Product Description
An erotic novelette: 20,500 words - approx. 78 pages.
Scenes of intense, explicit sex. Adults only, please!
Will Trish go to hell?
Trish’s brother had been saved while in prison. After his parole, he began dragging Trish to church with him every Sunday. Unfortunately, getting religion hadn’t kept him from returning to prison to do 10 to 15 for for armed robbery. Trish discovered that church wasn’t a bad way to spend a Sunday morning, especially with free donuts, cookies, scones and coffee after the service.
But what mostly kept her attending, and her panties moist, was Dr. Gregory Brewster. His weekly hugs were exceptionally pleasing and Trish found growing evidence of his attraction to her every Sunday. Since it was church, after all, and Dr. Brewster and his two children and frosty blond wife always sat together, Trish managed enough self-control to refrain from jumping at him and humping him like a wild dog.
Obviously from the wrong side of the tracks, and a little earthy, Trish is taken aside by a woman Sunday School teacher who suggests that perhaps she would be more comfortable at another church.
To alleviate her depression, Trish immediately begins devising a little payback involving the woman’s lecherous husband.
Also helping to improve her attitude, Trish is given the opportunity to babysit the Brewster children that evening. At the end of the evening, since her only means of reliable transportation is a city bus, Dr. Brewster offers her a ride home. And what a ride it turns out to be. Dr. Brewster discovers that his attraction to Trish is enthusiastically mutual. Very enthusiastically mutual.
Is lusty Trish just a little too much for Dr. Brewster?
Excerpt:
I don’t remember the last time I’d been in a luxurious car with anyone, let alone a gorgeous hunk like Greg Brewster. I guess I don’t really believe that cars are important as long as they get you from one place to another. But between the leather aroma and the tranquil music, it was damn comfortable.
“Still feeling bad?” he asked finally.
“A bit,” I said.
“Wish I could make you feel better.”
Yes, I thought, we should definitely work on that. My heart beat a little faster.
“You are,” I said. “But I am curious about something.”
“Oh?”
I turned toward him and took his hand and placed it on my bare knee. “Tell me this,” I said, “you said you didn’t like to think of me being hurt.” Go ahead, girl – get it the hell out there. “Is there any other way you like to think of me?”
His fingers tightened on my knee. He said, “Trish, I’ve got to tell you…” He cleared his throat. “… well, I think of you a lot lately.”
“Every week we hug,” I said.
“Every week.”
I decided to go for it. His eyes were giving me permission anyway.
“I’m thinking it’s not enough,” I said, “just waiting for a proper little hug.” I wasn’t wearing my ass-hugger shorts, but they were short enough. I drew his hand further up along the soft inner side of my thigh. “Just once a week, I mean. And only a hug.”
Except for the Bach and the rain, it was very quiet, a lush coziness hovering over us. I leaned my cheek against the seatback, still holding his hand far up my thigh, almost to the point where he could feel the damp mix of sweat and mounting passion.
He was gazing steadily at me. After a long pause, he said, “No, it isn’t, is it?”
Scenes of intense, explicit sex. Adults only, please!
Will Trish go to hell?
Trish’s brother had been saved while in prison. After his parole, he began dragging Trish to church with him every Sunday. Unfortunately, getting religion hadn’t kept him from returning to prison to do 10 to 15 for for armed robbery. Trish discovered that church wasn’t a bad way to spend a Sunday morning, especially with free donuts, cookies, scones and coffee after the service.
But what mostly kept her attending, and her panties moist, was Dr. Gregory Brewster. His weekly hugs were exceptionally pleasing and Trish found growing evidence of his attraction to her every Sunday. Since it was church, after all, and Dr. Brewster and his two children and frosty blond wife always sat together, Trish managed enough self-control to refrain from jumping at him and humping him like a wild dog.
Obviously from the wrong side of the tracks, and a little earthy, Trish is taken aside by a woman Sunday School teacher who suggests that perhaps she would be more comfortable at another church.
To alleviate her depression, Trish immediately begins devising a little payback involving the woman’s lecherous husband.
Also helping to improve her attitude, Trish is given the opportunity to babysit the Brewster children that evening. At the end of the evening, since her only means of reliable transportation is a city bus, Dr. Brewster offers her a ride home. And what a ride it turns out to be. Dr. Brewster discovers that his attraction to Trish is enthusiastically mutual. Very enthusiastically mutual.
Is lusty Trish just a little too much for Dr. Brewster?
Excerpt:
I don’t remember the last time I’d been in a luxurious car with anyone, let alone a gorgeous hunk like Greg Brewster. I guess I don’t really believe that cars are important as long as they get you from one place to another. But between the leather aroma and the tranquil music, it was damn comfortable.
“Still feeling bad?” he asked finally.
“A bit,” I said.
“Wish I could make you feel better.”
Yes, I thought, we should definitely work on that. My heart beat a little faster.
“You are,” I said. “But I am curious about something.”
“Oh?”
I turned toward him and took his hand and placed it on my bare knee. “Tell me this,” I said, “you said you didn’t like to think of me being hurt.” Go ahead, girl – get it the hell out there. “Is there any other way you like to think of me?”
His fingers tightened on my knee. He said, “Trish, I’ve got to tell you…” He cleared his throat. “… well, I think of you a lot lately.”
“Every week we hug,” I said.
“Every week.”
I decided to go for it. His eyes were giving me permission anyway.
“I’m thinking it’s not enough,” I said, “just waiting for a proper little hug.” I wasn’t wearing my ass-hugger shorts, but they were short enough. I drew his hand further up along the soft inner side of my thigh. “Just once a week, I mean. And only a hug.”
Except for the Bach and the rain, it was very quiet, a lush coziness hovering over us. I leaned my cheek against the seatback, still holding his hand far up my thigh, almost to the point where he could feel the damp mix of sweat and mounting passion.
He was gazing steadily at me. After a long pause, he said, “No, it isn’t, is it?”
