Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
A Partridge in a Pear Tree by Dahlia Schweitzer
Two Turtledoves by Lisa Lane
Three French Hens by Cameo Brown
Four Calling Birds by Isabel Roman
Five Golden Rings by Brandi Woodlawn
Six Geese a’ Laying by Katy Sirls
Seven Swans a’ Swimming by Cecilia Tan
Eight Maids a’ Milking by Jesse Blair Kensington
Nine Ladies Dancing by Rhonda Leigh Jones
Ten Lords a’ Leaping by Debra Hyde
Eleven Pipers Piping by Heidi Champa
Twelve Drummers Drumming by C. Margery Kempe
Red Bow by Isabel Roman
Shannon’s Surprise by Brandi Woodlawn
Christmas Pie by Jesse Blair Kensington
Home for the Holidays by Ryan Field
Bad Santa by Jamaica Layne
Occupational Hazards by Ginevra Ermine
Snowbound and Gagged by Morgan James
Christmas Cruise by Tricia Tucker
Memorable by Isabel Roman
Alone Again for Christmas by Stacy Brown
Copyright
About the Book
In this erotic anthology, you will find a vast selection of festive fun, ranging from romantic to kinky, contemporary to paranormal, hetero to gay. It may be cold outside but with this collection of steamy yuletide stories you will no doubt be hot with excitement by the time you’ve finished. Featuring tales of sexy capers such as a romp with Santa, a girlfriends’ Christmas cruise, a threesome in a lingerie store and a roommate’s holiday surprise, there is no better way to escape this Christmas season than with Stocking Fillers!
Contributors include: Dahlia Schweitzer, Lisa Lane, Cameo Brown, Isabel Roman, Brandi Woodlawn, Katy Sirls, Cecilia Tan, Jesse Blair Kensington, Rhonda Leigh Jones, Debra Hyde, Heidi Champa, C. Margery Kempe, Jamaica Layne, Ginevra Ermine, Morgan James, Tricia Tucker, Stacy Brown
A Partridge in a Pear Tree
by Dahlia Schweitzer
IT WAS SARAH’S first Christmas. It was also her first winter in Vermont. She’d been raised Jewish and, as such, had never been much interested in the privileges and responsibilities of Christianity. Mass and Easter she didn’t care much about, and Lent was certainly not on her radar, but Christmas had always made her jealous of her classmates and neighbors who got to install large evergreens in their living rooms. She loved the smell of the trees, the warm twinkling of the lights, and the seductive smell of the holiday cookies.
From Thanksgiving until New Year’s, Sarah was a Christian-by-proxy. Always too loyal to her faith to celebrate Christmas directly, she made sure to be invited to as many Christmas parties as she could find, and whenever possible, she would offer to help decorate friends’ trees, and she was always available to climb ladders in order to drape lights over gutters. In December, she was as supportive a friend as she could be to those who celebrated her favorite holiday.
Until she moved to Vermont.
She’d only been there a few weeks, so she didn’t have any friends yet. The job she’d moved for, which was supposed to start December 1, had been postponed to January 2, so she was unexpectedly left with a month that offered little responsibility beyond the occasional trip to the mall. She’d bought a shower curtain; she’d bought a mop—there simply wasn’t much left to do. She hiked a lot. She joined the local library and became a regular, going through a book every day or two. She read everything Sidney Sheldon had ever written. Then she sampled Michael Crichton. And Michael Connolly. Then Mary Higgins Clark. (They were near each other alphabetically).
It didn’t matter what she did; nothing could fill up her time. She took long showers after her long walks. She baked. She stared out the windows at the gorgeous Vermont landscape. She was glad she’d moved there; she liked the idea of starting over, conceptually at least, and she loved the crisp winter air, but nothing could fill the persistent vacancy created by her solitude.
During one of her trips to the mall, while seeking out a new hairdryer, she stumbled into the holiday section—which by no means implies it was somehow concealed, inconveniently inaccessible to the general public. Quite the opposite: the holiday section dominated, sprawling over aisles, spilling out over and above the confines of the shelf space. Until then, Sarah had managed persistently to avoid the glut of Christmas paraphernalia. She’d set up her menorah and she was determined to be devout for another year, especially in her solitude. She had no excuses for being a by-proxy-Christian. She actually liked being Jewish and loved Passover. She wished there were more Jews in Vermont.
So every time she went on one of her regular shopping expeditions, she would do her best to turn away from the mistletoe and the endless strands of lights, from the wreaths and the stuffed Santas, the wind-up reindeer and the adorably embroidered stockings. She was good. She was committed to her menorah.
Well, she was committed until the hairdryer escapade, and then she could resist no more. Emerging from the small appliance section, heading towards the cashier, it was suddenly there, and she was suddenly in it. It was a Christmas overdose. Bombarded on all sides, she just stood and stared. Pivoting in a circle like a wind-up doll, she studied the red, green, and fake-snow-white consumer excess on all sides. Even she had to admit it was a bit much. There was a certain mockery to the extravagant need to market all aspects of the holiday, and she was relieved she didn’t feel the need to buy everything.
In fact, she left quite safely, carrying only a box of ornaments, two long strands of lights, and a very cute, petite Christmas tree.
Sarah was going to have her very first tree, and she was going to decorate it herself. This was Vermont, after all, a place of opportunity, where no one knew her and, more importantly, where no one knew her Jewishness. No one would ask why a Jew, who was happy being a Jew, would want a tree. God, she was convinced, would look the other way. It was Christmas, after all.
She felt giddy by the time she got home. She’d been unable to restrain herself from repeatedly glancing over her shoulder at the precious possessions in her back seat. She couldn’t quite believe she’d done it, and she couldn’t believe it had taken her this long. After all, what was a tree? It was décor; it was interior design. It was the holiday spirit. It wasn’t like she was laying baby Jesus out on her welcome mat. This was just a bit of greenery, some color, and a little soft lighting. Unable to stop smiling, she practically sailed through her front door, the tree tucked under one arm, the plastic bag under the other.
It wasn’t until she’d deposited everything in front of the fireplace that she realized she’d forgotten the hair dryer. She’d abandoned it somewhere between the ornaments and the lighting. Sarah laughed. She didn’t care. She could buy a hair dryer anytime, but this was Christmas. It was the only time when she could buy a tree, bedeck it with lights and glittering globes, and feel part of something large—and a little bit naughty.
She assembled the tree to the right of her fireplace, hanging the various ornaments evenly throughout. She had bought two strands of holiday lights, one for the living room for internal holiday cheer, and the other to be draped around the bushes beside her front door for obvious external holiday cheer.
It was when she was outside, trying to determine exactly how to festoon her bushes with lights, that she first heard the bird. Not gifted with the best ability to determine sound direction, it took Sarah a moment and several glances about to figure out where the chirping was coming from. She lived beside a huge wooded expanse, but the cold weather had stripped the trees of their leaves, so it didn’t take long to spot the distinctive red beak and black stripe of her favorite partridge. Many a recent morning Sarah had sat on her front porch, wrapped in a blanket, nursing a tea, and watching her partridge fly about the trees. He would never get close enough when she was outside, but if she left the odd piece of bread out as an offering, he’d always swoop by as soon as she’d stepped back indoors.
She also spied on him often from the anonymity of her kitchen window, watching him trot around the hardening icy ground, soaring into the trees whenever the forest belched an unexpected and startling sound. Some mornings, when she read the paper in bed, she could hear his calls resonate among the trees. A kindred spirit of a sort, he seemed as alone as she was; she never spotted him with another bird. Seeing him always made her feel a little less alone and a little more like she was at home.
Sarah nodded in his direction now, displaying the results of her lighting artistry as if the little partridge cared about her holiday decorations. She turned to duck back inside to gather a few scraps of bread to leave for her feathered friend just as the sound of the shotgun shattered the silence of the Vermont countryside like an explosion. If she’d still been in civilization, she’d have assumed it was a car backfiring. But in her new remote surroundings, she knew there wasn’t a car nearby. It was definitely a shotgun, and it was way too close.
Whirling around, she raced towards the outskirts of the woods. The blast had been so loud, the hunter could not have been far. She looked desperately for her partridge, but he was nowhere to be found and she sighed with relief. She couldn’t see him in the trees nor could she spot his bloody carcass on the ground. Either the hunter hadn’t aimed for her bird, or he’d missed. Regardless, she knew she had to get rid of the hunter. Parts of the woods permitted hunting, but the area adjacent to her house was off limits. It was too residential. The problem was that most hunters weren’t aware of that; the change in zone wasn’t clearly marked, and as her house was one of only a few, it was hard to determine this was now a residential area.
Luckily, the hunter was wearing the requisite orange vest and it didn’t take long for her to spot him in the thicket. She waved and shouted as she ran in his direction. He turned impatiently to determine the cause of the commotion, lowering his shotgun so it pointed at the ground.
“You’re not allowed to shoot here,” she panted, struggling to catch her breath.
He simply stared at her, a slight grin on his face.
“Why’s that?” he asked.
Taking control of her breathing, she stood up straighter to face the man, and was startled to discover that the hunter was extraordinarily good-looking—well, in a rugged, chiseled, Vermont kind of way. Feeling even more discombobulated, she took a deep breath before speaking.
“This is considered a residential part of the woods. I live”—she pointed over her shoulder—“just over there. I know it’s not clearly marked, but you’re not supposed to be hunting over here.”
As if amused, the hunter grinned even more and leaned towards her. It was only when he leaned over that she realized how tall he was. He had to have been at least six-foot-four. But this was hardly the time to flirt.
Apparently, the hunter felt differently. A flirtatious note to his voice, he leaned in further, his face inches to hers, and said, “I’m terribly sorry for the mix-up. Will you ever forgive me?”
“What were you hunting?” she asked, suddenly suspicious and alarmed. Second guessing her earlier search of the snow, she realized that just because she hadn’t seen any blood it didn’t mean her partridge was safe.
“I was hunting a bird,” he said matter-of-factly. “A partridge. Small little bugger.”
She could feel the blood escape from her face and knew she must have gone ghostly pale.
“What? What is it?” He grabbed her shoulder with his arm, suddenly concerned.
“That’s my partridge,” she stammered. “Well, not mine, but mine. You know. Did you hit it?”
He shook his head. “No, the little beast flew off when he heard me coming. He’s somewhere over there.” He gestured towards the horizon. “Haven’t a clue where, though. You say he’s yours?”
She paused. She wanted to be precise. “I don’t own him, but we have an understanding. We share bread. I like to listen to him. Do you know what I mean?” Sarah realized she was being anything but precise and worse, probably sounded crazy.
The hunter nodded. “I do. And I apologize. I’m glad I didn’t hit him, and I apologize for coming close. I promise to turn around, walk away, and never come back. I’ll leave you and your partridge in peace.”
True to his word, the hunter pivoted with a closing nod of the head and began to make his way back through the woods.
“Wait!” Sarah called.
He turned and looked at her.
“Do you think … would you mind … it’s just that you’re so tall …”
“What do you need, ma’am?” he said, with the finesse of a firefighter prepared to rescue a cat from a tree.
“It’s just my Christmas lights. They’re not high enough. I can’t get them on the gutter, and I just moved here, so I don’t have a ladder. Do you think you could …?” Sarah’s voice trailed off. She was embarrassed. She didn’t like to ask for help. She was always the one doing the helping. This role reversal felt foreign to her.
Clearly, the man was used to such requests. He smiled obligingly, gestured her onwards with his arm, and told her to lead the way.
Feeling a little bewildered by the recent turn of events, but also convinced it was somehow part of the Christmas spirit, Sarah did just that.
It wasn’t until they got back to her house that it occurred to her she didn’t know his name, and she turned to him, her mouth just beginning to form the words, when he reached out his right hand to shake hers. One step ahead of her, he said, “Will.”
She closed her mouth, smiling at their silent communication, and shook his hand. It was surprisingly warm, considering the chilly Vermont winter air. “Sarah.”
They held each other’s hands for a moment, the surroundings completely still in that way that only happens when snow lines the ground and the trees are bare. The heat of their bodies flowed through their fingers and, for a minute, Sarah forgot about the lights and about Christmas. She even forgot about her partridge.
As he released her hand, she snapped back to her senses. With a slight cringe, she asked him to rest his gun in a remote corner of the porch. Then she explained exactly how the lights should hang. With Will’s height, it took him mere moments to drape the lights along, his long, lean arms never hesitating as they reached first one gutter corner, then another, and then, in what seemed like only a moment, all was perfect and Sarah smiled. Somehow, even with the shotgun, it had still ended up being perfect.
“Would you like some cider?” she asked. “A beer, maybe?”
The hunter grinned. “Sure. That sounds great.”
Sarah slid past him, past the porch bench where she’d sat many a morning watching her partridge dart in and out of trees and around her house, past the silent shotgun in the corner, and turned the handle on door to the house. As the heat from inside washed over the front of her, she became acutely aware of a different kind of heat behind her. She looked over her shoulder to find Will close behind. Too close? Maybe, but she was surprisingly comforted by his presence.
In the kitchen, Sarah stuck her head into the fridge and grabbed the cider. As she pulled a pot from beneath the stove to warm it, she watched out of the corner of her eye as Will lifted one foot and expertly unlaced a boot with one hand before unlacing the opposite, then stepping out of them both. The musky scent of his wool socks wafted through the kitchen.
“Forgive me,” he said. Was there a twinkle in his eyes? “I should have done that at the door.” Startled, Sarah realized she was still wearing her own boots and she bent to clumsily unlace them as she turned the knob on the stove and the short click, click, click was quickly replaced by the whoosh of the igniting burner under the cider.
She nervously smiled at the hunter, who stood nearby, absently scratching at the stubble on his chin. She stepped out of her own boots, kicked them aside, and turned to grab a wooden spoon, stirring the cider on the stove.
Suddenly, Sarah felt that heat behind her again and simultaneously a hand snaked around her waist. She froze as Will’s hand grabbed gently at the wooden spoon just above hers. “You’re still wearing your jacket,” he said quietly, seductively. “Let me stir the cider … get comfortable.” She turned to him, chest to chest, and stared up into his eyes.
“Cups are there,” she said, waving to a rack on the wall without breaking her gaze. Her hand, just below his on the spoon, lingered for a moment longer than it might have. She ducked under his arm and shed her coat. Will reached for two cups and ladled cider into each. Silently they sipped and stared at one another.
After draining his mug, the hunter deposited it on the counter and moved to stand directly in front of Sarah as she leaned against the kitchen sink, his hips only a few inches from hers. The electricity between them sparked, denser than actual flesh.
She felt drunk on the cider, even though it was non-alcoholic. She continued to stare at his face, the face of the man who had almost killed her partridge and who had absolutely violated her woods, and she knew she yearned to see him naked. That, with a hunger intensified by weeks of solitude, she wanted his hands all over her body, to feel his sheer physicality against her and inside her.
As if he could read her mind, he slowly unzipped his vest, letting it fall to the floor, never letting his eyes leave hers. She smiled at him and lifted her sweater over her head, dropping it on top of his vest. His grin broadening, he followed suit, his sweater quickly joining hers on the floor. It took about thirty seconds until they were both topless, and another thirty until they were fully naked.
It gave her a second’s pause to think she’d literally met this man barely an hour before, but only a second—and then her hunger for the touch of another body, for the feel of his skin beneath her fingers took over, and he was matching her every second of the way.
The two of them devoured each other. His teeth ran along her shoulders, gnawing on the bone as it rubbed against the flesh, his tongue tracing the lines of her neck while her lips surrounded his nipples, feeling them grow harder, stiffer in her mouth as her hand made its way across the expanse of his ribcage, his taut stomach, until it reached its destination. He was so engorged that she marveled at the definition of veins across skin, at the way she could barely wrap her hand around him, could barely tame his manhood. The subsequent moan that came from the center of his being sent shivers down her spine.
It wasn’t enough to touch him; she wanted to taste him. She sank to her knees and ran her hands up his toned and athletic thighs. She licked his hips, and his pelvis, and slid her tongue across each thigh, relishing the salty sweetness of his skin before making her way between his legs.
She slid his cock against the roof of her mouth. He was so hard, so large, so stretched tightly against his own skin, that he barely fit inside of her. She let him slide as far down her throat as she could stand, knowing by the pressure of his hand against her head that he wanted more than she could give him, so she wrapped the fingers of her right hand against the base of his cock, giving herself an extra two inches of space. She started moving back and forth, hand and mouth in perfect precision, her tongue licking the length of his cock, her throat tickling its head.
She slowly picked up speed, drawing him out as long as she could, echoing the beating of the blood in his veins, her other hand cupping his balls, the warm wetness of her slick saliva spreading all over his tight, hot skin. So hypnotized was she by the act of maintaining rhythm, she didn’t even notice the wetness leaking out of her until he wrenched her up, hands grasping her triceps, practically hoisting her to his level. He grinned at her again and she realized how much she was aching for him.
She thought she couldn’t possibly want him any more than she already did, but then she felt him slip his cock along the edge of her pussy and against her clit and the desire rose up inside her like an inferno. Suddenly she felt that if he didn’t split her in two right then, right there, she might combust on her own, exploding in a bonfire of her own making.
“Want me to go inside?” he asked, that damn grin still painting his face.
“Oh God, yes, yes, please,” she begged, her arms wrapped around his body, pulling him in close, her head against the broad expanse of chest and sternum.
“Look at me.”
She looked up at him, her eyes locking on his as he ran his cock again along the outside edge of her pussy, against her clit, and then, drawing a sharp breath, sank inside her. Together their moans were so loud, Sarah couldn’t differentiate between Will’s and her own, they matched so perfectly in volume and intensity. She pressed herself to him further, crazed by lust and desire. All she cared about was getting him inside her as deeply as possible.
Curving against her, he moved in and out—slowly at first, but it was clear neither of them had much patience for pacing. Deeper and faster, he shoved her against the edge of the kitchen sink so hard she had to grip it with her hands to keep from sliding over the edge and landing ass first in the deep basin, legs in the air. He pressed against her, pushing against the kitchen sink, and she bucked back against him until simultaneously they both came in a damp, hot, sweaty mess.
The room was nearly silent with the exception of their gulping and panting as they struggled to catch their breath. Sarah collapsed against the hunter’s chest, his cock still throbbing and spasming inside of her.
From outside, a faint singing. She heard it first and smiled.
“Friend of yours?” Will asked. Sarah turned to see the partridge perched on the tree branch just outside her window.
It was December 14 and Christmas was coming.
Two Turtledoves
by Lisa Lane
MELINDA LAY ACROSS the sofa completely naked, trying different poses. She tried lying on her back, propped up against her elbows, stretching one long, shapely leg across its length, and artfully bending the other. She tried lying on her side, one leg bent over the other, her head resting on her hands. Finally, she decided to wait for him on her stomach, her knees bent and her legs crossed over her, her chin balancing on her fists. She had finished two cups of eggnog during the last hour while playing around with the last of the Christmas decorations and getting dinner started, and the alcohol had finally begun to hit her.
A CD of traditional Christmas songs played softly from the bedroom and the smell of cinnamon from the scented pine cones she’d placed around the house now mingled with the pine smell emanating from the elaborately decorated tree. Bows and garlands adorned every door, and a sprig of mistletoe hung in the living room right above her spot on the sofa. She had timed dinner so it would be ready just about an hour after Brent was due home from work.
He was late.
Melinda stood up, stretched, poured herself another cup of eggnog, then returned to the sofa, ready to resume her pose should she hear the front door open. She sipped the spiced drink slowly, not wanting to trade in her comfortable buzz for a full-on state of drunkenness.
He would be home any minute.
Any second, now …
She waited patiently, not moving from the sofa as the minutes passed. Five. Fifteen. Thirty.
She finished her drink and closed her eyes for a moment of rest, the long day finally catching up with her. She had gotten up early with Brent, fixed him a nice pancake breakfast, then had spent the rest of the day running errands and decorating the house. She had planned the evening perfectly in her mind: Brent would come home to find her naked on the sofa, ready to greet him. He would find the mistletoe and they would kiss, and then they would make love in the living room before sitting down to a delicious and lovingly prepared meal.
The third eggnog had been a mistake, she realized too late, and her body craved a nap more than anything else.
She lingered in that half-sleep state, her thoughts drifting back to her plans for the perfect evening. She played out every detail in her mind. The front door would open, and then quickly close, the soft sound of snow sneaking in with the momentary draft. Brent would walk into the living room, pleasantly surprised to find Melinda in her pose.
She would sit slowly and seductively upright. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“It smells like Christmas in here,” he would say, meeting her on the sofa as he spotted the mistletoe.
Sitting beside her, he would take her into his arms, then offer her a passionate and loving kiss. His arms would run along her body, feeling her and enjoying her, as she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. She would expose his firm, strong chest, and then remove the shirt and tug at his pants.
She would shift to her back as he climbed over her, his hands moving down below, feeling that she was hot and wet, overwhelmed with her desire to feel him enter her. His cock would be swollen and hard, its base thick and its head perfectly defined, and he would hold it just out of her reach, teasing and testing her.
As he dipped down, brushing up against her, he would steal another kiss. His chest would be warm and firm, and he would taste sweet as their tongues met and played against one another. The room would heat up as they pressed their bodies together and she would spread her legs around him. Then he would slide into her, their eyes meeting as their breath escaped them both for a brief moment. She’d bring her hips up to meet his, and together they would rock and sway in unison, grinding into one another, savoring one another.
The pleasure between them would swell, filling her and enveloping him. Their lips would meet again frantically, and they’d thrust into each other with growing intensity, hungry for more. They’d begin to build together, their pace quickening with their shared gratification.
“I love you,” he would say, his words penetrating her mind, and his breath tantalizing the last of her senses.
“I love you, too,” she would respond breathlessly.
As her fingernails ran down his back, scratching him slightly, she’d find his hard, round ass and take him into her hands, driving him harder and deeper inside of her.
Finally, he would groan, “I want to come inside you.”
“I want to feel you come.” And with the orgasm a split second away—
Melinda jumped with a start, immediately waking as the oven timer sounded.
Dazed, she glanced around and got her bearings. He still wasn’t home. What was keeping him?
Melinda hurried to the kitchen to remove the bird from the oven and mash the potatoes. The tile was cool against her bare feet, somewhat sobering to her as she padded toward the oven.
Where was he?
It was just the two of them. Their families were scattered across the country and their finances too tight to allow for travel, so she’d roasted a small stuffed chicken and made just enough mashed potatoes to see them both through one round of leftovers. It was a tradition they’d started only a few years back, but already they had made it their own. He opted to work longer hours at Christmas, the extra pay justification to spoil her for just one day. Melinda was happy to take the time preparing for his return, planning every detail, doing what she could to make the evening special. Brent delighted in finding some way, without going beyond his means, to outdo the years before. They would be married ten years in January, but the spark between them remained bright, their efforts to keep it that way reciprocal.
She drained the potatoes in the sink, the hot steam rushing over her body as she poured the boiling water down the drain. Another wave of heat washed over her as she moved the chicken from the oven to the cool stovetop. She mashed the potatoes and emptied the stuffing, rushing to complete her presentation in time to return to her pose.
A combination of worry and anger slowly began to fill her. Brent should have been home by now. She knew rationally that he was caught in traffic, or perhaps even out buying a last-minute present for her, but she couldn’t help but resent whatever circumstance was behind his tardiness. Instead of posing seductively, with dinner hot from the oven—instead of the night playing out just as it had in her mind—she was fitting aluminum foil over dinner and scrubbing chicken grease off her hands.
She heard the front door open and shut precisely as she wrapped the last fold of aluminum foil over the chicken. She froze for a moment, trying to decide whether she was going to express her worry or her anger, then struck a pose as she heard him near. She would hear his excuse before she decided which emotion to unleash.
She took a step back with a giggle as Brent stepped in, dressed in a Santa costume complete with a stuffed stomach, white wig, and fake beard. He carried a vented cardboard box from a pet store, carefully using both hands.
“Merry Christmas,” he said with a deep and jovial Santa voice. He smiled at the sight of her naked body, but held character. “Have you been naughty this year or nice?”
“Incredibly naughty,” she said, still laughing. “Do I still get my present?”
“Only if you show Santa how nice you can be,” he said, cracking a smile and handing her the box.
She peeked through the top, seeing two scared birds huddling and ready to spring. She shut the box before she could get a good look, thwarting their unwanted escape, but from what she could tell, they looked like doves. “You bought me a pair of doves?”
“Turtledoves,” he said. “Ho, ho, ho!”
“That would explain the partridge in a pear tree you brought home last night,” she joked.
“You don’t like them? Well, Santa could take them back.”
She smiled. “Two turtledoves. That’s very sweet.” She gave him a hug, his suit soft against her bare skin.
“Their cage is in the living room,” he said, peeking under the foil. “Dinner’s ready?”
She nodded.
“Were you planning on eating it naked?”
She nodded again. “Only if you keep on the Santa suit.”
“Deal.” He gently plucked the box from her, giving her a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll get the birds set up in their cage while you serve us dinner.”
“Sounds good.”
He walked out with the box, looking clumsy but adorable in his big black boots. Touched and amused by his effort, she moved to the stove with two plates, hoping their dinner would still be hot.
The chicken steamed as she removed the foil, but the potatoes were already beginning to turn cold. She decided to make a quick gravy, already resigned to the idea of reheating the potatoes when she was done, and she quickly threw a piece of foil over the pan as she heard Brent yell from the other room.
“Heads up! The birds got loose!”
She heard the frantic flapping of wings and a nervous purr coming her way as one of the doves, then the other, flew into the kitchen. She grabbed helplessly at thin air trying to catch one, but missed miserably and sent it out of the room. She gasped as the other dove suddenly landed in the mashed potatoes. The bird looked around for a moment, stupefied, as it sank into the lukewarm mass, its little feet kicking in a futile attempt to keep from sinking even deeper.
Melinda dove toward the bowl, horrified when the bird leaped out, sending potatoes in all directions with another flap of its wings. She turned as the bird flew out the way it had come in, just missing Brent’s head as he entered the room. He noticed the bits of mashed potato splattered across her chest.
“I don’t think you’ll want to eat the potatoes,” she said. She set the bowl aside and removed the foil from the chicken and stuffing, then turned off the burner with a disgusted flick of her wrist. She dug a fork into the stuffing, and lifted it to her lips for a taste. “Stuffing’s cold,” she said, pouting.
Brent gently pulled the fork from her hand, stealing a taste for himself. “Still tastes good.”
“We should track down the birds.”
“They’re not going anywhere.” He gave her another kiss. “I’m starved. Let’s eat. We can worry about the birds when we’re done.”
Melinda nodded, feeling hungry herself, and began serving them separate plates, but Brent stopped her. He plucked a piece of chicken from the pan, using his fingers, and moved it to her mouth.
She ate the piece with a smile, and then picked a bit of chicken out herself and held it out to him. He offered her another.
She moved to the stuffing, taking a small mass of it in her hand, and moving it to his mouth. He did the same, playfully smearing a bit of it on her face.
She giggled. “This isn’t wedding cake!”
“No?” he asked, smearing another small handful across her lips.
She sank her hand into the bowl, then pressed a handful of stuffing into his face, covering his fake moustache and catching bits of it in the beard. With a laugh, she backed off as she saw him reach for another handful.
She retreated to the bowl of mashed potatoes, then quickly flung a hefty handful in his direction. She missed, only to find him suddenly tossing stuffing her way. A small amount of it landed in her hair, and another quick handful left bits of seasoned bread crumbs across her chest.
“I hope you’re planning on cleaning up this mess!” she said, laughing.
He responded by flinging another handful of stuffing her way.
She tossed the last of the potatoes at him and they splattered across his coat. He saw that she was out of ammunition, and charged toward her with another handful of stuffing. “What are you going to do now?”
She dodged as the stuffing became airborne and he retaliated by smearing his greasy hand across her face.
“Yuck!” She gagged.
He moved to her face, and playfully licked her nose.
“So, are you going to help me clean up?” she asked.
“Some of it,” he said, moving to her lips and playfully flicking his tongue over them. “Santa’s still hungry.”
He pulled down the fake beard, and began to lick the bits of potato and stuffing from her chest.
“How do they taste?” she asked.
“They taste good.” He continued to lick her, moving to one of her nipples, teasing it with his tongue. He sucked on it, letting it go hard in his mouth, and then he moved to the other, caressing it with his lips and teasing it to hardness.
He ran his lips up her chest, moving them up her neck, down the curve of her jaw, and then to her lips. They kissed passionately, and she pressed tightly against his padded jacket, wrapping her arms around him. He caressed her back, his hands slowly making their way down to the thin curve of her ass.
They both jumped at the sound of a loud crash in the living room.
Instinctively, Brent sprinted into the living room, Melinda hot on his heels, knowing already that one of the birds had knocked over the vase. A bird flew past them and disappeared down the hall leading to the bedroom. The other was nowhere to be seen. The vase had stood on a small table by the door but now lay in several pieces on the ground, a bouquet of dried wildflowers in disarray beside it. Across the room stood the Christmas tree, and beneath it sat a dozen wrapped presents. A flannel red sack sat on the floor beside the gifts, and just to the side of the tree stood a large birdcage.
Melinda and Brent ignored the broken vase for the moment, opting instead to find and catch both birds before doing anything else. They hurried together toward the bedroom.
One of the birds stood on the bed. She was a pretty little bird with a mottled brown body. She walked in tiny steps, her head bobbing up and down, calling to her partner: “Trrrrr! Trrrrr!”
The other bird answered and they realized he too was in the room, high up on the curtain rod. His feathers were darker than hers and his body a beautiful shade of blue. He watched, unwilling to leave his vantage point, staring as Melinda and Brent attempted to corner the female.
But she deftly jumped high into the air and joined her partner on the curtain rod. They cooed back and forth, inching toward one another. It was as if they both felt the need to repeat to the other, in their own little language: “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Are you okay?
“Now what do we do?” Melinda asked.
Brent leaped toward the birds, waving his hands. “Ho, ho, ho!”
Both birds flew off with a horrified wail, rising over his head and skillfully avoiding his attempts to snatch them from the air. In an instant, they were out of the room.
“Smooth!” she laughed and the pair headed back into the main part of the house.
They returned to the living room, seeing nothing at first, but they turned as they heard the birds call to one another, once more.
“I’m okay. Are you okay? Trrrrr! Trrrrr! I’m okay. Are you okay?”
Melinda, Brent just behind her, hurried into the dining room and found the birds on the dinner table. They struggled to step over the lacy tablecloth, their tiny claws snagging the fine material as they walked.
“You grab the male, and I’ll get the female,” Melinda murmured as if the birds might understand the plan should she say it any louder. “On three.”
Brent nodded.
“One … two … oh shit!” Melinda cringed back, realizing she stood naked in front of the uncovered dining room picture windows, the bright light in the room leaving little to the imagination for anyone who might be standing on the street outside.
Melinda jumped back into the hallway. “Did anyone see me?”
Brent turned to the windows, feeling his body go flush beneath the heavy jacket and fake beard. “I don’t think so.” He turned out the dining room light, and then peeked out. “I don’t see anyone.”
They both laughed, overtaken by the thought of neighbors seeing the two of them through the window, one of them stark naked and the other dressed as Santa. It was both embarrassing and exhilarating.
Melinda peeked past the wall, the light from the other room spilling over and offering just enough for her to see a faint outline of the two birds. “Can doves see in the dark?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What should I do?” she asked, dismayed at the thought of getting dressed just to catch a bird.
“Hurry up and grab yours, and run back to the living room!”
“Okay … are you ready?”
“Just give me the word.”
“Now!” Melinda said and each gently grabbed a bird and expertly released their tiny claws from the tablecloth.
They returned the docile birds to the living room, and then carefully placed them into their cage. They took a moment to admire the two willful creatures, watching them huddle up against one another, comforting in one another’s safety and well-being with another long string of soft, purring sounds.
Melinda pointed to the other presents beneath the tree. “Where did all of these come from?”
“Santa,” Brent said with a chuckle.
“Oh, that’s right,” Melinda said, smiling.
“So, where were we?” he asked, pulling her close.
“You didn’t see the mistletoe.”
He looked around, spotting it over the sofa. A grin peeked past his fake beard as he slowly backed her toward it. They tumbled together onto the sofa, beneath the hanging icon. She landed safely on his soft, stuffed stomach.
Their lips met, and she kissed him through his fake beard, the wiry white hair tickling her face. She giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
“I never thought I’d be making out with Santa!” she said.
“No?” He rubbed up against her, getting hard. “You’re turning Santa on.”
She felt him, her face going red as she slid to the floor and unbuttoned his pants. He sat back, relaxing, as she revealed his erect cock and wrapped her mouth around it. She closed her eyes, licking the shaft and sucking as she pulled back, taking the base of it in one hand.
He moaned lightly as she twisted and rubbed, enjoying the balance of his hard, solid mass and its soft skin against her tongue. It was warm and slightly salty, and she breathed heavily as she serviced it with her mouth, caressing him with long, loving strokes.
Gently, he nudged her further down as he joined her on the floor and slowly turned on her, making his way to her moist pussy with his tongue. The fake beard was soft against her shaved skin, and a shiver ran through her as he tickled her clit with tender kisses and quick laps. She spread her legs, prompting him to enter her further with his tongue, and she sucked harder as he rolled and licked the hard, spongy spot inside her.
They knew each other’s bodies well, knowing just the right spots on which to concentrate, each building the other’s excitement with equal skill and fervor. They increased their intensity together, moaning and writhing in ecstasy, moving as if in a slow, passionate dance. They followed one another’s lead, their moves growing stronger and deeper, reveling in the gift they each gave, and relishing in the sensations running through their bodies.
She felt him go even harder as he paused, moaning loudly and exhaling passionately as he came in her mouth. The jizz was thick and salty, and she continued to suck until he cried out, the sensation overwhelming, and pulled away.
“You’re an animal,” he said, and then moved to finish her.
She rolled on to her back, the fake whiskers tickling her as he went in deep. He caressed her body, and then found her hands with his, clasping them together, licking and rousing her selflessly and enthusiastically. She felt her body tense as she moved toward climax, her legs spreading wider, her hands clenching.
She let out a loud cry, the release coming quickly and intensely, her muscles turning into jelly and relaxing as he collapsed at her side. They both breathed heavily, hearts racing, as they lay beside one another on the cool floor catching their breath.
“How was that?” he asked.
She thought about the night she had planned, and how differently it had turned out. She glanced over at the doves, now silently cuddled up against one another, and turned back to her husband, who lay in a wrinkled, food-spattered Santa suit. She smiled contentedly. “Perfect.”
Three French Hens
by Cameo Brown
Clucked
MIRELLE STUDIED THE ardent expression of the young man beneath her—Mark or Dark or Dork or something was his name—watching his desperate need inch toward tortured ecstasy as he neared climax.
She straddled his waist, falling forward to stroke his smooth chest as he clutched her breasts, enjoying the way he submitted to her desire in order to satisfy his own. He gave her his finger to suck and she drew it in, just as she would a hot, hard cock needing relief. She suckled it.
His gasp turned into a moan.
She lifted herself against Mark’s engorged cock, the first inklings of her orgasm tickling her clit and eliciting another thick stream of cream from her pussy. Mirelle tightened her ass as he pumped into her, his eyes closed, moaning.
She rocked with him, thrusting up and down, her nails now digging at his flesh, leaving red, angry marks. He didn’t seem to care.
Her pussy spasmed, biting his solid length as it penetrated her soft folds, scalding hot from the exquisite friction their union produced, and he spurted inside her, showering her eager eternal womb with his warm jism, its energy pouring into her.
This is the part she loved, the part preserving the sanctity of her immortality.
His essence washed over her.
“Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!” he shouted, bucking beneath her.
“No, silly mortal, god-dess,” she corrected, her orgasm looming. What would it matter? He would remember nothing of their encounter anyway.
His thoughts and memories flowed through her ichor. His wants and needs swamped her intellect and her mind floated away into oblivion.
Everything he was or ever would be dissolved into her being, and she fell into the dark abyss of his humanity, reveling in her ability to return from the depths of ultimate knowledge, immune to the bonds of uncertainty keeping so many humans hostage there.
She came.
Sparks showered her brain. The sudden release of tension combined with the serene rawness of his cock penetrating her created a high of pure bliss, a hit stronger than any drug. She rode him wildly, forcing him to offer more than she knew he had to give. Forcing him to please her thoroughly and completely.
She didn’t let him relax until she’d milked every last drop of pleasure from his prick. Only then did she allow the human, his job finished, to fade into a deep, forgetful slumber. When he awoke, he’d only remember he’d visited their diner, The Hen’s Tooth Grille, and nothing more.
Mick would wake in the same booth in which she’d seduced him, the one where he’d sat all evening nursing sweet tea and a broken heart after his girlfriend—Pailey, Jailey, or something—jilted him and went back to apologize to her ex-roommate, or some such nonsense. Mirelle didn’t pay much attention to what came out of his mouth. She much preferred watching what grew in his lap.
Mirelle’s climax ebbed, bringing with it flashes of the young man’s life. Her pussy stopped fluttering on his cock as they rolled by like a series of movie clips.
Alarming visions flitted across the back of Mirelle’s eyes, growing more and more disturbing. Her eyes snapped open.
“Sisters! Come at once!” she barked and slid off the man beneath her, who snored already, and charged into the communal living area joining their three boudoirs.
Martine was the first to appear: naked, giggling, and slapping away the groping hands of her amour. He grinned like a fool and smacked her ass as she stumbled into the living room. She glanced back and waved at her lover with her fingertips, blowing him a kiss. He pointed to his dripping erection with both index fingers and mouthed, “Hurry.”
Minette showed up a second later, her hand between her legs and her eyes half closed. She stumbled toward them, stopping every couple of steps to massage her depths a little more and grunt, pleasuring herself along the way. Minette fell into Martine’s arms, her release imminent.
“Uh. Uh huh. Uh huh! Uh! Uh! Oui! Oui! Oui! Oooo la la!”
Minette slumped against Martine, a languid, peaceful smile replacing the earnest concentration darkening her features just moments before. Martine kissed the top of her sister’s head, giggling.
“Are you quite done?”
Minette removed her hand from her pussy, sighing, and wiped it off on her nude hip. She nodded, her reddish curls bobbing like an erect penis on a marathon runner as mischief oozed from her sparkling green eyes.
“Sisters, you remember Robert Waldridge?”
“Rob? I could never forget such a man,” Martine said, flirting, and placed her hand over her heart, even though there were no men around to appreciate the effort.
“Robby!” Minette squealed, jumping up and down and clapping in front of her perky breasts.
Mirelle glanced at her sister’s heaving bosoms and noticed their nipples pebbled as much as hers, Martine’s pink and Minette’s dark brown. Good, now she had their undivided attention.
“I’ve gained knowledge,” she continued, lifting and opening her thigh so her sisters could see the evidence of her and Murk’s activities. She beckoned to them. “Come see for your lovely selves.”
Martine and Minette touched Mark’s creamy, dripping come. Minette held it up, rubbing it between her index finger and thumb. She sniffed it as her pale, divine skin absorbed its knowledge, and wrinkled her nose. Martine plopped a glob into her mouth, sucking it off her finger.
“Oooh,” she cried, screwing up her pretty face. “This man is a fool and a dolt. Why do you fuck him, Mirelle?”
Mirelle rolled her eyes. As if mental capacity was ever a consideration when it came to fucking. Sometimes her sisters amazed her—how many years had they been alive? Suddenly, unshed tears brightened Minette’s emerald orbs.
“Oh no, Mirelle! Our Robby is going to make a terrible mistake!”
Martine’s chocolate-brown eyes widened as Mark’s come opened his secrets to her and the truth unfolded before her as well.
“What do we do, Mirelle? We can’t let anything so horrible happen to our Rob!”
Mirelle nodded. Much better. Now they were all of the same mind, and, being skilled in the ways of love, she knew exactly what to do.
“Sisters, it’s time for a cruise to the Caribbean.”
Bella Raye Noringer stood outside the Port of Miami and stared at the colossal ship, the Sea Empress, wondering if she weren’t about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Though she’d let a porter take her luggage, she didn’t have to get on the ship, she told herself. She could still call this whole trip off.
When she and Mark planned this Christmas holiday, she’d thought it would end with a romantic proposal on a beach somewhere far away from the dismal Chicago weather. She never thought she’d be standing here alone, trying to decide whether to take a trip planned for two as one.
Finding him in bed with Hailey six months ago certainly limited her choices from “going with Mark” to “going or eat the cost of the trip.” Canceling meant losing a great deal of money—money she didn’t have.