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11 mos ago
Current Vintage lesbians are cool.


“Khorramshahr is Karbala. Every place in the world is Karbala, and every day is the day of the Battle of Karbala.”… My go-to writing sample.

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I'm content to play either character in this scenario. Names and details are subject to change, as is the gender of the employee and maybe the customer if someone wants a women-loving-women thing. This was fun to write, and I thought it'd be more fun to continue it with other people.

Expected kinks? Meh. Mxm. MxF. FxF. Rough semi-public sex, maybe a cute twink, aggressive and pursuing dominants, spankings. I'm not super picky. My limits are non-con, fecal matter, toys, and the vast majority of other things you've probably seen in these lists.


It’s a dead night in the city of Black Harbor, hours past the sounds of rush hour traffic and evening parties thrown by feral college students from the nearby university. Gone is the blaring music, the cheers of men and women too deep in their cups, and the occasional blast of police sirens to stop them. All the marital arguments have turned to whispers or sex, the guard dogs rest easy in their stoops, and only the distant clatter of glass bottles or hushed midnight lovers walking past remains.

Worse than a dead night is a dead part of town, mired in the stale summer heat wave. No doubt there are better parts of town: prim neighborhoods closer to the university or slums too poor for police to care about shutting down parties, but Easy’s Gas slouches in the shadow of a long-decaying industrial district. To its left is an abandoned cement factory, and to its right a quiet apartment block too busy in their own little worlds to make any interest in Morgan’s.

No, Morgan’s world is a dead one. Dim fluorescent lights glaring over the same displays he’s seen for two months, ever since he’d gone too far at a holiday party and forced his father to crack down. Gone were those idle days and nights of depravity, passing around bottles before passing around bodies. Gone were those hellish dens of red light and too much cigarette smoke, the rap loud enough to make his teeth rattle and the bodies loose enough to make him forget himself.

Instead, his father had made a model citizen out of him. A responsible adult, a worker with a job, confined to the graveyard shift in a prison that didn’t even have air conditioning. With the heat wave on, Black Harbor felt like the heart of Cyrus.

Now his nights were spent in a cell of scuffed tiled, grimy windows plastered in cigarette ads, and endless displays of hot dogs on roller grills and doughnuts under heat lamps. The last person he’d even seen inside Easy’s Gas was his last coworker tiredly shuffling out the door and saying their goodbyes with one of Morgan’s dad’s favorite jokes.

“Don’t let any demons in, kiddo.”

It’s a good night for a demon. With the dead heat and the monotony of it all, Morgan can convince himself he’s in an outer circle of Hell.

A motorcycle breaks the silence in two, roaring down the nearby Princeway. Morgan knows enough to recognize the sound of speeding, and the dangerous momentum its driver carries through every twist and turn of the industrial sprawl around him. There’s a particular purpose in the driver that rarely animates anyone in this dead place.

And he’s getting closer.

Morgan watches the headlights spill off an intersection and onto his street, lighting up the sleeping apartments and Easy’s Gas, pouring through the dirty windows. It’s enough to make the display of cigarettes behind Morgan rattle as the motorcycle prowls past - turns - and lopes its way into the abandoned parking lot, pulling up next to a pump.

The driver flicks away a smoldering cigarette filter, watching it spark along the asphalt with sharklike eyes hidden behind his tinted visor. It’s as if he likes petty dangers, and waits for the embers to ignite the gasoline smeared onto the concrete around him. When the seconds drag past and he still lives, he shrugs, takes off his helmet, and kicks the motorcycle stand down.

Bad news. Bad man.

Morgan knows the type. A gangster, probably, or some devil wandering in from the harbor. Handsome, hard-bodied, and glass-eyed, with wind swept hair and full road leathers. He reaches into his jacket, taps the handle of his pistol for reassurance, and walks to the entrance.

Instead of enter, he surveys the interior, ignoring the two separate closed-circuit cameras he sees watching everything inside. His eyes rake over Morgan with wretched intent, but only for a second. He’s looking for something else, for someone else, and doesn’t find them.

With a shrug, the shark enters, the entrance bell rattling.

He carries with him more heat, and the stench of gasoline and cigarette smoke. There’s deeper musks on him, but for the moment Morgan’s senses can’t get past the leathers.

“Fine evening, heat excluded.” He says without looking at Morgan, in an aristocrat’s money-drunk drawl. “Liquor?”

He answers his own question by locating a nearby display of travel-sized liquors no more than four ounces apiece, and strides confidently over to them. With a moment to find the vodka, he picks two slim bottles out, opens both, and slams them back in rapid order. Grunting, he sets the empty bottles on Morgan’s checkout counter.

“Don’t worry, kid. It’s on my tab.” The shark says, leaning over the counter and still not looking at him. His eyes are fixed on a camera just above them, blinking its red light at them both to show that they’re being surveilled. That just seems to amuse him, and at last his wicked eyes fall on Morgan. When they do, they stay, poring over Morgan’s ragged, half-donned attire. “I’m gonna guess that camera’s wired to the back office?”

There’s something odd about the way he says ‘back office’. A certain spite, as if he expected there was a wretched thing inside.
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