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.

Total Pageviews

Thursday, June 13, 2019

TEASER 4: From “Finding Carla” in Wild Rides

Sacchi Green

In my story “Pulling” (which is also included in the collection) the erotic charge is very much a matter of opposites attracting, which happens to be the theme of my bi-weekly post over on Ree is a horse trainer and veterinarian showing her draft horses at a county fair. Carla is a midway barker luring farm boys (and men) to her dart-and-balloon concession with sultry banter, but with no intention of letting any of them get under her short skirt.  A big farm girl, though, is a different matter. When she and Ree get together at a cheap motel, Carla brings vicious clamps and mardi gras beads from the balloon game, while Ree brings a tube of horse lube. Vive la difference! What happens later? Carla disappears after their second night together. Not surprising. But the two-years-later sequel, “Findng Carla,” brings them together again, Ree more sexually experienced now, Carla with a desperate need for ordinary respectability. Here’s an excerpt:

Finding Carla
Sacchi Green

“Keep your skanky hands off me!” The words sliced through drifting aromas of coffee and pancakes and bacon. “Touch me again, and those fingers won’t be able to
fuck your own sorry dick!”
I’d know that voice, that attitude, anywhere. A truck stop where Vermont slopes into New Hampshire wasn’t high on my list of places to look, but how much, really, had I ever known about Carla? Apart from the way she sounded in hip-swishing, femme-top command of any situation—or with her hips so entirely out of control she couldn’t shape gasps into words—or steeling herself to mount my huge draft horse. We hadn’t had much time for the getting-to-
know-you parts.
I couldn’t see into the dining area past the family with fidgety kids ahead of me. Getting by without trampling them didn’t seem likely, but I was giving it a try anyway when a skinny whirlwind shot from around the cashier’s counter and whacked me from behind.
“Ree Daniels, move your butt!” The manager forged her way through the milling kids like an icebreaker. I was twice Lyddie Brown’s bulk and a foot taller, but I followed in her wake anyway.
It was Carla, all right, her pot of scalding coffee poised right above the hastily withdrawn hand—and crotch—of a middle-aged truck driver I’d seen around before. On the skuzzy side, usually on the make, but Carla could’ve handled his kind in seconds with a sly quip, back when
she’d been working arcade games on the county fair circuit.
Now her face and body were tense, brittle, close to panic. She looked as near to being spooked as any horse I’ve ever handled. What the hell had got into her? And what was she doing here?
It was my turn to shove Lyddie aside, with a look meant to convince her I knew what I was doing. “Hey, Carla.” I moved in close. “Let me help you out with that.” My hand curled around her fingers on the coffeepot’s handle. My body edged hers away from the customer. “Let’s put it down over here, okay?”
The wildness in her dark eyes mellowed into recognition, and something I hoped was deeper. That last morning, while I was still asleep, she’d cleared out without any clue as to how
to find her. For nearly two years I’d figured all she’d seen in me was just a hot enough two-night stand to pass the time with. If she’d thought that was all I’d seen in her, she’d been
dead wrong. Okay, I lied about the getting-to-know-you bit. Two days and nights was enough for me to discover the vulnerability behind the bravado, the steel determination that
overcame fear—and to want to know more.
“Sure,” she said now, “anything you say, big girl.” Her voice shook, but the old low, intimate tone was still there.
Remembered lust surged back in a rush. Carla had always radiated sparks of bad-girl eroticism. Even with her waves of black hair confined in a knot and her waitress uniform just skimming her curves, she shot off pheromones that could pierce a Humvee. I’d have felt some sympathy for the driver if he hadn’t started to bluster.
Lyddie rolled her eyes, jerked her head toward the office, and went into damage control mode.
I got Carla to the coffee station and deposited the hot pot. In spite of interested observers at every table, my hand settled into the sweet spot where waist curves to hip as I steered her into the office and kicked the door shut.
She was shivering when I put my arms around her. I’d never imagined Carla so shaken. Physically wary, sure—my big horses had scared her before she’d discovered the delights
of naked bare-back riding at midnight—but nothing like this melt-down. “Oh, honey, what’s the trouble?” I used my soothing-skittish-fillies tone. “It’ll be all right.” I stroked her black hair, glossy as my Percherons. It came loose from its prim knot, falling into the wild mane I remembered whipping back and forth over my sweaty tors o as she rode me.
“No it won’t,” she muttered against my chest. When her head lifted I saw that the glitter of tears in her eyes came as much from rage as from despair. It was oddly reassuring. “There goes another job! That bastard! But I can handle his kind without lifting a finger. Usually.” Carla searched her breast pockets. I took pity and grabbed the box of Kleenex from Lyddie’s desk.
I dabbed at her damp eyes. No makeup beyond a subdued shade of lipstick. She still exuded that seductive air that had grabbed me the first time I’d seen her, but something else as well that grabbed me harder, even as I shied away from examining it too closely. “So, what went wrong?”
“Me. I went wrong. ‘Sorry, I’m not on the menu’ didn’t do the trick, but I could’ve just smiled and moved away. When he put his hand on my butt, though, I felt…I wanted…dammit, Ree, I needed to be touched so bad it hurt, but not by his kind!”
I could recognize a mare in heat long before I earned my veterinary degree, and my experience of women had tuned me to the similarities. Women aren’t as easily ruled by their hormones as mares, though. For Carla to go off the deep end, there must be as much turmoil in her head as in her body. Dangerous territory.
Just the same, my hand went to her thigh and would have traveled farther if Lyddie hadn’t charged into the office just then.
Carla tried to pull away. I kept an arm around her shoulder. “How’s it going, Lyddie?” I hoped my grin still had the tomboy charm that used to get me extra pie as a kid. The manager had known me all my life, and my family even longer. We’d always stopped here when I was helping my dad transport horses to New Hampshire farms and fairs. The grin could have got me a whole lot more than pie if I’d been so inclined, once I’d grown up, cropped my straw-yellow hair short, and shown that I knew who I was and where I was going.
Lyddie looked us up and down, hands braced on hips, head shaking in exasperation. “Might’ve known you’d be acquainted. There’s gotta be an explanation behind this, but I don’t have the time or patience now.”
“It’s the old story,” I said. “Farm girl meets carnival huckster at the county fair. The Lancaster Fair year before last, when my team was in the pulling trials.” I realized too late that Carla might not have included the midway balloon/dart concession on her résumé.
“Judging by such a touching reunion, maybe you wouldn’t mind taking Miss Volcano-mouth off my hands for a couple of days until all this drama blows over.”
Carla stirred under my arm. “I’m sorry, Lyddie. I should just move on. Thanks for taking a chance on me, but I’ve always been bad news.”
I wanted to shake the old arrogance back into her. On the other hand, if it had been just a shield, I wanted to know what was behind it.
Lyddie softened. “You’re not bad, honey. You’re just drawn that way.”
Carla was right on it. “Thanks, Lyddie. Jessica Rabbit is my role model.”
“You’re a fine cashier and waitress,” Lyddie added. “Never did figure out what you’re doing in a place like this. You could make a lot more tending bar in the city or the tourist area over by Mt. Washington. At least bars have bouncers.”
Carla’d begun to relax, but now she tensed and glanced away from Lyddie. “Can’t blame a girl for wanting to try out respectability for a change.”
I was tired of being left out of the conversation. “If riding in the cab of a horse van rates as respectable, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be back this way tomorrow or the next
day. We’ll see how things look by then.”
“Just let me get out of this uniform and grab a fewthings.” Carla wriggled out of my grasp. Lyddie and I watched her go, both our gazes fixed on her slender back and swaying ass, both of us exhaling when she’d gone. But Lyddie’s sigh was somber.
“Can’t get a job at a bar these days without a background check,” she said. “A police record will shoot you right down. She’s a whiz with numbers, too, took some accounting
courses she says, but the same goes there.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” But I knew.

The story ends with them together, but some rocky times ahead. I intend to take them through those in another story, still very different characters. You never know, maybe a novel will come of it.

Sunday, June 2, 2019

TEASER 3: From “Sgt. Rae” in Wild Rides

 Every time I think I might as well stop trying to defend erotica, somebody sets me off and I do it again. This time it was a comment along the lines of “I won’t read anything labelled erotica because I insist on plot and emotional connection.” Sigh. Maybe it’s my fault for labelling the anthologies I’ve edited and my own work as erotica. So far I’ve got away with it, with no lack of plot (or at least story arc) and emotional connection.

So here’s my third excerpt from Wild Rides published by Dirt Road Books. See what you think. Don’t worry, the erotic part comes later.

Excerpt from “Sgt. Rae”
Sacchi Green

Sgt. Rae was so strong she could carry me at a run through gunfire and smoke and exploding mines. Two years later, she’s that strong again. With just one hand, she can keep me from getting away. Even her voice is enough to stop me at a dead run, so it doesn’t matter that she can’t run anymore. And anyway, I’d never want to run away.
I’m smaller, but I’ve got my own kind of muscle. A mechanic in an armored tank unit has to be strong just to handle the tools you need, and if you’re a woman doing the job, you need a whole extra layer of strength. I’m not an army mechanic anymore, but I can still use tools. Sgt. Rae isn’t an Army Sgt. anymore, but she’ll always be in charge. At the town hall where she’s the police and fire department dispatcher, they tell me she’s got the whole place organized like it’s never been before.
In our house, or in the town, I’m supposed to just call her Rae these days, and mostly I remember. I’m just Jenny. In the bedroom, we don’t need names at all, except to wake
each other when the bad dreams come, and whisper that everything’s all right now. Or so close to all right that we can handle it, as long as we’re together.
Out here, though, on this trail I’ve made through the woods and across the stream, we play by my rules, and that means I’m Specialist 2nd Brown and she’s the ball-buster Staff Sergeant, even though neither of us has any use for balls. She’ll be coming along the trail behind me any minute, coming to see what new contraption I’ve constructed. What she expects is something like the exercise stations I’ve built for her in every room in the house, chinning bars
and railings and handgrips at different levels, and in a way that’s right, but with a different twist. She expects I’ll want her to order me to drop and do fifty push-ups or sit-ups, or run in place until I’m panting, but this time I want something else.
I check the gears and pulleys one more time, even though I already know the tension is set right. It’s my own tension that’s nearly out of control. The posts and crossbars are rock-solid, while I’m shaking in my old fatigues, so nervous and horny that I can’t even tell which is which.
I hear the motor now. I could’ve made it run quieter, but if you’ve been where we’ve both been, you want to be sure you know who’s coming around the bend.
She’s crossed the rocky ford in the stream where no regular wheelchair could have gone. I salvaged tracks from old snowmobiles at the repair shop where I work, and they’re
as good as any armored tank tracks, even though they’re made of Kevlar instead of steel. Fine for this terrain, and even the steel kind got chewed up in the desert sand in Iraq.
Mustn’t think about the desert now. Here in New Hampshire, green leaves overhead are beginning to turn orange and red. This stream flows into a river just beyond our house, and
we can watch canoes and kayaks pass by—no desert in sight. This is home. We’re together. Safe. Except that safe isn’t always enough, when you’ve known—had to know—so much more.
Now I hear Sgt. Rae veering back and forth through the obstacle course, steering the mini-tank around trees, stumps, boulders, right over small logs. With a double set of the tracks on each side, the only way to steer is by slowing one side while accelerating the other, and that takes
strength. I think of her big hands on the levers, the bunched muscles of her arms and shoulders, even stronger now than in the army because she insists on a manually powered chair anywhere but in these woods. Gloves help, but her hands get calloused from turning the wheels. Calloused, and rough, even when she tries to be gentle… Anticipation
pounds through my body.

Wednesday, May 29, 2019

TEASER TWO! Excerpt from "Bull Rider" in Wild Rides

Here's the second entry in my campaign to show how right reviewers are when they comment on the variety in my collection Wild Rides. The first one, "Jessebel," was a vampire story set in post-Civil War California. This one, set in a country-western bar in Amsterdam in the 1980s, is something else entirely.


Excerpt from "Bull Rider"
Sacchi Green

Anneke came through the door and stood for a minute, cool as ever, with just a hint of defiance.

“I’ll be damned!” Margaretha muttered from behind the bar. “I knew you’d made an impression, but Jeez!” From the dropped jaws and arrested strides of several waiters I got the feeling that they weren’t used to seeing Anneke in tight, scant denim cutoffs and a gingham blouse molded to all the delectable curves below those peeking out over her plunging neckline.

Body by Daisy Mae, face by Princess Grace. A divine dissonance, but what the hell was I supposed to do with it in a public place and a culture I didn’t wholly understand? I sure had to do something, though, with the surge of energy pounding through my body. “Maybe it’s time for a ride,” I growled, and jerked my head toward the room with the bull.

“Good idea.” Margaretha shoved some coins at me across the bar. “Go for it!” As I turned away, she grabbed my shoulder and swung me back. “Take it a little easy. She may not admit it, but she’s new to this.” I didn’t think she meant the bull.

I set the controls on “extreme” and vaulted aboard the broad wooden back, my hat held high in the traditional free-arm gesture. It was a damn good thing the bull was mechanical; my body could handle all the twists and lurches without involving my brain. Matching wits with a live,
wily, determined bull would’ve taken concentration I couldn’t spare, with Anneke on my mind.

I was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered. The music was “The Devil Came Down to Georgia”, and Anneke was leaning against a nearby post watching with her Mona Lisa smile. Less vaguely, I realized I was going to be sore tomorrow—though nowhere near as sore as I’d like to be, unless some vital moves were made.

When my wooden mount slowed to a stop and the room held still, I tossed my hat toward Anneke, who caught it deftly and allowed her smile to widen. Then I shifted my ass backward to make room and held out a hand to her. With no hesitation she let me pull her up to straddle the bull. Someone, maybe Margaretha, put more money in the machine and set it on “easy”; the music changed to “Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places”; and I was in the kind of trouble worth dreaming about.

Riding without stirrups can be an erotic experience all by itself. Riding with Anneke’s ass pressed into me, kneading my crotch with every heave of the bull, was sublime torture.

[There's more. Much more.]

TEASER! Wild Rides Excerpt from "Jessebel"

Sacchi Green

So many reviewers have remarked on the variety in my writing, I’ve decided to post some teasers, aka excerpts, to illustrate that variety in my collection Wild Rides from Dirt Road Books.

A few days ago, on a Facebook group, the subject was vampire stories. I've done very few, but I mentioned one,  “Jessebel”, a story set post-Civil War in the Sierra foothill gold country. Someone commented, “I’d read that in a hot minute!” So why not start out here with that one? Who knows, maybe I’ll hit pay dirt with some of these excerpts and encourage folks to to read the full stories in Wild Rides for very many hot minutes.

From "Jessebel"
Sacchi Green

“See there, Cap’n, ain’t she somethin’? Jezebel, they calls ‘er, but most likely she’s just plain Mabel or Hildy underneath it all.”
I looked through a blur of drifting cigar smoke and shifting bodies. Maybe three or four of those figures were recognizably female, for damned sure not counting my own well-concealed form, but there was no doubt as to which one had sparked the old stable hand’s enthusiasm. I couldn’t see much; her back was to the door, and a rancher’s burly arms enveloped her in a most unchaste fashion as they danced, but even so there seemed to be a glow about her that drew the eye. Chestnut curls tumbled across slender shoulders, and emerald silk clung to rounded, swaying hips that promised the uttermost in carnal delights without sacrificing the least degree of elegance.
“Sure is, Bill,” I agreed, “but what’s a fine piece like that doing in a place like this?”
“Plenty of business, that’s what.” Bill elbowed me in the ribs. I only just managed to pivot enough to keep my bound-up tender bits from taking the full impact. When I turned back the girl swung around so that for a moment, before her partner’s bulk blocked the view, I saw her face, beautiful in spite of all its paint, not because of it.
The room swirled around me. The floor tilted. I clutched at the back of a chair, muttered an apology to the card player occupying it, and lurched back out through the swinging doors.
The last time I’d kissed that face it had been ashen, dirt-smeared, streaked with blood and my tears. The last time I’d held that dear body in my arms, life and warmth had seeped away.
The last time I’d seen her, she’d been dead.

(Note: Have you ever wondered whether a vampire drinking the blood of a victim seething with lust would become overwhelmed with that lust herself? You might find out in this story.)

Tuesday, April 9, 2019

“Something to Remember You By.”

To celebrate Wild Rides, my new collection from Dirt Road Books, I'm sharing a long story that isn't in the book at all, but does appear in the first collection in 2011 from Lethe Press, A Ride to Remember.  Feel free to skip my rambling introduction and dive right in.

I can’t type the title of this WWII song without longing to share more of its lyrics, and wishing even more that I could somehow impart the emotional impact of the tune. But “Fair Use” permissiveness for song lyrics and poetry in general has very strict limits, so all I dared to use in the story I wrote was the song’s title. For whatever reason, titles can’t be copyrighted, so I even used most of this one for my own story’s title.

In my story “To Remember You By” I referenced a wide range of song titles to evoke the mood and intensity of the WWII setting. My parents were in their youthful prime then, and I was exposed to the music of that era in the movies they watched and the records my mother sang along with long after the war was over. I’ll never be able to tell how many readers may have heard the tunes and lyrics in their heads as they read my story, or how much that may have affected their enjoyment, but it’s been published several times since its first appearance in Hanne Blank’s anthology Shameless: Women's Intimate Erotica from Seal Press way back in 2002, so a fair number of people have probably read it. There was even a condensed version printed in Penthouse when Seal Press persuaded that magazine to take a few stories from the anthology as samples of what kind of erotica women were writing. The timing was bad, because Penthouse went into some temporary form of bankruptcy just then and never paid us for our work, but I was almost as disappointed that in condensing my story they took out all the musical references.

 Ah well. “To Remember You By” was also reprinted in one of the editions of The Mammoth Book of New Erotica, and it was the lead-off piece in the first collection of my own stories, A Ride to Remember from Lethe Press in 2011, while a sequel, “Alternate Lives,” about the same characters thirty-five years later, was the end piece. Maybe I’ll share that one with you sometime.

Okay, enough reminiscing. Time to face the music! (Fair warning: one of the characters is bisexual.)

To Remember You By
Sacchi Green

     In the summer of 1943, the air was sometimes so thick with sex you could have spread it like butter and it would have melted, even on cold English toast.
    The intensity of youth, the urgency of wartime, drove us. Nurses, WACs, young men hurled into the deadly air war against Germany, gathered between one crisis and another in improvised dance halls. Anything from barns to airfield hangars to tents rigged from parachute silk would do. To the syncopated jive of trumpets and clarinets, to "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" and "Accentuate the Positive," we swayed and jitterbugged and twitched our butts defiantly at past and future. To the muted throb of drums and the yearning moan of saxophones, to "As Time Goes By" and "I'll Be Seeing You," our bodies clung and throbbed and yearned together.
     I danced with men facing up to mortality, and with brash young kids in denial. Either way, life pounded through their veins and bulged in their trousers and sometimes my body responded with such force I felt as though my own skirt should have bulged with it.
     But I wasn't careless. And I wasn't in love. As a nurse, I'd tried to mend too many broken boys, known too many who never made it back at all, to let my mind be clouded by love. Sometimes, though, in dark hallways or tangles of shrubbery or the shadow of a bomber's wings, I would comfort some nice young flier with my body and drive him on until his hot release geysered over my hand. Practical Application of Anatomical Theory, we nurses called it, "PAT" for short. Humor is a frail enough defense against the chaos of war, but you take what you can get.
     Superstition was the other universal defense. Mine, I suppose, was a sort of vestal virgin complex, an unexamined belief that opening my flesh to men would destroy my ability to heal theirs.
     My very defenses (and repressions) might have opened me to Cleo. Would my senses have snapped so suddenly to attention in peacetime? They say war brings out things you didn't know were in you. But I think back to my first sight of her, the intense gray eyes, the thick, dark hair too short and straight for fashion, the forthright movements of her lean body--and a shiver of delight ripples through me, even now. No matter where or when we met, she would have stirred me.
     The uniform sure didn't hurt, though, dark blue, tailored, with slacks instead of skirt. I couldn't identify the service, but "USA" stood out clearly on each shoulder, so it made sense for her to be at the Red Cross club on Charles Street in London, set up by the United States Ambassador's wife for American servicewomen.
     There was a real dance floor, and a good band was playing that night, but Cleo lingered near the entrance as though undecided whether to continue down the wide, curving staircase. I don't know how long I stared at her. When I looked up from puzzling over the silver pin on her breast she was watching me quizzically. My date, a former patient whose half-healed wounds made sitting out most of the dances advisable, gripped my shoulder to get my attention.
     "A friend of yours?" he asked. He'd been getting a bit maudlin as they played "You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To," and I'd already decided he wasn't going to get the kind of comfort he'd been angling for. I shook off his hand.
     "No," I said, "I was just trying to place the uniform. Are those really wings on her tunic?" I felt a thrill of something between envy and admiration. The high, compact breasts under the tunic had caught my attention, too, but that wasn’t something I was ready to admit to myself. I watched her movements with more than casual interest as she descended the stairs and took a table in a dim corner.
     "Yeah," he said with some bitterness, "can you believe it? They brought in women for the Air Transport Auxiliary. They get to ferry everything, even the newest Spitfires, from factories or wherever the hell else they happen to be to wherever they're needed."
     His tone annoyed me, even though I knew he was anxious about whether he'd ever fly again himself. But then he pushed it too far. "I hear women are ferrying planes back in the States now, too. Thousands of 'em. Next thing you know there won't be any jobs left for men after the war. I ask you, what kind of woman would want to fly warplanes, anyway?" His smoldering glance toward the corner table told me just what kind of woman he had in mind. "Give me a cozy red-headed armful with her feet on the ground any day," he said, with a look of insistent intimacy.
     "With her back on the ground, too, I suppose," I snapped, and stood up. "I'm sorry, Frank, I really do wish you the best, but I don't think there's anything more I can do for you. Maybe you should catch the early train back to the base." I evaded his grasp and retreated to the powder room; and, when I came out at last, he had gone.
     The corner table, however, was still occupied.
     "Mind if I sit here?" I asked. "I'm Kay Barnes."
     "Cleo Remington," she said, offering a firm handshake. "It's fine by me. Afraid the boyfriend will try again?"
     So she'd noticed our little drama. "Not boyfriend," I said, "just a patient who's had all the nursing he's going to get." I signaled a waitress. "Can I get you a drink to apologize for staring when you came in? I'd never seen wings on a woman before, and...well, to be honest, I had a flash of insane jealousy. I've always wanted to fly, but things just never worked out that way."
     "Well," Cleo said, "I can't say I've ever been jealous of a nurse's life, but I'm sure glad you're on the job."
     "Tell me what being a pilot is like," I said, "so I can at least fantasize."
     She told me, over a cup of the best (and possibly only) coffee in London, about persuading her rancher father that air surveillance was the best way to keep track of cattle spread out over a large chunk of Montana. When her brother was old enough to take over the flying cowboy duty, she'd moved on to courier service out of Billings, and then to a job as instructor at a Civilian Pilot Training Program in Colorado, where everyone knew that her young male students were potential military pilots, but that Cleo, in spite of all her flight hours, wasn't.
     Then came all-out war, and the chance to come to England. Women aviators were being welcomed to ferry aircraft for the decimated RAF. I watched her expressive face and hands and beautifully shaped mouth as she talked of Hurricanes and Spitfires and distant glimpses of German Messerschmidts.
     As she talked, I did, in fact, fantasize like crazy. But visions of moonlight over a foaming sea of clouds kept resolving into lamplight on naked skin, and the roar of engines and rush of wind gave way to pounding blood and low, urgent cries. Her shifting expressions fascinated me; her rare, flashing smile was so beautiful I wanted to feel its movement under my own lips.
     I didn't know what had come over me. Or, rather, I knew just enough to sense what I wanted, without having the least idea how to tell whether she could possibly want it too. I'd admired women before, but only aesthetically, I'd rationalized, or with mild envy. But this flush of heightened sensitivity, this feeling of rushing toward some cataclysm that might tear me apart…that I wanted to tear me apart… This was unexplored territory.
     "So," Cleo said at last, looking a bit embarrassed, "that's more about me than anybody should have to sit through. What about you? How did you end up here?"
     "I'm not sure I can even remember who I was before the war," I said, scarcely knowing who I'd been just half an hour ago. "It seems as though nothing interesting or exciting ever happened to me back then. Not that 'interesting' will be a fair description of life now until I'm at a safe distance from it."
     She nodded. We were silent for a while, sharing the unspoken question of whether the world would ever know such a thing as safety again. Then I told her a little about growing up in New Hampshire, and climbing mountains, only to feel that even there the sky wasn't high and wide enough to hold me. "That's when I dreamed about flying."
     "Yes!" she said. "I get that feeling here, once in a while, even in the air. Somehow this European sky seems smaller, and the land below is so crowded with cities, sometimes the only way to tell where you are is by the pattern of the railroads. The Iron Compass, we call it. I guess that's one reason I'm transferring back to the States instead of renewing my contract here.
     "The main reason, though, is that I've heard women in the WASPs at home are getting to test-pilot huge Flying Fortresses and Marauders. And that's only the beginning. Pretty soon they'll be commissioned in the regular Army Air Force. In Russia women are even flying combat missions; "Night Witches" the Germans call them. If the war goes on long enough..." She stopped short of saying, "If enough of our men are killed I'll get to fight," and I was grateful. "History is being made," she went on, "and I've got to be in on it!"
     In her excitement she had stretched out her legs under the table until they brushed against mine. I wanted so badly to rub against the wool of her slacks that I could scarcely pay attention to what she was saying, but I caught one vital point.
     "Transferring?" I leaned far forward, and felt, as well as saw, her glance drop to my breasts. The starchy wartime diet in England had added some flesh, but at that moment I didn't care, because all of it was tingling. "When do you go?"
     "In two weeks," she said. "I'm taking a week in London to get a look at some of the sights I haven't had time for in the whole eighteen months I've been over here. Then there'll be one more week of ferrying out of Hamble on the south coast. And then I'm leaving."
     Two weeks. One, really. "I've got a few days here, too," I said. "Maybe we could see the sights together." I tried to look meaningfully into her eyes, but she stared down at her own hands on the table and then out at the dance floor where a few couples, some of them pairs of girls, were dancing.
     "Sure," she said. "That would be fun." Her casual tone seemed a bit forced.
     "I don't suppose you'd like to dance, would you?" I asked, with a sort of manic desperation. "Girls do it all the time here when there aren't enough men. Nobody thinks anything of it."
     "Somebody sure as hell would," Cleo said bluntly, "if they were doing it right." She met my eyes, and, in the hot gray glow of her defiant gaze, I learned all I needed to know.
     Then she looked away. "Not," she said carefully, "that any of Flight Captain Jackie Cochran's hand-picked, cream-of-American-womanhood pilots would know anything about that."
     "Of course not," I agreed. "Or any girl-next-door nurses, either." I could feel a flush rising from my neck to my face, but I plowed ahead. "Some of us might be interested in learning, though."
     She looked at me with a quizzical lift to one eyebrow, then pushed back her chair and stood up. Before my heart could do more than lurch into my throat, she said lightly, "How about breakfast here tomorrow, and then we'll see what the big deal is about London."
     It turned out we were both staying in the club dormitory upstairs. We went up two flights together; then I opened the door on the third floor landing. Cleo's room was on the fourth floor. I paused, and she said, without too much subtlety, "One step at a time, Kay, one step at a time!" Then she bolted upward, her long legs taking the stairs two, sometimes three, steps at a time.
     Night brought, instead of a return to common sense, a series of dreams wilder than anything my imagination or clinical knowledge of anatomy had ever managed before. When I met Cleo for breakfast it was hard to look at her without envisioning her dark, springy hair brushing my thighs, while her mouth... But all my dreams had dissolved in frustration, and I woke up tangled in hot, damp sheets with my hand clamped between my legs.
     Cleo didn't look all that rested, either, but for all I knew she was always like that before her second cup of coffee. When food and caffeine began to take effect, I got a map of bus routes from the porter and we planned our day.
     London Bridge, Westminster, Harrod's department store; whether I knew how to do it right or not, every moment was a dance of sorts. Cleo got considerable amusement out of my not-so-subtle attempts at seduction. She even egged me on to try on filmy things in Harrod's that I could never afford, or have occasion to wear--what on earth, we speculated, did Harrod's stock when it wasn't wartime?--and let me see how much she enjoyed the view. I didn't think she was just humoring me.
     In the afternoon, after lunch at a quaint tearoom, we went to the British Museum and admired the cool marble flesh of nymphs and goddesses. Cleo circled a few statues, observing that the Greeks sure had a fine hand when it came to posteriors; I managed to press oh-so-casually back against her, and she didn't miss the chance to demonstrate her own fine hand, or seem to mind that my posterior was not quite classical.
     Then we decided life was too short to waste on Egyptian mummies, and wandered a bit until, in a corner of an upper floor, we found a little gallery where paintings from the Pre-Raphaelite movement and other Victorian artists were displayed. There was no one else there but an elderly woman guard whose stern face softened just a trace at Cleo's smile.
      Idealized women gazed out of mythological worlds aglow with color. The grim reality of war retreated under the spell of flowing robes, rippling clouds of hair, impossibly perfect skin.
      Cleo stood in the center of the room, slowly rotating. "Sure had a thing for redheads, didn't they," she said. "You'd have fit right in, Kay."
     I could only hope she herself had a thing for redheads. Standing there, feeling drab in my khaki uniform, I watched Cleo appreciating the paintings of beautiful women. When she moved closer to the sleeping figure of "Flaming June" by Lord Leighton, I gazed with her at the seductive flesh gleaming through transparent orange draperies and allowed myself, experimentally, to imagine stroking the curve of thigh and hip, the round, tender breasts.
     "I don't know how this rates as art," Cleo said, "but oh, my!"
     A hot flush rose across my skin, of desire, yes, but even more of fierce jealousy. I wanted to be in that bright, serene world, inside that pampered, carefree body, with smooth arms and hands not roughened by scrubbing with hospital soap. I wanted to be the one seducing Cleo's eyes.
  "She could have a million freckles under that gown," I blurted out childishly. "The color would filter them out!"
     A tiny grin quirked the corner of Cleo's mouth. As always, I wanted to feel the movement of her lips. "Freckles are just fine," she said, "so long as I get to count them." She turned, and leaned close, and shivers of anticipation rippled through me. "With my tongue," she added, and very gently laid a trail of tiny wet dots across the bridge of my nose. I forgot entirely where we were.
     Then she bent her dark head to my throat, and undid my top buttons, and gently cupped my breasts through my tunic as her warm tongue probed down into the valley between. I couldn't bear to stop her, even when I remembered the guard. My breasts felt heavy, my nipples swollen, but not nearly as heavy and swollen as I needed them to be.
     Cleo's gray eyes were darker when she raised her head. "Where," she murmured huskily, "is a bomb shelter when you need one?"
     But we knew that even now, when Hitler's Russian campaign had distracted the Luftwaffe enough that there hadn't been a really major attack on London in over a year, every bomb shelter had its fiercely protective attendants.
     The guard's voice, harsh but muted, startled us. "There's a service lift just down the corridor. It's slow. Though not necessarily slow enough."
     She gazed impersonally into space, her weathered face expressionless, until, as we passed, she glanced down at Cleo's silver wings. "Good work," she said curtly. "I drove an ambulance in France in the last war. But for God's sake be careful!"
     In the elevator Cleo pressed me against a wood-paneled wall and kissed me so hard it hurt. I slid my fingers through her thick dark hair and held her back just enough for my lips to explore the shape of her lips and my tongue to invite hers to come inside.
     By the time we jolted to a stop on the ground floor my crotch felt wetter than my mouth, and even more in need of her probing tongue.
     There was no one waiting when the gate slid open. Cleo pulled me along until we found a deserted ladies' room, but once inside, she braced her shoulders against the tiled wall and didn't touch me. "You do realize," she said grimly, "what you're risking."
     "Never mind what I'm risking," I said. "One nurse blotting her copy book isn't going to bring everything since Florence Nightingale crashing down. But you..." I remembered Frank's bitter voice asking, "What kind of woman?"  Tears stung my eyes, but it had to be said. "You're holding history in your hands, Cleo." I reached out to clasp her fingers. "Right where I want to be."
     "Are you sure you know what you want?"
     "I may not know exactly what," I admitted, drawing her hands to my hips, "but I sure as hell know I want it!" I reached down and yanked my skirt up as far as I could. Cleo stroked my inner thigh, and I caught my breath; then she slid cool fingers inside my cotton underpants and gently cupped my hot, wet flesh. I moaned and thrust against her touch, and tried to kiss her, and her mouth moved under mine into a wide grin.
     "Pretty convincing," she murmured against my lips.
     I whimpered as she withdrew her hand, but she just smoothed down my skirt and gave me a pat on my butt. "Not here," she said, and propelled me out the door.
     On the long series of bus rides back to Charles Street we tried not to look at each other, but I felt Cleo's dark gaze on me from time to time. I kept my eyes downcast, the better to glance sidelong at her as she alternated between folding her arms across her chest and clenching and unclenching her hands on her blue wool slacks.
     Dinner was being served at the Red Cross club, probably the best meal for the price in England. Cleo muttered that she wasn't hungry, not for dinner, anyway, but I had my own motive for insisting. The band would be setting up in half an hour or so, and with the window opened, you could hear the music from my room. Well enough for dancing.
     So we ate, although I couldn't say what, and Cleo teased me by running her tongue sensuously around the lip of a coke bottle and into its narrow throat. Her mercurial shifts from intensity to playfulness fascinated me, but the time came when intensity was all I craved.
     "I don't suppose you'd like to dance, would you?" I repeated last night's invitation with a barely steady voice. "If I tried my best to do it right?" I stood abruptly and started for the stairs. Behind me Cleo's chair fell over with a clatter as she jumped up to follow me.
     I reached my tiny room ahead of her--nursing builds strong legs. I crossed to the window to heave it open, and then the door slammed shut and she was behind me, pressing her crotch against my ass, wrapping her arms around me to undo my buttons and cradle my breasts through my sensible cotton slip. I longed to be wearing sheer flame-colored silk for her.
     When she slid her hands under the fabric and over my skin, though, I found I didn't want to be wearing anything at all. "So soft," she whispered, "so tender..." and then, as my nipples jerked taut under her strokes, "and getting so hard..."
     A melody drifted from below; "Something To Remember You By." I turned in her arms. "Teach me to dance," I whispered.
     We swayed gently together, feet scarcely moving in the cramped space, thighs pressing into each other's heat. Cleo kneaded my ass, while I held her so tightly against my breast that her silver wings dented my flesh.
     "Please," I murmured against her cheek, "closer..." I fumbled at the buttons of her tunic. When she tensed, I drew back. "I'm sorry...I don't know the rules..."
     "The only rule," Cleo said, after a long pause, "is that you get what you need."
     "I need to feel you," I said.
     She drew her hands over my hips and up my sides until she held my breasts again; then she stepped back and began to shed her clothes. Mine, with a head start, came off even faster.
      The heady musk of arousal rose around us. A clarinet crooned, "I'll Be Seeing You." I cupped my full breasts and raised them so that my nipples could flick against Cleo's high, tightening peaks, over and over. The sensation was exquisite, tantalizing--I gave a little whimper, needing more, and she bent to take me into her mouth.
     I thought I would burst with wanting. My swollen nipples felt as big as her demanding tongue. Then she worked her hand between my legs, and spread the juices from my cunt up over my straining clit, and my whimpers turned to full-throated moans.
     Cleo raised her head. Her kiss muted my cries as she reached past me to shut the window. "Hope nobody's home next door," she muttered, and suddenly we were dancing horizontally on the narrow bed. I arched my hips, rubbing against her thigh, until her mouth moved down over throat and breasts and belly, slowly, too slowly; I wanted to savor each moment but my need was too desperate. I wriggled, and thrashed, and her head sank at last between my thighs, just as in my dreams. Her mobile lips drove me into a frenzy of pleading, incoherent cries, until, with her tongue thrusting deeply, rhythmically into my cunt, my ache exploded into glorious release.
     In the first faint light of morning I woke to feel Cleo's fingers ruffling my tousled hair. "If I were an artist I'd paint you like this," she whispered. "You look like a marmalade cat full of cream."
     I stretched, and then gasped as her fingers roused last night's ache into full, throbbing resurgence. "Sure enough," she said with a wicked grin, "plenty of cream. Let's see if I can make you yowl again."
     This time I found out what her long, strong fingers could do deep inside me, one at first, then two; by the end of the week I could clutch at her whole, pumping hand.
     Sometimes I think I remember every moment of those days; sometimes everything blurs except the feel of Cleo's hands and mouth and body against mine, and the way her eyes would shift suddenly from laughing silver to the dark gray of storm clouds.
     We did more sightseeing; the Tower of London, Madam Tussaud's Wax Museum, St. Paul's Cathedral scarred by German bombs. We took boat trips up the Thames to Richmond Park, where we dared to kiss in secluded bits of woodland, and down river where we held hands across the Greenwich Meridian. One night, in anonymous clothes bought at a flea-market barrow, we even managed to get into a club Cleo had heard of where women did dance openly with women. We couldn't risk staying long, but a dark intoxication followed us back to her room, where I entirely suppressed the nurse in me and demanded things of Cleo that left both of us sore, drained, and without regrets.
     On our last night in London we went anonymously again into shabby backstreets near the docks. I brought disinfectants, and we chose what seemed the cleanest of a sorry lot of tattoo parlors. There, welcoming the pain of the needle as distraction from deeper pain, we had tiny pairs of wings etched over our left breasts.
     We parted with promises to meet one more time before Cleo's last flight. I mortgaged a week of sleep to get my nursing shifts covered, and at Hamble Air Field, by moonlight, she introduced me to the planes she loved.
     "This is the last Spitfire I'll ever fly," she said, stroking the sleek fuselage. "Seafire III, Merlin 55 engine, 24,000 foot ceiling, although I won't go up that high just on a hop to Scotland."
     From Scotland she'd catch an empty cargo plane back to the States. I had just got my orders to report to Hawaii for assignment somewhere in the South Pacific. War is hell, and so are good-byes.
     "Could I look into the cockpit?" I asked, wanting to be able to envision her there, high in the sky.
     "Sure. You can even sit in it and play pilot, if you like." She helped me climb onto the wing, with more pressing of my ass than was absolutely necessary, and showed me how to lower myself into the narrow space. Standing on the wing, she leaned in and kissed me, hard at first, then with aching tenderness, then hard again.
     "Pull up your skirt," she ordered, and I did it without question. She already knew I wasn't wearing underpants. "Let's see how wet you can get the seat," she said, "So I can breathe you all the way to Scotland." She unbuttoned my shirt and played with my breasts until I begged her to lean in far enough to suck my aching nipples; then, with her lips and tongue and teeth driving me so crazy that my breath came in a storm of desperate gasps, she reached down into my slippery heat and made me arch and buck so hard that the plane's dials and levers were in danger. I needed more than I could get sitting in the cramped cockpit.
     We clung together finally in the grass under the sheltering wing. I got my hands into Cleo's trousers, and made her groan, but she wouldn't relax into sobbing release until she had her whole hand at last inside me and I was riding it on pounding waves of pleasure as keen as pain.
     I thought, when I could think anything again, that she had fallen asleep, she was so still. Gently, gently I touched my lips to the nearly-healed tattoo above her breast. Tiny wings matching mine. Something to remember her by.
     Without opening her eyes she said, in a lost, small voice, "What are we going to do, Kay?"
     I knew what she was going to do. "You're going to claim the sky, to make history. And anyway," I said, falling back on dark humor since I had no comfort to offer, "a cozy ménage in Paris seems out of the question with the Nazis in control."
     Then, because I knew if I touched her again we would both cry, and hate ourselves for it, I stood, put my clothes in as much order as I could, and walked away.
     I looked back once, from the edge of the field. Cleo leaned, head bowed, against the plane. Some trick of the moonlight transmuted her dark hair into silver; I had a vision of how breathtaking she would be in thirty or forty years. The pain of knowing I couldn't share those years made me stumble, and nearly fall. But I kept on walking.
     And she let me go.

     On June 24, 1944, against all justice and reason, the bill to make the Women Airforce Service Pilots officially part of the Army Air Force was defeated in Congress by nineteen votes. In December, the WASP were disbanded. By then, though, after going through hell in the Pacific theater of war, I had met Jack, who truly loved and needed me, whose son was growing below my heart. His kisses tasted of home, and peace, and more unborn children demanding their chance at life.
     Thirty-three years later, in 1977, when women were at last being admitted into the Air Force, the WASP were retroactively given military status. It was then, through a reunion group, that I found out what had become of Cleo Remington; she had found a sky that was high and wide enough to hold her fierce spirit, and freedom as a bush pilot in Alaska.
     And she was, as I discovered, even more breathtaking at sixty than she'd been at twenty-six.
But that's another chapter of the story.



Wednesday, March 13, 2019

# 1 On the Blog Tour! Fanning My Own Fic

My brand new book comes out on March 19th, and this time, instead of an anthology, it's a collection entirely of my own work, being published by the wonderful folks at Dirt Road Books.

This blog tour includes a raffle, with most of the blog hosts offering books. I'm offering a paperback (in the US only) of my out-of-print, collectible anthology Lipstick on Her Collar, first home of my short story with that title, which is included in Wild Rides. To enter, go to:

There will be eight blogs on this tour, every one different. Here's the schedule:

 Date Host URL

3/19 Sacchi Green
3/20 KD Williamson
3/21 Annette Mori
3/22 Andi Marquette

3/25 R.G. Emanuelle
3/26 Beth Burnett
3/27 Women and Words
3/28 Cheyenne Blue

Now onward to my first blog post, and a whole free story.

Fanning My Own Fic

Thanks for letting me ramble on here about my new collection, Wild Rides and Other Lesbian Erotic Adventures, a topic I never seem to tire of.

This time I have a confession to make. I write fanfic about my own stories. At least it feels that way. Several times lately, when I was searching for something to write to submit to other editors’ anthologies, I’ve found myself going back to pieces where I’d skipped over some passages of time, or left possibilities for more adventures with the same characters, and filled in the gaps or continued the saga with new stories. Three of the stories in my new collection show the results of this questionable habit. “Dragon Descending” is a prequel and origin story featuring the pirate captain in “Pirate from the Sky,” distinct enough, apparently, to stand on its own, since it was published elsewhere. And “Finding Carla” is obviously another one, taking up the lives of the characters in “Pulling” two years later. Those are both here in the new book. Then there’s “Meltdown,” the most recent of three escapades I’ve taken my characters on, and I may well put them through their kinky paces again some time.

I think, or at least hope, that these work as intended, but there are some others not included in the book (although published elsewhere) that may not do as well to maintain the images and personalities of the characters, so I’ve been reluctant to show them together.  Now, though, after being encouraged to share extra scenes from outside some of stories in this book, I’m going to offer one that occurs in between “Pulling” and “Finding Carla.” I’m not at all sure it fits the characters well enough, although it’s been published on its own. Go ahead and read it, and then read those in Wild Rides, or read those first and come back to read this and find out in detail what happened in that barn at night with those horses. I hope you can forgive a bit of repetition from the first story. You can be the judge as to how it works.  Let me know, okay?

Here goes:

Baubles and Beads
Sacchi Green

Garish pink, purple and green fingers of light from the midway groped between the buildings all the way to the horse barns. Some of the fair’s rides and hucksters kept on as long as cash still smoldered in the pockets of the farm boys, but Carla shut down her balloon-dart concession at the official closing time. She could’ve handled the lingering customers by herself, most of them on the leering side of friendly and the slurring side of drunk, but my looming six-foot-two of crop-haired farm girl didn’t hurt. We rolled down the canvas, secured it, and slipped away into the shadows.
Lights just as garish had seeped through skimpy curtains from the neon sign outside her motel room last night. I’d scarcely noticed, obsessed with Carla herself, the black-haired, blue-eyed bad girl of my dreams.
She’d bound me to the bedposts with strings of flashy mardi gras beads, my prizes from her game, and challenged me NOT to break them no matter what she did. I’d almost managed it. And learned, first, how it felt to give up, give in, abandon my strength, my will, all the armor built up over the years. In the beginning I’d had to struggle not to strain against apparently flimsy bonds, but the more Carla forced pleasure into pain and pain into pleasure, the more both willpower and reflexes faded away. I floated somewhere beyond thought, drowning in pure sensation. When she tipped me over at last into a thrashing orgasm I must have broken those strands of beads, but it was a long time before I noticed them sprawled limply across the bed, and longer still before I saw that they were strung on strong nylon thread, knotted between each bead, every strand only broken at a single point.
So the second thing I learned, the most important, was not to assume that just because something looks flashy and cheap it must be flimsy.
It was my first time exploring the darker pleasures of sex, at least with someone who knew what she was doing. In grad school, studying veterinary medicine, my friends and I had plenty of access to barns, and ropes, and dim spaces deserted at night. I’d been invited to some secret sessions where we played, or rather played at being players, but it was strictly amateur night. Mostly clumsy flogging, and the occasional cracking of a whip, but no real sex to speak of. I’d known how to crack a whip without touching my horses’ glossy hides since I was half-grown, and could control my two-ton draft team with no tools but my voice and muscles, so floundering around in a hayloft with whips and floggers just seemed silly. So did the girls who couldn’t take even a fraction of what I could have delivered—or give me a fraction of what I didn’t even know I needed.
I still didn’t pass up any chances to learn my way around women’s bodies, including my own, and had a fine time of it, but Carla…well, ”hot” didn’t begin to cover the vibes she gave off. Something in the way she moved, and the way she played to the guys ogling her in her booth, wisecracking with sultry innuendos that didn’t actually promise them anything. They never caught on when she got to bantering with me and really did promise more than I could imagine. Even my muscle-bound teenaged brothers had no clue what I was up to. They’d finally given up on hovering within range of her seductive aura when I gave them extra money and told them I’d seen a swarm of girls from their high school on the prowl over by the tilt-a-whirl.
In a lull while her customers’ attention turned to a dramatic scene between a guy and the girlfriend who dragged him away, Carla let me know that big dumb farm boys weren’t her type, but a big farm girl—no “dumb” implied—might be right up her alley.
My wrists and ankles were still raw. My tenderer parts ached when I remembered the keen torments and even keener pleasures she’d put me through. But later, after I’d demonstrated my own grasp of the basics--and of her tender parts--and taken possession of the shiny beads, Carla had offered to meet me again tonight on my own ground to face any challenge I set, even if it meant getting up close and personal with horses that looked to her “big as elephants and twice as mean!”
Whatever I thought I’d known about women, Carla was a whole different story. A story turning out to be more complicated than I’d bargained for, but worth every bit of whatever it took. Last night she’d taught me more about myself than I’d ever faced up to before; tonight it was my turn to challenge Carla. Maybe even teach her a thing or two. And find out more about myself.
The horse barns faced east, away from the chaos of the midway and the crowds. I’d signed up for the overnight security shift, so once the guy on evening duty saw me coming, waved, and took off, there was nobody else around. There’d sure better not be.
A full moon was rising. Carla gazed up at it for a minute or two while I reached around from behind and fondled her sweet round breasts. A warm late-summer breeze raised tendrils of her hair to brush against my cheek. Moonlight intensified the hint of mystery I’d already sensed about her even in the glare of neon, an impression of layer upon hidden layer. I hoped for a chance to explore them all.
“Autumn’s almost here,” I murmured. “Plenty more fairs coming up. I’ll be bringing my team to half a dozen or so. You’ll be at Fryburg in Maine?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged and stepped out of my embrace. “But bring on your challenge now, Ree.”
She knew it would be about the horses. Yesterday, when I’d led my team out of the pulling ring and over to meet her, she couldn’t hide her terror. Molly and Stark, great black Percherons, two thousand pounds each with hooves the size of pie plates. Any city girl would be scared. I’d backed the pair off, told her I’d meet her at ten at her carnival booth, and moved on toward the barns, surprised at how much that lapse in Carla’s femme-top self-possession excited me. A chink in her armor.
Now I leaned against the open barn door. “First, find out where I hid the beads.”
Carla relaxed, back in her own territory. “Let’s see. Maybe here?” She probed the pockets of my shirt, managing even through the flannel to tweak nipples still sore from her clamps last night. Then she reached up under the shirt to squeeze my heavy breasts, sending lightning strikes deep into my cunt. I tried hard to control my breathing. “Or here?” She worked her hands into the front pockets of my jeans, finding the same tube of horse lube I’d used with her last night, then the rear pockets, with more squeezing. My hips began to shift. The look on my face must have given me away. Or maybe the catch in my breath.
“Aha.” Her fingers went between my legs to knead the thick seam of my jeans into my crotch. “Are these beads in your pants, or are you just glad to see me?”
I could barely get any words out. “See…for yourself!” She wriggled a hand down inside belt, jeans, and briefs, found what she was looking for, and began sliding the strands through my slippery heat. I nearly lost it. One of those strands had been nestled even deeper the night before last, when I’d been supposed to be resting up before the final round of the draft horse competition, but could think only of her. Tonight the beads had been driving me wild for half an hour. Was I really so set on being in charge tonight?
 I gritted my teeth and yanked her hand, clutching its wet ruby and peacock-green prizes, out into the night air. I’d re-tied them securely after breaking them last night.   Even in the dim light from a single bulb inside the barn they glowed like a Rajah’s treasure. Or…what was the right term? A Ranee’s?
“Mmm.”  Carla ran them across her tongue before draping the strands around her neck so that they swayed across her breasts.
I drew a shuddering breath and turned away.  “Now find the other two strands.” I stepped into the barn. Carla hesitated, then, very slowly, followed.
Molly, in a roomy box stall just inside the entrance, leaned her great black head over the gate and whuffled a greeting. Her brother Stark, just across the way, merely dozed on.
“Molly, this is Carla. Carla, Molly.” Molly lowered her nose politely to be petted. Carla jerked back, braced herself, then raised a tense hand. I knew her fear of the horses wouldn’t last long, but it might at least soften her up a bit.
“Hello, Molly.” Her voice wavered. The black nose dipped lower, snuffling at the green and ruby beads on Carla’s chest and then at her hands. Carla jerked back again, then suddenly laughed. “You’re smelling Ree on me! I guess that makes us all pals.” She stroked the velvety nose tentatively. “And you’re wearing beads, too!” The gleaming strands twined through the mane on either side of Molly’s neck, the golden on the right and the purple on the left.
“You’ll have to climb on the gate to reach them,” I pointed out.
She shot me a dirty look, mounted the lower bars, and reached across and upward. Even then, if Molly hadn’t been nuzzling her shoulder, the beads would have been too high for her to reach.
The first strand came loose easily. Carla climbed down, dangled it in front of me, then let it go when I gripped her wrist too hard for comfort. Yes, I definitely did want to be in charge, now that she had to meet my challenge. More was at stake than a tumble in the hay. Carla’s chin went up almost imperceptibly--and then she lowered it, turned, and climbed back up on Molly’s other side. Molly bent her head again cooperatively, but I gave a low whistle and she moved backward so that Carla couldn’t reach no matter how far she tried to stretch.
“That’s how I tell her to back off,” I said conversationally as I pulled Carla’s skirt up and panties down. “You want me to back off any time, just whistle. You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”
She stopped reaching in vain for the beads, kicked off her panties and skirt, and thrust out her bare butt. Playing along, letting me get away with something, but taunting me just the same. I let the golden beads drift gently over each round, tempting cheek, drew them along the valley between, then whipped them suddenly across each side. Carla gripped the top of the gate and didn’t look around. I swung them harder twice, slashing in diagonal strokes that left an intriguing latticework pattern. I’d tried whipping my own arm with the beads that morning, though, and knew how extra painful they could be, so I switched tactics. Breaking the skin would end things too soon.
Besides, I couldn’t wait any longer to touch her directly. The heat of her skin, the sound of my bare hands striking her flesh, the tremors of her body, her musky scent intensifying by the second… I lost count of my strokes, intoxicated, high on power and lust, all the more when she began making guttural sounds interspersed with gasps. “It’s…it’s okay, Molly!” she got out as the horse twitched and shifted nervously.
I eased off, until she grated, “More, Ree, damnit!” twitching her hips to emphasize the demand.
“My territory, my rules! I decide what you get, and how much, and when.” I made a stab at sounding stern. It felt good. More than good.
Her muttered words were barely audible. “Yes Ree, all right, whatever you want…” Then, even more faintly, “Please…”
My hand came down hard again on her rounded, tantalizing butt, over and over. I wanted her to want more of that, and to want all the kneading and squeezing of her reddened flesh my fingers indulged in between bouts of spanking. I needed her to want those things, and to want them even more because they pleased me.
I struggled to keep some control over myself. A whack on a draft horse’s rump just hard enough to get his attention could do real damage to a slender girl. I tried to gentle her again with slower strokes, but she shuddered and squirmed.
“Please…” Carla’s whisper was low and tremulous now. “Don’t stop…don’t let me drop…” Whatever she meant, I was dead sure playing along had nothing to do with it any more. She wasn’t enduring the pain now so much as absorbing it, consuming it.
“Trust me,” was all I thought of to say. I got one boot up onto the bottom rung of the gate and one arm around her waist, supporting her, never letting up but varying the rhythm of my hand. Her dark hair hung down on either side, exposing the pale nape of her neck. After a while I gave in to temptation, bent my head, kissed that tender, vulnerable skin, and felt a tremor wash through her.
Then I bit down, just hard enough to leave my mark without drawing blood. That jolted her into shuddering motion. Her breath came harder, in gulps, then hard, wracking sobs. I lifted her down and managed to get to the folding chair beside the door and sit with her cradled her against my shoulder until the heaving of her body subsided. She murmured something into my shirt that might have been, “thank you…” and then raised her head just a little. “If only…I wish…”
I’d have done anything for her by then. “Wish what? Just tell me what you want!”
She shook her head, wiped her tear-streaked face against my shirt, seemed to pull herself together, and sat upright on my lap. The old Carla was back, cockiness muted, playing along, but any real vulnerability well-hidden.
“Whatever you want, Ree.” She pulled off a tank top, her only remaining garment, and started to unbutton my shirt with her teeth. My tits strained toward hers, just inches away. Suddenly her mouth changed course, toward the shirt pocket where I’d clumsily stuffed the strings of beads. Loops of each still dangled outside. Carla’s tongue flicked the golden strand, drew it slowly all the way out, and dropped it into her hand. My cunt clenched as though the beads had undulated right through it.
“You don’t want to let these go to waste, do you?” Her tone was low, smooth, sultry.
The raw marks on my wrists from last night tingled. I hesitated. What did I want most? Carla wriggled seductively on my lap, but couldn’t conceal a wince of pain. I stroked what I could reach of the superheated cheeks pressed against my thighs. That backside needed a rest from friction. More sitting wasn’t an option.
“Across my lap. Now. On your stomach with your hands behind your back.” I lifted her just enough to ease her movement, and had her wrists bound behind her in seconds with the golden beads. Nobody’s better at one-handed knots than a horse handler.
I forced myself to take it slow. Two more strands of beads slid between those lovely moon-pale, red-striped cheeks--rolled lower into the hot, wet heat between her thighs--nudged at her hardened clit--until I couldn’t stand to let the beads have all the fun. I got the tube of lube from my pocket, opened it with my teeth, lubed my hand, drew out the beads, and slid two fingers deep between Carla’s folds. She arched into the pressure, moving frantically at first, needing more, more depth, more force, but I still teased her with retreat and advance and retreat, over ever more wet and slippery terrain, ignoring her wriggles and pleas for more until my own need forced my hand.
Faster, deeper, harder, her sounds and movements igniting my own body. Time had no meaning, only motion. My big hand raced to give her everything she wanted, everything she could take, everything I wanted her to have, until her body tightened around my fingers, pulsed to a relentless beat, then clenched even harder as the crescendo shook her.
Carla’s sobs of release dwindled gradually to whimpers. I lifted her down to the sleeping bag I’d left spread on a mound of clean straw in the empty stall next to Molly’s, lay down with her, and started all over again--with the added benefit of lips, tongue, full frontal contact, hands freed from beads, and my own thundering crescendo.
Much later Carla muttered drowsily, “I didn’t get the other strand yet. I failed the challenge.”
“That’s okay.” I pulled a rough horse blanket up over us. “Just never assume that because something looks extra big and strong, it must be scary.”
“Maybe I’d like it to be scary, now and then.”
I let her have the last word, unless you count Molly’s gentle snort, and drifted into sleep. But only for a while.
“Ree!” Carla was straddling me, her old cocky, assertive self again. She’d retrieved the purple strand of beads from Molly’s mane while I slept and bound them around my wrists, and now she whapped me across the chest with golden ones. “Molly and I want to go for a ride!” Meeting my challenge in full, then topping it.
“Okay,” I said. “But for the sake of Molly’s unblemished reputation, I’d just as soon you kept it inside this barn and the one next door.” Even with my wrists tied I could make a stirrup with my hands for Carla’s foot, and toss her high onto Molly’s broad back.  
It was a shame, really, that no one but me got to see a dark-haired, naked Lady Godiva ride a great black mare through the horse barns that unforgettable night at the county fair. Especially since I very much doubt that the original lady rode with strands of golden and royal purple beads coiled inside her well-seasoned cunt.
That glorious sight turned out to be a parting gift. We slept again, clinging together, but when I woke in the morning Carla was gone. Gone from my arms, from the barn, from the fairgrounds, with nothing to tell me how to find her, and no sign of her at any of the other fairs that year. All I had left was a new sense of myself, searing memories of pleasure and pain, Carla’s scent on Molly’s back, and a faint voice murmuring in my dreams, “If only…I wish…”
I haven’t given up wishing.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

BLE v. 3 Blog Tour with Nat Burns and "Jani-Lyn's Dragon"

The title of Nat Burns’s story “Jani-Lyn’s Dragon” didn’t quite ring a bell when I first saw her submission in my email, but the instant I saw “September 1970” at the beginning of her document I knew where she was going, and knew I wanted to go there with her. Here’s how her blog post begins:

“Singer Janis Joplin’s stellar rise to celebrity status and then tragic death from a heroin overdose at twenty-seven years of age spoke to me on a deep, visceral level. I felt that she was too young to lose her life and that a great burgeoning talent had been taken from us. I also felt a strong urge to write a scathing piece about this act of treachery from the Universe. Instead, I turned the injustice and sense of betrayal into, what else, but a story of love and eroticism.”

Go read the rest of Nat’s discussion of how and why she wrote what she did.

 And comment there, or on any of the other posts in this series, or on my Facebook posts about these blogs, to be entered in a drawing for a free ebook copy of the anthology.

Blog Tour List and Links

December 1
Sacchi Green

December 2
Pascal Scott
The Night Shift

December 3
R. D. Miller

December 4
T.C. Mill

December 5
Victoria Janssen
Still Marching

December 6
Anna Watson
Sweet of My Heart

December 7
R.G. Emanuelle
The Auction

December 8
Scout Rhodes
Morning Fog

December 9
Emily L. Byrne
Rainbow’s End

December 10
Mags Hayward
Yin and Yang

Valerie  Alexander
December 11

December 12
Xan West
Trying Submission

December 13
M. Birds
Where There’s Smoke

December 14
Raven Sky
Fuck Me Like a Canadian

December 15
Sommer Marsden

December 16
Lea Daley

December 17
Nan Barret
Oliver: Twisted

December 18
Nat Burns
Jani-Lyn’s Dragon