#bakri

You’re on the radio. They want to see your face.

They wanted to put a personality to their imaginations while craning around the speakers listening in on Khlee's fights.

It wasn’t all bad, these evenings spent among the upper echelon, Khlee supposed. The boxer got to gaze at the trees and the big, blue water. The trees, by God, were enormous. Hard to imagine that this was not all that far from Manhattan. The irony hit stronger than the bootlegged alcohol – folks were far more authentic in Khlee’s side of Harlem compared to the company kept in these lush, manicured forests. 

Out here in West Egg, there was nothing more artificial than all the buildings and streets and concrete combined besides the people. If you wanted real trees, and real drink, and real china, and real crystal glasses, it came with a price tag. There had to be a price these days. 

Khlee took a sip from the fine drink handed to them, anchoring themself in the shadows of the darkest green silhouettes that castled the property of the Great Jay Gatsby. 

“You’ve met Gatsby. Certainly, you have by now. Tell us what he’s like, Khlee. They hardly say anything in the papers.”

Clearing their throat, they said, “Can’t say I have. No.”

The man of the hour. Fake or hiding like the rest of this company. Whether thrill-chasing, drinking, or dancing under the lights in this hidden island of bombastic elites – that’s who Jay Gatbsy was. Khlee was sure of it.

It wasn’t hard to imagine because even the humble boxer was not who they said they were. Not entirely at least. 

But in crisp, straight-legged cream fabrics and smart buttons and the right shoes, who would know the difference? No one questioned the high rasp in their voice or their general unease when swamped by the visiting fraternities or the young uniformed naval officers. Always wanting to crowd and shake hands, clap the athlete’s back, and breathe their boozey, hot-blooded breath in Khlee’s face as they congratulated them on their last fight.

Smile. Flirt. Drink. Be merry.

You’re on the radio, by God!

Khlee set aside the empty glass before someone else bumped into them and made them drop it in the pool.

More guests had arrived. The warm bodies crowded closer together, sweaty and wine-blushed; the trees felt farther away. 

Movie starlets filed in. Tall and beaming and gorgeous, yes. Khlee paused to have a look at them. Sweeping in with their entourages, coattails and fringes and sparkling fabrics dragging behind them. Gowns that were only meant to be worn once for sure. 

Names came with the faces, popping off in Khlee’s head in automation. 

Tazian.

Armenian old money. An heiress? Khlee had seen her before. Life of the party – she took that role for herself the moment she walked in. As if it already belonged to her. And she didn’t have to share it precisely because it was hers, but she did anyway. This Armenian princess dusted down in red gem finery was more than generous with her vivacity. Those shimmering, shifting reds brought gifts and unforgettable smiles.

To the naked eye, the Tazian socialite’s entourage blended seamlessly into the background. But Khlee, who had eyes sharp enough to appreciate the green in the black umbrella foliage haunting the manor, knew exactly which of the entourage’s company they wanted to keep that evening.

“Wie geht es dir?” Khlee said, so polite like their Papa had taught them. And speaking as clearly as they could.

The suited man-of-sorts occupying the black iron bench did not look back. Though he replied without thinking.

“Es geht.”

It goes.

He spoke in the northern, less foggy dialect than the boxer was used to. Khlee felt the sentiment under those words.

It is a night and I am here. This is my work.

Khlee sat down, thought about offering the other a drink when they noticed that he was holding onto the Tazian heiress’s gloves. 

“Arbeit oder Spiel?” Khlee asked gently, making way for some kind of conversation.

Finally, the bodyguard turned, his wide earrings catching light like the champagne in the flutes spread atop every flat surface. Recognition flickered in his brown, distorted eyes.

“Khlee von Heine,” he said, his tone shifting out of the cold greeting from before.

All Khlee knew about Tazian’s chaperone was that he came from Germany, and before that, Turkey. At least that’s the direction the West Egg gossip had taken anyway. 

“Von Heine,” he said again, mangling the gloves instead of sticking his hand out for Khlee to shake. “You were in the papers.” He swallowed. “And on the radio.”

Khlee leaned back a little, towards him a little too.

“Do you box?”

Not what is your name. Nor do you know Gatsby.

But rather, Do you play my game? Can we play together sometime? Can we box?

Because he too was built strongly. Like Khlee, he was layered in his movements. He was careful. He was acting accordingly. Not in an off-duty naval officer sort of way. Not remotely echoing the chaps straight off the collegiate polo team rosters. 

The chaperone told Khlee that he worked a lot, but indeed yes, he wasn’t a stranger to the boxing ring. In fact, his brother had opened his own gym in the city. 

Khlee’s body language grew more relaxed. Another crystal of champagne found its way into their grasp. The man-of-sort’s name eventually bubbled to the surface of their conversation.

Bakri. 

The two guests seesawed between Deutsch and English. They saw eye to eye. They spoke as equals. 

“You’re like me,” Khlee said. With the same plainness that they asked for sport. “Living and hiding.”

Khlee looked up at the trees as they said it. At the undersides of the authentic, natural world spared only for the rich and famous and fakest. Sharing the burden – the price of it – with Bakri now. With Bakri later, they hoped. Outside of these suits one day, Khlee dared to think. In the ring, between the ropes. In the dark, somewhere plain and utilitarian. Or somewhere fine and decorated. It didn’t matter.

The weight, it was still there, by God. It was.

But Khlee’s shoulders felt comparably lighter with Bakri there sharing that marble bench with them by the poolside.

You’re like me.

Bakri thought for a moment, his eyes studying Khlee’s champagne glass. Then trailing up the boxer’s pale cream suit, drifting about their neckline towards features too strong and charming to ignore.

Bakri was gazing up at the trees now too, the very beginnings of a crooked smile forming there on his face. Unhidden.

That is, until Ozy and his friends, after so many years, finally returned. They came with more friends this time, who hailed from even farther lands and had never seen this rough layout of ancient lagoons and coral rock.

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One after the other, Khleo and Theo jumped off the edge of the tallest rock. The sounds Theo made seesawed between bursts of boisterous laughter and raucous whoops as she cannonballed into the warm basin of liquid turquoise. 

Kipling, Vehanoush and Taro were keeping to themselves off by the entrance to the sea caves. Kip had them working on a project that she, when probed by Khleo, said was a secret and that no peeking whatsoever was allowed until they were finished.

Ozy and Bakri were hanging out in the shallows, right between the leaping rock and the entrance to the sea caves. Thanks to the ruins and the rocks, there was enough disrupted sunlight to create a warm, dappled umbrella of shade. 

Ozy was supposed to be helping Bakri ease into some deeper water to practice swimming, but the latter was more preoccupied by the faded glyphs on the broken limestone. The harder Bakri looked, the more he noticed a circular pattern forming. 

Before he could comment on it, Ozy pointed to a ring of glyphs and said, “Grey mages have always traveled the Doors in teams of three. The Elders sometimes referred to it as the cadre.”

Bakri studied the depictions a bit. Then he asked, “Why three?”

The beads in Ozy’s locs whispered as he bent closer towards the rock and dragged his finger from one glyph to the next. “Three roles. Three specific functions. First you have the locksmith. Then the architect. And finally, the support flex.” He straightened up. “They can be powerful forces to be reckoned with on their own, but together…”

There was someone calling Ozy’s name from off to the right. The grey mage’s entire demeanor changed as he waved to where Kipling was sitting with Vehanoush.

Ozy and Bakri waded over near the entrance of the sea caves. Normally, Bakri would have hesitated at the sensation of the water level rising up his back, but he was preoccupied by the glyphs shimmering in and out of focus along the walls. And by the sheer wonder in this blend of tropical waters and forgotten history.

Once they reached Kip and Vehanoush, it was hard to listen to what they had to say over the exclamatory echoes of Khleo and Theo hurling themselves off the rocks in the distance.

“We can go somewhere quieter,” Kip said as she spread out the project she and Vehanoush had been working on: friendship bracelets made from cowrie shells and dark twine. It didn’t surprise Bakri that Vehanoush had seemed to master the technique even though this was their first go at it.

“There’s a lagoon not far from here called the Enchanted Pool. The water is so clear that you can see all the way to the very bottom.”

Vehanoush’s eyes lit up at Kipling’s description. Ozy started nodding enthusiastically with every word. Just as Bakri was coming around to the idea of visiting waters deeper than the ones they were standing in, Vehanoush caught his attention with the bracelet they had made special for him. 

While she tied it around Bakri’s wrist and he was quietly admiring the smoothness of the shells, Ozy called out for Khleo and Theo. The grey mage’s voice bounced against the arching walls of limestone like a powerful bell. Despite this, they got no reply from the two cliff divers. Nor could they hear them splashing in the water.

Once again Bakri was being pulled in another direction. Though he didn’t mind. He waded through the shallow water with Vehanoush, keeping close to the sandbars while Ozy and Kip pushed into slightly deeper waters so that they could swim to the spot where they last heard their friends. 

Vehanoush showed Bakri the friendship bracelets they had made for Theo, as well as the other members of Bakri’s team, Heîv, Sevak, and Abisoghom.

Soon they wandered out from under the shade of the rocks and entered into sunnier waters. It appeared that Khleo and Theo had left their playground and instead sought refuge on another exposed shelf. Khleo was lying on her stomach, her arms folded under her head. 

Theo had taken advantage of Khleo’s lower back, resting her cheek just left of Khleo’s spine with her body facing away from the approaching group. Kip and Ozy both chuckled at the army of small conch shells slowly working their way up the rock and over Theo’s legs and hips. 

“They played so hard, they wore themselves out,” Bakri noted, smiling softly as he bent to pry a conch shell off of Theo’s ankle.

A soft ripple of noise came from where Khleo’s head was. “I’m up. Just resting my eyes.”

Theo interrupted them with a yawn and added, “Yes well, I’m definitely fast asleep.”

As soon as Kip said something about having a surprise for the two of them, they were both very suddenly upright and holding out their hands for Kip to drop gifts into. 

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The six visitors sat in a row on the reef, their legs dangling over the water. A shifting array of brown skin glistened with salt and tiny sand crystals under the midday sun. Kip and Vehanoush tied everyone’s bracelets on for them. Theo celebrated the loudest, laughing and positively delighting at the way her cowrie shells clicked and snapped the more she flicked her wrist.

Bakri asked Ozy to finish telling him about the glyphs and what they stood for. He wanted to know about those three roles that each door lord cadre fulfilled. And if those same roles applied to Ozy, Kip and Khleo – then how exactly? 

While Vehanoush and Theo were excited to hear about this too, Khleo reminded everybody how hungry they all were. So Ozy’s explanations would have to wait until they got some lunch. The three newcomers pouted, but agreed that it was definitely time to eat and hydrate a little.

Ozy reminded his new friends that they would have plenty of time to learn about the Doors. He promised Bakri that he would show him more glyphs in the sea caves. As well as the monastery where he grew up alongside Kip and Khleo.

He would show them everything worth seeing. He promised them.

Ozy really wanted his new friends to have that chance to see whatever they had their heart set on.

They wanted to appreciate the moment when Bakri put them in the collar and tightened it fast to their throat. Soak in the moment of him quietly asking them to swallow and flex the muscles in their neck. 

“Are you comfortable?”

Words left Khleo a long time ago. She was baring her teeth in a lopsided way, edging into something more wolfish – one of her rarer tells of excitement.

Bakri repeated himself, holding back the collar even as she tried to buck and snatch a heated kiss for herself.

When that didn’t work, Khleo made a grated sound and hoarsely whispered, “Yes sir.”

Bakri rewarded her with a kiss that made her mind go blank. Even though she was the one giving up control, even though her pussy practically wept at the mere thought of sustaining her partner’s teeth and nails — it was Bakri’s ache that came through the loudest.

“You want me,” Khleo rasped as Bakri nipped on her lower lip. It wasn’t a question or a taunt. Her voice didn’t have the brass for that. She was just observing, speaking her thoughts aloud before she no longer could.

Bakri kissed her again. Harder this time. He dug his nails under her collar as he moved south, licking, grazing her freckled body with his teeth.

“Yes. That’s right.”

He coasted his palms along the definition in Khleo’s arms before tying her wrists to a link in her collar.

“I want you. Badly if you couldn’t tell.”

He went lower, honoring Khleo’s earlier request that he leave her standing. She didn’t want to feel the carpet or the bed touching her spine until Bakri was done and she was absolutely spent.

“Now be good for me.” Bakri lifted Khleo’s leg onto his shoulder and bit the slender roll of flesh just under her ass.

“And do not move.” He nipped possessively at her outer lips. “You can come in my mouth all you want, but you better not move. Understand?”

Khleo adjusted her balance, trusting Bakri with her weight. Her hands were already curled into fists from the concentration it took to edit her reactions. Because she knew Bakri would drag this out. When he wasn’t giving her head, he’d be leaving his mark on her legs. He would use his fingers to make her pussy clench even after it couldn’t take anymore. She would do the same if she were him.

Khleo shut her eyes, suddenly registering the sheer weight of her arms linked to the collar. Sweat was already starting to pebble at her temples.

She nodded. Her throat bobbed.

“Yes sir.”

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Khleo’s body was restless and exhausted by the time Bakri was ready to fuck her into the bed, but she had proven how well she could do up to this point. It was time to reward her.

Bakri unlatched Khleo’s wrists from her collar so she could relax her arms around his shoulders. He encouraged her to use her nails – once again as much as she wanted – along his back.

Khleo exhaled strangled purrs into the crook of Bakri’s neck while he earnestly gave her the strap. Though Bakri’s rhythm did not break, he got caught up in the sound of skin clapping against warm leather, the impressions of Khleo’s teeth as they grinded them into his shoulder, and his own worn-out grunts that wretched themselves up from his chest. His breath came out heavy and dark the more of him Khleo could take.

At one point Bakri made Khleo look at him so he could get another glimpse of their snug collar. Then he kissed her full on. Because… she was beautiful and he could live off that taste. 

Even if he wasn’t fucking Khleo senseless, following through on every promise he made at the start of the evening – even if they weren’t touching him like this, trying to pry his back apart, their fingertips trembling…

Bakri’s blunt nails skated against Khleo’s temple before he deliberately dragged his fingers through their roughspun curls. Sweeping back dark brown fluff off their forehead while tipping their head back slightly so he could fix them with an expectant brow.

“Can I get started now?”

Khleo swallowed under the pressure of that hand and the control behind those eyes. Both were so absolute. 

The barhand blinked slowly as they moved their palm up Bakri’s strong thigh and rested against blood red fabric between his legs. The heel of Khleo’s hand fastened to Bakri’s mound, settling into a subtle grind, seeking. 

Bakri’s fingers tightened into fists, tangling Khleo’s roots as they carried on.

Their breath quickened before their eyelids fluttered shut and they leaned against Bakri’s heavily freckled leg.

“Not yet,” Khleo rasped. Keeping the pressure behind their palm, they let their mouth fall open hopelessly against the softer parts of Bakri’s inner thigh. They strained their neck against his hold, challenging the tension in his wrist and purring whenever Bakri’s nails happen to scrape.

“I know that you have plans for me.” Khleo whispered into brown, freckled muscle. “But I can’t rush. I’m not. Capable.”

The last word barely came out as a mumble.