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, May 29, 2019

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

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


Excerpt from "Bull Rider"
Sacchi Green

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[There's more. Much more.]

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