A Perfect Man for Christmas Revisited day two

A Perfect Man for Christmas

An erotic serial in 12 parts

Blog HOP

 4th Day of Christmas

by Rebecca Royce

Michael stared at the scene in front of him and wished he could laugh. Only he’d lost his sense of humor sometime in the last century and had yet to see it return. He rubbed at his chin and looked at his secretary. It was so hard to find good help and so far Trixie had been an excellent employee. But, of course, the first time he asked her to do something complicated he ended up…well…he wasn’t entirely sure where he’d ended up just yet.

Where he wanted to be was inside Wynter’s thighs, grinding her to completion until she called out his name, coming again and again, until she never thought about another male for the rest of her existence--Until she forgot there was such a thing as other men.

“I asked you for four calling birds.”

“Yes.” Sixty year old Trixie with her arthritic knee and back pains—she did like to talk about them—rocked back on her heels. “But it turns out, sir, there is no such thing, really, as a calling bird.”

There had to be. He shook his head. He still didn’t understand exactly why he was looking at the scene in front of him. “I’m sure if we... what is the word... Google it. We can find out what a calling bird is.”

“That is exactly what I did. And it turns out that there are two distinct meanings to the words ‘calling bird.’ I wasn’t exactly sure which one you wanted so I brought both. This seemed like the best place to show you.”

Well, now, at last an explanation. He walked forward. The basement of his office building wasn’t exactly the place to run into problems. Too many civilians running around and although his enemies might claim otherwise, he really wasn’t in the business of killing for no good reason.

“I see the birds. You have four of them. In that cage.” He couldn’t believe how much of the damned rhyme required some kind of poultry. So far he was up to his neck in the creatures. Everywhere he looked, something was squawking.

Trixie moved to stand next to him. “Right. The translation most people subscribe to is that ‘calling birds’ is actually an Americanized version of the word colly birds. Some places that’s actually what they say. They’re, as you can see, black like soot. Hence the name, I guess. But they’re really thrushes even though they look like blackbirds. They’re actually not. Getting them here proved challenging, but as you can see, I was up to the task.”

The thrush took that second to chirp at him. Loudly. It didn’t like being in the cage any more than he wanted it in his basement. Particularly after the incident earlier with the two doves. Filthy creatures had tried to go at it right then and there. He shuddered at the memory.

If he wasn’t regularly getting any, the means of his messages shouldn’t be either. Damn it.

“That all makes sense.” He pointed forward at the problem she still hadn’t addressed. “What I don’t understand is why there are four clearly drugged men in my basement, half naked.”

“Sir, I really wanted to do a good job.”

He needed a stiff drink. “I’m aware of that. Get to the point.”

“There are multiple interpretations of the rhyme. Some people say it doesn’t mean birds at all. But that the term ‘four calling birds’ actually refers to the Evangelists. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. So I found you some. The one over there is Mark.”

He followed where she pointed. Mark was a stout fellow with dark hair and piercings on his nipples. Matthew, who she told him sat next to Mark, was blond. He’d guess on the early side of twenty-five. Luke, all the way to the right, he would put in his early forties although being completely bald could make it hard to tell. And John was somewhere in his thirties with just the beginnings of a gut showing.

“You’ll note that in each of their laps I’ve placed a copy of their gospels, in case you wanted to refer to it.”

No. He certainly—most assuredly—did not want to read their gospels. Bile rose in his throat, and he pushed away his angst.

“Trixie, what did you drug these men with, and where did you find them?”

“They answered an ad looking to have an affair. I rented an apartment for the meet and greets. Took two days to get all the names covered. And they’re shot up on some good old- fashioned heroin.”

Michael shook his head and gritted his teeth. So apparently he was going to have to bury some bodies. Four—no, he looked at Trixie—five of them.

Terrible when one’s secretary picked this time of year to show her psychotic tendencies. He wouldn’t have minded seeing it around…the Ides of March. Did she have to do this now?

Although he had to give her credit--She’d been creative. In a million years he never would have expected to have a Matthew, Luke, John, and Mark drugged in his basement. Michael laughed, covering his mouth. Well there it was.

His sense of humor. Back for a brief second.

Wynter had better be finding them the absolute perfect man for Christmas. Although he supposed he could drop her off one of the four tied up and see if she liked one.

No, he smiled. Better she find her own guy.

“Trixie, where did I put my shovel?” 

To check out Rebecca's wonderful books - visit her website at

http://rebeccaroyce.com/ 

 5th Day of Christmas

by Elle Boon

Wynter barely kept herself from ending the man standing in front of her with a slash of her talons. A sound behind them alerted her to the approaching group of partygoers. “You are a man who does not keep his word. For that, you will not find satisfaction again unless it is with your one true love.” She let her magic flow into him, knowing he had no clue he’d just been dealt a proverbial cockblock.

“Whatever. You got off. I got off. I say we are even.” He turned away, stumbling into the wall on unsteady feet.

She decided the night had been a bust, but her body burned for fulfillment. Goddess, she wished for the green-eyed Michael. Shaking thoughts of him out of her mind, she headed toward the front of the club to catch a cab. There had to be a way--an easier way--to find the perfect man for her to bring. She’d look in the Book.

Laughing as she thought of the Christmas tale and why she hadn’t thought of it before. Five golden rings, and it had been five days, which now leads her to the Book--the sacred tome her family had kept as a diary of sorts throughout history. Surely if there was help to be had, it was in there.

“I need you to take me to the Warehouse District downtown.” She gave the cabbie the address. He eyed her up and down through the mirror. Probably thinking she was a hooker in her club outfit. She kept her thighs together, not wanting him to get a peek at her panty-less state.

When she sat back, crossing her legs, she had no doubt he was hoping he’d get a glimpse. Wynter gave him a frosty glare. Michael would be able to help decipher some of the old text in the Book, and help her with her other problem.

A shiver of awareness and need worked its way over her flesh at the image of a naked Michael. Wynter hadn’t been paying attention to the passing scenery and was surprised to find the cabbie hadn’t taken her to the address she’d requested.

She rolled her eyes. “Excuse me. This isn’t the location I asked to be taken to.” Seriously, she wondered if her luck could get any worse.

“Listen, I know you’re a working girl. What’s your rate?”

Wynter laughed. “Darling, you can’t afford me. However, if you put the car in gear and take me where I requested, I will let you live.” The threat wasn’t empty. She allowed her talons to lengthen, letting him see the black claws.

“What the…what are you?”

“I am a client who you picked up and asked you to take somewhere. Now, take me where you were supposed to.” She sat back, her gaze fierce. “Don’t make me hurt you. The mess would be traumatizing for the both of us.”

He swallowed audibly, his pudgy face a deep shade of red, which was better than the deathly white he’d become when she’d had to flash her talons. Wynter swore the world was becoming nothing but idiots.

As the cab came to a stop outside the location of Michael’s office building, she was disappointed to find it dark inside. She’d been sure he’d be there. The man practically lived at his offices.

“Fuck me running.”

“Not on your life.” The cabbie glared at her from the front.

Wynter rolled her eyes but spoke to him as if he was a child, which most men like him were. “Even if you were the last man on earth I wouldn’t screw you. Now, take me home.” She rattled off her address, already knowing she was going to put a spell on him. She couldn’t allow him to do to another woman what he’d try to do to her. The thought that some defenseless person would fall into a trap like he’d tried with her made anger burn in her veins.

When he stopped outside her home, the sound of the locks popping instantaneously was almost comical. Keeping her breathing even, she thought of the right words to say so the spell would take hold and last forever. She let her power out, a whip of lasting words lashed him. He jerked as if hit by a force much greater than a tornado whipping through the small vehicle. Satisfaction curled her lips when he slumped in his seat breathing hard.

“You will never harm another. Goodbye, little man.” Wynter tossed a twenty dollar bill into the front seat.

She hoped she found something within the Five Golden Rings tome that would help her in finding the perfect man. Her body still burned from unfulfilled desire, and she cursed the fact Michael wasn’t where he should have been. Her night had started with such promise.

“Gah, how did my life become such a dang mess?” Shedding her clothes on the way to her bedroom, she had a quick shower before flopping into bed naked. The cool sheets on her still overheated flesh did nothing to ease her.

Check out all of Elle's books at http://www.elleboon.com/

 

 

 6th Day of Christmas

by Elizabeth SaFleur

 

Michael dusted off his pants and stepped back to admire his work. Unless you looked carefully, you couldn’t tell the earth floor of his basement had ever been disturbed or that a grave had ever been dug. He’d let the four men stumble out of his house, still reeling from Trixie’s heroin doses. But, Trixie? He’d had enough of her tricks.

He set the shovel against the wall and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He needed a drink. He had time for a few, actually, before Trixie rose again. She hated when he did this – buried her to teach her a lesson. She’d claw her way out, a string of curses getting louder with each shovel full of dirt she moved. By the time she pulled herself out, he’d have cracked opened a bottle of her favorite champagne, Piper Heidsiec, as a peace offering. More, louder curses would follow her stomping up the rickety cellar steps.

“Wipe your feet at the doorway,” he’d yell. “The maids don’t come for a few days.”

She’d curse more in her Old Norse language. But she always, always wiped her feet.

In the old days, after she consumed the full magnum—by herself—they might have a hate fuck. Just to seal the deal that he didn’t really mean to kill her. Lately he hadn’t felt like sinking himself into anyone but Wynter.

How was she doing? She better be finding that perfect man . . . A sound from the basement stopped his thoughts dead. Yep, he heard a distinct rustle underneath his floorboards. Trixie was getting close. He dunked her well-deserved champagne in the ice bucket and grabbed his keys. He didn’t feel like their usual reunion. Rather, he couldn’t shake the image of Wynter, and her round hip decorated with his sigil. My mark.

Wynter was likely in some bar luring some man to his sure death—or the greatest pleasure he might ever know. Michael angrily slammed his car door shut. The clock read close to midnight. She might be home by now. Nah, finding the perfect man takes time, and she had only six days left. Tick-tock, my feisty Wynter.

He pulled out of his drive, needing some time to think. He was only a mile from home when he had to slam on the brakes. His headlights illuminated a family of geese. What was with all the birds tonight? 

Everywhere he turned, something with feathers flapped at him.

He punched his horn. The stupid poultry creatures didn’t move from the road. Rather they craned their necks and gawked at him with beady eyes. One of the geese squatted lower. A white oval object rolled from underneath its butt. Laying eggs? In the middle of the f-ing road? He chuckled to himself. Six geese a layin’. Hmmm. It was a sign? Eggs were a sign of resurrection and of life. A dose of unwelcomed sentimentality washed over him.

“Wynter, you must succeed,” he said, as if his words might be carried on the wind.

He drove a wide circle around the silly birds. Fifteen minutes later, he lurched into an empty parking space in front of Wynter’s place.

If she wasn’t home, it meant she was out doing her duty. Good.

If she was home, he’d take her again and again. Even better.

Wynter lurched herself to sitting. Someone had breached her room; Michael’s silhouetted form filled the doorway. She fell backwards into her pillows. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” she asked, staring the ceiling.

“The question is what are you doing here? Find him so soon?”

She leaned up on her elbows. “I’ll have you know I found quite a few tonight. I’ve decided to raise my standards, however.”

He drew closer to her bed and snapped his fingers. The candle by her bed illuminated and sent light into his green eyes. “Oh?” His lazy tone irritated, almost as much as the growing arousal between her legs.

“Yes, I might bring two this year.”

He chuckled lightly. “One will suffice, Wynter. You always were insatiable.”

“That’s calling the kettle black, don’t you think? Why are you here anyway?” She was in no mood for more mystery. Her family’s Five Golden Rings tome may have cured her of ambiguities forever.

“Why do you think?” The zip of his belt through his trouser loops went straight to her clit.

“No.”

“Excuse me, what did you say?” He leaned over her body, his breath warming her skin.

Damn him. “I said, no, let me undress you.” Why not sate her appetite on him? She couldn’t let the night be a complete bust.

He straightened. “Good girl.”

She dropped the sheet and revealed her nude form. When his emerald eyes widened, a flush of heat warmed her skin. She enjoyed affecting Michael as much as she enjoyed the arousal he arose in her.

Before she had a chance to shed him of his trousers, he’d pulled his shirt over his head. Eager boy, she whispered to herself.

As he lowered himself into her spread legs, a moan escaped her lips. Yes, this is what she wanted tonight. Someone who knew what he was doing. When he pitched deeply into her, she cried out from the sheer pleasure of him filling her.

“So far, this is my favorite present of yours.” She clamped her inner muscles around his thick cock and felt his breath quicken over her neck.

“Fuck, Wynter,” he said.

“Yes, Michael. Exactly.” She drew a long gash with a talon down his back for good measure—in case he forgot her favors were not so easily won. Or was it because she wanted him to wear one of her marks, like she did his? Who cared?

For a few hours, she could forget everything and lose herself in the rhythm of his thrusts. Too bad all nights couldn’t be like this. Oh, and that, she thought as Michael reached a special spot deep inside her.

A spiral of pleasure ran down her spine, and she let a mind-wiping orgasm take her far, far away from duties and obligations and potentially beheading Christmas rituals. For now, what Michael called up from her body was all she required.

Check out all the books of Elizabeth at http://www.elizabethsafleur.com/