by S. E. Law
But I haven’t forgotten what Lorraine and Henry did because their actions were ridiculous. And taking things to a public stage like that in the hopes of tanking my husband’s business is going beyond the pale. As a result, it’s going to require more than sharing a few ultrasounds to re-establish the trust between us. Lorraine and Henry are on my naughty list this year, and maybe after the baby’s born, I’ll relent and let them see their grandchild. For now, though, I haven’t gotten over the hurt.
Regardless, my parents’ efforts to bring down Patrick’s business did not succeed. In fact, the notoriety surrounding that City Council meeting spread, and pretty soon, there was a huge increase in foot traffic at the gym. Patrick had to extend Mr. P’s open hours and hire a few more trainers just to handle the additional interest.
Not to mention that he hasn’t given up on the supplements business. In fact, the opposite. Maybe he hasn’t gotten his permit yet, but we’re selling the supplements on-line already, for which no permit is needed, and the goods are flying off the shelves like hotcakes.
Who knew? Maybe it’s the image of my handsome husband gazing from the label that does it. After all, Patrick is gorgeous, fit, and absolutely breathtaking. Men definitely want to look like him, so they’re buying his products in an attempt to replicate his success, and I consider myself lucky to be his wife. We had a quickie ceremony in Vegas, which was fast but romantic, and just right in every way. My diamond glints from my finger and with a teasing smile, I slip it off and hand the item of jewelry to my husband.
“Give it to me,” I breathe. “Along with your candy cane.”
Patrick grins because he knows what I want.
“Flip over and spread,” is that low command. “Let me see your sweetness.”
With a moan of anticipation, I do as told while hitching my skirt over my bottom. My panties are drenched already and with one quick snap of his wrist, Patrick pulls them off.
“Oh!” I squeal.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Patrick rumbles, his eyes fierce with love. “Daddy knows what you want.”
With that, he eases his giant candy cane into my sopping slit and I cry out with pleasure. This is what I need: ten inches of thickness penetrating my small hole, and I cry out again, my eyes drifting shut. But then Patrick strokes over my crack, teasing my brown hole open with his fingers before worming a digit deep inside.
“You ready, sweetheart?”
I moan and mewl, trying to inhale in preparation for what’s going to happen next.
“Yes, Daddy. I want it.”
Patrick lets out a rough chuckle and slips his finger out before inserting the diamond into my back chamber. The stone has hard edges and I shriek with pleasure as the facets massage the walls of my bottom cavern.
“Ooooh!” I wail. “Yes, yes, yes! So GOOD!”
With that, the double penetration does its work and I burst into flames while sailing over the moon. My two holes contract and convulse, pulling Daddy’s candy cane deeper as he explodes with male need.
“FUCK!” is his conquering roar. “Oh shit!”
I clamp down on him, pulling both the candy and the diamond deeper, along with his seed. There’s so much that the male batter spills out between us, dripping down my thighs and coursing over his balls. But this is what I want and crave: Patrick in me, with our lives and bodies now joined as one.
The End
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Her Juicy Cherry
By S.E. Law
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About This Book
Teledildonics? What on earth is that? The two cherry farmers are about to introduce me to a world I’ve never experienced before.
After being unceremoniously fired, I wanted to leave the city. I took a seasonal job at a cherry farm to pick fruit. The slower pace was just what I needed to de-stress and get myself in a better frame of mind.
I thought the cherry farmers would be a bunch of country hicks wearing overalls while chewing straw.
But Huck and Hank are nothing like what I expected. The men have broad shoulders, wide chests, and huge, powerful cherrypickers. In fact, they want to pluck my cherry – using teledildonics.
What?
What in the world is teledildonics?
It sounds like something naughty and filthy … and it is.
Because Huck and Hank are no country bumpkins. These men run a virtual reality firm exploring the boundaries of love, and teledildonics is the next frontier.
I shouldn’t enjoy this. I came to the farm to escape technology and the stress of modern life.
But soon, these dirty farmers are plucking my cherry over and over again … while leaving me with a baby along the way!
Get your mind out of the gutter, you naughty girl! Okay, maybe let it stay there for just a bit longer because this is a filthy, technology-driven romance novella that will have you hanging onto your seat for more. Your hair will be on fire by the end of the read, but teledildonics will do that if you’re not careful. Warning: This is a MMF bisexual romance, so swords absolutely cross. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always an HEA for my readers.
25
Courtney
“Oh my god, Court, are you serious?” my friend Kara whispers around the cubicle corner. “That’s crazy.”
I nod.
“I know right? But Bert insisted. He told me it would feel good and that I’d enjoy it. I didn’t believe him at first, but then he put one finger in his mouth to wet it and touched me there.”
Kara goes red in the face and practically squeals.
“Are you serious? Wasn’t it so dirty?”
I nod conspiratorially.
“It was, and it felt really wrong at first. After all, back there is for output, and not input. But you know what? It started feeling good after a few seconds, and then we got really naughty. Bert began sliding it inside and then … well, you know.”
Kara shakes her head, her eyes wide.
“No, what?” she breathes.
I grin slyly.
“Well, fingers were never going to be enough. He wanted to put that inside me. The back way, I might add,” is my emphatic statement.
Kara’s practically falling out of her chair now, staring at me while breathing heavily. Her blonde curls shake with the naughtiness of my words, and I chuckle to myself. After all, I love corrupting our innocent new intern. Kara’s only nineteen, and she’s here for the summer as a trainee. So far, I’ve showed her how to make coffee in the break room; how to photocopy her hand using the machine; and how to sneak out every hour or two for cigarette breaks by the back door. Neither of us even smoke. We just hold the cigarettes in our hands and pretend we smoke so that we can take a fifteen-minute breather.
It’s bad because I should have more respect for my employer, Praxel Puffin Manufacturing. I work as an admin assistant at Praxel Puffin, and when I first got hired, I was really excited. Praxel manufactures cardboard boxes, and this is a growing field. After all, everyone gets all sorts of goods delivered to their house now. No one actually goes to brick and mortar stores anymore, which means that demand for cardboard boxes has soared in the last ten years. Of course, Praxel Puffin took advantage of the increased demand, and exponentially ramped up production to gobble up market share.
But this job hasn’t been what I expected. I thought if I did well, I could move up from my admin assistant job to marketing assistant, or maybe even operations. Although there’s nothing sexy about manufacturing cardboard boxes, anything can be sexy if you put your mind to it. I was determined to do well in my career, and spent my first year at Praxel Puffin doing my best. I did everything they asked me to with a smile on my face. I made copies. I sorted files. I even took my boss’s shirts to the cleaners for h
im because I wanted to get on his good side.
Unfortunately, it’s all been for naught. That’s obvious to me now after three years at Praxel Puffin. My boss, Stuart, still calls me Kimberly by accident sometimes. I want to scream at him because my name’s Courtney, not Kimberly. Unfortunately, I think he watches a lot of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, and gets the different sisters mixed up. I look nothing like the Kardashians because I have curly hair with creamy skin, and not the swarthy, sexy look of the sisters, but for some reason, he keeps calling me Kim.
Plus, I was assigned the task of managing our new intern, Kara, this summer. It’s supposed to be a way for me to “develop” management skills, but let’s be honest: Kara has peas for brains. She waltzed in here the first day with her resume in hand. I asked her what it was for, and she looked puzzled. Didn’t I need to see it?
I explained to her that she’d already been hired, and that her resume was already in Praxel Puffin’s internal systems somewhere. Kara looked puzzled because she didn’t understand what an internal system was. She didn’t understand that computers can be networked together, and that Praxel Puffin employees are able to browse a central database of information, which currently includes her resume.
Kara merely handed the piece of paper to me silently, and instead of fighting it, I took the resume. My heart sank, but it was fine. We were going to be fine.
But as a result, I’ve been really demoralized at my job recently. Instead of filing papers or pretending to look busy, I’ve been doing almost no work whatsoever, and I haven’t been very discreet about it either. I memorized my credit card number so that I can shop on-line, and spend hours doing that each day now. My favorite sites are Bad Girl Basics and Smith’s. Smith’s is an especially great place to shop because they have my credit card number saved, and all I have to do is enter the verification code on the back when I’m ready to make a purchase.
But even I can’t spend eight hours a day shopping on-line, so I also read the news and browse travel websites. It seems like it would be heaven to go to Bora Bora or some other far flung location where there’s no internet access. I could put away my phone and ignore all my emails for a long while. I might even be able to hear myself think without the incessant buzzes and pings that constantly interrupt my thought processes. That would be wonderful for a change.
But right now, Kara is leaning around the cubicle wall again, her cheeks flushed.
“Courtney,” she whispers. “Have you heard anything about douching?”
Good. My campaign to corrupt our new intern is going well. By my estimation, Kara’s going to be fully educated by the end of her three months here.
I scrunch my brow at her.
“Kara, why are we talking about this?” I ask, pretending to be angry.
Our innocent little intern turns red.
“Well, I was just wondering. If you’re doing that with your boyfriend, don’t you need to get yourself clean back there first?”
Her cute round cheeks practically look like tomatoes as she stammers the word “clean.” I chuckle to myself silently. Poor little Kara. She’s probably a virgin. I’ve already spent a month telling her about my escapades, but she hasn’t shared anything about her love life yet. More likely, she doesn’t have one and is living vicariously through me.
“Kara, first of all, Bert’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a guy I’m seeing. It’s different in a major way.”
Kara goes a deep shade of eggplant and nods furiously.
“Yes of course. Totally get it. Sorry.”
I sigh as if I’m truly exasperated.
“Yeah, I thought you Millennials would be more in tune with non-traditional relationships. But it’s fine. I’m not pissed. But yeah, Bert’s not my boyfriend. Secondly, you don’t have to douche back there in preparation. I just clean myself really thoroughly in the shower with the spray from a high-powered nozzle before the action begins. It works just fine.”
At this point, Kara literally falls off her chair, landing in a heap on the floor with a soft grunt. The carpet is soft, so she’s not injured, but I giggle to myself because our intern is so freaking naïve. I don’t have a high powered shower nozzle at home, although it’s a great idea come to think of it. I just love teasing our little intern by planting the dirtiest, most devious seeds in her mind. Maybe this summer won’t be so bad anymore.
But then, Kara’s big blue eyes go wide and she looks up before letting out a surprised gasp. I spin in my chair, and my heart sinks. Oh shit. It’s Stuart Farmer, my boss. His big belly protrudes over his belt, and he hitches his brown polyester pants up with a thick thumb. His bald pate is shiny under the fluorescent lights, and for some inexplicable reason, he’s sweating and flushed. They keep the A/C on high at Praxel Puffin, so there’s no reason for him to get heat stroke, but he’s always clammy and uncomfortable-looking regardless.
Sure enough, Mr. Farmer pulls out a white hanky and mops at his brow.
“What are you girls doing and Kara, why are you on the floor? HR would not approve of this.”
Kara scrambles up, her blonde curls bouncing as she smooths her skirt down.
“Oh um, Courtney was just telling me how to work the light switches at Praxel Puffin,” she blabs thoughtlessly.
I roll my eyes. What a terrible liar. Who needs help learning how to flick a light switch?
But I turn to Mr. Farmer with my best smile and sit up straight.
“Mr. Farmer, we were just discussing the new model of cardboard box currently in development at Praxel Puffin,” I say with a bright smile. “You know, the kind that’s sustainable, and that’s going to be made of recyclable composted materials, and not require any packing tape or bubble wrap. Kara and I are totally into that!” I sing with enthusiasm.
Mr. Farmer stares at me while wiping at his forehead again.
“I didn’t know we had anything like that in development,” he says slowly.
“Yeah, and how do you make a cardboard box from compost?” chirps Kara from her cubicle. “That sounds impossible!”
Why oh why does our intern have to have her one smart moment all summer right now? Can’t she just keep quiet?
I smile wanly.
“There are incredible improvements in technology, Kara. I’ll show you some of the research I’ve done later today. You can make anything with compost now, from space suits to re-usable toilet paper.”
Her eyes grow wide.
“Re-usable toilet paper?” she asks in a breathy voice. “OMG that sounds gross, but of course. It makes total sense. You’re so smart, Courtney.”
I bite back my grin because nothing about this makes sense, but at that moment, my computer screen flickers to life and my inbox pops up on the screen. There’s a list of all my emails and their subject lines, and a new one is highlighted in bold. The email is titled, “Show me your back door pucker baby” and it’s from Bert Halliwell. Oh shit.
I know Mr. Farmer’s seen the illicit subject line because if anything, he starts sweating even more. His beady little eyes seem to bug out of his head, and his face, which was already florid, turns a deep shade of violet.
“Courtney,” he says in a slow tone. “Is that company email you’re using?”
I swivel in my chair to stare at the screen and feign shock.
“Well, no. Well, maybe, yes. I suppose. I know I’m not supposed to use company email for personal purposes, but this is just spam,” I say quickly, inventing on the fly. “I have no idea how in the world this email appeared in my inbox,” I say while futilely trying to send it to Trash. “You know spammers these days. They get your email address, and then you can never escape them. There’s so much garbage circulating all the time.”
But just as I manage to delete the illicit email, a second email pops into my inbox, and this one has an even naughtier title than the first. The subject line reads, “Courtney, I’m going to eat your back pucker tonight.” Again, the sender is Bert Halliwell.
As before, I try to
delete it with furious clicking, but Mr. Farmer is standing right behind me and can see everything.
“It’s just spam,” I babble. “I have no idea why these assholes are targeting me, or how they even found out my name. Bots can do anything though, that’s what I’ve heard. Plus, you can tell it’s spam because look at the sender’s name: Bert Halliwell. That’s a spammer’s name if I ever heard one. He might as well just sign it, Your Sweet Nigerian Prince. Hardy har har!”
But I can tell that for the first time in three years, Mr. Farmer isn’t buying it. He’s not going to take this crap anymore, not after all my antics and my refusal to do any work. He stares at me, a trickle of sweat running down his temple.
“Courtney,” he says in a low voice. “I think it’s best if you pack up your desk and leave.”
A gasp sounds out behind us, and I turn to see that Kara’s fallen out of her chair again into a messy heap on the floor. What the hell? What is that girl’s problem? Can’t she just mind her own business? The blonde hastily pulls herself off the ground and re-seats herself, and I turn back to my boss.
“Mr. Farmer, I can explain,” I begin in a firm voice. “This is a misunderstanding.”
But I’m cut off.
“No Courtney. This is it. You don’t belong at Praxel Puffin. You’ve never been interested in cardboard boxes, and you’ve made no effort to immerse yourself in our business for years now.”
“That’s not true!” I protest. But I’m cut off again.
“No, Courtney. It is. We’ve been watching your computer, and we know that you’ve been surfing the web aimlessly for eight hours a day. You’ve been purchasing thousands of dollars of god knows what, and you also read news and chat remotely with your friends. Now, you’re getting these … these … dirty emails from god knows whom, and you’re doing it in front of an intern too. Time’s up, Courtney.”