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Casual Collisions is a collection for four deliciously sizzling hot erotic stories to tease, arouse and stimulate the discerning reader.
Long Division: FMM
Naomi Walters is a prim, no nonsense, authoritarian head teacher. Though professionally successful, her private life is a shambles. Flying to attend her niece’s wedding, her transatlantic flight is delayed and a chance meeting in the departure lounge with a pair of athletic travellers leads to an explosive, life changing encounter that will be indelibly burned into her psyche. 21676 words.
Surf’s Up: FF
Sunbathing on the beach and reading a steamy romance, Lyndsey Morgan’s attention is diverted by the arrival of a nubile young woman. Drawn inexplicably to the nymph, her fantasies unfurl and the acquisition of a tan is the last thing on her mind as she begins to question her own nature. 4826 words.
First Impressions: FF
Saundra Fletcher is a bitter, frustrated executive. Trapped and haunted by her past, she dreads her future and copes by railing impotently at an indifferent uncaring world. A chance meeting with a mysterious woman on her commute home changes her outlook and offers the prospect of fulfilment. 7026 words.
Kate Parkinson is a young accounts clerk who hates parties. Cajoled by her friend into attending her employer’s New Year’s Eve celebrations, she meets the charismatic sensual whirlwind that is Séverine Rogers. Subjected to her irresistible allure, Kate finds herself the willing participant in an unexpected party of her own. This story was previously published in Gratis Mid-winter Tales. 10162 words.
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Amazon UK http://www.amzn.co.uk/dp/B00D191ZBA
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Cassie Bowden is bored and working in a dead end job at a call center under a controlling team manager who she argues with constantly. When she answers a call she gets a lot more than she bargained for as her conversation with her customer turns to more intimate matters and leads to unexpected consequences.
This is a short story with strong lesbian sex scenes. Do not read if easily offended.
Excerpt from Cassie’s Call
The air is humid and the relentless heat of the hot summer sun blazes down outside. I look out of the tinted office windows onto a landscaped car park with a profound longing to be elsewhere. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles uncomfortably down my back in small rivulets.
My headset, with its saturated foam ear piece, buzzes into life.
“Good afternoon, my name is Cassie, can I take your account number, please?” I say.
My day is endlessly dominated by this trite phrase. I’ve worked in this overbearing call centre for six months now and I’m bored with it. It was supposed to be temporary. It was supposed to be until something came along that I could use my degree for. Something…interesting.
You would have thought that, as I was approaching twenty eight, I would have found something like that by now. Got myself a proper job. Got myself a career. Got myself sorted, like my parents are always saying. But it seems that my life has turned down a dull cul-de-sac.
It was not supposed to be like this.
I keep telling myself, ‘Cassie Bowden, get yourself in gear.’ But it’s easier said than done.
Still it has its positive side…
I can’t think of anything at the moment, but I’m sure there is one.
They allow me to eke out a frugal living on a paltry salary with bonus incentives if I meet unrealistic targets. Incentives like doughnuts, for Christ’s sake.
It’s a bank holiday weekend and instead of being out and about enjoying the sun and looking for love, I’m stuck at this ergonomically designed desk in a huge open plan office taking inbound calls from strangers who’ve messed up their bank accounts.
Maxine, my anally retentive manager, is watching me again. She’s like a hawk and can spot a daydreaming operator at five miles. We get along like a house on fire. But not in the conventional good way. I mean like a fire that burns all your things and leaves you homeless. That kind of fire. We’re always arguing over something inconsequential. Like targets. Or dress code. Or being late. Or breathing. Okay, not breathing. But you get the idea. And she’s always going on about her wonderful boyfriend. Stevie does this. Stevie does that. Stevie’s so fucking perfect he makes me want to vomit.
She makes me miss my ex. Well, certain parts of him anyway. But my love life has of late been, shall we say, as dry as the Gobi Desert. And poor old me has to rely on herself, if you catch my drift.
A muffled quiet sounds in my ear. “Hello?…Hello?…” I say. A child begins to cry somewhere in the background on the other end of the line. I glance at my screen and read the preloaded details.
“Hello.” It’s a woman’s voice. She has one of those sultry French accents I can listen to all day. “Oh, for God’s sake, you clean it up,” she yells to some poor anonymous person with her. Instinctively I cringe. The woman’s attention is obviously elsewhere and I sit patiently waiting for her to continue. I turn the volume on my phone down a little. Just in case. I’ve had a perforated ear drum before and it’s not pleasant.
An exchange of muffled but sternly hissed voices accompany a reverberating clatter of crockery and cutlery in the background.
“Sorry about that,” says the woman with her alluring French accent. I have her details in front of me and I scan them to get a picture of her life. She sounds older than her thirty two years. Her voice is both husky and sensual, like she smokes too many cigarettes. She reminds me of Catherine Deneuve. Her name is Séverine Rogers. And she lives not five miles from my flat. Interesting. In fact, I can picture the street she lives on. Beautiful and expensive houses with large inaccessible gardens lined up alongside a wide avenue planted with well established oaks and chestnuts. The kind of place that if you have fewer than three cars and a SUV on your gravel drive, you can’t afford to live there. Or you live alone with stacks of cash. Or you’re the maid. Or the nanny. What else? She’s thirty two, runs her own translating business and her account is usually well managed. Except at the moment it is deep, deep in the red.
I run through the security routine. As far as I can tell, she is who she says she is.
“How can I help you Mrs Rogers?”
“There’s a problem with my statement.” I immediately pick up an undertone of stress in her voice and I flip to her current statement screen on my monitor to take a look.
“What is the problem?” I keep my tone professional. I don’t like being taken advantage of. You would not believe the sob stories some callers concoct.
Out of the corner of my eye I spot Maxine as she sashays past me in the walkway to my left. I hear the creak of her seat as she sits down at the far end of our line of desks. I know it’s her by the click of her heels on the carpet, the sound of her skirt as it rides across her silk hosiery and the waft of honeysuckle perfume that fills and teases my nostrils. I wish I could afford perfume like that. Fragrant. Subtle. Sexy. I so hate her. I’m always on the look out for when she’s around. I’ve caught her several times today watching me with those hawk like eyes and a foul glower on her face. Maybe Stevie is not giving her enough loving? Perhaps he’s not so ‘Mister Perfect’ after all?
There is more clattering and a huge crash in the background and the distinct cry of a man.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” shrieks the woman. “I’m on the phone!” She sighs a pained and irritated sigh. “I’m going upstairs.” The exasperation in her voice is palpable. I hear her move through her house, her breath playing down the line in my ear. God this woman is sexy even when she’s quiet. I hear the creak of stairs and a door being closed. “That’s better. Sorry about that. I’m in the bedroom now. We won’t be disturbed again,” she says in a relieved voice. I clear my throat and take a sip of water from my bottle. The air conditioning in here desiccates my mouth and makes my eyes prickle. Water is an essential tool if your voice isn’t going to crack after delivering a shift of corporate verbal diarrhoea. “There’s been no disturbance in here for months.” She gives a short bitter laugh.