Erotica For the Refined Palate (Volume 1) Mature Erotic Romance by Bridget Doone ➱ Book Tour with Guest Post, Chapter Excerpts & Rafflecopter

 

 

FOUR NAUGHTY NOVELLAS FOR THE MATURE CONNOISSEUR

Erotica For the Refined Palate

Volume 1

by Bridget Doone

Genre: Mature Erotic Romance 

FOUR NAUGHTY NOVELLAS FOR THE MATURE CONNOISSEUR

ME AND YOU AND A WIFE NAMED SUE
When Candy Blue, a randy romantic fiction writer, forms an inappropriate bond with a married man, he involves his wife, Sue, who invites Candy to dinner with the intention of exacting satisfaction, and in the most creative and unexpected ways.

THE HAT TRICK
When Ryan Axel meets his girlfriend's parents at a hockey game in Tampa, he’s shocked to discover her mother, Maxine, is the woman he knows as Roxanne, a sexy mature who used to frequent his bar, and he’s determined to pick up where they left off - and during the game.

GREAT WHITE LIMO
Covid restrictions have lifted and Shannon finally gets a face-to-face with Steve Smith, a Canadian she befriended in a cheater’s chat room during the pandemic, but their indiscretion takes an unexpected turn when her domineering best friend and a young limo driver get involved.

JUST A SWINGIN’
Married, but not to each other, Country Club neighbors Krystal and Blake steal away to Cancun to masquerade as husband and wife at a swinger’s resort, with the intention of living out their disparate fantasies, and without complicating their long-term friendship.

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Excerpt from Chapter 1: Jacking and Jilling

The air blew cool against my skin as I slipped the canary yellow shirt from my shoulders, shivering, sensing my nipples contract and push against the soft cotton of my white camisole.

“It’s cold in here,” I said, shaking my shoulders.

“Yes, it is a little,” Steve said, twitching, his eyes laser-locked on the gun barrels of my heavy artillery. When I inched my elastic skirt to my upper thighs, swaying to Sinatra’s hypnotic harmony, Steve lowered his gaze.

You can't deny,
don't try to fight the rising sea
Don't fight the moon, the stars above,
don't fight me

“You’re always so nice and tan, Shannon,” he said, clearing his throat, resting his arm on the back of the seat, then changing his mind and moving his hand to his knee.

I bent towards him and lowered my baby blue panties to my ankles.

“Florida,” I smiled, “Endless summer.”

I kicked the panties from the toe of my platform stiletto and they landed in Steve’s lap. I expected him to bring them to his nose and inhale them - that’s what he always said he would do if given the opportunity.

But he didn’t.

I reached into my purse for my cocoa butter then shifted my hips forward and fanned out, allowing room for the fingers of my left hand to grease a trail to my center, now blooming with expectancy.

“Damn, Shannon,” Steve said, gulping, as he unfastened the top two buttons on his shirt and pulled the collar away from his neck. His breathing accelerated and I became hopeful he would join in.

But he didn’t.

So I wrestled my big soft titties out of the top of the cami and held them up for his consideration. My nipples were already puckered and stiff, but I brushed my French-manicured fingertips across them anyway, provoking that quiver in my quim, that ache, that swell, that rain.

“I know what you’re thinking, Steve,” I said, “They’re like pillows - pillows you can suck.”

“So beautiful,” Steve exhaled, and slowly lowered his foot to the floor. His right hand skated up his jeans from his knee to his groin and his thumb began a slow rhythmic rub against the zipper.

It’s a real good bet,
the best is yet to come

Lawrence was taking us through some pretty countryside: farmland, bales of hay, barns with hip roofs painted red, but I wasn't really watching anything with interest other than Steve’s hand; I wanted him to strangle his goose’s neck in it. Clearly, though, he needed a little sumpin’ sumpin’ to coax it from its confinement.

“What do you think?” I asked, pulling a jeweled butt plug from my purse.

Steve’s mouth sagged and his head bobbed a yes. Then his left hand found his right and began to compete with it for a caress of his cock.

“Mmmmmmm,” I moaned, as I gave the plug a heroic licking and sucking, prompting Steve to point to his parcel, now swollen and drumming against the denim.

“Look what you’ve done now, Shannon,” he said, with an uneasy chuckle, “I almost got carried away.”

He wagged his finger at me, then rested his palms on the seat on either side of himself, took a deep breath, and held it.

Yeah, like THAT’S going to work.

And just as I suspected, when I placed my bare feet on the edge of the seat, and lifted to press the glass gently past my wet seal, it flipped a switch in Steve. His eyes went wide and round and he fumbled frantically to unzip. He finally got his pants down around his upper thighs and there it was: that pleasingly plump pink pistol. And when he took it in his fist and began to fascinate it, my desire for him to get a shot off inside me jumped through the roof.

Excerpt from Chapter 1: Hand Jive

When they were almost up on the vehicle, Maxine tapped her key fob and the locks and lights on the Range Rover jumped to life and the hatch began to lift.

 “Wow,” Ryan exclaimed, with an approving nod, “this is a big step up from your Honda; guessing this is Don’s car.”

 “It’s OUR car,” she said, reaching for Don’s XXXL Tom Brady teeshirt with the goat on it.

 “That husband of yours is huge,” said Ryan, “Guessing if you get any sex at all, it’s doggy.” He laughed, then his voice dropped an octave and took on a decidedly more desirous timbre. “I’d make love to you missionary.” 

He stepped back and squatted to get a better view of Maxine’s perfectly fabulous fanny bent over the tailgate. 

“Work my tongue low between your legs, then lick you north, stopping to probe your pussy and flick your clit . . .”

 Oh my God that’s hot, Maxine thought, as she continued to dig through Don’s old gym bag; he hadn’t worked out in over a year. What would he think if he knew his wife had an itch she wanted his daughter’s new boyfriend to scratch.

 “then up your tummy over your beautiful breasts - oh I’d have to stop there for a good long suck and nibble - that’s for sure. By then you’d be pulling on my shaft, begging for it. I’d nudge my thick tip between your soft wet slit and bury it in you.”

 Ryan was pretty proud of his improvised monologue and quite sure it had wetted her panties - and it had - but Maxine showed no indication of it and threw a towel at him.

 “Cover me,” she said, removing her black leather jacket.

 “Gladly!” Ryan replied, wide-eyed, holding the towel up in front of her. She clutched the hem of her wet sweater then turned her back to him, lifted the garment over her head, and flung it in the back of the Range Rover.

 “Oh COME on!” Ryan whined like a spoiled child, and when Maxine unclasped her bra and threw it in after, he stomped his foot.

 “Turn around! Show me your tits! After all those free drinks I gave you? You OWE me!”

 But very quickly Maxine was swallowed up in the teeshirt’s abundant yardage and without the reveal Ryan was hoping for. He huffed, dropped the towel, and deflated, looking so beautifully sad, Maxine felt a twinge of guilt.

 “I’m sorry, Ryan,” she said, holding his hands, peering up at him, “but we have to get back; the game has started.”

 Ryan interlaced his fingers with hers, pinned her arms behind her back, and pierced her with his penetrating eyes.

 “One kiss, one squeeze, one feel - same as last time - please Roxy,” he begged. And although she knew she was putting herself in the path of temptation, Maxine tilted her head back, shut her eyes, and leaned into it.

 “Mmmmmmm, mama,” Ryan moaned, as he snaked his sweet tongue down deep into her mouth and dug the long, strong fingers of his left hand into her round bottom. When he pressed his right palm to her breast and squeezed it through the flimsy fabric, the marshmallow flesh of her mature mams overwhelmed his fingers.  

 “Damn! Roxy. You are the hottest MILF I’ve never fucked!” he added, flexing his hips into hers.

 “Don’t be so crude,” she said, feigning disgust, but Ryan’s youthful enthusiasm was as intoxicating as his double gin and tonics. And he was right, she had wanted it, but sanity had ruled the day. Now, history was repeating itself and she wished for an alternate ending. Unfortunately that was impossible.

 “We need to go,” Maxine said, breaking the spell they were casting over each other. She reached for her jacket and hit the key fob and the back hatch began to lower.

 “NO!” he blurted, snatching the keys from her and the hatch began to rise. “Just a little more. PLEASE!”

 And before Maxine could decide whether or not to give him extra time to do whatever it was, Ryan lifted her onto the edge of the tailgate then ran his fingers up the back of her neck, raking her red hair and tipping the Bolts cap free. He knotted her mane in his fist and kissed her hard, then pressed her down onto her back, resting her head on a blanket. And caught up in that fiercely romantic flow, she returned his affection, green-lighting an escalation. He rolled on top of her, wedged his knees between her legs, and began to hickey and dry hump her on the cargo mat.

 “Oh my God, this is insane,” Maxine groaned, as she tried to muster the will to fight her carnal craving for him.

 “Damn it, baby,” Ryan said, struggling unsuccessfully to unzip her jeans, “Wish you would have worn one of your low-cut dresses.”

 He chuckled.

 “Ryan, this is futile,” said Maxine, pushing him off and making her way to standing, “We have to stop. We’re going to get caught!”

 “OK OK you’re right.” he said, resigned, and he crawled out after her. “Just do me one little favor before we go back.”

 “What favor?” she said, looking at her watch, frowning.

 “Let me put my hand under that teeshirt.”

Blake rotated his right wrist, then tapped the face of his watch; his father’s Omega 3 Seamaster had stopped again. He picked up his phone; still only 10:30 am - perhaps time had stopped everywhere. In hopes of a cat nap, he reclined in his office chair, crossed his feet on the desk, and lowered his eyelids, but the cell phone buzzed in his hand.

+15556739872: Am I wrong or are we on the same page?

Who the heck is that, he wondered, but unable to answer the question, he deleted the message. Fifteen minutes into his shuteye, the question was answered for him.

+15556739872: It’s Krystal

And that sat him bolt upright.

He’d known Crystal Barnes from afar since high school. She was the coolest of the cool kids: cheerleader, volleyball captain, homecoming queen - so far out of his orbit, it would have been impossible for the two to travel in the same circles. When she’d returned to Cranbury many years after college, it was with Ken Dollington on her arm, and when they married, she took his last name and traded the ‘C’ in Crystal for a ‘K.’ They purchased the nicest house in the neighborhood and joined the Country Club, and that’s when he reconnected with her. She didn’t remember him, of course, but eventually she and Ken and he and Barb began to interact socially, facilitated by their children; Blake was their soccer coach. But in all that time, communications had almost always come through Ken, and considering Krystal’s awkward overture last night, her texting was particularly disconcerting.

+15552126788: Hi Krystal. Not sure what you mean

+15556739872: Meet me at Bubbakoos in 30

Blake hesitated as he considered the consequences of accepting or not accepting the directive.

+15552126788: Sure. Everything OK?

+15556739872: Oh so much better than OK

Nervously curious, Blake grabbed his suit jacket from the hook on the back of his office door and headed out. The restaurant wasn’t open yet, but that didn’t matter, because he had no intention of going in. Cranbury was the manifestation of a speculative small town, and Krystal Dollington might have held court there if the place had existed in days of yore; it would serve no good purpose to be seen alone with her. He backed his black Audi A7 into an inconspicuous spot under a tree and waited, and waited, and waited.

“Sorry,” she said into his window, as she maneuvered her candy-cane Camaro convertible into the tight space beside his, “Hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Blake adjusted his side mirror to bring Krystal’s shapely legs into view as they attempted to squeeze out her door; didn’t matter the weather, she was always tanned. She stood and bent over the driver’s seat to grab her purse, her age-inappropriate miniskirt wrapping her upper thighs like duct tape.

“Aren’t we going in?” she asked, bending to rest her elbow on his window ledge and exposing far too much skin for so early in the day, “I’m starving.”

“I can’t; I’m on my way to a meeting,” he lied, imagining an errant raisin or cashew fossilized in her copious cleavage, “Tell me out here.”

Krystal slumped with disappointment, then made her way around the front of his car and got in. She turned towards him, took a deep breath, then stung him with her opening salvo.

“I want to go to Cupidity, and I want you to go with me - as my husband.”

Blake’s brow knitted with the strain of mental forces as he struggled to completely comprehend the preposterous proposal, but before he could put two words together in response, Krystal hit him with the pitch.

“Now before you say no, Blake, hear me out,” she said, palms up to put a stop to his anticipated objection, “Obviously, we’ll have to share a room, but there will be two beds; that’s typical . . . you know . . . in case you want to invite another couple in for playtime.”

She squeezed his shoulder.

“The point is, my friend, you don’t have to worry about any complications. There will be no sexy time between you and me.”

Blake realized his jaw had dropped. He closed his mouth and found his voice.

“You’re crazy, Krystal!” he blurted, “Even if I wanted to go-”

“But you DO want to go,” she said, poking the DO into his chest, “I KNOW you do!” Another poke. “And I don’t believe for one SECOND you stumbled on some article about the lifestyle.”

“Stop poking me!” he said, twisting away from her.

Krystal crossed her arms, propelling her counterfeit cantaloupes up and almost out of her pink paisley v-neck sweater.

“Alright Blake,” she said, dragging her right thigh over her left, “Convince me you’re satisfied with your sex life and I’ll let it go.”

Blake drew his gaze from her chesticles up to her czar-like glare.

“No one is entirely satisfied with their sex life,” he said, quietly, “but be that as it may, I love my wife. I’d never do anything to hurt her.”

Krystal rolled her eyes and her head followed.

“This isn’t about love, Blake; it’s about LIFE!” she said, slapping the dash, “I’m 59 for fuck sake! I haven’t even kissed another man in over 30 years! This is my chance - OUR chance - to step outside our reality and get our freak on!”

How and why did Bridget start writing erotica?

Before I retired in 2022, I was a Network Engineer, first teaching at a small college, and then as a corporate trainer at a large science and engineering firm. During my time at the college, I coauthored two textbooks under my real name: one on networking fundamentals and one on wireless technology. Being a corporate trainer involved a lot of writing as well.

The leap from technical writing to erotic romance was prompted by a physiological event. I had a hysterectomy and naturally this threw me into menopause, which I refused to accept gracefully. When I found out I could replace my exhausted hormones with bioidentical ones implanted in my hip, I did, and it was life changing. Within a week, I was jumping out of bed and at the gym by 5 am, and at work, I was kicking ass and taking names. But when I wasn’t thinking about exchanging packets securely over the Internet, I was thinking about exchanging bodily fluids over the armrest on my leather loveseat. I was hornier than a choirboy in a porn shop, and when I approached a man squeezing melons in the produce section, and almost whipped mine out for his consideration, I knew I might do something not condoned by my religion.

  

And that’s when I noticed him - a friendly stranger at the gym: 55-ish, muscled up, tanned, great smile, and as I watched him from the treadmill on those very early mornings, he became the outlet for my pent-up passion, and that manifested itself as a novel that was published as Sally Rides Single in 2020. Rowland (yeah that’s his name) never knew the part he played in it, until a few months ago when I decided it was time to enlighten him.

“I’m going to tell you something that’s going to make you smile,” I said. He looked confused as he sat up on the bench where he’d been pumping iron. I navigated to my website on my phone, showed him the book, and told him he’d been the muse for the male protagonist. His jaw dropped. The next week, I brought him a hard copy with a personalized thank-you on the inside cover and a 4x6 headshot. It’s fun to imagine him showing his wife, then trying to convince her he barely knows me - which is true! God help him if she ever reads the book! As for the hormones, I wouldn’t be without them, and every 6 months when I get a boost, man-o-man, the creative juices boil over.

BRIDGET DOONE is a fiction author living and working on the Space Coast of Florida. For much of her life, she’s been a network engineer, technical writer, and corporate trainer, and although still working in that capacity, as of late she’s been indulging her wanton imagination, writing erotica for a group of people largely abandoned by the genre - horny folks over 50.

To learn more about Bridget’s current and future offerings, including short stories and excerpts from her racy novels and very naughty novellas, visit her website at www.bridgetdoone.com.

You can also connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.

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