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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:
Mom passed away a little over a year ago.
She was young as far as that goes. Just sixty-three years old. Cancer. Fortunately, it was fast and she didn’t suffer much. Dad’s been gone ten years, a car accident. So with Mom’s passing I didn’t have much reason to come back to the small New Jersey farming town out in the middle of nowhere that I’d fled all those years earlier to make my way in New York City.
At forty-two I’ve done it.
Happily married to a wonderful man, I have two grown, wonderful kids in college, and a busy and successful career as a marketing exec with a large advertising agency headquartered on Madison Avenue. The commute sucks but I love it.
And it’s all a million miles and a lifetime away from here, I thought, sitting on the sofa in the downstairs family room surrounded by half-filled cardboard boxes, packing paper, and tape. I sipped my glass of wine.
After Dad died, the life insurance paid off what was left of the mortgage, but the carrying cost on the big, old farmhouse had been too steep for Mom’s meager nurse’s pension to cover, so Mom had asked an old family friend, her best friend, Patty, a widow after her own husband had died twenty-five years ago, to move in with her and share the expenses.
The arrangement had worked, but now with Mom gone, Patty didn’t want to be rambling around the large, old house all by herself. She wanted to travel, get away from the cold, snowy winters. Enjoy someplace warm. Find a smaller more manageable place for herself.
She’d settled on Florida. What senior didn’t these days?
Patty had called and asked if I’d come and stay for a few days, help sort through the family things left behind, help her pack, and move on with the next stage of her life. Patty was like a second mother to me growing up, so, of course, I told her I’d be happy to.
Now, here it was three days later, I was tired from fourteen-hour days of sorting out what to give away to charity, what to keep, and what to throw away. My muscles ached from pulling out box after box after box from closets and storage rooms and from under cabinets.
At that particular moment, I was downstairs alone.
Patty had gone to the store. She planned on tackling the clothes closets upstairs when she returned. Then we were going to shower and change and treat ourselves to a good meal at a good restaurant, someplace nice where someone else would doing the cooking.
In the meantime, I sat, taking break.
I’d finally pulled the last of the dusty, dirty, crushed cardboard boxes that I found stored in the furnace room. My throat was coated with dust and my forearms were gritty and covered in cobwebs. I wiped them off with a paper towel.
Dressed in a pair of shorts and a twenty-year-old concert T-shirt I’d found in a bag of my old clothes Mom never got around to dealing with. Too tight because I’d maybe put on a little weight since my concert-going days, it tugged snuggly across my chest and the scoop collar pulled low, revealing a generous amount of cleavage.
I wiped at the sweaty grim from the deep, fleshy valley between my boobs.
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.