Multicultural Holiday Romance Box Set

  Giselle Renarde Erotica

  Holiday Romance Box Set © December 2013 by Giselle Renarde

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be access by minors.

  Cover design © 2013 Giselle Renarde

  First Edition December 2013

  “A Mistress’ Christmas” first published by loveyoudivine Alterotica.

  “All the Way” first published by eXcessica.

  “Out of the Cold” first published by Shadowfire Press in “New Year’s Naughty” and available from eXcessica Publishing.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  A Mistress’ Christmas

  By Giselle Renarde

  A mistress never plans for the holidays.

  There’s no one to kiss at the stroke of midnight, that mystical juncture between New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. She’s never treated to dinner on her birthday. Forget Valentine’s, too; utterly out of the question. Her heart is not warmed by fuzzy pyjamas and turkey at Christmas, unless she has friends or family to take her in.

  But rarely does a mistress maintain close friendships, and often does she splinter from her family. Families like for their girls to grow into respectable women who marry and spawn. Not vixens. Not thieves.

  Families have no place of worth allocated to those of us who consort with the husbands of the respectable wives-and-mothers we ought to be. The image held of us as the good little girls, good little women, respectable members of society, is all at once destroyed. Disappointment infuses the gazes cast upon us. We are not what they wished for us to be…

  Ah, but this is all becoming a touch too philosophical for my liking. At this rate, I may never begin my tale. And it’s a good one, too. You would be loath to miss it. As you are likely aware, if you are a reader of my work, I am far more interested in sex than philosophy. And that is precisely what this story will contain, as soon as I stop rambling about nonsense.

  In fact, this is not just one story, but many stories, many little fictions fastened together by a larger fiction. The key element making this such a fascinating tale is that, while the little fictions are just that—thrilling little stories I wrote one Christmas as a special gift for my lover—the larger fiction is true. It is the tale of my lover’s gift to me, mine to him, and the gift we shared between us.

  The aforementioned ‘little stories’ are what we refer to as ‘flash fiction’ in the trade. They are very short, like little flashes. I don’t like to think of them in relation to flashers; that is far too obscene for my taste. Flash fiction is like a splash of sunlight across a grey winter sky. It doesn’t last for long, but it cheers away that sadness we begin to feel as the days become shorter and the dark nights expand, along with our waistlines.

  The flash, because of its conservancy of words, leaves a lasting impression on our hearts and minds. On our bodies too, I should hope, since the material flowing from my fountain pen is essentially pornography.

  Before I begin my tale—and you see now how I am procrastinating, most likely out of fear that you will judge me harshly for consorting with a married person—I would like to share with you an example of a flash. This was the first in the compilation I mentioned earlier, the gift I gave to my brilliant lover. One always hesitates to give one’s writing to a man one considers brilliant, for fear he will laugh at its innocent stupidity, but it was for this reason my gift had such impact. It was something I created from my body, my heart and my mind, exclusively for him.

  And now I share it with you.

  After reading a few of these little stories, you will discover a pattern emerging. That pattern is tied to the gift my lover gave to me that Christmas. But that is all I will say for now.

  The Company

  Actors inevitably fall in lust with each other. They’ll swear left and right it’s the real thing, but it isn’t love. It’s an ephemeral, archetypal uniting of energies at best. Those who build relationships based on complex stage crushes are doomed. Those who simply use that excess of energy to fuck…?

  They’ll recover.

  Unless they get caught.

  “Nice overacting out there,” Macbeth jeered. “It’s a spot, not stigmata.”

  Shakespeareans are always the worst.

  “When we first met, I thought you were the biggest prick.” His Lady let her Elizabethan gown tumble to the floor. “First impressions usually are accurate.”

  “I’m sure you misspoke just now. You obviously meant to say I have the biggest prick.” And, of course, he whipped it out for display purposes.

  The dressing room had no lock, so Macbeth leaned against the door with all his might. His bottoms were strewn across the chair at the dressing table by the time Lady Macbeth sank to her knees. Without a word of dissent or resignation, she swallowed his cock.

  Suppressing his glee, Macbeth went on, “You’re right about first impressions. I thought you were a complete cocksucker when we met, and look at you now.”

  Lady Macbeth took a ball in each hand and squeezed with all her strength, sucking like a starved animal on his engorged meat. Macbeth hissed, clenching his ass cheeks as he thrust in her throat.

  “Hurry up and make me come before the nag arrives,” he scowled, gripping her wig and forcing her face to his groin.

  Lady Macbeth lunged at her would-be King, choking merrily on his proud cock.

  But it was too late. A knock at the door.

  The wife had brought a lovely bouquet of lilies and roses for her talented husband…

  * * * *

  Have I mentioned a man called Winston? He is the lover of whom I spoke earlier. How best to introduce Winston, I wonder? I wish for him to come across as… sympa is the word we commonly use in Québec. Kind. Sweet. Sympathetic. But it can be difficult to portray a man that way when I have told you from the start he was married to somebody else. Or perhaps the greater feat will be to have you view me as sympa.

  I have read reviews of my fiction stating that my characters are horrible bitches. I wonder if they take after me, and if I am one too. After all, as much as I like to believe Winston seduced me as an innocent young thing—and I was quite young, only nineteen when first we met—I have trouble believing that is the ultimate truth. I am like so many women, I believe: I may be guarded, even harsh at times, but when push comes to shove—as so often it does in my life—I only wish for you to like me. I have too few friends.

  Many people dislike my accent, I think. There was a sitcom in Britain I found very amusing, and one episode centred around a French client of the perky blonde character’s. The client’s name was Giselle.

  In the comedy, all the British girls mocked this client, making a noise like a whip and saying, �
��My name is Giselle—wha-ckuk, wha-chuk—and I am a French bitch.”

  I suppose that is how people view me: Giselle, the French Bitch. That is not how I see myself. That is not, I sincerely hope, who I am.

  I am, however, a bit of an affable narcissist, as you can tell. Two paragraphs ago, I started introducing my lover Winston to you, and somehow I ended up talking about myself again.

  The Pit

  With a title like Concertmaster, you’d think she’d be the Domme. But no. No, no, no. It was the conductor who exercised complete control. Complete and utter domination over her.

  And what could be more typical than an Asian prodigy violinist, except a petite Japanese submissive? Oh, she just loathed herself for being such a goddamn stereotype. But what sweet delight to have attained her prestigious position at such a young age. And what delectable triumph to have the eminent maestro for a master. Which was the greater honour?

  He entered the orchestra pit and she knew not to blink until he’d finished arranging his score. Her eyes burned, but she had her instructions. And how could the concertmaster risk falling out of his favour just to satisfy a basic physiological urge?

  She didn’t blink.

  She obeyed.

  When he gave her the nod, she smiled and stepped forward to shake his hand. The shake was for public consumption: traditional, trite, all for show. The smile was anticipatory, conniving, and very, very private.

  His sharp canines gleamed.

  Ballet patrons knew how to behave; lucky for the concertmaster, maestro didn’t. When he raised his baton, a hush fell upon them: a hush, harshened only by the faint buzzing between the concertmaster’s legs. She pressed her thighs tighter together, trying to conceal the noise, grimacing to disguise her intense pleasure.

  When she’s shaken his hand, the concertmaster had handed the maestro a fishing line cleverly sewn through her gathered black gown. He’d attached it to his baton. Baton went up, tugged on the invisible thread attached to a mini-vibe that went right at it, violently caressing her between the legs.

  The maestro looked down from the podium, assessing her expression. He would not drop the baton until she wiped that wretched smile from her face. And he would be watching, listening, throughout the performance. One sour note and she’d be struck down to second chair so fast…

  And the maestro dropped the baton.

  * * * *

  Back to Winston now, as I am sure you are sick of hearing about me, and very curious about the married man whose seductive will enraptured my senses at age nineteen. Who would not have been enraptured by Winston? Easy enough to look beyond his rather silly name; I understand it was very common, in post-war England, to name babies after Churchill. Namesake, and intellect of course, were as far as the resemblance was carried, thank goodness. My Winston was alluring as the devil. With a voice as smooth as Irish Cream and skin like dark chocolate, he was a feast for the eyes and the ears.

  The mouth, too, if one has a taste for flesh…

  I feel I must withhold from you precisely where and how Winston and I met. It is a matter of discretion, even beyond the fact that he is married. I do not anticipate his wife reading this manuscript and recognizing her husband’s characteristics. You see, my Winston was slightly two-faced, though I intend that in the kindest way possible. I suspect he was a very different man with me than he was with his wife. But perhaps some who knew him, some like myself, some of you, even, have known this man and were astute enough to see through the shroud of fine upstanding Christian morality.

  That which lay beneath, burning from within like a sleeping dragon, was far more interesting.

  The Quick-Change

  She pulls off her top—no time to lose!—and clomps down the hallway in her heavy boy shoes to the room where her dresser stands waiting. Waiting. To change her from Street Urchin in Scene One to Bordello Floozy in Scene Three, and all in under five minutes.

  First thing’s first: the dresser unbinds her chest. Out pour her sizeable tits from beneath the extra-wide tensor strips. The dresser is set to the task of changing her from a boy to a woman, with one scene in between.

  Unconventional methods yield rapid results: suck that girl’s soft nipples, suck them hard, arouse them, erect them, all the while pulling down those corduroy pants, tossing off those clunky shoes and getting this chorus girl into full feathered garb.

  She’s got to feel like a woman in under five minutes, and this method works every time. Wet towel in hand, the dresser rubs the cake makeup clean off her face. Wet hand in cunt, the dresser rubs the boy right out of her system. Her palm is sliding, stroking, grinding against her clit. The chorus girl is all woman.

  As she slips into frenzied gyrations, her cries of ecstasy echo down the corridor. Hold still for thirty seconds while the dresser applies brothel makeup.

  She tosses the feather boa over her shoulder—no time to lose!—as she skips down the hallway in red sequined heels. Another successful quick-change, and the chorus girl arrives backstage just in time for her cue.

  * * * *

  I fear I am treading near dangerous ground. I might easily reveal Winston’s profession, and if he wishes to keep his job, that would be a death-sentence of a slip on my part. Protection so often takes precedence over revelation. I can say that Winston was a man of words. Of too many words at times, too few at others.

  His opinions ran overtime when the topic went to literature or film or art. When we touched on the subjects of great emotion, he expressed his feelings in silence. Especially in the early days, the days of unending discussions up in his oak-panelled office. The patina of that ancient wood still elicits fine memories, of love and angst, of lust and longing, of desire finally fulfilled…

  But that was many years ago. Time escaped my grasp as my hands busied themselves with his hard cocks. I had no idea, back then, that I would not be so young forever.

  Hard to choose, at times, between cocks—each has its own appeal—but it ultimately comes down to the person in the body, and I kept coming back to Winston. Was it a waste to give my young self over in body and mind to a man so many years my senior? I don’t believe so. My memories of him are fond.

  Here I will pause to offer a criticism of my work: it lacks focus, lacks direction. A story requires a beginning, a middle, and an end. As yet, this breadcrumb trail of words is but a stream-of-consciousness non-narrative held loosely together by a puzzling thread of flashes. It isn’t a story at all.

  So perhaps I’ll offer you another ‘little tale’ as I collect my thoughts. When that is over I will be ready for the main event. I will tell you about this collection I gave to Winston one Christmas, and what he gave me in return. You have my word.

  The Wings

  In the wings, they wait. Everything in theatre is waiting. Hurry up and wait. It’s a frenzied, frenetic environment, yet all they do it wait. First they prepare and then, when all is set to go, they wait.

  Berger made a friend in the wings, which threw him for a loop. What would make a gorgeous girl like Tia—a triple threat, no less—notice the lowest of the low? Stagehands notoriously vanished into the background. The good ones, at least. That’s why they dressed all in black.

  Either Tia saw something special in Berger, or she just used him to vanquish stage fright. Sex was a cure-all in theatre. And, whatever the case, Berger was too stunned to do anything but enjoy the ride. It would be nice if she actually liked him, but if she was just using him for a quick fuck, that was okay too.

  Her costume off the top was a short leather skirt and bra with ripped fishnets. Tia was taller than Berger to begin with, but her platform heels made her an Amazon.

  He made sure she’d never have to look too far to find him. Who knew what she might do if he were suddenly unavailable?

  Without a word, she’d strut between a flat set piece and the wall. He’d follow her and, all in black, would promptly disappear. Tia could always find his cock, though. It was a talent of hers. Pushing down her panties, she
’d press his shoulders against the wall and kiss him so hard he thought his face might fall off.

  She’d wrap a leg around his and fit a condom around his cock before sliding it into that Amazonian hotspot. Her cunt was so warm and wet he could almost feel her dripping down his thigh.

  Then she’d start thrusting. After all, he was pinned to the wall, barely able to move. She’d gyrate up and down and milk his cock with her incredible pussy muscles until he couldn’t hold it together. He came with a vengeance.

  After their pre-show fuck, Tia would pull up her panties and saunter off to wait for curtain.

  Hurry up and wait.

  * * * *

  If you’ve ever fallen in love with a married man, you know gift-giving elicits a feeling of defeat, of anxiety, even. It’s Christmastime, evergreen trees for sale in every parking lot, the city lit by those precious little fairy-bulbs, and you want to give him something—you want to give him everything!—but you can’t. You simply can’t. Where would he put it?