I love reading, and writing, short stories. Packing character development and a snappy narrative into two or three thousand words is as challenging as it is fun.
So here I provide a few examples of my efforts. Tell me what you think: e-mail me at firstname.lastname@example.org. I'll write back and promise not to put you on a mailing list.
And for short stories with a little more meat, check out two of my books, SHUTTER-BUGGERED and DON'T. They are available in paperback from pinkflamingomedia.com, or can be downloaded from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, etc.
This is the short story that gets more mail than any other:
Lollipop for a Good Boy
He fussed with the string. What kind of idiot would design something like this!
Tim saw her leaning in the doorway. She wore a lab-coat that hung to mid calf but, thankfully, the buttons didn't go all the way down and when she re-crossed her legs, he got a glimpse of trim kneecaps. He wondered if she might be naked beneath and in a rare moment of benevolence, he forgave his girlfriend for forcing him to make the appointment.
“This stupid thing,” he said, hand groping.
“My female patients don't complain.”
He smirked without malice. She was a tall woman, well over six feet, judging by the way she filled the doorway, but graceful in stature, swan-like: neck, arms, legs. And when she moved, to breathe even, her breasts roamed of their own free will beneath the soft cotton, suggesting they were governed by the whims of nature; not restricted by lace or elastic or straps.
“You're cute. This should be fun!” Her smile was broad across a handsome face. She covered the distance between them and thrust out a hand. "Name's McCord... Anna. She had a strong grip, long fingers with the nails buffed and trimmed. It was a man-to-man shake. “Any problems with dizziness? Vertigo?”
“Come stand by me; close your eyes and raise your foot. If you feel yourself fall, reach for me.”
Tim desperately wanted to put his hands on the woman. There was that independence of movement again; about her chest. He wondered what she would do if he reached out and accidentally landed a hand on her tit? No, he didn’t have the nerve, but he fell towards her. She steadied him and Tim reached, his hand landing on her shoulder blade. It was about the size of a shovel, and as hard. He slid his hand along her back. He had been right: no bra. He touched her backbone, the flexing vertebrae, bones feeling like a chain of steel bearings.
“Whoa!” she exclaimed, pulling Tim back to his feet.
“This mean I flunked my sobriety test?”
“Sure does,” … a throaty chuckle. “Better sit down.” Anna led him to her table. “Here.” She patted the end. “Hop up and swing your legs over. That’s it,” she said, adjusting her stethoscope. She listened to his heart, looked into his ears, studied the underside of his eyelids, his throat, and tapped his knees and elbows. She worked quickly and efficiently, only pausing to jot notes.
“Okay, now the real work!” She snapped her clipboard. “You ready?”
“Y-yes,” he said, and was horrified when his voice cracked.
“You're nervous.” she said.
“I guess,” Tim replied.
“Because I’m a woman? Some men… I could refer you to a male practitioner.”
“It’s not that. It's just, I'm sorry, you’re kinda intimidating.”
“Well, you’re so damned big.”
“Big?” The eyebrows crowded in the center.
“Not fat, I mean. Christ… there's just so damn much of you. How tall are you anyway? You into sports or something?”
She took a step closer and stooping to hold eye contact, she started laughing. It was hearty, from down deep. Her face seemed to break into fragments of light. “I’m six-foot three,” she said.
Holly shit! “And…?”
“And… I’m not telling you my bra size!” She straightened, then: “I ski in winter and play tennis in summer. Now, if there are no more questions, lay back and let me get on with it or you won’t get your sucker.”
“Doctors still give out lollipops?” Tim asked.
“I've tutti-fruity… but only for good boys. Lay back and let me see what all the girls are raving about.”
Tim dropped his head and watched as she stooped over the sink to wash. He wondered what she might look like in one of those tennis outfits. The men at her tennis club must love it. He let his eyes drift from her arched body to the far wall and a poster of a “cut-away” woman; her reproductive organs neatly labeled.
Anna's hand was on his leg. The front of the smock was unceremoniously pushed above his waist. Nudging his knees apart with a hip and moving his penis aside, she cradled his scrotum. The room went very still.
Anna felt a little shock of surprise as her fingers closed around the lone testicle. “You've only got one,” she breathed.
“Uh-huh,” he confided, turning his gaze.
She shook herself, focused. “Trauma?”
“Yes. Accident? Physical abuse? Medical procedure?” she asked bluntly.
She lowered her eyes; cupped him and thought about the consequences. She ran her thumb and forefinger along his good testicle; found the surface silky and smooth and instinctively closed her hand.
He found her touch gentle. She was studying his genitals. He liked the attention; being exposed and carefully examined. His limp penis rolled off his belly. Anna gently lifted it. He felt the tingling sensation. His buttocks squeezed.
He felt so naked under her gaze and he studied the “cut-away-lady” in an effort to control the hormones that threatened to stiffen his cock.
“This one seems fine,” Anne straightened, his scrotum still in her hand. “But we need to find the other one. An impacted testis could become cancerous.”
He desperately wanted to say something funny; make light of the situation.
“You may feel some discomfort.”
He racked his neck, tried to steady his voice. “You do this kind of work often?” he asked.
Her eyes puzzled. “I do have a few male patients,” she said. “And my ex didn’t have any complaints, at least not in this department.” And unbelievably, she gave him a playful squeeze. Not exactly professional! “I'd like to find that errant testis. You okay?”
“Just relax.” She slid onto her stool and rolled between his knees. She held his penis in her left hand and began to probe the flesh with an extended finger where his scrotum hung from his abdomen.
It was slow, exacting work. But Anna was good. She probed the perimeter, working her finger under the skin and into the abdominal cavity, exploring with a delicate touch. Her face was so close he could feel her breath on the inside of his leg; a wisp of hair tickled his skin. Her ministrations slowly got to him and though he was madly trying to think good thoughts, his thighs tingled and he was fighting the urge. Then she shifted her attention to the base of his penis, just where the muscle entered, he couldn’t hold the low groan. It seeped into the room and floated there. His anus pinched.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“No,” he breathed despairingly from behind closed eyes.
“Oh!” she said and he sensed her gaze on his face. Then after a long pause: “It’s okay you know. I mean, it’s natural. I’m here poking around… it would be natural for you to be... aroused.”
She was still holding his penis in her left hand and he felt her thumb reach up and rub the ridge at the base of the head where it was most sensitive. “Jesus,” he whispered in abject surrender. And it took about two seconds for his cock to double its size. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it. What you’re doing…”
“There.” Her voice was hushed. “Now you have an erection. Don't worry about it anymore. We're both adults. Have pleasant thoughts; trust me, I'm flattered.” Tim felt her finger start to prob around the base of his elevated penis. “This is much better, isn’t it?” Anna said. And leaning forward, she pushed deeper.
Anna searched around the base and then, hooking a finger under the skin, worked back around the edge of the fleshy sack with soft circular motions. “Huh!” she sat up, flexing her back muscles. “Could it have crossed?”
Tim raised his head to look at her and was surprised to see beads of perspiration along her forehead. “What?” he asked.
“…just talking.” She rubbed the back of her wrist across her brow. “I was wondering if it could have moved across.”
“Is that possible?” Tim asked.
“Don’t know,” Anna said. “I’m not a urologist.” Tim felt her fingers between his legs again. “I guess I should look.” She continued with a finger hooked behind his good testicle and dug upwards.
She worked at it diligently for a few minutes before giving up. “Shit!” she swore.
He couldn't help but laugh.
“I like it when you swear.”
“I’m not having much luck,” she said. “At least I see you are still enjoying yourself,” and she waggled his erection. “If that testis is in there,” she continued, “It's going to be on the other side.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going deeper. I’m sorry, but I’m going to hurt you. I’ll be quick.”
Tim nodded; preparing for the painful push.
It was quick, and didn’t hurt that much. “It’s there!” she exclaimed. “Can you feel that?” Anna wiggled a finger deep in his abdomen.
“Yes!” he replied, though he really had no idea what he was supposed to be feeling.
“I’ve got my fingertip on it,” Anna continued. “It’s about the size of a lima-bean. A baby testis, all tucked away.”
Tim swallowed. It was beginning to hurt.
“Just hold for one more second,” she said, her finger massaging and probing. “There!” she said. “I found it!” And a smile broke across her face.
She reached for her clipboard.
Tim watched as she strode the room, furiously making notes and he wondered if he might be the subject of an article in some medical journal. The clipboard snapped close with a flourish and she returned to the side of the examination table looking flushed and exuberant.
“Prison Experience,” she announced. “And I can promise it won’t hurt.”
“Uh-huh… prostate. You're young but it's never too early.
She walked to her desk and applied lubricant along the length of a finger. “Legs up on the table, on your side; fetal position.”
Tim pulled his legs up. She bent and he felt her gingerly separate his buttocks and place a fingertip on his anus. Pressure built until the muscle relented and he felt the full length of a finger slide into his rectum.
It was a wonderful feeling after the sharp prodding. Mostly because an amazingly forceful woman was doing the exploring. She relaxed the tensed muscles with long direct strokes, using the full length of her finger.
“Am I hurting you?” she voice floated up to him through a feeling of sleepy contentment.
“No. It feels nice, actually.”
“Too bad. I charge extra for that.”
Tim was still in his dreamy state but aware of the partial withdrawal, the finger curling. She found the tender spot; massaged it. What an incredible sensation: The light manipulation, the soft rotation. And then she was pushing deep again, taking up the rhythm that had no other purpose than to please him.
When her finger finally receded, she left him feeling empty and distant. Drifting. He wanted to reach out for her; have her hold his genitals in one of those large lovely hands. Mother him.
“Last order of business…” he surfaced. “I want a sperm count; run some tests,” she said without meeting his eyes, “because of the situation with your testicles. I’m going to ask you provide a sample for the lab.” She held a small glass dish.
“Damn,” he sighed, resigned. “It's embarrassing.”
“Better if I do it, huh?”
“You would do that?”
“Sure. It's just a medical procedure.”
“For you, maybe...”
“If you're a good boy, I'll let you touch me. About my breasts.”
Looking down, she slipped the top two buttons of the lab coat. Her breasts shifted into the opening. “You can touch my nipples.”
“I thought I was getting a sucker?”
“You get that too.” And she lifted a breast toward his lips. “Titty-fruity.”
And for a bit of fun:
“I don't know,” Macy loaded up her fork with lettuce, “there just isn't any panache anymore.”
“God, tell me about it.”
Both women were aging foot-soldiers, stragglers from the sexual revolution. Both had married well, habitually. Macy was on number four and her friend Grace tallied five. Each divorce had been carefully calculated and neither woman would ever have to work again.
“The waiter looks nice. Maybe he could prime your pump.”
“Younger men are so inconsistent.”
Grace cast a wistful look in the waiter's direction. “I know what you mean,” she said without conviction.
Both women were well past their prime, but on the whole, they had aged well. Exercise, weekly massage and a membership at the tennis club had helped. And then there had been the prerequisite tucks and lifts when they had hit forty.
“I just wish he'd come home one night and bang the hell outta me, you know?”
Grace skewered the olive from her martini and, placing it between her lips, sucked out the pimento. “I'll tell you what worked with husband number three,” she said casually, still eyeing the waiter. “I told him I wanted to try it the other way around.”
Macy's eyebrows came up. “The other way around?”
“Yeah. You know, up my bum.”
“You did that? With number three?”
“Yeah. A friend told me how and I figured I'd give it a try. It wasn't so bad...”
“It was Reggie; you know, at the hairdresser's.”
“Reggie? He's queer.”
“You're not listening to me. Think about it, sweets...”
“Exactly. Who better to ask?”
Macy thought about it for a moment. “Wasn't husband number three the one you caught screwing the housekeeper?”
“Naw. It was the babysitter.”
“Wait a minute. You don't have children.”
“And that's exactly what I told the judge. It was the largest settlement I ever got.”
Macy dug through her salad, looking for the promised chunks of smoked salmon. Didn't find much. “I don't know. Anal sounds so, barnyard somehow.”
“Well it worked for me, for a while anyway. Hey. How about some sexy underwear?”
“I got a drawer full of overpriced frilly crap.”
“No. I mean some real sexy stuff. You know: raunchy! Like a peek-a-boo bra, or perhaps a crotchless pair of panties.”
“Sheesh. I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those shops.”
“No silly. I'll lend you a catalog. You can shop on line.”
“Really.” Marcy brightened. “Well I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look.”
The bra was actually delivered in a plain brown wrapper. What a hoot! And the guy from UPS came to the door and didn't have a clue as to what he held in his fingers. The fun had already begun.
That night, at bedtime, Macy went into the bathroom to try it on. Harry was already tucked in with the Wall Street Journal.
At first, Macy thought it was too small. It felt like her tits were parked up on a shelf. And the cups seemed to squeeze her nipples, plus a good deal of puffiness, out through the holes in front. It wasn't peek-a-boo... more like check out the bazookas! The look was crass and tasteless. But she shrugged. Maybe crass and tasteless was what it took. She pulled on narrow red panties and a lacy cover-up and turned to walk to the bedroom. Her tits led the way.
Harold wore stripped pajamas and had his nose buried behind the paper. He wore his black rimmed reading glasses. Macy came around the foot of the bed and waited to be noticed. No such luck. She waited some more.
Harry turned a page. The price of fuel had spiked again and he had lost a bundle when the stock he held in American Air took a nose dive. Abruptly, Macy's lacy cover-up struck him in the face. “What the hell!!?” The corner of his paper flopped down and a surprised Harry was struck speechless by the sight of his wife's extended boobs.
Macy parked hands on hips and thrust out her chest, though it wasn't particularly necessary. Harry's jaw dropped and then he smiled. “Oh my dear...” he said. And then he did the unthinkable. He couldn't help himself. He started to gag.
He knew he shouldn't, but once the first chuckle had escaped his lips, there was no going back. “Cupcakes, you look lovely...” and that was it. To his own dismay, he crumbled the paper and leaned forward, his body trembling. He tried to resist, screwed up his lips and held his breath, but it felt like his insides had expanded to the point they were about to burst. He tried, he really did, but his eyes had already teared up and he couldn't hold it. God! He burst out laughing.
“I'm sorry... I'm sorry...” he attempted, rolling to one side and holding his belly.
“Oh my... oh my... oh my...” Harry tried to catch his breath. He turned to his wife, apologetically, got another load of her tits and let out an involuntary snort. And that was it. He finally let go and surrendered to fits of laughter.
His belly jiggled. He slapped the covers of the bed with an opened hand and rolled to and fro and a startled Macy began to gather steam.
“Augh! I'm sorry.” Harry, with tears now dripping freely from his chin, his body racked with spasms, saw the look in her eyes through steamy glasses and heaved again. Still spluttering, he rolled onto his side but misjudged the edge of the bed.
There was a startled yelp and Macy watched his flailing arms and legs disappear over the side; the bed-sheet following after him. She heard a resounding thump when he hit the carpet. And then, unbelievably, he started laughing again.
Macy stepped around the side of the bed. He managed to raise his head. His cheeks were bloated and flushed. An arm of his reading glasses had come adrift from his ear leaving one lens hanging about his cheek, the other skewed across an eyebrow. He was flopping around like a beached trout.
Macy got a hold of his pajamas collar and forced his head down. She got a knee into the small of his back and applied some pressure. That seemed to help. He finally took a breath, hiccuped, expelled one last snort, and lay still.
“Well? What happened?” Grace stood at Macy's backdoor holding a bag of carrot muffins.
“He laughed,” Macy said bitterly and she led the way to the kitchen and the coffeemaker.
“You're joking. He actually laughed?”
“Geez. I thought for a moment he was going to have a friggin' stroke. Right there on the bedroom floor.”
“So what did you do wrong?” Grace asked, accusingly.
“Wrong? The only thing I did wrong was listen to you!”
“If you'll remember, I suggested something entirely different. So let's see this damned bra. I can't imagine what Harry would find so funny.”
Macy humped her lips and went to retrieve the bra from the drawer in the bathroom where she had hidden it. She returned with a pink box decorated with a tiny bow.
Grace opened the box and pulled the red satin free from the tissue paper; held it up by the straps in front of her face. “Well... well...”
It was a lovely bra. An exquisite little number: Red lace with two delicious slits in front to let the girls peep through. There was a discrete under-wire to give lift and the bra was trimmed in intricate bead-work. It was held together with a catch at the front, in case it needed to be jettisoned in a hurry. Perhaps by a clumsy man.
“This is beautiful,” Grace said, turning the skimpy fabric in her hands. And I know you have nice boobs. So what would Harry find so funny?”
Macy shrugged a shoulder. “Beats me. But I'm sure it wasn't anything I did. My other husbands would have been all over me. Do you think my Harry may have some sort of problem? Maybe he should see a doctor.”
“Was he sober?”
“Of course he was fuckin' sober. He was reading the Wall Street Journal, for Christ's sake.”
Grace sat a moment. Let that one settle in. “So now what?”
“Toss it, I guess...”
“What? The bra?”
“I'm not going through that humiliation again. Not ever.”
“You're going to throw it out... into the garbage.”
“I'm not going to donate it to the Sally Ann!”
“Well if you're just going to throw it away, at least lend it to me first.”
“Well sure. It should fit and, to tell the truth, I'm a bit curious. Aren't you?”
“It would be kind of interesting to find out if I get the same reaction. You know, a belly laugh.”
Macy waved a dismissive hand. “You want it? Then be my guest. Take it.”
Harry checked his watch. It was Wednesday evening, almost six o'clock, and time for the Director's Meeting. He chuckled to himself. The Wednesday evening Director's Meeting had been the greatest gaff he had ever come up with. It gave him one free evening each week to do as he pleased.
He tidied his desk, locked up, and strolled down to the parking lot. Macy would be watching television, the one night in the week she didn't have to worry about preparing dinner.
Harry drove across town and got himself parked. He got out from behind the wheel of his Mercedes and made his way along the sidewalk and up the steps. He rang the bell.
“Oh my dear...” he said when Grace opened the front door, her breasts looking like strategic missiles, nipples honed-in on the incoming target. His penis pushed at the front of his trousers. Harry opened his arms and she snuggled up, rotating her hips suggestively against his groin. He chuckled lightly. “You won't believe this, Gracie, but my wife has a bra just like that.”