Six-alarm lesbian lust
Desire burns hot in these six sizzling tales by Lisabet Sarai. A high-powered executive and a Goth rocker collide on a rainy Manhattan night and succumb to the attraction of opposites. An unorthodox therapist rekindles the libido of a traumatized fire-fighter. A nun fights her forbidden lust for the voluptuous hooker resident at her women’s shelter. Burn, Baby includes many of Lisabet’s lesbian favorites as well as a searing, shocking new tale, “Countertransference”.
Approximately 26,000 words (75 pages)
Genre: Lesbian erotica – short stories
Heat level: Explicit (5 flames)
ISBN (Smashwords): 9780463292082
ASIN (Amazon): B07DMYQCH9
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07DMYQCH9
Amazon UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07DMYQCH9
ONLINE EXCERPT LINK (X rated): http://www.lisabetsarai.com/herowndevicesex.html
From “The First Stone”
“You’re kinda pretty, for a nun.”
The voice was low and throaty, laced with echoes of the ghetto. It dragged me away from the columns of figures marching down the screen in front of me, out of the well-ordered realm of accounting and into the messiness of our inmates’ lives. Our guests, I corrected myself. Nobody was forced to stay at Serenity House.
“Um — excuse me? Can I help you?”
My interlocutor grinned at me. Her plump, mauve-painted lips framed teeth that were a shocking white in her ebony face. She shook her head. Cheap, brassy earrings dangled from her fleshy lobes, swinging back and forth over her bare shoulders.
“Just wanted to say hi. Oh, an’ to ask if I can stay out past curfew tonight. Heard you were in charge.” She extended a hand tipped with hot pink fingernails. “I’m Magnolia. Me and Moonbeam just got here yesterday.”
November in Boston, two weeks before Thanksgiving, but Magnolia’s skin felt August-hot. The woman’s breasts almost overflowed the sequined tube top that constrained them. Below, she wore baggy sweatpants with a Celtics logo that didn’t hide her more than ample curves. Her feet were crammed into open-toed high heels of scuffed gold-toned plastic. She towered over me. I felt pretty sure that would be true even if I were standing.
“Moonbeam?” Confronted by this apparition, I couldn’t seem to manage more than a couple of words.
“My kid.” Magnolia indicated a diminutive toddler with kinky pigtails, sprawled on the floor of the common room, surrounded by alphabet blocks. Hard to believe that delicate child was the offspring of this Amazon.
“Ah — um — well, you’re very welcome here, Magnolia. We’re glad to have you with us.” I struggled for the warm yet professional manner I’d learned to adopt with our guests. Rising from my chair, I gave her hand a firm squeeze before relinquishing it. My skin tingled in the aftermath. I’d been right; she stood half a head taller than my five feet six inches, and probably weighed nearly twice what I did. “Have a seat, please. I’m Sister Kathleen Patrick, the assistant director. But I guess you know that.”
She settled her bottom into the chair I’d indicated. “Yeah, the other gals told me. Pleased to meet you, Sister.” Her plucked eyebrows knotted into a frown. “That what I should call you? I ain’t had much experience with nuns.”
Her obvious concern made me chuckle. “’Sister’ would be fine. Or you can just call me Kathleen. We don’t stand on ceremony here at Serenity House.”
“Not like at Baystate Rehab. You forget to call one of the nurses ‘Miz’ or ‘Mister’, you lose privs for twenty-four hours.” She swiped the back of her hand across her brown forehead, which was beaded with sweat. The woman must have a furnace inside.
There was something lush and tropical about Magnolia. Her name fit her. She seemed totally out of place in this shabby office lit by the unrelenting gray of the late autumn sky. I could imagine her wrapped in a rainbow-hued sarong, dancing barefoot on a beach beneath swaying palms. Or swimming naked through the waves under a golden moon…
I hauled my thoughts back to the present. “Is that where you’ve just come from?” Not all our guests had substance abuse problems, but it was pretty common.
“Escaped is more like it.” She giggled. “This place’s like heaven after Bayhab. Six fucking weeks — oh, sorry, Sister — I mean, six long weeks in that hellhole! Away from my baby, too. ‘Course, I deserved it. All the junk I pumped into my veins, not thinkin’ about who’d care for her if something happened to me. Then the OD — I really fucked up. Oh, I’m sorry, Sister!”
“Never mind. So you’ve made yourself comfortable, then? You’re happy with your room?”
Yesterday had been my day off. Rachel must have done the intake. I reminded myself to check Magnolia’s file after she’d left the office.
“It’s great. I’m sharing with Lou-Ellen and her little boy. He’s only a couple months older than Moonbeam. Food’s good, too.” She flashed me another grin and glanced down at her generous body. “Not that I need it!”
Her laughter kindled mine. Our eyes met. Hers were espresso-brown, practically black, fringed with mascara-augmented lashes. They snagged me like magnets.
Something jolted through me — a lightning strike, a sudden storm, some personal earthquake. The floor dropped out from under my chair and I found myself suspended in space. My breath caught in my throat and perspiration soaked the armpits of my gray wool sweater. I’d been chilly before — we tried to stretch our donor’s generosity as far as possible — but now I burned. I couldn’t tear myself away from her gaze, though I knew I’d been staring far too long.
About Lisabet Sarai
LISABET SARAI writes in many genres, but F/F fiction is one of her favorites. Her lesbian erotica credits include contributions to Lambda Award winner Where the Girls Are, Ippie-winning Carnal Machines, Best Lesbian Romance 2012, Forbidden Fruit: Stories of Unwise Lesbian Desire, and Lammy-nominated Coming Together: Girl on Girl. Her story “The Late Show” appears in the recently released Best Lesbian Erotica 2015.
Lisabet holds more degrees than anyone would ever need, from prestigious educational institutions who would no doubt be deeply embarrassed by her explicit literary endeavors. She has traveled widely and currently lives in Southeast Asia, where she pursues an alternative career that is completely unrelated to her writing. For all the dirt on Lisabet, visit her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com) or her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com).