Sinful Sunday Week # 25

Welcome back! I can’t believe it’s been twenty-five weeks! Today’s judge is a guest for the week, Jess!

Jess stumbled into writing about four years ago and has been knee deep in the creation of her first novel. When she’s not stringing letters and words together, she’s lost in a book, working out, baking sweet treats, or ogling pretty British boy bands. Jess hails from the central U.S. and lives with her husband, two kids, and shih-tzu puppy.

If you’re unfamiliar with the usual Sinful Sunday Flash Fiction contest rules, please check them out. You must use both the photo prompts and word prompt in some way. Have fun with it, and synonyms are accepted! The word minimum is 100, maximum 200, and don’t forget to include your word count and twitter handle!

Word Prompt:

Parnel: Nineteeth century appellation for a promiscuous woman or prostitute . Synonyms: playgirl, prostitute

Photo prompt

Get those steamy thoughts going! You have until midnight EST to get your flash fiction in!


  1. Cat and Mouse Games

    He was devilishly handsome and only seen after dark. Blue-black hair in fashionable dishabille complimented perfectly tailored suits. He stood out in nightclubs, where he never seemed to sweat. A killer smile and come-hither gaze didn’t hide his predatory nature.

    She knew him instantly for what he was. Once, she might have sought formal introduction. This one wanted a thing to be stalked, a skittish miss with a bit of a stutter, shyly bitten lip, eyes widened at his inherent dominance. The trick was not to appear eager. If he’d wanted a parnel, they crowded the nightclub, too foolish to think of charging for their favors.

    Seduction proved simple – short but merry chase along the bar, across a room, out to the street, where he finally convinced her to get in his limousine and thereafter his bed. The only thing that had changed over the centuries was the mode of transport.

    He was exactly as expected: talented, accomplished, masterful, beautiful even in release. They rode each other hard through the night.

    Slick bodies entwined, she whispered, “I could drown in your essence.”

    Fool that he was, he invited her. And thus fell another vampire imposter, albeit an incredibly tasty one.

  2. His hands are wrapped around her face. Her hair fans beautifully all over the pillows. Their embrace is so intimate. She’s definitely not a parnel. She’s more. It looks like a picture of playful affection. Maybe it was taken on a Sunday morning after the sweetest lovemaking. I can almost hear their giggles; their happiness.

    I imagine being her.

    I dream of being on the receiving end of his gentle touch. I imagine having his hands hold my face like I’m precious and having his lips touch my skin like I’m breakable.

    I dream of being worthy of his love.

    That picture is the last thing I see before I close my eyes and surrender to his rough touch; before he yanks my head back and growls nasty things in my ear. His thrusts are angry and punishing. I wonder how he went from being the one in the picture to the one moving behind me. I wonder how he got here.

    He’s done and ten feet away from me, like he can’t bear to be close to me anymore.

    “I’ll see you next week.” It’s all he says before handing me the money and sending me on my way.

    200 words.-

  3. His presence reminded her of the Snow Patrol song. In his arms, she was able to forget the world.

    Not that he was any different. He paid her for her services, like any other man that visited her. A high class escort, she called herself. Deep down, she knew she was no different from the others. A parnel, a prostitute. A common street whore, only she didn’t walk the streets.

    No, she served her customers in her own bed.

    Sometimes, she wasn’t sure if she was better off, or worse.

    But he was here. Black hair, blue eyes, full lips she never kissed. She didn’t know his name. He never gave it, and she never asked.

    He was the only one she felt anything with. His skilled fingers found her most sensitive spots without fault. Trailing over her collarbone, they traveled to her breasts, his lips seeking a path in the wake of his fingertips.

    He found her core, playing her relentlessly, holding her down until she gave in to the demands he placed on her body. He never let up until she shattered.

    And every time it happened, she had more trouble putting the pieces of herself together.

    199 words

  4. Gingerandgreen says:

    Sweet Cassie, bringing warm water for my vinegar douche – the theatre life is certainly for me. Sisters and brothers to welcome me home after a night with my young gentleman, what more could a girl want?

    Mmm, my gentleman. Clean, kind, educated. Fresh talent in those fingers as they gently grip my hair, commanding me as he was born to do. Crisp linen on the bed. They must use lavender in the laundry water.

    “You’re the parnel,” I told him, “marrying for money.”

    “And you’re a cheeky wench,” he said, spanking me. I giggled and pressed my bottom up for more, so he spanked me harder.

    “I’m all juicy now, Sir. Are you going to give me what for?”

    He pushed himself back inside, hard as an iron staff, hot from the furnace.

    “And what five, what six, what seven…” Each thrust a number whispered in my ear, sending shivers from above, shudders from below.

    I’m wet all over again as I recall it.

    He’ll bring his bride to the opera, dry and virginal in her finery; but there’ll be flowers waiting in my dressing room, bunches and bunches of ‘em.

    They don’t last as long as pearls, mind.

    200 19th century words by @Gingerandgreen

  5. @Caffeine_Needed says:

    In my mind, I’m dressed in a frilly, white organza ankle-length dressing gown, with fuzzy kitten-heel slippers sitting on a pink furry stool in front of my make-up mirror. This feels like a haunting memory of a past life.

    The reality facing me in the reflection of my square pink pocket mirror, cracked in one corner as I sit at the edge of the sleazy motel room chair with ripped faux leather covering, is too much.

    “Parnel.” I Googled it.

    I heard the word uttered by a handsome actor in a black and white movie this morning as my first “client” fucked his brains out. The TV, on and loud, was a kink of his. I guess it could have been worse.

    With a wave of my hand, I laughed it off, choosing to exist in a fantasy.

    My heart ached for someone to whisk me away like in “Pretty Woman”.

    My mascara is layers thick already, but I brush on yet another. My violet hues still hold their luster miraculously. A lone tear falls onto the stained orange carpet.

    The door knocks, again.

    Reality enters, my soul exits.

    189 words by Caffeine_Needed

  6. Having brushed out her silken chestnut tresses, she watched me approach in the mirror. I stooped to kiss her milky white shoulder before taking her by the hand to my bed.

    “Come, my pretty parnel. Show me what my gift has purchased.” She pushed me back into the depths of crisp sheeting, crawling over me cat-like, on the prowl.

    “Mmm, my lord, you’ve bought my gratitude not with gems but this impressive cockstand,” she purred before running her warm, wet tongue along my hardened member. She rose over and astride me, taking me into her sweet nether lips before sinking down onto my shaft. Her nipples teased my chest as she settled into a rhythm.

    “Oh, thank you,” she moaned as she rode me, her pace quickening as she approached her bliss. I was swept along with her, the pull of her climax pushing me into sweet oblivion.

    She woke me sometime later with a soft kiss. “Thank you for the lovely necklace, though I really enjoyed role-playing more than the jewelry, dear.”

    “Believe me, the pleasure is all mine, love.” I reciprocated with a lingering kiss of my own.

    “But next time, I get to be the prostitute.”
    199 words

  7. Leather seats or satin sheets, office desks or chairs, she doesn’t care. It’s all the same to her. Day, night, debauched mid-afternoon, sunlight streaming through hotel windows, painting her tainted skin gold. For a little while she’s someone’s treasured parnel.

    Yes, treasured. She doesn’t come cheap.

    She twists to her side in Egyptian cotton, the heavenly soft material perfumed with sex and sin. She watches his back, powerful muscles pulling taught as he lifts a cigarette, inhaling deeply.

    She hates that he smokes. The smell permeates her skin, an all day reminder of him. His wickedly talented mouth, his heavy cock driving deep, making her forget everything. He takes her power; the only one who can.

    “I want exclusivity,” he says quietly.

    He’s said this before.

    She lifts her wineglass off the nightstand, swirling the lukewarm contents, staring at the pale blue bruises his need to possess left on her thighs.

    “I’m not exclusive.”

    He crushes the cigarette and comes to the bed, taking the glass away. A slow pull slides the sheets down her body, making her shiver anew.

    He smiles. “For the right price, you’re whatever the hell I say you are.”

    She hates that he’s right.
    . . . . . .

    200 words

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