Overview

Alison Devaine is one hundred pounds of gorgeous, red-haired woman, full of spunky charm and the endless energy men find irresistible. Engaged to be married, she decides that she does not love her fiancé, and plans to tell him so once she wins the air race for female pilots in which she is scheduled to compete. When her engine fails during the race, Alison bails out in a narrow slot between cloud-covered mountain peaks in Idaho. She survives the descent, but is not dressed for the extreme weather she encounters. ...
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Where Love Lives

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Overview

Alison Devaine is one hundred pounds of gorgeous, red-haired woman, full of spunky charm and the endless energy men find irresistible. Engaged to be married, she decides that she does not love her fiancé, and plans to tell him so once she wins the air race for female pilots in which she is scheduled to compete. When her engine fails during the race, Alison bails out in a narrow slot between cloud-covered mountain peaks in Idaho. She survives the descent, but is not dressed for the extreme weather she encounters. About to collapse from the combined effects of hypothermia and a concussion, she blunders upon a mountain cabin in the lee of a tall, concave bluff. When she pounds on a shuttered window, and a long-haired, bearded man dressed in fringed buckskin opens the door, Alison collapses into the arms of Raven Kalamar. Raven has fled civilization to live as a hermit in remote seclusion. Alison arrives complete with virginity, smoldering desires, and an exceptional talent for indulging in oral sex and other forms of exceedingly hot sexual intimacy that do not involve her losing her virginity. A storm closes the pass, so that the pair cannot now leave until the spring thaw arrives. A savage chemistry develops between Alison and Raven: a perversely adversarial attraction that provides a blueprint for lust-filled romance. Initially, sparks fly between the tall, athletic, supremely well endowed recluse and the petite, lustful redhead, but six months of enforced isolation spent in close quarters sees their relationship change from adversarial to hotly passionate. When Alison taunts Raven into shaving and cutting his hair, she finds that he is beguilingly handsome. Themagnificently masted Kalamar soon becomes the sexual slave-master of his erotic female visitor. Lust turns to love, and Raven eventually captures the heart of the ravishingly beautiful heiress. Before the pass opens, Alison's uncle and his tame U. S. Senator arrive in a helicopter and compel her to leave Raven's cabin. The separated lovers endure a span in which they struggle to find each other again. Once they do, their passion re-ignites to become a consuming fire.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781554045860
  • Publisher: Carnal Desires Publishing
  • Publication date: 6/23/2008
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 1,131,403
  • File size: 313 KB

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

My dream man has become the toxic waste of nightly slumber--easier to create than to be rid of. He has arrived again tonight, and the sight is sumptuous. I have no idea who he is--only that he is the champion of every dream. With his square jaw and marvelous masculine features, the magnificent man is every woman's fantasy. My dream lover is a V-zone liquefier with a serial brutality about him that provides me an incandescent turn-on.

He stands over me while I kneel, ready to sustain the popular oral massage given by an alluring, dedicated lover. I never saw him before the first dream arrived a month ago. The one constant is that he never arrives un-enhanced. For me, the night vision has become one of life's predictable certainties. The resolution has gone from an occasional sighting to an every-time-I-close-my-eyes adventure. In every dream he taunts me with the torrid thrill of seeing all of him again.

At first he appeared infrequently, following the test flight of the air racer. Now, every time I close my eyes, he's there. One glimpse solidifies the thought that I want to be with him. What I want to do with him has become obsessive. At first, I resisted his bad-boy behaviors. Now I want him hot, heavy, and committed. I lust for the night when he will displace my entrails with his mighty cock while making me scream with pleasure. My hot desire is forever the same.

The vision opens with his offering me every male-enhanced randy incentive I ever wanted. He always wears a costume, and the costume is nakedness with a hard sculptured chest, black hair trimmed close, gimlet eyes filled with heat, a rock-hard body with no love handles, a flat stomach as hardas a cinderblock. His abs are layered in slabs along his middle. Lest we forget, his husky jumbo cock is of sufficient dimension to strike fear into any woman who sees it.

My dream lover has "forever" potential. With the silent specter invading every vapor of my mind, I'm unable to find sleep until my nervous hot dream is satisfied. His pose is always the same: he kneels, ready to get busy at the edge of a mattress. There he provides the specter of knees spread wide, his upper torso inclined slightly back, while being held upright by muscular arms extended behind him. His buttocks are atop his heels; his head is held slightly forward. He's prepared to watch everything I am compelled to do.

He rests there, staring down, inviting me to begin work on an erection large enough to ensure Mattress-God Status. The sight of him, leaning back the way he does, provides an undeniable challenge. His lurid offering guarantees that I will not be as mute as a mummy while fulfilling the obligation. Instead I will utter the piercing sounds of heat-filled hysteria. My discordant notes will entertain my audience with a multitude of octaves.

What awaits me begs participation in explicit detail. I dwell at the shimmering edge of orgasm as the lust-sizzle sinks deeper into me. My mind dwells in flirt-speak as I imagine him feeding me his long thick cock. The thought of it's plowing its way there makes me long to know how it will feel. Can it be anything less than a lifetime achievement award? The term "impact fucking" comes to mind, as I imagine him in me with my voice shredding decibels. Nothing could be more hormonally charged than the pose he offers. The muscled-up stance speaks of fellatio. One peek, and my naughty mind accepts the challenge of being orally pierced. I want coitus, but will settle for anything as long as he does not leave me hanging.

Instinctively, I know how he likes it. He wants slow-burning eye contact the entire time I'm scoring toe-curling pleasure on him. He's like me--he wants the ripe feeling of my heinous habit. He wants what I desire to give; he wants the physical rush of fellatio. One astonishing look at his offering gives me the subtle nudge I need to capture his warrior's soul. For me, this is the guy who invented sex appeal. His pose designates the initial orifice to be violated. Later there will be other pleasures, but for now there is only oral.

I kneel in the posture of submission, prepared to worship his fully risen erection. The up-close sight of his mammoth cock sends waves of desire radiating through me. I feel the heat of the wondrous stalk against my face. I'm barely able to control the incandescent sensation of being this close while preparing to cover as much of him as possible. For me, the Phantom creates the desire to fellate with the intensity of a magnet drawn to a steel bar. I feel my own orgasm begin to build, while kneeling in the cute prankster position. There is an evocation of lust when my left hand moves hypnotically forward to palm his heavy hangers. Once I touch them, I begin slowly to revolve them in continuous motion. My other digit clutches the base of his throbbing cock.

The hunger pains of desire are hard upon me as I prepare to gorge in a fashion that will offer him no choice but to participate. I tilt the long thick phallus toward me, while I envision his soon-to-arrive global orgasm: the one that offers enough of a pleasure trajectory to make him beg for mercy. I've been at this juncture before on successive nights. The outcome is always the same.

I have no rules or standards, except that the sequence must prolong until the dream ends. Every night when I lean forward with my lips parted, ready to face-fuck him into oblivion, I awaken with a start. The thrill of doing my dream lover is always denied me. As he evaporates from my mind I come wide awake, to sit bolt upright in bed. I'm near orgasm with my cunnie drenched with desire. The advanced overheated condition requires masturbation before I am able to find sleep. After I pleasure myself, my eyes close for the second time. As darkness overtakes me, the dream returns anew. I'm crazed with lust every dream-laden moment that my eyes are closed.

If John happens to be sleeping over, I awaken him for the requisite stroke-and-fondle in search of the all-over tremor his attention will produce. Of course, when he engages me in cunnilingus, he believes I am lusting after him, but instead I fantasize that he is the dream-lover. Luckily I have no name for the Phantom. Otherwise, I'd give myself away by screaming his name at climax. Oral copulation with John allows me to continue the dream past where the Phantom has dropped me every time I've entered dreamland.

Of course John's equipment is no more than average sized, while the Phantom is hung like a stallion. Whoever claimed size doesn't matter either didn't know what they were talking about, or had never before seen a cock the length of my forearm and as thick as a cola can. The way the Phantom is hung means that taking him into any of my orifices will be like copulating with a bridge timber. Perhaps that accounts for the fact that I am always denied penetration--the sensations would be too absolute for me. Nonetheless, the prospect of doing him in any fashion is thrilling beyond my ability to comprehend. I pray for the night when the dream does not end--when I am allowed every cherished over sexed moment I've dreamed of.

When I come awake on this last night before my final practice for the big race, John lies to my right, deep in slumber. The man in the dream does not resemble my fiancé, or anyone I've ever met. Regardless of my personal history, I reason that the Phantom is my soul mate. He is the man to whom I know I am destined to give myself. John and the Phantom-being are as dissimilar as Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf.

Instead of waking John on this night, I scramble out of bed to flee into the living room barefoot. There I sit in a thin housecoat on the couch, while staring through plate glass into the blackness above Manhattan. Eventually my hand finds Connie's crease. When I am about to caw my pleasure to the night, John enters. He slides the coffee table aside before dropping to his knees before me.

"Let me do that for you," he says, as he lifts my legs to rest atop his shoulders. I hear myself whimper an agreement while he establishes the dearly loved, heat-producing contact. The nibbling kiss is administered masterfully. In half a minute, I am screaming my pleasure with enough sonic volume to threaten the enormous glass pane before me. When he withdraws my last thread of orgasm, we swap places. Now it is my turn to enjoy what the Phantom denied me earlier.

John presents his juicy piece to quench my appetite. The presentation provides me the luxury of giving head. I have become a master of the oral thrill for which he longs. The first act tonight involves kneading his endowment by hand until he is nearly delirious. Only then does my mouth deliver the physical anguish my lover craves. The poor soul receives what I would have given the Phantom had he allowed me to test his stamina.

I offer a pause-and-continue effort as I murmur advice to my victim. There ... There, my love, hold back ... Don't writhe--that only makes it worse ... Relax, my love ... Think about what your Alison is doing for you ... That's a good boy ... Clutch yourself while you fight it off ... That's not fair, no stroking ... Do what your Alison tells you to do ... Are you ready again? I thought so. Here, let me show you once more how it will feel to linger near the edge of climax ... That's three, John. Can you withstand the climb again? Perhaps ... We shall see ... What a good boy you are. Lift your hips ... Lunge up into me ... Now, now, don't be too eager. I will determine when.

Every gliding stroke is designed to prolong his suffering until I decide grudgingly to grant the release he craves. His termination will result from a long, slow, process that drives him wild as it reduces to barely perceptible movement. At the end, his body goes rigid as he delivers his sperm-wail to the night. While he surges, I savor every moment of his final agony.

Poor man, he found what he wanted before even begging me to stop. Disengaging is not part of my repertoire, unless I am satisfied that he has given me everything. When I have at last administered the death knell to his carnally curious cock, I allow him to withdraw. His collapse is now assured. Only when we have fulfilled each other's need do we return to the sleeping place. As in other nights, I lie secure in a place where the Phantom-lover no longer haunts my night song. I sleep like a pet rock until the alarm awakens me before daylight.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 17, 2012

    The story line in this is very good! Kept me reading and that's

    The story line in this is very good! Kept me reading and that's not
    always easy!

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