Coming Together With Pride

by Alessia Brio, J Buchanan, Lisabet Sarai

  He pulled away and gave her a drink, then toweled her silently with the damp cloth. His eyes sparkled as he concentrated on his actions. He looked as if he was cleaning up his favorite toy. Cynthia could only watch and feel the softness of the towel. There were no words to describe, no way to express her thanks to his man for showing how wonderful submission could be.

  He put the cloth on the nightstand and snuggled up behind her. Her hands were still tied, but she felt no urge to have them free. He held her for a while without words, but just as soon as she thought he was asleep, he spoke.

  "Where you from, Red?” His voice sounded lulled and content.

  "Charlotte.” She felt him stiffen at her answer. “What's wrong?"

  He chuckled softly. “Nothing's wrong. I live in Raleigh."

  It was her turn to stiffen. “That's only a three hour drive."

  He kissed her neck and rolled her onto her stomach, his big body wrapped completely around hers. His weight felt wonderful, and she trembled. “Yes, it is.” He gripped her hair, pulled her lips to his, and kissed her soundly.

  Thick fingers found their way back to her still throbbing pussy and stroked her. Cynthia felt his cock stirring back to life against her hip.

  "You ready to get started now, Red?"

  * * * *

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  A Girl's Best & Earthy Things

  © Heather Fowler

  I do not know if I am on drugs this night. I cannot recall. I have plucked this memory from the back-dated storage of old memories in dying brain cells that turn into partial dreams, or nightmares maybe.

  I am certain, however, that I am drunk. I am drunk as a sailor, skunk, or any other tapped-out expression that indicates excess, and, appropriately, I am standing in the woodsy setting of a Renaissance night time revel. I stand before you.

  I stand by a bonfire where men and women in garb drink and speak in bad Eurocentric accents, pretending to be part of a history play after a long day of jousting and imbibing. Many wear clothes they have personally sewn or walk around in partial armor. My bodice is laced tight, breasts heaving above it. I wear this bodice, which is aqua and made from car upholstery fabric, a white blouse, and a long hunter skirt a pretty girl, seamstress made me. I smoke a cigarette for the first time since being strapped into this bodice, almost swooning as I finally understand this whole smelling salts/near fainting phenomenon; the bodice truncates the reach and expansion of my lungs. Any extreme emotion or bit of pollution will cut off my air.

  Winded, I stub out the smoke and drink some more. I do not remember what I am drinking. For the sake of argument or discussion, let's say Black Sambuka.

  I look down at my outfit which is appropriate for the function, but the skirt, unfortunately, shows my ankles. It was sewn that way by accident, I was told—but this means, I am informed, that I can be viewed as a loose woman. A hussy. This is possibly why I am not left alone this evening as man after man approaches me and attempts his come on. Take a number, I almost feel like saying—in fact, go there, yes, there, off of that cliff, to get your small white piece of paper pulled from the dispenser just beyond the drop—I'll wait.

  All night I have been watching a singular man who slept with me the week before and has treated me repulsively ever since; he is Italian, with long black hair and blue eyes. His father owns a bakery. His face will launch a thousand ships (or crushes), but his alcoholism will sink him before the best glimmer of promise can surface. Though young, he is already a six-year drunk, I will discover soon, and beautiful and lethal behind the wheel. Later, much later, after I have lost his acquaintance like a bad phone number, he will die in a car crash. I will not miss him. I will never have known him. How can one mourn what one never knew? In some cases it is possible, but not in this one. He is a true dick. But that is another digression.

  I return to this night as I watch him, still beautiful to me now, in that then, and my cheeks are flushed. A blond friend, a big, cheeky girl a foot taller than me, wearing an excess of blush, who has also slept with my Italian drunk boy, I later hear, leans towards me.

  "That girl,” she says, “—over there talking to that guy you brushed off—That girl has been asking about you."

  "For what?” I ask, stupid and naïve. I am eighteen. “What does she want?” I ask.

  "She likes you,” my blond friend says, snickering. “But she's one of those."

  "Sure,” I say. “But why would a gay girl ask about me? I'm not gay."

  My friend beside me shrugs. There are women dancing with dills by the fire. There are men attempting to couple with all female hangers-on. Some men are flirting with other men. These flirtations are more imaginative. As I stand with my tankard and ankles showing, more “knights” or “lords” approach. Most I ignore again or wave away. To some I say, “Walk away with your penis,” or “I hate you lousy fuckers, men,” as I've been saying all night, when blessed with the presence of their straight sex talk or rudeness and I must reply, briefly, outside of my otherwise anachronism for the plain sake of clarity. If they are decent and cute in their come on, “No, sirrah,” I say, “I am otherwise engaged."

  Some I just glare at, and they get my meaning. I have eyes only for the Italian.

  "Look,” my friend beside me says. “Here she comes. That girl."

  I am curious and look closer. I have met girls like this before, but have not been interested. Still, I have always enjoyed curiosity and pleasure. She could provide either. And I am drunk; this usually means I must fuck something, or at the very least pursue pleasure until I pass out, even if it is a small pleasure, like braiding my own hair.

  If I am on drugs, they are mild. I am mildly interested in her. The girl approaches. She leans in, tousling her own curly brown hair. “Hello,” she says. “How are you? What's your name?” I notice she is pretty in her way. She is not coy or withdrawn.

  "Hello,” I say back. I tell her my name.

  As she speaks, she touches me, plays with my straight red hair, and leans in close; she then lets her fingers linger on my shoulders, her eyes on my breasts. I flush and am flattered. “I've been watching you,” she says.

  "You have?” I ask, out of the corner of my eye still watching my Italian man with long black hair seduce someone else, a brand new sprightly blond, not my tall friend, who stands alone although her ankles are also showing. From this unhappy eye corner, I am also watching him kiss her in a minute, knowing he will fuck her, too, in another half hour, and my eyes are burning—which I blame on the smoke of the campfire.

  "Come away with me,” this girl who likes me says, getting my attention more fully by trailing one fingertip over my cleavage.

  "Where?” I ask.

  "To the restroom,” she says. “I don't want to go alone."

  "Oh, okay,” I say.

  The drums are loud as we walk past them and out from that clearing. The air is tribal. I walk with her past the fire pit and into the dark night. We have no flashlight. We stumble along. I wonder if Tommy, the Italian, has succeeded with second base. I wonder if the new girl is a slut and will buy into his, “I'm sterile” routine and let him not use a condom like I didn't let him do. “Shh,” the girl who likes and walks with me says, turning towards me.

  "I was not speaking,” I tell her, realizing too late that my tankard is gone and I have no idea where I left it.

  She kisses my cheek and presses her finger to my lips. She and I are the same height. Her eyes are hazel. We are alone. She kisses my lips. And then, “I want to kiss you,” she says. “Again."

  I nod. She leans in. I have no idea what I'm doing—since kissing is fine, but the whole rest of what comes next confuses me. Her tongue moves in my mouth. Her hands pull my body closer. We kiss for what feels like a long, long time. I feel wet. I feel she is my mirror. I am interested in this. Am I, by kissing her, kissing myself? This seems a new sort of masturbation. I am interested.

  Perhaps, I will lift her
skirt and put my finger in her cunt just to see if I gasp in doing so, if I feel my own movement. The taste of her lips is soft and earthy, like mead. Her hips are soft and earthy like loam. I want to press her body to my body just to see if I like it and how much. When I do, I do like it—and a lot.

  We are all touch hungry, are we not? I have enjoyed kissing her. I am erotic and unbound and she touches me well. The sound of the drums is faint in the distance, but they are still playing strong in my veins.

  I do not know if I am on drugs this night, this evening I am remembering, but this girl then puts her hot breath on the top of my breasts. She kisses me there, too, her lips wet and moving quickly up my neck as if it were a flute. If I am not on drugs, I feel as if I am. She clutches my ass and grinds her pelvis into mine. I stand in the woods, kissing a girl, two girls with our dickless fronts grinding against each other.

  It is dark. I don't know what to do next, but she is the aggressor. My head spins. “I want you,” she says. “Come to my tent after I use the restroom. Wait for me outside.” She goes into a porta-potty to relieve herself. I wait. She comes back out, smiling at me.

  The night air blows coolly across my corseted breasts, which are sensitive where she has touched them and coldest where she wet them with saliva. “My tent,” she says, nibbling my ear. “Now."

  I am curious, but I am scared.

  I am also afraid my friends are talking shit about me. “She asked me to go with her to the bathroom,” is what I could say, if I go back now. “And shut the hell up."

  This is a well known girl's code fact that you never should let another girl walk into the woods alone, let alone to go into a public space like a restroom where a rape could happen in a bathroom stall. I should leave right away, I think.

  If I don't go now, I have no idea what I'd tell them. These girls, these friends of mine are new. Perhaps they will think I am gay and talk about me. Perhaps they will be disgusted.

  I stand still, unsure of what to do. The girl I stand before lifts my skirt with her hand, sliding it up from my ankle to my thigh. She pushes me back into the rough bark of a tree. The air is cold and soft. The bark is rough and hard. Her hand flirts with my satin panties and rubs me through them. She slides a finger under them and into my wetness and my crotch. She lets that finger slide, and I gasp. She is good at what she does. “My tent,” she says, bringing her finger to her lips to suck on. “Let's get there. I want to taste you."

  If I was sleeping before, uncertain what to do, I awaken. I am drunk and unsure and unwilling to be a target for more gossip again just for an orgasm or two. I am soft and tender inside, already hurt before the slander even starts.

  "I can't,” I say, “I've got to go. I've got to go now."

  I remember she clutches my hand. “I'm sorry,” she says. “We can go more slowly. Wait."

  "No,” I say. I run through the woods, my skirts flowing behind me. I catch up with my friends. They grill me. “We went to the bathroom,” I say. “That's all.” They titter and continue to ask, but finally drop it when they can tell I am angry enough to start hitting them. I am relieved when they do. The next morning she comes looking for me. I avoid her. Sober. Uncomfortable. The sun is blinding on my hangover.

  Half a hit of acid, maybe? Maybe not. I'm not sure. The girl is the main thing I remember, her way, how she almost seduced me.

  Later, I will remember her well and think that leaving her that night was a mistake. I will feel like an ass to have been so cold in the next-day daylight. Later, too, I will wonder what was there in her tent that might have changed my path and eliminated a few bad memories or actualities of the subsequent asshole boyfriends.

  And much later, when I have learned how to be a real woman, I will dip my head low to taste my first female lover, when I first go to do this, and I will think of that girl I never slept with, never made love to—apologizing to her and tasting in the collective cunt of womanhood, in a new woman I will treat far better, all that first girl's best and earthy things.

  * * * *

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  Raven

  © James Buchanan

  Marten stared through the greasy haze filming over the diner's window. Leaden skies backed a town sulking under the weight of yet another dry winter. Twin strips of concrete bordered an empty asphalt river. Across the way, hunched against the chill wind, that guy stood ... again. Every time Marten looked up from bussing tables, there man-in-black was, hovering at the edge of his vision. Marten had no idea who or what the guy waited for.

  The guy's name was Raven. That much Marten did know. He'd never met him, but the town gossip wasn't pretty: trouble maker, thief, and lazy. All the things Marten didn't want said about him.

  His hands stuffed into the pockets of black jeans, Raven bounced from foot to foot like he had to keep moving to stay warm. Razor-sheared blue-black hair fluttered about his face, and the tail of his black trench coat flapped around his thighs. Black jeans, black t-shirt, black boots, and black hair: a monochrome jackdaw staring with bright, jet eyes.

  The stare devoured Marten, wormed into his brain, and whispered about a lot more than just staring. He felt the attention across his back and thighs and prickling along his scalp. He grabbed the lip of the buss-tub and swallowed. He didn't want to look back. He didn't want to see that dark, windswept guy and get caught in those eyes.

  Dark thoughts spread like wings across Marten's mind. In the back of his brain, a tiny voice jeered: I want you ... naked. So soft, he barely heard it, and yet the words echoed loudly through his soul. He didn't hear it. He couldn't have heard it. Raven was out there on the other side of the street. Marten was inside smelling old fry grease and musty heating coils.

  Naw, you heard it. The seductive sound trickled into the bones behind his ears. Masking his intentions by grabbing plates and coffee mugs off the table, Marten shifted his gaze, so he could look without looking. For a moment he panicked, the figure he sought wasn't there. His breath came back when Raven stepped into his limited field of vision. As if he knew, the dark man's lip twitched with a barely suppressed smirk.

  Trying to drive out the thoughts, Marten swept his wrist across his forehead, hard enough to burn some. He shuddered. After a deep breath, he grabbed the tub and headed toward the kitchen with a load of dirty dishes. Distracting flights of fancy needed to wait. Marten needed this job.

  "Daydreaming out there?” Avie's high-pitched squeak caught him as he rounded the counter.

  Marten jerked up short at her rebuke. “Ah, not really,” he stammered, “just some crud stuck on the table."

  Pushing her half-glasses up her sharp nose, Avie stared with her pinched little black eyes. She smoothed the wrinkles down the front of her khaki dress before responding. “You were daydreaming. Always got your head in the clouds.” Washed out brown hair puffed about her face; a victim of the steam in the kitchen. “Stop it. You got work to do. Dishes don't wash themselves."

  "Yes, ma'am.” Marten hauled the tub to the sink. He scraped the filth off the plates into the trash then tossed each dish onto the counter. Lukewarm, soapy water already filled the basin, and a thin film of grease coated the surface. With a groan, Marten rolled up his sleeves and began scrubbing plates.

  You deserve better, you know?

  That he had to agree with. Why couldn't Avie invest in an actual dishwasher? Not that they had that much business. It was cheaper to pay Marten to clean up after the spattering of regulars they got each day than shell out big bucks for a system. When the lot was washed and racked for drying, Marten grabbed a towel to dry his hands.

  "Marten!” Avie squealed from the front.

  What now? He pulled a meager pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and absently answered, “Yeah?"

  "We got chocolate pie back there?"

  Something better than pie back there?

  Marten shook off the whisper. Maybe if he acted busy, Avie'd leave him be. He rattled the rac
ked dishes. “Yeah.” It usually took Avie ten minutes or so to wash dishes. “Think so.” Since Marten managed to do it in a third of that, he could usually steal out for a smoke without Avie any the wiser. Two left. Damn, one for now and one for tonight. Marten figured he might be able to weasel Conny at the gas station out of one of the crushed cartons if he promised to sweep the garage or something.

  "Bring out a slice for the customer at the counter.” Shit. No smokes. “I'm loading coffee, got my hands full."

  Damn, he should have pretended not to hear. He'd have made Avie pissy, but she'd have gotten the pie herself. What could he say to get out of it?

  You don't want to get out of it.

  That silky voice stirred in his brain again and shot chills down his spine.

  Come see, come see.

  What the fuck was wrong with him today? Getting distracted by visions of the town bad-boy and hearing voices. Somehow, Marten doubted he could blame either on nicotine withdrawal.

  Marten popped open the door on the big four door fridge unit. A not-quite-dry plate off the sink became host to a thin slice of pie. Avie would yell at him if he served up a decent sized portion. She tried to hoard every last bit. Marten shouldered the door shut as he headed toward the counter.

  Hunched over the counter, staring into the depths of a battered coffee mug sat Raven. The sight knocked him hard in the gut, turned his bones to jelly. Marten stood in the kitchen door holding the plate. He couldn't move. He couldn't just go up to him and talk. Why was he in the coffee shop? Raven belonged outside, part of that world. The world on the other side of the glass.

  "Hey!” Avie's voice jerked his attention away from Raven. She glared at him with her tiny, black eyes. “You gonna stand there with a finger up your nose? Work boy!” Clicking her tongue against her teeth, Avie shook her head and returned to whatever problem the ancient coffee maker presented.

  Marten swallowed and turned his attention back to Raven. Bright black eyes laughed at him.