Flash Fiction Challenge – Pick an Opening Sentence
Last week, Chuck challenged us to write an opening sentence. You know where this is going, right? Yep, this week, we are instructed to choose one of the opening sentences and write a 2,000-word story. This one comes in considerably less than that, but more words aren’t necessarily better.
I chose the sentence John Freeter submitted. It felt like the perfect opening to a story I’ve had rattling around in the back of my skull for years.
Trigger Warning – there’s some violence and sexual content here. Enter at your own risk.
I followed the nice man to his basement. He seemed nice enough, anyway, but in truth, his personality and disposition was the furthest thing from my mind. All I cared about was whether or not he would be as good a lay as he purported to be. He had all the requisite parts – lean, muscular body, most of his teeth, a promising bulge straining the front of his grimy jeans. As we walked down the musty stairs, he kept my hand tightly clenched in his own, as if he was afraid I’d run away before the deed was done. He needn’t have worried, though. I wasn’t going anywhere until he gave me what I wanted.
I shucked off my overcoat as we entered the room, draping it over the back of a chair. His eyes raked over my shiny black vinyl corset and patent leather heels, his mouth slack with lust. He reached for the red satin ribbon that laced my generous figure into a perfect hourglass shape, but I slapped his hand away.
“Is that a sleeper sofa?” His eyes darted to a moldering couch in the middle of the room and he nodded.
“Open it.” He hurried to do as I asked, throwing cushions to the floor and extending the frame. The mattress was bare but I was beyond caring, my hunger and need growing fierce. When he stood, I unbuttoned his pants and let them drop around his ankles, admiring his swollen cock. As he reached for me again, I pushed him backwards onto the bed, untying the side of my g-string and straddling him before he could protest. His hard length felt so good inside me that I abandoned all pretense of romance or seduction and began to thrust against him, pinning his wrists on either side of his head. I was dimly aware of his grunts and moans, and as his seed exploded inside me, I slid my hands to his throat, crushing his windpipe as I came. He was dead before my body had stopped spasming.
I slipped my overcoat on and stuffed my panties into my pocket as I walked back up the stairs. I could already feel the new life stirring inside me.
When I arrived home, I was surprised to see that the kids were still awake. After a quick shower and a change into my pajamas, we all crowded into my big, soft bed, four adorable little bodies of various ages and ethnicities snuggling into my own. I ruffled the curly mop of the littlest one, who looked up adoringly.
“Mama, tell me the story of my daddy again.”
“Me too! Tell me about mine too!” the others chimed in.
“Well, Marco, your daddy was a doctor. He used to fix people’s broken bones and hurt joints. And Sherrill, your daddy drove a big, blue truck and delivered fruits and vegetables to all the grocery stores.”
“Mama, are you going to have another baby?” my oldest asked. She was already so wise for her years, I mused.
“Yes, I am, but not until after Christmas,” I said. The kids squealed with delight and patted my belly as I smiled at the memory of this evening’s encounter. I could now add “rock musician,” to my list of mates.
My smile was content as I drifted off to sleep, already looking forward to my new arrival.