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.
*
* * *
Don’t
forget to leave your comment, please! Add your voice to the chorus
condemning family separations.
