I just looked outside to check the patriarchy and apparently it’s reigning men
Alley-Oops
Becca’s foot tapped impatiently as she waited near the gym entrance. No sign of her brother, or any of the rest of the team, for that matter. It was annoying enough to have to ferry Victor and his friend Luke around to and from basketball practice during her winter break, but when they disappeared to snog the high school girls, it was that much worse.
Another five minutes passed. Becca fiddled with her boxy phone and sighed. She had given them the fifteen minute warning thirty minutes ago, with no text in response. Drastic measures would have to be taken.
She strode across the court, her street shoes squeaking. At the other end, the door to the locker room hallway was propped open with a brick. She peered in, but there was no gender designation here, so she slipped inside. "Victor? Luke?“ she called softly as she crept down the hall, her fingertips brushing the rough bricks.
A shadow loomed in a dimly-lit doorway ahead, and she started. "Hey, someone there?” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, but it was impossible, as spooky as the drippy pipes and abandoned yet echoing passages were.
The shadow shrank and then a tall, lanky man-boy peered around the corner, half-hiding his face and wry grin. "Hey, Becca.“
"Oh. Luke.” Becca put her hand to her heart. "Thank god it’s you. Fucking creepy place.“
"Come on in,” Luke said, gesturing her into the doorway and vanishing.
She hesitated. "Isn’t that the boys’ – “
"It’s just me,” Luke called back, still out of sight, his voice betraying broad sweeps of movement. "Victor’s off with Fenny.“ Becca rolled her eyes; her brother had a string of awkward, messy high school girls, and Fenny was the latest whack job. With a last glance over her shoulder – because convention was convention, after all – she entered the boys’ locker room.
Luke was buck naked, still dripping from his shower, his impressive cock hinting upward and a confident grin pointed at Becca. She blushed furiously and covered her eyes with her hand, leaving enough space between the fingers to stare. "Luke! What the hell?”
She was four years his senior and still had to admit that, standing posed like that, he cut a more impressive figure than any of her peers. He kept smirking. "Isn’t this why you came back here?“
"I – no! No, of course not, I’m seriously just trying to leave.” With each word, the gaps between her fingers widened until finally she just dropped her hand. "Homework. Due. Sometime.“
He seemed to swirl something around in his mouth, finally deeming it worthy of voicing: "It’s not gonna suck itself.”
“Honestly!” Becca almost shrieked, but then she caught herself. Not that she could ever admit it, but – she had harbored a secret crush on Luke since they’d met, when he was a precocious but soft-spoken thirteen-year-old as tall as she was at seventeen. Her throat bobbed. "Are you sure,“ she said in a tiny voice, "that Victor isn’t here?”
“Positive.” He rested his hands on his bare ass. "Pretty please? I’ve always seen you staring.“
Again, she swallowed hard, her gaze drifting down to his slowly awakening manhood, and then she made up her mind. Summoning all the huffiness she could, she plopped down on her knees on the rubber mat and cupped him in both hands.
"This is for that three-pointer,” she said, and took him between her lips. He gasped and jerked, but she held him still. "And this,“ she said, pulling away and grinning up at him, "is for being a cheeky little bastard.” She nibbled down the length of him and he hardened so quickly she was afraid he would come before she’d had enough time to make it worth his while.
“Control thyself,” she chuckled, and went back to work.
‘If the girl had been worth having she’d have waited for you?’ No, sir, the girl really worth having won’t wait for anybody.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise (via blackbruise)
Pandora knows when I need cheering up and always plays “Alligator Sky” for me.
Hindsight
Elsa’s heartbeat drubbed in her ears as she flew through the forest, unwilling to let the groping branches slow her down. Her long hair streamed behind her, tickling her hide like a gentle whip. Somewhere behind her thundered much bigger hooves than her own: the Chancellor’s warhorse, built for the battlefield but trained for the woods, for the hunt.
Her flanks steamed with exertion in the cool morning as she found the deer path. Her kind rarely mingled with their ancient ancestors, but right now the deer-centaur was grateful for the velvety ears flapping at the sides of her head and the graceful, swift animal body below her torso. Bare breasts bounced against her ribs, a painful reminder of why the Chancellor was bearing down on her now.
Elsa leaped over a fallen log and skidded to a stop. She stared into the liquid eyes of the warhorse, stamping and tossing his head, and when she dared move her gaze upwards, it was to take in the hard lines of the Chancellor’s face.
He might have called her his little forest child before he threw the noose around her torso, but she did not register it. Her head roared with the possible scenarios playing out right in front of her. The Chancellor dismounted, pulling hand over hand on the rope even as Elsa dug her hooves in, and then they were so close she could smell the beer on his breath. He reached up one gloved hand and caressed her ear with deceptive softness.
“Come closer, my sweet,” he said, and reaching for her wrist, he guided her hand to his fine tunic, the belt of which had come unknotted in the wild chase.
Elsa whimpered, but did not try to extricate herself from his grasp. He must have dabbed on the musk of some great horned beast, because she was finding that her resistance was lessening and her heat was rising. She flailed, but her heart was not in it.
And when he pulled her down to nibble at the sensitive places behind her ears, she melted into him, her delicate legs collapsing beneath her. He sank down into the loam beside her and pulled his tunic over his head so they were both bared to one another. Trembling, she took him in: the powerful leader of the civilized tribes, scars lashing his chest like thick ropes, his bearing regal but not haughty.
Without standing, he came around behind her and gently opened her lower lips, teasing them with his erection. She mewled and raised her hindquarters so he could slip inside, which he did with a satisfied noise. He was larger than the the other deer-centaurs, but Elsa had taken men before, and he was a most exquisite specimen. He filled her, with his presence and with longing, and she pressed her furred bottom back when he came forward until it was too much, and she climaxed in a rush of wild huffing breath.
She bent, exhausted but not without thrills dancing through her, and let him finish. He clasped her on the edges of her back legs to hold himself fully in her. Man and forest girl lay locked together, for the first time since the Hind Hunt had begun at the start of the Chancellor’s reign.
Elsa shivered and bit her lip, praying for the next year to come quickly.
The Trader
“Dad! Dad! The trader’s here!” Lee pounded up the path, his boots flailing, and he vaulted into his father’s arms. "Can I get something this time? Please?“
"Perhaps,” Keane chuckled, lifting his boy onto his shoulders, “if you behave.”
They headed down the steep path, Keane’s sure feet stepping over the pebbles and loose shale with confidence. Soon, he could see the shape of the small cart and equally small mule hitched to it, the driver perched on a box with his head thrown back to the sun. Keane’s brow twitched. It was someone new. The usual trader was a grizzled old man from even higher in the Highlands, of foul breath and constant bottle.
This man was a vision. His hair was lush, a golden brown, thick but tight against his head in restless curls. His eyes, which lit up when he looked down and saw them, were an impossibly clear green. A lump rose in Keane’s throat and he swung Lee off his shoulders.
“Run along,” he said hoarsely. Lee gave him a pitiful look, but his father was unmoved. "Go!“ he grunted, indicating with a hand his precise amount of amusement at the boy’s defiance. Lee scampered away the way they had come.
"Ho, traveler,” Keane said when Lee’s dust cloud faded.
“Ho, friend.” The trader touched the bill of an invisible cap. "Come for my wares?“
"Come for more than that,” Keane grunted, attempting a smile, but the man’s beauty was blinding. He looked down at his hands. "I’m sorry. We get few travelers this far north. It is – unexpected to see another face.“ The words tumbled awkwardly from his tongue.
The man was looking sideways at him, and at this last he smiled and turned back to the sun. "My mule will wait a while.”
He stretched out his hand for Keane to help him down. The bigger man took it, his arm burning where the other touched him. He met the trader’s beautiful eyes. "So will my wife,“ he said.
A knowing nod. "The trader comes but once a year,” he said, then laughed and added, “and so he does.”
The trader dropped softly off his cart and pulled Keane to him. Keane tasted distant lands, strange bazaars, foreign women and men. He drank in the kiss and returned one that told of the powerful Highland winds, the winters with only family for comfort, the slaying of the wolf that had pestered the flocks.
They broke away, their hunger piqued, and without losing touch walked without a word to the nearby stone formation. Boulders worn smooth by time welcomed and sheltered them as they lay curled into one another, moving without regard to time, the mountain whistling around them.
