Perplexed by Plural Penises
My grin stretches wide and I take a drag of my cigarillo. I read my edited letter a few times over and deem it publication-ready. Then I pen my reply.
Dear Perplexed by Plural Penises,
My darling, I can do more than help. I can open a whole new world of pleasure for you both. It is time you discovered the joy of ass play. Yes, I understand the concept is shocking for the faint of heart, but I promise you will thank me later. I am not suggesting you take an anus full of sea snake cock in one go, dearest reader. I’m implying you simply learn to play with your ass. Start with a finger and go from there. Never work with a dry canvas and always communicate your comfort and safety needs with your lover. Enjoy!
Forever yours,
Gladys
I fucking love my job.
I finish my cigarillo and my perusal of my mail, selecting four more letters to feature in upcoming issues of theGazette. None inspired quite the same level of excitement to immediately answer, but I have plenty of time to ponder how to reply. For now, I can work on penning out the details of my case study with Daphne thus far.
From inside one of my desk drawers, I extract my copy of my manuscript. I flip through it to determine where I should insert the first anecdote regarding the study. Certainly somewhere in the chapter about Lesson One. On a fresh sheet of paper, I begin to scribble out some of the details about Daphne’s lesson. To keep her identity anonymous, I refer to her as Miss D. I drum my fingers over my manuscript, considering the best way to spin Daphne’s ploy with Araminta so that it sounds encouraging to readers, something they can replicate on their own. I scrawl out my idea.
One of the key components to socializing and fun is accepting invitations. Miss D, who normally opted to remain home and refuse all offers of social engagements, finally agreed to an outing with a friend. She had no inkling that the potential for romance awaited her on the other side, yet lo and behold?—
A knock sounds at my door. I halt my sentence, noting I’d begun to dig the nib of my pen a little too hard into the paper as I was preparing to summarize Daphne’s meeting with Conrad. Fucking Conrad. He doesn’t even deserve to grace the pages of my book.
“Come in,” I call out, and the door swings open.
One of theGazette’ssecretaries enters, a fae female named Sally with a mousy voice and round gray ears instead of the pointed ones you more commonly find on seelie fae. “You have a visitor.”
I frown. I never get visitors. Neither at work nor at home. “Who is it?” A potential option occurs to me, and I rush to stand, my chest warming and my pulse quickening. “Does she have short black hair?”
Sally’s eyes widen at my burst of excitement. “No, her hair is light brown and quite curly. Even curlier than yours. I assume you’re related? She says she’s a Miss Phillips.”
My mind goes blank. Sally can only mean one person, but I’m surprised my sister would come to my work. “Where is she now?”
“In the lobby. Shall I send her away with a message, or would you like her to come up?”
I probably shouldn’t take personal meetings at work, but I haven’t seen my sister in months, and I’m concerned over what could have brought her here. “Please send her up. Thank you.”
As soon as Sally closes the door behind her, I scramble about my office, putting away all evidence ofAsk Gladys. Not only are columnists tasked with keeping the identities behind our pseudonyms private, but the last thing I want is for my little sister to catch snippets of sentences likePerplexed by Plural Penisesandass play. Angela may be twenty years of age, but she’ll always be my baby sister.
I manage to hide all damning evidence—save for the décor belonging to a geriatric female, of course—by the time Sally returns with Angela. My sister is barely through the door before she leaps at me, a wide smile on her lips as she crushes me in a hug.
“It’s been so long,” she says. I nod at Sally over my sister’s head, and the secretary closes the door. I return Angela’s embrace before she breaks away to look me up and down. Then at my office. “What’s with the décor?”
“Good question,” I say, and thankfully she just frowns instead of asking me to elaborate.
“I’m glad to see you’re hale and whole,” she says.
“I am, and I’m glad to see you are as well.”
Her cheeks have a healthy flush and her state of dress is neat and fashionable like always. She wears a tartan skirt and matching jacket, her light-brown curls pinned beneath a dainty maroon hat.
She lifts her chin. “If you’re so well and good, then why haven’t you been writing to me every week?” As she says the last part, she swats me with her beaded purse.
I grin at her fiery confidence. She was always such a shy and reserved girl, even more so when she was at boarding school, where she was shunned by her peers due to her perfect grades and well-known affluence. Maybe being named our father’s heir in my place has been a boon to her self-image. If so, I’m glad. It’s part of the reason I got myself disowned by our family.
“I’m sorry I haven’t written enough, Angie. I have missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. It isn’t the same at home without you. Not that I’m there much now that I’m in college.” Her expression falls and she worries her bottom lip. “I still don’t understand what happened between you and Father. He won’t say a thing. Was he truly so angry that your engagement to the princess fell through? You can’t be blamed for that?—”
“Angie.” My tone comes out sharper than I intend. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
