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Brown Paper Packages

Brown Paper Packages Cover My dear sex-deprived ladies, getting quality sex out of your lover (and if you’re reading this, I use that term loosely) is not as impossible as catching a falling star or getting your mother-in-law to praise your domestic skills. All it requires is a little creativity, some solid and ingeniously placed eyebolts and a generous length of rope.

Mistress Paige here. I’ve taught thousands of women—just like my mousy neighbor Anne—how to take control of their relationships, capture their lovers’ attentions and demand quality sex. The mythical pool boy gets it. As does the mistress of the overworked white collar male. Why not you too?

Details

ISBN: 978-1419923890
Type: Short Story
Genre: Contemporary
Format: E-Book
Published: 9/20/2009
Company: Ellora’s Cave Publishing

Excerpt

Anne loved her husband. She truly did. Even if he didn’t always express it the way she desired, she knew he loved her as well.

But there were days—today for instance—when she wanted to wrap her hands around his neck and squeeze. Stupidity, thy name be man.

She’d snuck out of the office earlier than usual. May God spare her the office manager’s wrath when Mrs. Elderidge discovered the drawn blinds, music and turned-on lights masked an empty office. Damn it, it was their wedding anniversary. She deserved a break and the illusion of a life. Three extra hours devoted to the merger wouldn’t save it from its self-imposed death spiral.

A whirlwind housecleaning with pine-scented cleaner masked the dog scent and, aided by the air freshener, hopefully gave the aura of domestic bliss. The washing machine hummed and rattled, the contents of the hamper haphazardly shoved into its maw. Imp, their mischievous and blatantly possessive Jack Russell and Lab mix—yeah, try explaining that cross—was being held prisoner at the neighbors’ house across the street.

Sexy lingerie. Check. Nonpoisonous food. Check. Candles. Romantic atmosphere. Check and check. All she needed was Mike. He should be home any moment. She fluffed her hair. She hated wearing it loose but Mike loved it that way. The spill of auburn curls over her shoulders, its soft springiness compliments very expensive product worked through the mass, mingled with the light scent of lavender. Five o’clock came and went.

No Mike.

She turned the stove burners to low and stirred the congealing mass. Should she wait? Give up and rewarm it later? She opted to open the bottle of wine and let the mess simmer. Three quarters of a bottle later she glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Still no Mike. She needed to pace herself. At this rate she’d be plastered before he got home, not that he’d notice.

The candles continued to spill their pumpkin-scented fragrance, their flickering light winking off gleaming glass plates, polished silverware and non-water-stained glasses. Supper burned to the nonstick pans. She turned off the heat and picked at the more edible portions with a fork. Damn, she should have put something in her stomach before she started drinking.

She buttoned up her white blouse, which had been opened to nearly her waist, revealing a lacy black push-up bra. A tear spattered the back of her hand. When had they let their work slip between them? When had money and careers become more important than sex and intimacy? He obviously didn’t remember their anniversary.

She should stop with the self-pity act and just call his office. Her hand hovered over the phone. Damn it. They shared only one special day of the year. He remembered client meetings, umpteen business appointments and his dart team schedule. She was not his mother nor his secretary. He was a big boy with big boy responsibilities. Time he made her one of his priorities.

Retrieving her mail, she sorted the bills from the junk. Anger and hurt made her toss his Playboy magazine in the recycle pile. Sighing, she almost immediately retrieved it. They paid for it and it wasn’t cheap. Trashing it wasn’t the solution. Flipping open the magazine, she leafed through it. Blonde. Brunette. Those couldn’t be real. College girl. She turned the magazine sideways and revealed the centerfold. A blonde with braids and double Ds stared back at her, finger hooked in her mouth. The other hand fisted the material of her cheerleader skirt, revealing her lack of inhibitions.

With a sigh, she pushed the magazine away. She kept up her appearance but she’d never be as svelte as a starving eighteen year old. Another magazine caught her eye. Covered with a brown wrapper, it was addressed to her neighbor across the street, the delightfully sensual Ms. Lyssa Page. Anne had caught Mike staring at her neighbor’s ass while she tended her flowers more than once.

She held the wrapped magazine between her thumb and forefinger. She didn’t recognize the return address. E-lectrifying Industries. Folding the paper, she glanced beneath the wrapper.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. She exhaled slowly. Had she really seen what she thought she’d seen? Wobbling to her feet, she kicked off her heels. Seven-thirty. Why bother to keep up appearances? The meal was ruined, as was the ambiance. She pulled the fillet knife from the knife block, returned to the table and slit the labels trapping the magazine inside its camouflage.

A glossy magazine slipped out. Wanton. The title emblazed in red on a black background, the W shaped by two artfully arranged and corseted women on their knees, the middle crest formed by their twined arms. If she didn’t know better she’d think they were lovers, what with the way they eyed one another, their matching bright red lips puckered for a kiss.

She couldn’t help herself. She opened the first page. […] Bypassing her wineglass, she picked up the bottle, tipped it back and downed a long swallow. She nearly choked. Expensive wine was made to be sipped rather than downed liked a ten dollar bottle of alcohol-laced Kool-Aid.

She’d never peeked into anyone’s mail before. Her fingertips rested on the page, her nails tracing the shiny silver contraption’s impressive outline. It came in six, eight, ten or twelve inches in length. A dildo or a strap-on, depending if you shelled out an additional forty dollars for its leather harness.

Feeling a tingling wetness, she pressed her thighs together. She should throw the magazine away. Instead she pulled up a chair, took another swig and started flipping through the pages.