Sinful Sunday Week # 32

Welcome back to Sinful Sunday! (And Happy Mothers Day to all my American mommies out there!) This week’s judge is BellaScotia!

Sinful Sunday #flashfiction week 32 judge

BellaScotia a little Scottish woman with BIG dreams of one day being a published writer. She just needs to find her mojo again. Participating in flash fiction is her first step to getting her passion back.

If you’re unfamiliar with the usual Sinful Sunday Flash Fiction contest rules, please check them out. (They’ve been updated recently, so they might be worth a look.) 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:

Masturbation Candy: What it is one thinks about when they masturbate. (Ex: “If she wants me to be her masturbation candy, I’m fine with that.”)

Photo prompts: (There are two today, so take your pick, or use both.)

Sinful Sunday #flashfiction week 32 prompt 2Sinful Sunday #flashfiction week 32 prompt 1

Disclaimer: The author does not claim to have taken any of the photographs used as prompts. All imagery was found in the public domain via Tumblr.


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



  1. Antonio Angelo says:

    “Masturbation Candy” she had said,
    “You know that thing you think about when you touch yourself.”
    “What thing?”
    The person the pose the image, the taste, what takes you over the edge.” She responded.
    “I don’t know, titties?” I had answered.
    “You are so bad at this.” She laughed.
    “What do you think about?” I asked.
    “Tonight, I am going to think about your chin, the rock solid chin with two days of stubble, I am going to think about the way that stubble would feel rubbing raw on my pussy. As the water from my shower massager blasts against me I am going to imagine it’s your tongue flicking against my clit, and I am going to cum maybe two or three times imagining just how awesome you would fuck me with your face.”
    “Why don’t we just go home together?” I tried.
    “Nope I am engaged, but now I know what you are going to think about when you are pounding your meat tonight.”
    “I am not going home alone, but thanks for thinking of me.” I said taking my drink and walking away.
    Of course she was right. But then I imagined a kiss.

    198 words

  2. She’d wash that man right out of her hair.

    She stood under the torrent and let the heat work it’s magic on her tense shoulders.

    It didn’t matter if his face was absolutely perfect. It wasn’t her fault he was basically her idea of pure masturbation candy.

    She didn’t have to put up with it: the unreturned calls, the no-shows.

    Christ, if he were just a smidgen less hot, she could ignore him. If that smile didn’t make her want to rip her panties off, she wouldn’t be so upset. If he weren’t so good with those hands. If his hips hadn’t been so deliciously bitable.

    If the showerhead weren’t removable…

    If his hands were on her thighs, his voice whispered in her ears. His weight pushing her back against the shower wall.

    If his tongue hit that spot.

    Yes. That was the spot.

    Word count: 144

  3. Gingerandgreen says:

    Wank candy? That’s all I am? Not in my fantasy.

    You’re early. Hear the shower. Your feet move, you open the door, there I am, bare, wet – alone. Staring back.

    Yank your shirt over, forgetting cufflinks. Bare-chested, you fumble until you’re free. Shoes. Socks. Belt. Pants. Cock points towards me, you follow.

    Water’s hot; shake your head under the stream, scattering lust from hair, jaw, nose, mouth. Sweet Jesus, your mouth.

    One hand grasps my neck, other cups my tit with steel. Tongue forces my lips apart. You conquer, I submit, but it’s not enough for you.

    Push me to my knees; grab my jaw with finger and thumb; your eyes smother me while you appropriate what my mouth offers. It’s still not enough.

    Lift me up, hands bruising flesh where you pull me apart. Pierce me so damn hard, my head bounces off the tile. Still, not enough.

    Turn me around to face the wall, drag my hips backwards, fill me again. Slap my backside hard for owning you. Give me more, I can take you.

    You come first. You swell inside me, I let go. Shout out each other’s curse names, but I win.

    I fucking win.

    200 words by Gingerandgreen.
    Wank = masturbation (just following the rules 😉 )

  4. When she’d lived in her body, all it took was a breeze up her skirt or the seam of her jeans pressing the right spot. Spinning on the edge of orgasm forever, then falling face down. Pushing her hips into the mattress, she’d come in stiff jerks. Her body prickled with sweat, blotched pink. Thrumming. The squeaking springs barely audible. Her pillow catching the gasp of one held breath, released.

    Now her body was separate; a machine. Sometimes she forgot for weeks, that it was even hers. And it took so long to get back inside.

    “Babe, take a break.” The brush of stubble against her nape as he leaned in to slip a soapy cup from her hand reminded her she had blood that rose and rushed and pooled low.

    “I’ll just take a quick shower.”

    Water pulsing her clit, she imagined him shirtless at the sink, jeans riding low. Remembered a time when they could still fuck on the counter. When he followed her down the hall, jumped under the spray fully clothed and took her against the tile wall. Reality turned masturbation candy.

    She bit her arm for an anchor, legs quaking, and came for her self.

    200 words

  5. AnnaLund2011 says:


    He is perfect for me. Strong arms, beautiful soul, careful lover. He grabs me, puts me where he needs me most. Where he thinks I need him the most. Always looking out for me, making me feel loved and cherished.

    But he is never perfect for me. He will never be enough. There will always be an image of strength before my eyes, as we fuck. An image of another.

    Strong, lithe body, hard in places where he is not, and soft in others, where he is all square, harsh marble.

    When we are done in the shower, I stay on for a couple of minutes, mind reaching out to my masturbation candy.

    Living a lie, I escape into dream-arms.

    And I come, as hard as when I’m with her.


    Word count: 130
    Twitter handle: @AnnaLund2011

  6. Sheviking says:

    As I close my eyes, I think of acceptable things. Sweet kisses, tender touches, whispered words. It doesn’t work. Frustrated, I increase the flow of water, aiming it at the right spot. Still nothing. I don’t understand. This isn’t me. I don’t want these images inside my head: Strong hands that grab me and hold me down, pinning my hands and spreading my thighs.
    “Filthy whore.”
    I can almost hear his voice, raw and gritty. He has no face, this man. He’s no one I know. No one I ever want to meet. This isn’t me.
    “So fucking wet. You want this, you little slut.”
    “I don’t,” I moan, in my mind.
    He doesn’t care. He takes me anyway. He fucks me hard with no care for my pleasure, and yet I come, screaming.
    Afterward, shame follows, as always. I dry off, noticing the bite mark on my arm. I did this to myself, wishing it was him. The man who treats me like a whore, who degrades me. My masturbation candy, who leaves me teary-eyed in the aftermath, yet begging for more of his debasement. I hope he isn’t real. I hope I never meet him. This isn’t me.

    200 words

  7. Lately, she’d been having trouble getting aroused. It was increasingly difficult to achieve orgasm, leaving her unsatisfied and aching more often than not.

    Masturbation candy, that’s what she needed.

    She stepped into the shower, her mind working, creating an image of a dark haired, tall man. As she soaped up her body, her hands morphed into the man’s, and her skin became hypersensitive to touch. The drops of water became an erotic torment as in her head, a fantasy unfolded.

    A teacher, he had to be. With horn rimmed glasses and a dark voice.

    Oh, yes.

    Unable to resist, she took the removable shower head and directed the hard jet against her pussy.

    No, not quite right.

    She sank to her knees, opening her legs and exposing her tender folds to the unrelenting water. She had to bite the inside of her arm to stay quiet under the onslaught.

    The orgasm was unexpected, but intense.

    When she opened her eyes, she looked up at him and smiled.

    He was already naked, and shamelessly erect. She bit her lip as he joined her in the shower.

    He pulled her against him, squeezing her butt cheek so hard she moaned.

    Oh, yes.

    200 words.

  8. She creased the Playgirl open to the centerfold. Her masturbation candy, the perfect dark Italian flavor, staring back from the crinkled magazine page. The family would wake soon, but it had been eons since she’d felt the liquid release of a self-induced orgasm.

    With the showerhead set to message, she leaned against the heated tile and stared at the page, imagining his hands on her thighs, his breath on her neck, his fingers pinching and rubbing her clit.

    She moved the showerhead back and forth letting the heat melt into her like a lover’s greedy tongue. Deeper and deeper the hot water penetrated across her swollen clitoris until her thighs spasmed and her insides clenched.

    “Yes. Yes.” She screamed into nothingness before slapping a quivery hand over her mouth, muffling the cry.
    She let the water run there until the spasms stopped and her throbbing womanhood went numb.

    Stepping out from the shower, she kissed her lover on his glossy lips and stowed him below a bulk size pack of toilet tissue, draped on her robe, and opened the bathroom door to her brood of kids all holding handmade Mother’s Day cards and her husband with a goofy I-know-what-you-were-doing grin.

    Reagan Phillips
    200 Words

  9. Elle T. says:

    “How long till you give in?” I ask on the phone.

    “You already know,” she answers. I hang up.

    She doesn’t accept what she is to me. She refuses me again and again.

    She’s waiting for something that’s not going to happen. She’s asking for a “more” that I can’t give her.

    It’s Friday night when her substitute arrives, wearing killer heels and hard nipples. I strip her of her barely-there dress and command her on her knees.

    With her lips around my cock and my fingers in her hair, I think of what I really want to see.

    A soft spoken girl with a tough looking exterior.

    The shower head between her legs, taking her to places I cannot go.

    The bite to her skin when she can’t scream her release.

    I open my eyes and see hair that doesn’t belong. Too blonde, too straight, too long. It’s all wrong. I close my eyes again and dye it black with my mind.

    I see her tattoos when I come.

    Is masturbation candy the right name for what she’s become? Close enough.

    I know, someday, she’ll give in.

    I know, someday, I’ll give up the words she’s dying for.

    199 words.

  10. As my wife kissed me goodbye at the airport, she whispered, “I left a present for tonight in your bag.” She’d smiled and waved as she walked away. I wondered what she’d left in my bag through the flight to San Jose, through the meetings at work, and through dinner.

    That night, in the hotel room, I found her present. A DVD in a plain white envelope. I turned on my laptop, and put the DVD in. The only file on it was video named, “Candy.MOV.” I played the video.

    She was naked in the shower. “I’m your mastrubation candy, love,” she said. She took the shower head, and ran it all over her body, stopping with it between her legs. I watched her lean against the wall, listened to her moan, as the sensations grew until her body shook, and she groaned, nearly sagging to her knees. When she was done, she smiled, “I want to be what you think of.”

    She was my candy on that trip. I thought of her every night, and promised myself I’d take the place of the shower head the night I got home.

    192 Words

  11. The bathroom is still slightly steamy, the smell of his soap lingering like the water beads dripping down the glass shower doors.

    Knowing he was here only minutes ago, naked, makes me shiver with the naughtiest cravings.

    God, how I crave him.

    It’s wrong, so wrong, but I can’t help myself. I touch the wet glass, then slip trembling fingers up my skirt to the equally wet place between my legs.

    My pussy, I think, the dirty little word making my clit pulse because, oh, it feels so good to be a bad girl, touching myself, thoughts of him like pure masturbation candy.

    I imagine stripping bare and getting in, aiming the same water that touched his skin right where I ache. I know it would make me come so hard.

    I bite my bare arm to stifle a moan, wondering what he’d do. Would he strip away his perfect silk tie and get right in, let the water drench his clothes just to get at me and fuck me?

    I think he would…

    The thought shatters the last of my restraint, and I’m coming all over my diligently circling fingers, wishing like hell he’d hurry up and catch me.

    . . .

    200 words

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