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About the author:
Hi, my name is Cammie Cummins, my friends call me C.C. Late atnight when everyone's gone off to bed and the house gets quiet, I brew a cup of hot tea and indulge in my favorite past time; writing erotica.As I sit and tap out my stories, my greatest hope is that what I writeturns you on as much as it does me.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“Yes, that’s right…An hour? That’s fine…All right, thank you.”
I had the phone on my lap. I sat cross-legged, Indian-style, in the middle of the king-size bed in my two-room hotel suite. I put the receiver down, which made the bell on the phone jangle. I stared at it. I asked myself, Viv, are you sure about this?
Eight-thirty on a Friday night, what else was there for me to do? The conference was over. Everyone had caught their flights out of town. Everyone, except me. I didn’t know anyone in all of Texas, much less frigging Dallas. There was nothing for me to do until morning, absolutely nothing.
I put the phone back on the nightstand. My stomach fluttered with doubt. What’s done is done, I told myself. But that did little to calm my nerves.
The slick, city magazine where I’d gotten the number, the idea, lay on the bed beside me, still open to the classified pages in the back. I’d circled the ad in thick, red, felt-tip ink. The marker was still in the fold, holding the page open. From the circled ad a sexy, young girl stared up at me. She had dark hair, flawless skin, and alluring eyes. Come on eyes.
Would the girl they send be as beautiful?
In my hand I held my credit card.
With my glass of wine in hand I thought about calling back and canceling. I’d never done anything like this before. I was nervous, but I was curious.
After a sip of red wine I put the glass on the nightstand and lay back against the plumped up pillows and padded headboard. I stared at my reflection in the mirror over the low chest of drawer across the room. Only one light was on. I’d set it to the lowest setting. Mood lighting.
An hour to kill. More wasted time. What to do with the time?
I had on a blousy top, loose and cool after my shower. Sleeveless, the deep scoop neckline showed off my ample boobs nicely. I pushed them together with my arms as I raked my fingers through my hair. I gave my reflection a seductive, sideways glance. She did the same.
My panties? A red pair of plain cotton. Should I change out of them? I spread my legs and fingered the frilly piping. They’d be fine, I decided, and let my fingers glide over the soft material. I pressed down on the puff of thick triangular pubic hair underneath. I caressed the pillow softness of my sex. Using two fingers. Over my panties, pressing gentle yet firmly.
I slipped them underneath. I pushed down, parted the delicate petals of my vulva. I rubbed myself. My breath caught in my throat.
With my other hand I cupped my boob, squeezing them together with my arms again. So large and soft, hangers my daughter called them. I hated that. I checked myself in the mirror. Sure they weren’t a firm as they used to be—nothing is. They still turned heads and so did I.
I pinched my nipples, tweaking them under the thin blousy material. I squeezed and pinched and pulled until they were erect as little thimbles. I loved playing with my breasts. Mashing them together, rubbing my nipples, making them so hard they ached.
Then I returned my attention to my nether region. I slid my hand over my belly, still flat considering my age, I thought with some pride. I slipped my hand under my panties, over my carefully thick, but my recently trimmed thatch, running my fingers through the thick, burnt red curls of hair.
I slipped a single finger over my eager pussy lips, rubbing between them, making me wet. My breath caught again, as it always did.
In the shower earlier, wet and lathered up, I tried but couldn’t get myself off. That frustration had prompted my call to the ad. Now with the girl pictured in it firmly planted in my head, I was hornier than I could ever remember being. Scooted further down on the bed and slipped a second finger into my hole, reaching deeper as my breathing got shallower.
With a circular motion I worked my middle finger over my lips, the hood of my pussy, exposing my needy clit. I did that until I was wet. Wet enough to slip a finger inside me. I tensed and I clenched my ass. I gasped.
I held onto a breast with one hand, teasing the nipple with my fingers to keep it hard.
I slipped two fingers inside me. In. Out. In. Out. The sound of my saturated finger slipping in and out of my sodden pussy made me hotter, made my chest rise and fall as my breath grew short. I pursed my lips and moaned, closing my eyes. “Oh, oh, oh…”
There was a knock on the door.
I sat bolt upright. At first I thought I’d imagined it.
But there it was again.
“Oh, shit! Already?”
An hour hadn’t passed yet. I was sure of it. I looked at the bedside table clock to double check. It’d been less than twenty minutes since I’d call.
More knocking. More insistent than before.
I called out. “Just a minute.”
I scrambled off the bed and straightened my blouse. My nipples protruded like inverted shot glasses through the material but there was nothing I could do about that. I tore frantically about looking for my pants. I couldn’t find them. I needed something more to wear than my panties. I flipped open the top of my suitcase and stepped into the first thing I pulled out, a short black skirt. I stepped into them as I hopped toward the bedroom door.
I called out. “I’m coming.”
God, had I actually just said that?