#why did my glass of wine come with its only little carafe?

[ultimateaclrecovery]

Weekend vibes

Dying a swimsuit (I couldn’t find a new one so dyed an old that too much time in a hot tub had leached almost of the color (except for the crotch) out of

Trail ride, wine bar and watching the bf and friends play frisbee

[all1e23]

Between the Stars [Pt. 1]

Pairings: Past!Steve x Reader, Bucky x  Reader

Summary:  Struggling with the death of your husband, you find comfort in someone unexpected.

Series warnings: CHARACTER DEATH. Grief. Overall sadness. Depression. It’s pretty angsty if I’m being honest. Things mellow out as the series goes on. TW: Military/Spouse death 

A/N:  It’s a military AU with the loss of a spouse. This was the only WIP of mine I was really upset to discontinue. Which is why it’s the only one I left up. After some love from my @moonbeambucky​,​ I’m posting the first chapter and we will see how it goes. No, I do not have a posting schedule nor do I know when the next part will be up. No Bucky yet but the next chapter is nothing but Bucky.  It’s still very heavy in the angst but hang tight. It gets better once Bucky comes home. If you like it write a book report, sing me a song or come scream at me.

***My fics are not to be saved or posted on any other sites without my written permission. Reblogs are my jam, though! Thanks!****

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s breath warmed your skin, making you shiver. “It’s time to wake up, my sweetheart.” 

You pulled the cover over your head, hiding the grin on your face and blocking out the sun along with your husband. Steve’s chuckle made your smile widen enough to make your cheeks hurt. There was a gentle tug to the blanket, and you knew Steve was attempting to tenderly coax you out of bed. You slowly lowered the quilt down to your nose, only letting your eyes peek out, and you find your husband’s gorgeous smile beaming down at you, making your heart flutters from the sight. 

“It’s Saturday, Steven.” 

“Steven?” Steve chuckled and tried to pull the covers off your face yet again. “I’m in that much trouble?” 

You narrowed your eyes and tightened your grip on your blanket. 

“Yes, Steven, you are.” 

Steve settled himself on top of you, leaving the blanket wedged between you, but he pulled it down far enough to see your whole face. He placed a kiss to the tip of your crinkled up nose and smiled at the exaggerated pout you put on. 

“We have brunch with everyone, or did you forget that it was your idea?” 

“I did forget,” You whined quietly. “You know better than to let me plan things when I’m excited, and I’ve had more than two glasses of wine.” 

He only grinned wider at that. Didn’t say a word, and you started to fidget from your own self-consciousness. You hated and loved it when he looked at you like that. It made you fear the day he would stop. Eight years in, and it was still there despite fights over how to load the dishwasher, silly tiffs about money and arguments over what way the toilet paper goes on the holder. 

“What are you going to do when our kids come running in here to wake you up? Are you going to send our sweet babies away?” 

He just had to go there. Steve just had to go and mention sweet moments of babies and cuddles -- Your weakness.  

You relented and finally wrapped your arms around his neck, dipping your fingers into his longer than usual hair. He would have to cut it soon.  Couldn’t be a soldier and have hair long enough to tuck behind his ears. You liked when he let it get long, though. It made him your Steve again. Which sounded ridiculous. He didn’t have long hair and beard when you met, or the night he kissed you for the first time, but it didn’t matter how silly it was. This version was your Steve, and the short-haired, clean-shaven one belonged to the Army. 

“Well, if they are running up here to wake me up because their daddy made me breakfast, I could be convinced to get out bed for some kisses and cuddles.” 

Steve’s sweet laugh made your skin prickle. You wondered if he would let you record it before he left this time or if that was going too far. Probably not. Steve would do just about anything you asked of him, so you couldn’t imagine he would ever tell you no for something that would put your heart at ease while he was gone. 

“Maybe we skip brunch and get started on those babies, hm?” 

You grinned. 

Steve always knew exactly what to say.

“God, I love you, Rogers.” 

Steve’s right hand slipped under the sheet and under the white cotton shirt of his that you were currently using as a pajama, his fingers dug into your ribs making you squirm, and he dipped his head down, barely brushing over your parted lips, he whispered, “And, I love you, baby.” 

Your eyes opened, and you weren’t met with the sight of your husband. It was the same ugly white ceiling you’ve stared at for the past month, the past thirteen months, really.  It’s been a month since everything was finalized. By someone’s good fortune that was not your own, Steve had insisted you buy your house off base so at least you could keep the home you built together. It hadn’t made this last month any easier. Thirty-six days since you got the news and thirty days since you laid Steve to rest. You were supposed to be improving, or so the books and all your friends and family said. You didn’t know how anyone expected you to get better. You could barely put one foot in front of the other, let alone think about moving on with what little bit of a life you had left. 

The sun was hitting the full-length mirror hanging on the far wall at the perfect angle, and you knew it was nearly seven, judging by the position of the glare coming off the glass. You could spend the rest of the day in bed, and you would have every right to. No one would let you get away with wallowing today you had a feeling. Besides, you had to stop by Sarah’s and make sure she was okay. It has been far too long since you checked in on her, and that wasn’t fair to her. She was grieving just as much as you were. So, you forced yourself out of bed, stood on shaky legs, and made the short, dreadfully long walk to your closet.

The red flannel you pulled out of black felt-lined hanger still smelled like Steve. All of his things did, and his scent hung heavy in your room. You pulled it on over your tank top and brought the collar up to your nose, taking in a deep breath. That earthy citrus smell still made your knees a little weak. Eventually, you were going to have to wash his things. You glanced at your bed, the pile of crumpled sheets you would typically insist on making before your day started. What was the point in making them now? No one would see them but you. No one would know if you made your bed or left it a wreck for days on end. 

You should wash them, a voice in your head nagged. 

No, you shouldn’t. 

His pillow is still his pillow, so long as you don’t wash it. Maybe next month. You haven’t been sleeping much as it is, and when you do, you usually fall asleep on the couch so the sheets could stand to go a while longer.

The house was eerily quiet in the mornings. Steve was always the first one up and the last one down. The quiet made those times harder. It was the heavy reminder he was gone, and the weight of that on your chest left you unable to rest. Landing at the bottom of the stairs, you found Sam still fast asleep on the couch with no signs of waking any time soon. He had shown up last night claiming he needed to see you, but you knew Sam was there to check up on you. It had nothing to do with his own grief. Sam became your shadow the moment the funeral ended, and part of you wished he would just go away. 

You wanted everyone to go away and let you grieve in the only way you knew how. 

The coffee pot was empty, and it glared at you the moment you entered the kitchen. As it has been for the last year. Another reminder that Steve was gone and never coming back. When he was home, Steve would set the timer before his run, so by the time you woke up and made your way downstairs, there was always a fresh pot waiting for you. You’ve been making your own coffee since he deployed, and not one morning had it come out right. 

You should have known then something was wrong. 

A large, calloused hand slipped around your waist from behind, and gentle kisses landed on your neck. He shouldn’t be here, and yet, he was. He was late for PT and was surely going to get yelled at the second he arrived. Steve didn’t seem bothered by the thought, or maybe kissing you was really worth it like he claimed.

“I believe you're wearing my favorite shirt,” Steve’s voice rumbled against your skin, and you tried to suppress the shudder it sent through you. 

“What’s yours is mine, Husband.” 

Steve chuckled. 

“How many cups of coffee does that make for you, Wife?” 

“Two,” You said with shaky confidence and a scrunched nose that said you weren’t being entirely truthful.

Steve nuzzled his nose along your jaw, and he roughly whispered in your ear, “Liar. Wanna try that again?” 

“Fine,” you conceded with an eye roll. “This is cup three, but I’m not having any more for the day because you’re here stealing the rest.” Steve smiled fondly and took his travel mug from its spot next to yours. 

“No more until you have some water. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack.” Steve cupped your jaw with his free hand and tilted your head back to rest on his shoulder. He pressed a tender kiss to your lips and one to your nose. 

“I’ll see you tonight beautiful.” 

“Y/n… Hey…”

“Do you promise?” 

“I promise, baby. When do I ever break my promises to you?” 

“Hey, Y/n.” Sam tried again, more forceful his time. “Are you okay?”

You blinked, finding Sam standing in front of you with a look of concern drawing his brows together. You looked down at the counter where two cups were resting, full of black steaming coffee. You had only meant to pour one cup. Or had you? Sam realized the mistake before you did. The cup was for Steve. He quickly leaned forward and slid the mug towards him. 

"Mind if I get a cup? Didn't sleep great last night." 

A breath of relief.

You nodded and slipped the carafe back where it rested, avoiding Sam’s watchful eyes. 

"...How are you sleeping?" 

"Fine." 

Sam raised a brow. 

"Decent." You reluctantly confessed. "Enough that I can make it through the day."

"And what are you doing... to make it through the day? Have you tried to play?" 

Your eyes shifted to the piano that sat in the den, and you quickly looked away. There was no point in beating around the bush with that one. Someone was coming to look at it at the end of the week, and you were hopeful by the weekend to have it sold. There were some things that you wouldn’t be able to pick back up again, and falling in love and playing the piano was on the top of the list.  There was no reason to pretend. 

"No. I don't--" You shook your head. "It's as if my fingers can't remember the keys. I don't know. Nothing feels right anymore." 

That was normal. Everything you were feeling was perfectly normal, and Sam wanted to tell you that. You knew he did, but he didn’t, and you let out a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. This was hard enough without feeling like your closest friend was counseling you. 

“It’s not fair.” 

“No, it’s not--” 

“I haven’t washed his pillowcase yet.” You blurted without thinking. “I, uh, I’m scared if I do it will lose his scent, and it won’t be his anymore. Which is stupid. He hasn’t slept on it in over a year. I could easily spray more cologne on the cover like I have been since he left, and it would be the same. It feels different now. Final. Am I going crazy? Because it feels like I am losing it, Sam.” 

“That’s all normal. You’re grieving. It’s normal to not be rational--”

No. That was not what you wanted. 

“I don’t want therapy Sam right now,” You snapped. “I want Sam. My Sam.” 

Sam leaned back against the backing of the barstool and stared at you. Your gaze didn’t waver. You picked at your nails, and your bottom lip was trembling, but you held your gaze steady. Sam knew when to push and when not to. Right now, you were right. You didn’t need him to baby you, to walk on eggshells, and repeat well-rehearsed phrases meant to aid in your recovery like everyone else was doing. You just needed him to listen and tell you your life wasn’t over.” 

“Okay.” 

Sam reached across the counter and cupped a large hand over yours. There weren’t many people you would let see like this, or at all. Since the funeral, you haven’t been getting out much. You were sure Wanda called Sam and tattled on you after your meltdown in the market yesterday. It wasn’t a big deal. Yes, you cried over an apple pie. It was not the first time someone has gotten upset over baked goods. It happened every day, you were sure of that, and no one made a fuss until it happened to a widow. 

Widow. You really hated that word. It was a stupid word, and you refused to use it. However, the incident in the market didn’t help the way people were looking at you, widow, or not. You had thought things would be slightly easier once you talked to Bucky. He’s always had a way of calming you and putting your restless soul at ease. You waited on a call from Bucky, but none came. He hasn’t even sent a letter. That might have been part of the reason for pie-gate 2020. 

At first, you were angry. He was ignoring you? After everything? You lost your husband, the man’s best friend, and Bucky couldn’t be bothered to pick up the damn phone and make sure you were okay? But you realized he was grieving, too. It was different from yours, but it didn’t make it any less real, and he had a right to do it in his own way. Besides, Bucky probably didn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t if it was you because there was nothing anyone could say or do to make this okay. That was when your anger turned to tears, and that moment just happened to be in the bakery, in front of twenty or so people. 

It wasn’t like there was some guidebook on how you should grieve and move on with your life. You wished there was, but there wasn’t a ‘right way’ to navigate this. You had to take one day at a time and handle each moment as it came along. 

“I’ve loved him for most of my life am I supposed to just stop now?”

“No one expects you to stop loving Steve.”  

“It feels that way sometimes,” You mumbled weakly. 

Sam gave your hand a gentle squeeze, but he didn’t say anything else. You needed to sort through what you were feeling on your own, so he was letting you decide what you needed; from him and yourself.  When you finally looked back up, he could tell by the murky waters in your eyes, you were still just as lost as the day Steve left you. Only now, there were expectations for improvement and time limits on how long you were allowed to stay floating in the dark. Even though it had only been thirty-six days, eight hours, and forty-three minutes, everyone was tired. Your friends and family wanted to move on. After all, they didn’t lose their other half. They were tired of being sad, and you were tired of pretending it was okay. 

“How am I supposed to move on without him, and what? Just start over?”

Sam gave you a small smile and tightened his grip on your hand. “I don’t know, but we are all here to help you figure it out.” 

“Not everyone is here,” you grumbled petulantly. 

Bucky didn’t have a choice, but he did. He could have been the one to come home, and while you were not upset with him for sending Sam in his stay, it still hurt. The three of you had been close, and once upon a time, you were closer to Bucky than you were Steve. He was the first person to talk to you when you moved to town, and if it wasn't for Bucky, you never would have met Steve. 

“He will be home at the end of the month and from what he said last night. I think he’s hoping it would be okay for him to stay here.” 

On the one hand, you were relieved to know Bucky was coming home. You needed to see him, to hear his voice tell you that Steve would want you to move on and be happy. On the other, Bucky hadn’t called you. He called Sam instead. That stung. 

“Why?” You slowly pulled your hand back and crossed your arms over your chest, shielding yourself from Bucky’s reasoning and maybe a little bit from Sam, too. “Why does he want to stay here?”

“Well, he didn’t re-enlist, so I think he’s trying to figure out what his next step is and what he’s going to do with the rest of his life and… I think he wants to be close to Steve and maybe to keep an eye on you. You could help each other, you know?”

“Right,” you snorted. 

As if anyone could help you, let alone the friend that left you in the lurch when you needed him most. You didn’t know what Sam was putting in his morning coffee, but Bucky didn’t want to help you do anything. He has made that very clear from the moment Steve died.  

“I doubt he wants to be here with me, and what exactly are we going to help each other do?” 

Sam sighed and shook his head, “Grieve, Y/n. Grieve and move forward.” 

That would be easier said than done.

Previous // Next 

[typinggently]

5) a heavy perfume, rose petals, golden chains for Napollya please?? :3

Thank you so much for this lovely prompt! The answer comes rather late, but I hope you enjoy the drabble nonetheless!  🥰♥️

-

Victorian AU - Napoleon as a Gentleman Thief, Illya as an illustrious Decadent

(at least that’s what people assume)

-

The night-fresh scent of the park lingers in the folds of Napoleon’s coat as he pushes the glass door of the veranda shut behind himself. As his eyes get used to the darkness, excitement thrums through him. He’s been waiting for this for weeks. It’s a grand estate, very fashionable, large windows, the promise of gold and crackling bills. If that hadn’t been enough, the tall hedges surrounding it alone make it incredibly tempting. Napoleon has always been rather interested in forbidden treasures, in secrets. Now that he’s finally inside, he looks around greedily, fingers twitching. 

-

People call it the lion’s den and that’s not per se a bad way to describe it. Not that it stinks, but the air is heavy with a flowery, sweet scent, laced heavily with hashish. 

There are no bones strewn around, either, but there’s a mess of other things. Books laying in heaps on the carpet - leather bound, gold-cut, illustrated. Clothes pile over the furniture- silk and velvet and cotton and lace. Greek marble busts, Chinese vases, Russian objects of gold and painted wood and amber that Napoleon can’t really place, but is itching to touch. Some of it is ripped apart, torn, cracked.

Slowly, Napoleon moves over to the doorway, slipping out of the drawing room and into the corridor. Here, the scent is stronger still, and at the end, one door is open, a golden rectangle against the dark. Some of the light filters through and catches in the gold of the icons on the walls, long-fingered and stern Holy Mary’s. Next to those, the golden frames of contemporary French painters, some Japanese woodcuts. Napoleon can only gauge the worth of those, but it’s not quite what he’s looking for yet.

He’s lost himself, hasn’t he? It’s a lion’s den, is the point, deserving of that title almost solely because of its inhabitant. 

Napoleon runs his fingertips along the wallpaper, the frame of a door-tall mirror. Its surface is shattered, spiderweb-cracks glittering and reflecting a multitude of him as he walks past. 

The lion, of course, is Illya Kuryakin. Napoleon has never met him, but he’s heard the tales. Kuryakin can’t be very old, but he must be incredibly rich. That much is obvious by the lace, the marble, the gold. His excellent taste is just as obvious, as is his temper. Reckless violence, fits of rage. He’s an eccentric loner, shunned by high society for his lion-self, and Napoleon would do best to avoid him.

Lions and magpies don’t mix.

-

However, see, Napoleon isn’t in the habit of making smart decisions. He’s too stupid, his friends would say, but he himself prefers the term curious.

Judging by the scent, the herbal-thickness of it, the lion should be pacified to a certain degree. Napoleon hasn’t heard of a case where hashish has made someone violent, so, he argues, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek. In the end, it’s most likely that Kuryakin will take him for a dream. Hell, if Napoleon does it well, he might even give him his riches out of his own account. Wouldn’t that be fun?

So he smiles his little magpie smile and slips into the golden rectangle, steps through the doorway into the room at the end of the corridor.

-

It’s the heart of the place, undoubtedly. The walls are covered in red fabric, shimmering in the flickering light of the fireplace. Shimmering like the heavy golden bowls with rose petals that stand on various surfaces of the room, shimmering like the wine in a shallow goblet made out of delicate glass. Caravaggio’s Bacchus, but with the adequate Russian touch – a samovar on a tall table made of gleaming black wood. The floor is covered in carpets, three or four layers, writhing patterns of flowers and animals and abstract ornaments. There are paintings, busts, fabrics. And, of course, there’s the lion.

“Who are you?” Kuryakin is spread out on a divan, golden lashes heavy over blue eyes. He’s a tall man, that much is obvious although he’s reclining like this. And his body, although lax and softened by the hashish, is powerful. He’s also breathtakingly handsome.

 For a moment, Napoleon is frightened, almost more so by his beautiful face than by his strong limbs. His heart fluttering painfully in his throat and he thinks of torn silk and smashed marble. But then he catches on to the way Kuryakin lifts his head, with effort and strain, and how heavy his tongue is, how thick his accent. “I don’t know you. Who sent you?”

He remembers the plan and steps into the room, feet sinking into layers of carpets. “My name is Napoleon Solo. I didn’t meet any of your staff at the door, so I let myself in.”

Kuryakin is wearing a Japanese gown, black silk with golden and red flowers, and it slips a little as he sits, with effort. It takes him a while, Napoleon has enough time to look at him. Where the silk has slipped a little, a crisp white shirt peeks through, pearly buttons. On the table in front of him, smoke is still rising from a delicate, long pipe, and an untouched mountain of Turkish delight waits patiently, pink and dusted in sugar. “No staff. Are you new? What do you want?”

 It’s an odd question. Not only that. There’s something in Kuryakin’s eyes, something even the hashish can’t quite drown in its fog.

 And that’s when Napoleon starts to think. That’s when he looks around, and sees the torn fabric and broken marble, the scattered chess pieces and ripped books, and takes them in. That’s when he considers the rumours and compares them with what he sees. He steps closer, Kuryakin’s eyes on him. At the head of the divan, he sinks down onto his knees to properly look at him. “I wanted to see the lion for myself, I suppose. I didn’t think I’d find him chained in gold.”

At that, Kuryakin shakes his heavy head, then lets it fall back, watching Napoleon from underneath his long lashes. “You’re not with them.”

“I’m not,” Napoleon agrees, then adds, “Who are they?”

Kuryakin, unhelpfully, replies in Russian.

“See, I always wanted to learn that language.” Napoleon looks around for a glass, a carafe of water. There’s only wine. The heavy perfume mixed with the hashish is starting to hurt his head. “What is that scent?”

“Incense,” Kuryakin replies.

“Oh. Expensive?”

“Very.”

“I see.”

“Are you a thief?”

Here, Napoleon hesitates. This is, all in all, not going according to his plan at all, so he figures he might as well. “Yes.”

Kuryakin nods solemnly and a strand of his golden hair falls into his face. “You call it a bird, right?”

For a moment, Napoleon isn’t quite sure what he means, feels a little trapped in a fairy-tale conversation, matching the fairy-tale scenery. Then – “Oh, yes. Magpies.”

When Kuryakin hums, it vibrates through his chest, almost a purr. “We call them cats.”

“Cats?”

Kuryakin nods.

Well, Napoleon thinks, cats and lions aren’t all that different.

“What did you came here to steal? There’s nothing here. Just objects.” Kuryakin makes a vague gesture, indicating all the riches surrounding him. “No meaning to any of it.”

“Well,” Napoleon says and thinks of gold, ivory, sapphires. “I think I changed my mind about that. You see, my friends call me stupid. I prefer the term curious.”

At that, Kuryakin laughs, pearls for teeth. And he was right, Napoleon realises, in comparison, the treasures heaped around them really are nothing but objects.

-

-

…this was very experimental. I love the atmosphere and I had SUCH fun writing it, but at the same time it’s probably one of the more vague drabbles. It certainly has the potential for a great mystery adventure story – who is keeping poor Illya all locked up in this treasure chest? Why are they telling such awful rumours about him? Are they rumours at all? Why is he so heavily drugged? Who are “they”? How will Napoleon save him? Will there be gold at the end of the tunnel after all? And of course – Will he return Napoleon’s feelings once he’s sobered up??? (the answers might not surprise you at ALL)

Again - thank you so much for your ask!!! ♥️♥️

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The prompts

[francesderwent]

Morbid Curiosity, a delena fic an east of the sun west of the moon AU previous chapter // first chapter //

chapter four:

Despite everything, the first full day passed. Elena organized her wardrobe, shelved half of the books lying about, and made sure there were lights easily reachable on every surface.  She wandered down to the kitchen an hour past midday and scrounged up a few rolls and a chunk of hard cheese, which she took back up to her room.  She ate one-handed while she swept the floor.  The monster appeared hours later, wordlessly handed her a pile of linens and backed out again; on top of the extra blankets, he’d found her a couple of felt, long-sleeved nightgowns.  One of them was tartan, the other was flowered and had a knobbly little rose on the neck; both of them were horrible.  But there was also a dressing gown, which was long and soft and a pretty gray-blue.  It was the dressing gown that persuaded her to go down to dinner.  He pulled out her chair for her again as if they hadn’t been fighting and he hadn’t had any doubt that she’d come, and then they sat across from one another, and neither of them apologized.  He asked politely about her day, and she told him what she’d accomplished in her room, skating over the bits about the candles and matches.  He nodded, and stared at his plate.  Finally she lit on the idea to ask what he’d been reading, and he obligingly told her the title and author, and added helpfully, “It’s a novel.”

Then there was nothing to do but go to bed.

She’d intended to stay up to see what happened, but the sleeplessness of the night before caught up with her and she dropped off before she’d even heard the clock chime ten, and didn’t wake up until her floor creaked.  She bit back a groan, rolled out of bed, and reached for the candle and matches at her bedside – gone.

She wanted to be surprised, but found that she wasn’t, very.

“Have it your way,” she said to the dark room, and stumbled over to the pile of blankets and pillows that she’d arranged on the floor earlier and collapsed into it.  The bed creaked as her ghost settled in; he let out a deep sigh.  “You’re welcome to it,” she mumbled, “just stay over there.” He didn’t show any signs of doing otherwise, and so after a tense half-hour, she fell back to sleep.  Every noise from the bed made her stir uneasily, but for the most part the sleeper was as silent as he was unseen.

He was certainly quiet as he left, for when she awoke the next morning the bed was again empty.  She eyed it with no small amount of resentment, for her back was still stiff, but thought that if this was the price that must be paid, the catch in the curse of a year and a day, then maybe it wasn’t completely unsustainable.  She didn’t suppose that the sleeper was a problem tied to the particular room and not a problem tied to her, so that it could be solved as easily as moving rooms, but maybe she could pull the mattress off one of the other beds and keep it on the floor of her room without being bothered.  She’d find a way to make it livable.

She wandered down the stairs in significantly less of a snit than she had the previous morning, tying her dressing gown around her waist and steeling herself for conversation.

The monster had again arisen before her, and was again only half-dressed.  He gulped down the rest of the liquid in his glass when he saw her coming.  “May I wish you a good morning?” he asked.

“You don’t have to be glib,” she answered primly.  “Do you mind if I join you for breakfast?”

“Toast and eggs today.”

“Lovely.”  She pulled out her own chair and went about selecting two pieces of lightly-brown toast and scraping more butter onto them than she would have allowed herself at home.  Her breakfast companion passed her a small jar of jam, and uncovered a frying pan and served her two eggs.  The eggs were still warm, and the bread had a faint taste of honey beneath the blackberry jam.  All in all it made her slightly wonder what she’d missed with the previous morning’s oatmeal.  She turned her coffee cup rightways up in its saucer, and murmured a polite request for coffee.  The monster blinked at her, and after an odd pause, passed her the carafe beside him and a little pitcher of cream.  She filled up her cup and held it in both hands, savoring the warmth.

Then she saw that behind where the carafe had been a moment before, the glass that she’d assumed had been filled with whiskey before he finished it, was actually stained a dark red color by a thick liquid that clung to its sides.  She replaced her cup in its saucer with shaking hands.  She’d known, of course, what sort of creature he was.  But somehow she hadn’t imagined he was drinking blood here, in this fine house with her so near.  Her newly-won feeling of safety wavered, and when she automatically took another bite of egg, it tasted rubbery.  

He’d tried to hide it.  Why?  Surely not to make her feel safe, when he’d been all but completely pitiless when it came to her feelings the previous day.  A horrible thought conjured itself: the brief minutes she had slept, both of the last two nights.  And she was always asleep when the mystery figure entered, and always asleep when he left – was that a part of the rules of the curse?  Would she fall asleep no matter what?  What could be happening while she was trapped in unconsciousness?

Was this why she was here?  Chosen for a year and a day of having her blood drained from her veins while she slept so that a monster could drink it over toast and eggs – which, naturally, he wasn’t eating?  

She placed her fork on the edge of her plate and rose to her feet.  “Excuse me,” she said, as calmly as she could.  He looked like he wanted to say something, but she didn’t wait to hear what it was.

Up in her room, she shut herself in her washroom and wedged the table under the doorknob again.  Then with shaking hands she took off her dressing gown, faced herself in the mirror, and checked her neck for bite marks.

There were none.  It was a relief, but she was far from wholly reassured.

She dragged the table back from the door and stepped back out into her bedroom, and contemplated for the first time whether she needed to break one of the wooden chairs or tables and make a stake out of it.  It felt like it would have been declaring war, so she settled for picking up the broom and carrying it casually tucked through her elbow as she went back down the stairs.

She was going to find the cellar.

At first the only thing she discovered was exactly how easy it would be for another person to be lurking somewhere without her knowing about them.  The house was labyrinthine; by the time she moved from one wing to another, one floor to the next, someone with an interest in avoiding her could easily have slipped out of one of the many connecting doors without being seen.  She didn’t even cross paths with her host, whom she knew was somewhere to be found. 

When she did, finally, find the stairs to the lowest level, it was an hour later and her nerves were hopelessly frayed from opening door after door expecting something to jump out, be it a monster she didn’t know or the one she did.  She didn’t even know which would be worse.

The hallway through the cellar was narrow, and of course it smelled even mustier and danker than the upper levels of the home.  She peered into side rooms – one of them had bars on the door, one of them was incongruously filled with plants.  She couldn’t imagine why her host would have said she wouldn’t find the cellar comfortable – she didn’t, but she wasn’t comfortable anywhere in this house.

And then she turned a blind corner and found herself face to face with what would have been a wine cellar in any other house: wall-to-wall awful glass bottles that she knew were not filled with wine.  Her hand tightened around the broom handle, and she forced herself to stand still and look for some clue of where it all came from, if any of it was less dusty or suspiciously free of cobwebs.  If any of it was fresh.  There were no labels on the racks, but she didn’t want to have to touch any of the bottles to check if they had anything marked on them.  She compromised by stepping closer and craning her neck, but still couldn’t make out anything.  They were just plain, identical bottles – dozens and dozens of them. There was far, far more blood in this room than there was in her body.

A sudden knock pulled her out of her rapidly spiraling thoughts, and she glanced to her left.  The monster – the one she knew about – was leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I did tell you not to come down here,” he said drily.

“No, you told me I wouldn’t be comfortable,” she countered.

“And I could hear your heartbeat getting faster from a floor up.  Evidently I was right.  I think you had better tell me what you’re thinking right now, so we can get it out of the way.”

She crossed her own arms and lifted her chin.  “Is any of this mine?” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“No,” he answered.

“Is my blood going to end up in bottles on this wall?”

“No, Elena.  I told you you wouldn’t be harmed, didn’t I?  Shouldn’t this be reassuring, to know I have something to eat that isn’t you?”

Maybe it would have been, if she hadn’t been preoccupied and distracted by her nightly intruder.  “Why would it be reassuring if I don’t know where it comes from?” she shot back.

He rolled his eyes.  “There’s a replenishing spell, same one that’s on the kitchen pantry.”

“So the house is magic.”

“No, it’s not.  There’s a spell on the pantry and the cellar.  That’s all.  That’s not the same thing.”

“But where does it come from?”  He made an aggravated face at her repetition, so she spit out, “Whose blood is it?”

He snorted.  “Damned if I know.”

She let her hands drop to her sides, startled by his admission.  “You don’t know.”

“No, Elena.  It’s not as if I know which farm the eggs came from, either.  Or as if I were personally acquainted with the baker who made the bread. We both have food for a year and a day – that’s all that matters.”

She felt stupid, and then, obscurely, she felt comforted. He wasn’t drinking from her.  He wasn’t drinking from anyone.  He wasn’t stalking strangers, draining guests, filling a dark, dusty cellar with the blood of his victims.  He was just eating what was in the pantry, exactly like she was.  And yes, perhaps the comparison with her food was a callous one, but maybe he didn’t want to think about where his sustenance came from any more than she did.  Maybe he wasn’t really her host – maybe he was a guest here, trapped here just like she was.  But she asked anyway, cocking her head towards the gruesome wall of bottles.  “Do you have to?

“Yes,” he answered, but without resentment.  “Or else I’m not going to much of a conversationalist for the next year.”  At her raised eyebrows, he added, “Yes, even worse of a conversationalist than now.  What’s dead needs blood to go on walking around.”

She nodded, looking at her feet.  At least she’d asked.

“Now may I ask a question?” he asked.

“I suppose you can.”

“Is your plan to kill me with that broom?”

She looked up; he was grinning.  “Maybe I wanted to clean.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve thought better of it.  I’m going to start with the upstairs and work my way down.”

“That’s your prerogative,” he said, and offered her his hand.  “Shall we?”

She nodded, and then put the broom in his hand; he chuckled, and let her lead the way back up to the main floor.  It was a relief to see the morning sunshine streaming through the window after the chill of the darkness, and the sky outside was perfectly clear.

She turned abruptly and almost ran into the monster. “When was the last new moon?”

“Why would I know that?” he said, non-plussed.  

“You’re supposed to be a creature of the night, aren’t you?”

“I’m not a werewolf, Elena.”

“Well, obviously.”  

“So?” he said.

“There wasn’t any moonlight two nights ago – or was there?”

“Well, I don’t remember.”

“I do,” she said.  “There wasn’t, but I think there ought to have been.”

“Ought to have been? Maybe it was cloudy.”

“Maybe you’re being obtuse!” she said, without much heat. He raised his eyebrows.  “There’s a spell on the kitchen, and a spell on the cellar,” she explained.  “A spell to keep us from starving, to replenish the food.  And there’s another one in my room – I don’t know what it is or how it works or especially why it’s there, but someone doesn’t want there to be any light in my room once I’ve gone to bed.”

He stared at her, and then tried, “Do you need candles?”

She sighed.  “You were making perfect sense a minute ago, why do you become so confusing when I try to talk to you about this?”

“How am I the confusing one here?” he complained.

“Alright,” she said, “just answer me this.”

“Of course, Elena, I live to answer your everlasting queries.”

She re-crossed her arms, and looked him in the eye.  “Am I safe from you, or am I safe?” He only looked at her, uncomprehending. She went on, “You know more about what’s happening here than I do, you have some idea of what the rules are.  So are you giving me a personal promise, or can you guarantee me that nothing will harm me for the next year?”

“Unless you knock a chandelier or a bookshelf onto your own head, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

“You promise, or you know?”

“Both.”  It tended rather to the sardonic than to the sincere.  But there was enough truth there that she felt, maybe, she could put her trust in it.

That night, she waited on the floor of her room, wrapped liberally in blankets.  She did drift off, again, so that she was insensible when the mystery-guest entered only to be awoken by his heavy step on the old floorboards.  She feigned sleep, and waited until the sounds of him settling into bed had ceased, and his breathing was deep and even.  Then she crept out of her nest and around the side of the bed, and stood over the sleeping figure.  “Psst,” she whispered.  He didn’t stir.  “You, in the bed,” she said, a little bit louder.  Still nothing.  And so she reached out with a shaking hand and poked.  It didn’t feel particularly monstrous – not hairy, or scaly.  It felt like human flesh, albeit covered by a nightshirt.  She poked him again in what she thought was his shoulder, groped her way over the pillow to his head, inadvertently carding her fingers through his hair in the process – soft curls, cropped medium short – and then, emboldened by his lack of reaction, brushed her fingers over his lips.  No fangs jutted over them, the bones behind the lips felt square and uniform enough.  She absently touched her free hand to her own lips – they felt the same.  She withdrew her hand, and crouched next to the bed, caught up in her own thoughts while the sleeping figure breathed slowly beside her.

She carefully reached out and placed her hand flat on his chest.

Beneath warm skin, a heart was beating.

Whoever was wandering into her room every night, it seemed he was alive – and human.  

// read the next chapters on ao3 //

[rockpapertheodore]

A Toast to Trouble

Bonnie of Braugh, the Goliath of Chapel Bay, is the personal bodyguard of Lady Remadia Seneca, the Countess of Chapel Bay. For a year, she has served faithfully and happily under Her Ladyship, having to do little more than be an ear for Lady Seneca’s machinations and withering observations of the nobility, and serve a towering wall of iron-clad muscle and stand there with her fuck-off heavy warhammer to intimidate anyone who starts getting too disagreeable towards the Countess.

Lady Seneca has seen fit to reward her loyal service with a night off. Unfortunately, she has also seen fit to commission the ethereal twin couturiers, Artemis and Apollo, to fit her for a very fancy dress, for a very fancy party. 

Bonnie was under the impression that she was supposed to rewarded for her loyal service, not damned straight to her own personal hell.

Tags for Content: Explicit, Low Fantasy, Original Work, Casual Sex, Bisexuality, Love and Affection, (a very brief scene of) M/F, (4.5k words worth of) F/F, D/s dynamics, Alcohol, consent is sexy, sober consent is even sexier, a rather unprofessional development in an otherwise professional relationship. WORD COUNT: 11,561 words

Quick note: I’m a queer cis man writing a wlw story, and I’ve tried to portray everything to the best of my ability. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and, please, i implore you, correct me if I’ve gotten anything wrong, particularly with the romance scene. Thanks <3

Quick note 2: Getting this to format properly for Tungles dot Bungles was hell, I apologize profusely if there’s anything hideously goofy with it

A Toast to Trouble

“Lady Seneca, may I speak frankly with you?” Bonnie of Braugh sputtered, standing stiffly in front of the mirror as the twin couturiers, Artemis and Apollo, went about their business cleaning up her appearance - perfecting the make-up on her face and making her suitable for the public.

Lady Remadia Seneca, Countess of Chapel Bay, lounged on the gilded divan near the door, idly swirling a glass of wine as she gleefully watched the twins struggle to do their work with the colossal woman, who dwarfed them considerably. “If I said no, would you hear it?” She asked, taking a sip of her wine that was the same deep red as Bonnie's dress.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then why bother asking?”

“Because it bothers you, my lady,” Bonnie said, as she felt Apollo begin to tighten the girdle over the dress. Artemis was making her way around Bonnie, smoothing out the fabric under the girdle where it had started to bunch up.

“Speak away, Bonnie.”

“Why must I wear this horrible outfit?”

Lady Seneca rolled her eyes. “Bonnie, you do a terrible disservice to yourself. You look absolutely stunning. Does she not, Artemis? Apollo?”

“We agree with you, Lady Seneca,” Apollo said, standing on a stool so that he could work at the top strings of the girdle, tying them into place.

“We do, indeed. Bonnie. You look beautiful, love.” Artemis said as she reached up, gently poking Bonnie's nose. Bonnie's face scrunched up in response. Artemis winked up at her and went about her work.

“Please, you two, not this. Why can't I wear my armor? How am I supposed to do my job like this?”

“It is a party, darling, worry not! The only things you should concern yourself with are dancing and being merry.”

“And should there be trouble? You very well won't let me carry my hammer with me.” Bonnie looked to the twins, hoping they'd agree with her, at least on this. Instead, they were busy packing away their tools.

“Bonnie, my beautiful brute, how I do adore thee.” Lady Seneca rose from the divan, her dress flowing behind her, and opened the door.

“That's not an answer.”

“I'm already going out to the party! I can't hear you!”

“Lady Seneca!”

“See you amongst the rabble, love! Ta!”

“Remy!” Bonnie shouted, desperate, to no avail. “Damn it.” Crestfallen, she stared at the door, hoping that Lady Seneca would come back through and tell her it was all some hilarious joke. She sighed and sat down on the stool Apollo had been standing on, slouching as far as her dress would let her. “I really have to go out there, don't I?”

Artemis and Apollo nodded, moving to Bonnie's sides to encompass her in a compassionate hug. “Trust us, love. You'll do fine,” Apollo murmured into her ear. Artemis laid a gentle kiss on Bonnie's cheek. “You are lovely.”

Bonnie sighed dramatically, wrapping a powerful arm around the two of them and forcing them into her lap. “I don't give a shit about that! What I'm terrified of is having to interact with these high-society types as something other than their hired muscle! I don't know how to hold a conversation with these people beyond, 'yes, m'lord,' or 'no, your grace!” She pulled them in so she could rest her chin on both of their heads as they each hugged an arm. “Do any of them know anything about smithing? Perhaps some steel merchant or a jeweller? My hands are too big for such delicate work, but perhaps we'd have some shared appreciation for craftsmanship.”

“You'll never know until you go out there,” Artemis said, resting her cheek against Bonnie's bicep. Apollo muttered, “and you're never going to get out there until you get over yourself. Ow!” Bonnie had dug her chin into the top of his head. “I'm just saying, love, you're going to have to let us free at some point and go.”

“But what if I don't want to let you go? What if I want to smuggle you two in my bustier?”

“Bonnie.”

Bonnie whined and loosened her grip on the twins, allowing them to slip out from her arms. The twins turned, offering their hands to help her up. Though Bonnie didn't need it, she appreciated the gesture, taking their offered hands and offering a sarcastic curtsy to them in thanks. They rolled their eyes and began to push her towards the door. Bonnie laughed, shooing them away. “Leave me alone, you two, I've got this.”

-The Party-

I haven’t got this, Bonnie thought as she tried to navigate the social seas of high-society. Mumbled half-attempts to strike up conversation left her lips time and again, only to be ignored or met with shocked stares. I have no idea how to talk to these people. She could feel every glance being cast her way as she stood easily head and shoulders above those gathered for the Countess's party, too much attention being paid to her scars and her height. She felt her face beginning to flush in panic as she grabbed a carafe of water and found herself a seat on an isolated chaise lounge. On a nearby table sat an unattended glass of wine, which she commandeered, dumping its contents into a potted bush of some sort and refilling it with cool water. She downed the glass and poured herself another, putting the carafe down so she could nurse the glass in both her hands. Contemplating the ripples of the water, she lost herself in thought as she tried to wrap her head around everything going on.

“I'm proud of you, you know.”

Bonnie snapped to attention, the Countess's lips a hair's breadth from her ear. She could smell the wine on the Countess's breath.

“To be quite honest, I thought that I had pushed too far by insisting you attend as my guest, rather than as my bodyguard.”

“I am out of my league here, my lady.”

“Oh I do so love it when you call me that, dear Bonnie, but tonight you don't have to be so formal.” Lady Seneca finally leaned away from Bonnie, and Bonnie felt herself relax. “Come, let us go onto the balcony. The fresh air will do us wonders.”

Suddenly Lady Seneca’s hand was in Bonnie’s and she was being pulled up and away, being led through the crowd, and an invisible weight was lifted from Bonnie’s shoulders as they emerged from the loud claustrophobia of the party into the relative quiet of the night. The balcony they were on was blessedly unoccupied, the nearest group of party goers a stone’s throw away on a balcony of their own, allowing Bonnie to appreciate the view that spread out beneath her. The twinkling of street lamps and illuminated windows from the dark city below captivated Bonnie, her eyes tracing the curve of the city around the bay until it faded into dark silhouettes in the distance. Off on a great rock in the middle of the harbor, the Chapel Bay Lighthouse shone like a bright star against the rippling black water of the night.

“Was I right, dear Bonnie?”

“Very much so, my lady.” Bonnie said, but Lady Seneca coughed expectantly, frowning. “Lady Seneca?” Another cough. “Remadia?” Bonnie said hesitantly, and was met with an excited grin. Bonnie smiled back.

“Close enough, my dear Bonnie. You didn’t hesitate to call my name earlier, though, did you?”

Bonnie felt her face heat with embarrassment. “First of all, my, wait, Lady, no,” Bonnie felt her thoughts twisting up in her brain, “Remadia. First of all, I remained as courteous as I could. Then, uh,” Bonnie averted her gaze from Remadia’s smiling eyes, “I was panicking.”

“You’re not panicking anymore, are you?”

“Not currently, no. I definitely had been until you intervened. So, um, thank you.” Bonnie’s mouth felt dry and tight, remembering the glass of water in her hand, drank the full glass in a single mouthful. She saw Remadia smiling wide again out of the corner of her eye and wished she had another glass of water.

“I dare say, Bonnie; impressive. What are you drinking?”

“Water, m’lady- I mean, Remadia.”

Remadia gave her a playful punch on the arm. “Oh, please, Bonnie, how are you supposed to get into trouble if you’re only drinking water?”

“I don’t like to drink, and I really don’t want to, uh, get into trouble.”

“Nonsense! I had this absolutely wonderful port brought in this morning - though that scrawny weasel Lord McKinsey could barely handle the scent of it, let alone a full glass - I’m sure that it’ll do wonders for your disposition, and-” Remadia had begun to wander away from Bonnie as she rambled, only to be halted by Bonnie’s hand, large enough to almost fully envelop her bicep.

“Please, Lady Seneca.”

Remadia was taken aback by the unexpected desperation in Bonnie’s voice, and turned her head to contemplate the knuckles of Bonnie’s fingers, so very gently wrapped around her arm. She felt the protest she had been going to say melt away in her throat as her eyes followed up Bonnie’s arm to meet her pleading gaze. Her eyes looked golden in the light from the windows behind Remadia, dark eyelashes blending in against the dark eyeshadow the twins had given her. Remadia felt her heart soften and reached up to pull Bonnie’s hand from her arm. Bonnie opened her mouth to say something, but Remadia didn’t hear it as she wrapped her own arms around Bonnie, hugging her tightly, face buried fully in the warmth of Bonnie’s bosom.

Shocked, Bonnie hesitantly returned the hug with one arm, her other coming up to gingerly stroking Remadia’s hair. “Remadia, are you drunk?”

There was a mumbled response, but Remadia’s words were muffled by the fabric of Bonnie’s dress.

“Sorry, couldn’t hear that.” Bonnie stopped petting Remadia’s hair to gently grip it and pressure Remadia into tilting her head back and out of Bonnie’s chest.

“Perhaps moreso than I thought, dear Bonnie, but not hideously.” Remadia’s eyes wandered across Bonnie’s face before they narrowed, darting around conspiratorially, before she said, “Come here, love, I have a secret I wish to share with you and being eye-level with the underside of your tits makes that difficult. Lean down to me.”

Bonnie was confused, and somewhat surprised by Remadia’s bruskness. “Remadia, we’re alone here, you can speak.”

“Yes, but secrets are no fun unless they’re whispered! Come down to my level.” Remadia had a mischievous grin on her face that she was struggling to conceal.

Bonnie rolled her eyes and acquiesced, leaning down to Remadia’s level, before her face was suddenly grasped between Remadia’s hands, and she felt soft lips against hers. In a moment of shock, Bonnie froze, mouth slack and eyes wide, and in that moment she felt fingers cradle her chin and grip the back of her head as Remadia’s tongue parted her lips. She could taste the wine Remadia had been drinking earlier, bittersweet and something she would normally find disagreeable.

In this moment, however, she wasn’t sure if she found it unpleasant.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Remadia’s eyes were unfocused as she pulled away, a light flush on her face, before meeting Bonnie’s stunned gaze, letting go of Bonnie’s face with one hand and patting her cheekily with the other. She winked at Bonnie. “I have a party to return to, dear Bonnie. Weren’t you glad you leaned down?” She wiped the sides of her mouth with her thumb, swiping away a smear of lipstick and spittle, before turning the same attention to Bonnie’s mouth with that same thumb. She patted Bonnie’s cheek again. “To trouble?”

With that, she was gone, and Bonnie was left dumbfounded as Remadia disappeared back into the party. Bonnie looked around, still not processing what had just happened. The other balcony either didn’t notice what happened, or had, and were gossiping quietly amongst themselves about it.

“Uh, yeah. To trouble,” Bonnie said to the open air, “I guess.”

-To Trouble?-

It took her the better part of thirty minutes to regain her senses and reenter the party, catching sight of and chasing down one of the men with serving trays of drinks, someone who in any other situation was her peer, and as she approached him, she noticed a change in how she was carrying herself. Her back was straighter, and she felt more confident, no longer shying away from the curious and judgmental gazes being cast her way. She still felt out of place, but no longer did she feel like a sheep amongst wolves. To trouble, she thought to herself as she grabbed two glasses of some sort of foreign juice, confirming with the serving man that it wasn’t wine. She turned around to perhaps find someone to talk to, only to discover that someone had come to her as she nearly walked in to him, managing to keep her glasses of juice steady.

“Forgive me, my lady, I didn’t mean to startle you,” The man said, offering a sweeping bow as Bonnie stepped back from him, eyeing him carefully. His dark, thick lashes lifted to reveal wondrous hazel eyes, which rose to meet her own. He quirked an eyebrow as a playful grin tugged at the corner of his lips, and Bonnie felt her heart flutter. He was beautiful.

“No, please, forgive me!” Bonnie managed to say, panicking. “I should have looked before I started walking.” She was at a loss for words, unsure of how to proceed. She could feel her new confidence fading rapidly. She faltered, stumbling for words. She noticed he didn’t have a drink, and held out one of hers. “Juice?”

The man took her awkwardness in stride, accepting the glass graciously. “Thank you, my lady.” He sniffed it, swirling the glass before taking a sip. “Not wine?”

“Oh, no, I don’t care much for drinking.”

“Do you care much for dancing?”

He asked it so idly, it took Bonnie a moment to pick up on what his question implied, and she felt her face grow hot as she blushed. She stammered, mouth searching for a response, as she watched the look on the man’s face grow concerned.

“Have I asked something wrong? Do I offend?”

“Oh, n-no! You don’t, I don’t, nobody’s ever, uh-” she stuttered, words stumbling out of her mouth, “I’m too big.” The area from her neck to her ears felt as if they were on fire, she was so flushed in embarrassment.

The man grinned wolfishly at her, worrying in its similarity to Remadia’s. “Am I to understand that nobody has ever asked you to dance?”

Bonnie finally managed to get her mouth under control, though it felt dry “I’ve never been taught, and I, uh,” she paused, taking a drink from her glass “most people find my, uh, size,” she paused again, “to be intimidating.” His grin softened, and she couldn’t bring herself to make eye contact with him. She finished drinking the rest of her juice.

“I don’t find your size to be intimidating.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly his hand was in hers, and the empty glass was divested from her fingers, and for the second time that night Bonnie was being led away. Before she knew it they were standing on the dancefloor surrounded by other dancing pairs. The music seemed too loud and her heart pounded in her throat. Her new companion, however, remained calm as he took her left hand and placed it on his right arm, placed his right hand just below her shoulder blade, took her right hand in his left, and with a shout of “move with me!” he raised their conjoined hands and confidently began to move them both to the rhythm of the music. Bonnie struggled to keep to the simple steps he was guiding her through, always being led by his assertive but gentle directions. After a minute of stiff shuffling, however, Bonnie began to relax into the dance. Eventually, she became less aware of the loud music, and was finally able to focus on the face of her companion, who was confident and relaxed, despite her clumsy, so-called dancing.

Those enchanting hazel eyes met hers, glittering jewels of amber and emerald set against deep, olive skin; dark, perfectly coiffed hair, shaved down on the sides; a handlebar moustache and the dark patch below framing a pair of impressively shapely lips, plump and dusky pink. Those soft-looking lips lifted into a smirk as her gaze lingered upon them.

“See something you like, my lady?” He said, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

Bonnie felt herself blush reflexively, but there was something in the quirk of his mouth and the words he said that reminded her again of Remadia, and the words, to trouble, floated to the forefront of her thoughts. She felt a rush of confidence and the words, “Maybe I do, little man,” spilled out of her mouth before she could think about what she was saying. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what she had just said - how she said it like a challenge - and she was terrified of his response.

It was like she had cast chum into shark-infested waters.

His hand tightened around hers firmly, and the hand on her shoulder blade dropped to her waist, pulling her in tightly to him. He began to move their dance between the other couples, twisting and turning, his eyes locked to hers and the intensity between them building as he led them away from the band and eventually off the dancefloor, just as the orchestra finished playing.

“Might the lady tell me what it is she likes?” He said, his gaze no less intense now that they were away from dancefloor. He was still holding her to him.

“How honest do you want me to be?” Bonnie said, raising her eyebrow. She hoped the question sounded confident. She felt reckless. Excited. She felt his hand slide down below her waist, coming to rest at the top of her rump.

“At least as honest as I am.”

Bonnie felt a throb of lust pulse through her. To trouble!

-To Trouble!-

The door hadn’t even fully shut behind them before he had pulled her down into a passionate kiss, and, unlike earlier, Bonnie didn’t just let the kiss happen to her in shock. She bent down, wrapping her hands under his ass, and lifted him, pinning him against the wall. Bonnie could feel his cock through his pants, throbbing against the underside of her breasts as she leaned into him and he wrapped his legs around her. “Just a little further down the hall now, pretty boy.” She said against his lips, her forehead pressed against his. He kissed her again as she pulled him away from the wall and began to carry him down the corridor, his mouth moving from her lips down her cheek and along her jawline. “I don’t even know your name,” she said, kissing the nape of his neck and fumbling with the doorknob to the receiving room she had been leading him to.

“Pretty boy will do.”

“I like it,” she said as she opened the door, following it inwards, thankful that there wasn’t anybody inside. “I like you, pretty boy.”

“Absolutely wonderful. Would you mind if I showed you my own form of appreciation?” Pretty boy asked as he unwrapped his legs from her, lowering himself down her body, laying kisses along the way. Then he reached her waist and one hand began to lift up the hem of her dress as the other cupped her large backside, fingers digging into the dense flesh there. He began to guide her backwards towards the wall, and, when he felt her back connect, disappeared under her dress. She gasped as she felt soft lips greeting her clit, her knees going weak as he sucked hard and his tongue moved against her.

“Oh, pretty boy, I like that,” she moaned hard as he answered her praise with his tongue, penetrating her, licking shallow and and then deep.

He stopped for a moment, and from beneath her dress she heard, “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Bonnie.” She whimpered as he sucked gently on her. He paused.

“The Goliath of Chapel Bay?”

“The very same,” she managed to trill out - a confident, no, a pleased thrill running up her core at the recognition - as he ate at her with renewed vigour. She tried to pull his head into her with her thighs, but she couldn’t regain control of her legs, barely managing to stay upright as she felt the hand on her ass dig aggressively into her flesh. His other hand ran along her skin, gently teasing at the sensitive skin between her pucker and her cunt before his fingers worked their way up, parting her and gently playing at her slick, sensitive and swollen opening.

He pulled away, breathing heavily. “I never thought I’d meet you like this. You’re so much bigger than I could have imagined.”

“You like them big, pretty boy?” she managed to gasp, before suddenly his fingers were inside her, and his mouth was working her clit and her breath was knocked from her as she came, shaking against his face. Her abdominal muscles tensed as the orgasm rocked through her and she lost control of her legs, her hips grinding forward as her hand clamped down against the back of his head to hold him in place. Guttural sounds managed to escape her throat as she choked on air, trying to regain some sense of composure and failing wonderfully. Trembling, she sank against the wall and down to the floor.

As she struggled to lower herself, he remained in this crouched position, and the weight of her body drew her dress off him, revealing his smiling face, moustache damp and unstyled with her juices.

“Like is a bit of an understatement, methinks. A man does not climb the highest peaks for mere like of the mountain.” He said it so earnestly Bonnie felt her heart leap in her chest. She tried to respond, but her mouth was dry and her eyes unfocused. She reached out to drag him in for a kiss, but he grabbed her hand, suddenly attentive to something outside the room. She couldn’t hear anything over her own heartbeat. He leaned in and kissed her, and when he pulled away, her face was sticky with her own come. “Forgive me, Bonnie. My companions call for me.” In a blink, he was standing up and moving towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” Bonnie whined pathetically as he walked away. He stopped before opening the door, and took a deep bow.

“I swear to you, Bonnie, Goliath of Chapel Bay, our paths will cross again.” And with that, he was gone, the door closing behind him with a click!

“Damn it,” Bonnie said, as she began to pull herself together. She stood up, still shaky, and began to pat down her dress, making sure she hadn’t soaked through her clothes. “Oh I bet I reek.” She muttered to herself. Her head was muddled with afterglow, but she felt confident that she at least looked presentable.

Now to do something about the smell, she thought as she left the room, making a stumbling detour away from the party and towards the twins’ quarters.

-Back to the Party-

Bonnie took longer than she had expected to return to the party, and not in the way that she had wanted. She was still horny and had been hoping the twins were amenable to resolving that particular issue, but they weren’t in their quarters, so Bonnie found their perfumes and spritzed herself with one that smelled strongly of roses before she caught sight of herself in the mirror. The careful makeup that the twins had given her was smeared horribly, the color applied to her lips spread about her mouth, so she found a kerchief and set about cleaning up her face as carefully as possible, trying to preserve what she could.

By the time she made it back to the main hall, the party was drawing to a close and Remadia’s guests were filing out the doors. Bonnie scanned the crowd, expecting to see the Countess somewhere bidding her guests farewell, but she was nowhere to be found amidst the rabble. She looked elsewhere throughout the main hall, and almost walked past the door to the balcony that they had gone out onto earlier, when she stopped, turning to peer through the glass. Remadia sat on a bench that hadn’t been there earlier, arms at her sides and feet idly kicking as she looked out over the balcony ledge.

Bonnie pushed through the doors, not acknowledged by Remadia until Bonnie was sitting next to her. “Bit lonely out here, isn’t it?”

Remadia waved off the comment, unfazed by Bonnie’s sudden appearance. “Pshaw, my dear Bonnie. It’s a lovely night in my city, and I knew you’d find me eventually,” she said as if it were a matter of fact, her voice thick and worn from the night. She yawned, stretching herself out before commandeering Bonnie’s arm, pulling it around her like a blanket as she leaned into Bonnie and rested her head fully against Bonnie’s breast. “You stink hideously of roses, my dear, and I know that’s not the perfume I gave you earlier,” she remarked,  before cuddling deeper against Bonnie, nuzzling her face against Bonnie’s breast as much as she could from the side.

Bonnie had felt a flush creeping across her face from the moment Remadia had started touching her, but she blushed fully in response to her statement. “I, well,” Bonnie gulped as Remadia looked up from her tit, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity. “I took your toast to trouble to heart, and found myself a little trouble.”

Remadia raised both of her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh really? How utterly droll, my dear.” Remadia purred, only moving her mouth from its position against Bonnie so that she could speak with relative clarity. “Was it a scuffle? A row? Or was it romantic trouble? Did you dance?”

Bonnie smiled down softly at Remadia. “We danced, yes.” Then she smirked, looking out towards the lighthouse in the bay. “Then he ate me out in the receiving room off the back corridor.”

Remadia purred with delight, wrapping her arm around Bonnie’s waist and hugging her tightly. “Nothing further?”

“Left me quivering on the floor. The beautiful bastard scarpered before I could beg him to fuck me.”

“Beg? I think the word you use is too strong, my dear.” She pulled her arm off of Bonnie’s waist and used it to secure Bonnie’s arm more tightly against her. “You were far too much woman for him to handle. I, on the other hand, could show you what begging for a good fuck is really like,” she said, as casually as one would contemplate the weather, “though I would never dream to be so rude as to just abandon you on the floor.”

Bonnie choked, sputtering as her heart ground to a halt in her chest, her entire body tensing. She could feel lustful warmth resurging back into her loins, but her brain was frozen in panic. When Remadia spoke, her words were too loud, startling Bonnie.

“You know what I absolutely adore about you, dear Bonnie? How honest you are. Sometimes you talk yourself in circles, but your face and your body always tell the truth.”

Bonnie remained still, unable to move. Remadia let go of her grip on Bonnie’s arm and moved her hands instead to and around Bonnie’s waist, turning her body in to Bonnie’s. She hoisted one leg dramatically in the air, twisting herself further so that she could straddle Bonnie’s lap with it, supporting herself almost entirely against Bonnie’s sturdy frame. Then, once that was settled and her leg was locked firmly around Bonnie, heel digging into the cleft of Bonnie’s butt, she used it as leverage to awkwardly lift her other leg so that it could be wrapped around Bonnie’s waist as well. Her face never left Bonnie’s chest, and Remadia had situated herself in such a way - arms slung under Bonnie’s bust and around her waist, with her hips cocked upward against Bonnie’s stomach - as to allow her face to now be fully buried in the fabric of Bonnie’s bosom. Bonnie hadn’t budged an inch throughout the endeavor, and Remadia began to moan, her head lolling from side to side.

“Remadia, are you okay?” Bonnie asked, concerned.

Remadia rolled her head against the top of one breast, so that she was peering up at her through a heavily squinting eye. “I’m drunk and the world has begun to spin, and all I want,” she was interrupted by a yawn, “is to use these big, lovely tits of yours as my pillows so that I may regain my composure and fuck you silly.” She returned her face to the crevice she had burrowed into the fabric of Bonnie’s bosom, lifting her arms to squeeze Bonnie’s breasts around her ears.

Bonnie felt her face heat up for what felt like the hundredth time that night, but felt the need to take control of the situation. “Let’s get you to bed, then.” Bonnie could hear Remadia’s muffled response of “yes, let me bed you,” and sighed.

Bonnie had had enough.

“All right, you foul fuckin’ mess, let’s go.” Bonnie wrapped her arms underneath Remadia’s rump, lifting her so that Bonnie could stand up. Remadia squealed, briefly lifting her face from Bonnie’s cleavage to speak, eyes and smile excited as she kicked her feet gleefully against Bonnie’s butt.

“I feel like a child in your arms, this is wonderful!” and then her face was buried away again. Bonnie could barely make out her continuation of, “Why haven’t I had you do this before?” as she walked back to the door.

“Because, you embarrassment of a woman, I’ve been your personal bodyguard, and we have had an otherwise professional relationship.”

“But I don’t want that now. I was a fool!”

“Was? Are.”

“Bonnie,” she whined, drawing it out as long and as pathetically as she could and flailing her heels ineffectually at Bonnie’s hips.

Ignoring her, Bonnie made her way through the hall, paying no attention to the curious looks of the people cleaning up and making her way towards the corridor that would lead to Remadia’s quarters.

As she walked through the corridor doors, Remadia squeezed Bonnie, both hands slapping her back in urgency. “Wait!” she cried out from Bonnie’s chest, with a tone of panic so intense that it stopped Bonnie in her tracks.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

Remadia loosened up. “Privy. Hurry.”

“You wretch.” Bonnie picked up the pace. “Are you going to hurl all over me or do you have to piss?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Bonnie hurried to the privy as quickly as possible, being careful not to jostle Remadia more than necessary. She threw open the door and - gently - deposited Remadia on the burnished wood of the privy, quickly turning around and leaving her to do her business, despite Remadia’s mournful whine of, “Don’t abandon me.”

-She Doesn’t Abandon Her-

“You do know that if you don’t cuddle with me, I’m going to follow you to your room.” Remadia sat, now naked, on her bed, patting the space next to her. Somewhere between the privy and her quarters she had managed to regain a modicum of composure, though she had a tendency to overbalance from one side to the other as she attempted to maintain her posture.

Bonnie, still fully dressed, groaned, frustrated and refusing to look at her. “You petulant brat.”

“I told you my plan on the balcony, Bonnie. You have yet to tell me no.”

“We’re not,” Bonnie spluttered, “I am- you,” too many words tried to make their way out of her mouth at once. “You’re drunk.”

“Is that your only complaint?”

“Well-” Bonnie hesitated.

“Speak frankly, if you’re looking for permission.”

“I wasn’t, but-”

“Then we can cuddle ever-so-chastely tonight, and tomorrow I can fuck you in the way your beautiful companion was too cowardly to.”

“Remadia, I keep saying this: I am your bodyguard,” Bonnie shouted. She could see Remadia out of the corner of her eye. Remadia clapped her hands over her mouth, and Bonnie turned, finally looking to meet her eyes. She hoped that Remadia finally understood the predicament Bonnie was in.

Bonnie was taken aback by the fawning adoration in her eyes, like how a child looks at a newborn puppy.

“Oh Bonnie, is that truly it? Truly?” she clapped excitedly, like a child receiving a gift. “Oh how I adore you! It’s no wonder the twins are so infatuated with you, you’re so earnest.”

“I- what? You know?”

Remadia callously waved away Bonnie’s shock. “Oh, of course I know, dear, the twins tell me absolutely everything, and it is the absolute sweetest thing. They’ve never been so enamoured with a person before, let alone the same person. Their infatuation with you is so thorough as to be infectious!”

Bonnie was at a loss for words, her mouth stuttering out, “propriety!”

Remadia gave Bonnie a withering glare. “Bonnie, propriety has its place, and that is with those who make it their life. If I were a woman concerned with propriety, I would have married some petulant merchant skunk and left my own desires to fall to the wayside instead of becoming one of the most powerful women in the country.” Remadia stood up, suddenly full of fire, marching up to Bonnie. “If I were a woman concerned only with propriety, I might have married the Duke of Braugh instead of throwing his letters into the cesspit where they belonged, and he may never have tried to wage his foolish war on me, and he might have been sitting here, in my manor, this very night, instead of cowering in his shit-caked castle in the muddy lowlands with half his land given to me in surrender. And you,” her finger delivering a vicious tap to Bonnie’s sternum, “would never have become the oh-so infamous Goliath of Braugh, and I would have never shown up in your village after hearing of your exploits, and I would never have asked you to serve as my bodyguard, and claimed you as my Goliath, the Goliath of Chapel Bay. My Bonnie. Do not speak to me of propriety!” Her voice had become unexpectedly shrill.

Bonnie, overcome with emotions too conflicted and struggling against each other that she couldn’t put words to how she felt, wrapped her arms around Remadia tightly in a hug. She understood Remadia’s passion, but Remadia couldn’t understand what she’d lost, especially as she was now, and she didn’t want to spoil it with any of the grim thoughts that came to mind. Remadia’s fists were balled, arms tight to her sides, before reluctantly wrapping themselves around Bonnie and returning the hug. Bonnie rested her chin on Remadia’s head.

“Perhaps I’ve been going the wrong way about it, because it’s never something that I’ve consciously given thought to.”

“What’s that?”

“My overtures towards you, maybe I’ve been too unthinking with them, drink and lust clouding my mind, instead of me trying to be as honest as you are with me.”

“How do you mean, Remadia?”

Bonnie could feel Remadia swallow against her before she spoke, her voice soft and croaking, worn from the night and the sudden rush of emotions. “What I’ve been trying to say with so many words is, Bonnie, that I’m very lonely, and I’m very tired, and the year you’ve been here has frankly been the most wonderful - no, memorable part of my life. I went to war against so-called propriety, my Bonnie, and I got you in return: something, someone, so much more valuable than any land or titles given to me by that reprehensible waste of human existence.  I want you to spend this night with me because I want to feel comfortable in someone else’s presence, truly comfortable with someone for the first time in my entire life”

Bonnie’s hummed reassuredly, tightening her arms around Remadia as she rubbed her cheek against the top of her head. She pressed her lips and began to rock softly from side to side. Moments passed and she felt a single, silent sob rack Remadia’s body. She slowly loosened her grip, rubbing her fingers gently into Remadia’s back as she allowed herself be pulled away. Remadia attempted to maintain her facade of composure in vain as her arms fell limply to her sides, her reddened eyes locked to Bonnie’s chin to avoid looking at the soft smile on her lips. Bonnie’s hands still rested on Remadia’s shoulders as they stood there in a comfortable silence. Bonnie sighed and leaned down so Remadia was forced to look her in the eyes, giving a cheeky grin as Remadia gave a single, defiant sniffle.

“Okay, you needy bitch, get this girdle off me. I’ll hold your wee, simpering form in my big strong arms and whisper sweet-nothings in your ear.”

Remadia’s facade broke, a wide grin splitting her face as she slapped Bonnie’s arm. “Oh, why thank you, my big, strong knight.” She giggled gently, her hands wiping the sudden tears of relief that had welled in her eyes. “Whatever would I do without you?”

Their laughter continued, growing, as Remadia moved behind Bonnie and began to untie the lacing of her girdle. Bonnie relaxed as the pressure of the restrictive garment was relieved, her skin prickling where the girdle had been. The lacings holding up the dress came off next, and Bonnie felt freed as she let the dress fall from her shoulders to her waist, and she heard a soft gasp from behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and caught Remadia’s eye, smiled cheekily, then brought her arms above her head and flexed, causing the muscles of her back to bulge.

Bonnie had never seen Remadia blush before.

Bonnie pulled the dress off her waist and down her body, slowly, deliberately; milking the attention she was being given for all it was worth as she showed off her powerful build for Remadia. She pulled the dress tight so that it bit into her thick, muscular ass, slowly dragging it down so more and more flesh muffined out over the top of the fabric before it all popped out, flexing each cheek and dancing her hips from side to side as she pulled the dress down her corded thighs; her thick calves. She turned to face Remadia with a confident grin, hoping that she had enjoyed the show.

Remadia looked like a cat who had just discovered a bowl of rich cream.

“Shall we retire?” Bonnie gestured towards the bed, raising an eyebrow as suavely as she could muster.

“Oh,” Remadia purred, “my dear, I have been waiting for you to ask me that all night.”

Remadia didn’t move, however, and Bonnie was confused. Guessing that Remadia was waiting for her to go first, Bonnie crawled onto the bed, and was rewarded with an appreciative hum from Remadia. As she had with the dress, she crawled across the bed deliberately, stretching out her legs and arms and moving so that her muscles rippled and bulged with the shifting of her weight, prowling across the mattress. She reached the pillows, finishing her show for Remadia with a wink, and gracelessly flopped onto the bed.

“All right, my lady. Time for bed.” Bonnie turned to find Remadia staring at her, eyes barely focused and doing nothing to hide the lustful delight on her face as she bit excitedly at her lower lip.

Bonnie’s words snapped Remadia out of her thoughts. “Oh, right. Bed.” Remadia crawled hastily onto the bed, before she stopped. “I forgot the candles,” she muttered, turning around and busying herself snuffing out the lights around the room. Bonnie had seen Remadia in various states of undress, but had never really appreciated Remadia’s body until now.

She paid particular attention to how Remadia’s pear-shaped backside, broad and dimpled, jiggled with every step she took, rocking from side to side with the movement of her hips. Bonnie watched as the orange light of the candles played against Remadia’s pale skin, following the curve of her body up her arm to her delicate fingers holding the snuffer.

The last candle went out, and Remadia made her way back onto the bed, where Bonnie was waiting for her eagerly on her side, waiting to play the big spoon. She felt the shifting of the mattress as Remadia moved, but instead of crawling inside Bonnie’s embrace she pushed Bonnie over onto her back, and sprawled herself on top of Bonnie, her face resting on the soft skin of Bonnie’s sternum.

“Is this uncomfortable for you, dear Bonnie?” Remadia whispered, laying a small kiss against the inside of Bonnie’s breast. “Gods, you are so warm.”

“It’ll do, seeing as I doubt I have a say in the matter.”

“Good girl,” she said, shifting her head and kissing the inside of Bonnie’s other breast.

Bonnie had to restrain a giggle as she felt Remadia’s arms come up along her sides and around each breast, hugging them together to smother her head. “You like those, don’t you.” Remadia squeezed her arms tight several times in succession, jiggling Bonnie’s breasts so they slapped against her head, before letting them fall to the side.

“They’re quite nice, yes,” she mumbled. Bonnie brought an arm up to gently stroke Remadia’s head. “That’s quite nice, too.”

“Mm,” Bonnie hummed, taking long, slow breaths, her hand stroking Remadia’s hair and down her back, rubbing small circles with strong fingers. Remadia let out pleased hums when Bonnie rubbed in the right places. She felt Remadia beginning to relax, her head rising and falling on Bonnie’s broad chest. Soon Remadia’s body was slack with sleep.

Bonnie stared into the darkness, mind still whirling from the night’s events.

To trouble, she thought, as sleep began to take her.

-To Trouble! This Time, with Feeling-

Bonnie awoke to the sounds of drawers being shuffled through.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her side, and partially under the covers. Beyond the bed, she could see Remadia busying herself with something in front of the mirror, clad only in a garterbelt and stockings, eliciting a small, “oh!” of appreciation from Bonnie. She watched Remadia’s shapely behind as she bent over to pull something out of a basket next to her. Remadia, hearing Bonnie, snapped upright, excited.

“Bonnie, you’re awake. Are you ready, my dear?” she asked, slapping something against her palm. It took Bonnie a moment, and sitting upright, to recognize that Remadia was holding a riding crop. “I have already cleared my morning plans, so we have some time to ourselves.”

“O-oh,” Bonnie stuttered, feeling a thoroughly surprising, but not unwelcome, thrum of lust roll through her body. Her eyes wandered from the riding crop to her narrow shoulders, across creamy skin to the pale areolae of her gently-sloped breasts, and down Remadia’s stomach, soft handles hugged tightly by the black lace of the garter belt, stretched over broad hips. The straps that held Remadia’s stockings up framed her coppery bush. “I wasn’t, uh, expecting this to happen so quickly.”

“I remember being quite forthright with my intentions, dear.” Remadia looked at the riding crop in her hands. “Is it the crop? Is that too much?”

“Oh, uh, no. I don’t think so. You’re just, um,” Bonnie struggled to find the words to the feelings of arousal and intimidation she was experiencing. She felt like the emotions should be at odds with one another, but instead they fed into one another as she stared at Remadia in her scant lingerie. “You’re more, well, dressed up for this than I guess I’d expected?”

The clear ring of Remadia’s affectionate laughter reddened Bonnie’s ears in embarassment. “Oh, Bonnie. Dear Bonnie. I adore every innocent fiber of your pure and earnest soul.”

She spoke with such fondness Bonnie couldn’t bear to look at her. She felt like a child being condescended as she contemplated the edges of the woven rug behind Remadia’s feet. “I don’t see what’s so innocent about fucking,” she muttered, her mouth pursing into a pout.

“Oh, my love, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, please!” She took a few soft steps towards the bed. “I just enjoy the presentation of it all. The showmanship sets the scene, my dear. Forgive me, my love, and come sit closer for a moment?”

Bonnie sighed apologetically as she released the petulant anger she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing as she nodded in assent and scooched herself along the bed so that she was sitting on the edge closest to Remadia. She couldn’t bring herself to actually look at her, because now she was embarrassed over how she reacted. She wanted to do this, she just was not used to this level of ceremony in the bedroom. Bonnie was used to more carnal, base affairs; or, preferably, gentle, loving intimacy. Never something so directed.

Remadia strolled towards Bonnie with hard, deliberate steps, swinging her hips with every movement, and snapped the riding crop up under Bonnie’s chin. With gentle pressure, Bonnie let her chin be lifted ever-so slightly and turned so that her eyes were level with Remadia’s. “Am I forgiven, my Bonnie?”

The look she was being given sent a trail of liquid fire through her, melting her insides, pooling in her loins. Her mouth was dry, but she managed to voice a soft, “yes, of course.”

“Then, tell me, love, is this all right?”

Bonnie nodded, slack-jawed.

Remadia leaned forward, lips barely touching the shell of Bonnie’s ear. “Tell me, my dear, what it is that you don’t want me to do,” she whispered.

Bonnie struggled to collect her thoughts, her mind forgetting its previous embarrassment and now racing with lust. Her hands were balled in her lap, and with Remadia’s shoulder just in front of her face, she was having a hard time resisting the urge to kiss the base of Remadia’s neck. “I, uh, can’t seem to think of anything that I’d say no to at the moment.”

Remadia laid a kiss in front of her ear. “Then I’ll be very gentle with you, my dear,” she murmured against Bonnie’s skin, laying a soft trail with her lips towards Bonnie’s mouth before capturing it in a passionate kiss. When she pulled away, Bonnie’s skin was flushed and Bonnie was left with a lazy grin. “I know what I like, but I don’t know what you like, beyond what the twins have told me. Do you like tender?”

Bonnie could feel the tip of the riding crop sliding down her neck. She swallowed dryly. “I do. Definitely.” The wide leather piece tickled at her throat before sliding between her breasts, causing her skin to prickle with gooseflesh and her pectoral muscles to spasm. The piece trailed across the heavy curve of one breast, and lingered at the sensitive ring of her areola before giving a sudden, stinging flick across her perked nipple. Bonnie gasped.

“How about that, my dear?” Remadia said as she kissed Bonnie’s lower lip, taking it between her lips and gently sucking on it. Bonnie moaned as the crop continued to gently play with her nipple. Remadia pulled away, pulling Bonnie’s lip as far as it could go before it slipped from between her lips with a wet pop!

“I,” Bonnie stumbled, “wow.”

“Talk to me, my dear, tell me what you’re thinking.” As Remadia spoke, the riding crop had resumed its trail south, tickling at Bonnie’s stomach, and Remadia licked her lips as she watched Bonnie’s powerful gut muscles twitch and dance under the crop. Then, Bonnie’s muscles still tense, the crop teased down lower, slipping behind where Bonnie’s balled fists had remained in her lap, not knowing where to go.

Bonnie could feel the crop playing at her bush, and then with a gentle push from Remadia, she felt the broad, flat leather of the bit rub slickly down her mound, the rod of the crop cool and hard against her clit. She hissed between clenched teeth, shuddering as she unclenched her hands to grip her thighs. “Sheesh,” she paused to take a breath, “wow, you really, uh-” Bonnie was at a loss for words.

“I what, darling?”

“You put much more showmanship into this than the twins do,” Bonnie said. “Artemis and Apollo are much more about throwing themselves at me and figuring it out from there.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, dear. Those two are very,” she took a moment, toying with the crop against Bonnie’s crotch, making Bonnie shudder against it, before finishing her statement, “impatient.” Remadia gripped Bonnie’s chin firmly before kissing her again. “Now, my dear, I need you to turn over onto your knees and present your lovely fat ass to me.” She withdrew the now-slick crop from the crevice of Bonnie’s thighs.

“Yes, my lady,” Bonnie said as she began to turn, moving around so she was on all fours.

“I’m so glad you’re getting into this, my dear Bonnie, but I must ask, how do you feel about being lashed with my crop?” Bonnie could hear the crack of the crop against Remadia’s hand.

“What? Why?” Bonnie looked behind her to find Remadia with a look of disappointment on her face.

“I ask because, although I adore your sense of propriety, I thought I was quite clear last night with how I want you to address me when we’re not bound by formalities,” she said, before she began to play at Bonnie’s exposed sex with the crop.

Bonnie understood that it was intended as some sort of punishment. “Oh.” She let out a moan as the leather danced between her sensitive folds, “I guess give it a try and I will, uh, let you know, Remadia.”

Crack! Bonnie gasped as her body rocked forward involuntarily away from the blow, happening so much more quickly than she had been expecting. Tingling waves of pain and pleasure blossomed from where the rod had connected at the bottom of her raised rump. “Are you alright, dear?” She heard from behind her. She was still reeling from the blow. It stung, and the lingering pain was beginning to overtake any pleasure she might have felt from it. It stung in a way that hurt differently from any blow she’d ever weathered. It was humiliating.

“Can we, um, maybe not with the rod?” she said, sheepishly. She tried to control the hurt in her voice, and she didn’t know why there was suddenly tears in her eyes. Immediately, the riding crop was gone, and there was movement on the bed as Remadia climbed onto it and around to Bonnie’s side, pressing her full body against her in a hug as she shushed and apologized to Bonnie. She leaned down to Bonnie’s face, gently kissing her.

“I’m so sorry, my dear, it’s all right. It’s all right.” Soft, gentle kisses from Remadia between each word. “We are here for pleasure, our pleasure.” More soft kisses as Remadia stroked her hair and hugged Bonnie’s head to her. Remadia tipped Bonnie’s head back, and peppered her mouth with apologetic pecks, her lips moving to kiss the small tears of shame that had beaded on Bonnie’s eyelashes. She mouthed her way down Bonnie’s cheek until she found her lips again, moving against them and feeding into more passionate, longer, slow kisses as their mouths opened against each other, her tongue playing softly with Bonnie’s.

The stinging of the welt on her backside faded quickly from Bonnie’s mind as she lost herself in the kiss, one hand moving to cup the back of Remadia’s head, the other coming up along her side to cup Remadia’s hip, large fingers digging into the ample flesh of her backside. Bonnie massaged Remadia’s butt, earning a series of small moans from Remadia as she leaned into the kiss.

After a moment, Remadia broke the kiss, panting. “Do you mind, my dear, if I spank at your ass with only my hands? Not as punishment, but because I wish to play with it.”

“That’s,” Bonnie paused, considering it. “That’s fine. I don’t know why I started crying like that, I’m sorry.”

Remadia put a finger against Bonnie’s lips. “Shush, now, dear, you need not apologize. Sometimes you do not enjoy a thing because it comes with emotional baggage, and sometimes you do not enjoy a thing simply because you do not find the thing enjoyable.” She laid a gentle kiss to Bonnie’s forehead. “You do not need to explain yourself, either, just tell me when I’ve crossed the line.”

Bonnie was grateful for that. She didn’t know how to explain the pain to Remadia, because she herself wasn’t sure why it had affected her so much.

“Now, if you would lie down so that I might play with your butt, my dear.”

“Oh, right.” Bonnie said, stretching herself out and propping her head up on her arms.

Remadia moved herself so that she knelt at Bonnie’s hip. “You have such a lovely, powerful ass, my dear,” she purred, taking a cheek under each hand and squeezing hard before massaging them firmly. “I wish you could see it the way I do, Bonnie. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Her heart swelling in her chest, Bonnie moaned as Remadia dug into her flesh, working it with gentle force, pushing and pulling, kneading her meaty ass with practiced care. Bonnie felt like so much dough beneath Remadia’s skilled fingertips. She imagined Remadia could feel the intense heat radiating from between her thighs, and as she relaxed even further into Remadia’s ministrations, she imagined those fingers sliding between her cheeks to explore the slippery heat building there.

“My dear, I’m going to smack your ass now so that I can watch it ripple and redden. Is that okay?”

Bonnie nodded, brought back from her fantasies, and hummed her assent as she braced herself.

Smack! Bonnie felt her butt move under the blow, but it didn’t sting like the riding crop had; Remadia’s hand was much softer and lacked the whip of the crop’s flexible rod. Without the weight of punishment, her mind didn’t lock itself up lingering on the blow. She could feel Remadia hesitate beside her, waiting for something.

“Are you alright, love? May I strike again?”

Bonnie hummed her assent again, more confident than before, anticipating and even looking forward to the spank as Remadia’s hand smacked down. Remadia hesitated again, and Bonnie just nodded, arching her back and lifting her butt to meet the next blow. This is almost fun, Bonnie thought, as another spank rang out, this time on the inside of her cheek. Then another, and another, and then another. Each smack began to sting more and more, until after one blow Bonnie shifted her hips to avoid it. Immediately, Remadia began to massage her reddening, swollen skin, and Bonnie moaned. Her moans grew louder as Remadia poured some sort of oil on her sore skin, her busy fingers continuing their ministrations as Remadia whispered loving sweet-nothings to her.

“You are so beautiful, Bonnie; you’re so big and so beautiful,” Remadia murmured. Her praise comforted Bonnie, warmth flooding her chest. “I adore you so much, and you’re doing so well.” Remadia laid a kiss on Bonnie’s butt, and then another, her fingers sliding from the cheeks of Bonnie’s ass and down in between them, pushing and rubbing and kneading. “Thank you,” she murmured against Bonnie’s skin. Then her fingers, well-oiled, slid between Bonnie’s thighs, and toyed with the damp hair they found there, fingertips lightly tickling Bonnie’s folds.

Bonnie had a moment to realize what Remadia was doing before Remadia slipped her fingers inside her, forcing Bonnie to cry out, “Remy!” as pleasure flowed through her body.

“Yes, my dear, finally!” Remadia purred, working her fingers inside Bonnie.

Bonnie gasped and struggled to regain her senses as every thrust of Remadia’s fingers made her squeak and moan. “Please, Remy. Please,” she whimpered. Begged. “Please fuck me.” Then she was empty and Remadia was pulling on her hips and she mindlessly raised herself back onto her knees, obeying her silent commands, and she could feel Remadia moving around behind her. She moaned at the loss of Remadia’s fingers inside her, only to cry out as they were replaced by Remadia’s eager tongue, dancing across her folds with practiced care before diving inside her with long, passionate strokes. Bonnie began to lose focus, her world becoming Remadia lovingly devouring her cunt, her mouth hanging open mindlessly as Remadia began to work Bonnie’s clitoris with her fingers. She squeezed her eyes shut as every muscle in her abdomen twitched in sporadic spasms, before everything tightened at once as she came screaming against Remadia’s face. Remadia didn’t pull away from Bonnie’s orgasm, prolonging it with her expert tongue and gentle fingers. It pulsed through her in waves, and every time Bonnie thought she was done, another pulse would roll through her core, guided by Remadia. A sob escaped her mouth and her arms gave out as yet another wave of soul-shattering pleasure coursed through her, tears welling in her eyes; her mind going blank as Remadia pushed her over the edge and so much further beyond, eyes rolling back into her head as she lost herself, only knowing overwhelming pleasure.

When she was allowed to finally rest, she sobbed in relief as her brain began to reassemble thoughts, piecemeal, and she was able to make sense of her surroundings again. Her upper body was being cradled in Remadia’s lap and sweet words were being whispered into her ear. She could feel Remadia’s fingers tracing gentle circles across the soft muscle above her breast; a mindless, soothing motion.

“You did such a wonderful job, my dear. Thank you.” Gentle kisses were placed along the side of her face. Bonnie leaned into them, turning her head so her lips met Remadia’s, and let their tongues twist together in a languid dance. Remadia pulled back. “You’re so good. You’re wonderful.”

Bonnie grinned, her eyes struggling to focus on Remadia’s, her breathing still shaky. “So, Remy.” Remadia beamed at her, and Bonnie could see a tear well in Remadia’s eye. “How can I return the favor?”

Remadia wiped the tear away with her knuckle. “Oh, well, I can think of some ways, but I think the quickest would be for me to mount your face.”

Bonnie’s brow furrowed in confusion, not expecting such a blunt answer after being given such a thorough fucking. She couldn’t stop herself from pouting. “It doesn’t have to be the quickest, you know.”

“Oh, but dear,” Remadia laughed, “your enthusiasm is wonderful. I do, however, have to return to my duties as the Countess of Chapel Bay at some point today.”

“Oh,” Bonnie huffed, “I guess we can do that. But why ride my face? Why not let me use these big meaty mitts on you?” She cocked an eyebrow, wiggling the fingers of one hand. “I’ve got more in two fingers than most men do in a whole cock.”

Remadia’s laugh was hearty and pure. “My dear, I do so love your way with words.” She caressed Bonnie’s cheek, still smiling. “You might be able to devastate me with those so-called meaty mitts of yours, but me riding your face offers me much more,” she leaned in to whisper in Bonnie’s ear, “control.”

The word sent tingles of warmth fluttering through her loins again. “You do like control, don’t you, Remy?”

“I do so like control.” Remadia began shifting herself out from underneath Bonnie’s shoulders. “Now, on your back and face up, love. Time is of the essence.”

Bonnie complied, rolling over, face up and expectant. Remadia was on her knees above her, and Bonnie was staring up at Remadia’s coppery bush and big, soft thighs that led to the curves of Remadia’s fat ass.

Remadia balanced herself with one hand against Bonnie’s heavy breast, her rough grip making Bonnie gasp, as she spread the lips of her cunt above Bonnie’s eager face. “Bonnie, tongue out and working efficiently. One hand dug firmly into my ass, the other toying with my tit. Your nose might be sore, but I won’t break it, I’m sure.” She looked down between her legs at Bonnie, waiting.

Bonnie felt her heart race as she moved her hands into their prescribed positions. Remadia’s nipple hardened against her palm, the breast weighty and soft against her rough skin. I wonder, Bonnie thought as she gazed at Remadia’s other breast as it hung, heavy and free, pinching the tissue around the areola with her thumb and forefinger and stretching out her pinky and ring finger towards the other areola, capturing it between the first knuckles of her fingers. Nice, she thought, bringing the two breasts together.

Remadia slapped her hand. “I love your proactive attitude, but you can play later.”

Bonnie readjusted her hand so that she firmly gripped only the one breast.

“Ready?”

Bonnie stuck her tongue out so that it laid broad and flat against her chin, upper lip curled over her teeth. “Ready,” she struggled to say with her tongue out.

“Let us begin.”

Bonnie was not as ready as she had thought when her entire world became the soft, hot, damp dark of Remadia’s thighs. Remadia rode hard, driving the wet mouth of her opening against Bonnie’s tongue. Bonnie recovered by arching her tongue into it, firming it so that it drove itself inside Remadia as she ground against Bonnie’s face, and Remadia froze, hands gripping Bonnie’s breasts too hard as she took a second to readjust before bouncing against Bonnie’s stiffened tongue. Suddenly the world was bright as Remadia adjusted herself again, turning herself around so that Bonnie was looking up the front of Remadia’s body. They locked eyes.

“Tongue hard. Suck clit. Hand: thigh. Support me,” Remadia commanded, her gaze unfocused and her mouth open, breath quickened.

Bonnie didn’t bother attempting to reply - and wasn’t give time to - as Remadia picked up right where she had left off. Bonnie complied as best she could as Remadia fucked herself on Bonnie’s tongue. Remadia managed between thrusts to cross her feet beneath Bonnie’s head, and Bonnie lost the ability to breathe as her mouth and nose were sealed against Remadia’s loins. Bonnie, being proactive again, loosened her tongue and began to let it play inside and and against Remadia, licking eagerly at Remadia’s wet hole.

“Gods, Bonnie,” Remadia cried out, “your tongue - fuck!” she bit her lip as she continued to grind against Bonnie’s face. “I don’t think I’ll need your fingers, Bonnie.” She choked for a moment as Bonnie’s tongue dove deep and hard. “Fuck, Bonnie, why’s your tongue so big?” Remadia’s face was red, eyes crossed, and loud, erratic gasps escaping her slack mouth.

Bonnie kept trying to catch breaths through her nose, but Remadia locked her legs behind Bonnie’s head and sat back on her chest, her eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open in a silent cry as she curled herself around Bonnie. Slick juices filled and spilled out of Bonnie’s mouth, but she obediently kept working at Remadia, as Remadia had done for her. When she was allowed to pull her head away, she realized just how soaked she was, her hair matting and stuck to her face and the inside of Remadia’s thigh. The mattress beneath her was not spared, dampened by Remadia’s passionate flood. Shaking, Remadia unhooked her legs from behind Bonnie’s head and stretched them out as she laid backwards atop Bonnie, the joints of her knees cracking harshly in her ears. Her arms fell bonelessly to her sides, resting atop Bonnie’s breasts as she languished in the afterglow of her orgasm, panting heavily. She toyed limply with Bonnie’s nipples, weak fingers pulling at them and slapping at the breast, letting them bounce and jiggle in idle, giggling amusement. Bonnie tried to return the favor, taking Remadia’s breasts roughly in hand, pinching the areolae beneath the nipples and squeezing the whole breast tight. She could feel Remadia spasm against her in response, Remadia’s ass clenching and abdomen tightening as she drew her legs back in against Bonnie’s head. Bonnie was intrigued.

Remadia slapped Bonnie’s hand, hissing, “stop it,” startling Bonnie.

Bonnie let go.

“Thank you,” she said. “Sorry to snap, I get very sensitive post-coitus, and I’m a touch overstimulated, dear.”

Bonnie nodded though Remadia couldn’t see her, and gently massaged the tissue of the breast instead.

“Much better, love. Thank you.” After a moment of enjoying the massage, Remadia lifted Bonnie’s hands off her and had Bonnie readjust herself as she clambered gracelessly around her, so that Bonnie was on her side holding Remadia against her, and Remadia had her head buried into Bonnie’s sternum, sandwiched between her breasts.

Bonnie sighed, tolerating the uncomfortable heat as she started tracing circles against Remadia’s back.

Bonnie had no frame of reference for the time, but the sun seemed like it was getting very late in the morning. She craned her neck down to an uncomfortable degree to put her lips against Remadia’s scalp. “Remy,” she mumbled, kissing her head and pulling back before she strained her neck, “as much as I love cuddling with you, you did say time was of the essence.”

Remadia - who had started drifting in and out of sleep in Bonnie’s warm embrace- stilled, fists balling themselves up against Bonnie’s side. “Damn it,” she muttered, glaring up at Bonnie from between Bonnie’s tits.

Bonnie couldn’t help but to laugh at the sight, letting her go and rolling away. No longer in the moment, Bonnie became aware of the strong and distinct reek of sweat and sex. She stood, stretching her tall body out and groaning with every pop and crackle of her spine. “Let us get going, my lady,” Bonnie said, a cheeky smile on her face as she turned and bowed low, “your Countessness is needed.”

Remadia chucked a pillow at Bonnie’s head. Bonnie laughed as she caught it, throwing it back at Remadia, guffawing as the pillow caught Remadia across the face, knocking her over and making her cry out in surprise.

“Fine!” Remadia laughed, pulling the pillow off her face and making a noise of mock disgust. “I’ll bathe and let my couturiers make me presentable to the world.” She rolled off the bed, turning to consider the dark, damp spots across the mattress left over from their lovemaking. “I’ll have to have this cleaned thoroughly, as well.”

“Indeed,” Bonnie said.

They stood there. A minute passed and Bonnie shuffled her feet, not sure what else to do. Remadia opened her mouth as if to speak, and then closed it. Bonnie curled the toes of one foot, cracking the joints.

“Bonnie, I-” Remadia started.

“Remy, that was amazing.” Bonnie interrupted. “That was incredible. I, uh,” Bonnie was reaching for words to say, “well, that is, I’d like to maybe-?”

Remadia smiled. “Oh, absolutely, Bonnie.” Remadia moved around the bed, closing the distance between her and Bonnie. She reached up and caressed Bonnie’s cheek. “Did you honestly think after all that, I didn’t intend for this to be a regular occurrence?”

Bonnie blushed, embarrassed. “I hadn’t been sure what to to think.”

“Bonnie, I told you I wasn’t going to just abandon you on the floor - the floor being metaphorical in this case,” Remadia stroked Bonnie’s lip with her thumb, “and, anyway, it’s not like I could piss off and away from you, anyway. You are my bodyguard, afterall.”

Bonnie beamed, and Remadia beamed back. “Oh, yeah. I guess I am that, yes.” Bonnie leaned down to Remadia, and Remadia rose to meet her in a soft kiss.

“Okay, my dear, go on and see about cleaning yourself up,” Remadia said, pulling away and giving Bonnie a playful swat on the rear.

“Can’t I see about bathing with you instead?” Bonnie joked as she picked up her dress, still kicked to to the wayside in a careless pile from the night before.

“Please, Bonnie, it’s hard enough to keep my hands off your skin as it is. On! Away with you!” Remadia kept swatting Bonnie’s butt, pushing Bonnie towards the door as Bonnie was scrambling to slip her arms inside the sleeves of the dress.

Laughing, Bonnie managed to get her arms into the dress and over her bust, Remadia unrelenting in her jovial assault. Bonnie turned away from Remadia so that she could wrap the train of the dress around her waist, providing mild modesty down to mid-thigh.

“Bonnie,” Remadia groaned, “if the twins catch sight of you-”

“If they catch sight of me.”

“Take a moment to put the dress on at least somewhat properly, Bonnie. You look like a fool.”

Bonnie gasped in mock horror. “My lady, do you-?” She interrupted herself with another gasp. “Do you presume to lecture me on - dare I say it? - propriety?”

Remadia pursed her lips and made a sound somewhere between a shriek and a strangled roar as Bonnie laughed herself out of the room.

[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 21

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

TW’s for pharmacology weirdness and Jared behaving like Jared. Long chapter ahoy.

Melancholy said nothing how things had gone at the assembly plant once he returned home to the pharmacy that night, and he appreciated that Angel at least didn’t seem to catch on that things weren’t right. With his brain already itching with all the tangential proximity closing in on him to his past life, against his judgment he bestilled it all with a dose of Calmex right before bed. In his position he couldn’t afford REM sleep, couldn’t afford dreams--or nightmares.

The chemist’s first task the following day was to confirm Jared’s belief that hubflower contained opioids. He consulted his Merrick Index at length and returned to it often that week. Plucking a few flowers from the hub plants in his office garden, he shut himself into the lab, whereupon he slurried the hubflowers with a pestle and a can of water, and simmered the paste with a hot plate until the liquid grew milky from latex. As he waited, he read the various periodicals salvaged from the grocer’s, or skimmed the inventory to scrutinize its usefulness to the new parameters of his work.

“Sir...” Angel came into the lab with a carafe, mug, and sweet roll. “Could I interest you in a break?”

“I... would love that.” He wiped the sorry and sweat from his face, at being caught in the act, and closed the gun fanatics’ journal to face his Handy. He accepted the warm cup in his hands, and let the steam fog his glasses. “To address the elephant in the china shop. I know you’re wondering why I’m tinkering on what’s supposed to be my day off. My contract’s... changed a bit. Hopefully, not a long-term detour. But he’s got me studying... these plants. He thinks they’re... medically relevant.” When he couldn’t smooth out his cracking voice, he drank the still-hot black beverage to silence himself.

“You’ve worked so hard for Mister Jared,” it insisted after a pause. “I hope you’re not sacrificing your time off this weekend. With you working today, Mister Jared has allowed you an offset weekend, I pray.”

“He’s given me a week before I have to apply what I’ve learned about these plants for the-- medical purposes-- he’s outlined. It’s all highly specialized study. His outfit is having an epidemic problem, and... hopefully this won’t do more harm than good.”

He crushed the compulsion to doctor his caffeine under his heel, and took another drink. It was almost comfortably cool enough to do more than sip at.

“Oh, how I wish you had as much faith in your talents as I do, Mister Carey! If Mister Jared has the confidence you’re the one who can heal his associates, you should believe it twice over. Look at the bars you port. The Americans won Anchorage in part because of you.”

“Can we-- not talk about Anchorage,” he stuttered quietly. He had to set down the coffee on the counter to keep from spilling it in unsteadiness.

“Forgive me, Sir. I’m an unbridled bundle of enthusiasm. I forget at times how hard it was on you to work all those long hours. I double down on my prior remark--you shouldn’t work yourself to the marrow, no matter the urgency or enormity of scope of a project. Taking care of yourself is just as tantamount. Humans aren’t so different to robots. Operations tend to start shutting down if left untended, if you catch my meaning.”

“I... you’re the only real friend I’ve got, Angel.” Melancholy sniffed, looking to it. “Ever since I thawed out, it’s been nothing but what I can do, what I can make. What use I am. I won’t be of any use to anybody, if I push myself until I keel over dead.”

“That’s the spirit.” It neared him, its ocular sensors small and close together just as his tendrils. “You... you mean it, Sir, that you consider me a friend?”

“Truest blue,” he smiled, putting a hand to its spherical chassis. “In every sense, I don’t think I could do it without you.”

“Oh heavens above, you give my continued operation meaning!” It whirled about eagerly, only making ‘Choly smile wider as he slouched back in his wheelchair with the mug in his hands to watch. In a moment of awareness, it set down the pastry and carafe on the counter, and offered up a fresh canister of condensated water from the corrugation just above its thruster. Then, it sped off in search of something to tidy. “Thank you!”

“No... thank you... To think, a mess of metal and circuitry can have more compassion than fifty men.”

Though the irony of being worked to death to synthesize Psycho was not lost on him, after the exchange the gravity of his work lightened significantly. Grateful that the Mister Handy’s condensators had made pure water slightly less scarce, he added the canister to the simmering vessel, and did so several more times over the course of the day, cooking down the plant matter until it completely deliquesced. He then strained it all and simmered the particulate-free solution until it crystallized.

An unfortunate side effect to working where one dwells, he was forming a track record of falling asleep at his desk. Presented with the clearish opalescent salt mix the following morning, he was loathe to determine through isolation of compounds and a series of acid tests that hubflower did in fact contain a composite of narcotic alkaloids. Morphine, paramorphine, codeine, papaverine... and several he could not identify even comparing the test results to the Merrick Index. The most plentiful of any of these alkaloids, he termed hubeine.

Curious whether he had been tricked as to the ornamental nature of any of the other plants from which he had cultivated his little garden, he too collected samples of each and proceeded to run acid tests akin to those he’d applied to the hubflower. The glowing fungus contained compounds similar to chelation agents, which could form the backbone to synthesizing fresh RadAway, if it came to it. Though the melon vine had not yet fruited, the flowers tested positive for eugeroics, and he wondered what purpose the melon itself might serve. He confirmed with excitement that he’d correctly identified the wrinkly sac-like fungi to be the nootropic brain fungus used to make Mentats. The large aquatic lily-like scarlet flowers with white speckles contained an alarmingly high concentration of tropane alkaloids. He expected it to be more closely related to a waterlily, but it seemed somehow more akin to nightshade. Taxonomy in the Wasteland did not follow his entrenched logic tracks, so he discarded them and simply let the findings say what they would of these specimens.

On the fourth day, ‘Choly with the assistance of Angel made a trip to the apartment complex down the way with the swimming pool. He stored his coat in Angel for the errand. His breath snagged at noticing Jerry watching him sternly from her catwalk, and he wondered who else might be watching.

The two rounded the stairs up to the pool sandwiched between the C-shaped formation of the building itself, and he dismounted from the Mister Handy with his cane, to wade into the shallow end of the overgrown involuntary pond. This was where the raiders had found tarberries. They were so similar to cranberries, down to how they grew on the surface of the water, and yet he wondered if their name was a corruption of barberry... and on that hunch, he crouched at two feet deep to feel around for a few handfuls of the dark wine-colored clusters of fruit.

“Sir...”

The chemist picked up his head to find three raiders standing around the pool with their weapons drawn, but not yet directed at him. Eyes fixed on them, he tried to back up the steps of the entry end of the pool, but stumbled back and fell with a shallow splash and a nervous laugh.

“This doesn’t look like what Jared says you’re supposed to be doin’,” the man said, still holding a makeshift copper-pipe rifle.

“Y’coulda asked first,” one of the two women continued with a lyric sarcasm, admiring the blade she’d affixed to a tire iron. “We’d a said no either way, but.” The third raider goose-honked in approval.

“I’m testing a theory for him!” ‘Choly insisted, trying again to stand. The rubber stopper of his cane couldn’t gain traction underwater, even against concrete, and he fumbled again, but stayed standing this time. “I know it’s not hub, but I think these are going to have compounds I need for working with the hub. You... you can be his eyes and ears for all I care. Tell him he was right. After I see if I’m right about these--” He scooped up from the water’s surface what he only then realized he’d dropped, and held out a fistful. “--After I test these, I’ll be able to come talk to him formally and explain the consequences of him being right.”

“Get back to work, chemist,” the third raider jeered.

As he finally afforded mounting Angel again, he mumbled with a grunt, “Thought you’d never ask.”

Back at the pharmacy, ‘Choly went around barefoot in the wheelchair while his dress shoes dried out. With a detached glaze of distress and animation, he popped one of the tart, ripe berries in his mouth and chewed at its firm flesh while he gathered together the materials to test the compounds in the fruit. His sneer at the flavor melted into a comfortable grin as he got to work mashing the berries. Even if not ultimately pharmacologically significant, they sure might make a fine preserve in the right hands. Once he got the pulp prepared, he popped a Berry Mentat and let his mind wander while the lengthy extraction process began.

Concessions must be made. There had to be other chems he could provide. He couldn’t make peace with the idea of solely providing cyclomorphine, or whatever analogue to it hubeine could create, to the inhabitants of Lexington. He couldn’t be the Psycho chemist again. He just couldn’t.

His trauma-addled brain again laced back through the index of hypothetical compounding he’d penned during his Berries-and-Jet evening, and he sat staring at the simmering soupy mess. All work and no play... he’d go insane. A creative mind has to create. Surely, if Jared dabbled in Jet and Psycho up to now, he’d be interested in sampling just about anything in his pursuit of a psychogen--if not for the full purpose Jared had laid out in his terminal entries, then at least for the purposes of ‘growing his ranks’ with the promise of the most lavish and unique buffet of chems in Massachusetts.

And barring opioid manipulation, Melancholy was best at manipulating nootropics. A skill developed out of necessity, under pressure the former necessitated the latter. Mentats seemed to fit the closest description to anything Jared sought to achieve with his manipulation of the human psyche. He could work with Mentats on the side. Test out his theoretical new flavors, bake up classics like Orange and Grape. His sentimentality came in lozenge form.

Doing so would require fresh materials for it. Jared’s outfit might not like scouring the city for mushroom hunting, but the chemist was certain they’d trade the minor nuisance in a heartbeat for the comfort of a warm Mentat. But, how to even get on that line of conversation with the raider leader in the first place...

“I... really did happen upon Eden,” he uttered to himself, awing at the positive test to barberine in the tarberries. “All the pharmacology I could ever need, right down the street, or in my very garden.”

On the tail end of his Berries trek, he threw together a single batch of Grape Mentats from the hubflower extractives--and a little whiskey for good measure. He’d need the anxiolytic and nerve to make it through the next day.

‘Choly slept better than he had in weeks, and awoke rested despite feeling woefully unprepared to face Jared first thing. Before Angel took him to work, he again tucked his Merrick Index back into the Handy’s storage. He could feel supervision at every turn of the city they took to round up to the assembly plant. He wheeled up to the foreman’s mezzanine sucking on a Grape Mentat, where Jared stood waiting, and he went up the ramp to the office. The raider leader came inside and took a seat, kicking his legs up on the desk and pulling out his switchblade to play with it idly.

“So I’ve heard you came to tell me I’m right. I like to hear when I’m right.”

“Good morning to you, too,” ‘Choly huffed, straightening his tie and composure. “Yes, the hubflower contains a lot of the same salts that opium did. I’m sure you’ll like to hear I was right, too--about some of the other wasteland plants being... chemically useful. I can make cyclomorphine for you, or something very, very close. But in order to get that far, you promised me months ago that you had a cache of Abraxo Cleaner. Did you ever intend to pay out on that? I hope for both our sake’s you weren’t bluffing.”

Jared waxed from boredom to zeal to irritation all in a matter of five spoken sentences. He was about to object, but ‘Choly continued.

“Navigating the Jet rig project would have gone much more smoothly if I’d had daily access to Mentats, but I’d had to meter myself because I didn’t have a way to cook the goddamn things. Drawing off gas requires a lot of math, but very little science. And the level of chemistry I’m going to have to utilize to reinvent the wheel will be impossible to reach let alone sustain without the use of my specially formulated Mentats. It was a suggestion before, but it’s a requirement now. I need that soap, Jared. And you need it because you need me.”

Jared could only stare at him at length.

“You trying to tell me that your genius is thanks to some chem? Some chem,” he scoffed, nearly incredulous. “God, your sad excuse for a personality makes so much sense now. You’re in constant withdrawals. Yeah, chemist. I’ll nurse your habit if you hold up your end of the bargain.”

“And one more thing?” ‘Choly flinched when Jared thought it was another demand, but stayed firm. “I’ve noticed more eyes on me this week. Don’t have faith in me?”

“You misunderstand me.” Jared grinned, putting away his knife. “I’m protecting my finest asset. You know, you weren’t the only one doing his research this week,” he began pulling a book from his desk drawer and flipping through it for a particular part. “This is a textbook about the Battle for Anchorage. Here, there’s a unit about the Deenwood Compound. He who controls history, and all that.”

‘Choly frowned and balled his fists in his lap, unsure where this was going. That college textbook had to have been new the very year the bombs fell. With his full attention, Jared continued to read the passage with a vague lyric.

“’Maximizing the efficiency of our foot soldiers’ fighting power helped us meet the turning point to overpower the Chinese and retake Alaska. General Constantine Chase commissioned the Deenwood Military Compound in the New England Commonwealth to synthesize and perfect Psycho (known by the military symbol CM) for our illustrious military. Chase’s keen scrutiny selected the cream of the crop of the Chemical Corps, and from it he forged what is now known as the Pharmaceutical Corps, or Pharm Corps. Our expert knowledge and application of chemistry and pharmacology provided the edge America needed to push past the underhanded tactics of the Chinese.’ --Oh!”

Jared stopped reading a moment to excitedly point to one of the photographs, and he stood to continue dictation.

“Figure 16.4, ‘Major Johnston and Three of His Pharm Corps Chemists.’ We have... Left to right... Second Lieutenant Gary Sydney, and Captains Olivia Francis and Alan Carey. Alan Carey! This is rich. The richest shit on the planet.” Jared shoved the book in ‘Choly’s face and jammed an accusing finger at the photograph where the Deenwood scientists had lined up for a casual photo full of smiles, then at the nameplate on ‘Choly’s coat. “That’s you, isn’t it. It’s you, you freezer burned fuck. 'Cept you weren't in the chair before. ”

‘Choly did his best not to look the part of revulsion, and did his best to unclench his everything. He glared at the photograph of himself, oddly fixated on how badly he missed his crescent half-eye eyeglasses.

“So you’ve been reading a civilian-level textbook about where I worked. You can’t possibly believe you know even a fraction what transpired at Deenwood.”

“And pray tell,” Jared grinned, wild and mocking as ever, “What exactly transpired at Deenwood?”

Speechless, ‘Choly’s jaw hung open and trembled at the mere attempt at humoring this topic. His eyes lost focus for some time.

“Nightmares I could never put in words.” He scowled at Jared, who went from mad to furious. “Do you want me to make you cyclomorphine or not?”

“If we’re done having objections to it,” Jared emphatically smacked the book shut with both hands, “then we’re done screwing around. I know you’re not bullshitting me that you’re a high level chemist. I know who you are. I know what you did before the war. And you’re going to do that for me now.”

The chemist stared at his own feet.

“Loud and clear. But let me make myself loud and clear. None of the patients or soldiers who were administered CM came back swearing they could predict the future. You’re barking up the wrong chem. I’ll do as told, but I won’t make the same mistake I made two hundred years ago. I’m fucking saying something this time. This isn’t the chem that will find your fortuneteller.”

“Do you have a better plan, then...” Jared picked up ‘Choly’s face by the chin to force eye contact, “Chemist.”

“The mode of uptake might be what’s preventing the chem from getting the desired results,” he started, palms sweating. He could palpably feel the Grape Mentats fading right when he needed it most, and his heart raced. “Compounding the chem could alter how the body absorbs it. Which organs it goes through to get where it’s going. I could-- I could compound BuffJet. Make the hallucinogen go straight to the pineal gland. Or Jet-Tats. Make the Jet soak right into the entirety of the grey matter like it’s just another neurotransmitter. Buffout is the harder option, for a lot of reasons. I have way more knowledge with Mentats chemistry, and way better ability to cook up large quantities of it.”

“This is all leading up to another catch. Don’t-- don’t derail me.”

“The catch...” ‘Choly squinted to flinch. “I haven’t compounded with Jet before! It was one of the rarest psychedelic drugs on the market before the war, and there was next to zero literature on it back in my day let alone now. I understand what it is chemically. I just haven’t proven or documented it.”

“Just minutes ago, you were questioning whether I have faith in you. Don’t flip on me, Melancholy. Makes you look like a fucking flake. You were one of the US Army’s best chemists. You’re going to make this compounding work. In the mean time, you’re going to cook us all up a nice big mess of Psycho. And you’re not going to have me lose my patience. You want soap? It’ll be on your stoop first thing in the morning. But you’re going to do as you’re told.”

“Am I being told to get back to work then?” The pained exasperation couldn’t have been thicker.

“You’re being told... to fork over some of your darts.” Jared lunged to reach into the chemist’s coat to withdraw the requested object from one of the suspender cases. He read the box. “Pax Syringes. Hm. And here I thought you cooked your own ammo for that thing.”

“I, I do. Those are just what the gun was made to fire.”

“It can be made to fire whatever the fuck I say it does.” He pocketed it and pointed to the door. “Cook my Psycho. And go back to your showmanship. I’ll make sure you get a real big turnout. This town’s overdue for some fucking revelry.”

“I... I’m being paid in soap for this.”

“You’re the one who named the asking price, you fruit. Sounds dumb as dirt when you put it like that.”

“I... I want the revolver back when you’re done with it. I won’t do--”

‘Choly cried out and tried to shield his face when Jared lunged at him again, only to lean his hands on the armrests to crane in inches to ‘Choly’s face.

“You want your little handgun back. That’s cute. You’re going to earn it. Now GET OUT OF MY OFFICE!”

Jared shoved him down the mezzanine ramp, and only through some miracle did he manage to get enough traction with the heels of his dress shoes to regain control of his own pace. Angel rushed up to its owner and immediately took over powering the wheelchair along.

“Do I need to dismantle Mister Jared for you, Sir?”

He hung his head and withdrew into himself in indignity.

“I’ll do it my fucking self.”

Go to Next »»»

[becuzpurple]

Chapter 24:  All the Strawberries, Part 3 - Strip Uno, Sangria, Strawberries, & Sex

This is a reposting of Ch 24, now split into 5 parts.

Here be part 3!

(part 2)

Thursday 11 February 2016

We stayed in bed until mid-afternoon.  We slept-in, ate fruit and cheese and bread, drank water and champagne, and we talked and talked about everything under the sun from childhood memories to political opinions to celebrity gossip, and let me just say, WOW does he have STORIES.  

I found a stack of card and board games on a bookshelf, and we played Uno and then Monopoly sitting on the bed.  I kicked his ass at Strip Uno, which is a thing, apparently.  By the time we finished he’d had to strip down completely and re-dress too many times to count, which had me practically falling over laughing.  I was lucky enough (I guess?) to only be down to my underwear for the majority of the several rounds we played.  

No Strip Monopoly, though - Ed is very serious about his Monopoly, and is quite the real estate tycoon.  He seemed to have had an actual strategy, whereas I barely even remembered how to play the game.  He was all about buying up property early, as opposed to saving his money.  By the time I had what I considered enough money to really start buying, nothing good was left, and I eventually lost it all to paying him off.

“You’re super-competitive about this,” I observed.

“My streetwise, killer instincts are reserved for cutthroat pursuits, like music and board games.”

“Killer instincts?” I grinned.  “If you say so.  But Competitive Ed is very sexy.”

“Yeah?  So I’m a sexy Monopoly player?”

”A sexy Strip Uno player, too.”

“Wicked.” 

--

We’d made reservations for dinner at a nearby Russian restaurant, of all things. It happened to be that the Guadalupe Valley was settled by Russian immigrants in the mid-1800’s, and a fairly decent-sized Russian community still thrived there.  In fact, it was Russian immigrants who first cultivated the vineyards in the area.  

Working in the field I do - specializing in southwestern US and Latin American history and genealogy - I was utterly fascinated by this non-Spanish aspect of the region’s history.  I hadn’t yet come across any such populations through my work at that point, and suddenly had a new itch to start researching this intriguing slice of regional Mexican culture, and how it has remained present and significant through the years.  I thought it might be a fascinating topic to present at a genealogy conference.  But this was not a working vacation.  That would have to wait for another time.  

We drove a short distance to Restaurante Familia Samarin, a modest, whitewashed adobe structure that must have been someone’s home before being converted into a restaurant. The interior decor was rustic and charming. The adobe walls, wood stoves, and fresh flowers on the tables reminded me of my maternal grandparents’ home in northern New Mexico rather than a public restaurant.  It was homey and charming and I found it quite visually appealing.

The restaurant is family-owned.  The Samarin Family is of Russian heritage, and that is reflected in everything from the decor to the menu.  The staff was personable, warm, and welcoming to everyone.

We were led to a small table-for-two in a corner of the large, open dining area.  There really was no private dining space.  Being off-season, though, it wasn’t crowded.  The other diners either didn’t notice Ed, didn’t know who he was, or didn’t care.  In any case, he was left alone.

The menu was eclectic, ranging from traditional regional Mexican cuisine to Russian and other eastern European specialties to pasta bowls and brick oven-baked pizza.  We started off with glasses of sangria with a variety of fresh fruit in them.  The rims were lined with tajin spice, a blend of chili peppers, salt, and dehydrated lime juice - delicious.

Our waitress brought the appetizers to us - olive bread with a small plate of olives and cheese, and beef and cheese empanadas - and took our orders for our entrees.  Once she left Ed immediately started devouring a little bit of everything on the table.  I sipped on my sangria and watched him in slightly horrified fascination.

He glanced up at me as he was stuffing an empanada in his mouth.

“What?”  His voice was thick and muffled with food.

I grinned and shook my head.  “You’re cute.”

He finished chewing and swallowed his mouthful.  ”It’s so good.  You need to try this.”

I’d just plucked a strawberry from my glass and was holding it up to my mouth. “I will.”  I slid the piece of fruit into my mouth and was immediately flooded with the heavenly flavor of the fleshy, juicy berry combined with red wine, brandy, sugar and orange juice.

“Oh my god, this is good,” I uttered under my breath.  As soon as I swallowed it, I began rooting around my glass for another slice of strawberry.

He watched me curiously.  “You don’t drink sangria often?”

“Clearly not often enough.  And don’t laugh at me!”  I popped another one in my mouth and moaned quietly at the lovely flavor explosions occurring in my mouth.

“I would never.”

“Liar,” I said sweetly.

He reached across the table and took my glass.

“Hey!”

“Hold on...you’ll get it back…”

And then he took his spoon and ladled all of the strawberries from both his glass and the carafe of sangria on our table into my glass.  He put it back down right in front of me, almost overflowing.

“Mmmm, thank-you!”  I plucked another one out and sucked some sweetness from it before placing it on my tongue.  “I might just get drunk on these, alone - I could eat every last one of them.  Is that what you’re doing?”

He shrugged and grinned as he replied, “Nah.  I just love seeing you smile, and the strawberries were making you smile.  So I gave you all the strawberries.”

  I ate a lot of strawberries and sipped on my sangria throughout our meal.  I offered some of the delicious alcohol-infused fruit to Ed, but he said he was perfectly happy to watch me enjoy them.  Which worked out well, as I was obviously enjoying them immensely.

Our entrees were delicious.  I had grilled lamb and rice with capers.  The portion was huge, and I was barely able to finish a third of it.  Ed ordered pizza.  At a Russian restaurant.  In Mexico.  To be fair, though, it’s called Pizza Rusa (Russian Pizza), and was different from the kinds of pizzas we’re used to.  The crust was oven-baked bread, and it was topped with a combination of grilled beef, chorizo, and pepperoni.

We shared our food, offering tasty fork-fulls across the table to each other.  He was very complimentary of the lamb, but was clearly much more into the pizza. Which was very good, but I’m a Chicagoan (well, close enough), and therefore a Pizza Snob.  I do admit, though, that chorizo as a pizza topping is BRILLIANT.

For dessert we shared a huge slice of pie de manzana (apple pie) with ice cream, and it was so good I almost cried.  It wasn’t at all like the apple pie we are used to.  It looked like pie, but it was actually apples cooked in a custard-cream inside a crusty pastry bread.  It reminded me of a dessert my Schaefer grandmother used to make for us when my brother and I were small.  She called it kuchen, and said the recipe was passed on to her from her grandmother.

I had a lovely, low-key buzz throughout our meal. We were both happy and relaxed, and there was an underlying current of delight swirling around us.  This little 3-day spell in such a remote, hidden, charming corner of the world was allowing us to learn more about each other and become closer, as well as build up confidence in regards to our relationship.  Maybe we were being a little starry-eyed, but really, could there have been a better time for that than while on a romantic getaway?

“You liked the sangria, then?”

We had just paid our bill and were about to drive back to the inn when we noticed the small, gift shop just off the main entrance to the restaurant.

“Well, yeah.” I grinned.

“I bet they sell it here.  Go look?”

That sounded like a great idea to me.  We went in, Ed leading the way, making a beeline to some shelves in the far corner of the shop where various food and beverage items were displayed.  There was an entire wall of shelves just for wine.  

“Oh, is this it?”  I spotted a bottle of their house blend sangria, the last one there, and picked it up.  Ed was right behind me, to the side a little bit, and I assumed he was studying the label over my shoulder.  We weren’t touching each other at all, but I could feel his energy right next to me.  I turned toward him to ask the question, and promptly stumbled right into his chest.  

He put his hands on my waist to steady me, and pulled me in a little bit closer, not letting me go.  “We have fresh fruit back at the room.  We can slice our own.”

“Are there strawberries?”

He unsuccessfully bit back a smirk.  “Yes, dear.  You get all the strawberries.”

--

Back at our suite, I waited on the couch while Ed poured us some more drinks. The fireplace was lit, and the lights were dimmed.  I watched him through slightly heavy lids as he approached, carrying two glasses of sangria, mine heaped with strawberries.  He also had my Big Black Bag of Toys tucked under his arm.  He handed me a glass, sat down, and started sorting through the bag with a cute little smirk on his face.

I was pretty sure I knew what he was looking for, and my guess was confirmed a few seconds later when he pulled out the tube of gel lube and the two butt plugs.  He took each one out separately and slowly, a pleased little smirk plastered across his face as he did so.  I quietly sipped on my drink and watched him.  He opened and removed each plug from its case.

“Why did you buy two?”

He was holding them both, turning them over in his hands.

“Well, I wasn’t sure which...size would be best.  So I just got both.”  

“Oh.  Well, I’ve never used this kind before, so I’m not sure, either.  Maybe we should start with the smaller one…?”

He nodded and wrapped the larger one back up.  He took it and my empty glass and put them down on the table and then looked directly at me.

“I’ve not done this before.”

“Use a butt plug?  I know - you told me.”

“Well, yeah, that, but…”

It took me a few seconds to realize what he was telling me.  “You...haven’t done any…?”

He shook his head with a small smirk.

“No anal anything?”

He shook his head.

“Fingering?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.  Uh, are you OK with doing this?  Because we really don’t have to-”

“Kate, honey.  I’ve, um, wanted your arse since we’ve met.  You know that.”

Well.  I squeezed my thighs together in a sad attempt to hide my body’s reaction to his words.  But he totally noticed, and his smirk grew even wider.

“Sooo, I can put this little bauble in your bum?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I nodded, smirking a little bit, my eyes on his.  

“And fuck you while it’s in you?”

“Yes.”

“From behind?”

“Yes.”  And that’s when my core began throbbing.  

He nodded, radiating nervous energy, and stood, keeping hold of my hand. “Let’s...go to bed, then?”

I looked up at him with a small smile, stood, and let him lead me to the bedroom.  He placed the jeweled plug and the tube of gel lube down on the side table and turned back to me.

His face betrayed his thoughts, and he was clearly 100% into this.  His whole demeanor exuded excitement, curiosity, and desire, and it was beyond attractive.  So, so sexy.

“Sit down,” I quietly urged him.  He looked at me curiously, but then sat down on the side of the bed.  I stood directly in front of him, astride one of his thighs, my eyes sparkling with excitement.  

“Take off your sweater.”

He raised his brows at me, but did as I said.  He wore a black t-shirt under the light gray sweater, and, at my nod, pulled it off as well.

I kicked off my shoes, then, and he followed suit, along with his socks.  We both grinned at each other until our grins eventually faded away.  

I lowered my face and pressed my lips to his.  My hair fell forward around both of us, as I whispered at the side of his mouth, “I’ve been wet for you since dinner.”

He pulled his face back to look at me, eyes gone wide for just a second before he said, almost as if to himself, “That’s so fucking hot.” 

His hands were suddenly at the tops of my thighs, fingers trailing back around my hips to my bottom, and then they were pulling aside the thin, gauzy material of my panties.  Even though I still wore my dress, everything was accessible under the short, black skirt.  He trailed first one finger, then two, through my very, very wet folds, teasing me with fingertips just barely nudging inside me, and then back out again.  He brought his other hand between us, cupping my mound, and began slowly, deliberately stroking my clit.

I was practically purring as I rocked myself back-and-forth over his hands, keeping mine on his shoulders to steady myself.

“Get on the bed,” he murmured.  He gave my bottom a quick pat as I crawled up on the mattress.

I knelt on top of the bed, near the head, my back to him.  I spread my knees out a little bit, glanced back over my shoulder at him and grinned as I watched him take off his jeans and boxer-briefs.  Then I pulled my dress up over my head.  

He crawled up behind me, unhooked my bra, and pulled it down my arms. After tossing it to the floor he wrapped his arms around me, his bare chest to my bare back.  I could feel his cock, warm and hard and pointing up against my lower back.  He brought his mouth to that spot between my neck and my shoulder and kissed me there.  Then he started talking in between kisses.

“You are the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen...so fucking beautiful.”

I turned my head toward him and modestly shook it in denial.

“Yes.”  He kissed my neck.  “You.”  He kissed my jaw.  “Are.” He kissed my mouth, tracing my lips with the tip of his tongue, and giving my bottom lip a small nip.  

He brought his hands to my hips and started slowly sliding my underwear down my thighs.

“You gonna let me play with your sweet little arse?”

Oh, god…

“Yes.”

“Yeah?” He practically whispered.

I nodded.

He sat on the bed next to me and stared intently at my bum as he lightly caressed it with one hand.  

I watched him from over my shoulder.  He watched his hand as if it wasn’t part of him - as if he didn’t know what it would do next.  He brought his lips to my shoulders, my neck, and my upper back, and kissed them all almost reverently. After a minute he dipped his hand down lower, gliding his fingers through my wetness, and then pumped deep into me, steadily, slowly.  

When he stopped, too soon for my liking, he dragged his fingertips, full of my fluids, to my bottom, tracing the crease between my cheeks and lightly teasing my sensitive opening.  He smeared my wetness everywhere.

My body was reacting to him.  My breathing was shallow and my muscles were tensing.  My eyes kept falling shut.  

Then for a few seconds everything seemed to have stopped - his mouth and his fingers were no longer on me.  In hindsight, I realize he was squeezing some lube onto his fingers.  But the pause unnerved me at the time, and I looked back at him in confusion.

“I’m right here, sweet girl.”

I took a deep, calming breath as he slowly began to caress my bottom again, making everything slick and wet with lubricating gel.  He slid his fingers through the crease between my cheeks, back-and-forth, over-and-over, circling fingertips around the sensitive opening until I was squirming in anticipation.

And finally.  His fingers slowed and very faintly brushed over the small, puckered opening.  There was a very short pause, and I felt more cold lube trickle over me.  Then, a few more brushes of his fingers, and I felt the tip of one slide into me.

“Oh…”

He pulled it out almost immediately, but then I felt it push right back in, again, just the tip, and it felt so good, but I wanted more.  More everything - more depth, more movement, more fingers… More.

He pulled it out again, and then slid back in deeper.

My back arched and my ass lifted up a bit as I moaned.  He began to pump his finger in-and-out of me, slowly, and the throbbing in my groin area escalated.

“More…” I whispered.  “More, please.”

He let his finger slide out of me, and then straight away there were two...two fingers pushing into me, filling the most private, intimate part of my body, and I was so aroused I couldn’t think straight.  I began to slightly push back into him.

Ed must have remembered at that point that he had another hand available, because right then he reached around with his free arm, found my clit, and started rubbing little circles over it, all while still pumping his fingers in my ass. The flurry of tension in my belly was already almost flying apart.

We both knelt upright, he right behind me - one arm around my front, and the other at my backside.  He rested his chin over my shoulder as both of his hands continued about their business.

“Bloody hell...you’re...this...fuck, this is hot...”  

I nodded, agreeing wholeheartedly.

I turned around as he brought his eyes back to my bottom. His expression of focused concentration was priceless - he was completely enthralled.

A minute or so later he slid both hands to my hips, and gently rubbed and patted them a few times before reaching over to the side table for the butt plug.

“OK…”

I think he might have been talking to himself rather than to me.  He applied more lube on me, and then a generous amount to the plug, too.

I took a quiet breath and lowered my elbows to the mattress.  I waited like that, feeling a little bit on edge, myself.

I could feel the cold gel on the tip when he pressed it to my opening.  Although I was trying to relax, there was resistance as he slowly tried to push it in me.  But that’s pretty normal, I think.

“Umm...it’s not…”

“I know, I - I think I just need to relax.”   I took a deep, calming breath.  “I - umm, maybe try angling it up a little bit?”

“Angle it up...” he whispered under his breath - he was definitely talking to himself.

I finally relaxed my muscles, and almost immediately it slid it right into place.  

“Oh!”

It took a few seconds for my brain to register what my body was feeling.  I was so...filled.  I felt sexy, in a kind of smutty way, but I liked it, if that makes any sense.  I hadn’t done anything like this in a really long time, and I’d forgotten how much I like it.  It really fucking turned me on.

“Is that good?  Does it feel OK?  jesusfuckingchrist you look amazing...” He was sitting on his knees right behind me, my legs between his.  He brushed his hand all over my bottom again, this time touching and skimming over the gem that was flush between my cheeks.

“...feels...really good...” My voice didn’t even sound like me - it was soft and sort of sluggish.

He kept one hand firmly on my hip, while the other was already carefully guiding his cock into me.

“Ah...I feel it...I can fucking feel it.  Jesus.  It’s...god, so tight...”

And oh, did I feel it, too.  He was right.  Everything was so tight.  He wasn’t even fully in me yet when my legs started trembling.

He slowly pushed until he was completely inside me, then stilled.  I think we both needed  to adjust for a minute.  It’s always tighter when he comes in from behind, but this was at a completely new level.  I was so...filled.  Warm bursts of pleasure were flaring throughout my body already, and we weren’t even moving.  

I  pushed my hips back, seeking out more.

“Fuck me now, Teddy...I want to feel you fucking me...”

With both hands on my hips he carefully pulled out until only the head of his cock was still inside me.  Then he pulled me back as he pushed in, still slow at first, probably gauging both of our comfort levels.

“God, baby you feel so good...”

He didn’t answer me, but made raspy, throaty noises on each thrust.

I felt a slow, powerful whirlwind building in the pit of my belly.  The gradual buildup was intoxicating, and I wanted more of that.

“Teddy.  Go faster.  More...please.”

And just like that he was crashing into me like rapid-fire and everything was so tight and so full and so hyper-sensitive and so fast and so hard that I had to reach a hand out to the headboard to keep from flying into it.  He slammed against the jeweled base of the plug on each thrust, bumping it into me, repeatedly, as his cock did the same thing in my other hole - hitting that spot - that perfect spot, and I was nearly done-in from the beginning.  All I could do was grunt and whimper and feel and, god, it was everything. 

He lowered his body down over mine, keeping one arm around my waist, and bringing his other arm down to lean on the bed, right next to my own.  I turned to look at him, and his face was just inches from mine.  His eyes bored into mine for a couple of seconds, and then he kissed me.  It was wet and messy.  It was urgent...intense.  I returned it with the same hunger I felt from him.

As we continued to kiss we slowed our frantic pace a little bit, and that’s when I really started feeling the smallest details of everything - every vein and ridge on him, the conical shaft of the plug still thumping into me on each thrust, the growing ball of energy in the pit of my stomach, his hand roaming my hip and my bottom, his mouth on me.

“Kate.  Open your eyes.”

I hadn’t even realized I’d closed them.  When I opened them and looked at him, he had such a serious, fixed expression, but then it softened as he studied my own.

“Look.”  He tilted his head and peered to the left.  It took a few seconds for me to work out what he wanted me to do. I was completely wrapped up what we were doing, and my brain didn’t want to have to actually function on anything more than ‘automatic’.  But I soon followed his gaze.

It was a mirror - an enormous, stand-alone floor mirror, right next to the dresser.  It was angled in such a way that our reflections were framed almost perfectly.  I remembered seeing it when we first checked into the suite, when I admired its beautifully hand-carved, wooden frame.

The only prior experience with sex and mirrors that I’d ever had was the time when Ed went down on me in the entryway of the hotel suite after the New Year’s Eve party.  I’d been able to watch from a viewpoint I'd normally never have, and it was crazy-hot to see his mouth on me like that.

But this time?  This made the previous mirror experience pale in comparison. Because this time we were actually watching ourselves having sex.  

The mirror was about 4 or 5 feet away from us - close enough so we could make eye contact with each other through our reflections, and really see our bodies, at least in profile.  

I watched him on top of me - behind me - holding me so carefully with his muscular, colorful arms wrapped around my body - holding me protectively, possessively.  I watched him watch me, then squeeze his eyes shut, and furrow his brows, and so very slightly open his mouth on each moan. I watched his muscles tense as he pushed into me - his stomach, his thighs, his ass - they tensed and relaxed as he thrust in and out.  I watched him sink his cock all the way into me, and then pull almost all the way out, and then again...over, and over, and over.  I watched us both practically fall apart each time.

I’d never seen myself like that before, nor even really thought about what I might look like while having sex, but there I was.  It was almost as if I was watching someone else.  I think the mirror let me see myself a little bit like Ed does.  My body is far from perfect, but through the mirror, and with him, I think maybe I looked sexy.  I definitely felt sexy.  I was fascinated, and really surprised by the realization that I liked watching myself.  I liked seeing what I looked like.  I liked seeing how I moved with him and in response to him - the way I arched my back, or lifted my ass in anticipation, or bared my neck as I reached my head back towards him.  

I was transfixed - I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the mirror.  It was like watching a  really dirty movie, but also being in it.  I felt like both a voyeur and an exhibitionist.

Through the mirror, our eyes roamed each other’s bodies, and eventually settled on each other’s faces.  He brought his mouth to just above my ear.

“...fucking...love this...watching us fuck?  So...dirty.  You’re hot as fuck...I can’t...I...I…”  He took a heavy breath before he continued.  “God...feels so good...so full...fuck…”

The bed was creaking.  We were both groaning on each hard thrust.  There was a lot of heavy breathing, and the sound of skin slapping against skin.  There was sweat and lube and we were slippery.  He slipped out a few times, even, but it was fine, because feeling him enter and fill me is heavenly, and definitely worth a few slips.

I closed my eyes.  I just wanted to feel - feel him, and feel the physical effects he was having on me.  What started out as a fluttering, insatiable emptiness and a sense of urgency turned into full-body tingles and trembling and euphoria flooding every inch of me.  My heart raced and my legs shook, and if it weren’t for Ed holding me up by my hips I probably would have collapsed onto the bed. When I finally reached that phenomenal ending, I felt weirdly numb and so alive at the same time, and all I could do was smile and giggle as my orgasm just kept going and going.  

He leaned his mouth down to my ear again. “That’s the best sound...”

I pulsed around him for a really long time.  My whole body was humming, vibrating continuously.  I felt such joy, and I desperately wanted him to feel the same thing, because it was so perfect and beautiful.  All the while, he continued thrusting into me, faster and faster, chasing his own climax.  

“Gonna come so hard, love…”

I looked over my shoulder at him and sloppily pressed my lips to his.  I covered his bottom lip with both of mine and sucked it hard for a few seconds.

“Come,” I whispered, still absurdly smiling.

And then he did, holding my hips tight, his own lurching sloppily into me as he uttered almost incoherent confessions and declarations to both me and to god.  

He collapsed next to me and we nestled into each other, lazily kissing and touching and full of silly smiles and occasional words.  We eventually began kissing for real, again, and soon his mouth was everywhere else, too until I was a quivering mess all over again, and we were good to start over.

Throughout the night we had sometimes filthy, sometimes god-like, unhurried, all-consuming, amazing sex. We fucked and we made love and the line between the two faded because they'd become one in the same.  We were hands and mouths and bodies with no real destination or motive.  We had all the time in the world.  We’d been all over the bed, in all kinds of positions, and he’d put my needs first through all of it, making sure I was satisfied each and every time.  I trusted him completely and I surrendered myself so deeply to him that I melted into nothingness, and it felt like home.

Very late into the night we found ourselves face-to-face in the classic missionary position.  He was nestled in between my legs.  His forearms were around my head and his hands cradled my face. I had one leg sprawled out and the other was bent and folded over his lower back as we gently rocked into each other.  I was pretty spent, to be honest.

“Kate, honey, can you come one more time for me?”  His voice was hoarse, even as a whisper.

I traced his lips and his cheeks and his brows with my thumbs, and then combed my fingers through his thoroughly damp curls, and I nodded, biting my lip on a small moan.

“You’re so amazing,” he stared down at me, eyes wide.

“No...you.  It’s you.”

He brought his forehead to mine, and, with a warm, sure sigh of contentment, began to quicken his thrusts into me.

He needed and more than deserved this release, and I wanted to help him get there.  He’d spent the entire night pleasuring me - putting me first, and even still he was placing my satisfaction ahead of his.  He had to have been so tired.

“Teddy,” I kissed him tenderly, as we continued moving together.  “I want...let me get on top, OK?”

He looked at me questioningly for a second or two, during which time a full-body tremor ran through me.  He saw, and the look he gave me was so full of tenderness.

“You’re not too tired?”

I’m fine, baby.” I brought both of my knees up higher and rolled my hips up to meet his.  “Let me be on top...please?”

He gave a small, knowing smirk, at my use of the word ‘please’.

“OK.”  He nodded, paused a few seconds, and pulled out.  

We barely lost our flow in the few seconds it took for him to sit up and for me to straddle his lap and sink down around him.

My eyes fell shut and I groaned as I sheathed him.  His hands caught my hips and held me still for a few seconds before they began gently guiding me up and down.  

I’m more than happy for Ed to lead the way when we are intimate.  He’s an attentive and unselfish lover, and I’m always beyond satisfied.  But sometimes I want to take charge or take care of him, and when that happens, this is my position of choice - being on top.  I can look down at his beautiful face as he looks up at me - my hands on his shoulders or in his hair or holding his face, and I’m lifting up, pushing back down, sometimes slow, sometimes fast.  I can feel more of him from this angle, and for some reason I tend to feel extra-possessive of him because of it.  I love that his mouth is right in front of my tits, and the way he lifts his eyes up to mine when he sucks and licks them is so sexy.  When he’s looking up at me I see love and devotion, and sometimes vulnerability, and I love him even more for it.

I moved slowly over him at first, savoring the sensations that flooded through me.  The knot of warm tension in my belly began to slowly unravel on each bold, downward stroke.  I watched him - his eyes shut, his brows furrow, his mouth open, his breath quicken...and knowing that I was the reason for it only encouraged me to give more.

I started moving faster - sliding up and slamming back down, again and again. My elbows rested on his shoulders and my hands threaded through his hair. Everything felt so good.  I kissed his mouth, his chin, his jaw.  I nibbled at his lips and I licked his neck and I sucked his earlobe and my mouth was everywhere because I needed every last bit of him.  

He started pushing his hips up into me, meeting my hard thrusts with his own.  His right hand slid around from my hip to my bottom, right over the area where the butt plug was still firmly lodged.  He pressed his palm on me there, nudging the plug just a bit deeper into me.  The sensations it caused - that full feeling - that feeling of tightness and tension - caused more flutters and tingles.  I was again groaning on every deep thrust.  I felt almost drunk I was so turned-on.

“God… I love fucking you,” I uttered into his ear.

He brought his free hand to my cheek and directed my face toward his.  Once we had eye contact, he replied so earnestly, “I fucking love you.”

Oh...

We stared at each other as we slammed our hips together, grinning, groaning, sweating, watching each other fall apart.

I arched my back and pushed my chest into him.  He took a boob into his mouth and sucked on me, making my nipple pucker and harden almost immediately.  He suckled and flicked his tongue, repeatedly.  His mouth was loving on one nipple and he teased my other with his fingers - rubbing and flicking and pinching and pulling.  He watched my face the whole time, and I his, and I don’t think there are many things I love so much as that look of pure adoration in his eyes.

While one hand was busy teasing my nipple, his other hand was still firmly pressed up against my bottom, keeping the butt plug firmly nudged up into me on each thrust of our hips.  The combined sensations from all of it roiled inside me, building, spreading, gradually wrecking me.  I had to let it go.

“Teddy,” I sighed into his neck.  “I need…I...”

“I know, sweetheart.  I’m right there, too.”

I lifted my head up from his neck and leaned my forehead down to his.  I wrapped my arms around him, my fingers tangled in his hair.  He kept his right hand on my ass, and brought his left to my waist.  I lifted up onto my knees one last time, and slammed back down on him, just as he pulled me in, putting the most delicious pressure on the plug as he held me to him while he released.  At the same time, my climax roared through me and hurled out through every digit, every orifice.  A sustained moan, starting low and quiet but growing in intensity and volume, echoed through the room, and It took me several seconds to realize that it was me making that sound.

“Ho-ly shit.  That was…”

“Mmmm...,” I purred.

“...fucking amazing.”

I agreed, of course, sighing wistfully.  “Yeah.”  

We’d been laying down on the bed for a few minutes - I’d sort of collapsed on top of him once we both finished.  I pulled myself up to see him better, and kissed him one more time before getting up out of bed.

“Where you going?”

“I need to clean up.”

“Oh.”  His eyes grew wider as he realized what that actually involved.

“It’s fine.  I’ll only be a few minutes.  Promise.”

“ ‘K.” I could feel his eyes following me as I quickly grabbed a t-shirt and panties. I was still naked, of course, and the plug was still in place.  I turned and gave him a quick wink before disappearing into the bathroom.

I took a lightning-fast, but very thorough shower, cleaning everything that required cleaning.  I threw on the t-shirt and panties, pulled a comb through my hair a few times and brushed my teeth, and was good to go.

When I came back to the bedroom he promptly scooted right past me with a quick, “My turn!”  I couldn’t help but put a hand up to his waist, letting it slide back to his ass for just a second as he moved past me.

He stopped mid-stride and turned to me with a cocky little grin before heading into the bathroom.

With a smile still on my face, I turned back toward the bed.  It was a mess - a beautiful, rumpled, disarrayed mess.  Wrinkled sheets were pulled up off the corners, pillows and blankets had fallen to the floor, the bedspread was hanging on by an edge… I’m not sure why, but I suddenly wanted to capture it - kind of a provocative little secret reminder, maybe?  I grabbed my phone from the dresser and quickly took some shots from a few different angles.  None of it would ever be shared anywhere or with anyone - it was just for me.  And maybe Ed.

I’d just started straightening up the bed when Ed came out of the bathroom.  “Oh!” he murmured, seeing what I was doing as he pulled on a clean pair of underwear.  Then he joined me in tucking the sheet corners back in and righting the covers and pillows.

“We made a proper mess of it, didn’t we?”

I grinned sleepily at him.  “It was pretty impressive.”

We shut off the lights and climbed back into bed.  We snuggled into each other - his arm pulled me into his side and our legs were tangled together in a pile. My arm reached across him so that my hand rested on his hip.  My head was tucked under his chin.

I knew I would fall asleep within minutes.  “I’m so tired.”

“I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

“Me, too,” I yawned.  “Maybe tomorrow we can venture out and explore - get a good look at this place before we leave?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.  It’s a date.”  He paused, looking at me curiously. “You...you’re OK, right?  Are you...did any of that hurt you?”

“I’m...a little sore now.  Might be more tomorrow, I don’t know, yet.  But nothing hurt at the time at all - it felt incredible.  I’m good, I promise.”

“OK,” he nodded, and then gave another small grin.  “It was incredible for me, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

We grinned absurdly at each other, shared several soft kisses, and wished each other ‘goodnight’.  Soon we were both sound asleep, secure in each other’s arms.

--

(part 4)

[letterfromtrenwith]

Interlude

Something peculiar had overcome them last night. As they danced at the Deverill Ball, his hand at her waist and hers on his shoulder, their eyes had met and it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck them. Elizabeth’s breath had hitched, her eyes widening; it had been all he could do not to take her home that very instant.

Candlelight, brandy and the conclusion of a very pleasant evening.

A George/Elizabeth fic.

Moving as carefully as possible George pulled on his breeches, recently discarded beside the bed. Standing, he looked around for his shirt and found it lying somewhat crumpled on the large trunk at the foot of the bed, tangled up with Elizabeth’s shift. His waistcoat and her stays lay on the floor nearby. Stockings and their pink ribbon garters formed a silky heap on the bedside table, dropped there by George after he had slid them slowly down Elizabeth’s legs.  On her vanity, covering a hairbrush and a perfume bottle, was his neck cloth. His fine velvet coat and her deep red evening gown had been given a little more consideration, draped relatively neatly over a chair.

Something peculiar had overcome them last night. As they danced at the Deverill Ball, his hand at her waist and hers on his shoulder, their eyes had met and it was as if a bolt of lightning had struck them. Elizabeth’s breath had hitched, her eyes widening; it had been all he could do not to take her home that very instant. The rest of the evening had been torturous, his attention refusing to be drawn to anything but her. He suspected he had been rather rude to the other ladies he had stood up with, unable to tear his eyes from his wife for more than a few moments. It was difficult to be too upset about that, however, especially as Elizabeth had been paying him similar notice, looking past the men paying her court and ladies gossiping to meet his gaze across the room.

In the carriage home she had looked at him so intently, her soft lips parted in clear invitation, but he had held back, rushing to reassure her at the flicker of hurt and confusion in her eyes.

“No, my dear. I am simply worried I will not be able to control myself.” This had earned him what could only be called a mischievous smile, which merely intensified his agony. To finally close the door of her chamber behind them had been a great relief. They stared at one another for a moment, both breathing heavily, the air between them almost crackling.

“Take off your dress.” It had been a command, but tenderly delivered, and with a wide smile, Elizabeth had complied.

After what followed, it was small wonder he had woken feeling rather parched. The maid appeared to have been somewhat remiss in refilling the carafe, so he was forced to seek refreshment from his own chamber. He opened the connecting door slowly, so as not to wake Elizabeth, who slept still, her breathing deep and contented. A now merely smouldering fire had been lit somewhat unnecessarily, although he enjoyed its residual warmth as he drank. On a whim he poured himself a glass of brandy also. George was not a great drinker and frankly the decanters in his room saw little use, but he kept them nevertheless. The only valet he had ever engaged – until he grew tired of the man’s fussing attentions – had insisted that all gentlemen kept such things, and it seemed that the notion had stuck.

George took the two glasses back to the other room, seeing as he entered that there was no longer any need for quiet. Elizabeth watched him from the bed, her head propped on one hand. A sheet, entwined between her legs, was pulled up to her chest; she had undone her hair and it flowed over her bared shoulders like silk. She still wore her jewels, gems sparkling at her neck and wrist in the candlelight. The mere sight of her was breath taking and George allowed his gaze to linger on the curve of her hip and the dip of her waist. Having obviously intuited the nature of his thoughts, she dipped her head almost shyly, a faint blush coming to her cheeks.

George coughed in an effort to recover some sense of decorum, although given their respective states of undress and the way they had spent the evening that seemed rather pointless. It was a natural inclination on his part, however. Although he knew it was foolish, her power over him still unnerved him in some small way. To be so beholden to another person as he was to her was an anathema to every other thing in his life. Of course, it was the knowledge that Elizabeth would never take advantage of her hold over him that in part encouraged his devotion to her.

“My dear, I did not mean to wake you.”

“And here I lay thinking you had abandoned me.” She was teasing and he smiled in response.

“How could I?” As he sat next to her he made to place the drinks at the bedside but Elizabeth stopped him

“May I have some?” He was about to hand her the water before realising that she looked to the brandy. Surprised, he passed her the glass. As she sat up to take it the sheet slipped down her body, leaving her covered only by the long curls of her hair. She was pleasingly unashamed by her partial nudity and George forced his eyes to her face lest he lose control of himself. Elizabeth raised the glass, inhaling the scent of the amber liquid.

“Mmmm. My father used to put a drop of brandy in my chocolate in the winter. Mama would have disapproved so it was our secret. She thought anything but sherry and wine were unladylike.” George could not help but smile at the thought of Elizabeth’s little rebellion. There was so much of her he did not know, had only learned as the intimacy of marriage brought them closer. She fascinated him entirely.

Then she took a drink and George’s thoughts were forced in a more carnal direction once more. She closed her eyes and hummed in pleasure at the taste, tipping her head back, exposing the movement of her throat as she swallowed. Unable to restrain his desire for her any longer he gently trailed the back of his fingers down her arm. Slowly, she opened her eyes to look at him; without a word, she set the brandy down at her bedside before turning towards him, leaning in…

“George?” He almost groaned in frustration at her pause but managed to master himself sufficiently to answer her.

“Yes, my dear?”

“Tonight…what - ?” Elizabeth did not finish the question but he knew what she was asking and in truth he had no real answer. What had taken over them this evening was impossible to describe. It was not as if they were not passionate in their intimacies but the sheer intensity between them had been entirely new.

“All I know is that I looked at you tonight and realised that I had never in my life wanted anything more than I wanted you at that moment.” Elizabeth gasped at his bold statement. He was not generally so forward in his expression of his feelings for her but he could not at that instant think why.

“Oh, George…” She closed the gap between them, pressing her mouth to his. He immediately wrapped his arms around her, letting his hands stroke over the soft curves of her body, encouraging her to settle on his lap, legs either side of his. She ran her hand through his hair and he groaned softly. He pulled back just a fraction, taking in the sight of her beautiful eyes wide with arousal and her softly flushed cheeks. Kissing her once more, he tasted the brandy on her lips. As her gentle hands stole under his loosened shirt he gave himself entirely up to their passion. George may rarely drink, but he was entirely familiar with intoxication.

[lolainblue]

Presque Vu    Chapter 18

t/w: bondage, chicanery

   Raina was a little disappointed that she didn't hear from Shannon again that week.  She thought he had been lighthearted and joking when he left her Monday night, she thought they had parted on a good note. But when he didn't call and didn't respond to the texts she sent him on Wednesday, she began to think opening up to him at all had been a mistake.  He'd probably had a chance to sit down and think about things and in all likelihood had decided to steer well clear of her. She was sad but couldn't say she blamed him.  At least it would make things easier with Jared.

   For their proposed date on Thursday, they had made plans for Jared to make dinner at his house. He felt the privacy would better facilitate their discussion.  Raina agreed.  She knew they still had a lot to talk about.  Maybe a little less if Shannon had bowed out of the picture.  

   When she arrived at Jared's she was glad she had taken a little extra care getting ready that evening.  He was looking handsome as ever, in a lightweight white shirt with rolled up sleeves, unbuttoned nearly to his navel and black dress slacks.  Being Jared, of course, he was wearing polka dot socks underneath them and scruffy slippers. Raina smiled as he guided her back to the kitchen, hand at the small of her back.

   “You look lovely tonight, Raina,” he told her as he took the bottle of wine she had brought.  For her part, she had chosen a simple black wrap dress whose silky material and body hugging cut flattered her toned figure, and its short skirt showed off her long legs.  She thought their looks nicely complimented each other, almost as if it had been planned.  Jared pulled a couple of glasses out of a cabinet but grabbed a wine carafe that was already sitting out. “I hope you don't mind,” he said.  “Your bottle looks lovely but I decanted this about an  hour ago and I've been waiting to share it with you.”

   “Oh no, that's fine,” Raina said, taking the glass.  “We can have mine another time.  Something smells amazing by the way. I guess you can really cook.”

   Jared laughed.  “What I can do is order very nice takeout and warm it in the oven.  But it's ready if you want to go ahead and sit down.”

   They took their plates into the dining room and started on the meal. She asked how his busy week had been, and he had explained that he'd had some meetings and interviews but most of it had been spent rehearsing with the band.  There was a small tour coming up in South America that they were getting ready for.  She had related the events of her week and mentioned her upcoming return to the doctor.  It was a pleasant conversation but nothing deep, much like any other time that they had spent together.  Once they had finished and the dishes had been cleared, Jared sat Raina down to begin their talk.

   “So have you been thinking about what you want from this relationship?” he asked her bluntly as soon as they settled down on his couch. Raina sat the glass of wine she had been holding down onto the wood and glass coffee table.

   She nodded at him.  “Of course, I understand this is dependent on what you want too.  We have to come to an agreement.”

   “Well of course we do,” Jared said impatiently. “But that really doesn't answer my question.”

    She quickly tried to gather her thoughts. “Well, obviously I want to keep seeing you. I want to keep sleeping with you.” Raina shifted in her seat a bit uncomfortably.  She didn't know why she suddenly felt so shy.  She had never been a shrinking violet, especially when it came to sex.  Maybe it was because for so long she had harbored in her head fantasies of the very things she was about to ask Jared to do to her that those fantasies felt like her darkest secret.  She took a deep breath and steeled her nerves. “I'm sorry the bruising freaked me out.  It was all just so real at that point, and I didn't know what to do. You see, I've always had these fantasies, ever since I was a teenager, about a man who would dominate me like that.  I've always known I had that submissive side.  But it took me a while to come to terms with it.  And I've never found a man that was interested too.”

   “Never?” Jared asked.

   Raina shook her head again.  “Oh sure, some of them wanted to play around a bit, give me a few swats on the ass, maybe break out some handcuffs.  But nothing serious.  Honestly, I had just assumed that's all you wanted too, that you were just talk.  I mean you were a little rougher than the others but I figured that was as far as it was going to go.  Now I know you're for real.  And I want to explore that.  With you.”

   Jared took a deep breath of his own and stared at the wine glasses on the table, seemingly lost in thought. Raina began to think that maybe she had misread the situation entirely, that maybe he was wanting to dial everything back down, when he finally spoke.  “And what about this other guy you're seeing?”

   “I don't think that's going to be an issue.”  Raina tried not to sound too sad about that but a little of the regret had to have crept into her voice.  “To be honest, I did still want to keep seeing him, but he seems to be ghosting me so I guess you don't have to worry about that anymore.”

   Jared paused again, that same thoughtful look as before crossing his face. “But you would have kept seeing him?” he asked.  Raina nodded. He shifted his jaw, eyes intent on Raina's face now.   “Is that all you want to say about that?”

   “I don't  think there's anything else to say, really,” Raina responded.  Jared didn't seem happy with that response, he never seemed happy when the subject was brought up, but he let it go at that and stood up.

   “Okay then, let's go back to my room and we can discuss a few things as we go.”  

   He held his hand out and waited for her to rise and take it before leading her back to the bedroom.  Jared had already laid out several bundles of black rope on a bench at the foot of the bed.  Seeing them, Raina's heart began to race and her palms grew clammy. This had all once again become very real for her and she wondered if she had gotten in over her head.  She had zero experience going forward but Jared clearly knew what he was doing and was prepared for the evening.  It should have been comforting but it somehow just made her doubt herself even more.

   “The very first thing we need to get straight is that when I tell you to do something here that you do it,” he said, dropping her hand and stepping around to the foot of the bed.  “Of course you still have your safe words, we will always obey the color system and if you would like a special word we can choose that.  But following my directions is essential for your safety.  Do you understand?”

   “Yes sir,” Raina responded immediately.  Jared gave her a tight smile.

   “Good. Remove your clothing, fold it and place it on the chair over there,” he said with a gesture.  

   Raina's mouth had gone dry and her heartbeat was thundering in her ears but she complied without argument. Her hands shook a little as she slipped her lace panties down her legs. When she had put them on earlier in the evening she had envisioned Jared being the one to slide them off, but she removed everything and placed it all in a neat little folded pile on the chair in the corner, her black stiletto heels perched carefully on top. As soon as she was naked she turned around to see Jared setting his phone down on the dresser.  He can't be without that thing for one minute.  Patiently, she waited for his next command.  Jared motioned with his finger for her to come over to him.  

   Once she stood in front of him he walked around her in a slow circle, his fingers tracing over the now significantly faded bruises on her back and bottom. He hummed a little as his hands brushed over her rapidly heating skin and Raina could feel her breathing quicken with his attention. She wasn't sure if she should say anything, his directions up to this point had been quite thin, so she held her tongue and waited for him to continue looking her over.  

   “Up on the bed, in the center, on your knees,” he said simply.  As Raina took position, Jared reached down and picked something up off the bench, and his lips turned up into the first real smile she had seen on him since they entered the bedroom.  She was amazed at how much that did to settle her nerves.  Moving next to her on the bed, Jared took her chin his hand and brought his mouth softly to hers, his tongue making a quick pass over her lips. That gentle bit of reassurance calmed her even more and she sighed when he pulled away. He smoothed her hair from the side of her face then showed her what he held, a simple black satin blindfold.

   “Now, princess, the second thing we need to discuss is trust.” His voice was even but firm, and his brilliant eyes were locked carefully on her face.  “Just because I am mentioning it second don't think it is less crucial,” he continued. “It's the most important aspect of any relationship, but especially between a dominant and a submissive.  Without trust, everything falls apart.” He slipped the blindfold into place and kissed her again.  “What color are we baby girl?”

   “Green, sir,” Raina answered.  Her nerves were still on edge but she could feel her arousal growing now as she imagined what was to follow.  She heard a satisfied little sigh from Jared and then some shuffling.  He seemed to have stepped away, but he quickly came back to the bed again and made a few adjustments to her sitting position before giving her her next instruction.

   “Put your hands out for me baby girl”

   Lifting her arms obediently, Raina gave a small shiver as she felt his lips graze her wrists, gentle kisses giving way to the brush of the soft rope he had laid out earlier. He was practically purring as he worked his way up her arms, weaving the rope in and out, adjusting her position then giving the bindings a quick tug. Seemingly satisfied, he moved from the bed only to return a few seconds later, checking the blindfold (“.,. no peeking now princess...”) before beginning to wrap new ropes just below her breasts. She tried to keep her breathing deep and slow, each brush of his hands against her flushed skin sending delicious jolts to every nerve ending, a promise of what was to come. The voice in her head warned her that she may have really gotten herself in too far this time but she pushed it aside. She had almost calmed herself when she heard the second set of footsteps finally enter the room.

   “Jared?” she asked uncertainly.  She tried to tell herself that she had imagined the sound, or that it was Jared, but she vividly recalled the old soft slippers Jared had been wearing when she arrived that evening. This was the sound of hard soled shoes on the wood floor of the bedroom.  Any calm she had managed to reclaim flew right out the window. “Yellow?” She said uncertainly.  

   “What's wrong Raina, don't you trust me?” Jared asked as he drew her arms behind her head.  His voice was almost syrupy sweet now and Raina knew something was very wrong.  She was about to blurt out “Red” when he continued.  “I mean it's not like we can't trust each other right? It's not like someone has been hiding something.  It's not like I didn't just give you every opportunity to come clean.”

   With a sick flip of her stomach, Raina realized her game was up.  He knew. She knew now why Shannon hadn't called her back yesterday.

   “Shannon?” she said, her voice shaking. Jared laughed.

   “This was really stupid, Raina,” she heard Shannon's deep voice from somewhere near the foot of the bed.  “Did you honestly think we were never going to talk? I'm just surprised you got away with this for so long.”

   Raina knew she probably should have stopped things right there.  She wasn't entirely sure why she didn't, but she knew she needed to try to make them understand. “I told you both I was seeing someone else.  I was honest about that,” she pointed out.

   “I think this particular situation needed a little more explanation than “I'm seeing someone else'.” The voice was Jared's this time, and he was beside her.  She felt the bed dip again as he slipped a loop of rope over one leg.  He was still continuing to tie her.  What the hell was happening? “You made it a point not to mention who your other lover was.  You knew.”

   “I didn't mean for this to happen.  It wasn't supposed to be this way.” Raina fought to justify her position.  “Jared, you were just supposed to be a one night stand, by the time Shannon asked me out I thought you were long gone.”

   Jared made a grumbling noise.  “I told you I was going to call. Why do you never believe me?”

   “I didn't know you.”

   “Right. Exactly.   You didn't know me.  So why would you think I was lying?”

   Raina scoffed.  “You're a man.  Who just got the easy sex he'd been looking for.  You guys never call back.”

   Shannon chimed in then.  “All that justifies is why you went out with me in the first place.  None of the rest of it.”

   “Is there really that much of “the rest of it”?” Raina asked.  “I liked you both, more than I thought I would.  I was in too deep before I knew it and I didn't want to lose either one of you so I opted to keep the status quo.” She took a few deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling carefully, trying to bring herself back to center.  “I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt.  I thought it would all sort itself out eventually.”

   “Well I guess it's sorting itself out now,” Shannon said with a chuckle.  

   “I almost told you both several times.” Raina could hear the quiver in her voice now.  She knew her day of reckoning would come, but she never dreamed it would be like this.  All the lies she had been telling herself still sounded just as much like lies when she said them out loud.  She had come so far this week in opening up.  She knew it was time to go for broke.  “I have felt so alone this last year,” she choked out, and she was grateful for the blindfold which hid the tears forming in her eyes.  “And then out of nowhere there you both were.  And you were hot and sexy and fun, and you distracted me from everything that was making me unhappy.  I only wanted a little distraction because it was all I let myself hope for. And when you both turned out to be more than that, turned out to be wonderful....”  Raina blew out a shaky breath, swallowed slowly and continued.  “I didn't know what to do.  I hadn't let myself want anything that big in so long.  I didn't think there was any way I could have it.” She paused again, hearing her own ragged breathing amplified in her ears by the loss of her sight. “I tried to hold on to it any way I could. I didn't care about what you two might want. I just didn't want to go back to being that lonely.”

   She felt someone's palm against the side of her face and it only took her a second to identify as Shannon's broad, calloused hand.  “How many times have I said you could talk to me? You could come to me?” he asked. “I would have understood.  If you had at least come to me at some point I would have understood.”

   Raina leaned her head into his hand but he pulled it away.  “I know.  I was wrong.  I should have trusted you.  Trusted both of you.  It wasn't just my decision to make.”

   “You've been a very naughty girl, princess.”  Jared's voice was beside her again, and when the bed once again dipped down she assumed he was sitting beside her.  He did not touch her the way Shannon had, however.  “You can tell we're unhappy.  So why haven't you called red?”

   Raina fought to find the words.  “Because I know you won't hurt me. Because you both deserve answers.”  She was quiet a moment before she continued.  “Because I finally learned to trust you.”

   Jared lifted Raina's blindfold and after a few blinks she came to focus on his face, inches from hers, blue eyes looking at her so intensely she wouldn't be surprised to learn they could see right through her.  

   “So what have we learned about trust here, huh Raina? Anything?” Raina let her eyes drop, unable to meet his gaze. Her chest ached so deeply it seemed to be pulling all of her breath out with it. It was over. It had been a beautiful ride, and she would never forget it, but she knew she had broken their trust.  The most important thing.  The thing that allowed her to open herself up for the first time in ages, the thing that had allowed her to sit her naked in the middle of a bed and offer herself up to the man with the rope.  She got it. Message received loud and clear.  Jared stepped behind her and released the rope that had been holding her arms back and unwrapped her wrists.

   “Put your clothes back on and meet us in the living room,” he said evenly.  “The three of us are going to talk.”

@msroxyblog @nikkitasevoli @maliciousalishious @meghan12151977 @fyeahproudglambert @snewsome756

[wineanddinosaur]

Why Drinks Industry Insiders Are Spending Their Weekends in Lancaster, Pa.

Having lived in New York City for nearly two decades, my family has taken just about every weekend road trip possible. Out to Long Island’s North Fork to crawl the wineries and enjoy oysters straight from Greenport’s waters. Up to the Hudson Valley to visit farm stands and orchards, breweries, and quaint little window-shopping towns. We’ve taken longer drives to Boston and Washington, D.C., all the way up to burgeoning places like Portsmouth, Kittery, Portland, and Burlington. All of these are great trips to great places with plenty of great things to drink, but this time, my wife and I were thinking we both wanted to try something new.

“What about Lancaster, Pennsylvania?” I offered. “I heard it’s pretty cool.”

“Pennsylvania?!” my wife responded. “I’m not vacationing in Pennsylvania.”

Forgive my wife’s slander, Ben Franklin.

A day later she texted me. She’d done a little research and had taken the liberty of booking us an Airbnb.

Nestled in a remarkably accessible location some 75 miles from Baltimore, 80 from Philadelphia, and 165 from where we live in Brooklyn, the south-central Pennsylvania city has deep roots; it was founded nearly 50 years before the signing of the Declaration of Independence. These days, Lancaster is a small town that’s hardly small, with a metro area of about half a million residents. To casual observers, it is still seen as the cradle of horse-and-buggy living, and, indeed, a large Amish and Mennonite community still dominates the farmlands around the city.

But in the last five years or so, the city has experienced a food and drink renaissance that’s thanks, in several cases, to skilled chefs from bigger cities moving home. As the culinary scene has evolved, so too has its drinking scene.

If you’re coming from the New York area, like we did, you’ll pass quite a few excellent Pennsylvania breweries, including Forest & Main in Ambler, and Bonn Place Brewing in Bethlehem. (Sadly, the locally beloved Stoudts Brewing, with its epic German-style beer hall in Adamstown, is soon closing as matriarch Carol Stoudt has decided to step down.)

If you want to arrive in town sober, however, stick with a stop at the Dutch Haven Shoo-Fly Pie Bakery for a slice of this knick-knack shop’s namesake dessert and a glass of Amish-made root beer, which offers a funky, yeasty aroma. As a sign on the faux-wooden barrel it pours from reads, “Some like it, some don’t.” Personally, I liked it. And, most everyone will find something to like during a weekend drinking their way through Lancaster.

Friday

Assuming that you arrive on a Friday afternoon, here’s where to go after dropping your bags and settling into your accommodations.

The Fridge Head out to happy hour at The Fridge. It looks like your typical suburban pizzeria, with counter-service pies behind glass, wobbly square tables and a few high-tops. But take note of one far wall, where eight convenience store-style fridges are located. These are absolutely packed with perhaps the widest-spanning and most diverse selection of beer you’ll ever see, from longtime bottled international favorites to cult cans from East Coast hot spots like Lawson’s Finest and Bissell Brothers to countless pounders of local Pennsylvania offerings. Grab some beer to go or get a few for your table to drink while noshing on a pre-dinner snack of a flatbread topped with bacon, smoked cheddar, and sweet potato mash.

The Fridge

LUCA My intrigue in Lancaster actually started due to friend and fellow drinks writer Brad Thomas Parsons — a year or two ago I started noticing, via Instagram, that he sure seemed to be in Lancaster a lot. What the heck was going on there? I wondered. As author of the seminal books “Bitters” and “Amaro,” Parsons does a yearly residency at LUCA, a wood-burning Italian restaurant that has a killer amaro program as well (try a flight of lesser-known bottles like Amaro Dente di Leone). Though the multi-level venue is large, weekend reservations can be tough to come by; when the doors open at 5 p.m. on Friday, there will already be folks lined up, ready to sprint to the first-come seats available at the lengthy bar. There are adventurous small plates like beef tongue, pasta dishes like braised rabbit pappardelle, and entrees like bone-in lamb cooked in a hearth, but you’ll want to grab some Neapolitan-style pizza as well. Chef-owner Taylor Mason spent his early cooking years in Napa Valley and he still has a passion for introducing offbeat wines like Vending Machine’s Horror Show to customers who may be more accustomed to drinking fizzy yellow beer with their pies. The amaro-centric cocktails like the Phroaigian Slip — featuring Laphroaig, Pasubio, and Chartreuse — are excellent as well.

Valentino’s Cafe Now Lancaster doesn’t exactly offer the latest late night, but that’s fine. Valentino’s Cafe keeps the lights on until 2 a.m. A barber shop that was turned into a bar room in 1937, the spot “Where good friends meet” is still run by third- and fourth-generation Valentinos. This is dive-bar drinking at its finest — pitchers of Yuengling and half-liter carafes of house wine. The cocktails on the menu are stuck at least a generation back (think Fuzzy Navels and Amaretto Sours), but at least they’re cheap, too. And, if you’re still hungry, Valentino’s is famous for its spaghetti, which can be ordered until 10 p.m. After that, as the night deepens, more and more industry folks getting off their shifts will begin filing in.

Valentino’s

Saturday

Start the day at the Lancaster Central Market, the oldest farmers’ market in the country. There’s nothing boozy among the 60 often-Amish-run stands, but there are plenty of things you can grab to aid in your future imbibing. Long’s horseradish, freshly made on site, would be perfect for a Bloody Mary, for example. Grab some citrus for cocktails. And the fresh-pressed sugar cane juice at Havana Juice would work wonders in a Daiquiri.

Cabalar Meat Co. (with Voodoo Brewery) Think of this spot as a hybrid butcher shop, sandwich shop, and brewery; it’s the place to go in downtown Lancaster for a base-laying brunch. Opt for the beef and cheese sandwich made with braised beef neck and jalapeño cream cheese (and plate of beef gravy poutine wouldn’t hurt either). Last year, Calabar also began a unique collaboration with Voodoo Brewery. One of the state’s best breweries, Voodoo now has a small satellite location in the back corner of the shop, where it serves draughts of geek-beloved beers like the Slimer-green Lacto-Cooler and Big Black Voodoo Daddy, an imperial stout.

Decades You could certainly find worse places to day drink the day away than Decades, a boutique bowling alley (only six lanes!) and retro arcade attached to a full-service restaurant and bar. The food surpasses “bowling alley” fare with offerings like crawdad hushpuppies, duck and bacon corndogs, and pulled pork sandwiches. The drinks are equally well considered, with hazy IPAs, Jungle Birds, and house cocktails like the color-changing Tesseract, made with Bluecoat gin and St. Germain served atop a butterfly pea flower tea ice cube. If you need even more fun and games (and beer), head to Spring House Brewing with its Hell’s Attic Arcade.

Decades

Horse Inn The whiskey list at Horse Inn, a former horse stable and Prohibition-era speakeasy is ample, featuring not just “unicorn” bottles but several private house single barrels, including an Old Weller Antique at 14 years old that is remarkable. The cocktails are incredible as well, often focusing on seasonal ingredients like in The Squashbuckler, made with a honeynut squash-infused rum and pumpkin-seed orgeat. “Living so close to the amazing farms that Lancaster has to offer is a unique benefit,” says co-owner Starla Russell. “Whether it is on our food menu or our drink menu, we try to follow the seasons and only use ingredients that naturally grow at that time.” Her husband and chef, Matt Russell, came up under the renowned Sean Brock in Charleston and he brings an ethos of elevated comfort food to the establishment. Tips ‘n’ Toast — tenderloin tips on French bread with red wine demi glace — is the signature dish, but their buffalo wings and fried green tomato BLT are also great. There are no reservations, so once the dinner crowd has died down, it’ll be easier to get into the door to play foosball or other bar games. By then, you’ll probably just want to grab a $2 “mystery” beer (“You get what you get!” says the menu) from the bathtub at the front bar.

Conway Social Club The recently opened Conway Social Club is an elegant space, outfitted with vintage chandeliers and gallery walls. Owner Benjamin Hash serves classic cocktails with a modern twist, often using (say it again with me) fresh, local ingredients. A drink like Jansen to Kyushu features Irish gin, matcha tea, Chartreuse, coconut cream, and pandan leaf. Another favorite, Shapes of the Carousel, is a fascinating melange of rye, mezcal, marshmallow-infused rum, pineapple soda, and popcorn foam. This is the perfect spot for a relaxed — and seated — Saturday nightcap, given that no one is admitted into the establishment after midnight.

Conway Social Club

Sunday

Sunday mornings are admittedly quiet in Amish Country, so its probably best to sleep off last night’s late night. Once you’re ready to face the world, you’ll learn that Lancaster has a pretty killer coffee scene as well with places like Passenger Coffee, Square One, and Mean Cup. But before heading home, consider stopping in the even smaller town of Lititz, six miles north of Lancaster, for a fun afternoon.

Bulls Head Public House There’s a reason that many drinks professionals call Bulls Head Public House the best British pub in America, or the best overall beer bar in America; it’s a perfect slice of Liverpool in Lititz. Like a pub across the pond, there’s no waiter service, so immediately head to one of the two bars to order a hand-pumped pint of cask ale and perhaps some fish ‘n’ chips, too. With no televisions or blaring music, and cozy seating, this is a place to while the afternoon away in friendly conversation and session drinking.

Stoll & Wolfe Distillery Located a couple blocks from Bulls Head, the new Stoll & Wolfe Distillery hearkens back to the now-shuttered Michter’s Distillery, which was established nearby in 1753 and at one time was the nation’s oldest distillery. Thus, the Wolfe family tapped Dick Stoll — the last master distiller at Michter’s — to make its whiskey. According to the Wolfes, rye whiskey was actually born in Lancaster as the farmlands around the area were then full of rye grain. Fittingly, this craft distillery produces a rye (as well as bourbon) that can be enjoyed in the tasting room neat or in a number of craft cocktails.

Stoll & Wolfe

The article Why Drinks Industry Insiders Are Spending Their Weekends in Lancaster, Pa. appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/lancaster-amish-country-travel-guide/

[isaiahrippinus]

Why Drinks Industry Insiders Are Spending Their Weekends in Lancaster, Pa.

Having lived in New York City for nearly two decades, my family has taken just about every weekend road trip possible. Out to Long Island’s North Fork to crawl the wineries and enjoy oysters straight from Greenport’s waters. Up to the Hudson Valley to visit farm stands and orchards, breweries, and quaint little window-shopping towns. We’ve taken longer drives to Boston and Washington, D.C., all the way up to burgeoning places like Portsmouth, Kittery, Portland, and Burlington. All of these are great trips to great places with plenty of great things to drink, but this time, my wife and I were thinking we both wanted to try something new.

“What about Lancaster, Pennsylvania?” I offered. “I heard it’s pretty cool.”

“Pennsylvania?!” my wife responded. “I’m not vacationing in Pennsylvania.”

Forgive my wife’s slander, Ben Franklin.

A day later she texted me. She’d done a little research and had taken the liberty of booking us an Airbnb.

Nestled in a remarkably accessible location some 75 miles from Baltimore, 80 from Philadelphia, and 165 from where we live in Brooklyn, the south-central Pennsylvania city has deep roots; it was founded nearly 50 years before the signing of the Declaration of Independence. These days, Lancaster is a small town that’s hardly small, with a metro area of about half a million residents. To casual observers, it is still seen as the cradle of horse-and-buggy living, and, indeed, a large Amish and Mennonite community still dominates the farmlands around the city.

But in the last five years or so, the city has experienced a food and drink renaissance that’s thanks, in several cases, to skilled chefs from bigger cities moving home. As the culinary scene has evolved, so too has its drinking scene.

If you’re coming from the New York area, like we did, you’ll pass quite a few excellent Pennsylvania breweries, including Forest & Main in Ambler, and Bonn Place Brewing in Bethlehem. (Sadly, the locally beloved Stoudts Brewing, with its epic German-style beer hall in Adamstown, is soon closing as matriarch Carol Stoudt has decided to step down.)

If you want to arrive in town sober, however, stick with a stop at the Dutch Haven Shoo-Fly Pie Bakery for a slice of this knick-knack shop’s namesake dessert and a glass of Amish-made root beer, which offers a funky, yeasty aroma. As a sign on the faux-wooden barrel it pours from reads, “Some like it, some don’t.” Personally, I liked it. And, most everyone will find something to like during a weekend drinking their way through Lancaster.

Friday

Assuming that you arrive on a Friday afternoon, here’s where to go after dropping your bags and settling into your accommodations.

The Fridge Head out to happy hour at The Fridge. It looks like your typical suburban pizzeria, with counter-service pies behind glass, wobbly square tables and a few high-tops. But take note of one far wall, where eight convenience store-style fridges are located. These are absolutely packed with perhaps the widest-spanning and most diverse selection of beer you’ll ever see, from longtime bottled international favorites to cult cans from East Coast hot spots like Lawson’s Finest and Bissell Brothers to countless pounders of local Pennsylvania offerings. Grab some beer to go or get a few for your table to drink while noshing on a pre-dinner snack of a flatbread topped with bacon, smoked cheddar, and sweet potato mash.

The Fridge

LUCA My intrigue in Lancaster actually started due to friend and fellow drinks writer Brad Thomas Parsons — a year or two ago I started noticing, via Instagram, that he sure seemed to be in Lancaster a lot. What the heck was going on there? I wondered. As author of the seminal books “Bitters” and “Amaro,” Parsons does a yearly residency at LUCA, a wood-burning Italian restaurant that has a killer amaro program as well (try a flight of lesser-known bottles like Amaro Dente di Leone). Though the multi-level venue is large, weekend reservations can be tough to come by; when the doors open at 5 p.m. on Friday, there will already be folks lined up, ready to sprint to the first-come seats available at the lengthy bar. There are adventurous small plates like beef tongue, pasta dishes like braised rabbit pappardelle, and entrees like bone-in lamb cooked in a hearth, but you’ll want to grab some Neapolitan-style pizza as well. Chef-owner Taylor Mason spent his early cooking years in Napa Valley and he still has a passion for introducing offbeat wines like Vending Machine’s Horror Show to customers who may be more accustomed to drinking fizzy yellow beer with their pies. The amaro-centric cocktails like the Phroaigian Slip — featuring Laphroaig, Pasubio, and Chartreuse — are excellent as well.

Valentino’s Cafe Now Lancaster doesn’t exactly offer the latest late night, but that’s fine. Valentino’s Cafe keeps the lights on until 2 a.m. A barber shop that was turned into a bar room in 1937, the spot “Where good friends meet” is still run by third- and fourth-generation Valentinos. This is dive-bar drinking at its finest — pitchers of Yuengling and half-liter carafes of house wine. The cocktails on the menu are stuck at least a generation back (think Fuzzy Navels and Amaretto Sours), but at least they’re cheap, too. And, if you’re still hungry, Valentino’s is famous for its spaghetti, which can be ordered until 10 p.m. After that, as the night deepens, more and more industry folks getting off their shifts will begin filing in.

Valentino’s

Saturday

Start the day at the Lancaster Central Market, the oldest farmers’ market in the country. There’s nothing boozy among the 60 often-Amish-run stands, but there are plenty of things you can grab to aid in your future imbibing. Long’s horseradish, freshly made on site, would be perfect for a Bloody Mary, for example. Grab some citrus for cocktails. And the fresh-pressed sugar cane juice at Havana Juice would work wonders in a Daiquiri.

Cabalar Meat Co. (with Voodoo Brewery) Think of this spot as a hybrid butcher shop, sandwich shop, and brewery; it’s the place to go in downtown Lancaster for a base-laying brunch. Opt for the beef and cheese sandwich made with braised beef neck and jalapeño cream cheese (and plate of beef gravy poutine wouldn’t hurt either). Last year, Calabar also began a unique collaboration with Voodoo Brewery. One of the state’s best breweries, Voodoo now has a small satellite location in the back corner of the shop, where it serves draughts of geek-beloved beers like the Slimer-green Lacto-Cooler and Big Black Voodoo Daddy, an imperial stout.

Decades You could certainly find worse places to day drink the day away than Decades, a boutique bowling alley (only six lanes!) and retro arcade attached to a full-service restaurant and bar. The food surpasses “bowling alley” fare with offerings like crawdad hushpuppies, duck and bacon corndogs, and pulled pork sandwiches. The drinks are equally well considered, with hazy IPAs, Jungle Birds, and house cocktails like the color-changing Tesseract, made with Bluecoat gin and St. Germain served atop a butterfly pea flower tea ice cube. If you need even more fun and games (and beer), head to Spring House Brewing with its Hell’s Attic Arcade.

Decades

Horse Inn The whiskey list at Horse Inn, a former horse stable and Prohibition-era speakeasy is ample, featuring not just “unicorn” bottles but several private house single barrels, including an Old Weller Antique at 14 years old that is remarkable. The cocktails are incredible as well, often focusing on seasonal ingredients like in The Squashbuckler, made with a honeynut squash-infused rum and pumpkin-seed orgeat. “Living so close to the amazing farms that Lancaster has to offer is a unique benefit,” says co-owner Starla Russell. “Whether it is on our food menu or our drink menu, we try to follow the seasons and only use ingredients that naturally grow at that time.” Her husband and chef, Matt Russell, came up under the renowned Sean Brock in Charleston and he brings an ethos of elevated comfort food to the establishment. Tips ‘n’ Toast — tenderloin tips on French bread with red wine demi glace — is the signature dish, but their buffalo wings and fried green tomato BLT are also great. There are no reservations, so once the dinner crowd has died down, it’ll be easier to get into the door to play foosball or other bar games. By then, you’ll probably just want to grab a $2 “mystery” beer (“You get what you get!” says the menu) from the bathtub at the front bar.

Conway Social Club The recently opened Conway Social Club is an elegant space, outfitted with vintage chandeliers and gallery walls. Owner Benjamin Hash serves classic cocktails with a modern twist, often using (say it again with me) fresh, local ingredients. A drink like Jansen to Kyushu features Irish gin, matcha tea, Chartreuse, coconut cream, and pandan leaf. Another favorite, Shapes of the Carousel, is a fascinating melange of rye, mezcal, marshmallow-infused rum, pineapple soda, and popcorn foam. This is the perfect spot for a relaxed — and seated — Saturday nightcap, given that no one is admitted into the establishment after midnight.

Conway Social Club

Sunday

Sunday mornings are admittedly quiet in Amish Country, so its probably best to sleep off last night’s late night. Once you’re ready to face the world, you’ll learn that Lancaster has a pretty killer coffee scene as well with places like Passenger Coffee, Square One, and Mean Cup. But before heading home, consider stopping in the even smaller town of Lititz, six miles north of Lancaster, for a fun afternoon.

Bulls Head Public House There’s a reason that many drinks professionals call Bulls Head Public House the best British pub in America, or the best overall beer bar in America; it’s a perfect slice of Liverpool in Lititz. Like a pub across the pond, there’s no waiter service, so immediately head to one of the two bars to order a hand-pumped pint of cask ale and perhaps some fish ‘n’ chips, too. With no televisions or blaring music, and cozy seating, this is a place to while the afternoon away in friendly conversation and session drinking.

Stoll & Wolfe Distillery Located a couple blocks from Bulls Head, the new Stoll & Wolfe Distillery hearkens back to the now-shuttered Michter’s Distillery, which was established nearby in 1753 and at one time was the nation’s oldest distillery. Thus, the Wolfe family tapped Dick Stoll — the last master distiller at Michter’s — to make its whiskey. According to the Wolfes, rye whiskey was actually born in Lancaster as the farmlands around the area were then full of rye grain. Fittingly, this craft distillery produces a rye (as well as bourbon) that can be enjoyed in the tasting room neat or in a number of craft cocktails.

Stoll & Wolfe

The article Why Drinks Industry Insiders Are Spending Their Weekends in Lancaster, Pa. appeared first on VinePair.

source https://vinepair.com/articles/lancaster-amish-country-travel-guide/ source https://vinology1.tumblr.com/post/190876942609

[johnboothus]

Why Drinks Industry Insiders Are Spending Their Weekends in Lancaster Pa.

Having lived in New York City for nearly two decades, my family has taken just about every weekend road trip possible. Out to Long Island’s North Fork to crawl the wineries and enjoy oysters straight from Greenport’s waters. Up to the Hudson Valley to visit farm stands and orchards, breweries, and quaint little window-shopping towns. We’ve taken longer drives to Boston and Washington, D.C., all the way up to burgeoning places like Portsmouth, Kittery, Portland, and Burlington. All of these are great trips to great places with plenty of great things to drink, but this time, my wife and I were thinking we both wanted to try something new.

“What about Lancaster, Pennsylvania?” I offered. “I heard it’s pretty cool.”

“Pennsylvania?!” my wife responded. “I’m not vacationing in Pennsylvania.”

Forgive my wife’s slander, Ben Franklin.

A day later she texted me. She’d done a little research and had taken the liberty of booking us an Airbnb.

Nestled in a remarkably accessible location some 75 miles from Baltimore, 80 from Philadelphia, and 165 from where we live in Brooklyn, the south-central Pennsylvania city has deep roots; it was founded nearly 50 years before the signing of the Declaration of Independence. These days, Lancaster is a small town that’s hardly small, with a metro area of about half a million residents. To casual observers, it is still seen as the cradle of horse-and-buggy living, and, indeed, a large Amish and Mennonite community still dominates the farmlands around the city.

But in the last five years or so, the city has experienced a food and drink renaissance that’s thanks, in several cases, to skilled chefs from bigger cities moving home. As the culinary scene has evolved, so too has its drinking scene.

If you’re coming from the New York area, like we did, you’ll pass quite a few excellent Pennsylvania breweries, including Forest & Main in Ambler, and Bonn Place Brewing in Bethlehem. (Sadly, the locally beloved Stoudts Brewing, with its epic German-style beer hall in Adamstown, is soon closing as matriarch Carol Stoudt has decided to step down.)

If you want to arrive in town sober, however, stick with a stop at the Dutch Haven Shoo-Fly Pie Bakery for a slice of this knick-knack shop’s namesake dessert and a glass of Amish-made root beer, which offers a funky, yeasty aroma. As a sign on the faux-wooden barrel it pours from reads, “Some like it, some don’t.” Personally, I liked it. And, most everyone will find something to like during a weekend drinking their way through Lancaster.

Friday

Assuming that you arrive on a Friday afternoon, here’s where to go after dropping your bags and settling into your accommodations.

The Fridge Head out to happy hour at The Fridge. It looks like your typical suburban pizzeria, with counter-service pies behind glass, wobbly square tables and a few high-tops. But take note of one far wall, where eight convenience store-style fridges are located. These are absolutely packed with perhaps the widest-spanning and most diverse selection of beer you’ll ever see, from longtime bottled international favorites to cult cans from East Coast hot spots like Lawson’s Finest and Bissell Brothers to countless pounders of local Pennsylvania offerings. Grab some beer to go or get a few for your table to drink while noshing on a pre-dinner snack of a flatbread topped with bacon, smoked cheddar, and sweet potato mash.

The Fridge

LUCA My intrigue in Lancaster actually started due to friend and fellow drinks writer Brad Thomas Parsons — a year or two ago I started noticing, via Instagram, that he sure seemed to be in Lancaster a lot. What the heck was going on there? I wondered. As author of the seminal books “Bitters” and “Amaro,” Parsons does a yearly residency at LUCA, a wood-burning Italian restaurant that has a killer amaro program as well (try a flight of lesser-known bottles like Amaro Dente di Leone). Though the multi-level venue is large, weekend reservations can be tough to come by; when the doors open at 5 p.m. on Friday, there will already be folks lined up, ready to sprint to the first-come seats available at the lengthy bar. There are adventurous small plates like beef tongue, pasta dishes like braised rabbit pappardelle, and entrees like bone-in lamb cooked in a hearth, but you’ll want to grab some Neapolitan-style pizza as well. Chef-owner Taylor Mason spent his early cooking years in Napa Valley and he still has a passion for introducing offbeat wines like Vending Machine’s Horror Show to customers who may be more accustomed to drinking fizzy yellow beer with their pies. The amaro-centric cocktails like the Phroaigian Slip — featuring Laphroaig, Pasubio, and Chartreuse — are excellent as well.

Valentino’s Cafe Now Lancaster doesn’t exactly offer the latest late night, but that’s fine. Valentino’s Cafe keeps the lights on until 2 a.m. A barber shop that was turned into a bar room in 1937, the spot “Where good friends meet” is still run by third- and fourth-generation Valentinos. This is dive-bar drinking at its finest — pitchers of Yuengling and half-liter carafes of house wine. The cocktails on the menu are stuck at least a generation back (think Fuzzy Navels and Amaretto Sours), but at least they’re cheap, too. And, if you’re still hungry, Valentino’s is famous for its spaghetti, which can be ordered until 10 p.m. After that, as the night deepens, more and more industry folks getting off their shifts will begin filing in.

Valentino’s

Saturday

Start the day at the Lancaster Central Market, the oldest farmers’ market in the country. There’s nothing boozy among the 60 often-Amish-run stands, but there are plenty of things you can grab to aid in your future imbibing. Long’s horseradish, freshly made on site, would be perfect for a Bloody Mary, for example. Grab some citrus for cocktails. And the fresh-pressed sugar cane juice at Havana Juice would work wonders in a Daiquiri.

Cabalar Meat Co. (with Voodoo Brewery) Think of this spot as a hybrid butcher shop, sandwich shop, and brewery; it’s the place to go in downtown Lancaster for a base-laying brunch. Opt for the beef and cheese sandwich made with braised beef neck and jalapeño cream cheese (and plate of beef gravy poutine wouldn’t hurt either). Last year, Calabar also began a unique collaboration with Voodoo Brewery. One of the state’s best breweries, Voodoo now has a small satellite location in the back corner of the shop, where it serves draughts of geek-beloved beers like the Slimer-green Lacto-Cooler and Big Black Voodoo Daddy, an imperial stout.

Decades You could certainly find worse places to day drink the day away than Decades, a boutique bowling alley (only six lanes!) and retro arcade attached to a full-service restaurant and bar. The food surpasses “bowling alley” fare with offerings like crawdad hushpuppies, duck and bacon corndogs, and pulled pork sandwiches. The drinks are equally well considered, with hazy IPAs, Jungle Birds, and house cocktails like the color-changing Tesseract, made with Bluecoat gin and St. Germain served atop a butterfly pea flower tea ice cube. If you need even more fun and games (and beer), head to Spring House Brewing with its Hell’s Attic Arcade.

Decades

Horse Inn The whiskey list at Horse Inn, a former horse stable and Prohibition-era speakeasy is ample, featuring not just “unicorn” bottles but several private house single barrels, including an Old Weller Antique at 14 years old that is remarkable. The cocktails are incredible as well, often focusing on seasonal ingredients like in The Squashbuckler, made with a honeynut squash-infused rum and pumpkin-seed orgeat. “Living so close to the amazing farms that Lancaster has to offer is a unique benefit,” says co-owner Starla Russell. “Whether it is on our food menu or our drink menu, we try to follow the seasons and only use ingredients that naturally grow at that time.” Her husband and chef, Matt Russell, came up under the renowned Sean Brock in Charleston and he brings an ethos of elevated comfort food to the establishment. Tips ‘n’ Toast — tenderloin tips on French bread with red wine demi glace — is the signature dish, but their buffalo wings and fried green tomato BLT are also great. There are no reservations, so once the dinner crowd has died down, it’ll be easier to get into the door to play foosball or other bar games. By then, you’ll probably just want to grab a $2 “mystery” beer (“You get what you get!” says the menu) from the bathtub at the front bar.

Conway Social Club The recently opened Conway Social Club is an elegant space, outfitted with vintage chandeliers and gallery walls. Owner Benjamin Hash serves classic cocktails with a modern twist, often using (say it again with me) fresh, local ingredients. A drink like Jansen to Kyushu features Irish gin, matcha tea, Chartreuse, coconut cream, and pandan leaf. Another favorite, Shapes of the Carousel, is a fascinating melange of rye, mezcal, marshmallow-infused rum, pineapple soda, and popcorn foam. This is the perfect spot for a relaxed — and seated — Saturday nightcap, given that no one is admitted into the establishment after midnight.

Conway Social Club

Sunday

Sunday mornings are admittedly quiet in Amish Country, so its probably best to sleep off last night’s late night. Once you’re ready to face the world, you’ll learn that Lancaster has a pretty killer coffee scene as well with places like Passenger Coffee, Square One, and Mean Cup. But before heading home, consider stopping in the even smaller town of Lititz, six miles north of Lancaster, for a fun afternoon.

Bulls Head Public House There’s a reason that many drinks professionals call Bulls Head Public House the best British pub in America, or the best overall beer bar in America; it’s a perfect slice of Liverpool in Lititz. Like a pub across the pond, there’s no waiter service, so immediately head to one of the two bars to order a hand-pumped pint of cask ale and perhaps some fish ‘n’ chips, too. With no televisions or blaring music, and cozy seating, this is a place to while the afternoon away in friendly conversation and session drinking.

Stoll & Wolfe Distillery Located a couple blocks from Bulls Head, the new Stoll & Wolfe Distillery hearkens back to the now-shuttered Michter’s Distillery, which was established nearby in 1753 and at one time was the nation’s oldest distillery. Thus, the Wolfe family tapped Dick Stoll — the last master distiller at Michter’s — to make its whiskey. According to the Wolfes, rye whiskey was actually born in Lancaster as the farmlands around the area were then full of rye grain. Fittingly, this craft distillery produces a rye (as well as bourbon) that can be enjoyed in the tasting room neat or in a number of craft cocktails.

Stoll & Wolfe

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Sad summer’s over? 18 ways to keep the health, humour and happiness of your holiday alive | Life and style | The Guardian

Sad summer’s over? 18 ways to keep the health, humour and happiness of your holiday alive | Life and style | The Guardian

I t’s over. The air is cooling. School is the opposite of out. You can probably feel the holiday spirit leaving your body. But what if you could capitalise on your holiday momentum and apply some of your novelty-seeking break from routine to, well, your daily routine? Holidays are good for humans. A 40-year study in Finland that tracked the lives of 1,200 businessmen at risk of heart disease found last week that those who took three or fewer weeks’ holiday a year were more than one-third more likely to die young . The good news for those on a budget is that, according to the lead researcher, Timo Strandberg, the benefits were the same “whether you were in a holiday resort or just at home”. Before you despair that the summer holidays are over, consider that immediately after a holiday is the perfect time to make changes to your routine. The plasticity in your brain – its ability to change and adapt to experiences – will be freshly stimulated by a combination of novel experience and physical activity and ready for the idea of positive change. So, with that in mind, here are 18 ways to keep the holiday spirit alive. 1 Be a home tourist ‘There is novelty on your doorstep’ … a family of birdwatchers. Photograph: Alamy When did you last appreciate the place where you live? The chances are you researched your holiday destination, so why not apply the same rigour to your home town? Put your postcode into TripAdvisor or any other travel site and see what is nearby. (I have just discovered a clown museum, a graffiti class and birdwatching walks on my doorstep.) “Going on a guided tour may allow us to see our immediate environment from a new angle,” says Gosia Goclowska , a lecturer at the University of Bath who has studied the link between novelty and creativity. “Novelty can be found by looking at one place very deeply. There is novelty on your doorstep. Whatever street you’re in, each sunset is never the same.” 2 Re-evaluate your routine “Holidays put us in a different environment and that change to the environment is really helpful in changing our behaviours,” says Rachel McCloy , an associate professor of applied behavioural science at the University of Reading who specialises in judgment and decision-making. “When you come back from holiday, think about the things you didn’t do when you were away.” Of course, these will include laundry, going to work, cooking and possibly dropping off and collecting children from various places. But what else freed up your time? Be honest. Did you watch less TV? Use your phone less? “These activities carry an opportunity cost. They are potentially stopping you making space in your day-to-day life,” says McCloy, who saw her home with fresh eyes when she returned from a break and promptly bleached almost every surface. Re-evaluating your evenings could make time for holiday occupations, which means this a good time to … 3 Choose your autumn reading ‘September is a busy month in publishing’ … so throw yourself into your autumn reading list. Photograph: Alamy If the idea of summer reading gets you excited – all those articles on the best beach reads – then apply the same approach to your autumn reading. Read reviews , browse bookshops, ask friends for recommendations. September is a busy month in publishing, with big releases and the Booker shortlist . Apply the same enthusiasm to compiling an autumn “book wardrobe” as you would to choosing your holiday books – and clear those “must reads” that are beginning to look like “will never reads” from the bedside table. If that feels like too much work, buy a magazine. 4 Take a detour on your commute Emrah Düzel , a professor of cognitive neuroscience at University College London, is studying the health benefits of combining novel experiences with physical activity, particularly in relation to dementia and cognitive decline in old age. Combining physical activity with the exploration of novel environments or novel social interactions – even something as simple as walking around a new city – “stimulates a lot of plasticity in the brain”. Think of this as holiday plasticity, which gets lost when we return to work. But even small changes could help to keep that sensation active and let you capitalise on your “new neurons”. Try walking or cycling to work a different way, or leave home early and break your journey for a walk in a park. When we’re on holiday, we slow down. We use all our senses. We focus on one thing Miriam Akhtar 5 Devise new habits “The best way to modify habits is to replace them with a new habit,” says Trevor Robbins , a professor of cognitive neuroscience at the University of Cambridge. He has studied the impact of habit on obsessive-compulsive disorder and addiction and describes himself as “completely neophiliac” where holidays are concerned; he has just returned from Nyhavn in Copenhagen . “The idea is that if you are in a familiar environment with all these cues that elicit habitual behaviours, instead of trying to perform the behaviour that normally goes with that stimulus, you do something a bit different.” So, now that you are back home, “suppose when you wake up in the morning that, instead of jumping into your dressing gown, you put your track shoes next to the bed. Maybe you will put them on and go for a spin around the block,” he says. 6 Savour the small things “When we’re on holiday, we slow down. We use all our senses. We focus on one thing.” Whether it is watching the sun go down or leaning over a balcony to observe the woman who runs the ice-cream parlour patrolling her front step, our attention operates with vigorous curiosity. “These are techniques to bring home with us,” says Miriam Akhtar , a positive psychologist and coach. “You have started doing these things on holiday; you just need to keep up the practice.” So, I could get up in the morning and savour my routine in a way that makes it feel less routine? “You could savour your shower,” Akhtar says. (She hasn’t seen my shower.) “You could notice the changing seasons on your way to work. Maybe appreciate a friendly encounter with someone on the tube or as you go through reception.” In short, it doesn’t matter what you savour: try to transport your newly revitalised savouring habit from vacation to daily life and you will preserve a bit of your holiday mindset. 7 Buy a carafe Glass half full … buying a carafe is a cheap way to add a bit of ceremony to your quaffing. Photograph: ellepistock/Getty Images/iStockphoto No, seriously. The best €3 I ever spent went on a little glass carafe that says “quarto litro” at its neck, just like the ones in which the cheapest wine is served in my favourite holiday trattoria. Back home, it encourages restraint on the wine front, while adding ceremony. I am not alone in this. McCloy, from Reading university, says that swigging from an ale tankard makes her feel pleasantly nostalgic about festivals. 8 Schedule empty time Ambling around, frittering away time over slow drinks and long-winded games of cards, watching the clouds move or the sun drop … sometimes it is the release from obligation – including the obligation to do something interesting – that makes time pass differently on holiday. “Block out some unscripted time in your diary,” suggests Jessica Chilvers of the Talent Keeper Specialists , which advises businesses on how to maximise the potential of employees returning from a break. “It might be your lunch hour, the hour after the children have gone to bed, but schedule that time and decide what to do with it only when it arrives.” It’s easy to see how this time may get spent watching TV in the evening, as normal. “That’s fine,” Chilvers says. “Provided it’s a conscious choice.” Equally, you could pack your swimsuit into your workbag – think how nice that would feel – for a lunchtime swim. 9 Embrace your autumn wardrobe It is as exciting as a summer wardrobe, just a little longer in the arm and the leg. 10 Plan day trips “When you travel, you start to plan ahead,” McCloy says. “You get excited about the things you might do, the places you might go, the food you might eat.” Try looking at the period between now and Christmas with the same eyes with which you viewed your forthcoming holiday; plan a few trips while you are still in what McCloy calls “adventurous mode”. (If you have been back for a while, hurry.) These trips need not be expensive or to far flung places. What is important is committing to them and putting them in the diary before your risk aversion kicks in and your plasticity gets rigor mortis. 11 Recreate your holiday scent ‘Holidays are very sensual experiences’ … spices at a souk in Marrakesh. Photograph: Jean-Pierre Lescourret/Getty Images/Lonely Planet Images “Holidays are very sensual experiences,” Chilvers says. “We are more attuned to sounds and smells when we are somewhere different.” The good news is that sounds and smells are more portable than you may think. If you have been to Morocco, she says, “you could download some music reminiscent of the souks in Marrakech and play it when you cook or shower. If you’ve been to Italy and enjoyed the scent of lemons, olive oil or basil in the food, or there’s a scent from a massage you had on holiday,” then burn a candle. Or just keep applying sun cream. 12 Join a club Always wanted to tap dance, or draw, or learn to knit, or throw ceramics, or ride a horse? Sign yourself up for a short course. You will meet new people, some of whom may become friends. Even if they don’t, they will provide you with the sort of novel social interactions that will nourish your holiday plasticity. Plus, the arrival in your diary of a new fixture will upset your routine in a good way. Check out meetup.com for social groups in your area. Try walking or cycling to work a different way, or leave home early and break your journey for a walk in a park 13 Know what sort of holidaymaker you are If the idea of joining a club fills you with horror, you may not be a novelty-seeking sort of person. I say this as someone who has holidayed in the same apartment for five consecutive years. 14 Make a September resolution Düzel, the plasticity expert, holidayed in Canada “and explored wildlife: bodily exhausting – a lot of novelty exposure”. Usually, the holiday feeling deserts him pretty quickly. This year, though, keen to keep up the momentum after returning, he immediately set himself the goal of training for a marathon. This is forcing him to devise new running routes around Berlin, where he lives, to meet the distances that training requires. So, it’s the perfect combination of physical activity and novelty. He is running the Frankfurt race “at the end of October”. Only two months away. That is plasticity for you. 15 Act on your epiphanies Akhtar, the positive psychologist, says she once “had an epiphany” on a beach in Greece. She had just drunk a Greek coffee and eaten a Greek ice-cream when she looked at the blue sky and thought: “I’m going to train to be a coach.” This is not as fanciful as it sounds. I had my own epiphany, on a midweek mini-break in Surrey. I bought a big sheet of paper in the local shop and wrote down ideas for what I might do next; when I got home, I applied for a master’s in creative writing. “Holiday provides time out and a chance to reflect on what is truly important to you,” says Akhtar, pointing out that this applies to relationships as well as careers and that epiphanies can be “positive and negative”. So, if you had an epiphany while you were away, now is the time to turn your insights into action. You may change your life. Or an element of it. And that could feel like a holiday. 16 Cook with a new ingredient You could, of course, try to recreate a dish you particularly enjoyed on holiday. But hedonic adaptation – the tendency to take for granted a source of pleasure – may thwart you here. Better to set yourself a challenge with a little more longevity and potential for ongoing novelty. Pick one new ingredient to use each week. Up the ante by making your novelty ingredient seasonal. If you think you may struggle to commit, you could sign up for a food-box subscription, thus tying your hands, because you will have to use whatever you are sent. This is how I met jerusalem artichoke and I have never regretted it. 17 Eat holiday breakfast If you walked out early for fresh bread, find a baker near your home that can offer something similar. If you sat in a cafe with a croissant and the sort of old-school cappuccino that didn’t get ruined by the fifth wave of coffee-making , then find a place nearby that will make it your way. Admittedly, it may be a challenge to source fresh summer fruit at home (depending on where home is). Still, if you can’t find melon or fig, there is always fig jam . 18 Go outside “Paying attention to nature is a source of very positive experiences on holiday,” says the University of Bath’s Goclowska. It can be hard to replicate the awe inspired by the Grand Canyon or Mount Fuji back home, but awe is an experience of degree. Try to get outside. Sit on your front step or your balcony or in the garden with a drink. (The last time I did this, I saw bats in the wild for the first time – and I live in east London.) If you have no outside space, sit on a wall or be the person who gets chucked out of the local park at dusk. Even if you delay switching on the telly for five minutes to squeeze in a walk around the block, noticing the trees or people or cats down your street, maybe even saying hello to the odd one, you will be holidaying in a small way. ‘Pick one new ingredient to use each week’ … jerusalem artichokes. Photograph: Getty Images/Westend61 Topics Health & wellbeing Psychology Health and fitness holidays features

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