Cinthia Ritchie  lives way up north with her clever ten-year-old son, a stubborn dog and fat, insolent cat. She works as an editorial assistant for a weekly entertainment news magazine and is saving up for a trip to Hawaii, where she plans on lying by the pool, sipping frothy drinks and eyeing young men in tight Speedos. She's recently had a short play produced and has been published in Samsidat, Explorations, Wheelwatcher Companion II, Conspire, Clean Sheets and Dare. 

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The bra is black, silk; evil. Naturally I buy it.
Cruel wires push my tits up. I call a lover.
"Get over here. Fast."
He kneels before me, arms tied behind his back. 
I wear nothing but the bra.
I squeeze my breasts, pull my nipples across the lace.
He groans.
My breasts are pale and plumb, a banquet.
I swing them against his face, dangle them against his lips.
His mouth waters.
"Hungry?" I tease, moving back.
He crawls toward me. I stick out my chest, close my eyes.
Waiting for him to feed. 

Copyright © 2002 Cinthia Ritchie. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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