This one isn't erotica, even though there's a bit of sex in it. I wrote it last year for a Secret Santa project where folks specify three items that have to be included in the story, and then readers guess who requested what and who wrote the pieces. The requests I had to include were a cute little kid, dirty socks, and a clock that doesn't work. I deduced which member of that forum had made the request and just what cute little kid living in Europe she had in mind, so the story was extra fun to write.
A Little Bird Tells All
I used to be able to tell Saint Nicholas a thing or two about who is naughty and who is nice. “A little bird told me” is not just a saying, you know. The birds outdoors see many things you might wish were kept secret, and we indoor birds—even I, who might well be called an in-clock bird, only popping out to announce each hour—see more than you might realize, and tell it, too, if Santa asks.
My problem is that I have not caught up with modern times. It is so difficult to know what counts as naughty these days, and what is nice. For more than fifty years I saw nothing at all, hidden away behind old trunks in an attic.
When the little blonde girl found me I was overjoyed. So sweet, so sunny, so angelically innocent in appearance—and with such skill at using all these things to get whatever she wants! But I would never tell on her. Without mischief, childhood would lose much of its charm, and Santa knows this as well as anyone.
My concern is more with her aunt. Scarcely out of childhood herself, she seems to veer from niceness to some very strange activities indeed. It was certainly nice to bring the child to the old attic to search out toys from her own youth (toys so broken down from misuse as to be beyond repair, but interesting nonetheless.) And her astonishment and delight when her niece, festooned with dust and cobwebs, dragged my clock out from under heaps of rags in a far corner, was everything the finder could have wished.
“Look, Auntie! A bird clock, with leaves and flowers and little animals, like the ones we saw at the Christmas Market, but those cost far too much money!”
“You’re right!” She picked my clock up with care and handled it gently. “I never knew we had such a thing in the house! I wonder whether it still works.” So far, quite nice. But then, as they made their way down the narrow stairway, she muttered to herself, “I wonder how much we could sell this for.” Not so nice, and of course the little girl heard her.
“No Auntie! We can’t sell it! You must…you must have it in your bedroom, so the little bird can keep watch over you!” The angelic glow on her face lit up the dim hallway.
So of course she got her way, for a while at least. I was dusted and adjusted, and admired by the granny who had just returned from shopping and did remember that her own granny had had such a clock, though she hadn’t known it was still in the house. My song of “cuckoo…cuckoo…” counting out the hours was much admired as well, even by Auntie’s visiting friend, although I didn’t miss the way she nudged Auntie in the ribs and smothered a laugh. Still, this young woman was nearly as angelic in appearance as the child, so I held to my first opinion that she too was very nice.
But that evening, all my ideas of nice and naughty, good and bad, were thrown into a turmoil of doubt. The granny had gone to help decorate the church for the next night’s Christmas Eve Mass. The little girl, worn out from playing in the snow with cousins (and with Auntie and her friend, both as nice as is at all possible when snowballs are involved, or so the child recounted,) was sound asleep in her room downstairs. The two young women, quite likely also worn out from outdoor play, were sprawled on Auntie’s big bed.
I can only see a very little of a room while I am inside the wooden clock, but I can hear, and all seemed calm. They chatted in low voices that grew lower still, but as the hour of ten o’clock neared they seemed to be rested enough for some sort of indoor play. The bedsprings creaked. If they had been boys, I would have guessed they were wrestling; but perhaps, these days, girls play at wrestling, as well. Times do change.
On the hour, I sprang forth with my “cuckoos,” and only with the most strict control did I keep from stuttering before even five of my ten calls had sounded. They were wrestling indeed, and with no clothes on! Auntie glared up at me, snatched a dirty sock from beside the bed, and hurled it upward and over me so that I could see no more, though I could hear her friend laughing so hard the bedsprings creaked even more loudly. The worst part was that the sock wedged around me when it was time to retreat into the clock, which stopped the clockworks from working properly, and I was stuck half in and half out.
“Poor bird!” the friend said, still laughing.
“It was watching me with those beady little eyes!” Auntie said. “And mocking me with those silly noises!”
So she goes firmly onto the naughty list! I thought. “Silly noises,” indeed! And the noises the pair of them went on to make, after a short pause, went so far beyond silly as to sound downright frightening. Auntie in particular seemed to be doing something quite violent to her friend, who was gasping out sounds without words that I thought must be cries of pain. If only my woodcarver maker had thought to supply me with some sort of siren or other means to summon the constabulary! I could do nothing, wedged into my little doorway by a sock that had clearly been sweated into copiously during the day.
At last the sounds subsided into sighs and soft words. I could make out just enough, through the muffling of the dirty sock, to realize with amazement that the friend had found the whole encounter to be very nice indeed. When they began their wrestling again, this time with Auntie more on the receiving end, I rather wished, smothered as I was by the sock, that she really was in pain, but I was not surprised when she ultimately sounded most extremely satisfied with the proceedings.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and twelve, with no assistance from me or the stopped clock. I judged it to be about seven in the morning when the bedroom door creaked open. I heard the little girl gasp, and something grated across the floor, and then small fingers reached up to tug away the sock. I saw that she was standing on a chair she’d dragged over in order to reach high enough.
“Auntie, why is there an old smelly sock on the little bird?” Her voice echoed all the scolding tones she’d ever been subjected to.
Auntie, with the coverlet pulled up to her chin and her friend muffling laughter under the pillow, tried to sound soothing. “Sweetie, his sounds kept waking me up, every hour. A bedroom is really not the right place for a cuckoo clock. And besides, don’t you think he’d like to see the Christmas tree in the parlor, and all the candles, and the gifts when we open them on Christmas morning? Let’s move him out there. He can hang on the nail where that picture of a wild stag hangs now, and I’ll bring that one in here.”
The child agreed, but still cast an accusing look over her shoulder as she left the room, and could be heard tattling to her granny about the dirty sock Auntie had put on the cuckoo bird.
“Do you think,” the friend said, “that you’d rather have a big-eyed stag watching you than a little bird?” And her shoulders shook with laughter until the bed creaked again, but only a little.
So that is how I came to be waiting for Santa in the parlor while the red coals in the fireplace reflected off the sparkly ornaments on the tree, especially the colorful foil-wrapped Szaloncukor. “So, my little friend,” he said when at last he arrived. “Have you anything to tell me about the people in this house?”
I struggled to speak, but my tiny mouth, such as it is, was full. Santa peered closer. “What have they done to you? This doesn’t look good!” With a flick of a finger and a twist of his hand, he had me cleared of obstruction, and the clock running just as it ought to. “Now tell me, just how naughty have these folks been?”
“It is…well, it is so hard to say! The crumbs in my beak and inside the clock are explained innocently enough. The little girl didn’t know any better. She thought I deserved a treat, after the way her Auntie had treated me, so she crept in here after everyone was in bed, and tried to feed me a bit of poppyseed cookie. She had seen her Auntie feed seeds to the birds in the yard in cold weather, and thought that I would like them too.”
“So what did this Auntie who is kind to birds do so unkindly to you?”
I told him, in general, but added, “I did seem to be intruding on a most intimate occasion, so perhaps she could be excused. Not but what there was certainly a high degree of naughtiness going on, seen from one viewpoint, but for those involved it was clearly very nice indeed.” I twitched on my perch, which is as close to shaking the head as a wooden cuckoo bird can manage. “Santa, I try to do my best, but this world is so far from the one I remember! There is no telling now what is naughty or nice!”
“Just tell me this,” Santa said. “Are they kind to each other, more often than unkind?”
“Oh yes. I think they all truly love each other.”
“Well then,” he said, “that is all we know on earth, and all we need to know.” He spun around once, with amazing grace considering his portly bulk, and a stack of gifts appeared beneath the glittering tree.
It was midnight, as it is always midnight where Santa is delivering gifts. I rode my perch out into the room and began my song, while Santa departed for his next destination, but even over my aria of a dozen “cuckoos” I heard him exclaim, “Merry Christmas to all, and welcome to the twenty-first century!”
_________________
No on H8
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Wild Girls Review, and Free Book Offer
Here’s an excerpt from a great review of Wild Girls, Wild Nights, and a link to the rest:
“Sacchi Green has gathered together stories that blow my mind. Peeking into a world that’s often thought of as taboo, I found myself longing for more. Each story is full of real life passion. Not something that’s thought up in the fantasies of another. The women who share are sharing their most intimate and devious encounters are strong, courageous and have a burning desire to tell the restrained details of their sex lives.”
http://kinketc.com/2013/11/real-life-lesbian-sex-stories-wild-girls-wild-nights/
And here’s a chance to win a copy for yourself from Cleis Press in return for your willingness to write your own honest review:
https://www.facebook.com/CleisPress?hc_location=timeline
Besides being true stories, these are truly well-written stories, and I've never felt more proud of the writers who honor me with their work.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
On Fire--Alison Tyler’s Dark Secret Love
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Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
Another Free Bonus Lesbian Cop Story
This one is in my anthology Lesbian Cops. The previous bonus story here, "Healing," started out as a prequel to this one, but the characters really didn't turn out to be the same.
Riding the Rails
Sacchi Green
"Hey, Jo! Josie Benoit!"
That voice from my past went all too well with the Springfield Amtrak station, visible through foggy windows and blowing snow. I’d gone to college not far from here, and so had the voice’s owner.
“If it isn’t Miss Theresa,” I grunted, and kept on tugging at the sheepskin jacket caught behind a suitcase on the overhead rack.
“I never forget an ass,” Terry said pointedly, casing mine as I reached upward.
“Sure as hell wouldn’t have known yours.” My jacket finally yielded. I tossed it across the voluptuous décolletage of my seated companion.
A few minutes earlier Yasmin had been whining about being cold. Now, of course, for a new audience, she shrugged off the covering with an enthusiasm that threatened to shrug off her low-cut silk blouse as well. Not that it had been doing much to veil her pouting nipples.
Terry, brushing snow off her shoulders and shaking it from her hair, rightly accepted my remark as a compliment. Fourteen years ago she’d been on the lumpy side; now she was buff, and all style. Sandy hair lightened, cropped, waxed just right; multiple piercings on the left ear and eyebrow, giving her face a rakish slant; studded black leather cut to make the most of the work she’d done on her body.
I’d have felt mundane, with my straight black hair twisted up into a utilitarian knot and my brown uniform not ironed all that well since my last girlfriend had taken off, if I ever gave a damn about appearances. Which might have had something to do with why she took off. Which had a whole lot to do with why I hadn’t got laid in two months and wasn’t finding it easy to resist Yasmin’s efforts.
“You just get on?” Terry asked. “Didn’t see you in the station. No way could I have overlooked your little friend.” Her eyes raked Yasmin, who practically squirmed with delight.
“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry OBrian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry’s jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch façade resurfaced.
“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn’t know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”
“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband’s entourage,” I said. “They’d been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I’m escorting her to D.C. to rejoin them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of Yasmin’s laziness and the head wife’s hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal os sympathy for the head wife.
“The weather’s too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Hartford.”
“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin, “I’ll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”
“Don’t get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between us than could comfortably fit. I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”
Why the hell hadn’t I told Terry to fuck off in the first place? Did I hope she’d distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the subtle, insistent rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game, and too clearly driven by spite. I don’t have to like a tease to call her on it, and if I hadn’t been on the job I’d have given Yasmin more than she knew she ws asking for. If it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell; other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.
But I was on duty. She was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.
“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one’s a real handful.”
I’d noticed. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don’t worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I’m herding.”
She should have slapped me down for that. Instead, she rolled her eyes toward the door. I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn’t heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.
“You’re off to a great start,” the lieutenant said drily. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,’ and I’d just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I’d missed it.
By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized that Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, no matter what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I’d made the mistake of laying a proprietary arm across her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.
“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn’t impervious.
”Let’s just stick to getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of the college kids three seats back. The less drama here, the better.
Terry’s company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin. Unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.
Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.
"How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though." I stared pointedly at the scar running up under her pierced eyebrow.
"Nothing like a duelling scar to intrigue the ladies," Terry said cheerfully. "You seem to have found a good dentist."
"You bet." I flashed what one girlfriend used to call my alpha wolf grin.
Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her insistently sensuous perfume. When she balanced this position with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh I realized that all I'd done was set her up to try to play us off against each other.
"So, Terry," I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch. "What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?"
"I'm a paralegal in Northampton," she said. "Going to law school nights." Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyper-conscious of the breast under it. "Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law."
"No kidding," I said. "I’d heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?"
"I could, but I don't." I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. "I'm on my way to New York to do some readings at a bookstore in the East Village. And a bit of…socializing…afterward."
"You're a writer?" My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, even as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.
"On the side, yeah," she said brusquely. "Doesn't pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding."
"Hey, if the stories match the get-up, I'll bet they are! Erotica groupies, huh?"
Terry caught the new respect in my voice, and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I'd already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck "O."
"Loaded for bear, aren't you," I said. "Ah, the literary life. I'll have to check out some of your stuff, maybe get you to autograph a book for me." I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin's stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.
It wasn't a big enough deal to account for my first, raging impulse to break her leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion except the throbbing in my crotch. Terry's presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.
Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so we could get the full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force that Terry caught her breath, and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit, and I felt the pressure as though it were prodding against my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.
I know from experience that you don't get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. My girlfriend used to tease me like that in restaurants, her leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can't make in public. She knew I wouldn't let myself come because I just can't manage it without a whole lot of noise.
The train wasn't crowded, but it was public. Terry's head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat hard. I was afraid my own breathing was even louder than hers; I was damned sure my cunt was just as hot and wet. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I'd do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. She fondled her own breasts, and her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry's equipment, but her focus had shifted to herself.
"God damn!" came Terry's harsh whisper. Or maybe it was mine. Then Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused cunts.
"We're coming into Hartford." Terry's strangled words sounded far away. "We'll be at the station any minute!"
Yasmin's voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my neck, echoed through my head. "Sergeant Jo doesn't have the balls to fuck a sheep!"
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and began to shake her so hard her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirtfront and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
"Damnit, Jo, cool it!" Terry gritted. "And you," she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, "you little slut, and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word, cover up or I'll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform."
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again I'd begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
"Thanks," I muttered. "Guess I needed that."
"What you need," Terry said deliberately, "is a good fucking. Jeezus, Jo, if you don't get it off pretty damn soon you'll have not only that international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!"
She was right, which just made things worse. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. "Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?"
"You can count on me," Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could, and leaned my pelvis against the edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.
"Sudden attack of patriotism," Terry announced with a lupine grin. "Have to prevent that international incident. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."
"You and who else?" I challenged.
"Just me. Our little friend is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise."
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. "On my mother's grave!" she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, "on my sister's grave!" Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry the quirk of her brow made me realize my tacit agreement. To what, I wasn’t sure.
We sized each other up like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made feel naked. I'm used to being the hardbody in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I've never done them going backward.
She retreated a few inches. "Gonna stay in uniform?" she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
"Civilian enough for you?"
"Hell no! The least you could do is show me your tits."
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I'd never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't sure yet just where I might draw the line, but I could give a little. "Fair enough." I hung shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway. "How about you?" She had left her jacket behind but still wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
Terry was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. "Breasts like pomegranates," she said softly. "Round and high and tight. Geez, don't they have gravity in New Hampshire?"
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening as though under an independent impulse; I could sure feel them, though. I grabbed Terry's vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up just enough to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn't push the issue of her staying dressed.
Terry pressed closer again. I leaned my mouth against her ear. "Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?"
"Yeah, well, maybe when the inspiration's right. But then I edit it out."
She eased back and looked me over again. "I don't suppose," she said, somewhat wistfully, "you could jiggle a little for me?"
"In your dreams!" We were both a little short of breath by now, both struggling with the question of who'd get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
"In my dreams?" There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn't notice right away when she raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. "In my dreams," she murmured, just barely stroking me, "you're wearing red velvet."
I hadn't thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She'd worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria; then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off of each other. Eventually, in fact, we did. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I did let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over the appreciative nipples. "One time only offer," I said, "for old times' sake," and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
"Come on," I muttered, "Show me what you've got." I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unzipped and rearranged her gear for action I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a second, then grabbed hers and shoved those tight leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
"State of the art, huh?" Eight thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not yet wet. I'd have been envious any other time. Hell, I was still envious.
"This one's mostly for show," she muttered. "Are you sure..." But it was too late not to be sure.
"I can handle it," I said. And I did handle it, working it with my fingers, making her gasp and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in a surreal co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current sweeter than electricity but as sharp. Then the slick material skidded in my wetness and slid along my folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can't hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I'd was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, hungry for the pounding, aching intensity.
But needing to go after it myself. "Let me move!" I grated.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my attempts to swing her around, and the black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together. "What the..." Her voice was gutteral, and her eyes glittered dangerously.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier, I was taller. She'd been working out with weights and machines, I'd been working over smartass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.
"You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!" I had her back against the rail now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it and then began some serious action.
For an instant she flashed a grin, and muttered "Fair enough!" Then she had all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode that black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The hunger it fed and compounded got me so slippery that in spite of its size the impact and friction might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched around the maddening pressure.
Terry's grunts turned into moans. She grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my ass. "Steady...damnit...steady..." I slowed enough to catch her rhythm and grabbed her leather-covered ass, feeling the muscles clench and her hips start to buck. I mashed my mouth down over hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn't matter how much noise she made. I could feel my own eruption coming, and knew there was no way I could muffle it. And didn't give a damn.
I held on until Terry's gasps subsided from wrenching to merely hard. Then I accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn't flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove it onto her pubic bone. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places I hadn't known I had.
Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and those waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my core. Sound engulfed me.
Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels. I took them away from her and slowly, sensuously wiped away my own juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her waistband, avoiding my eyes. I didn't ask.
Then she looked over toward the door. I'd been vaguely aware at one point of Yasmin, one hand pulled free of the cuffs I'd fastened too carelessly, rubbing herself into a frenzy; apparently, by her look now, with some success. "So, Princess," Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, "didn't I tell you it'd be worth it just to hear her come? I could record that riff and make a bundle."
"You, Terry, are a prick," I said lazily, "and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word."
"I still get the shivers now and then," Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, "thinking of that alto sax wailing fuller and fuller. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was beyond anything I remember."
"Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!" I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. Then I dressed, and felt more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.
The rest of the trip wasn't bad. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it; she grinned when I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.
"Moving a little stiffly, aren't we," I said as I helped get her duffle down from the rack.
"Mmm, but the show must go on."
"I'm sure you won't disappoint your audience," I said, with an encouraging slap on that fine, muscular ass. "Go get 'em."
Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and DC, but I wasn't vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit. "The Princess traveled well?" she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.
"Just fine," I said, meeting her eyes frankly, "with no harm done, if you don't count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself."
"Excellent," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip."
"I appreciate the offer," I said truthfully, "but I have other plans. I'm getting the next train back as far as New York. There's a literary event I don't want to miss." Terry's schedule of readings had been scrawled on the back of her card. There was a special private one at midnight. I had a notion there'd be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn't mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I knew damned well that Terry would use some of today's activities in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.
I've gotta edit out that "train to my tunnel, bound for glory" line, though. Too bad. That’s sure as hell exactly how it felt.
Riding the Rails
Sacchi Green
"Hey, Jo! Josie Benoit!"
That voice from my past went all too well with the Springfield Amtrak station, visible through foggy windows and blowing snow. I’d gone to college not far from here, and so had the voice’s owner.
“If it isn’t Miss Theresa,” I grunted, and kept on tugging at the sheepskin jacket caught behind a suitcase on the overhead rack.
“I never forget an ass,” Terry said pointedly, casing mine as I reached upward.
“Sure as hell wouldn’t have known yours.” My jacket finally yielded. I tossed it across the voluptuous décolletage of my seated companion.
A few minutes earlier Yasmin had been whining about being cold. Now, of course, for a new audience, she shrugged off the covering with an enthusiasm that threatened to shrug off her low-cut silk blouse as well. Not that it had been doing much to veil her pouting nipples.
Terry, brushing snow off her shoulders and shaking it from her hair, rightly accepted my remark as a compliment. Fourteen years ago she’d been on the lumpy side; now she was buff, and all style. Sandy hair lightened, cropped, waxed just right; multiple piercings on the left ear and eyebrow, giving her face a rakish slant; studded black leather cut to make the most of the work she’d done on her body.
I’d have felt mundane, with my straight black hair twisted up into a utilitarian knot and my brown uniform not ironed all that well since my last girlfriend had taken off, if I ever gave a damn about appearances. Which might have had something to do with why she took off. Which had a whole lot to do with why I hadn’t got laid in two months and wasn’t finding it easy to resist Yasmin’s efforts.
“You just get on?” Terry asked. “Didn’t see you in the station. No way could I have overlooked your little friend.” Her eyes raked Yasmin, who practically squirmed with delight.
“Been on since White River Junction,” I said shortly. It was more than clear that Terry expected an introduction. “Yasmin, Terry OBrian. We were in college together. Terry, Princess Yasmin, fourth wife of the Sultan of Isbani.” It was some satisfaction to see Terry’s jaw drop for an instant before her suave butch façade resurfaced.
“Ooh, Terry!” Yasmin warbled, jiggling provocatively. “I didn’t know Sergeant Jo had such nice friends!”
“The princess somehow…missed…leaving New Hampshire with her husband’s entourage,” I said. “They’d been visiting her stepson at Dartmouth. I’m escorting her to D.C. to rejoin them.” As far as I could tell, it had been a combination of Yasmin’s laziness and the head wife’s hatred that had culminated in her missing the limo caravan, and her absence going unnoticed until too late. I was developing a good deal os sympathy for the head wife.
“The weather’s too risky for flying or driving,” I added, “but the train should make it through. Not supposed to be much snow south of Hartford.”
“Well, now,” Terry said, sliding into the seat facing Yasmin, “I’ll be happy to share security duty as far as New York.”
“Don’t get too happy.” I sat down beside my charge. There were suddenly more limbs between us than could comfortably fit. I tried to let my long legs stretch into the aisle, but that tilted my ass too close to Yasmin, who wriggled appreciatively against my holster. I straightened up. “This is official business. The last thing I need is an international incident.”
Why the hell hadn’t I told Terry to fuck off in the first place? Did I hope she’d distract Yasmin enough to take off some of the pressure? The tension had been building all morning. Even the subtle, insistent rhythm of the train had been driving me toward the edge. Or maybe it was just that the little bitch was too damned good at the game, and too clearly driven by spite. I don’t have to like a tease to call her on it, and if I hadn’t been on the job I’d have given Yasmin more than she knew she ws asking for. If it left my conscience a bit scuffed, what the hell; other parts of me would have earned a fine, lingering glow.
But I was on duty. She was doubly untouchable, and knew it. Seven more hours of this was going to be a particularly interesting version of Hell.
“Keep it professional, Jo,” Lieutenant Willey had said. “This one’s a real handful.”
I’d noticed. Several handfuls, in fact, in all the right places, with all the right moves. “Don’t worry. I know better than to fuck the sheep I’m herding.”
She should have slapped me down for that. Instead, she rolled her eyes toward the door. I saw, too late, that the troublesome sheep had just come in. No chance she hadn’t heard me. Anger sparked with interest sharpened her kittenish face, segueing into challenge as she looked me up and down.
“You’re off to a great start,” the lieutenant said drily. “Just bear in mind that the Sultan wants her back ‘untouched,’ and I’d just as soon not have to argue the semantics of that with the State Department.” Something in her usually impassive expression made me wonder whether our charge had come on to her. If so, I was sure sorry I’d missed it.
By the time the train crossed from Vermont into Massachusetts, I realized that Yasmin would come on to any available pair of trousers, no matter what filled them. Even the professionally affable conductor got flustered when she rubbed up against him in passing, and she had a threesome of college boys so interested that I’d made the mistake of laying a proprietary arm across her shoulders and shooting them my best dyke cop look as I yanked her back to our seats. The look worked fine, but it encouraged Yasmin to renew her attack on me.
“Ow!” she yelped when I tightened my grip on a hand that kept going where it had no business. “Why you are so mean to Yasmin?” Her coquettish pout left me cold, but a definite heat was building where her hand had trailed over my ass and nudged between my thighs. She knew I wasn’t impervious.
”Let’s just stick to getting you back to your husband,” I said neutrally, aware of the continuing interest of the college kids three seats back. The less drama here, the better.
Terry’s company, whatever the complications, might be better than being alone with Yasmin. Unless my competitive instincts reared up and made it all exponentially worse.
Terry could have been reading my mind. “Gee, Jo,” she said, “remember the last time you introduced me to one of your little friends?” Her grin was demonic.
"How could I forget? You healed up pretty well, though." I stared pointedly at the scar running up under her pierced eyebrow.
"Nothing like a duelling scar to intrigue the ladies," Terry said cheerfully. "You seem to have found a good dentist."
"You bet." I flashed what one girlfriend used to call my alpha wolf grin.
Yasmin was practically frothing with excitement, jiggling her assets and leaning toward Terry to offer an in-depth view of her cleavage and a whiff of her insistently sensuous perfume. When she balanced this position with a far-from-accidental hand high on my thigh I realized that all I'd done was set her up to try to play us off against each other.
"So, Terry," I said, firmly removing the fingers trying to make their way toward my treacherously responsive crotch. "What are you up to these days? Still living in the area?"
"I'm a paralegal in Northampton," she said. "Going to law school nights." Her gaze lingered on my badge, and for a rare instant I was hyper-conscious of the breast under it. "Funny how we both got onto the straight side of the law."
"No kidding," I said. "I’d heard that anything goes in Hamp these days, but can you go to court rigged out like that?"
"I could, but I don't." I was pleasantly surprised to see a bit of a flush rise from her neck to her jawline. "I'm on my way to New York to do some readings at a bookstore in the East Village. And a bit of…socializing…afterward."
"You're a writer?" My surprise was hardly flattering, and her jaw tightened, even as the flush extended all the way to her hairline.
"On the side, yeah," she said brusquely. "Doesn't pay much, but the fringe benefits can be outstanding."
"Hey, if the stories match the get-up, I'll bet they are! Erotica groupies, huh?"
Terry caught the new respect in my voice, and relaxed. She let her legs splay apart. I'd already noticed she was packing; now Yasmin stared at the huge bulge stretching the black leather pants along the right thigh, and her kewpie-doll mouth formed an awe-struck "O."
"Loaded for bear, aren't you," I said. "Ah, the literary life. I'll have to check out some of your stuff, maybe get you to autograph a book for me." I was more than half serious. She started to grin, and then an odd, startled look swept over her face. I glanced down and saw Yasmin's stockinged foot nudging against the straining black leather.
It wasn't a big enough deal to account for my first, raging impulse to break her leg. I managed to suppress it, but by then everything seemed to be happening in slow motion except the throbbing in my crotch. Terry's presence was definitely making things worse. Much worse.
Yasmin pulled her silk skirt up so we could get the full benefit of the shapely leg extended between the seats and the toes caressing the leather-sheathed cock. Then she applied enough force that Terry caught her breath, and automatically shifted her hips to get the most benefit, and I felt the pressure as though it were prodding against my own clit. But all I was packing was a gun, and that was on my hip.
I know from experience that you don't get the optimum angle the way Yasmin was working. But you can get damned close. My girlfriend used to tease me like that in restaurants, her leg up under the table, her foot in my lap, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she watched me struggle not to make the kind of sounds you can't make in public. She knew I wouldn't let myself come because I just can't manage it without a whole lot of noise.
The train wasn't crowded, but it was public. Terry's head was thrown back, her eyes glazing over, her hands gripping the seat hard. I was afraid my own breathing was even louder than hers; I was damned sure my cunt was just as hot and wet. I had to stop the little bitch, but I was afraid if I touched her I'd do serious damage.
Then Yasmin, with a sly sidelong glance at me, unbuttoned her blouse and spread it open. She fondled her own breasts, and her rosy nipples, which had thrust against the silky fabric all morning as though permanently engorged, grew even fuller and harder. Her torso undulated as her butt squirmed against the seat. Her foot was still working Terry's equipment, but her focus had shifted to herself.
"God damn!" came Terry's harsh whisper. Or maybe it was mine. Then Yasmin turned slightly and leaned toward me, still working her flesh, offering it to me, watching my reaction with half-closed eyes, her little pink tongue moving over her full upper lip. The tantalizing effect of her perfume was magnified by the musk of three aroused cunts.
"We're coming into Hartford." Terry's strangled words sounded far away. "We'll be at the station any minute!"
Yasmin's voice, soft, taunting, so close that I felt her breath on my neck, echoed through my head. "Sergeant Jo doesn't have the balls to fuck a sheep!"
I snapped.
I lunged.
With my right hand I clamped her wrists together above her head. With my left arm across her windpipe I pinned her to the seat back. I leaned over her, one knee between her thighs. Then I dropped my hands to her shoulders and began to shake her so hard her head bobbled and her tits jiggled against my shirtfront and the hard edges of my badge.
A strong hand grabbed my shoulder and yanked me back. When I resisted, something whacked me fairly hard across the back of my head. Then a soft, bulky object—my sheepskin jacket—was shoved down between us.
"Damnit, Jo, cool it!" Terry gritted. "And you," she said to Yasmin in a tone slightly less harsh, "you little slut, and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word, cover up or I'll let the sergeant toss you out onto the train platform."
I nearly turned on her, but people were moving down the aisles to get off the train, and more people would be getting on. By the time the train was rolling again I'd begun to get a grip, although I was still breathing hard and my heart, along with several other body parts, was still pounding.
"Thanks," I muttered. "Guess I needed that."
"What you need," Terry said deliberately, "is a good fucking. Jeezus, Jo, if you don't get it off pretty damn soon you'll have not only that international incident, but the mother of all lawsuits!"
She was right, which just made things worse. I glanced at Yasmin. She had stopped whimpering and sat clutching my jacket around herself, watching us with great interest.
I pushed myself up into the aisle. "Can I trust you to keep her out of trouble for a couple of minutes while I at least take a leak?"
"You can count on me," Terry said, and I had to go with it.
There was a handicapped-accessible restroom just across from us, long and roomy by Amtrak standards. I pissed, tied my long straggling hair back up as well as I could, and leaned my pelvis against the edge of the sink. It was cold, but not enough to do me any good. Then I shoved off and unlocked the door, knowing that nothing I could do for myself would give me enough relief to be worth the hassle.
As the door slid open a black-clad arm came through, then a shoulder, and suddenly Terry and Yasmin were in there with me and the door was shut and locked again.
"Sudden attack of patriotism," Terry announced with a lupine grin. "Have to prevent that international incident. It's a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it."
"You and who else?" I challenged.
"Just me. Our little friend is going to keep real quiet, now and forever, in return for letting her watch. No accusations, false or otherwise."
I looked at Yasmin. Her eyes were avid. "On my mother's grave!" she said, and then, as I still looked skeptical, added, "on my sister's grave!" Somehow, that was convincing. Just the same I unhooked the cuffs from my belt and snapped them around her wrists with paper towels for padding, then pinned her to the door handle. When I turned back to Terry the quirk of her brow made me realize my tacit agreement. To what, I wasn’t sure.
We sized each other up like wrestlers considering grips. Then Terry made her move, trying to press me against the wall with her body, and I reflexively raised a knee to fend her off. Her cock against my kneecap made feel naked. I'm used to being the hardbody in these encounters. I know the steps to this dance, but I've never done them going backward.
She retreated a few inches. "Gonna stay in uniform?" she asked, eyeing my badge. I unpinned it, slipped it into my holster, unfastened my belt, and hung the whole deal on a coat hook.
"Civilian enough for you?"
"Hell no! The least you could do is show me your tits."
I stared her in the eyes for a second—somehow I'd never noticed how green they could get—and started to unbutton my shirt. I wasn't sure yet just where I might draw the line, but I could give a little. "Fair enough." I hung shirt and sports bra over the gun and holster, even yanked my hair loose from its knot and let it flow over my shoulders. It would have come down anyway. "How about you?" She had left her jacket behind but still wore a tight-cut leather vest over a black silk shirt.
Terry was observing me with such interest that she might not have heard. "Breasts like pomegranates," she said softly. "Round and high and tight. Geez, don't they have gravity in New Hampshire?"
I looked down at myself. My nipples were hardening as though under an independent impulse; I could sure feel them, though. I grabbed Terry's vest and pulled her close to mash the studded leather hard against me, then eased up just enough to rub languorously against it. The leather felt intriguing enough that I didn't push the issue of her staying dressed.
Terry pressed closer again. I leaned my mouth against her ear. "Pomegranates? Christ, Terry, is that the kind of tripe you write?"
"Yeah, well, maybe when the inspiration's right. But then I edit it out."
She eased back and looked me over again. "I don't suppose," she said, somewhat wistfully, "you could jiggle a little for me?"
"In your dreams!" We were both a little short of breath by now, both struggling with the question of who'd get to do what to whom. Much as my flesh wanted to be touched, my instinct was to lash out if she tried.
"In my dreams?" There was such an odd look in her eyes that I didn't notice right away when she raised her hands until they almost brushed the outer curve of my breasts. "In my dreams," she murmured, just barely stroking me, "you're wearing red velvet."
I hadn't thought of that dress in years. Maybe the last one I ever wore. She'd worn black satin. A college mixer, some clumsy groping in a broom closet, a few weeks of feverish euphoria; then the realization that instead of striking sparks we were more apt to knock chips off of each other. Eventually, in fact, we did. I ran my tongue over my reconstructed teeth.
Terry telegraphed an attempt at a kiss, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I did let her cup my breasts and rub her thumbs over the appreciative nipples. "One time only offer," I said, "for old times' sake," and pulled her head downward. She nuzzled the hollow of my throat while I ran my fingers through her crisp brush-cut. Then she went lower, her open mouth wet and hot on my skin, and by the time she was biting where it really mattered her knee was working between my thighs and I was rubbing against it like a cat in heat.
"Come on," I muttered, "Show me what you've got." I groped the bulge in her crotch, and then, while she unbuckled and unzipped and rearranged her gear for action I kicked off my boots and pants.
She tried to clinch too fast. I let her grab my ass for a second, then grabbed hers and shoved those tight leather pants back far enough that I could get a good look at what had been pressing between my legs.
"State of the art, huh?" Eight thick inches of glistening black high-tech cock, slippery even when not yet wet. I'd have been envious any other time. Hell, I was still envious.
"This one's mostly for show," she muttered. "Are you sure..." But it was too late not to be sure.
"I can handle it," I said. And I did handle it, working it with my fingers, making her gasp and squirm. I manipulated it so that the tip just licked at me, then leaned into it, and for long seconds we were linked in a surreal co-ownership of the black cock, clits zinged by a current sweeter than electricity but as sharp. Then the slick material skidded in my wetness and slid along my folds, and I spread for it and took it in just an inch or two.
Can't hurt to see how the other half lives, I thought, and then, as Terry pressed harder, I remembered the size of what I'd was dealing with and realized that yeah, it might hurt, and yeah, I might just like it that way.
She pulled back a little and thrust again, and I opened up more, and she plunged harder, building into a compelling rhythm. I gripped the safety railing behind me and tilted my hips to take her deeper inside, hungry for the pounding, aching intensity.
But needing to go after it myself. "Let me move!" I grated.
Terry, uncomprehending, resisted my attempts to swing her around, and the black cock, glistening for real now, slipped out as we grappled together. "What the..." Her voice was gutteral, and her eyes glittered dangerously.
We were pretty evenly matched in strength. She was a bit beefier, I was taller. She'd been working out with weights and machines, I'd been working over smartass punks and pot-bellied drunks. The tie-breaker was that I needed it more.
"You get to wear it; just shut up and let me work it!" I had her back against the rail now. I grabbed the slippery cock and held it steady just long enough to get it where I needed it and then began some serious action.
For an instant she flashed a grin, and muttered "Fair enough!" Then she had all she could do to hang on to the railing and meet my lunges. The train swayed and rattled, but I rode it, my legs automatically absorbing the shifts, as I rode that black cock, train to my tunnel, bound for glory. The hunger it fed and compounded got me so slippery that in spite of its size the impact and friction might not have been enough, except that my clit seemed to swell inward as well as outward, and my whole cunt clenched around the maddening pressure.
Terry's grunts turned into moans. She grabbed my hips and dug her fingers into my ass. "Steady...damnit...steady..." I slowed enough to catch her rhythm and grabbed her leather-covered ass, feeling the muscles clench and her hips start to buck. I mashed my mouth down over hers to catch the eruption of harsh groans, but she had to breathe, and anyway, it didn't matter how much noise she made. I could feel my own eruption coming, and knew there was no way I could muffle it. And didn't give a damn.
I held on until Terry's gasps subsided from wrenching to merely hard. Then I accelerated into my own demanding beat. I saw her face through a haze, and there may have been pain on it, but she didn't flinch, just kept her hips tilted at the optimum angle for me to ram myself down onto what she offered. My clit clenched like a fist, harder and harder each time I drove it onto her pubic bone. A sound like a distant train whistle seemed to come closer and closer, the reverberations penetrating into places I hadn't known I had.
Then it hit. My clit went off like a brass gong, and those waves smashed up against the explosion raging outward from my core. Sound engulfed me.
Terry held me for the hours it seemed to take for me to suck in enough breath to see straight. Finally I slouched back against the edge of the sink, letting the slippery cock emerge inch by inch. She reached past me to grab a handful of paper towels. I took them away from her and slowly, sensuously wiped away my own juices from the glistening black surface. When I aimed the used towels toward the trash container she stopped me, folded them inside a clean one, and tucked them into her waistband, avoiding my eyes. I didn't ask.
Then she looked over toward the door. I'd been vaguely aware at one point of Yasmin, one hand pulled free of the cuffs I'd fastened too carelessly, rubbing herself into a frenzy; apparently, by her look now, with some success. "So, Princess," Terry said with the old jaunty quirk of her brow, "didn't I tell you it'd be worth it just to hear her come? I could record that riff and make a bundle."
"You, Terry, are a prick," I said lazily, "and I mean that in the best possible sense of the word."
"I still get the shivers now and then," Terry went on, nominally speaking to Yasmin, "thinking of that alto sax wailing fuller and fuller. The final trumpet fanfare this time, though, was beyond anything I remember."
"Jeez, I hope you edit out that kind of crap!" I said, and turned to the sink to clean up. Then I dressed, and felt more secure with my gun belt around my hips. Not that security is everything.
The rest of the trip wasn't bad. Yasmin watched sleepily as Terry and I chatted about old times, old acquaintances, and the intervening years. Terry got off at Penn Station, offering me a book at the last minute with her card tucked into it; she grinned when I took out the card and slipped it into my breast pocket, behind the badge.
"Moving a little stiffly, aren't we," I said as I helped get her duffle down from the rack.
"Mmm, but the show must go on."
"I'm sure you won't disappoint your audience," I said, with an encouraging slap on that fine, muscular ass. "Go get 'em."
Yasmin made a few tentative advances between New York and DC, but I wasn't vulnerable anymore, and she gave up and slept for most of the trip. The welcoming party at Union Station was headed by a tall, mature woman in a well-cut dark suit. "The Princess traveled well?" she asked, with a keen, hard look at me.
"Just fine," I said, meeting her eyes frankly, "with no harm done, if you don't count a few slaps to make her keep her hands to herself."
"Excellent," she said, with the ghost of a smile. "The Sultan would be happy to offer hospitality for the night, before your return trip."
"I appreciate the offer," I said truthfully, "but I have other plans. I'm getting the next train back as far as New York. There's a literary event I don't want to miss." Terry's schedule of readings had been scrawled on the back of her card. There was a special private one at midnight. I had a notion there'd be enough erotica groupies to go around. Beyond that, I wouldn't mind meeting an editor, finding out more about the writing game. I knew damned well that Terry would use some of today's activities in her fiction. I might just beat her to it.
I've gotta edit out that "train to my tunnel, bound for glory" line, though. Too bad. That’s sure as hell exactly how it felt.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Use Your Naughty Words
I post regularly on alternate Mondays on Oh Get a Grip, a group blog with (currently) ten erotica writers participating, including Lisabet Sarai and Jean Roberta Hillabold. I should mention it more often. My post there today might be of special interest, though, since it's about naughty words from the viewpoints of both reader, writer, editor, and reviewer. Take a look, if such things appeal to you, and then check all the other posts on more or less the same topic. Scrolling back to previous topics would be worth your while, too.
http://ohgetagrip.blogspot.com/?zx=4da97ced3b04448e
Monday, July 22, 2013
Review of Wild Girls, Wild Nights: True Lesbian Sex Stories on Lambda Literary Review
A wonderful review of Wild Girls, Wild Nights: True Lesbian Sex Stories on the Lambda Literary Review. I'd love to quote it all, but I'll just say that it includes mention of stories by Monica M. Moreno, Lynette Mae, Dawn McKay, Catherine Paulssen, and Alison Moon, and recommends the whole anthology highly for both aficionados of erotica and readers who value stories with real, heartfelt characterization and well-formed prose.
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/reviews/erotica/07/18/wild-girls-wild-nights-true-lesbian-sex-stories-edited-by-sacchi-green/
http://www.lambdaliterary.org/reviews/erotica/07/18/wild-girls-wild-nights-true-lesbian-sex-stories-edited-by-sacchi-green/
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Wild Girls Reading in NYC
Reading at Bluestockings Book, NYC
172 Allen St. (between Stanton and Rivington)
Friday, July 19th @ 7PM Reading: Sacchi Green “Wild Girls, Wild Nights: True Lesbian Sex Stories” with Angel Propps, Charlotte Dare, D.L. King, & Laura Antoniou True stories of wild women with dirty minds, untamed tongues, and even the occasional cuff or clamp. A lotta crazy and no cozy slippers to be seen. Real sex can be wet, messy, frenzied, sometimes even awkward. Join editor Sacchi Green and contributors Angel Propps and Charlotte Dare for hot-from-the heart true lesbian erotica. D.L. King, editor of “The Harder She Comes” and “Under Her Thumb,” will join in, along with contributor Laura Antoniou.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Wild Girls, Wild Nights Free Book Dawing Winners
The winners in the Wild Girls, Wild Nights book drawing are:
JL Merrow, Gemma Parkes, DeJay, and J. Elizabeth Flournoy.
I know I said I'd pick three, but I changed my mind. Just e-mail me at sacchigreen@gmail.com with your mailing addresses, and I'll send them along. If you'd rather have Kindle or PFD copies, I can do that too. Thanks to everyone who followed the blog tour and commented.
JL Merrow, Gemma Parkes, DeJay, and J. Elizabeth Flournoy.
I know I said I'd pick three, but I changed my mind. Just e-mail me at sacchigreen@gmail.com with your mailing addresses, and I'll send them along. If you'd rather have Kindle or PFD copies, I can do that too. Thanks to everyone who followed the blog tour and commented.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Wild Girls Blog and Book Giveaway Final Day-Monica E. Moreno
On our last day we have a review of the first story in the book, which seems appropriate. I asked my writer friend Kathleen Bradean to review this piece, because I knew she would love it, and I was right. When she e-mailed me her review, her fist words were, “What a lovely story! She's a good writer.”
I knew that. And I know, but won’t name names, of many lovely stories in various genres that Monica E. Moreno has published under a different pseudonym.
Onward to Kathleen’s review.
"Good erotica awakens your libido. Great erotica is rich in sensual imagery that makes your body hum with anticipation. As I read Monica E. Moreno's wonderful 'Polvo de Hadas', I swore I felt the spices in my blood. This lovely and evocative story has unexpected depth that calls for reflection on how we communicate with our lovers.
The narrator's bisabeula cautions her not to make noise during sex. Otherwise the boy might think she likes it too much. But she doesn't just keep her mouth shut during sex with her boi; she doesn't say what she probably should to her lover. Instead, she turns to the food magic she learned from her bisabuela. Cinnamon for commitment, cayenne for passion. Cinnamon is easy to sprinkle here and there, but her lover refuses to taste cayenne. When they both step out of their comfort zones, their love spices up."
Kathleen’s bio:
Award winning author Kathleen Bradean’s stories can be found in Carnal Machines, The Harder She Comes, Best of Best Women’s Erotica I and II, Haunted Hearths and Sapphic Shades, The Sweetest Kiss: Vampire Tales, and many other anthologies. Find her blog articles at KathleenBradean.Blogspot.Com and Erotica-Readers.Blogspot.Com, and reviews of erotica at EroticaRevealed.Com.
And Monica E. Moreno’s bio, which is perfectly accurate, as far as it goes:
Monica E. Moreno was born and raised in the Southwestern United States. She is the writer of Chicana-themed romance/erotica, poetry and literary fiction. During the day she works as a secretary, and at night she practices recetas passed down through her family. She still believes in los cuentos de hadas she heard growing up.
[Pay attention! This is your last chance to comment for a chance to win one of three free copies of Wild Girls, Wild Nights. You can do it here, or on any of the linked posts. I’ll be announcing the winner on Monday June 24th on this blog, on my Facebook page, and on Live Journal (as sacchig)
Links, for the last time:
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Friday, June 21, 2013
The Penultimate Day of the Wild Girls Blog Tour! Jasmine Grimstead “Lost Batteries”
This story gets a review by DJ Rogers, to which I will add that I especially loved the outdoor setting of the story, when a college group treks to the mountains to view a meteor shower and two of them manage to steal away to create their own starry night.
Lost Batteries Review by DJ Rogers
"I enjoyed this story. They say you never forget your first. Jasmine Grimstead shares those first time memories and feelings in Lost Batteries. There’s nothing like discovering the person you want also wants you. That was many years ago for me but luckily I’m still looking into those same eyes and knowing she still wants me.
Brianna and Leslie dance around their attraction until it can no longer be contained. A search for lost batteries leads to a discovery that reminds us of that first spark of passion. This was a tender sexy love story that made me smile and a sweet addition to the Wild Girls, Wild Nights anthology."
Almost your last chance for the free book drawing. Comment on any of the posts in the link list:
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour & Erotic Book Giveaway Day 18-H.M. Husley “Threesome”
The title of H.M. Husley’s “Threesome” goes a long way toward telling you where the story goes, but getting there, as is so often the case, is a major part of the fun, even when the going is hard for a while. Here’s an excerpt from near the beginning:
“Tonight was not going to be an easy or particularly fun night. It should be, but it wouldn’t be. Not with Kat coming to town.
Kat, who symbolized all the things I wasn’t, and provided Jennifer with the adventure I couldn’t. Kat, who had bronze, sun-flecked skin from hours of outdoor soccer practice. Kat, who had lean, capable thighs that pumped like engine pistons, and tight, powerful abs. Kat, who had the kind of body that keeps black and white photography in business. Shadows and light caressed her curves, lured the viewer closer, and dared hands to reach out and touch her. Kat, who had spent the whole day with Jennifer without me, and threatened to steal my girlfriend away.
I tried to put these thoughts out of my mind. It was Jennifer’s birthday, and I had agreed to play nice.”
Don’t worry. What begins in anxiety concludes in satiety.
H. M. Husley is a writer, storyteller, and artist. Constantly seeking out new adventures and experiences, lesbian erotica is just one of her methods of expression. She is inspired by Anais Nin, Oscar Wilde, and joie de vivre. She is based in St. Paul, MN.
[Comment on any of these Blog Tour posts and be entered in a drawing for one of tree free copies of the anthology. Only two more days to go!]
The long, lingering link list:
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Wild Girls Blog and Book Giveaway Day 17-Catherine Henreid "Odds"
Catherine Henreid lives in Berlin, but her heart is still in Israel. She would never admit to being a Polonia. Her work has appeared in Silver Publishing's Dreaming of a White Christmas series. [A Polonia is the Israeli way of saying someone acts like a Jewish mother.]
In her story “Odds” she recalls her time as a student in Tel Aviv, and a very special roommate.
“I thought back to when I first met her. It was in the early days of the program and there were so many new faces and exotic accents that I was happy just to remember the names of the people from my Hebrew class. She was one of the students who had answered my ad on the university’s blackboard. I had just closed the door behind a guy from the Netherlands when the doorbell rang again. Outside in the hallway stood a pale, skinny girl with an unruly pixie haircut. Her upper lip had a defiant curve.
While I was still trying to decide what it was that made her oddly attractive, she held out her hand to me. “Felicity.”
I let her in and checked her out more closely. The baggy jeans. The broad leather belt. The unbuttoned shirt. The wife-beater underneath. The plain silver bracelet. And the tattoo on her wrist. Felicity?
She looked at me and grinned. “What name would you prefer? Shane?”
I blushed. How did she…?
She nodded toward a half-unpacked suitcase and I followed her gaze. On top was my DVD case, lying open. “You know ‘The L-Word?’” I asked, a bit incredulous.
“Sure,” she said, as if I had asked her if she wanted a glass of water. I led her into the kitchen and offered her something to drink. She took a look around the room. “Felicity’s my grandma’s name, okay?”
“I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“Yes you did.” There was a little twinkle in her eyes, and I knew she wasn’t offended.”
This is just a brief excerpt, with adventures and misadventures to follow, along with a vibrant sense of place and time. A lovely piece, not to be missed. Comment to be entered to win a free copy of the book, to increase your chances of not missing it.
Now for the interminable list of links!
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 16—Evan Mora’s “The Insatiable Travel Itch”
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Wild Girls, Wild Nights Blog Tour Day 15-Anna Watson's "Tamago"
Anna Watson's "Tamago"is beautifully written, right from the heart through the body. I have the benefit of knowing Anna personally, so I can hear her voice when I read this, but I think any reader will hear her true out-and-proud femme voice in her words. In this post Anna talks about how she decided to share her intensely personal story, and the importance of publishing it under her own name.
"One evening a couple of weeks ago I was sitting on a panel along with some other folks, including a straight girl raised by a butch lesbian, a married lesbian with three kids, a younger lesbian, single, just out of college, a married trans guy with two kids, and an out gay male high school student. We were facing a row of 7th graders, participants in our Unitarian Universalist church’s sex ed class. This was my first time taking part in the Gender Panel, and I was loving it.
I happen to be one of the few people I know who are my age (51) who actually had a good sex ed class; two of them, even, one in 7th grade and one in high school. Both teachers told it to us straight, from VD to all the conflicting feelings that come up around sex, and in high school, we practiced putting condoms on bananas and were encouraged to taste spermicide. It was life-changing, life-saving information, and I am so grateful to those two brave teachers who carved out a place for kids to make a safe and informed start on their sexual paths. The only problem was that all that wealth, all that good, good stuff, was presented as if there was only one kind of sexual activity, the kind between men and women.
On the Gender Panel, I talked about being femme, about coming out and then coming out again and finally coming out for a third time, and about my current situation as the wife of my butch husband. It felt good to be able to talk about all these things to adolescents, and I really hoped that some of what I was saying will be of use to them in their own sexual journeys. I knew that they had learned about a variety of sexualities and ways of having sex in their class, and I was so grateful for that progress.
I started to write this post about why I don’t use a pen name and then decided to switch to talking about the Gender Panel, but now and I find myself back talking about why I don’t write cloaked. Yes, my kids might find my stories and read them – probably already have. Yes, my ESL students and their parents might look me up and find that I have another kind of career and choose not to employ me. I’m pretty much ok with that, given that my main goal in writing smut is to provide a place for us, to add to the stories that show queers in all their sexual glory. But I did have to think a little bit about sending Sacchi “Tamago”. It’s been sitting in my files since I wrote it in those searing months of my early 40s when I finally FINALLY FINALLY came roaring fully into my femme sexuality. I was so wide open, so vulnerable and in such an altered state. Did I want people reading what is basically my journal?
Back to the Gender Panel. I had just walked the kids through my long, convoluted coming out process, which has taken me my entire life. “I’m so grateful to have gotten here,” I told them, “but there are times that I do feel robbed. To have finally figured this out when the hormones are leaving me. I wish I could have known about my sexuality when I was your age! And that’s why I’m here tonight, and why I do the community organizing work I do, because I want every single person to understand their sexuality and be able to lead a long and healthy sexual life.”
And that’s why I went ahead with “Tamago” and why I used my own name. Because this is something that happened to a real person, to me. And if it goes any way towards validating and celebrating the sexualities of other people, then I am doing what I was born to do. Kampei!"
Along with writing smut, Anna Watson works in her community as an adult advisor to a homeschooling QSA, has helped start and maintain a GSA in her kids’ middle school, and is the chair of her UU church’s LGBTQ and allies group. A shout out to Mr. Dwyer and Ms. Roper, who would certainly include more queer stuff in their sex ed classes were they doing it today!
The link list—if you haven’t caught them all, you can do it any time. And comment for a chance to win the book!
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Sunday, June 16, 2013
Wild Girls, Wild Nights Day 14—Allison Wonderland’s “Guise and Dolls”
Head on over to Allison Wonderland’s dramatic presentation of the background to her story of mad crushes and wild puns during her theater department studies in college. “Guise and Dolls” is as witty as it is hot, but you knew that already from the title. I found myself humming along with the two women in her story, and it wasn’t just a matter of the show tunes.
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com/?zx=9bc7a67459fd2d58
Comment on my blog or hers for a chance to win one of three free copies of the book, so you can read her entire story. Trust me, these dolls have no use for guys, and no need for guise. Or, um guile, to be more grammatically correct.
The Blog Tour Link List:
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 13--Allison Moon's "Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy"
Today on her blog site Allison Moon shares the background for her story “Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy” as well as her own background in sex education and writing sex-enabling erotica. Here’s just a short sample:
“In my sex ed workshops, I offer information, but a huge part of what I do is letting folks know they’re “normal” for wanting certain sensation, connection, or communication. My agenda has changed from just offering advice or information, to offering permission. After all, in this noble Google Age, information is cheap, good information is slightly more pricey, but permission to seek, find, and utilize that information? Priceless.”
There’s an excerpt from her story, too, which shows just what lengths she’ll go to for the sake of offering permission for sex. Don’t miss this one. (For any of you who’ve read my post on Women and Words, which I’ll probably post on my own blog at some point, this is the story I didn’t believe was true until someone on my publisher’s staff said she’d actually heard about the party described, and it was just the way Allison described it! The San Francisco Bay area is a small world.)
So go right on over to:
http://wp.me/pSuC9-Eh
And comment to be entered in the raffle for free copies of the book.
Friday, June 14, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 12--Dawn McKay’s “Hot Desert Sands”
Stories about women in the military have a special appeal, and Dawn McKay’s “Hot Desert Sands” hit me hard with its gritty intensity, frenzied sex, and moments of tenderness. Go on over to her blog site: she has a lot to say about life in the Air Force. Here's a taste:
"I could give my life but Uncle Sam could tell me who to sleep with. As a result, my relationships in the service had to be discreet. Most of them were snatches in time. Since what we were doing was “forbidden” by the Uniform Code of Military Justice, they were always laced with an edge of danger."
Then she shares a hot and heartrending excerpt you really don't want to miss. Go ahead, comment here or there, and be entered in the drawing for one of three copies of the book.
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/2013/06/14/deployments-and-sex-appeal/
"I could give my life but Uncle Sam could tell me who to sleep with. As a result, my relationships in the service had to be discreet. Most of them were snatches in time. Since what we were doing was “forbidden” by the Uniform Code of Military Justice, they were always laced with an edge of danger."
Then she shares a hot and heartrending excerpt you really don't want to miss. Go ahead, comment here or there, and be entered in the drawing for one of three copies of the book.
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/2013/06/14/deployments-and-sex-appeal/
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 11—Mia Savage’s “Kat’s House”
We’re halfway through the Blog Tour! Today we follow Mia Savage to her blog site where she sets up her story’s back ground like this:
“It was our second anniversary, and we were finally settling into a comfortable place with each other. I wanted to do something special, something besides the usual. There was always something in her eyes and in her touch that led me to believe she wanted more, something a little wild. I planned and teased her for weeks, not knowing exactly where that night would lead. Thirty two years later—she still has that same look in her eyes, and I am still happy to oblige.”
And then…what an excerpt! A different kind of menu for an anniversary feast. Yes, I’ve read the whole story many times, but it still packs a punch. Don’t miss this teaser for “Kat’s House”. Go to http://miasavagebooks.wordpress.com/.
(And notice that besides comments on her post being entered in a drawing for the book, Mia is also offering a drawing for a $10 Amazon Gift Card. Don’t miss this one.)
Scroll down to my post from yesterday for a complete list of the Blog Tour links.
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Wild Girls, Wild Nights Day 10: Giselle Renarde’s “Ring of Roses”
Day 10, and we go to Giselle Renarde’s blog where she gives us the background of her story “Ring of Roses”, and goes a step further with a link to the blog she wrote at the time about that romantic trip to Niagara Falls, Canadian side, of course. Even better, she provides an excerpt showing the real emotional depth of an experience that went far beyond glittering lights and rose petals in the Jacuzzi.
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
The Blog Tour Link List:
June 3 Angel Propps: The Daddy I Didn’t Know I Needed
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 4 Destiny Moon: The Corruption of the Innocent Pornographer
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 5 Danielle Mignon: Are You My Mommy?
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 6 Charlotte Dare: Higher Learning
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 7 Dawn Mueller: Cockadoodledoo
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 8 Lynette Mae: Risking It All
http://lynettemaeauthor.wordpress.com/
June 9 Cheyenne Blue: Nurse Joan
www.cheyenneblue.com
June 10 Catherine Paulssen: Delinquents
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 11 M. Marie: Auto-Complete
http://www.mmarie.ca/
June 12 Giselle Renarde: Ring of Roses
http://donutsdesires.blogspot.ca/2013/06/wild-nights-in-niagara-and-chance-to-win.html
June 13 Mia Savage: Kat’s House
www.miasavagebooks.wordpress.com
June 14 Dawn McKay: Hot Desert Nights
http://dawnmckay.wordpress.com/
June 15 Allison Moon: Foxy and the Ridiculous Lesbian Orgy
http://www.talesofthepack.com/blog/
June 16 Allison Wonderland: Guise and Dolls
http://aisforallison.blogspot.com
June 17 Anna Watson: Tamago
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 18 Evan Mora: Insatiable Travel Itch
http://sacchi-green@gmail.com
June 19 Catherine Henreid: Odds
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 20 H.M. Husley: Threesome
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 21 Jasmine Grimstead: Lost Batteries
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 22 Monica E. Moreno: Polvo de Hadas
http://sacchi-green.blogspot.com
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 9--M.Marie on "Auto-Complete'
Today you can travel effortlessly to Canada (or maybe you’re already there, along with many of my writers) to read M.Marie’s account of her story “Auto-Complete.” Well, just a little effort, if you think clicking on her link counts. As incentive, here’s just a teaser from her post:
When I first read Sacchi’s Call for Submissions for this anthology, I knew I wanted to share a personal story that was sexy, but also fun and lighthearted; something that would give readers a little peek at me, as well as at my sex life ;)
My mind immediately went to a past incident with my partner in which I made a somewhat embarrassing misassumption. I’ll admit that I do have a bad habit of snooping around on the computer occasionally… I’m curious! I can’t help myself! ☺
http://www.mmarie.ca/
Monday, June 10, 2013
Wild Girls Blog Tour Day 8--Catherine Paulssen's "Delinquents"
Today we have Catherine Paulssen writing from Germany and remembering how the world looked to her from that perspective twenty years ago. Her story “Delinquents” is as simultaneously lovely and hot as anything I’ve ever read.
Catherine Paulssen's (www.catherinepaulssen.com) stories have appeared in Best Lesbian Romance 2012 and Girl Fever and in anthologies by Ravenous Romance and Constable & Robinson. (I’ve also seen her name in a number of anthologies since this bio was written.)
When I first saw Sacchi’s call for submissions for an anthology of true lesbian erotica, I was very excited about this idea. I knew I wanted to participate, but at first, I had no idea how. I simply didn’t know what story to tell. Looking back, most experiences that weren’t too boring to write about seemed so tainted with heartbreak or confusion I couldn’t see them in such an anthology – or bring myself to write about it. So I went back really far in time and thought of that magical summer of 1994. We had been so daring, so carefree and yet so full of questions… I was intrigued again immediately. A lot had to be thought about, added and transformed – yes, I took a lot of license as far as circumstances go.
And I loved every minute I was writing “Delinquents”.
After all, by the time I finally had it all together and down on paper, Sacchi sent an update asking for stories beyond tales of coming-out or recollections of first encounters.
I still went ahead with my submission. Mostly because it had been such an adventure plunging back into those weeks that are almost twenty years in the past that I was convinced the fun I had and the emotions that came back while writing about them would resonate with readers.
Looking back on that time today (with a lot of disbelief – has it really been twenty years? It all seems so close, and some of what’s been said and done I remember more vividly than things that happened two years ago), I find it wasn’t only a very sweet and glorious summer, but also a very defining one.
Sacchi accepted the story a few months later, and I hope that you will enjoy reading “Delinquents” as much as I enjoyed telling it.
[I can’t resist adding a brief excerpt. The two girls are house-sitting for the TV star mother of one of them. One of the things they do is watch sexy movies. And then…]
“I can't imagine what the fuss is all about. I mean, what's with the boob obsession?”
Esther threw a glance at the movie and shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t know. They must feel good, I guess.”
“Maybe,” I said, following Esther’s stare. But then, suddenly, she turned her eyes from the screen and looked right at me.
“Wanna try?” she asked.
Heat shot into my stomach. I knew immediately what she meant. But it seemed too outrageous a suggestion. And what was I supposed to do? What if I did it all wrong? What if it was embarrassing? I kept my eyes fixed on the television. “Try what?” I asked.
She cocked her head, but didn’t answer my question. “To see if it feels good,” she stated simply.
You really want to read the rest. Trust me. Comment here and/or on any of the other posts in this series to be entered in a drawing for one of three free copies of the book. Or, in a pinch, you can buy the book. It's worth it.
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_2_10?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=wild+girls+wild+nights+sacchi+green&sprefix=Wild+Girls%2Cstripbooks%2C353
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