Ebony Kenisha Surrenders to Redneck Friends

Chapter 1: Inheritance Burning

The Georgia clay dust still clung to Kenisha’s hiking boots when she heard the first rebel yell.

It cut through the dusk like something ancient—half celebration, half warning. She’d been photographing abandoned sharecropper cabins for three days, part of her MFA thesis project on Southern memory landscapes. The assignment had taken her down roads that GPS forgot, past churches smaller than mobile homes and fields where cotton still grew in ragged patches.

The yelling came again, followed by laughter and the twang of a steel guitar struggling against static from a battery-powered radio.

Kenisha adjusted the Nikon hanging from her neck and pressed forward through a stand of longleaf pines. The camera had been her shield for years—something to hide behind when the world got close. Seventeen years of Afrocentric homeschooling, four years at Howard, two more at Columbia for the MFA. She’d written papers on the Black gaze, on reclaiming the photographic narrative. She’d marched, debated, created.

She’d never stood within touching distance of a Confederate flag.

The bonfire appeared through the trees like a wound in the darkness. Flames licked twenty feet high, sparks spiraling into a sky thick with stars. Pickup trucks ringed the clearing—Fords and Chevys with lift kits and mud-splattered fenders. Coolers sat open, bottles catching firelight. And there, strung between two pines, the stars-and-bars hung limp in the humid air.

Bodies moved in the firelight. White bodies. Young—Kenisha guessed eighteen, nineteen, maybe early twenties. Boys in jeans and work boots, shirts discarded against the Georgia heat. Girls in cutoff shorts and bikini tops, hair long and loose or pulled through the backs of trucker caps.

Someone killed the radio.

“Well, shit.”

The voice came from a boy with sunburned shoulders and a jaw that hadn’t quite decided whether to be a man’s. He was holding a red Solo cup, frozen mid-sip, staring at the treeline where Kenisha stood.

Twenty heads turned.

Kenisha’s fingers curled around her camera. “I heard the music. I didn’t mean to—”

“You lost?” A girl stepped forward. Strawberry blonde, freckles across the bridge of her nose, a bikini top the color of peach skin. Her cutoffs were frayed high on her thighs. “GPS send you down the wrong road?”

“I’m a photographer. I’m working on a project about—”

“A photographer.” The girl’s smile spread slow. She had the kind of drawl that stretched vowels like taffy. “Y’all hear that, Tyler? She’s an artist.”

The sunburned boy—Tyler—set down his cup. He was looking at Kenisha the way someone looks at a door that’s just opened onto a room they didn’t know existed.

“What kind of pictures you take?” he asked.

“Landscapes. Historical sites. Memory and place.”

A boy near the fire laughed. He had a crew cut and a tattoo of a deer skull on his bicep. “Ain’t nothing historical out here but dirt and bad decisions.”

“That’s not true.” Kenisha’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “You’re burning a fire under the same stars that lit this land for ten thousand years. That’s history.”

The strawberry blonde tilted her head. “I’m Savannah. That’s Tyler, and the loud one is Dustin. You got a name, photographer?”

“Kenisha.”

Savannah let the name hang in the air. Behind her, the fire popped and a log shifted, sending up a shower of embers.

“Kenisha,” Savannah repeated, like she was tasting it. “You ever been to a bonfire party before, Kenisha?”

“Not like this.”

“No.” Savannah’s smile stayed fixed. “I don’t reckon you have.”

A girl with dark hair and a Confederate flag bandana tied around her thigh stood up from a lawn chair. “Let her stay. She’s got a camera. Maybe she’ll take pictures that ain’t of burned-down churches.”

“Hailey.” Savannah’s voice carried a warning.

“What? I’m just saying. She’s already here.”

Kenisha’s pulse was a drum in her throat. She could smell the fire, the beer, the pine sap sweating from the trees. And something else—the mingled musk of bodies that had been drinking and dancing and living in the heat.

“One beer,” Savannah said finally. “Then you can decide if you want to stay or go. Deal?”

Kenisha should have said no. She should have walked back through the pines to her rental car and driven to her motel and called her mother and told her about the crazy white kids in the woods.

She didn’t.

Tyler handed her a beer, condensation cold against her palm. Their fingers brushed. His skin was rough, callused from work.

“You’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“I’m not.”

“I can see you are.”

Kenisha raised the camera and snapped a photo of the fire. The shutter clicked, the flash lit the clearing for a half-second, and in that frozen moment she saw them all—the deer skull tattoo, the flag bandana, the sunburned shoulders, the peach bikini.

Savannah’s eyes, catching the light like a cat’s.

“Come sit,” the girl said. It wasn’t a request.

---

The beer was cheap and bitter, but Kenisha drank it fast. Savannah settled next to her on a fallen log, close enough that Kenisha could smell her—citrus body spray and woodsmoke and something sharper underneath, something like fresh sweat on sun-warmed skin.

“So what are you really doing out here?” Savannah asked. “You ain’t lost. Your boots are too clean for lost.”

“I told you. Photographing memory landscapes.”

“Memory landscapes.” Savannah rolled the words around. “That mean you take pictures of things white people want to forget?”

Hailey laughed from her lawn chair. “She’s got you there, Vannah.”

“I’m trying,” Kenisha said carefully, “to document how spaces hold history. Even when the history isn’t pretty.”

Savannah took a long pull from her beer. “You ever been with a white person?”

The question landed like a slap. Kenisha’s fingers tightened on the bottle.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Savannah’s voice hadn’t changed—still that slow honey drawl—but her eyes were serious now. “You ever kissed a white boy? White girl? Any of us?”

“That’s none of your—”

“Because I’ve never kissed a Black girl.” Savannah said it matter-of-fact, like she was discussing the weather. “Never even touched one. Growing up, my daddy used to say Black women smelled different. Said they were built different. Said a lot of things.” She paused. “He was right about the built different part. I can see that from here.”

Kenisha’s mouth went dry. She should get up. She should leave.

She didn’t move.

“What else did your daddy say?”

Savannah’s smile returned, slower this time. “That you’d be trouble. That you’d come around someday and I’d have to decide what kind of woman I wanted to be.”

“And what kind is that?”

“I don’t know yet.” Savannah leaned closer. Her breath was warm against Kenisha’s ear. “But I’m curious.”

The fire cracked. Someone put on music—not the steel guitar now, but something with bass, something that throbbed in the ground. Tyler was watching them from across the clearing, his jaw tight.

“She’s just messing with you,” Hailey called out. “Vannah gets like this when she drinks. All philosophical.”

“I’m not messing.” Savannah’s eyes stayed on Kenisha. “I’m asking.”

The question hung there, unspoken and spoken all at once. Kenisha could feel the eyes of everyone in the clearing—the boys with their work-roughened hands, the girls with their bare thighs and beer-slick lips. They were waiting.

“No,” Kenisha said. “I’ve never been with a white person.”

Savannah’s smile widened. “Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even a date? Not even a kiss?”

“My family is very Afrocentric. My education was very Afrocentric. My whole life has been—” She stopped, swallowed. “Very Afrocentric.”

“So you’re a virgin.” Savannah’s voice dropped to a whisper. “To us.”

Heat flooded Kenisha’s cheeks. She could feel it spreading down her neck, across her chest. Her breasts—full, conical, the nipples tightening against the cotton of her tank top—felt suddenly exposed.

“I’m not a virgin to sex. Just to white people.”

“Same thing,” Savannah breathed. “Same goddamn thing.”

Dustin appeared with fresh beers, his deer skull tattoo glistening with sweat. “Y’all having a meeting over here? Tyler’s about to start the drinking games.”

“What kind of games?” Kenisha asked.

“The kind where you end up naked.” Dustin grinned. “Metaphorically. Mostly.”

“Not mostly.” Hailey stood, stretching. Her flag bandana had slipped higher on her thigh. “Last time, Tyler lost his pants and tried to climb the water tower.”

“I made it halfway up,” Tyler called from across the fire.

“You broke your collarbone!”

“I made it halfway up before I broke my collarbone.”

Everyone laughed, and something in the tension cracked. Kenisha found herself laughing too—a surprised, genuine sound that came from somewhere deeper than her wariness.

She took another beer. Then a third.

The fire blurred at the edges. The stars multiplied. Savannah’s hand found her knee at some point—just resting there, light and warm and casual, like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

Kenisha’s skin buzzed where Savannah touched it. The sensation was electric, unfamiliar. She’d been with men before. Black men. Her high school boyfriend Marcus, the summer fling with Jamal, the year-long thing with Derek who taught African American studies and quoted Fanon in bed. That had been fine. That had been comfortable.

This was something else entirely.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Savannah murmured. “I can hear it.”

“I’m thinking about leaving.”

“But you’re not moving.”

Kenisha looked at her—at the freckles, the blonde hair, the easy confidence that radiated off her like heat from the fire. Savannah was probably nineteen. Barely out of high school. She’d grown up in a house where the flag on the wall meant heritage, not hate, where Confederate ancestors were honored like saints, where Black people existed only as abstractions—political talking points, crime statistics, the nameless faces in the music that somehow made its way onto white playlists.

And yet here she was, hand on Kenisha’s knee, breath quickening.

“What do you want from me?” Kenisha asked.

“Everything.” Savannah’s voice was barely audible now. “At least for tonight.”

---

The game was simple. Spin the bottle, answer the question, or do the dare. Refusal meant stripping—one piece of clothing per refusal.

By midnight, Hailey was down to her bandana and a pair of lace panties. Dustin had lost his jeans and was wandering around in boxers with cartoon bass fish printed on them. Tyler’s shirt was long gone, revealing a chest that was lean and muscled in a way that spoke of manual labor, not gym memberships. The skin was pale, lightly freckled, with a dusting of hair between the pectorals.

Kenisha had somehow managed to stay clothed. She’d answered the questions—where she grew up, what she studied, whether she had a boyfriend. She’d done the dares—chugging beer, doing a handstand, reciting the lyrics to a Tupac song while the white kids tried to follow along.

But now the bottle was pointing at her again, and Savannah’s eyes were bright with something that looked like hunger.

“Truth or dare,” Savannah said.

“Dare.”

A murmur rippled through the group.

“I dare you,” Savannah said slowly, “to let me touch your hair.”

Kenisha blinked. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve never touched Black hair before. Because I want to know what it feels like. Because you’re beautiful and I’m drunk and I’m tired of pretending I’m not curious.”

The clearing went quiet. Even the music seemed to fade.

Kenisha’s scalp prickled. She thought of her mother, who had taught her to love her natural hair, who had braided it for her before school, who had told her that white people would never understand the sacredness of Black hair, the history in every strand, the rebellion in every coil.

“Okay,” she heard herself say. “Go ahead.”

Savannah rose from the log. She moved slowly, deliberately, like she was approaching something rare and breakable. Her fingers trembled slightly as they touched the edge of Kenisha’s tignon.

“This is pretty,” Savannah said. “What do you call it?”

“A tignon. Women wore them in Louisiana when—when white lawmakers made them cover their hair. It became a fashion. A form of resistance.”

Savannah’s fingers paused. “I didn’t know that.”

“Most people don’t.”

Carefully, gently, Savannah unwrapped the cloth. Kenisha’s braids fell free—tight to her scalp in intricate patterns, the natural texture springing out at the ends where the braiding stopped.

“God,” Savannah breathed. “It’s gorgeous.”

Her fingers traced the ridges of the braids, exploring the texture, the architecture. Kenisha sat perfectly still, every nerve ending lit up like lightning. She could smell Savannah—that citrus and smoke and salt—and underneath it something warmer, muskier. The scent of a woman who was aroused and not bothering to hide it.

“Can I—” Savannah swallowed. “Can I kiss you?”

“Is that a new dare?”

“No. It’s just me asking.”

Kenisha’s heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat, her wrists, the wet heat building between her thighs. She was soaked, the fabric of her underwear clinging to her lips, the ache of emptiness suddenly acute.

“Yes,” she said.

Savannah leaned in. Her lips were softer than Kenisha expected, tasting of beer and cherry chapstick and the faint salt of pretzels. The kiss was gentle at first, exploratory—the way you touch something you’ve been told your whole life is dangerous.

Then Kenisha’s mouth opened, and Savannah made a sound—a tiny, desperate whimper—and the gentleness shattered.

Her tongue slid against Kenisha’s, her hands coming up to cup Kenisha’s face, fingers pressing into the hollows of her cheeks. Kenisha kissed back with a hunger that surprised her, a want that had been coiled somewhere deep and secret, waiting for permission to spring loose.

Someone whistled. Someone else clapped. Hailey let out a whoop.

But Kenisha barely heard them. All she could feel was Savannah’s lips, Savannah’s tongue, the press of Savannah’s breasts against her own. The differences between them suddenly felt electric—the contrast of dark skin against pale, the tight coils of African hair against the silky sweep of European blonde.

Savannah pulled back, breathing hard. Her pupils were blown wide.

“I want to see you,” she said. “All of you.”

“Here?” Kenisha’s voice cracked. “In front of everyone?”

“Everyone here wants the same thing. Look at them.”

Kenisha looked. Tyler was standing now, his hands clenched at his sides, the front of his jeans visibly tented. Dustin had moved closer, his cartoon fish boxers doing nothing to hide his arousal. Hailey was biting her lip, her thighs pressed together.

They were all watching. Waiting.

“We’re all here for the same thing,” Savannah repeated. “We’re all curious. We’re all drunk. We’re all young and alive and the stars are out and the fire is burning and tomorrow might never come.” She touched Kenisha’s cheek. “I want to know what your skin tastes like. I want to know what sounds you make. I want to hear you beg.”

Kenisha’s breath caught. “You think I’m going to beg?”

“I think you’ve been so careful your whole life. So controlled. So proper. I think you’re dying to let someone else take over for a while.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Because they were true. Because the weight of being strong, of being proud, of being a credit to the race—it was exhausting. Because right now, under these Georgia stars, with these strange white bodies and their strange white smells, Kenisha felt something she hadn’t felt in years.

Free.

She stood. Her tank top came off first—a simple pull over her head, the fabric catching on her braids, Savannah’s hands helping to work it free.

The firelight painted her skin in shades of amber and shadow. Her breasts were full and conical, held in a simple black sports bra that she suddenly resented for its practicality. She unhooked it, let it fall.

Savannah’s breath caught. “Jesus.”

Kenisha’s breasts were high-set and firm, the nipples a deep brown that seemed almost purple in the firelight. The areolas were large—the size of pepperoni—and pebbled tight from more than the night air. She was aroused. Deeply, obviously aroused.

“Touch her,” Hailey breathed from her lawn chair. “Someone touch her.”

Tyler stepped forward. His hands were shaking, but his voice was steady. “Can I?”

Kenisha looked at him—at his sunburned shoulders and his work-hardened hands and the earnestness in his eyes. He was maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen. He’d grown up in a house where people used words she couldn’t bring herself to think about. And yet here he was, asking permission.

“Yes,” she said.

His palms were rough against her breasts, the calluses catching on her nipples. The sensation made her gasp—a sharp intake of breath that turned into a moan as his thumbs circled the dark peaks.

“They’re so warm,” he murmured. “So soft.”

“Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. His mouth replaced his hands—hot and wet, tongue tracing circles around her areola before sucking the nipple hard between his lips. Kenisha cried out, her back arching, her hands gripping his hair. It was longer than she’d expected, the strands slipping between her fingers like water.

Savannah was behind her now, hands on her waist, lips at her ear. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what feels good.”

“Everything. This. I don’t know.”

“Yes you do. You’ve been thinking about this since you walked into the clearing. I could see it on your face. Fear and want—they look almost identical in the dark.”

Savannah’s fingers worked the button of Kenisha’s hiking pants. The zipper came down. The fabric slid over her hips, catching on the swell of her ass—firm, rounded, the kind of curve that came from genetics and long walks and the particular architecture of the Black female form.

“God damn,” Dustin said. “Look at that ass.”

Kenisha might have blushed if she’d had any blood left in her brain. Instead she stepped out of the pants, out of her underwear, until she was naked under the stars.

Completely, utterly naked.

Twenty white faces watching. Twenty white bodies, all of them still half-clothed, all of them burning with the same curiosity, the same hunger.

Savannah’s hand slid down Kenisha’s stomach, through the tight curls of her pubic hair—kinky, coiled, soft as spring moss—and cupped her cunt.

“She’s soaking,” Savannah announced. “Dripping wet. Her thighs are slick with it.”

The group stirred. Tyler looked up from Kenisha’s breast, his mouth still wet. Dustin’s hand had moved to the front of his boxers, pressing against himself. Hailey had slipped her own hand inside her panties, fingers working.

“Lie down,” Savannah whispered. “On the grass. Let us look at you.”

Kenisha lowered herself to the ground. The grass was cool against her back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her skin. She could feel herself spread open—her legs falling apart naturally, her outer lips swollen and dark, the inner lips visible as pinker flesh peeking through.

Her clit was erect, throbbing, visible even from where the others stood.

“I want to taste her,” Hailey said, rising from her chair. She stripped off her bandana, her panties. Her body was athletic—small breasts, a thatch of dark blonde hair between her thighs. “I’ve never tasted a Black girl before.”

“Neither have I.” Savannah knelt between Kenisha’s legs. “But I learn fast.”

Her tongue touched Kenisha’s folds—a tentative swipe that made Kenisha’s hips jerk upward.

“Shhh,” Savannah murmured. “I’m just getting started.”

The second lick was longer, deeper. The third pressed inside her cunt, curling upward to find the spot that made Kenisha cry out and grip the grass with both hands.

“There,” Kenisha gasped. “Right there.”

Hailey joined Savannah on her knees. Together, the two white girls worked Kenisha’s cunt—Savannah’s tongue on her clit, Hailey’s fingers sliding inside her, stretching her. The sounds were obscene—wet, squelching, punctuated by Kenisha’s moans and the crackle of the fire.

Tyler had freed his cock from his jeans. Kenisha saw it through half-closed eyes—long and pale, at least a foot in length, curved slightly upward. The head was flushed pink, glistening with pre-cum. Dustin’s cock was shorter but thicker, the base wide as a wrist, the head an angry red.

They were both watching her, stroking themselves.

“Let her suck you,” Savannah said, looking up at Tyler. “I want to see those pretty Black lips wrapped around a white cock.”

Kenisha’s cunt clenched at the words. She should have been offended. She should have been furious. Instead she felt her body readying itself—more wetness flooding her folds, her inner muscles gripping around Hailey’s fingers.

Tyler knelt beside her head. His cock bobbed near her cheek, the scent of him musky and salt-tinged and wholly, terrifyingly male.

“You don’t have to,” he said, his voice rough.

“I want to.”

She opened her mouth. The head of his cock slid past her lips—smooth, hot, tasting of skin and pre-cum and something faintly metallic. He was big, too big, stretching her jaw. But she took him deeper, relaxing her throat, letting him fill her.

“Fuck,” Tyler groaned. “Fuck, that’s good. That’s so fucking good.”

Savannah’s tongue worked her clit. Hailey’s fingers plunged into her cunt. Tyler’s cock slid in and out of her mouth. Kenisha was full—surrounded—penetrated in every possible way.

And she wanted more.

The first orgasm hit without warning. One moment she was floating in sensation, the next her body was locking up, her cunt clamping down on Hailey’s fingers, her throat tightening around Tyler’s cock. She screamed—a muffled sound that vibrated through Tyler’s shaft and made him groan.

“She’s cumming,” Hailey announced, her fingers still pumping. “She’s fucking cumming.”

The orgasm rolled through her in waves—not a single explosion but a series of contractions, each one sharper than the last. Her vision blurred. Her thighs shook. Fluid gushed from her cunt, spraying Hailey’s hand, splashing onto the grass.

“Did she just squirt?” Dustin’s voice was incredulous.

“She just squirted,” Savannah confirmed, her mouth still pressed to Kenisha’s clit. “And she’s not done.”

She wasn’t done.

Tyler pulled out of her mouth just long enough for her to catch her breath, then he was back inside, fucking her throat with slow, deliberate strokes. Dustin had moved behind Hailey, his cock sliding into the white girl’s cunt while her fingers still worked inside Kenisha.

Someone else—a boy she hadn’t noticed before, with red hair and a patchy beard—was at her breast, sucking her nipple while his hand kneaded the other.

The sensations blurred together. Kenisha lost track of whose hands were where, whose mouth was on what. She was a body, a vessel, a conduit for pleasure. The second orgasm built more slowly than the first—a pressure in her pelvis, a tightening in her stomach, a heat spreading through her chest.

“I’m going to cum again,” she gasped, pulling off Tyler’s cock. “I’m going to—”

“Do it,” Savannah commanded. “Cum on my tongue. Let me taste it.”

Kenisha’s back arched off the ground. Her cunt pulsed around Savannah’s now-clever tongue, the contractions deeper this time, more internal. She felt the flutter of her cervix, the gripping of her vaginal walls, the release of more fluid that Savannah swallowed greedily.

But it wasn’t enough.

“More,” Kenisha begged. “Please. Someone fuck me. I need to be fucked.”

Tyler didn’t hesitate. He positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his pale cock pressing against her soaked entrance. Savannah and Hailey pulled back, giving him room.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said.

“It won’t be.”

He pushed inside. Kenisha felt herself stretch around him—the width, the length, the sheer foreignness of a white cock filling her cunt. Her body had been ready, had been waiting, and he slid deep on the first thrust.

“Fuck,” she screamed. “Fuck, you’re so deep. You’re in my stomach. You’re in my—”

Her words dissolved into moans as he began to move. Each stroke hit somewhere new—the front wall of her cunt, the sensitive spot near her cervix, the place where her body held memory and sensation and the raw electricity of taboo.

Dustin was fucking Hailey beside them, their bodies slapping together. Savannah had straddled Kenisha’s face, her own cunt—pink and wet and smelling of salt and citrus—hovering over Kenisha’s mouth.

“Eat me,” Savannah commanded. “Eat my white pussy while Tyler fucks your Black cunt.”

Kenisha’s tongue found Savannah’s folds. The taste was different from her own—muskier, sharper, the tang of a body that was working hard and drinking hard and living hard. She licked deeper, finding the clit, sucking it between her lips.

The third orgasm built like a storm. Kenisha could feel it gathering—in the base of her spine, in the soles of her feet, in the swollen tissue of her clit. Tyler’s thrusts were faster now, harder, his balls slapping against her ass with each stroke.

“I’m going to cum inside you,” he warned. “I’m going to fill your Black cunt with white cum.”

“Do it,” Kenisha sobbed against Savannah’s cunt. “Please. Please breed me. Fill me. I want it. I want—”

The orgasm hit like a wall.

Everything stopped—the fire, the stars, the night itself—and then everything started again, and Kenisha was cumming, really cumming, her cunt gripping Tyler’s cock in rhythmic spasms, her thighs clamping around his hips, her screams muffled by Savannah’s flesh.

Tyler groaned, his hips jerking, his cock pulsing as he pumped his load deep inside her. Kenisha felt it—the heat of his cum flooding her cervix, the wetness spreading, the distant, primal part of her brain that registered this as breeding, as seeding, as the oldest act in human history.

Savannah came too, grinding against Kenisha’s mouth, her thighs trembling, her own cries joining the chorus. Dustin followed, pulling out of Hailey at the last moment and striping his cum across her stomach and breasts.

Kenisha kept cumming. The orgasm wouldn’t stop. It rolled and rolled, wave after wave, each one triggered by some new sensation—the weight of Tyler’s body on hers, the taste of Savannah’s cum on her tongue, the sight of Hailey spread-eagled and dripping with Dustin’s seed.

“She’s still going,” someone said. “Is she still going?”

“Keep fucking her,” Savannah ordered. “Don’t stop. Someone else get in there.”

Dustin pulled out of Hailey and moved toward Kenisha, his cock still half-hard. Tyler rolled away, and Dustin took his place, his thicker cock stretching her in a different way, hitting different spots.

The fourth orgasm was a blur. The fifth was tears streaming down her face. The sixth was her voice giving out, her screams reduced to breathless gasps. The seventh was her body convulsing, her cunt squirting clear fluid that splashed Dustin’s thighs.

The eighth—

Kenisha lost count.

She lost track of who was fucking her, whose cock was in her mouth, whose fingers were on her clit, whose tongue was on her nipples. She was passed around the group like a gift, like a sacrament, like something precious and profane all at once. The boys took turns in her cunt, each of them cumming inside her, each load mixing with the last until she was dripping white streams down her thighs.

The girls took turns on her face, grinding their pink cunts against her mouth, smearing their wetness across her lips and chin and cheeks.

At some point, Hailey produced a phone and started recording. At some point, someone brought out more beer and they all drank while they fucked. At some point, the stars-and-bars flag came down from the trees and was spread across the ground, and Kenisha was laid on top of it, her dark body stark against the red and white and blue.

At some point, the world started to go dark at the edges.

“She’s fading,” Savannah’s voice said, far away. “Too much beer. Too much cumming. Should we stop?”

“No,” Kenisha tried to say, but the word didn’t come out. “More. Please. More.”

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Tyler’s face above hers, his pale features illuminated by firelight, his hand gentle on her cheek.

“You’re ours now,” he whispered. “You’re ours.”

And somewhere in the part of her brain that was still conscious, still processing, still feeling—Kenisha knew he was right.