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  1. thirdwind
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    thirdwind Contributing Member Contest Administrator Reviewer Contributor

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    Past Contest Flash Fiction Contest #36 -- Theme: Stripping Naked

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Flash Fiction Contest' started by thirdwind, Oct 14, 2016.

    The flash fiction contest is finally back, and our first theme, courtesy of @20oz, is stripping naked. I think this theme is a good contrast to the traditional Halloween theme of dressing up. You are free to interpret the theme however you wish, but please make sure your story takes the theme into account in some way.

    The entries can be no longer than 500 words. Please post the entries directly in this thread. All entries will automatically be anonymized by the system. The deadline for submission is October, 31.

    Good luck to everyone who enters! Hopefully the info above covers everything, but if you have additional questions/comments, please post them here.
     
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  2. dbesim
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    dbesim Contributing Member

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    Twenty-first Anniversary
    (488 words)

    Anne stirs quietly in bed. It's morning. Anne senses the day break through the curtains. She begins to wake. She reaches for her robe on the chair and wears it. The TV is on in the background. Anne yawns.

    As she sits up to fluff the pillow she sees something. It's a tray left on her bedside table. Breakfast? Oh, he shouldn't have.

    A single red rose sits beside marmalade, toast and tea. Two sugars and milk, just how she likes it. Anne picks up the rose and breathes in its fragrance.

    Mark enters the room. "Are you awake, love? I didn't want to disturb you." Anne beams. He's being such a gentleman today. But hold on. That's weird. He's not usually like this. "Come over, sexy," Anne says, giving him a pout. Suddenly she notices the neatly wrapped parcel in his hand. Is that a present? Anne shifts on the bed uncomfortably. Mark gives her a kiss.

    "Happy anniversary, sweetheart," he says. She takes the gift from his fingers. Oh, damn. That's what it is. Their anniversary. She'd completely forgotten. Anne tries to buy time.

    "Er...it's...it's...it's.." She fiddles with the wrapping. She can't quite get the tape off.

    Mark's eyes follow her fingers. "Here, let me do it," he says finally. "No, I've got this!" she says. Eventually the wrapping's off and it's a.. Gucci bag. She traces the material over with her fingers. Oh boy, she doesn't deserve this.

    "So?" Mark asks. "So?" she replies. Mark's eyes shift from the bag to Anne's face.

    "What about mine?" he says. "Yours?" she asks. Suddenly a wave of inspiration hits her. She gets up and walks across the room to the foot of the bed. She takes her robe off and throws it on the bed.

    "Hey do you remember this?" she teases. She slowly unzips her silk nightdress and lets it fall onto the floor. Thankfully, she's wearing her favourite satin underwear. The purple one that Mark likes. Victoria's Secret. Now it all seems like part of the plan. "And.." she says. There's a mischievous look in her eyes. She takes off the bra and throws it over at him. He catches it and gives her a wicked smile. "And.." She slowly slips off the remains of her lingerie. Mark roars. Anne seductively sways from right to left.

    "You know you're spoiling me right now?" he says.

    Suddenly there's an interruption at the door. Little Richard walks in. Anne grabs her robe. "You know you have to knock before you walk in darling?" she says. Little Richard rubs his eyes.

    "Mum?" he says. "Did you get that Gucci bag I bought you for your twenty-first anniversary?" Anne gives Mark a frosty look. "And the breakfast in bed I made you?" Mark sits across the room looking sheepish. "You rascal!" Anne screams grabbing for her nightdress.

    "Sorry, darling! I forgot all about it."
     
    Last edited: Oct 20, 2016
  3. Jarvis XIX
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    Jarvis XIX Member

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    Jack (499)

    Jack regarded the two men opposite with disdain. He crossed his arms and looked away. They were playing good cop, bad cop.
    The larger leant forward on the table. "I'll not tell you again, Jack. Strip!"
    "Not on a first date," Jack retorted.
    The man's face reddened. He ground his teeth, then bellowed: "Do you realise how much shit you're in?"
    "I didn't touch that girl," Jack answered, holding the larger man's gaze.
    The man paused, then laughed humourlessly. "I don't give a shit whether you did or not, lad. You’re mistaking us for the police. It's what you did afterwards that interests us," He suddenly thumped the table, making his colleague jump. "Now strip or I'll break your fucking legs!"
    The smaller stood. "Mr. Kamen! Calm down!"
    Jack considered a witty comment but bit it back. He stood, then pulled off his shirt and started fiddling with his belt. "I dunno know what you're talking about, boss."
    The skinny man adjusted his glasses, rose and approached Jack, scanning his body as he stripped.
    "Enjoying yourself?" Jack grunted as he slid his jeans off.
    "Dr. Collinson needs to examine you," Kamen snapped.
    Jack pulled down his boxers and kicked them away. He cupped his hands before his privates to protect his modesty. He felt conscious of his bollocks, which seemed to be retreating into his body.
    Collinson prodded one of a pair of small protruding lumps just above Jack's collarbone. "What's this?" he whispered to himself.
    "Dunno ... tumours?" Jack suggested.
    Kamen hovered behind Collinson. He was doing his utmost to avoid looking at the naked Jack. "How’d you do it?"
    "Do what?"
    "Don't play silly buggers, lad."
    Jack shrugged as Kamen picked up a tablet, tapped it a few times, then held it out. It showed several angles of CCTV footage. Jack was running, whilst vanishing and reappearing rapidly, quickly covering a far greater distance than he should have been able to.
    "Your cameras are on the fritz."
    "It's short distance teleportation, isn't it? How do you do it?" Kamen demanded.
    "I don't know what to tell you."
    Collinson prodded one of the lumps again, then moved to the door and opened it a crack, speaking to someone stood outside it. "I need to take a sample ..."
    Kamen caught his attention. "So, what do you call yourself?"
    "Huh?"
    "All you freaks nickname yourselves. Something like Zip or Blink," He suddenly clapped his hands together. "Jumping Jack Flash!"
    Jack grinned evilly. "I'm partial to Springheel Jack."
    Both lumps suddenly glowed electric blue. Kamen's mouth dropped open. In an instant, Jack vanished and reappeared airborne above Kamen. He slammed elbow first onto Kamen’s head, knocking him to the floor.
    Collinson spun to see Jack glowing with a bright blue aura. He suddenly vanished again, before instantly reappearing crouched before Collinson. Jack lunged upwards, catching Collinson on the chin with a wicked uppercut and sending him sprawling. Jack smirked down at his subdued captors before vanishing again.
    This time, he didn't reappear.
     
  4. doggiedude
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    doggiedude Contributing Member

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    Never Nude - [500]


    The socks would be easy. Nothing wrong with Bill’s feet. As a child, he’d been able to play on a beach, so plenty of people had seen them before. Sitting on the edge of the bed and without looking at her, he pulled them off. Normal white cotton socks. After balling them up, he covertly checked his hands — only the slightest of tremor but his pulse raced with the speed of a cheetah.

    She squirmed with excitement showing her teeth in anticipation.

    “Just let me take my time. I’m a bit nervous.” He returned an anxious grin.

    The shirt was next — light-blue oxford, starched collar, standard opalescent buttons. Bill unhooked the cuffs and paused. The idea of removal twisted his stomach. How men could stride around outside without a shirt was a mystery.

    “One step at a time,” his therapist had said.

    He inhaled deeply to steady himself. Top button, second button — he fumbled on the third. A few years ago there’d been a joke going around because of an episode of Arrested Development. A character had a condition called Never Nude. It described Bill perfectly and it wasn’t funny. Thirty-eight and he’d never been naked in front of a woman. It terrified him. In his early twenties, he paid a few prostitutes for sex, but only the important part came out.

    “Sorry.” It came out in a croak, and he tried again. “Sorry, this is taking so long.”

    Her head shook from side to side — long blonde locks swayed with her movements. She was patient. Loving. Caring. He could take all night, and she wouldn’t protest.

    The quiver in his hands made it difficult, but he finished the last button. Another meditative inhalation and he pulled himself out of the shirt. Pale white skin, dark curly chest hair, neither muscular or scrawny. Even the warmth of the fireplace couldn’t prevent the prickles from popping his skin.

    Dr. Baker said to focus on her. Keep to the goal. Bill leaned over, kissed her knee, and wandered higher.

    The pants were last — khaki Dockers, no pleats. Hands clammy with sweat gripped the top and ripped open the button along with pulling the zipper down.

    She wriggled a little repositioning herself causing a surge of blood to run into his loins. Far younger than him, everything about her screamed sexy-kitten. Taut. Perky. Glorious.

    He wiped his hands along the pant legs hiding the action by lowering his trousers along with the boxers. He stayed seated. Her unable to fully see him.

    “I hope I’ll do alright.” She claimed to be a virgin so maybe she wouldn’t notice if he was awful. “Okay. I’m ready.” With a final deep breath, he wiped his brow with a shaky hand then turned and climbed onto the bed. Her eyes stroked him while his heart pounded like never before.

    Dr. Baker would be disappointed. He’d left the hood on.

    The girl writhed against her bonds again. Teeth clamped onto the gag.
     
  5. Albeit
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    Albeit Member

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    The Fog Horn

    What exactly produces such an animal and why is there one in every group?

    How is it allowed to evolve all the while spewing out mounds of utter self serving bullshit?

    An annoyingly arrogant buffoon always manages to have an opinion on everything, and becomes especially vocal when it explains the mysteries of what it knows little about. I believe this to be what best defines them. A know it all concoction which boldly swoons those who know even less than it does, and by the same token, drives away the people who know how to contribute in order to build community. The fog horn ultimately works to bewilder the whole group as its main objective and strategy. Hence, most members of the said group will simply back down from challenging the fog horn for fear of engaging the beast that makes them cringe each time it sounds. Rightly so, many understand that arguing with a dummy is a losing battle since the dummy usually has much more experience in such matters.

    But there will always come a time to strip things down to the core. A time to do away with the false façade that has been allowed to escalade to such a pinnacle of obscene inadequacy that it just becomes time to get to the naked truth. Stripping the non-sense away from the bone in hopes that what is left standing will ring true and clear for those who are no longer able to see through the fog.

    It was exactly that time. The opportunity arose to clear the air, so I took it upon myself to clear the deck as well. This loud mouth schnook was on my turf now and was talking as if he was some kind of authority regarding what I had spent my life doing. My desire to strip it all down to the bare bones, or to what Keith Richards so eloquently stated was what “everyone looks like inside” while showing off his skull shaped ring took hold of me. I felt that I was armed with the truth, the undeniable naked truth to boot.

    Every rebuttal to my exposure of its lies, lack of depth and ignorance was inane. The fog horn’s self-confidence was so monstrously shocking in as much as its reasoning was over the top, loud, arrogant and abundantly absurd. Its defense was terribly embarrassing, to the point where I was completely dumbfounded by what I heard. I could no longer respond intelligently. Every time it sounded its horn it managed to dumb down all that had been thought out via the light which logic had previously provided.

    I was now down to his level. Frustrated, wound up, crazy and feeling primitive, so I punched his dim lights out and unwillingly became the head of the pact.

    I later understood that it is not good to be naked when attempting to lead the pact.
     
    Last edited: Nov 1, 2016
  6. big soft moose
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    big soft moose Active Member

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    Strip job (300)

    Davey struggled fruitlessly with the skirt , “what was the bastard thing done up with ? Rivets ?” Giving up on the unequal battle he picked up his knife and sliced the around the fastening material away. “PVC , jeez not even classy enough for leather”

    Disgusted he stepped back for a moment, rubbing his sweaty palms on his oil stained jeans and breathing deeply seeking the calm that seemed to elude him at moments like this.

    “ Just fuckin typical” he thought “ you go through all the tedious bullshit, picking them up on the street, or outside a club, or in a darkened parking lot. You spend good money to make sure they are suitably lubricated, or if that doesn't do it you have to use brute force and risk someone hearing you. Then when you finally get back here , and get into the fun stuff, even the stripping goes to hell.”

    Davey spat phlegm onto the concrete floor , before lighting a roll up “no it wasn't like the old days , hell only a few years ago he could remember getting them revved up without all this crap, back then you could have fun and leave them back on the street afterwards. Not like with these old whores that give you minimum satisfaction, and when you're finished you have to chop them so that there isn't anything for the pigs to find.”

    He dropped the half smoked fag onto the workshop floor and ground it out under his boot heel. Picking up a crescent wrench, he lent back in and ripped the skirt around the gear stick away, then reached into the gap to detach its shaft from the gear linkage, Shaking his head he thought “auto theft just wasn't what it used to be”
     
  7. Scot
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    Scot Active Member

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    Strip Tease (erotic, 496)


    “Let’s get naked,” I said

    Sandra looked both shocked and coy, which surprised me as we had been ‘heavy petting’ these last few dates.

    “Not yet. I’m not ready,” she said

    I slid my hand out from between her legs and looked at her. Sandra’s blouse was undone and her bra was still fastened, but not so tightly I couldn’t reach in and stroke her nipples.

    “Oh come on. You feel ready to me and I know you want to,” I said.

    Sandra put her hand on my crotch and squeezed me through my jeans.

    “Well there’s no doubt you’re ready,” she said, climbing over and straddling me on the couch. We kissed long and hard.

    I put my hands around Sandra’s back to unclip her bra. She made no objection, and carried on exploring my mouth with her tongue while I undid the clip and moved my hands back round to cup her breasts. Sandra sat back and somehow wriggled free of her bra without removing her blouse. My shirt buttons were already undone and when Sandra held me close I could feel her warm, soft breasts against my chest.

    “Is this the sort of thing you had in mind?” she said.

    “We’re getting there,” I pulled back and lowered my head to take her nipple in my mouth.

    Sandra gave a gasp and moved my head to take in the other nipple.

    While I was busy Sandra removed her blouse and my shirt, before throwing them to the floor.

    “That better?” she said.

    “Mmff mffmff,” I said, with my mouth full.

    “Stand up,” she said.

    We stood facing one another, inches apart. Sandra reached for my belt buckle and undid it. Then she undid the top button of my Levi’s.

    I gulped, “Best take my trainers off first Sandra.”

    Sandra kneeled down, untied my laces and pulled of my trainers and socks before standing to face me again.

    “Your turn,” she said with a smile, as we kissed again.

    I kneeled, removed Sandra’s socks, and, while I was there, buried my face into her musky scent.

    “Stand up, it’s my turn,” she said.

    I stood again while Sandra slowly undid my jeans. As she pushed them down I lifted each leg in turn so she could remove them completely. Sandra grabbed my swollen cock as she stood up. This time she positively grinned as we kissed.

    She nibbled my ear and whispered, “Your turn.”

    Kneeling down again, and reaching around with both hands, my face pressed against her moist knickers, I unzipped Sandra’s dress and let it fall to the floor. The smell of her made me dizzy. I placed my hands on her hips to pull her knickers down.

    “Uh uh. My turn,” she said, taking my hands and pulling me to my feet.

    Sandra once again knelt in front of me and removed my boxers.
    At which point I came, and it was all over before it began.
     
  8. LinnyV
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    LinnyV Contributing Member

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    The Fowl Man (496)

    Some place over ten thousand years ago…

    The howling wind attacked the thatched tent, and the invading cold seeped into the Paka's old bones until his fingers were stiff. He looked at his son in concern. “Bunga, I smell an oncoming snowstorm. It’s unwise to hunt for fowl on a whim.”

    “Fear not, father. I will return before the snow arrives. My honour has been besmirched this morning. I heard whispers that I ate more than I hunted!”

    The old man wisely said nothing, for it was true; their winter stores were lean and many arrows remained unused. His son was large, slow moving and had an insatiable appetite.

    Bunga spat the bone toothpick from his mouth and thumped his chest. “I will prove my worth and return with enough fowl to feast for nights. I may even spare some for the other families—the ones with pretty daughters.”

    While Bunga smiled at his own imaginings, Paka shook his head. “But son, there have been sightings of a ferocious bear near the ravine.”

    “Again, fear not, father. I have brought the largest stone axe and spear.”

    “All for some fowl legs?” Paka questioned, his eyes shrewd. Too often, his son thought with his belly. With an indignant huff, Bunga waved him off and left the family tent.

    The old man sighed as he watched his son’s furs disappear into the forest.

    The snow came and went, and the days passed with no news. Bunga was never seen again by his tribe.

    ***

    The British Museum, Summer of 2016

    “Here, we have the oldest known case of paradoxical undressing.” Professor Lance Inkerman told his class on the field trip. He pointed at the well preserved and naked corpse behind the glass. “A strange phenomenon can happen with hypothermia. Near the point of death, the weakened body cannot maintain vasoconstriction. The capillaries open, and warm blood from the core floods to the peripherals, thus making the victim overheat.”

    He pointed at the mangy furs staged around the prone body. “Confused, this poor man would’ve stripped naked while crawling through waist deep snow. ” As the students leaned in closer for a look, he continued, “He would've frozen to death soon after; buried under ice in a ravine for over ten thousand years!”

    “Who was he?” a girl called.

    Lance waved his walking stick at the bow and quiver filled with arrows, the axe and the spear, all strapped to the corpse. “The stone weaponry would indicate that he was a Mesolithic warrior. These men hunted targets ranging from bears to the wildfowl that were the chicken of the day. Given his size and surplus of weaponry, he was most likely a fierce hunter after larger game. Maybe...” His voice deepened with melodrama. “Disoriented and alone, he was stalked by a bear and stumbled into the ravine.”

    Silence.

    “Or maybe he just wanted fried chicken?” joked a pimply boy with greasy hair.

    Everyone laughed.

    “Very clever, young man,” replied the Professor.
     
    Last edited: Oct 30, 2016
  9. ShannonH
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    ShannonH Senior Member Supporter

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    PASSION (486 WORDS)

    Jon fell backwards onto the bed. Amanda smiled as she stood over him. She fought hard to keep her breathing level as she ran a hand slowly up his leg. Her hand paused over the bulge in his crotch, framed nicely by the tight fit of his beige pants.


    Amanda crawled onto the bed, her body hovering inches over Jon’s. She held herself there, allowing herself the luxury of admiring the man beneath her. He was effortlessly handsome; flint jawed and deeply tanned. He stood at least six foot tall and was in better shape than most men half his age. His full, dark hair was graying at the temples and laughter lines tugged at the corner of his eyes and wrinkled his forehead. None of these features detracted from his attractiveness in Amanda’s eyes. In fact, they only emphasized his air of distinguished handsomeness that she had fallen so hard for.


    The gentle touch of Jon's breath was warm against her skin. The scent of coffee and natural sweat mixed pleasantly with his smokey aftershave. Amanda leaned in slowly, savoring the moment as she pressed her lips to Jon’s. It was a kiss she had spent countless nights fantasizing over. She pushed herself tightly against him, running a hand through his dark hair.


    She ran her free hand down his body, relishing the feel of hard muscles as she reached his cock. Gentle rubbing over the fabric of Jon’s pants was enough to make him respond. She looked down at him, a wicked grin etched on her face.


    It had taken so long for Amanda to reach this moment, she reminded herself not to rush. She wrapped his hand around hers. Jon's hand was strong and large enough to almost envelope Amanda’s. She could feel the callused skin courtesy of a life of real work brush roughly against her own.


    Carefully, Amanda unclasped the large gold watch on Jon’s wrist. As she slipped it off, she caught the inscription engraved on the back of the expensive timepiece; ‘To my darling Husband, -’


    Amanda threw the watch to the floor in disgust, not wanting to read the rest. She glared hard at Jon but he offered no reply. Angrily she removed his sweater for him. Doing so revealed a tanned body and a chest of coarse, dark hair. Amanda felt her smile slowly return.


    Jon’s loafers and socks soon followed the sweater. As Amanda took ahold of his belt she heard the front door open and close.


    “Jon? You home?”


    It was his bitch wife. Cursing the tears of frustration suddenly welling in her eyes, Amanda turned back to Jon, risking the time to give him one last passionate kiss before running to her escape. As she lifted the bedroom window she stopped, suddenly remembering.


    Amanda hurried back to the bed and lifted the chloroform soaked rag lying beside Jon’s unconscious body.


    “See you soon,” she promised before rushing back to the window.
     
  10. wrigby paige
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    The King's Head (495 words)

    The reaper clutched his cloak tightly about him. He would not lose it. Never. Never like his mother, like his father and dear sister. His family lived, but without their cloaks, they were stripped bare, without a soul.

    The memories of a reaper were as deep as the folds of his shroud, and he burned alive in them.

    Respite.

    He trudged into the frigid palace court--a floor of cerulean not-quite-smoke kissed his bare soles, brushed the edges of his cloak. He trudged to where his humans waited in quiet slumber. And there, his irritation and wonder crescendoed into a storm.

    Step by devilish step, every ripple bounced off a torso, a head, a hand clutching prayer idols. These were not humans that he knew or had seen, but they were beautiful in death, as if they were born to realize this magnificent end. Their faces twisted like gargoyles.

    The banquet had met a punctuated end: the old king lay far from his subjects with his face smashed in. All of the food had been salvaged by his reaper-kin for their own feast. The reaper had at least that to look forward to.

    Ah, and there he was.

    His master stood like a conquerer at the center of the circle, shoulders squared, head tipped to the moon in mock salute. His naked skin shimmered with sweat and blood mingled. A soulless monster. His bruised eyes were closed to the mortal world, his inner eye open to the Melancholic Void. His crooked teeth and cracked lips shaped the melodies of the curse to sustain the floor of smoke. The sacrifices within.

    "You did not possess the king, why?" asked the reaper of his master. He did not breach the circle of bodies.

    The smoke gave a churning lurch as the mortal man before him considered the words and considered a response.

    "I did not have the confidence," he whispered. A strain on his divided consciousness.

    "You could have destroyed him from within and had your revenge slow and proper. You could have ruled his people! How foolish can you be?" The spittle slapped across his master's face.

    "You challenge me again and again, Pochrema. So desperate you are that I am powerless save for my contract over you."

    "If ever there was a truth more certain." The reaper produced an wearied shrug. "At this point any of these corpses will do. They are not so immaculate as the king, but I will not let this ritual be gone to waste to satisfy your childishness."

    "I will not justify my kill. I will justify nothing." His words were clearer now. Angry. Poisonous. "I will justify nothing, Pochrema! You came to me as I have asked, and you have fulfilled your part in relinquishing your soul to me."

    The reaper froze. His cloak, his soul. It was now draped around his master. In the space of seconds.

    "You trickster! You vile creature!" the reaper spat.

    What have you done?
     
  11. Shnette
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    Shnette Member

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    A Man's Heart [442]


    Is the way to a man's heart really through his stomach?

    That's what the article had read, however despite her lack of cooking skills her husband came home every night. As a woman, though, she affixed her nose in the relationship section of the magazine looking for "101 ways to please your man."

    She knew very little about cooking but had recently watched some videos and downloaded a couple of simple recipes that could be whipped up in no time. Yet, she was still in the kitchen when his car pulled into the driveway; and the stove was a mess.

    Typical, he hardly noticed her efforts when he walked in. He concentrated on pinching her and getting a kiss amid her fervor to perfect dinner. The smell of the roast in the oven was intoxicating and she turned the appliance off to let the heat do the rest.

    He watched her with that intent look on his face some men get when they catch sight of something they want. There was no smile, just a spark in his eyes that showed he was hungry. So she tried to hurry.

    At the sink she washed vegetables. He was clueless about all but one of them, the green oblong thing. That one, he had seen his mother use in ratatouille. Giving up Mamma’s cooking had been tough, but his wife had her own good qualities which he discovered over time.

    She thoroughly washed the vegetables, freeing any residue of soil. The green one seemed plump and long in her hands. She caressed it tenderly - stroking it up and down. “Organic zucchini squash bought at the farmer's market.” That's what she was telling him. He saw her lips move but didn't hear a word she uttered. He was too focused on her hands.

    The peeler was used next. She stripped the vegetable of its green skin, working it in slow motion as if it was alive and would yell “ouch” if she cut too deep. The naked zucchini was white and it left a slightly slippery starchy film on her hands. She had a difficult time at the next task, trying to keep it in place as she scraped it over a slicer.

    My lady is going to cut herself he imagined. Like a knight he moved in to save his damsel. He pressed himself against her behind and brought his arms around her waist while taking hold of her hands.

    "Dinner can wait," he whispered into her ear.

    "Mmmm," she moaned and turned around to reciprocate the affection. Tonight, she would find a way to his heart through another organ on his body.
     
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