continued from previous page

The following entries can be found on the first page

Seize the Day by Melissa Russo
A Virginal Victorian Quandry by Robin Steward
Missionaries, Missionaries, We're On Top! by Alicia Aho
My Sweet Savage Shoes by Lynn McCreadie

The following entries can be found on this page

Slightly Uncomfortable by Sherry Fairchok
Lord Mamasbuoy Takes a Bride by Cynthia Marie
Harlequin Presents...Suggestive Situations by CharityJ
A Fang by any other Name by Amy Edwards

The following entries can be found on the third page

Widget Bones's Diary by Amy Edwards & Kate Johnson
Mr. Soprano Takes a Trip by Megan Frampton
Boinking the Highlander by Lynne Connolly
The Further Gossiping of Madame Hoedown: "To Lord Noir, Romancing The Savage Sir Who Loved Me" by Cela & Raine Doria

The following entries can be found on the fourth page

Echoes of Conard County by Laura T. Luke
Only Me by Nana Massie

An homage to Mary Balogh as written by Sherry Fairchok:

Slightly Uncomfortable

"Why did I have to fall in love with a Bedwyn?"

The hero of Slightly Overlooked gazed through his library windows at the vista of English landscape before him.

He hadn’t worried much when the book in which he and his wife appeared had been remaindered within a week of publication.

His agent, who’d gotten him his part in this obscure installment of the Bedwyn saga, had been philosophical.

"What did you expect, from a series based on an adverb?" she asked him, when she finally returned from lunch. "Any English major would tell you, adverbs are weak and unnecessary."

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But our hero suspected that, despite his sincere love for his wife, Bertha Bedwyn, readers had considered their courtship somehow … lacking in excitement. He’d met Bertha over tea at the vicar’s and had been instantly smitten. She was quiet, didn’t make eye contact and chewed on the ends of her hair. She’d confessed to him a fascination with cross-stitch and a dislike of gym class, traits that had always made her feel like an outsider within her famous family. Later, when he’d kissed her under the rose arbor and felt her heart gently beating against his, he’d known She Was the One. He’d fretted over his unworthiness, compared with her ducal family. All he had to offer was a country house run by the National Trust, frequently thronged with American tourists, and his scant royalties from the only unsuccessful book in an otherwise successful series.

Still, he’d married his love, in a Bedwyn-infested wedding. They’d had two children and lived happily together. Until the invitation arrived. Sealed with scarlet wax, bearing the impression of the Duke of Bewcastle’s signet. When our hero saw it, his breath leaked from his body all at once, as if he’d been punched in the gut by Rannulf, his steroid-abusing brother-in-law. Our hero knew what this meant.

The good times were over.

Bertha confronted him that afternoon. They’d been paddling about, naked, within a large ornamental lake on the grounds, to the delight of the American tourists. Afterward, our hero had picked the pickerel weed from his wife’s wet hair, and removed the leeches from her pale English calves, and they’d made love on the lake’s flowery banks, just avoiding a patch of stinging nettles.

When they’d dressed, his wife faced him with her worried gray eyes. "Wulfie’s invited us to a house party. I want to go."

Our hero sank his neck down between his shoulders, like a turtle attempting to withdraw within its shell.

"Now before you say anything," Bertha continued, "I want to remind you that we spent last summer staying with your old friends from Oxbridge. Three guys with paunches, receding hairlines and a penchant for strip clubs. Like they’re ever going to be heroes of anyone’s series. You owe me big-time, mister."

"Uh …" he began. He foresaw his summer, in horrific detail. Bedwyn cricket games, Bedwyns jumping horses over fences. Bedwyn witticisms. Bedwyn noses raking the air. Enormous, sexually potent Bedwyn brother-in-laws, slapping him heartily on the back, pouring out glasses of brandy. Our hero swallowed, tugging at his tight cravat. He felt an ineffable sadness. Just this morning, he’d been a carefree fellow, loafing upon a Grecian recamier with the sports pages and a glass of ale while watching the crew of gardeners scything the lawn. American tourists watched in a pack, murmuring "How quaint!" while focusing their digital cameras.

"They’ll all be there, won’t they?" our hero said darkly. "Aidan and Alleyne and Rannulf will challenge me to Trivial Pursuit. Wulfric will do that thing with his quizzing glass. And Freyja makes terrible potato salad."

"Freyja’s never seen the inside of a kitchen in her life!" his wife cried. "We only eat lobster patties at family gatherings. That’s the only party food that I’ve ever seen mentioned in novels with a Regency setting."

"So we’re Regency, are we? I knew the Peninsular War was over, but no other larger historical events are ever alluded to, so it’s been, er, rather difficult to place us." He shrugged. "Am I allowed to wear Levis yet, or is it still all tasseled Hessians?"

"I’m afraid it’s still superfine, nankeen and coats from Weston’s for you, my boy," Bertha said sympathetically. "Which reminds me, we ought to start packing this evening."

"I don’t know … I’ve a few projects going here," our hero tried valiantly.

"You’re an upper-class male," Bertha said skeptically. "The estate agent’s perfectly capable of collecting admissions from the tourists. Come now, it will be fun"

Our hero remained silent and mutinous.

Bertha crossed her arms and her voice lifted in a threatening note. "Wulfie will ask me why you didn’t show."

Wulfric, of the lifted eyebrow, the lethal quizzing glass …His least favorite brother-in-law.

Our hero’s will failed him. "You know I love you, babe, but  …" All in a rush, he confessed: "I just cannot stand your freaking family. They’re so … so perfect. Though dentistry’s but a crude science, shampoo’s not yet used regularly and no one in our class ever really works on his abs. And they’ve all had such strife-filled, passionate romances. Why, it all took each of them at least 300 pages to finally see eye-to-eye on their relationships."

Bertha couldn’t quite meet his questioning gray gaze. "Indeed, the Slightly franchise did run on a bit. But we still have a duty to our readers. Those who enjoyed our story will be wondering what became of us. In this modern era, with its high divorce rate, readers require constant reassurance that our HEA will last. They want to see that we’re in it till death do us part, that we’re fertile, and that our children are all attractive and have high SATs and may one day star in their own Romances. Why, think of the Sherbrookes! That’s our competition!"

Our hero passed his hand slowly over his face, in a despairing gesture. "The readers want so much. I’m not sure that one man, one woman and one love story can meet all their needs anymore."

"Bingo! That’s why series were invented!" his wife cried. "Brand name recognition, extending the franchise. There’s an unwritten checklist for this sort of gathering. We must show off the children. We must gaze into each other’s eyes, to convince readers we’re still as entranced with each other as the day we met. Then you must interrupt me while I’m changing my clothes for a bout of you-know-what, so they’ll understand we’re still hot for each other."

"Well …" He felt slightly tempted. "Can’t we do that here at home? If the readers learned one thing from the series, it’s that Bedwyns are more than slightly orgasmic. Won’t readers find it tedious to see seven different couples carrying on identically?"

His wife chewed her lip, no doubt formulating another argument. Our hero gazed out across the lake, determining upon a silent, obdurate, husbandly mode of resistance. He would follow Wulfric’s butler down to the wine cellar, pretending to assist with selecting vintages, and he’d remain there. Or he’d go to the stables and pet the horses. Or he’d ride over to the neighbors, who’d only been subjected to a two-book series.

Bertha looked up, a flash of mischief in her well-loved gray eyes.

"Will you listen to your agent, if I call her?" she said. "I’m sure she’ll agree with me."

From the depths of her reticule, his wife produced a cellphone, punched the familiar speed-dial number, and muttered softly into the receiver. After a moment, without a word, she handed the phone to him.

His heart thumped with fear: It was Manhattan.

"What’s so bad?" his agent cried. "You show up, you drink a glass of wine, you say hello. Think of it as an opportunity to network."

After a silence, he said sulkily, "This never would have happened if you’d gotten me into a Kinsale novel."

The agent only cackled. "Ever assassinated anyone in Venice? Ever been to India? Ever studied with a Japanese samurai? Ever ridden with Bedouins, searching for an Arabian horse?"

"No," he said, weakly, seeing her point, "but I’ve a second cousin with a tea plantation in Ceylon."

"I’m in the Lincoln Tunnel. Can you speak up a little?"

"In the proper series, I could have thrived," he shouted. "What about the Wyckerly trilogy?"

"Gaffney went contemporary years ago," the agent said dismissively. "Believe me, you’re better off where you are. Balogh does justice to your beta male tendencies and your inherent decency."

"What does beta male mean, anyway?" he cried. "A male tropical fish? A member of an obscure fraternity?"

"Hun, I’ve gotta go. Listen to your wife," his agent urged him. "Go to the Bedwyn reunion. Enjoy!"

As he handed back the cellphone, our hero avoided his wife’s triumphant gaze.

"We’re only staying for the weekend," he said, slightly curtly.

Purple Prose as written by Cynthia Marie

Lord Mamasbuoy Takes a Bride

With a nostalgic thanks to the women who write the most memorable heroines in history

Neville Poundsinthebank, Lord Mamasbuoy, slouched wearily against a wall at Almack's. He watched warily as Mama approached like a wolf with three pigs, the gingerbread man, and Little Red all in view. She had demanded his presence, and he knew why.

"Neville, it's time for you to stop behaving like a eight pound bag of badgers and set up your nursery. There is a whole new crop of beauties here this season and we are going to choose a leg-shackle for you tonight!"

"Lovely, mm, adornment on your head, Ma'am"

"Thank-you, Neville. A woman of my station has to continue to set fashion standards for these mewling pasty-faced dust mops."

Mama was wearing a towering purple turban with a long, long white feather protruding from the top. Attached to the end of the feather was a realistic-looking wax vegetable. Mama had had enough of nests, birds, and cherries and had decided the cheerful orange carrot would be her signature this season. She fully expected all the fashion-minded females to be wearing them soon. She had even gone so far as to advise her milliner that she ought to put in a large order for wax carrots so as not to be caught short.

"All right then, down to business, boy. The best families have, as usual, each delivered a ring-seeking, title-hungry female to town. Since you have spent every other season doing your cattle-evaluating, fortune-gambling-away, club-dining best to avoid the marriage mart, you know nothing of the type of gel you'll meet here tonight. I'll help you with that, though. Take a look around the room and pick one whom you wouldn't mind facing over the breakfast table each morning, and I'll give you the 'yea' or 'nay'."

"How about that earnest girl over by the lemonade? The one grilling Sir Dipplomatt."

"If you weren't such a lie-abed lawn tractor you would know that is the Wolf girl. This is her first season and she's already unmasked a French spy, rode an under appreciated filly to victory at Ascot, and made enough wise investments to send all three of her orphaned younger brothers to Eton."

"You don't say! How did she manage all that? Sounds like she'd make a admirable ball and chain."

"She managed all that through calm intelligence and common sense, which sounds fine and dandy, but do you have the energy to avert nasty international incidents and breed horses for the rest of your life? No? I thought not. Chose another."

"How about that one?"

"Neville! Don't be an electrified fence post! That's the Quinn chit - she thrives on sparking, witty conversation. She has twenty-six strapping brothers and brothers-in-law who will beat you into a pulp if you fail to provide her with a lifetime of sparking, witty conversation. You and I both know you will be lucky to generate three minutes of sparking, witty conversation in the next thirty years. Move on."

"Very well. That be-speckled one by the potted plant is winsome enough."

"The Quick girl? I'm afraid she wouldn't do for you, Neville. Members of that family have an apparently uncontrollable tendency to involve themselves in..."

She looked around, which caused the carrot to sway hypnotically in front of her eyes, and lowered her voice to a whisper, "...mysteries."


"Lower your voice, you slack-jawed, marinated artichoke heart! It's true, though. Who is stealing ancient artifacts? Who is trying to kill Aunt Louisa? Where has the family book collection gotten itself off to? Things of that nature."

"Book collection?" Neville murmured weakly. He shook off the cold chill creeping up his spine at the thought of a girl who would put herself out for the sake of the family book collection.

"How about her?" He gestured almost randomly.

"Lady Mary's latest? Absolutely not. An alarming percentage of those girls turn out to have worked as prostitutes. Who else?"

"She's attractive - the one speaking with Lord Arrowgaunt"

"The little Coulter miss? Hmmm. She might do, Neville. A bit spunky though. Can you handle a bit of spirit?"

Neville turned from her perusal of the girl to answer his mother. His mother's face, which was alight with speculation, abruptly fell into disappointment.

"I'm afraid the boat has sailed on that one, boy," she said.

Neville turned back to see Lord Arrowgaunt doubled over in obvious agony.

"Miss Coulter spit in his eye and kneed him in the groin. She's in love. They may very well be engaged. You are going to have to stop behaving like a slow-topped snail with a cease and desist order or all the good ones are going to be taken!"

"Scuse me, folks." A shy little voice from behind caused Lord Mamasbuoy and his parent to turn. Mama raised her glass and coldly examined the young woman who had dared to approach her.

"I don't believe we have been introduced and. are you wearing a flour sack?"

"Yes'm. I'm Miss Ethel Edna Gladys Morsi, and my genteel Arkansas mountain family has fallen on hard times."

Neville reached across his horrified mother and clasped Miss Morsi's hand. "This lovely, unspoiled child," he announced loudly, "is to be my Countess!"

"Neville!" Mama hissed. "Don't be a glow in the dark Jigglypuff! I know nothing about this creature!"

Miss Morsi shyly twisted her bare toe on the hallowed floor of Almack's and spoke again, "Ya'll should see some of the men my sisters have married: a short guy, a dumb guy, a funny-talkin' furiner, a snake-oil salesman, the Boston Strangler, a televangelist . I just couldn't stay and take my chances in the mountains. But, the stories I've heard about England! They say you can't swing a dead cat without flinging maggots on a Duke!"

Mama's face was exactly the shade that would be created if one mixed orange and purple, so she matched her headgear with accuracy. Her carrot quivered with so much indignation that it bumped into her autocratic nose.

"You presumptuous little overpriced pair of needle-nosed pliers! How dare you." Suddenly Mama stopped and her eyes took on the sheen of what could only be reluctant admiration. "Flinging maggots, did you say?"

"Yes'm, and they say the Earls, Barons, Viscounts, and Marquises are all tall, dark, handsome, single, and so thick on the ground that large birds pluck them up to use in their nest-buildin' and no one hardly even notices they're gone."

"My," Mama breathed softly, "you have quite a way with words, Miss Morsi."

"And, if that don't put the crawdads in your gumbo, any girlie who takes a hankerin' to be one of them Princesses, has only to hop the bayou to Europe and wait on the corner with a come-hither neckline and an illegitimate baby on her hip."


"Yes, Mama."

"This one may do."

Mama wondered if she ought to advise her modiste to lay in a supply of flour sacks.

Purple Prose as written by CharityJ

Harlequin Presents...Suggestive Situations

The door clicked open.

In the shower, Lila heard the sound and felt a fiery blush spread up her face and across her soft, pert breasts. How embarrassing. No one had ever seen her naked in the shower in her life, not even on accident. Even if someone had walked in on her at home, there would have been an opaque shower curtain to hide her body. Yet here in a luxurious suite at the Hilton in Hong Kong, Lila found herself making eye to eye contact with her boss through a wall of clear glass, with nothing to cover her but streaming, steaming water. Yup, Lila was naked. Stark naked. Sexily starkly naked. And Rome was not looking away.

Lila put a hand down to cover her beard.

She watched Rome's eyes follow the hand, unabashedly taking advantage of the situation. He leaned back against the door which he had just closed, blatantly looking her up and down. As if she were a prize horse! Her cheeks flamed again, although with anger this time.

"Get out," she thought to say. "What are you doing in my room anyway?"

Rome settled down on the edge of the toilet seat, a leering, mocking grin on his face.

"Lila, this is my room. You must have taken the wrong room key." A calculating look came over his face. "But was it on accident, or on purpose?"

"This is my room. I'm sure of it! It's room 222."

"Well, I'm booked into room 222, too. You made the reservation. Did you book one room or two?" Lila thought for a moment. Oh, no, she had just thought of Rome's needs, not her own. And she remember the hotel manager commenting that the place was completely full for the Miss Universe Pageant taking place that night. Rome smirked, clearly convinced that Lila had deliberately forgotten to get herself a separate room.

"Don't worry, I'm sure we can both think of a way to make the best of the situation," he suggested suggestively.

"Oh!" As usual, Lila could think of no way to defend herself against his sexist remarks that wouldn't make her sound like a blithering idiot. She could hardly blame him for thinking she had set this up on purpose.

"What am I to think?" he asked, as if reading her mind, "when everywhere I go, you make these blatant invitations to me? And now you stand there, brazenly thrusting your large breasts at me. I know how to take a hint."

Lila realized with horror that Rome's hand had dropped to his pants, and that he was rubbing the growing bulge there with a suggestive motion."Could you please get out?" she asked. "We'll talk about this later. But right now, I need to get dressed!"

"Go ahead," Rome encouraged. "I won't stop you. But I can't see any reason why I should get out of my bathroom. You've been sending me a clear message all week, Lila. I don't know if you always take such a bold approach with men, but it isn't needed. I'll lay down with you anytime you would like. Or stand up with you, against a wall, or sit, or whatever you prefer. Tell me what you need, and I'll help you out. Because you are clearly a woman in need."

Mortified by the implication, Lila did the only thing she could. She turned off the water, opened the door, and reached for the towel.

Rome nudged it just out of her reach. Lila lunged for it, and managed to grab it this time, but found her breasts pressed up against the mountain held back by Rome's fly. She put a hand down and pushed herself up. The mountain offered a firm grip. She wrapped the towel firmly around herself, and backed away.

Rome continued to smile. Knowing that she had just had her hand on his crotch, she could hardly blame him. How had this happened to her?

Although she was a twenty-eight year old who looked like a gorgeous eighteen, she was a virgin. In fact, her sexual experience was limited to a few fumbling kisses with a boy in college, who had later run off with her brother and married him in Toronto. Lila had a picture of them at their wedding on her mantel.

So how had she come to be in so many sexy, suggestive situations with her attractive boss, Rome? First he had found her changing a skirt she had spilled coffee on in his office last week. She had thought he would be at lunch for another hour, and so she had slipped behind his desk to put on another skirt, which she had run out and bought on her lunch hour. Rome had walked in just as she was rubbing at a coffee stain on the crotch of her panties, with her skirt on the floor at her feet. What must he have thought, to see her half naked and touching herself while standing in that room, which had his personality stamped all over it?

At the time, he had made no comment to her, although a certain gleam had entered his eye, and remained there ever since. Two days later, she had been informed that she would fly with him to Hong Kong in the place of his personal assistant. Rome had dropped by her flat to give her the news – something he had never done before – and he had somehow walked in on her giving herself her monthly breast exam in front of the large front mirror. She was lifting, rubbing, and inspecting her breasts so closely that she didn't hear him knock on the door and let himself in.

Again, he had said nothing, for which she had been grateful. But the gleam glowed more strongly in his eyes, as he told her she would spend the weekend with him in Hong Kong.

"I know you have never been overseas," he murmured huskily. "But have no fear. I shall keep you so occupied that you will not notice the change." He grinned a shark's hungry grin.

These little situations kept happening all week! Lila blushed anew, remembering what had happened on the plane ride over. But how could she have expected such a thing? Surely he knew that she hadn't deliberately put her hand down his pants and rubbed his penis into a state of arousal while he slept. Yet that must be how it had seemed to him, and he had not allowed her to offer her perfectly reasonable explanation.

He didn't want an explanation. He thought she was available. Sexually available. To him. Lila had never found herself in these embarrassing, suggestive situations before. Where they normal in the workplace?

Rome reached out and let large, warm fingers wrap around the top edge of the towel.

"Let us end these games, Lila," he said. "There is no need for pretense between us. We are both adults with certain needs. We are both well-practiced in satisfying those needs. Let us practice our skill with each other." With these words, his fingers began to gently tug at the towel, trying to loose the strong, frantic grip she had on it.

"No, Rome," she said. "How could we continue to work together? I like this job, and I'm good at it! I don't want to put it in danger."

His fingers gave a final, hard jerk and the towel ripped away.

"Don't give it another thought," said Rome. "You've obviously had a lot of practice in these sexual games before. We are both mature enough to handle an affair." His knuckles drifted gently over her breast, then down, down, perilously close to the most sensitive and untouched part of her body.

"Rome," she protested, "We cannot do this."

"Don't give another thought to the job. You can quit it as soon as we get back, if you like. I have an apartment in the city which my . . . friends . . . are welcome to stay in. You may stay there until this passion dies between us. And the way I feel right now, it will be many months before it dies." He thrust his third finger up into her body, and watched with satisfaction the glow of pleasure lighting on her skin.

Lila knew she should be offended by his suggestions, but the feelings he was arousing in her body were too strong for her to care. "Roooooome!" she moaned. His thumb moved in a gentle yet rough circle over her own mini-mountain. Her orgasm hovered just out of reach. One more moment of this and . . . . she couldn't hold back . . . any second now she would . . .!


Purple Prose as written by Amy Edwards

A Fang by any other Name

Stanislaus Vlad DarqueNight strode boldly through the pulsing mass of humanity gyrating wildly on the sultry nightclub’s massively packed dancefloor. Lusty, loose women slithered and spun to the hot, pounding rhythm thundering from the top-of-the-line, high-tech, top-notch sound system, but Stanislaus’s demonically seductive eyes were locked on only one woman.

Her knee-length, white-blonde, satin-soft, lushly-curled hair swayed in the non-existent breeze as the shimmering, scintillating lights glinted and sparkled in her jewel-bright, long-lashed, sky-blue eyes. Her petite, delicate, temptingly curvaceous frame was swathed from throat to ankle, shoulder to fingertip, stem to stern and soup to nuts in a flowing, shimmering, virginal sheathe of purest white, whiter than the driven snow, whiter than the freshest linen could possibly hope to be even after liberal application of Clorox bleach. Only her remarkable, unblemished immaculateness of spirit could create such a vibrantly colorless glow.

Stanislaus wiped the drool from his chin. He’d found her at last. His fated mate, his perfect mistress, the other half of his soul, mind, heart, spleen, ribs, and assorted other anatomical parts which had never felt whole until now.

“Ah, I will make you mine, thweet paragon of womanlineth,” he murmured into the thundering, crashing heavy metal beat of a love-song that touched his heart with its tenderness. Thankfully the blaring music kept anyone from hearing the lisp that inevitably afflicted his words whenever he spoke due to his overlarge fangs. "Never fear, my perfect, gorgeouth beauty. I will make your claiming a thing of thuch pleathure the heaventh will weep with jealouth envy."

But first, Stanislaus knew he must tempt her away from this place of revelry. He flowed across the dancefloor like a cool breeze, untouchable, untouched, unseen, only to come to a shivering halt beside the beautiful wisp of womanhood who had captured his eye, mind, heart and imagination. Now he would speak, and woo her to his side for all eternity. Stanislaus had been preparing for this moment for all his everlastingly endless existence and the perfect words quivered expectantly on his tongue.

“Are your pantth made of mirrorth?” Stanislaus murmured seductively in his hotly black-velvet voice against the shell-pink curve of her delicate ear, “Becauth I can thee mythelf in them.”

His perfect, exquisite, delectable scrap of a woman spun around with a sweetly becoming gasp of surprise. “I beg your pardon?” she cried prettily.

Ah, he had her intrigued now. Excellent! Stanislaus continued his seduction. “It’th a good thing I brought my library card,” he grated sexily, “becauthe I jutht checked you out.”

His heightened, sharpened vampiric senses allowed him to discern the fluttering of her rapidly beating pulse at the base of her slim, alabaster throat. “Sir, I believe you have mistaken me for someone else,” his sweet womanly confection murmured demurely.

“No, my prethiouth, only you inthpire me to thuch blothoming emotion,” Stanislaus protested lovingly. “My love for you ith like diarrhea—I jutht can’t hold it in.”

A pale pink blush bloomed like the softest of roses in the milky white canvas of her dainty cheeks. “Oh!” his cherished darling whispered hesitantly. “I confess your winsome words and tender compliments have swept me off my tiny, elegant feet. Pray tell me your name, ardent admirer, that I might enscribe it forever in the annals of my quivering heart!”

His chest swelled to accommodate the rushing tide of victorious emotion that swamped him. “I am Thanithlauth Vlad DarqueNight,” he declared proudly.

His treasured diminutive temptress daintily mopped the deluge of spittle from her high, intelligent brow. “Tanning sloth?” she queried patiently.

“No,” he demurred masculinely. “Thanithlauth, my heaven-thent angel.”

Again her hand-embroidered silken handkerchief emerged from hiding and hastily removed the new spattering of his mouth’s hot juices. “Thinning thought?” she inquired confusedly.

Stanislaus drew in a breath to repeat his manly, distinguished name again for his beloved’s lovely ears to receive but was instantly distracted by the unique perfume of her own undeniably individual scent which drenched the air and hijacked his senses, which easily discerned her precious olfactory signature despite the odors of sweating bodies, cigarette smoke, urinary indiscretions, and animal droppings that combined to create the nightclub’s own romantic aroma. Clearly the drivingly romantic beat of the death-metal songs of yearning were muddling her ability to understand his clear enunciation. “Thweet love-muffin, allow me to uthe your cocktail napkin to clarify thith mithunderthanding,” he snapped solitiously, pulling the napkin closer and inscribing his glorious name upon its sodden surface. He presented this offering to his virtuous honeybunch with a courtly bow. “Might I inquire the name of the rethplendent thiren who hath tho utterly tholen my heart?”

She gently nibbled her gorgeously puckered lower lip as her feminine mind translated his lisped phrases before her furrowed brow smoothed with understanding and her azurely cerulean eyes cleared. “I am Chastity Ann Purity,” she uttered shockingly.

Stanislaus grinned wickedly in hot, manly, masculine male anticipation. “The name of a theductive temptreth,” he growled laughingly. “And now, thparkling mathterpieth of female perfection, let’th go to my plathe and thpend the retht of the night making wild rabid monkey-love until we collapthe from exauthtion.”

“Why, I couldn’t possibly!” Chastity objected agreeably. “I am a virgin, my woman’s secrets unplundered, my maidenhead unbreached, my innocence unsullied, and I shall persevere in my unbedded, climax-free state until I find at last the ideal lover whose coming was foretold at my birth.”

Stanislaus leered tenderly. “Thugar-pie, your ideal lover’th coming will occur thooner than you might imagine,” he grated silkily. “I, Chathity, am the one who will plumb the depthth of your thecret heat, whoth turgid rod of manliness will delve into the honeyed crevitheth of your woman’th home, for I, Thanithlauth, am your thoulmate!”

Chastity leapt gracefully from her barstool, her willowy frame gliding through the tepid air as she threw herself bonelessly into Stanislaus’s muscular, rippling arms, her generously rounded globes of feminine temptation crushed pleasurably to his rock-hard chest. “Oh, deflower me now, for I have waited so long and hungered so strongly that I fear any further delay will result in me tackling you to the sticky, befouled dancefloor and having my way with you before the titillated eyes of the watching masses!” she intoned shyly.

Stanislaus whisked his innocently shivering soon-to-be-lover away from the confines of the nightclub and hastened toward his well-secluded love-nest. Now he would introduce his modest, timid sweetie to the lushly addictive pleasures of the flesh. His generously endowed manrod stirred in anticipation of meeting Chastity’s moistly glistening love-flower and plundering it like a hummingbird thrusting its eager beak deep in search of the sweetest nectar. “Have no fear, my amorouth maiden,” he chuckled reassuringly. “My rod of love may thock you with it’th imprethive length and girth, yet I thwear on the thoul I lotht thenturieth ago I will bring you pleathure thith evening.”

Chastity vibrated with shudders of anticipation as Stanislaus descended rapidly on his hidden lair, the only sign of its existence the coffin-shaped mailbox mounted on a wooden stake at the cave’s entrance. He darted through the narrowing passageway to the bed that awaited them with his beloved nestled like a precious baby in his richly biceped arms.

At last they arrived in the deeply recessed chamber Stanislaus had been aching to transport Chastity to since the first steaming contact of his eyes with her luscious body. He tossed her carefully through the air and gazed, beguiled, at the bob and bounce of her bounteous breasts as she balanced beautifully on the boundless bed. “Babe,” he boasted bodaciously.

Chastity sprang to her feet and seized Stanislaus by the ruffles of his medieval-style white silken full-sleeved lace-up shirt and ripped the annoying covering from his straining chest. Before Stanislaus could react she grabbed the waistband of his skintight black leather pants and sliced them away with one well-placed flick of her razor-sharp fingernails. “At last, the time of my deflowering is here!” she giggled passionately. “And now you, Stanislaus Vlad DarqueNight, will fulfill my every wish and fantasy!”

“With pleathure, thnookumth,” Stanislaus vowed eagerly as his turgid manstaff sprang forth.

Chastity grabbed the shroud-like gown enveloping her and gave a terrific yank that sent her glorious globes of womanhood swaying again as she ripped it off to reveal the secrets beneath. Stanislaus bit his own tongue nearly in two as he beheld the skin-tight black leather bustier and g-string gracing her slender voluptuousness as Chastity produced a whip and handcuffs from within the voluminous folds of her discarded gown. “Come, you rippling hunk of manly beefcake,” she whispered shyly. “To the bed, for I am overanxious for your rigid manroot to impale me upon its throbbing length!”

Stanislaus found himself cuffed to the bed before even his hyperactive vampirically enhanced reflexes could aid him in springing out of the way. As Chastity descended upon him like a virginal dominatrix of love, his last thought before dissolving into screamingly ecstatic bliss was that they just didn’t make virgins like they used to…

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