My phone starts to vibrate. I pick it up and look at the message that has just arrived. ‘Do you think I could make your life very interesting with just two words? The first word is, edge.’ My breathing becomes faster, my muscles start clenching, images flash through my mind as I feel my body ramp up from day to day monotonous task, to be right on the verge of coming. Just like that, one word, and my body is off and going. I don’t have to touch myself. It all settles in my brain and it sets my body in motion for the command it’s been trained to obey. Wait. That’s one word. What’s the other? Just as the thought flashes in my mind, another message arrives. ‘Well, the second word might be stop. Or maybe it’s something more like come, but probably not.’ I can feel my desire growing by the second. ‘Edge’

I grit my teeth and ping back, ‘I’m already edging you sadistic bastard.’ Oh hell, was I really stupid enough to send that message? I quickly type out another. ‘By which I mean, yes, Sir.’

Bing. I look at my screen. ‘Sto…. Sto…Edge bitch!’ Oh Christ. I can feel the wetness running down my cunt and coating down into my ass.

‘How wet do you want me, because I’m in overdrive here, Sir?’

‘Edge. NOW COME TO DEATH YOU FUCKING SEX ADDICTED SLAG!’

’Ah yes! Bloody fucking hell yes! The climax bursts from me as my body goes into autopilot. ’Oh Sir, that is so damn good, so damn fucking good.’ I know I’m ranting, but I can’t stop myself.

’Come on my cock! Climb on top and show me those runner‘s thighs in action.’ I drive you deep inside my cunt. I ride you, sliding up and down. Milking your cock as I go. I‘d normally start out slow, but tonight, you’ve got me so fucking wet it wouldn’t last for long before I’m just slamming down hard onto your cock. I feel like I should make it last, but damn I love the feel of your cock inside of me. I clench my cunt muscles on your cock each time I pull up. ‘You’re going to start to come. You have three breaths left. The third time you breathe out, it’s going to start you coming.’

‘Oh! It’s so hard and wet and warm. I love your cock. I love fucking your cock. Oh yes, yes, yes, Sir.’

’COME!’ I close my legs tightly together. I feel the orgasm inside of me. I close my eyes. It feels so damn good. ’I did say two words.’ I can hear his laugh and see his playful smirk.

‘Yes sir, you did. You surely did and boy am I grateful, Sir.’

‘You’re a good girl.’

‘I do what I can but I’m going to need to go get a towel to sit on if we keep this up, Sir.’

’Just remember, two words.’ With that, my phone goes silent for the rest of the night.

‘I just think you should have my cock inside of you at all times. In fact, I think you should take my cock into your mouth and when I come, you should rub my come all over your face.’

It was said so simply, but those words sent a shiver through me. I close my eyes and imagine. To feel so totally filled, and to have his mark of ownership drying on my skin. I can feel my arousal rising.

‘Edge!’ You command me. Instantly, I can feel something clench low and inside of me. My breathing speeds up, my mouth goes dry. I can feel myself just on the verge of my orgasm.

‘Ooooh, yes, Sir, that feels so good. Right there.’ I am just about there, but not quite. My whole body primed for release. I hover there, right on the brink.

’Feel the clothespegs on your nipples?’ Do I ever! That pinching, the gentle pull on my nipple each time I move, each time my body shifts. But I know, this, this is nothing compared to the pain and pure pleasure that will coarse through my body when those clothespegs are released. I respond with a gentle mmmhhhhmm of my own. I can see his smile.

‘And the ginger, slut? The ginger in your ass. Can you feel that?’ Are you fricking kidding me! The thought buzzes through my brain but I thankfully manage not to let those words come spewing out of my mouth. The consequences could be dire.

‘Yes, yes Sir. I can feel it. It fills up my ass and the burning, Sir. How it burns!’ Each minute, the heat level rises and each time it rises, my arousal escalates with it.

One word. That’s all he says. ‘Beg.’ With that one word, my brain scrambles, it tries to grab on to words but they seem to be flying out of my brain too quickly for me to take hold. I close my eyes and try to focus. To just try to say anything as my need shoots ever upward.

‘Oh good Lord, Sir. Please! Please! Oooh it’s so good. So good, Sir. Please. May I? I want. I want. I need. Please, Sir.’ My words tumble from my mouth. Barely making sense. I know I need to hold off until he says. I try so hard, but I can feel that pressure mounting, as I start to lose control of my body as it becomes of thing of sensation and pleasure.

‘It’s good to want, you greedy little whore.’

“Yes, yes, Sir! I know it is! I know! It’s good to want, Sir, but please, please, I’m so close. So very close. Please!’ I beg with all of my heart. This waiting, just there, on the edge is making my brain go into meltdown.

’5. 4.‘ He starts counting down. I know it‘s not long now. My body is primed, ready to explode as soon as I hear the word. I can hear the whimpering coming out of my mouth. Where’s the three? Where’s the bleedin’ three? Time seems to stretch on. I can hear myself screaming inside of my head. Say it! Say it you bastard. Three! Fucking three!

’3. Can you still feel that ginger in your asshole? Is it still burning? Or have you forgotten all about it?’ I scream in frustration as my fist slams down. Abruptly, I am reminded of the clothespegs on my nipples. Oh the pain! The sweet, sweet pain.The burning is driving me crazy as it permeates my entire body. Any lame attempt at coherency is gone. Utterly and completely. ‘Best put something in your mouth before you scream.’ I grab the nearest thing to hand and shove it into my mouth. ‘2. 1. Come for me, cunt!’ As his words reach me, I let loose the tight hold I had on my body as all of that pent up arousal ripped through my body.

A muffled scream emits from my mouth as wave after wave of orgasm washed over me. My back arches and my whole body pushes against the air as if possessed. ‘Aaaahh! Oh fuck! Yea! Yes! Oh hell yes! It still burns, Sir. It still burns! Again please, Sir, again.’

’What a greedy bitch you are.’ I can hear the chuckle in his voice. ‘Take my cum! Take it on your face. Does it burn your eyes? Burning eyes. Burning cunt, burning ass. Come for me you insatiable slut.’ My whole body releases. I thrash and feel my head rocking back and forth, my whole body straining as if it’s being held back by something but it’s just one small death after another. Every inch of me thrumming. I can feel the blood being pumped around my body. I feel as if I can feel everything in the room as it takes up space around me. I swear I can feel every molecule brushing against my skin, gentle as a whisper.

‘Please, please, Sir, may I rub your cum all over my face and breasts, Sir?’ I pant as I try to catch my breath.

‘Absolutely, and if it accidentally makes you cum, you can't help it because you’re a filthy animal, meant for fucking, and you can't stop cumming while you're being hurt and degraded.’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes I am! I love the pain. I am a greedy whore and slut. I want it all. I do. I want to feel every orifice filled. To have you spread all over my body, Sir.’

‘You are. You're not really yourself unless you've got cocks in you. I think you need some cunt in your mouth as well, don’t you? And are you wet my little slut?’

I plead him, ‘yes! Yes, I do! It’s been so long! I am dripping wet, Sir. It’s how you like me. It’s how I like me. I could do with a mouthful. Male, female whichever. Let me show you the skills I have that will make you proud to own me.’

’I'll stop calling you a fucking semihuman slut whose brain is in her cunt and empty mouth if it doesn't turn you on, but it does turn you on doesn’t it?

‘Yes, yes sir it does.’

‘Come for me slut!’ As if flipping a switch, my whole body tenses and I scream as yet another climax slams my brain to the side and I throw my knees out open wide and push my soaking wet cunt into the air as my cum comes spurting out of me. I can’t hold a thought. I can’t make a word. I just scream in pure ecstasy. ‘You know, I’d let my other slave lick you, but I don't want the poor girl to drown in that flash flood you have down there. You utterly filthy fuckpick.’

I swallow hard, trying to get some moisture in my mouth so I might have a chance at speaking. ‘It’s one of the things you value about me, Sir.’ I hear him laugh. ‘So very true. I adore and cherish you. How are you feeling my property?’

’Content, Sir, very content.’

It’s a Turn Down Day

May 13, 2024

If you have the chance

If you dare to dare

Take it and run as far as you can

For any direction you go

Beats not going at all

I stood on the bridge overlooking the ice floe. Seventy feet down, freezing cold water, and a pitch black night have all of the makings of a successful suicide. I contemplated my action as I weighed my options.

I am 14 years old with a bleak future. If past performance is indicative of future returns, I will be sadly disappointed. Such is my life.

The slow moving ice reminds me of the clouds in movies where the protagonist and antagonist both see different visions within. You would think the same clouds would only have one POV, but that would make for poor cinema.

Once again, I am disappointed with my lot in life.

What do I have to look forward to? Ending another sentence with a preposition?

It is not as if everyone hates me, or doesn’t understand what I understand. I didn’t ask to be born, but who gets this prenatal choice in the first place? I am told, by people whose life doesn’t seem so envious, that I have much to look forward to. These wizards of wit cite my first kiss, prom, graduation, college, marriage, having kids and seeing them grow, and retirement as examples. However, where I live, nobody has mastered these skills. Nobody fondly reminisces about each of these watershed moments. Shouldn’t someone, somewhere, set the gold standard for others to follow? Why hasn’t my school hired one of these people? That would be a class I might not ditch.

And yet, as I look down, the ice beckons me to follow its ordained path. Its siren song resonates in my mind, almost alluring, almost bewitching me to action.

All I need to accomplish is to not accomplish anything. Just let go. Just take that leap. Just trust that when I chose not to decide, I still will have made a choice. A final choice.

I find myself on the perimeter of my Venn diagram in the land of null set alternatives.

The floe looks comfortable, looks viable. It covers bank to bank, from upstream to downstream, as far as the eye can see. The cold air offers me nothing I don’t already have, which is not much. The combination of the two is almost overwhelming.

Then, I no longer think in terms of “almost”.

If anyone cares, let my tombstone read, “It's a Turn Down Day.”

And I dig it.

I close my eyes. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I open my eye and raise my arm. I shake my head, lower my arm and inhale sharply. I try to count as I breath out. ’This isn’t going to get any better,’ I tell myself. I decide just to keep my eyes closed. Maybe it will be easier that way. I raise my right arm, I reach out into the darkness, and let out the breath I was holding. I rap solidly on the door before me. I can hear footsteps approaching. I can’t face it. I should turn and go, but that would really defeat the purpose. As I hear the door unlock and the hinges start to creak, I lower my head ever so slightly but I open my eyes. As the door swings open, it’s almost as if motion is frozen in time. There’s a stillness, a shock, that neither of us has quite recovered from. I can hear the tremor in my voice as I quietly speak. Just one word. ‘Sir.’

He stands there with a tea towel in his hand, just looking at me. Was this a mistake after all? Should I not have come? I can feel the pleading in my eyes. He merely steps back and waves his arm to the side, ushering me in. Still, he hasn’t spoken. I try to find my voice. It comes out almost like a croak. ‘I thought you might have need of me.’ Still, no response. I approach, taking his hand in mine and gently pull him towards the sofa. He sits and just looks baffled. I take the tea towel from his hand and walk towards the kitchen.

I find a sink full of dishes, and boxes scattered all about the room. I roll up my sleeves and start washing up. Slowly, methodically, I make my way through the first mound of dishes, the only sound I hear is the clinking of the dishes as I wash each one. I pull the plug out of the drain and as I hear the water trickle out of the sink, I grab a clean saucepan, fill it with water and set it on the hob to boil. I look around, opening cupboards searching for what I need, realising that it may all still be packed. Eventually, my search proves fruitful as I find a mug. I reach into my backpack that I’d discarded earlier and pull out some proper tea. Once the water boils, I pour it gently over the tea leaves, waiting for it to brew perfectly. I strain Out the tea leaves and make my way back into the other room. He is still sitting where I’d directed him, looking thoroughly baffled. I give him the cup of tea and step back and kneel.

He shakes his head as if he can’t quite believe I’m there, in front of him. He reaches out and touches me, as if he’s afraid I might melt away into the realm of hallucinations. Okay, clearly it’s been a shock. A bit more of a surprise than I thought it would be. I still can’t tell what he’s thinking. cant predict what he will do next. He looks exhausted. No matter what he thinks, I believe I made the right move. He sips his tea and just keeps his eyes on me. I wait. It’s not my strength but it seems to be what he needs of me. As he finishes his tea, I gently take the mug from his hand and return it to the kitchen. I return to him. I do a quick assessment of the flat. I grab a pillow and toss it towards the arm of the sofa. I approach apprehensively. I place my hands on his shoulders and turn his body and gently push him down onto the sofa. I grab the blanket off the back and drape it over him. I brush the backs of my fingers across his cheek. ‘You do have need of me,’ I state boldly, wishing I was feeling more confident of myself. ‘Sleep? Please?’ With that, I turn and return to the kitchen.

As the sink refills for the next load of dishes to wash, I look around. It is a lot for any person. I reassure myself. It was good I came. I fall into a rhythm and between each load, I sneak a peek out into the lounge. He is sleeping peacefully. I move quietly.

From the kitchen, I move to the bedroom. I start unpacking clothes and folding them and putting them into drawers. Hopefully, he won’t mind my organisation of his things. I grab hangers and start hanging up the clothes that should go in the closet. I smile to myself as I remember his threats and his follow through of just what he could do with a hanger. I found it hard to sit down for the better part of a week after that encounter. I lose myself in my reminiscing.

I break down the now empty boxes and set them next to the front door in a neat pile. I make my way across to him. I sit on the floor and for a few minutes beside him. I listen to the reassuring sound of his breathing. Just seeing him there, resting, made the trip worthwhile. I lean forward and kiss his cheek. I look around. Right. Books.

I find his keys on a hook by the door. I let myself out and wander out to the street. I know what I’m looking for, I just have no idea where I am. I roam the local neighbourhood until I spot what I need. A few blocks away, behind a small shop, there is a stack of milk crates. Just what every book lover needs. I make several trips and bring them back to the flat, being painfully careful not to make a sound.

I go through the boxes, organising all the books in alphabetical and Dewey order, I am a librarian after all, I could hardly do less. I hum along to the songs in my head and as the light fades away and darkness begins to steal its way into the flat, I finish with the last of them. I add the most recent boxes to the existing pile. I look around, well pleased.

I sit on the floor by the sofa debating what to do next. He needs his sleep so badly. Do I wake him to feed him or do I let him sleep. In the end, he looks so peaceful that I can’t bring myself to wake him.

I curl up in a ball on the ground next to the sofa and I wait. Just wait. I drift off to sleep at some point and wake to the feeling of fingertips brushing lightly through my hair. I look up and smile. The early light is just breaking in through the windows. ‘I came to serve,’ I whisper softly. I move my face upward and kiss the palm of his hand. I still can’t quite read his face. Those doubts from when I jumped on the plane rose up in me again. Is he pleased? Annoyed? I scan his face, looking for any clue. Just as my fear that I may have displeased him by coming here with no word, no notice, starts to reach a feverish pitch, I see it. That slow smile spreading across his lips. He takes in all the progress I’ve made in the last day. He shakes his head, stands to his feet and takes my chin in his hand and raises my eyes to his.

‘I am a very lucky and very happy Master and I am well pleased.’

I am a solemn individual,

filled with horrible memories that were made to bend, not to build.

I still persist, like a horrible ache in your back you try to fix.

I am made of scar tissue and blood. Blood spilled from my own flesh, covered with thin bands of reminders of those moments. I don't think there is an inch of my forearms unmarred, and I can see the visible indents on my thigh if it gets hot enough.

Still, I persist. In this body that once housed a little girl ever so loved, and a teenager ever so traumatized and darkened in her soul.

I remain every bit them both, whilst making room for who I am now. They like to make their appearances, and while it is exhausting housing so many beings, I appreciate their vitality.

Should I not have that child within me I would not find such love within a body of water, nor how the sun reflects on its bumps. I doubt id care so much for my family in the way I do now, pouring every hour and breath I have into each gift given for the holidays.

Should I not have my teen, I imagine id be very dull. I wouldn't be so resilient, I wouldn't be so sure-footed. I would not have saved as many lives as I did knowing those struggling as well as myself at an early age.

But I house those souls, too- the ones in the in-between. My preteen self, my early twenties that feel much more like something else rather than adulthood.

I house them, as they are my creativity. I speak to you now through that unsure middle plane of being twenty-two, longing to be an author and yet unsure. Struck between a broke addiction or complete loneliness.

I am a house of memories. A mind that builds and bends. And I love each inhabitant, and cherish their souls so long forgotten or marred by times cruel freezer; forever holding them within the gaze of those who did not see her. Did not see me.

Ishril 25, 4633 AIA

We have a problem with the shipment. I've just come back from the Taijis Nil library to find a message waiting for me on my desk. I only came back because my slate wouldn't stop buzzing. Urgent message, flashing bright and clear on the black screen. Now here I am with this note telling me I need to speak to the Guardian of External Affairs as soon as possible.

I'm Deputy Assistant Curator for the museum, so I've never talked with a Guardian before. It's not impossible, of course, but it does make me anxious. That sticky feeling that I must've done something wrong. It's not real, but boy does it feel like it is.

I want to head over there straight away, since it is the Guardian xirself, after all. But I sit at my desk and I wonder, what could possibly be so urgent about a shipment of junk from the Nas Ashca?

And it is junk, don't get me wrong, to pretty much everyone else outside the museum stores, it's pretty much useless. Dead tech from five thousand years ago, often more, mostly just mangled metal we can put aside to be recycled or reused. That's why it'd never get approval for a dragonlift, so it's coming overland instead.

Nobody ignores a Guardian, so I now I have to drop everything and head up to see xem, I suppose.

All I wanted was a quiet day, and a quiet life. You're going to have to put up with me whinging now, but I can't for the life of me work out why the Builders—all those brave souls who put so much work into tunnelling this city out of the canyon rock with what primitive kata skills they had to hand at the time—decided to put a library so close to what is, in real terms, the frontline in an endless war.

Why not put the library well back, out of harm's way? Nobody's going to want to get a book or pop ino the museum for a quick tour on the way to fight, are they? Are they?

I think all of this as I wend my nervous way over to the elevators. It's like a warren down here, but even with several thousand tons of rock between me and that hideous rend in reality they call the Gap, I can still feel it every time the bloody thing rips open.

We all can, of course. If you were born in an Exclusion Zone, inside a Barrier, then you know what I mean. Like somebody put metal needles in your teeth and bones and pulled you inside out. I don't know how all those Warrior and Watcher classes do it. Defending the Line. Fighting until the sifradan and the seers can get the Gap closed again.

I know I couldn't.

I like my quiet, I'm not gonna lie. Isha blessed me, I guess, with the sort of skills for sorting out objects in a museum store and stacking books, because you wouldn't see me anywhere nearer a Gap than I ever have to get.

I'm rambling. Here we are. The elevator, just the one this far down because there's only five of us who work down here, so we don't need more than one. I don't use the stairs; my legs won't take it. I can tell the Gap's open right now. My teeth pulse, my gums taste of metal. And my legs—I'm so glad of the elevators. If I had to use the stairs I'd die. They'd have to bring all the objects up to me in our home.

So, while I'm here in the elevator, I try to plan what I'm going to say to the Guardian. My slate's a good distraction. I send a message over to Ajaë to let xem know what's going on.

<Message from the Guardian Anarya. Xe wants to speak to me about a problem with a junk shipment from the Nas Ashca. I might be late home.>

Ajaë's busy; xe doesn't reply right away. Xe's always busy, the cheetah to my sloth. I struggle through the world on my failing legs and my failing heart, the kata eating away at me, and xe's the hero saving the world.

Well, xe manages all the tricky ways kata can be used to store data on the Amnet, so of course he's busy.

Right. We're at the right floor. I've never been up here before. Isha's sacred tits, the ceilings are high, and vaulted, too. It's busy, too. Nothing to do with me or my shipment, of course. Service staff and assistants are hurrying back and forth because the Gap's live and that keeps everyone on their toes.

I have to weave my way around them (not easy with my legs being daft from standing in the elevator), and make sure I don't bump into anyone. They all look important in their smart uniforms and stylish hair cuts. Bushu locs are in again this year, but they don't suit my hair. I'm Taija, and my hair's too thin, so I leave it natural.

Why am I thinking about hair? Oh, it's because it's one of the things the Gap can affect. Along with everything else. Hair, nails... Big windows give me a panoramic view of the canyon, the sharp rise of the West Wall with all its own windows and terraces, the waterfall at the very head (one upside of living this deep into Amin Duum's Zone, the constant background rushing noise).

And down on the canyon floor, everyone keeping all the flora and fauna under control as the loose kata from the Gap sets them off, too.

I thought I might be suited to Botanist Class when I was very young. I do love plants, but there was an incident—let's not go into that—and I stuck to the sort of objects not liable to suddenly spring to violent life and lash out whenever the Gap goes live.

Objects are affected, but their molecules are more stable than biological organisms, so it's not so dramatic. Worst we get in the museum stores is when something falls off a table without a warning.

So, I shuffle along to the side with the windows, catching some much-needed desert sun (Ajaë tells me I need more, and I nod but ignore him). Where am I going? I've not been up here before but the message said to come to the Guardian's quarters. What would they ask me to do if the Guardian was back home in Rad Ruinn? I don't know.

Now we're at the end of the corridor, I get to see the screens. These are like slates, some kind of special. kata-reinforced glass, but bigger. Anyone who wants can see a readout of data from the Gap Chamber itself. I flick a look, just out of curiosity you understand, and see a bunch of names and insignia I don't recognise.

Sacred Isha, keep them all alive and safe. May your blessing be with them this day.

A knot has gathered around the screens. "Wow, that's a bad one," somebody who can understand all those complex kata stats says. "Gonna be a long afternoon."

"Tanaka was saying they're gonna start calling in the—"

"Excuse me." I butt in, because my slate just buzzed again and I know what that'll be. I don't want to keep the Guardian waiting. As a group they all turn to stare, and suddenly I'm so aware of how I'm not wearing one of those official uniforms with the sashes.

I have one, of course I do, but if you spend all your time several feet underground sorting through dusty objects you don't wear it. It's only just now that I realise this. I'm not wearing a neat jacket and breeches and sashes. I adjust my work smock and apron, as if I'd meant to dress this way.

"I'm looking for the Guardian of External Affairs," I say, to collective raising of eyebrows.

For some of us, the world has to carry on even when the Gap is open. Our teeth might be tingling and our fingertips burning, but our jobs must march on.

"That way," says one sporting Bushu locs and having an especially elaborate face tattoo.

"Thank you." I give them an obligatory little bow, but they've already swivelled their group attention back to the screens, the feeds, and their analysis of the evolving fight.

I limp in the direction I've been sent, happy to be ignored. This can't be serious, I'll be back downstairs in a blink, I tell myself. Or I tell my hips and my back, which are already whinging about all this moving about.

I've been sent down a corridor with big windows and bright afternoon sunshine on one side and a series of doors on the other. Double doors, single doors, large doors, small doors. In between each doors, images of the High Ashad Isha Xirself in various life scenes.

I pause. I've not seen these before, but they're early. Really early. I would say early Builders, judging by the style. I must've read some research papers on the meaning of these poses, the use of bas relief, the colour.

I'm getting distracted. If I wasn't being constantly buffetted by people hurrying about with fretful expressions, I could stand here for hours. Even my lower body hushes, as if my femurs and pelvis are as fascinated by pre-Alliance history as my brain.

Helpfully, somebody has thought to put up good signage and three doors down, I find one of the double doors standing wide open and marked with the Sign of the Guardian of External Affairs. Immediately beneath this delicately carved arch, an owlish person stands, holding an unusually large slate and blinking frequently up and down the corridor.

At the sight of me, plainly out of place here, this person stretches up onto xir tiptoes and leans over, a heronish posture as if xe might pluck me out of the river of the corridor. I stop, alarmed, and lean back to avoid this.

"SDAC Tabishka?" Owlish has an appropriately hooting voice. Nobody uses my full title in that form. It takes me a blink to reply.

"Yes, you wanted to see me?" This isn't the Guardian of External Affairs. I might be a dusty creature from under the Taijis Nil library itself, but not even I am so uninitiated into the rarified air of the Caipashad that I don't know what a Guardian might look like.

This is an assistant. A senior assistant, of course, but still an assistant.

"Follow me." The assistant rotates like a top and strides off on a pair of long legs with a lot more power in them than I have in mine. I scuttle past him, but I'm breathless and aching a yard or so beyond the doorway. I huff, in a circular antechamber of some sort, with yet more bas reliefs of Isha.

I'd like a pause. "Could we stop here so I can sit down and break?" I hold up a hand to seek out support but it stops, hovers in the air because right in front of me is a scene I know so well but I've never seen this before.

"Of course." I feel Owlish hovering somewhere past my shoulder but look, this is the High Ashad Isha negotiating with the Five Nations. Not the big negotiations we've all seen a thousand times, enacted in Dura after Dura.

This was after the Rending. Isha, shown in the profile form the Builders preferred for their art, reaches out an arm, holding a palm leaf. A leaf with five spines upon it, one for each of the Nations. Two more lie on the ground before Xir feet.

Opposite Xem, the representatives of the Five Nations stand about in various bold poses to reflect the work they'd later take on as Guardians of the Alliance. That bit I know, but not the Guardian standing front and centre. I've seen the Guardian Defender taking xir palm, I've seen the Guardian Dragonmaster take xir's.

Never the Guardian of External Affairs (they can't have called xem that back then, can they?) reaching out to take the palm. Under xir feet, lines of smaller people represent the rest of the Nation that stood xe led. The Taija. My Nation.

"Are you all right?" A new voice slices through my reverie. I manage to untangle myself to see that yes, this is the Guardian of External Affairs. Not a carving but the living version, another tall being in a uniform, but xir jacket is open, and xe appears much more relaxed.

Xe reaches for me, offering a sturdy arm for me to lean on. Another tall being in a uniform, but xir jacket is open, and xe appears much more relaxed.

"This is post-Rending, isn't it?" I point at the wall with my free hand. "The Agreement and the Foundation?"

"You know it." The Guardian raises xir dark eyebrows. Xe doesn't have the hair for Bushu locs either, but I'm not sure whether a thousand-year-old being would be in any way a follower of fashion.

"I do and I don't," I say. "I've never seen it represented."

"Our big moment." The Guardian beams and it's unexpected. "Other than the one where we refused to fight, of course, and got demoted to basic administration for all eternity." Xe treats me to a wink. "Come this way. Tea?"

Owlish flutters along behind us, xir slate poised to take notes. All this must be recorded, I suppose, but for the moment, I'm more thrilled by the Guardian's surprisingly relaxed manner.

"I'm sorry to drag you all the way up here," xe says. "But we have some additional security—" Xe waves a hand vaguely around this new, almost circular space with its gently rough yellow walls and low furniture. "And what we need to discuss should be handled with caution."

"The shipment?" I accept a soft seat from Owlish—I should stop calling xem that, but now it's stuck and I don't know what else to do.

"Yes. It might not be as urgent as an active Gap to anyone else, but it is a matter of Alliance security beyond the Barrier. That falls to me, alas." The Guardian settles on a low sofa opposite me. As if by magic, Owlish withdraws. I wonder whether xe knows what kind of tea to bring. I hope it's cold. I'm thirsty after that rushed trip and even buried within Amin Duum's walls, it's warm.

"Is it a border issue?" I try to sound knowledgeable, since I'm pretty sure last time it was a border issue. A distant pair of cultures unsure about what protocols applied to such an odd assortment of goods. But that didn't require the Guardian's input. My boss dealt with that.

The Guardian sits forward. "No, not this time. It's more serious than that. The caravan was attacked. The whole shipment was stolen."

‘A movie? Tonight? Sure, sounds grand.’ I’m not feeling great, but he seems so pleased so I didn’t like to say no. I know it’s vital to be open and honest, but on this one thing, it seems inconsequential, and I have wanted to see this film on the big screen.

We jump in the car and chatter back and forth on the way there, a fencing of words, flirting and not so subtle innuendo. It has always been this way for us. Wordplay is a big part of it all and we laugh back and forth as we parry and trust with our words. The automatic doors, of course, don’t open to regale our entry as if we were minor royalty. Instead, he reaches out and opens the door for me. He does it without thinking. It’s one of the things I find endearing.

As we enter the darkness of the cinema, I always get that thrill, that little bit of excitement as if I’m entering another realm. I let him lead the way. He keeps going up, higher and higher. I arch an eyebrow. He’s a middle of the middle type of guy. I’m guessing those seats were already sold as we only go a few rows behind where we’d usually sit.

The trailers play and we munch our way happily through our popcorn, cinema sweet. As we sit in the darkness, I lightly trace my fingers along the inside of his wrist. So, light and feathery. I feel something inside me clench and respond just to the feel of his body under my fingertips. I let my fingers stray farther, as i stoke back and forth along his forearm. The things those arms can do to me. My mind starts to wander from the movie. I‘m now hungry for something other than popcorn.

He must have heard the catch in my breathe as he takes the popcorn from between us and places it on the empty seat beside him. He raises up the armrest between us and he leans towards me. My fingertips continue to explore him. Gently up his arm, up over his shoulder and tickling his neck ever so slightly. I lean forward and shower little kisses on his neck and as I go to move away, I nibble and lick at his earlobe. I take a quick glance behind us. It seems no one has clocked us. All is well. I settle back in my seat, my attention returning to the movie momentarily.

As I settle in, I place my legs across his lap and run my fingers up and down his thighs. I can feel the muscles tense underneath my touch. I’m enjoying this. After a few minutes, I decide I’ll push my luck. My fingers trail higher. It becomes immediately apparent that my light touches are having an effect. I feel his cock, hard and ready under his trousers. I take my legs down off his lap as I swallow a self satisfied chuckle and continue my ministrations. I can feel his cock jump up towards my hand, pushing and straining against his clothing. I lick my lips. So seldom do I get the jump on him. I’m savouring the moment.

I sit forward slightly, slide my hand higher and pop the button at his waistband and slide down the zip. I reach inside down inside and feel the warmth and hardness of his cock. I can’t stop myself, I grab the knob of his cock and gently tease the tip I run a fingertip just around the top. Feel his cock bob towards me. A small laugh sneaks out, as I love seeing the effect I can have on him. I can see the little drop of pre-cum sitting there, so close. I whisper loudly, ’excuse me, I’m just going to grab the popcorn.’ I reach across and as I do so, my mouth sneaks down and sucks the tip clean, running my tongue around the knob, just for good measure. I can feel the jump inside my mouth. I love the taste, the feel, the silkiness of his flesh combined with that slightly salty taste. I pull my mouth away and settle the popcorn in my lap, as my hand reaches back, pulls down the elastic band of his underwear and release him to the cool air of the theatre. I begin to slide my hand slowly down to the base of his cock and then wrap and twist my wrist on the way back up. I can’t quite get to all of him, but I suspect this should suffice. Slowly again. Tantalizing. Teasing. I loosen my grip, turn over my hand and scrape my nails across the sensitive exposed skin. I feel him sinking deeper into his seat as his legs go wider.

I peek over my shoulder at the couples that are seated in the rows around us. They don’t seem to notice, or if they do, they don’t seem bothered. It just adds to the fun. I grasp him firmly and start a slow rhythm down and up, pulling slightly, increasing my grasp, moving just that little bit faster. i can feel his legs bounce as his feet start bouncing against the floor. I speed up, moving my wrist around to get to the sensitive back of his cock. I go even faster. I can see him holding his composure, but I know he can’t be far off now. ‘Thanks for the popcorn,’ I stage whisper again, and lean across his lap. I place the popcorn in the empty seat next to him and lower my mouth. I take him in my mouth. I run my tongue all the way around and so slowly, run my mouth down the length of him until I can go no further due to the confinement of his trousers. I laugh with him inside my mouth. I hear him grind his teeth. I breathe in, increasing the suction on his cock. I lock up and down first on one side, then on the other, all the while keeping the suction strong. I let my tongue lazily wrap itself around him, then as I pull my mouth up, flick the lip between his cock and his knob. I feel fingers tangle in my hair, trying to shove me back down, but for this once, I’m in control. I push back, refusing to let him dictate the pace. This time I bob quickly, as far as I can and then back up again, fast as a shot. The fingers in my hair increase their pressure. Two more quick trips down until I languidly pull my mouth back up and torment his knob some more, licking in lazy circles all the way around all the while running my nails down and back up the shaft. I hear it then, half growl, half command, ‘slave’. I can hear his desire His want. I have done this. I can arouse him like this. The sheer happiness of that knowledge causes me to smile, inadvertently scraping his cock with my teeth. His thigh muscles tense under me. I can’t resist any longer, I slide my mouth down his cock until I can feel him, deep within my mouth and back up again. I increase the speed with each stroke of my mouth. My tongue shooting around constantly. My pace is more frenzied now. I want to taste him shoot into the back of my mouth. I want to feel his cum shoot down my throat. I try not to let my hunger become too noisy as I go faster and faster up and down his cock, loving every minute of it. The fingers clench in my hair, shove my head all the way down and I can feel his pleasure slamming into the back of my mouth and then sliding down my throat. Just what I wanted.

As he finishes, I lick off every last drop, I tuck his cock back into his underpants and zip up his trousers. I leave the button to him, they are not my strong suit. I lean towards his ear and whisper, ‘I love a good snack when I watch a movie.’ I chuckle and settle back and once again prop my legs across his.

‘So I noticed,’ he replies wryly. I return my attention to the screen and pick up the storyline again. It’s not tricky. It’s relatively straight forward. I’m feeling very pleased with myself. As his hand rests upon my knee, I smile to myself and then up at him. He arches an eyebrow and gives me that slight smirk I’ve come to know so well. He grabs the popcorn tub and hands it to me. ‘Can you hang onto that for me?’ he asks. I take it in my hand, a little puzzled, but presume he may be off to the loo to help reorganise anything that isn’t quite back to where it should be. I go to move my legs away, but he holds on tight. I tilt my head to the side in a half shrug and let my attention return to the scenes on the screen ahead of me.

Then I feel it. Slight at first, and I realise what’s happening and I fight back the urge to swear under my breath. I feel his fingers slide up the leg of my shorts. He doesn’t waste time and makes quick work of my underpants as he pushes them aside and slides his fingers straight inside of me with no warning at all. I feel my muscles clench around his fingers. They slid in so easily as I was already wet from the pleasure of sucking cock. It has always made me wet. I can feel his fingers there, just wiggly back and forth inside of me. My thighs muscles tense. Oh. This is so not going to be good. He may have the ability to come almost silently but that is not a skill I possess. Right now, it’s just teasing, but even that is starting to drive me crazy. He leans over and whispers in my ear. ‘My dear slut, your challenge is to not come before the end of the movie, unless I tell you otherwise.’ I tightly nod my head.

Why would I think he’d play fair? He left his fingers there inside of me, just teasing, taunting me, making me wetter. Just when I thought I could adjust to holding back the urge from those fingers, he slid them slowly, painfully slowly, all the way in as deep as he could go. A slight wiggle, then oh so slowly back until just the tips of his fingers were just barely inside of me. His thumb brushes across my clit. I grit my teeth and will the sensation back. Try to push the desire down. As I feel my breathing start to even out. He slams his fingers hard inside of me, once, twice, three times and then rests them again to gently stroke my inner walls. I take a deep breath in and count to ten. ‘Was that you asking for ten, slut?’ he asks quietly. My head shakes vigorously back and forth. ‘I’m sure that’s what you said,’ he chuckles and starting slowly, but increasing in speed after every number I count in my head. 1,2,3…each time faster, after number five, he pauses for a moment and adds a third finger to the two already fucking me. 8,9,10. I am so grateful I was able to hold off. I’m not sure I can again. If he does it. If he pumps me even harder, or faster will I be able to stave off the orgasm I feel building inside of me? I think it unlikely. I try to focus on the movie. Anything to pull me away from my body. I can feel my brows furrow in concentration. Trying my best to shut down my overwhelming desire to come, I drive my nails into the palms of my hands. I want to please him, but I want to come. How dang long is this movie anyways? I have zero idea where we are in the plot line. How much time has gone past. Just as I think I’m back into the world around me, he pumps his fingers a few times, just to remind me. Like I could forget? Like I could pretend I couldn’t feel him there, penetrating me? Each time, I could feel my body getting used to his fingera there, he’d move them again, my muscles tightening around him, trying to draw him in, take me hard and fast. I close my eyes. My legs start to shake. I am oblivious to the world around me. My whole being has come down to focus only on that desire, my need, my want. I can’t hold off much longer. There they are, pumping again. Will this moving never end?

Almost as if on que, the end credits start to roll, I feel sheer relief as I think I can finally come now. In a heartbeat of a second, he slides his fingers out of me, and presents them to my mouth. I feel so utterly empty now. I can feel my muscles searching for something to clamp around. I open my mouth and suck his fingers clean of every drop of me, but the scent is still there. I can smell me in the air. The realisation hits. Those people around us must be able to smell me too. I lower my head in mortification. Please don’t make eye contact. Don’t look around, just let me go without having to actually see the faces around me. My forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, even though the cinema is air conditione. My legs twitch back and forth. I am So hungry, I want any and all holes filled. I just want to be fucked into oblivion. He puts his hand under my chin and raises my head until my eyes meet his. ‘Pass the popcorn, please,’ he smiles and grabs my hand as we walk out of the cinema.

I started writing a novel. I write roughly 800 words a day. It's slow going, and I have to wonder if the burn is too slow - if when we recount stories, ones we'd like to tell others, the candle actually burns in the other direction.

I have to wonder if my novel will get a one star review. If at the end of the day, the novel is for the audience, and not for the author themselves - but is surviving - writing prose that feeds some internal flame, living to see another day - for ourselves, or is it for others?

What if my novel never fills the void? Where does candle smoke go when there's no oxygen to even feed the flame; if a writer writes a novel and no one reads it, did it exist? Where does it go to make itself known?

This is already too abstract, and short, because I'm shot. I'm glad I'm embarking on this journey, but at what emotional cost? In the words of poet and writer Ocean Vuong, in his second-to-last Instagram post (because I'm not stalking him or anything), he says that he has completed his second novel - and that it took something from him that he may never get back.

Here's to leaving it all behind, to never getting back the pain, and the trauma, and instead making our stories of survival ones of hope, of our inner turmoil's flames going in one direction: skyward, where we can see the smoke spell out our dreams.