to the Charity Sunday blog hop for the month of June. Since this is
Pride Month (though I’ve barely had the opportunity to mark or
celebrate this), I thought I’d support the National
LGBTQ Task Force. The
National LGBTQ Task Force Action Fund builds political power, takes
action and creates change to achieve freedom and justice for lesbian,
gay, bisexual, transgender and queer people and their families.
knows that we need that kind of action these days, when some people
want to criminalize even talking about gender diversity.
But then I started reading about the recent devastating earthquake in Afghanistan. It would be so easy to say, “Oh, the Taliban are the enemy” or “It’s their own fault that the international aid that propped up the country for so long has dried up.” That doesn’t alter the fact that thousands of people – people like you and me – have lost homes, loved ones and livelihood, and are dealing with hunger and disease.
So today, I’m doing a dual Charity Sunday. For every comment I receive, I will donate one dollar to the National LGBTQ Task force and one dollar to Global Giving’s Afghanistan Earthquake Relief Fund.
Meanwhile, to celebrate Pride Month, I’ve got a juicy, summery excerpt from my lesbian fantasy novella The Witches of Gloucester. Enjoy!
Once upon a time, in an old port city north of the capital where the clippers used to flit in and out of the bay like giant butterflies, there were three witches. Well, only two of them knew they were witches, at least at the start of the story.
Marguerite, who counted Portuguese traders and African shamans among her ancestors, sported a frenzy of lustrous black hair and was partial to velvet. She had inherited a rambling clapboard house that perched on the hill overlooking Western Harbor, which she had filled with ancient Chinese porcelain, Colonial silver, Hindu carvings of entwined gods, and bright tribal hangings woven from alpaca wool or mulberry bark. She had no regular employment. Once or twice a year, she’d invite the public into her museum-like abode, to sell a few artifacts with which she’d become bored and scout out people who might be worth collecting.
Beryl hailed from generations of Boston Irish, as one might guess from her fiery curls and milk-white, freckle-dusted complexion. She ran an antiquarian bookstore on Main Street, on one of the few blocks that had not yet succumbed to chain drugstores and tacky souvenir shops, and lived in a bungalow at the end of one of the Neck’s tiny lanes. With her tie-dyed dresses, dangling earrings and hand-made sandals, she fit perfectly into the artists’ colony. Her talents, however, lay in realms other than painting and sculpture.
Over their years together, Marguerite and Beryl had been responsible for much unexpected good fortune and not a little mischief. The townspeople didn’t realize how much of the city’s special qualities – the invigorating crispness of the breeze on even the hottest days, the crystalline sparkle of sunlight on the waves, the welcoming sense of history that pervaded the narrow streets – was the work of their resident witches. Still, duality limited the women’s power. They were well aware that they needed a third to complete their circle and perfect their occult abilities. However, you can’t simply conjure a witch into existence. You must wait for her to appear on her own.
One lazy Saturday in June, Beryl and Marguerite relaxed in Beryl’s bedroom, which balanced over the water on barnacle-encrusted pilings. Late afternoon sun slanted in through the wide open window. The pungency of the cove at low tide mingled with a hint of primroses from Beryl’s garden. But the mud flats outside were not wholly responsible for the ocean scent hanging in the air.
Beryl licked a salty line across Marguerite’s round belly and up to her dusky breasts. The black-haired woman shivered and threaded her fingers into Beryl’s copper curls, forcing that active mouth onto a nipple. Though they’d been in bed since noon, neither was totally sated. They never were. Inexhaustible libido is one of the defining attributes of a witch.
Marguerite moaned as her partner sucked with vigor at her swollen teat. “Yes, my jewel, that’s lovely. Exactly right...” She didn’t really need to say anything – each knew every nuance of the other’s responses – but she understood how the praise would stir her lover to more energetic attentions. Sure enough, Beryl let her teeth graze the sensitive nub, then nipped hard enough to wake a spike of pain that drove deep into Marguerite’s cunt, transforming itself into the most exquisite pleasure on the way.
Arching her back, she offered more of her breast and Beryl took it, pulling the ripe flesh into her mouth and drenching it in warm saliva. Marguerite bent a knee, aiming her thigh at the Beryl’s juicy cleft. With a choked cry, Beryl ground her crotch against the smooth limb, meanwhile ramping up the suction until Marguerite wondered if she could bear the intensity.
Her face buried in Marguerite’s ample chest, Beryl stabbed her fingers down in a blind search for her lover’s cunt. Through luck or experience, she found her target at first attempt, parting Marguerite’s wiry fur and sinking three digits into luscious wetness.
The rude invasion sent a pre-orgasmic shudder up Marguerite’s spine and wrenched a hoarse cry from her throat. “Oh no you don’t, you minx! You’re going to come for me this time.” Beryl didn’t seem to object; she rocked back and forth against the thigh pressed between hers, struggling for enough friction to push her over the edge. At the same time, she didn’t stop frigging Marguerite, though she let the current nipple pop out of her mouth and captured the other.
It didn’t take long – it never did – before they convulsed in a shared climax. The sun brightened for an instant. The scent of roses grew thick and heady. As their breathing slowed and they fell backwards on the bed to let the air cool their sweat-streaked skin, the wild cry of a gull floated in on the salt-tinged breeze.
Fingertips brushing, they lay together in companionable silence. Marguerite recovered first.
“There’s a new girl in town.”
“I know.” Beryl stretched her white arms over her head, to their maximum extent, then pulled herself up into a sit, legs crossed Indian style. A rich fragrance of pussy rose from between her parted thighs. “She stopped at the store yesterday, looking for titles about colonial-period Salem.”
“I’m sure you were very helpful.” Rolling onto her side and propping her chin up on her palm, Marguerite grinned at her redheaded partner.
“I didn’t dare get close. She was broadcasting sexual energy in every direction – pulsing like some hunk of radioactive matter. I swear, I nearly came, standing twenty feet away. Amazing!”
“Yes – I’ve been aware of her aura for the last few days. But I haven’t actually seen her.”
Beryl leaned forward for a quick kiss. Marguerite fought the urge to pull that pale, compact body down on top of her own. Not that Beryl would mind, of course. In fact, the little ginger cat took advantage of their closeness to tweak one of Marguerite’s still throbbing nipples, before pulling back.
“You’ll appreciate her,” Beryl added. “She’s just your type.”
“You mean, loud and bratty, like you?” Marguerite dodged Beryl’s flying fist. “No, seriously – what’s she like?”
“Young. Ethereal. Full of light.”
Enjoy the last few days of Pride Month. And don’t forget to leave a comment! (Visit the other authors participating, too!)