Sweet Somethings: Samples from the Circlet Press Smorgasbord
Edited by Cecilia Tan and Joy Crelin
Circlet Press, Inc.
Cambridge, MA
Sweet Somethings: Samples from the Circlet Press Smorgasbord
Published by Circlet Press, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Circlet Press, Inc.
Cover Art Copyright © Laura Givens
http://www.lauragivens-artist.com
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"The Bridge" by Sacchi Green, from Best Fantastic Erotica
"Master Mind" by Cecilia Tan, from Edge Plays
Alpha by Molly Maddox
"Navigator" by Kathleen Tudor, from Like That Spark
"Transplant" by Ellen Tevault, from Up for Grabs
"Skin Deep" by Shanna Germain, from Like a Thorn
Faewolf by D.M. Atkins and Chris Taylor
"Wood" by David Sklar, from Like a Sacred Desire
"Enslaved" by Kierstin Cherry, from Like Crimson Droplets
"The Coming Age" by Angela Caperton, from Like a Corset Undone
"Charlie" by Kal Cobalt, from Robotica
"The Pillars of Hercules" by Lionel Bramble, from Like a God's Kiss
"Ota Discovers Fire" by Vinnie Tesla, from Like a Long Road Home
Mate by Lauren P. Burka
"Queen's Jewel" by A.D.R. Forte, from Like a Queen
"The Changeling" by Whitt Pond, from Wired Hard 2
"Lupine House" by A.N. Cortez, from Like an Animal
"Come Monday" by Jamie Joy Gatto, from Sex Noir
"Waylaid" by Julie Cox, from Like Tooth and Claw
"The Succession of Knoorikios Khnum" by Zachary Jernigan, from Wired Hard 4
Sacchi Green
from Best Fantastic Erotica
"Come!" said the breeze again, more insistently. And why not? If he could hear the voice so clearly, Bernard reasoned, he was too far gone already to bother with denial or to resist. "Shell-shock," the doctors might say, but it scarcely matter what one called it.
His breathing was labored by the time he stood naked in the river. Even the mild exertion of climbing down the bank had strained his damaged lungs. He waited, as he had waited fourteen years ago, opening himself to magic. Or madness.
Swallows nested on the underpinnings of the bridge, and a wren darted in and out of a trailing tangle of bittersweet on the far bank. The mask of leaves drifted downstream until it caught there on the dangling vines; then, as Bernard watched, the water swirled into a sudden vortex, sucking the green mass below its surface. He held his breath as the river smoothed again, and, with scarcely a ripple, the man-like form he remembered rose from it and stood before him.
But not quite as he remembered. Then, the apparition had seemed scarcely older than himself, and at least as impetuous. Now the green leafy layers of its beard were edged with autumn bronze, and the smooth skin of its torso was the weathered grey of a beech trunk, while the acorn-brown eyes, despite their glint of challenge, were filled with sorrow and weariness enough to match his own.
"Come," the breeze commanded in a deeper tone that would brook no refusal.
Bernard moved toward that outstretched arm. The water rose to mid-chest before the pebbled bottom sloped upward toward the waiting figure. A strong hand grasped his and drew him along until they stood waist-deep, face to face beneath the bridge; then fingers flexible as vines moved across his cheek and jaw, over scars still reluctant to heal, stroking gently, gently...until they reached his ravaged throat and tightened gradually around it so that he could scarcely breathe.
Tighter, harder--pain sharpened, then receded, consciousness wavered, the velvet darkness of oblivion beckoned--but the will to live surged suddenly through him in a rush of intermingled joy and anguish. He grasped the sinewy arms, pitting his own strength against them, and the pressure on his throat relaxed. Their two strong bodies grappled together still, testing each other, force challenging force, until the friction of limb on limb sparked a jolt of desire like summer lightning.
Bernard gasped for breath, but the burning in his chest could not distract from the flare of heat in his loins as the bearded face leaned close, pressed relentless lips over his, and blew a gust of cool, sweet air into his lungs.
Pain and weariness ebbed away. Below the water's surface their lower bodies thrust urgently against each other, and Bernard longed desperately to fill his hands, even his mouth, with the hardness pressing into him. But he would not yield, would not kneel, even to this spirit made flesh. He braced against the current, against the other's strength--and then a sound like rain on leaves came from the bearded face.
Laughter! The startled realization caught Bernard off guard. The body he clutched tensed, leapt upward out of his loosened grip, and grasped the edge of the bridge. There the Green Man hung, swaying like a massive, thickened vine, until Bernard gripped the muscular buttocks with both hands and took the cock nudging at his face all the way into the back of his throat.
The force of the eruption made him stagger, choked him, flooded even his lungs, as though a great wave had crashed over him. He lost his footing, and as he fell the still-streaming cock above poured hot rivulets across his face just before the river claimed him.
Read the rest in Best Fantastic Erotica.
by Cecilia Tan
from Edge Plays
I arrived on the island as summer faded and the days shrank, with scars on my back and my mind still reeling from what I had just been through. But this is not the story of the Emperor and his daughter and all the things that happened to me before. This is the story of what happened to me on the island of Lhysa.
Two of us took the government-sponsored ride from the mainland, me and a woman in her mid-forties, her shoulder-length hair still richly black but shot through with strands of silver. The transport left us at the near-deserted landing point on the island's rocky north side. The white craft lifted off in near silence behind us as we walked from the platform to the intake center. The woman, who had not spoken to me the entire trip from the mainland, asked me as we approached the door, "So, headed for the spas?"
It was a funny question. The reasons for me to go to the island were myriad. I suppose was there to recuperate but the healing waters had not been explicit in my plans. I was being kept out of danger, I was curious about my mother's people, and I was very curious about the woman asking me my destination. I wondered if she had The Sight and raised an eyebrow at her. She raised an eyebrow in return. She was wearing a shirt too large for her, the sleeves rolled up, showing sunbrowned arms and empty hands. On her back she had a small pack.
"Well, you don't look like a researcher," she said then. "How long are you going to be staying?"
"Not sure," I told her. I was carrying a small satchel of clothes, some of my father's money, and nothing else. "My plans are kind of open ended. What do you mean, researcher?"
"Not a scientist?" She pointed to her head and I realized what she meant. There were only three types of people allowed on the island, those who came to study the unique psionic powers of the inhabitants, those who were approved to come for healing treatments, to stay at the spas for short periods of time, and those who were descendants of island dwellers. I belonged to this last category, as the pass I showed to the intake clerk read. I was processed in mere minutes and let through. On the other side of the small building, there was nothing but a road leading south and inland.
The woman followed me out. "Welcome back, unduma," she said, using the island word for "homecomer." "I never would have guessed."
"Why?"
"Because you look like one of them." She meant I looked like a Kylar. Tall, rangy, I looked more Kylaran than my own father, who had once been the second in command in the empire. "Half blood?"
I wondered if everyone on the island was so direct and nosy. I suppose in a community of mind-readers there is no need of secrecy. "Yes."
"Do you have The Sight?"
"No." We were both walking down the road now, though I did not know where it went. "Not so far as I've noticed."
She nodded. "Not everyone here has it either, you know. Only a few. The gene pool's been watered down over the years."
I murmured in agreement as if I knew what she was talking about. My mother, at least according to Audan, had various psionic talents. I had been separated from her too young to have known she was different from other humans. "How about you? Can you read my thoughts?" I asked, throwing some of her directness back at her, very curious if her interest in me was genuine or if it was my imagination.
"No," she answered. "Not me."
We walked in silence then for a while and I studied her out off the corner of my eye. She was older but still had a kind of beauty, a fine-shaped face and sharp chin--if I had to guess I would have said she was part-Kylar, too. Though the way she had said "them" made me wonder. "What's your name?"
"Vika," she answered. "And yours?"
"Arshan."
She looked at me when I said that. "Like the emperor?"
"My father has high hopes for me." I tried to make a joke out of it. After all, there must be a Kylaran male born every day who was named for the emperor. But she took it seriously.
"Then what the hell are you doing down here?"
"Staying out of trouble," I replied. Lhysa was perfect for that, on a world that was barely in Kylaran control, plus the island itself was a protected state.
Vika walked in front of me then, stepping backwards so she could face me as we went. The land on either side of the road was barren and dry, just a few strange plants twisting up through the reddish soil. "You'll need a place to stay."
I also had a pass to the spas in my satchel, just in case, but her tone of voice intrigued me. "Yes, I suppose I will."
"I have a spare cot you can use for a while," she said, her eyes suddenly shying from mine. "I know it won't be what you're used to, but..." She took a deep breath. "But many things here won't be as you're used to."
So much for directness. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, you know. The lifestyle here is different." She had gone from brazen to shy and I could guess why, but something in me wanted to prolong her discomfort.
I suppressed a smile. "How different?"
She stumbled then and fell backward, landing hard on her rump in the middle of the dusty road. I loomed over her as I reached down to help her up. She took hold of my hand with both of hers and ran her cheek along the back of it, speaking fast. "There are few of us here who enjoy.... I mean, who can satisfy your tastes."
As I suspected. My--or rather the Kylaran--reputation for dominance preceded me. I pulled her to her feet and spoke to her softly. "I am not a lord." Not here, anyway.
"No, but...." she swallowed whatever words she was going to say. Trembling next to me, her hand still in mine....
It was almost a reflex, to reach out and stroke her hair. If it was what she wanted, then she knew the desires of the average Kylaran dominant well. We are groomed for it. She shivered under my touch, and suddenly the fact that she was worldly wise and I was barely an adult did not matter. I kept my voice low and quiet. "Have you served before?"
"Not... formally." Her head was bowed and I almost felt like I could cup her soul in one of my hands. I raised her chin with one finger and her face was scarlet with shame or desire or both. Then her natural forthrightness came through. "But I thought you might need... I mean, if you're going to stay here for a while..."
"You thought my knob might need polishing?"
She turned even redder at that. I moved her hand to the loose fabric of my pants where my erection was hardening. I am my father's son, of that there is no doubt, and my body responded to her gesture of submission. She nodded, her breath catching in her throat. "But, but the people here don't understand."
"I know." The Kylar had conquered many places and our customs had come to rule dozens of worlds. But on this island, the old ways remained. Honestly, it was a relief to know that I was not in for months of celibacy. Half-blood or no, I was all Kylar in that sense. We are bred with sharp passions and they need to find release. I looked into her eyes to reassure her. "So let it be our secret."
"Secret," she repeated, her fingers quaking against the stone stillness of my flesh.
She was still on the ground and I pulled her up onto her knees, even as my other hand was freeing my cock. There were questions and protests in her eyes, even as I filled her mouth with me. "There is no one here on the road," I said in answer to her unspoken worries. "We are not even in sight of the town yet. And I need to know if you are worthy of having me sleep on your cot." I tried to make it a joke but the seriousness with which she began tonguing and sucking me proved she did not take it that way.
She may have lacked formal service, but she had years of practice, or so it seemed, with the Kylaran anatomy. As she licked and drove her head down over me, she kept one hand wrapped around my balls, restricting me somewhat. I could have grown larger, large enough to choke her, if I had wanted. But with her hand there--and my desire was for pleasure not for punishment--I stayed hard and mid-sized in her mouth. If I had wanted, I also could have held back my ejaculation. But I let hot liquid jet into her mouth and relished the feeling of her licking me clean. I licked the edges of her mouth then, pulling her up to me and returning her to some semblance of respectability. We shared a laugh, and as we made our way into town she told me some about the island and what I could expect.
It took another hour to cross to the greener side of the island, where the ground was still stony but plants grew and the shore sloped to sandy beaches and calm waves. She led me to a settlement near the ocean, in and around an area of hills and stone outcroppings. Her home was built into the side of a rocky cliff, the front room built of mudbaked bricks, the back disappearing into the island's body. It was five rooms, clean and warm, rustic and very private in its innermost chambers. I had just put my bag down in the deepest room and was removing my boots when her home system alerted us to someone at the door. She went to answer it while I nosed about trying to discover where in the rustic architecture the system's speakers were hidden.
Vika came back a few minutes later, worry lining her face.
"What's happened?"
She sat down on the bed pallet next to me. "Our priestess was very sick. She had something even Kylaran medicine wouldn't heal."
"You said was..."
"She died yesterday."
"I'm sorry."
"Her funeral will be soon--probably tomorrow or the day after."
"Is that a problem? You look troubled."
She shook her head. "It's a big ritual, supposed to heal her bereft partner. If you're here, they'll expect you to participate. Everyone is expected to be a part of it."
"That's fine with me."
Her mouth relaxed in relief then. "You might find it sort of silly..."
I quieted her with a finger to her lips and her eyes widened, as if she suddenly remembered my power over her--such as it was, undeclared, undefined. "My father was a priest once," I told her. "And remember, my mother was from here. I'd be honored to take part in a ritual."
She smiled then and I could tell she was thinking I wasn't like the other Kylar she had known. I didn't really want her thinking about that too much, though, comparing me to the men who had held her enthralled before me, so I distracted her with a kiss. Her response was polite, schooled, until I dug my fingers into the hair at the back of her scalp and bent her backwards. Her lips went soft and the flutter in her chest began again. So soft, so vulnerable. I wanted to make her forget, then, that any other man had ever given her pleasure or pain. My other hand slid under the waistband of her pants, cupped her mound, and then my fingers spread as I pushed deeper between her legs. My longest finger sank into the wetness there--no doubt it had been pooling ever since she had admitted her desire to me on the road. Through her lips were locked in mine she let out a small whimper.
The Kylar have colonized, annexed, or conquered something like eighty five other worlds. You can see how hard it is to resist the impulse. How could I hold back from such a treasure as her softest places? I pressed her back into the rumpled blankets on the bed, her legs falling open, eager for me. I withdrew my finger and instead circled her engorged clit with it. When I was sure I had found the right speed and angle, I stiffened my finger against her and she threw her head back. I kept at her, one hand still behind her head but with a loose grip, letting her thrash in the palm of my hand, while the other had but one goal, which was to make her come. As she came close I whispered into her ear, "I want you to come. Be mine. Come for me, come on, let go, give yourself to me." That seemed enough to push her over the edge, as she clamped her legs around my hand and cried out.
When her orgasm subsided, I pushed her pants down her body. She stripped off her shirt and spread herself for me again, but I kept my own clothes on. I gave a small shake of my head as I lay down next to her, hugging her naked body to mine. "I am not finished making you come yet."
She seemed unsure what to say.
"That was only one of my ten fingers. The other nine are waiting to see how you respond." And although I did not have The Sight, I can say with certainty that she responded very well to all of them, though I made her sore and made her beg for a rest before all ten orgasms were done.
We slept the rest of the afternoon like that, atop the blankets, me clothed and her curled naked against me. The island was already being quite restorative to me, it seemed. It was energizing to have a woman give her strength to me that way, a woman who was not part of court politics or maneuvering me for my father's favor. I felt relaxed enough to sleep with her by my side and the empire seemed very far away.
Read the rest in Edge Plays.
Molly Maddox
The same genetic plague that had made the eaters how they were was what made Seamus, and his parents and grandparents before him, into medical monsters normal humans called the wolfpeople. Innumerable other types of monsters existed--some strangely close to the traditional monsters of human fable and nightmare--but it was the wolfpeople who survived when the mindless hordes of the eaters, and their slightly more sentient parent-minds, devoured city after city. It had been five years since the government formally toppled; now existence was a continuing parry of life and death, and you took your safety where you found it.
Mine was in Brooklyn, with my group, but that night--the shouts--the wordless screams of the running eaters--it was all so vague--
It all came back when I realized my arms were handcuffed behind me. Gramercy. The Midtown eaters were starving, choking at their bits. They had tried to take the Garment District as a slavering, stumbling, desperate army. My team, the 3rd Scooter Calvary, had laid a daisy chain up and down 1st Avenue. A few of us stayed back to cover the retreating scooters, who were taking the injured and the evacuated with them as they went out. A flash--
Shrapnel? I wiggled all my extremities, making sure all my important bits were still attached. I felt bandages here and there. Nothing stung, nothing ached.
The others? They had to be dead. Skinny and Addle and Guido, all those civilians...
Seamus' people had obviously brought me in. They were my group's grudging allies, but they didn't trust regular humans. That would explain the handcuffs, and what appeared to be the subbasement of their Clinton Street stronghold around me.
Still crouching, Seamus checked my pulse. He was warm, and so close... I'd known him five years, had seen him injured and scowling and laughing and drunk and had watched his mates come and go. He was alone, now, mate-less, without an alpha female willing to put up with his devotion to the fight.
He'd once told me, over stolen, warm PBRs, that I was one of the only people he trusted. I was shocked. I was a soldier and ambassador from the DUMBO Mods. I was a typical. He wasn't supposed to trust me. He wasn't even supposed to like me.
He smelled my neck again, sighed, and my eyes fluttered open. Wolfpeople were affectionate only with each other, but now and again in the past few months he'd stolen a hug or a caress from me, even in front of his people, and he didn't seem the least bit ashamed to be caught now. "You okay, baby?"
"Fine," I didn't move. His heat was so close it ached me. "The others--"
"They're fine."
"Are you sure?" My throat felt full of ash.
"A few burns here and there. But you were the closest to the mines, honey. Ya' just bled a lot. They thought it best to bring you here, it's closer."
"And the eaters?"
"Got pushed back to Murray Hill. The West Side MPs came finally, moved out the civilians. Your commander put about six Mod units up on 26th, and they got some punks comin' in from Brooklyn Heights. One 'a our alphas, Arpeggio from Houston Street, you met him, he's rustling artillery from the line down on Center. We'll try to work 'em outta there."
"Why aren't you with him?"
"Dev and Kay went. They wanted to."
"I--Thanks."
He stroked my arm. "Stay here as long as you want. Recover. We'll see to ya'." He turned, reached for something. "Have some water, baby."
As I sipped from a plastic bottle, I realized I wasn't wearing any pants, only panties, a fatigue jacket, and an undershirt. My legs were tightly bandaged, but they didn't hurt. I remembered shaving yesterday. Sweat started at my crotch and slicked my thighs.
He took the bottle away and resumed his close-but-not-too-close position at my side. I turned to look at him. He had a weird expression on his face. His thick brows were knit, his jaw set, but there was a gleam on his blue eyes. I'd never seen him look so... concerned?
"Are you okay?" I asked.
"I was worried," he muttered, tossing his head. "You shouldn't a been so close to those mines."
"I was doing my job," I said, stung. "Sorry I can't stay in the kitchen like some girls--"
"You know what I mean: you're a fuckin' ambassador, Janey. You don't have to rush the line like some limp-dick private--"
"We're already short on soldiers, and those limp-dick privates were trying to keep your pups and bitches safe--"
He put a hand on my waist. "I'm thinking about keepin' you safe, too, honey."
There was a moment where nothing happened.
Then he put his arms around me from the back, pulled me to him, and held me like that. So warm, and tight. I felt him breathe against me, felt his chest shudder against my back. He nuzzled me and then, startling and strange and yet so right, he lightly bit my nape and licked my neck and ear.
"Sea..." I murmured.
He nipped me again. "This is okay?"
I nodded, slowly, stunned.
He traced my arms with his blunt claws, his calluses catching my skin. "And this?"
I felt lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with the injuries. "Yes."
He trailed his hands from my belly to my hips, my ass, then he reached between my legs and rubbed the crotch of my sopping panties. Rubbing turned to fingering, and a sweet, deep pang spread out from my clit and turned my pussy to butter. "And this is okay," he whispered, "right?"
He had no idea how okay it was. He was the basis of all my major masturbation fantasies: him naked, him in nothing but tattered jeans, him working his family's ranch, dappled with sweat, him fucking me in an alley. Thoughts of him alone could make me hot. I rolled toward him and spread my legs.
He let out a low groan and slid his fingers into my panties. His fingertips spread my vulva, his thumb flicked my clit, then laid against it flat. I gasped. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb right to left, and feelers of pleasure tickled my toes and nipples.
"You can't--" he muttered, his voice husky, "You can't know how much I wanted this... all this time, Janey..."
I shut my eyes. This had to be a dream. His mates and lovers were she-wolf babes, amazons, and modelesque warriors. I was a short freckled nearsighted typical with too many piercings and a penchant for ugly boots.
My wrists hurt where they were handcuffed behind me. He turned me over to undo them.
"No," I said. "Keep 'em."
Read the rest in Alpha.
Kathleen Tudor
from Like That Spark
She wasn't kept waiting at the shuttle long. She'd only just finished a list of pre-flight checks, thoroughly irritating the tech who'd done them already, when Cassin was practically carried into the craft and strapped in. She sighed as the two of them lifted off. Pilots were not supposed to train Navigators.
They traveled near light speed for several hours. Out of habit, Kirsa had set their course roughly for Reda, her former homeport. They would be able to travel for at least a month at current speeds without needing additional fuel or supplies. Most shuttles were designed for very long hauls, since Traveling pairs were not especially commonplace. Finally, the girl started to stir again, practically squirming in discomfort at trying to ignore the call.
"Cassin, listen to me." The girl whimpered. "I know it's hard, but you need to listen. We're among the stars now. Can you feel it?" The girl's whimpering was rising into panic. Kirsa had spent the entire journey trying to decide what to say--how to describe something that she's only experienced from outside. "You need to embrace the stars. Embrace the ship. Throw us into the void where they sing. You can do it, it's safe." It might be safe. Or the two of them might just be flung into nothingness and lost forever. Kirsa almost, almost hoped for the latter. Death might be preferable to being bonded to the wrong Navigator. Pain flooded her as she thought of Taul.
In the seat beside her, Cassin panted and gasped, her terror and pain radiating. Kirsa ground her teeth and let down the barriers around her mind, grunting as the panic assaulted her and she processed it, doing her best to set it aside from her true feelings. Jump, Navigator, she commanded, and with a final, terrified moan, Cassin embraced the stars. Fortunately, she remembered to hold fast to the ship as well.
In the pilot's seat, everything went black and reality seemed to drop away. She couldn't move, couldn't speak, she could only feel. And think. She closed her eyes, or at least approximated the sensation, and allowed herself to merge with Cassin. As their minds started to slip together, Kirsa found herself in Ether. The space was haunting and terrifying. It had been so long.... She heard Cassin's voice, Am I dead? Oh, Lady, I lost control!
You're not dead. You're in Ether. You are my Navigator, and I am your Pilot. A fierce protectiveness overcame Kirsa, the same that she had felt for Taul, though he had laughed at it, being much the stronger physically. She could sense the girl's fright still. They would be lost if her Navigator could not be taught to return them to normal space. No one had returned after more than six hours in Ether.
I don't know you. Who are you? Where am I? Cassin was a nebulous cloud of thought, churning in her fear. She had been kept drugged and nearly entirely unaware since she had begun to show signs of the skill.
This would be easier for you if you had a form. Focus on your body. Make yourself real. As Pilot, Kirsa was not in control, and could not change things in this alien place. She could only direct her Navigator, who was slowly taking shape before her. Finally the mists coalesced into the form of a naked woman. As her own fear, tightly held, began to abate, Kirsa found herself opening even further to this frightened young woman and her feelings.
Cassin was afraid, certainly, and very confused, but slowly the fear was being washed away by the arousal that such a heightened state naturally brought. Kirsa had braced herself for the wave of desire, which was natural among Navigators while they were in Ether, but it wasn't enough. The desire that burned through the Navigator from the stars slammed into Kirsa, engulfing her and filling her until she was sure that she would drown in a sea of pure lust. It felt like hours before she could think clearly again, though Kirsa knew it had only been minutes.
This was not normal.
Cassin lay sprawled against a backdrop of stars, practically writhing with the mindless lust that had overtaken even her fear. The older woman took a mental gulp as she watched with her mind's eye. She could no longer think of the woman before her as a mere girl. This Cassin was the truth--no drugged slip of a girl, the woman before her was well proportioned with full breasts and a spread of dark hair beneath her taut stomach. Kirsa had never heard of such overwhelming desire when Traveling. Of course, she had never heard of a Navigator surviving so long after maturation without bonding a Pilot, either. If there was a 'next jump' it would be tamer.
Come on, now, you have to focus, she told the young woman. Cassin's answering moan was of a different sort than she had made in the cockpit. This was sheer desire. The young woman was mad with it, almost lost in it. Kirsa allowed herself just a moment of panic. What the hell was she supposed to do with a Navigator incapable of even listening to her?
The woman before her seemed to provide the answer in the movements of her body. Would she listen for the promise of fulfillment?
She dove into the younger woman's mind, deeper than she had ever gone before, and touched her thoughts to Cassin's mind. To Cassin, the sensation would be that of a hand running down her arm. Cassin, you have to listen to me. Can you feel my hand?
"Yes, I feel it. I don't understand... oh Lady!" Cassin was weeping, confused and torn.
I'm reaching out to your mind. Do you like this? Kirsa stroked up one of Cassin's arms and down the other, her ghostly fingers trailing goose bumps.
"Yes." Cassin panted and stretched her arms up over her head, inviting.
I need you to listen to me, Kirsa told her. She ran her phantom hands from Cassin's wrists all the way down her sides, nails scraping. With a little focus, she made the young woman feel a stir of breath at her ear as she whispered into her mind. Can you listen to me?
"I'll do whatever you want. Please, don't stop."
Read the rest in Like That Spark.
Ellen Tevault
From Up for Grabs
Katrina sighed as the man kissed her shoulder. He pressed his finger against her hole, urging it open. Once he penetrated her with three fingers, he slid his cock into her. She gasped as he filled her up. He grunted when he entered her to the hilt. She backed up to him as he withdrew, but he pounded back into her before he exited completely. Katrina grunted with the thrust. His breath hissed out as he pumped. When he came, he kissed her ear. "Oh, baby, you're going to make a beautiful woman someday." Even though he continued to kiss her, Katrina's mind closed down as the word 'someday' haunted her thoughts. After that night, she swore to never open herself up to a man again until after she had surgery.
* * * *
"We have found a transplant match for you."
Katrina's hand shook as she stared at the letter. "A match? They found me a match?" Her voice wavered. "I can't believe it. Finally, they found one." She smiled and shuffled through the papers in the envelope. Finding no picture of her match, she sighed and reread the letter.
Thinking she should tell her mother, she slipped into the few pieces of male clothing she still owned--brown trousers and a tailored shirt. She sighed as she looked into the mirror at the stranger looking back at her. She choked back tears as she scrubbed the last residue of make up from her chocolate brown face.
"Time to go, Lance," she said to her male reflection.
A couple hours later, she descended the stairs from the bus onto the streets in front of the wall, which split New Republic from Right Republic. She stared at the huge brick wall and remembered learning as a young boy about the history of the United States split into the two republics by civil war.
"See class," the teacher had said, pointing to the New Republic section of the map. "The Conservatives wanted to save us from them."
"Who's them, sir?" Lance had asked, flailing his arms as he spoke.
"Don't gesture like that. That's queer. You'll turn into one of them."
Katrina smiled at the wall decorated with rainbows, smiley faces, and other symbols of happiness as she thought about that incident, which had been her first insight into the fact that she was one of "them." As a teenage boy, she had snuck into the New Republic and met women like her. As soon as she was of age, she moved despite her mother's wishes.
"Don't you dare move over there. You'll become like them. A freak," her mother had shrieked, pacing the living room floor.
"But, mama. I don't belong here."
"Lance, you don't know what they will do to a handsome, young boy like you." She glanced to her son with tears streaming down her face and sat on the couch next to him. "I've tried to do right by you." She slapped his legs. "Don't cross your legs like a girl. Jesus, Act like a man. What is your problem?" She sobbed into her apron. "I've tried so hard."
Interrupting Katrina's memory of the last time she saw her mother, a Right Republic officer yelled from the passageway to the other side, "Hey, Are you sight seeing? Or what?" She stared at the entryway as her insides fluttered. She jumped when the bus pulled away from the drop off point with a loud hiss. She closed her eyes and returned to the memory.
"I want a female body, mama. I always have." Katrina hated the fact that her voice had a begging quality to it as she explained herself to her mother. "I've never been comfortable as a male."
"I should've locked you away when I first caught you wearing my dresses." She shook her head. "I can't believe it. I'd hoped you'd change your ways. This is nonsense, Lance. Nonsense."
"It's Katrina, mama."
"I'll never call you that. I only have one daughter." She stood and paced the living room. "I guess, now, I only have one son, too."
"Mama, please." Katrina stood and walked toward her mother.
"Freak," her mother shrieked.
Katrina ran away. Sobbing, she glanced over her shoulder, anticipating a police car to follow her. At the brick wall, she wiped her tears away on her sleeve before she searched for the opening where she'd snuck through before. She pressed against the cool wall. She bit her lip harder and harder as she touched the secure bricks. She swallowed the panic threatening to close her throat. She glanced around expecting to see prison bars surrounding her. She felt trapped. Hoping she was wrong about the spot, she stepped back and studied it for signs of repair.
"Young man?" An officer patrolling the wall shone a flashlight in her face. "Looking for something?"
Katrina jumped at the man's voice. She thought her mother had let her get away, but she had called the police after all. Her body shook as she struggled to think of a response. She stuttered an incoherent response as she turned toward the officer.
"Wanting to go somewhere?" The guard stood with his fingers looped through his belt of his brown uniform pants required of all Right Republic males. His smile told Katrina he knew.
She didn't respond and forced herself to appear natural.
The guard stepped closer to her until he breathed in her face. "Young man?" He stared into her eyes and waited for a response. When Katrina felt his hard cock press against her stomach, she nodded and noticed that his smile changed to a sneer. "Maybe we can help each other." He gazed down her body clad in the tight brown pants and long sleeved shirt, her government-issued male costume. "Understand?"
Instead of waiting for an answer, he pressed on her shoulders until she slid onto her knees before him. With trembling fingers, she undid his pants.
When his cock sprung through the open zipper, she licked her lips. She couldn't believe her response to the situation. Instead of fear, she found herself aroused. She regretted that it was so obvious pressing against the zipper of her tight pants. She wished it was more mysterious like other women. To prevent him from seeing it, Katrina wrapped her hand around his cock and guided it into her mouth. She gagged as the thick cock hit the back of her throat.
"That's it." The guard grabbed the back of her head and moved himself in and out of her mouth. He sighed as he pumped in a steady rhythm.
Katrina tried to take in a breath through her nose when he pulled out, but her mind swam from the lack of oxygen. Her eyes watered.
The officer grunted as his cock released down her throat. She swallowed the salty cream and gasped for breath, while he tucked it away and zipped up his pants. In silence, he walked her to another secret passageway to the New Republic. As she crawled through, she wondered if she'd ever be able to return again. On the other side, she felt bittersweet.
Returning to the present, Katrina realized she had been right on that last trip through that it was her last. She couldn't go back again. The New Republic was her home. She wished her mother would've accepted her, but she doubted that now would be any different. She raced to the bus stop to return home. Lance's clothes imprisoned her and she needed to escape before they strangled her.
Read the rest in Up for Grabs.
Shanna Germain
from Like a Thorn
They say I am the Beauty. Capital, like that. Beauty. In a softly brushed script that makes you feel safe, that gives you images of beauty beyond your imagining. Sometimes with flourishes and fleur-de-lis and a bird tucked into the bower of the B, as though all of those things will make it true. They even named me Belle. Which, in some ancient country, stands for beauty. All those Bs, the way they roll off the tongue. B. Buh. Buh. A stupid sound, for a stupid, pretty girl.
But B can stand for so many other things, can it not? Beast. Bad. Bare. Bones. Bitch. Blood.
I am all of those things inside. Aren't we all?
* * * *
My father brought me a rose from the creature's castle. He picked the most gorgeous one he could find, I'm sure--my father is a kind, big-hearted man, if he is a bit blind. The flower was red as blood, and big around as my fist, each petal wide and curled as a tongue. I thanked him kindly--I am nothing if not a dutiful daughter--and then I took the flower to my room and stripped every petal from it, every silky slip of flesh, and threw them out the window.
Let my sisters have the dresses, the rings. The silk and pearls. Let them have their twittering laughter like fragile birds, as they twirl in the light.
I wanted for other things. The broken mirror. The poisoned comb. The cursed spindle.
They say I went willingly, and that part is true. It wasn't for the rose, or even for the beast though--after all, I hadn't met him yet. Would I have gone if I'd known what awaited me? Oh yes. Oh yes.
But I went for the stem, the thorns. Strong as a lash, sharp as claws. I bent the long stem of it over and over in my hands, closed my palms on their curved points until they pierced my flesh.
Oh, yes, I went willingly. Wantingly. Wantonly. A thorn in each hand.
* * * *
They say he is the beast. His b is big, but lowercase, as though it deserves no more. Carved from hard wood and boasting of sharp, rough edges. Here, the sound of b is ominous. Towering backwards d, like dirty, dangerous, despicable.
I hear him coming. Does he mean to eat me up?
* * * *
I want for nothing here, in this hidden castle of his.
He knows my pleasures as well as I know them myself. Better perhaps. An outfit that I didn't know I wanted until it appeared. A bird that sings me awake each morning at the window. Gardens of thorns without a single flower. Chests of delights--boots made of the finest doe leather that curve around my calves, long strips of crimson and gold scarves, rings jeweled in stones and sharp-edged mouths--just mine for the picking through.
* * * *
My heart hammers to see him. Such a huge creature he is. Such big hands. Long claws, those fine points at the end. I wonder at his teeth, the tapered sheen of their curves. At the wide pink tongue that rests within the cage of his menacing mouth. His eyes golden-brown as ripe pears, soft and tender in contrast to that sharp mouth.
And then he kneels before me, his forehead nearly brushing my covered breasts. His head bowed so that I can see the back of his neck, the tendons and muscles that strain his shoulders and upper back. I want to drag my palms over the jumping swathes of skin, pull at his hair. But I stay standing, only his breath touching me, the low snarls of want that heat the space between my thighs.
But such good manners, that soft, fine voice.
"Good morning, Belle." "Are you well, Belle?" "Will you marry me, Belle?"
"Good morning, beast." "I am, beast." "Never, beast."
He will ask again tomorrow. He always does. He must.
Glutton for punishment, he is. Such a terrible, terrible glutton.
* * * *
They say I dream of a Prince. This, too, has a seed of truth. He is tall and handsome, with hands as soft as lily petals and lips as red as apples. He comes to me in my dreams, and he promises me many things. "Oh, Beauty!" he says. "You're the only one who can save me!"
But it isn't true. It's the curse speaking, the witch's voice behind those pretty, pretty lips.
I know I could save him. Return the beast to his pretty, pretty Prince. But I won't. I won't.
* * * *
There are many rooms here. There are rooms hung with pictures and rooms spilled with books. Rooms stuffed with music and rooms strung with jewels.
The time room is filled with clocks. They chime my name twelve times. They don't say Beauty. They say Belle. Belle. Belle. Their faces are the pretty face of the prince from my dreams. I stop keeping track of time.
The aviary is flighted with birds. They chirp my name a hundred times and pull at my sleeves, at the ribbons 'round my wrists. Remember the prince, they sing. I cover my ears.
The room lined with mirrors reflects my face twelve times. They don't say Beauty either. They say nothing. Nothing times twelve. I like this room best of all.
* * * *
To get to the mirror room, I walk many flights of stairs. My black boots carry me up the stairs lightly. My ruby dress, tight in the bodice, loose over the curves of my hips and ass, trails behind me with a small swish-swish. I carry a wax candle in a diamond and ruby candlestick holder, the flame flickering along the walls.
The beast is already there. Waiting. He wears no clothes. Not now. He is reflected a hundred times in mirror after mirror after mirror. The wide shoulders and lean hips, as he clasps his hands behind his back, opens the expanse of his chest to the mirrors' hundred unwavering eyes. His head is bowed, chin nearly touching his chest, the golden eyes closed tight.
I know he hears me--my steps in these boots are light, but his ears are terribly good. And yet he makes no movement, gives no outward sign. Only the quick catch of his breath and a tiny glitter of moisture from the end of him. Shiny and tear-shaped as the finest diamond.
His cock--such a glorious thing--rises from his muscled hips, aiming skyward, quivering like a hunter's arrow, notched and ready. I want to drop to my knees before him, grasp the thick base so that the veins stand up higher against the skin, tighten until the drop of liquid expands into a slow stream. I'm tempted. So tempted that my hand reaches out, nearly brushing his skin before I can stop myself.
In response, his cock arcs and twitches. He knows where my hand is, where my desire is, without even opening his eyes.
Instead, I pace around him, touching here and there, drawing a nail along the curve of his ass, flicking lightly at the inside of his thigh. I press the candle flame close to his face, as though I am exploring every eyelash, every fine hair. The flame taunts him, I know; its almost-there heat, the smell of dripping wax.
"Such a good beast," I purr as I circle, but the sound is not soft and rolling. It is sharp-edged, shiny as a blade. "So hard for me."
His breath catches, stops, then releases in a growled, choked breath. His cock weeps with every gasp and I finally allow myself to touch it. I circle the hole at the very tip, to draw his glittering liquid away from his skin and bring it to his lips. "Open," I say.
He does, he opens his lips and he lets me draw his own moisture along the flat of his tongue with one fingertip, but he doesn't like it.
There are many things he likes. And just as many things he doesn't. And, yet, he will do them all for me. If I so much as ask it. If I so much as think it. If I so much as think about thinking it.
Read the rest in Like a Thorn.
D.M. Atkins and Chris Taylor
"Do you know anything about wolves?" he asked suddenly.
Kiya's eyebrows furrowed and he leaned back a little to look up at him. "Um, a little, why?" he asked, wondering now if Brian had seen him with the wolf in the woods.
"It's one of the areas I study," Brian said, gesturing to the drawings of wolves on the wall. They also happened to be his family members, but he didn't explain that. "Wolf packs work together to protect their members from outsiders. The strong protect the weak. It's their way."
Kiya thought that would probably explain why his wolf had acted the way he did when Ted had been bothering him that one time in the forest. "I understand that," he said with a small nod. "But what does that have to do with anything?"
"It has to do with understanding that the weak are just as important to the pack as the strong. It's the pack as a whole that matters. Stronger wolves hunt and defend the area, but weaker wolves tend the young, provide comfort, warn of danger and help the pack survive. A lone wolf, no matter how strong, is never as good as a pack." Brian felt sad when he said that out loud. He was a lone wolf now.
"Are you saying I shouldn't be alone?" Kiya asked quietly, still unsure of where this was all coming from.
"I am saying that being physically weaker than another man doesn't make you less important. Ted should not be allowed to hurt you," Brian insisted.
"Oh." Kiya understood it now, and that made him smile a little, because he hadn't thought of it that way. "I get it."
"Good," Brian smiled. He still held both of Kiya's hands and he gently brought them together, checking the wrists again. They were red and would probably be sore for a day or so, but the swelling had gone down. He looked up again. "Humans and wolves are alike in some ways. They both live in groups because it is better for all of them if they take care of each other. Do you know what happens to a lone wolf?"
"No, what happens?" Kiya asked, He still wanted Brian, more now than ever, and he was really enjoying being touched by him. Kiya was leaning over with his hands in Brian's but he wanted more, wanted to wrap himself up in Brian.
Brian looked into Kiya's beautiful green eyes, his own expression a little sad. "It is said that they go mad from loneliness and die. The strong need the weak as much as the other way around."
"That's so sad," Kiya whispered, looking down as he thought about the wolf in the woods. He hoped that would never happen to him.
The desire to touch Kiya was powerful and Brian had to take another deep breath not to reach for him, to hold him close. And every deep breath flooded his senses with the young man's scent, stirring the wolf inside. His fingers in Kiya's squeezed gently.
Kiya was quiet again, watching Brian's face. He thought Brian was holding something back, but what it was, he didn't know. On a sudden impulse he leaned in closer and kissed Brian's lips softly, finally giving in to the urge he felt.
The shock of pleasure as Kiya's lips touched his was so intense that Brian didn't even think to resist. He gave a little growl in his throat and pressed back, tilting his head to encourage the kiss.
Kiya was surprised and delighted, because he had feared that he might be pushed away again, like before. Being kissed back was hugely preferable. He didn't think he could take being rejected again, but had risked it because he hadn't been able to think of any other way to express his gratitude to Brian for his unexpected support and concern.
Brian's lips parted, tongue hungrily moving to lick at Kiya's lips. The taste and smell of Kiya was powerful, Brian's body reacting more intensely than he could ever remember feeling before. Without conscious decision, he released one of Kiya's hands and wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling him closer.
Kiya slid out of the chair when he was pulled, his free arm moving to wrap around Brian's neck. His lips parted to touch Brian's tongue with his own, and he gasped softly.
The power Kiya had over him felt as strong as shifting, and any doubts Brian had about resisting him were gone. He pulled Kiya the rest of the way into his lap, their tongues twisting together.
Kiya was startled when he was pulled into Brian's lap, but he didn't pull away, his hand moving up and into Brian's hair to grip it gently, trying to keep up with the rapidly building intensity of the kiss.
Brian lost himself in the sensations--the slide of his lips against Kiya's, his tongue exploring his mouth, that hand gripping his hair and Kiya's bottom wriggling in his lap. Brian's heart was pounding and his skin grew hot as he growled again, nipping at Kiya's chin.
Kiya heard the growl, and for some reason it excited him, his hand tightening in Brian's hair as he kissed him again, harder.
Brian felt like he could crawl inside the other man, arm pulling him as close and tight as possible. He continued to devour Kiya's mouth, his jeans becoming tight with his arousal.
Kiya could feel Brian's excitement press against him, and as much as he wanted more with him, he hesitated. "Brian," he murmured in-between the kisses. "Wait."
It took a minute for the word to register and, when it did, Brian had to force himself to stop, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.
"Want you, but..." Kiya kissed the corner of Brian's lips, sighing softly. "I want to wait."
Brian's body was thrumming so powerfully that he had to concentrate to make sense of the spoken language. He tried to remember who he was and what he was doing--and flushed remembering that he shouldn't be doing any of this at all. Kiya was his student. He let his head fall back. "I shouldn't."
"Forget who we are," Kiya told him, reaching to run his fingers over Brian's cheek. "Just do what you think is right."
Brian opened his eyes. That may have been a mistake, because looking at Kiya only made him want him more. "Right?" he whispered. It was like there were two rights. The rules he had been told to follow that said he couldn't have Kiya because he was his subordinate in the university hierarchy. And the right of the pack that told him the exact opposite--that the dominant had the right to a willing subordinate. Yet, that was the same pack that would never understand him using a pure, frail human for anything but the most immediate pleasure. It was maddening, and as Brian's mind raced through irreconcilable loops, his body felt on fire with the need for Kiya.
Kiya rested his head against Brian's shoulder, sighing softly and closing his eyes. "I just feel so good here in your arms," he murmured after a moment.
"Yes," Brian admitted, one hand still clutching Kiya's and the other petting his back soothingly as he tried to rein in the intensity of what he felt.
"Can I stay here with you for a while?" Kiya asked quietly, reaching to play with the hem of Brian's shirt.
Brian groaned. The touch to his belly and so close to his groin did not help him think. "Why would you want that?" he asked, voice so low it was almost a whisper.
"Why wouldn't I?" Kiya asked quietly, looking up at him. "I feel safer here than I've felt in a long time."
Brian wanted to bring Kiya to his bed, to lay him back and take him, repeatedly. The images that swirled in his mind made it difficult to know what to say. He imagined lying with Kiya in his arms, holding him, petting him. He closed his eyes and took another deep breath. "Are you afraid Ted will hurt you if you return there?"
"A little," Kiya admitted, looking down again. "He knows where I live. He knows what I do every day. The only thing he doesn't know is my current class schedule."
Brian knew he couldn't let Kiya stay with him. He could barely control himself sitting there fully clothed. There was no way he could resist him if he spent more time there. And then there was the bigger problem. Brian was a wolf, not a man. He couldn't stay in human form that long. "I can make sure he doesn't hurt you again," Brian said. He glanced around the room. "You do realize this is all there is. I don't even have a bathroom here."
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