It has been too long since I did a Charity Sunday. Today I’m focusing on the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), which strictly speaking is not a charity. Because they engage in political advocacy, donations to ACLU are not tax-deductible.
I don’t care.
ACLU is on the front lines, working to reduce the impact of anti-immigrant policies in the U.S., including the separation of immigrant children from their parents. You can find out more here.
For every comment I receive on this post, I will donate one dollar to the ACLU. I know it’s not much—Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk have donated millions—but I have to believe that every bit helps.
Meanwhile, to entertain you, I’ve got a brief excerpt from Divided We Fall, a short story I wrote not long after the 2016 election. This is a story about minorities and the distrust between them. The book is available at all the usual outlets, and all proceeds from its sales go to Planned Parenthood, another organization that’s under attack by the current administration.
In fact – if you leave me a comment, I’ll donate a dollar to PPA also. Obviously, of course, I’d love you to buy the book!
Smashwords – https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/699997
Barnes and Noble - http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/divided-we-fall-lisabet-sarai/1125594805?ean=2940153989365
It feels natural to move from eating to kissing. Giggling like kids, we lick the jerky grease from each other’s lips. His are full and plump, softer than Hai’s, but his stubble scratches my cheeks in a way no Viet man’s ever would. I seal his mouth with mine, tasting the sweet-tart remnants of his tomatoes. He threads his fingers through my hair, tugging at the roots while he consumes me. Each strand is a fuse, lighting firecrackers in my pussy.
I open to his probing tongue and give him control, at least for a while. Steel plunges deeper, thrusting hard, fucking me already though we’re still dressed. The thought arouses me so much I take back the initiative. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I use my weight to push him back onto the piled bedding. My lips slide away from his. I lap at his prickly chin, nibble along his jawline, plant tiny kisses at the pulse point of his throat. Gradually I work my way down his hairless, sticky chest, tasting tomato juice and sweat. When I run my tongue along the scar, he groans and grabs my ass, arching up to grind his swollen bulk against my clit. That makes me moan, at least until he flips me over and silences me with more kisses.
Hands in the darkness—my hands, his hands—fumble with zippers, claw at waistbands, shred the fabric we can’t push out of the way. Finally, there’s skin and heat and hardness, his cock an apt fit to his name, sliding into my liquid center. He moves like a vast wave, surging, cresting, breaking inside me, then gathering power once again. I rock on the swell of his relentless, delicious rhythm. Sometimes I drift, letting the pleasure sweep me out to sea. Sometimes I fight, gasping for breath, drowning in raw sensation.
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Don’t forget to leave your comment, please! Add your voice to the chorus condemning family separations.