By Gwen Masters
“Hold still,” he whispered.
“But that’s cold!”
Gentleman Jack hit my belly button. Droplets peppered my torso. One of them slipped down my side to pool on the rug. The light of the candles danced, spinning embers in the glass of the whiskey bottle. The liquor splashed between my breasts, seeped into my hair.
He poured fire into my mouth and thrust deep. Hard.
The whiskey flavored us both. He turned up the bottle and drank deeply. We began to move, deep strokes that kindled embers in the pit of my belly.
“It’s not so cold now,” he murmured.
I used to hate flash stories. I would chafe at the limited word count. I used to be a very wordy writer, one who went off on tangents to describe every last thing in the story. Some writers can pull it off consistently, but I'm not one of those. The result? Too many words for a story that needed less talk and more action.
Now I love flash stories. I think they are excellent tools to create better writing. In a flash story, the writer must focus on the story itself. Words have to be carefully orchestrated to get the most out of them. I tend to write dozens of 100-word flashers when I'm in the midst of a novel. When writing a word count of 80,000-120,000 words, it's easy to get lost in pastoral description, even when it comes to sex. And who wants their sex to be...well, described to death? That's boring.
I love my quickies. Think of them as you would think of an actual sexual encounter. Making love is great, fucking is good...but the quickies are the dashes of spice. They make everything else more interesting.