fiction by Greta Stone-page-001

The Other Woman

Preface

I wrote this in preparation for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest coming up where I’ll be given a genre, setting, and item to include in a story of 1000 words maximum. My hubby and I registered, then realized the first round is while we’re on vacation. Oy.
We thought some practice might help.
I grabbed a random prompt from their examples and completed this in 48 hours.
(See prompt details at the end.) Enjoy.

{999 words}


Jennifer tapped her press-on fingernails against the thick, engraved glass award on the table in front of her. She should have splurged on a real manicure. It wasn’t like she couldn’t afford it. Plus it was an important night—for more than the awards. Tonight she was putting her foot down. Tonight she was claiming what was hers.

That was if the intolerable ceremony would ever end. As a middle-aged woman with shoulder-length brittle hair droned on at the podium, Jennifer poked through her purse for a stick of gum, anything for a distraction. She shoved aside a tampon she’d been expecting to need all week and dug deeper. No gum. Sighing, she pulled out her phone. How many more awards could there be? How long had she been glued to her chair?

The time flashed on her phone’s lock screen, answering her. 9:43.

She uncrossed and crossed her stockinged legs, eying the empty chair beside her with displeasure. Where the hell was Matthew? He’d disappeared somewhere between the Building of the Year Award and the lemon torte, about ten minutes after Amanda excused herself to use the restroom. He’d missed Jennifer’s reception speech and the nugget of gratitude she’d laced into it for him.

“And the endless hours of support from the only man who can tolerate my insanity,” she’d said, crestfallen as she scoured the crowd, hoping to find Matthew observing from the outskirts.

He wasn’t. They were both still gone. Jennifer shoved the award away and sat back, arms crossed. What good was the damn thing if she couldn’t keep Matthew by her side?

Amanda’s cinched waist and delicate thighs caught Jennifer’s eye as she squeezed through the congested room of aged men with large bellies. No wonder Matthew’s eyes lingered on her whenever she was present. She was an art form in human flesh.

Three dress sizes larger, Jennifer couldn’t compete in that department. But she was a goddamn accomplished architect with her own office of 13 employees. She’d climbed Mt. Washington. She’d mastered Boeuf Bourguignon in only three tries. She could bring a man to his knees in a matter of minutes. What did Amanda have other than a slender figure?

Amanda slipped into her seat and placed a French-manicured hand over her flat belly. Leaning closer with a cordial smile, she whispered, “I’m so sorry I missed your award, Jennifer. I wasn’t feeling well.”

I bet you weren’t. Jennifer delivered a smile in return. “Don’t worry about it.” I’m about to show you what it’s like to not feel well.

“May I see it?” Amanda asked, extending her delicate hand, palm up.

Jennifer obliged, dropping the heavy award into Amanda’s hand and reveling in the woman’s struggle to hold onto it. She recovered and held it up for inspection.

“Excellence In Design? That was for the Nelsonville Commons project, right?” Amanda raised her pencil thin eyebrows in impressed shock. “Matthew must be so proud of you.”

Jennifer grinned. “Yes, he is.”

A round of applause broke out, drawing their attention to the podium where the same woman delivered her closing comments. Thank God the night was almost over. There was only one more thing to do.

Jennifer snatched the award back in preparation of the battle she was about to fight. You don’t get to have this. And you don’t get Matthew either.

The room erupted into chatter, hand shakes, and congratulations. Jennifer pushed through the suit- and gown-clad crowd in search of Matthew. She needed to find him. She needed to take him by the hand and lead him home. She needed to remind him why she deserved him.

She searched the foyer and the hall and the front room and the cocktail bar. No Matthew.

Resigned to waiting on him, she headed back into the main banquet hall. With a curse under her breath, she located Amanda, holding her own in a conversation with four of the five lead architects of her firm. Amanda had grown practiced at mingling above her stature. But this wasn’t her place. It was time she learned her lesson.

Smiling affably, Jennifer stepped into the circle beside Amanda. Matthew would come here eventually. She knew that much. All she had to do was wait.

“Congratulations, Jennifer,” Robert said in his deep, gravelly voice. “You deserved that award. Your work has improved by leaps and bounds this year.”

“Thank you. I had an amazing mentor.” Despite herself, Jennifer’s face warmed.

Robert’s gaze shifted over Jennifer’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil!”

The two women turned, opening the circle for Matthew to join.

Yes, speak of the devil.

“Congratulations to you, Matthew.” Richard slapped his hand into Matthew’s, giving a firm shake. “You’ve made the company proud. We knew you would.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Matthew said.

A proud smile spread on his face, creating all the laugh lines Jennifer loved to trace with her fingertip. He hooked a finger into the knot of his tie and loosened it, sending her into a reverie of provocative moments.

“I’m privileged to work with some amazing people.” Matthew gifted Jennifer a proud smile.

His attention struck her right in the chest, leaving her breathless and lightweight. Yes, he loved her, and was not afraid to show it. Now was the time to take her stand.

“Let’s get you home, baby,” he said, turning his back on Jennifer and slipping his arm around Amanda’s waist, pressing his lips to her temple. “I pulled the car around. It’s waiting out front.”

Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, honey. Hopefully, we’ll make it home before another wave of nausea hits.”

“Oh, right!” Robert bellowed. He squeezed Matthew’s shoulder, adding, “Congratulations. You’re going to make a great dad.”

“Yes, he is.” Amanda cooed up at him, pressed close with a hand on his chest.

“Thank you,” Matthew said. “Have a good night, everyone.” He waved over his shoulder, glancing around the circle, averting Jennifer’s dumbstruck expression, and ushering his wife to the door.


The prompt was:
genre – drama
setting – awards banquet
item to include – press-on fingernails

Your comments and suggestions, as always, are greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading!

Knee Deep (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

knee deep poem writing process by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by VerseAngel (knee deep), Jilted Verse (soaring whispers), and bstarverse (touch me) on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me
with regard,
and make
me whole.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

I like the contrast of low (knee deep) with high (soaring whispers).

While I’m
knee deep
in [sorrow/servitude],
you [capture]
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
[completion],
and make
me whole.

Going with sorrow or servitude will make this a very different poem in one direction or the other. I’m leaning toward sorrow because it makes the concept more obscure or intangible. “Serving” on my knees to the one I love who makes me whole is cliche and too simple.

But sorrow isn’t quite right. Dejection, lament, melancholy? Maybe despair although it’s a bit dramatic.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you [capture]
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
[completion],
and make
me whole.

I’m going to move on for now and come back to this later. Instead of capture, maybe snatch, collect, gather.

I’m going to stick with completion near the end.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
completion,
and make
me whole.

I feel like it needs another action before make me whole. I haven’t really been able to stray far from cliche here so I might as well go all the way. haha There was another prompt for touch me by #bstarverse.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
wishes of
completion,
touch me
and make
me whole.

The wishes of completion part reads a bit like it should be another action in the list when it’s a clarification of whispers. I could sandwich that phrase in em dashes but in this format, it looks weird.

While I’m knee deep in despair, you gather my soaring whispers—wishes of completion—touch me and make me whole.

Meh. It’s bugging me. Maybe I don’t even need that part. I can use cliche to my advantage here and let it be assumed based on the rest of the poem.

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me,
and make
me whole.

I could add something after touch me to make it more figurative rather than literal. As in touch me with…kindness? Care? Regard?

While I’m
knee deep
in despair,
you gather
my soaring
whispers,
touch me
with regard,
and make
me whole.

There we go.

If you enjoyed this post, please share it. ^_____^

Surrender, erotic fiction by Greta Stone

Surrender Part 3

Part 3

Sexy erotic D/s fiction. Sexually explicit, obviously. *smirk* Enjoy.

{1960 words}


If you missed Part 1 or Part 2, check them out first.

Squirming beneath him, I evade his thumb for only a second before he brushes it over my nipple again. It’s hard and aching for a solid pinch.

“I’m letting go of your wrists now,” he says with a reprimanding look. “Stay put.”

I smirk. Leaving my cuffed wrists free over my head is not the smartest move. I keep this to myself. If I don’t, he’ll tether me to the bed and make me pay for the rude assessment of his plan.

He notes my reaction with a raised brow and the butterflies in my stomach spread their wings.

“Is there a problem, kitten?”

“No, Sir,” I say, trying without success to wipe the grin off my face.

He draws back to look at me more squarely. “Move your arms and it’ll be the belt. Do you understand?”

His threat hits me square in the chest, squeezing the breath out of me. Fear of his punishment, or more accurately fear of disappointing him inspires me to be on my best behavior. I will try to stay put, but it won’t be easy. “Yes, Sir.”

Shifting, he lies on one side of me. Instead of taking his bite, he strokes my hair and cheek tenderly, looking into my eyes, setting a false calm I’m leery of. One quiet kiss on my lips, then another on my clenched jaw.

“Relax, kitten,” he whispers against my throat, lifting my chin for better access.

“I can’t,” I say. “Sir.”

“Yes, you can.” With his warm tongue pressed against my neck, he sinks his teeth in. Slowly.

My heart beats hard inside his bite, faster and faster, matching the rhythm of pulses through my core. A vision hits me of him slamming into me over and over while he breaks the flesh of my neck with his teeth. He sinks his teeth deeper, breathing moist, hot air onto my sensitized skin. I’m dying for relief, the pleasure of a violent orgasm mixed with the searing pain of his bite. I throw one leg around him and thrust my hips up, moaning as my clit collides with his hip.

Without thwarting his plan, he reaches down, removes my leg from his side, and pins it to the bed with his own. His strength and determination are hot as fuck. I squirm a little just to feel his power over me.

As he curls the tip of his tongue into the hollow of my throat, I consider grabbing him by his hair, flipping him on his back, and mounting him, watching him slip into a blissful daze as I have my way with him. I probably could if I move fast enough and catch him off guard.

How far will I get before he wraps his strong arms around me and pounds me into the mattress? How fucked will I be for presuming to take control? Will he punish me deliciously or savagely?

He clears his throat. “Am I boring you, pet?”

“A bit,” I say, goading him.

His raised eyebrow is the perfect response. I have his attention. He’s looking at me, waiting for me to explain myself…and beg his forgiveness. The ball is in my court.

“I’m anxious for more, Sir,” I say, lowering my chin and blinking up at him.

He glares at me for a moment, then snarls, “As am I, love. Patience.” He resumes kissing across my collarbone at an even slower pace. Because he loves to torture me. And because he’s punishing me for my misbehavior.

As he nears the peak of my breast, I’m antsy and can’t hold still. Daydreams aside, it’s coming. And it’s going to hurt. I writhe in anticipated discomfort.

“Don’t. Move.” His voice rumbles over and through me.

Heart pounding, I hold still and brace myself.

He nibbles and sucks his way toward my nipple. Then stopping, he grins at me, opens his mouth wide, and lets out a hot breath without touching me.

Fuck obedience. “Do it already!”

Smile gone, he raises his head. “Excuse me?”

Shit. His chide startles and excites me, shoots straight to my groin. He’s not going to let me get away with that. I’m glad. I need his sternness and direction. I need to feel contained by something stronger than myself, a safe place to lose control. I blink. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You better be,” he says, and closes his teeth over my breast when I’m least prepared for it.

I yelp and shove him away, covering my aching nipple. With a swift twist, he flips me over, face down. My hair tents around my face, blocking my view. He pins my hands to my lower back and lies on me, flattening my palms to his stomach. He’s so deliciously warm. I need him closer still. I grasp at his shirt, managing only a pathetic pinch between two fingers.

He curls his hands under my shoulders. “Oh, Kitten,” he says. His breath falls hot on my ear. “All the rules you just broke…” He grinds his jean-clad hard-on against my bare ass.

I gargle some sort of grunt moan, six times wetter and twelve times more impatient for release. I offer a meager apology half muffled against the bedding. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Yes,” he says. “You will be.”

He pushes himself off of me and I cling to his shirt, catching it in my fist.

Smack! His palm cracks against my ass without warning.

“Ow!” I say. It’s more about the shock than the pain, but I roll onto my back to protect myself from further blows.

“Oh no you don’t.” He grabs both my ankles and flips me over. Securing one in each hand, he spreads my legs and holds me there face down. “Did I say you could roll over?”

A vivid image of his view of my spread legs and jiggling ass sends my heart racing and pussy pulsing. I pant against the comforter, “No, Sir.”

“Are you going to do as you’re told now or do I need to strap you the fuck down?” He punctuates his point with a jolt to each ankle. His roughness combined with his words tells me I’ve pushed him too far. I’m shaking with frustration and it hits me that I’ve lost control of myself. Dammit.

My face prickles with heat and I press it into the bedding to hide. I don’t know when to stop being a brat and to start obeying. I act out and end up pushing him too far. Too many offenses stack up against me and I’m crestfallen. “I’m ready to obey, Sir,” I say into the mattress.

He lets go of my ankles and in the brief silence that follows my pulse kicks into high gear and my eyes water.

Then from the depth of his broad chest, a deep, rumbling command, “Submit.”

A tingle slides down the back of my neck and I let out a whimper. This is the worst thing he could ask me to do in this moment of self-loathing and bruised pride. Not only is he asking me to get in a vulnerable position, but he’s asking me to do it on the raised bed. Facing away from him, exposing my ass for his eye-level inspection is the last thing I want to do right now.

Did I miss any spots shaving? Can he tell how bloated I am? Am I clean enough? Is it bright enough to see my–

“Did. I. Stutter? Submit.”

I moan and walk my knees closer to my shoulders, ass in the air, ear to the mattress. My skin tingles with the heat of my embarrassment.

Smack! “Proper response to a question?”

Shit. “Yes, Sir,” I cry. I expect another blow and wince.

“Good girl.” He strokes my ass and the backs of my thighs with a tender touch.

The heavy weight I had put on myself lifts a bit. It’s okay. If he were truly upset, he’d stop play. He wouldn’t react in anger. Hard rule.

The bed dips as he presses his knee into the mattress beside me and anchors my hip to his groin. Smack! “That was for your impatience earlier.” Smack! “And your attitude.” Smack! “For acting on your own will without waiting for instructions.” Smack! “For hesitating to obey my command.” Smack! “And for forgetting your manners.”

My ass and face are on fire. The faint sound of my own sniffling seeps into my awareness. He’s being extra hard on me, and I’m not handling it well. But I asked for this–his force and strength. And I’ve been extra bratty. So it’s only fair. I deserve this. Don’t dish it out if you can’t handle the consequences.

He rubs my sore ass, bringing feeling back into it. “Do you understand why you’ve displeased me?” he asks with a level voice.

The question shoots straight through my chest. ‘Displeased me.’ I do know. All too well. My answer comes as a croak. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good girl.” His praise is bittersweet and fires off another round of hot, prickling tears. I’ve soaked the bedding beneath my cheek, and I don’t want him to see it. I’m ashamed that I’m not stronger, that I’ve promised him a certain kind of play and am not delivering.

Leaving me in submit pose on the bed, he stands, letting his hand slide off the curve of my bottom as he goes. He shifts around the room for a moment and I’m rapt by the sounds, focusing on each to try to anticipate his next move.

The shuffling noises stop and I hold my breath.

“God, baby, you are so fucking hot.” He laughs, a deep, husky laugh that fills the room.

I’m stunned by it. Conflicted. Lost somewhere between my own angst and the joy he’s having over me. He likes me like this. He wants me like this. Not to humiliate me, although it does a good job of reminding me who is the submissive one here. He just fucking loves to look at me on display for him.

I should let that soak in and fill me up with hot, pulsing energy. But I’ve fallen too far and can’t quite pull myself back up.

There’s still time to recover though. My face is still hidden.

He steps up behind me and places both hands on my hips, squeezes hard and slides them up to the small of my waist. Reaching to massage my shoulders, his chest presses against my raised ass. I nuzzle back. He rewards me by running his fingers through my hair, something he knows I love. It’s so sweet. So gentle. I close my eyes and let myself relax in his grip as he plays with me.

He trails his heavy fingertips down my back, over the mound of my ass, and down the backs of my thighs.

“Mmmmm,” he hums. “Fucking delicious.”

A few heavy breaths later and I manage, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Now,” he says, sliding one hand up the inside of my thigh. “Spread for inspection.”

All the tension returns to my muscles as I stiffen. My pride has been brutally bruised and now he wants me to spread. I can’t handle that. Not now. Not tonight. Why isn’t he reading me? Why isn’t he moving on to something less humiliating?

“Proper response to a command,” he barks. Smack!

I jump with a gasp. “I’m…s-sorry, Sir,” I stutter.

“I don’t believe you. If you were sorry-” smack! “you would have obeyed by now.”

The second smack does me in. My chest clenches tight around my lungs, forcing me on all fours for a breath of air.

“Excuse me?” he growls from behind me.

Shit. I fall into a sobbing heap as I whimper my safeword. “Red.”

[To be continued]


 

Thank you for reading!
If you enjoyed, please comment and/or share.
I’m especially interested in how you feel about the direction of the story in this part.
Thank you in advance!
*curtsy*

Gain Purchase (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Gain purchase writing process poetry Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by TastyPoem on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

In restless
nights I
wander my
dreams,
chasing
the prize that
I cannot gain
purchase of,
miles away but
just out of reach.
In defeat I
wake cocooned
in damp sheets
and gloom,
deprived and
broken.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

that I
cannot gain
purchase of

This is what came to me first. Now I’m thinking of how a thing can slip through your fingers and how frustrating that can be. So who or what might the narrator of this poem want? What is slipping away?

In sleepless
nights I
wander my
dreams,
[following/seeing]
the prize
that I
cannot gain
purchase of,
miles away but
just out of reach.
I wake cocooned
in damp sheets,

I just realized that it probably shouldn’t start with sleepless if there are dreams and she/he wakes.

In restless
nights I
wander my
dreams,
[following/seeing]
the prize that
I cannot gain
purchase of,
miles away but
just out of reach.
I wake cocooned
in damp sheets
and hopelessness.

Hopelessness isn’t right. Frustration? Gloom? I like the almost-rhyme of gloom and cocooned. And instead of following, chasing.

In restless
nights I
wander my
dreams,
chasing
the prize that
I cannot gain
purchase of,
miles away but
just out of reach.
I wake cocooned
in damp sheets
and gloom.

The last sentence feels too short. Not enough syllables. Should I combine it to make one whole sentence?


just out of reach,
leaving me
cocooned in
damp sheets
and gloom.

No. Too passive.

In [failure] I
wake cocooned
in damp sheets
and gloom,
deprived and
broken.

That’s sufficiently dramatic. I like it. haha Maybe defeat instead of failure.

In restless
nights I
wander my
dreams,
chasing
the prize that
I cannot gain
purchase of,
miles away but
just out of reach.
In defeat I
wake cocooned
in damp sheets
and gloom,
deprived and
broken.

If you enjoyed this post, please share it. ^_____^

Castle (Poem)

Castle poem by Greta Stone

This poem was written from two daily prompts hosted by IntrigueVerse on Twitter.  I post my most popular poem for each half month here, two poems per month. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

While I’m
vulnerable,
disrupt my
frontline,
exploit my
break,
rain arrows
straight to
my heart,
and storm
my castle.

© Greta Stone

Estuary (Poem & Behind-The-Scenes)

Estuary poem and writing process by Greta Stone

This poem was written from a daily prompt hosted by DimpleVerse on Twitter.  The title is the prompt word. ❤ See more frequent posts on Twitter (text only) and Instagram (with graphics).

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of vengeance.
It joins forces
with itself,
hastening,
until my
estuary of
gnarled emotions
chokes it and
releases it
into my vast
deep blue.

© Greta Stone

 

Behind-The-Scenes

 

Love trickles
through my
veins, searching
for that vast
blue playground,
it joins forces,
surging toward
release,
past my
estuary of
gnarled mishaps,
into the deep blue.

First, love needs to be replaced with something more specific or more physical. Fervor, passion, fury. Hm. Interesting switch of mood. If I’m going to switch moods, then let’s switch moods.

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of freedom.
It joins forces,
surging toward
release,
raking through my
estuary of
gnarled memories,
into my deep blue.

It joins forces (with whom or what)? Itself. But that’s not obvious.

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of freedom.
It joins forces
with itself,
surging
together
toward
release,
raking through my
estuary of
gnarled memories,
into my deep blue.

Any better word than release? Power?

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of freedom.
It joins forces
with itself,
surging
together
toward
power,
raking through my
estuary of
gnarled memories,
into my deep blue.

Oh! Vengeance just came to me. I think I’ll swap it with freedom.

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of vengeance.
It joins forces
with itself,
surging and
raking through my
estuary of
gnarled memories,
into my deep blue.

I don’t like surging and raking. I want to simplify it to just …movement.

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of vengeance.
It joins forces
with itself,
hastening,
through my
estuary of
gnarled memories,
into my deep blue.

I’m getting hung up again on what I want the final outcome to be. If it’s going to end in a vast deep blue, that denotes a cool, calm finish. So something has to stop it in its path. Which actually makes more sense for the estuary.

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of vengeance.
It joins forces
with itself,
hastening,
until my
estuary of
gnarled [feelings],
choking it before
it dips into my
vast deep blue.

Well that just doesn’t even make sense. haha

Fury slithers
through my
veins, in search
of vengeance.
It joins forces
with itself,
hastening,
until my
estuary of
gnarled emotions
chokes it and
releases it
into my vast
deep blue.

If you enjoyed this post, please share it. ^_____^