*I don’t know why, but I’m trying my hand at a little, not-so-distant future, dystopian, sci-fi thing. Let’s see how this goes.*
**December 18, 2018**
Helen’s pulse raced with nervous excitement, pursuing Gwen up the apartment steps. She zoned in on the side-to-side sway of Gwen’s full, high-waisted denim hips, running her hand along the multi-colored, Christmas lights decorating the metal banister.
Gwen fumbled edgily with her keys. “This is me,” she giggled. As if the apartment could be anybody else’s, the only one on the small complex’s second story.
Once the door was freed from its lock, she hurriedly escorted Helen indoors, standing lookout, scanning the small-town terrain, on that dark night, for any gossiping snoops.
“I’m sorry, this place is such a fucking disaster,” Gwen apologized, aimlessly bouncing around her cramped, studio apartment, picking up bits of trash scattered around the living room. But Helen didn’t mind in the slightest, predatorily stalking around her with solely lecherous intent, resisting the urge to pounce.
Gwen unloaded an armful of gas-station, fountain drink cups into the kitchen trash, unaware of Helen’s presence directly behind her. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked, but her invitation wouldn’t be answered, turning around to be shockingly met by Helen’s syrupy lips.
Gwen craned her neck back reflexively, taken off-guard by Helen’s unexpected enthusiasm. “Maybe, this isn’t such a good idea,” she said with a worried look in her eyes, but she was immediately silenced by Helen’s mouth pushing back against her concerned reluctance.
Helen blissfully closed her eyes as Gwen’s apprehensive rigidity morphed into an equally desired, unrestrained showcase of tongue-locked euphoria, grabbing a handful Helen’s curly, Auburn hair, boisterously shoving each other, back-and-forth against the cheap, laminate countertops, engaged in a hard, romantic wrestling match.
This level of aggressive zeal was uncommon for the generally reserved, late-teen, but a rough makeout session with Gwen’s fat, bee-stung lips was everything she had lusted for since they met, three weeks prior – or perhaps, unbeknownst to her, what she had always wanted.
***
Helen had been avoiding the Grab ‘N’ Stop, across the street from the Gown Farm where she worked, deterring herself from further altercations with its clerk, her asshole ex-boyfriend, Eddie. It had been months since they broke up, and while Eddie couldn’t be bothered to cross Main St. or come visit her at home, he took every chance encounter to obnoxiously beg Helen for her return to his loving arms.
So it was with great hesitance that she stopped by on her way into work on Black Friday. But her body’s demand for the false rush of an energy drink to begin the busiest retail day of the year outweighed her opposing reservations.
Helen cringed, setting foot inside the convenience store, expecting to be harassed by her ex, once again. But she was surprised to hear a deep but feminine, tenor greet her that morning.
“Hey,” the bodiless voice indifferently called out to her from the other side of an obstructing case of lottery tickets.
“Hi,” Helen answered in her mild, Southern twang, making her way towards the back coolers, turned around to catch a glimpse of who was standing guard.
Through the boxes of candy bars, she first saw her short, squat fingers with red-painted nails flipping through the pages of a current events magazine. Helen grabbed her drink and swayed her way over to the corner of the chip aisle in front of the register, where she snagged her first, full look of the new cashier.
She was a dark, Rubenesque figure with sharp-line cut, jet-black hair, and giant, oversized tits tautly contained within her Clash t-shirt. Helen had never seen anyone like that before in her off the beaten track, Tennessee town, aside from an occasional, silently scorned passerby.
“Where’s Eddie?” Helen asked curiously, cautiously approaching the front counter.
“Eddie got drafted,” she replied, lifting her head from the carnage of the Iran Conflict portrayed in the pictures of her periodical. Her straight bangs dangled just above her huge, dark-brown eyes, staring seriously, deep inside Helen, as she batted messages of mystery with her long, full, mascaraed lashes.
“Oh, my god,” Helen gasped, both from the shock of Eddie’s departure and from the unexpected beauty of the dark queen’s snow white skin.
“Yup,” she confirmed nonchalantly. “He left for boot camp, last week.”
Helen should’ve guessed the lazy Eddie would leave without stopping by to say sayonara. But she was still saddened, nonetheless, frightened by what awaited him overseas.
Helen had heard the awful tales coming from the war in the middle east. Our boys were being slaughtered, hundreds a day, gunned down in the poorly planned, amateurishly executed firefights of Iran.
Before they broke up, she had begged Eddie to go get a job on the pipeline being built through the west side of town. Men who worked in the oil industry received a waiver on the newly reinstated draft. But Eddie was stubborn and strong-willed, choosing to continue operating his family’s gas station. For a healthy, 19-year-old boy like him, it was only a matter of time before his number was called.
“Heloooo,” the pale-skinned girl snapped her fingers, discomforted by Helen’s shocked silence.
Helen jolted herself from what she thought was a bad dream, struggling to bring herself back to a sense of normalcy before all this madness started, last year.
“Um, and you are?” Helen asked, having forgotten her manners, stretching her hand out for a warm, Tennessee hello. She had never seen this woman in all her life. And who would suddenly work here – a low-volume, family-run operation?
“Gwen,” she said stoically, grabbing the tip of Helen’s hand with her luxurious, moisturized fingers, giving it a half-hearted shake before quickly letting go, and retreating back into the news of the world.
Helen rubbed the residual crème into her fingertips, bringing it up to inhale a whiff of the pleasant, powdery scent into her nostrils. She became instantly intoxicated by what she’d come to identify as Gwen’s unique, perfumed aroma.
“Well, I’m Helen,” she muttered awkwardly, placing her $3.25 onto the counter. “I work at the Gown Farm across the street. I can get you a pretty good discount if you want.”
“Okay,” Gwen replied somewhat sarcastically, waving goodbye like she could ever be caught dead in a Gown Farm.
In sharp contrast to the evasion she practiced, the last few months of Eddie’s employment, Helen found herself returning to the Grab ‘N’ Stop, every day, sometimes multiple times a day, even on her days off. Every time, she’d re-engage with Gwen in the same routine of twenty questions, trying to find out random trivia about her curious, unforeseen infatuation. Gwen never seemed to mind, but would passively answer with her head firmly embedded into some alternative culture magazine.
Amongst what Helen gathered in a single week was that Gwen was 23 years old, originally from Chicago, Eddie’s second cousin, vegetarian, college-educated, The Godfather was her favorite movie, and she did not like Ariana Grande.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Helen asked on that one fateful afternoon.
Gwen quickly closed her magazine shut, finally agitated with Helen’s persistent curiosity. “What about you?” she peevishly asked, her septum ring flaring with frustration. Helen had clearly struck a nerve.
“What about me?” she said, accepting any and all questions from Gwen.
“What about you?” she repeated. “Do YOU have a boyfriend?”
“No,” Helen answered. “But I did up until a few months ago. Eddie.”
Gwen looked at her sternly, which changed with a slow up-curl of her lip. “So you’re Eddie’s girl, um, I mean, ex,” she corrected herself. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Gwen actually knew more about Helen than Helen could ever possibly know about Gwen, Gwen having been the longtime, secret confidante to Eddie. Anytime Eddie needed advice or wanted to vent, he would immediately call his older, trusted cousin, no secrets between the two of them.
Gwen suddenly became interested, already intrigued by the girl that had frustrated her cousin to no end.
Their encounters became increasingly genial, random, back-and-forth questioning now turned into full on interesting conversations. Despite their starkly different interests, they both had a similar outlook on life and the world at large. They were both uncomfortable by the open hostility that had become fashionable in recent years. They both opposed the war. They both believed everyone was entitled to their privacy. The burgeoning friendship was refreshing, surrounded by a town full of single-minded, authoritarian personalities.
Late one night, Helen looked over from the Gown Farm, expecting the store to be closed for the evening, but the lights must’ve mistakenly been left on. She came over and walked in through the unlocked door, finding Gwen drunkenly ambling through the aisles, accidently knocking over racks of chips and snack cakes.
“Whoa, watch out there,” Helen said, grabbing Gwen and sitting her down on the stool by the counter, noticing the dozen or so empty beer bottles laying on the unswept floor. “I thought you guys were supposed to be closed. Why are you drinking in here?”
“Because this town fucking suuuucks,” Gwen stupidly cackled. Small-town life was taking its toll on this city girl, a pain she could barely contain. “I don’t know how much more of this I can do.”
Helen wrapped Gwen up in her arms from behind, attempting to comfort her with an assuring embrace.
“Maybe, you should consider going back home to Chicago,” Helen sadly suggested. For as much as she lived for their shared moments each day, she couldn’t begin to imagine what a place like Eatonville did to an urban goddess like Gwen. There were no museums. No movie theaters. There wasn’t even a bar a woman couldn’t get sexually harassed at. It must have been driving her crazy.
“I can’t,” Gwen said, bawling even harder. The mascara began to run down her face along with her melancholy tears.
Gwen must be overreacting, Helen thought to herself. There would be no reason for her not to be able to return home. So what if meant leaving her uncle and aunt in the lurch. It wasn’t worth sacrificing her personal sanity.
“Oh, honey,” she tried to soothe her, rubbing her warm palms up and down the length of her bare arms. “That’s so silly. Why not?”
“Because I’m gay,” Gwen wailed, devolving into an onslaught of uncontrollable sobbing.
This admission turned Helen cold – not for any personal judgment, but it confirmed to her that perhaps, the rumors she heard were true. The wrangling up and internment of undocumented people was common knowledge. But the state-run television was assuring everyone the seizures weren’t being extended to gays and Muslims. It startled her that the fear had become so palpable in the big cities that Gwen had been shuttled away to hide out in some backwater town.
“Please, don’t tell anyone,” Gwen tearfully begged.
Helen told her the secret was safe with her, as she held her tightly, Gwen crying her drunken blues away.
Helen drove her home, that night – the old office complex converted into a three-unit apartment building, just outside the main square, run by the pastor and his wife – ensuring she made it safely. They sat in Helen’s Sonata, talking, basking in the ambiance of the warm, Christmas lights strewn along the banister.
“I’m so glad I found someone like you in this stupid fucking town,” Gwen tearily confessed. “Because if I had to keep this bottled in – all the time – I don’t know what I’d do.”
Helen reached over and grabbed her hand, clutching it into hers, pulling it up to her lips and softly kissing it. “I’m here for you,” she said, giving her a tight assurance. “I get it. Stuff like this is tough to deal with. There’s nothing wrong with being different. Somedays, I’m not so sure of how I feel about these things, myself. I mean, Eddie is all I’ve ever known. We had been together since the 7th grade. But when you stop and look around, people come into your life that makes you change the way you think.”
They stopped, exchanging looks of a shared moment of heat. Gwen had never looked at her this way before, but was now, cravingly peering into Helen’s innocent, green eyes, arousing the sleeping animal that lived inside her.
“Um, do you wanna come up?” Gwen nervously asked.
“Fuck, yes, I do,” Helen assertively replied.
***
Gwen forcefully grabbed Helen by her waifish hips, lifting her up onto the kitchen counter, like she weighed nothing, ending their passionate tussle. She unclasped and removed Helen’s gray, dress-pants she used for work, shaking her head at her, calmly but ravenously repeating, “Uh-uh,” with a bedeviled smile on her face and surprisingly sexy, intense raccoon eyes, like Helen had no fucking clue what she just got herself into, about to be devoured by a beast coming out of hibernation.
Unable to contain her thirst any longer, Gwen hastily scooted the soaked, white, cotton panties to the side, and buried her face into the sweet stench of Helen’s young, sopping pussy.
Helen thunderously groaned at first contact of Gwen’s dexterous, wet tongue, involuntarily throwing her head back against the wood cabinets. But the pleasure was too intense for her to even acknowledge the blunt thud delivered to the crown of her skull.
Nothing before had ever compared to the overwhelming elation she felt from the oral stimulation of her tiny, little, pink clit. This was the first time anyone had gone down on her. Eddie was always fearful doing so would be a knock on his manhood. It was a shame for him because he was missing out on the unctuous, honey nectar of Helen’s bustling hive.
Mmm, Gwen moaned, salivating as she happily accepted Helen’s candied juices dripping into her waiting gob. “God, I love you country girls,” she marveled. “None of you shave your pussy.”
Helen giggled, squirming insecurely but tickled a little harder by Gwen’s stereotyping admission.
Gwen’s dancing fingertips wandered as she feasted, running their way around Helen’s smooth, slim torso, unbuttoning her silky, red blouse. She stopped, though, feeling remorseful, noticing the small, homemade tattoo imprinted on the top right side of her pelvis.
Helen looked back down at her, wondering why she had ceased, but soon realized what had given her pause. It was the tattoo Eddie had given her on her 16th birthday. He did it behind the counter at the Grab ‘N’ Stop. It was a simple, sterilized needle and ballpoint pen ink design that read, “Eddie” in cursive. It was made to match Eddie’s that incorrectly said, “Hellen”.
“Do you still love him?” Gwen asked, a little sullen.
Helen thought about it for a moment, unable to collect any of her thoughts in the midst of uninhibited ecstasy. She hadn’t really thought too much about it. Their breakup was such a visceral response to Eddie not listening to reason. But the passion, the desire, the want she was currently experiencing with Gwen, surpassed anything she had ever felt with him.
“Not like that,” she said, yearnfully shaking her head, pushing Gwen’s mouth back into the warm confines of her drenched cunt.
Gwen grabbed her by the thighs, pulling her closer, inviting Helen to wrap her long, beautiful legs around the cushion of her thick, black locks. She hugged tightly, bucking her pussy on Gwen’s puffy, slobbering mouth, flailing wildly as she rapidly flicked her cold, studded tongue-piercing against Helen’s swollen clit.
Helen’s ears perked for a second at the sound of metallic rustling from somewhere outside the apartment. “Wait. Did you hear that?” she thought she said. But it came out, “Wh-joo-ree-ha-dat.” Not that Gwen could hear anyway, deafened by the sound deprivation chamber of Helen’s sticky thighs.
Not wanting to belt out a primal scream to wake the entire neighborhood, Helen bit down hard on her fleshy shoulder, lifting her ass and hips off the counter, seemingly levitated by the orgasmic nerves electrifying beneath her. She shook crazily, nearly suffocating Gwen, as she climaxed against the flat, bumpy rubbing of her outstretched tongue.
Helen’s body twitched, weakened by Gwen’s parasitic consumption, unable to do or say anything except emit a robotic, little giggle. She looked down at Gwen’s satisfied raccoon-eyed and pussy-soaked face, wiping up Helen’s wetness with her fingers and sucking it off.
“What now?” Gwen asked.
Helen wanted to return the favor, curious if Gwen’s pussy tasted as sweet as her own.
But then, a loud crash came barreling through the apartment windows. The two young lovers screamed in surprised horror at the sight of the hulking, special forces figure, carrying a massive, graphite-colored rifle, cloaked in silver body armor with a wide, metallic mouthpiece, spray-painted with white, sharp teeth, which altered his voice into an intimidating, mechanical bellow.
“Gwendolyn Adamson,” he furiously roared, pointing the blue, shining hue of his barrel directly at her. “Under the Deviancy Recuperation Act of 2018, you’ve been hereby assigned to compulsory re-education. Do not resist.”
Helen was paralyzed with fear. She believed the RE-eduKators were a myth, a fairy tale that people told their kids to keep them from being gay or atheist. But here it was, unfolding in front of her.
This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening. She rubbed her eyes wishing it would all go away.
But it didn’t, opening them to see Gwen’s dread-stricken face. “RUN!” she screeched at her, but that was the last Helen would hear from her, Gwen abruptly frozen in time by a plasma blast from the RE-eduKator’s gun, drowned in an aquamarine aura.
Helen hopped off the countertop, hoping to get her pants back on before being taken away, too. She flinched, seeing him point his gun at her, but all she heard was an unresponsive click. She opened her eyes, seeing an opportunity as the officer’s gun had jammed. “Goddamn, this fucking thing never works,” he swore at his weapon, banging it against the floor.
Helen raced out the front door, pantsless, the cold, December air rushing against the exposed flesh between legs. She could hear the enhanced projection of the morality police screaming after her, “Do not resist!”
There was a flutter of hope coming down the stairs, making a mad dash sprint to her car, retrieving the keys from her blouse pocket. She glanced back up towards the apartment, as she bungled around for the unlock button. The RE-eduKator surprisingly wasn’t in pursuit. She was nearly home-free, pulling away at the door handle, but then, she felt the blunt press of cold, hard steel against her temple.
“I got her! I got the faggot dyke bitch” the pastor’s wife howled with her thick, country drawl, standing there in her nighttime robe and floral mumu, holding a shotgun to Helen’s head, then cocking the hammer. “Don’t you move, or I swear I’ll blow your lezzie ass to meet Satan, myself.”
Helen stood there, wordlessly pondering her options. She thought about taking her chances and seeing if she could get into the car without getting shot, unaware if she could do time in a re-education center. But before she could decide for herself, the world went black.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/5sjcbp/ryas_resistance_part_1_ff