A flash of black hair and Tremontine red flew by in the dance; it was Allis Obby, the Embodiment of Neya, she realized. Allis was stunning, the kind of woman that instantly caught Bessa’s eye. She was everything Bessa wasn’t; she was short and curvy with perfect coloring, and a way about her that riveted every eye. Bessa herself was tall and sticklike, she thought, with no coloring whatsoever and a way that let the eye skip right over her. Or so her father repeatedly said.
Watching Allis dance made her heart beat a little faster. So graceful, such rounded arms, the sweet, tempting valley between her full breasts. It wasn’t that Allis was what Bessa wished she were; that was silly, wishful thinking, and Bessa was a practical girl. No. But her dreams in the night--the dreams where she woke up wet between the legs and flushed all over--were all of small, dark-haired, curvy young women like Allis.
Her thoughts were inevitably led to her maid, Silsha, her one consolation. Ah, Silsha, thought Bessa as she watched the dancers without seeing them. She was half Inchari, her Silsha, and she had the thick, straight black hair of Inchari women; when it was down it reached nearly to her knees in a straight, fragrant curtain. Her eyes were a soft brown, and her skin was touched with caramel. Bessa thought about the feel of that skin under her fingers, the soft pleading purr of Silsha’s voice in her ear, the way Silsha’s face looked both ecstatic and agonized when Bessa brought her. It was more than sex with Silsha; it was love. But that didn’t mean Bessa was dead, she thought; she wondered what Allis Obby’s skin would feel like against her own, and what her kisses tasted like. But the Embodiment had disappeared from the floor. Where had she gone? Bessa wondered, searching the floor.
Causes MeiLin Miranda Supports
Electronic Freedom Foundation, Doctors Without Borders, Oxfam, Habitat for Humanity, American Civil Liberties Union