Coming Together: The Erotic Cocktail (v3)

By Alessia Brio

Coming Together: The Erotic Cocktail (v3) is the third book in a series of sizzling romance shorts, brought to steamy life by talented up-and-coming authors. Sit back and enjoy a long, slow ride aboard the Passion Train.

All proceeds benefit the Electronic Frontier Foundation (eff.org)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coming Together
• Release date: May 3, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452311623

Alessia Brio

Take one part Appalachian redneck, one part aging wet dream, and one part filthy-minded wordsmith. Mix well and serve with chocolate-covered cherries. There you have the one and only Alessia Brio. Alessia writes all colors and flavors of erotica, from heterosexual to menage to same sex, and from twisted to humorous to deeply touching. (Sometimes, usually by accident, it even qualifies as romance.) Her work has earned her critical acclaim in the form of a few EPIC eBook Awards for Best Erotica, a couple Next Generation Indie Book Awards, and a Romantic Times Top Pick in addition to a plethora of glowing online reviews.Not all of Alessia's publications are allowed here on Smashwords due to censorship. Readers interested in the full catalog are encouraged to visit her label's website at www.PurpleProsaic.com

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Disclaimers

Coming Together is a compilation of erotic fiction, poetry, and illustrations. It is solely intended for persons of legal majority.

Please note that Coming Together contains works of fiction in which the characters may not practice safe sex. The authors, poets, and illustrators featured in this volume of Coming Together encourage all readers to act responsibly and to take appropriate precautions against both unwanted pregnancy and the transmission of disease.

For resources and frank discussion about safe sex practices, we refer the reader to the Coalition for Positive Sexuality at www.positive.org.

Someone

© Alessia Brio

Somewhere, someone

longs to touch you

rrrright ... there

Somewhere, someone

imagines the scent

of your arousal

Somewhere, someone

tastes your skin

in their dreams

Somewhere, someone

wants to fall

into your eyes

Somewhere, someone

hears the soft sighs

of your passion

Somewhere, someone

aches to take you

beyond bliss

Somewhere, someone

gets off

thinking of you

Everyone has a someone.

I am yours

Encore

© Dave Edgar

A sharp rattle overhead woke her. It felt airy and it was utterly dark. Karen oriented herself; she was in a tent, camping on the Passadumkeag. She'd left Eric in town to go on a canoe trip with close friends: Gene and Justine Dill and the newlyweds, Justin and Sarah. It must be the middle of the night, she thought groggily.

The rattle repeated itself and settled to a steady roll of rain on the nylon tent fly. Rain! But she had the tent to herself, this trip; all her gear was in the tent with her; it would stay dry. Except for one thing.

Oh, no, the laundry! The party had washed their things in the bottom of Gene's canoe, and rinsed in the stream. It had gotten almost dry on the line. Karen got her gumption up and shed her sleeping bag.

Flashlight! Naked but for her panties, she felt around for it.

It was suddenly cool in the tent. The rain brought a downrush of cold air with it, which felt delicious. Two a.m., she mumbled. The flashlight showed her the pile of slick yellow. I'll just throw on the poncho and my sandals, it's starting to get serious, she said to herself.

She heard Gene's tent zipper go just as she was reaching for hers. She doused the light and came through the opening carefully.

Karen? Gene's soft inquiry was followed by a beam from his light, but she felt sure she was covered all right.

Hi, she whispered.

I'm just getting the laundry, he told her.

Me, too. The two of them moved along the ropes unpinning and gathering clothes and towels, meeting in the middle. I'll take these in with me, Karen proposed. There's lots of room still.

Oh, good. Take mine, too?

She agreed and he loaded her with all of it. Thanks.

His helpful beam of light guided her to her tent, but the poncho was caught in the armload of towels and clothes. Gene watched her trim hips appreciatively as she worked everything through the zippered tent doorway and crawled through. The little white panties hardly concealed anything. The image of her body stayed in his mind's eye after he'd shut the beam off.

Justine's sleeping, he said to himself.

Now, just what did that have to do with anything? Was he considering joining Karen in that tent? Another zipper noise came to his ears.

It was Justin, his wife's twin, poking his head and shoulders out of the blue nylon shell. The laundry? he inquired.

We got it; Karen has all of it in her tent. Gene accepted Justin's thanks and circled the campsite to make sure everything was sheltered. Justin settled in again. He could hear the two newlyweds turn over and speak for a little while, then silence. Karen was still arranging things, he heard the rustling. It recalled the vision of her panties and sturdy legs. She would have taken the poncho off, now, he imagined. The rain drummed on his slicker's hood; his head was in a noisy, isolated space and he debated with himself under his breath as he walked.

Karen was a hot number. He'd dated her for a few months at Bowdoin before she'd transferred; they'd hit it off very nicely indeed. Gene had never met any woman with the sheer enthusiasm for sex that Karen had. The memories had remained fresh in his mind for all these years; he fantasized about them still.

Karen loved to fuck! he said to himself. Justine was smart, organized, and practical; she was also a real beauty, by conventional standards much more so than Karen. His wife was a good complement to his improvisational and intuitive nature. But she lacked the verve and spice; Karen had been an innovative and fervent lover. She just doesn't compare, he summed up, again aloud. He walked to the water's edge.

Clouds, low and complete, covered the sky. There was just enough light from that sky to make out the pale splashes of the rain on the dark stream, flickers of lighter gray all over the surface like the television when the station goes off the air. He stood and watched their pattern but he was seeing images of Karen from the past-- Karen stroking him with mink gloves, sucking him in the men's room at Thistles, bent over the hood of the old Volvo to be sodomized.

God, he murmured. Anal sex had always been hot and intense with Karen. He pulled his hands inside the poncho and rearranged his pajamas a little to accommodate his expanding organ. The light rain rattled on the poncho hood and the world was dark.

Ah, Karen, he muttered. It was cool and isolated by the streamside. By midday they had stopped hearing any kind of motor; the trip had taken them through many miles of beaver flowage, forest, and heath. The party was cut off from the world at large; the rain and darkness cut Gene off from the rest of the party. Gently and then more firmly he stroked himself, calling forth memories of Karen before either of them had married other people.

Oh, fuck! Take it up the ass, baby. Yes. His hands moved with greater urgency. Right into that beautiful fuckin' ass. He reared back and closed his eyes; the rain caught him on the chin; he recalled vividly her upturned hips and her lascivious smile the time he'd slid his cock into her in the resource room at the Fogler Library.

Who's getting it up the ass, Gene? The whisper was startlingly close by his ear. He leapt like a stag seeing the wolf.

Karen! he hissed, for it was she, not an arm's length away, just behind his shoulder.

Me? Karen was quite amused. Men were such carnal creatures, so simple-- and so easy. There was a reason she'd left her husband behind, the asshole. She hadn't consciously imagined striking up an affair with Gene, but he'd been silhouetted against the stream. When she had come sneaking up, she had heard clearly the rapid rhythmic slipping of his knuckles on the cloth; unmistakably she knew what he was doing. She remembered her college days every bit as well as he did.

What the hell! You scared the shit out of me!

I thought you said I was taking cock up the butt? Karen snaked a hand inside and took a grip on Gene's hard cock. Wow, she murmured. It was huge and hard. She'd forgotten how fine a cock Gene had.

And I thought you had gone back in the tent! he whispered, accusingly. Her cool hand felt incredibly good. Gene squirmed and blushed strongly, but no one could see the blush and he didn't turn enough to make her lose contact.

I'm going up by the trench; wanna come?

Christ! Gene was torn, but he knew the answer was no. It had to be no.

Please, Gene. I want it. No strings, no trouble, I promise. It'll help me sleep. Come on up the hill and just fuck me.

God, Karen.

She squeezed him gently and jacked the skin three strokes, then released him. Your call. But I meant it. She turned away and moved across the silent pine needles. Gene said nothing. The rain's noise closed in once more around his head, leaving him more alone than ever.

Karen slipped through between her tent and Justin and Sarah's and then climbed the hillside toward the latrine. She wondered if he'd come, if he'd follow her. She was beginning, now, to feel guilty about having made the offer.

I never should have grabbed it, she thought. That was so unfair. But what if he didn't? She'd be so ashamed to face him if he didn't. She kicked an inoffensive pine cone off the trail.

Oh, fuck! What a slut I am! she lamented aloud.

Me, too.

Gene! Thank goodness! His arms slid in through the sides of the poncho; his warm hands slid over her belly from behind her. One cupped a breast, and the other—!

Oh, Gene! she breathed. Now you have to!

His fingers pushed in and out of her hot cunt. Her juices flowed, her nipple rose under his thumb, her head leant back on his collarbone. As she held his invading hand hard against her mound their wedding rings clacked together. Delicious sensations spread along the line from the breast to her hardening clit.

I want to eat it, he said.

Yes! She lifted up the slick yellow front by lifting her arms. Under he went, avid to taste her. Oh, yes. There was a metallic click. He had shifted his hand to grab the panties, and then another pull could be felt. What--?

Hold right still! Another pull and she was naked.

My God! You cut them off! His mouth was on her now; his tongue had barely touched her when her come took her breath away.

She made a noise which he recognized at once. Gotcha, he said.

Her hands clutched his head and she moaned, helpless with sudden lust. His lips drew her into his mouth and his tongue flicked the flesh. He'd made her come so quickly-- her knees were water.

Oh God, Gene--! He could feel her holding onto his head for support. You bastard!

Lean on the tree, baby; there you are, he spoke soothingly and went back to his tongue work once she had braced herself. She could feel the rough bark against her back through the slicker; her pussy gave her little sparks and thrills against his hot mouth. The rain pelted down. It was gorgeous.

Under the poncho it was not quite dark, but the parts he wanted most to see were completely blotted out. She tasted fabulous and she was so ardent he felt flattered. The wet beech leaves soaked through the knees of the light cotton instantly, and a rivulet was streaming, tickling madly, from the back of his head down his neck and along his ribs. Her chest heaved and her nipples were springy-hard-- she would shudder if he brushed them roughly enough along his palm. The rain made a crisp continuous rattle which echoed and distorted oddly as the space enclosed changed its shape.

The rain smell, the wet leaf smell, the sweet-musky woodsy pungence all mixed with the sharp tang of pussy in the close air. Then a breath of cool was drawn in, followed by complete openness. She'd thrown the poncho off entirely. The rain struck in as she shook her head and, he thought, grinned down at him. He could see the pale masses of her breasts, but no detail. Gene!

Mmm?

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled upwards. Fuck me! Take that thing off! Gene arose clumsily, stepping on the poncho, hastily removing pajama and poncho at once. Her hand scooped down, she drove her fingers into her hungry cunt, urging him to hurry. She had already knelt when he emerged, and she turned her ass to him, a pale mass, unmistakable. The rain felt cold at first, but once he'd entered her he stopped noticing. Her wet ass flattened against his hips, she called his name.

Karen, this is so fuckin' nice! Wet slaps of hip on hip set the beat for their cries of encouragement and appreciation.

Karen had been too many weeks without this feeling-- cock! Sweet cock slamming in, deep in her cunt as God intended. The rain made it more thrilling, as the sensation involved her whole skin in heat and cold, friction, chill and the ancient rhythm of sex. She pushed up higher into him – it was too deep, but she wanted it that way a little while. She was close to a big one. Water ran down her face, she slurped it in.

Too deep, Gene, she said. The note in her voice tipped him off that she was very close; he knew her so well. He hadn't realized he was so familiar with the sounds of her. They almost never had made love in the darkness in all that time at school.

Just a second! Get on top, baby! he sat, legs braced wide, and she straddled him. In he slipped again with a joyful grin. His arms held her upright. Her breasts slapped his arms and chest as she worked with a will, stroking her hips forward and back as she rode him. It was warmer this way, too, even though her hair was wet now. He could smell her, the distinctive smell of his Karen.

She took control and fucked him. The rain made them slippery and joyous and a little giddy. Then she came, yowling and then quickly biting her lower lip to stifle the sound, but it was a very long spasm of sweetness, dizzying. Her clutching fingers dug at his naked shoulders, her heavy breasts came forward onto his chest. She was almost sobbing and her toes curled in the twigs and leaves. He licked rain off her ear and she slid on him a few seconds more for a second strong come.

Christ, Karen! said Gene, and this time it was she who knew by his voice what was about to happen. She slapped his arms and he released her, and when her mouth closed over him he clamped his mouth closed. The tents were too close; they had to be quiet, but here it came! He repeated Christ, Karen in a tight whisper and then sobbed as his come slammed through.

Eyes shut tight, rain in her face and on her back, Karen trembled in her excitement. Pulses of warm liquid jetted at the roof of her mouth; his balls slapped her under the chin as he bucked upward.

God, I love this, thought she, exulting. They lay in the rain and breathed together in silence a moment, then guilt drove Gene to his feet to dress.

She put up a hand, and he took it to help her up. Her yellow poncho was easy to find and quick to get into, but the remnants of her panties, white though they were, did not show themselves. In whispers they discussed what was done with them at the time. Both flashlights scoured the ground, fruitlessly.

You just know they'll be so completely obvious in the morning! she moped.

Mmm. Wait, wait! Gene played the beam across her. Bingo. I see 'em; they're stuck to the slicker. He peeled the cloth off and presented it to her. They giggled from relief and embraced again. You were incredible, baby. You always were.

Thanks, Gene. She hugged him tightly, and they stood in the hug a long minute.

Isn't it supposed to rain again? she whispered.

Yeah, tomorrow afternoon and evening, they said, but we haven't heard an update since before— what are you thinking?

Oh— nothing.

~ ~ ~

Serengeti

© Liar

lotus leave dreaming

a vibrant composition

incense and pollen

spinning swirling

grainy fumes

across her

massively dazzling

phantom fragrance

blushing garden

she stands

silhouette posed

with barely visible

viscose and cotton

clinging painted

long day damp

to a never

deliberate

bronze hue

mould of Eve

meadow stretch

savannah below

where mosquitoes

waver and reign

swarming

transparent stacks

matching massive

termite pillars

side by side

she turns

with weary grace

to counter my

lack of speech

through smoked glass

resonance

Is this what you wanted?

I dare not

can not reply

before my stare

does the talking

Nothing else, nevermore.

just before

I find my chord

gravity peels

clinging cotton

off her sun charged

bronze beauty

and she descends

with the sunset

to become

my Serengeti

~ ~ ~

Angie's Waterfall Woes

© Jess Malarkey

Angie Eveready was not given to long bouts of contemplation. She was, in fact, a firm adherent of the if it feels good, do it school of social behavior. But in the wake of her most recent, somewhat-less-than- successful attempt to fulfill her fantasy of making love in the great outdoors, she felt the situation required a good, old-fashioned think.

The perfect place for such deep introspection was stretched out on something resembling a massage table, while a sweet chiropractor named Dr. Ari A. Fresca did all sorts of delicious things to her bare back, and shoulders, and thighs, and bottom.

Her first taste of sylvan sex, a romp in the woods with Ernie, had been a total blast--at first. But it ended in failure when his dog, Buford the Beagle, nosed into the act, so to speak, in a very up-close and personal way.

Then came her near-drowning experience while skinny-dipping. How was she supposed to know that Bruce, the wildlife biology grad student she was giving underwater stimulation, would become so mesmerized by the sight to two damn coons he wouldn't think to let her surface?

Those unsatisfactory experiences lead to second thoughts about her fantasy, not to mention, insect bites, a crick in her neck, muscle strains in her back, a minor concussion, and a spring cold.

That's when Ralph showed up. Like most members of the small student body at Wodehouse College, he was a friend of a friend. They met at an Earth Day planning session.

Ralph was a sharp dresser and fast talker. Many otherwise charitable observers considered him a low-life, slime-ball. Others insisted he was more like a case of persistent jock itch. But he had these soft, puppy-like eyes that, for no discernable reason, gave certain females the mistaken impression they could safely confide in him.

It wasn't long before Angie joined that number, confessing her love of the wilderness and her long-held fantasy of communing with nature by making love in the great out-of-doors. After her third post-planning session beer at Ralph's apartment, she even admitted to her recent failures in this regard. She then granted Ralph a sample of what would be in-store should she ever achieve the long-sought natural nirvana.

All this fired Ralph with an even greater zeal to help Angie fulfill her fantasy. The term even greater is appropriate, for when it came to face and figure, mother nature had been very kind to Angie. She possessed the type of body the late Aldous Huxley would no doubt have described as, pneumatic. While her long legs, shapely bottom and generous bosom diverted the attention of most men, those who managed to lift their gaze would behold an exquisite, Madonna-like face that featured dark-brown eyes, full lips, and a smile that was both beatific and seductive.

It was an accepted truth around campus that whatever Ralph might lack in looks, smarts, and class, he more than made up for with a line of solid-gold BS. Using this skill, he convinced Angie her problem with outdoor sex wasn't the fantasy or setting, but her male partners. She needed a guy who wouldn't bring a dog along or get fixated by two raccoons, someone who had access to a mountain cabin near a waterfall, and who knew everything anyone needed to know about the wilderness. In other words, she needed a fellow nature-lover like Ralph.

By Ralph's somewhat loose standards, he wasn't lying, not really. He did know enough not to bring a dog and wouldn't know a raccoon from a rhino. He also thought that, with a little luck, he might be able to wangle a remote cabin he spent a miserable night in many years ago. To consider his claim that he knew everything anyone needed to know