Rough Draft

{CW: Sexual themes, Adult Language, Non-PC Seduction}

"Where the hell are we, anyway?" White Female, aged 24, asked.

"Beats me." White Male, aged 28, turned on the heel of his riding boot, scouring the empty room with his piercing blue eyes. "Looks like The Writer hasn't decided on a setting yet."

"Idiot." White Female scowled. She chomped on her gum. Then she had a thought of her own, one not condoned by her Creator. She gazed at the unnamed White Male, 28, his tousled brown hair, chiseled jawline, shadow of a beard. Her eyes traced a trail from his broad, muscular shoulders to his tight, acrobatic hips. "Hopefully it's a love story." she purred.

White Male grinned, proud of his manly assets. He, too, gave White Female, 24, the once-over; tall, lean, sandy blonde hair flowing against her lily-white shoulders, breasts like punching bags trying to fight their way out of her loosely cinched blouse, cleavage like a fleshy vertical smile. "I'm down for that." He winked.

"Oh, yeah?" White Female raised her eyebrows at her presumed love interest. "How 'bout some erotica? I mean, filthy. You into that?"

He lunged, laid his strong hand on her bare shoulder. Shivers rippled up her shapely spine. "I'm always ready for a good time, Beautiful." He was about to kiss her parted lips when he felt an invisible hand tug at his collar, wrenching him back. He fought the mysterious force, reaching longingly for White Female with outstretched hands. "Hey - why can't I -?

"Back it up, Buddy." a disembodied Voice ordered, "meep meep!"

"Is that my name? Buddy?" White Male, 28, asked The Voice. "What's her name? I'd like to know it before I nail 'er."

"I haven't decided yet." The Writer said. "In fact, I haven't even decided if this is a love story. So just keep your hands to yourselves until -"

Petulant White Male gripped White Female by the waist, kissing her passionately.

White Female, 24, moaned with inexorable pleasure. "Oh, yes...yesssss..."

"Cut it out, you two!" The Writer snapped. "Or I'll hit the Delete button, I swear it. Now separate - White Male, go stand in the right corner. White Female, go stand in the left corner. And close your eyes."

"Ooh!" White Female giggled, "Can I wear a blindfold?"

"Shut up." The Writer said, tangling her own hair in one frustrated hand. She lit a cigarette, inhaling the matches' sulfur on the first drag. "Just - let me think." She rested her chin in the J shaped chinrest conveniently located between her thumb and forefinger, staring dumbly into her computer screen.

White Male impatiently tapped his knee-high riding boot. The Writer had at least decided on that; he was a Medieval Knight, a Lord. It was 1347, no, '48.

"Hey, up there -" the Knight-Lord hollered out, "-mind if I get it on with this wench here while you get your shit together, Omniscient One?" He swaggered across the now-stone floor. Castle floor. Gritty, a little damp. Maybe smells like piss and mildew, strewn with old straw and mangy hunting dogs sleeping by the fire. Their attendant fleas may or may not be infected with Bubonic Plague.

White Female blushed at her Lord and, bending over, offered him a glimpse of her supple breasts. She licked her lips, rubbed her rounded hips through her muslin skirts as she swayed lustily across the Great Hall. White Male Lord launched himself at her, grabbing Wench, lifting her into his brawny arms. His pulsing lust throbbed beneath the bulging cod piece which could barely contain his beastly surge. Hungrily his mouth devoured her lips...he thrust her against the wall, carelessly knocking over a flaming candelabra as their limbs mangled togeth -

"Nah, nah. This is all wrong." The Writers Voice interrupted them.

"What the hell?" White Female bitched. "And what's my friggin' name, anyway? This 'wench' shit's unacceptable! It's 2022, for crissakes! Give me some damn agency here!"

While The Writer argued with the wench, White Male Lord sneakily slipped his hand under Wenches blouse, cupping her warm, full breast, fondling it...

"- You're Braith. Lady Braith Caddick." The Writer informed the wench. "You're Welsh. And a whore. A disgraced, disinherited Noble."

"I love it." White Male panted into Braith's ear. "How art thou, m'whore? Ye may calleth me Lamond, Lord Lamond Mac Baird. Gaelic-Scottish - ain't that right, Writer?"

"Works for me." The Writer took a drag of her cigarette, got up and left the room. When she returned, she was carrying a stiff drink in a short glass. Bourbon rocks. "You're my ancestors." The Writer explained. "They came from Wales and Scotland. American colonists." She took a swig of bourbon, a drag of smoke. "Alright, so here's what's going to happen: you two are going to get it on. And make it dirty. But sensuous. I mean, shag like bunnies. Readers horn out for that shit. I want you two to give me a love scene that's, frankly, unfuckingforgetable. You hear me? It's important - I have to get born."

"Gotcha." Lord Lamond gripped the bodice of Braith's dress, tore it open to her waist, exposing her breathtaking bosoms. He threw her down onto a pile of straw, batting away a sleeping hound. It yelped, turned to fight back, felt his snout smacked, cried and slinked off under the trestle table. Braith's legs flew easily over Lamond's braiding hips, his hand skillfully unrolling the dark wool hose down the length of her pale thigh.

Braith cried out, "Lord Lamond! Oh - Oh! Lamond!" He buried his flushed face into her heaving breasts, growling with beastly hunger for her hot -

"HOLD IT!"

"Aw, come on!" Lamond punched the pile of straw. "I'm just about to pop it off here!"

"Something's wrong." The Writer sat back, lit another smoke, adjusted her writing glasses. "You're all wrong. Your looks -"

"Who? Her?" Lamond pointed accusingly at Braith. He knotted his fingers into her fair hair. "Make her a red head. They're hotter, anyway. And give her green eyes. Hers are dull grey. And bigger tits, too, please."

"WHAT! Hey!" Braith protested.

"Nah. That's not it." The Writer sighed. "I've been reading through the previous Reedsy writing contest winners. Seems like white European heterosexuals are out of fashion. Sorry. I'm going to have to make one of you gay."

"GAY!" Lamond screamed. "It's 1348! In Medieval Europe! I'll be beheaded!" He sat up, one hand guarding his throat, less interested in plowing Braith's carnal field now.

"And, for relevance, I'm going to need a tranny angle. So, Lady Braith, you're a trans man now." The Writer pronounced, "You call yourself Lord Owain Caddick. You dress the part, but obviously, no surgical amendments in 1348."

Braith grinned. "A dude? I'm cool with that." She cracked her gum again. "Maybe non-binary?" She scratched a flea nesting in her armpit hair. "So long as I still get to pillage Lord Lamond here, 'cause I love tea-baggin' his sweet ass."

"Sure." The Writer nodded through the screen. (but to herself she muttered, pfft, non-binary. sure. everybody's nonbinary till they get horny) "Lamond- you're a bi-curious Lord's Page now - I'm going to need you to be meek, shy. You're 16. Less muscle. Lord Owain here is secretly Lady Braith, young, let's say... 17, to avoid statutory hissy fits- but she dreams of being a Knight. So, she's cut her hair -"

Braith sprang up in the pile of straw, eagerly hacking off her long hair with a golden dagger she'd snatched from Lamond's belt. Lamond found himself suddenly 6 inches shorter with frail shoulders and a sunken chest. Bewildered, he frantically felt for his muscles in absentia, whimpering with discontent.

"WRITER! Wri-ter!" Lamond snapped his fingers to call The Creator's attention back to himself. He crossed his arms, "I'm afraid I can't be gay. Or frail. Or bi-curious. I feel it doesn't fit with my character's artistic integrity. So, ya know...snap-snap! - give me back my macho-hunky."

"And you can't BOTH be white," The Writer said (ignoring Lamond's demands), "it's a diversity thing." She swirled her drink in one hand, thinking. "Lamond, you're a Moor now. North African, dark-skinned, and a Muslim."

"WHAT!" Lamond cried out. His skin and eyes darkened, his nose widened, and his hair turned wooly black. "What'd you do that for, you bitch?!"

"Braith, you're wearing black wool riding britches, a puffy-sleeved broadcloth shirt, laced closure and -"

"Gotcha!" Braith hurriedly tucked in and laced up her new shirt. She stood, stomping in her knee-high riding boots. Her breasts were flattened beneath layers of torn linen sheets wrapping her torso. She lowered her voice. "How's this?" she asked her Creator.

"A little huskier, please."

Braith's voice dropped, throaty and deep. "Like this?"

"That works." The Writer eased back into her chair, rocking thoughtfully. She pressed her fingertips together, staring off.

"Hey!" Lamont waved. "Hello? remember me? Lord Lamont?"

"Name change." The Writer said. "Jasib Al Rundi. But Braith will just call you Jasib. You'll be her squire. And her slave."

"Slave?" Lamond-Jasib stood, cocoa-toned hand resting on his now bony hip, peasant clothes littered with straw bits. "Do you really think you can get away with a gay love scene between a tranny wench and a frail African stable boy?"

"Yep."

"Seriously? A Medieval Tranny?" Lamond-Jasib puckered his lips, rolled his eyes, tapped his boot dusty sandal.

"People eat this shit up." The Writer said confidently, "Especially these Reedsy Judges. They're slaves to trendiness." The Creator lit another smoke, waving out the match and puffing. "Also, pronouns. You've got to get those right or be accused of a hate crime: she-her, him-his, they-them, it-that. It's my job to be politically correct, damnit, to suppress my free expression, no matter what I truly think about socially pressurized cultural nonsense. If my truth offends others, I must be silent. If other's truths offend me, I must be silent. Violators of the National International Suppression of Speech Decree will be punished. And silenced."

The Writer warily glanced around her office. Fearful her computer was secretly surveilling her, she exuberantly extended her arm, palm down, and barked the mandatory slogan, "LONG LIVE FASCISM!"

"What da fuck you talkin' 'bout, Massuh?" Jasib asked. He was not pleased with his newly diminished role. His hand savagely palmed the ivory handled dagger slung into his red sash belt.

I'm'a kill dis fuckin' writer bitch. Make me a slave? Who she?

"Braith, Lady Braith!" The Writer pointed at the screen, like a director choreographing a scene in a play. "Get over there, raise up your -"

"I got this!"

*

Braith burst into action. She raced forward, leaping like a spirited gazelle, grabbed hold of the iron chandelier, swung across the room and landed in front of Jasib, both bootheels smacking the flagstone. She loved her new role. She roughly wrapped her hand around his lean waist, pulled him hard against herself and whispered huskily into his sensitive ear, romancing him.

"Jasib... Jasib... O mine, sweet vine,

O, praise! for but one drink of thee,

thine wine, most fine, ne'er bitter tea,

O, mine Jasib, su'rend'r all t'me."

(It ain't great poetically, but keep in mind, The Writer failed Elizabethan English, so...)

Braith's raring hand raced down Jasib's hip like a manic tarantula, lustily squeezing his butt cheek. She gazed into his bourbon brown eyes, searching for signs of hopeless seduction.

Jasib shivered. He felt terrified, his feeble shoulders cringing with fear. But alas, he also felt an undeniable excitement. Chills undulated up his spine as Braith's hand forcefully clutched his back, pressing her his their strong hips into his. Her his their fiery breath burned Jasib's neck; Braith Owain's insatiable lips nuzzled his quivering skin. Jasib felt a warmth swelling in his britches; t'was a strange sensation for such a chaste, frigid boy. He fought it, but this was his Lord, Lord Owain, noble son of Lord Caddick of Gwynedd. Jasib was, after all, his Lord's servant. He was bound to serve his Lord's will, his every need... whether he wanted to or not... but, he... he wanted to... he so wanted -

"Oh, sweet Jasib..." Braith whispered hoarsely into his ear. She ground her hips lasciviously into his and, feeling Jasib's swollen response, smiled with depraved satisfaction. Yes, he did desire her, but as Him, as Lord Owain, as he saw her - him - in this moment. Robustly she threw the lad onto the pile of straw, sliding her hand under his tunic, tearing it apart with one violent swipe, ripping it down to his navel, exposing his smooth, young, coffee-colored skin. His pubescent body glistened in the firelight, gold and copper, a sweaty treasure chest of carnal jewels wanting to be plundered.

"Jasib..." Braith moaned painfully, sucking his firm brown nipple into her mouth, twisting it with her wet tongue. "I needeth ye, Jasib... must... haveth ye!"

Tears of shame pooled in the corners of Jasib's eyes. T'was wrong - terribly wrong! He was a religious boy, an unsullied virgin. And Lord Owain was a Christian, a man... Jasib must not let himself surrender, to lose himself in his fair lord's musky scent, those strong, confident hands cupping his innocent manhood, forcing lust from his young, monkish loins against his will...

"I perceive ye desireth this favor of me, Jasib." Braith murmured lecherously into Jasib's lips. She parted them with her tongue, slipping herself into his mouth like a slivering eel, exploring his tongue with her own. "Let ye'self go, Jasib. Nay one wil'st know..." she whispered, "Nay one but spare us... Just ye..." She thrust her hand downward, rubbing mercilessly until she felt him throb, grabbing his engorged lust savagely, "Just ye and me, Jasib."

Jasib could resist no longer! He cried out in ecstasy, releasing his passions unto his Lord... Lord Owain, wanting him, his Lord, now laying hard on top of him. He sobbed; his eyes pressed closed. Abandoning his virtue, he tore open Lord Owain's shirt, pulling at the rags he'd wrapped his chest with to protect against his armors' sharp edges. The fire flickered devilishly as Jasib ripped away linens, kissing Lord Owain's throat, his chest, lowering his mouth, blindly seeking to suckle as a swaddled babe hungers...

"Oh, Jasib...JASIB!" Braith gasped as Jasib's smoldering lips found her tender breast. She blistered with burning ecstasy, "Jasib! Jasib! Plunge thyself into me, O blossom of mine heart-plunge true!" Her voice unexpectedly lost its masculine timber. Her feminine squeals of delight startled Jasib. His eyes flashed open and he saw her, beheld her full breasts filling his hands, ample and pale, pink rosebud nipples erect with sensual joy!

"M'Lord!" Jasib bolted upright, stunned. "What demon's sly trick be this?" he pulled away from her ravenous grasp, scampering backward in the straw bed. "Ye be a wench! and a wicked one at that!"

"Shhhh..." Braith touched his lips, "'tis be our secret, Jasib, and ne'er we tell, lest both our necks go a'swingin' fro' a gallows, an' we be headless as hens a'fore mornin's dew. "

*

"You know," the former Lamont, White Male, 28, returned with a vengeance. "You'll never get this past the censors." he yelled at The Writer. "I mean, the whole moral compass has turned. You can be gay as you want, be a guy and insist you're a girl, but you can't seduce anyone anymore. It's wrong! You'll be Cancelled!"

The Writer sniffed, readied to hit the slash key. "Go sit in the editor's corner, White Male, 28. You've been cancelled."

*

Jasib sat up on his hands, breathless, aroused, confused, yet thrilled at their new, shared secret. They were bound now to each other for all eternity, until death would depart them from each other and this loveless, cruel world. "M'Lord...oh, m'Lady?"

"Yes?" Braith asked hopefully.

"Yes." Jasib permissed her. He raised his mouth to hers, grateful for his good fortune, "Oh, Yes, m'Lord n Lady...." He kissed her back gently, then passionately. They wrestled across the straw, laughing as children doth, losing themselves in each other, forgetting the hateful world around them, joyfully escaping aloft musical rainbows into heavenly bliss together...

*

Hmmm... The Writer J-cribbed her chin again. A happy ending? No fuckin' way. Reedsy hates happy. I need real misery to be taken seriously as an artist.

"HEY! Braith! Jasib!" The writer shook her computer violently to knock some sense into her main characters. "SNAP OUT OF IT!"

"Aw, Kiss off, Writer." Jasib spat in the hay. He flung Braith onto her back, mounting her like a prize stallion colt. He furiously pummeled into her insatiable nakedness, hog-grunting away...

"Braith. BRAITH!" The Writer screamed. "Check your armpit - hurry! You've got the Plague!"

"WHAT?!" Braith threw Jasib aside, digging anxiously into her armpit. She felt soft, bulbous growths bulging from her glands. "What the hell is this?"

"Oops!" The Writer sniggered, cigarette jittering between her crooked lips, "Remember that flea nesting in your armpit before, huh?" The Writer said, way too happily, "Well, it was carrying Bubonic plague. It bit you and now you're dying. So. Ya know. Hop to it. Give me a tear-jerking, dramatic death scene."

*

The Writer sat back and smirked. "Now that's just good shit right there. It's got all the rotten, deviant, dark, depressing elements Reedsy judges are looking for. A sure win."

Man, can I write or what!

She retired to her bed for a well-deserved, good night's sleep.

*

"Hey, up there!" a now familiar voice called to her, "Remember me?"

It was Lamond. Lord Lamond Mac Baird. He was tall and strong, muscular and handsome again. Macho-hunky, just her cup of ruddy tea.

"You lookin' for a date, pretty lady?" he flirted.

And she wondered, where do all the 'cancelled' people go?

She laid back against her pillow, turned out the light and welcomed him unto her in all his white male-hetero glory.

Lady Braith Cannick never had it so damn good.