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Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Of Flighty Muses, Stampeding Hippopotami And Going Creatively Crazy

Dare To Be Crazy

You’ve probably experienced yourself already what a fickle thing the muse is. She pokes you constantly in the ribs, whispering parts of wonderful stories into your ear, only to hide away when you most need her. You’ve sat for hours and days, stuck on a scene, tied to that story, and wracked your brain until you reached the inevitable, heartbreaking conclusion –

Writer’s Block!

So how do you lure her out into the open again? Forget all the tips about structure, rituals, special surroundings and “simply writing.”

The muse is a little punk, a frail thing with neon colored hair held together by these silver gum wrappers, a crazy bitch who wears dirty blue jeans with holes in tandem with Louboutin heels, who turns off the alarm clock with a well-placed arrow and who uses her original Hemingway first print to prop up the old table on which she fucks the neighbor while she smokes weed. You’ll not impress her with a neat writing room and a lovely cup of tea.

Noticed something? Good.

What works for me, and reportedly for others, is to deviate from the usual questioning of “what if” and, instead, snatch the most unlikely things you come about.

Go For Crazy Yourself

Your main character, Jennifer, is sitting at the kitchen table with her boyfriend Toby? They’ve just argued because he missed their anniversary and now you can’t for the love of it find the way to move the scene from that depressing, static setting to the happy, romantic ever after you had planned?

Stop wracking your brain. Turn on the TV. Sounds crazy? Yes, but remember the muse. Try to find the first thing that you think doesn’t fit your story at all.

I just tried it, and as I still had a documentary channel running, the first thing I saw was a hippo. I scribbled that down, but I still had no success. So I switched one channel down.

Starfighters. Okay, I admit that I’m a bit of a documentary addict. Hippos and Starfighters. So far, so good.

Another channel down, I spotted a bare-chested chocolaty beauty dancing on a carnival wagon in Rio. This was perfect!

A hippo, a Starfighter and half-naked girls dancing on the carnival are to be my ingredients, and I’ll force them into the story, no matter if it makes sense.

Jennifer’s eyes shot open. A hippopotamus shot through the room, trampling the table on its way, and crashed out through the window that was now a door. A Starfighter thundered over the house in hot pursuit of the massive animal, and both Jennifer and Toby tried to duck under the table – if only it had still been there. As if on a signal, both jumped from their chairs and raced out of the house, through the splintered remains of the entrance door and onto the street. Toby rubbed his eyes. A carnival wagon slowly rolled down the road towards them, and on top of it danced the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Is This Stupid? Hell, Yes!

Now you have holes in the wall, a demolished kitchen, a rampaging hippopotamus, the Air Force in an uproar, a beautiful Brazilian dancer in the middle of a small town in the USA with no clue how she got there, and on top of all that, if you haven’t paid attention, most certainly a jealous girlfriend at hand. That last one is a chilling thought.

Let’s Try Something Completely Different

Well, not completely, but let’s at least tone it down some. Trampling hippos are neither native to the States nor very romantic. Romantic? Heart?

Let’s try this:

“You know,” Jennifer said, blinking away her tears, “it feels like hippo has trampled over my heart. I hate it! We used to have fun; we didn’t even need to talk to understand each other.”

Yes! A whole paragraph! So, the Starfighter. Can we use it for another metaphor? Hm. They were renowned for crashing down – let’s not care about how warranted that was. But how to work them into the story. Only someone with a bit of an airplane fetish would talk about Starfighters in such a situation. Or someone who knows one like that.

Toby chewed on his lip. “Grandpa once told me that his relationship with Gran is like a Starfighter. If it doesn’t touch down and get refueled often enough, it’ll crash.”

You think that’s both cheesy and horrible? I do too. Hell, Jennifer does as well.

Jennifer looked at him with wide eyes, unsure if she should laugh or cry. “That’s the silliest metaphor I’ve ever heard!”

Toby deflated. “You know how Grandpa is; it’s either aircrafts or fishing he talks about.”

You think this is going in circles? Nope, *insert evil giggle here* because here comes our last weapon:

“Or that time in ’72 when he visited the carnival in Rio,” Jennifer added with a small smile tugging up the corner of her mouth. “Do you really believe he rode on a wagon with ten half-naked samba dancers?”

Toby covered his face. “Don’t start with that. Gran still hits him every time he mentions it, even after forty years.”

“I’d like to see it.” Suddenly, Toby’s misstep didn’t appear as big anymore.

“What?” He asked. “You want to see Gran hit him or Grandpa with ten…”

“The carnival! God, you’re such a pervert!”

“Hey, just having you on.” He couldn’t stop from chuckling at her outrage. “I’d like to go there, one day,” he told her, his voice now quieter, “with you. There and to other places.”

Jennifer froze. A part of her wanted to stay mad at him, but another part caved under his nervous, hopeful look. “I’d like that too,” she whispered, and then he was suddenly next to her, pulling her up into his arms, and her lips parted eagerly for his.

Yes! We Did It!

See, it wasn’t that hard. This is no guaranteed recipe to cure writer’s block, but more often than not, you’ll find writing a chore when the muse hides. Going crazy will help you come up with ideas that are outrageous enough to make you smile. When you smile, you have fun, and when you have fun, it’s not a chore anymore.

I hope you could take something from my ramblings.

Now please excuse me, as I’ve got a story to write about a punk girl who owns Louboutin heels and a Hemingway first print. I’m still not completely ruling out hippopotami.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Staying With Erin - Another series brought full circle! Yay!

Today's the last day of my holidays, so I'm really happy that I finally finished the last chapter of my erotic novel Staying With Erin.

When eighteen-year-old Paisy's parents go abroad, she sneaks out in the night and runs away to live with her friend Erin, whom she had met in an internet chatroom, in her rented room at a farm in Louisianna. Little did she know that Erin and her landlady Bridget have a wicked sexual relationship and are all too eager to draw her into their world of sex and kinks. Constant nudity and pankings are just the tip of the iceberg, but Paisy can't extricate herself from the sexual thrill and takes part in more and more kinky games.

Click here to read the full novel of 42,500 words for free at Lush!

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Teutonic Temptation is online!

A Teutonic Temptation has hit the front page at Lush, yay!

The story grew to more than 9,000 words, a sweet and romantic but also scorching hot and naughty tale of seduction. Working with Katie has been a blast, and we're both sure that this hasn't been our last writing collaboration.

Follow Katie and Chrissie on their holiday in a romatnic spa retreat set amidst a snowy landscape of fairytale castles, and watch tentative seduction overcome insecurities, then lead to steaming, sexy fun.

Click here to read the full novelette at Lush.

Conver - A Teutonic Temptation

Have fun reading!

Wednesday, January 07, 2015

Sneak Peek at my Collaboration

I'm all hyper! Our collaboration piece is going along wonderfully, and working with KatieElizabeth isn't just inspiring and fun, it's sexy as hell!

We're more than halfway into the story now, which is told from alternativing perspectives, and things are really heating up. To tide you over until it's ready for release, here's a short snipped from my latest part:

...I felt like floating on clouds. I still did, half an hour later when made our way back to our rooms, after what was now open, heavy flirting by both of us. I contemplated ravishing her lips, but settled for a sweet kiss to the corner of her mouth to say goodnight and failed to hide my trembling sigh.

The moment that my room’s door closed behind me, I couldn’t wait to get out of my clothes. Trembling fingers nestled with the dress until I got it loose and simply let it drop onto the floor. My bra flew through the room, then my soaked panties followed. I plopped onto the bed and pulled my shoes and stockings off. That buzz between my thighs had turned into a maelstrom. My lust dripped in thick rivulets down my thighs. The fire in my pussy needed quenching, but not here or I’d make a veritable mess.

I raced into the bath, and with a wicked grin pulled my ‘best friend’ I’d called Pinkie from the pocket in my toilet bag, my pink, smooth, shiny toy, as long as my hand and two fingers wide. The bricked walk-in shower was a dream, and soon a soft, warm rain fell from above. I leaned against the tiles and bit my lip. Pinkie buzzed to life.

“Katie,” I softly moaned her named...

Stay tuned! And meanwhile, don't forget to check out KatieElizabeth's wonderfully sexy stories!

Monday, January 05, 2015

I'm doing a collaboration

Yes, it's the first time (okay, the second time I started one, but that fell short early due to life being a bitch) that I'm working together with another author on a story. I managed to rope the lovely and talented KatieElizabeth into creating a sapphic seduction tale together with me, and we're both having an absolute blast.

A lot of credits for the story outline and perfect planning go to her. She's a veritable well of creative energy and one of the sweetest people I've ever gotten to know.

If you haven't read her works, you can find them all at her author page at Lush.

I don't want to give away too much ahead of time. Our main characters, incidentally named Katie and Chrissie, both end up at a lovely hotel in the south of Bavaria over a long winter weekend without company. Soon, sparks begin to fly and mutual attraction runs its course. I don't think I'm promising too much when I say that you'll find both wonderfully romatic scenes of tentative seduction and steamy, naughty fun that makes your skin prickle all over.

It's going to be a teasing tale, but never a dull one. It shouldn't be too long, so stay tuned!

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Just A Tiny Spark

A tiny spark, that's what Molly is missing in her relationship with Jake. When she meets the new librarian, Mrs. Henderson, at her college, her emotions suddenly are all over the place. Accompany Molly on a journey through self-discovery and heartbreak to find love where she'd never expected it.

These are just some of the reviews:
"I wasn't too sure about a love story at first but something about your title pulled me in. I am deeply grateful for finding it. This is one of the most amazing works of art I have come across in a long time on Lush."

 "That was an incredible story filled with so much love and passion and so well detailed."

"Oh my word Chrissie, this was just amazing. It was tender, loving and romantic all rolled into one. While the story isn't me, the thoughts, feelings, doubts, self awareness and eventual acceptance of who I am and what I like are perfectly captured."

Just A Tiny Spark is a novelette of more than 10,000 words. Prepare for sweetness and heartache, and keep your hankies ready.

Just A Tiny Spark

I hadn’t seen her before, and like always when meeting someone I wasn’t familiar with, I became tongue-tied. Though today, for some unfathomable reason, my awkward shyness was even worse. I had decided to come first thing in the morning before the big rush to the library started, but that meant that we were the only two people here and there was no crowd to hide in.

Her green eyes roamed up and down the stack of computer books I had placed on the counter from behind sophisticated, dark rimmed glasses, and her lips turned into a soft pout that made her look five years younger in the blink of an eye. Talk about eyes.

Mine flicked to the small badge with her name affixed to her knitted creamy-white vest while I wondered where Isabelle, the regular librarian, was. The vest looked expensive, if a little old-fashioned, but it fit her perfectly. The dark blue blouse shimmered through the loose knitting, the woolen fabric hugging her body. She was fit, nothing like pudgy, always sweaty Isabelle, who would, by now, have wrinkled her nose and complained about students always returning ‘her’ books at the last moment.

‘Ms. Henderson,’ the badge read, ‘Head Librarian.’ Her dark-brown curls shimmered perfectly in the light and made me think of expensive chocolate.

“...changing your major?”

I blushed crimson red. “Sorry,” I muttered. It wasn’t like me to space out like this. Or perhaps it was, but not often, and not around people.

“You’re changing your major?” If my inattention annoyed her, she covered it perfectly. The smile she sent me was warm.

“Uhm, yes. How do you know?”

“Well, let’s see.” She tilted her head slightly, an amused sparkle in her eyes, and these eyes seemed to look deep inside me. I felt my pulse speed up. There was something about her that shook me off balance.

She reached out with a well-manicured finger and traced the titles on book backs, and for the first time, I was able to guess her age. She had to be above forty, this I realized when I saw the small wrinkles on the back of her hand, even though her face didn’t appear a second older than thirty.

“All your books are on the required reading list. Here’s Stroustrup. Required reading for the first two years in computer lab, just like Wirth’s Algorithms and Data Structures here.” She poked the two rather worn looking books. “You might be starting third year, but then you wouldn’t have Basics of Economics here, which is only needed through first year.” She gifted me with an amused smirk. “Unless you failed that course. But nobody fails Economics.”

My blush intensified.

“And, if you were going into third year, there’d be Practical Applications of Finite Automata and some odd book on hardware, depending on the professor you had, in that stack. So, the only logical conclusion is that you’re changing your major. Now the only question left is, to what?”

“Oh, wow. You’re good!”

I think it was then that it happened, but it would me a long time to put my finger on it. When she looked directly into my eyes, her face aglow with a satisfied smile, a strange warmth filled my chest.

“Am I?” She held my gaze.

There was some undertone in her voice that I couldn’t pin-point, but then she straightened up and her face turned professional, and I felt like I had lost something. This was turning out to be the strangest day I ever had, and my emotions jumped all over the place.

“Literature,” I mumbled, trying to say something to bridge the awkward silence that suddenly tried to smother me. “I mean, my new major. I’m not good with that computer stuff, I guess not nerdy enough, at least that’s what I think when I look at Erin and Jen. They’re my roommates. Not that there’s anything wrong with them, but they do all this crazy stuff with their computers and I hardly understand… a… word...”

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes glowed with amusement, and I felt like sinking into the ground. “I’m rambling, sorry.” I had not the faintest idea what was going on with me. A part of me urged me to turn around and bolt, but something else held me rooted to the spot. I took a deep breath. ‘Act like a grown-up,’ I ordered myself.

A soft, melodic laugh filled the air. “You remind me of someone I know,” she told me, her head tilting once more. “Whatever people tell you, don’t change!”

There was a short moment when something incredibly warm seemed to radiate from her eyes. But at the same time, my knees wobbled and I grew light-headed. I had to have caught some kind of flu. I never felt this dizzy around strangers.

“So, let me guess,” she asked while she scanned the barcode stickers on the books, “Catcher and Jane Eyre?”

I silently nodded.

“Anything else?”

“The Turn of the Screw.”

“Ah, Professor Morrigan, then. She’s good. You’ll love it.”

“You know her?”

“We got our PhDs at the same time.”

“You’ve got a...? But you’re…” I clamped a hand over my mouth, realizing my verbal misstep and suddenly feeling an intense desire to die on the spot.

She didn’t appear flustered. In contrary. Another of those melodic laughs answered my outburst. “Just a librarian? Yes, it’s sometimes funny where live leads us.” Then she leaned closer, winking conspiratorially. “But can there be any better place to work at than one surrounded by books? Tens of thousands of wonderful worlds at your fingertips?”

My breath hitched. Warmth spread all over me. It had to be a flu bug. I blinked away the dizzy feeling.

“I… I guess not.” I didn’t have to lie. Reading had always been my one passion. Sure, I had shared all the hobbies that my friends had indulged in, like rollerblading, volleyball, riding, weaving friendship bracelets or doing each other’s hair, but when I had been alone, I tended to spend every moment of spare time cuddled on the couch or, if the weather allowed, on a low branch of my favorite tree, reading and dreaming. “You’re right,” I agreed once more, this time straightening my back and smiling at the fond memories of past times. “There’s no better place in the world!”

“Well, then what are you waiting for? Come along, let’s fetch your books.”

I gaped. “Really? Isabelle, I mean, Mrs. Freshwater, never let us touch the bookshelves.”

This time, her laugh sounded more like a giggle. “Knowing Bella, I’m not surprised that she doesn’t risk anybody touching her beloved books unnecessarily.”

“Bella?” What was it today that I spoke before thinking? I bit my lip, traipsing after Mrs. Henderson, who had stepped around the counter and led the way to the back, where hundreds of shelves held more books than I had ever seen at one place before. She wore a pencil skirt that matched her blouse and ended just below her knees. Creamy stockings covered toned, muscular calves, and with her one-inch heeled, matching blue sandals, she could have jumped right out of a fashion magazine. Or manager’s weekly.

There was something timeless and incredibly stylish about her.

“She’s my cousin’s wife. There aren’t many things she treasures more than her books.”

“Wha… Oh, yes. I can definitely see that.” Why was it so hard today to keep focused? I forced myself to pay attention to her words. The cog wheels in my brain slowly started up again. “Are you filling in for her?”

“Yes.” We turned a corner at row thirteen, and she headed towards the middle of the shelf to our left. “Her mother broke a leg, so she’s caring for her until she’s back on her feet. There, the Catcher.” She pulled a medium sized book from the shelf and held it out towards me.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I followed her further down the aisle and to the shelf on the opposite side.

“The doctors say it’ll heal completely, and Jessica, Bella’s mother, is taking it quite well. Here.”

“That’s good. Thank you.” I took Brontë’s novel from her hand, and for the flightiest of moments, my fingers brushed against hers. At the same time, a tingling heat shot through my body, and a gasp escaped me. My knees buckled, and the book hit the floor with a dry splat.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Henderson sounded worried, and I felt strong fingers grip my arm above the elbow and steady me. Blurry grey spots danced before my eyes.

“I’m…” My breath was fast and shallow as if I had run a race. “I think I caught a bug.”

“Let’s get you somewhere where you can sit down.” She picked up Jane Eyre and gently guided me back to the open area and towards one of the small, round study tables.

With every step, I was incredibly aware of the fingers wrapped around my arm, and I felt hot and cold at the same time. I plopped down bonelessly onto the chair and rubbed my face. “I don’t know what’s going on with me,” I sighed. “I was fine earlier.”

“You take a breath while I fetch you a glass of water,” Mrs. Henderson told me, worry in her voice.

“Thank you.” My own voice was weak but grateful. I watched her hurry to the office in the back, then appear again with a large glass of water in her hand, and even though she moved quickly, every step was well-timed and elegant. She had class. I started to wonder where that word had suddenly come from, but then she was already there and pushing the glass into my trembling fingers. I took a sip, and when the cool liquid ran down my throat, I felt myself calm down.

She pulled another chair over - something Isabelle would never have allowed - and sat down next me, eyeing me critically. “Better?”

“Loads.” I closed my eyes for a moment and took another sip. “Thank you!”

“You do look better already, too. Let me quickly scan your books.”

The sliding doors to the library opened while she went to the counter, and a horde of students entered, giggling and whispering, all of them carrying slips of paper - probably the required reading for their eight o’clock lecture. Though my own habits were different, I was quite aware that the library wasn’t the place to be found this early in the morning for most of my fellow students.

I while later, I carried the empty glass back to Mrs. Henderson and fetched my books. She was still busy retrieving the books for the others, so I waved my thanks and answered her smile with one of my own.

A while later, I lay on my bed, trying to ignore the intermittent beeping and clicking noises emanating from Jen’s corner of the room and trying to make sense of what was happening with me, of what had happened to me. The dizziness and wobbly knees had gone as fast as they had come, and now all that was left was a strange, buzzing feeling in my guts that I couldn’t put my finger on.

Continue reading the rest of the story at It's free.

Monday, December 22, 2014

What A Christmas, Carol!

The snow tumbled from the sky like a curtain in big, wet flakes that glittered in the porch light and added layer after layer to the smooth, edgeless blanket that tried to swallow the world. From time to time, trees capitulated under the weight and threw their branches to the ground with a final, resonating gun shot, or faltered altogether with a cannon blast. The startled jerks and hammering heartbeat were the only things that broke Carol’s miserable monotony while she stared out of the blurred window into the white-gray nothingness and watched through red-rimmed eyes as the snow climbed above the window sill.

Her mood was just like the snow - gray, heavy and cold. It should have been the best Christmas ever. Now she sat there, alone, the ambers of the fire in the hearth behind her dead, and wrapped her blanket tighter around herself, unable to dispel the chill from her heart.

Going to be a day late. Missed flight. Driving up there by myself. ” Was that the message you wrote your fiancée when you needed to tell her that you’d be late for your first real, romantic holiday together -- for the long-awaited, cozy Christmas week in a remote mountain cabin? Of course it wasn’t.

How he could not have expected her to call him after that, she had no clue. Or perhaps he had, subconsciously. Perhaps this had been his way to tell her that sorry, it just didn’t work for him. The giggling, female voice that had answered her on his fixed phone had been like a punch into her face and guts. But when she had asked for Fernando and Miss Giggles had called out for loverboy, she had felt her heart freeze and shatter, piece by piece, with agonizing pain.

“Don’t bother coming.” It had been a single wave of wounded rage that had kept her voice steady enough to say the words -- before the tsunami of misery following in its wake tore apart her world. She had hung up the phone, and there had been nothing. No frantic call back. No message begging her to talk. Just silence, a broken heart and tears streaming in rivers down her face.

* * * *

The snow was halfway up the windows. Candles flickered and made the room look far warmer than it felt. Carol’s stomach grumbled, but she couldn’t find the energy to get up. A knock sounded.

She should go to the door. But there couldn’t be anybody outside, not on Christmas Eve with the snow already four feet high and still falling. Her fantasy was playing games; loneliness was no doubt making her imagine things.

Another series of knocks broke the silence, loud, insistent. She turned her head around and looked at the door. “Wha…” Her voice was inaudible, raw from crying.

The knocking turned into a pounding. “Hello?” a muffled male voice asked from outside. “Is there anybody inside? Hello?”

* * * *

A deep trench, almost a canyon, wound its way through the snow, and the older couple standing in front of Carol’s door, clad in thick down jackets and with their cheeks reddened by the exertion in the cold, looked relieved. They were both breathing hard and leaning on their snow shovels.

Carol vaguely remembered their faces. “Hello,” she finally managed to stammer, and even as she spoke, the names came back to her. “Mr. and Mrs. Preston.” The tumbling snowflakes gave the scene a blurry appearance.

“June. Please call me June, and he’s Edgar. We’re neighbors, after all. You’re Carol, aren’t you?” The woman smiled brightly, and her breath came out in puffs of mist. A few blond curls clung wetly to her forehead under the jacket’s hood.

“I’m… yes. I remember you. Dad fixed your car once.”

The man, Edgar, chuckled. “That he did. I’d been trying to get it running for a whole day. Took him all of five minutes.” He looked her up and down. “We saw your car and the smoke from the chimney, but then the smoke stopped, though your car’s still up the lane. Are you okay? Are you here alone?”

“I… yes.” It was hard for Carol not to start crying again. “My fiancé was supposed to come too.”

“Oh.” June gave her a look of sympathy. “They closed the roads a few hours ago.”

“I don’t care!” Carol’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry,” she hastily added. “It’s just that…” She looked at the single wooden step in front of her that the snow already tried to claim once again.

“You had a falling out.” It wasn’t a question.


“Your eyes are red and puffy. We saw you crying through the window.”

As if the mere mentioning of the word had open a valve, fresh tears streaked down Carol’s cheeks. She hated that she couldn’t hold it together, but the frozen fingers of loneliness crushed her heart once again.

“Oh my!”

The wooden shaft of the shovel clanked on the cobbles, and then arms wrapped around her and pulled her into a tight hug. A scent of female perfume and sweat filled her nostrils. Sobs shook her, but a soothing hand travelled up and down her back.

“Nobody should be alone for Christmas. You’re coming with us.” June’s tone left no room for discussion. “But first, we’ll go inside and close the door. You have to be freezing in just your pajama, girl!”

“I… oh…” Flustered, Carol extricated herself from the embrace and took a step backwards. “I’m sorry, you have to be freezing yourself. Come in.”

Edgar had already leaned the shovels against the porch railing, and the two of them quickly stepped out of their boots and onto the lush carpet. Once the door shut behind them, Carol nervously looked around, for the first time in days noticing that the living room was quite a mess. “Sorry, I didn’t have much energy for tidying up.”

“And that’s understandable.” June stood next to her, one hand on Carol’s shoulder. “Why don’t you pack your things and jump into some warmer clothes, and we’ll head over. It’s rather cold here.”

“I had blankets.” Carol’s defense fell short against the twinkle in her older neighbor’s eye.

“Oh my god!” Edgar exclaimed far too loud. “Is that an original?” He crossed the room with a few long steps and crouched down in front of the wooden statue Carol’s mother and father had quarreled about so often.

“Not really. But it’s been made at the end of the nineteenth century.” She felt her cheeks grow hot, watching Edgar admire the lewd ebony statue. “Mom always argued that it was indecent, but Dad insisted on having it out in the open. I never got around to stowing it away.”

“And I’m glad.” Edgar’s voice was nothing more than a deep whisper. “She’s beautiful.” He ran a finger down the horned, wooden goddess, over her full, naked breasts and between her lewdly splayed legs.

As her neighbor’s finger caressed the statue in such a loving, almost sexual way, Carol became aware of her own state of being under-dressed. “I… I should really put something on. I haven’t unpacked much. I’ll be just a minute.”

The tightening of June’s fingers around her shoulder stopped her. “You don’t need to hurry.” She winked. “If there are two things that can keep my Edgar happy and occupied, it’s Egyptian history and naked women.”

Carol’s blush intensified, and she quickly headed to her bedroom.

* * * *

“...and this will be your room.”

“It’s lovely.” It was, really. Unlike the rest of the Preston’s cabin, which was all sheepskins and wood, the small room towards the back had two red-bricked walls and a four-poster bed with intricate ornaments and airy, transparent veils. “It’s like a princess’ quarters in a castle.”

June chuckled. “That might be because Edgar modelled it for his princess.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes, her name’s Amy. She has to be about your age. It’s a pity you never met. She’s twenty-three.”

Carol bit her lip while she stowed away her clothes in the dark wooden wardrobe, wondering if she should ask the question. But she was curious now. “She’s not coming here for Christmas?”

“Not this year. She lives with her husband in Australia. They visit us over the holidays every other year though.”

* * * *

They had spent the night in front of the fireplace, wrapped in thick woolen blankets, eating home-made cookies, sipping hot punch and sharing stories of past times at the cabins. Whenever June and Edgar had shared a particularly funny moment, they had sent each other loving smiles and winks, and the small touches that accompanied those always sent small stabs through Carol’s heart. But the laughter over -- in hindsight -- hilarious mishaps had more than weighed up these reminders of her loneliness, and when Carol had made her tipsy way to bed, she had felt relaxed for what had felt like the first time in ages.

She awoke to a soft bumping sound and had to blink a few times to realize where she was. The soft, bluish moonlight reflected on the snow and tinged the room in a mysterious glow. Something creaked, and more bumping followed, soft thuds.

Suddenly wide awake, Carol extricated herself from the blanket and slipped into the felt shoes. They were really ugly, but they were soft and warm. She tip-toed into the hallway to get herself a glass of water, but with each step, the thumping sound got louder.

When she was about to pass the Preston’s bedroom, she noticed the door slightly ajar and couldn’t stop herself from taking a peek. She almost gasped aloud and put a hand across her mouth.

Both were naked. June was on all fours in the middle of the huge bed, with her eyes closed and her head thrown back in ecstatic bliss. Behind her, Edgar knelt with his hands around her hips and pushed her slowly back and forth. She couldn’t see his groin, but there was no doubt what Carol was witnessing.

She had never considered herself a voyeur. But these two bodies, in all their slightly pudgy imperfection, were beautiful in the moonlight. June’s big breasts dangled rhythmically in the shape of long, perfect, round cones tipped with dark, long nipples, and gasps and grunts accompanied their dance of love. The looks of passion on their faces were breathtakingly beautiful.

Moisture coated Carol’s fingers and a moan almost escaped her lips. A guilty blush spread over her cheeks when she realized where her hand had strayed. She shouldn’t be doing this! But the rhythm sped up, the creaking and thumping intensifying just like the moans and grunts did.

“Oh god yes, baby, yes, give it to me! God, this feels so good! Harder!” June’s moaned encouragement was shaken by pleasured hitches in her breath.

“I love you!” Edgar grunted in reply, pushing himself hard into her and drawing a moan of delight.

Carol’s own fingers danced between her thighs, delved into the wetness.

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