Soulful, earthy, pianissimo. For millennia, the loose vibrations of lips on a far-off didgeridoo have filled the wide-open spaces of this ancient land—their land—with a hymn of praise for creation itself.

Always was, always will be.

Mimicked animal sounds—kookaburras, dingoes, kangaroos—blend with the notes of humanity and rise from the ruddy sun-baked dirt to welcome the sun. Nowadays, squatting in Australia's Red Centre, we're subsumed into that music. Us, the Reebers, it's become our cri du cœur too.

Always was, always will be.

We're the only ones left taking a stand, storming the barricades of economic hegemony. The have-nothings plotting and executing anarchic acts against the have-too-fucking-much.

Yet, these past weeks, the didgeridoo's haunting zephyr has given voice to a restless melancholia that gleefully hitchhikes through my dreams. Those sleep doldrums, glass shards for the conscience, once again have me awake and morose before the first cockatoo is up and squawking.

The drip, drip, drip of my Ellie-guilt.

Ellie would have loved waking early and luxuriating in the rhapsodic drone rolling across this vast barren landscape. But she can't. I did a runner, left her in far off Darwin, and vanished in a puff of motorcycle dust in search of something more meaningful.

It's ironic really. Every year, even after the taser-fascists became hair-triggered, Ellie was the one who'd insist: “Every bit counts, Nikki.”

Last January she'd dragged me out of the house to the Australia Day Aboriginal Land Rights march. I'd bitten my tongue. It was just so fucking vainglorious. We stood, soaked by the tropical wet, yelling, “Always was, always will be.” Which, as always, just left the powers that be as unmoved as Darwin's Parliament building itself.

Yet our impotence hadn’t seemed to bother Ellie. She went all cutie-pie-girlfriend on me; interlocked her fingers with mine and smiled happily at the chant's double meaning.

Ellie. Ellie. It’s such a fucking mess.

Unsettled, I slip from the airbed. Pace toward the tent flap.

My toe stubs the still-sticky strap-on I'd carelessly tossed, post fuck, onto the floor. Hissing with pain, cussing, I glance over my shoulder. Last night's femme-du-jour stirs, then sleepily buries her face in the pillow to escape the golden half-light that's beginning to seep through the canvas as the reborn sun peeks over the desert horizon.

As she—fuck what was her name? Shelly maybe; no, could be Kelly—squirms, the sheet slides, puddles, and exposes her back like an offering. Those tattooed angel wings, and that pert derriere are so like Ellie's…

Ali! Of course; the similarity of their names had weirdly teased my somnolent libido. That, and her baby blues invitingly lighting up when telling me her fucking name. The moment had stretched, filtering my subconscious, stirring demons I should have quashed. Jesus, I'm weak. She'd rightly concluded that pouring me a second shot of moonshine tequila would be enough of a down payment on getting laid.

That Ali's wavy copper mane is tousled from last night's fuck-a-thon is to be expected. Less so the bruising that defiles her cute-as-a-button bottom. I had tested the waters and warmed up her muscles with a few light slaps. That had her whimpering, “Yes, Miss,” as a light pink blush emerged on both of her cheeks.

As the interval between spanks had shortened, Ali's deep breaths became pants. A sunset rouge, starker than nature's, started to glow from her pert posterior. Then, as I had begun thrusting the strappy deep into her dripping cunt, the ghosts of my past slyly slipped into the tent.

The spanking and fucking had turned relentless. Her butt darkened, the colour deepening to a fiery red. A frustrated Domme is never a good look and, had it been Ellie, she'd have rightly ripped me a new arsehole for being so careless as to let wrath-inflamed bruising over-decorate her bum.

But Ali wasn't up to being Ellie; the pain-slut's eyes had closed and she started moaning as each slap burned. That fueled me and I drilled her harder. Metronomic, staccato thrusts that got her off with rasping shrieks.

Which was more than could be said for me.

Pulling on boy shorts and an Aboriginal Lives Matter T-shirt, I hobble outside and wistfully stir the embers of last night's fire. Phoenix flames soon burst around the billy. The sun flaring over the horizon has already extinguished the Milky Way—our Aboriginal people's guardian Emu—replacing millions upon millions of stars with a heat haze that's already shimmering over the desert.

The lickspittle media call our Alice Springs shanty town the new capital of a Reeber uprising. They brand us dole bludgers. Savages. Even terrorists. For what? I'm just brewing peppermint tea over an open fire instead of using an electric kettle.

The powers that be have always demonised our simpler, self-governing existence. Pissed off we won't be controlled. Won't toe the line. And will never ever turn a blind eye to the unfairness of the utopia the one-percenters peddle. Bigger house. Bigger car. Bali holiday. Shiny, shiny teeth. Aspiration, perspiration; forever a fingertip away.

Peppermint tea had soothed me for two years in Darwin before my bile began to win out. My resistance had simply seemed too vanilla; too Diet Coke, not the real thing. And as much as it broke my heart, that included my cheap and cheerful city picket fence existence with Ellie.

I needed more. The risk and reward of brewing chaos that splinters order.

Sure, this new life in Alice isn't always plain sailing. Reebers do in-fight when tempers flare. But we barter. You fix my ute, I'll fix you a feed. You sew my shorts, I'll make you a crossbow. Heaps of us are networked, tooled up with weapons, laptops, phones, jammers, filters, drones and probes.

It's a constant cat and mouse. As we exploit the security loopholes of the powers that be, they close them. When they made it harder to use cellular, we adopted CB. Ironically, the older tech is harder to hack. Back then, fewer backdoors were inserted by corporations under pressure from legislative muscle and fat back-handers.

Hack upon hack, before Alice, we'd patted ourselves on the backs. Virtual disorder victories had a far lower body count than direct engagement.

Arrogant really.

The coordinated raids last May came from nowhere. Someone—a random start-up Reeber cell I guess—had somehow stirred the possum. The fascists' strike had been deadlier than the venom from an inland taipan’s bite.

We fought back. They shot to kill. Then torched our camps closer to Darwin. We suffered heavy losses. I lost friends that in a short time had become like family. That made us Mad-Max-angry. 

We took to the road, regrouped deeper into the outback. Our last stand; no more options. There's no other town like Alice to flee to if this camp is destroyed.

So now we're going all-out. It's war. We're better placed. Innovated. Better kit. Faster specs. Deeper probes. It's rewarding, but hard yakka. 

So far they've not had cause to attack again.

Yet.

We’re all feeling the approaching tipping point. We’re ready. On the brink of the greatest Aussie victory since Mabo, or the biggest interment of a generation since Gallipoli.

Sips turn to gulps as dawn’s peppermint tea starts losing the battle. Fuck! I can’t help myself. Thoughts of making a break for it—again—roam unchecked.

What would that make me?

Last night's ingénue stirs behind me. The wet season hadn’t offered much choice but, now it's the dry, riding a bike rather than some random’s cunt is an option.

Would this really be running away? Or running forward, just in the opposite direction? Yeah, convoluted I know. But it’s a path back to the source of my greatest pain and biggest euphoria.

Forgive me, Ellie.

I finish the drink, place the cup down next to the fire. Breathe deeply. Accept. The echo of the didgeridoo's final note rolling across the landscape seals it.

Slipping on leathers, quietly grabbing some things, including my computer, I'm far from the camp before Ali twigs that I've gone.

The constant throb of the motorbike against my pussy is another reminder of what I've missed. I chew through unending liquorice laces of tarmac between expanses of baked red earth up the Stuart Highway. By the time I reach the Tennant's Creek roadhouse the sun is high in the vast blue sky. Four more hours of flipping between doubt and certainty. Undoing my last resolution more often than the Prime Minister's daks have been unbuckled by someone other than his wife.

Coffee and fuel. Crunch time. It's not too late to double back. I stir the drink until I fear I'm going to grind a hole in the base. I’m not sure I can do this anymore. Whatever this is. Not without Ellie. If we're going out in a blaze of glory, I need to be by her side one last time.

Fuck it, my emotional tank is empty. Let’s go. There's nothing more to lose, even if I find out I've already lost her.

At speed, the Street Triple purrs between my thighs. The scanner's neon green readout, clipped to the handlebars alongside the CB radio, is dormant. It had chirped a few times approaching the outskirts of Tennant's Creek but now is silent. Safe enough to let her rip. Get to Darwin as fast as possible.

The bike roars appreciatively as I feather the throttle. Electric machines offer more torque. Greater acceleration. Less direct pollution. But they're too easy to track, with nowhere near the excitement of hammering pistons. Sparks. Combustion. Raw energy. Yeah, it's been modded to run on HCG but the Triumph is my connection with the past. The good ol' days when machines did our bidding, and we weren't hell bent on making them smarter than us at all costs. AI? Fuck off.

Four more hours overthinking at speed blunts awareness. I notice the jay-hopping kangaroo late and, desperately swerving onto the other side of the road, only just miss it. Shaken, a half hour later I pull into the Daly Waters pub rather than pushing on to Katherine.

The pub's owner is a past master of turning a blind eye; he keeps safe by trading in nostalgia not anarchy. A higgledy-piggledy collection of kitsch, frigid beer on tap, steak and barra on the barbie, open access. For fuck's sake, there's even a horse who saunters up to the outside bar for her evening feed.

The cabin barely qualifies as basic. No ice. No aircon, so I improvise; shower and flop onto the squeaky bed without drying. It doesn't help. I still shake like a bloody vibrator from the incessant bike ride. And can't quiet my head.

All I can think of is Ellie.

I explore my body to try taking the edge off. Dig fingers into my needy snatch and thumb my clit hard, recalling the way her tongue expertly skimmed and probed my depths, knowing how to reach the real me.

Part of me wonders how I've managed without her and what the fuck I'd been thinking giving up those hugs, those kisses, those needs that she let me fulfil. 

My kitten.

I finger fuck my slippery cunt with one hand, clutch roughly at breasts with the other. Arch into the clammy heat of the room and pray she'll forgive me. I groan into the featureless space, tensing and cumming hard. Then sleep overwhelms me.

I wake late, surprisingly refreshed. Pay cash and the bar owner doesn't ask. Outside, putting my helmet on, my fingertip skims the scar in my neck where the tiny chip used to be. Proof of the adage it's not what you know but who you know.

Being c-tagged was opt-in at first. ‘C’ for Convenience, the marketeers had said. But as adoption grew, so did its reach. Now without it, I'm the true definition of an outcast. Unable to freely travel; to have an offshore bank account; to pay tax. So, no nine-to-five. No healthcare. But screw it. Storming the castles of the filthy rich has got to be way more fulfilling than a meaningless desk job in the fucking Matrix.

Approaching Katherine, the radio gives a burst of static. Two voices in a brief, coded exchange over the bed of Gaussian noise designed to disrupt triangulation. Despair, it seems, breeds innovation. Modified handsets added a layer of encryption; a fuck-you to the power hungry who want to infiltrate every facet of our lives. Wankers that demand our transparency, while secrecy prevails within their citadels.

I tense and slow the bike. Something is hovering ahead. Adrenaline pumps until I recognise the effortless swoop of a Nankeen kestrel. It climbs again. Hangs there, seemingly motionless, patiently waiting to strike. A bit like us Reebers. Nowadays it’s the little things that remind me of what it really means to be human and not bought by the Government of the Corporations, for the Corporations.

The temperature drops a degree or two as day fades. The angular cityscape looms ahead beneath a breathtaking purple-orange hue.

Darwin.

I cast a doleful eye left, at a laid-waste Reeber camp. A disarray of corrugated sheets daubed in anti-elitist graffiti. An empty shrine to the hope brutalized by the fascists' May Day strikes.

The asphalt snakes in gentle curves towards the city. Bush and ruined Reeber enclaves give way to a more suburban sprawl. Sporadic housing becomes denser. Commercial districts bloom. The language of money.

I thread the bike through backstreets to avoid cameras. Last thing I need is a gung-ho copper with gaps in his arrest rate making a point.

She lives on Wells, and the sun's dipping when I park around the corner. I swing my leg off the bike, remove my helmet and shake out wavy, dark locks. Check my reflection in the bike mirror, the cluster of freckles on my cheeks now blanched by the desert's fierce sun.

Taking a tarp from my backpack, I flick it and let the material billow over the machine. It samples the surroundings and the outline of the bike merges into the street. Not enough to fool a human, but it hinders aerial identification from drone cams. And that's ninety percent of the battle.

I stride past waist-high, wrought iron fences bursting with shrubs determined to capture the last of the sun's dying rays. Turn into her short drive and pace to the front door, rapping the knocker.

Nothing. For a long moment my heart skitters, nerves shredded over what she'll say. How she'll take my return. Whether I'll be able to convince her…

The lock clicks, two bolts slide back and the door swings inward.

There she is, barefoot. Cutoffs. Ramones T-shirt. Dirty blonde highlights instead of mauve. New tattoo on her thigh; a heart pierced by an arrow. Still breathtakingly beautiful.

Her lips part in surprise, one natural brow arching. “You've got a bloody nerve.”

She flings the door closed, but I jam my boot in, a fraction before it latches. “Ellie, wait.”

“Fuck off, Nikki.”

I rest my palm against the faded wood and sigh. “You've got every right to be angry.”

“You think?”

“Just…” I cast my gaze back up the street, through the trees toward the high-pitched buzz of a corporate drone patrolling its beat, on approach. Fucking bad timing. “Just hear me out, 'kay?”

“Why? You ghosted me. Didn't give a shit when I needed you most.”

I sigh again. “It wasn't like that.”

“How the fuck would I know?” she spat. “Hooked up with the Reebers? Hooked up with another kitten? You forgot to fill me in, remember?”

“Ellie, please. There's no new kitten. But there is a drone closing in. So unless you want me barbecued on your step, and all the questions that'll trigger, please let me in.”

I flick my eyes left. It's maybe forty metres away. Thirty. I stare resolutely at the door. Through it; willing her to let go and not give the machine a chance to photograph me. Process me. Conclude I'm on the shoot-to-kill list in the blink of a transistor.

There's a long pause. Twenty metres. Ten.

The pressure on my boot slackens and I forge inside, breathing out with my back to the door. “Thank you. The fascists are relentless.”

“No shit Sherlock. There were alternatives, y'know.”

I study her elfin features. Exhale. “Not real choices.”

She shoots from the hip. “Bull shit. You’ve always been too black and white.”

I tip my head against the door and breathe. “I'm not here to argue.” The ceiling's been freshly painted. The air is floral and calming; an oasis amid the grime of the city outside. She always was good at effortlessly carving out her space.

“Then why are you here?”

A hundred reasons flash through my head, but only one surfaces. My eyes find hers. “I missed you.”

“Hah! That's all you got?”

“Truth.”

She studies me and I wonder if I've changed as much as she has. World weariness has taken its toll. More sculpted angles instead of the softer curves of the excess we used to enjoy.

“Missed me or disappointed in what you ran to?” She finger-combs her frizz. “Black suits you, by the way.”

I mirror her actions. “Necessity over style but yeah, I like it too.”

We eye one another. Say nothing until I sigh once more. “I'm sorry, Ellie. I just… I dunno…” I purse my lips and blow out. “Had to be somewhere doing more, I guess.”

Her mouth forms a straight line. “You could have done more here.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Didn't have to go beyond the fucking black stump.”

I drum my fingertips against the door. “I got caught up in the idea of being a Reeber. The hacks. The teamwork. It didn't seem… compatible with you and I.”

She shakes her head. “We were a good team.”

I look away and swallow. “Do you miss the adrenaline rush of resistance?”

It takes her a few beats to answer. “Jesus, you really have no idea. What makes you think I stopped? The world doesn't revolve around you, Nikki.”

That tears a hole in my gut. I stare, the silence hanging like that moment of quiet before the plane wheels land. When I do speak, my voice is a mere echo. “But you withdrew. Went safe. I thought—”

“No, you didn't think. You ran, Nikki. Deserted.” I jolt when her fist thumps against the table, juddering the vase and its delicate orchids. “You stupid fucking bitch. How could you?”

My pulse thunders. There's a quaver to my voice. “You've every right to be angry.” I try to gauge her. Fail. “Yes, okay, I ran. There, I admit it. But you didn't have the spark that you had when we started. I craved that energy. Fed off it. Off you.”

She eyes me with something partway between contempt and affection. “Your kitten wanted to make you proud. I was going to tell you what was done after we’d succeeded.”

My stunned disbelief grows. “Seriously? Who’s we?”

“You remember Daniel Choi? The guy from LogSense?” 

“He’s a lightweight.”

“He acts the idiot, but he’s the best hacker in the Territory. And he’s survived by keeping the cloak and dagger shit absolutely need to know.”

My brows knot, still seething. “And you hid that from me?”

“I’m not the one who’s in the wrong, Nikki. But you leaving without knowing what I’d planned nearly broke me.”

Our eyes meet. “Can you tell me now?”

She sighs. “As it happens, yeah. A couple of months before you legged it, I ran him some errands. We talked about him making some code changes. An innocent commit among hundreds of others in a tiny component of a logging engine used by pretty much every bank.” Her eyes sparkle at the recollection. “Virtually untraceable.”

I scoff. “The Titanic was virtually unsinkable.”

She waves my concerns away.  “It took some planning, but I’ve bought Daniel’s argument that our future has to be guerilla. Think globally, act locally. The opposite of what most cells are now thinking. When I read that the fascist bastards had turned the Reeber camps into the killing fields, I feared you'd died.” 

Her expression hardens. “Do you know what that's like? To worry myself sick that the events I helped orchestrate took away the most precious fucking thing in the world?”

A lump forms in my throat. “God I'm sorry.”

“Sorry, sorry. You're always fucking sorry.”

“Ellie—”

She holds up her hand. “Don't.”

I let the silence breathe. Eye her. “So what did he do?”

Her sigh is heavy. “He changed the way log files were flushed around DST.”

I blink. “We don't observe Daylight Saving Time in Darwin.”

“Yeah, but they do in Sydney. Logs compensate when the clocks change. Daniel made it so they don't.”

My eyes widen. “So last April you took a fuckload of cash, and the server overwrote the transaction an hour later? Clever.”

She nods. “Transactions. Plural.”

I whistle. “Risky. Didn't it trip alarms?”

“We kept a low profile. Hit a tonne of accounts. Ten thousand bucks here, a hundred thou there. Small change to the fat cats. We doubted they'd even notice.”

“I'm impressed.”

“But they noticed. Just not the who and the how. That's why the May Day revenge was indiscriminate.”

“Fuck.” My gaze settles on her again. Sweeps from eyes to hips, and back up again.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“That. Like I'm still your property.” She lets out a burst of air. “Jesus, you bailed on me. No note. No number.” Her voice hollows. “I had no choice but to toss your kitten collar in the trash and get on with my life.”

I bite my lip. “So did you?”

“What?”

“Move on. You know what I mean.”

She snorts. “As if you care? Well, yes, I fucked. A lot.” 

A pang in my heart takes my breath away, but she barrels on, hands on her hips. “I fucking fucked until I could barely fucking see straight to try and patch the fucking hole you tore in me, and you know what? It was fun. Necessary. Cathartic. And you know what else?” I swipe at my eye. “It was nothing compared to what we had. Nuh-thing.”

“Fuck. Fuck, I'm sorry.”

“So how dare you waltz back into my life waving the white flag and expect me to fall at your feet. I oughta kick you out. Hell, I oughta knock you the fuck out.”

I push away from the door. Take a step closer. “Ellie, this…”

“Don't you fucking dare.”

“But…”

“Seriously.”

I breathe out and look away briefly. “Fine. Could I grab a glass of water? It's bitchin’ dry on the road.”

She eyes me. Spins and stalks to the kitchen. I follow. Even mad, she's sex on legs.

I ache to touch her. Leaving had been the hardest decision, but she’d scaled back from the carefree days when we celebrated each conquest entangled in each other's arms and cunts, fucking into the small hours. She was withdrawn. More contemplative.

Giving her up nearly tore me apart, but I compartmentalised. Shut down. Drove my energy into the Reeber lifestyle instead. Yet, it seems like it was me who'd lost the plot; she too was trapped by the lifestyle we'd chosen.

She turns back from the fridge and nudges the door shut with a deft flick of her elbow. Holds out the tumbler. I nearly drop it when our fingertips brush. My veins fizz. I wonder if she can feel it too.

Even the icy water can't temper the rush. I eye her over the glass rim as I drink. We say nothing. When I hand it back, I only nod. Make sure to skim her fingertip again, then watch her turn to the sink. Take in her svelte figure. The way the T-shirt pinches into the contours of her waist. The swell of her arse peeking beneath the cutoffs. The subtle tan of her legs that lead down to the tickliest toes I've ever licked.

God I love her.

Fuck it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I step into her space. Scoop a lock of hair behind her ear and lean in to whisper: “Tell me you haven't missed this.” She turns her head away, but I follow, tracing the outline of her ear and watch the shiver form, travelling downward. I brush my lips to her lobe. Kiss. Nip.

Ellie doesn't move, her voice stark. “Nikki, I got too much on my mind. Distributing the cash. Can't handle this right now. I'm not… not…” she tails off as I run my tongue around the edge of her ear. Sigh into it.

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

I nibble her ear. Trail my fingers up her spine, vertebra by vertebra, beneath the mane that catches the spotlight above the sink.

She remains silent, save for her heavier breaths. I form a ponytail in my fist and tug down, whispering, “What about this?” My lips rove down her neck. Kiss the goosebumps. I press my body against hers and tilt my head so I can caress the side of her throat, rippling alongside my lips as she swallows. “You missed this?”

“God, Nikki.”

I smile. Run my lips to her ear again. “Goddess Nikki to you.”

She exhales. Moans when I nibble her ear again. “Fuck.”

My belly flutters at every caress. Her skin smells of soap and tastes of perspiration and I crave rediscovering every pore. Emboldened, I skim my tongue in the crease of her neck, nudging the T-shirt aside and scuffing her collar bone.

“Wish I could undo the last nine months, baby. Control-Z my stupid decisions until it was just us again. You and me versus the world.”

Her breath hitches. “Jesus, if this is just another fad of yours, I'll never forgiv—”

I place a finger to her lips. “Shhh. I fucking want you.”

Guiding her by the elbow to face me, I cup her cheeks and kiss her. My heart pounds, the rush of blood to my ears temporarily blocking her moan. I feel it when her tongue snakes against mine, mouths mashing as intensity rockets.

Drifting my hands to her hips, I draw our bodies together. Slide my knee between hers to part them, and press my thigh into the hot gap. 

She drops her hands to her sides and lets me roam beneath her T-shirt, slithering up warm skin to cup her breasts. She rarely wears a bra at home and today’s no exception. Her petite mounds respond to my kneading, nipples hardening when I capture them between thumb and forefingers.

Our lips part, the tiniest string of saliva stretching and snapping as I dive to wrap my lips around a nipple framed beneath the 'n' of Ramones.

Her exhalation huffs past my scalp as I tease the nub beneath the fabric. Flick my tongue and graze the hidden pebble with my teeth. She loves being bitten, but that’s going to wait.

I suck instead. Wait for her groan then release, squeezing her tits to massage the eddying heat. When I treat her other nipple to the same, she tips her head back and moans.

Letting go of her mounds, I track south and rest fingertips at her waistband. Wait until she makes eye contact, and raise an eyebrow.

“Pleeease,” she breathes.

“Please what?”

“Undo them.”

“Why?”

I lean in, kiss her neck alongside the tiny scar where her implant used to be, roaming to her throat as her head tips back. The vibrations of her voice thrill me. “I need your fingers inside me.”

She yelps when I bite the skin of her throat. “Have you forgotten your place?”

She exhales. “Fuck… Finger me, Mistress.”

“Better.”

I slither my hands behind the buttons, grab the fabric and tear it open. Ellie jerks at the suddenness and breathes in.

Curling my fingers against the lemon cotton panties, I cup her pussy, springy where her bush hides.

“Wet already, kitten?”

She bites her lip and nods.

“All for me?”

She nods again, fast.

I pat her knickers. “Good girl.”

Tracing outward and up, I toy with the waistband of the cutoffs and help her wriggle free of them. She steps out of the puddled material and I grab her waist, assisting her to hop up onto the sink ledge.

Easing her back, her arse slides into the sink and we giggle as she nearly topples backwards into the window box. I steady her.

She rests her elbows either side of the sink and stretches a little to elevate her midriff towards me. I lick my lips, bend and kiss her underwear.

So pungent already. My pulse thumps through my veins knowing how good she'll taste. I'd usually take my time. Tease her until she's a dripping mess, begging me to finish her. But I don't have the resolve. I grab the gusset and peel it aside, strings of hot grool stretching, moments before I bury my face in her oozing snatch.

She arches against me and groans, wet heat swamping my senses. I breathe in and feel home, the barren months melting away. Musk, thyme and hints of citrus mingle as I rock my face, lancing my tongue between her folds and hooking juices onto my hungry palate.

My fingertips dig into her thighs as I swallow. Ellie supports herself on one elbow and reaches forward to anchor my mouth to her pussy. I don't need the encouragement, but my heart swells at giving her everything she needs.

I work overtime. Probe and slurp and kiss every inch of her matted core, paying particular attention to crushing my nose against her clit when my tongue forges in her wetness. As her mewls increase in pitch and intensity, I hold on, clamped between her grip on my hair, and slick thighs coated with arousal.

When she stiffens, it's like we're the only two people on this fucked up excuse for a planet. No dust storms. No crop shortages. No running from drones for not being c-tagged. Just two souls locked in blissful union, one giving, one receiving, the line between which, blurred.

Her pussy pulses around my tongue in sync with her cries and I lap furiously, satiating my hunger with her sweet drizzle. Every breath is laced with her and I shudder, dripping into my underwear, squirming to rub my lips together.

She shakes against me until the sensitivity peaks, then shoves my head away. I flip my hair over one shoulder and gaze at the sheen of her centre. If her delicious cunt was messy before, it's positively ruined now as I lean in and idly play my tongue through the frothy peaks of saliva and juices trapped in her pubes. I smile up at her, watching her world reshaping as she strokes my hair.

“Fuck,” she breathes. “Just... fuck.”

I nod. “That's one.”

“One?”

“Figure I owe you a good half dozen at least.”

She giggles, an infectious cadence. “More, so many more.”

I offer my hand and haul her out of the sink. Reach for the hem of her top and yank it upwards. Can't resist bending to lap and swirl my tongue around her nipples. Cocking my head, I walk caresses to her left hip and kiss the tattoo of a tiny, ornate butterfly nestled in her waist.

“This is new.”

“Mmm. You like it?”

“So pretty.”

Standing, I pull her across to the small island in the centre of the room and guide her face first to bend over it.

“Hold the edges and don't move.”

She obeys, breath hitching as I tug her underwear to the floor, leaving her naked, draped over the unit.

Crossing to the large fridge-freezer, I open it and grab the ice tray. Pop a cube out and place it on her spine, about halfway down. She gasps. I twist the tray and place five more, balancing them in a line to match her contours, ending at the crest of her behind.

She squirms as the cubes begin to melt and I stroke her cheek flush with the countertop.

“Shhh. Be good.”

I know where she keeps her toys. Rummage through the back of her underwear drawer and smile as I select her favourite. Our favourite.

Back in the kitchen, I let the sounds of me disrobing, stepping into and buckling the harness prey on her mind. The anticipation makes her drip. She wiggles her behind impatiently and the ice cubes slither out of position.

“Tut tut. Patience, kitten.”

Stepping close, I sweep the remnants of the cubes into a puddle in the hollow of her back. She inhales shakily when I cup them, drag the freezing pool to her arse and let it drip into the cleft to tumble across her burning pussy lips.

I rotate my hand, fingers pointing downward and curl icy tips and watery pebbles into her slit. Probing, she squirms and pants, my thumb finding the tightness of her arsehole and using it as leverage to drive my fingers inside her.

Leaning forward to her ear, I whisper, “Want me to warm you up?”

She bites her lip and nods, chin against the surface of the island.

I glide my free hand up through the droplets on her spine and grab a fistful of hair, tugging to jerk her head. “I didn't catch that.”

She groans. “Yes, Mistress. Fuck me.”

Letting go of her hair, I stroke her cheek. “Present yourself then.”

Her dainty hands slide from the countertop to her arsecheeks and she peels them apart, stepping wider in the process.

After digging my fingers in deeper, I slither them free, pat her pussy and lick the digits clean. “Mmmm.”

I shuffle in and grab the base of the dangling phallus. Technically, it's not on par with later models that can alter their properties to accommodate the desires of both wearer and recipient. More tapered. More bulbous. Flavoured fake cum at the swipe of the app. The model I guide to her snatch and swab her splayed entrance is soft black silicone. Analog. And enormous.

One thing Ellie always loved was girth. I prefer my cock a comfortable fit but she adores being stretched, filled and ruined. When I penetrate her widening channel, she howls approval. Her fingertips turn white as I forge inside until the array of ridges near the toy's base catch on her lips. That's when she gasps, hands releasing her flesh and slapping into the worktop. “Oh fuck yesss.”

Pushing until our hips meet, I stroke her peach. Watch goosebumps rise as she breathes through the intrusion.

“You like that, baby?”

“Jesus. Just ruin me.”

The stinging slap to her globe rings out. She doesn't need another prompt. “Mi… Mistress.”

I snake my hands to her hips and pin her to the unit as I draw the cock completely free. The tip glistens with her juices and I glide it back inside. Apply pressure until I'm fully embedded again. Withdraw. She moans when it slips free and her hole closes behind it, only to be split again on the next in-stroke. The toy's beauty is it's double ended; the smaller end, my side of the base, fills me beautifully, and I sigh with her.

Picking up the pace, I marvel at the amount the toy stretches her. It's almost obscene but she mewls encouragement. Chants, fuck fuck under her breath. I slither my hands to her shoulders over the ink of those colourful angel wings, altering the angle of entry slightly, yank free and slam into her sopping cunt. She hisses into the faux marble, so I do it again. And again. And again. Each stab of my hips sends tremors rocketing through my cunt, heating my core, and I feel myself nearing climax.

As difficult as it is, I slow. Ride the cusp of my orgasm and let it subside before renewing my actions. Varying the rhythm and depth turns her hisses to screams. I once more let her fully close in the wake of the shaft before piercing her, then issue a series of shorter thrusts, burying deep as I clutch her shoulders. “Kitten likes it rough.” It's a statement more than a question.

“Yeah, fuck yes,” she pants.

“Gonna cum with me?”

She nods as I slam into her and drape my body over hers. I sweep aside her hair and bite her ear, roaming lips to her cheek. Her back arches, head turning towards me, breath hot as I seek her mouth, our tongues clashing, orgasms claiming us.

Rocking my hips against her, we swallow each other's cries, the dildo squeezed by our rhythmic contractions.

This feels like morning in Australia. The echoes of the soulful didgeridoo that herald the dawn of a new day.

I don't know how long it is before I reanimate. The kiss turns sensual, playful, and we giggle, easing apart. The toy slithers free, squelching, and I help her up. She offers a weak grin and bends to lick and lap her essence off the sticky silicone before standing and slipping her tongue in my mouth. We share another sensuous kiss, hearts still pounding against each other until we eventually separate.

As I busy myself unstrapping the monster, and dump it dripping on the kitchen floor, she collects our clothes, tossing mine across. We redress, eyeing one another the whole time.

She smooths her T-shirt and primps her hair. “I'm famished. Want some dinner? I was gonna throw some pasta on.”

I nod and she sets about gathering ingredients. I help, skinning the prawns and chopping the chorizo and onions, and soon the air is filled with spicy aromas, the sauce bubbling on the stove.

The pasta, accompanied by fresh rocket from the window box, is up to her usual high standards. I tell her a little about the fascists laying waste to Reeber camps and how we'd regrouped in Alice. I omit the number of times I'd vainly searched for a human connection in the pussies of random fuck toys. She listens, twirling her fork.

I smile. “Hey. Forgot to ask. You mentioned dispersing the funds.”

“Yeah. Daniel's still shitting himself. Burying the cash on the dark web is one thing. Buying gold is another. He and I know our limitations.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Five hundred.”

“Thousand?”

“Million.”

“Fuck!”

“Exactly.”

I take the last mouthful and put my fork down. “Got plans to move the cash?”

She shrugs. “Mostly we're at a brick wall. You're the fastest chook I know at setting up netbridges. What would you do?”

My head whirrs. Calculating. Assimilating. I breathe out. “If we preload deposit boxes, account numbers, and use a six-hop minimum, we could network some of the money. Insist on Reeber cells going guerilla. Withdraw it from branches in woop woop where there's less scrutiny. That would take care of some. Think they'd listen?”

She nods. “Could work. Money's a good motivator. And I’ve learnt how to surreptitiously buy other assets.”

My turn to nod. “So does this mean we're back? A team again?”

Ellie shifts her gaze to mine. “Baby steps, baby. Forgiveness needs to be earned.”

“I understand.”

I break eye contact. Stand and dump the dishes in the sink. Saunter back and stand behind her, my hands kneading her shoulders.

Slowly sliding my fingertips down her sides, I reach the hem of her T-shirt and lift, tugging it free. Her tits bounce and I bend to her ear, whispering, “Kitten, I’m going to rebuild your trust in me orgasm by delicious fucking orgasm.”