Coming Together: By Hand

By Alessia Brio

A collection of auto-erotic fiction. All proceeds benefit the Coalition for Positive Sexuality.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Coming Together
• Release date: Nov 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452315256

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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Coming Together: By Hand

Alessia Brio, editor

Copyright © 2010 Alessia Brio

All digital rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover art © 2010 Alessia Brio

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Coming Together Production

www.EroticAnthology.com

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License Notes

Piracy robs authors of the income they need to be able to continue to write books for readers to enjoy. This ebook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of ONE reader only. This ebook may not be re-sold or copied. To do so is not only unethical, it's illegal. This ebook may not be forwarded via email, posted on personal websites, uploaded to file sharing sites, or printed and distributed. To share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each intended recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you, please notify the author immediately. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this—and every—author.

TABLE of CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

ROGER SMITH

LISABET SARAI

ALLISON WONDERLAND

GISELLE RENARDE

MAXIMILIAN LAGOS

MICHELLE HOUSTON

JEAN ROBERTA

T. HIGHWAYMAN

ARYA REWAN

RAZIEL MOORE (a/k/a MONOCLE)

HEATHER LIN

HEIDI CHAMPA

THELONIUS SEXTON

RACHEL KRAMER BUSSEL

C. SANCHEZ-GARCIA

GISELLE RENARDE

JENNA BYRNES

JEAN ROBERTA

ROBERT BUCKLEY

ALESSIA BRIO

ABOUT COMING TOGETHER

WITH SPECIAL THANKS

INTRODUCTION

From the lofty vantage of my late 40s, I can survey the depth and breadth of my sexual knowledge at each stage of my journey. When I look back at what I was taught by the authority figures in my young life, namely my mother and the Roman Catholic Church, it makes me shudder. To have escaped that indoctrination without a lifetime of crippling sexual hang-ups is, indeed, a miracle.

I know now that sex drive, being one of the most powerful forces known to nature, is used by organized religions and others, both individuals and groups, in an attempt to control. Young or old. Male or female or anything in between. Unbridled passions are anathema to those who know what's best for you. (You, after all, cannot be trusted to know what's right for yourself. You are, if you listen to them, weak and unworthy.) As a child, however, I lacked this insight.

Fortunately, I was born a rebel. A strong and worthy rebel. I am ever thankful that nature allowed the deeply recessive gene to surface in me. It certainly was not evident in any branches of the family tree that I could see.

When it comes to sex (no pun intended), I started young. Very young. I recall my first orgasm at 10, although I had no clue what it was called at that time. I just knew it felt good. I also knew my mother wouldn't approve. My childhood memories do not include any of my mother's laughter. None. I remember only her stress; her worry that I would lay down with boys, that I would get a reputation, that I would cause tongues to wag. My mother didn't approve of anything that involved touching your private parts. My brother & I were required to use a wash cloth for bathing so that we didn't have to touch ourselves. Yes, I'm serious.

That first orgasm was the result of masturbation, although I didn't know that word at the time, either. My bestest childhood friend turned me on to it, so to speak. How she discovered that scooting her pre-pubescent, cotton panty-clad crotch against the spinning fuzzy shoe-polishing machine, I do not know. Maybe someday I'll ask her.

I don't think much more than a day or two passed during my fifth grade year when she & I didn't simultaneously polish our pussies on that delightful dual-sided device. We called our orgasms trances and often competed to be the first to reach that state. The times that we peed a little bit in the process... well, those trances were even better. Our ignorance was magical.

It wasn't much longer before we abandoned the electrical device and sought our trances with one another. Although I knew I had to hide my activities from my mother, I felt no guilt, no shame. I assumed my mother was the one who was twisted, that I was normal. The concept of sin simply did not register sexually in the way it did with things like theft or murder or lying.

Fast forward a year. Sixth grade. I got my menses -- and breasts! While I had not yet achieved a trance with a boy, it wasn't for lack of trying. I can think of at least four boys who dipped their fingers into my honey that fall during high school football games. There were probably more, given that there were at least six home games each season, or maybe one or two of them had an encore. We'd sneak across the street and duck between the cars parked on the elementary school playground. There, on the crushed grass where kids played dodge ball during the day, I allowed George, Keith, and the Scott twins to finger me. None on the same night, mind you. I wasn't that progressive... yet.

My mother gave me a pamphlet about sex that year, shortly after I started my period. It was published by the Roman Catholic Church. Amidst the basic biology, it delivered dire warnings about sins of the flesh. Not only was I not to allow anyone else to touch me, I was not to touch myself. If I felt sinful impulses, I was to pray. Just pray. Well, I knew a faster and more effective way to make the sinful impulses subside... for a little while, anyway.

My seventh grade year was dominated by a new-to-me sensation: desire. Not desire for orgasm, with which I was already quite familiar, but desire for a specific person. Keith was the proverbial bad boy in the neighborhood. He was bigger than the other boys in my school, having been held back at least one grade. He smoked cigarettes and weed. He shaved. He had chest hair. He was a worldly rebel with a mysterious much older brother who told him stories about all sorts of naughtiness. I think, in hindsight, this older brother was probably in jail somewhere. I never saw him. My father threatened Keith's life on more than one occasion.

By 1976, my mother had taken to going to early Sunday morning mass. My brother & I were given the option of either attending mass Saturday evenings or later on Sunday mornings. He chose the former. I, the latter. Keith's house sat smack dab in the middle of the quarter-mile walk between my house and the church. I rarely made it past that point. I'd slip into his house, often mere seconds after his parents left for church, and into his bed almost every Sunday morning for a year.

I'm not sure how I managed to not get caught, but I am absolutely certain I learned more at Keith's house on Sunday mornings than I ever would have at church. Those lessons included my first orgasm with a boy, my first tactile exploration of a bare penis, and the first time I felt the electrifying sensation of a tongue against my clitoris. I also learned how much information was omitted from or misrepresented in that pamphlet my mother had given me. Nowhere in that publication was there any indication that sex could feel so damned good. How, I wondered, could they possibly miss that?

It didn't occur to me—at the tender age of twelve—that a church could be disingenuous; that it would intentionally seek to mislead its flock. I naively believed that religions were paragons of the virtues they espoused.

A year later, flat on my back under a tree on the dark riverbank with a gorgeous long-haired stranger several years older and several times stronger, I felt my first twinges of sexual fear. He was clearly intending to have intercourse, and I wasn't at all confident he'd take no for an answer. I wasn't overly protective of my virginity, but I didn't want to lose it like that: outside, cold, uncomfortable, and with someone I barely knew. He could've taken what he wanted from me, but he didn't. He was quite gracious, in fact. Almost gallant in his disappointment. Until that experience, I'd never heard the word rape or considered the possibility that sex could be anything but consensual and enjoyable for all involved. My once magical ignorance had become dangerous.

That loss of emotional innocence was far more profound to me than the loss of my physical virginity some six years later with a boy I dearly loved in the warmth and safety of his bed and his arms. I hated the introduction of fear into an area of my life that had, until that point, been nothing but fun & frolic. It really pissed me off, though I lacked the means to capture & express these feelings.

Did this potentially disastrous experience change my sexual behavior? Yes and no. I still had a hearty appetite for pleasure, but I turned my attentions back to their origins. Girls seemed safer. I could defend myself against another girl. The playing field was leveler and our topographies similar. I knew the turf. It surprised me to learn that not all girls wanted to fool around with other girls. What was this madness?

I look back on those critical, sexually formative years, and it's a marvel I emerged unscathed. They were, I think, somewhat less treacherous times. HIV and AIDS were a few years from interfering with our bliss. Protection simply referred to birth control.

Throughout my pre-teen and teenage years, there was no adult authority figure with whom I could discuss my experiences. Not one. The Internet was a couple decades from its maturity, and printed reference material was—as far as I knew—limited to dry, clinical publications & grossly misleading church pamphlets. There wasn't anyone to ask about the fluid that dampened my panties, about vibrators or other toys, about swallowing semen, about having sex during my period.

Luckily—and it was most definitely luck, because I made some damned stupid decisions—I never got pregnant unintentionally, contracted an STD, or was raped. Trial and error is not how I want my children to learn about sex. Nor do I want their sex ed limited to the mechanics of procreation. I don't expect them to bring their questions to me, even though I've tried to make it clear I'm receptive. I'm mom. It's awkward. That's why I'm glad there are resources like the Coalition for Positive Sexuality readily available online where they can get frank answers anonymously.

peace & passion,

~ Alessia Brio

www.purpleprosaic.com

YOU FIRST

Roger Smith

It seems a shame for your orgasm to be obscured by mine.

I can hardly prevent it from happening as I see you rising mightily to your peak; mine urges me to not withhold.

We began with a delicious porn video

darker woman lighter man

better to see the contrast of his hands

thighs

throat

penis

but it is she who holds command by bending over him.

Her panties cover her luscious ass

the best view hovering over his long seated body

pulling his jeans down

her scanties slipping slightly

just the top tip of her gluteus crevice shown.

You are composed, slowing circling your swollen pussy

A divine wallowing breath like a sweet chain of sighs

as your body relieves you of captured inhabitants

of deleterious weeks.

I crave your glances

your eye settling on my chest

then down to watch both my hands

fingers cradling my