A Perfect Man for Christmas
An erotic serial in 12 parts
Blog HOP
4th Day of Christmas
by Rebecca Royce
Michael
stared at the scene in front of him and wished he could laugh. Only
he’d lost his sense of humor sometime in the last century and had
yet to see it return. He rubbed at his chin and looked at his
secretary. It was so hard to find good help and so far Trixie had
been an excellent employee. But, of course, the first time he asked
her to do something complicated he ended up…well…he wasn’t
entirely sure where he’d ended up just yet.
Where
he wanted to be was inside Wynter’s thighs, grinding her to
completion until she called out his name, coming again and again,
until she never thought about another male for the rest of her
existence--Until she forgot there was such a thing as other men.
“I
asked you for four calling birds.”
“Yes.”
Sixty year old Trixie with her arthritic knee and back pains—she
did like to talk about them—rocked back on her heels. “But it
turns out, sir, there is no such thing, really, as a calling bird.”
There
had to be. He shook his head. He still didn’t understand exactly
why he was looking at the scene in front of him. “I’m sure if
we... what is the word... Google it. We can find out what a
calling bird is.”
“That
is exactly what I did. And it turns out that there are two distinct
meanings to the words ‘calling bird.’ I wasn’t exactly sure
which one you wanted so I brought both. This seemed like the best
place to show you.”
Well,
now, at last an explanation. He walked forward. The basement of his
office building wasn’t exactly the place to run into problems. Too
many civilians running around and although his enemies might claim
otherwise, he really wasn’t in the business of killing for no good
reason.
“I
see the birds. You have four of them. In that cage.” He couldn’t
believe how much of the damned rhyme required some kind of poultry.
So far he was up to his neck in the creatures. Everywhere he looked,
something was squawking.
Trixie
moved to stand next to him. “Right. The translation most people
subscribe to is that ‘calling birds’ is actually an Americanized
version of the word colly birds. Some places that’s actually what
they say. They’re, as you can see, black like soot. Hence the name,
I guess. But they’re really thrushes even though they look like
blackbirds. They’re actually not. Getting them here proved
challenging, but as you can see, I was up to the task.”
The
thrush took that second to chirp at him. Loudly. It didn’t like
being in the cage any more than he wanted it in his basement.
Particularly after the incident earlier with the two doves. Filthy
creatures had tried to go at it right then and there. He shuddered at
the memory.
If
he wasn’t regularly getting any, the means of his messages
shouldn’t be either. Damn it.
“That
all makes sense.” He pointed forward at the problem she still
hadn’t addressed. “What I don’t understand is why there are
four clearly drugged men in my basement, half naked.”
“Sir,
I really wanted to do a good job.”
He
needed a stiff drink. “I’m aware of that. Get to the point.”
“There
are multiple interpretations of the rhyme. Some people say it doesn’t
mean birds at all. But that the term ‘four calling birds’
actually refers to the Evangelists. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. So
I found you some. The one over there is Mark.”
He
followed where she pointed. Mark was a stout fellow with dark hair
and piercings on his nipples. Matthew, who she told him sat next to
Mark, was blond. He’d guess on the early side of twenty-five. Luke,
all the way to the right, he would put in his early forties although
being completely bald could make it hard to tell. And John was
somewhere in his thirties with just the beginnings of a gut showing.
“You’ll
note that in each of their laps I’ve placed a copy of their
gospels, in case you wanted to refer to it.”
No.
He certainly—most assuredly—did not want to read their gospels.
Bile rose in his throat, and he pushed away his angst.
“Trixie,
what did you drug these men with, and where did you find them?”
“They
answered an ad looking to have an affair. I rented an apartment for
the meet and greets. Took two days to get all the names covered. And
they’re shot up on some good old- fashioned heroin.”
Michael
shook his head and gritted his teeth. So apparently he was going to
have to bury some bodies. Four—no, he looked at Trixie—five
of them.
Terrible
when one’s secretary picked this time of year to show her psychotic
tendencies. He wouldn’t have minded seeing it around…the Ides of
March. Did she have to do this now?
Although
he had to give her credit--She’d been creative. In a million years
he never would have expected to have a Matthew, Luke, John, and Mark
drugged in his basement. Michael laughed, covering his mouth. Well
there it was.
His
sense of humor. Back for a brief second.
Wynter
had better be finding them the absolute perfect man for Christmas.
Although he supposed he could drop her off one of the four tied up
and see if she liked one.
No,
he smiled. Better she find her own guy.
“Trixie,
where did I put my shovel?”
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