By Remittance Girl (Guest Blogger)
A altruistic erotica collection from Coming Together
For many years, as a member of ERWA, I admired the work of both Alessia Brio, as a writer and a publisher, and Lisabet Sarai, as a writer and an editor. When offered the opportunity, I jumped at the chance to collect some of my best short stories into an anthology for a great cause, the American Civil Liberties Union. To me, the essence of a free and a healthy society is its ability to defend free speech and to allow citizens to express themselves, no matter how they choose to do it.
Blurb
This book presents seventeen erotic stories by the mysterious and reclusive Remittance Girl. Open the cover and enjoy incredible tales of twisted desire and overwhelming lust, intricate and perfect as some Chinese jade carving. Proceeds benefit the ACLU.
From the short story "Dark Garden"
"Next time, don't bother with the knickers. Alright?"
The bed jostles as he climbs onto it, pressing one knee between mylegs to part them. I lift my head to look back at him. I want to tellhim there is going to be no next time. That this is the last time.
"Alright," I whisper instead.
His hand shoots out, grabs a handful of my hair and forces my head, my face back down into the rumpled linen. "Don't," he growls, suddenly angry. "Don't look at me."
Even as the words have left his mouth, his other hand has pushed between my thighs, and his fingers are digging into the sodden fabric at the front of my panties. He knows exactly how to make me raise my hips in avoidance of the pain, and he persists until I have to use my knees to gain some relief. Only when my ass has risen to the height he requires, does he relent. The cruel fingertips that have been digging into tender flesh are suddenly replaced by a cupped, closed hand that smooths and squeezes me until I start to gasp.
"You're so fucking ready for me, girl."
"I know. I am." I consciously make myself say the words; the least I can do is avoid hypocrisy.
"Fuck, yes." He groans a knowing approval.
He kneels close behind me. The fabric of his trousers is rough and scratchy on the exposed skin of my left upper thigh. Pressing closer, I can feel his erection against my ass cheek as he teases himself, fully clothed, against it.
His hand slews sideways, and his fingertips curl under the inside leg of my panties, pulling the crotch aside. Thick, blunt digits skim into my cunt, parting the swollen, wet lips.
It becomes impossible to stay still or quiet. Growling like an animal, I push my hips back. Want to feel something, anything inside me. But even as I do it, I know he won't give me that right now. This is the game we play: I beg and he refuses.
While one hand torments me, the other follows the line of my spine, from my tailbone up the center of my back, dragging the hem of my silk blouse with it. I know what's coming. Even before his dripping fingers have withdrawn, I steady myself and tense my muscles.
When the first blow comes, it's so fast, so sharp, I don't have time to make a sound. Instinct locks my hips so my knees won't give out and my jaw clenches tight. I've paid for my eagerness; his hand is wet and the sting is worse. If the smack hurts him, he doesn't let it show. Instead he pauses, watching my skin turn crimson. Only when it does, does he hit me again.
The second slap is as hard as the first, and this time I yelp. The sound pleases him; the covered cock pressed against my unslapped cheek twitches. A few more hard spanks and the tears start, hot and wet, soaking into sheet under my face.
I don't hold back. Sobs ascend from some riotous place in my belly, at first stale and hesitant like something shut up in a closed place for too long. But then they emerge louder and freer with each successive burst of pain, as if every blow scythes away another choking tendril.
This is our transaction: the culling of my creeping, strangling vines of confusion for his love of the pain he inflicts in the process of culling them.
When he's heard enough, he stops. His breathing laboured, he bends over my upturned ass and presses his lips to the burning skin. The heat of his mouth intensifies the sting, but the same hand that has beaten me returns between my legs to revel in the strange quirk of my nature. My cunt has also wept, so freely that the inside my thighs are slick and the juices have soaked into the tops of my stockings.
"Want my cock?" he murmurs against my seared flesh, lifting his mouth only to pull my sodden panties down my legs
I take a staggered lungful of air and nod. "Yes I do."
He backs off to unzip himself. That's all he ever has to do because he doesn't bother with underwear. Then he's back between my legs, sliding his thick, pulsing cock along the moist skin of my inner thighs.
"Well, that's good. I want your cunt. Or should I fuck your ass?"
This is always the question he asks while guiding himself between the lips of my pussy. I never answer him and, for some reason, he never chooses my ass. Perhaps because that's the location of pain and now he's focused on pleasure? I've never understood it, but I know, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn't matter what I said anyway; he'll choose the orifice he wants.
And so he does, easing into me with surprising gentleness considering what has just passed. Still, the penetration makes my cunt ache. I'm wound up, tight from the pain and it takes my muscles a while to accommodate him.
Instead of holding my hips, he reaches beneath with both hands, gripping the tops of my thighs in a way that forces my pelvis to spread. My inner architecture is changed, and as he begins to thrust, the head of his cock pushes hard against the end of my passage. And again there's pain, deeper now. It gives birth to guttural, strangled noises that escape my throat, even when the hurt leaves me breathless.
My mind is solely focused on the way he swells inside me, the way his fingers dig into my thighs, the way his hot skin presses against mine, still smarting from the spanking. When I'm empty of all thought, when he's fucked the last existential, angst-ridden worry from my skull, my body takes over.
Chemicals stream from synapse to synapse and trigger a storm of mindless pleasure. My muscles obey, contracting like anemones in a warm current. I flood around his punishment and begin to orgasm.
Bio: Remittance Girl writes and woos orchids in an obscure Southeast Asian country. You can find more of her work on her blog at www.remittancegirl.com
