I find myself fascinated with the idea of "flash" fiction. For those of you who, like me, had never encountered the term before, it means EXTREMELY short stories. One article I read on the subject suggested setting a precise number of words and in another, the author suggested EXACTLY 869 words as the ideal size for flash fiction.
My mind still keeps spitting out these stories. I wonder, honestly, if it might not have something to do with the little 4-milligram THC gummi I have been dissolving in my mouth at bedtime (around 11:00 for me) to help me sleep past about four in the morning. Anyway, I'm typing about 5:30 and when I woke a few minutes ago this story was there, full-blown. Now it's up to me to write it down.
So here it is in exactly 869 words.
Honestly, I can't tell if this is a stand-alone story or the beginning of a series. Let me know what you think.
Amazonia
I stretched as I woke, my hand straying to that smooth place under my erection where my balls used to be. As happens sometimes in that twilight moment between sleep and waking, I remembered them fondly.
My breasts ached, engorged, and I would need to feed the baby soon. But first I needed to tend to the beautiful Amazon to whom I had given myself a decade ago.
My Andrea is a tall woman, 5'11" in her bare feet. She's handsome rather than pretty, with a strong jaw, a hawk nose, and wonderfully ice-blue eyes. Her hair, so dark you can call it black, was long and loose. Later, when I braided it for her, the thick braid would hang down her back to touch her beautiful ass.
The hormones had taken over since she delivered our third child and had her ovaries and uterus removed. I realized I would need to trim her mustache before she left for the day.
The body hair that bloomed when she started on the testosterone injections made her even more perfect to my eyes. I like the way the long vertical scar where her right breast had been removed made a long, hairless line among the coarse dark hair of her chest and belly. The removal of her right breast was no longer necessary, of course. The chosen weapon of Amazons these days was an M4 carbine with an ACOG sight, not a bow and arrow. But some traditions die hard.
She was snoring, a loud, masculine snore, and as I watched she blew a snot bubble that slowly settled onto her mustache.
I glanced at the clock on the headboard.
5:30 a.m.
I had plenty of time to wake her and pleasure her before the baby woke and wanted my tit and Andrea headed out for seven o'clock roll call and to start her training day.
I carefully lifted the sheet off of her hips and tossed it over the side of the bed. Then I just looked at my beloved, amazed, as I was every day I woke beside her, at how lucky I was.
The testosterone worked on her in the complementary way the estrogen and prolactin and oxytocin I take daily worked on me. It turned out I inherited my mother's heavy breasts, proven when my milk came in, confirming my ability to feed our children. For Andrea, she was adding muscle mass and shedding body fat. And, of course, that luxuriant body hair that made me think of the scene from
Shameless
when Sean spent a night with a "bear" for comfort.
