Marina Kris

Flashers are notoriously challenging to write.  The authors who master the art are the sharp shooters of the literary world.  Marina Kris is one of those masters. She is a wordsmith, first class and I'm in awe of the way she paints a tangible picture with so few.

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by Marina Kris

noun: topography
the arrangement of the natural and artificial physical features of an area.
"the topography of the island"
a detailed description or representation on a map of the natural and artificial features of an area.
plural noun: topographies
the distribution of parts or features on the surface of or within an organ or organism.”
–online dictionary

The Writer collected maps. Aerial maps. Political maps. Road maps. Atlas pages. Surveyors’ studies. Physical maps with green for lower elevations and brown and orange for the heights.

“I thought they’d inspire me more if they surrounded me,” he said, by way of explaining why he strung them up on his university office wall with tiny pushpins. The ones with a navy pinprick head like floating worlds above world close-ups. “Maybe it’s stupid,” he shrugged, his cheeks pinking.

I stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “It’s brilliant,” I said and was rewarded with relief flooding his grin. The Writer was then working on a story whose protagonist was a cartographer.

“What kind’s this?” I asked. It was two in the afternoon.  He sat down at his desk. We’d just come from the writing group. My latest had gone over so-so. I’d read the two pages, with shaking hands. The RN nurse had clapped, but I knew this wasn’t the best I could do, that the best metaphors and imagery was somehow still trapped inside me.

“It’s Topographical,” he said, looking up from his grade book. Two students walked by, one laughing with a barking sound that soon drifted by the open door.

“How can you tell?” I kicked off my heels, then rubbed at the sore red gash the new shoes had opened on my Achilles's heel. The Writer’s eyes licked at my skin, soothing with their unspoken desire.

“See the contour lines?” he asked. “The contour lines show elevation and the shape of an area.”

Heavy footsteps, black combat boots, passed. Then the corridor quiet again. My fingers found the latch.

I sat on his lap, tracing the line of his jaw with my index finger. “Contours, like this?” I breathed into his ear. His pleasure shiver shivered through me.

He closed his eyes, grinning. Then snapped them open, with a thought: “Viktoria, a student could…need me.”

I nibbled his bottom lip, pulling it between my teeth, then licking the pillowy bottom one. I realize there’s a class meeting next door. That there could be a student knocking at any moment. My clit pulses.

“Shh…” I said, “Tell me more…about these.” I gestured to the map above his desk, then dropped to my knees beneath his desk.

“Flat areas have far apart lines,” he gasped as I unzipped his jeans and set his cock free.

“Mmm-hmm…More,” I coaxed, petting his pecker with my pretty nails I’d just had French manicured.

“Steep terrain… has lines… close together,” his head tilted back in a groan.
“Like these beautiful lines?” I asked, tongue-kissing the two veins that ran vertical in his rock-hard member.

In the classroom next door, a burble of laughter.  His eyes still closed, his right hand caressing my hair, holding me closer to his rigid ramrod flesh.

Above the desk and all around, the counties and cities and kingdoms, the scales and legends and inaccuracies, the physical features spelled out and suspended, as head thrown back, my mouth and his body ranged new altitudes.

by Marina Kris

“Andrew!” I call across the porch of the Student Center where ten years ago we nursed hangovers and hunched over notebooks.

He turns and embraces me. Still a shy smiler, open-the-door kind. He’s leaner if not happier.

“So good to see you,” he says, and the smile in his eyes says he means it. “It’s crazy it’s been this long since college.”

We share quick catch-ups on raising children, our mutual college buddies: Meghan’s in nursing school in Montana and Kelly’s with her fiancée stationed in Germany; neither can get away to attend.

The last time I’d seen Andrew had been right before graduation. Honeysuckle and tulips, bikinis bathing in the first spring sun to grace the green. Andrew and Aubrey had broken up, yet again.

Kelly, Meghan, and I couldn’t stand the way she belittled him, called to tell him he better drive the three hours to meet her later.

If you break up with her for good, we promise you the fucking night of your life. All of us. Together. Anything you want.

He’d helped us fix our computers, bought us vodka cocktails at the bar when we were stood up and then stayed to walk us safely home. Always the gentleman, but not like a brother. He was built: muscular and cute but he didn’t flaunt it, which made him even cuter. Which made Aubrey even meaner.

If he only got rid of her, he could have anyone he wanted. He could have all of us.

For months, like a gentleman, he declined, a resigned look in his eye.

Until that night of finals week. “It’s done, it’s really, forever over.” We were on for that night.

Fueled by Jim Beam, giggly strip poker, and giddy goodbye Aubrey fervor, Whatever you want, we told him, kissing him, nibbling his bottom lip, his chin, kissing each other, undressing him, slipping out of what was left of lacy-cupped bras and low-rise panties.

 What he’d requested surprised—to lick the freckle beside my nipple, for Meghan to spank him until he begged, to suckle our brightly-painted toes. Andrew gave me my first toe-sucking orgasm.

“You broke Aubrey’s evil clutches. She doesn’t own me!” he’s yelled, exultant and more than a little drunk, and we’d fallen arm in arm in arm in arm onto the feathery duvet. He cried with relief and pleasure; we’d done him this service. We cried with him, in happiness, “Say it again! Again!”

The windows open, the lick of breeze cool across our bare, enfolded bodies. The chill melting over the sweat produced a succulent shiver. I remember the stars bright as pinpricks as I gazed out at them, thinking, now anything can happen.

Now Aubrey calls his name. “Babe, we’ve got to unload the car.” She carries a little girl with peach hair bows that I coo over, compulsory. The baby resembles her mother. Aubrey curls her free hand, with a princess-cut two-carat diamond, serpentine-ing into Andrew’s side, drawing him away from me.

Oh, Andrew, why didn’t it last? What more could we have done than paradise?

As Aubrey leads him away from me, I wonder what Andrew recalls from that night we serviced his every want.  How often he has to go back there, to fiddling my nipples as we French kissed, to Kelly and Meghan on their knees tenderly lapping his head, to survive living with her.

Tell Me about Jenny. And Avery.
by Marina Kris

“Was that your first threesome?”

The boudoir door is locked. I’ve got my phone propped against several writing manuals I’ve been reading before our call. The boys were tucked in an hour ago.

“Not my first. My third.”  I reach around, pop the clasp on my black bra, his favorite. Wriggle out of the lace cups to maximize his view.  He swallows.

“Your third?” I love that little catch in his voice. The hunger. His eyes are tired from the 6 AM flight; he’s wearing his wire frames, his spare pair of contacts beside me in his drawer. I know exactly how delicious and prickly his scruff would feel between my breasts.

“The first two were with high school friends. Avery and Jenny. Then Craig and Heather.”

My fingertips prickle. If only I could rub my palms against his hairy pecs. The sweaty, wiry firmness that he works so hard for at the gym.

He’s already nude, sprawled across the ivory hotel sheets. I can visualize the black case I got for him that he has propped near the foot of the bed.

“Which did you like more? With the girls? Or with the dude, Greg?” He knows all of this.  His palm massages along the length of his dick in rhythmic, firm strokes. It turns him on to re-ask it. About as much as I get hot telling him.

“Craig. His name was Craig,” I say, letting my fingers soothe circles into the soft skin above my clit. I have the tingly lube open on the dresser. I reach over, dab a dollop and smooth it in.

“The girls,” I say, “definitely the one with Avery and Jenny. It was during the junior camp-out at Jones Woods. We drug our sleeping bags out under the stars, but it got cold, so Jenny wanted to climb into mine.”

His cock grows gorgeous and greedy under his hypnotizing tugs. The head begins to pinken to a luscious raspberry.  I swallow.

“Tell me about Jenny. And Avery. Her tits. Were they…?” he gasps, and I know without needing to ask that he’s close.

I rub harder, allowing my fingers to feather my clit, then dip back to my hood. Thigh to thigh, a tickling meant to mimic his mouth nips, but not quite. “Her tits were amazing,” I draw out. “Soft nipples. Big. Almost double mine. The right one was pierced.”

Physical distance cannot keep him from frothing over at my voice, my syllables sizzling over the ether and entering him.

His growl is low and guttural.  His neck thrown back onto the flat pillows, my memories quenching this need inside him.  Stoking my own fires, I reach for my vibe, go from zero to full-throttle.

My belly aches to lean over, to lick off the first bead of pre-cum, to take in his salty-sweet seed, to have his hands all over me, pulling my nipples as he spanks into me.

My breasts tremor for the slither of his spilled seed.

His seed fountains onto his hotel sheets.

“Damn, baby doll.”  His breath is ragged. I’m this close to a shattering orgasm, but decide to edge it, draw it out for delectation after we’ve logged off.

“I miss you, babe.”

“Friday can’t get here soon enough, hon.”

I fall asleep to the churn of: 35 hours, two planes, a train, pickup in my new silver dress. No panties underneath. The last thing he’ll ask for is a receipt.

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