Print edition – Chapter One: Taste

After swirling yuri in a glass and sniffing it, She sets it back on the table, disappointed, and says, “Waiter, you told me this yuri was toxic. Clearly, you gave me supportive and affirming yuri by mistake. Take it back. And you had better not dare to look me in the eyes, girl.”

Simon Dufour, Her server, does not look many people in the eyes in general, let alone customers who are disappointed in him. The “Yes, Ma’am” he utters isn’t quite at the level of perceptible speech, but it’s all he can manage in the moment as he retrieves the untouched glass of crimson yuri and returns to the kitchen. 

Lisa, the yuri sommelier, sees him holding the glass, and asks “She sent it back?”

“Yeah….” Simon falters. It’s difficult to tell Lisa she made a yuri choice a customer rejected. Lisa has an excellent knack for pairing a lesbian’s mood with the exact blend that will sing to her imagination as she drinks it. When Lisa gets an order wrong, it usually isn’t that she made a mistake, it’s that the customer has very particular needs, and that means everyone at Femmes Fatales is in for a long night of second-guessing and pivoting. “Sorry. Sorry, Lisa. She said it wasn’t toxic enough. And. Uh…” There’s a roaring static running under his thoughts, but just barely through the noise, he hears himself say, “She called me a… a girl. For some reason…” 

Simon, kicking himself mentally, wonders, Why did I share that? 

Lisa’s bright-blue eyes widen. A large woman in every sense, she stands half-a-head taller than Simon, so she doesn’t need to adjust much to look over him and straight into the main hall of the bar, where the customer is waiting. Darting her eyes between the customer and Simon for an uncomfortable few moments, she finally reassures him with, “That’s… a strange thing to say to you, Simon. But, I think I have an idea as to what specific blend of toxic yuri she wants.”

Retreating into the kitchen, Simon watches her pass Florencia and Emily, who are gabbing to each other while prepping for the Saturday night rush of lesbians desperate for the escape a glass of yuri and the right atmosphere can bring. They pretend to work a little harder as Lisa passes them, and then, for some reason, they both glance directly at Simon. He does his best to find something interesting about his shoes. The women burst into giggles, and his face flushes, turning beet red. Being the only man working at a yuri bar can be isolating. 

Simon feels isolated a lot, actually.

Lisa returns with a bottle, holding it gently in her soft, large hands. 

How is Lisa both fat and pretty? Wait. Is that fatphobia? Is thinking the word ‘fat’ fatphobic of me? Fuck, pay attention, Simon. 

“Bring her this one.” Lisa uncorks the yuri and delicately pours. It calls out to Simon as it fills the glass, tempting him. 

No, you can have a glass when you get home. Not where they can all see you.

When Simon attempts to bring the Woman the new blend, She doesn’t even let him get to the table. Sternly, She says, “That vintage reeks of a Good Ending. Embarrassing. Turn around, girl, and bring me something truly toxic.”

When he reenters the kitchen with yet another full glass of yuri, Lisa doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Good. Now give her this one,” she urges, swapping out the Good Ending glass for another. Simon, too frazzled to respond, takes it and goes back out to the Woman at the table. This time She lets him set it down in front of Her, at least

She does not move. The glass sits untouched at the very center of the table.

“Did… did you want to try it?”

She folds her arms.

“I’ll take it back.”

When his hand grips the glass to retrieve it, one of Her hands, with Her pitch-black, sharpened nails, covers it. The touch sends a jolt through Simon, paralyzing him. “Good Girl,” She purrs, giving him the slightest poke of Her nails into his skin. It hurts.

It does hurt, right? Why do I like that it hurts?

“Do not keep me waiting, pet.”

It takes a sudden wellspring of self-control to not scamper away from Her when he makes his way back to the kitchen. This time, Lisa is already waiting for him with a fresh glass. Another quick hand-off, a pat on his shoulder, and Simon is walking back towards the Woman. The fifteen feet between the saloon-style doors and the table She’s sitting at elongates before Simon, the already moody lighting in the main hall of Femmes Fatales dimming everywhere except for around Her. 

When did a spotlight get installed above table 18? Didn’t he have other patrons tonight? Does it matter? There She is. Expecting him.

“What can you tell me about this vintage, girl?”

“Oh. Uh.”

“Did you come back to me and try to serve me yuri you know nothing about? Have you even tasted it yourself?”

Fuck, does She know I secretly drink yuri? Most guys don’t… but I just think it’s relaxing. Shit. Answer her. “Uh… No, Lisa… our Sommelier…”

“Lisa sent you right back out here to me without telling you anything about what you are ostensibly here to be knowledgeable about? I think, to rectify this situation, you should try it first.” She grins. Her teeth are blindingly white and perfect, framed by Her deep-red lipstick and radiant olive skin.

God, this Asian Woman is so fucking hot. Shit, why did I mentally insert that She’s Asian? Am I being racist? Or orientalist? Is it racist just to think it or is it racist if you act on the thought? Has watching anime my whole life broken my ability to be a functional human around Asian women? Oh fuck me, She’s waiting for a response.

“Um. We’re not supposed to sample the yuri after we’ve served it…”

“Did you just tell me no, girl? Is the customer not always right?” Her fingers wrap against the table, but She isn’t angry, is She? Simon senses that it’s more like a tactic than actual displeasure.

“Um.”

“I am telling you that I want you to try the yuri. If you are not willing to taste it, why would I?”

“Uh.” I can’t, not where others –

“Drink it. Now.”

Tentatively, he brings the glass to his lips. He closes his eyes as he sips. The yuri is marvelous, rich, and poisonous to its core. He does love when the yuri stings a bit,  a secret he would never tell anyone.

“What notes are you detecting, girl?”

Okay. Okay. Stay calm. This is your job. You serve yuri. So. Talk about what the blend is stirring in your mind, Simon. It’s fine. It’s fine to do this, because it is your job.

“There are hints of embarrassment kink.” And god is it hitting me right now.

She nods. “Go on. What else?”

“The base note is a power imbalance, with an age-gap finish.”

“Good girl. Tell me more.”

Okay, yeah. This IS my job. I can keep going.

“The aftertaste is… unique. In this yuri, the younger girl in a service position claims the entire time she doesn’t want this. It isn’t right, it isn’t fair, and it isn’t the future she wants for herself. But, she could leave at any point, really. Instead, she keeps coming back.”

“Excellent. Your palette must be well-developed, girl. But what is at its core? What is in the very soul of it? What theme does the entire yuri revolve around that you cannot stop thinking about?”

“I…”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s…”

“Girl, do not make me ask you again.”

He tries to shrink. There HAS to be a way to immediately and permanently make yourself tiny and invisible. However people DO disappear, he hasn’t figured it out quite yet. So instead, quietly, barely audibly, he admits, “This is forced-feminization yuri.”

The room is pitch-black except for Her widening smile. Is he imagining that She has fangs? The visual hallucinations usually take some time after drinking to push forward. Is the yuri really getting to him that quickly? 

The teeth move. The mouth behind them says, “Good girl.”

Christ, every time She does that… Fucking hell, Simon, be a man and stand up for yourself!

As far from assertive has he’s ever managed, Simon mumbles,  “But… I’m not…”

“I do not appreciate being spoken to in incomplete sentences. Say what you are going to say, girl. No sputtering. Speak. Up.”

Just say the fucking obvious thing, Simon. “I’m… I’m not a girl.”

Immediately, the Woman retorts with, “So you are telling me I am wrong, then? We established that the customer is always right, and you want to deny me already?”

“No, no, I don’t want to do that, it’s just –”

“So you DO NOT want to deny me, which of course means that you do agree that I am correct.” The Woman leans towards him, over the table. Simon does everything he can not to look down Her cleavage, but eye contact is even more difficult to maintain, so he settles on an ear as she continues to speak. “Let me assure you, if you manage to please me after all of this… embarrassingly poor service, I intend to tip. Quite generously, I might add. Now. Girl. Sit down.”

Sit? With Her? I… She asked me to. No. No. No. She told me to. 

There’s only one chair at the small circular table, so he reaches over to a nearby four-top to borrow another.

“I did not say to sit in a chair, girl. You have lost that privilege. You will need to earn it back. Sit on the floor. Next to me.”

A primal instinct to run is screaming inside his head, but it’s silenced when She snaps Her elegant, long fingers, and points at the ground directly next to Her.

No tip could possibly be worth this amount of degradation. He decides to walk away. There are other servers, let Emily or Florencia serve Her.

Another snap, another point. Why does it seem like the whites of Her eyes are being licked by flames? Fear strikes him again, but this time it’s the fear of what will happen if he doesn’t give in.

Perhaps the tip will be worth it. Maybe She’s a billionaire and will happily toss away money. Fuck knows I could use it. But if he angers Her? Or, if he angers Her more than he already has?

That fire was really there. He’d bet his soul on it.

And so, shaking more than he’d care to admit, he finds himself sitting on the ground beside Her seat.

She looms over him. Her face is not pleased.

“Next time, do not make me snap twice.”

He needs to look away, but finds himself unable to stop ogling Her thighs under the table. Her burgundy satin dress only covers the very top of them. Sheer black tights stretch over Her lithe legs, going down to black stiletto heels that look like they could more readily be used to make puncture wounds than walk comfortably in. Those are… incredible.

“Girl, it is rude to stare. You are not doing a very good job earning that tip. Apologize for staring.”

Startled out of his stupor, he finds a very interesting spot on the carpet between his legs and whimpers, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry… for staring without permission.”

“As you should be. Request permission next time, girl. I do like to have eyes on me, when I ask for them. Or demand them.”

Simon does his best to believe fixating on the carpet will save him. The patterned black and white waves seem to ebb and flow ever so slightly, and as he tries to focus on a single spot he feels his eyes drifting slowly with their rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth. God, like in those hypno-yuris…

Then.

Pressure. 

A hand on top of his head. Sharp nails, digging through his unkempt black hair and into his scalp just enough to scrape. A squeeze, and as his head is pulled back the safety net of the carpet is yanked out of view. She’s directly above him, and the eyes of flame are all he can see.

“Now. I am telling you. Stare.”

She must have more to Her face than Her eyes. He’s seen Her teeth. Fangs? But what color is Her hair? He can’t make it out. What is the shape of Her nose? How high are Her cheekbones? How round are Her ears? How soft is Her skin? He can’t tell. All he can see is flames, pulsing and growing until the whites are gone. The roaring, crackling fire surrounds pupils that are far too large and devoid of anything but gorgeous, onyx black.

Her nails break skin on his scalp as She lowers Her face directly above his, eyes inches away. He can feel heat. An ember dances away from the flames and singes his cheek.

She doesn’t blink. He tries to, but can’t.

Then She’s out of his vision, nestling against his ear. Above him the ceiling lamps swirl maddeningly. Lips brushing against his earlobe as they move, She whispers, “You have not finished your yuri, girl. It is time for you to drink the rest. Stay. Just like this.” She releases his scalp and retrieves the glass. 

In a moment of lucidity, he has to wonder what he must look like. Simon Dufour, a 24 year old server sitting cross legged on the ground, neck craned back to look upward at the Woman who holds a glass of yuri two feet above him.

“Do not spill a drop.”

She tilts the glass just enough, and the blood-red yuri tumbles down towards him. In the last possible moment he remembers to open his mouth, allowing the liquid to slam into the back of his throat. He nearly gags from the force of it, but fear of failure drives him and he manages to begin swallowing the cascade

Its warmth immediately blooms in his throat, rolling down his lungs, through his arms, running across his pelvis and into his legs, finally reaching his toes where he feels the wave begin to crawl back upwards, hitting every inch of his body again before it reaches his face.

He’s still swallowing the flow She’s pouring into him, but the warmth traveling up and down, up and down his body somehow eases his worries. Back and forth. Up and down. I can do this. I’ve drunk more yuri than any other man I know has ever admitted. I’ll prove I can do what She commands.

It keeps coming, and he keeps drinking. The pulsating heat travels from head to toe faster and faster until he no longer feels it moving because the soothing heat is in every extremity of his body at the same time. Impossible pleasure. A full-body high. A nude sunbath on a perfect day, radiating from within his core. He would sigh in contentment if he could, but he must keep drinking. Otherwise, She would be upset.

The importance of pleasing Her pokes at something in the edges of his brain – How long have I been Her plaything? Surely forever? – and then he swallows the last drop and the warmth ignites.

His body isn’t warm anymore, it’s hot. His body isn’t hot, it’s burning. His body isn’t burning, it’s a river of molten lava devouring every ounce of flesh and bone he has. Jerking backwards, he slams into the carpet and frantically rolls back and forth, attempting to douse flames that aren’t really there.

“Did I not mention this might sting?”

Pain.

“This particular vintage can have this effect on girls like you.”

He tries to scream but his tongue crumbles into ash.

“Girls who stubbornly go about their days attempting to be men.”

Her words fan the flames.

“Girls who need to be taught their place.“

She gets out of Her chair and straddles his writhing body. Inhumanly strong hands pin his shoulders to the ground. That unknowable face with eyes of flame leans in closer and closer until there can’t be more than a few centimeters between Her pupils and his. If the embers fall from them as they did before, he cannot tell. His soul is being consumed by flame, what is an ember or two on top?

“Would you like dessert?”

He cannot respond, but she isn’t waiting for one. She kisses his trembling mouth, and two razor sharp teeth pierce his lower lip. This new poison triples his pain and time loses all meaning. There never was an entity named Simon, he’s Nothing, and Nothing has only ever existed to experience agony. 

Nothing suffers through a dozen eternities, never knowing anything except pain and despair.

And then, like it so often is, Nothing is gone.

Bluesky Edition – Chapter One

Swirling yuri in a glass and sniffing it, she sets it back on the table, disappointed.

“Waiter, you told me this yuri was toxic. Clearly, you gave me supportive and affirming yuri by mistake. Take it back. And don’t you dare look at me in the eyes, girl.”

Simon, her waiter, goes back to the kitchen. Lisa the sommelier sees him holding the glass.

“She sent it back?”

“Yeah…. She said it wasn’t toxic enough. And. Uh. She called me a girl for some reason.”

Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Ah. I see. I may know what specific kind of toxic yuri she wants.”

Lisa sends Simon back out with another glass of yuri.

The woman doesn’t even let him get to the table.

“That vintage reeks of a Good Ending. Embarrassing. Turn around, girl, and bring me something truly toxic.”

When Simon comes back to the kitchen with yet another full glass of yuri, Lisa doesn’t look surprised at all.

“Good. Now give her this one.”

Lisa swaps out the Good Ending glass for another. Simon, too frazzled by this whole situation, says nothing and goes back out to the Woman at the table.

This time she lets him set it down in front of her, at least.

She does not move. The glass sits on the very center of the table.

“Did… did you want to try it?”

She folds her arms.

“I’ll take it back.”

As he brings yet another untouched glass back to the kitchen, she whispers, “Good Girl.”

This time Lisa is waiting with a fresh glass. Another quick hand-off, and Simon is walking back towards the Woman. The fifteen feet between the kitchen doors and the table she’s sitting at might as well be the ocean.

Didn’t he have other patrons tonight? Does it matter? There She is. Expecting him.

“What can you tell me about this vintage, girl?”

“Oh. Uh.”

“Did you dare to come back to me and try to serve me yuri you know nothing about? Have you even tasted it yourself?”

“No, Lisa… our Sommelier…”

“Lisa sent you right back out here to me, and she didn’t tell you anything, did she? I think you should try it first.”

“Oh. We’re not supposed to sample the yuri after we’ve served it…”

“Did you just tell me No, girl? Isn’t the customer always right?”

“Um.”

“I am telling you that I want you to try the yuri. If you’re not willing to taste it, why would I?”

“Uh.”

“Drink it.”

Slowly, he lifts the glass back up and takes a sip. He closes his eyes. It’s marvelous, rich, and poisonous to its core. He can’t help but savor it. Secretly, when he’s at home alone, he dreams about trying yuri just like this for himself.

“What notes are you detecting, girl?”

“There’s hints of embarrassment kink.”

She nods. “Go on. What else?”

“The aftertaste is a power imbalance.”

“Good girl. Tell me more.”

“The younger girl in a service position claims the entire time she doesn’t want this. But she could leave at any point. And instead, she keeps coming back.”

“Excellent. But what’s the core? What’s in the very soul of it? What theme does the entire yuri revolve around that you cannot stop thinking about?”

“I…”

“Spit it out.”

“It’s…”

“Girl, do NOT make me ask you again.”

He feels himself trying to shrink, he has the need to take up less space.

Quietly, barely audible: “This is forced feminization yuri.”

A wide, wide grin greets him. Her teeth are perfect. Is he imagining that she has fangs? Is the yuri really getting to him that quickly?

More a purr than words from her lips, she says, “Good girl.”

“But… I’m not…”

“I don’t appreciate being spoken to in incomplete sentences. Say what you are going to say, girl.”

Why is this so hard to say? “I’m not a girl.”

“Interesting. So you’re telling me I’m wrong. We already established that the customer is always right, and you want to deny me?”

“No, it’s just -“

“You DON’T want to deny me, which of course means you DO agree that I’m correct. And let me assure you, if you manage to please me after all of this poor service, I intend to tip quite generously. Now. Girl. Sit. Down.”

There’s only one chair at the small circular table, so he turns towards a nearby four-top to borrow another.

“I didn’t say in a chair, girl. You’ll need to earn that privilege back. You’ve lost it. Sit on the floor. Next to me.”

A primal instinct to run is screaming inside his head.

She snaps her elegant, long fingers, and points at the floor directly next to her.

No tip could possibly be worth this amount of degradation. He decides to walk away. There are other servers, let someone else serve Her.

Another snap, another point.

Why does it seem like the whites of her eyes are being licked by flames?

Fear strikes him again, but this time it’s the fear of what will happen if he doesn’t give in.

Perhaps the tip will be worth it. Maybe she’s a billionaire and will happily toss away money. And if he angers her? Or angers her more than he already has?

That fire was really there. He’d bet his soul on it.

And so, shaking more than he’d care to admit, he finds himself sitting on the ground beside Her seat.

She looms over him.

“Next time, don’t you dare make me snap twice.”

He’s looking at her thighs under the table. Her burgundy satin dress only covers the very top of them. Sheer black tights stretched over her lithe legs, going down to black stiletto heels that look like they could more readily be used to make puncture wounds than walk comfortably in.

“Girl, it’s rude to stare. You’re not doing a very good job earning that tip. Apologize for staring.”

He looks at the ground, feeling his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry… for staring without permission.”

“As you should be.”

He tries to focus his attention on the carpet underneath him. The patterned black and white waves of the patterned carpet seem to ebb and flow ever so slightly, and as he tries to fix his focus on a single spot he feels his eyes drifting slowly with their rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Pressure. A hand on his head. Sharp nails, digging through his unkempt black hair and into his scalp just enough to hurt. A squeeze, and his head is pulled back and he feels the carpet yanked from his view. She’s directly above him, and the eyes of flame are all he can see.

“Now you will stare.”

She must have more to her face than the eyes. He’s seen her teeth (fangs?).

But what color is her hair? He can’t make it out.

What is the shape of her nose?

How high are her cheekbones?

How round are her ears?

How soft is her skin?

He can’t tell. All he can see is flame.

The flames grow until the whites are gone. The roaring, cascading fire surrounds pupils that are far too large and devoid of anything but gorgeous onyx black.

Her nails pierce his scalp as she lowers her face directly above his, eyes inches from his.

She doesn’t blink. He tries to, but can’t.

Then she’s out of his vision, nestling against his ear. Above him the ceiling lamps swirl maddeningly.

A whisper, lips brushing against his earlobe as she speaks: “You didn’t finish your yuri, girl. It’s time for you to drink the rest.”

“Stay. Just like this” She releases his scalp and goes to fetch the glass.

He takes a moment to wonder what he must look like. A 24 year old server sitting cross legged on the ground, neck craned back to look upward at the Woman who holds a glass of yuri two feet above him.

“Don’t spill a drop.”

She tilts the glass just enough, and the blood-red yuri flows towards him from above. In the last possible moment he remembers to open his mouth, and the liquid slams into the back of his throat. He nearly gags from the force of it, but manages to begin swallowing the cascade.

Its warmth immediately blooms in his throat, rolling down his lungs, through his arms, running across his pelvis and into his legs, finally reaching his toes where he feels the wave begin to crawl back upwards, hitting every inch of his body again before it reaches up to his face.

He’s still swallowing the flow she’s pouring into him, but the rolling warmth traveling up and down, up and down his body somehow eases his worries. He’s going to be excellent at this. He was built for this. Drink the yuri, Simon, like the good girl you are.

It keeps coming, and he keeps drinking. The pulsating warmth travels from head to toe faster and faster until he no longer feels it moving because the soothing heat is in every extremity at the same time.

It feels impossibly pleasurable. A nude sunbath on a perfect day, radiating from within.

He would sigh in contentment if he could, but he must keep drinking. Otherwise, She would be upset.

The importance of pleasing Her begins pokes at something in the edges of his brain – how long has he been Her plaything? – and then the very last drop is swallowed and the warmth ignites.

His body isn’t warm anymore, it’s hot. His body isn’t hot, it’s burning. His body isn’t burning, it’s a river of molten lava devouring every bit of flesh and bone he has.

Jerking backwards, he slams into the carpet and frantically rolls back and forth attempting to douse flames that aren’t really there.

“Did I not mention this might sting?”

Pain.

“This particular vintage can have this effect on girls like you.”

He would scream but his tongue has turned to ash.

“Girls who stubbornly go about their days attempting to be men.”

Her words fan the flames.

“Girls who need to be taught their place.”

She’s gotten out of her chair and straddled his writhing body. Inhumanly strong hands pin his shoulders to the ground. That unknowable face with eyes of flame lean in closer and closer until there can’t be more than a few centimeters between her pupils and his.

“Would you like dessert?”

He cannot respond, but she isn’t waiting for one. She kisses his trembling mouth, and two razor sharp teeth pierce his lower lip. Somehow this new poison triples his pain and time loses all meaning. There never was an entity named Simon, this being has only ever existed to experience agony.

And then he’s gone.

“Lisa, would you be a dear and help me get this one up?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“And I’ll be taking another bottle home with me. She’s going to want more.”

“Of course mistress.”

“Good girl.”

Lisa moans.