An excerpt from Orgasm Fairy
2005 (c) Copyright Ashleigh Raine
This book is intended for mature audiences only. If you are not over the age of consent, click the little X on the top right-hand corner of your screen.
“Do you write poetry? You should go up there and share some.” She pointed to the podium that Marty had just vacated. The rest of the audience looked around to see who was next.
“Oh, all right.” Cammie grinned and winked at Julie before walking to the podium. Maybe she could shake the crowd up a bit. Give them something to really think about.
Nah, she’d just bullshit. As she settled in, studying the audience, trying to come up with some suitable hogwash, her eyes stumbled on a newcomer. Holy wow! Where’d he come from?
Tall, dark and lick-able, he leaned against the tarot card table, legs crossed at the ankles, arms scissored over his chest. Wearing faded blue jeans frayed in all the right places and a blue-gray T-shirt just a shade darker than the jeans, he was all male. Beautiful, tight, muscular male. Cammie ate him up, imagining throwing him on top of the tarot cards and willfully having her way with him. Of course, it would just frustrate her more without a blissful release to follow.
Sometimes it really sucked being an Orgasm Fairy.
“I’ve got a somewhat different take on erotic poetry that I’d like to share with everyone. My name is Cammie Witherspoon. My poem is entitled–” She racked her brain for something easy to ramble about “–Fifteen Fits of Feminine Frustration.”
Oh hell, she could come up with a billion of those in her sleep. She should’ve given herself fifty-five fits. “The do-nothing dildo. The fruitless fondle. The vapid vibrator. The tired tongue. The glum grope. The quiescent quim. The frigid fuck–”
Her fifteen fits came to a screeching halt when she met the crystal clear eyes of the beautiful newcomer. Damn he was a hottie. Dark brown hair, dark slashes for eyebrows, and the lightest blue eyes she’d ever seen on a man.
Catching her stare, those dark slashes wiggled at her and he grinned, showing two delightful dimples she wanted to trace with her tongue.
Wait a second. Was he laughing at her? She narrowed her eyes, continuing her ode with new dramatic flair. “The craving clitoris. The defective dong. The nonexistent nuzzle. The flaccid finger. The passive pussy. The numbing nipple clamps. The hopeless hump.” Cammie paused. Had she hit fifteen yet? Dammit, staring into twin Grand Canyon dimples had made her lose count. Hell, like anyone would notice. She gave a fake curtsy. “Thank you.”
Head held high, she stepped away from the podium and made a beeline for the snack table, pretending she hadn’t noticed the laughter twinkling in Mr. Hottie’s eyes as she’d finished her erotic monsterpiece. Even though Julie was clapping and nodding appreciatively, Cammie wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Again. Even after dying, becoming an Orgasm Fairy and suffering twenty-plus orgasm-free years, she still craved what she couldn’t have…would never have again.
It was so unfair. If she thought hard enough she could make the whole world climax simultaneously–which, although fun, would probably cause more problems than ease–but no matter how hard she tried, how hard she fingered her clit, how hard she rode a man like Dimples, she couldn’t come. It was no use. She was cursed. To give, not receive. Never receive.
Why couldn’t they serve alcohol at these events? Frou-frou herbal teas weren’t going to help.
“There were only fourteen,” a velvet voice caressed her from behind.
Without turning around, Cammie knew, just knew, the velvety goodness had to belong to Mr. Hottie. She threw a bored glance over her shoulder. Yup, it was him, laugh lines, dimples, and a mouth made for going down on a woman.
“Excuse me?” she purred. Dammit! No purring!
“You promised fifteen fits, but only delivered fourteen. What happened to the fifteenth?” He grinned and Cammie worried that he had the power to peel her clothes off just by smiling.
Of course, he noticed her error. But should she really answer his question? Tell him his damn dimples were to blame? She bit her tongue, then couldn’t resist. “Oh, I dunno. Maybe it got lost in the blissful petals of my womanhood, among the berry vines or perhaps the mower sucked it up while giving my furrows a trim.”
“You mean it got lost in your grassy mound, your Venus flytrap?”
Cammie scooted a little closer, whispering, “I think it might’ve died, like the batteries in my vibrator.”
“What a shame.”
“I’m Neal. Neal Fallon.” He extended his hand.
“Pleased to meet ya. I’m Cammie.” Taking his hand, a rush of adrenaline blasted through her, resonating in the sudden pop of her nipples, threatening to melt the padding in her bra.
Their hands lingered, clasped together, his fingers grazing her skin. She lightened her grip and slid her hand out of his grasp, but not out of touch, sensually intertwining their fingers. Could he keep up with her? Was he getting as turned on as she was? A relentless ache overtook her pussy. Damn, this guy was fiery. He applied pressure to the space between her index and middle finger, giving it a gentle stroke like there was supposed to be a clitoris there or something. Whoa. Sexy.
“So, Cammie. Come here often?”
She withdrew her hand. “C’mon, Neal. That was a seriously lame pick-up line. You were doing great until then.”
“Well, I was going to ask if you come often, but the answer to that question was made painfully obvious by your Fifteen–” he winked. “Fourteen–Fits.”
He was so right, and she was so drawing a blank at a comeback. “Y’know what? I think that fifteenth fit is hiding among the wheat crackers. I’m gonna go look.”
She surged toward the other end of the table. Neal’s velvet voice called after her. “You’re not going to find it in the crackers, darlin’.”
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