The Invitation -- Prologue -- Part One

“Perfect,” thought Robin as she slipped in her own sweat and took a header onto her yoga mat. At least the day was announcing itself early. She felt guilty for taking a break to see if her face was as banged-up as it felt -- just a big red mark; could have been worse -- so she pounded through the rest of the workout as hard as she could.

Robin hated that workout DVD. She didn’t hate it any more or less than the half-dozen other workouts she owned, but she did take at least a moment, six days a week, to hate it. It was only fair, since Robin hated her body too. The workouts were the only thing that seemed to keep her from ballooning, so she did them.

As she scoured soap across her skin in the shower, Robin tried to remember if she’d ever liked her body or her looks. Straight brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, nothing special. She’d had a few girlfriends, but had never been able to understand why. Robin was nobody to cross a room for, and she knew it.

The exception to that principle was that fact that she’d started getting male attention -- including adult male attention -- for her breasts at the age of twelve, and she’d always hated it. And them. Even though Robin knew in her head that lots of people considered full breasts to be an asset, she still had a tendency to hunch her shoulders to hide them if she wasn’t careful.

And, of course, large breasts came with full hips, and a body that tended toward carrying weight. Robin had committed to working out hard years ago, getting the longest, stupidest, most involved cross-training videos she could find, but nothing really seemed to work the way she wanted it to. 

Muscles had formed and firmed, yes, but to Robin they only emphasized how broad her shoulders seemed to be -- a high school P.E. teacher had once told Robin she should have been born a boy so she could be a linebacker, and it still echoed -- and her breasts were still there, just like always. She still had full hips and a round behind, making for an embarrassingly girly hourglass figure when all Robin wanted was… What? Slenderness? Boyishness? The fake-tits-on-an-emaciated-frame that so much of the rest of L.A. had? Robin wasn’t sure. She just knew it wasn’t what she had.

She couldn’t take the time to fret about it, though. Robin's team had a project presentation at 8:00 a.m., and Dolores Block would be attending. Which meant most of the rest of her day would be taken up with pointless revisions. At least Regina the writer would be there. Not that Robin would think of anything interesting to say to her, but she’d be there.

Robin finished dressing and raced out the door, giving a sad glance to her neglected guitar on the way out. At least the weekend was coming up and she’d be able to get some practicing in. Robin wondered when she’d be able to stop thinking about her life in terms of “at least.”

Oh, well. At least -- yes, at least -- she’d see Annabelle in the evening if she could just make it through the workday.

Robin would have preferred to take public transportation to work, but in L.A., that meant a walk, a train ride, a bus, and then another walk. Normally she liked doing that so she could read and get some extra exercise, but today Robin couldn’t risk missing a connection and being late for her meeting. She fired up her big, embarrassing old-man sedan and headed for the freeway.

Robin wanted to get a smaller, more efficient car, but she was trapped in a cycle of repairs for her current car eating up the down payments she kept saving up and then surrendering to mechanics. Even taking freelancing work on the side, she couldn’t seem to get ahead. At least the car was working today.

One traffic jam and twelve encounters with unspeakably rude fellow drivers later, Robin pulled into the Ingot parking garage. She’d gotten there earlier than most, but drove down to the lowest level anyway out of habit. It hadn’t even registered with Robin when she’d stopped even trying to look for the good spots.

Robin hit her desk and reviewed her presentation for about the thirtieth time since the previous morning. Dolores Block was the one she really needed to impress, but Robin just wanted to sound reasonably articulate in front of Regina.

Regina had classic Italian good looks -- olive skin, long, wavy dark hair, and intelligent brown eyes. Robin knew that she ran, but there had to be more to it than that. Regina was tight all over. Robin would have asked about her fitness routine if she’d ever been able to think of anything to say, but she could barely even talk about their project intelligently when Regina was around. She couldn't even justify it as a loving infatuation. Regina just made her consumed with lust.

Robin hadn’t even been able to figure out if Regina was straight or not. OK, yes, the stacked silver rings, the lack of makeup… Probably queer, true, but who could tell for sure? And why should Robin risk humiliating herself? Hell, even if Regina was gay or bi, she’d probably humiliate herself.

Robin refocused on the campaign she (and Regina) had worked so hard on. There was still some good left in it, though a little more got chiseled away with each vice president–heavy meeting. Clean graphics, a good focus on Regina’s clever headlines, a clear flow that drew the reader easily through the complicated plans they offered... If they could only get the VPs to leave it alone, they’d have a suite of pleasing and useful documents. If.

Robin’s stomach growled -- she’d remembered everything but leaving herself time to eat breakfast -- but she didn’t give in to the urge to make some of the instant oatmeal stashed at her desk. It was just asking for a glob down her front right before the meeting. Instead, she crunched an unsalted, unflavored rice cake as she went over what she wanted to say one last time. She was so focused that Regina startled her when she appeared at Robin’s cube. Robin blew a flurry of rice cake crumbs all over her desk, and then looked up into Regina’s amused black eyes.

Perfect.

-----------------------------

“I don’t understand why you didn’t adopt the color scheme I recommended.”

Somehow Dolores Block’s voice managed to cut through any meeting. It sounded like someone scraping a knife along a wire fence, thought Robin, only whinier. Regina shot Robin a sympathetic look that somehow managed to be an eye-roll at the same time.

Robin took a deep breath to center herself and hide her frustration and despair.

“It’s a beautiful combination, Dolores,” Robin said, hoping to soothe the savage beast at least a tiny bit, “But if you recall, a lot of our audience for this will be seniors. They need sharper color contrasts or reading the headlines will be frustrating. That’s why I went with--”

“Well, I don’t see why you couldn’t have brought that up last week,” Dolores snapped.

“I did, actually. I mentioned it at the meeting and in my follow-up notes--”

“No, you didn’t.”

Dolores made blithe false statements like this to cover herself all the time, and Robin knew that arguing was futile.

“OK, well, if you’ll look at the initial pitch Regina and I put together, you’ll see that we noted the constraints for a senior audience --”

“I don’t see any point in this discussion. I want you to change it. Give me a big purple color bar at the top, with the headline in white.”

Such a huge change would necessitate re-doing her entire design. Robin clenched her jaw to keep herself from saying something that would get her fired as Dolores started in on the process of mucking up Regina’s clean and graceful copy.

Forty minutes later, Robin and Regina headed back to their floor with a raftload of changes to their once-clean collateral. Silence descended as the elevator doors closed.

This is your chance, thought Robin. You can bond with her now. Think of something to say. Think of anything to say.

Robin didn’t think of anything to say. Nothing worthwhile, anyway.

The doors opened, and the women stepped out. Regina gave Robin a wry smile. “At least it’s Friday,” she said before they parted ways.

Regina was halfway down the hall before Robin managed “See you.”

Perfect.

-----------------------------------------------------------

Robin was in a deep overhaul of her design concept when Regina stopped by again, just in time to see Robin miss her own mouth and drop the predicted glob of oatmeal on her shirt.

“Sorry,” she said as Robin swiped at herself with a napkin, “I always seem to startle you.”

“S’okay,” Robin sighed, “I knew it was coming. It was the Oatmeal of Damocles.”

Regina blinked. “Did you just make a joke?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You should do that more often. Anyway, Dolores wants to see the new versions Monday at 2:00.”

“I think a Monday without us working through lunch is like a day without oxygen to her.”

Take a conference room, thought Robin, put your heads together! Spend the afternoon together. Make another joke! Say something!

“I was thinking we could both run with it on our own for the rest of the day, maybe e-mail back and forth, then touch base Monday morning to put it all together,” said Robin. “You don’t mind coming in at 8:00 again, do you?”

“No, that’s fine,” lied Robin. Had she really been born to spend her life in a cube farm?

“OK, cool,” said Regina, turning to go.

“Do you have any weekend plans?” Robin finally managed.

Regina paused for a moment and then said, “Yeah. My bestie and I have tickets to see Janelle Monae at the Bowl and then I’m hitting the Abbey with the girls for Sunday brunch. You know, just to check out the scene. What about you?”

She looked at Robin with something just above polite expectation.

The Abbey? The realization slammed into Robin’s brain. Oh, my God, she is gay. Or bi. She’s not straight, anyway. Say something queer. Say something about your music at least. Say something. SAY SOMETHING!

“Um,” was what Robin said. She took a breath and made another attempt. “Uh, pretty quiet, I guess. The new Bitch Planet is finally out, so I’m going to pick that up…”

“The new what?”

“Bitch Planet. It’s a comic. It’s about a prison planet, only with kind of… gladiator sports. And women. I mean, it’s all women. Except the guards--”

“Comic as in comic book?” Regina’s face was awash in skepticism.

“It’s really good.” Robin could already feel herself starting to stumble. “It’s this feminist -- really well written -- and the artwork -- but it’s also just really cool… And funny, sort of, but that’s not the main point--”

“OK, well, enjoy,” said Regina, already checked out. “I’ll e-mail you some new copy by end of day to make sure it all fits.”

“OK,” said Robin. “See you.”

Regina was gone. Robin was left alone with the oatmeal on her shirt.

Oh, well. At least Regina was only her work crush. The person Robin really wanted to talk to was Annabelle. Robin felt her chest tighten. The anticipation of getting to see Annabelle blended so completely with the certainty that she’d make an idiot of herself.

But seeing Annabelle was worth it.

Lend me your ears.

Hello.

I am thrilled to announce that The Art of Mapmaking has just been released as an audiobook by Dog Ear Audio, read by the truly remarkable Marie Debonair. You can find it right over here. (And, really, Marie's narration is terrific.)

Thanks so much to Karen at Dog Ear for picking up the book and for doing such great work producing and editing the final piece.

I've hidden the old version of Mapmaking on this blog for now. I posted some new free smut just below this to make up for it. Please enjoy.

If you're not set up for audiobooks, you can still find the e-version over here.

I know I've only been posting shorts for a while, but I feel like longer pieces are more interesting and more fun. I've been plotting out two of those, one of which I'm hoping to start posting soon.

As always, thanks so much for visiting this site. Here's to smut.

Hot Toddy

“Sorry, babe,” Caroline said over my cough. At least she had the decency to pause while my lungs tried desperately to clear. And then she said it again: “I’m sorry.”

Only I was less and less sure that she was. I’d known, somehow, that she’d suddenly need to stay in San Francisco an extra week the minute she found out I had a chest cold. She had a remarkable talent for being out of town when I needed something.

I tried not to let the disappointment slice too far into my voice as we said our goodbyes, Caroline of course not committing to an exact return date -- my cold must have sounded pretty bad -- and then we said a rote, emotionless “I love you” and hung up.

And there I was, alone in my apartment in the middle of a cold, grey Chicago November. All I wanted in the world was for someone to show that they cared -- Just enough for a pot of soup? -- and once again, Caroline was nowhere to be found. My parents were out east, my siblings scattered across the Southwest, and Caroline had made herself scarce.

Me, I made my own soup.

The evening was miserable. I cocooned myself in all the blankets I could muster and failed to focus on books, or even a magazine. My chest and nose and everything else had been so full that I’d barely gotten any sleep the night before because lying down meant a coughing fit. I loaded up Agatha Christie mysteries on Netflix because there’s nothing cosier when you’re sick than people getting murdered, but I still couldn’t focus enough on the plot to know what was going on. Not that I could sleep.

I had to fumble through the swirl of blankets when my phone snapped me out of my daze. For two rings, I dared to hope that it was a reformed Caroline on her way home, but no such luck. It was better luck, actually -- my friend Rosana, calling to check on me.

“I’m coming over,” she said. I didn’t argue.

Rosana arrived with a bag of lemons, a jar of honey, and a bottle of rum.

“You look awful.”

Rosana hugged me and checked my forehead and then bustled the rest of the way in.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m making you a hot toddy,” she said.

I tried to help, but she wouldn’t let me.

“Shh,” she said. “Just let yourself sit back and enjoy it.”

Rosana made me go get my thermometer and swatted at me as I tried to talk around it. She cut lemons in half and measured honey into my smallest pot. After we’d established that I had less of a fever than Rosana had predicted but more of one than I’d been willing to admit to, I told her about Caroline.

“Figures,” said Rosana. And then Rosana bitched the exact right amount about Caroline’s failings as a girlfriend as she squeezed the lemons -- “Organic,” she said -- and slowly heated the juice as she stirred it with the honey.

“Get it hot, but don’t let it boil,” she said, knowing I’d make several more over the next few days. “If you let it boil, you’ll cut the honey’s healing qualities.”

Rosana was lovely, standing there in my kitchen. I mean, she was always lovely, but especially so there with the rising heat on her face. She was of Persian descent, with glowing olive skin, full lips, and perfectly arched dark brows. She kept her hair short, which for some reason made people call her “pretty” instead of “beautiful.”

I didn’t think of her beautiful, though. I always thought Rosana looked tasty. Tasty like a dumpling. Tasty like something that could be savored in one delectable bite. She was small, only about 5’2”, with full hips and breasts. Maybe fuller than was fashionable, but I loved the hourglass effect. Not that it was mine to admire. Warm, independent Rosana was spoken for by Theresa, her chilly, manipulative girlfriend.

Oddly enough, I think that’s how we’d really gotten close over the past couple of years: Me bitching about Theresa on Rosana’s behalf and Rosana bitching about Caroline on mine.

Rosana poured the lemon and honey into what she knew was my favorite mug and then added rum -- two generous shots and then a splash for luck. Then she bundled me back on the couch, propped me not-quite-lying-down and not-quite-upright with a wedge of pillows, tucked me in, and found me an Absolutely Fabulous marathon.

“Drink it slowly,” she said, handing me the toddy.

I took a sip and for the first time in two days felt warmth blossom across my chest. Rosana sat on the couch by my feet watching Eddy and Patsy with me as I sipped and felt my cold start to break up a little bit, felt my brain start to actually consider sleep.

But mostly I felt the relief and comfort of someone caring enough to be there.

I finally had enough air to laugh at the show, but I didn’t last long. I set the mug down on the floor as I started to fade and was distantly aware of Rosana taking it into the kitchen and rinsing it in the sink. Sleep finally stole in and I burrowed into the blankets and gave myself over to it. As I faded, I thought I felt Rosana tuck me in more carefully, and then her hand on my cheek. Maybe a kiss on my forehead? I wasn’t sure.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Shhhh.”

She left, and I drifted into sleep.

My cold finally departed and Caroline returned -- but only for two more weeks. Then I found the strength to tell her to find someone she actually wanted to spend time with.

Rosana congratulated me and sat with me while I cried. And she nodded sagely when I realized that I didn’t need to cry all that much. We went out for long, talky dinners and short, funny plays. We hit the movies and bookstores and a semipro hockey game. Gradually, I felt better.

The winter was harder on Rosana. In the endless chill of February, she finally found out how long Theresa had been cheating.

I took her out for drinks, I came over for bitch sessions and crying jags. I took her to batting cages and kickboxing classes. I took her to the dumpster, where we lit candles and ritually tossed all of Theresa’s remaining stuff. I held Rosana while she cried some more.

The crying eventually stopped, but nothing seemed to get the pain out. Rosana got smaller and less vibrant. She no longer glowed.

I watched her carefully and talked to her seriously about depression, but it wasn’t that. It was that she’d lost her true sense of herself. She’d lost the ability to see how attractive -- how tasty -- she was. She declared herself hideous and couldn’t enjoy food anymore. I almost never got her to laugh, even by imitating Patsy. Rosana seemed to shrink into herself if we went out, hugging the walls and avoiding eye contact.

And then I couldn’t get her to come out at all.

In May, I realized what I had to do.

“I’m coming over,” I said when she picked up the phone. She didn’t argue.

I had no lemons and no rum when she opened the door. Just me. She was barefoot, in jeans and the ratty T-shirt she wore when she was cleaning or knew she wouldn’t be going out. I supposed she’d never thought about the way the thin material hugged her breasts, or the way the little holes in it gave tantalizing glimpses of her skin. My guess was that Theresa had never mentioned those things. And that was a damned shame.

“You look tasty,” I said.

And then I pushed the rest of the way in and kissed her. I took her face in my hands to make sure we’d connect, and when I felt her respond I slid a hand down her neck to her back to pull her closer.

I broke the kiss and pulled back to check in, still holding her close, still stroking her face. We were both already breathing hard. Her eyes were shining for the first time in months, but she was nervous, unsure.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m making you a hot toddy.”

I took her hand and pulled her into the bedroom.

I stopped by the bed and kissed her properly then, letting her feel my hunger as I drank in the sweetness of her lips. I ran my hands through her thick, dark hair and deepened the kiss, feeling her tongue wander into my mouth as she started to relax into what was happening.

How had I not known she’d be such a good kisser? Her lips were as warm as she was, and I could feel how attuned she was to my responses. She was just the right mix of hard and soft, advancing and retreating in turn with me, and taking long, sensual time to play in delicious plateaus. I pressed her against me and got a gratifying sigh out of her as I swooped down to kiss her neck. Her left hand moved up to keep me there as her right one clutched my back.

I eased her into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and moved up to kiss her enchanting mouth again. She kissed me back eagerly now, starting to match my yearning for her. I stole a hand up her shirt, sliding it across her softly rounded belly and up to touch her through her bra. Rosana sighed into my mouth as she arched to meet my fingertips.

She gasped at the contact and let out a whimper of pleasure as I felt her nipple stiffen. She moved to pull off her shirt, but I took her hands and stopped her.

“Shh,” I said. “Just let yourself lie back and enjoy it.”

I eased Rosana back on the bed and settled next to her, propping myself on my elbow. With my free hand, I traced a tour of the rips and holes of her shirt.

“Do you have any idea,” I said, circling an exposed bit of skin at her stomach, “--how very crazy--” I feathered my fingers along a hole up by her shoulder “--this shirt makes me?”

I touched the exposed skin through a hole just at her cleavage, and Rosana blinked at me. She really hadn’t had any idea. We’d have to discuss that later, though, maybe the next time she was cleaning. For now, the shirt had to come off. I pulled it over her head and settled down to nuzzle the softness of her skin. The lotion she used had a light vanilla scent, and I breathed it in. I moved down to kiss the palm of her hand, then all the way her arm, listening to her giggle in pleasure at first, then groan as my path brought my lips back to her neck and my hand back to those lovely, full breasts.

She was wearing a simple white bra, more evidence of the fact that she hadn’t planned to get felt up that day, but I couldn’t help but love it. I could see the darkness of her nipples through the thin fabric as they strained upwards, begging to be toyed with.

I stroked and teased her, now circling, now lightly pinching, until I felt her breathing turn into panting and her hands clutch at me.

I moved down to undo her jeans and heard her breathe a “Yes!” as I slid them and her underwear off at the same time. I kissed down her thighs, down her shins, even dropping little kisses on the tops of her feet. I slid my hands back up and gently nudged her to roll over onto her stomach so I could unhook her bra.

She started to turn back over to face me, but I stilled her there, kneading her shoulders until she puddled into relaxation, then smoothing the lazy warmth down her back. She let out soft, high little moans as I lightened my touch from massage to light stroking, caressing her everywhere so she could feel and remember the sensuality of her own skin.

I stroked backs of her thighs and felt her hips move of their own accord. It was time to give her pleasant, lazy arousal some more urgency. I let my hands take a swirl across her lovely, rounded ass, then planted a kiss on her lower back.

I licked, kissed, and nibbled up her spine, feeling Rosana arch and jerk with pleasure at the new sensation. I let my hands wander everywhere as I slowly moved upward, sometimes groping up her sides, sometimes sliding them underneath her to make her jerk in pleasure.

When I was sure her whole body was awake, sure that every bit of her had been loved, I helped her roll back over so I could kiss her again and she pressed into me, grabbing my hand to move it down to her breasts, which were aching to be touched again.

I fondled her with one hand -- So soft! So full! -- and dipped my head down to use my mouth on her other breast, taking a nipple between my lips and flickering at it with my tongue.

Rosana let out a long, slow “Ahhhhh” as I suckled on her, and then a series of cries in shorter pulses as I moved to ravish her other breast. Her hands pressed at my shoulders, then clutched at my hair. As I swirled my tongue around and over her, I let my hand slide down her body toward her thighs. Rosana opened herself even more to my touch, panting now and freer with her body than I’ve seen in months.

I let my hand hover at the slickness between her legs and looked into Rosana’s deep brown eyes, which were now hazy with desire.

“Do you see how luscious you are?”

Rosana nodded and let out a whispered “Yes.”

“Do you see how much I want you?”

“Yes!”

“Do you see that you were made to be fucked?”

“Yes! Do it! Please do it!”

I put Rosana’s hands on her lovely tits so she could take care of them, then dove between her thighs.

Rosana’s whole body jerked at the first touch of my tongue -- it had been far too long since anyone had given her the pleasure she deserved.

She was tasty. Oh, yes, she was tasty. So warm, so responsive. So made to be fucked.

I held on to her thighs as I lavished attention on her center, alternating luxurious up-and down sweeps of my tongue with back-and-forth lashes and ever-faster circles of her clit. Rosana writhed with her whole body, completely unselfconscious and crying out with pleasure.

I pushed three fingers inside her and heard her switch to deeper groans, delirious with pleasure at being filled and refilled over and over. Rosana reached down and grabbed my left hand and pulled it to her breast, covering it with her own hand to keep it there. I squeezed her and thrust the fingers of my other hand as deeply as I could, sucking on her sweet little clit as I heard her voice riding, heralding her climax.

Roxana shouted her release as her muscles clamped around my hand, reveling in her body and the pleasure it could give her. I held my tongue against her as she stilled, then kissed her thighs and up her belly. She kept my hand pressed to her breast, and then pressed all of me against her as I moved up to kiss her pretty face.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Shhhh.”

I stayed, and we drifted into sleep.

Hello, lovelies.

I've missed you.

Some exciting news coming up about "The Art of Mapmaking." And new smut is on the way.

--Thalia