day is done make me hard as a rock. My hot seductress. Sex and sin incarnate

    Show me some skin, baby. You know you want it.

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  7. @Deebelle1
    Word Count: 189

    She was Miss Priss personified and I was the lowly paperboy. She was silk and I was cotton. We were complete opposites on the outside, but on the inside we burned with the same fire.

    I could tell that her head was elsewhere, not focused on the fact that my hands had made there way under the demure wool shirt she was wearing. “What’s going through that mind of your, doll face?”

    “My mother saw us together yesterday. She threatened to tell my daddy if I didn’t end things with you.” Her tawny eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t want to lose you.”

    I tightened my grip on her stocking clad thighs, leaving no room between us. She was mine regardless of if I was worthy or not.

    “Then we disappear together, leave this God forsaken town and start fresh. I can sell papers anywhere and you can get a gig a secretary. Money’s be tight, but we’d have each other.”

    She nodded her head and my heart raced.

    “Pack a bag tonight and meet me at our spot…then forever doll face.”

    “Forever.”

    It was ours discover and explore.

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  8. Word count: 200 on the nose.

    @sandyquill

    = = =

    Patti Page’s voice scraped over his skin as she sang “Tennessee Waltz”. He could hear it playing from his sister’s radio out the second floor window. It was a sad song, but it tugged at his guts so that he had to draw harder on the cigarette between his lips.

    His hands clenched at his sides. Clenched as if they were missing something.

    A skirt, maybe. A pair of stockings with seams up the back. A woman who could and would straddle his leg in an alley and pleasure herself using his body.

    “Ain’t no Miss Priss,” she had whispered in his ear, her voice smoky like a smooth menthol cigarette. “Y’don’t have to go slow with me, sugar.”

    So he didn’t. He crunched her skirt up…up…up and found that she’d planned this all along when he caught the rubber tucked in at the top of her stockings.

    Inwardly, he drew back, but his body didn’t follow. No, he used the rubber and used her as she did him.

    But after. After, he felt empty. Like his hands. Like maybe he was the one who a Prissy Sissy.

    Pulling out the cigarette, he flicked it aside. Never again.

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  9. Twitter: @babiesbrown
    170ish words
    At work they call her “Miss Prissy,” the prissiest, prettiest typist this side of the Mississippi Delta.
    “Loosen up, baby.” His fingers curl at her throat as he pushes his hardness against her skirt. “You’re wound tighter than a two dollar watch.”
    His mouth licks a line behind his roving fingers as he pulls at that damned skirt. “Baby,” he says, “Come on, baby.”
    She shudders and he bumps her again, right there where she’s so warm and he’s weeping in his jeans. Every time his lips touch her, she melts a little into his arms, like a hothouse flower unfolding in the summer sun.
    “Oh.” Her mouth meets his as he palms the backs of her smooth thighs, his rough hands plucking her stockings. “Oh, ohh, my nylons.”
    That Sears and Roebuck number slides with his hands until his Fruit of the Loom meet her sweet spot.
    “I don’t care ’bout them nylons,” he says, licking. His hips grind against her. “D’ya?”
    She really doesn’t. Not at all.

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  10. 195 words
    @jdifrans
    Mike cups my jaw and leans in to kiss me, so soft and sweet. I grab his shoulders through his leather jacket, pull him to me, and kiss him hard. We groan as our tongues collide and I straddle his waist. His hands ghost down my neck and across my collar bone. He hesitates until I grind myself against him. He touches my breasts, feeling the weight in his hands as his thumbs rub my nipples, making them harden beneath my bra. He moves south, caressing me from my waist to my hips. His fingers run the line up my stockings, from my ankles to my thighs. As he finds the garter under my skirt, I toss my head back and moan.
    Startled, I wake to find one hand between my legs, the other on my breast.
    Every night I dream of Mike Jones, the bad boy my body yearns for. If only he could see me as I am in my dreams and not as a prissy little school girl. How I’d love to spend my nights watching him drag race and steaming up the windows in his black ’32 chop top Ford Coupe.

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