by Shara Azod
“Take that champagne, husband, and pour it down your chest…I’m feeling thirsty.”
“ Are you kidding..Fi..Jesus..Yessss.”
She engulfed his length fully, taking long, slow pulls. She looked up and caught his gaze and lapped the underside of his shaft like a jungle cat. “Do it.”
He reached back to pick up the magnum of champagne and proceeded to slowly pour the liquid down his chest, hissing all the while at the startling coldness. As fast as she could handle Fiona slurped and swallowed; licked and sucked. It was like shots of lust and liquid Max in her mouth, and she was greedy for it. As she slowly made her way back up his chest, her face and hair damp with the expensive liquid, she nipped his stubbled chin and entwined her tongue with his in an all-consuming kiss. Walking her backwards toward the bed, Max continued to pour the cool liquid over her lacy demi-bra and swollen nipples. Leaning her head back, she groaned deeply as he sunk his face into the valley between her heavy breasts and sucked first the right nipple, then the left. He fairly vibrated in her arms with unspent passion and she loved every minute of it. As he lowered her down to the bed, she melted into the duvet in slightly drunken stupor. By combining the lusty adrenalin rush and the torrent of champagne body-shots she’d just taken she was pliant and oh so ready. As he lapped his way down her soft stomach and slipped his fingers into the waist band of her leggings, she flinched at the jarring sound of tearing clothe.
*Riiiiiiip* went her bottoms and she giggled like a school girl on the inside. She loved when he got to this point; when he couldn’t get to her fast enough. Max slid the tattered material down her legs, then after using her feet to remove them fully; Fiona also removed her lace panties. She couldn’t wait another moment for him to decide if he was going to tear off, take off or eat off the lacy barrier, so she slid those down too and flung them on the floor with her feet.
Wet and wanting she spread her nether lips and inserted her own finger, first one then two… Max frowned.
“Mine.. My present...” He growled into her core, taking both her soaked fingers and then her dripping center into his mouth.
Then he ate. And she writhed. And he ate, and she humped. And he ate and she stiffened. And he ate and she came torrents of honey for his mouth. Keeping his tongue inside her, Max continued to slowly fuck her pussy with his tongue. It kept her at a lovely plateau; kept her from falling. He wanted to keep her floating it seemed, and she was. He removed his tongue and inserted his index and middle fingers with ease and scissored into her: stretching and massaging. When his tongue went back to her core, he licked the seam up towards her plump, sensitive clit and feathered the tip like the most delicate of humming-birds while pressing his knuckles into the soft tissue below her cervix. She crumbled into a million stars again.
****
Max loved trying new things with his extremely responsive wife. One thing they never were was boring in bed. Before Fi could even catch her breath Max slid up her body; keeping one knee over his shoulder to open her wide he dug his cock so deep inside her she inhaled sharply and whimpered. He was filling her, fucking her, blazing a path to her soul with his body. Over and over they held this rhythm he reveled in and when he looked down at his love she was crying sweet, silent tears of pleasure. They were feeling completion.
“I love you. I love you. I love you,” she whispered.
And he then he also crumbled into a million stars.
The End
Happy Holidays, Everyone! If you loved Max and Fiona like I did and want to see how they met, fought and loved. Nona, Kitty and Jonas can’t wait to meet you, too! Look for the prequel to drop in November 2015!!
Book 2 in The Thigh High Series: A Thigh High Affair by Tiffany Monique
The Christmas Healing
By
Chaeya Robles
Chrissana Martin planned her death as simply as she had her life. Other than researching the method, the final outcome wasn’t given much thought in this instance. It was the most impulsive of decisions to end it all. However, she was done and no longer had anything else to give―to herself nor anyone else.
One could say that it was due to the holidays, given that many people felt an overwhelming sadness during such time. It was Christmas Eve, and this marked the second year anniversary of her mother’s death. She had come home from her evening job at half past ten at night to an empty apartment that showed not one speck of evidence of any holiday. That was incentive enough to avoid any second thoughts.
What was the point?
Her childhood home and the place where her mother had breathed her last breath was gone. Thanks to her older sister tricking her, she was left with no house and only a thousand dollars to her name. And she was forced to use the latter as a security deposit on a small apartment in a crappy part of St. Louis. Her current neighborhood had none of the quiet and charm as her former one.
Her sister claimed that having a job and paying bills would instill in her a sense of pride. What she’d meant by that was she could now take care of herself and stop sucking off their mother’s resources. Sadly, her sister refused to acknowledge that she’d been caretaker for their mom since high school. Housework, setting doctor appointments, and driving her mother to and from them, as well as handling chores such as repair work and grocery shopping, was a paid career for some people.
She looked at a blank art canvas peeking out from underneath her unopened mail from the past few weeks. It was all she had left from her twenty years of being with her mother. Due to her mother’s debilitating arthritis, which left her with very limited mobility, she’d needed someone to be with her. Her father had died in a car accident when she was ten, but his pension check was enough to sustain them, especially since the house had been paid for some years before.
Meanwhile, her older sister had finished school and moved away to attend college. There, she’d graduated with honors, moving on to be recruited by a high and mighty law firm. She’d drifted away from them, feeling as if their mother should have taken better care of herself and that she was only contributing to her mother’s poor health habits. Her sister looked down on anyone who wasn’t a picture of physical fitness and didn’t have some sort of career or status in society.
So like a fool, she had believed her sibling when she’d told her that, due to their mother nearing the end, she wanted to spend a week with her. This would allow her to make amends for being so distant all these years. She even paid for Chrissana to take a trip to Aspen. Strange, since Chrissana knew little about skiing and had no desire to learn. Instead, she’d spent the week holed up inside the lodge. She did sketch out some beautiful snow scenes to later paint when she returned home.
Even thinking about the ordeal made her hands shake. She had returned from her trip to a dead mother and her sister holding a power of attorney, somehow getting their mother to change her will to make her executor. Her sister always did have the gift of gab, as she and her mother both knew.
“I know you hate me now, Chrissana,” her sister had said after the funeral, “but I’m really doing you a favor. Once you stop messing around with this art thing of yours and get a real job and earn your own money, you will come back and thank me. Mom just held you back as she held herself back. This is your chance now.”
It’s hard to think clearly when one is in mourning. Her mother had always been the voice of reason. Maybe they were both codependents in their own way. However, they had both been happy together all those years. She liked nothing more than spending her free time painting in the basement of their home. It didn’t matter to her that she’d never wanted to sell any of her artwork. Seeing her mother’s face light up every time she showed her a picture was worth a fortune. Most of them had been hung in every room of the house.
Chrissana decided not to fight her sister over the bulk of the estate because she hadn’t the means or will to hire an attorney. It was easier for her to just walk away and go find employment. She hadn’t much of a resume since she’d never held a jo
b, and a wage at the grocer gig she landed was hardly enough to handle renting an apartment. Thus, she was forced to take on an additional job at a convenience store.
She shook out a handful of the Xanax. The little oval shapes reminded her of breath mints, looking nothing like a dangerous narcotic. A doctor had prescribed the pills shortly after her mother’s funeral due to her having panic attacks. No one would miss her―she hadn’t any friends, nor had time to make any. The few relationships she’d had before her mother died weren’t worth remembering.
It should have been no easier than falling asleep for the night. After several shot glasses of night-time cough syrup, she stretched out on the couch. This would be enough for her to let herself go and not wake up. She’d studied enough cases of suicide attempts to not overdo it. There had been too many people just succeeding in making themselves violently ill. Since she didn’t drink or take medicines, her system should have been sensitive enough for that to be enough to do the deed.
It was simple and quick, and she could feel the effects of the medicines almost immediately. Her eyes closed. She’d never been the religious sort. While she had grown up Baptist and attended church when her mother had been well, it had seemed more like a function than a desire. And if there was a God up there, he sure hadn’t taken much of an interest in her.
When or if she’d died, she didn’t know, for she now stood in a grassy field that spread out as far as her eyes could see. The sun was positioning itself to set behind a series of hills. She took a step and could feel the coolness of the grass beneath her feet, the blades sticking up in between her toes. A cool wind whipped around her, lifting her hair, carrying with it the scent of roses.
So far, death wasn’t appearing to be so bad. She clapped her hands together and pinched herself a few times to see if she would wake up. Instead, her awareness grew, as everything appeared sharper and the air around her more intense on her bare skin. Her hand slid up to her heart where she could feel it beating in her chest. Indeed, it began to beat faster.
She wasn’t going to get any answers just standing there, so she started off in the direction of the rosy scent. She hoped being barefoot wouldn’t cause any problems for her. In fact, she was still wearing her Superman pajamas. Perhaps anyone she came across wouldn’t care if they saw a thirty-five-year-old woman wearing something meant for teenagers. They were comfortable, and since she hadn’t had a man in her life for some time, why insist on wearing sexy things that wouldn’t be seen or appreciated?
Her walk didn’t seem to be bringing her close to anything, albeit the rose smell only growing stronger. No sooner had she thought that, she found herself at the base of a steep descent in the landscape. At the bottom of it, in the distance, she spied a bridge. It spanned across a creek filled with flowing, blue-green water.
Chrissana cautiously stepped downward, walking as carefully as she could so as not to break into an uncontrollable run. For the first couple of steps she was good, but a root in the grass caused her to trip, and she found herself running as fast as she could to keep up with the pull of gravity. At the bottom, she wound up falling to her hands and knees to keep from smashing her face to the ground.
She pushed herself up, dusting as much dirt from herself as she could. Fortunately, nothing was twisted or broken, so she began walking once more. As she drew closer to the bridge, she saw vines of roses wrapped around its wooden beams. Upon closer inspection, nearly all of them were in bloom and they were of every color imaginable—blood reds, pinks, whites, lavenders, and some appearing almost black. The sound of the water flowing beneath the bridge quieted her growing unease, and she walked calmly to the edge.
Directly in the middle of the bridge was a figure dressed in a long, gray, hooded robe. He was tending the roses, pruning where needed and pulling away any dead or shriveled leaves. Chrissana didn’t wish to disturb him, so she tiptoed out onto the bridge. It was hard and sturdy beneath her bare feet, but smooth enough to where she needn’t worry about picking up any splinters. The man kept busily to his task and paid her no mind. About a quarter of the way across, she noticed a hand painted sign, its beginning letter in laminated script with gold-leaf etchings:
“Welcome to the weary soul or spirit who has found this place of repose.
Enter of your own will and know that payment will be in full upon your satisfaction.”
This sounded like her kind of place.
Suddenly, the man tending the flowers turned in her direction. No smile, just a furrowed brow when he walked toward her with his shears dangling from his fingers.
Chrissana offered a series of uncomfortable grunts as she tried to back away, but a force kept her in place and unable to move anywhere but forward.
Upon reaching her, the man pulled his hood away, and she saw a dark-skinned, black man with light brown eyes.
“Welcome,” he said, bowing his head to her. His accent was foreign, like African or Middle Eastern.
Chrissana could only stare at him. Her fear left a metallic taste in her mouth. Perhaps she had made a mistake and death wasn’t what she had wanted.
“Am I dead?” she asked.
“No, you’re not dead,” he said, wincing the word no.
“Am I dying?”
“No.”
Chrissana looked around nervously then back up at the man. She couldn’t read any emotions from him other than a clip in his voice. He shifted from one foot to the other, which she interpreted to mean he wished to be done with her and back to his work.
“Is this a dream?”
“No, it is not.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Did you read the sign?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then you are where you’re supposed to be.”
“But I’m not! I really want to wake up now.”
“You will awake when your healing is done.”
“What healing? I didn’t ask for this.”
“Did you read the sign?” he asked again, this time not hiding his annoyance.
“YES.” She didn’t mean to raise her voice, but she was becoming frightened, and none of this was making any sense.
“Then you’re in need of healing,” he said. “I am Radrec. I tend to the flowers on the bridge. I wrote the words on the sign. If you were not in need, you would not have seen the sign or me, nor the bridge at all.”
Chrissana heaved a heavy sigh. “So, this is a dream?”
Radrec’s faced relaxed and he smiled, allowing some warmth to flow into his tone. “Follow the path and take a look around. I must get back to work.”
Her gaze followed his arm down to the end of his pointing finger. It showed a dirt path that began at the end of the bridge.
“Go on, child,” he urged. He then walked back over to a lavender rose that was wilting and held it in his hand. It immediately perked up, its petals sturdy and firm once more.
Chrissana took a step forward. Child? There wasn’t any child or childlike qualities left in her. That inner proclamation filled her with an antipathy that made her hunch over as she passed him. She rose on her tiptoes to not further disturb him, but his voice rang out from behind her.
“Keep going. The path will lead you directly into the town.”
A row of old oak trees lined the path. Their massive trunks were deeply rooted where they stood, no doubt undisturbed for thousands of years. Mighty branches from very thick to stick thin spread out in all directions, some of them swooping to the ground as though the trees were too tired or old to hold them upright. She imagined them watching her with lazy eyes as she passed, asking the others what she was doing in those parts.
It had grown colder, and seeing the dead leaves from the oaks scattered about on the ground made it harder to see the dirt path. Yet, it was still beautiful, even in the dead of winter.
Patches of snow showed up in intermittent piles between the trees, and the air grew even cooler. This definitely disproved the dream theory because she shouldn’t feel any
cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them to create some warmth. At least stepping on the dead leaves did provide some cushion against the cold ground.
She quickened her pace, which helped against the crisp air. The grove of oaks gave way to a glen where the creek had widened into a small lake. Two large mountains formed the backdrop to it, and smack dab in the middle, next to the lake, she noticed a small town. It didn’t appear modern, but rather like something she’d seen in travel guides of Europe. Snow now covered the entire ground, except where it had been cleared from the dirt path before her. Thankfully, this would keep her feet from becoming frostbitten.
At last she reached the town, walking through a massive entry point with iron gates that stood wide open. There were two men posted, one on each side, wearing all black and dark sunglasses, looking like bouncers at a nightclub. They didn’t look twice at her when she passed.
Inside, the place appeared like something of a tourist trap with little shops and cobblestoned streets. Pine garlands were strung between the buildings on opposite sides of the street and on them were hung colorful glass ornaments. Up ahead in the square, she could see a gigantic Christmas tree, fully decorated. In the distance, she could hear a choral group singing carols.
Chrissana was reminded of her mother and wished she was with her to see the place. Christmas had been her favorite holiday. Every year, she had insisted Chrissana help her decorate the house from top to bottom. It was the only time she noticed her mother never appeared to be in much pain. They would string Christmas lights inside and outside the house, as well as decorated a live tree. Her mother would hobble up and down every aisle of the Christmas tree lot to find the exact one she wanted.
The coldness of the cobblestones shook Chrissana from her reminiscing. They proved colder than the dirt path she’d traveled, so she rose on her tip-toes to get about. On the street were people in costumes from different time periods, from medieval-looking clothing to current fashions. Thankfully, they kept to themselves and their company, paying no attention that she was barefoot and in her pajamas. Those wearing the current fashions were busy with shopping, taking photos, and talking excitedly to one another about the beauty of the town and its decorations. The people in the more antique costumes seemed to be indifferent to their excitement and appeared more subdued.
