Hot Stories for Cold Nights (7 page)

Anne cupped one of his hands over her breast. “Not just yet,” she said. “I've got a few ideas about what you could do for me.”

She could feel his soft chuckle. “I've got a few ideas for the doctor, too.”

I
HAD AN OLD COMPUTER AND AN EVEN OLDER WORD PROCESSING program. It's called Electric Pencil and, although there are plenty of newer ones with more features, I'm used to this one, and I don't need more than it can do. Like spell-check. Don't need it, don't want it. I write erotic romance novels, and I've had several published. While I'm thinking, I can't deal with having my words flashing on the computer screen with those little underlines reminding me how bad my spelling is. I fix spelling and such after I'm done being creative.

The trouble, if you can call it that, began when the computer died. I tried to get an updated version of Electric Pencil for the spiffy new PC I bought, but it had long since disappeared from the market, replaced by Microsoft Word. After hours of searching, I finally found my original CD-ROM in the back of a file drawer and inserted it into my new machine. The installer started up and an odd question popped open on my screen.

 

 

I didn't remember such a silly question when I first loaded the program on my old computer, but that was a long time ago so maybe I'd forgotten. I typed
Î¥
.

 

 

What the hell was this all about? I almost abandoned Electric Pencil and vowed to get used to Microsoft Word, but—what the hell.

Shaking my head, again I typed
Î¥
.

The machine chugged for several minutes then let out what I swear sounded like a sigh. After the software loaded, I ran the program and opened a new document. It seemed to be working fine.

I typed, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.” I heard what I thought was my neighbor's dog bark outside, but I ignored it.

“It was a dark and stormy night.” There was a sudden flash of lightning and a clap of thunder. Strange. The sun was shining and the sky was a brilliant azure. I'd heard of lightning from a clear blue sky, but I'd never actually experienced it.

I shrugged. Whatever.

But . . . The odd weather combined with the dog barking got me thinking. Okay, magic or voodoo wasn't the first thing that would jump into most people's minds, but remember, I write fiction with unusual activities and situations. I'd been expecting a small royalty check for a short story I'd had published in a magazine, so I typed, “Along with the supermarket ads and magazines, the mailman put the royalty check in my mailbox.”

Silly, I know, but I typed it and pressed the Print button. I pulled the paper out of the printer and carried it down in the elevator with me. Using my tiny key, I opened the mailbox. I flipped through the stack of letters and, sure enough, the check was there. Hmm. Upstairs again, I typed, “The bank sent me a letter saying there had been an error in my statement and they were crediting an additional two hundred fifty dollars to my account.”

You guessed it. When I riffled through the rest of the envelopes, there was such a letter. Hot damn.

I wondered whether there was a limit to what the program could do and I wanted to give it some thought. I carefully shut the computer down and wandered into my bedroom.

It seemed I could type something and it would come true. This certainly hadn't been so with my old computer. I wondered how many “wishes” I would get. I didn't want to waste any, so I had to think about the order. If it was going to crap out at some point, I wanted to get my goodies first.

Okay, Kevin
, I said to myself.
Concentrate.
I could ask for millions. But I was comfortable enough financially. Having a million wouldn't hurt, of course, but that wasn't at the top of my list.

Health? Sure, but I was healthy and many of my greatgrandparents were in their nineties and still going strong.

Stop it, Kevin. You're fooling yourself.
Health, wealth, all that was fine, but I knew what I really wanted. Women. Sexy, well-built girls who wanted to make love to me. Fucking. Orgasms. Lots of them. Standing, sitting, outdoors, in the backseat of a car, on a merry-go-round. As you can see, writing has given me a very vivid imagination.

At twenty-five, although I'm far from a virgin, I'm not as experienced as one might think. I write erotica, of course. Good, hot, sweaty, Regency-period romance novels, and my books sell pretty well, if I do say so myself. I know, you probably thought they were all written by women, but although I write as Angela Montaigne, I can assure you that I'm a real guy. I'm not rich, of course, but it's a good adjunct to my day job as an accountant.

People like my books because they are good stories about nice people, filled with lots of kinky sex. And I do mean lots of kinky, really kinky, sex. Unfortunately, I make most of it up. I've never experienced a good part of the stuff I write about.

That's what I wanted most. Lots of women and lots of sex.

I got little sleep that night, considering precisely what and how I should ask.

Another wish would be a great, body-builder physique. In reality I'm pretty average, with a bit of a potbelly. What about my cock? I'd love to be hung like a porn star, but I didn't want to go too far. How should I phrase my sentence so I'd get the most out of it?

The following morning, I brewed myself a pot of strong coffee, booted up my computer, and opened Electric Pencil.

“I've got a pretty great body, and women are attracted to me. Lots of women. They believe that everything I've written about comes from my experiences, and they want to have that kind of sex with me.”

Nothing happened. I looked down and my body was still my body.
Shit.
I printed my sentence, hoping that would be the trigger, but still, nothing changed.

Oh well
, I thought,
it was a nice dream while it lasted.
I looked at my watch and realized that I had only a few minutes to shave, shower, and dress for work.

I arrived at my office only about five minutes late. “Good morning, Kevin,” Shari, the receptionist, said, her voice low and sexy.

“Good morning.”

“Doing anything after work? It's Friday, so I thought we could go to a little spot I know about for drinks, then go up to your place.”

I almost skidded to a stop in the reception area. Shari was new and all the guys, including yours truly, had been trying to date her, with frosty results. Now she was coming on to me. She was, well, there's no better word than
stacked
. A real hottie, with blond curls and great tits. I can assure you that I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Sure,” I said and she smiled broadly. “We can decide on a time later.”

“Great.”

When my secretary, Iris, saw me, she asked, “Hey, Kev, how about getting together with me sometime this weekend?” Iris isn't particularly pretty, but she has a body that won't quit.

Holy shit.
I thought about my word processor as she motioned to me. She leaned over her keyboard, giving me a great view down her V-neck sweater. She put her mouth close enough to my ear that I could feel her warm breath. “I just finished reading
Marjorie's Memoirs
. Remember page 148? I'd love to try that with you.” She wrote her address on a piece of paper and said, “Come around seven.”

Page 148? I'd have to look that up, but I'd love to try anything from any of my books. Particularly with Iris.
Come around seven.
Sounded good to me. Especially the
come
part.

Things were pretty quiet for the remainder of the day, but Shari was standing beside the office door as I was leaving just after five. “I've been waiting for you.” She laced her fingers through mine and almost dragged me into the elevator. Several of the guys winked at me and, stepping back, left the elevator empty.

She was all over me, hands everywhere. As we passed the third floor on the way down, she grabbed my crotch. “Oooh,” she purred. “You're really big. I love a well-built man.”

I pried her from me as we reached the main floor and together we exited the building. “I'd love to skip the drinks and go straight to your place. You live near here, right?”

“Just a short subway ride away,” I said, panting, almost unable to function.

People stared at us on the subway. Couples necking on the train isn't unusual, but Shari was uncontrollable. Several guys chuckled and nodded at my luck.

At one point, she reached around my waist and cupped my ass cheeks, pressing her pubic bone against my huge boner. It was all I could do not to come in my slacks.

Once inside my apartment, Shari stripped off her clothes and began to undress me. Let me tell you, she was more voluptuous naked than I could have dreamed. Big breasts with pale brown nipples, already tight and pointed, a tiny waist, and long legs. She was obviously not a real blond because her thick pubic hair was dark brown.

She got me naked quickly and all but dragged me into the bedroom. “God, you are so gorgeous,” she purred. “I never realized.”

She pushed me down onto the bed and, taking only a moment to cover my cock with a condom she'd brought with her, she mounted me, sliding her soaked pussy onto my shaft with no preamble. “So big,” she moaned, levering herself up and down on me. “I can't get enough of you.”

Her tits bounced with the rhythm of my mostly unnecessary thrusts. She did all the work until I came. It would have been impossible not to, with Shari's great tits and tight pussy.

She reached between us and rubbed herself until she screamed, orgasmed, and collapsed on top of me. She was soon ready to go again and, with a little hand job, I was, too. This time I turned her onto her back and drove into her. Then I moved her legs so her ankles were over my shoulders and pounded, coming again quickly.

With little conversation, we had a burger at a small spot around the corner, then came back to my place and fucked again. Finally, exhausted, she left to find a cab home.

I was in heaven. I'd had more sex that evening than I'd had in the last month. I slept well.

The next day was Saturday and I usually turned out twenty or thirty pages. Today I was brain-locked, unable to think about anything except Shari and Iris. Electric Pencil must be responsible.

I had a little shopping to do, so I went to my neighborhood supermarket. Quite a few women approached me, and three gave me their phone numbers. Two had long, loud arguments with the guys they were with. The checkout girl almost fell over herself and wrote her address on the back of my credit card slip.

I made a few more stops: the dry cleaner, the pharmacy for condoms, and the liquor store for a bottle of wine to take to Iris's, but I made sure I was waited on by men. I couldn't deal with any more panting females.

I showed up at Iris's apartment at precisely seven. I'd looked up page 148, a scene about sex in the shower. Wine in one hand, I used the other to ring her doorbell.

Iris answered the door dressed in a lacy, see-through peignoir with nothing beneath. “Hi, Iris,” I said, handing her the wine and trying not to gape.

She made quick work of opening the bottle and pouring two glasses. “Let's drink them in the bathroom. I've got a great stall shower, just like in the book. And it's got a French shower head.”

She all but dragged me to the back of the apartment and turned on the water. I took a quick drink, then stripped off my clothes. Needless to say I was already hard as a rock.

“Got protection?” she asked.

I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out a condom.

She huffed out a little breath, opened the medicine cabinet, and dropped several more onto the floor where they would be handy. She obviously had quite an opinion of me.

Sliding her peignoir to the floor, she stepped beneath the spray and pulled me in behind her. She poured body wash onto a scrubby and lathered herself, paying particular attention to her breasts. They were of average size, but with smoky nipples that quickly became erect. Then she switched to my body, rubbing me all over with the slightly scratchy fabric.

She bent over and concentrated on my cock, stroking it, soaping it, almost worshipping it. She licked the length of it and played with my balls. Taking the shower head from its holder, she sprayed my groin, then turned me around, bent me over, and switched to the pulsing spray. Against my anus, the feeling was dynamite. “Don't come yet, baby,” she moaned. “Wait for me.”

She turned me to her, and sitting me on the little seat built into the enclosure, she ripped open a little packet and rolled a condom onto my cock. Then she sat on my lap, facing me, my dick firmly lodged in her snatch. She had the most talented vaginal muscles. She milked my cock until I came, hard, hips bucking until I could barely stay on the little seat. Still inside her, she took the shower massager and concentrated the spray on my balls.