Stocking Fillers - Erotica (2 page)

He needs no
more incentive. Quickly undoing the sides, her panties flutter to
the floor, maybe this was where the bow was really.

Her hands have
also worked their magic on his lower half, his trousers just
'magically' now lying around his ankles. Her hands are warm to the
touch, making short work of his ever increasing manhood. He could
have thought about anything right now and it wouldn't matter, he's
getting hard and it is good. Her hands slide up and down his shaft
slowly, massaging him again and again. He can feel the blood drain
from his body in to his cock, aching to be used. His fingers ease
her pussy open to prepare her, and she doesn't need much. His
fingers are already wet as he slides one in, the whispers of hair
pointing him to the good spot. He can feel the heat radiating off
her pussy, begging for more.

In one
movement she hops up on Michael and kisses him deeply, wrapping her
legs around him high up his body. His hands move to his own cock
and lead it to the sweet spot, much to her joy. He eases in to her,
feeling her muscles let him in, but only just. His eyes roll back
as the feeling over comes him, her body doing everything in its
power to pull him in. He feels his cock shudder and grow to it's
limits, filling her and causing her to moan out wildly. He can feel
her legs tighten around his sides as he pushes deeper in to her.
She picks herself up and begins to really push down on him, her ass
slapping down harder and harder. She kisses him harder and harder,
the pace quickening as their bodies work in unison.

'You back here
Eve? We've got people waiting,' a voice calls out.

Both of them
freeze in an instant, and before they know it they are giggling to
themselves. She pushes down on him a few more times, slowing the
pace as they look at each other. Sliding off him she keeps her eyes
locked.

'Well, I guess
I better get back out there...see you at home?'

Michael smiles
at her, brushing her cheek.

'Of course,
but could you do me a favour?'

'Honey we
don't have time to finish,' she laughs.

'Not that you
minx...but could you get me a present for Auntie Violet?'

She smiles at
him one more time before kissing again.

'Merry
Christmas baby.'

Ghost of Christmas
Past

by

Mouna Lott

The first time
I ever did it was at the back of a beach in a pine wood. We were
both on family holidays. We were both eighteen and about to go off
to college. That one idyllic summer of love. We proclaimed our love
to each other under the starry sky. We made love outdoors. The
rough bark against my back, our fumbling impatient fingers. The
intoxicating smell of tree resin in the rain. Well an English
summer does suggest wetness. I was always wet that summer. Wet
clothes from the rain. Wet kisses. Wet between my legs from my
desire. Wet panties. He was always hot. Hot breath, smouldering
eyes filled with lust. Hot hands running over my damp skin. Hot
kisses. Hot cock pressing into my wet pussy. We were opposites. He
was Apollo to my Venus. We planned our future of love, talked of
meeting up at Christmas after our first term at college. We made so
many plans with sparkling eyes and broad smiles. Plans that never
happened.

We would lie
for hours in those pine woods, the rain falling softly through the
bladed leaves. Some days we'd make love so sweetly the birds would
sing around us, a wood pecker's hammering against those mighty
Scots Pines which moaned in soft breezes echoing with our whispered
sighs. Our cries of lust catching in the high branches.

But it's the
smell of the pines, kneeling in needles with his hot throbbing cock
in my mouth that can trigger memories every Christmas, igniting my
lost love for him forever.

I bought a
synthetic Christmas tree that first year I married, because I
married someone else. A great guy, good father, but they say you
always remember your first love. I've tried so hard to forget mine.
Never use pine fresh in the bathroom, always floral fragrances,
floral shampoos, musky aftershaves for my husband Paul.

But this
Christmas Paul decided we should get a real tree, six foot tall
with beautiful spreading branches. The old synthetic tree was too
shabby, he said. I thought about it and decided that after eight
years and having two kids, now five and three, I really ought to be
over that feeling. It's just a smell after all.

So off I go in
the car to a garden centre on the outskirts of town to get it. We
live a few miles from the market town in an old farmhouse. The
twisting country roads are icy and it's threatening snow. Perhaps
this year we will have snow for Christmas. The kids would love
that. They break up from school and nursery tomorrow so I'm trying
to get everything organised before mayhem begins and their over
excitement leads to sleepless nights.

I drive
slowly, the ice has brought curling tendrils of fog around the high
hedges on the country lanes and I have put the fog lights on. I
breathe a sigh of relief when I turn off into the garden centre.
It's one where all the trees and shrubs are planted out in fields
and you have to have one of the gardeners come and dig up what you
chose. It's the same for the Christmas trees they sell.

There are
Christmas lights all around the building but I wander off down one
of the icey pathways to choose a tree. That's when it hits me. That
sharp fresh smell of pine and my heart flutters. I touch the soft
needles of the nearest tree and inhale deeply. I feel the
tightening in my stomach as the memory of his hands on me floods
back. I walk deeper through the regimented rows running fingers
along the sap-filled rough trunks. The sensation triggers the
memories. I remember him so clearly.

Then I
suddenly feel it, that tingling sensation that someone is watching
you and I look up, peering into the mist. There he is! It's him,
I'd recognise him anywhere. How weird that he's here. How amazing
to see him today after all this time. It must be my
imagination.

I look again
and he's still there, walking towards me not looking a day older
than when we were lovers. His golden hair curling around his broad
shoulders radiates in the cold air. The blue eyes like pools of
azure sea, shine. That easy walk of his, oozing sexual prowess,
godlike.

'Ruth,' he
exclaims in that strong soft voice which caresses my ears.

I stand rooted
to the spot, like a tree caught out of line, out of place.

'Gabriel?' I
whisper and then before I know it my legs run toward him, my arms
welcome him and my hot kisses fall upon his neck. Every thought of
my life forgotten, obliterated by his presence. He hands feel cold
against my neck and my kisses are returned passionately, damply in
this misty grove.

Before I can
think my gloves and hat are discarded and my hair tumbles about,
damp in the cold. Our hands find each other, grope through the
layers of thick clothing in a flurry. Fumbling we release inner
garments and wrap our coats around each other's nakedness. He turns
me to rest against a sapling and it bends to our weight. His hands
squeeze my breasts, pinch the nipples already hard from the cold
but now aroused from his touch and tongue exploring my mouth. He
tastes salty. I feel his cock spring to life under my impatient
fingers and moan my want.

His hands play
down my belly and reach my forest grove. He slips a finger in to
feel wetness flooding out of my pussy. Gently his fingers flutter
over my clit before delving back in to my desire, my juice noisy to
his touch. I guide his hard cock to my garden and plant his
throbbing tool there. He moves and ploughs into me with a sharp
intake of breath. The sapling against my back scratches at my neck
and that heady smell of pine invades every trembling nerve in my
body. An orgasm throbs through me and my pulsing pussy walls grab
at his busy tool.

He moves
gently deeper into my pleasure garden lifting me physically to fill
me up. I moan as my clit connects with the base of his shaft and
the spasms of another orgasm take over. I buck against him, taught,
clinging to his shoulders. He becomes urgent, faster and faster
until we both cry out together with joy as his come spurts into me.
He holds me to him and whispers in my ear just as the sapling
breaks and we tumble to the ground.

Then he's
gone. I'm lying on the hard frosty path, the broken sapling under
me and a man standing above looking down at me, concern etched in
the lines of his face.

'Are you all
right miss?' he asks. 'Gave me quite a turn seeing you fall like
that.'

I'm panting,
feeling the pulsing orgasm subside as I gaze around in disbelief. I
look down at my clothes but the wool coat is done up tight. He
holds out a gloved hand to help me up. I'm shaking and cold as a
corpse.

'I'm sorry
about your tree,' I say, my voice comes out unnaturally high,
squeaky.

'Not to worry,
you must have slipped on the path. It's the ice, we can't salt the
path or we'll damage the trees.'

'I'll take
this one though,' I say to him pointing at the broken tree.

He picks it up
and studies it. 'It's a good looking specimen of Douglas Fir, not
damaged except at the base. I'll just tidy it up for you in the
store and get it wrapped in netting. You sure you're OK?'

'I'm fine,' I
reply. 'I just want to walk a little.'

The gardener
moves off with the tree and I look about me. Gabriel's gone, like
that last day of summer all those years ago. I'd waited on the
beach next to his clothes for ages before raising the alarm. They
said it was a unusual rip tide that took him. He was a strong
swimmer. They found his body the next day. The memory is so strong
again but this time it's different. His voice still whispering
those words in my ear, a ghost of the past.

'Love
life.'

I feel a sense
of peace within me for the first time since that fateful day and
the smell of the pines suddenly makes me happy. I walk back to
store.

I squeeze the
bound tree into the bench seat at the back of the car and get in.
As I drive back suffused with it's aromatic smell I smile. Spectral
flakes of snow fall on the windscreen and the wipers brush them
aside.

I start
thinking about how we will dress the tree together that evening,
Paul, me and the kids. I have finally said goodbye to my ghost from
my past. Gabriel is placed carefully in my heart where it no longer
hurts. He is not lost, he will be a happy part of each Christmas
and I can look forward to that with my loving family.

Sugar and Spice

by T.H.
Rusty

Sandra placed
the tray of cookies on the table, joining its brethren covering
every empty space in her kitchen. It's not that Sandra enjoyed the
conveyor belt of sugary treats, it was because everyone else at
this time of year does. Christmas is one of those times that allows
people to just go crazy, pig out, undo the belt and let gluttony
take over. Sandra looked down at the latest batch of cookies and
thought to herself, if she coated herself in chocolate and sugar
would she be as desirable?

The life of
the book store owner doesn't leave a lot of time to socialise,
especially around this time of year. People seem to throw
themselves in her shop for that last minute present for someone
they barely know. In those instances people come to a book store,
because, who can say no to a good classic? Or at least pretend to
be thankful for it.

The life of a
book store owner is also not exactly a rich affair, she considers.
She knows she isn't scraping by, but it's not exactly high life
living. Hence the cookies. Cookies or gingerbread men or cupcakes
are a great way to get a present out of the way for a fraction of
the price. Also people seem to think that you have put effort in to
it, making it a heartfelt gift.

Utter rubbish,
baking is easy and cheap. Sandra moved one of the cooler batches in
to a box and carefully wraps, placing it next to the rest on her
dining room table. The collection of smells swirls around her,
tickling her taste buds and making her daydream of old family get
togethers. Sealing the box with a soft ribbon she attaches a small
card with just a name on it.

'David'.

David has been
Sandra's neighbour for around four months now and the only
conversation she has been able to bring herself to say is about
trivial items of the day. The weather, how work is, what he is
cooking for dinner to name a few. It's not that she doesn't want to
talk, she wants to talk to him every second of every day, she just
can't. A life of work and more work hasn't left her very forward
and it's a rut she has found herself in for quite some time. This
little gift is her way to try and make an impact, seem like a
'normal' person in her eyes. At least, that's what she hopes it
will do.

Double
checking the latest batch out of the oven she motions to the mirror
to check herself one last time before going to his door. She's a
natural blonde, dark not strawberry, and hasn't done much to her
appearance all day. Owning the shop means overall appearance goes
out the window, hence the incredibly un-ironed shirt, she thinks to
herself. And the fact her socks do not match. Neither does her
underwear. Trying to straighten out her shirt out she catches her
eye in the mirror. She hasn't done anything like this for a long
time, not since Simon walked out because of her 'commitments'. Ever
since then she has just got on by, not really looking out for
'that' guy. Until he came along.

Sandra still
isn't 100% sure what he does, something in the financial district
if she remembers correctly. A tall man who never seems to wear
anything more professional than a polo shirt, he instead wears an
air of irresponsibility she finds exciting. Maybe it is because she
is so cautious that this makes her weak at the knees, or maybe it
is just that she can't get his image out of her head. Those thin
lips in desperate need of kissing, eyes that could burn a million
dirty thoughts in her mind.