JOIN US EACH FRIDAY TO SEE WHO'S FLASHING US
Each Friday a new prompt will be posted along with the previous week's winners.
How does it work? Each Friday one admin of TLS
posts a picture prompt here to the blog. Using this image, entries are
created by commenting on this post. Submissions must be 100-300 words
ONLY. No more, no less. The entries are then judged and we post the
winners here, each Friday, to share with all of you.
THIS WEEK'S NEW PROMPT
You will have until next Wednesday at 9 p.m. EST to submit your entry.
Picture prompt and judge this week is Surething302.
Please leave your submission in the comment section at the bottom of the post using this format:
Your name (use your Twitter, Facebook or FFN name)
Your link to your FFN profile if you choose to share it
Submissions will be judged on Thursdays and on Friday the winning entry will be posted here, on the TLS blog.
This feature is open to everyone, so come one, come all!
LAST WEEK'S PROMPT
WINNERS CHOSEN BY twilover76
It was very difficult for me to narrow down the winners this week. I really enjoyed all of the entries so much. Thank you for taking the time to give us your words!!
Word count: 300
The scenery whizzes by, greens and browns blending together as I keep my gaze fixed on the window.
I can't look at you.
Your warm hand rests on my thigh, just above my knee-high boots. They kill my feet, but I love the way you look at me when I wear them to school. How you lick your lips when I walk past you to reach my desk.
Sitting in the back row, no one can see when I grasp your hand and move it under my skirt.
You love chaperoning class trips.
I bite my lip in anticipation at your sharp inhale as you come into contact with the damp fabric of my little cotton panties.
One long finger hooks under the elastic, gliding through the wetness, spreading, pressing.
I’ve had the most elaborate dreams starring those fingers. You talk with your hands in class. Your fingers distract me from learning the facts that you tick off on them.
My teeth press even harder into my bottom lip as your probing finger slides easily inside.
My eyes fall shut as I keep my face angled toward the window.
If I looked at you now, I'd give us away.
I want to see your sea-green eyes. I want to watch your lips part, your tongue snaking out to wet them as you feel what you do to me.
A second finger slips inside, and a strangled whimper escapes me.
Your thumb can’t reach my clit from this angle, but you use the heel of your hand, and it’s perfect.
Pressure and friction combine and combust until I shatter silently around you.
You wipe your fingers
on the underside of my skirt, but I know you want to taste them.
Your sharp jaw ticks in my periphery, and I whisper, “Tonight.”
Word Count: 300
He wore a pair of jeans and a green t-shirt, both soaked by the rain. He ran a hand through his hair, spraying droplets of water everywhere.
I instinctively jerked my knee away as water flew in my direction. The movement attracted his attention, his startling green eyes snapping up to mine.
His emerald eyes wandered down my body and a hot blush immediately coated my cheeks. His eyes met mine again and a crooked smile spread across his face.
“Sorry.” He smirked. “Can I…sit with you?”
“Y-yes.” I stuttered.
He grinned and plopped down next to me, sighing contently. He extended his long legs in front of him.
I quickly turned away from him. For a while, we rode in silence. Until I felt it.
His fingers gently brushed down the side of my thigh. I gasped and my eyes snapped towards him. He stared back, his expression completely nonchalant.
Tingles spread across my body and I had to repress a sigh. His fingers brazenly trailed up my thigh and my hand instinctively grabbed his, halting his progress.
His lips turned upwards at the corner. He laughed softly and nodded, pulling back.
The bus slowed to a stop once more and he got up, walking to the door. Before he got off he shot me a wink and another breathtaking smile. “Can’t wait to see you again.”
I had no idea what he meant until I got up to get off at my own stop and a folded piece of paper fell to the ground. I picked it up, my heart pounding in my chest when I saw the row of numbers listed. I had no idea when he’d written them. Below it was a small message:
You’re beautiful. Hope to see you again, Bus-girl.
"Where have you been?"
He intends to sound accusatory as he grabs my knee, pulling me across the seat - but all I hear is need, buried deep in his throat.
He's all buttoned up, crisp black on clean white. Hair just cut. Sunglasses on.
Eye contact is delicate and volatile matter here.
"You're always hiding." He slides his hand higher, just under sunshine yellow skirt
cotton, studying me, watching me twist my waterbottle cap in my lap. "Why?"
Acuteness, endowment, and the promise of total destruction radiate from his touch.
"Where do you go, little poet?"
Long, strong, never-calloused fingertips brush my teenage skin while I pour all my wishing into wringing the bottle's neck, while Eric Packer simply does what he loves best -
I don't need to be one of his wonder-geniuses to know -
This is dangerous.
He finds patterns in my breathing, in my thoughts and heartbeats, and claims them his.
I deny it.
But they are.
"Look at me," he says, his regard heavy under sunglasses. "Stop hiding."
Taking his familiar right hand under mine, I bring it under my pristine skirt and press his palm where my pulse is pounding. Giving him what he seeks, the patterns in me that tremble undeniably possessed, I take his glasses and put them on myself.
Now, I'm real.
And his bare eyes are so blue.
I can't marry you, I nearly scream.
Marriage is a contract, and it will find me out, and you won't want me anymore...
"All night sex in the minaret wasn't enough?" I ask instead. "Sunrise in the chapel?
Being my first, right here in this car wasn't enough? Being my only, ever?"
His propensity toward obscene instinct has him above me in the next beat.
Even his stillness is threatening.
Especially this stillness.
"No," he says, staring through lenses, pushing hard between my legs. He lays his right hand on my neck.
"I'm going to make you my wife," he whispers. "And then I'm going to bottle-fuck
Through the lush daze of cool leather seats and the weight of him like a god, I remember desperately twisting my waterbottle, wishing through aching.
"Slowly," he continues.
He means to warn.
"With my sunglasses on."
But all I hear is yearning.
Word count: 300
Deft fingers on creamy, bare skin. He tickles, firm, but soft. Ghosting, they glide up slowly, methodically, under the ruffled fabric of her skirt.
She shifts her hips, opening up to him.
He slowly pushes higher, until he reaches what he seeks.
Humming, she looks ahead to the other cars passing by. They have no idea that the man sitting next to her has his fingers buried inside.
Bella licks her lips, and looks at the striking man sitting beside her. This is too good to be real. Excitement bubbles in her chest as he presses and circles, drawing out her pleasure for his own gain.
He smirks as he whizzes by another car. The top is down and although they cannot see, he knows what he’s doing is wrong, yet feels so right.
Wetness seeps from her core, her panties pushed to the side, also drenched. His fingers are relentless against her flesh as she presses her clenched fist against her parted lips to stifle her screams as she comes undone.
Long, wet fingers leave a trail on her thigh then get pushed between her lips as she sucks them dry. Tangy sweetness on her tongue, she closes her eyes and crosses her legs, pulling her skirt back in place.
His eyes haven’t left the highway. He hasn’t even spoken one word to her. Not since he picked her up and promised his ex-wife he’d bring her home.
“This is my house, Mister Cullen. Same time next week?” she asks, before getting out of the car.
He nods in confirmation. “Have a good night, Isabella.” And watches as the eighteen year old babysitter skips to the front door to her house.
He knows what he did was wrong, but he can’t help himself.
Next week couldn’t come soon enough.