LGBT Stories

Those of you that have corresponded at any length with me know that one of my greatest frustrations in writing is grammar, followed closely by spelling homonyms. You know, those little words that the spell checker says you wrote perfectly: “Mai pea sea is knot correcting prop early.”

Every time I post a new story, I find little mistakes I made, and it drives me crazy. It doesn’t matter how many times I proofread; there are always one or two things that I miss.
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You can call it an inspiration if you want, but that’s not really how it felt at the time. It was more like a realization that came over a period of a few years, with the culminating point being a revelation. Learning is like that. Take math, for instance. You don’t understand it, and you don’t understand it, and you don’t understand it, and then you understand it. It happens all at once; a gestalt experience, the Great Ah-Ha.

That’s how it was with the creation of the Black Object. I call it the Object because I don’t know what else to call it. To explain, maybe I should begin at the beginning: My background is mechanical engineering. I went to MIT, and graduated with honors, although I wasn’t anywhere near the top of my class. I enjoyed the way things fit together into efficient, purposeful manifestations of the dreams in someone’s head.
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Jeanine looked at the box for quite awhile before carefully cutting through the tape. It hadn’t been the easiest thing she’d ever done to get up the courage to call in the order, and now that it was here, she was shaking with both anticipation and guilty embarrassment.

It was much larger than she’d expected.

“The Climax Modulator! *The Next Generation in Sexual Fulfillment!*” the flyer had read, and Jeanine had thought it incredibly silly. It certainly wasn’t a sexy name. But in the back of her mind, there was a continuing chant of, *what if,* that finally made her dial the 800 number and order this “little” toy.
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Jessica looked down the list, checking the inventory against her list. It was a simple job, but difficult nonetheless. After awhile, the titles of the books all started running together, leaving her cross-eyed and frustrated. “Daylight’s End” would become “Darla’s Friend” and “Sense of Danger” would become “Sensual Ranger”. It usually went downhill from there.

She rubbed her bleary eyes and decided to take a break. Closing them, she saw lines of text there… the after- image of too many words, now mapped like headlines across her the insides of her eyelids.
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Part One - ANXIETY

There was a question hanging in the air. It was sitting behind the eyes of everyone at the gathering. Jessica looked around her darkened, candlelit living room and the assembled women with unease. They were anxious, eyes moving from picture to picture, person to person, staring into coffee cups that were still full. The movements were almost too casual, eyes never quite meeting, as if there was something gnawing at them. A bit of uncomfortable laughter broke upward through muted whispers.
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My cunt was *exploding*. No, not literally — I mean I was cumming again, my fingers plunging in and out, fingertips wrinkled as I gushed juices. I was thinking of bodies, lips to lips, losing track of which pair of lips was touching which at any given time.

Why would I tell you about my vaginal bliss? Because that is when I was inspired and dreamed up the Vulvaphone. Vibrators be damned, I wanted something that would attach to my clit and labia and melt my fucking *mind*.

So not to be too technical about it, I mixed a biofeedback unit with an ultrasonic micro-voltage integrator, transforming the electrical impulses from my clit into alpha, beta and delta wave patterns, and then used a forced induction spread to send it all through my brain, down my spine and back to my clit from the opposite direction.
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Part One

“No one should spend their vacation in the rainforest, that’s for sure,” thought Stacey, as she walked through the humid, misty umbrella of trees. For nearly three weeks, she had been following her hired guides in search of Kalabuzdi, a legendary witch-man in the area who was said to have a potion that would “protect the lungs,” loosely translated. More accurately it was “save the spirit- breath.” Asking what this meant, she had been told that several people had been cured of cystic fibrosis, lung cancer, and emphysema by this inhalant. Promising, indeed.
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The train was moving slowly, it had been running very slow for past two hours, it was supposed to be a super fast train with few stops but it was running like a local train. I was on my journey to meet my husband. He was posted on the frontiers. I received a telegram from him asking me to join him for the summer vacation. In fact I was expecting him to come to my place and spend a vacation on the southern parts of the country. But our programs were disrupted due to sudden tensions between countries in the region. So my husband was shifted to the frontiers and he was asking me to join him there. My holiday dreams were all shattered. But I proceeded to meet my husband as I knew he was on some secret mission. It was turbulent times in our country. The duty and workload was eating him, he was keeping late nights and his health was deteriorating for the past few years. (more…)