F*CKING AWKWARD HOLIDAYS: 25 Short Stories of Awkward Holiday Encounters

by Plendl, Taryn

“Are you flirting with me?” she asks. Her eyes, no joke, sparkle up at me.

  “Baby, I’m not flirting, I’m trying to secure dates four, five, and, six.”

  Taking in our surroundings, she eyes the giant holes in the earth surrounded by dirt, the multiple potted trees lined in a row, and the neighboring shovels ready to be shoved into the ground. “Well, if dates four, five, and six are anything like date number three, then you can start scheduling me on our calendar.” Her voice is full of sarcasm, and I can’t help but laugh right along with her.

  I wrap my arm around her waist and say, “I promise I will make it up to you . . . after we get through this ceremonial crap.”

  “I thought you liked saving the environment,” she questions.

  “I do,” I reply quickly. “But I don’t like stuffy ceremonies and wearing a button-up shirt in sweltering weather.” I loosen my collar around my neck again.

  “Well, aren’t you the Leonardo DiCaprio of the sports industry,” she teases.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please gather around your assigned trees for the ceremonial first dig,” someone says over a loud speaker.

  “First dig?” Brynn asks, question in her voice. “But all the holes are already dug out.”

  I guide her to our tree which is on the very far end of the line-up, making sure not to let go of her hand. “It’s one of those Richard Gilmore-type things: you know, take a golden shovel, pick up a tablespoon of dirt, and toss it to the side.”

  “So we aren’t actually digging?”

  “Or planting.” I smile sheepishly.

  She nods and then peeks up at me through her eyelashes. “Richard Gilmore? Nice reference.”

  “You like that?” I smirk. “I know a few things about Lorelei and Rory.”

  “I don’t know if I should be impressed or scared.”

  “Scared,” Jon interrupts from the tree next to us. “The dude is always trying to have philosophical conversations in the locker room about who’s better for Rory: Dean, Jess, or Logan.”

  Shrugging her shoulders, she says, “I personally like Logan. You know, the blond hair, hazel eyes really does it for me.” Glancing at me from the side, she makes it known she’s also talking about me. I’ll chalk that up as another win in my book.

  “Logan is a tool,” Jon cuts in. “Jess all the way.”

  “No way,” both Brynn and I say at the same time.

  Jon is about to refute when the Master of Ceremonies cuts into our conversation. “Thank you so much for being here today . . .”

  I don’t pay attention to a word the man is saying. Everything goes in one ear and right out the other, my brain never once processing anything about the danger the human race is putting on the environment, the countless animals losing their homes every day, and the ways we as a society can help band together to make a change.

  Nope, all I can focus on is the way Brynn’s hair blows in the breeze, the way her lips slowly rub against each other, maneuvering her lip gloss around, and the smell drifting off her.

  Yup, I’m about to show off my tree trunk anytime now.

  “Grab your shovels.”

  I offer the shovel to Brynn. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “Oh, what a gentleman.” She takes the gold shovel, smiles up at me, and then lifts a tiny amount of dirt from the hole and tosses it to the side with everyone else. The crowd around us claps befittingly and then the gardeners come from behind to plant the trees. It’s the most ridiculous and stuffy ceremony I’ve ever attended, but hey, we’re planting trees and that’s all that really matters at this point.

  “This is weird,” Brynn admits, smiling and speaking out of the side of her mouth.

  “Really weird.”

  “Especially for a date,” Jon adds. Why the hell is he so intent on butting into every conversation I’m trying to have with this girl?

  Rolling my eyes at my friend, I turn to Brynn, grab her hands and nod toward the forest that rests a few feet away. “Want to go for a stroll?”

  “Now that’s romantic, a step in the right direction, man.” Jon is going to get dick punched in the locker room tomorrow, no doubt in my mind.

  Ignoring Jon, Brynn says, “I would love to.”

  * * *

  BRYNN

  * * *

  Why do I find Andrew’s nervousness so adorable? Maybe because he’s this tall, muscular football player who towers over me but acts like a cute and cuddly teddy bear. He’s nothing like I envisioned when I agreed to go on a date with him. I thought he would be your typical cocky athlete who refuses to talk about anything other than his penis, his stats, and did I mention his penis?

  Not Andrew. He’s sweet, kind, caring, and ridiculously hot. I might have stalked his Instagram profile where he’s posted multiple pictures of him with his dog, him with the children he meets at the local children’s hospital, and of course, him with his shirt off. Those are my favorite.

  I was kind of hoping our third date would be a little more intimate, a little more physical, but trees are fun . . . right? All leafy and shady.

  Ugh, it’s a weird third date. Anyway you try to spin it, it’s weird. But, he promised to make it up to me. Which I look forward to. Hopefully he decides to make it up to me in the woods. I’m not going to lie, it’s been a really long time since I’ve been with a man thanks to my training and the Olympic games this summer. It would be nice to enjoy a man’s touch again. Or his tongue . . . ugh, I would really love to enjoy his tongue.

  “Beautiful day, huh?” he asks, breaking the silence. He’s so awkwardly cute.

  “Gorgeous.”

  He whips me around a gaggle of trees and pushes me up against one before looking around behind me where we just came from. His eyes are dark, lustful, ready to pounce.

  Yes, this is what I’m talking about. This is what I’ve been dreaming about.

  Pinning me with his hands and gaze, he takes a quick glance down and then says, “This dress is driving me crazy, Brynn.”

  “Yeah?” I ask innocently. “What about it is making you crazy?”

  Moving his thumbs against my hip bones, he speaks, “It’s taunting me, how it lifts with the wind, barely exposing your upper thigh. Fuck, would it be too presumptuous to say I’m dying to see what you have underneath it?”

  Biting my lip, I shake my head. “Not at all.”

  His brows shoot up to his hairline. “Really?” he drags out and moves in a little closer.

  “Really,” I confirm.

  Lifting slightly with his thumbs, he starts to gather the material around my waist. It’s not very hard given the combination of the chiffon fabric and short length. When he has the hemline pulled up to my bellybutton, my ass exposed to the warm air, he looks down at the pair of white lace boy shorts I’m wearing and groans.

  “Fuck, that’s sexy.”

  “I happen to be wearing a matching bra as well.”

  Gulping, he asks, “Were you hoping things were going to go a little further between us today?”

  I cup the back of his neck and bring him closer. I know how good his kisses are, and was so close to orgasm just from our make-out session in the car. I have never been so affected by a man before. It’s not just that he’s sexy, but that when he kisses, he is all in. Complete focus . . . on me. I can’t resist this gorgeous man. “Not hoping, planning.”

  Before he can respond, I pull his lips onto mine, sealing our mouths together. I waste no time in escalating our kiss, bringing it from cute and innocent to X-rated in two seconds. I open my mouth, search out his tongue, and tangle it with mine, pressing hard against him, my breast on his chest, my core riding his strong and powerful leg.

  If I wasn’t so horny, I would step back and assess how aggressive and desperate I’m looking right now. But there is no stopping me.

  I maul the man.

  Hands in hair, mouth on his, pussy riding his leg, I’m going to town. Attacking him every way possible and the best part about it, he’s keeping up. He�
��s not faltering, not stepping down. He’s taking every single thing I’m throwing his way. Has he wanted me as much as I’ve wanted him?

  “I need to touch you,” I say in-between smothered kisses.

  He says something back that I don’t understand, so I take charge once again and start to undo his pants.

  I’m going to be honest, I like dick. I think dicks are fantastic. They’re fun, and they can grow on just a little touch. One swipe and the little mushroom comes out to play. What’s not fascinating about that?

  So clearly I’m excited to see what kind of meat Andrew has packing.

  Once his fly is down and button undone, I reach past his boxer briefs, grab a hold of his hardened length and pull it out, letting it stick up past his shirt.

  Sweet Jesus, now that’s a nice cock.

  All veiny and thick and hairless, ready for a good time. That dick wants to party, and guess what, there is a little gathering in my vagina it might be interested in.

  I stroke his cock and watch him grow in my hand. Yup, I definitely want to party with this penis.

  “Oh fuck, that feels good,” Andrew moans into my ear, gathering the hem of my dress in one hand and moving his other hand down the front of my underwear.

  Gah, I’m already wet and by the tortured sound coming from Andrew, he knows it. Leisurely I stroke him, not pumping too fast—where it looks like I’m trying to shake a ketchup bottle dry—but just enough to drive him crazy.

  “You’re so . . .” he sniffs, like his nose is running, “wet.” I’m too lost in the way his fingers start to play with my center to worry about him right now.

  There’s no way he’s crying.

  He’s not crying, right? God, would I stop him if he was crying?

  Six looong months of no sex.

  Nope, if he’s crying, then he can soak his tears in my bra, I’m not stopping him.

  Encouraging him, I thrust my hips, wanting him to make away with my underwear and start working me a little more.

  “Fuck, you’re hot.”

  I want to say, “You too.” I want to praise his commitment to the gym, to the barbell, to every little sit-up he’s ever done, but instead, I just moan. Moaning is always good. Moaning conveys a good time. Moaning says, hey, I’m into this.

  Because let’s be honest, I will never ever be good at dirty talk. I will never be one of those girls who says, “Stick it in me, big man, and make me come.” I will also never be one of those girls that announces their secretion right before it happens.

  I’m coming, I’m coming . . . Yeah, so not me.

  What can I do? Well, I’m flexible. I can bend better than any other woman out there. I can do the splits on his dick and if that’s not impressive, I don’t know what is.

  My mind is pulled back into the here and now as Andrew starts to kiss his way down my body . . . sniffling. Is he still crying? Stop focusing on his boo-hooing and focus on the magic of his mouth.

  His lips meet my stomach, just above my pubic bone. Oh dear Jesus, yes. I spread my legs farther apart as Andrew moves my underwear to the side and dips his head in my center. Anticipation creeps over my skin as I prepare for his tongue.

  I glance down at him, waiting with bated breath for the connection. He runs his hand under his nose, wiping . . . snot, and then dives in, pushing me up against the tree. I grip onto his head as a loud moan escapes me.

  Shit, I hope no one heard me. If anyone asks . . . we’re aerating the ground and fertilizing, uh . . . with our cum?

  No, shake that thought out of your head. Focus on his . . .

  Oh yes, his tongue.

  I melt into the tree behind me and grip Andrew’s head tighter. I watch him stroke himself, his penis poking out through his pants, the girth heavy in his hand. Everything about this is erotic. From our surroundings, to the possibility of someone catching us, to the way we are pleasuring ourselves without fully connecting.

  I love every single . . .

  Achoooooo

  I jolt from the whiplash of Andrew’s head into my vagina, his nose grazing my clit, his forehead against my pubic bone.

  Achoooooo

  A head-butt to my clit.

  Achoooooo

  An eyeball to my vagina.

  Achoooooo

  His hair rubbing between my folds.

  Achoooooo

  A waterfall of snot across my stomach.

  What. The. Hell. Is. Happening?

  The sneezes keep coming as Andrew tries to regain his balance, but with each powerful blow from his nose, he loses himself, continuing to whip me, bump me, and skid me with every last inch of his head. Nose, ear, mouth, hair, eyeballs, they pound against my exposed vagina continuously as he sneezes erratically, uncontrollably. Frankly, it’s terrifying.

  What do I do? Say gesundheit? Have my vagina offer him a handkerchief? Pop a few Benadryls out of my folds? Oh God, can a human be allergic to someone’s private parts? I sure as hell hope not.

  Wanting to avoid my pussy being a bullseye for the snorting stag thrashing in front of me, I step aside, and it’s then I can truly take in the sight before me.

  There he is, the man I find quite attractive, eyes rimmed in red, snot flying every which way out of his nose, his eyes cinched together, and . . . his tree trunk, flopping around through the penis keyhole I formed, creating it’s very own version of the helicopter—sneezing edition.

  Sneeze after sneeze, his willy flings about, his body convulses, and . . .

  Achoooooo.

  The force is so powerful, there is no way of stopping it. I watch in horror as Andrew’s head flies forward, right into the trunk of the tree in front of him. The blow to the bark sends him flying to the ground, knocked unconscious, his dick flopping for the world to see. Ummm . . . what is a girl supposed to do right about now?

  Is this karma? Fucking against a tree on Arbor Day, it this Mother Nature’s way of condemning our celebration for trees?

  If so . . . Mother Nature is a real bitch.

  The ruckus we caused from the sneezing, and of course the screaming from me when I couldn’t get Andrew to wake up, brought attention from those participating in the ceremony. Jon called 9-1-1, Andrew was wheeled off on a stretcher, neck in a brace, space blanket over his deflated ween. I would have tucked it in his pants before everyone showed up, but honestly, I was too scared he might have been dead, and didn’t want to touch a dead man’s dick. That isn’t unreasonable.

  “Do you have any allergies to plants or bushes?” one of the EMTs asks, Andrew.

  “Not sure,” he slurs through puffed-out cheeks and a closed-in throat.

  The poor, poor man.

  “Well, I believe you’re having an allergic reaction. We need to take you to the hospital and make sure everything is okay, especially with your neck.”

  “Okay,” he says pathetically before looking in my direction. Past the swollenness, he says, “Guess I don’t have to look forward to dates four, five, and six, huh?”

  His face falls flat and my heart reaches out to him.

  “Four, five, and six are still on. Call me later.”

  Smiling brightly, he waves to me, an IV in his hand. Jon pats Andrew’s leg and says, “Concussion over eating pussy. Only you, man, only you.”

  The End

  * * *

  About the Author

  Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if “It’s Raining Men” starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.

  Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decide
d to go with the cheaper option and started writing… enter her first novel, Caught Looking.

  Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!

  Like me on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/meghanquinnauthor

  Visit my website: http://authormeghanquinn.com/

  Shattered with Shame on Samhain

  Mel Ballew

  Featuring Sylver and Zander, and Jay from Shattered Into Beautiful, A Surviving Soul Series, Book One

  Barren fields, fallen leaves, and gray skies represent how the earth grows more dormant at the end of October. Samhain, an opportunity to celebrate death and rebirth, will be the first holiday I experience without Gran. My goal is to ensure tonight’s ritual goes off without a glitch. These are the times I desperately wish Gran were still alive.

  “I know it should be here,” I bark, growing more irritated as I rummage through items I’ve been preparing for more than a week.

  “Kitten, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.” Zander’s arms reach around my waist, and his lips rest against the tender flesh of my neck. Goosies form all over my body. “But if you don’t soon calm yourself, you will rouse Fire.”

  His response brings a suggestive smirk to my face. “I’ll rouse some fire,” I tease, nibbling his lip.

  When I pull away, he draws me nearer and kisses me. Passion mounts and I moan with desire, our lips inches apart.

  “We can always sneak upstairs.”

  He growls, and then pulls away. “As much as I’d love nothing more, if I don’t help you pull off Samhain, you’ll summon Fire to scorch my arse.”

  I laugh.

  No matter how much I practice, I’m still unable to summon Magick the way I need to, though we have determined heated emotions agitate its desire for release. I recognize he’s right, and a loud sigh escapes.