by Lily Harlem
A Total-E-Bound Publication
www.total-e-bound.com
Candy Canes and Coal Dust
ISBN #978-1-907280-64-1
©Copyright Lily Harlem 2009
Cover Art by April Martinez ©Copyright December 2009
Edited by Jess Bimberg
Total-E-Bound Publishing
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2009 by Total-E-Bound Publishing 1 The Corner, Faldingworth Road
, Spridlington, Market Rasen, Lincolnshire, LN8 2DE, UK.
Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has been rated Total-e-melting.
Christmas Crackers
CANDY CANES AND COAL DUST
Lily Harlem
Chapter One
Meltingly soft reindeer fur tickled Bridget’s naked behind. She squirmed in delight, closed her eyes and nestled deeper into the rug. Beside her, a huge log fire crackled. It heated her skin, danced through her hair and filled the room with the tangy scent of pine needles.
Letting out a contented sigh, she offered no resistance as the hot young man—who had no name, just a perfect, angled face—pushed her thighs apart, clamped them in place with big, determined hands and began to lap at the soft folds of her pussy. Blood pooled in her pelvis and she bowed her spine towards his mouth in time with his glorious rotations around her clit and the rhythmic pumping of his two longest fingers.
Above her, another man—same angled face and mop of blonde Nordic hair—offered his long, swollen cock for her to suck. Eagerly she parted her lips, flattened her tongue into a bed of moisture and pulled him in. A groan erupted from his mouth and a long, low rumble came down her nose. His hands clasped over her ears as he began to thrust in and out, over and over, the speed and tempo building with each plunge. The sound of pulsing blood rushed through her ears, whooshing and beating—it roared like a jet engine travelling at full throttle.
She tasted the salty tang of precum and knew he was close, his desperation peaking like her own as the expert attentions at her sex continued.
But this wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Without having to voice her desires, the two men flipped her onto all fours. The fur was soft on her knee caps and smooth under her palms. Before she knew what was happening, Guy Number One had settled beneath her and was guiding her down onto his enormous, erect penis.
Bridget dropped until she was filled to capacity then clenched him with eager muscles, drawing him in, higher and higher. She began to move, rocking as he gripped her hips with urgent hands and encouraging her movements. Her clit rubbed against his soft, straw-coloured pubes and she felt the delicious tug of orgasm once again.
But it still wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
She murmured and pushed tails of damp hair from her face, “More, more…please, more.”
Guy Number Two moved in behind her and his hands smoothed over the orbs of her butt cheeks. The roar was still thundering through her ears, deafening and invading her thoughts, but she dismissed the unfamiliar noise—sensation was all she was interested in.
An inquisitive finger delved down the crack of her buttocks and pressed at her anus. She gasped as he pushed into her darkest hole, squirming and stretching her as he went.
This was almost what she needed; she was nearly there.
The finger retreated only to be replaced by the thick, smooth head of the penis she’d been sucking until moments ago. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, now…fuck me.” He obliged and squeezed in through the tight band of muscle, slow and steady, right to the hilt. There was no pain, no sharpness, just extreme pleasure. “Oh, that’s so good,” she mumbled curling her fingers into fur. “So…damn…good.”
The two men began to thrust in perfect sync. One in, one out, riding her senses into realms of ecstasy she never thought she’d go. The fire hissed. A log tumbled out. They didn’t notice; they kept on fucking, the men intent on pleasuring her before themselves.
But it still wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
Bridget moved her head, her mouth open and searching. She knew it would be there somewhere—she just had to find it.
Ahh, there it was, another beautiful cock being offered forward on a hand wearing a thick, black ski glove. She glanced up. The owner of the penis wore a reflective, orange ski mask and his mouth was set in a hard line; determined, eager, impatient. But she needed no extra persuasion. This was the icing on the cake, the final piece of her jigsaw.
She leant forward and sucked him in greedily, eating him up like a starving woman. She rolled his glans around her tongue then thrust him against the back of her throat. He hissed like a punctured tyre and began to time his rhythm with the other two cocks invading her body.
Bridget whimpered in delight and gave control over to her three expert lovers. Now she could indulge in an orgasm. This was how it was supposed to be, every hole filled, every carnal desire indulged at the same time. Her womb and anus were being pounded into, sublime cocks sweeping past every nerve ending. Her mouth was absorbing the heat and lust of the sexy man looming over her. He clasped her head between his gloved hands. The roaring in her ears reached a crescendo as she climbed the ladder to satisfaction, letting her clit lead the way.
Suddenly she was there, suspended in a moment of sheer bliss, the glorious anticipation of magnificent contractions and spasms within reach. She sucked harder, groaned and moaned, pushed backwards into the cocks fucking and buggering her. Then it consumed her; washed through her, wave after wave of hammering delight.
“You want more?” the guy with the ski goggles asked in his husked, unfamiliar accent.
Bridget nodded around his cock—she wanted this to carry on forever. Please let this never stop.
“Would you like some mortar?” he said again.
Bridget nodded, letting her womb spasm around the cocks buried so deeply within her.
“Are you alright, would you like some water?” A female voice interrupted the guy with the ski goggles.
Bridget felt a soft hand rest on her forearm.
The roar in her ears was so loud it was disorientating and confusing. But it wasn’t being caused by a set of hands covering her ears any more. In fact, there was no set of hands covering her ears.
“Madam, is there anything I can get you?”
Bridget kept her eyes shut as the cocks disappeared from her body and her beautiful Finnish lovers evaporated into thin air. This couldn’t be happening. She was still dreaming, surely she was still immersed in fantasy. How could fantasy switch to a nightmare so damn quickly?
“Madam.” The soft voice said again, this time it was accompanied by an insistent shake of Bridget’s forearm. “Madam.”
Bridget forced open her eyes to the harsh, artificial light of the plane. She gulped. It was as bad as she feared. This was her reality, not a powder-soft rug in front of a perfect
log fire with three beautiful men indulging her every fantasy. Reality was sitting on a plane, on Christmas Eve, travelling to Finland for a solo skiing holiday.
She looked into the pale blue eyes of the young airhostess. There was a flicker of concern in their depths, but the main emotion was pity. In that instant, in that split unguarded second, those eyes told Bridget she’d made all the noises associated with her dream. Every grunt, groan, moan and murmur for more had spilt treacherously from her lips.
She swallowed tightly, her mouth bone dry with toe curling embarrassment. She reached for the offered glass of water. “Thanks,” she squeaked, lifting the cup to her lips. She took a sip and squirmed on the prickly material of seat thirty two C. She could still feel the blood raging through her pelvis, the adrenalin of the dreamy orgasm still heightening all her senses and making her breaths shallow. If only that had been reality and not this, if only she’d really been with three perfect lovers, instead of sitting alone, with a redundant sex life and no hope of its re-activation any time soon.
Feeling a flush of mortification sweep across her chest, up her neck and over her cheeks, she glanced across the narrow aisle—a sea of curious faces were fixed her way. Some looked greatly amused, others concerned, and a few appeared plain old shocked. Bridget tried a half smile but it came out more of a grimace and did nothing to relieve the indignity of having had a wet dream in front of a group of total strangers.
Oh, why had she fallen asleep on the plane? It wasn’t as though it was a long flight from London to Levi. Why couldn’t she have just read a book, or listened to her MP3 like normal people do? She wasn’t one to hope for turbulence, but at this moment, a pocket of unstable air to send them all plummeting several thousand feet would serve her very well.
She prepared to take a sideways peek at the guy sitting in thirty-two B. When he’d sat down ,she’d thought he was cute, just her type, tall and slim, with mussed up black curls and a face that looked more than ready to be inappropriately cheeky. She’d hoped they’d spark a conversation, but immediately after take off, he’d plugged in earphones and started watching a war film. It was his fault, she decided irritably. If he hadn’t been watching the film, they would have conversed, maybe even flirted, and she wouldn’t have fallen asleep at all.
She turned and found his pot-hole black eyes sparkling with curiosity. He tipped his head and tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth. His left eye brow rose, creasing his forehead into three neat lines. The minute their eyes met, Bridget knew he had, like everyone else within ten feet, guessed the explicit content of her dream.
But despite the humiliation of being caught masturbating in public (which was exactly what if felt like), Bridget held his inquisitive gaze, she couldn’t deny her dream—it’d been obvious to everyone—but did he have the nerve to ask her about it? Did he have the nerve to comment?
It seemed he didn’t, and after several, painstaking seconds, he pulled his attention back to his film without uttering a word.
Bridget dragged in a deep breath, reached for the duty-free catalogue and buried her head low. At least nobody could guess just how degraded her dream had been, how filthy and disgusting she’d demanded to be treated in her ménage a quatre. That, thank goodness, was for her alone to know.
* * * *
Bridget grabbed a taxi and, for two hours, wound through rolling foothills towards the five-star Sapphire Hotel. She leant her head back and stared into the darkness sparkling with tiny, dancing snowflakes. There was scant evidence of civilisation around the airport and even less as they began an onward ascent into the mountains. It was as though she was driving to nowhere. It was probably the best place for her.
Eventually the driver, who’d driven in silence the entire way, piped up, “Here.” His leather glove pointed through the front windscreen. “Sapphire, here.”
Bridget lifted her weary head and looked out. The long, straight driveway to The Sapphire Hotel was flanked by hundreds of wooden torches supporting flickering flames and lighting the way like a row of flaming sentries. In the distance, the tall, castle-style hotel--complete with turrets, ramparts and a mock draw bridge—shone like a scene from Disney. Every available surface was adorned with twinkling white lights, each one reflected and multiplied in the deep duvet of freshly fallen snow surrounding the building. The whole setting was a winter wonderland, and with a flush of festive pleasure, Bridget couldn’t remember being anywhere so magical on Christmas Eve.
A majestic fir tree stood in the main entrance, and pulling her suitcase towards reception, she admired the wooden horses, busy drummers, pink striped candy canes and straw stars hanging from every branch.
Moving farther into the warmth of the hotel, the air was filled with the scent of cinnamon and spices, candles shivered on each table and the lights in the plush lobby were dim and buttery. Music played through discreet speakers, soft carols sung by children in a foreign language, and as Bridget looked around, she felt a welcome rush of optimism.
That was until her heart stuttered, flipped and beat against her sternum like a wild bird trapped in a cage.
There he was.
The cute guy from the plane was standing at reception with an enormous red backpack lying on the floor next to him.
When the plane had landed, Bridget had gathered her belongings and hop-skipped through the airport into a taxi as fast as she could. Hoping and praying she would never, ever have to see any of her fellow passengers again, and after a two hour transfer to the most expensive hotel in the area, she presumed that would be the case. But here he was—the one passenger she really didn’t want to have to dodge all week. Here, in her hotel.
As though sensing her shocked eyes boring into his broad shoulders, he suddenly turned and faced her. His dark eyes held hers, both his brows twitched and the left side of his mouth curled upwards.
But before Bridget had a chance to respond, either friendly or hostile, two men walked up to him, both carrying equally bulging backpacks. One was the same towering height as he was, but instead of mussed up raven hair, his was blond and the curls were trimmed neater around his nape. He had the same face shape, a slightly square chin and a perfectly straight nose, his mouth was wide and soft—they were similar enough to be brothers. The other guy with them was very different—shorter and stockier, not fat—and appeared constructed of solid muscle. His hair was a dark colour, but it was hard to tell what shade because it was buzz cut military style. Instead of jeans, he wore desert camouflage combat trousers. He had a good amount of stubble going on and a certain narrowing to his eyes as he listened to the other two’s conversation.
Suddenly, in unison, they turned to face her. The blond one spoke and the dark haired one nodded. Blondie smiled, tugged his bottom lip with his tooth and gave a slow bob of his head.
Mortification ran like acid through her veins. Clearly, the dark-haired one had just filled his friends in about the incident on the plane. He’d let them know how she’d embarrassed herself in front of whole fuselage of passengers. She frowned, beat down a blush and paced, with her last scrap of dignity, to the reception desk. Jerks. She could do without having to avoid them all week, she’d done enough avoiding in the last six months since splitting from Jed to last a lifetime. This was supposed to be a break, her getting away from it all. Not something to stress her out further. Her emotions couldn’t take it.
Chapter Two
Her room was cosy and compact with a single framed bed and a neat little en-suite. The furniture was glossed pine, the duvet thick and floral, and the radiator so hot as soon as she stepped inside she stripped down to a t-shirt.
She stepped up to the window and looked outside. Below her was a frozen lake; the fence around it had been strung with red glowing lanterns, and from a log cabin, well-wrapped hotel staff served cups of steaming liquid. Skaters twirled and sped around, some linked hands whilst others hung onto partners for balance. Everyone was dressed in colourful jackets, big hats, flapping scarves and thick mittens. Perha
ps she’d have a skate on Christmas Day, catch a time when it wasn’t too busy.
She turned back to the room and spotted a Santa hat laid on the dressing table along with a mini bottle of red wine and a lone chocolate truffle—everything in the singular. For a second, it made her feel sad to be alone and loneliness popped his head up and said a delighted hello. But, with effort, she ignored his mean little voice; she hadn’t travelled all this way for ‘him’ to find her, besides who’d given him a damn passport?
She perched the hat on her head and examined her reflection in the mirror. The hat hung softly down to the left, the white fur at the rim and the pompom at the tip startling against the deep chestnut glossiness of her ringlets. She smiled, it suited her. She opened the wine, poured and took a deep slug then shoved the chocolate in her mouth and rolled it around as it melted. It was Christmas after all.
She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock. Too early for bed, that would only invite her other old friend—self pity. She’d go to the bar and get a drink instead.
Decision made, she knocked back the rest of the wine, dabbed on a spot of perfume, re-glossed her lips, and in a moment of festiveness, decided to keep the Santa hat on.
The hotel bar was busy and getting a drink took Bridget nearly half an hour. But it seemed she’d done the right thing wearing her hat because everyone had opted for festive headgear ranging from foam antlers to flashing Christmas trees on stalks.
”Happy Christmas,” a voice boomed into Bridget’s left ear as she finally lifted her drink to her lips.
She turned and saw a tall guy with a short moustache and spectacles grinning down at her. “Happy Christmas,” she said with a smile over the din of a pianist hammering out ‘Jingle Bells’.
