Whetting the Appetite

By Elizabeth L. Brooks and Lynn Townsend

Romance and erotica authors Lynn Townsend and Elizabeth L. Brooks have joined forces to assemble this collection of "flash-fiction" ultra-short stories generated in response to prompts offered by fans and friends and touching on dozens of aspects of lust, love, and desire.

The stories in this collection span contemporary, historical, steampunk, fantasy, sci-fi, and horror, taking you from a modern living room to the high seas to Victorian London to planets and times at the edge of imagination. Explore relationships all along the romantic and erotic spectrums, including the thrill of a one-night stand, the fierce burn of rivalry, the heady flush of new romance, the intense trust of BDSM, and all the pros and cons of long-term partnerships. Meet characters who defy conventional gender boundaries, including a preoperative transmale, several aliens, and a few characters whose genders are left open to reader interpretation. Sexual orientations on display vary nearly as widely, with groupings that include M/F, M/M, F/F, and F/F/M -- not to mention those aliens!

With 46 stories to choose from, there's something here for every moment and mood, something to whet any appetite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Sep 22, 2013
• ISBN: 9781611525700

Elizabeth L. Brooks

Masquerading by day as an uptight corporate cog, Elizabeth L. Brooks spends her nights concocting gleefully smutty stories in a wide span of worlds, genres, and orientations. When she's not writing or editing, she enjoys a wide range of generally nerdy hobbies, including reading, photography, tabletop games, geeky yarncraft, and silly smartphone games. Her safeword is "Oxford comma." For more information, please visit everyworldneedslove.blogspot.com.

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Whetting the Appetite

By Elizabeth L. Brooks and Lynn Townsend

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth L. Brooks and Lynn Townsend

ISBN 9781611525700

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Acknowledgments

The authors would like to thank the following people for suggesting prompts used for many of the stories in this collection: Elizabeth R., Kirsten S., Kim M., Bert S., Cathy W., Jeanne G., Carrie K-G., B.A. Tortuga, Richard C.

Dedications

To Roarke and Courtney—and the rest of the crew—at the Cafe Moka, without whom this effort would have been somewhat less caffeinated.

A portion of the proceeds will be given to the International Still’s Disease Foundation for their efforts in combating this rare and often misunderstood disease. Please visit them at http://www.stillsdisease.org for more information.

—Lynn

There are so many people to thank for inspiring and encouraging me, that to attempt to name them all would be futile. To everyone who beta-read, egged me on, or just listened to me grumble when a story deadline was upon me and I hadn’t written anything else…you know who you are, and I am deeply grateful.

—Elizabeth

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Whetting the Appetite

By Elizabeth L. Brooks and Lynn Townsend

Table of Contents:

Foreword

Unsaid by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Two Tents, Part 1 by Lynn Townsend

Home Inspection by Lynn Townsend

Fat Girls Don’t Ask by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Dreamsong by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Serving Dinner by Lynn Townsend

Crises of Faith by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Away Games by Lynn Townsend

Cookie Dough by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Magical by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Two Tents, Part 2 by Lynn Townsend

Watching You by Lynn Townsend

Carnival Corners by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Mouse Games by Lynn Townsend

Before the Party by Elizabeth L. Brooks

After the Party by Lynn Townsend

As If It’s Real by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Serving Drinks by Lynn Townsend

Xe by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Morning Exercise by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Two Tents, Part 3 by Lynn Townsend

Acceptable Fuss by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Pirate’s Prisoner by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Ripped by Lynn Townsend

After Hours by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Room for Dessert by Lynn Townsend

Feather Time by Elizabeth L. Brooks

A Man with an Agenda by Lynn Townsend

Zach’s Man by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Good Karma by Lynn Townsend

Sowing Unity by Lynn Townsend

Simon Says by Elizabeth L. Brooks

On the Job Training by Lynn Townsend

Storybook Hero by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Flip by Lynn Townsend

Surrender by Lynn Townsend

Fair Deal by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Go Down with the Ship by Lynn Townsend

Autumn Leaf by Elizabeth L. Brooks

In Her Head by Lynn Townsend

Download by Lynn Townsend

Tradeoffs by Elizabeth L. Brooks

The Woman with the Blue Tattoo by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Ephemera by Lynn Townsend

The BoyMart by Lynn Townsend

I Want by Elizabeth L. Brooks

Foreword

When I was approached to write this foreword by the authors, I was awed and humbled. I have come to know these two highly skilled women through a shared publishing house, and a communal sense of humor and appreciation of the random, quirky, and erotically enjoyable aspects of life’s bumpy highway.

As a writer of several published M/M and M/F romance novels, I know that my forte is the novel, and not the short story. Writing short stories is not for everyone. Even those who call themselves authors, such as me, realize that those who pen a short are skilled mapmakers.

Who else could chart out quick literary journeys of but a few miles while taking us on a trip that is just as fulfilling as a year-long quest? The short story writer is a master of choosing just the right route through a landscape of unneeded words. They know innately which road to show us for the ultimate visual aspect each chosen word will give us.

The two women whose works fill these pages are among the elite of the literary cartographers. Their narratives will lead you down erotic roadways that weave through wonderful landscapes ranging from carnivals to cats, dark creatures and darker desires, with an occasional sojourn into the lands of voyeurism, bondage, romantic love, science fiction, and succubae.

As you read through each tale that Lynn and Elizabeth have mapped out, you’ll find yourself traveling over pathways both familiar and strange. Each boulevard they have charted is filled with twists, sensuality, and serpentine side roads to both heaven and hell. I am sure you will be drawn off the beaten path by the stories collected here for you. As a fellow author of the passionate and the romantic, I know exactly how thrilling finding those amorous lanes can be.

V. L. Locey

author of the To Love a Wildcat sports romance series

Middlebury Center, PA

Unsaid by Elizabeth L. Brooks

What do you want to do tonight?

I want you to tie me down. I want you to spend at least half an hour just taking off my clothes, and then another hour teasing me and dancing me on the edge of climax without ever letting me drop off, no matter how much I beg for it. I want you to take another hour—or more—and find out how many times you can make me come. And in between, I want to watch as you kneel over me and jack off. I want you to fuck my mouth and my breasts and my aching, needy pussy. I want to watch your face as you come.

I don’t know. You have any ideas?

I want you to strip me naked and stand me against the wall, my arms spread and my hands braced against that unyielding surface as you caress my shoulders with the tails of the flogger. I want you to whip my back and my ass and my thighs, until my skin is so raw that even the passage of air makes it sting. Until I’m forced to beg for mercy. I want you to threaten my cock with it, to tickle it with those leather tails, still warm with my own heat, until my prick is so hard it weeps and leaps with excitement at the touch. I want to store up that sweet pain like a camel so I can live on it for days, to make my own skin a reminder of your power over me.

We could go to the movies, if there’s something on worth watching?

The vibrator is nestled snugly against my clit, and even without turning it on, its shape and pressure taunt me. I am fidgeting; it’s an effort of will not to rock my hips, not to make that nub of plastic push and stretch me out of myself. The car stops, and I allow myself one small thrust against the firm leather of the seat as you walk around to open the door for me. You come back into view and you smile at me, through the window, and one hand slips inside your coat pocket. I jump as, gentle and insistent, the vibrator comes to life. I can feel the blush climbing my cheeks as I look up at you, and your smile widens as you open the door and offer your hand. I take it: I will need your support well before we reach our seats, it seems.

A movie could be fun, I guess. Maybe a walk in the park, after?

The scent of fresh-cut grass mingles with that of your hair as you lean back against my chest. I push my cock against the curve of your ass and I feel, more than hear, your chuckle. You stand behind the park bench, leaning only slightly forward, your hands resting on its back as if you are posing for a portrait. From behind you, I lift your skirt and slide your panties down. Only a moment later my prick is seeking your depths. My hands cover yours as we rock together, but as the need mounts, such delicate restraint ceases to serve me. My arms wrap around you, hands closing on your breasts, and I pull you tightly back against me, tighter, tighter, tighter still, as if through sheer will I could meld us into a single being. You tip your head back, nestling it into the hollow of my shoulder, giving yourself to me entirely, your eyes closed to the expansive brilliance of the night sky.

I like the way you think.

Do you truly, my love? Do you know that I want to feel your hand fisted in my hair and forcing me to my knees? Or that I’ve dreamed of standing you in my bedroom door, your fingertips straining to hold the frame and your breath hissing between your teeth as I mark that beautiful skin of yours with a crop? Do you like the way I think about submitting to you and forcing you to submit to me by turns, trading in the normal for something far more zesty and complex? Do I dare risk asking?

Only because we think so much alike.

Oh, I hope that’s true. You’re so amazing and I haven’t allowed myself hope in so long, but I hope you do think of the things I think of. I hope we think alike about the excitement of taking risks, about the submission inherent in dominance, and about the ultimate power of submissiveness. I want to put you in a blindfold and force you down into your own skin; and I want you to put a cockring on me and pull me out of mine. I hope we both share this desire to experiment, to experience. Could it be true, that we think so much alike? I could ask. I could throw off this veneer, this wrapper of normality and just ask…It would be a risk, but if we do think so much alike, it would be worth it, so very worth it. I should ask. I should. But do I dare?

…

Do I dare?

On second thought…What if we just stayed in tonight?

Two Tents, Part 1 by Lynn Townsend

The swearing was only barely louder than the storm, but that was saying quite a bit, as the storm was raging down the mountainside like Alecto with a bad case of PMS. Guil tilted his head to one side, trying to pick out the colorful language between the cymbal crashes of thunder.

…son of an AIDS-infested weasel… It was a woman’s voice, not shrill, but fierce. Whoever the weasel’s bastard was, Guil felt sorry for him when this woman caught up with him. "…not have trusted him…crush him with his own fancy car!" Crash, thud. Rustle. She was close to Guil’s tent now. He sighed. The weather was terrible, and it was well past sundown. This was no time for someone to be wandering around blind in the woods. He didn’t get much vacation and he didn’t really want to spend any of it sealed in his tent with an angry woman. An angry, wet woman. And yet, he’d feel terribly guilty if he heard later that a camper was lost, or eaten by a bear in the Appalachians. Amateurs. They should make people get a license to camp out in the wilderness.

Ma’am? Guil unzipped the inner lining of his tent and stepped into the tent’s foyer, the enclosed area used to shake off snow—or in this case, not track muddy boots all over the sleeping bags. He pulled an emergency pack with him; it contained a towel, spare clothing, and a few other necessities, sealed in a waterproof bag. It had only taken one bad flood where he’d ended up in the river, tent and all, to start preparing for all the worst outcomes in camping. Once inside, he closed off the main tent; it was pleasantly warm and toasty in his sleeping space. Are you lost, ma’am?

The crashing, cursing whirlwind stopped, flashlight flicking along the ground, nearly blotted out by the driving rain. I know exactly where I am, she spat. She clawed a hand across her face, clearing the tangle of hair from her eyes. My tent, on the other hand, seems to have had an appointment it neglected to tell me about and has run off…that way. She waved the flashlight in a southern direction.

Why don’t you come in, dry off? Guil gestured. You won’t find it tonight. I’ll help you look in the morning?

Why?

Why what? Guil twitched an eyebrow up. Why, in the name of all that was holy, was she arguing with him?

Why would you help me?

What, are you from New York?

She snorted. Right. Southern hospitality extends to tents? She hesitated, apparently trying to judge his character through the pouring rain. She took a few steps and ducked under the tent flap. The woman was soaked to the skin. Her hair clung to her face in colorless tangles, snarled with leaves and bits of tree branches. Clothing too sodden to provide protection dragged her down, tugging at her shoulders and hips. The only feature he could see clearly was her eyes, wide and a deep, mossy green, fringed with long lashes beaded with rain.

I’m Guilford Kendricks. My friends call me Guil.

Lane Wilson. She shivered and offered him one raisin-hand in greeting, the skin clammy. And right now, you’re the only friend I have, so whatever you want to call me, I’ll probably answer. Thanks. Her lips trembled with cold and it was entirely inappropriate of him to notice how full and perfect they were, the bottom lip curving into a sweet, kissable pout.

Not at all. Here. They’ll be big on you, but at least they’re dry. He handed her the bag. Towel, comb, and other stuff, too. I was a Boy Scout in a previous life.

She stared at him, bag clutched loosely to her chest. Um…

Don’t worry, he said, unzipping the inner lining. The tent is pretty big. I’ll leave you to your privacy. Just come in when you’re changed.

Lane dropped her flashlight onto the tent’s plastic floor and was digging through the bag like a starving woman before he’d even zipped down the separator. He pulled out a spare camp stool and set it up, then lounged on his sleeping bag. There was very little that was roughing it about his campsite. He was a fan of wilderness and being alone with the vastness of nature, but he spent ten months of the year on a bunk in the middle of the ocean on an oil rig; Guil wasn’t about to give up one moment of creature comfort.

Against the wall, like some sort of sexual torture device, Lane’s flashlight cast her shadow as she stripped. He still didn’t really know what her face looked like, aside from those luscious lips and wide eyes, but her body was certainly something to write home about. Long legs and softly rounded hips shimmied out of her hiking pants, vengefully kicking the sopping fabric to one side. She pulled up a pair of sweat pants and swore as they fell around her ankles. She bent over, giving him a tempting silhouette of sweet, rounded ass, then jerked the sweats into place and tied