Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (13 page)

“No,” Palluq
replied, intonation rising then falling. “It’s important for us to come all the
way down here to the cities to show that, yeah, we Inuit are still here. We’ve
held on to our culture. Sure, those bastards tried to annihilate us, but we’re
still here.”

Rusidan wasn’t
sure if she was more like the bastards or the throat-singers. In defensive
mode, perhaps, she said, “My parents came here from Georgia when I was two.” Did
she expect them to realize her intent? To show that she, that her family,
hadn’t been the ones oppressing their people? “Georgia the country, not Georgia
the state.”

Laura fished for
something in her pocket before asking, “Georgia…in Africa?”

“No, Geography
Drop-Out!” Palluq teased with a playful punch to her arm. “It’s near Russia. Anyway,
we’re back on in five, so we gotta go.” Turning her gaze back, she then asked,
“What did you say your name was?”

“Rusidan.”

“Rusidan. Write
that down, will ya, Laura?” With that, Palluq headed back to the stage without
offering even the customary goodbye.

Before following
her, Laura clasped Rusidan tightly by the arm. “Tell Sarah we miss her and we
love her. Not just me; Palluq too, and everyone else. We hope she’s having a
good life way down here.”

“I hope so too…”
Rusidan replied. It was so hard to tell.

When Rusidan
arrived at their front door, she could hear the hockey game right through it
even before she put the key in the lock. Everything was back to normal. Sarah
was sprawled on the couch, her eyes fixed on the TV. Rusidan dropped her keys
into the metal bowl in the front hall from enough of a height that they made a
loud clinking noise. Sarah didn’t turn around. Opening the fridge, Rusidan
peered inside, then opted instead for a cup of hot chocolate. From the kitchen,
she watched her lover lie there on the couch as the kettle reached its boiling
point.

“Do you want
some hot chocolate?”

Sarah held up
her beer in response.

The kettle
rumbled. “If that’s supposed to mean
no thank you
, then fucking say,
no
thank you
.” When the automatic shut-off clicked, Rusidan snapped. “What’s
more important, the hockey game or having a real conversation with the woman
you
say
you want to marry? And what the fuck, Sarah? Would you like to
tell me what the fuck that was all about, today? We were having a good time,
you were happier than I’ve ever seen you, then you have to go and fucking ruin
it! What the fuck?”

Sarah turned off
the TV, gazing blankly at Rusidan’s reflection in the black screen. Setting her
beer on the side table, she glided off the couch and onto the carpet. “Come,
sit.”

Feeling like her
lungs were bound in plastic wrap, Rusidan dragged her heels over to the living
room carpet. Sarah was going to tell her she didn’t want to get married
anymore. They should break up. That Palluq girl was her first love and she
realized today how much she’d missed having an Inuk for a girlfriend. Reluctantly,
she sat cross-legged before her partner, but Sarah hooked her feet around her
back, encouraging Rusidan to do the same.

“Were they…that
Palluq girl…”

With blue light
glowing in from the snow-land outside, Sarah placed her hands on Rusidan’s
cheeks. She kissed her lips slowly, tenderly, and then kissed her nose like a
playful afterthought. “Palluq’s my cousin.”

Fears much assuaged,
Rusidan smiled broadly.

“She’s the one
who told my parents I’m a dyke. She’s the reason I’m an outcast.”

Rusidan’s smile
faded. She felt somehow like she’d done something wrong. “What about Laura? She
seemed really happy to see you. Oh, and she wanted me to let you know they love
you and miss you and hope your life is going well.”

Her gaze fell to
the floor, and then rebounded until it met Rusidan’s. Sarah replied, “That’s my
sister for ya. She always was the caregiver.”

It wasn’t wise
to probe for information. Instead, Rusidan grazed Sarah’s upturned wrists with
her fingertips, brushing them slowly up her forearms and into her elbow pits. Sarah
gasped. That was good to hear. Working up the nerve, Rusidan asked, “Will you
teach me throat-singing? I want to try.”

Closing the gap
between their bellies, Sarah offered, “We could do it the old way.”

“What’s the old
way?”

“In the old
days, the women would sing with their lips almost touching. They’d use each
other’s mouths as a resonator, like if you speak when you’re about to drink
from a glass. The sound is amplified.”

Rusidan could
nearly lick Sarah’s lips, her mouth hovered so close by. Her lover grasped her
forearms just like Laura and Palluq had done. “Wait, I don’t know what to do,”
Rusidan pre-empted.

“It isn’t easy,”
Sarah admitted. “Just follow my lead; we’ll do it like a copycat game. I’ll
start with a sound and you just give it right back to me, but maybe on a higher
vocal tone. It takes a lot of practice to get that deep resonance. Just
remember it’s like a repetition, but it moves fast. You sing in my gaps. Does
that make sense?”

“I think so.”

Barley-sweet
breath filled the air as Sarah began a series of deep pants. Breathy moans
filled Rusidan’s awestruck mouth as she began to echo her partner. The sounds
she produced were not so low, but they were breathy like the lead-up to an
orgasm. They melted into Sarah’s mouth, their singing melding to create
something more powerful than music. It was prayer. It was…

A coughing fit
seized Rusidan by the chest. She wanted to push forward, but she hadn’t taken
in enough air. “Circular breathing,” Sarah advised, petting her back until the
sputtering subsided. “You have to breathe in your gaps or else you’ll faint.”

“Am I supposed
to be saying words in your language?” Rusidan inquired.

“Doesn’t matter.
You can sing words or just whatever sounds come out.”

“Okay,
meaningless sounds it is,” Rusidan said, “since I don’t speak Inuktitut.”

“No, not
meaningless,” Sarah replied. “The sounds you produce reflect your environment,
whether they come out as birdsongs or animal howls or the murmurs of sealife
deep underwater. Or they could reflect children’s laughter on the playground or
the cacophony of the city streets. Even nonsense sounds have meaning.”

Rusidan breathed
deeply, ruminating with her partner’s words. Who knew such insight was enclosed
in the sacred temple that was Sarah? Deep waters, and all that…

“Lie back for a
sec,” Sarah instructed with a keen glint in her eye. “No, get up on the couch. That’s
better.” Pulling off Rusidan’s cords and long underwear, Sarah sat before her,
releasing hot breath on her lower lips.
Clever little horn-dog!
If Sarah
wanted those deep moans to reverberate in Rusidan’s cunt, this sure was the
best way to do it. “Now you don’t need to worry about losing...”

As Sarah
approached the unfolding layers of Rusidan’s pussy, she produced those sounds
like the chugging of an ethereal steam train. Lips touched lips and Rusidan
leapt from her skin at the sheer electricity. She seemed to hover above her
body as her hands flew backwards to grasp the sofa. Her cunt filled with the
vibrations of Sarah’s meaningful non-words. Shivering and drooling, her body
expanded like a mind in meditation. Laura had said the space of the city wasn’t
a landscape, but a mindscape. This communion with the cunt was an element of
the life Sarah couldn’t lead back home.

To the deep
moaning pants, Rusidan replied with soft puffs of air. She sang in Sarah’s
gaps. As the pace of her lover’s vibrating syllables increased, so did the
swirling pleasure against Rusidan’s swollen lips. Her cunt filled with
trembling pulsations, like a seashell imparting the secrets of its source. It
was a rolling feeling, a continuity, being pulled in a cart over a series of
small hills, bouncing a little when she hit the bottom, then working back up
again, falling again. Yes, it was a rising and a falling, singing and gasping,
giving and taking, feeling and sensing.

Rusidan grasped
Sarah’s hair, completing the trembling circle of sound emanating from her
partner’s core, rising up through her own. Her legs were shaking, and her feet
quivering uncontrollably. Sarah’s throat-singing was lost in Rusidan’s body. It
was a feeling more than a sound. The music was so deep, so resonant, it was
like another voice coming through Sarah, coming through Rusidan. It was a
spirit voice and, though it spoke in a whisper, it was all she could hear.

Filled with
glowing, pulsating warmth, Rusidan rubbed her swollen clit against Sarah’s
nose. Its puffs of warm air were no match for the heat of her cunt. Vibrations
were everywhere, taking over her body right to her fingertips as she struggled
to press her pussy lips into her lover’s willing face. Sarah sang harder,
moaning sympathetically, but Rusidan was the first to break. She lost the game
with an explosion of celestial laughter, like the happy Buddha.  

When Sarah
settled her cheek against Rusidan’s bare thigh, she revealed what the spirit
voice had whispered. “We should get married at Christmas.”

The simple ceremony
took place in the snow. There were no great surprises. They knew very well
which of the invited guests would attend and which would not. They made the
effort to reach out, and that was the best they could do. On Christmas Day, the
winter sun sparkled against the crystalline blanket of white embracing their
wonderland. Rusidan chose a long red jacket and a 1920’s-style cloche hat. Sarah
wore her special parka. Their aisle was a tree-lined path, and they walked it
to the mesmerizing music of Laura and Palluq’s traditional Inuit
throat-singing.

About Giselle
Renarde

Eroticist, environmentalist and pastry enthusiast
Giselle Renarde is a proud Canadian and a great lover of the vast forests of
the Great White North. For Giselle, a perfect day involves watching a snowstorm
rage outside with a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate truffle in the
other. Ms Renarde lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on
her head.

Giselle Renarde has contributed short stories to
numerous anthologies, including Tasting Her: Oral Sex Stories (Cleis Press),
Love Bites (Torquere Press), Coming Together: With Pride, and Coming Together:
Out Loud (Phaze). Online, Giselle has contributed erotic content to such
websites as For The Girls and Hips and Curves, and editorial content to
Lucrezia Magazine.

For desirous commentary and hyper-analysis of every
facet of social existence, visit Giselle’s blog,
Donuts
and Desires
or
visit her site here
!

SEND ME AN ANGEL

By Rachelle Le
Monnier

The
girl sprinted down the stone steps, her long dark hair flying out behind her
like a banner in the wind. She stumbled on the last step and almost fell,
throwing her arm out in an attempt to regain her balance. Her beige canvas bag
crashed onto the ground, books and pieces of paper slipping out in an untidy
heap.

Malachi watched curiously from his vantage point over by the ancient
sycamore tree. He leant against the gnarled bark, his hands pushed firmly into
his pockets in the biting December chill, despite the fact he never felt the
cold. He always tried to mimic the body language of people he observed and he
had noted that they all reacted in subtle ways to the weather conditions
prevailing at any given time. It amused him to copy these behavioural gestures
in the same way that it amused him to overhear their conversations and pick up
snippets of their often mundane lives.

The girl had begun to collect her scattered belongings, a faint
blush colouring her pale cheeks. Untidily, she shoved everything back inside
her bag and continued on her way across the square, dodging the throngs of
students until she was lost amongst them, just another dark head bobbing
amongst a crowd.

Malachi continued to sense her long after she had disappeared from
eye sight, managing to follow her right up until the point she descended into
the underground station and was lost to him. He scanned the area briefly and
sensing nobody else of interest, he walked towards the busy main street. People
passed by him, occasionally brushing against his tall body, but none saw him.
He picked up flashes of their lives and fragments of their conversations,
listening to their chaotic thoughts and emotions passing over him like a
frenetic newsreel.

A tired looking woman in a grey coat was on her way to meet her
lover, her heart breaking at the disastrous news she needed to tell him. Her
handbag was clasped tightly to her breast, her eyes downcast and inward
looking. A young man stood outside the convenience store with a stolen mobile
phone in his pocket, edgy and paranoid; his snake eyes flicking over the people
passing him by.

In a flash, he snatched the leather bag from the woman as she walked
past, wrenching it from her grasp with a strong tug. She screamed in panicked
shock, reflexively holding onto the handles with all her strength. The young
man was far stronger than she was and he soon pulled her to the ground in his
attempt to wrest the prized bag from her.

“Let go, bitch!” he hissed viciously and with one final yank, he had
the bag and was running away down a side street, disappearing into the crowd in
a flash. The whole encounter had taken less than a minute and Malachi watched
from a distance as the woman lay sobbing on the pavement while people continued
to pass heedless of her distress. He could feel her pain reaching out to him
and he absorbed it dispassionately, soaking up the emotions like a sponge.
Eventually somebody stopped to help her, offering comfort as they pulled her to
her feet.

It frequently amazed him how cruel humans could be. They were
capable of the most amazing acts of compassion and bravery, but all too often
the reverse was true. During his time spent observing them, he had been a
passive witness to terrible crimes of violence, but it was not these that he
remembered. It was the smallest acts of kindness that stayed with him and kept
him here, silently watching.

A police car approached the scene of the mugging and Malachi melted
away, heading for the Underground station the girl had descended into. The
steep concrete steps, littered with the detritus of human existence, took him
downwards into the brightly lit station and he melted through the barriers
unseen, slipping between the other passengers as they hurried to catch their
trains.

He wasn’t headed anywhere in particular; he never was, so he just
followed a smart suited gent down some more steps and onto one of the
platforms. It was almost deserted, as the next train wasn’t due for ten minutes.
Litter fluttered like dry autumnal leaves in the draft from the mouth of the
dark tunnel that yawned malevolently.

Taking a seat on a hard metal bench, Malachi gazed curiously for a
moment at a poster on the wall opposite. It was advertising a new film. The
images of futuristic architecture and imaginative demons amused him and he
smiled faintly. He was so absorbed in the lurid pictures, it startled him when
an old man approached and looked at him hopefully with rheumy red eyes,

“Got a light?” the man rasped, his voice rattling in his chest, as
he held out a cigarette in his shaking, liver spotted hand. Malachi turned to
fix his violet gaze upon him unflinchingly in surprise, unused to being seen by
mortals. The man coughed and wheezed slightly, phlegm bubbling in his throat.
Malachi could see the cancer as a dark malignant shadow hanging over the old
man. He felt something resembling pity as he realised instantly that the man
would be dead within a short time.

Malachi shook his head in response and the old man sighed heavily
before turning away again, muttering to himself unintelligibly. He shuffled off
towards the other passengers waiting further up the platform.

A whoosh of heat and wind signalled the impending arrival of the
train and Malachi got to his feet. He had no idea where it would take him but
that was unimportant; he had all the time in the world.

* * * *

Olivia glanced at her watch, wondering where in hell David could be.
Her coffee congealed in its cup on the table before her. She fidgeted
nervously, thinking back to his online profile and wondering for the fiftieth
time whether it was such a great idea to be dating again.  

It had taken her a long time to get over Jack - almost a year in
fact. There had been no one since. She had had offers, of course, but had
turned them down. Her studies were far too time-consuming anyway; men were just
a distraction and besides, she had no desire to be hurt again. Her fragile
heart still bore the painful scars Jack had etched upon it.

There was a clatter from the entrance to the café and Olivia looked
up, startled. A scruffy young man with curly brown hair and a red face was
apologising profusely to the surly waitress. Judging by the pile of cutlery on
the floor, he had collided with her in his apparent rush to get inside and out
of the biting December wind.

Olivia watched him with a sinking feeling. The man bore an uncanny
resemblance to the photo of David she’d seen and she realised her date had
arrived. She knew instantly he wasn’t going to be her type and she sighed
despondently. With a sense of impending doom, she watched dispiritedly as the
man made his way clumsily over to the table with a cheesy grin and a sad bunch
of limp flowers.

“Hi!” he beamed nervously. “I’m David, and you look like Olivia! I
must say your photo doesn’t do you justice!” He sat down without waiting for
her response. Olivia noticed with distaste that his paisley nylon shirt had
damp sweaty patches under the arms when he removed his thick wool coat.

“Thanks for the flowers,” she said when they were thrust into her
face making her sneeze. “Erm they’re… beautiful.” Actually they were half dead
and looked like they had been expropriated from the nearest cemetery, but she
didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Hurriedly she dropped them onto the floor
next to her bag to avoid another sneezing fit.

David quickly ordered himself a coffee from the waitress and
launched into a tedious monologue about his favourite subject - himself. Olivia
shifted uncomfortably into the hard plastic chair and briefly contemplated
suicide as David rambled on, seemingly indifferent to her lack of conversation.
Oh well, she thought morosely, if this was dating then she was quite certain
she would be sticking to fossils in the future. Dead dinosaurs may be boring to
some people, but they were a helluva lot more interesting than this guy.

* *
* *

Malachi left the tube station and followed the surge of humans up
the elevator back into the light. The street was teeming with the flotsam and
jetsam of Christmas shoppers all trying to find their ideal presents amongst
the gaudy displays of expensive garbage. He paused for a moment outside the
partially steamed up window of a café, small coloured lights twinkling around
the edge of the grubby glass. The girl he had seen earlier sat beyond the
window opposite a lanky youth. She was not looking at the young man; she was
staring out of the window right at Malachi as her companion chattered away
obliviously.

He gazed curiously at her pale, pretty face; the dark strands of hair
curling beguilingly around the sweep of her cheekbone. Through the window he
could see her eyes were a bewitching turquoise colour and her lips a pale dusky
pink. His memories were stirred. The girl reminded him of another woman from a
very long time ago. The resemblance was uncanny and for a moment he was
catapulted back through the ages to a distant time.

* *
* *

Octavia’s beautiful turquoise eyes welled up with blurry tears. “How
long will you be gone this time?”

“I don’t know,” Titus said truthfully. He knew it would be a long
and bloody campaign; the Gauls were proving to be far hardier adversaries than
Rome had ever envisaged, but the Emperor was determined to wipe out all
resistance in Gallia. It may well take time but eventually the Emperor would
have his way. Titus wished he didn’t have to leave his wife, but he was a
Legionnaire and he had no choice in the matter.

Octavia struggled to control her emotions. The fear of losing Titus
was almost more than she could bear, but she didn’t want to add any further
burden onto him. He had enough to think about without a snivelling wife to
distract him. She would just have to pray for his safe return, as she always
did.

The fragrant night air was cool and she shivered slightly, her skin
prickling with a sense of foreboding. For weeks now she had been plagued with
terrible nightmares of death and carnage. She had been reluctant to tell Titus
about her dreams, but she was truly fearful that when he left in the morning,
he would not be coming back.

Titus crossed the marble floor and lovingly took his wife in his
arms. Her dark hair was pinned up in coils upon her head and he threaded his
fingers through the curls at the nape of her neck. He inhaled the subtle scent
of her skin. They stood together for a long moment, listening to the steady
beat of each other’s heart, lost in their own thoughts.

“You know I’ll always love you, my darling,” Titus whispered into
her hair. She didn’t answer and he felt her warm tears soaking through the
fabric of his tunic. Her pain hurt him and wished he could take it away, but he
couldn’t – his duty was to Rome and they both knew it.

“Shhh,” he soothed, “I’ll be back before our child is born.” He
reached between their bodies and stroked the gently burgeoning swell of her
belly. She was still in the early stages of pregnancy, but already her body was
changing. Her breasts were fuller and the darkened aureoles enlarged. She
looked so desirable and he moved his hand upwards to brush across her sensitive
nipples, provoking a sharp sigh of pleasure.

Octavia lifted her head from his shoulder and smiled through her
tears. “I will wait for you to return home,” she said softly and reached up to
kiss him, tasting the outline of his lips and flicking her tongue teasingly
into his mouth. If they only had one night left together, she wanted to be sure
she sent him on his way properly.

“Come,” she murmured with a coy look. Taking his hand, she led her
husband up the stairs into their bed-chamber, away from the prying eyes of the
servants. Incense filled the air with spicy notes of vanilla and jasmine; oil
lamps burned, casting deep shadows over the modestly furnished room. Outside,
the burbling of the courtyard fountain competed with the humming of night time
insects. Faint sounds of the servants going about their business occasionally
infiltrated the inner sanctum of their chamber, but Titus and Octavia were
oblivious to it all.

Octavia released the shoulder clasps holding her stola, allowing the
fabric to fall to the floor. She stood before her beloved husband, naked and
proud, her body lush, ripe and tempting. Titus watched, growing hard beneath
his tunic. She walked towards him slowly, her heavy breasts gently swaying. He
could smell the subtle scent of feminine arousal and he fought to control his
desire to take her then, plunging into her body without preamble until he lost
himself within her heat.

Rather, Titus wanted to take his time tonight, to show his wife
through his actions how much he loved and worshipped her. Gently, he reached
out and slowly stroked her shoulders, moving teasingly down her chest until he
held the weight of her milky white breasts in the palms of his hands. His
calloused thumbs rubbed cross her taut nipples and she groaned aloud at the
exquisite sensation.

Moving his hands back upwards, he kissed her lingeringly while he
unpinned her hair and allowed it to cascade over her shoulders in ebony waves.
He pulled the lush strands to cover her breasts so that only her nipples were
peeking through; small pink nubs against the rich silk of her skeins of hair.

“How will I live without you?” he asked, almost to himself.

“We will be together every night in our dreams my love,” Octavia
answered; believing this was the only way she could allow him to leave her
tomorrow. She reached for her husband and kissed him, plunging her tongue deep
into the cavity of his mouth.