Short Prose



He lay there dormant; a picture of innocence, creased and sleep-tousled. Annabel smiled and decided to seize the moment. Running her thumb and forefinger towards his zip she gave a gentle yank – nothing stirred. She eased the pull-tab down, gently, silently, over its glistening teeth, reluctant to startle him. Slipping her slender, well-manicured hand inside, a devilish sense of control made her reckless, fearless. She was in charge, and Annabel felt, as she always did at this point, intoxicated. Power had that, je ne sais quoi feeling that had enhanced their trysts in the past.


Her eager fingers continued their relentless exploration until she felt it – ‘their special zone’. It was unmistakeable, the familiar, susceptible spot, that she knew would render him helpless. It was always his undoing.


As her forefinger furtively fondled that ultra-sensitive ridge, the battle was all but over. The brute became larger, more overwhelming with each of her desperate yanks. Annabel gasped at its enormity. A monster, much thicker and more demanding than she could ever recall. Annabel’s puny equipment would never cope with one this size. She began to sweat and her breathing became laboured.


A final rough jerk and she’d done it. Annabel sighed with pleasure as her beast began to force its way hugely, hungrily, heroically, through an impossibly narrow, hesitant slit.

            Oh my, God, what have I done? But I’ve started so I’ll finish, she thought, randomly recalling Magnus Magnusson’s catch phrase from Mastermind. It wouldn’t be fair on anyone otherwise.


Flexing her muscles and using both hands she heaved as hard as she could. Eventually it made its arrogant exit from the fancy floral cover.


It was spring, time to wash the duvet.



Shirley McIntyre

October 2012