I'm donating this time to Heifer International, heifer.org
For every view of this blog in the next two weeks, I'll donate one dollar to Heifer International, and for every comment, two dollars.
This organization has been "investing in individuals and communities to help them create lasting change" by supplying families in need around the world with livestock of various kinds, so they can make a better living. Cows, goats, swine, poultry, whatever is appropriate for them. They've been doing this for over fifty years, as I know because that long ago, when I was in college, I got accidentally involved with them. A group of us had seen a news article about a professor, a classical translator, who had been at our college for one semester. He had just being appointed to a "chair' at Harvard University that had been created so long ago that it theoretically included the right to graze a cow in Harvard Yard. We had been itching to create some kind of wild demonstration--after all, they were rioting at Yale and other men's colleges, apparently just for the fun of it, so why couldn't we do something even better? Obviously, we should take a cow to Harvard Yard to present to the professor! A long story followed, but I'll just skip to the part where older, wiser, yet publicity-hungry heads prevailed. What we actually did was present a check for the funds we had managed to collect for the "cow caper" to a representative of the Heifer Project (as it was called then) in honor of the famous professor, who had an adopted family in Greece. Our college president, to our amazement, let us have a ceremony in the newly-built outdoor amphitheater, have the tower bell rung, and TV cameramen from the nearest city (Springfield) covered the event. We made speeches, and a dance class did some sort of Greek dance, we borrowed a representative cow from a nearby farm, and the college greenhouse director constructed a magnificent wreath of lilies, etc. to drape around the cow's neck.
Onward to sharing an erotic story. I don't happen to have written any fiction about cows, so I'm reduced to resorting to a piece titled "Reindeer Games." Cows, reindeer--not so different, right? But I do have to admit that there is no actual reindeer in the story. Or is there?
The ringing of the phone merged with Kristin's high-pitched cries as Nick pounded into her. Kris couldn't form words, couldn't find enough breath to beg, "Don't stop don't stop don't STOP!" But Nick didn't stop, kept driving huge spikes of pleasure through her, until all sensation merged into one searing, electric jolt of power.
Gradually, Nick's strokes slowed. Kris could feel her lover's deep, shuddering gasps through her own hard breathing and thumping heart. But a man's voice rumbled suddenly at the edge of hearing...what the hell? Oh, the answering machine!
"Sorry, Nick, it's a bitch out there, and getting worse, three inches an hour the weather guys say. We gotta have another plow driver. Get your ass on down here, okay?"
Kris wriggled until she could get her arms around the ass in question and held tight, but she knew it was no use. "I have to go, Babe," Nick muttered into her hair. "I fought like hell to get Christmas Eve; Joe wouldn't call without a real emergency. But damnit, ten years of working holidays so family guys could take the time off..." It was as close as she was going to get, Kris knew, to saying "We're family now." It was close enough.
"I guess his timing might've been worse. Just barely." Kris still couldn't bring herself to let go. "Maybe I could come with you?"
Nick's mouth twitched in amusement at the proffered straight line. Kris always wished she could feel that subtle movement of the lips under the tip of her tongue, but if she got that close, of course, other things happened.
"Didn't your mother ever warn you about distracting the driver?" Nick rolled free and stood up, hauled the blankets up under Kris's chin, stroked the muffled body with a lingering touch from throat to crotch, then headed for the bathroom. No time, Kris knew, for a shower together. But the door was left open and she got to indulge her own private fetish for watching Nick wash herself and her gear at the sink. Those strong, adept hands slicking soap between those powerful thighs...
"It's not fair!" Kris wailed. "Why do the roads have to be cleared tonight? Why doesn't everybody just stay home?"
"I'm with you," Nick said fervently. "Or if they have to get someplace let'm all drive reindeer!" She passed close to the bed, and Kris managed to get an arm free of the blankets in time to cop a feel of firm ass. Then Nick was pulling on her clothes, hesitating briefly as though considering a good-bye kiss, then turning abruptly away. "Keep it warm for me, okay?" she called back over her shoulder just before she plunged out into the whirling snow.
Well, it was still pretty damned warm, Kris thought, wriggling her hips, but how could she loll around in bed while her lover was out in the storm making the world safe for travelers? Stupid fucking travelers!
Suddenly a memory from her childhood, of listening for sleigh bells and reindeer hooves on Christmas Eve, drifted through her mind. And something else, something she'd read, about antlers. Yes! Female reindeer had antlers, just like the males! In winter, in fact, only the females had them, so Santa's whole team must be girls. She remembered now how that factoid had tickled her fancy, several years before she'd realized how much women with a touch of the masculine tickled her libido.
Kris rolled out of bed, wrapped herself in a flannel shirt subtly imbued with Nick's scent, and perched at her drawing table. Thoughts flowed through her fingers, until a line drawing of a prancing reindeer took shape on a scrap of poster board. "Blitzen," she murmured, thinking of the electric tension Nick could build in her until it crackled like lightning. She shifted on her stool, remembering, as always when she sat there, the first time she had sketched Nick's portrait.
They had met at the cafe where Kris was waitressing, working her way toward a fine arts degree at the University. The moment she saw Nick come in, sweaty and tired from driving the town's road-paving truck, she knew what she wanted. Nick was interested, too, she could tell, coming back daily and letting her gaze linger on Kris like a subtle touch whenever she didn't seem to be watching, but it had taken weeks to get beyond casual conversation. Finally, in desperation, Kris had approached Nick with her hands deliberately filled with trays of dishes. Payment for the coffee and apple pie lay ready on the table.
"Thanks," Kris said, jerking her head toward the bills, "but my hands are full. Could you just tuck it into my belt?" Nick's gaze didn't leave hers as strong, gentle fingers slid the money firmly into the waistband of her skirt. "Farther in, please," Kris managed to say, her throat tight.
"You sure it won't fall all the way through?" Nick asked, a bit gruffly.
"I don't think so," Kris said. The dishes on the trays began to clatter as her arms quivered. "Feels like it'll just slide right on down into my underpants."
Nick stood abruptly and grabbed a tray from her. "Put those damned things down!" she said. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Drawing," Kris said. "For my senior thesis portfolio. Could you model for me? Please?"
She hadn't actually got around to the drawing part, though, until early next morning. The narrow band of sunlight curving gently over Nick's breast and slanting across her jaw onto her sleeping face made the most beautiful line Kristin had ever imagined.
Now, six months later, Kris cut carefully around the silhouetted reindeer she had drawn. Something about the set of its proud head reminded her of the way Nick moved, the way her head was poised over the strong column of her throat—and the way her groans vibrated through Kristen's mouth right through to her bones when she nuzzled and bit at the tender hollow of that throat.
The scissors were poised at the curve of the cardboard neck. Snip—snip—a bite-sized chunk fell away; and at that moment Kris knew what she was going to do to while Nick was gone. Faintly, too, at the back her mind, a plan began to take shape for what she was going to do when Nick came back.
The urge to bake Christmas cookies had struck suddenly a week ago, while she was hungry and vulnerable in the supermarket. She'd felt vaguely guilty as she bought the supplies; was she being too childishly influenced by memories of her grandmother's farmhouse kitchen, too perilously close to an attack of feminine domesticity? Once home she had shoved the frozen dough behind cartons of ice cream in the freezer, and hidden the tubes of jewel-toned icing gel among her art supplies.
But Christmas was Christmas, after all. Nick had even brought home a small tree, and Kris had decorated it with intricate paper-cuttings of snowflakes and suns and moons and peace signs. They had hung their stockings, too, or at least their colorful slipper-socks knit by Afghani refugees. Why had she thought cookies would be too—too Donna Reed? The hell with worrying about stereotypes.
While the dough thawed, Kris sketched another reindeer, slightly modified to fit onto the dough in an almost interlocking pattern so that there would be only a few scraps left over. Then, realizing that it would be nearly morning by the time Nick came home, she decided to do her meager stocking-stuffing now.
They had promised each other to buy only small, token gifts, and Kris really hadn't had much choice anyway. A round red pomegranate like a hard, pouting breast sank into the toe of the stocking. Then came three bars of the dark, dark chocolate Nick liked. Last, peering over the rim, came two figures Kris hoped would be amusing rather than just silly; a Rosie the Riveter action figure, complete with riveting-action rivet gun, and a Barbie doll surgically altered into anatomical correctness.
Kris was proud of her sculptural dexterity. She might build a whole installation around the theme if she got a show of her work presented at a gallery. The electric wood-burning tool had etched a vagina into the crotch just the way she wanted it, with little folds of melted plastic along the edges like generous pussy lips. For the asshole, she'd gone in cleanly, with just a hint of puckering around the rim.
Maybe she should produce more, deck them with tattoos and kinky costumes and sell them on E-bay. But this one was personal, blonde hair in a single braid down her back like Kris's own, a tiny silver ring piercing the left of two breasts whose tips had been teased with a hot needle into pointed nipples.
Kris had been uneasy at first because Barbie was bigger than Rosie, but, as she thought about it now, the idea began to grow on her. She took Rosie out and touched her coveralled crotch with a tentative fingertip. Maybe...but maybe not just yet.
The cookie dough was malleable enough by then to roll out with a floured wine bottle. Kris considered making some more exotic shapes, but decided to stick to the reindeer motif, tracing carefully around her cardboard outline with a sharp knife. When the dozen-plus-one golden shapes were baked and cooled she decorated them with elaborate lines and swirls of icing gel, green and red and blue, drawing harnesses and reins and fancy trappings until they looked more like merry-go-round mounts than working sleigh-pullers. One, though, she left unadorned except for a nose glowing ruby red.
The snow still fell, and the wind howled. Kris gathered candles and filled jugs with water in case the electricity went out. She started a small fire in the fireplace and lay in front of it, wrapped in Nick's shirt, watching the flames leap and twine and lick hungrily at each other.
She must have dozed, because next thing she knew there was nothing left of the fire but glowing vermilion embers. She quickly added kindling and logs, wondering what had waked her. In a moment, though, she heard the stamping of boots on the doorstep, and knew. By the time the door had opened and closed she was there, unzipping Nick's parka, pulling gloves from stiff hands, frantically pulling up sweater and t-shirt so that her own naked breasts could press against Nick's chilly skin.
"Whoa, Babe, don't knock me over!" Nick's arms went around her, but Kris could feel the exhaustion in her body. She eased away and helped Nick shrug all the way out of the parka.
"Just sit down," Kris said, leading Nick to the couch, "and I'll take off your boots. And then I'll show you what I baked for Santa."
"Umm, smells so good," Nick murmured, burrowing her nose into Kris's hair where the scent of cookies still clung. Then she flopped back onto the cushions with a sigh. Kris knelt, unlaced the heavy boots still splotched with snow, and pulled them off, playing it straight all the way. She had different games in mind tonight.
"My pants are wet and cold, too," Nick said plaintively. Kris obligingly went for her belt and got the pants all the way off, but kept her movements businesslike.
"Poor baby, I can tell you're all worn out," she said. "Just enough energy for a bedtime snack."
"Oh, yeah!" Nick said, watching the flannel shirt fall open as Kris stood up, revealing her still-warm, still-naked body. But Kris turned away toward the kitchen.
When she came back she carried a plate of cookies and a mug of milk. "Wow," Nick said, "these are too gorgeous to eat!"
"It's ephemeral art," Kris said. "It's not supposed to last. First you assimilate it with your eyes, and then with your mouth."
"Well, when you put it that way..." Nick's gaze didn't leave Kris's body as she took a cookie, licked at the icing, then bit into it. "Damn, that's good!" She bit again, then once more, and it was gone. She gulped down the milk and then glanced toward the plate on the end table. "How come Rudolph doesn't get all the fancy trimmings?"
"Rudolph is naked," Kris said, "Because I'm Rudolph tonight." She extended a finger to the blob of red icing on the cookie's nose, then smeared the gel onto the tip of her own. "See? And I think I'm growing antlers." She really felt as though something was swelling upward from her head, a weight she could feel all the way down to her crotch, where something else was swelling, too.
"Antlers?" Nick considered her thoughtfully. "I do believe you're right. Nice rack." She kept her gaze fixed resolutely high above the considerable charms of Kris's torso.
A new sort of tension was building between them. Kris knew where she wanted it to lead, but first, the icing tingling on her nose was too much fun to pass up.
"Hold absolutely still," she ordered, dropping to her knees with no hint of submission. She pushed up Nick's shirt and, head bobbing, drew a line of red dots from between her breasts down over her belly to the band of her boxer shorts. Nick inhaled sharply as Kris tugged the shorts downward.
"Keep still," Kris said sternly, "or I won't lick it off!"
"I'm trying, " Nick said tensely, and Kris wondered just how far she dared push it.
She wiped her nose on a flannel sleeve, shrugged the shirt all the way off, and licked on the dotted line all the way down to where Nick couldn't possibly keep still. She could feel her invisible antlers brushing Nick's face, chest, belly, as her head went lower and lower. She could feel something else that wasn't really there, too. If only...
She wriggled her tongue teasingly through Nick's dark thatch, pausing just short of where her mouth really wanted to go. Where, judging by arched hips and fingers tangled in Kris's hair urging her closer, Nick really, really wanted her to go.
One quick lap across Nick's straining clit, though, and then she pulled back. "C'mon, Babe," Nick groaned, her grip tightening, but Kris jerked free. She flexed her fingers, drew a deep breath, and swatted Nick's muscular thigh.
"Roll over, Blitzen!" she ordered. "I'm gonna guide your sleigh tonight!"
Nick stared up at her. Kris held her breath. Then, with that unmistakable twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth, Nick said, "You'll need a harness, then, won't you?" and rolled over.
Now Kris stared, not just at the magnificent curve of Nick's ass but at the package her lover's long arm drew from under the couch. "Merry Christmas," Nick mumbled into the cushions. Kris took the package, tore it open, and felt her invisible antlers swell. "It was supposed to go into your stocking," Nick added.
"Don't worry," Kris said, strapping and adjusting as she'd watched Nick do so often through the open bathroom door. All the fixin's were there, too, so she lubed up, even though a preliminary probe of Nick's juicy cunt indicated that she didn't need all that much. "I know exactly what it's supposed to go into!"
And in it went, and out, and in again, to the rhythm of Kris's muttered, ""On Comet, on Cupid, on Donder and Blitzen!" until she had to save her breath for other sounds. Amazing how intense it felt, as though heavy antlers added force to her thrusts, and the pressure against her clit sent surge after surge of throbbing demand all the way from her cunt into the hot, clinging depths of her mount. She had no doubt at all that she was driving Nick high into the sky. Or that only the chilly wind through her antlers kept her body from vaporizing like a shooting star when Nick's massive shudder of fulfillment spread through her own body and shook loose a howl as much of triumph as of joy.
Never mind that reindeer didn't howl, Kris thought hazily, through their subsiding storm of deep gasps. Next time, or some time, she'd be a wolf. An alpha bitch.
Christmas morning was dawning in a glory of rose-flushed sky reflected on new-fallen snow when Kris stirred from Nick's inert, exhausted body. She stood to work herself out of her harness and glanced toward the bathroom, but she wasn't ready yet to wash away anything, especially the slick gleam of Nick's juices on her brand-new, very own cock.
She brought a blanket from the bedroom and spread it over Nick, glad, as she'd been many times before, that they'd found such a super-long couch at a yard sale. Then, as she wriggled gently under the cover and against Nick's body, she set her new gift, her joy and pride, on the end table. The little clink as buckles and milk mug and cookie plate collided didn't really sound quite like sleigh bells.
But it was close enough.
For links to this month’s other Charity bloggers, check Lisabet Sarai’s website, https://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com. Lisabet is the creator of Charity Sunday.