Post No Bills
She made me slather the wall with glue and stick the garish poster directly on top of the “No Bills” sign. The very idea made her chuckle. It was that same soft, suggestive laugh that I’d first heard from behind me, before all went dark, days ago.
Days ago? Weeks? Was that right? I didn’t think it could be months. Could it? No matter.
Hard to believe the picture was of me. The flawless skin. The plump, red lips. The shimmering eyeshadow. The false lashes. The masquerade mask, changed every night, and never the same one twice. The flowers. Oh, how I’d come to hate those flowers. They smelled divine – she insisted I use that word – but their thorns snagged in my hair and left their mark on my breasts.
My breasts. It still sounded so weird to say those words.
Only the hands retained any semblance of manhood. The expensive creams had softened a lot of my rough calluses, and the long, painted nails artificially extended them, giving them the illusion of femininity, but they were still the hands of a common laborer. A man.
It shames me to admit it, but the expression is the most honest part of the poster. Look at it. Stare at her. Take me all in. You see it, don’t you? The bliss is written all over my face. Those eyes shimmer with deepest contentment, and those lips whisper of pleasures unseen. She’d taken that picture during the last exhibition, capturing my transformation for the entire world to see.
What you don’t see are the people who surrounded me, the men and the women who had paid so handsomely to be interactive with her work of art. There’d been a grossly overweight Spanish man sitting atop me, my member buried deep inside him. I can remember the weight of him, the way his hands dug into the soft flesh of my stomach with every thrust of the giant Namibian woman behind me. She’d had a purple monstrosity strapped around her waist, a weapon of pleasure that she wielded with exquisite skill, in carefully measured strokes.
One of my hands had been inside an adorable French woman, my fingers fluttering like a flower while my palm rubbed hard against her bud. My other hand had been curled like an autumn leaf, having stroked so many men to climax that I’d still had trouble opening it the next morning.
Of it all, what I remember most was the Scandinavian couple, husband and wife, who had been kept so busy licking my breasts clean of spectator tribute. The rest of me was being used in new ways, but my breasts . . . they were the only part of me that was new, and the novelty had yet to wear off.
Tonight? No mask. No flowers. No Bill. Something in me had blossomed, casting him aside.
Look closely, beneath the mask. A star is born - Sleezy by name, sleazy by trade.
Ask for me. Please.
♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
Friday Flash is a biweekly meme in which participants are provided with an image, and then challenged to write a flash fiction story of no more than 500 words using it, inspired by it, or as a reaction to it. After a year's absence, fellow
Sister in Smut F. Leonora Solomon has resurrected the meme, so be sure to pay her a visit (
click on the Friday Flash image) and join in the fun.
