Through the Storm to Support the Survivors

 On November 8, 2013, one of the most powerful storms ever recorded slammed into the southern islands of the Philippines. Typhoon Haiyan created a storm surge as powerful as a tsunami, a giant wave that more or less wiped the city of Tacloban off the map. Over six thousand people are confirmed dead, with many people still missing and bodies still being found. Hundreds of thousands were left homeless and without resources. The Philippines is a poor country, compared to the U.S., Europe and even the Southeast Asian state where I live. Haiyan's victims started with little, but many now have nothing.

In response to this catastrophe, Coming Together, the original home of altruistic erotica, rallied the faithful to put together a brand new anthology, Coming Together: Through the Storm. Edited by Nicole Gestalt, this volume collects thirteen erotic tales on the general theme of weather.

All proceeds from the book will benefit the Mercy Corps, an organization dedicated to disaster relief.

Here is the table of contents:

• "Captive Briseis" (Sheridan Blythe)
• "And Lily Makes Three" (Leigh Ellwood)
• "Take Me Like a Hurricane" (Naomi Bellina)
• "Mud is Good and Wetter is Better" (Louise Nimble)
• "Storm Surge" (Teresa Noelle Roberts)
• "Sinkhole" (Annabeth Leong)
• "Twister" (Lisabet Sarai)
• "Storm Across the Prairie" (Spencer Dryden)
• "Heat of the Night" (Brantwijn Serrah)
• "Inside the Eye" (Skilja Peregrinarius)
• "Country Pleasures" (Teresa Noelle Roberts)
• "Duet" (Lady Grey)
• "Thunder" (Karenna Colcroft) 
  
  

If you find wild weather inspiring, pick up a copy from Amazon, All Romance Ebooks, Smashwords or Createspace.  (Barnes and Noble coming soon - check the general page above for news.) Just to whet your appetite, here's a quick snippet from my contribution, Twister

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I was mighty proud of the storm cellar. It stood some distance from the house, just east of Sally's kitchen garden. I had heard of folks who survived a twister in their cellar but who were trapped when the house collapsed on top of it. My cellar was spacious, twelve feet by fourteen, with a ceiling high enough to accommodate my six foot frame.

It was well-equipped. It had a little refrigerator (which I kept stocked with beer) that ran off a car battery, a good supply of canned goods and fresh water, a comfortable double mattress and some directors chairs, plenty of battery-powered lights and candles. Not to mention the flogging bench and the bondage frame that I had built in my spare time, and a reasonable assortment of home-crafted floggers, paddles and dildos.

Sally waited for me, sitting in one of the chairs with her hands folded in her lap. She had lit several of the candles and they cast a kind light on her weathered face. I was amazed, as always, how we changed when we entered this space together. Her practical, bossy ways slipped from her and she became hesitant and needy.

Meanwhile, my farmer's drawl faded, replaced by the arrogant, intellectual voice of my college years, when I wrote poetry and thought that I'd rule the world. Those years in Lincoln, majoring in literature and bridge, had shaped me in ways I was still discovering. That was when I first read de Sade and Reage; that was when I realized the desires that filled me with shame were common and even accepted in some society.

Her eyes followed me anxiously as I ducked to avoid banging my head on the door frame and then stood tall. I was an imposing presence, I knew, especially in this confined space. It didn't matter that I was wearing greasy overalls and work boots. Dominance begins in the mind.

"Stand up, Sally," I said quietly. "Remove your dress."

Immediately she moved to obey me, fluid and graceful as she pulled the cotton garment over her head. I was somewhat surprised to discover that she was naked underneath. Clearly she had made some preparations before running out to warn me about the twister. I would make the most of this.

"You are not wearing any underclothes, Sally. What a sluttish thing to do!"

She hung her head, but I knew she could tell that I wasn't really angry.

"Well, what have you to say for yourself, miss?"

Her voice was nearly inaudible. "Nothing."

"What? You know better than to address me improperly."

"Nothing, sir. I have no excuse, except that I thought it might please you."