On Cuban Heels

Author’s Note: This piece was written for WriteAnything.com’s [fiction]Friday prompt: “Hong Kong Rain on Cuban Heels”  It contains adult themes.  Hope you like it.
Mei held a red shoe in her delicate hands.  Its color matched her short, manicured nails.  She ran her fingers slowly up and down the shaft of the heel, tracing it’s delicate tapered shape.

She seemed enthralled with the way the shoe’s heel slightly tapered to a point.  I didn’t even notice.  I was more concerned with her curves, how her hips tapered into long slender legs.  Perfectly shaped I imagined how they would curl around my back.  And her breasts, Jesus Christ, her breasts were astounding.  That was all I cared about.    She stared at me with her gray eyes.  Her long lashes, like sultry runways, guiding me into her soul.

“So can I have them?” she asked.

“Yeah sure you can have them.  But if I’m paying 1000 dollars for shoes you have to wear them.”

“Of course I’m going to wear them.”

“I mean tonight.  Now.  You put them on and you can’t take them off, no matter what… activities we partake in.”

She bit her bottom lip, smudging her blood red lips.  Then she smiled, shifted her weight slightly to thrust her hip into my leg and whispered “Yes sir.”

I leaned into her pressing against her warm hard body.  She broke away from me after a moment, her fingers brushing softly across my groin.  She smiled in mock surprise when she sensed the level of my arousal.

She sat down on the cold hard bench spreading her legs.  Not wide and obscene, but subtle and sultry.  The store manager entered from the back room, his arms laden with several boxes.  He placed them on the floor beside her.  She slid off her shoe and without taking her eyes off mine, extended her long delicate leg up to him.  Her dress rode up her thighs and I was sure he could see all the way up her dress.

The manager fumbled with the shoe and slid it on.  The dismay of it being a perfect fit showed clearly on his face.  He mumbled something about being too good at his job and made to stand.

“Please,” she said, still looking at me.  “Put on the other one.  I wish to wear them out.”

The manager took much longer this time as he worked the buckles on the thin straps.  Then when he could stall no longer, stood and went to the register.

Once outside we started toward the water front.

“You look amazing in those,” I said squeezing her rump.  Her thank you was a kiss on the cheek and a playful nibble on my ear lobe that sent small bolts of lightning through my entire body.  A gentle rain began to fall as we neared our destination.  We were about to pass the last alley before the road opened onto the marina when she tugged my hand and led me into the dark.

Smiling she ran her hands down my chest toward my belt.  She leaned in and kissed me hard on the mouth as her fingers deftly worked the buckle.  My hands found the soft mounds of her breasts and in a fit of passion I pushed her against the wall.  She rained kisses on my neck and chest in time to the rhythmic drumming of the late summer rain.  Her hand snaked its way into my pants and found purchase.  She gently squeezed while also biting down hard on my neck.

“Damn it, Mei,”  I said, wrenching my head back.  She squeezed my groin harder and pulled my head to her wanton mouth with her other hand.  “What the fuck-”

She sucked on my neck while her other hand stroked rapidly.  Her rhythm changed to match the beating of my heart.  I could feel myself slipping away.  I could feel my world becoming darker and quieter.  I could feel my heart slowing and still she sucked.

I awoke to cold rain pelting my face.  My eyes fluttered open and I placed my hand on my neck.  It was tender and sticky.  I heard Mei laughing as I struggled to pull myself up.

“Don’t move, lover.  You’ll be alright.  Thanks for the fun.”

I tried to speak, but could not find the strength even for that.  I watched her walk away as my eye lids grew heavy.  I struggled to stay awake, to call her name.  I knew what she was and I didn’t care.  I wanted her.  She grew smaller in my sight as my eyes finally closed around the last vision of my undead lover with Hong Kong drizzle on Cuban heels.

Bumwattle’s Bird

Author’s Note: Hello friends and fiends alike.  It’s good to be writing #fridayflash and #fictionfriday this week after a couple off.  This week’s story is inspired by a prompt from WriteAnyting.  “Include a telepathic parrot in your story.” Hope you like it and feel free to comment.


It was late on a Monday.  I don’t like working late, but some cases, well you have no choice.  I had just put the finishing touches on a murder case.  Young couple gunned down for the money in their wallet and purse.  Dead for a little less than two hundred bucks.  Case like that makes you want to look for answers.  The kind of answers you can only find on the bottom of a bottle of cheap whiskey.  I was into my third belt when there was a knock on my door.  This time of night only people fool enough to knock on my door were druggies or any of the other desperate dregs of society.  I opened my desk draw and placed my hand on my snub-nosed .38.

“Come in,” I shouted and tightened my grip on my trusty piece.

It was a man.  Too bad, ‘cause these stories usually involve a dame with long stems and devil-red lips with nails to match.  He was thin, skin and bones thin with long wisps of hair that seemed to float around his head of their on accord.  He nibbled on a Saltine cracker as he walked toward my desk.  The crumbs fell down the front of his stained shirt.  He did nothing to dust them off and it looked like he had at least 30 crackers worth already dusting his front.  He was a mess but he didn’t appear to be dangerous so I took my hand of my gun but left the draw open just incase.

“It’s late Mr….”

“Bumwattle. Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle, at your service.”

“I don’t have time for games, sir.”

“No, no games I assure you.  That’s my name… I’m almost certain.”

“Alright Bumwattle what can I help you with tonight?”

“I have the strangest notion that I’m going to die tonight and I need someone to look after my parrot.”

“I may be able to help you with the first part but I ain’t no zoo.  Why me?”

“Well frankly Mr.—“

A large parrot flew in from the hall and landed on my desk startling he hell out of me and knocking over some papers in the process.  He had a magnificent blue head and a large menacing beak.  I instinctively reached to pet it.  It was soft, baby-skin soft and it took a poo on my desk.  Normally I’d be upset about that but something in the bird’s large black eyes made me not care.

“Alright, Mr. Bumwattle I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh thank you,” he said handing me a ratty stack of papers from his back pocket.  “Here’s some paperwork including a copy of my will.  I changed it already to put your name on as caretaker of my magnificent bird.”

“Says here your name is Jonathan MacDougall.”

“Well yes, it’s spelled “Jonathan MacDougall” but it’s pronounced “Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle.”

I stared at him waiting for him to crack a smile.  He never flinched.  Instead he went out into the hall and returned a short bit later with a box of items.  His dumb bird stared at me the whole time.

“You’ll be needing these when I’m gone,” he said and placed the large box in front of my desk then put his hand on his heart and fell over.  I raced around to resuscitate him, but nothing I did worked.  After the coroner left and promised to call me with his findings and the cops stopped their questions it was late.  The parrot hadn’t moved during the whole fiasco.  It just kept staring at me.  No matter where I was in the room its beady black eyes bored holes into me.  I tried to move it off the desk but nothing doing.  I cleared a small spot on the desk for my head and slept.

A knock on the door brought me out of dreamland and back to the world of the living.  I looked up at the bird knew it was hungry.  I ignored the knocking and pawed through Bumwattle’s box.  There were several boxes of crackers.  I opened one gave a few to the bird and nibbled on one myself.  The knocking on my door grew louder, more insistent.

“Come in,” I called as I flopped myself down in my leather chair behind my desk.

It was a dame.  A real knock out.  She had long curly hair, black as night, hazel eyes that had a look of desperation and tenderness and a pair of stems that went all the way to the floor.  She pulled the long cigarette from her ruby red lips and smiled.

“Detective Ace Blackwood?” she asked.

I glanced from her to the bird.  It squawked and pooed on my desk.

“It’s spelled “Detective Ace Blackwood”, I said.  “But it’s pronounced “Pittstains Melodrama Skidmarkundies.  Wanna cracker?”