Reaching Out from a Mind as Dirty as All Outdoors

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

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

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Wednesday, March 13, 2019

# 1 On the Blog Tour! Fanning My Own Fic

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

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

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

 Date Host URL

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

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

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

Fanning My Own Fic

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

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

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

Here goes:

Baubles and Beads
Sacchi Green

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