Fair Trade Negotiations [MF][MMF]

From the eastern parapet, Olivia enjoyed watching the slow, glittering waves of Andrews Bay calmly moving towards the horizon to meet the sun, her short chestnut hair fluttering on the ocean breeze. *New day, new chances.* Looking at the expanse, she could spot red and blue buoys that marked the only safe routes of passage to the northern and southern shores; at least for now. Chilled, she popped the collar on her charcoal blazer, which only redirected the wind down to her chest, and the futility of her efforts seemed like a metaphor for the peace summit. Time was running out, the tides were turning, and a legacy of hatred just below the water’s surface could soon turn two nations into islands unto themselves. She checked her watch before going back inside the castle, back to the dining hall where breakfast was served, and the day’s first volleys of insults would be thrown.

Minister Hoon blocked the hallway with his small entourage—all men in bespoke suits—peering through a windowed door in disgust at the other party inside. She regarded them with neutral courtesy, as was custom for her role as the Guild’s mediator, but still could appreciate their svelte bodies and sense of style, the minister especially. *Another time, perhaps, another place.*

Telegraph Therapy [Sci-Fi][F][masturbation]

*In for a penny, in for a pound*, Lauren thought as she unfastened the safety belt. She had already broken the first rule of telegraphing: “Never do it alone.” One more transgression wasn’t going to compound her troubles, at least not legally. The thick straps fell from her still legs and slid under the armrests, metal buckles clinking against the spokes of the wheelchair.

She reached for stirrups attached to the headboard and pulled herself into bed with practiced ease. A year of physical therapy had given her new strength and dexterity in her upper body, compensating for the lack of both below her waist. There was no way she was going to waste this opportunity while being strapped down. Grabbing the small telegraph device from the side table, she craned her neck in order to fit the soft glowing band over her eyes and ears. A surge of motor feedback was a small but real risk, and laying in bed, *unrestrained* could leave her injured, or worse. Blindfolded by technology she didn’t understand, she waited with nervous anticipation.

The Glorious Layover [tFM]

It was already eleven PM, local time, well past their scheduled arrival when Tabitha and her crewmates wheeled their carry-ons through the C Terminal. Chicago’s O’Hare Airport, normally bustling and bursting with throngs of passengers, had turned into a gleaming empty palace of marble and glass, haunted by automated notices that never stopped. *Don’t leave bags unattended. If you see something, say Something.* Standing on the conveyor belt, she watched the airport pan to the right in slow motion, like she had stepped out of time.

The *clop clop clop* of Tabitha’s black heels filled the silent void as she resumed her walk with short, brisk steps, the tight blue pencil skirt preventing her from taking longer strides. Still, she loved the airline uniform, tailored perfectly for her slender hips and waist. The blazer puckered *just the right way* at her chest to command the eyes of male passengers, and the envy of women. She felt like a goddess.

“Are you staying at the W?” Charlene asked at the taxi stop. The yellow minivan was half full with the crew and Tabitha was the last one on the sidewalk.