by Debra Hyde
“What?”
“You were moaning,” Tara teased. “A wet dream?”
Liv blushed. “Not quite,” she admitted, painfully aware that the only thing worse than starting off the day with a near miss of a wet dream was acknowledging it to a best friend, made accidental voyeur.
“I guess last night left a spark.”
“I guess.”
Tara laughed, enjoying Liv's embarrassment. But she also cast a sympathetic sideways glance her way. “Good sex does that, huh? I can't tell you the number of times Quinn did me one night and I needed more the next day.”
Liv chuckled. “You lucky bastard, getting it whenever you want.”
Tara set the circular she was perusing in her lap and turned to Liv. “You assume too much. Just because I need it doesn't mean I get it. Quinn can be one hell of a stingy master.”
The bedroom door shouldered open: Quinn, with a breakfast tray.
“Speak of the devil.”
Quinn frowned, disapproving, and warned Tara to watch herself. Liv knew it as the half-serious interplay of their couplehood, Tara playing the brat, Quinn responding as the strict disciplinarian. It was a construct, a bantering they both enjoyed. Behind it all stood a wall of love as great as the wall that meandered through China. Liv cherished how they adored each other.
But seeing a plate loaded with eggs and bacon, a glass of juice, and a mug of caffeine, Liv felt her stomach rumble. She propped her pillows and sat up.
“I'm not seeing any stinginess here,” she teased Tara as Quinn came around to her side of the bed and set the breakfast tray over her lap.
“That's not the kind of hunger she starves,” Tara countered.
“Enough, girl.” Another word from Tara, and Quinn would begin to glower.
“Yes, Quinn.” Tara smiled sincerely at her partner and gently backed off. Liv admired Tara's ability to defer to Quinn, something that did not come easily to Liv. Sometimes she wondered if that was why her life had taken such a solitary route.
“Dig in,” Quinn invited. Liv RSVP'd immediately with a fork to her eggs.
“Thanks, you two,” she said as she shoveled food and gulped orange juice. “You always take good care of me.”
Quinn slumped into a corner occasional chair and put her feet up, leaving Tara to accept the compliment.
“Hey, we love you, Liv.”
“Yeah, but your aftercare—you guys go beyond the measure.” Usually friends with play privileges kept their aftercare to the minimum of corner cuddling until a bottom bounced back from her endorphin high.
“Yeah, well, you were in no condition to drive home last night,” Quinn relayed. “Exhaustion and elation aren't a good combination behind the wheel.”
“Plus, we were worried about whether you'd sub-drop.”
Liv shrugged, the cup of caffeine at her lips. She sipped, then savored the taste of tea as she swallowed it. She craved the feel of caffeine hitting her bloodstream. “Didn't happen,” she reported.
“Not yet,” Tara countered.
Liv looked at Quinn, never one to never hide her wariness. Sure enough, her posture stiffened and she glowered, lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed. Quinn was way too serious too often, Liv decided. She had seen that same reaction when Cassandra finally relinquished her and made her grand exit.
This is about more than sub-drop, Liv thought. She grimaced and, sounding like a put-upon teenager, implored, “What?”
“Don't get besotted, Liv. Not with Cassandra.” Quinn eased back into the chair, her body relaxing now that she'd broached the subject.
Quinn's warning didn't surprise Liv. Towering and remote, haughty and demanding, Cassandra was a polarizing figure. Women either revered or loathed her, and her tenure in the scene only aggravated the matter. Liv recalled the whispers she'd heard last night, how no one could ignore Cassandra's presence. She remembered how, after Cassandra had left, play simply died for the night. Cassandra had changed the course of an evening, so much so that she drained the very life of it in her wake.
But Liv also knew how Cassandra had left her. Thoroughly sated, something few had ever accomplished. And how Cassandra had tendered post-scene care remained strong with Liv. The woman had held her for at least as long as she had fisted her, as unhurried in this second embrace as she had been in the first. She had enjoyed ministering to Liv, had relished it, and when she had clasped Liv's face in both her hands and kissed her tenderly, Liv felt utterly cherished. If Cassandra was faking it, then the woman was the best liar in the world.
Liv knew that Quinn wasn't jealous of Cassandra's play prowess. Hell, she'd gladly give Liv over to anyone who would join her in beating down the void. No, Quinn wasn't speaking out of butch machismo. But she did have her blind spots, and one of them in particular bordered on outright prejudice.
Of an older generation, Cassandra made no effort to hide the fact that she moved between two worlds. She was as likely to stroll into a heterosexual gathering as a dyke party and she made no apologizes for it. That was how it was for women of her age, she'd been heard to scold. If you wanted to play, you went where the action was, and she had found the straight S/M underground before dykes coalesced around leather.
Which led to a certain prejudice: Cassandra had been with men. She'd had dick. Or so everyone thought. Those who detested that assumption disdained Cassandra. That Cassandra ignored them completely and did what she wanted only inflamed them further.
Quinn skirted that camp, wary of bisexual women, of women who smacked of old-school female dominance, women who enjoyed grinding men into the ground for the stereotypical worms they believed themselves to be. But Liv remembered the heady aroma of latex and lube and perfume come together. She remembered the sweet, invigorating taste of Cassandra's final kiss. Liv tore into a piece of toast and hoped that by devouring her breakfast, she could mask from Quinn just how smitten Cassandra had left her.
Aftercare came to its logical conclusion once Liv had a second cup of caffeine in her and started complaining about her hair. If she was alert enough to agitate for a shower, then she was restored enough to be left to her own devices. Quinn and Tara left, Tara with a hug and a kiss, Quinn with stoic oversight, still skeptical of Liv's contentment. Liv headed for her bathroom and a shower.
With the heavy spray of hot water hammering her back and coils of steam for company, Liv tilted her head back into the stream and began to wash her hair. Lathering it, she knew she was washing away essences of the previous night. Sweat, the smell of leather, even the unseen DNA of Cassandra's touch, all of it clung to her shampoo and washed away. Yet Liv was too cheerful to feel any sweet sorrow of parting.
The night had been exotic, like the strains of music from a faraway land, its lyricism at once foreign and resonant. She had danced to that song, a handmaiden to something grand and irresistible, her finger bells the downbeat of a desert waltz. Yet the true marvel of the night lay not in the scene Cassandra had orchestrated but in its aftermath—in Cassandra's arms, in warmth and safety, in the magic of this newly woven cocoon shared between two people who, if not for the luck of this one moment in time, were otherwise strangers to each other.
Hair rinsed, Liv grabbed her soap and began lathering her body. Odd, she thought, that she did not regret washing away the night's evidence. Another time, seemingly in another life, it had not been so. When she lost her hymen—not her virginity; she had been sexually active long before that physical breach—she had resisted washing for days afterward. She had marveled at its puncturing, an act she had begged of her grad school lover. She had lain in awe as her dormant hole lunged to life, suddenly a wondrous cavern, a devourer. She had marveled over the amount of blood that coated Karen's strap-on, at the flow that kept coming, enough to warrant a sanitary napkin.
Liv was not superstitious, but some primitive part of her had ached with the worry that when she washed, the astonishing beauty of that experience would be lost to her. Of course, it hadn't been. And now years older, Liv knew better
. If anything, washing—cleanliness—meant she was ready and receptive to more.
Her face scrubbed, body rinsed, Liv turned off the shower, pulled open its curtain, and grabbed a towel. Drying off, she realized she was wandering the interior corridors of her mind, places where pockets of memories and emotions hunkered down in small hollows, ready to jump out and flood her awareness. Like funhouse animatrons, their surprise could either leave her laughing or flooded with adrenaline. Maybe Cassandra's fist had put her to wandering there, but it had also given her an undeniably profound gift: it had expelled both the rot of unfulfilled desire from her body and the hard, dried-out clump of skepticism from her heart, leaving a serene euphoria.
As Liv dressed, she questioned whether orgasm had been the true apex of that scene. Maybe the real achievement of last night's scene was this emotional realignment that now coursed through her.
But another tangibility awaited Liv: student writing prompts that needed grading. Liv smiled. The only thing better than seeing the groggy faces of some twenty freshmen on a Monday morning was seeing those faces grimace when she announced the return of those exercises—and the groan of some of the class when they beheld their grades. If she had to give up a Sunday afternoon to work, then she'd have some pleasure, however perverse its practice, on a bright and early Monday morning.
Liv had no idea if or when she'd see Cassandra again. Given the history of Cassandra's nature, the chances weren't good. Liv might well have to accept that she was the one-off of a woman who flitted in and out of the scene. Already, she tried not to dwell on Cassandra's post-scene care. She tried to focus on the fisting, not Cassandra's benevolent, caring smile. She tried to remember how purged and sated she'd felt, how cleansed the scene had left her, and not Cassandra's mesmerizing caress. A week passed, and Liv began to resign herself to the likelihood that she was nothing more than one night's passing fancy.
Until Quinn phoned her. Immediately, Liv heard the same halted resistance in Quinn's voice that she'd heard the morning after Cassandra, and wasted no time in getting to the crux of Quinn's derision.
“What gives?” she asked.
A long sigh answered her before Quinn revealed the reason for her call. Whatever it was, she clearly had mixed feelings about conveying it.
“I got a call from Reese,” he said. “Cassandra's boy.”
The latter sounded like a punctuating definition, as if Quinn felt Liv needed a reminder of who Reese was. She didn't, but she was surprised that Quinn and Reese seemed to know each other well enough to share phone numbers.
“So you're in his Rolodex?”
Like anyone still uses those, she chided herself. But a more contemporary comparison eluded her.
“Yeah. We go way back.”
Way back. As in when they were baby butches. Back when people actually did use Rolodexes. Obviously, their paths had diverged at some point, but their respect for each other hadn't. Not if they maintained phone contact.
“Reese wants to meet you for coffee, lunch, whatever. On Cassandra's behalf.”
Again, that punctuation. This time, more pointed in its dissatisfaction.
“I'm surprised you're relaying this to me,” Liv observed. “I thought you didn't like Cassandra.”
Quinn huffed. “I'm not among her fans. But I know Reese. And I know he's found some kind of lasting satisfaction with her.”
Intriguing, Liv thought. So Quinn affords Cassandra an inch because of her past with Reese. Quinn did not easily give an inch to anyone who made her bristle with disfavor.
Quinn continued. “He assured me that he'll keep Cassandra on the straight and narrow with you.”
Liv suddenly bristled with sudden wariness. She didn't want to step into any kind of crazy, especially if it was a mutual manipulation fest between an established couple. “That sounds rather top-ish from the bottom.”
“Sorry. Poor choice of words,” Quinn backpedaled. “Reese's about as conscientious and honorable as they come. I trust him. Always have. One of his duties to Cassandra is to remind her where hers lay. He's one hell of a personal assistant—right down to reality checks and reining in egos. Or ego, since it's only Cassandra he has to assist.”
“Huh. So if not for Reese, you would've rebuffed the offer?”
From the sound Quinn made, Liv knew she had stiffened, stretched, and ran her hand through her stubbly hair, a nervous reaction when Quinn had to admit to something that really wasn't hers to control.
“Yeah, probably. Sorry.”
Liv shrugged. Quinn was Quinn. Nobody was perfect, but having a damn good friend at your back was worth Quinn's bulked-up weight in gold.
“S'okay.”
“So I'll give him your cell number?”
“Absolutely.”
“Liv?”
Here it came, Liv knew. Quinn's final concern.
“Yeah?”
“Promise me you'll keep me in the loop?”
Wow. She's still uncomfortable with this; her suspicion of Cassandra runs deep, Liv thought. Almost as deep as her regard for Reese. But it wouldn't hurt to have a second opinion.
“Sure. We'll do a postmortem, okay?”
“Okay,” Quinn agreed. “Later, Liv.”
“Yeah, later!”
They ended the conversation with their usual chirpy goodbyes, a typical ending to an atypical conversation. Quinn's tension did not fade from Liv's awareness at its end, but it did compete with a throng of other emotions—the thrill, excitement, and joy analogous to a schoolgirl who'd finally caught the eye of the object of her infatuation.
Cassandra! She's interested—in me!
Liv, at least, was old enough to restrain herself.
If Liv had one regret about wearing a leather hood the night she met Cassandra, it was discovering new details about Reese after the fact. Sitting across from him in a busy diner, she found that she remembered him in flawed generalities. She did not remember his eyes, a stunning blue fading to gray, a gaze capable and curious. She did not remember his retro haircut, long on top, cropped short from midear to his nape, its tresses falling to either side in total pomade failure. He looked like a fly boy from a bygone era.
But she recalled some of his traits correctly. His slender height, tall for the woman he had once been, average for the man he was now. He eschewed the usual transman penchant for facial hair, preferring a clean-shaven look. And she had glimpsed a fastidious economy of movement, but did not remember it until she watched him arrange his silverware to his liking.
Reese's confidence, though, was unflagging. He decided they'd “order first, then talk” and promptly he buried himself in the menu. Until, that is, he noticed Liv, leaning forward, anticipation rife in her body language, her menu untouched. “You're not eating?” he asked, peering from around his menu. His tone suggested that an affirmative would not sit well with him.
“I eat here often,” Liv countered. “I know what I want.”
“Ah.” He returned to perusing. When the server arrived to take their drink orders, he request an iced tea, unsweetened, but did not so much as glance the server's way. Liv felt like she was making up for his behavior when she made eye contact with the server and more amiably asked for pomegranate iced tea. Was this another of Reese's fastidious gestures or was he an aloof sort?
The server returned with their beverages—she ordered a BLT, whole wheat bread, light mayo, chips instead of fries. Reese ordered a veggie burger, multigrain bun, and steamed vegetables.
“A side salad too, please,” he told the server, “one with real greens, no iceberg lettuce. Can you do that?”
That tone again, same as he used on her. And he avoided meat, which made Liv abandon her plan to joke, when her sandwich arrived, about how bacon could solve many of the world's problems if only more people ate it for lunch. Visualizing it, she shrank inside, mortified by the embarrassment that misstep would've provided.
Don't do that, she told herself. No negative thinking, Liv.
Handing in t
heir menus, Reese got right down to business and Liv discovered, at least during this visit, that he was all business.
“You know Mistress Cassandra instructed me to seek you out,” he began.
Liv nodded, sipping from the straw in her tea.
“She would like to pursue the possibility of having you join us.”
The possibility? Liv looked up from her drink, rapt at the idea. Reese smiled benevolently at her as if remembering his own reaction to a similar invitation.
Liv drew up straight in her seat, stunned and unable to form an answer. Reese, however, had anticipated this.
“Congratulations,” he tendered.
“Thank you,” she managed. Simple, appropriate words, but she felt like a frog, croaking.
“I'm going to tell you how things will progress from here,” Reese continued. “You're free to ask any question of any nature. I am not here to judge, only convey.”
“I see. Okay.” Now she felt as small as a frog too.
“How much do you know about Cassandra?”
How much, indeed. Liv did not have a ready answer, but then again she had garnered only snippets from her peers—and Quinn's reluctant assessment.
“Not much, I'm afraid. Just that she's been around a long time. She's like an elder citizen.”
Liv stiffened, immediately regretting the “elder” label. She meant for it to convey weight and wisdom, not old age. But Reese nodded and she relaxed, relieved.
“Have you ever heard about Cassandra's ‘darlings’?”
Liv shook her head.
Reese nodded. “Understandable. It's from long ago. I doubt many women younger than Cassandra would remember it.”
He paused, sipped his own tea, but did not resume talking until he sweetened it to his liking. His fastidiousness seemed less rigid now, as though getting his spiel underway had relaxed him.
“Long time ago—decades—when Cassandra was a much younger dominant, she loved having women attached to her. She adored them, hence the darlings. As a professional woman, playing in the heterosexual scene was pretty much a necessity back then. It had paying customers—men—and far more “scene worshippers” than the small and insular lesbian scene.”
