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About the author:
Hi, my name is Cammie Cummins, my friends call me C.C. Late at night 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 write turns you on as much as it does me.
Here is a short sample from the book:
With my wine glass refilled and pop music playing low on an old boom box Mom had kept, I flipped open the top of a battered old shoebox I found wedged between the furnace and the basement wall, as if it had been stashed away, hidden. Some crumbled old newspapers were balled up inside, used as packing.
Curious, I unraveled one and smiled at the date: Oct. 17, 1993.
It was the year I started college.
More folded newsprint covered what was in the box.
I pulled them out to find inside the shoebox were two black, unlabeled VHS tapes, and a bunch of old photographs. I put the tapes aside and began to sort through the pictures—actual black-and-white Polaroids—like they were a deck of cards.
The first few brought a smile to my face.
They were of Dad, mostly candid shots in the living room, with the dining room in the background. Skinny as a beanpole, he wore a thin, long sleeve, white sweater I remembered well. And dark dress slacks.
The next few were of Mom and a few of Patty.
Big, dark hair, pretty faces, both had bodies that would make a runway model jealous.
So close in looks, they could’ve been sister. In the photos, Mom wore a leather skirt that reached to her knees and a black sweater top. Patty had on a skirt, too, but it was a light color. She had on a pretty dark blouse with three-quarter sleeves.
I wondered why I’d never seen these pictures before and why were they shoved back behind the furnace. Surely they’d just fallen back there, I thought.
But by the time I got through the rest of them, I realized how wrong I was.
In one Mom stood with her skirt off, wearing sexy black panties and lace garters. Dad stood look at her. The sexy pictures progressed from there.
Dad taking his pants off.
Mom kneeling in front of him, giving him a blow job. Luckily the picture was too shadowy and grainy for me to see anything, except that it was clear what Mom was doing.
“Oh my God.”
It didn’t stop there.
The next few were of Patty. She sat on the white and blue plaid sofa we’d had for ages. Naked, her clothes gone except for a pair of thigh-high leather boots, her boobs bare and on full display, her big hair, curly and bouncy, framing her square face. Her hand was down on her thick, hairy pussy. The photo—and several more afterward—caught her playing with herself as she looked off camera, probably at Mom gobbling down Dad’s…
“Oh my God, I can’t even say it.”
I tossed the pictures down on the coffee table and drank more wine.
Then I picked them up again.
The next few were of Patty, a big, bright smile on her face, her one hand on a nipple while Mom, on her hands and knees—oh my God—had crawled up between her legs. Mom’s big hair blocked the camera from capturing what was going on beyond big hair and dark shadows but it didn’t take much of an imagination to figure it out.
The next few pictures confirmed it. They’d been taken from the side.
Patty had her hands clasped around Mom’s head which was buried deeply between her legs. The look of ecstasy on Patty’s face told me exactly what Mom was doing. There were a few more like that, some with Dad on his knees behind Mom, doing her doggie-style. The rest were PG-rated glamour shots of them wearing big, funky sunglasses, kissing, and drinking straight from a vodka bottle.
I tossed the photographs back into the shoebox.
“I didn’t just see that,” I said.
Mom and Dad and Patty. Together. And Mom…
“I did not just see that,” I said again.
I drank wine until it was gone.
I sat and stared until there was a loud bang upstairs. I jumped.
The backdoor slamming shut in the kitchen, Patty home from the store.
Quick, I grabbed the videotapes and dumped them into the shoebox, covered it up, and hid it under a bunch of packing paper.