To Love and To Cherish - Vol 1 - On Bended Knee

The Felicity of Domesticity

At the ripe old age of six, two girls decide to jump the broom.

Blurb:

Twenty years ago, two first grade girls got married. To each other. The pair dared to tamper with tradition, eschewing all the trappings of a conventional wedding: the gown, the groom, the gaggle of grumpy, frumpy bridesmaids. They imagined that one day they would live in a house made of candy, like the witch’s dwelling in the story of Hansel and Gretel, but without the witch, of course. And while their dream house remains just that – a dream – the knot they tied is still secure, and their marriage has outlasted the Ring Pops they exchanged at the ceremony.

Excerpt:

I know we were only six years old at the time, and I realize that first graders aren’t exactly famous for their fashion sense, but it was our wedding day after all. Maybe if we had known one day our wedding portrait would be hanging in the hallway of our home, its dimensions enlarged to three times their original size, we would have tried to look a little more presentable. I suppose it seemed like a good idea at the time: neon green stirrup pants paired with a powder pink sweater, a bikini-clad Ariel embroidered on the front. A dollop of fudge dotted Ariel’s nose, enhancing the beauty of the redheaded sea creature. The stain was also a lovely complement to the runnel of vanilla ice cream streaking the leg of my pants.

On the sunny side, at least I can take comfort in knowing that I was not the worst-dressed bride in the photograph. Teri should have worn her matching mermaid sweater. I told her to wear her matching mermaid sweater, begged and pleaded with her to wear her matching mermaid sweater. But she did not wear her matching mermaid sweater. Instead, she wore this… well, it can hardly be considered an outfit, really. More like a hodgepodge of Halloween costumes, an eclectic ensemble at best. Her black Batgirl cape clashed with her Dorothy dress and hot pink jellies. Her marabou tiara, which sat crookedly on top of her braids, had shed half of its feathers and most of its sparkle.

Our mothers thought we were the most dainty, darling daughters they had ever laid eyes on. Seated in plastic lawn chairs in Teri’s backyard, they made such a fuss that we almost called the whole thing off. “Oh, how cute,” they would coo. “Oh, how precious,” they would gush. And, when the opportunity presented itself, they would pinch our cheeks until our faces went numb. Years later, I wondered why they indulged us the way they did. Maybe they thought I was pretending to be a boy. (I was the one wearing pants.) More than likely, though, they probably thought of our marriage as a rehearsal for the kind of wedding they expected we would have when we were older. The authentic kind, with a gown and a groom, and a gaggle of grumpy, frumpy bridesmaids.

Teri’s little brother, a year and a half younger than us, presided over the ceremony, declaring that we were joined in holy macaroni (and cheese) and that if anybody had any objections, they should speak now or forever hold their horses. Then he said, “You may now kiss the bride,” and we didn’t know which bride he was talking to. All we knew was that we were supposed to make our mouths touch and that we had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Only grown-ups did gross things like kissing, we insisted. Later, I swapped my grape Ring Pop, which was half-eaten, for Teri’s cherry one, which was also half-eaten, and didn’t think anything of it.

As we devoured our diamond baubles, Teri and I began preparing for our domestic life together. We imagined that one day we would live in a house made of candy, like the witch’s dwelling in the story of Hansel and Gretel, but without the witch, of course. It would have licorice doors and chocolate floors, and we wanted gummy bear chairs, too, but decided that the bears would stick to the seats of our pants and we would never be able to get up.

Author Bio:

Allison Wonderland has been writing lesbian literature since 2007. Her work appears in Best Lesbian Romance 2009, Visible: A Femmethology, and Best Lesbian Erotica 2010, among others. Aside from writing, Allison’s indulgences include cotton candy, kitten heels, and Old Hollywood glamour. Find out what else she’s into and up to at http://aisforallison.blogspot.com.

Traditional Values

When Kennedy proposes, Jean discovers just what it means to become a member of her lover's very traditional Irish-American family.

Blurb:

Kennedy McMasters comes from a very traditional Irish-American family. When you want to spend forever with someone, you propose. Trouble is, she's gay, and marriage isn't exactly something she felt was in the cards for her and her lover, Jean Randall. Then she blurts a proposal. What will happen when they give her father the news?

Excerpt:

Kennedy opened her eyes to the gray yellow of dawn seeping in through the bedroom blinds. She gave the morning a lopsided smile and rolled over toward her companion. Reverently she nudged aside several silky strands of honey blond hair to look upon Jean's unique face in peaceful repose.

Her high brow bore no furrows as when she was intensely caught up in her work. Her high angular cheekbones were slightly reddened from the hours Jean spent in the sun out on the water at her life's work. Faint lines etched the skin around her mouth, full lips relaxed in a hint of a smile.

Which Kennedy kissed now, lightly awakening with explorative nips and warm nibbles. Jean's smile broadened, the first muscles to stretch, then her arms, long and willowy, encircled Kennedy's shoulders and the two rolled over in the bedding.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” Kennedy said, lifting her mouth away from its pleasurable task at last.

Jean's fingers flowed through her hair, a sybaritic pleasure for Kennedy, while Jean's senses came alive one by one until she finally blinked her eyes, revealing crystal blue depths. “Mmm hmmm,” Jean managed before burying her nose in the apex of Kennedy's neck and shoulder, inhaling and nuzzling the sensitive skin.

“Hungry?” The question earned Kennedy a nip against her throat. “Coffee?” earned a wet tongue tracing her earlobe.

Shaking from the pleasure of Jean's touch, Kennedy found herself on her back, her nightgown pulled up and off. She was deluged by sensation as Jean's hands and mouth traveled from her throat to the modest swells of her breasts. The contact, both hot and electric, wrestled a tortured cry from her soul. She burrowed her fingers in Jean's hair, holding the woman closer. Jean suckled deep on one breast then the other, rapidly awakening a burning wet need between Kennedy's thighs.

Jean answered that need with long fingers pressing deep and sure, stroking the throbbing inner flesh with precision and adoration. Kennedy's body coursed and ebbed, thrashing like a raging river, tossing her again and again on the waterfall of passion.

As she soared at last, Kennedy panted and howled, rocking rhythmically on Jean's probing tongue until the waves subsided to ripples and then languorous and still waters.

“Oh, God. Unh. Mmm,” Kennedy tingled as Jean's stroking gentled, soothing touches of her tongue over engorged flesh.

Kennedy dragged Jean up, gasping before fastening her mouth over full lips. “God, what you do to me,” she breathed when finally she let the long blond woman go.

“Well, we missed each other last night,” Jean started to explain, eyes averting shyly.

Tugging Jean into her crook of her left arm, Kennedy stroked the planes of her lover's face. “I'm sorry about that.”
“Did you catch him?”
“The surveillance was successful.”
“I didn't get a call to go to the hospital so can I assume no scratches?”
“You've just been thoroughly reintroducing yourself to my body,” Kennedy chuckled. “Find anything wrong?”
Jean's eyes darkened. Kennedy recognized the hurt with contrition.
“No. Listen. I'm sorry.” Kennedy pulled up Jean's right hand and kissed the knuckles one at a time. “I don't have any new scratches. In fact it was an exceptionally boring collar. The fifteen-year old only had a cap gun.”

The vivid hurt in Jean's pale blue eyes diminished only marginally. Clearly Kennedy had a longer stretch of bridge to mend. She thought quickly. “Listen. We can go out on the boat for the whole weekend.”
“A whole weekend?”
“Four days. You, me, and the open Gulf.”
“What about --?” Kennedy laid her fingers across Jean's lips.
“What good's my promotion if I can't take time off to be with my family?”
That brought the forgiving tears. “Family?” Jean choked softly.
“Well? Wanna be a McMasters?”

Author Bio:

Lara Zielinsky's first novel, Turning Point, received the 2007 Lesbian Fiction Readers Choice Award. Half a dozen of her short stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies. Several book reviews and articles have appeared in the Boston Bisexual Women's Network (BBWN) newsletter as well as a Canadian bisexuals newsletter. She hosts the bi-weekly show “Readings in Lesbian & Bisexual Women's Fiction” on Blog Talk Radio.

A member of the Golden Crown Literary Society, and Florida Writers Association, she is a regular participant at Saints & Sinners each year. Happily bisexual, she lives in Orlando, Florida with her husband and son, two of the many reasons family figures in nearly every story she writes.
Website: http://www.lzfiction.net/

The Art of Communication

Same-sex marriage is legal in Canada. Does that mean Jody should marry again? Only one thing has changed since the first time she said “I do.” This time, she is living with the right person.

Blurb:

Jody is a mother who escaped from a bad marriage. She feels lucky to have Helena in her life, and amazed that Helena gets along so well with Jody's twelve-year-old son. Why mess up a good thing by making it legal? Isn't marriage hopelessly straight in every sense of the word?
Helena stands to inherit her parents' wealth, and she wants to share her worldly goods with her chosen family: Jody and her son. Inspired by a famous novel, Helena finds a way to show Jody what she wants, and why it would make a good thing better.

Excerpt:

"No," said Jody. "I can see where you're headed, and I'm not going there again, ever." She looked into Helena's blue eyes, wanting her to understand.

"Not all marriages are the same." Helena stretched out her legs and reached behind to brace herself against the back of the sofa. She rarely sat still, and she had a way of taking positions more strenuous than they looked. "People make commitments, not the other way 'round." She picked a tortoiseshell clip off the coffee table, and used it to hold her long blond hair in place. Then she stood and wrapped her arms around Jody, who relaxed into the hug.

Jody sighed. She couldn't complain. Helena was classy, smart, generous, and well-connected. She had grown up learning things that had never occurred to Jody, such as which fork to use for which course in a formal dinner. Jody hated to remind her of the differences between them. Every morning, Jody woke up with a pricking fear that today Helena would come to her senses, realize Jody wasn't a suitable companion, and leave.

"You're afraid, I know." Helena brushed Jody's thick dark hair off her face.

Jody jerked away. "I'm not afraid," she pointed out. "Marriage is a patriarchal institution, Helena. It's not about love. It's about property." Her breasts shook slightly under her oversized T-shirt as she took a deep breath. She reached for her cup of coffee and took a swig.

"Aha," smiled the taller woman. "You're thinking sensibly."
Jody could barely stop herself from saying that she certainly wasn't.

Author Bio:

Jean Roberta teaches English in a Canadian prairie university and writes in several genres. Over 70 of her erotic stories have appeared in print anthologies such as the annual Best Lesbian Erotica series from Cleis, not including websites and magazines. Obsession, her single-author collection of stories in several genres and sexual orientations, is available in several formats from Eternal Press. She writes a monthly column, “Sex Is All Metaphors,” for the Erotic Readers and Writers Association (www.erotica-readers.com - Smutters Lounge gallery). She is a staff reviewer for the erotic site www.eroticarevealed.com, the lesbian site www.kissedbyvenus.ca, and writes reviews for various other venues, including The Gay and Lesbian Review (www.GLReview.com). More at www.JeanRoberta.com.

The Anti-Proposal

What happens when a romantic marriage proposal goes awry?

Blurb:

Robyn took a long look at the woman she was about to propose to, and her breath caught.

She took in Anya’s long, dark hair and her luminous skin. In an instant, Robyn flashed on how good their nude bodies looked together; Anya’s reddish-brown skin next to her own mocha skin. As she sat there, Robyn lost herself in remembering every detail of Anya’s slim, lithe body.

“Robyn? Robyn?” Anya said, breaking Robyn out of her reverie. “You’re sure acting strange tonight.” Then she twirled her fingers in Robyn’s jet-black curls. “Having problems with the novel? Pierce sending those emails again?”

Robyn shook her head. “No, honey. I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

Robyn slid her hands around Anya’s waist and leaned into her luscious lips. “You.”

Excerpt:

“Okay, Robyn. Do you really think all that’s gonna work?”
Robyn Picard took a bite of the sweet rock shrimp in her Atlantic seafood cocktail. “Mmm, this is good,” she said as she savored its succulent taste. “You really should try this.”

Seated in the famed 360 Restaurant in downtown Toronto’s CN Tower, beautifully bright sunlight streamed in through the windows. Reese Lennox looked at her lifelong friend. “Come on now, Robyn! I’m serious!”

“Oh ye of little faith,” Robyn said as she touched the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin. Then she leaned forward and set her elbows on the table.

“Anyway, Reese, I just want this to be special,” Robyn said, her dark brown eyes sparkling with emotion. “I want my proposal to Anya to be the best night of our lives. Besides, you know, I’m only going to do this once.”

Her pecan-brown skin gleaming in the Toronto sunlight, Reese shook her head. Then she smoothed back her close-cut hair and folded her arms. “Sure, Robyn. I totally get that. But I gotta admit, you have a lot that you want to do. You really think you can get it all done?”

“Well, I’ve thought about this for months now. Plus, Anya’s definitely worth it,” Robyn said, taking another bite of her plump, succulent shrimp. “Besides, it’s not really that much,” she shrugged.

“And you’re gonna do everything next Friday night?”
“Yep.”
“A week from now?”
“Of course.”

Reese pursed her lips. “Even though you’re still rewriting your latest novel? And even though your editor’s been breathing down your neck to hurry up and get it done?”

Robyn frowned as she remembered the latest scathing email she’d gotten from Pierce, her editor through her last two crime novel bestsellers.
Undaunted, she shook it off. “Piece of cake,” Robyn said smiling, her mocha skin smooth and radiant. “I can do both, you know.”

Reese shook her head again, a wry smile tickling her lips. “Yeah, right. But okay, I’ll humor you.”

Reese then paused as she twirled the last of the thick strands of whole-wheat spaghetti onto her fork and plunged it into the last ripe, sweet 100 tomato on her plate. “Now I know you already gave me the abbreviated version, but while I finish eating, why don’t you go over the whole list again?”

Robyn whipped out her daily planner and flipped to the pink-tipped pages. “Okay. Let’s start from the beginning.”

Savoring the last bit of her vegetarian meal, Reese nodded.
Robyn looked at her checklist. “Okay. First, while Anya’s at work, I’m going to put the last touches on everything. Then when she comes home, I’m going to have her hang out in the living room. I’m going to tell her to relax and watch TV for a while. Then while she’s distracted, I’m going to go to the kitchen and put the soufflé in the oven.”

“Soufflé?” Reese exclaimed. “You know you can’t cook!”

Robyn shot her an evil glance. “I took those cooking lessons, remember? Four weeks with Chef Jeff? That guy on the TV news segment?”
“Oh yeah, how could I forget?” Reese chuckled. “It took you two weeks to scrub all the soot off your ceiling!”

Robyn stuck out her tongue. “Anyway, while I’m in the kitchen, the soufflé goes in the oven, the salmon goes on the grill and the rice goes in the rice cooker. With everything on low heat.”

Reese pushed her empty plate away and sat back in her chair, an amused look on her face. “Then what?”

“Then while I’m still in the kitchen, I’m gonna call and make sure that both the singing telegram and the flower delivery are on their way. Then I’ll go back into the living room and make small talk with her.”

Reese grinned. “Small talk? Right before you pop the question? Niiice.”

Robyn raised her eyebrow, but went back to her checklist. “I need time for the soufflé to cook, Ms. Smarty-Pants. Anyway, when the soufflé’s almost done, I’ll blindfold her and seat her at the dining room table. Then I’ll run to the kitchen and take the soufflé out. Then I’ll take the salmon and the rice off the heat, put everything into serving dishes and bring it all to the dining room table.”

“Then?”
“Then we eat.”

Reese smirked. “Don’t you need to take her blindfold off first? Isn’t that on the checklist?”

Robyn scowled as she ran her fingers through her curly tresses. “Will you stop messing with me, please? I’m serious here!”

Author Bio:

Stephanie Rose is the pen name of an African-American lesbian erotica writer. Once a corporate attorney, she left the legal profession to become a full-time writer, and she’s now happier than she’s ever been before. She loves and adores smart, sexy women, and she’s always ready to put those passions down on paper. She encourages women to always follow their dreams and to experience all the love and joy that life has to offer. For even more, please visit www.StephanieRoseHeat.com.

My Doris, My Love

Blurb:

Lark is completely in love with Doris, but dealing with her family is never the most enjoyable experience. After an uncomfortable dinner with the complaining family members, Lark is rewarded with a magical experience she'll never forget.

Excerpt:

At 35 my parents considered me an old maid. Most of the time they refused to acknowledge that Doris and I had been living together for four years. She was my sweetheart. And at this point, I was pretty sure she would be my eternal sweetheart.

“Remember when you were married?” My mom asked me one night after calling me to tell me my grandma was going on a trip to Europe.
I shuddered at the thought of ever being married to a man. “Mom,” I said. “I try to forget about that.”

After a pause I added, “And I’m not an old maid. I’ve been married. I’m a divorcee.”

I married Richard after I graduated from college. We dated throughout our college years. If I was going to marry someone from my young and innocent days in college I should have married my sorority sister, Leslie. She was a gorgeous brunette with a small nose and large lips. Most of my college years were spent thinking about Leslie while Richard touched my skin and pleasured himself. Lost in Leslie’s brown hair I’d orgasm, fingering my clitoris while Richard came inside me.
My mother refused to believe I was a lesbian. Two years into my marriage, I had to be honest with myself. I awoke one morning from a dream and like a lot of dreams I had, it was vivid and life changing.
In the dream I was running to escape a group of men out to get me for no apparent reason. I could barely breathe, pushing through crates and boxes, shoving with all my might. Finally, sweaty, I burst through the top of the seemingly unending tower of crates. At the top, the men were close behind, but I flew, pushing my arms up and down. One of the men looked curiously like Richard. He nearly grabbed my feet, bouncing up and down. Once I had reached the clouds, I felt exhilarated.

Upon waking, alone since Richard was already at work, I announced, “I love women!” I threw up my hands and rejoiced to the world. So what if the only person who heard me was my stuffed Koala? He knew a good declaration when he heard one. From that moment, I decided to live my life how I should always have been living it.

Since then I had dreams of spending my life with a strong and beautiful woman. Pretending to be someone you’re not doesn’t help anyone. Once I accepted my true self I became lighter and happier.
When I saw Doris walking across the room toward me the first night we met, her eyes smiling, hips swaying, I knew I wanted her forever.

Instead of a stiff male body next to me at night, I wanted a warm feminine figure lulling me to sleep. Her skin was smooth but splotched lightly with freckles. Her eyes light brown, almost hazel, her hair brown, cut short and fun. She was femininity and masculinity in a perfect combination. It was love at first hip sway topped off with a freckle-eyed wink.

I went home with her that night, finally tasting my first female and having the best orgasm I’d ever had. She’d had many girlfriends but had never found one “worth settling for.”

“Darling, you are the best little thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” she said when I got into my car the next morning.

Her messy hair looked cute as I drove away.

We fell in love shortly after that. I couldn’t get enough of her.

Author Bio:

JOLENE HUI (www.jolenehui.com)is a writer of literary and erotic fiction and about anything else her fingers feel like typing. She's been known to write a horror column for The Flesh Farm and a hockey column for Inside Hockey. One of Tonto Books first authors, her literary fiction has been published in their Tonto Short Stories, Tonto Christmas Stories, and More Tonto Short Stories anthologies. She's also been published by a variety of newspapers, magazines, websites, Cleis Press, Pretty Things Press, Logical-Lust and Alyson Books. She is based in Los Angeles.