When Toast saw Furiosa tend to the War Boys in the sick bay, her hands sure and gentle, her arms and shoulders banded with muscle, something deep inside her ached to be touched again.
She thought of her name, given to her for her pleasing color, and wondered how Furiosa’s hands would feel on her, those big work-rough hands against the golden-brown of her flesh, bringing a reddish flush to it, leaving little pansy-colored bruises on her thighs and hips. Furiosa was pale, not as much as Dag but still light, and Toast wanted to leave her own marks on the other woman.
“Come here,” she commanded to Furiosa as she left the sick bay, reeking of antiseptic wash. “I’m in need of you, Furiosa.”
Furiosa arched an eyebrow. Of all the girls, Toast knew she came off as the least loving—Dag was sweet and affectionate, Capable always smiling, Cheedo needing a mother-figure. Toast didn’t need Furiosa like the other girls, but that didn’t stop her from wanting her. But Furiosa came anyways, standing before Toast.
“Press me against the wall,” Toast said in the same commanding voice. “Touch me until I forget his touches.”
Furiosa’s face didn’t change when she asked, “Is that what you really want?”
Toast untied the laces on her shirt and opened it, baring her small breasts to Furiosa’s dark eyes. “This is what I really want.”
When Furiosa finally obeyed her, breath hitched and pupils blown, Toast was able to forget everything else.