The Worst Kind of Luck

* This is a story I wrote that started out as a companion piece to the fantastic web comic Clipped Wings that my friend did years ago. Unfortunately, we'd both let it slide for a very long time. Years later, I picked it back up again, made some changes, and just ran with it when I needed a distraction after a death in the family. Every time I take a peek at it, I just find this story's world utterly enchanting. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

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House of Glass

Glasshouse: An enclosure made of glass used for the cultivation and protection of delicate plants.

Also called greenhouses, conservatories, and hot houses.

Elysium: A term from ancient Greek mythology to refer to an idyllic paradise where heroic, virtuous souls lay to rest.

Also used in Dante’s The Divine Comedy, as a limbo between Heaven and Hell where souls hover between the worlds.

Also called The Elysian Fields, Paradise, Zion, and Eden

Book One: Checking In

Chapter One: The Worst Kind of Luck

Rowan Tree: (Sorbus Aucuparia) A common wild tree in the British Isles, this small but resilient tree is capable of surviving under the poorest conditions. Often planted near ancient ritual sites, these trees are said to offer protection against evil. They’re often used in rituals as talismans or magic wands because of their density and strength. Dyes are made from the tree’s red berries and used to bind and boost warding spells.

Also known as Rune Trees, Whispering Trees, and Witch Wood.

Rowan

Rowan Drury carefully restrung the violin laid lovingly in his lap, running his hands over the sleek, shiny wood marred only by the long scratch along the side of the instrument from when he’d tripped over one of his cousin Jack’s skateboards. The violin had been forever marked and he’d spent six weeks with his arm in a sling.

Rowan had been sad about the Drury heirloom that had dated back to who-knows-when and about all the worry he’d caused his mother and the rest of his family but, in truth, the whole situation could have been worse.

He stood, clutching the violin by the neck, and stared out the conservatory window at his brothers, sister, cousins, and other assortments of relatives who dwelled in the Drury castle. They were all dressed up, grouped together on the twisted driveway that led down the hill from the castle to town. They were going out tonight. Good night for it.

It was the Midsummer’s Eve and there’d been rituals all day—feasts and gatherings, prayers and parties—all to celebrate the year’s longest day. Rowan loved the Midsummer because he got to spend the whole day with his family outside of the castle. Still on castle grounds, true, but the gardens were beautiful this time of year—all blooming Irish roses and towering ivy. And, in this one day, he would spend more time out under the beautiful Irish sun than all the other days combined. And despite the layers of sunscreen his mother would smother his too fair skin with, Rowan would soak it all in, knowing this rare treat would have to hold him for a very long time.

He lifted the newly strung violin to his chin as he watched the others pile into cars, ready to make their way into the city and make the most out of the year’s shortest night. He nodded as his sister, Willow, and his cousin, Jack, turned to wave at him. Rowan smiled at his mother who—still as pretty as any of his cousins—blew him a kiss as she held his father’s hand. Rowan raised the bow and played a fast and rowdy tune in their honor, closing his eyes as he remembered planning the night with his cousins during supper. They’d have fun in Waterford City. There would be dancing, drinks, and music. With his eyes closed, Rowan could almost imagine it.

There’d been a time—when he was much younger—when he’d longed to go with them. But he was older now. And he understood that he was Widdershins.

He sighed and laid the violin back in its case. Feeling restless, he walked about the stands and cases and shelves of instruments lining the room. Finally, he slipped onto the bench and ran his fingers over the baby grand piano’s keys. The tinkling notes eased the tension inside him.

As his family’s newest Widdershins, Rowan really didn’t get out much. He didn’t go out at all. It wasn’t allowed.

And for good reason.

The people of Redeshire called his family cursed. And they were, Rowan supposed. In a way.

While most of their Drury ancestry—that had inspired many of the myths and misconceptions of Druids, wizards, and witches—had died out a long time ago with the rise of science and the convenience of modern technology—for God’s sake, his father was an investment banker and his mother a software engineer—there were legends and legacies that still lingered.

There was a story his grandfather used to tell him. One of a Drury elder who—for the good of his people—had stopped the hand of fate. This powerful man—a witch, he’d be called today—had cast a protection spell that would pass down through blood. It was the Drury blood that bound the curse and repelled all evil. All those that carried the family name carried with it magic in their veins and a life filled with luck. And, even now, centuries after the spell was cast, the Drury family possessed wealth, success, great love—everything most people wished for and few ever got.

It wasn’t that they got everything they wanted or never had to work for what they had. Just that the little uncontrollables in life, like being at the right place at the right time with the right people, just seemed to happen more frequently to the Drurys. It was as if the invisible hands of destiny were a bit more clear to them. A Drury learned to listen to the way the wind whistled or to track the sun’s progression. A dove in the sky boded well for one’s current plans. Strong sea air brought with it change. One simply learned to be patient and wait at a crossroads for fate to eventually tip its hand.

For the Drury family, there were always signs.

But with every spell comes a price and every Drury knows the balance that rules the world must always be maintained. So, to safeguard the whole family, the elder had sacrificed himself and become the first of the family Widdershins, vowing that another would be born into every generation. That person’s fate—their duty—was to keep the balance. If every other Drury member knew only good luck, then the Widdershins knew only the reverse.

Rowan was the family’s latest Widdershins, his destiny sealed from his first breath. And though he couldn’t say that every breath since had been an easy one, he’d long since made peace with his lot in life.

And so, as the year’s longest day came to a close, he played a song he’d only heard in the farthest parts of his mind, not quite sad but in some way longing. He marveled at the way the music flowed from heart to fingertips to key to air. It was a type of magic. And it was his.

But just as he moved into the coda, Rowan jumped at a loud crash coming from somewhere down the hall. His knee smacked smartly against the baby grand, causing the keys’ heavy cover to slam down hard onto his fingers. Hissing between clenched teeth, he shook his hand vigorously before sticking it in his mouth to suck the throbbing digits.

Rowan looked toward the direction of the noise he’d heard. Everyone should be out of the castle by now, leaving Rowan and his grandfather—the eldest Widdershins—alone.

Poking his head out the door, Rowan peeked into the empty hallway. Knowing Grandda, Rowan figured the old man had probably just knocked something over or tripped on something. He was probably all right, but Rowan couldn’t get it out of his head that something was wrong.

His grandfather, though proud to serve his family as a Widdershins, wasn’t known to suffer quietly. Rowan’s knowledge of Gaelic curses came entirely from his grandfather’s mouth.

But the large stone hallway that usually echoed the slightest sound was silent. “Grandda?” Rowan murmured, the sound reverberating through the now twilight-tinged house. “Grandda?”

He heard scrambling—the slightest squeak of shoes across the waxed tiles. Stepping from the smooth wood and soft cream-colored room and into the lofty gray stone and glass halls, Rowan headed toward the noise and hoped his grandfather wasn’t terribly hurt.

Pausing by the windowed wall that overlooked the castle gardens, he noticed a large crow perched hungrily on one of the eastside windowsills. Its black feathers gleamed a strange green in the sun as the bird pecked viciously at the glass, its beak half-opened in mid-caw as its talons clenched and released in anticipation.

Carrion in an in-between. A bad omen.

Rowan held his breath as he headed east. He turned into the courtyard foyer, opening the door cautiously. “Grandda?”

At first, there seemed to be nothing wrong. Just a feeling that something bad hovered on the edges. Though the room was exactly as it should, an ordered mess of Aunt Gilly’s gardening supplies, Truman’s summer reading, and various bottles of Bella’s tanning oils and screens, the orange hue the setting sun cast made the familiar room seem foreign. He turned toward the tapping on the window and the crow that still beat its beak furiously against the glass.

Every Drury knew a bad omen at an entrance or exit—a suspicious sign within the spaces between one place and another—meant danger close at hand. The in-betweens were places, where if one wanted to know what the future held, warnings waited.

Forcing his eyes from the crow, Rowan tried to convince himself that sometimes a bird was just a bird. But as his gaze swept the room, he took in the overturned pottery and the cracked bottles. He could smell the slight metallic scent of blood mingled with the spilled fragrances mixing together on the floor.

Rowan shivered at the small signs of struggle and knew omens never lied. He turned to face the bird’s hungry, beady eyes as its head tossed back and forth in frustration. He could hear the crow cawing raucously as its wings flapped, desperate for balance, and its talons viciously scratched at the window pane. He turned away.

And there on the scuffed, slightly dirty hardwood floor, Rowan saw his hands first. Burned, scratched, and oddly disjointed—the hands of a Widdershins. His grandfather had always loved to cook despite the obvious and many dangers a kitchen held for his kind, causing scars—from knife-cuts, grease splatter, and burns of every kind—that patterned those recognizable hands.

As Rowan peered forward in the messy foyer, his boots clicking against the now marked varnish, he followed the broken lines of his grandfather’s battered hands to his stretched-out body lying in a cluttered corner among several large, now cracked potted plants. He gasped.

Kneeling at his unconscious grandfather’s side, Rowan cut his hands and knees as he pushed aside some of the mess. “Are you all right?”

This was why Rowan avoided this part of the castle, too many things to trip and fall on. His grandfather ought to have known better. Rowan could see a bit of blood on the shards of terra cotta that littered the floor. He hoped the elderly man hadn’t cut himself too deeply. Groaning with effort, he turned his grandfather’s prone body over.

With a choked cry, Rowan jumped back, bumping into heavily laden shelves, causing more pottery to fall and shatter at his feet. Rowan cringed and curled in on himself.

A crow at the window meant one thing. Death at a doorway.

The crow’s caws grew wild as his grandfather’s body fell face-up on the floor. Rowan squeezed his eyes shut but he couldn’t wipe the image of the dead man from his mind. The body was untouched, just pale and so cold. From the right angle, Rowan could have almost believed that his grandfather was simply passed out. But his grandfather’s face, that in so many ways looked much like his own only many years on, oozed blood, dark and thick as it streaked down his tattered cheeks and around his opened, silently screaming lips. He could still see where the trail of blood met and mingled both into and out of the long, deep slash across the old man’s throat.

But the worst of it—the part that had Rowan panting and pleading to his God—were the empty sockets where his grandfather’s eyes gaped open, bloody and hacked.

Oh, Merciful Mother of God. Who did that kind of thing?

But Rowan knew exactly the type of person who would cut out his grandfather’s eyes.

Most myths, legends, and old sayings had origins in truth. And eyes were in-betweens too. Windows to the soul, as they say. And with no doorway, no exit or entrance, his grandfather’s soul—a Widdershins’s soul—was trapped inside his impossibly still body, unable to pass into the next generation.

Jesus, son of God. Crawling shakily to his knees, Rowan crossed himself quickly and bent his head. He wished he could close the old man’s lidless eyes. Rowan prayed as he draped a towel over his grandfather’s form. May God bless on your journey, Grandda.

Rowan sank down and fought back fear and sadness. He couldn’t afford to mourn long. He had to think.

This was an assault not just on Paddy Drury, but on the entirety of the Drury family. With one Widdershins dead, the balance of luck was tipping. Rowan wondered if his family could feel the change already. He hoped that they were all right, even as he feared the dangers that now seeped into their once impenetrable lives. One Widdershins dead, murdered and mutilated—his soul stuck. Who knew what damage could be done now?

Rowan gasped as a thought dawned on him, for a second drowning out the worry for his family.

One Widdershins dead. One left.

Rowan backed away from his grandfather. Rowan was now the only Widdershins left. Left alone. Left defenseless. With shaky panic, he called the first number on his mobile phone. His nervous fingers fumbled on the keys, but no matter what number he dialed, there was no answer. Rowan looked down at his phone, appalled to realize that his phone’s battery was too low to place a call. Shit. Damn. “Fuck!”

He clapped his hand over his traitorous mouth as he caught that same slick slide of rubber coming from somewhere in the hallway.

The mobile slid to the floor.

Someone was still in the castle and was now headed his way.

Rowan took one last look at his grandfather—hating to leave him—before easing the garden screen door open and stepping soundlessly outside. He could see the woods that bordered the Drury property. He’d never been in them—too dangerous—but his siblings and cousins had said that the hill the castle grounds sat on was flanked by a town and a motorway.

That meant people, right?

Lots of people. Most of whom weren’t ritual killers. Right?

Rowan paused at the large hedges that bordered the gardens about six meters from the forest and wondered what he should do. The shadowed trees looked harsh and unforgiving as their branches twisted in on each other, strangling the light that tried to break through the thick canopy. He began to hyperventilate as he took a tentative step back into the familiarity of the castle. But as he heard the door to the foyer creak open, Rowan took a deep breath and ran.

He turned as a loud flapping flutter of feathers swooped down, its talons and beak aimed for his head. He screamed as he waved his arms above his head, trying to beat the crow away, but it just kept coming. Ignoring the pain as the bird scratched and clawed at his skin, he headed into the trees.

Rowan rushed past low branches and jumped over fallen limbs and when finally the crow’s ravenous caws sounded distant and muted, he slowed, panting and wheezing. He looked around, confused and lost. He had no idea where he was or whether he was even closer to the castle or the road. His body ached, his arms torn and his legs tired, but he had to keep going. He looked around and sighed before limping ahead in a random direction, hoping it led him somewhere safe.

Rowan spun as he heard the leaves rustle behind him before jerking around again at the sound of a snapping branch. He tried to slow his breathing and listen. He could have sworn he heard whispers, but the wind was whipping them in every direction, making him feel cornered.

Trapped.

He started to back away uneasily before tripping on the rocky ground. Grunting loudly, he landed hard on his side. He scrambled to his feet as he heard the leaves shift. Choking on panicked sobs, Rowan ran.

He could hear the rustling and footfalls catching up to him. He peeked over his shoulder and tried to figure out where they were, but he couldn’t tell in all the darkness. All he knew was that they were close and getting closer.

Pumping his legs, he checked his back again. He yelped as his foot slipped on mulching leaves, his knees buckling beneath him as he tumbled down the rocky hill. He held out his hands, trying to catch himself before he crashed to the ground. But he couldn’t stop himself from falling.

The last sight he remembered was that of the hungry, black bird perched on a branch above him before his head smashed against rock and pain and blackness brought him down.

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Most Wonderful Time of the Year

On the Highest Bough

Francis shook his wings. As a gargoyle, they were always the first sign that he was getting tired. He stretched them out with a groan, feeling fatigue being to harden them. He either needed another shot of the café’s espresso, that would hold the sun’s effects at bay, or head to the rooftop to sleep.

“Here.” Basil landed to sit on the high ceiling beam next to Francis, a small cup in one hand and a string of garland in the cupid’s other hand. Francis could hear and feel the flutter of the other man’s feathered wings even if he couldn’t see them through Basil’s glamour. “We only have a few more things to finish up, but I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

Francis inhaled the strong scent of espresso wafting to him and making his wings flutter at the drink. He took the cup, feeling the sweet warmth against his taloned fingers with a grateful nod to Basil before settling on the beam as well. Feeling the stony stiffness in his joints soften, he sipped and looked down at all the hard work they’d put in.

Faere Trade was always beautiful. Magical places tended to be. Even the terrifying ones, full of dark magic and the suffering it inevitably left in its wake, were as awe-inspiring as they were horrific.

But Faere Trade was a place of healing and communion. Offering food and drink meant to help its clientele, from the limitations-blocking espresso in Francis’s hands to a variety of glamour-producing teas to a legendary macaron cookie that could supposedly alter your fate in ways no one but the boss knew how. The café grew most of its own ingredients, so the entire place was a lush garden, with trees and bushes and plants everywhere. The smell of life and growth was infused into the space, always making him feel centered and alive.

It was always beautiful, magical beyond words, but, this time of year, it seemed more so. And it really shouldn’t have. Looking at the silver and gold tinsel he and Basil had draped and the lights and decorations they’d hung up everywhere, it should have looked like tacky, chintzy glitz, but it didn’t. At least not to him. He wondered, as a just-under-three-foot being, if it all just looked more wondrous from this height.

Basil played with the garland in his hands. “I probably shouldn’t — I mean, it’s a Christian holiday — but I love this time of year.”

Francis snorted. “Aren’t cupids associated more with St. Valentine’s Day now than Greek mythology.”

Basil smacked him with the garland. “It’s not really mythology, considering that I’m sitting right here, now is it?” But he shrugged. “Though, truth is, we’re not really either Greek or Christian. Both cultures embraced us, at one time or another, but it’s not as if we belong to anyone.”

Francis nodded, rubbing his shoulder. “Kinda like us.” Gargoyles had an odd relationship to Christianity. Both portrayed as demons and protectors, both feared and revered. But, in reality, they were older than any faith.

Yet, when most people looked at Francis, they tended to think he belonged in some Halloween decoration box with all the other spooks and ghouls and devils. But he always liked Christmas more, preferring the joyous season to jump scares. He’d take twinkle lights and carols over haunted houses and scary movies any day.

In fact, he nudged Basil with his wing. “Is that mistletoe in your hand or are you just happy to see me?”

Basil, around the same size as him, ran his hands over the garland and gave a small chuckle, truly looking like some cross between a Greek god and a small snow cherub. “It’s actually holly, but most people mistake it for mistletoe.”

Francis grinned toothily and set aside the now empty cup on the beam. “So then, by default, that must mean you’re happy to see me.”

Basil jumped off the beam and hovered in front of him, wagging the garland at him warningly. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re about to fall asleep in mid-air and we still have a bunch of work to do.”

Francis winked at him flirtatiously. “Then give me something to get up for.”

Rolling his eyes at the bad double-entendre, Basil turned to fly away, but Francis caught his wrist. He glided off the beam, raising Basil’s arm over both their heads while his other wrapped around the cupid’s waist. He gave Basil a game look. “Tis the season for giving.”

Basil let out a laugh and shook his head, but leaned into the embrace. “You’re ridiculous.”

Francis puffed up his chest. “One of my better qualities.”

Raising his eyebrow, Basil tsked. “We’ll have to stay late.”

The gargoyle just grinned. “The better to see the lights by.”

Francis could see — could feel — the moment Basil gave in, relaxing completely into his arms. “You are ridiculous.” The words were a whispered smile against his lips.

And then Francis could taste him, warm and spiced like the tea Basil drank for his glamour. Mixing with the espresso already on Francis’s tongue, it ran through him like a rush. He held the angelic man close. Francis wanted to crush Basil to him but, not being a gargoyle too, the cupid felt fragile in his embrace. He flexed his tense fingers so they didn’t dig sharp talons into Basil’s soft flesh. When they kissed, he had to be careful with the man, so his pointed eye teeth didn’t bite. Even his body, dense and hard, more used to being stone than flesh, ached with restraint. And the longing sigh that escaped Basil’s mouth, a sweet sound breathed into Francis, didn’t help. Francis moaned.

“Tell me what you want.” The devilish spark in Basil’s eye and the decadent tone in his voice made Francis pant with want. Excitement and nerves were clear on Basil’s face. Francis understood that; they’d been flirting around sex for a while now, kissing and touching, but it’d never felt like the right time.

Looking around, Francis couldn’t imagine a better moment. Kissing him again, he sighed. “Your mouth.” The phrase came to him like a longing twist in the gut. “On me.” His voice dipped deeper. “And mine on you.”

Basil chuckled low before tapping his chin. “I think we can make that work.” He looked around, biting his bottom lip thoughtfully, before he took off toward the towering, decorated evergreen planted in the back corner of the café.

Francis, curious, followed behind him, diving between the fir branches. He ducked under the string of flickering lights circling the tree, wondering what Basil had in mind. It really was magical, hidden in the pine needles, with the lights twinkling like stars in the fragrant shadows. He breathed it all in, letting it fill and fuel him.

Pointing to a branch above them, Basil tilted his head curiously. “Do you think this branch will hold you?”

Francis shrugged. “It did, when I was hanging lights.” He laughed and reached up to grab it.

“Uh-uh.” The sound was quick and scolding. “Not with your hands.”

Francis looked at the man quizzically. But, when the man just made a twirling motion with his finger, it dawned on Francis. He wanted him to hang from the branch by his feet? Francis frowned thoughtfully. Okay. He couldn’t really see why the man wanted that, but he also couldn’t see why not. So he flew up, grabbing the branch with his talons and letting himself hang down on the branch. He wiggled a bit, making room for himself against the rough tree trunk, bending the other prickly branches with his thick-skinned, dense body. He bent his knees before shaking the branch a bit, making the needles rustle and the lights clank. “Should hold.”

“Good.” Basil flew up to hover by his feet. “Then hold on.” He took the garland in his hand and wrapped it around the branch, then around Francis’s feet, and all the way down his legs.

Francis looked up skeptically, feeling a little like an anachronistic ornament from holidays past dangling on the decorated tree. “I really don’t think that’s going to help hold me up.”

Basil chuckled. “I doubt it will; this is more to remind you to keep a good grip.”

Francis shot him a daring look. “Think you can make me lose my grip?” Cocky cupid.

Waggling his eyebrows, Basil smirked. “Let’s see, shall we?” He reached for Francis’s belt. Francis never really liked clothes. Would rather go without. But Faere Trade was a safe haven for people and nudity tended to make some folks uncomfortable. So he put on the uniform every day and figured it a small price to pay in order to work somewhere he didn’t have to wear a glamour.

But, now, with the metallic clink of his belt and the soft slide of leather sounding loud in the empty café, he kinda got the appeal. Feeling like an odd gift, he felt Basil’s hands push fabric away, reaching into his trousers to pull out his semi-hard sex. Francis inhaled sharply, when Basil ran his finger over the craggy ridges in his curved cock. When he fluttered forward, the slight wind from his wings hitting Francis, and took his length into his mouth, Francis shivered and felt his toes almost flex. He caught himself, locking his knees and gripping the branch again harder. Basil chuckled against his dick, the sound reverberating over the sensitive skin. Cocky, indeed.

Well, two could play this game.

Maybe.

Feeling blood rush to both his cock and his head, he stared at Basil’s zipper. Clenching his talons, he tried to figure out how to undo the man’s pants without shredding them. Shaking his head, he growled. “Take off your pants or walk out of here without them.” Those were the only options.

Basil laughed, keeping Francis deep in his mouth, even as he reached down to let his pants slide off and tumble to the ground. Hallelujah. Francis stared at his rising, rosy sex and licked his lips.

But, on that slick slide, he touched the tip of his canines. Oh yeah. He’d never actually slept with anyone who wasn’t a gargoyle, whose skin couldn’t handle the scrape and bite of talons and teeth. But looking at the long, pink flesh, Francis knew Basil couldn’t.

So, mouth gaping in what he hoped was safely open, he licked the silken skin over Basil’s hard shaft, the contradiction fascinating on his tongue. His taste, his scent, was different too, instead of earthy and rich, it was musky and smooth. He arched his neck, so he could run the full length of his tongue over the full length of Basil’s dick, swirling over the tip.

Basil, midair, faltered, pushing his cock against Francis’s mouth. “Careful.” Francis laid a hand against the man’s hip, to hold him from slipping too close to his teeth. But the touch just made him want to grab and squeeze. If Basil were a gargoyle, Francis would have dug his talons deep, scratched his stony skin, leaving grooves in his wake.

Instead, he tempered his touch, focusing his mind on the softness of the man’s flesh against his. He groaned and felt his palm sink into that give. It was so much like the sliding, yielding warmth of Basil’s mouth on his cock. Francis wanted to feel that slide here too.

But he didn’t know how. Not without hurting this man he only wanted to pleasure. But he wanted to try.

So he let his thumb and two fingers wrap around the man’s heavy, thick sex, making sure their pointed tips avoided the tender length. Tentatively, he moved them over that sleek skin. Hearing, feeling, Basil’s groan in response felt amazing, making him brave. He stroked him again, then again, harder and faster.

Again, the man’s wings flapped wildly, the sound of rustling feathers in the fir rewarding, making his dick thrust against Francis’s mouth. Francis licked his lips, craving that taste. Looking at his hand around Basil’s cock, he bit his lip.

Feeling the threatening tip of his tooth against his lip, Francis thoughtfully bit down. Basil’s body couldn’t handle Francis’s bite. But Francis’s could.

He coughed, his throat feeling tense. “Tell me if this is okay.” Stretching and tucking his lips to cover all his teeth, Francis bent forward and took the tip of the man’s length into his mouth.

Basil groaned, arching into Francis, slipping further past his lips. “It’s amazing. Sleek and impossibly smooth.”

Good. Relaxing, Francis let himself be overwhelmed by the feeling of Basil on him, in him. Inhaling, he felt surrounded by the scent and taste of him. He let the heat he felt flicker within fan into a flame. He felt consumed by it and welcomed it.

Wanting more, he thrust his hips and sucked harder, forcing them both deeper. He felt his teeth sink into his lips, pricking the skin, the small, sharp pain thrilling as it shivered through his senses. His feet clutched the branch holding him up as he struggled to keep his grip on Basil taut but teasing. He writhed against the scratchy garland twisted around his legs, against the sweet-smelling needles pricking him everywhere, and felt his climax barrel close.

He swallowed hard, his mouth loving Basil’s dick. With a grunting groan, Basil tensed, his hips pushing into lips, as he came, spilling himself down Francis’s throat. The bitter, slightly sweet taste filled Francis’s senses and, with his own echoing groan, he came into Basil’s waiting mouth too.

His talons slipped and scraped against the branch, making him falter and fall on a choked cry.

Basil caught him by the ankles before drifting slowly to lay him on the ground. Francis felt the rich soil and twist of roots beneath him as Basil, soft and warm, curled up next to him. He took a shaky breath and held the man close. Looking up at the towering, twinkling tree above them, he sighed. Maybe he wasn’t made for this season — or this season wasn’t made for him — but he really did love this time of year.

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Full-Upright Position

 

FULL-UPRIGHT POSITION

Lyndsey wasn’t afraid of flying. She hated it; there was a difference. She hated the cramped spaces and motion sickness. Hated turbulence and loud noises. As an incurable control freak, she loathed the complete lack of power she had over anything. She couldn’t fly the plane. Hell, she couldn’t even tell you anything about all the sounds and shakes rioting around her. But, unfortunately, to get to a wedding in Porter’s hometown, they had to fly.

She jerked and gripped Porter’s hand when the speaker turned on for an inflight announcement. “You can now use your electronic devices.”

Porter squeezed her hand and took out his phone. “So,” he said with a reassuring smile, “are you ready?”

She bit her lip and tilted her head, squirming against the Bluetooth panty vibrator she had tucked tight between her legs that was connected to an app on his phone. His idea of relaxing inflight entertainment. There were settings to stimulate the top, the sides, and the lower half of the toy. There were ones to control its speed and the intensity. There were even ways to connect the vibrator to the phone’s microphone or headphone jack so it responded to the sounds around it.

It was a neat, little toy. Lyndsey wondered how well it worked, if it could really do everything the program promised. “Can I...” She bit her lip and held out her hand. “I don’t suppose I could see the app.”

He nodded. “Sure.” He handed over the phone. “But you should know that it’s all paired up so, if you start playing around with it...”

“It’ll play back.” She grinned and gripped the phone. She was okay with that.

More than okay.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Porter — she trusted him more than any partner she’d ever had before — but, with the phone in her hand, the control-obsessed part of her felt her world right a bit. Even thousands of feet in the air, she felt on firmer, more familiar ground.

She squirmed in her seat and wondered how loud the toy would be. Luckily, she and Porter were alone in their row, but the plane was still pretty packed, with a sleeping businessman clutching a travel pillow right across from her, a fiftyish woman reading a dog-eared novel right behind her, and a flirty couple kissing in front of her.

She could just try it. Turn it on. For a second. If it was too loud, she’d just turn it off and play some clicker mobile game.

But, if it wasn’t...

She pressed the Play button and chose the touch option, turning the screen into one big blank space. Taking a deep breath, she tapped the screen with her finger. Jesus! She nearly jumped at the buzz over her labia, quick and barely there.

Porter tried to stifle a chuckle, so she smacked him playfully on the arm. “I wasn’t ready.”

This time she pressed her finger to the middle of the screen, feeling sensation focus on the center of her vulva, tickling her sensitive lips. She closed her eyes and let her mind linger on the sensation.

It was light. Teasing. She would never come from just this toy alone. But it felt good. Relaxing. Like the most intimate massage ever. She swiped her finger left and then right, biting her lip against a giggle as the toy adjusted and followed her finger. She moved her finger down, her breath hitching, and then up over her clit, making her inhale sweetly.

“Drink or snack?”

Lyndsey gasped at the flight attendant’s sudden appearance and dropped the phone, her eyes popping open to see him holding a plastic glass in each of his hands.

Porter laughed, leaning down to grab the phone off the plane floor.

“I’m sorry.” The flight attendant frowned before handing Porter a soda.

“No need to apologize,” Porter assured, showing that his phone was all right. “We were just a little...distracted.” He reached out and grabbed Lyndsey’s drink from him. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Lyndsey murmured as the flight attendant made his way down the aisle.

“Having fun?” Porter asked in her ear.

“Do you think he noticed?” Lyndsey felt her face flush. Oh God, she felt like the whole plane suddenly knew what she’d been doing.

“No.” He shook his head. “No one knows, I promise.” He held her hand, that was now gripping the armrest between them. “This is just us.” He squeezed her fingers, warming the cold tips.

Lyndsey swallowed hard, feeling her heart pound so loudly, she didn’t understand how others couldn’t hear its beat. Which wasn’t even close to how loud she’d thought — been sure — the vibrator had been. She snuck a peek at the sleeping man across the aisle from her, expecting him to be peeking irritatedly through sleeping lids. But he didn’t. The couple ahead of them seemed far more interested in each other than they did anything else. And she could hear the flight attendant chitchat with the woman behind her.

No one was watching.

No one was listening closely.

No one was even paying attention to her.

Lyndsey’s lips lifted mischievously.

With an encouraging grin of his own, Porter held the phone out to her.

But, after a moment’s pause, she pushed the phone back toward him. “This is about what I want, right?” Porter just nodded. She settled back into her seat and pulled the blanket over her chest and lap. Crossing her hands over her stomach, she shut her eyes. “Then make me come before we land.”

She heard Porter chuckle. “Yes, miss.”

The corners of her lips curled. Damn straight.

“Ready?”

She took a deep, relaxing breath. “And waiting.”

There was another laugh before she felt the toy begin to buzz. Just a soft, steady hum at the heart of the vibrator. She arched an eyebrow. “That all you got?”

Lyndsey’s hips hitched when she felt the purr in her panties rev harder and higher against her sensitive flesh. She fought against the urge to pant as the sensation crept up to tease around her clit. Porter knew her body — her reactions — well. Every time his toy-proxy touch came too close to her clit, he would back off. Her fingers tensed in frustration, digging into the back of her hands as she fought to stay still, to not wriggle and writhe her body against the vibrator.

But then the plane jerked, causing her to let out a small, sudden yelp and wrenching her — eyes wide and heart pounding — back to the real world. She gazed out the window and saw dark clouds looming and rain pelting the pane. The plane shook again as lightning flashed outside.

Oh God.

———

Porter covered her hand with his, feeling it like ice against his own. “It’s okay; just a little turbulence.” He rubbed her cold skin, forcing warmth back into her. “Stay with me. Close your eyes and just focus on me, okay?”

He watched her shut her eyes and nod to herself, could practically see her thoughts rush through her mind. Breathe. Hold it together. You can do this. She swallowed and visibly calmed. She could do this. She was Lyndsey Wayne; no one knew better than he did that she could do anything.

He sat silently beside her, letting her find her bearings. Giving her the time she needed to let him know when she was okay.

He let out a relieved breath when Lyndsey finally turned her hand over on the armrest cushion and pressed their palms together, twining their fingers.

He smiled and squeezed her hand. But she still seemed a bit shaky, not quite herself, so he raised the armrest between them and pulled her close.

She rested against him, a warm, soft weight against his chest. She wrapped his arm around her, holding him there with her hands over his. He hoped that she’d kept her eyes closed as he stared out the plane windows at the dark skies and wet glass.

They were descending. More than halfway done with the flight. And, while that was a comfort to him, he didn’t know if it would be to her, so he didn’t tell her. Instead, he told her about his parents. And his friends back home. About his sister and his cousins. About all the people and places he was going to show her. About the grocery store he and his friends used to shoplift at until they’d gotten caught and had been forced to work at all summer for free. And the AV lab that he’d spent most of his senior year in. And the auditorium tech booth he’d lost his virginity in.

He hugged her close, enjoying the sound of her laughter as he told her story after story.

“So you guys literally caused fireworks and cannons that first time in that theatre, huh?”

He shrugged and chuckled. Not bad for a couple of drama-kid virgins. “Well, we were doing Les Mis at the time and the light and sound cues were all set up.”

She tsked. “The poor person who came after you.” She shook her head and turned to look into his eyes. “That’s a tough act to follow, Porter Green.”

It was a good memory. But nothing compared to her.

“You want to see if we can top it?”

He narrowed his gaze at her, wanting to be sure he understood. “What do you mean?” he asked hesitantly.

She peeked down at his pants. “Grab your phone.” She leaned back. “You still owe me before we land.”

He moved to dig in his pocket. “Are you sure?”

She adjusted the blanket over her shoulders, while he brought the app up on his phone. “A deal’s a deal, right?”

He chuckled. He couldn’t argue with that. But, if he was going to make good on their deal, he had to up his game. He touched the app, turning the toy to a subtle hum. He nudged her and leaned forward to whisper in her ear, “See the couple in front of us?”

He watched as her eyes opened to study the man and woman cuddling and laughing in their seats. She nodded.

“What do you think they’re into?” he asked, turning up the toy’s intensity a bit.

“What?” She laughed and shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Imagine.” It was an odd request. He knew that. It felt a little weird. Almost voyeuristic. But it was just harmless fantasy between the two of them. And, he was hoping, maybe, it could do her some good by giving her mind something to think about.

She squirmed, but gave a small, excited smile. Jackpot. He knew she’d like this. Get off on it. It was the exact right amount of naughtiness: didn’t hurt anyone but still felt taboo as hell. She bit her lip. “See her choker?”

He looked and saw, between the thick strands of the woman’s long, brown hair, a black band about the width of his thumb circled her neck. He nodded.

“Most people would assume that it’s just a fashion choice,” she said, her body stilling, focusing. “But it’s not.”

Porter thumbed his screen, dragging his finger down, so the toy pulsed over her opening in a hard throb. He heard her bite back a moan. “It’s not?”

She shook her head. “It’s a stealth collar.” She leaned back and whispered against his skin, her breath hot against his neck. “A way to wear their want out in the world.”

Porter liked the idea of that. Really hoped it was true. “So you think he’s her Dom?” He slowly moved his touch higher, along her labia.

“Yes.” The word was practically a sigh. “And no.”

His finger stalled just as he was about to touch her clit. He felt her hips hitch and heard her disgruntled huff. “No?”

She wriggled her hips, but to no avail. For all their usual power games, she wasn’t in charge this time. And a part of him, rebellious and contrary, thrilled at that.

She gave a small, frustrated laugh. “No, look at that choker. The diamonds studding it and the ornate pattern of it. No.” She shook her head. “She likes to top from the bottom.” She tilted her head back to nudge his shoulder pointedly. “He holds the whip and gets her off, but it’s her hand guiding the scene.”

Porter chuckled, taking her hint, and moved his finger to stimulate her clit. “Is that right?”

She sunk into the toy’s touch. “Yes.”

“What about the guy over there?” Porter asked, nodding toward the sleeping man across the aisle. “What do you think he’s dreaming about?”

———

Lyndsey bit her lip and glanced across the aisle. Her eye caught a glimpse of the rain-streaked window, a flash of lightning in the distance. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

Focus.

She needed to focus her mind.

She let her mind center on the pulsing between her thighs and the warm strength of Porter’s chest against her back.

Then she looked across the aisle again. “The guy?” She slicked her tongue over her dry lips and thought. “He’s a businessman going to a trade show.” She could see it — see the story — as clear as a film in her mind’s eye. “He travels constantly. Too much to settle down with a wife or a family yet. But,” she said, tilting her head, the man’s imaginary life laid out before her, “there’s a woman — one of those actress/model types they hire to present at events — who’s been on the same circuit as him. He’s watched her, for months now, talk about industry tech and innovation. He’s even chatted her up at the end of her speeches and bought her drinks at the event mixers.” She pursed her lips together thoughtfully. “But this time is different. This time, he’s going to ask her to come up to his room. Because life is too short to let regret rule your life.”

“So he’s thinking about asking her out?”

She shook her head. No. “He’s thinking — fantasizing — about what will happen later. In his hotel room.”

“What’ll happen?”

She felt the vibrations play over her labia, swirling up and down her sensitive skin. “He hopes everything.” Sensation tingled through her, starting at her sex and spreading sweetly over her. “Right now, he’s dreaming about what it’ll be like to lay her down. To bare her beauty and worship every inch of her body.”

Porter made an approving sound. “What about the woman behind us?”

Lyndsey peeked between the seats’ headrests and saw the woman reading her novel, the once-glossy cover featuring a couple half-dressed and entwined. Lyndsey almost giggled. What was she thinking? Wasn’t it obvious? Lyndsey leaned back into Porter. “Do you see the slight hitch in her breath?” Porter nodded, his cheek brushing hers. “She just got to a steamy part. Some heated sex scene that’s all skin and sweat.”

“Oh yeah?” He let the vibrations settle low against her opening. “Tell me.” Then he leaned down close, his voice lowering too. “And touch yourself while you do.”

Lyndsey shivered against him. She tucked her legs underneath herself so she sat cross-legged on the seat, adjusting the blanket over her. With a devilish grin, she slipped her hand beneath the waistbands of her jeans and panties.

She touched herself. Fuck, she was so wet. After all his teasing, her panties were soaked. She coated her fingers in her silky, liquid heat, feeling the toy buzz against her hand and pussy. “It’s one of those historical romances, where the reprobate duke debauches the virgin noblewoman before falling madly in love with her.”

“Debauches?” He chuckled.

She giggled and wriggled her eyebrows. “Uh-huh. Pretty, innocent maiden who’s never even seen a dick,” she said, rubbing her clit, “being seduced by the ton’s ladies man.” Her breaths deepened and a current — hot and electric — began to burn through her. “I bet the first time she touches it, he doesn’t even show it to her.”

“Yeah?”

Lyndsey nodded. “Yes.” She reached behind her with her other hand and cupped his denim-covered cock. “He knows that it would shock her sensibilities too much. So he teases her, seduces her by revealing himself little by little, so she can get used to it. Get used to him.” She let her hand drift over Porter’s semi-hard shaft, feeling him harden beneath her palm. “I bet he has her touch him over his trousers, learn the shape and size of him.” She could hear him inhale sharply while she stroked him. “Her eyes would widen and her jaw would drop. She’d think about having that hard length inside her and feel both terrified and thrilled.”

Porter pushed into her hand. She let out a satisfied breath and felt her core clench at the thought — the feel — of him against her. He swallowed hard. “So,” his voice sounded hoarse, raspy with want, “what happens when he finally gets her into bed?”

She gripped his dick in her hand, feeling her own orgasm build. “He’s so big, stretching her body as he fills her. It’s unlike anything she’s ever felt before. Overwhelming. Deep.” She imagined Porter’s cock doing the same to her and wanted to groan with want. The hum against her own opening, that had felt like a tease a second ago, now felt like a promise. She fought the urge to grind her hips against her fingers’ touch. She wanted to. Lord, she needed to thrust into that feeling causing sweet heat to grow within her, but she couldn’t. Not without causing a scene. It was almost too much. “She can feel him move in and out and in and out of her, until…”

Lyndsey gasped and tensed, her body tightening as pleasure flooded her body. She held her breath and steeled her muscles against the sensations rioting within her, willing her to writhe.

Porter’s arms wrapped around her, held her tight as her orgasm rocked her determinedly still body. Feeling safer in his arms, she let her motionless body relax a bit. Waves of pleasure washed over her, showing in a sensual shiver that was swallowed and muffled by his body. God, that was good.

Lyndsey jumped when the plane jerked on its descent toward the airport. She pulled her arm out from under the blanket to grip Porter’s wrist, holding him close.

He kissed her cheek and made a soft, soothing sound. “We’re almost there.”

She gave him a shaky smile. “Made it just in the nick of time.”

She watched him turn off his phone before he tucked it into his pocket. “A deal’s a deal.”

She turned to frown at him, pushing up to right herself as the seatbelt light turned on. “What about you?”

He grinned wryly, grabbing his own blanket to throw over his erection, before buckling himself in place. “I’m good,” he assured her, reaching for her hand. “This was about you.” He coughed. “But, uh, maybe we should let everyone else off the plane first. I could use a minute.”

She laughed. She bet he did. She lifted his hand and kissed their entwined hands. “Thank you.”

He squeezed her palm. “Anytime.”

She settled back into her own seat and closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the pleasure he’d given her. “I’ll hold you to that.” After all, there was still the flight home to think about.

She smiled, even as her stomach began to lurch at the sound and shakes of the plane landing, thinking that, next time, she would be the one toying with him.

Still feeling the panty vibrator against her like a comforting reminder or a tempting possibility, she was surprised to realize a part of her was actually looking forward to the flight.

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The Deviant Nerd - Lousy Lay

Lousy Lay

The Deviant Nerd

Brought to you by Opening Donovan's Door, explore more of the Donovan's Door world in this interactive story. Click, play, come.

Question: Hey Pip,

I’m an older gentlemen with not a lot of experience. And most of that experience isn’t great, I’m afraid. Like my last relationship, if that’s what we’re calling it, where the woman I was dating pretty much did the infamous fade-away breakup after we had sex.

Now it’s not that I think I’m some kind of sex god, but I didn’t think I was THAT bad. But, looking back, yeah, I guess it wasn’t great. Like she was really quiet the whole time and I think I took too long to come or something. Hell, maybe I came too soon, I don’t know. But it felt like forever. I kept pounding away and it wasn’t really doing anything for either of us. I kept waiting for sparks or chemistry, like with the guys you see in porn who just power-drive women to orgasm, but nothing.

Then I kept getting distracted with thoughts about whether I was making weird noises or expressions. There’s nothing more boner-killing than thinking about yourself flopping around a lot and making funny faces as you gasp and sweat all over this beautiful woman. I kept thinking that this must be what it’s like to be fucked by a fish that got stuck on shore. I kept thinking, yah, if I were looking up at that I’d probably have a hard time coming too.

What do I do next time, with the next woman? How do I get better at this? Or are there just people who are bad at sex?

– Something Fishy

———

Pip: Hey Fishy,

Sorry that things didn't go well with this woman, but don't lose hope. Bad sex happens, to everyone, but you do not have to resign yourself to being bad at sex. If you find that what you’re doing isn’t doing it, change it.

Don’t think that sex needs to be the way it often looks in porn, some inexplicable, “Look, Ma, no hands” activity. It’s the beauty of being kinky; we’re problem-solvers. Try toys. Try new positions. Try watching porn together. Trying incorporating other forms stimulation, like manual and oral, along with penetrative sex. For both of you.

Ask most women, the piston-pumping part of sex is rarely ever the highlight of their experience. If you’re foreplaying right, you shouldn’t have to piston-fuck her like a porn star to orgasm; believe me, most women won’t want you to anyway. Statistically, a significant portion of women physically can’t orgasm from penile penetration alone. Most women prefer other activities like oral and fingering and toys in addition to penetration. Most women I know need and want all the other stuff that too often gets glossed over in porn. Doing these activities is not and should never be seen as failing the job; they are essential tools in your bag to getting that job done. They are shining signs of success, never failure.

Play around. Figure out what you like, what your partner likes. Ask questions. Check in. Getting ready to kick off some sexy times? Ask a question. “What do you want?” Switching up positions or trying something new? Ask a question. “Do you like this?” Not getting much of a reaction or getting one that you're not sure of? Ask some questions. “What does this feel like? What can I do to make this better for you?” Especially for people worried about their experience level, it’s the best way to get vital information you both need to make sure everyone has a good time. It’s the only way to get real-time updates on what’s working and what’s not.

And, if one thing isn’t working, move on to the next. Sex is an adaptive activity. You have to adapt to new partners because everyone is different. You have to adapt to new conditions and experiences, because what worked last night may be out of commission the next morning. There is no secret trick to sex, no surefire moves or guarantees, and anyone who tells you different is selling something. Why else do you think kinky people since the dawn of time have been refining and redefining how humans have sex? If there weren’t someone out there—lots and lots and lots of someones—who needed vibrators and positions and kinks to get off, do you really think we’d have so many?

And, the fact of the matter is, no one actually wants there to be surefire guarantees. Not really. That would take all the fun out of sex. Sex is the most intimate way you can get to know a person, to explore the parts of them that they don’t just let anyone muck about with. If you had some move or toy or whathaveyou that worked on everyone every time...sex would suddenly get super boring and stale very fast.

So embrace the fact that sometimes orgasms are hard. That they are sometimes impossible. Measure your sex-success by the exploration of the act. By the things you learn about yourself and your partners. By the pleasure you have overall and not just the end.

And, remember, if the sex sucked, you cannot logically hold all the blame. Your partner was there too. And, if she’s disappointed that she didn’t come, that’s partly on her too. Because, if she never told you how to get her to come—didn’t give you direction or feedback—how were you supposed to know? You’re not a mindreader and shouldn’t have to be. If coming was so important to her pleasurable experience (and it’s not to everyone, by the by)—so much so that she did the fade-away break-up—she should have fought for it more. If she didn’t work for it, especially if you were, how’s that all your fault? We're called sex partners for a reason; it's supposed to be a partnership.

And one last thing: as for the “flopping around a lot and making funny faces as you gasp and sweat all over this beautiful woman. I kept thinking that this must be what it’s like to be fucked by a fish that got stuck on shore;” that’s everyone. Sex, divorced from how much fun it is, is one of the most humiliating and disgusting acts imaginable. If it weren’t for the fact that it feels amazing, who would ever want to do it? You do rather ridiculous, odd things and look rather ridiculous and odd while doing it just to chase pleasure. Sounds a little strange and pointless saying it. 

Except, if you’re doing it right, it really does feel AMAZING. So amazing that, inexplicably, you couldn’t really care less what face that shore-stuck, gasping, flopping fish fucking you is making so long as they just keeps doing whatever they’re doing so you can make your own funny, spasmodically aquatic face. Do it enough times with that person, you start to really love that fitful fish’s facial contortions. Gives you an irrational and satisfying charge seeing it. 

Again, these are signs of success, not failure. If you’re composed enough to not make weird sounds and faces, to have the kind of flawlessly film-ready sex in porn, I’m pretty sure you could probably be having much better sex.

– Pip, Your Resident Deviant Nerd

* If you have a sex, kink, love, or life question for The Deviant Nerd, email Pip at PipJones.DeviantNerd@gmail.com. 

And read more about Pip’s story in Brought to You By.

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Café Bien - Part Two

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CHAPTER NINE: CAFE BIEN - PART TWO

Phil stood outside the conference room, his temper making him pace. He had no patience after the frantic, tense, late morning he’d had, after Sam had the gall to not only tell Jenna and him that she’d gone to a—what had she called it—munch behind their backs, but she’d told them that she planned to keep going to them. Was going to join a group.

And Pip had been the one who’d orchestrated it.

Then, to top everything off, when he’d finally dropped Sam off a school and his sister at her job, he’d had to fight his way through a vitriol-filled circus outside the Infommunity office.

This was just not his morning.

And he knew just who to blame.

He looked up as Pip walked out of the conference room. He stood up straight, his spine snapping tall. “I need to talk to you,” he barked. “Now.”

“Not right now.” Pip shook her head and tried to push past him.

He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Now,” he repeated before he tried to tug her toward the break room.

“Phil!” She wrenched back her arm before they took a single step. “First, you will not grab me like that. I do not work for you; I do not belong to you. I am not yours to order around.”

Phil stepped back and blinked, sensing her very real irritation that could easily bubble into anger. “Sorry,” he said, clasping his hand behind his back. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

She took a quick breath, relaxing a bit. “I know that,” she said. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need to be reminded from time to time.” She shook her head. “Second, I don’t have time for this right now.”

“Make time,” he insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sam’s just missed her second round of morning classes in two weeks because she decided that breakfast would be the perfect time to come out as kinky and a pathological liar.” He turned to her. “Which seems to be a contagious problem with the people in my life, seeing that you were the person she’d said was aiding and abetting her little rebellion. You were supposed to be helping me talk her out of this crap, not encourage her.”

“Phil,” Pip said, her teeth clenched as she visibly fought to keep her voice from either growling or shrieking, making her usually melodic voice sound tight and rigid, “I just said that I don’t have time.” She pushed past him again. “If you think you’re having a bad day,” she said on a scoff as she shook her head, “you have no idea. So, if you want to talk about this, it’ll have to wait until after work.”

Phil looked at her. She looked frazzled. Her usually pretty, perfectly maintained hair was unbound and looked like she’d run her hands through it too often. She wasn’t wearing makeup—something he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her without—her features looking softer, fainter.

He missed her boldness. The surety and self-possessed poise she usually wore effortlessly.

“Okay,” he agreed with a nod. “After work.”

“Thank you.” Pip began to walk away. “But,” she said, turning back around, “just for the record, I wasn’t encouraging Sam. I was just showing her—if she’s going to do this, and it sure looks like she is—how to do it right.”

Phil rolled his eyes, even as a part of him knew she was right. Didn’t mean he had to like it. And didn’t mean he wanted it to continue.

“And,” she added pointedly, “if you keep treating her like she’s a criminal, despite her efforts to be open and honest with you about this, you can’t be surprised when she continually tries to break out of your prison.”

He cringed at that. He would have said she was being overdramatic. If he hadn’t been the one to start the criminal analogy.

“And, if you try treating me like one,” she said, “when all I’m doing is trying to help you and your niece, you’d better believe me when I say that, if I wanted to teach your niece how to act out and rebel, I know all the tricks; don’t give me a reason.”

Yeah, looking down and rubbing his jaw as he tried to hide his smile, he bet that she did.

“And, lastly,” she said, “before I try to salvage what’s left of this really awful day, when you pass your high and mighty judgment on something, you might want to actually know something about it.”

Phil scoffed. “I know enough.”

“You don’t know anything,” Pip sassed, swiveling her hips. “At least about this. You can’t learn this from some egghead article. You can’t know it from some trumped up, biased documentary. And you—of all people—would never think you could, if we were talking about chemistry or medicine or—I don’t know—baseball. If it were any other subject, you would never rely on a handful of other people’s opinions to form your own. You would have demanded to know more. You would have done your own research. You would have looked at all the facts, looked at it from all the angles, and, only after you’d learned everything you could, would you have come up with your conclusion.” She shook her head and gave a humorless laugh. “But, with this, you’re perfectly content to look for all the evidence that backs up your initial conclusion, happily ignoring everything else. Maybe you might want to think about asking a few more questions, Egghead, you know, for the sake of science.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving Phil with some pretty uncomfortable thoughts.

———

“Well, good for you!” Joelle cheered as they picked up their coffees from the service counter. “Knock that boy down a few pegs.”

“I’m glad you stood up for yourself.” Logan nodded and sipped his tea. “He should be grateful to have you in his life—and his niece’s life—and it’s past time he started to realize it.” He paused. “Though I’m not sure about you taking this girl to those kinds of events.”

“She does seem young.” Joelle shrugged. “My mother would definitely have locked me in my room forever, if I’d been even thinking about anything like that.” She snorted. “Still would.”

“Which just encourages more secrets,” Pip pointed out, “not less.”

Logan grimaced. “Look, Lord knows, I know all about living proudly, but even you have to admit that there are certain things about your love life that you don’t want your parents to know.”

Pip shook her head. “No one needs details, but I would think, as a parent, you’d want to know what’s going on with your kid, who they’re hanging out with and what they’re getting into.”

Though she supposed her own mother, for a long time, had preferred denial. It’d created this barrier between them; the one thing, that despite how close they were otherwise, the two couldn’t talk about.

Being poly, Pip hadn’t been able to introduce her partners to her mother, not as her partners anyway. Always friends of hers. She hadn’t been able to share so many of her personal and relationship joys. Hadn’t been able to have her mother over to her home, not without a ridiculously thorough cleaning. Hell, her mother hadn’t even been able to bring herself to read or listen to any of her work. She’d known what Pip did for a living; she just hadn’t wanted to.

For her mother, it wasn’t just that she hadn’t wanted to know details; she hadn’t wanted to know the truth about her daughter.

And, because Pip loved her mother, she’d let her decide their boundaries. But it’d hurt that there’d been parts of Pip’s life, whole chunks of her, that clearly weren’t welcome in her mother’s. It’d made it near impossible to keep her mother in her life. To be both present and stay so hidden.

It’d taken so much courage to confront her mother about it. To refuse to keep her mother’s lies. Her mother didn’t need to know everything, but Pip couldn’t let her deny the truth. Pip was who she was and no amount of her mother wishing or pretending otherwise would change it.

So they’d agreed that her mother would greet and welcome her partners as her partners, whomever they were. She would acknowledge her work and be proud of her daughter’s accomplishments. And, if she was staying in town, she’d stay at a hotel.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was the way it should be. And, while there were parts of Pip’s life her mother was less than thrilled about, Pip knew that she loved and accepted her. That she wanted her daughter, however she got there, to be happy.

That was what Pip wanted for Sam too.

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Café Bien - Part One

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CHAPTER NINE: CAFE BIEN - PART ONE

The freshest ingredients. The friendliest service. Because everyone deserves a break.

Pip and Sam walked into Café Bien together. They’d both been silent the entire ride over. Sam was undoubtedly nervous. And all Pip could think about was that she was taking Phil’s niece to a munch behind his back. It wasn’t the greatest idea in the world—she knew that—and she would almost certainly pay for it later. But, she was sure, it was still the right thing to do.

Pip had been like Sam at that age. Too curious. Armed with just enough information to get herself into serious trouble. Sam was going to learn about BDSM and kink. She’d more than proven that she could. Pip just wanted to be sure that Sam learned how to do it right.

They’d shown up about twenty minutes early, so the party room was still pretty empty. Max and a few volunteers were pushing tables into place and stacking board games and decks of cards at each table. Kat Valdez-Richards, another Donovan’s moderator, was talking to the café’s owner, Rachel Haut.

“Pip,” she heard a voice greet from behind her.

She turned and saw Danielle Atali and her tall, lanky, redheaded boyfriend, Chris Carey, walk in. She walked toward the pretty, young woman and gave her a hug. “It’s good to see you; it’s been a while.”

“Well,” the young woman said with a toss of her long, curly hair, “there were finals and then my parents decided to take the family on a cruise before class started up again.”

“Glad you could make it this time,” Pip said. “I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.” She gestured for Sam to come closer. “Danielle, this is Sam Schaffer, the girl I was telling you about.” Placing her hand on Sam’s shoulder, she smiled. “Sam, this is Danielle Atali. She heads CinKY, the local college kinky youth group.”

“Welcome.” Danielle reached out to shake Sam’s hand. “Glad you came. C’mon,” she said in her disarmingly brazen way, taking Sam’s arm, “let’s grab a good game before they’re all taken.”

Pip watched Danielle lead Sam and the lanky boy to the game table and smiled, knowing Sam was in good hands.

“That her?” Max asked, coming up to Pip. “The girl you were telling us about?”

Pip nodded. “Yeah, she called me up this morning and asked if she could come.”

Max raised a cautious eyebrow. “Does her uncle know she’s here?”

Pip tilted her head. “I figured this might be a case where begging forgiveness might be better than asking permission.” Phil would never have let her come and that would have been Sam’s loss. This way, even if she got grounded and Phil held a grudge against Pip, Sam would have this experience under her belt. She’d have the connections she’d make. She’d know she wasn’t alone.

Yeah, that was worth a little groveling later.

“Well, good luck with that.” Max sighed, shaking her head. “Because something tells me her uncle won’t agree.”

———

Sam laughed and sat at the table with Danielle, her boyfriend Chris, Hallie Hannings—a beautiful woman who was dating the café’s owner—Cora Jameson—a sweet-looking, but competitively intense woman—and Peter and Kat Richards—a married couple who were too good at this game—as they played Apples to Apples.

Sam was having a great time. They hadn’t said a word about kink, not really. Nothing beyond maybe a racy round or two—What’s touchy-feely? Whips. Chains. Friction. My friends.—or an offhand comment here or there. Hadn’t really done all that much more than share a round of cheese fries, sip coffee, and play cards. The munch wasn’t anything like Sam thought it would be—not that she’d really known exactly what to expect—but it was nice.

People joined in on rounds and left others to mingle or eat. Over the three hours she’d been there, Sam had met more people than she’d ever be able to remember; everyone greeting her like she was already a friend.

A part of her was almost a little disappointed that there’d been no offers to play or meet-up later. With Fischer and even with other people on Steele’s Secret, Sam had often had to be the breaks, sidestepping requests for scenes or contracts or postponing phone calls or face-to-face meetings. She was used to being chased.

But here, while she wasn’t exactly the one chasing, she certainly felt like the one going after what she wanted.

The night dwindled down and the games were nearly done when the moderators decided to start cleaning up. Sam helped Danielle and Chris gather the cards back into the box before they all began to push the tables and chairs back into place. “Donovan’s munches are usually once a month, but CinKY meets up every week to discuss BDSM and kink and just life and love in general; you should come,” Danielle told her as they grabbed the ends of a table. “You’ll like it. I’ll send you the info.” She lifted the heavy furniture over the café’s tile.

“Thanks,” Sam said as they set the room to rights.

Once everything was put back and packed up, Sam and Pip walked back to her car. “So,” Pip asked as she fished out her keys, “did you have fun?”

“Oh yeah.” Sam slid into the passenger seat. “It was great. I got invited to join CinKY.”

“I heard.” Pip nodded and smiled. “If you need a ride, let me know,” she told her. “I don’t typically attend those.” They were for college students. “But I can always play chauffeur.”

Sam bit her lip. She’d wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure how. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Pip shrugged. “I’ll just bring along my laptop and get some work done while you’re there. You’ve just got to do one thing for me,” she qualified.

“Anything.”

“You’ve got to start talking to your mom and uncle,” Pip said, pulling to a stop at a light. She looked at her. “You can’t hide this from them. They’re going to find out eventually. And, the longer you wait, the more of a chance that they’ll hear some other way than you being honest with them. And that isn’t fair. Or right.”

Sam stifled back a sigh. Well, that was a conversation Sam did not want to have. She pouted. “I thought you’d said that this life was private?”

“What you do, when you do it, how you do it,” Pip said with a shake of her head, pulling forward when the light turned green, “that’s no one’s business but yours and the people you do it with. Details are private and you shouldn’t have to share that with anyone you don’t want to.” Then she sighed. “But not telling the people who care about you who you are and who you choose to be with, to let them worry and wonder like that,” Pip frowned and shook her head as she said, “that makes it sound like you’ve got something to hide.” She shot Sam a pointed look. “Like even you think what you’re doing is wrong. Because, if it wasn’t, what would you have to hide?”

Sam bit her lip and sat back in her seat, thinking about that the rest of the way home.

———

Pip sat at the Infommunity conference table, staring at the huge screen covering the width of the wall. Wendy Graceland was interviewing a tall, thin man in a nice, simple suit with clean, crisp lines. The well-groomed man looked as determined and dedicated as a political poster. He couldn’t have looked more All-American if the flag was waving behind him and “We Want You” was blazed in bold front in front of him.

“Mr. Wayne,” Wendy said, thrusting a microphone in front of him, as the wind blew about them, “you’re here in front of Infommunity’s headquarters with the Foundation for Defending Families, with petitions and handouts promoting awareness, correct?” She tilted her head in dramatic wonder. “Awareness of what exactly?”

“Well, Wendy,” Lionel Wayne said, not a single silvering hair on his head blowing out of place, “after we saw your report last week, we knew that we needed to demand better regulations for what’s available for children—and for people as a whole—on the internet. So we’ve started what we’re calling the Tracy Meyers campaign, where we’re urging people to not only contact their legislator about stricter guidelines for what’s considered adult content online, but also to boycott any and all companies and sites, like Infommunity, who blithely pump inappropriate and pornographic content without concern for whose hands that information ends up in.”

Wendy gave another practiced, thoughtful tilt of her head. “So you’re saying that this isn’t just about Pip Jones’s Deviant Nerd podcast, but that it’s Infommunity, as a whole, that should be held accountable?”

“Yes,” Wayne answered. “Before Infommunity hired Miss Jones, hers was just one more barely discernible voice in a sea of cyber entertainment. But since Infommunity gave her a ready-made, global platform, her listener base and readership has skyrocketed. They, as much as Miss Jones, planted those thoughts in Tracy Meyers’s head. They handed her the tools that led to her unfortunate end. So we’re asking people to not only boycott Miss Jones, or even just Infommunity, but also any and all advertisers who are featured on their site. We have a list of those companies as well as links to our petition on our website. We encourage anyone who’s concerned about where our world, our youth, and our future is headed thanks to the unregulated flow of information to please read our message and join our cause.”

Will turned off the television and pinched the bridge of his nose just under his glasses. “They’ve been playing this interview all day.”

“And those people have been camped out there since five this morning.” Nita sneered as she flipped her long braid off her shoulder. “And they don’t look like they’re leaving any time soon.”

Yeah, Pip had had a hell of a time getting into the office this morning. The minute she’d walked up to the property, she’d been mobbed by sign-toting, slogan-shouting protesters. And, while they’d certainly targeted most of their vehemence toward her, Pip knew her coworkers were getting an unfair amount of it as well.

She sighed, feeling her heart lurch and her stomach churn. “Are you canceling The Deviant Nerd?” She would certainly understand, if they did. The mob was doing everything they could—hitting every possible angle—to make it impossible for the company to work.

“No.” Nita shook her head. “We hired you because we believe in what you do. Think what you have to say is worth saying.”

“And deserves a chance to be heard,” Will agreed as he smacked his hands flat on his desk. “We’re an information site; we won’t be bullied by censors who believe that there’s acceptable and unacceptable kinds of knowledge.”

She nodded, breathing out a sigh of relief. That was why she’d been so eager to join their site in the first place. “But?” she asked, knowing that that wasn’t the end of it.

“Our investors and advertisers are asking that, at the very least,” Nita said, “we do something to make sure that the information meant for adults is reserved for adults and doesn’t end up in kids’ and teens’ hands.”

“How do you propose we do that?” As far as Pip knew, the only thing that flagged her stuff as adult was a mature content page asking a reader if they were over eighteen. Not exactly Fort Knox. It was barely TSA.

“We don’t know,” Will answered, running his hands over his spiked hair. “We want you to think about it, come up with some ideas, and create a proposal we can take to our investors and advertisers.”

Pip’s eyes bugged. “You want me to come up with the solution?”

“We brought you on,” Nita reminded her, “because we know that you’re smart and clever and you think outside the traditional, everyday box most of us live in.” She smiled encouragingly at her. “You can do this.”

“And our door is always open,” Will assured her, “but The Deviant Nerd is yours; deciding where it goes and how it gets there has to come first and foremost from you.”

Pip nodded, definitely nervous but also really grateful. They were right. This was hers. It soared or sunk with her. They were all in this mess because of her; it should be her who got them all out.

And they were right. She could do this. She’d gotten herself this far. She wasn’t about to give up everything she’d worked for because some uptight reporter and her values-voter spokesman were trying to run Pip off.

READ PART TWO 

 

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