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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2006 Stiletto Flash Contest
Honorable Mention

The Bridge

Hiro leaned over his pneumatic drill. His forearms bulged as he wrestled with the grip. The morning fog lay thick and dead over downtown San Francisco. The thin red lines of the Golden Gate Bridge were invisible in the distance.

Steel shavings formed an anthill and vibrated off the H-beam to fall towards Fremont Street. Far below, insect-size commuters plied the sidewalks and jammed the avenues. Rich American men. Beautiful American women. Expensive cars, clothes, colognes, and attitudes.

Hiro released the trigger and lifted the bit to the second mark, his undershirt soaked with sweat. He’d always loved an American woman, even if she wasn’t real. Just a pretty picture in his father’s airplane book, a painting on the side of an American dive-bomber. A wide-open smile, brazen eyes, and legs that stretched forever.

“Those shoes are made for walking across the clouds, not the ground,” his mother had warned him. He’d flown five thousand miles to follow his dream, and his mother had been right.

Sometimes he imagined his woman while he worked. During a twelve hour shift, he had nothing else to think about. Like him, she was older, wiser, and Californified. She’d fucked every man on the crew, and his dick-challenged Chinese landlord, just to mock his solitude.

Hiro’s cock stirred in his jeans. He got over on the drill, so the rattling handle rubbed against his thigh, sending nice vibrations through his balls. He hardened. It was a game he liked to play, sometimes, when the rest of the crew was stoned, and he thought they wouldn’t notice.

The bit slipped through the beam. He breathed deep, adjusted his safety rope, and sat down to hide his hard-on. He rubbed his chest. He felt breathless. Sometimes his woman made him feel that way.

She appeared on the girder, ghostly in the fog. She eased over the bolt holes and stood etherized above him, her skirt flaring around her hips like an upside down flower. He lay back, entranced. She stepped on him and he flinched when her high steel heels stabbed into his ribcage.

She wore cherry red stilettos.

He riveted his gaze on her face, her rosy cheeks, and her fire-engine lips over tits that rose like Wonder Bread. She steadied on his heart with her heels, and his chest exploded with agony, but also love, and he gasped in wonder at all that he’d thought that was wrong.

He choked, eyes full of tears, and she cracked her beautiful wide-open smile, framed against the sky, a constellation of cherries and roses and fire engines, and her skirt bloomed like a broken nuclear cooling tower, and her microwaved honey bun cunt called to him from the far side of a tiny triangular ocean of southern white cotton.

Sirens sounded down on Fremont street. A breeze sprang up on the bay and stirred Hiro where he hung. Distant through the fog, twin red stiletto tips of the bridge.

Rand Kline is a painter who writes. He enjoys exploring the evocative power of words and word combinations, which are more direct, diverse, and powerful than mere shapes and colors. He primarily writes to complement his metaphorical paintings of mostly fallen Angels, but also diverges into more mundane subjects insofar as the Muses inspire him. He lives and works in the Arizona desert.

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Desdmona's Erotic Story Contests
2006 Stiletto Flash Contest
Honorable Mention