These stories are rated 4 flames. They contain explicit love scenes described using graphic and direct language. Read at your own discretion.
From "An Early Winter's Train" by C. Sanchez-Garcia, which deals with a loving husband caring for a wife who is succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer's. It is one of the most touching stories I have ever read, and I am honored that Coming Together marks the first publication for this author. I'm certain we'll be reading plenty more.
"This is Mobile, isn't it?"
He raised his head and looked up at her. What the hell was this Mobile all about? She was smiling down at him, and her eyes were full and fiery.
And he knew then what he was seeing. The revelation of it struck him so fiercely he had to get up and sit on the edge of the bathtub to absorb it.
Fog or not, she had remembered clearly something he had forgotten until that moment: Mobile, Alabama, on the train to Savannah. Savannah was where they would have their honeymoon, and the train was where they were on their wedding night. Although he was eager for her, she wouldn't let him fuck her until they reached Mobile. It was what she wanted. It wasn't the first time they'd had sex. That had been on their second date, sloppily and impetuously on the sofa in her sister's apartment, trying not to wake the family. That was when he knew she was the woman he would marry, this virtuous, intelligent, sturdy Republican with her ravenous appetites.
On their wedding night, they'd rattled through the dark countryside in their sleeping car, groping and driving each other wild, but she was forcing him to wait. And then the tobacco barns changed into buildings, and he wouldn't wait any longer.
She peeled off the rest of his clothes and then her own. She turned on the lights, and threw the curtains open wide. He'd taken her as she directed him to, hard up against the brightly lit window glass for all the world to see, his stiff cock all up in her tight, naked, and urgent and insane, and the train vibrated and rattled their bodies as they moved against each other.
Outside, rail lights flashed red and bells clanged as they whizzed through the barred crossings, packed with lines of cars; cars with white folks and black folks, good God-fearing families and children and grandmothers and babies and dogs watching her naked female Whore of Babylon ass as he pounded it good and hard up against the glass, putting on a big show for the good folks of Mobile, courtesy of the rolling iron of the Southern Pacific.
He came in her as they leisurely sailed through a crossing in the downtown, and she had the presence of mind to take out his wet cock and press it against the glass, waving hello with it to the people standing on the sidewalk gaping.
That was goddamn Mobile for you.
"Is this Mobile?"
"Yes, baby," he croaked. "You know, I think it is."
She smiled wickedly. "Good."
"Are you ready for Mobile?"
"I'm ready!"
"Let's go then. Let's stand by the window. That's what you want, isn't it? That's what Mobile is, right?"
"Mobile!"
"Anything you want, Aimee. Let's go to Mobile together." He herded her into the bedroom with his arm around her waist, and his cock tightening his pants. He marveled at how she seemed filled with purpose such as he hadn't seen in her in a long time. When he released her, it was Aimee who threw the curtains open.
The author says: Sex isn't the point. Back in my religious days, a wise person told me that the secret of prayer is to search your heart for the truest thing you feel at that moment and offer it, no matter how ugly, to God. In my opinion, that's the way to write about sex. Good erotica isn't about copulating. We're all lonely. We're all islands, trying to reach out somehow. Good erotica is the story you tell when you show up at the keyboard, about the gap between human beings and what the truest thing they're feeling is at the moment they reach across to each other for intimacy. Good erotica should be like a prayer.
The editor adds: Amen.
******
From "Chemistry" by Lisabet Sarai, which deals with the undeniable and often inexplicable forces of chemical attraction.
Anger made Kit bold. She climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell, twice. A parrot squawked behind the door. Otherwise, there was no effect. She rang the bell again, and then, impatient, banged on the door with her fist.
The door swung open. A sweet, smoky aroma wafted out. Kit found herself staring into a pair of amazingly blue eyes that blinked and squinted against the morning sunlight.
He looked at her long time without speaking. In his eyes, she saw curiosity and amusement. She was acutely aware of her bare midriff and the sweaty shorts clinging to her butt. As for the owner of the establishment, he wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that only partly hid a hairy belly and faded cutoffs so loose and tattered that she couldn't avoid catching glimpses of his heavy balls.
The man's steady gaze drove out all her angry words. He smiled, kindly, apparently not caring that he had been awakened at such an early hour.
"Good morning. Can I help you?" He swept his eyes over her skimpy clothing and his smile broadened. "Normally, I'm closed on Sunday—day of rest and all that. But if there's something you urgently need, I'd be happy to see what I can do."
"I—um—you—that was quite a party you had last night!"
"Party?"
"Music, lights—up on your third floor. You could hear it all over the neighborhood!"
A stricken look passed over his bearded face. "Oh, sorry! I was just relaxing by myself, just spacing out after a long week. Did I disturb you?"
"As a matter of fact, you did. I was trying to work."
He grinned, looking suddenly much younger than the gray strands in his beard suggested. "A pretty woman like you shouldn't be working on a Saturday night! But really, I am sorry. I didn't realize that anyone could hear me."
"They probably could hear you over at City Hall." Kit's sense of righteous indignation returned. How could the old guy be so oblivious?
"Please, accept my apologies. It won't happen again." He gave her another once over. She felt a blush creeping across her cheeks. "Won't you come in for a cup of coffee? I just made some fresh." Despite his bleary look, she hadn't gotten him out of bed after all.
"No, that's okay. I just wanted to let you know about the problem."
"Please, come in. Let me make amends. I've got some excellent Columbian."
Before Kit could protest that she didn't drink coffee, he grabbed her hand and pulled her into the dark, aromatic space inside. His skin was warm and unexpectedly soft. Accidentally or deliberately, his body brushed against her hip, and she sensed hardness through the worn denim. She flinched, trying to get away from him. At the same time, she felt her nipples tighten, and a flutter of pleasure rippled through her cunt.
She made excuses. It was just because Todd was away.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable." The proprietor of the shop—Frank?—gestured toward a brass tripod table surrounded by carved wooden stools. "I'll be right back." His hand hovered for a moment, as if he was going to stroke her hair; then he disappeared through a bead curtain at the back of the room.
Kit looked around her. It was like stepping into the past. Not her own past—maybe her mother's. Tapestries portraying athletically conjoined Indian gods shared wall space with concert posters for Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and The Grateful Dead. Rough wooden shelves near the doorway displayed water pipes, scales, and a wide range of paraphernalia that she couldn't identify. A glass case near the door held assorted jewelry: silver chains, leather wristbands and long, ornate earrings. Marijuana leaves were a popular motif. Crystals dangled from the ceiling. One corner hosted piles of cushions and rugs. The small shop was crowded with statues of the Buddha, African masks, geodes with amethyst centers. On a shelf above her shoulder, she noted a porcelain incense burner shaped like a massive penis.
She blushed again, though she was alone, and took a deep breath. The atmosphere was heavy with patchouli and sandalwood.
The beads clicked together as Frank returned holding two steaming mugs. "Here you are, then." He seated himself on the stool next to her—close, too close. Invading her personal space.
"I don't..." Kit began. But the rich aroma of the coffee made her mouth water. Just this once, perhaps.
"Sorry, I don't have any milk, but there's sugar." He pointed to a ceramic bowl molded in the shape of a peace sign. He dumped a heaping spoonful into his own mug.
"Uh, no thanks." She took a tentative sip, then drank deeper. The flavor was earthy and complex. She could feel the caffeine racing through her blood.
Frank was staring at her again, his eyes twinkling behind his wire-framed glasses. Absently, he scratched his unruly head. She could tell that he hadn't showered.
"I guess, then, that we're neighbors."
"Yes, well, I don't spend much time at home." She licked her lips nervously. "Mostly, I'm at work."
"You work too hard, I think. You need to take time to enjoy life." He rummaged in his pocket, and she caught another glimpse of his scrotum and his half-hard cock. Hastily, she turned to examine one of the posters.
"Want to do a number?" He was holding out a fat, hand-rolled cigarette. Kit felt a sudden panic.
"No—um—I don't do drugs. I know too much about them."
"Oh?" He lit the joint himself and drew in a lungful of the fragrant smoke.
"Yes, well, I work for a pharmaceutical company."
"Really? What a coincidence." She didn't understand. But she didn't want to ask questions or prolong the conversation. Really, she didn't want to talk about herself at all. She thought she should be going home.
He took another toke and held it, closing his eyes. His expression was beatific. He reminded her of some hairy elf, or perhaps a giant, grizzled teddy bear. The smell of pot drowned out the incense. Kit felt dizzy.
Frank stubbed out his joint. "Stand up… What's your name?" His voice was soft, dreamy.
"Kit."
"What's that short for?"
"Katerina."
"Oh, I like that much better. It suits you. I've always thought that ladies should have long, intricate names, names that dance on your tongue. Stand up, Katerina. Please. Let me look at you."
She felt brief indignation. Nobody told her what to do. Yet she obeyed, coming to her feet in front of him, so close, too close, the reach of bare skin between her top and shorts inches from him. She was light-headed, not herself.
"Katerina," he whispered. Then he reached out and grasped her buttocks, pulling her to his face.
His beard was softer than it looked, tickling her. For a moment, he simply held her, breathing in, inhaling her as if she were another drug. Suddenly, there was shocking wetness. His tongue circled her navel, dipped inside. Her sex clenched in a delicious spasm. He lapped in widening circles, then traced a wet path up her sternum. When he reached her bra, he deftly peeled back the stretchy material to expose her small breasts. He fastened his mouth on one swollen nipple. Kit moaned, embarrassed by her urgent need.
He sucked at her 'til the node of flesh was unbearably tender. Just when she couldn't bear any more, he switched to the other breast, strumming the rigid bead at its tip while her clit vibrated in sympathy.
"Oh, please..." she sighed. Her shorts were sticky and uncomfortable. She wanted them off. Frank paused and smiled at her. "Just a moment, Katerina, if you can be patient. I have something for you."
He scurried off to the glass display case, a comic figure, his shorts slipping down his hips to expose his furry butt. Her belly and breasts were soaked with his saliva.
Kit shuddered, desire mixed with revulsion. How could she let this smelly, hairy, untidy, old—anachronism—touch her? But God, it felt so good. Her cunt was sopping. Her pussy scent overwhelmed the smell of pot. I should go, she told herself, get out of here while I can. But, before she could will herself to move, Frank was back, pulling her bra over her head, fastening a delicate silver chain around her waist. He eased her shorts over her hips. She kicked off her shoes, and he shimmied the Lycra garment down to her ankles and off.
Kit stood before him, naked except for the ornamental chain. The silver strands brushed, ghostly, against her sensitized skin. Frank licked his lips. His eyes burned blue as gas flames; she basked in the heat of his obvious lust.
The author says: I feel that my writing is a bit of a self-indulgence—I do it for my own satisfaction and that of my readers, not to survive—so I was really pleased to discover an opportunity to put my stories to work for the good of humanity (or at least a sample thereof). For me, AIDS is an especially appropriate cause for charitable erotica. I was around before AIDS took the spontaneity out of sex and turned it into a potentially deadly activity. I'd love to see the clock turned back by a defeat of this plague.
The editor adds: Lisabet's work speaks to me in a very visceral way. It's edgy and raw and without pretension, and it's flawlessly executed. There is no fluffy excess, no unnecessary words. It is simultaneously in-your-face and under-your-skin, which is quite a rare find. I am thrilled that she is a regular contributor to Coming Together. The inclusion of her work raises the bar on any collection.
******
From "The Personal Is Political" by Jean Roberta, an empowering story about the trials of a relationship in the public eye. Relationships are tough enough without the additional scrutiny!
Margaret hovered like a bee circling a flower. She stroked Paulette's plump thighs, held them apart, and dipped an experimental tongue between Paulette's outer lips. Margaret nipped at the tender ivory skin above the curly brown bush which glistened with moisture.
"Mistress."
Margaret grinned. "What do you want, baby? Tell me."
"I want to be fucked."
"By just anyone? Should I bring in one of the maids?"
"I want you to fuck me, Ma'am. My cunt is starving."
"Maybe I should come in somewhere else first." Margaret tickled Paulette's puckered asshole with a long finger. "This opening has been neglected for awhile."
Paulette continued to squirm and Margaret continued to tease until she eased two fingers into the deep, narrow channel of Paulette's sex. Her fingers made a slurping sound that satisfied both women.
With tidal slowness, Margaret pushed in and withdrew, in and out as though she couldn't imagine a reason to speed up. Paulette squeezed, pumped, and wrapped her legs around Margaret's waist.
Margaret disentangled herself, casually stood up, and reached for her purse. She returned to bend over Paulette with something in her hands.
Before Paulette knew what to expect, a small vibrator was pressing against her clit, sending its hum all through her liquid insides. Margaret reinserted her fingers, anchoring Paulette in place to accept the sweet torture.
"Oh!" Paulette immediately clamped her upper lips together to hold in all the wild sounds she wanted to make. She clung to the bed frame like a shipwrecked survivor clinging to a life raft. Her hips jerked as her sex spasmed. "You said no toys!" She was desperately trying to keep her voice low.
"None except this one. It's a conventional household item, don't you think?"
An image of Margaret in a courtroom, functioning as Crown Prosecutor, flashed into Paulette's mind. Margaret had been good at leading the jury down one path, then veering onto another, keeping the defense off-guard. She was a wily strategist on her own turf, and Paulette had learned to love her ways of stalking and capturing an elusive victory.
Paulette dropped her aching arms to wrap them around her spouse, who didn't object. Margaret lowered herself onto Paulette, using her elbows. Then she placed her warm mouth onto Paulette's, resting her lips there for a moment before sliding her tongue into Paulette's mouth.
Margaret pulled back to admire Paulette's flushed face. "You're so beautiful when you come."
The author says:
When I saw the call for submissions for Coming Together: With Pride, I had just written a fantasy story about an openly lesbian Prime Minister of Canada and her legal wife on a state visit to London, England. This scenario is possible, partly because of the 2005 law which allows for same-sex marriage throughout Canada, and partly because of the Canadian political system. (We have three major parties, and voters vote for the party, not the individual candidate, so presumably a candidate's sexual orientation would be less of an election issue than her platform.)
Realistically, I don't expect Canada to elect a lesbian federal leader by 2013, the year in which my story takes place, but it's a writer's privilege to ask, "What if?" I wondered what it would feel like to be attracted to another woman because of her political passion (among other things), to move in with her, and then to become a kind of reluctant "First Lady," a role which has been very heterosexual (gracious wife supporting her husband, the chief) for centuries. The title of my story, "The Personal Is Political," is a 1970s feminist slogan applied very literally.
It seems perfectly fitting to me that my story will help raise funds for health education. My two central characters would certainly approve.
The editor adds: It is indeed the writer's privilege to ask, "What if?" And, it is the editor's privilege to beam with pride at the results of such musings. I am excited to welcome Jean Roberta to the Coming Together collective and hope this is the first of many contributions.
For a full story from Coming Together: With Pride, visit Clean Sheets where "Past Perfect," my contribution to the volume, is concurrently published.
ABOUT THE EDITOR:
Alessia Brio is, first and foremost, an activist. No matter what's going on in her life, she'll find a way to organize those involved and inject an element of altruism. If she didn't have basic needs like food and shelter, she'd probably spend all her time volunteering for one cause or another. Even her nom de plume reflects her nature. Alessia is an Italian name derived from the Greek verb alexéin meaning "to defend/protect" and Brio relates to the Italian musical term con brio meaning "with spirit/brilliance".
In addition to serving as Coming Together's editor, Alessia writes all colors and flavors of erotica, from heterosexual to ménage to same sex, and from twisted to humorous to deeply touching. (Sometimes, usually by accident, it even qualifies as romance.) Her work has earned her critical acclaim in the form of an EPPIE for Best Erotica (Fine Flickering Hungers) and a Romantic Times Top Pick (Coming Together: For the Cure) in addition to a plethora of glowing online reviews. Coming Together: For the Cure also won the 2008 Next Generation Indie Book Award for Erotica.
Ms. Brio lives in the mountains near Pittsburgh, where she masquerades as a soccer mom. Her fetishes include SuDoku, rare steak, and stainless steel. She stands 5'8" tall in her bare feet (which is how she prefers to stand) and has a mop of unruly dark hair that is being conquered by grey, complementing the laugh lines around her mischievous eyes.
The Internet is both her office and her playground, and she can be found online at alessiabrio.com in addition to MySpace and a few other sites.
Participating Authors Include:
· Introduction (Will Belegon)
· Today (Kally Jo Surbeck)
· Raven (James Buchanan)
· A Girl's Best and Earthy Things (Heather Fowler)
· Don't Look Down (Mari Freeman)
· Echoes of the Past (Mychael Black)
· A Brief Discourse... (P.S. Haven)
· When the Angels Fall (Helen Madden)
· Customer Service (Eon de Beaumont)
· Nuit Blanche (Giselle Renarde)
· Western Pleasure (Shanna Germain)
· Chemistry (Lisabet Sarai)
· Fire and Ice (Cassie Exline)
· An Early Winter Train (C. Sanchez-Garcia)
· Selling Foxx (I.M. Cupnjava)
· Be Prepared (Storm Grant)
· Freedom to Serve (Nicole Gestalt)
· The Personal Is Political (Jean Roberta)
· Past Perfect (Alessia Brio)
· About Coming Together (Alessia Brio)
Submissions to The Weekly Sizzle should be sent to Sizzle@allromanceebooks.com. We are looking for original short stories, 1-5 flames, 200-2000 words.
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