A Very Cougar Christmas
Copyright
© 2008 Winterheart

The rain was relentless. Not that Vincent cared. He had no reason to go out in it. However, the scene outside his window was damned dreary and depressing. The condo complex he lived in was landscaped to be all woodsy with twisting streams and paths that included little bridges. The huge plate glass window of his spare bedroom/office looked out over the bridge that led to his building. His condo and his neighbor’s shared a path to their combined front deck. On the backside of their building were two identical condos, but they were out of sight and another path led to them.

The rain had been coming down in sheets all day. Now, at three in the afternoon it was almost as dark as night. Still, Vince could see that the complex’s streams were swollen and rushing beneath the bridges, the pathways flooded and muddy. He felt bad for those residents who had to lug something home in this weather. The garages were all pretty far from the condos themselves. It would be easy to slip in the mud and water and drop whatever you were carrying.

As if his thoughts had conjured up a victim, his neighbor came slip-sliding into view. She wore a traditional business type tan raincoat with the hood pulled up to cover her head. Instantly, Vince’s eyes went to her feet, because usually she wore ridiculously high heeled shoes. Today, however, she wore bright red rubber boots that reached her knees. The heels were clutched in her hand along with what looked like a small gift bag. When she stumbled over the bridge, clumsy in the big boots, he saw that the bag wasn’t a holiday bag, but a birthday bag, which was odd since it was Christmas Eve.
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The Whip and the Chair
By Winterheart ©2008
ESN ID 14412-080901-612570-85

Nick Diamond had been painting Ione Alexander for a week before he noticed that there was something different about her. She stood on the dais in his studio, completely nude and totally still. Her face was turned away from him, her long auburn hair spilling over one creamy shoulder and down her back to her waist. He’d been so into his work for the past few days that he had never noticed that she never needed a break.

He paused in mid-brush stroke, as the thought occurred to him. He tilted his dark head to one side, staring at her. She was so still she didn’t even look like she was breathing. He tapped the rounded wooden end of the paintbrush against his full bottom lip. That was very odd.

He set the brush down and stepped away from the canvas. “I’m going to the kitchen. I need a drink,” he told her, keeping his voice normal as his eyes watched her every move. Well, if she’d had a move, that is.

He reached the kitchen doorway, looking back at her once more. Finally, she moved. Her hair rippled as her head turned, and her smoky eyes met his.

“Are you okay, Nick?” Her voice was low, and slightly concerned. “You never drink while you’re working.”
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The Wiz and the Chair
By Winterheart © 2008
ESN ID 40584-080901-322975-11

Drake put his key in the lock then paused when he heard the door behind him open. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his neighbor emerge from his penthouse condo and shut the door behind him. The two of them were the only residents of the top floor of the Manhattan high rise. Considering the kinds of upscale people who lived in their building, it was probably best that they shared a floor since both of them were unconventional and kept odd hours.

Drake’s neighbor, Nick, was an artist, with an artist’s temperament. A couple of times a week, there was a lot of screaming followed by Nick carrying out an armload of pink plastic. Sometimes it was during the week, sometimes on the weekend. Tonight, was a weeknight.

“Hey, Nick. How’s it going?” Drake asked as the tall, lean form of the artist ambled toward the elevator.

Nick’s emerald eyes blinked groggily at Drake. “Eh? Oh! Hey, Drake. What’s doing, mate?”

Drake bit back a grin. Nick sounded either drunk or sleepy or both. The Englishman was dressed in threadbare jeans and a thin tank top that used to be white, but was now stained with what Drake hoped was red paint. Although, knowing Nick’s ability with a whip and his immersion in the BDSM lifestyle, there was every possibility that the red spatter wasn’t paint.
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The Were & The Chair

By Winterheart

All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2008 Winterheart.com
ESN: 36412-080506-281258-70

The box was ordinary brown cardboard. The shipping labels were the kind one would normally find on a package. The return address was a company called “Plain Brown Wrapper.” The name made Weylyn instantly suspicious. Anything with a name as innocuous as that, was not what it seemed.

Weylyn shook the box. It made a whooshing sound as the contents slid around inside. He grimaced, as he realized he wasn’t going to know what was inside the box unless he opened it. Taking out a pocket knife, he slit the packing tape carefully, preoccupied with trying to figure out which of the people he had fucked recently had sent him a present. He was confident enough in his abilities as a lover to know that he hadn’t left anyone angry and unsatisfied, so there was no way that this wasn’t a gift.

He put away the pocket knife and peeled back the flaps of cardboard. Lifting out the crinkled brown packing paper, he found a flat cellophane package. The contents were bright neon pink plastic. Weylyn frowned. Pink wasn’t exactly his color, and he couldn’t imagine anyone buying him a pink anything. Upon closer inspection, he decided that it looked like a raft for the pool.

Weylyn pulled the package out and ripped open the cellophane, taking out the hunk of pink plastic. His sensitive werewolf nose crinkled as a strong scent assailed him. Whew! Whatever it was, it stunk to high heaven. Petroleum based products always reeked and his nose was more sensitive than most. Whoever had sent him the gift either hadn’t realized how delicate his nose was, hadn’t really thought about how stinky plastic was, or didn’t care.

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