New York & Brick

I went to New York last weekend.

Three days, two sleeps, flying down to Laguardia, waiting anxiously at the airport for him to arrive and the meet up, full of bounce as weeks of anticipation culminated in the hard impact of bodies next to the baggage carousel. The heat off us and the mist of lust kept us cocooned as my hands stroked his chest, my lips met his and my body insistently pressed. He was already hardening just from my touch, there, gooey but not pushing the bounds of good taste in public too far.

We took a taxi to Manhattan, where our hotel sat just off Wall Street. I was in New York, one of my favourite cities and I didn’t care. The wedding we were supposed to was a fig leaf for this moment, getting him up into the room and the door closed so I could get my mouth on his cock.

I needed to be fucked. My body needs it, subverting all else, all thought but the moment when he is inside me. Even back in Canada, writing this, I put aside all thoughts, impractically, but how to repeat the experience.  I want him.

My lover:

He’s as pale as me, skin translucent, blooming red where the bite of my nails touch his back. He’s fragile and soft to touch, so much so that there is a certain sort of decadence in it- touching him is like stroking silk laid on butter; long boned limbs, shadowed eyes rimmed in red and the brightest blue I’ve ever seen on a person.

Metaphors fail me there: like stained glass in sun, like the ocean in the right hour of the afternoon when it catches a clear sky. He’s self conscious about the ruddy-blood bloom in his pale skin- some celtic ancestor’s gift, but I like the translucence that underlies it. I am known for my snow skin, part of the underpinning of the moniker for my nom-de-kink, but his a match for mine, on the face and inside of the wrists, where the sun hasn’t left him sleeved with freckles.

Six foot something, tall enough to exactly rest his chin on the top of my head, and I’m as wide as his chest at the shoulder. I’m tiny, and yet it’s more often his head folded into my chest to rest, myself curled onto his back to sleep. He speaks fast, many words, not one for silences, with a southern accent. His homeland is a strange, foreign place to me, full of firearms and personal responsibility to the point of fatality. He tolerates more than me, born of consequence of exposure but perhaps more patience than I have.

He comes when my hand’s on his neck and my voice is in his ear, telling him who he belongs to, reminding him that he’s my slut. Independent, leader, giving, brave… and yet under me his eyes get soft and gentle and vulnerable. I learn him, inside his head and outside, where my tongue can touch his nipples and make him whimper and how to meet his gaze with my mouth on his balls, so the combination of the visual and psychological overcomes him.

He delights in my “gleep face”, hands over my eyes like I am playing peek-a-boo as sudden waves of shyness hit. The dewy, cozy mind melt of love has hit us both, leaving us addicted and adorably besotted.

New York:

The heat of this false summer followed me down, but the buildings gave shade. Warm, perfect nights, out with two people getting married, her pregnancy pushing at her belly under her sari, vows exchanged, him praising her ambition and drive, her promising to care for him properly and listen to his perspectives even when she is sure she is right.

We’re among nerds, and I natter happily with them, making friends oh so effortlessly. The couple whose nupitals we hijacked to give us a convenient excuse to try to merge as one are so accommodating when we push myself past when I should have eaten on day one and I fold up all sleepy.

I meet his ex-girlfriend, small in stature, big in personality and we hit it off. His friends at the wedding feel out who the new girl is and gently tease him about him being a bachelor. We eat diner breakfasts in the morning, and lavish meals at night, pasta with extra sides compliments of the chef (note to self: add capers to my baked cauliflower next time!) , wedding fare that’s tasty and well picked,  and around the social time and the fucking we barely have time to see much else. We visit the 9/11 memorial and look over the depths of the reflecting pools. I take two fallen acorns and forget them in my pocket.

I dress for my comfort, on vacation, which is how I am touring about in black leather knee high boots and a glossy pleather mini. He enjoys watching men check me out. We’re some sort of exhibitionist- with a combined vanity- getting ready for the wedding proper  we take about as long to assemble. I slither into a stretch purple cocktail dress, himself a suit, very square in the style I have been taught is American, but no less flattering.

Fucking Brick:

I have waited until now to see his cock. He shyly offered, before our meeting, to share it after I teased him that over dozens of pictures exchanged and shared orgasms over the phone, I’d still seen no more of him than his chest. But I wanted the surprise.

Oh god, he is big. Not monstrous, but later my friend will ask if my jaw dropped when I saw it, and I will fire back the bon mot- “Only when my mouth was already full”. I can’t swallow all of him yet, although that’ll come with practice- I can get my nose to his pubic bone but only with a naked good inch out from angling my head. Some of this is shyness, as deep throating takes build up and our fucking is so new, as is this connection- this isn’t porn where I am entirely comfortable with all the noises and adjusting to the risks and vulnerabilities… yet. I want a few good hours without the pace of many things to do to practice.

My cunt, so long unstuffed, at first is clamp tight. One of the times I mount him, sopping wet mess I am, he sees my face and cautions “give it a moment”.

The comedy inherent in this makes me smile.

I tell his more vulgar prying friends he is “hung like an artillery shell.”  He himself notes the way my cunt acts like it’s going to take complete possession of him by pure grip. I expect it to hurt more. It does not, and I find myself resilient. It doesn’t sting, just a swollen warm feeling.

I leave my boots on for him to fuck me from behind and feel completely and utterly full. That is at the limits of my comfort, but masochist me would rather have that sexual power as I find his favourite position and add it to my tool kit. I like seducing. I want to know all his buttons. I want him. Mine.

I provoke him, constantly, testing him. I am a dominant. I need that poke of control and power. He finds even though he’s by far the stronger, I am full of tricks, using the blanket to trap him. In one return to the hotel I undress him, taking off his black belt and laying it over his throat, hands on either side holding him down, and I can see his mind struggle with a new sensation of being this kind of vulnerable.  He’s shy about this, alien territory.

He worries if I hurt him his instinct will not be to curl up whimpering and vulnerable, but fight.  I want realness.  I likewise show him how I can tell between his well meaning efforts to act submissive versus those moments where I have made him weak, for real. There will be no by the book rote service. I would rather have him raw and rebellious, to seduce him to heel, than polished and empty perfection.

It’s a question mark, can he satisfy my dominance?

He wants to get it right, desperately. If you asked him my pleasures and particulars he’d repeat it back by instinctual memorization. He is a giving partner.

On our last day, I say I want him to try giving me head, again. Long term readers know I dislike it- my tiny clitoris doesn’t benefit from direct contact, and the wrong touch of tongue is just unpleasant. But, I have opened myself just as I seek to engulf him, to accept all things and allow myself to be pleased.

Dominance, is after all, the supreme vulnerability of allowing another person to make you happy by force of your ego applied over theirs.

He hooks the black cotton of my panties to the side and I lie back on the hotel bed. His tongue and lips touch. I could say feather lightness, but that would imply tickling. It doesn’t, no nerve-raw-burn sensation, no excessive wet, just warmth. It starts to build. I feel one of his long fingers slide into me, anchoring everything. He keeps going.

I come. Not big fireworks, like the orgasms I give myself, but at no effort to myself, there he as given me a pleasure no longer alien to me.

This is going to be interesting, won’t it?

Femdom Life: Getting What I Want

Dear reader, tonight was Punish Tuesday, our pre-organized kinky sex night, and I just got my brains fucked out.

I also did what I have never done before. And it wasn’t something you would easily guess. No, seriously!

One hour of foreplay for me. It sounds so improbably vanilla, right? The sad truth is that life isn’t like those bdsm stories where the dominant always gets her needs met. The reality is that either sex has worked for me or it hasn’t. Now Strong could be a generous enough lover, but we had so little time as a couple that he can be considered out of the discussion.

But it is almost embarassing that I’m almost a month shy of my 30th birthday and I’ve gotten so used to compromising what I needed that for all I can beat a man purple or tease his cock for an hour, asking for turn around physical attention was a taboo fetish.

So I stripped him and he and I cuddled up on the couch. One set timer later and he went to work with my body all lips and tongue and touching

Somewhere along the way, long before I appeared on the scene, Wildcard learned to work a woman’s body, with the same studious and attentive perfectionism and passion he puts into his cooking. But instead of rendering the fat of the roast chicken he’s salted and dismembered, he’s finding little spots between my fingers to nibble and zones on the back of my thighs to stroke.

And then as everything in me opened, he liesurely fucked me while I took that delicious sensitivity into an orgasm so loud I suspect the neighbours heard it through his desperate muffling hand. Apartment life.

Afterwards, with his erection lingering and my cunt having none of the freight train he likes to pretend is his penis, I filled his ass and gave him a slippey hand job – it mus have been intense because he was practically flapping his unrestrained arms.

 

Friday Femdom Fiction: Makeup Sex

“Please punish me!” He was naked, his arms folded over his chest with the elbows drawn in, and his mouth beseeching, hoping. Vulnerable.

When they’d had the actual argument, voices hadn’t been raised. She’d touched him, and wept. She wasn’t a person to whom loud rage came easy, just emotions compressed inside herself until her core became clogged with unsaid, over self analyzed complaints and only raw honesty could dig her out. She’d said all she needed to say, and he’d listened, now he was left with the guilt she hated to place on him.

“I’m not… I’m still angry.” She had her fists half balled, her shoulders squared but her face half turned away, her mouth holding the signature of the pain she was feeling in the way she curled her lips. “I don’t want some sort of big display to show you’re sorry. I want you to give me what I need, not just today, but every day, when I actually need it. And I don’t want you to do this because you want to prove something and then get distracted tomorrow.”

“Please. Please Jane. I fucked up. I love you.”

“I know you do, baby. But wanting me isn’t the same as being good for me.” He body ached to take him, to put him under her hands and back in his place. “You fucked up, but you’re still mine.”

“Please…”

She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to feel better until I punish you, aren’t you?”

His expression told her the answer was yes.

She touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, behind her teeth and reached, hands pulling his arms from where they were covering his body, exposing him. “Very well. Go take a shower and then come back to the bedroom. Dry yourself off properly and do not dawdle under the hot water. Bring a towel with you.”

His lanky body stretched as he got out of the bed, limbs leading, eyes still stickily focused on her until he left the room and she heard the bathroom door swing shut.

She got up, took the elastic from her wrist and pulled her loose hair into a tail next to her ear, keeping it out of her face. She wore the garb of early fall, high socks reaching to white thighs, ass hugging shorts, a sweater that was half way into dress length and made up for a modest body by tumbling off one shoulder. She drank a glass of water and the mirror told her that the tear stained redness had started to fade from her complexion.

She heard the water of his shower as she gathered her dominance from it’s dissembled places, putting willpower with love, and letting herself trust again enough to loose her sadism. The light in the bedroom was already off, but she rose to extinguish the one in the hall and set candles on the dresser, calming and giving everything a softness. On the bed, patting the duvet into flatness, she laid out the studded leather strip of his collar, the many stranded flogger of stretchy rubber, the slim, sharp crop in its nylon sheath, gloves and lube.

The shower noises stopped, and she waited the next few moments until he emerged, wavy hair tossled all over the place and dark with residual moisture, towel held to half curtain his nudity. She took it from his hand and raised her brows, letting a hint of the command enter her voice, “I hope you did a good job getting dry. Otherwise this is going to really hurt.”

He had an aura of nervous anticipation. She knew that the shower had both let him center himself and unsettled him, never completely sure how far she’d go. He’d seen her fully released, letting loose on a borrowed masochist and the joy in her face as she made the man scream. It turned her on that she intimidated him, liked that letting him watch gave her another lever of control.

She smirked put her hands on him as if she owned him, first his arm and then cradling his testicles, liking their weight in her hand and the sense that his body was entirely in her control. “Kneel.”

Abruptly, he went from almost a head taller than her to having his face level with her belly. She made him hold his head just so, in submissive supplication and slid his collar about his throat, pulling the tabbed end through the buckle so it say below his adam’s apple. her fingers ran through his hair and then grabbed a handful at the back, pulling up.

Without much choice, he followed her command and ended up belly down on the bed. She’d left his towel crumpled on the floor while her palm cupped his bare ass and began to spank.

She built up the sensations while teasing him that she hardly thought he deserved a warm up. His guilt broke the path easily, letting his submissiveness burst out, horny, hungry, unable to do anything other than take what she wanted and be grateful,

With a warm glow in the cheeks of his buttocks, she struck until her own palm stung, reminding him he was being punished. “Inattentive. Lazy. Flirt.’

When she saw he needed more she brought the flogger from the foot of the bed. “Close your eyes!”

She swung the tool in flicking strikes, landing the rubber ends with soft splats, noting each gasp as she intensified her strikes. The red grew and blossomed, and she let the whip fall over his back, remembering her lessons- let it fall like she was painting wings, always in control, always letting weight and momentum fall where she could force him to endure. his skin darkened, flushed and his head moved. “Slut!”

She let another slash land across his raised buttocks, noting his cock had climbed to rock hard. “Does thinking about what a bad boy you are turn you on?”

He whimpered, past further comment and she responded with the crop, sharp pain, her choice of head-strikes or white welts from the shaft. She knew he would bruise up purple after this, looked forward to the days of marking and redoubled her efforts until she’s scouraged away the guilt and brought him to an abject, animal place.

Admiring the fresh marks, she caressed and scooped the towel, tapping his hip by way of indicating he should lie belly down with the fabric under his legs and hips. He knew what was coming, even as she drew on the black rubber glovers and made her fingers shiny with lube.

She made him accomadate her, inside and out, probing fingers stretching and making him completely exposed. She watched as she found secret spots inside, pressing until he ground himself into the rough nap of the terry cloth under him. She saw as his hips shifted, that his erection was standing rampant. Nothing got him harder than being completely used and teased. He began to beg.

Her cunt was wet, soaking through her panties. Clumsily, she shed her gloves, told him that he was going to be her toy and fuck her. The button and zipper fly on her pants came apart with quick yank, shedding her tight shorts down her legs in one smooth motion with her dripping panties. She let her bare fingers wiggle over the split lips and drenched dark curls. “You are going to fuck me. As hard as I want, and you won’t come.”

He nodded, making a little mewl of acquiescence, face tense with supressed desire, until she made him mount her, positioned in front of him so he saw the unblemished swell of her pale, round ass and the vivid, enflamed warmth of her cunt, making him work his cock into her.

She gave a little gasp, accommodating its size and then engulfing completely, inner muscles gripping, showing him that all his size was nothing she could not control and use. he began to thrust and the noises she made came from deep in her chest, raw lust, loving the power that made him do this. Her fingers slipped between her legs, once, twice, almost too slicked up to find purchase and tease her clit.

He made little noise, all his concentration going to hold back and resist the barrage of stimulus as she insisted, “Don’t come. If you do I’ll flog you raw.”

Her threat became a gasp as she came, almost squeezing him completely out with the violence of her contractions, and he gripped at her hips, sheathing the way she liked to give her something to use. When she could draw steady breath, she heard him beg again and said, softly, “Yes. Yes you may.”

His orgasm came with a scream, louder than her, as the intensity of everything finally was loosed, throwing him into a final spasm that sent a pulse of hot semen deep into her. He collapsed, first over her back and then sprawling, onto his back, too drained and lost to give more than little body jerks as she curled up beside him, stroking and smiling until he could reach for her again, seeking a different kind of release in the comfort of her arms. Knowing he was forgiven.

~

This week’s Friday Femdom Fiction is brought to you by XXX Sex Guides – a dating site for kinksters, who kindly offered to have their story enjoyed by everyone- and then left what I wrote up to me- which meant something real, raw and very much taken from life.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Experimental Purple Prose

Naked.

She pulled him hard, by a handful of hair at the back of his head, a rough yank to expose his mouth for the kiss, and her lips met his, tongue fencing tip of tongue, the same tongue that talked with sweet and sharp word and found the fountain spigot that set her cunt trickling clear and sticky. Here, now, she found his cock, and her grip cradled, clenched and pulled back and forth that the middle, just below the too sensitive head, but above the balls beneath.

Unbroken by the challenge she made, he took her by the shoulders and shoved, back onto the soft bed. His own hands found her slit, with the pads of his fingers crooked to tease and test the wet state. Fitting them inside her, and then into the mouth that had just stolen a kiss from him. Grazing her lips, then, with a glaze of her own other lips and meeting the gaze of her eyes until her frustrations and the promise of what she might do to him forced him to look away, fearing now, and feeling the rake of her nails on his broad back.

“I want this,” she hissed, finding his prick and replacing her hand, using it as if it were the lever and the bed they rolled upon was the fulcrum; the fixed point by which she could move the world. Or at least seek to make him move to her whims as she made what was erect in her grip plug the wetness that continued between her legs.

Guttural breathing, him on top, her parting herself, kissing. They fucked like snakes, more twined together, bending and wriggling, than slammed mammals. Her curved body soft at the places she swelled, but hard where bone made delicate looking hollows; him sinewy, long and lean, her legs wrapped to keep him in place and him sliding, belly to belly, back and forth. She engulfed, pleasured and trapped him twice, inside and out.

“More, more, more!” She always wanted more, whether she swallowed him into her slick gullet, teeth coyly sheathed; wrapped him in slippery hands until his semen spurt brought him back from demanding a double grip to hiding, shrunken in one hand; or like now, where her cunt muscles devoured. Her hips tilted up, lunging, her hands finding light ways to hurt and leverage to take what she wanted.

The same fingers that had probed her cunt were now tamed into helping bring about a body spasm that started inside her, shrill calling, her cunt becoming more intimately aware of the part of him it had borrowed and was using. She wanted him to stay hilted until the last shudder finished, taking in a suck of air between her teeth as the energy of her excitation defused.

And then his face was turned away from hers again, into the pillow, two exhalations and then a male cry, matched with a final surrender as he stopped pulling back, away and accepted he was helpless to hold off coming. She never felt the splash of semen at the moment, just the aftershocks that shook him gently in her arms as she held him to her, and then the seep as he stayed buried.

I wanted to get back to the spirit of Friday Femdom Fiction, which was supposed to be more spontaneous and less polished. So you’re getting something experimental this time.

The Choke Point & My Cunt, His Cock

It’s always tight, when the tip of his cock slides into me. My cunt has a choke point, starting sex, like I was some sort of customize part of the Fleshlight or Tenga product line. It’s not something you get to see in sex diagrams- the kind with simplified, labelled anatomy, where you get to see a split view of a pelvis and the vagina is a lightly bumpy tube sandwiched between other less savoury tubing.

He, Wildcard, says I’m often gripping to the point of discomfort, at first, which makes me shy even though he’s not actually complaining. Sometimes, when he’s inside me, most often when he’s come, I bring the muscles within myself together, like I’m blinking. I feel him, like wrapping my hand around a rod- he takes a long time to soften after coming, and I can keep grabbing it- clench-clench.

It’s harder to grab on while he’s fucking me. Mostly I end up on top of him, but on top of me, he favours a steady, dragging stroke, almost a pulling rather than a burrowing thrust. I really like it, feeling a sort of double wrapping effect- he fills me up, and then his slimness fits neatly between my thighs.

I like cunt and cock as a matching set of words- ‘pussy’ sounds less active, ‘dick’, juvenile. Vagina will always be the internal channel to me, penis will be a bit too clinical for exclusive use in the erotic.

If this were a femdom porn, I’d have it locked in a little chastity cage and he’d be eternally between my legs in ‘worship’ with a tongue, when it when  I wasn’t telling him he wasn’t man enough to be inside me because of his size. But it’s not- I like to control how he comes just fine, but I adore more than just forcing him not to. I want him to explore and play with.

So, I cuff him to the bed to keep those long arms out of the way, and toy with him. Fingers make for fun, curled in come-hither teasing under the head of his cock, or wrapped lower down on the shaft to stroke and squeeze like a sheath- I don’t have to grip hard to feel him swell. Slippery, slick lube makes everything slide easy, cold on my palm but quickly warming. Or there’s the trick of pressing the head of a hitachi firmly against the shaft of his cock until it forces a wellspring of white cum from him.

Sometimes I like to lap with the tip of my tongue, along the ridge of his cock head, tasting him, looking for those first few drops of clear pre-cum. Full swollen, he’s almost aggressively thick looking, hard to swallow, but all the more enticing, perhaps because of it. And yet, it really doesn’t matter how slippery I make him, or my own cunt’s gush of anticipation- I know that I’ll feel him.

It’s his particular virtue to be able to get my attention from start to finish. From the first chokepoint, to when my body has milked him past tumescence, I even feel his withdrawal. And it is, to say the least, pleasing.

500 Word Friday Fucking Femdom Fiction: Summertime With Femdom

She bumped the double fold of her cunt against his crotch, feeling the comfortable tautness in her thighs as she straddled him, kneeling and squirming on top of his supine body. Somehow, in the bump and crash of stripping and making out between the door and the bed, they’d ended up that way, him on the bottom the way she liked.

He was naked, except for the black band of the collar at his throat and one sock, and she was stripped down to her skin, smooth, sticky with summer sweat but clean. They were both touched by the heat, his short hair in spikes, her longer hair haloed by summer curls. The fan turned its face like an indecisive sunflower, fighting the early August weather and failing to cool anything off.

His hands reached for her hips, and were captured by the wrists before he could do more than brush his fingers against them. She slammed them down against the mattress, even though his strength could easily brush her away like a gnat. But she wanted him there, and wanted him to feel at her mercy.

“Fuck me, bitch.” She hissed it, daring him. “I’ve been wet all day, waiting for you. On the bus, thinking about your cock. Craving it. So, fuck me.”

He bucked his hips, feeling the slickness on the head of his cock, the tight curls on her labia. It was a natural trick of anatomy that, rubbed together, things fit. Inexorably, all the wriggling, their struggling and then he fingers seeking the painful places on his body where he could be hurt worked to couple them together.

Inside her, his cock made itself a space, nestled up so the hardness was engulfed. She grunted, feeling its presence, making herself clamp down so the ringed muscle inside drove a tingle through her. She raised herself to a squat the planted her feet on his upper arms, still trying to trap them, and he looked up at her, seeing the stretch and shift in her torso, the way her breasts moved with her and the impacts. Balance made her release his arms so she could make their pelvises kiss better, but he kept his arms still.

“Lazy, fucking, slut.” She panted between thrusts. “Help me.”

The bed slid a bit, badly anchored as he added the bounce of his hips. She kept talking, low, her voice holding a little edge of loving malice, “Give me your fucking cock. Harder. Harder bitch. Harder, you little whore…”

Her slap was clumsy, but she followed it with more clever pain, fingers jabbing armpit, finding the tuck into the collar bone, and skittle coloured painted fingernails leaving white scraped lines and fast puffing rose runnels. “You made me wait all day for this. I wanted you in the morning, but lazybones. You fucking slept in, you little bitch.”

“Ah, ma’am!”

“Shit. The thrusting got clumsier when she found her clit, and he was the sole lifting force in their fucking. “Don’t you dare wimp out until I cum.”

His forehead beaded up with sweat, but he forced himself to please her until she dug her orgasm out, between fingers flicking and the stretching and stuffing and devouring of her cunt, her words getting less and less coherent until they dissolved into lingering curses. “Ah… fuuuck!”

Her cunt homed and hilted on him as she came, hugging around the shaft, but it was just as much the rawness in her thrown back face, the flush and the open mouth that fired his balls. “Ma’am?”

“Fuck. Yes. Cum.” She sort of sagged, the sex tension pulled from her, her loose hair hanging in her face as she gave him permission to finish.

—-

Yes, it’s a bit longer than 500 words, but I haven’t written any erotica lately. And I’m horny.

Bones and Flesh and Pressure Points, Sex.

The photography is by someone called Pauline Darly

An almost half year dry spell marked my Divorce’s conclusion. For a variety of reasons I waited a long time to try all those basic aspects of the flesh. It was not without encouragement to the contrary, as friends and even Strong tried to coax me to find someone or something to fill the ah… breach. I got lectured on zipless, no strings fucks, coaxed to try dating again, etc… But the flesh recoiled at the thought. There’s particular ways it needs to be touched and more to the point, I need there to be respect and the time it takes to vet another human being for that sort of thing is extensive.

And yet, Saying sex and pain are, for me inseparable concepts, both makes me sound like I’m talking about chronic vaginismus and does not capture the nuances of how I experience it. I’m talking hands on sadomasochism.

So, sex. It’s about touch, really, light touches, hard touches, scrapes of nails, stinging slaps, pressure, joints straining and for me, the sort of push that digs to the bone. To have and be touched is a wonderful thing. And I’m enraptured by smell and texture, that clean sex musk, the veins beneath the skin and the softness of the skin that wraps a cock.

And for me, pain. To hurt and be hurt. I adore the way that after your body has been primed, the weight of the last hurt drags into even the lightest caress, so that your whole body sensitizes and touch becomes more than how it was before there was pain. And there’s the noises, the facial expressions, the changes of posture are all extremely erotic to me. Pain is such a raw thing to have, creating a suffusion through the flesh from where ever it has been triggered.

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Catamite Pt. 22

The large hall of the shooting range was empty except for six people, giving it an eerie ghost town calm. It was one of the places where Landfall taste was at war with the practicalities: no carved wood and patterned wallpaper, just dull, unreflective ricochet tile on every surface, swallowing every sound, before it could reverberate. The range was lit by bright beaming, ugly shatter proof lighting. By size alone, the room should have been echoing and instead it was stifling, and everyone looked grey skinned and more strained than they were.

They’d left the exclusive residential district of the Harrington townhouse and gone to one of the new but respectable suburbs of the city.  Phillip had found he was half dozing, carrying the damage to his body quietly, sitting on the floor or the car. Annette stroked his head distractedly and her two closest guards stayed alert in their seats, expectant. He felt slightly feverish and very tired.

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