Flashing All the Pretty Pieces of You (week 6)

Thank you all for waiting so long for the next flashfic! Our trip to LAlaland was restful and nice; I don’t know that I’m happy to be back. **sigh**

But let’s get down to business!

This week’s judge:

Femme Malheureuse

81fa0b4f85352921b917443c6ecf00ce

par·ty
[pahr-tee]
noun, plural par·ties.
1.
a social gathering, as of invited guests at a private home, for conversation, refreshments, entertainment, etc.: a cocktail party.
2.
a group gathered for a special purpose or task: a fishing party; a search party.
3.
a detachment, squad, or detail of troops assigned to perform some particular mission or service.
4.
a group of persons with common purposes or opinions who support one side of a dispute, question, debate, etc.
5.
a group of persons with common political opinions and purposes organized for gaining political influence and governmental control and for directing government policy: the Republican Party; the Democratic Party.

Be SURE to use both the picture AND the word prompts. Entries need to be between 100-200 words. Post your twitter handle and your word count.

You have until Friday night at 11:59 PM (MST) to post your flash.

PS. I’d love to see someone pay special heed to the 5th definition. That may rock this prompt.

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5 thoughts on “Flashing All the Pretty Pieces of You (week 6)

  1. @babiesbrown
    183 words

    Mavis Johnson started the evening on her knees and ended it by bringing a man to his.

    Senator Lucas Brandt saw her in a crowd at a party rally in Denver. She was walking by in a hurry, blonde hair down against the wind, blowing like spools of spun gold into his frame of vision. For a man with a photographic memory, it was a picture worth remembering.

    Seeing her that evening, the white blonde hair pinned neatly, with her Bette Davis eyes turned up as her swollen lips slid over his cock, well, it was a sight he also planned not to forget. When he came, she took it, relished it, swallowing like a hungry little bird looking for more.

    They danced in a lurid flush of expensive drugs and cheap liquor, the highest ranking member of the Committee on Appropriations and a waitress from Compton, California. They chased bitter dreams across slick skin and silk ties, screaming their bliss in a world where money could almost buy a soul.

    In the gray light of dawn, she was dead and he was gone.

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  2. Throwing my head back I felt the warmth of my liquid courage slide down my throat.

    “Damn do I love liquor.” I smiled as I set my wine glass down, then gracefully leaned over the couch to check my attire for the evening.

    Turns out my services were needed this cold Thursday evening for a little event the Republican party Senator was having. Knowing someone asked for me made my lips twitch with a smirk.

    “Conservative my ass,” I laughed as I reapplied my dark red lipstick and checked that my cleavage was still spilling out of my corset.

    “Doll they need you now, the men are getting antsy,” said my friend Benjamin as he stuck his head in my changing room.

    “Having me go in there isn’t going to help.” I laughed as he rolled his eyes.

    “Just come on.”

    He rushed me out of the room and all I focused on was the clicking of my heels on the tile floor. Dancing for men made me nervous, but the alcohol gave me a kick of confidence.

    However, that confidence slowly slipped away like sand through your fingers as I spotted him.

    “James?”

    His smile made me sick.

    @TinsleyWarren
    Words: 199

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  3. Dawn light clashes with fluorescence, making the men and women in the office look tired, despite the excitement in the air.

    He bends over her shoulder, one forearm on the desk beside her screen, the other on the back of her chair. He smells clean, compelling.

    “Is this the webcam footage?”

    She nods, not trusting her voice.

    “Stop there.”

    She clicks, freezing the woman as she swigs her wine on the sofa that no longer exists. Blown to smithereens; likely the femme fatale too.

    “I know her. Those ti – legs; shoes. Take off the blonde wig, the eyelashes – she’s wearing gloves. Why is she wearing gloves?”

    Jealousy stings. “Sexual allure?” Her nonchalance is unconvincing.

    “The search party report – there’s no mention of her. What’s a stripper doing at a Party convention?”

    He’s pulling his phone out. He uses the desk arm. The other remains behind her chair. His finger strays, sending a soft thrill where he grazes her neck – saving the free world, catching a terrorist, turning her on.

    She stares at the woman on the screen, mesmerised by her confidence. Bitch blew up a dozen partying politicians. Cucumber cool, she hardly looks the type.

    199 words
    @Gingerandgreen

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  4. “How many glasses has she had?”

    “This is seven.”

    The men gathered, gray suits disheveled, ties rumpled, cigarettes in varied states as they stared at her from across the room. This was the last night they had to get their work done, but their reward was with them.

    They called her the Party Girl. Her name was actually Suzanne Lynae Parker, but she was “Susie” to the men of the Party. Every time they’d reach an agreement, she’d drink another glass of whatever form of alcohol they had provided.

    And she’d take off one of her garments.

    “It’s an incentive, boys,” she had murmured only last Session. “So get to work.”

    They did. They wondered if they’d manage to number their items to the articles of clothing she had donned of an evening…

    So far, she had managed to keep it legal. Barely.

    “Hey, Susie,” one of the men called out, his blue eyes alight. “Almost got the next item down.”

    She sauntered to the table, balanced in heels and audaciously beautiful in her black lingerie. With a flick of her finger, she made as if to unfasten her stocking. The men were captivated.

    “So? Get to work, boys.”

    199 words
    @sandyquill

    Like

  5. @jdifrans
    101 words

    Today is his birthday. Everyone is celebrating. Hell, one day it might even be a fucking holiday. We’ve been to party after party all day, but I need my piece of him. The devoted, sweet, and broken man who needs his high school sweetheart —that only I know.

    I have an overwhelming need to devour him. Mark him as mine. For make him forget his name, give all I am, soul crushing sex.

    I slip into a corset with stilettos, stockings, and gloves to match; hardly First Lady attire. I may be lingerie-lounging in the President’s office, but I’m waiting for my husband.

    Like

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