Tom's Flash Fiction - Free (and milder rating) - 'A little Extra Seasoning', 'Dreaming of Snowfall', 'Killing Vermin'and 'Playing the Game'

A little Extra Seasoning

Liberally splashed with autumn’s fiery palette, the forest brooded, silent and watchful. A foraging squirrel, drab pale reflection of his usurped red cousin, paused his industry for a moment, listening intently. Barely audible, it was the faintest murmur, like the babble of a distant brook or the mutter of insanity. But if it was a brook, it grew stronger without rain, if it were muttering, the lunatic approached at speed.      

Trailing discarded leaves in its path like a wake of cold swirling flame, the Triumph Bonneville sped unerringly through the trees, straight as an arrow. Flashes of dazzling light burst from the lovingly polished chrome; reflection of the radiant fingers poking through the autumn canopy. The engine bellowed like a charging bull, shouting out a challenge to the trees to dare to obstruct the missiles course. Clinging to the beasts back, the leather clad rider was as much a part of the machine as the gleaming black hump of its sixteen litre fuel tank. Behind the anonymity of a mirrored visor crash helmet, her teeth were bared in a rictus grin. Fingers of black leather wrapped around the twist grip throttle, firmly but gently squeezing out power from the meagre two cylinder engine like a whore drains cum from her Johns heaving cock. She felt the surge of its thrust swell between firmly clamped thighs and knew the black lace scrap of her tiny thong would now be soaked with her arousal. Crushing her thighs ever tighter against the worn cracked leather seat, her rhythmically thrusting hips throbbed with the beat of the thundering power house. At one with the machine, the slightest twitch of thigh or wrist would unbalance its equilibrium, could send flesh and metal careering to a wild doom; the possibility fuelled the rush she craved. She squeezed and twisted harder at that thought.     

Perhaps it was the extra twist that caused the abrupt demise of the engine, perhaps a hidden weakness lurking in its build, waiting for an opportunity to pounce, perhaps a combination of the two. Regardless of its root, the consequence was fatal. One of the pair of pistons thrust itself through the cylinder wall in an explosion of shattered metal, spewed twisted white hot fragments and burning gas in a fiery fan across the tinder dry carpet of the forest floor. Instinctively, she snatched at the shining chrome brake levers, the horns of the bull. The rear of the beast leapt into the air, the front wheel driven down, machine and rider spinning front over rear, leaving behind a tail of burning leaves like an earth bound comet. Flesh and machine separated an instant before the motorcycle smashed heavily into the trunk of a mighty oak. The tree shuddered from root to branch and added a flurry of brittle leaves to the forest floor. 

She awoke to a gentle tugging at her collar, her left shoulder, then right shoulder, refreshing cool air gently stroking her breasts, stiffening her nipples with its caress. Reflexively lifting her thighs, she allowed the leather to peel from her buttocks, roll from her legs. Stripped of the hot tight skin, she stretched out her limbs, testing their integrity. She felt no pain, no lost capability. Incredibly, she had escaped injury. Her eyes snapped open at the sharp drag of her thong being torn from her thighs, abruptly remembering her flight through the trees and the violent and unexpected end to her escape. With her shapeless leather suit hanging like lost dignity from the fisted fingers of his gloved left hand, her pursuer held the scrap of her thong to flared nostrils, closing ice blue eyes to focus his senses on the aroma of her sex. The act was a violation. She shuddered, thrusting herself to her feet with an agility that belied the potential of some injury from the crash. Poised for flight or to fight, her eyes swiftly scanned the clearing to determine her predicament, settling on his machine. It sat growling like a predator waiting to pounce, all three tyres plastered with red and orange, picked up from a visible trail left on the forest floor. If she could get past his hulking leather clad frame somehow…he opened his eyes, flicking a glance after her gaze and then back at her, perfect ivory white teeth bared in obvious humour.

“Thinking you might like a ride? The only thing you are going to get between your legs is this,” he grabbed the not insignificant bulge in the front of his leather pants, her thong hanging from his fingers emphasised his lascivious intent. She shuddered, suddenly acutely aware of her nudity, but not wishing to give him any satisfaction by attempting to cover herself. To her dismay, she recognised the nature of her response, her body was betraying her. Responding to the intense scrutiny of his gaze, her nipples hardened, her body leaked warm wetness. She was thankful that feminine arousal was not quite as explicit as that of the male.
“Come near me with that and I’ll show you a bite that’s worse than a bark,” she snarled, but they both knew it was an empty threat. Still scanning her body with lust filled eyes, he stripped off his jacket baring a broad and hairless chest, shining as if oiled. Despite herself, she could not hold on to her anger, something else was nudging it aside. She recognised it as lust. Counting ribs and muscles to the buckle, she recalled a memory of cool smooth metal on her fingertips. Before she could stop herself, she was on her knees in the leaves, scrabbling with his belt, dragging down his leathers and the hidden pouch. Holding his shaft, two hands easily fitting its length, she licked the swollen head and enveloped it with bright red lips…

“Honey,” he whispered later, her head resting on his chest as he gazed up at the canopy of autumn leaves, “next time you think we need to inject a little spice, would you please try not to wreck the bike?”       

Tom Covenent

Dreaming of Snowfall


He opened his eyes, closed them quickly against the glare from the window. She had pulled the curtains wide in her excitement. Cautiously he opened his eyesagain. Oblivious to her nakedness, she was standing directly in front of the newly bared window.  The smooth round globes of her buttocks wobbled slightly as she leant forward with her hands on the sill, as if presenting to him. He imagined the view from the front; if the newspaper delivery boy was on time he would be seeing the attractive middle-aged housewife living at 38 Robin Hood drive in a whole new way.

Her husband yawned and stretched, suggesting sleepily, 'honey, I think you should cover up before looking out of the window.' Despite the warning he was giving he did not seem overly concerned.

She giggled girlishly, stepping back from the window and covering herself with an arm across her breasts, a hand between her legs. He admired her naked form, partially silhouetted in the light of the breaking dawn. She was curvaceous, those rounded full hips silently urging him to join with her.  

'I just love the snow,' she enthused, 'don't you?'

'Sure, what's not to like,' he sighed, closing his eyes again. He like snow well enough when he had no reason to leave the house. He drifted easily back into slumber. His last conscious thought slipped away with him, ultimately to shape erotic dreams. He would enjoy her charms when he woke again later.

Sighing with disappointment at his sleeping form, she turned back to watching the flakes gently falling, black against the growing light. A movement from outside caught her eye and she edged forward again to look down into the street. There he was, the newspaper delivery boy, gazing up at the window as he had at the same time yesterday, the day before and the day before that.  

Not exactly a boy. Sixty eight year old Tim had not only found it a struggle to manage on his meagre pension, but so far had failed to break the habit of waking at the same time as he had woken for the past thirty years. That would not have been so bad had his wife Gertrude not suffered from constricted nasal passages. Her stentorian blasts rendered further slumber impossible to achieve. So when the newsagent had shared in passing the vacated post, Tim had jumped at the chance. The newsagent may have had a twinkle in his eye, but Tim was deadly serious and the deal was done.

The opportunity for a sneak peek at the scantily clad or even topless models spreading themselves unashamedly across the pages of the lower end tabloids was a pleasure soon discovered. He had never been one for newspapers. He had no desire to read the sanitised and generalised opinions that passed for news in tomorrow’s fish and chip wrappers. But it was a tonic to imagine what a woman might look like without the significant barrier presented by a flannelette nightgown or the demotivating defence of a layer of cold cream and curlers. It was a long time since he had seen Gertrude through lustful eyes.

It was awkward to walk with a raging erection fighting to emerge. The huge canvas bag in which he humped the newspapers around door-to-door in the cold and damp of an early morning mist made a very efficient cover for the bulge in his trousers. I have become, he thought shamefully, a dirty old man.   
He had seen her on his first day, an unexpected but welcome sight, a sight that had confirmed that there would be a second day in the job. She had opened the door just as he had lifted the letterbox flap, dragging it out of his hand. There was the briefest glimpse of a breast, a nipple, a smudge of hair (he thought it imagined) before the door slammed shut. He lifted the flap again, could not resist a peek. It was confirmed. She was there, completely naked, backed against the wall directly opposite the door. She made no attempt to move away. He held the flap open, barely able to believe his eyes. Her hand crept across the bare thigh. Elegant and neatly manicured fingers tipped with glossy red nails worked through tight auburn curls. He watched as she pleasured herself, thighs thrusting and fingers probing.

Tim woke from a dreamless slumber to find Gertrude impaling herself on an erection that would not have shamed a man in his prime.

‘I’ve had the strangest dream,’ she gasped, her eyes closed, rolling her thighs without breaking her rhythm, ‘you took a job delivering newspapers…and it snowed.'

Tom Covenent

Killing Vermin - a piece of flash fiction

‘Vampires, like in Buffy?’


‘Buffy the vampire slayer.’

‘No, not vampires, vampire bats,’ he asserted firmly, none the wiser as to the identity of Buffy.

‘There’s a difference?’ she sounded unconvinced, ‘a difference between vampires and vampire bats?’

‘Yes, of course there’s a difference, I’m a naturalist, not a fantasist.’

‘A naturist! You take your clothes off in public?’ she suggested, mischievously.  

‘Naturalist,’ he corrected her, his voice tinged with impatience. A painfully literal man, humour had no place in a conversation about his life passion, even with a beautiful woman. Perhaps that was why he remained unattached at fifty five.Unperturbed, he explained with the patronising tone of a bad schoolteacher, ‘Vampire Bats are hematophagic mammals. That means they feed on the blood of other mammals. They are as real as you and I.’ Pausing to mull something over, the deep frown creasing his brow did nothing to spoil what she considered a ruggedly handsome visage. ‘Admittedly,’ he continued, ‘hematophagy is a characteristic shared with the kind of vampires that featured in Hammer Horror movies. Anyway, point is, they sometimes carry rabies.’

‘Yuk, they sound horrid.’

‘No,’ he protested, turning to look at her, trying to make out her expression in the gloom; the flickering lantern was more successful at filling the night air with the pungent aroma of spent paraffin than filling it with light, ‘They arent, they’re fascinating,’ he insisted.

‘Whatever.’ With the one word, she dismissed his bats.

He was exasperated by her the immature response, but he could not help but find it oddly attractive.

‘Anyway, they are native to South America. Finding one in Spain is unusual and worrying, they have to be quarantined…. that’s why I’m here, to cull the vermin,’ he finished lamely. 

They were sitting together on a porch swing, though the absence of any possibility of motion that could be described as swinging put the lie to the name. The mechanism was solid, through the effects of time and a corresponding lack of attention. At least it was on a porch.

With the subject of the bats now completed, as far as she was concerned in any case, they sat in an uncomfortable silence as the night creatures stirred all around them.

Dinner had been a simple and silent affair. The other guests, like him, were overnighters and did not know each other; their behaviour indicated that they had no desire to get to know each other. They had taken their seats with only the necessary perfunctory noises such as were required to maintain a civilised though chilly atmosphere. Once they had consumed their chosen meals, they left the table with barely a nod. She had not been amongst the diners.

The last to rise, he had stepped out through the patio doors and onto the veranda just as the last rays of the Spanish sun had faded and died with the day. The cicadas were in concert, the faint breeze was warm. It was delightfully Mediterranean.He had not seen her arrive, one moment he was alone on the seat, then the faintest creak of old timber alerted him to a presence. A powerful waft of perfume filled his nostrils, the fragrant scent of fresh flowers, and, almost imperceptible, the sickly sweet aroma of damp and crumbling wood. He did not look directly at the newcomer, but saw her form emerging in his peripheral vision, as if it were being pressed through the velvet darkness into the dim glow cast by the porch lamp. Uncomfortable at finding himself seated so close to a stranger, he was aware that the swing seat would betray any movement with a creaking protest, so he did not edge away. Normally he would not have had the courage to speak, but the scent was alluring, intoxicating, it clouded his inhibitions. He wished her a good evening. She responded in a voice that was sweet syrup seeping through the dark. Without volition, he found himself explaining his reason for being at the boarding house, the planned cull of a plague of vampire bats.  

When he had explained his intent, they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Regretting telling her about the cull, he felt no better than a rat catcher. He dared a sideways glance, but her expression was hidden in the contrasting of a deepened blackness against the dull halo of orange from the lantern behind her. His eyes dropped instinctively, curiosity rewarded with a tantalising glimpse of a full breast tipped with a perky nipple, briefly visible through shifting satin. 

His eyes were drawn irresistibly lower, below her waist. Feeling a hot flush of embarrassment, he looked away before she noticed the direction of his gaze; he was sure she was completely naked under the thin satin gown. Although loose, in places it clung to her body like a second skin, transparently caressed the curves of her rounded thighs, sinking in the cleft between her legs. To his horror, he felt his cock stiffen and he crossed his legs to conceal the bulge.

‘I saw,’ she spoke without looking at him.

‘What did you see?’ he replied, feigning ignorance in vain and hoping she meant something else.

‘You, looking at me,’ the gown clung tight as she twisted her upper body to face him. Her breasts were thrusting toward him, hard nipples pressing the satin, proud from the dimpled darkness of her areolae.

Unexpectedly, she asked, ‘Would you like to kiss me?’

Without waiting for his reply, before he could react, she leaned forward to press her lips hard and passionately against his own. Her tongue had penetrated his mouth before he could move or utter a sound. Her eyes were closed, but they shifted urgently under mauve shadowed lids as if she were dreaming. He tasted sweetness with a metallic edge, but could not identify it. Groping clumsily for her breasts, he fondled the warm soft flesh through slippery satin, felt the weight of her breasts and found the stiffening nipples with his thumbs, but she slithered quickly from his grasp. Fingers nimble with the familiarity of experience deftly released the buckle of his belt, the buttons of his pants. Warm wetness spread through the tightness of his briefs as her lips rolled over the bulbous end of his rigid cock. He rolled his thighs gently in time with the movement of the hand that gently cupped his balls inside the cotton of the briefs. He tried to delay, but could not last long. She slithered up to kiss him, but he turned his head away, unwilling to touch lips that had savoured his seed. That suited her perfectly, his neck was bared to her, the beating pulse visible. She sank her sharp canines into his warm flesh, feasting on the throbbing flow of red nectar that burst free.    

The swing creaked as their bodies shifted in an embrace that could only have one outcome, she clung to him tightly, drew the life from him. When she released him, he remained upright, blank eyes staring, a lifeless husk. 

‘To you, they are small furry mammals with leathery wings and sharp teeth, objects to study,’ she whispered, a dark trickle rolling from the corner of full black lips, ‘but to me, they are family.’

Tom Covenent

Playing the Game

The kitchen was in semi darkness, the blinds down but allowing some sunlight to filter in, enough to leave the lights off but not enough to lift the strange sleazy atmosphere reminiscent of a scene from a 'film noir'.

There were four people in the room. A fat guy in a suit a size too small, sweating, hairless, probably in his forties. He stood near the kitchen door, effectively blocking it with his huge bulk. A smooth expensive suited guy with slicked down greasy hair and sallow complexion sat on a chair which had been lazily swung the wrong way round between long thin legs.

A lightly built middle aged man was sitting leaning forward on another chair in the corner of the room, he was straining against the torn tea towels which had been used as ad hoc ties to bind him to the chair. He was gagged with a ball gag and wore nothing but a pair of unflattering grey underpants.

The fourth person in the room was a middle aged woman. She was dressed in a smart medium length black skirt and a plain white blouse like any office worker, though an office worker who would not fail to attract your attention if she walked past your desk. She was standing in front of the smooth guy, glaring at him with dark eyes glittering angrily, bristling with obstinate disobedience.

'I said, take off your clothes,' drawled the smooth guy, his voice held the assertive confidence of a man who was used to being in obeyed.
‘Fuck off,’ she retorted, ‘let him go.’
The smooth guy shook his head slowly, ‘fat boy,’ he said, ‘the lady needs a little help.’

‘You bastard,’ she said, but nevertheless began to unbutton her blouse, her gaze remaining fixed on him as the blouse parted and her breasts swelled into view. The smooth guy sat back, a soft half smile playing on his lips, but his eyes were hard and hawk-like, watching her every move. Despite his anger and fear and probably fuelled by his restraints, Andrew felt his cock stiffen involuntarily as he watched his wife take off her top in front of these unpleasant men. Her full breasts were barely restrained, thinly covered by clinging black satin - stiff and generous nipples swelled from dark dimpled texture areolae clearly visible through the sheer material. Like me, he realised with a jolt; it seemed she couldn’t control her arousal either.

With sweat beading on his upper lip, the fat one licked his lips and loosened his tie and stared as she twisted her body, using both hands to un-hook her skirt. The zip rasped and the garment slid gracefully down her nylon clad legs to pool around her ankles on the floor. Her panties were high thigh, black but sheer, matching her bra, her legs long and elegant. The incredible eroticism as she stepped out of her skirt, bending to retrieve it, could not have been lost on the other men - it was certainly not lost on her husband. She tossed the skirt onto a chair and turned back to stand facing the smooth guy, her feet well apart and her hands now on her hips. Although her chin jutted forward in defiance, her nipples continued to betray her sexual arousal and her sheer panties did little to hide the prominent cleft between her legs and her husband was sure he could see wetness there. Sure enough, the smooth guy had also noticed.

‘Getting wet for us babe,’ he drawled.

He reached toward her, his index finger extended. As the tip of his finger touched the satin, he looked up directly into her warm brown eyes and, holding her gaze, gradually and with increasing pressure, pushed the sheer slippery wet silk deeper into the cleft between her legs. The gasp which escaped her lips was of involuntary, undeniable and extreme sexual arousal. She looked up at the kitchen ceiling, quickly to avoid catching any of the men’s eyes, including, and especially, the accusing eyes of her husband. But she had not pulled away, her thighs were thrusting forward and her buttocks were visibly clenched. She closed her eyes, her jaw clamped shut, gritting her teeth in an effort to prevent any further audible revelation of her intense pleasure. But her trembling thighs and the little jerks of her hips told the story clearly enough as her orgasm erupted and her moan, held in, now exploded as a scream. With her mouth hanging open, she panted breathlessly, thrusting against his finger. Deftly, with practiced expertise, he pushed his thumb against the panties, slipped the wet satin over her generous pussy lips and pushed four fingers deep inside her, right up to the palm of his hand.  
The fat one guffawed suddenly and everyone looked to where he was pointing, everyone except the sheepish looking Andrew. It was the prominent bulge in his underpants which was the cause of the fat ones amusement. ‘Hubby likes seeing his bitch finger fucked,’ he giggled, like a teenage girl.

The smooth guy pulled his fingers out of Andrew’s wife with a wet slurp. ‘Take everything off,’ he instructed her dismissively, ‘the fat boy will want to fuck you naked.’

Meekly, unhesitatingly, she slipped off her bra, allowing it to drop limply to the floor. Without its support, her breasts drooped slightly, but for a fifty three year old woman they were unusually firm for their size. She hooked her fingers into her panties, pushed them down, exposing a neat triangle of tight curls.
‘The collar matches the cuffs,’ laughed the smooth guy.

She bent to hook her panties off her feet, her breasts hanging like udders as she did so.
‘Jeez boss,’ said the fat boy, the bitch has great tits.’
The smooth guy nodded, ‘let’s have her on all fours, like a sow.’
Wincing at his crude disrespect, without being told, she knelt down and dropped onto her hands. She felt wetness trickle down her inner thigh from between her legs; his description of her as a sow must surely be an accurate one. All resistance had slipped away with her orgasm, now she wanted more, wanted to be used by these foul men, wanted to be treated like their whore. She realised that the fact that her husband was watching and would realise she was enjoying this debasement was adding to her pleasure. It was to protect him that she was doing this, at least that had been the case, now, she admitted, it was because she wanted it. 
‘Ok fat boy,’ said the smooth guy, ‘she’s all yours.’
 ‘Here boss?’ questioned the fat boy.
‘Up to you,’ replied the smooth guy, ‘I have no particular desire to see your fat ass bouncing on the lady, but it’s up to you.’
‘Thanks boss, if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to fuck the bitch in private.’
‘No,’ she protested, ‘no please.’ She crawled on all fours across to the fat one, sat back on her haunches began to fumble with his zipper. A sheepish grin spread across his pudgy features and made no protest as she unzipped him, pushed her hand inside and fished out a burgeoning heavily veined cock.
With one hand inside his pants, cupping his balls, she used the other to stroke his shaft to a full and impressive erection. Her ruby painted lips slipped wetly over the tip and he soon began to jerk his thighs in time to the bobbing of her head. It did not take long before the fat one climaxed. Andrew stared in horror as his wife made no attempt to escape as the fat one reached a noisy orgasm, her lips remaining tight around his shaft. The bulge in her husband’s underpants told its own story.  

When the smooth guy and the fat one had gone, Andrew and his wife went to bed, tired but satisfied, cuddling and kissing just like any other couple. It had been fun, playing the cuckold, thought Andrew, but maybe she would let them go the whole way with her next time.

Tom Covenent


  1. A great read Tom, leaves you wanting and knowing more. Hot and spicy.

  2. Suzanne Coopersmith15 March 2014 at 17:26

    Hmmm I particularly enjoyed Playing The Game. Incredibly hot. You have a very strong use of language Tom and I loved how that use made the story quite vivid.

  3. Suzanne Coopersmith15 March 2014 at 22:14

    I especially enjoyed Playing The Game,very hot. It's quite obvious Tom that you have an excellent use of language. Making your story quite vivid.

  4. Great shorts, quite arousing! lol A Little Extra Seasoning would be my favorite, but I loved them all especially Dreaming of Snowfall hahaha!

  5. Jesus, Tom...Your word usage in "A Little Extra Seasoning" is brilliant...Such vivid and specific descriptive language....I was totally there. #totalwordgasm


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