Holiday Affairs: An Erotica Collection. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Pass Me Around

      Giselle Renarde

      I’d never done anything so dangerous.

      I blame the four-hour car trip with my cousin and her giggling gaggle of girlfriends. They annoyed the hell out of me, playing music by some stupid pop music idol I’d never heard of – same song on repeat, played seventeen times over. Yes, I was counting. Anything was better than listening to their inane conversations about makeup and fad diets and celebrity pets.

      By the time we got to our campsite, I was so full of irritation I took off for a jog while the other girls pitched our tent. They weren’t too happy with me but, after so long in the car, my muscles were desperate for motion. That, and the girls’ squeaky baby-doll voices were driving me nuts.

      We were lucky to get a site in what the park called ‘The Pines’, the section with the most secluded camping spots. In other areas of the campground, you could see your neighbours the minute you stepped out of your tent. My family used to come here on vacation when I was a kid, so I knew it well. In ‘The Pines’, you had to go a fair stretch to pitch your tent or park your trailer. It was nice to have all that privacy.

      On my reluctant way back to my cousin and the girls, I heard voices from the campsite next to ours. Guys’ voices. Lots of them. They were laughing, joking around, having a good time. As soon as I heard the jocular tone of those men’s voices, a tingle ran through me. More than a tingle, actually – my entire belly lit up! I don’t know if I’d been spending too much time around other women or if it had just been way too long since I’d gone home with a guy, but I burned for what they had. I wanted it.

      I should have checked in with my cousin and her little friends. They’d surely be wondering where I’d gone, right? Well, maybe not. My cousin and I had been penpal BFFs since we were little, but her gal pals didn’t seem to like me very much. When you’re from The Big Smoke, the rest of the country is predisposed to hating you. It’s almost like they’re jealous that you live in an economic and cultural centre, while they spend their date nights making out in their boyfriends’ trucks. Whatever the reason, I’d learned that if you lived in a big city, you would naturally become the target of widespread malice.

      Maybe that’s why I lied to those guys about where I was from, once I’d worked up the courage to approach their campsite. I’m not a liar by nature, but when I walked up that long stretch of pine needles and caught sight of those six guys drinking Moosehead around the fire, I knew I had to have them.

      All of them.

      ‘Hey,’ was all I could think to say. Stupid, but I needed to show them I wasn’t lost. I meant to be there. I knew what I was getting myself into, and I wasn’t as innocent as I appeared.

      The guys all looked up at me from their folding chairs. Six men around one fire pit. Twelve eyes. All on me. I felt ravaged already.

      The day had been hot, and I’d worn cut-offs and a halter top short enough to show off my belly ring. I could tell by the guys’ dark expressions that the outfit was a good choice. They just stared at me, stammering, ‘Hey’ while their jaws swept the fireside.

      ‘Can I bum a beer?’ I asked, grabbing a bottle from their cooler and popping the top off against the picnic table.

      I watched them watching me as I took a long pull on the beer, letting a few drops slide out the side of my mouth, drizzle down my chin and drip into my cleavage. The cold liquid felt good against my overheated chest, and I could tell without looking that my braless tits were getting hard, my pink little nipples standing erect underneath my halter top. I could pass for a country girl.

      One of the guys, tan and fit with a Celtic tattoo around his bicep, was smart enough to ask, ‘How old are you?’

      The question made me laugh, and I let a little cascade of beer spill out of the bottle and on to my breasts, just to draw their gazes away from my face. ‘Twenty-three?’

      That was such a lie. I was actually twenty-seven, but I got the feeling some of these guys might be younger than me, and the older-woman dynamic wasn’t one I wished to encourage. I wanted them thinking I was cute and naïve, just like all my cousin’s stupid friends. Maybe if I could convince them I was nice and young, they’d think this whole six-on-one situation would be something new for me.

       As if!

      The guys weren’t saying anything, so it was up to me to lure them in. No problem. Male energy was a sex toy, something I could pick up and roll between my fingers, something dynamic and changeable, just like a cock.

      Weaving between their folding chairs, I drank my beer, sensing their eyes like sunshine all over my bare legs. I had a feeling these guys weren’t from the city, so I lied and said I lived in Huntsville, crossing my fingers that they’d have no comments or follow-up questions. Luckily, they didn’t. Or maybe they were so quiet because, as I told my lie, I bent at the hips, bent all the way down to pick a sheet of birch bark off the ground. The guys behind me would have had a nice view of the swell of my ass in those itty-bitty shorts. And the guys in front of me? They held their collective breath, waiting to see if my braless breasts might slip out of my halter top.

      The sexual tension was palpable, like a thick film on the air. I could taste it, and it danced on my tongue, sweet as chocolate. More, I wanted more, more, more!

      I tossed the birch bark on the fire and it went up in a tall blaze. What an amazing spectacle. I wanted to be like that, an instant flame. Touch me and I’m on fire.

      The guy with the Celtic tattoo asked me what my