"Independence Day"

I love to write flash stories. Sometimes my flashers start out as longer versions, like this one, and then I slowly cut and edit until I get it down to the desired word count, and keep all the best lines...and so I usually like the flasher much better than the original. But this time, I just can't seem to decide.

The first version is the 300-word flasher published by Ruthie's Club.

The second version is the original story, about twice as long.

Do you like the short one, or the long one? Either way, I hope you enjoy!

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Independence Day (Flasher: 300 words)
By Gwen Masters
(Originally published on Ruthie's Club)

From the moment I saw him sitting there on that Harley, I wanted to feel his cock inside me. The hotel was the kind that offered rates by the hour. He paid for thirty minutes. I looked up at him from the old bed and spread my legs wide, inviting him to take what his money had purchased.

He thrust in with no hesitation. I was dripping and within three strokes, so was he. His cock glistened in the flickering neon light just outside the window. Did he use a condom? Hell, I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was my voice saying those things, fuck me, fuck me hard, use me...

He didn’t care if I came, and so I did. Twice. Once, when he slid his rod into me with a kind of delicious indifference. And again, when I asked him what his name was as he pushed the mushroom head of his cock across my clit. “Why the fuck do you care?” he said, and I went off like the rockets that were booming above the hotel.

When he slid out a gush of wetness soaked the sheets. The money appeared from his wallet and dropped on my belly. Without a word he walked out, closing the door behind him as another fireworks explosion thundered its way across the darkening sky.

My husband was waiting for me when I got home. He asked no questions. He pushed me down to the floor and rammed his hard cock between my legs, slipping through the wetness there. He yanked my hair and bit down on my shoulder. We moaned and came together while the fireworks pounded over a distant lake and the engine of our new Harley cooled in the driveway.

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Independence Day (Original Version)
By Gwen Masters

From the moment I saw him sitting there on that Harley, I wanted to feel his cock inside me. The hotel was the kind that offered rates by the hour. I made my offer and he accepted with a frown that told me I wasn’t exactly what he was looking for, but I would do. He paid for only thirty minutes. I looked up at him from the old bed and spread my legs wide, inviting him to take the delights his money had purchased.

He thrust in with no hesitation. I was dripping, and within three strokes so was he. That was my own juice that made him glisten that way in the light from the neon sign outside. I wasn’t supposed to want it this much. Did he use a condom? Hell, I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was my voice saying those things, fuck me, fuck me hard, use me...

He didn’t care if I came, and so I did. Twice. Once, when he slid his rod into me with a kind of delicious indifference. And again, when I asked him what his name was as he pushed the mushroom head of his cock across my clit. “Why the fuck do you care?” he said, and I went off like the rockets that were booming above the hotel. I could hear the oohs and ahhs of the crowd outside and for a moment I felt as though they were applauding me.

I thrust up to him, wanting him to come, needing this strange man to empty his seed because my body had driven him to no other choice. He settled back and watched as I undulated against him. “You are a slut,” he growled in disgust. His eyes shone with the jaded light of a man who had known far too many sluts in his time. “Make me come, you filthy bitch. You begged for this. You wanted a fuck. You got it. You want my spunk, too?”

I did want it and so I fucked him with abandon, using every trick I knew, until he thrust hard and bit my shoulder to stifle his groan. A thrill of victory, a low and sultry pride spun through me. That was his seed that was filling my cunt, spilling out onto the dingy sheets. His hips pressed so hard into mine that I could feel the pressure of him against my womb.

When he slid out a gush of wetness soaked the sheets. His expression was carefully blank as he pulled up his zipper and adjusted his softening cock. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. After some thought, he pulled out another one. They fluttered down to rest on my belly. Without a word he walked out, closing the door behind him as another fireworks explosion went off high above the seedy hotel.

My hands shook as I dressed. I waited until I heard the roar of the Harley heading down the highway, then I tucked the money into the pocket of my shorts. I didn’t bother to shower. I wanted to feel his semen slipping out of me and running down my thighs. My hand was almost steady as I slipped the key into the ignition, started the van and headed toward home.

My husband was waiting for me when I got there. He asked no questions. He just pushed me down to the floor and rammed his hard cock between my legs, slipping through the wetness there. He bit down on that little bruise on my shoulder. We moaned and came together while the fireworks pounded over a distant lake and the engine of our new Harley cooled in the driveway.

"Lucky Numbers and Marlboros"

Callie was a good girl, the kind who had never done anything even remotely wild in her entire life. Until she met Paul, who fucked her in every way imaginable before he left her bed in the middle of the night, turning her into a one-night stand. Her track record of being the good girl was shattered, and she was determined that Paul would not be the last man who fucked her.

My "Lucky Numbers and Marlboros," originally published on Ruthie's Club, has been selected for The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 6. Here's an excerpt from the story:

When she woke up, he was gone.

At first she didn’t know what to do. She felt displaced, as if the room she woke up in was not the same room she had fallen asleep in, as if the bed were not her own. She walked through the house and looked for him but she knew what she would find.

He had taken it all. Oh, not her things. Not those. He had taken his clothes and his cigarettes. He had left the newspaper open to the classifieds, his toothbrush in the sink and his soap in the shower. She thought he had taken the vodka too, but that afternoon she found it, sitting there on the high shelf in the pantry. How civilized of him.

“I will not fall apart,” she said to the bottle.

The bottle said not a word. She settled on the kitchen chair and her body ached. Paul had been rough with her. She had bruises on her shoulder and on her neck, and even on her leg. Her belly ached where he had been. She had never ached like that or been marked like that for anyone else.

He wasn’t her first but it felt like he was. She had done things. He had taught her things she didn’t know she was capable of doing. She never dreamed she would have been able to deep-throat a man that size but she did. She gagged on his cock and that excited him. He liked it when he drove all the way into her pussy and she cried out because he was so hard to take.

“Arrogant fuck with an arrogant prick,” she said out loud.

She spent an hour, maybe more, watching the bottle and memorizing the label. She remembered the way he tasted when he kissed her the last time, before she knew he was going to walk out, when she thought everything was fine. He had tasted like vodka and grapefruit juice and Marlboros.

Last times. There were so many last times now, when she had expected only first times. That was her fault, her own arrogance. She had planned on more than just one night. She didn’t want to look back on the last time she had a man in her bed and remember it with anything less than happiness. She didn’t want him to be the last time.

She rose from the chair and pulled the bottle of vodka from the high shelf. She
unscrewed the cap and took a swig. It made her grimace, made her stomach heave. But that much was done. He hadn’t been the last to drink from the bottle. She opened the fridge and pulled out the grapefruit juice. The taste made her nose tickle.

She walked to the living room and found the remote control for the television. Flipped it on. He had been watching the Spanish channel. She turned the channel to something more American: Country Music Television. She saw the cigarette butts in the glass ashtray and wished he hadn’t taken the Marlboros. She didn’t smoke, but she could learn fast.

She yanked the towel off the shower rod. It was still damp. She climbed into the shower and turned it on, let the water wash her clean. She would not cry.

She grabbed the soap he had used and threw it in the garbage can. The toothbrush, too. The pretty gown he hadn’t bothered to notice went into the washing machine. She yanked the sheets off the bed so hard that one corner ripped. She stalked to the washer and threw those in, too.

When it was halfway through the cycle she realized she had forgotten to add the detergent. She started the washer again and this time added a generous cup of Tide.

She skimmed the classifieds. He had been looking for houses. What a fucking joke. She ripped up the paper, tore it into shreds. She dumped it all in the trashcan and a few pieces bounced up to peek over the edge. She found the mug he drank from, sitting there beside the sink. She turned on the tap, filled it up, and drank from it herself.

Paul wasn’t the last.

She picked up the phone. Pressed redial and studied the number. He had called the rental car place. She stared at the number for a long time. When had he decided to
leave, exactly? Why had he flown halfway across the country to get to her? Why
in the world would a man do that if he had intended to leave after one night?

She sat down on the couch and her body protested. Everything hurt. It wasn’t just the muscles in her thighs or the bite on her shoulder or the back of her throat. It was everything, from head to toe. It was the pain of the shock, settling in.

She called her friend Tom.

She wasn’t sure, even then, what she was going to do. She just knew she had to do something. She couldn’t sit there and breathe the same air with the traces of his cigarette on it. She couldn’t let herself remember all those things he said and did and wanted. She couldn’t be comfortable in her own skin as long as the memory of his hands was upon her.

Tom answered and she quickly got to the point. “I need you to come over.”

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Everything,” she said.

Tom came over. His face was etched with worry. He sat down beside her on the couch and the story came out a little at a time. Now the shock was wearing off, and along with that disappearance came anger—a vile, simmering anger that made her head feel as though it was too small for her body. Her heart pounded in her chest and even that hurt. It made the bite marks throb a little each time her blood pumped underneath the tender skin.

“I don’t want him to be the last man who touched me,” she said to Tom.

"Longevity"

An Excerpt from my story, "Longevity":

We just looked at each other, the belt swinging between us.

“I read them, Jasmine,” he said. “I read them all. All those fantasies about being
a whore. About taking on more than one man. About masturbating in front of a
room full of people. About being punished. You want to be tied up, don’t you? You want to be forced to do things? I never dreamed my wife had such a submissive streak in her.”

I wanted to hide behind my hands like a little child who has been caught doing something bad. It took all the fortitude I had to look him in the eye as he went on.

“I read them. They got me hard. In fact, they did more than that.” John gave me a slow smile.

“They made me come, Jasmine. Want to see?”

He flipped the papers toward me. They were stapled together and flapped like a wounded bird. They landed on the bed and immediately I could see the stains. The dark spots where he had—

“Oh, my God,” I breathed.

John nodded. “You like that, baby? Knowing your fantasies made your husband
come?”

I reached for the papers. He stepped forward and swept them out from under my hands. He snapped the belt against the side of the bed and I gasped in surprise. Before I had time to register what was happening, his hand shot out and twisted in my hair.

“Get on your knees,” he whispered into my ear. “You’re going to touch yourself for me. And I’m going to punish you for it. And I’m going to come while I do it. I’m willing to bet you’re going to come while I do it, too.”

Breathing became an effort. I couldn’t look at him any longer. Emotions warred within me, and my eyes blurred with tears. I wanted this so badly but I was so embarrassed, so caught off-guard. John gently laid the belt across my thigh and whispered again, this time with more gentleness than I could stand.

“I want this,” he said. “Now I know you want it, too. There’s nothing wrong with this, Jasmine. Don’t you know that?”

I shook my head and to my chagrin, a small sob broke free. When I expected John to take me into his arms, he instead pushed on my shoulder and rolled me to the center of the bed. “Get on your knees.”

I got on my knees.

John moved around behind me. The belt buckle clicked a bit with every motion of his hand. I flinched when he carefully laid the belt across the small of my back. He slapped it gently against my skin. It didn’t hurt; in fact it felt delightfully good. He slapped the leather against my skin a second time. Anticipation began to edge in along with the embarrassment. He really did want to do this.

“Show me,” he said. I hesitated. The belt came down harder, this time a bit of a sting right across the top of my buttocks.

“Do it,” he growled.

I reached between my legs. I touched just the inside of my thighs at first, still scared to show John what I did when I was alone. I was stunned when I heard him moan. He had never sounded quite like that before. Completely forgetting all my inhibitions, I turned to look at him.

My husband was staring at me with an impossible look of raw lust. His eyes trailed from my hands to my thighs to the belt that rested across my hips. Finally he looked me full in the face. For a silent moment we stared at each other, as if seeing one another for the first time in twenty years.

I closed my eyes and slowly slid my hand up the inside of my thigh.

You can get my story and TONS of other great spanking stuff in Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z 2, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel. Now available on Amazon!