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TEXAS SUN

She rummaged through the bags in the backseat of the truck cab. 

      “Hey, where’s the strap-on? Did you forget it?” her muffled voice was tinged with irritation.

       I suppressed a grin and leaned against the truck, my hand still on the pump for the gas machine. I watched the numbers increase on the digital display. The strap-on pressed into my inner thigh and I casually glanced down to see if it was visible through my jeans. Nope.

      “I’m pretty sure I brought it,” I kept my tone reassuring and even. It was hard to keep a straight face. The gas machine chimed, and I replaced the pump in the holder. 

      “Why are you looking for it right now? We’re in the middle of nowhere,” I asked, gingerly sitting back in the driver’s seat. 

      A shadow of embarrassment crossed her face as she crawled back into the passenger’s seat and snapped her seatbelt back on. “There’s a historical gravesite up ahead in about ten miles. I-- um--I wanted to fuck you with it there.”

      “Oh.” 

      Butterflies flitted in my stomach as I pulled back onto the road. It had been six months since we started officially dating and I still got a little woozy and disoriented when she surprised me with her desire. My brain spun its gears through the spreading fog of warmth and arousal. I figured honesty was best.

      “I’m wearing it already,” I caught her eyes with mine and gave her a mischievous smirk.

      “Asshole!” she play-swatted me on the arm. “I should have brought mine. But no, you said. ‘We can share’, you said.”

      She was silent for a moment, then looked at me with a mock solemnity. “That’s the last time I’ll fall for that one.” I could tell she was struggling not to smile.

      “And rightly so,” I agreed. “One should never leave home without one’s own harness and cock. One never knows when an emergency fucking must occur.”

      “Oh, my Goddess: ‘emergency fucking’.” She paused. “Yes, that’s definitely the situation,” I could feel her hungry eyes taking me in, and my mouth went dry. 

      “Okay, so where is this historical gravesite?” 

      “Oh, are you going to relinquish the strap-on? How generous,” she teased.            “Continue gayly forward for about 7 miles, you’ll see the signs for it.”

      “Got it,” I gently pressed on the accelerator.

      Her hand was warm on my thigh. “The speed limit is 75. Also, why are you the one driving? And you have the strap-on? How is this queer relationship anarchy? Looks pretty heteronormative, if you ask me,” her tone was deadpan, but I could tell she was still teasing me. 

      “How dare you question my queerness! I am deeply offended,” I eased off the accelerator as her hand slid into my crotch and she pressed the cock firmly against me. I could feel its rigid density pressing against my clit and I swallowed. She traced the shape of it with her fingertips and I could feel the pressure of her touch against my wet pussy. I squirmed.

      “You’re distracting me, you know. I could miss the turn,” my voice lowered and softened.

      “You won’t. Will you?” she grabbed the cock more definitively and shifted it against me. A soft wave of sensation pulsed through me. I took a slow, deep breath.

      “Nope, we’re almost there,” the green mile marker flitted into view and I eased my foot onto the brake. 

      “I mean, it’s your fault for wearing it in the first place. And for being so hot,” she smirked as I turned onto the caliche and dirt road. 

      “So, you’re basically saying I brought this on myself,” the road was bumpy and uneven, and I slowed the truck to a crawl. The slow movements of her hand and the jostling truck together were starting to make me feel lightheaded. “I think this is the first time I’ve ever been this turned on by someone gaslighting me,” I murmured.

“Mm. You’re welcome. We’re here. Pull over,” her hand withdrew, and I parked the truck, looking around. 

      Two brick and stone pillars crowned with filagree crosses framed the entrance to the Terlingua Cemetery. As I peered through the dust, I saw the graveyard was tiny and littered with piles of rock and makeshift wooden crosses. Creosote and sage plants grew in hardscrabble patches between the graves.  A historical placard stood just inside the entrance to the graveyard.

      She slammed the truck door shut and I jumped, fumbling with the keys and the seatbelt. I slid out of the truck and adjusted the strap-on, my breath hitching as I felt a small pool of damp arousal soaking through the harness and into my jeans. 

      By the time I caught up with her, she was reading the placard. “This cemetery dates from the early 1900s, when Terlingua became a flourishing mercury mining town,” she read aloud. She continued to read the rest of the placard to me aloud, but I was distracted by the movements of her mouth while she read. After a moment, she stopped reading and turned to me. I saw her recognize my blank stare.

      “You didn’t catch any of that, did you?” Amusement danced in her eyes.

“Nope. You’re pretty,” I said, affecting a dumb jock voice.

      She laughed, a low and slow chuckle. “Let’s explore, come on.” She took my hand, our fingers loosely interlacing.

      We explored all the graves, one by one, joking and laughing and taking pictures. There was a hobbit-themed grave, a giant chicken sculpture on another grave, and another with a three-foot statue of a Tyrannosaurus Rex.  

      “The nice thing about these graves is that they’re built in this great kind of platform,” I said, sitting down on a concrete and brick structure that had a little roof and a niche where prayer candles nestled with offerings and a ragged American flag. 

      “I think the word you’re looking for is tomb,” she said, raising an eyebrow at me. She glanced over the headstone at the foot of the tomb and addressed the air around us. 

      “Excuse me, Mr. Heidel. I hope we’re not disturbing you. My very rude partner just casually sat down on your place of rest.”

      “We’re probably going to fuck on your place of rest. Hope you don’t mind!” I chimed in, and she gave me a chastising look. 

      “What? I’m sure he doesn’t mind. He’s gone. I’d be thrilled if people were fucking on my grave, personally,” I started to unbuckle my belt. 

      “Let me get that. You’re the worst,” she sighed, mock-aggrieved as she knelt in the dust and undid my belt. She slid my jeans down and off my hips, and the cock was freed and sprang up between my thighs. She gestured for me to lie back, and I did, my head near the candle niche. She crawled up next to me on top of the tomb.

      “Here’s the plan,” she whispered, kissing behind my ear and down my throat. “I’m going to ride that cock you’re wearing and I’m going to come,” she kissed the other side of my throat and nibbled on my left ear. My whole left side tingled in response to her mouth and the sound of her breath and voice.

      “And then it’s my turn to fuck you. Fair?” 

      “Oh, twist my arm, I don’t know if I can deal,” I breathed. The hard stone of the tomb beneath me pressed into my low back and hips as she straddled me.

      “Smartass,” her voice was at once sweet and acerbic, and our lips connected in a kiss. 

      Her soft lips against mine enveloped me in a warm, transcendent sensation where time seemed to pause. I felt all my muscles melt and I cupped her face in my hands, brushing her hair out of the way. 

      “I can’t believe I’m about to do this,” she glanced around and hiked up her denim skirt, pushing aside her panties. I watched her lower herself gently onto the cock. I swallowed hard as the counterpressure from her body pressed the toy against my clit. 

      “Fuck, you feel good,” we uttered in unison. She laughed and leaned back, bracing herself on my knees and undulating her hips in a slow, hypnotizing rhythm. With each movement, the cock rubbed against my sex and a hot burst of adrenaline crackled through my chest and limbs. 

       “I’m gonna come pretty quick if you keep that up,” I warned her. 

       “Not yet. Not till I say,” she moaned. “I wanna make a wish with you.”

       “What-what are we wishing for?” I was delirious, fighting off the insistent waves of pleasure from her rocking against me.

        “Same thing as always. Ugh. Oh, fuck. Now. Come for me now. For us,” she gasped, falling over me and interlacing her hands with mine.

        Incandescent with bliss, an electric orgasm roared through us. And with it our sex magic wish: for our queer love to last a lifetime. 

 
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Kelly M. Marshall

is a non-binary trans person who is a wellness entrepreneur and an activist. They have been a freelance writer for over sixteen years and have been published by various presses, most notably Alyson Books for lesbian erotica. They are currently a staff writer for Spectrum South Magazine, "the queer voice of the South".