Coming Together: With Pride by Alessia Brio Read Free Book Online Page A

into him. Neither of us can hold back any longer.
    He reaches over next to the bed and brings back a tiny bottle of lube. He rubs it on me and himself as he kisses me, smiling. I hover outside of his slick pucker only a fraction of a second before I ease the tip of my cock against and then into him. I don't want to hurt him, but he clutches my ass and pulls me hard against him.
    I thrust deeper and he sinks his teeth into my shoulder. I can barely contain my orgasm now, and I am thrusting vigorously into him. He's muttering words I can't understand but that excite me even more for that fact. I begin to stroke him, and our bodies move in unison. I feel his slick semen coating my palm and his shaft just before his cock bucks in my hand and his seed shoots out onto his chest and stomach. It is all I can stand, shooting my own seed into his tight hole.
    We are both spent but continue to move against one another. He whispers my name, and I answer with his. I ease myself out of him, and he says something else in his language, smiling with his eyes closed. I kiss each one in turn and say softly, "You're an amazing lover, Ping-Lang. I wish I could tell you how wonderful you are."
    He rolls to his side and pulls my arm over his body so I spoon up behind him. "Okay. Thank you, Ian," he says dreamily.
    "We're going to have to work on your English." It's the last thing either of us says as sleep envelopes us.
     
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    The Personal is Political
    Jean Roberta
     
     
      The arrival of the Prime Minister of Canada at Heathrow Airport in June 2013 brought out bigger crowds than anyone there could remember.
    The shiny black limousine rolled through the London mist, flying a cheerful red-and-white flag like a handkerchief with a maple leaf design. Civilians of all shapes, sizes, and colors jostled members of several armed forces, who were there to keep pedestrians off the road. "We love you, Canada!" yelled a woman with a voice like a foghorn. A crudely handwritten sign saying "Maggie Crapper, yur full of shite" bobbed and fell sideways as the young man who held it was pushed to the back of the crowd.
    Since the surprise victory of the Social Democratic Party in the latest Canadian federal election, the Canadian press had wallowed in references to its leader's famous ancestor, English inventor of the flush toilet. Some journalists said that Margaret Crapper was brave to keep her family name, while some implied that it contributed to Canada's status as a joke in the rest of the world. Hardly anyone suggested that her wife Paulette should give up her own name, Frisson, although Conservatives kept dropping hints in the Canadian House of Commons that if Paulette really loved Margaret, let alone her country, she would quietly disappear.
    The limousine pulled up to the entrance of Buckingham Palace, where Margaret and Paulette and their entourage were invited to the traditional visiting dignitaries' luncheon in the Bow Room.
    Paulette sighed. Her scalp itched under her thick, dark shoulder-length hair and black straw hat. She was a 45-year-old professor of history in a small Canadian university. She had never planned to become the Consort (a title chosen in preference to First Lady) when her first political argument with Margaret had turned into an all-night filibuster that segued into passionate sex.
    Paulette reminded herself that the sacrifices she was making were nothing compared to those of the Feminist Martyr whose death a century before would be honored by the whole world, starting at dawn the next day. A skipping-rope rhyme from Paulette's childhood bounced into her head:
     
Emily Davison ran on the track,
Grabbed the horsey's bridle and tack.
Horsey trampled over her back.
How many tramples did she get?
One (whack of the rope on the ground), two (whack), three (whack)…
     
    What a sadistic little ditty , thought Paulette. She remembered the sepia-toned photos of a small, pitiful shape in