Jumbo Blueberry Popsicle

It's probably obvious that I wasn't feeling the most inspired when I created a title for this story.

This is going to be the second of the two Rakheem/Reoti stories I'll be posting. Depending on how well they're received, there may be more later, but for now this is the extent of it.

I don't have a whole lot to say about this story except that it's one of the gentler pieces I've done, which is a little ironic given the cast and context.

I'm not finding anything that I feel serves as a particularly good snippet, but anyone following these stories already knows what they're in for with these two.


As a brief aside, I do want to make note of a 'feature' I've added to the blog. On the right-hand side you'll find an email address (puts.hair.on.your.chest@gmail.com) that you can direct any and all blog-related questions to, including questions about the characters themselves. Questions directed to the characters will be answered by the characters, with independent posts written in the first person perspective of whoever the question was asked to.

So if you find yourself wondering something about one of these stories, feel free to drop me a line.



And now, your scheduled programming:

            With the heavy crumple of soiled cloth, Reoti’s baggy, grease-stained top met her bedroom floor. Her jaw gaped shamelessly as a yawn bellowed past her full lips. Her neck, back, and shoulders rolled back in the practiced motion of someone made physically fit by means of cake, alcohol, and enough grueling hard work to make up for both. Twisting and pulling, she contorted in ways that her scaled companion, Rakheem, had tactfully declared bore some semblance to an insect dying in slow motion.

She counted three pops and just two snaps. She paused for a moment, frowning; this was unacceptable. Her head lolled to the side until her tension piqued in a loud crunch. With a satisfied grunt, she reached for the button on her once-khaki cargo pants. Tired fingers brushed against the material beneath, feeling the fine fabric of her classiest set of undergarments--black lace, hemmed to reveal just enough to be titillating while still managing to be frustratingly opaque.