All works Copyright Alessia Brio or Alessia Brio and Will Belegon

fine flickering hungers - Buy Now

The shrill alarm jarred Stormy into consciousness. Her bare arm darted from beneath the sheets and swatted the snooze button, knocking the clock onto the floor. Dazed, she freed herself from the tangled bedclothes and struggled to her feet. She didn't feel as if she'd slept at all, in spite of turning in fairly early. Restless didn't even begin to describe her night. "Damned deadlines!" she cursed.

This particular deadline, more so than any other in her brief career, weighed very heavily on Stormy's mind. She desperately wanted to nail a major account, and this was her big chance: her chance to really make a name for herself. A successful ad campaign would certainly open doors, and it would prove that she'd made the right decision in turning hobby into vocation.

Just over a year ago, Stormy burst onto the advertising scene. New in town and with no real experience or training in the field, she surprised the industry insiders with her gutsy ideas. Her freelance work caught the eye of a seasoned agency exec and, with a mixture of relief and regret, she accepted his job offer. Although she ultimately wanted to start her own company, the lure of a steady income was just too seductive. Since then, she'd been routinely cranking out quality work that, for some inexplicable reason, just wasn't producing the expected sales.

Stormy poured all her energies into her work, leaving precious little time for a social--much less a sex--life. She was good at it, and she knew it, which only heightened the frustration when her material was not as well received as she'd anticipated. She felt she really needed to pull off a major coup: an elusive campaign that succeeded beyond anyone's wildest expectations. It would give her the name recognition needed to successfully launch her own business.

Her company announced the challenge on Friday afternoon, three days ago. Not a competition . Oh, no! That word was too laden with--well, competitiveness. Advertising executives, ever attuned to nuance, instead challenged the staff to produce, by one week from Monday, the outline of a multimedia ad campaign for a big new client. As incentive, the employee best rising to the challenge secured the position of lead project manager for that campaign with the freedom to handpick the project team.

As she drew her bath, Stormy recalled the rampant speculation preceding the announcement. Who was the client? What were they selling? Why an agency-wide challenge instead of just a regular assignment? Management assured them that the details would be revealed at four-thirty, on the dot. It was so typical of an ad agency to make a big announcement that there would soon be a bigger announcement. First rule of advertising: hype the hype!

At precisely half past four, the P.A. system crackled to life.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have been blessed with an unprecedented opportunity," the voice of the CEO boomed. "We have been given the chance to succeed where several of our major competitors have failed. If--no, WHEN--we succeed, we will have landed the largest account in the history of this firm. I know you will each give this challenge your best effort.

"The client is the government of Costa Rica. Tourism is a major source of income for this country. However, that income fluctuates significantly throughout the year due to the vagaries of the weather. The challenge, therefore, is to produce a multi-media ad campaign intended to increase tourism by at least fifty percent during the country's rainy season.

"The deadline is nine o'clock sharp Monday morning, ten days hence. Get busy."

For the last few minutes of the workweek, an eerie silence encompassed the office. Staff spent what typically would have been a time of jovial chitchat about weekend plans deep in thought. Everyone retreated to their cubicles and put on their proverbial thinking caps. Challenge indeed! What could be more of a challenge than making a vacation destination appealing in bad weather?

Over the weekend, Stormy immersed herself in the project. The Internet produced a trove of information about Costa Rica. All very interesting, but the ideas--brilliant or otherwise--continued to elude her. She flipped on the television and plopped onto the sofa with her coffee, mulling over what she'd learned. The Central American rainy season lasted from May through November, with the Pacific slope getting the most rain in September and October. She also learned that the Pacific slope featured the country's most popular tourist attractions: the active Arenal volcano with its hot springs and the Monteverde cloud forest.

Why , she pondered, would anyone want to go there this time of year? Was there a particular demographic group that could be targeted? The answers completely escaped her. Perhaps, Stormy told herself, she should just go there and find out for herself.

Impulsively, back on the Internet, she had no trouble finding a last minute spot on an abbreviated five-day/four-night Costa Rican tour. The charter flight departed Pittsburgh in less than four hours. Her passport was still valid. She had--just barely--enough cash. With surprisingly little internal debate, Stormy convinced herself to go for it. She dialed her supervisor's line and got through to the receptionist.

"Della, it's Stormy. I won't be in today. In fact, I won't be in all week. I'm going to take my vacation now, if that's okay with What's-his-face ."

Della giggled. What's-his-face , their supervisor, was notorious for his inability to remember anyone's name. The staff returned the courtesy by bestowing the nickname. "I'm sure it will be, but what about--you know-- the challenge ? I figured you'd be all over it by now."

"I am, sugar. I am." Stormy explained, "I'm going to Costa Rica."

"Oh!" Della exclaimed, and after a pause to digest the significance of that revelation added, "You go, girl!"

"Do me a favor, will you? Please don't tell anyone where I'm going."

Erotique - Buy Now

"You've gotta be kidding me!" Bruce took the proffered legal document and scanned it. "That's just so ... so Scooby Doo."

Mandy snickered as she dove into her taco salad. "Wanna hear the best part? I have to do it on the next full moon."

"Amazing. Just amazing. Where is this place, anyway? If it's in a rough neighborhood, I'm going with you."

"Oh, come on! Don't tell me you've never heard of it? It's only the most celebrated sex shop in Philly, maybe even on the entire east coast." Mandy fished in her backpack and pulled out a glossy catalog. "This," she said, proudly handing it to Bruce, "is Erotique."

"Oh! Okay, I'm a little slow. I just put two and two together. So, your great aunt is ... was the notorious Miss Vivian? I'd no idea."

"Yup. I come from a long line of lusty ladies who've used sex--in one way or another--to succeed in this man's world," she winked. "The shop's been in the family for generations. My great-great grandmother opened it in 1897 as a treatment center for 'hysteria.' It was one of the first places in the city to have electricity which, of course, powered the equipment. Once upon a time, there were eighteen electro-mechanical vibrators in operation from the time the shop opened in the morning until it closed in the evening. She made a small fortune. Booked months in advance. Regular customers, too, from affluent families. They just kept--pardon my pun--coming."

Bruce just shook his head, still absorbing the news.

"As more and more households got electricity, she gradually shifted from selling the service to selling the actual merchandise for home use. And, she made sure her products were always cheaper than the model Sears advertised as 'a device for anxiety and female tension.' Those mainstream promotions disappeared in the 1930s, when the porn industry made it impossible to overlook a vibrator's true purpose. Even so, a few of the 'climax closets'--as Aunt Viv called 'em--stayed in operation clear through World War II. Her predecessor, my great-great aunt Sophie, even accepted ration coupons in payment: sugar, coffee, gasoline, shoes."

"Whoa! Slow down," Bruce interjected. "Where'd you get all this information, anyway?"

Mandy shrugged, "I grew up with it. Some of it was bound to sink in. It's fascinating stuff, huh?"

"And it's all yours now--the whole enchilada? That makes you a very wealthy woman."

"Not yet," Mandy reminded him. "First, I have to meet the terms of her will and spend the night in the shop--alone.

Switch - Buy Now

Amanda Long nudged open the office door with her toe and finished the job with her hip. The large box she held blocked her view of Bruce, who sat at the large desk. He pecked at the keyboard with two fingers, a deep crease in his brow.

"Little help here, stud?" she called with just a hint of annoyance in her voice. "This is heavy."

Bruce grunted his displeasure at the interruption as he circled the desk to relieve Mandy of her burden. "Lemme guess," his tone softening somewhat when he felt its weight, "you're adding bowling balls to the inventory?"

"Just batteries, Einstein. Most vibrators need batteries, after all. I thought it was a logical addition."

With a heavy sigh, Mandy plopped onto the sofa. While she loved running Erotique , the famous sex toy shop and museum took nearly all her time and energy. Bruce's, too. It seemed they spent more nights on the inflatable mattress in the cramped office than they did in their nice new apartment.

"Over there," she pointed in response to his unspoken question, and watched with weary admiration as he effortlessly placed the box where indicated. Even through the pinpoint oxford, his shoulders were quite impressive. When he joined her on the sofa, she swung her opposite leg across his lap and straddled him in one fluid motion.

"I'm sorry I've been such a bitch lately. We're both working way too hard. We need more play time, and I don't just mean sex--although more of that would be nice, too. So tell me, counselor," she continued after a conciliatory kiss, "is this lawsuit going forward?"

Bruce shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "That's what I was working on when you came in. It's the price of success, Man. The vultures smell a great big liability policy. Their case is without merit and they know it. They're just hopin' you'll settle for fifty grand or so just to make 'em go away. Might not be a bad idea, y'know. Insurance'll cover the settlement, and I'll take a blow job in lieu of my attorney fee. It's a steal, I tell ya."

"There is no way I'm settling! That'd be like hanging a sign over the door: Frivolous Lawsuits Welcome . As for your fee," she paused to wiggle her bottom in an intentionally stirring manner, "do you barter this way with all your clients?"

"Only the feisty entrepreneurs who give incredible head," Bruce confessed with a wink. "Let's go home tonight, Man. It's supposed to storm--the first real thunderstorm of the season--and I want to spend it in our new bed with you wrapped around me."

Amichu - Buy Now

Bruce woke to bright sunshine on his face and, before remembering he was tethered to Mandy, rolled over. The clamp pinched as it slipped off his nipple, pulling a few hairs out in the process. His yelp woke Mandy, who sat up and disconnected the other end of the nipple clamps from her own bare chest.

"Is it too early to say, 'I told you so'?"

"Hey, it was worth a try, Man. It was the first good thunderstorm we've had since that crazy mattress picnic night. I couldn't pass up the opportunity. Don't you want to repeat the whole body swap experience? I sure as hell do. And, y'know, if we can consistently duplicate the conditions and patent a process, we'll be rich. Filthy lucre to feed our filthy appetites!" Bruce attempted the Belushi eyebrow wiggle, with comical results, and Mandy laughed as she swatted him with a pillow.

"And, what if we couldn't get switched back again? What then? Much as I adored fucking you senseless, I'd rather be the female me."

"Yeah, and I prefer being your sexy, insatiable stud attorney--but there was so much we didn't even get a chance to try! We could spend many a thunderstorm exploring one another from the other side."

"Look at it this way--most couples don't even get one such opportunity. We're way ahead of the game." Mandy stood, stretched, and turned toward the bathroom. "Scrub my back?" she called over her shoulder.

"Woof! Or," he grinned, "should I say 'woofa'?"

"Come into my chambers, counselor. I'll give you that verdict after you've presented your case." With a wink, Mandy sauntered toward the shower.

Coming Together: Special Hurricane Relief Edition - Buy Now

A sharp rap on her door woke Stormy on Tuesday morning, the low-tech equivalent of a wake up call. "Okay! I'm up!" she responded, struggling to get her bearings. They had all agreed to start early in order to make the most of what was likely to be the driest portion of the day, and by the time they breakfasted, the van had arrived. Their destination: la catarata — the waterfall.

The steep hike to the base consisted mostly of rough stairs carved into the hillside, but the stunning view of the narrow 700-meter cascade made them forget the struggle and gasp in appreciation. Dense foliage bordered the small clearing at the base of path, and the rich scents of moss and fern hung in the air. After a brief rest, Shelly and Bruce decided to take a dip in the inviting pool formed by the falls. Max and Rob sat on a nearby bench, talking quietly and taking an occasional photograph. Their small group currently had the place all to themselves.

Bruce stripped down to his boxers, and Shelly began shedding her clothes. He had a very nice chest sprinkled with sandy brown hair and, it startled Stormy to discover, one nipple pierced with a tiny silver hoop. Beneath her oxford shirt and Capri jeans, Shelly wore a snug white tank top and white thong panties. These things, she left on. She had an athletic build, as did Bruce, and it was obvious that fitness was important to them—not so much from a perspective of vanity, Stormy surmised, but for the vitality it brought.

Stormy watched as they eased themselves into the water, its temperature evident by their startled reactions. No sooner were they both waist-deep in the water than a soft and steady rain began to fall. Familiar feelings immediately flooded Stormy, and she glanced over her shoulder just in time to see Rob and Max slipping away to a more secluded spot. When she turned back around, Stormy was not at all surprised to find Bruce and Shelly again fondling one another.

Shelly's breasts looked inviting in her clingy white, and now wet, tank top. Not huge, and no doubt not as perky as in her youth, but very aesthetically pleasing with a roundness that just begged to be squeezed and dark nipples in contrast to the surrounding skin. Bruce began showering them with the attention they so obviously craved, and Stormy reacted with a burning desire to be on both the giving and the receiving ends of that attention.

She was jolted from her admiring reverie when Shelly suddenly motioned for her to join them. Even knowing that they were alone, Stormy reflexively looked behind her in a questioning "Who? Me?" gesture. Receiving enthusiastic nods from both, she hesitated only momentarily before beginning to undress. She'd considered wearing her swimsuit beneath her clothes, but had decided against it at the last minute. Thus, it was bra and panties or nothing at all.

Nearly blinded by the ferocious, rain-induced appetite for skin, Stormy hurriedly piled all her clothes—undergarments, too—on the split log bench and covered them with the nylon windbreaker she'd had tied around her waist. While not particularly comfortable parading around naked, preferring her trysts to be by candlelight, Stormy felt gloriously liberated by the Costa Rican rain.

Taking Shelly's hand with her left and Bruce's with her right, she entered the water and their welcoming embrace. Sandwiched between this passionate couple, Stormy could feel Bruce's rigid cock against her belly. In contrast to the frigid water, it felt delightfully hot. So, too, did Shelly's hands as they reached around from behind to cup Stormy's bare breasts. With strong fingers pinching and rolling her nipples, Stormy lifted her head and met Bruce's mouth with all the fervor of the previous day's unfulfilled desire.

Moving her hands, which had been glued to Bruce's tight ass, Stormy found the waistband of his boxers and slipped both inside to encircle his cock. She lowered her mouth to his nipple ring which, given the difference in their heights, didn't require much of a dip. Not quite sure about its sensitivity, Stormy tentatively flicked it with her tongue and delighted to the sound of Bruce wonderfully erotic moan. Stormy found the soft, involuntary sounds of passion electrifying, and as she intensified her efforts, Bruce rewarded her with many more. Her hands, wrists nearly together, formed a tight orifice, which he fucked with increasing vigor, while her fingers massaged the sensitive areas on balls and beyond at the apex of each thrust.

Meanwhile, Shelly dropped to her knees and delicately kissed Stormy's lower back, just above the water line. The backs of her hands, starting at the ankles, traveled with tormenting slowness up the insides of Stormy's legs. The sharp contrast between Bruce's animalistic lunges and Shelly's teasing caresses drove Stormy wild.

San Diego Sunset - Buy Now

He awoke with the image in his mind again: the beach at sunset with the cliffs behind him and the mysterious dark-haired woman in his arms. The same exact dream for months now! They lay naked on a towel, khaki clothing tossed carelessly to the sand nearby, entwined in the reverent stillness that so often follows urgent sex. He inevitably woke at just the wrong moment--right before she told him her name.

Mornings seemed colder when he had the dream for some reason. The aftereffects only intensified as winter came into its power and the wind whistled up the Columbia River. The Portland wind always carried a little chill, but lately it stole more than the warmth of his coffee. It seemed as though it dimmed the dawn--as if the sun could light his way but not warm his shoulders. The feeling would evaporate with the dew, only to return in a few nights when the dream recurred. It was bittersweet, because although the next morning felt empty, it held a comfort as well: a feeling of purpose that had been lacking in his life since he moved north. The days after the dream inevitably produced a breakthrough or a conclusion, as though just the presence of the mysterious woman in the back of his mind could free him to look at things in fresh ways and find new solutions to old problems. She was a paradox, a calming presence that drove his life in uncomfortable directions. The days when she did not spring to mind were both less stressful and less complete.

He was sure he had the beach nailed down. It was Black's Beach, in his hometown. While he had never been down on the sand, he had seen many pictures. An ex-girlfriend regularly sunbathed there, and she had told him how to get down the cliffs or walk along the beach from La Jolla Shores. What did not seem to jibe was that in his dreams the beach was always deserted. Black's Beach was one of the very few in the United States where nudity was tolerated, if no longer strictly legal, and his memories of pictures and conversations about Black's almost always involved a steady crowd despite the difficulty of access.

That Friday afternoon, the last weekday before Christmas, he decided that the time had come to figure out exactly why his subconscious created the recurring dream and mystery woman. It wasn't a difficult decision to make, given the allure of his destination. His job was the only thing holding him in Portland for the holidays, and work would not be a problem. His boss had been riding him since Thanksgiving about how--once again--the end of the year was upon them with only half his vacation time used. The sense of restlessness was starting to gnaw at the edges of his contentment. He wasn't unhappy in the Pacific northwest. He enjoyed his career and colleagues. Portland's people were friendly, and it had enough of the big city feel to keep him happy. Yet, with just a short drive, he could reach Skamania County on the Columbia River gorge and feel disconnected from his Monday through Friday grind. But, his life lacked something. It was just a feeling sometimes: an empty chair in the corner that looked wrong; walking outside the office on his lunch break and being halfway to his car before realizing he had absolutely no idea where he was going; standing in the hallway before leaving, patting his pockets and checking in his satchel, certain that something had been forgotten but unable to imagine what it might be. So he sat down at his desk, circled the week between Christmas and New Year's, cleared his calendar of appointments, and started planning his trip.

He still wasn't sure that it made a lot of sense, but he booked the flight anyway. What compelled him to make it at that time? Sure, his boss would like that it used another week of this year's paid time off, but he hated to travel during the holidays. The added stressors made people grouchy and annoyed. Lines were longer, too, with kids headed home from college and grandparents complaining about everything except seeing their grandchildren. He hoped he would never again accidentally overhear a gallbladder operation story. It just seemed like the trip had to be that week.

He expected to encounter significant barriers to such last-minute holiday travel. Thus, the mystery intensified when he was able to effortlessly reserve the last available room at his first choice of hotels and book the only remaining seat on the flight he wanted. He considered himself pretty skeptical, shunning the notion that something as ethereal as fate could influence his life path. Preordination got in the way and made his sense of adventure meaningless. After all, you weren't cheating death if you were meant to die twenty years later, right? Fate, destiny, and all that metaphysical crap were just ways for people to manipulate themselves away from the harder choices. Why work at something, after all, if you could just accept that it wasn't meant to happen?

Phaze Fantasies, Vol. I - Buy Now

Charlie watched as Stormy finished her beer, kicked off her sandals, and waded into the darkness of the surf—holding her skirt high on her legs and laughing at the sheer joy of it. Leaving the group behind, she walked along the shore. He waited a few moments, then strolled up the beach to join her.

"See what I mean?" she asked when he caught up to her and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She rested her head backward onto his shoulder. "It's in the air. We have to figure out a way to promote it without spoiling it. I want people to take a piece of this peace home with them and make their own lives more...more..."

"Peaceful?" Charlie prompted.

She turned, kissed him, then gave his backside a playful smack. "Smart ass! I'm serious about this. It's not just about business anymore. I really do believe we can make the world a better place—one vacationer at a time, perhaps, but still..."

"One drop raises the ocean."

"Exactly! I knew you—of all people—would understand." Stormy melted into his arms. "I've missed you!"

They stood in the ankle-deep surf, kissing and swaying gently with the tide. "We've been apart too long," Stormy mumbled against his neck. "Your skin tastes new to me...unfamiliar. Now I'm gonna have to learn you all over—all over again—and I think I'd like to start right now. Hope you don't have a problem with that."

Without waiting for a reply, Stormy reached for his belt buckle. Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of bodies around the bonfire, feeling exposed but reminding himself that they were probably beyond the reach of the fire's light—not that any of their new acquaintances would mind if he got a blow job on the beach. He knew better than to thwart Stormy—again. While he'd no doubts about the sincerity of her desire, he also knew she pushed the envelope of daring because he'd opted not to ride in the back seat with her: Stormy's version of payback.

She whipped his belt from its loops with one insistent yank and tossed it onto the dry sand a few feet away; its clank sounded unnatural—out of place—against the backdrop of the waves. Tugging at the zipper of his cargo shorts, she reached inside with one hand and wrapped her fingers around his cock.

"Better hang on to these," she said, grasping one of his hands and hooking his index finger through a belt loop, "or they'll fall into the water. I can't do it...'cause I plan to be focusing on other things." With that, she dropped to her knees, completely disregarding her own advice and soaking her skirt in the process. Charlie drained the rest of his beer in one long pull and lobbed the bottle alongside his belt, to be collected later. He wove his free hand through her hair as she took him into her mouth, quickly pulling him to complete rigidity. She was right; they had been apart too long. It didn't take his cock long, though, to remember her tongue and the way it deftly explored his shaft—as if memorizing every detail.

Stormy, unlike any woman he'd ever known, truly savored cock. She gave head for the sheer joy of it. From her perspective, she told him shortly after their meeting that it was not an act of giving, but one of taking. "Yeah, taking control," he'd responded at the time. "I've heard other women say that."

"I am not 'other women,' and it has nothing whatsoever to do with control," she'd insisted, swatting him with a pillow. "It has to do with pleasure—MY pleasure. The fact that you also enjoy it is just a fortunate coincidence. I'd want to suck your cock whether you liked it or not. So there!"

It took him about a month of intense reprogramming to fully integrate her assertions into his way of thinking, not that he minded Stormy's lessons. Although he now believed her, he still felt as if he owed her an orgasm every time she blew him. No matter how many times she assured him otherwise, he couldn't quite shake that deeply ingrained notion.

She'd barely gotten started when a hand landed on his shoulder, startling him from his blissful reverie and nearly knocking him off balance. "Hey, Charlie, have you seen Stormy?"

Artistically Inclined - Buy Now

Cyndi wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of deep red paint across her furrowed brow as she concentrated on the work in front of her. Skirting the large canvas taped to her studio floor and tripping over a pile of stretcher bars in assorted sizes, she lurched toward the computer workstation in the corner. The ever-present clutter reminded her of the need for organization, but the artsy chaos did provide a level of comfort.

The work in progress--commissioned anonymously by a local businessman as a Valentine's Day gift for his lover--throbbed with a sticky sensuality, which made the air in the room feel like a viscous fluid flowing over the exposed skin of her arms and legs. Adding three times the usual amount of acrylic gloss to the mix in order to achieve the desired effect, the textured moiré sheen practically jumped off the canvas to stoke her libido.

As the piece neared completion, Cyndi began to dread parting with it. It had come to symbolize, in her mind, pure passion: the uninhibited, raw, pounding sex that left one dizzy with exhilaration. Although there was nothing particularly explicit about it, the work oozed eroticism. It evoked in her a desire to inhale the heady scent of arousal, to taste sweet silky skin, and to feel the rasp of a hot tongue across her nipples.

Wrenching her eyes away from the painting, Cyndi turned her attention to the oversized monitor and once again read the e-mail message she'd sent just over forty minutes ago.

Time Warp - Buy Now

Alex bounced down the stairs and into the kitchen just in time to see the final seconds tick off the oven's timer. Hair and make-up were complete, but she still wore her favorite satin bathrobe. She'd get dressed as soon as the dessert was ready rather than risk a spill on her new outfit. Whistling, she donned the oven mitts and extracted the Bundt pan, carefully lowering it into a shallow bowl of cold water. It hissed momentarily as the change in temperature halted the baking process, and Alex jerked her head to the side to avoid the rising steam.

" It's astounding. Time is fleeting, " she sang, marveling at how quickly she'd adapted to domestic bliss. With a nice split-foyer on a cul-de-sac in the 'burbs, her life had taken the June Cleaver fork in the road. To a certain extent, anyway. Alex was fairly certain that June didn't get freaky with Ward at every opportunity. When Ward helped with the dishes, it didn't result in oral sex on the butcher block kitchen island.

Dan would be home in about an hour, and she still had much to do. Determined to make their first anniversary celebration extra special, Alex threw herself into the preparations. She couldn't wait to surprise him.

He pulled into the driveway just as she again descended the stairs, dressed to the nines and ready for the evening ahead. Using the cake knife as a mirror, she checked her lipstick before leaning against the counter and striking a nonchalant pose.

His eyes never left her as he approached. When he got within arm's length, he swallowed hard. Alex could see the pulse in his neck. She could hear his breath as it whistled past his parted lips, and she lifted her arm to lay a hand against his cheek.

He grabbed her wrist before she could touch his face and pulled her body against his, growling into her neck. "You look good enough to eat, 'Lex!"

ArtiFactual - Buy Now

Mandy sat at the small table in Appetites, sipping her coffee and looking through the observation window to the museum floor below. As the last of the day's customers fell into line to pay for their purchases, the annex slowly emptied of all but one. Eddie, his back to the café, gestured and talked to ... to nothing.

She recalled the day they returned from Chile with Amichu. He'd made a beeline for the very exhibit where he now sat, engaged in an animated discussion with--supposedly--her dead Aunt Vivian. No one had told him where she'd died. He just knew. Given her own experiences with the supernatural, Mandy didn't have a problem believing it. Most, if not all, of the artifacts in the museum seemed to possess a kind of memory--an erotic imprint of their history.

Even though Mandy couldn't feel Vivian's spectral presence, it didn't mean that Eddie couldn't ... or wouldn't ... or shouldn't. She hadn't exactly sought a connection with her late aunt's spirit, after all. Tales of people having such conversations with their dear departed were quite common. Most of the time, they were cathartic and helped people cope with their grief. When they reached the point of obsession, however, Mandy considered them counterproductive and even, to some extent, potentially dangerous.

She and Bruce discussed Eddie's preoccupation and agreed to give him ample time to adjust to his new home, new job, and new life without his only child. Olga's death obviously weighed very heavily on his mind.

As she drained the last of her coffee, Mandy bid Jay goodnight and exited the café directly onto the street. Although business hours ended almost an hour earlier, there were still a couple of reporters hanging out near its main entrance, and she was glad she'd opted to leave through Appetites.

Mandy slid behind the wheel of her car and took a deep breath before starting the engine. Between Eddie's obsession, the ridiculous lawsuit hassles, and Bruce's untimely absence, stress took its toll on her mood. She felt drained of energy and in serious need of some R&R. Since traffic wasn't typically an issue, given Erotique's odd business hours, Mandy engaged her auto pilot and drove home in an almost trance-like state. Her thoughts danced from subject to subject without digging deeply into any of them. As she pulled into the driveway, Mandy realized she had no recollections of the trip.

She dropped her keys into the stoneware bowl that had become their repository despite the fact that the four-hundred-year-old Kumeyaay artifact probably belonged in a museum far more conventional than the one she ran. They settled in the bottom and tangled themselves up with the keys to Bruce's truck. He'd left them behind, having no use for them and being far too likely to misplace them if he carried them to California. The blades of the two sets mingled and slid against each other in a way that did more to dampen Mandy's spirits than a dozen overeager reporters ever could. She missed her partner--her other half--and felt rather lost without him. Although she was glad he was accomplishing his goals, part of her only wanted him back, not caring why. On her way through the kitchen, she uncorked a bottle of wine to tame the selfish bitch inside.

Carrying a glass in one hand and the wine bottle in the other, she headed for the bedroom. Her business attire served as a nagging reminder of the issues facing Erotique, so Mandy wasted no time shedding those clothes. She stripped down to just her thong and--too tired to care--left her slacks, blouse, bra, and stockings in a pile on the floor. Opening the closet to extract her bathrobe, Mandy's gaze fell upon an array of neatly-pressed dress shirts. Passing the bar exam seemed to inspire Bruce to turn over a new fashion leaf, and he'd become quite meticulous about his professional clothing. She pulled a white oxford from its hanger and scrunched it to her face, seeking his scent but finding only the dry cleaner's starch.

Disappointed, but not dissuaded, Mandy carried the shirt into the bathroom and dabbed Bruce's aftershave under the collar. She slipped her arms into the shirt and rolled up its sleeves. It hung loosely from her frame, and Mandy hugged herself, imagining Bruce's strong arms around her.

She took a generous sip of the dry white as she freed her hair from its bonds, shaking it in thick waves across her shoulders. Bruce liked it that way, and the act made her feel somehow closer to him. He should be calling soon, she realized, glancing at the wall clock. It was almost midnight.

Returning to the bedroom, Mandy fetched the cordless phone and placed it on the nightstand along with her liquid relaxation. She fluffed the pillows and settled onto the bed--Bruce's side of the bed, where she slept when he was away. Turning on the television, she absently flipped through the channels while she waited for his call.

Mandy awoke with a start from a dream in which Bruce was laying next to her and whispering in her ear. The half-empty wine bottle sat on the table at her side as she reclined against the bed's headboard, wondering what time it was. Strangely, she thought she could still hear Bruce's voice over the snap as the crick in her neck undid itself.

"...figured that you might not still be awake, what with all the craziness going on back there. I'm sorry it's so late, baby. The judge's plans fell through, and she decided to share the misery. We got called back for a conference, and I just now got back to my hotel room. We can't get a good cell phone signal at the beach, but I'll call you as soon as..."

Shit! The answering machine! Mandy snatched the portable from the table and pushed the button before Bruce could finish saying good night. "Bruce? Honey, I'm here!"

"So you are. I catch you in the shower or something, baby?" The tone in Bruce's voice made it all too clear that he wouldn't really mind learning that Mandy was naked and wet as she talked to him.

"No, I lost track of how much wine I was drinking and how tired I was. But your voice woke me up, even when the ringing phone didn't. I miss you, counselor."

"I miss you, too, baby. And I'll miss you even more sitting on the beach by the fire with the sound of the waves crashing and the white flash of the foam against the dark of the sea. Have you ever made love on the beach at night, Man?"

"No," she drug out the vowel. "I assume you have, though. Maybe you can ... um ... describe it for me ... in vivid detail ... like, now. Maybe?

Coming Together For the Cure - Buy Now

From "Butterfly" by Alessia Brio

Once upon a time, I hated my tits. Loathed them with a passion bordering on obsession. I envied girls with pert, perky breasts even as I acknowledged that teeny tiny boobs would completely unbalance my figure. My hips needed their substantial neighbors to the north. Without a full set of knockers, my broad backside would overwhelm my frame. Even so, I hated them.

I wanted to go braless without causing automobile accidents, without drawing stern glances from holier-than-thou church ladies, without having my chest addressed as if it'd achieved sentience. I wanted to be able to jog without pain. I wanted freedom from underwires. I wanted these things before I even turned fourteen.

In the seventh grade, between Mrs. Platt's third period social studies class and Mr. Wilson's fourth period math class, my tits erupted from the unbroken landscape of my torso. Just like that. I swear it seemed that sudden. I don't recall ever wearing a bra smaller than a C cup.

Billy Robinson was the first boy I allowed to touch them. What he lacked in finesse, he made up for in height. As the only one of my classmates taller than I, although barely so, he received the bulk of my nascent sexual attentions.

I didn't consider it a big deal, really. I simply considered it something to endure. He, on the other hand, considered it so big a deal that he told Tommy Crawford who told Keith Gallagher who told the entire locker room after gym class on a fateful Friday afternoon in October.

By Monday morning, I was the biggest slut ever to attend Edgewood Middle School.

By Monday afternoon, I wanted to die.

My tits were nothing but trouble.

Bound For Success - Buy Now

"Fuck!"

Kevin poked his head around the bathroom door. "Fuck what, darling?"

"Fuck these panty hose," Cyndi cursed as she threw them at him. They landed on the floor at his feet where they joined another pair. "I've poked holes in my last two pair. It's this damned manicure. I'm not used to having nails. Now we're gonna be late for the opening 'cause I have to swing by Macy's to buy more!"

"We've got plenty of time, Cyn. Your show doesn't open for hours. Plus, you gotta be fashionably late, anyway, just to make a grand entrance." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Relax. If worse comes to worse, you can go without hose. Panty hose are evil, anyway. It's plenty warm, and I kinda like the idea of ogling your bare leg each time you take a step in that gown. I think it's slit to the waist, after all."

"Which is precisely why I can't opt for stockings. And I've been working so hard this summer that I haven't had a chance to get a tan. My legs are just too pale to go bare." Cyndi's shoulders slumped, and she dropped her head against his chest. "I'm just too damn keyed up. I mean, it's my first solo show at a premier gallery. There'll be reporters and TV cameras and ... and ... I just want everything to be perfect, y'know?"

"Creamy skin is yummy, love, and will be even more enticing against the chocolate silk of your gown." Kevin kissed her forehead then spun her around, pulling her bathrobe off her shoulders so he could rub her neck. As he tried to work out some of the anxiety, it soon became obvious that massage alone wasn't going to do the trick. Cyndi couldn't consciously let go of the stress.

He lifted his hands and she stepped away, not looking back.

"I'm sorry, Kevin. I don't mean to be a pain in the ass."

"Well, you're tense enough that I'm sure that's not the only place you'll have cramps by the time we get through with all the formalities of the evening. You're sure there's nothing I can do to help?"

"Not that we have time for--not tonight. I just want to get this over with. You know I don't have any patience for this kinda thing. I'm gonna spend the whole evening practically handcuffed to the gallery owner so he can drag me all around the room and show off his new 'discovery' to all his boyfriends and patrons."

Kevin was glad she had her back to him as an idea began to form in his mind. If she'd seen the expression that flitted across his features, he knew she wouldn't trust him for hours.

"We're not that pressed for time, Cyn. Lemme finish in here, and I'll fix you up. Just sit still for a minute and try to think happier thoughts. I don't know, think about chocolate-covered cherries or something..."

"Bastard. I still don't know why I let you talk me into showing that piece tonight." Even though she tried to say the words with a sneer, she couldn't keep the smile out of her voice. Just thinking about it--and the events surrounding its creation--made her ass tingle. She walked over to the bed and sat on its edge as Kevin finished shaving.

Phaze In Verse - Buy Now

Dream Coding

pale words hang in sterile air
once charged with fiery hope
faint fading pulses
'neath translucent skin -
grey blue on glass bone

life whisper rasps
through parched lips
to caress my mind
still
achingly beautiful
still

rapt by feathery wings of light
the dream floats free
bathed in the flatline glow

eerie embers of optimism
expire with one last gasp
one last tear
one lasting scar

Double Header - Buy Now

Andrea Spring lifted her head and, sweeping her dark hair from her eyes, peeked over the broad shoulder of the shortstop in search of the clock. Six fifty-three, if it could be believed. With a sigh, she carefully removed the second baseman's arm from her waist and eased her nude body toward the foot of the king-sized bed. Neither man stirred as she extricated the meat from their human sandwich, chuckling as her foot landed on a sticky condiment.

She wondered how long she'd slept. Couldn't have been more than a couple hours, since it was already approaching midnight when they reached the hotel where the team was staying during its three-game series with the Sox. The final game in that series started in just over six hours, so she'd soon have to rouse her sleeping studs if she was to receive the type of farewell fuck she desired.

The used condom adhered to the bottom of her foot, and she hopped as she peeled it off. Closing the door as quietly as possible, Andrea flicked on the bathroom light and blinked as her eyes adjusted to its garish brightness. She splashed cold water on her face, finger-brushed her teeth with the tiny tube of complimentary toothpaste, and used the bidet to freshen up before returning to find the vacancy she'd created unchanged.

Slipping her body between the fine specimens of male flesh, she squirmed until she rested on her back and took a cock in each hand. "Batters' up," she whispered.

The shortstop stirred at her touch—first below the waist, then above. His eyelids lifted, and he peered around groggily for a moment before his eyes connected with Andi's. A smile crept across his face.

"Hello, beautiful. Still here?"

"It's Sunday, stud," Andi replied. "I know you lose track, but I don't have work today. You do, though, both of you."

He started at that, until remembering his teammate, who was just beginning to respond to Andi's attentions. She laughed at his naïveté and kissed the momentary discomfort from his lips.

"Sorry. Caught me off guard. Never did something like this before, not really. I mean, you know, guys don't normally…I mean…"

Andi dropped the second baseman's cock to bring her finger to his lips. "Quiet. It's not my fault you both showed up at the bar last night. Not that I'm complaining. Are you?" "No…no, I guess not. Pretty fucking cool, actually. Like something out of a porno."

"And you liked it. Now shut up and quit wasting time. I want more. Don't you?"

"Hell, yes! But what, I mean…shit, just tell me what you want me to do."

"I need to wake up your buddy. And I want a cock in me while I do it. Fuck me while I wake his ass up."

"Okay, whatever you say, you crazy sl…um, sorry. I didn't mean that. You're not a slut."

"Yes, I am. The difference is that I let myself enjoy it. However, I'm not crazy. Now shut up and fuck me while I suck your teammate's cock."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Coming Together Under Fire - Buy Now

wither

standing alone on the shore of hope's oasis

watching the pebbles of disappointment

gradually displace its waters

each plunk, perhaps, insignificant

until sheer volume renders

shallow its pull

it no longer matters whether the promise

is half empty or half fool

there's still not enough

hope remaining to quench

a desiccated heart's thirst

the sun draws blood through skin

tenderized by the sting of blown sand

leaving parched dreams

and echoes of passion

waiting in deception's desert for love to rain