Reaching Out from a Mind as Dirty as All Outdoors

If you get lucky enough, I might post adult-only material from time to time, so be 18 or over, or please be elsewhere.

I'll be discussing erotica here, the writing of it and the people who write it, as well as what we've written. I find all these aspects stimulating, but if any of them bore you, feel free to skim. You never know what you might miss, though.




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Monday, April 7, 2014

Free Story for the Smut for Good Bloghop




Smut for Good: Curves Rule is a blog hop with prizes galore to raise funds for Parkinson’s UK as this is Parkinson’s Awareness week. To find more curves, and seek out further prizes please visit http://smutters.co.uk/smut-for-good and if you can take a minute to please visit the Smut for Good: Curves Rule Just Giving Page at http://www.justgiving.com/curvesrule and donate whatever you can to help us reach our target of £100 to raise awareness of Parkinson’s and to support the charity Parkinson’s UK http://www.parkinsons.org.uk/ who help those with the disease learn to cope with the challenges, give out information and search for a cure.

Go check out all the other writers on the list of participants, including Sommer Marsden and KD Grace and…and…and...Wow! But first, here’s my bit.

My offering here is a steamy excerpt from one of my stories, “Etched in the Flesh,” originally published in Zaftig, edited by Hanne Blank for Cleis Press, reprinted in Best Lesbian Erotica 2002 and then in Best of Best Lesbian Erotica vol. 2 from Cleis Press.

I’ll e-mail a copy of the entire story to anyone who tells me here that they’d like it. What you see below is a very small part of the whole piece; there’s also autumn in Vermont, the old folk music scene, a mysterious bequest from a recently departed grandmother, and revelations about long-ago love and revenge in Sicily during WWII. And, of course, hot, loving sex. How can you resist? And I’ll donate at least $2 to the charity listed above for every comment or associated e-mail message I get.

So here goes:

“Cream, honey, silk; there's no adequate metaphor for the sweetness, softness, of Kait's skin. No way to describe the sounds she makes when I touch her, primal moans vibrating through her flesh from deep within. I worked my open, hungry mouth over her curves, becoming more ravenous the more I devoured. I could do this forever, if the throbbing pressure in my groin would let me. Or if Kait would let me.
Her moans grew rougher. She forced my mouth onto a swollen nipple, and pushed my hands from where they'd been kneading her rounded belly down into the unzipped waistband of her jeans. And lower still. ‘Damnit, Andri, bed! And get your clothes off!’ She scrabbled at my belt, but I held off a little longer, sucking and licking at one breast and then the other, working my fingers delicately over the hot, wet clit as engorged as her nipples.
Then she bit me, hard, on the side of my neck, and squirmed away, and threw herself on the bed. Watching her wriggle out of her jeans was so engrossing I had a hard time fumbling with my own clothes.
As my jacket hit the floor I remembered the mysterious packet, but the heat of my blood and heart overwhelmed the chill of my grandmother's shadow. Mind and senses had a more compelling focus in Kaitlin's flesh. On some deep, unthinking level I understand the impulse that made our forbears carve full-bodied goddesses out of stone and ivory; and who's to say those sculptors weren't women, as well?
She stretched sensuously, grinned, and stuck out her long, mobile tongue; and when she arched her hips upward I was on her, no frills, needing nothing between us this time but our own heat.
Sometimes, when it hasn't been too long, when we can focus, yoga-like, with contemplative intensity, we can meet mound to mound, breast to breast, in slow, exquisitely precise strokes. Not this time.”


Want more? Just comment. Or e-mail me at sacchigreen@gmail.com to be sure I have your address to send you the story.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

New Call for Submissions--The Princess's Bride: Lesbian Fairy Tale Erotica


The Princess’s Bride: Lesbian Fairy Tale Erotica
Editor: Sacchi Green
Publisher: Cleis Press
Deadline: July 1, 2014
Payment: $50-$100, depending on length, and 2 copies of the book
Word Count: 3000-6000


Fairy tales, legends, myths, with all those heroes who win the day and, of course, the girl—what’s up with that? Why can’t we have heroines who win each other? Let’s have stories of erotic romance and adventure with women who use their wits and/or weapons and come together in a blaze of passion.

Adaptations of traditional tales can work, but merely changing the gender of a character won’t be enough. Old stories updated to contemporary times would be all right. Original plots with a fairy tale sensibility are fine, and so is diversity of character, ethnicity, culture, and age. Did Scheherazade know a thousand and one more tales she told in the harem but never shared with the Sultan?

Witches and trolls and dragons are okay (make sure you know the difference between European dragons and the oriental breed) and they don’t necessarily need to be villains. Weddings aren’t required, and neither is magic, as long as the writing has a fantasy lilt to it. Royal blood doesn’t much matter, and neither do actual weddings. A few humorous stories would be welcome, and even more so would be deeper explorations of universal themes. The old fairy tales were often many-layered, with a core of darkness.

Above all, there must be an intense relationship between two (or more) women, along with whatever degree and flavor of sex their story demands. Kink is fine, sweet is nice, noble self-restraint flaring into a blaze at last is dandy. Vivid settings and complex characters (even the villains, if possible) are also required. And if your story should hint slyly at a certain film with a tongue-in-cheek treatment of fantasy clich├ęs, well, “As you wish.”

How to submit: Send your document (double-spaced, ½ inch paragraph indents) as an attachment in .doc, .docx, or .rtf. Include your name and contact information in both your email and your document.

Unpublished work preferred, but reprints will be considered (at a somewhat lower rate) so specify any previous publication. Send to sacchigreen@gmail.com. Queries are welcome.

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Wild Girls--Lambda Award Finalist!

I know my contributors to Wild Girls, Wild Nights are extraordinary writers, and now the Lambda Literary Award judges know it, too.  Our anthology is one of three finalists in the Lesbian Erotica category. All the credit is due to the fine writers, who wrote this time with their hearts as well as their skills; I was just the catalyst. (But I still get to add this to my list of finalists over the years, now seven, and my one winner, Lesbian Cowboys.) This year's winner won't be announced until the ceremony in NYC on June 2, but I know from experience that making the finalist list is the real challenge; there's usually very little to choose between them for the award itself.

Here, you can check out the whole list of finalists in every category:
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/features/news/03/06/26th-annual-lambda-literary-award-finalists-announced/


Monday, February 24, 2014

XOXO: Sweet and Sexy Romance—Review and Book Giveaway






This is my day on the blog tour for Kristina Wright’s XOXO: Sweet and Sexy Romance (Cleis Press), an anthology of thirty-eight extra-short stories that pack more erotic punch for their length than you’d think was possible. If you make it all the way to the end of this post you’ll see how to enter a giveaway for a copy, and, I hope, see why you really want to win.

First I get to pontificate on short-short stories in general. Every now and then I see reviewers of anthologies complaining that the stories should have been longer. When that happens with books I’ve edited myself, like Girl Fever: 69 Tales of Sudden Sex for Lesbians, my kneejerk reaction is, “No, these stories are just the length they need to be. You might well want to spend more time with these characters, but this particular chapter of their lives (or even mini-chapter) is so skillfully drawn that you don’t even notice how much intensity is gained with just enough of the just-right words.” Rather like maple sap cooked down into syrup. Or wine distilled into brandy. Or pan-juices reduced into a demiglace. Or…never mind. I’m using too many words here, too many metaphors. Not good in writing short-short stories.

Let’s stick with just one metaphor: dissolved sugar boiled until it makes candy. Candy, specifically those tiny candy hearts with Valentine messages written on them, the ones that inspired Kristina with the theme for this book.

XOXO: Sweet and Sexy Romance offers thirty-eight stories of searing sex and passionate love in just over two hundred pages. This means each story has only about fifteen hundred words, calling for writers who can make every word count. Fortunately Kristina has assembled writers who are more than up to the challenge.

I don’t want to tell too much about individual stories, because they’re worth discovering at just the right pace to savor them, but one factor I look for as an editor myself is a beginning that grabs the reader’s interest right way. I want to share just a few that do that particularly well, even though very good short stories can start out slowly instead and draw the reader in bit by bit, and many of those in this book do that to good effect.


“Midnight” by Emerald hooks you right away with sex and a hint of mystery.

Sometimes he’s inside me. Sometimes my mouth is on his cock. Sometimes his tongue is against my clit or my nipple or whatever square inch of skin he’s found that lights up that fire that’s somehow inside me and outside me and everywhere else all at once.
It’s different each time. But whatever form it’s taking, sex is what we’re doing. The timing is the important thing.

The scene then switches to a fondue restaurant, the tone becomes playful for a while, and you’re along for an irresistible ride.


“Ouch” by Lily K. Cho starts out with a bang, or rather a playful “Thwap!”

“Ouch!” Josh roared. “Dammit, Susie, that hurt!”
He heard Susie giggle, but he didn’t see her anywhere, so he turned back to the mirror and resumed his shaving.
Thwap!
“Susie, stop that!” he yelled, rubbing his rear and twisting to inspect the two pink spots blooming on his ass.”

Another ride you probably can’t resist.


“Night Moves” by Christine d’Abo begins with a nightmare.

No, no, no, no, no!
I couldn’t tell you what the nightmare had been about specifically. Images of too-tall walls and frantic running through black hallways were all that lingered as I blinked madly into the dark of our bedroom. The soft whooshing of the ceiling fan and the gentle rubbing of my husband’s hand against my back did little to slow my pounding heart. My stupid brain wouldn’t shut off.
“You ‘kay, babe?”

We know just what she needs, and by this point we need it too.

And another sleep-related excerpt with a distinctive flavor, from “The War at Home” by Giselle Renarde.

Flipping onto her stomach, Brenda buries her face in the bunched-up pillow. Too soft. How can she possibly get to sleep with her head sinking into the oblivion of a dark-blue pillowcase? Her mouth and nose are buried in feathers. She turns her head to the side, but that hurts her neck, so she flips again, landing with a bounce on her backside.
The sheets that match the pillowcase have wrapped themselves around her calves, and she kicks at them, but they don’t let go. Growling, she kicks harder, but the sheets have her bound like a mermaid—just what Kaz always wanted. Thank god he’s asleep.
Lucky bastard.

Want to bet somebody gets lucky?

My own story in this book doesn’t get you into the real action as soon as it should, or let you know quickly enough that the characters are on a honeymoon vacation in Paris, but I had a great time writing it, and I feel like sharing a bit, so here goes. (Warning, if you need it—“Gargoyle Lovers” is one of five lesbian stories included in the anthology.)

“I’m siingin’ in the rain…” But that song was from the wrong Gene Kelly movie, and it wasn’t quite raining, and I was only whistling. My speaking voice gets me by, but singing blows the whole presentation.
Hall glanced down, her face stern in that exaggerated way that makes me tingle in just the right places. I shoved my hands into my pockets, skipped a step or two, and knew she felt as good as I did. Hal’s hardly the type to dance through the Paris streets like Gene Kelly, especially across square cobblestones, but there was a certain lilt to her gait.
Or maybe a swagger. 


Of course for the really good parts of all the stories, the buildups, the peaks, the emotional resolutions, you need to read each piece all the way through. Bet you can’t read just one! But, like candy, you’re best off savoring them one by one, every single word.


Onward to the book giveaway part!

Just comment here, or on the Facebook status I posted about this (https://www.facebook.com/sacchi.green), or e-mail me at sacchigreen@gmail.com, and you’ll be entered in my drawing for a copy of XOXO.  I’ll choose a winner at random on February 28th, and announce a winner by March 2. Be sure to check back here or on Facebook to make sure I can contact you if you win.










Thursday, February 13, 2014

Free Lesbian Ice Skating Erotica--"The Outside Edge"

I can't resist. During these Winter Olympics folks have been Googling for ice skating erotica, and directed to my blog because there's an excerpt downstream from my story "The Outside Edge." Now, for Valentine's Day and in honor of the Olympics, I'm posting the entire thing just through the rest of the Olympic Games. 'The Outside Edge" appeared first in my anthology Girl Crazy and then in Best Lesbian Romance 2010, both from Cleis Press, and then in my collection A Ride to Remember from Lethe Press.

The Outside Edge
Sacchi Green

Suli was fire and wine, gold and scarlet, lighting up the dim passageway where we waited. I leaned closer to adjust her Spanish tortoiseshell comb. A cascade of dark curls brushed my face, shooting sparks all the way down to my toes, but even a swift, tender kiss on her neck would be too risky. I might not be able to resist pressing hard enough to leave a dramatic visual effect the TV cameras couldn’t miss.

Tenderness wasn’t what she needed right now, and neither was passion. An edgy outlet for nervous energy would be more like it. “Skate a clean program,” I murmured in her ear, “and maybe I’ll let you get dirty tonight.” My arm across her shoulders might have looked locker-room casual, but the look she shot me had nothing to do with team spirit.

Maybe, Jude? You think maybe you’ll let me?” She tossed her head. Smoldering eyes, made even brighter and larger by theatrical makeup, told me that I’d need to eat my words later before my mouth could move on to anything more appealing.

The other pairs were already warming up. Suli followed Tim into the arena, her short scarlet skirt flipping up oh-so-accidentally to reveal her firm, sweet ass. She wriggled, daring me to give it an encouraging slap, knowing all too well what the rear view of a scantily clad girl does for me.

I followed into the stadium and watched the action from just outside the barrier. As Suli and Tim moved onto the ice, the general uproar intensified. Their groupies had staked a claim near one end, and a small cadre of my own fans were camped out nearby, having figured out over the competition season that something was up between us. Either they’d done some discreet stalking, or relied on the same gaydar that had told them so much about me even before I’d fully understood it myself. Probably both.

Being gay wasn’t, in itself, a career-buster these days. Sure, the rumormongers were eternally speculating about the men in their sequined outfits, but the skating community was united in a compact never to tell, and the media agreed tacitly never to ask. A rumor of girl-on-girl sex would probably do nothing more than inspire some fan fiction in certain blogging communities. That didn’t mean there weren’t still lines you couldn’t cross in public, especially in performance—lines I was determined, with increasing urgency, to cross once and for all.

But I didn’t want to bring Suli down if I fell. That discussion was something we kept avoiding, and whenever I tried to edge toward it she’d distract me in ways I couldn’t resist.

Suli’s the best, I thought now in the stadium, watching her practice faultless jumps with Tim. You’d never guess what she’d been doing last night with me, while the other skaters were preparing for the performance of their lives with more restful rituals. She’d already set records in pairs skating, and next year, at my urging, she was going to go solo. It was a good thing I wouldn’t be competing against her.
I won’t be competing against anybody, I thought, my mind wandering as the warm-up period dragged on.

It had taken me long enough to work it out, focusing on my skating for so many years, but the more I appreciated the female curves inside those scanty, seductive costumes, the less comfortable I was wearing them. Cute girls in skimpy outfits were just fine with me—bodies arched in laybacks, or racing backward, glutes tensed and pumping, filmy fabric fluttering in the breeze like flower petals waving to the hungry bees—but I’d rather see than be one.

I’d have quit mainstream competition if they hadn’t changed the rules to allow long-legged “unitards” instead of dresses. That concession wasn’t enough to make me feel really comfortable, though, and I knew my coach was right that some judges would hold it against me if I didn’t wear a skirt at least once in a while. This year I’d alternated animal-striped unitards with a Scottish outfit just long enough to preserve the mystery of what a Scotsman wears under his kilt, assuming that he isn’t doing much in the way of spins or jumps or spirals. I knew this for certain, having experimented in solitary practice with my own sturdy six inches of silicon pride.

So why not just switch to the Gay Games? Or follow Rudy Galindo and Surya Bonaly to guest appearances on SkateOut’s Cabaret on Ice?

If you have a shot at the Olympics, the Olympics are where you go, that’s why. Or so I’d thought. But I was only in fifth place after the short program—maybe one or two of the judges weren’t that keen on bagpipe music—and a medal was too long a shot now.

I knew, deep down, what the problem was. Johanna, the coach we shared, had urged me to study Suli’s style in hopes that some notion of elegance and grace might sink into my thick head. Suli had generously agreed to try to give me at least a trace of an artistic clue. But the closer we became, the more I’d rebelled against faking a feminine grace and elegance that were so naturally hers, and so unnatural for me.

This would be my last competition, no matter what. Maybe I’d get a pro gig with a major ice show, maybe I wouldn’t. If I did, it would be on my own terms. “As God is my witness, I’ll never be girlie again!” I’d proclaimed melodramatically to Suli last night.

“Works just fine for me,” she’d said, kneeling with serene poise to take my experimental six inches between her glossy, carmined lips and deep into her velvet throat.

Ten minutes later, serenity long gone, I stood braced against the edge of the bed and bore her weight while she clamped her thighs around my hips and her cunt around my pride, locked her hands behind my neck, and rode me with fierce, pounding joy. I dug my fingers into her asscheeks to steady her, and to add to the driving force of her lunges. Small naked breasts slapped against mine on each forward stroke. When I could catch one succulent nipple in my mouth her cries would rise to a shriller pitch, but then she’d jerk roughly away to get more leverage for each thrust.

My body ached with strain and arousal and the friction of the harness. My mind was a blur of fantasies. We’re whirling in the arena, my skates carving spirals into the ice, her dark hair lifting in the wind...
“Spin me!” Suli suddenly arched her upper body into a layback position, arms no longer gripping me but raised into a pleading curve. Adrenaline, muscles, willpower; none of it was enough now. Only speed could keep us balanced. I stepped back from the bed and spun in place, swinging her in one wide circle, then another, tension hammering through my clit hard enough to counter the burn of the leather gouging my flesh.

Suli’s voice whipped around us, streaming as free as her hair. I held on, battling gravity, riding the waves of her cries, until, as they crested, the grip of her legs around me began to slip. In two lurching steps I had her above the bed again, and in another second she was on the sheets. I pressed on until her breathing began to slow, then covered her tender breasts and mouth with a storm of kisses close to bites until I had to arch back and pump and grind my way to a noisy release of my own.

When we’d sprawled together in delirious exhaustion long enough for our panting to ease, I raised up to gaze at her. The world-famous princess of poise and grace lay tangled in her own wild hair, lips swollen, skin streaked with sweat, and most likely bruised in places where the TV cameras had better not reach.

“And you lectured me about never jumping without knowing exactly where I was going to land!” I said. “How did you know I wouldn’t drop you?”

“Aren’t you always bugging me to let you try lifts?” she countered drowsily. “You’ve spun me before, on the ice; you’re tall and strong enough.” She rolled over on top of me and murmured into the hollow of my throat, “Anyway, I did know where I was going to land. And I knew that you’d get me there. You always do.” Then her head slumped onto my shoulder and her body slid down to nestle in the protective curve of mine. In seconds she was asleep.

I always will, I mouthed silently, but couldn’t say it aloud. Giving way to tenderness, to emotions deeper than the pyrotechnics of sex, was more risk than I could handle. Wherever I was going to land, she belonged somewhere better. How am I going to bear it? How can we still be together?

I shook my head to clear it. Suli and Tim were gliding with the rest of the competitors toward the edge of the ice and I realized suddenly that it was time to take my seat in the stands. The final grouping of the pairs long program was about to get underway.

Suli and Tim skated third, to music from Bizet’s Carmen. Somebody always skates to Carmen, but no one ever played the part better than Suli. The dramatic theme of love and betrayal was a perfect setting for her, and today the passionate beat of the “Habanera” was a perfect match for my jealous mood.
Watching Tim with Suli on the ice always drove me crazy. When his hand slid from the small of her back to her hip I wanted to lunge and chew it off at the wrist.

His boyfriend Thor, a speed skater with massively muscled thighs, would have been highly displeased by that, so it was just as well that I resisted the impulse.

It wasn’t really the way Tim touched Suli that burned me. Well, okay, maybe it was, with every nuance of the traditional lifts and holds pulsing with erotic innuendo. Still, my hands knew her needs far better than he ever could, or cared to. But he was allowed to do it publicly, artistically, acting out scenarios of fiery love—and I wasn’t. Knowing that the delectable asscheeks filling the taut scarlet seat of her costume bore bruises in the shapes of my fingers was only small comfort.

Friday, February 7, 2014

The Delicious Torment, from Alison Tyler, the Mistress of Literary S/M




Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,…

You’ve seen Shakespeare’s sonnet number 116. You’ve probably heard it read. In fact, I read aloud it at my brother’s wedding. But it isn’t about weddings, as such, but about two people who match each other’s needs so perfectly that nothing can destroy their love.

Alison Tyler’s The Delicious Torment, the sequel to her Dark, Secret Love, is about two people with such intense, specific, on-the-edge needs that it seems like a miracle that they found each other.

Samantha, the heroine based on Alison Tyler herself, is “ensconced in an S/M relationship that makes everything I’ve done before turn a whiter shade of pale.” Jack is older, a high-powered lawyer, whose need to dominate through “pain and shame and utter humiliation” could only be satisfied by a woman like Samantha, as strong in her way as she is submissive. Pain and humiliation are pleasure to her, even when she dreads them, and they bring her to orgasm even when they bring her to tears. Jack gives her what she needs, and she loves him without reserve, while he needs her love as much as her submission, even though he needs her to prove that love over and over.

There are plenty of S/M books out there now, but nobody does it with as much style and skill as Alison Tyler. Nobody makes it as real, as convincing, as appealing even to people whose tastes have never run that way. And the story here is more than a series of “scenes,” even though the traditional canes and belts and crops and chains play their part. The relationship has its twists and turns and unexpected deviations, especially when it comes to involve a third person. There are adjustments and alterations that might strain a love less strong. Jack’s difficulty in trusting Samantha’s love and the lengths he goes to in testing her could have destroyed the very thing he craved. But no impediment is great enough to tear these true minds (and bodies) apart.

And there’s never a dull moment. Here’s what happens after Sam counters Jack’s suspicious surveillance with tricks of her own, then waits at home for him:

I was on the bed, naked, and I’d cuffed my ankles and tossed the keys to the corner of the room, clicked the cuffs onto my wrists, and hung the chain from the hook on the wall. I was as exposed as I could possibly be. And deeply grateful that it was Jack in the room and not Alex. I didn’t know if I could have handled this reveal twice.

Then, when things are reconciled, at least for the time being, comes this scene:

Jack stroked me all over with his bare hands. Up and down. Not leaving any part of my body untouched. I’m trained as a masseuse, and yet I’m one of those strange creatures who don’t like to be massaged. In fact, if I don’t know someone well, I don’t like to be touched at all. I don’t hug people on greeting. I don’t spontaneously hold hands with my friends. I have a history of being stand- offish in this way.
And yet...
When Jack used his bare hands to stroke from the tops of my shoulders down to my feet, he made me purr like a relaxed panther. My body was humming, electrified. He didn’t tickle me. He didn’t touch me too gently. He used firm strokes, over and over, until I felt as if I were flying.
Only then, after he’d put me into an almost hypnotic trance of pleasure, did he bend close on the bed, press his face near the nape of my neck, and say, “You worried me.”
He’d lulled me, tricked me, created this false sense of
safeness in my surroundings, and now that was replaced by instant awareness. My skin prickled. My muscles tightened.
“On purpose,” Jack continued.
His breath warmed the back of my neck, but I would not turn my head to look at him. I was frightened of what I might see in his cold blue eyes.
“I told you before,” he continued in a menacing whisper. “I told you not to make me worry.”
Oh, I’d been so pleased with my plan. And it had worked exactly how I’d hoped. But should I have confronted Jack in a different way? Spoken to him like an adult rather than playing behind his back? No... He understood this. He understood dirty pool. Christ, he was a lawyer after all. But that didn’t mean I could get away free. Jack had to take back the power. And that meant I would endure the punishment he chose.
I could feel Jack’s body against mine, pressing hard. He was still dressed, which made me feel more naked than ever. He straddled my body from behind, so that I could feel how hard he was, and I knew that I’d turned him on. He was like steel. Even when I’d made him worry, I’d managed to turn him on. We had a powerful connection, a type that rarely exists. You can meet people who will spank you. You can meet people who will tie you up, who will fuck you six ways to Sunday. But this was different.


“A powerful connection, a type that rarely exists.” There you have it. Shakespeare’s “marriage of true minds.” Two people who have the incredible luck of finding each other, in a book readers have the incredible luck of being able to read, with no impediments.

Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Audible Sex

This must be my Audible week! (Can't you hear me?) My Lambda-finalist Lethe Press collection A Ride to Remember is now available as an Audible book, and I've just heard that my Cleis Press anthology Wild Girls, Wild Nights is available for preorder as an Audible book as well. Noisy (or at least audible) sex is the best kind! http://www.amazon.com/Wild-Girls-Nights-Lesbian-Stories/dp/B00I0F7ELA/ref=tmm_aud_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1391036429&sr=1-1

@Audible_com