Photo reblogged from: http://www.katyswann.com/

“Tell me what you’ve done.”

“Why do you suspect I’ve done something,” her eyes batted carelessly, an attempt at levity.

“I know you. I know the little look you get when you’ve been naughty.” His knuckles ran down her naked arm. “Tell me, and it will be much easier.”

“You’ll be angry, and I hate when you are angry with me.” She pouted. Her bottom lip, covered in a thick application of deep red lipstick, protruded out and her eyes sagged enough to earn a smile from him. He loved when she pouted, but more so when she begged.

“You’re playing games with me, that makes me angry.” His smile slipped away. He walked  across the room to the arm chair he kept in the corner.   With no pomp or circumstance, he threw himself into it and settled himself into the soft leather. “Strip.” He waved a hand casually through the air, a gesture that meant he was no longer playing with her. He was getting down to business.

She slid out of her dress, keeping her heels on. “Come here.” She walked to him, worried she had not played her cards right. “Kneel.” He pointed to the ground at his feet.  A position she normally craved, now became something uncomfortable. He watched her every move.

“Can I tell you?” She asked in a hushed voice. Her eyes did not meet his, but rather settled on his chin. A safe place to look.

“You should have told me when I asked the first time.” His voice was hard. She tilted her head to the right, scrunching her lips together- an attempt at not saying something snarky. “Tell me.”

“I invited friends over.” She whispered.

“Today?” he asked. A rule of the house was that she was not to have anyone over without his permission.  His way of keeping her safe, and a possessive quality she loved.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“When?” He leaned forward in his chair, close enough that she could feel his breath on her nose as he spoke.

“Only a little bit ago.” She confessed, placing her hands on his thighs- a severe breach of thier etiquite. He looked as though he were about to scold her when out of the closet of the livingroom, the kitchen, and the bathroom sprung fifteen or so intimate friends.

“Happy Birthday!” They all cried out at once.

Photographs are a huge inspiration for me when I find myself stuck on ideas.  Part of why I love Wicked Wednesday, Flash Fiction Friday, and Five Sentence Fiction is because the prompts help unlock ideas that may be hiding in my inner self. One of my biggest fears as a writer (outside of no one liking my work) is that I will run out of things to say. Ideas will cease to come to me, characters will turn thier back and walk away- never to introduce themselves to me again.  Photographs help keep that fear at a reasonable level because they produce inspiration.  
Wicked Wednesday