Deadly Dreams excerpt by Victor J Banis

In this excerpt from Deadly Dreams by Victor J Banis - #3 in the Deadly Mysteries series - Stanley’s sociopathic brother, Andrew, has Stanley and Tom come to rescue him. A painful past. A mysterious stranger. Footsteps vanishing in the fog. All Stanley wants is just to hear Tom say, "I love you." All Tom wants is Stanley safe. And the stranger? Ah, there's the rub--what exactly is it that he wants?

Be careful what you wish for, fellows. You may get it. Dreams can be deadly.

Deadly Dreams
MLR Press (April 24, 2009)
ISBN: 1608200388

Excerpt:

"Satisfied?" Andrew asked, smiling.

"I will be. When I see Stanley. Where is he?"

Andrew ignored the question, said instead, "You're wearing your piece, I suppose." Tom said nothing. "Of course you are. I can see the holster. Why don't you take the gun out of it, very carefully, and toss it on the floor in front of you, in my direction. And, before you resort to any heroics…that's propane in those tanks along the wall. A lot of propane, which is highly explosive, in case you didn't know. And this is what we call the igniter."

He splashed gasoline from the can, making a trail of it over to the metal stairs, leaving a pool of it to puddle around the propane canisters.

"A single shot is all it would take to ignite the gasoline. The gasoline, when it reaches the canisters, will set off the propane. You can imagine the result."

"This place will blow sky high."

"Exactly. At the moment, Stanley is very much incapacitated. He's behind that partition over there, sleeping like a baby. Don't do anything, please, to place him in jeopardy. He'd be very unlikely to survive the resultant holocaust."

Tom wasn't entirely sure about the threat, of a gunshot setting off the gasoline, but he wasn't confident enough in his doubts to want to risk it. Andrew solved that for him by taking a handful of matches from his pocket. One match would certainly do the job.

Tom reached under his jacket with his right hand, took the Sig by its handle and drew it gingerly from its holster. He weighed it in his hand for a moment, consideringly, and then tossed it in Andrew's direction. It ended up midway between the two of them, only a foot or so short of the metal stairs.

Andrew smiled approvingly. "Very good," he said. "Now, let me see. You must have a back up weapon. Where would that be, I wonder?" He looked Tom up and down. "The waist of your trousers, perhaps. Take off your jacket. Turn around. Well, that's not it, then. Let me see." He puzzled for a moment. "Your leg, I suppose. Pull up your trousers. Ah, there it is. I think we'll have that, too. Carefully, now." He struck on of the matches against the metal of the stairs. The little flame came and went, tiny, but it looked altogether enormous in the warehouse gloom. Tom sucked in his breath, half expecting the gasoline to ignite, but the flame was gone in an instant.

Helplessly, Tom bent down, took the twenty-two from his sock, and tossed it after the Sig, his mind racing. Stanley was behind that partition. So near and so far. How long would it take the gasoline to set off the propane canisters? And what did Andrew have planned, once he'd ignited the gasoline. Surely he didn't plan to stay around to die himself.

"Those stairs," he said aloud, glancing at them. "Your escape hatch? I don't imagine you're planning to stay around for the bonfire."

Andrew shrugged. "I don't see why you shouldn't know. Yes. The stairs will take me to the roof, and there's a catwalk to the warehouse next door. My car is there. When your rescuers arrive…oh, yes, I just suppose you've alerted Homeland to where we are—Mister Hannibal, isn't it? I’m sure they're on their way at this very moment, but they won't be in time, not to find me here. In another minute, I'm going up these stairs. I'll be driving off in the opposite direction even as they're rushing to the rescue."

"After you've killed me, of course."

"Yes, after that, of course. And it may surprise you to know that I regret that. I truly do. Stanley thinks so highly of you. But, I have no choice, do I? I have to kill you."

"You're going to kill Stanley, too." It was a statement, not a question.

"I love Stanley." Which skirted the issue, didn't it?

"You don't even know Stanley."

Andrew's eyes flashed, destroying the mask of calm he wore. "Fool! I know him better than you do. You only know his body. I know his blood. It's my blood, too, I run in his veins. Fuck him all you want, you'll never be in his heart the way I am."

"I'm in Stanley's heart too, in a way you'll never be."

"And he in yours? Tell me that you love him. You haven't said that yet."

Tom hesitated for a second, no more. "Stanley's heart is mine," he said.

Andrew gave a dry snort of laughter. "And Shelley's heart was Trelawney's, so he thought. I don't suppose you know that story?"

"This isn't the time…"

"Trelawney snatched Shelley's heart from his funeral pyre. He was fond of saying, later, that he had Shelley's heart, but Mary Shelley was just as fond of saying that Trelawney had only a dead organ, Shelley's heart was still hers."

"What are you trying to tell me? You're going to start a funeral fire for Stanley, and at the last minute, you're going to snatch his heart from it?"

Andrew smiled. "What an intriguing idea, that. I confess I hadn't thought of it. But, no, this fire will be quite a different sort, and I have places to go, things to do. I'll leave Stanley's heart to you."

"You bastard."

Andrew was saved from answering. Stanley's voice came weakly from beyond the screen in the corner: "Tom? Is that you?"

* * *

Stanley was dreaming. He was in some plague-infected city, London, perhaps, or maybe only a city of dreams. He heard the rumble of the death carts, the voice calling, "Bring out your dead…"

Then, suddenly, another voice superimposed itself, a voice that brought him back in an instant from the swirling, smothering darkness of his nightmares.

He opened his eyes, blinked. "Tom," he called, "is that you?"

* * *

Tom turned automatically, took a step in that direction—which saved his life, at least for the moment. Andrew fired his gun just as Tom turned. Andrew was a fairly good shot; if Stanley hadn't spoken, if Tom hadn't moved, Andrew would certainly have killed him with that one shot. Instead of the chest, right in the heart, the bullet caught Tom lower, off center. Tom staggered and fell, pain piercing his side where the bullet had entered. But not dead.

Andrew struck all of the matches in his hand and threw them at the trail of gasoline on the floor. He would have shot Tom again, intended to shoot him with a more careful aim, but the flames surprised him, leaped up faster, more violently than he had expected. The heat was instantly intense, growing rapidly worse and still worse. It felt as if any second his clothes might ignite spontaneously, or his hair, even.

He hesitated for only a heartbeat. Tom was wounded, perhaps mortally. In any case, it would take no more than a minute at the most for the gasoline to reach the pile of propane canisters, seconds more for the tanks to explode. Wounded, there was no way Tom would escape in time.

A living dog is better than a dead lion. The instinct for self-survival that had served Andrew so well in the past came to the fore. He fired one more shot, wildly, and made his own escape while he still could, bolting upward, the metal stairs clanging as he ran.

Already, the metal was hot to the touch. He ran harder.

* * *

Tom staggered to his knees. The fire was spreading rapidly, the flames racing across the open space. When it got to the propane tanks…

"Stanley," he shouted. High above, a door opened and banged shut. Smoke blew into Tom's face, making him cough. He made it to his feet, clutching at his side. Blood seeped through his fingers. He held his hand tight over the wound and lumbered toward the wooden screen. Banged into it, knocking it over with a crash.

Stanley was sitting on the edge of a cot, shaking his head groggily. "Tom," he said. "I heard a shot. I…"

"Get up," Tom ordered him, "we've got to get out of here."

Stanley's eyes went wide, tried to focus. "You're hurt."

"Just a scratch. Come on." He got Stanley to his feet, his arm around him. "No, save your breath, we'll talk later." Staggering feebly, Tom managed to get with him to the main part of the warehouse. Already, the room was an inferno, the flames lapping at the tanks of propane. Tom's gut was on fire, the smoke stinging his eyes and his lungs. His knees felt like jelly. Behind them, the wooden partition burst into flames with a small explosion, like a popgun going off. Tom could see the open door—a thousand miles away.

He suddenly knew he wouldn't make it. He could only hold Stanley back—and if he did, neither of them was going to escape.

"Run, Stanley," he said, shoving a hand hard at Stanley's back. "The door. Go, fast as you can. Don't worry, I’m right behind you."

For a second, Stanley hesitated. "Go," Tom bellowed, shoving harder, "God damn it, Stanley, do what I tell you. Run."

Stanley ran. The flames were a flickering curtain. He could see Tom's pick up through them, and the open door beyond that. He put his arms up over his face and ran through the blaze, past the truck, out the door…and found himself, astonishingly, in Edward Hannibal's arms.

"Easy," Hannibal said, brushing at the smoldering sleeve of Stanley's jacket, "We've got you. Take it easy."

Stanley's laugh was just short of hysterical. "My God," he said, "Did you ever see…Tom, look, it's Mister Hannibal, talk about Johnny-on-the-spot. Whoo-eee, talk about…"

He looked over his shoulder. Cars were parked everywhere, police cars and dark government sedans, and already in the distance he could hear sirens. People were milling about; it looked like an army of them, men in dark suits and men in black SFPD uniforms.

Only…he didn't see Tom among them.

The warehouse exploded suddenly, a blast so violent that it shook the ground like an earthquake. Great tongues of flame burst out the door and flung the glass from the windows, scorching the sparse grass that ran along the side of the alley, driving the people closest to it back, to take shelter behind the vehicles.

"Where's Tom?" Stanley demanded, of no one and everyone, his voice ascending. "Tom? Where are you?"

"Take it easy," Hannibal said again.

Stanley looked into his face, back at the fire now leaping skyward, and into Hannibal's face again. "He didn't make it?" Hannibal said nothing. He didn't need to. His expression said everything.

"Let me go." Stanley struggled with the arms that were suddenly tighter around him. "Tom's still in there. Damn you, let me go."

"Hold him," Hannibal said, and all at once there were more arms, it seemed dozens of them, holding Stanley back when he would have rushed into that conflagration. Would have rushed into Hell itself if Tom were there. Didn't they know that? Couldn't they understand?

Stanley fought against them furiously, cursing and kicking and punching, but there were too many of them and they were too strong. His strength failed him then, and he surrendered to the arms, felt someone lifting him off the ground, carrying him away from the fire.

"Tom." It was a scream of pain, of anguish. "Tom!"

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Haji’s Exile excerpt by Alan Chin

Haji’s Exile, a short story by Alan Chin, is a bittersweet coming out tale that follows a young rancher training his new horse for a handicap race. Like many of his stories, it is a yarn of two different cultures coming together, teaching each other, supporting each other, and eventually loving each other.

Nathan has cared for horses all his life, but Haji is the first he’ll train on his own. When the Arabian stallion arrives at the Bitter Coffee ranch, Nathan thinks he is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. And then he lays eyes on Haji’s handler, Yousef. Nathan has much to learn about horses, about pride, and about love, but with the ranch’s hopes riding on Haji, he’ll also learn that all things have their price.

Haji's Exile
Dreamspinner Press (July 6, 2011)
978-1-61581-935-5

Excerpt:

To an owl or an eagle or even the lark, man must seem a rather pitiful and forlorn creature; he is condemned to crawl the earth alongside only two friends. The dog and the horse are the only exceptions to man’s universal unpopularity. Man points with pride at these two contrarians and naively believes that both are equally proud to call him friend. “Look at my two companions,” says man, “they are dumb, yet loyal.” I have always maintained that they are tolerant at best, and if man didn’t feed them, they would quickly join ranks with the majority.

I have nevertheless depended on the tolerance of horses and dogs since my childhood. I believe with all my fiber that until a man has loved an animal, a large part of his soul remains unawakened. Even now at my advanced age if I were deprived of the gratification of caring for either dog or horse, I would lose all that I hold dear. I should feel as adrift as a Muslim who had lost touch with Allah.

Horses in particular have been as much a part of my history as breathing. I define every phase of my life by which horse I owned then, or ones my father owned. Some were intelligent, some valiant, while others were rogues. None were alike. Some won the big handicap races and some won the smaller unimportant races. My family’s red and blue colors have swept past grandstands from Santa Anita to Bay Meadows. Some horses my father brought from the Eastern Seaboard, where old money and long bloodlines defined the sport. But one horse my father brought all the way from North Africa.

That stallion’s name was Haji.

When he came to the Bitter Coffee ranch, I was a straw-haired boy who had recently graduated high school, with a lanky body and wide, blue eyes. He was an Arabian stallion, part royalty and part desert whirlwind. I was awed by his self-possession, and I couldn’t help wondering what he thought of me.

He arrived at daybreak, descending the ramp from a two-horse trailer with the slow and dignified steps of Bonaparte in exile. With his head held high and nostrils flaring, he breathed the thin air of the Nevada high desert for the first time. Like me, he was a bit slender in the chest, but unlike me, he had strong legs as clean as limestone.

Sword Bearer, out of Cairo, had sired him, and noble blood flowed through his arrogant veins.

He was a sorrel, and his reddish coat gave off a golden sheen in the strong morning sunlight. Once his hooves stood on solid earth, his body shivered and his lungs let out a rush of air, as if letting me know he craved the freedom of open space again after being cramped in a ship’s hold and then in that trailer for so many thousands of miles. I heard a ring of certain gratitude in his undulant murmur.

Then I laid eyes on Haji’s handler. He had made the long voyage with the horse. The dawn’s rays lent his flowing white robes and tarboosh a shimmering orange-yellow hue, and I found myself momentarily stunned with a frozen gaze. Was it the splendor of the light reflecting off his flowing gown that dazzled me, or simply that this young man would wear a dress in broad daylight? Or could it have been his face, that porcelain-smooth skin the warm color of creamed coffee, accented by pitch-black eyebrows? His coloring was similar to the Mexican ranch hands who worked for my father and yet somehow softer. Whatever the cause, my compulsively chattering mind gave pause, and I was mentally whisked into a space of pure silence, broken only by the pulse beating at my temples.

My father walked to the thoroughbred and held the animal’s head steady, gazing into those large moist eyes. It was clear to me that the horse knew men. In his three short years, he had probably been around more men than his own kind, and from the bold stare he gave my father, I sensed that Haji understood that men were there to serve him, that we were his servants.

A tremor ran through the stallion, and he grew impatient. He shook his head free of my father’s grasp, bent the sleek bow of his neck, and kicked at the ground with a hoof. I instinctively knew that it was not that my father was a stranger but that Haji didn’t trust a man who did not smell of the earth. Even though my father owned a seven thousand acre ranch, he was a businessman and spent his time in his office or traveling.

My father stepped to the handler and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You must be Yousef. Welcome to the Bitter Coffee. Nathan will show you to your quarters. Come up to the house for breakfast after you’re settled.”

“Yousef,” I repeated in my head several times as I moved forward and grasped Haji’s halter. I felt foolishly happy at how the sound of it tumbled through my head. The stallion did not flinch at my touch, and as he took in my smell, he blew a snort into my straw-colored hair to warn me he felt nervous. I laughed, a low gentle sound which seemed to set him at ease.

The handler pulled a carpetbag from the horse trailer and stood beside me. As I glanced into Yousef’s cautious eyes, I inhaled his spicy fragrance, a mixture of horse and something else I could not identify, something vaguely like toasted sugar.

I tugged at the halter and both Haji and Yousef followed, flanking me all the way to the stables where I had already prepared the stallion’s stall. Haji stared straight ahead, glancing neither to one side or the other as if he were walking alone, like abdicated royalty, and we were merely servants trailing in his wake. He must have felt forlorn in this country of different sights and smells. It would be my job to manage him, and that included making him comfortable in this new environment. I felt much pride in that. Haji was my first horse to train. All my life I had cared for horses, learning their needs and habits, but always under the guidance of the foreman until now. Because of financial hardships, my father had let the foreman go. Haji was my responsibility, and Yousef would answer to me.

I could tell the stallion found the stall to his liking. The stable harbored a dozen other horses in a long row of stalls, but Haji’s quarters were separate from the others and twice as large.

Yousef seemed equally pleased with his own quarters next to the tack room, and though he didn’t say a word, he seemed surprised that he was given a room to himself. When he slid the tarboosh from his head, I realized he was much younger than I had first thought. I now guessed he was only a few years older than me, perhaps twenty, twenty-one at the most. And right then, he looked far more beautiful than moments before and seemed in desperate need of a friend.

I told him my name: Nathan. He repeated it twice and told me his name in broken English: Yousef Ruta. I knew then that it would be my job to teach him how to speak my language, which would be no small task. With hands waving and pointing to my own pants and shirt, I indicated he should change into more suitable work clothes and join me for breakfast at the house. It took several attempts, but he finally smiled and began to pull the white robe over his head. Much as I wanted to stay and see if the rest of his skin had the same warm coloring as his face, I turned and hurried out, giving him his privacy.

Later, after Yousef had changed into working clothes which included a shirt with flaps that hung to his knees and we had feasted on flapjacks, Yousef and I returned to Haji’s stall. While Yousef separated the good straw on the floor from the straw already soiled with urine and manure, I began to brush the stallion with clean, even strokes from mane to tail. As I worked, I felt anger rising within Haji, but I was not prepared when he bent his neck around and gripped my arm above the elbow with his teeth, biting down with enough force to make me yelp before flinging me against the wall.

I crumpled to the ground and lay in the trampled bedding for a moment, looking up into Yousef’s dark eyes. A wave of shame washed through me. I scrambled to my feet and marched to the tack room, selecting a riding crop that I had never needed before now.

I approached the stallion with a brush in one hand, the crop in the other. I spoke to him in soothing tones, telling him that he might have Sword Bearer’s blood, but I had a whip and I knew how to use it.

I began to brush him again while continuing to use soothing tones. But once more, I felt his anger swell. His hooves stomped, and his head turned with teeth bared. This time, however, I was expecting him. I struck his muzzle with the whip, hard and without mercy. I think he was more startled by the act than by the pain. The alchemy of his pride transformed the pain to rage that must have blinded him. He tried to bite again, and I struck his soft muzzle with all the force I could muster. He tried to whirl away from me but Yousef jumped to help and we held him firm. He reared upward, cutting the air with his hooves. Plunging, he felt my crop bite his muzzle again and again.

At that point, Yousef pushed me back toward the far wall and began to sooth the horse with caressing hands. The stallion slowly calmed under his touch.

When Haji became composed, Yousef lifted my brush from where it had fallen and began to brush Haji’s withers with a kind of intimate knowledge of how this horse wanted to be treated: that is, without any sense of possession.

I felt the sting of resentment, but then, more slowly, comprehension took its place.
Yousef waved me over. With him on one side of Haji and me on the other, I mimicked his strokes with my bare hands. The horse now accepted the soothing touch of my hands. Across the horse’s back, Yousef smiled at me in a way that made my stomach do a slow somersault.

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Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs excerpt by Dorien Grey

In Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume I) by Lambda-nominated author Dorien Grey (The Dick Hardesty Mysteries, The Elliott Smith Mysteries) knows more than just how to write a great murder novel. He's also had amazing life experiences in the military and around the world. Here, for the first time, are the collected blog and journal writings of this prolific author. As Grey notes, "Sometimes things are more clearly seen through the eyes of others." The hope is that the reader will see similarities to his/her own life, and recognize the commonality of the human condition.

Short Circuits: A Life in Blogs (Volume I)
Untreed Reads (June, 2011)

Excerpt:

PUCK WAS RIGHT

I don’t know…it has to be a missing “comprehension” gene in my DNA. Other people glide so easily through life, fully aware and accepting of everything that goes on. They are never confused. They accept things which strike me as sheer idiocy at best or totally incomprehensible at worst. Shakespeare had it right when he had Puck say: “What fools these mortals be.” And Shakespeare lived long before the advent of cyberspace, the cell phone, and George W. Bush.

I am truly sincere when I say I simply cannot understand so many, many things. I see that Prince William may have broken up with his girlfriend, which apparently sent tsunamis of shock and deep concern across the face of the earth. And they have at last (oh, thank GOD!) determined the father of Anna Nicole Smith (...who?)’s baby. And Brad and Angelina are adopting their 45th third-world baby (apparently there are not enough orphans in the United States)! Singing and dancing in the streets!! And what about them Bears? Did you see last week’s Big Game? I mean, like, wow!!! But my question is always the same: how could anyone not a friend or relative of these people possibly, possibly care?

Canned cat food comes in gourmet flavors (“Sliced Roast Guinea Hen in a delicious Béarnaise sauce”), and people stand in line to shell out good money to buy it. They’re cats, people! They eat mice, for Pete’s sake! Do you really think they care? I recently saw a news item (I swear, it was a news item!) on people who pay $3,000 to have their cats painted in designer patterns and colors. Of course, the paint job only lasts a couple months, but it’s so...well, just precious!! And these people taking Fluffy in for a $3,000 touch-up may have to step over 20 homeless people to get to the paint shop, but who cares? And that is the Question of Questions: Who cares?

I have for the past three years been getting vital email messages from a number of people of whom I have never heard, let alone met, who apparently consider themselves my dear friends and therefore entitled to intrude themselves into my life. They are constantly informing me of astounding advances in medical science designed to improve my sex life (“Make your girl scream for more!” “We cure all disease!”). You’d think after three years of my hitting “Delete Spam” they might get the idea. If they don’t know by now I’m gay—perhaps they’re just in denial—and that I somehow doubt that they can cure a belch, I can’t help but question the true basis for our relationship.

Whenever I sign on to something on the net, I must approve the conditions of membership, which generally consist of a five-minute scroll down page after page of legalese to which I will be bound should I hit the “I Agree” button. I am considering starting a website and doing something similar, and slipping in a line somewhere: “I agree to give up my firstborn child or, having no children, to turn over the entire contents of my bank account (including savings accounts, CDs, IRAs, contents of any piggy banks in my possession, etc.).” Perhaps that is already in those “I Agree” contracts I’ve already signed. Who would know?

I do not comprehend why we are sheep. Why, when served cold food in a restaurant, we do not send it back? Why, when we are treated with utter contempt by some petty civil servant, we do not demand to speak to a supervisor then and there and, while doing so, demand the name and addresses of the supervisor’s supervisor? We are so often taken advantage of because we let ourselves be taken advantage of, and if that is the case, then we deserve what we get.

I have not run out of material for this subject, you can be sure…just out of space for now. I’ll be back.

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Women Gone Wylde excerpt by Beth Wylde

An individual anthology of lesbian erotica, previously available only in e-book format. Beth Wylde is bringing to you her personal favorite sapphic encounters. From rough and ready rodeo cowbois to an adorable college neophyte's first time with a woman. An interesting trip to an adult toy store and a totally new way to get tattoed. These stories and more can be found between the covers of Beth Wylde's first full erotic anthology, Women Gone Wylde. Beth has packed her hottest lesbian erotica into these pages, together and in print for the first time ever. If you like your stories HOT and your women hotter, then this is one book you must have.

Women Gone Wylde
CreateSpace (May 17, 2011)
ISBN-10: 1461198089
ISBN-13: 978-1461198086

Excerpt from The Real Thing from Women Gone Wylde

I shoved my way inside the crowded coffee shop, ignoring the complaints of the customers waiting impatiently for their caffeine fix. There was only one thing in the store I wanted, and it didn't come in a tiny,Styrofoam cup.

My gaze roamed the store, a sudden shiver passing through me as my eyes landed on the curvy figure sitting at the back table all alone. My heart thudded in my chest and my panties grew wet. After six months of online foreplay my body was ready for the real thing. Judging by the look on my internet lover's face, she was entertaining the same thought.

Mandy jumped up and strode toward me, her lone coffee forgotten on the table. She leaned sideways as we embraced, her lips grazing the shell of one ear.

"Remember the first fantasy you told me about? The wild one?" I could only nod my head when she grabbed my hand. "I got us a room."

I'd known where we were headed the moment I agreed to meet her in person. Half a year of celibacy was about to end. My pussy was totally on board with the plan.

I let her tug me out of the shop, our steps fast and furious as we hurried to the motel down the street. It was naughty and insane and so illicit I was about to leave a wet spot in my jeans. "Oh God. We have to hurry." My knees felt weak.

Mandy put her arm around me and pulled a wornlooking keycard out of her purse. "I know. Me too."

We both started running down the hall. I nearly crashed into her when she stopped in front of door number fifteen. "This is it."

I grunted in reply as Mandy fought to get the bent-up passkey to work. If the real sex was half as good as the online version I'd be a well satisfied woman. I'd done and talked about things online with Mandy that I'd never spoken to another soul about. She knew all my deepest, darkest secrets. We were about to make fantasy number one come true now—hot sex in a seedy motel room.

There were plenty more kinky adventures on my to-do list but I couldn't think that far ahead. My brain had turned off the minute I'd laid eyes on her. My clit was doing the thinking for me and I was fine with that.

The light on the scanner had barely turned green when she pulled me inside. Mandy kicked the door shut with one foot and pushed me up against the wall. I felt the vibration of my back hitting the wood all the way down to my toes. Her urgency set my nerves to humming, ratcheting up the tension until I was ready to beg for her to touch me.

"Mandy, please!"

"Please what?" One hand strayed from its perch on my hip to the top of my jeans. She jerked the button open with a twist of her wrist. I couldn’t help groaning. The sound of my zipper parting seemed loud in the hushed confines of the room, overshadowed only by my harsh and heavy breathing.

"Are you wet for me?" Wet? I was fucking soaked. "Yes. I'm so turned on I can't stand it anymore. I need you." I'd never been able to orgasm without some type of physical stimulation but at the moment I thought it might actually be possible. "How bad do you need me?"

I sucked in a deep breath and fought to calm my racing pulse. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I worried she could hear it. "Bad, Mandy. Real bad. I need you to fuck me. I want to come screaming your name." My clit pulsed in time with my request.

Her hand pushed inside my jeans and the muscles in my stomach contracted. Her free hand started pulling my pants down as her fingers inched their way inside my panties. I moved my hips and spread my feet in encouragement. Her finger had barely touched my slit when she found the proof of my statement. "Good lord,you're drenched." Her fingertip tapped against my clit and I bucked, my ass banging hard against the door.

"Yes, I am, and we're both wearing too many clothes."

After that it was a race to see who could get undressed and get to the bed first. I beat her, but not by much.

"I rented the room for three hours," Mandy informed me while I was on my hands and knees, grappling to throw the wrinkled comforter off the bed. She grabbed me by the thighs and jerked me backwards. I squealed, the unexpected move catching me off guard. I felt the hard edge of something cold nudge against my opening. Before I could question what it was, Mandy pushed forward with one deep stroke and buried a ribbed vibrator deep inside my pussy. At the same time her mouth attached itself to my clit. I looked down between my legs, gasping as the combination of sight and feeling pushed me over the edge. I screamed, the orgasm catching me unaware. I clawed at the bedcovers and shook my way to ecstasy. My head fell down against the bed, my hands and knees shaking while I worked to slow my breathing.

Mandy pulled the toy out of my still spasming cunt, taking a moment to suck the juices off it before sliding her way up next to me on the bed. "Did you enjoy that?"

My reply came out breathy and hoarse. "God yes!" She kissed me and I tasted myself on her lips, but there was something else I wanted to taste more. "Now it's my turn."

I wrapped my arms around her waist, grinding my pelvis against hers in blatant mimicry of sex. Her eyes widened when I palmed first her left and then her right breast. I was busy working my tongue around one hard nipple when she threaded her hands into my hair and began to urge me lower.

I paused my oral explorations and grinned up at her. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Her sigh was full of frustration and pent up need as she tried to push my head past her navel. "Yes. You know there is."

I took a minute to dip my tongue into her delightfully deep bellybutton. "What do you want? I'm a bit busy." I chuckled against her skin and she broke out in goosebumps.

"Don't tease, Janie. I'm dying up here."

I took her plea to heart and positioned myself between her legs, staring at the feast before my eyes. I licked my lips and went straight for her core.

The cry she let loose was music to my ears. I was definitely going to add a few more hours onto the bill. Later on I planned to take her to my house where we could act out a few more of my fantasies and some of hers.

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