Free Dream Lover by Kristina Wright (ed) Page A

T-shirt over his head and threw it aside, exposing brown muscle and coffee-colored nipples, hair trailing down navel to groin to his swollen cock: ready to fill her. Ready to give her power release.
    He came to her and turned her around. She held on to the post of the bunk beds while he worked her jeans down over her boots and pulled them off. She closed her eyes as his lips found the dimple just above the curves of her asscheeks and his tongue laved it, moving downward as he pulled the panties to her thighs, flicking against the pucker of her ass as the panties
went to her ankles, darting forward to steal a taste of her pussy again before he took the panties off and pulled her downward, brought her to her knees, and spread her legs.
    She clutched the post and arched her back, her face against the cool metal, her eyes closed. The wind was rushing, coming to her call, blowing the heavy clouds together, herding them like sheep. Lightning crackled brighter, faster, zigzagging blue and white across charcoal gray pregnant with rain. She felt David’s cock press into her wetness.
    “Touch me,” she whispered, and he did, knowing what she meant, reaching around to hold her breasts in his roughened hands, calloused palms stroking her raw nipples as his cock slid deeper into her, moisture gathering and gathering, rising like a flood. David’s cock was pummeling her, slapping wetly with each stroke, balls sticky with her juices hitting her ass. Clouds had gathered, so heavy the room was dark as night, while the wind battered at the windows, frenetic and wild. Pressure was throbbing in her pussy and her clit and her brain, pressure falling and falling and falling.
    “Faster!” she gasped. Faster, faster, faster if it was going to be strong enough. Faster so the sweet wetness trickled down her thighs, so the first tentative drops thudded against the windowpane, against the parched ground.
    “David!” she cried out, and he held her, strong arms around her, hard cock working her wet pussy, sweat rolling off them both like water. Healing, sweet water falling, falling from clouds. Swollen streams bursting with sudden floods. Cool droplets on fever-hot skin. David’s thrusts were coming slower, harder now, pounding her throbbing wetness like rain drumming on waterslick ground, his belly and arms and chest soaked with effort and perspiration, like hers. She ground her hips backward into him, meeting his thrusts, squeezing her pussy tight around his cock
until she felt the telltale spasm, the shudder in his arms—the final thrust where he filled her and leaned against her, panting, cock twitching inside as his flood joined hers.
    “Faith.”
    She nodded, eyes on the windows; trembling. Rain washed the dust, washed baggage and fear with it. Let life start and grow all over again in newly moistened soil.
    “Yes, David,” she said. She brought one of his hands to her mouth and kissed the back of his knuckles. She could feel her dream-friend smiling.
    Beyond the windows, the rain began to pour.

SHATTERED BELLE
    Craig J. Sorensen
     
     
     
     
     
     
    T he stranger headed straight for the church. Finally, a new preacher! Certainly he would set things right. He was clad in simple clothes: blue jeans, boots, and an undershirt. Not what she expected, but even she could remember that the journey up to this mining town was not an easy one. She crept past the old store and the cursed saloon and then peered in one of the long windows of the church.
    The man removed a large backpack and set it against a pew. He was tall and sun soaked, with light hair and a scraggly beard. His carved face was handsome, and though he looked seasoned in a way, he was obviously young. He unpacked his goods: clothes, food, a thick blanket that seemed hinged like a bible. He opened it with a flick of his powerful wrist and spread it over the front-and-center pew.
    Reverently, he pulled a silver pot from the backpack, swept the dust from the pulpit, and placed it