Guest blog: Not a Christmas love story – Sugar Baby

Image by the Christmas miracle that is Stuart F Taylor

Kate is one of those writers whose work makes me have to go for a lie-down and a wank. I mean… you probably don’t need to know much more than that, right? Hazard of the job: sometimes browsing other people’s work to share the love with other bloggers, or record something especially filth as audio, means I get cuntpunched with lust and have to give myself a break. Sugar Baby is Kate’s Christmas present to me, and to us all. It’s filth: I adore it.

Not a Christmas love story: Sugar Baby

This isn’t one night stand behaviour. Or maybe it is and I’m just so far out of the loop I don’t know what’s socially acceptable any more. I’m old. This isn’t my behavioural style, at any rate. But here I am, and he’s holding my hands behind my back, pressing knuckles into the soft flesh around my coccyx, and it hurts but the caramel-smooth motion of his cock in my cunt – slowly sliiiiiiiding out and abruptly thrusting in without notice so I almost feel him in my throat, in every fold and corner of my flesh – is what holds my attention the most.

He doesn’t look strong. Doesn’t look like he fucks this way. They never do.

We’d barely got through the door, had no time to admire the soft lit tree or the view of the town, hushed under a patina of white. It’s Christmas Eve and my body is his. And he knows it, hands around my waist to unbutton my flies and shove my jeans down just enough that he can access what he wants. He doesn’t need more.

He used lube, though.

I wasn’t expecting it.

He owns and used a bottle of lube. Copious amounts of the stuff until it dripped down my inner thighs. Men in their fifties aren’t supposed to know about lube, are they? The generation dismissing a dry pussy as anyone’s fault but theirs? Why am I even fucking one, if I’m so put off? If they’re such a lost cause?

A lost cause doesn’t go balls deep in your cunt and drain himself within twenty minutes of your first kiss, though. Makes you beg for the load or else no Christmas presents.

He calls me Sugar Baby, licking brandy butter off my nipples and showering me in champagne from a decade before I was born. I hate brandy butter. I’m indifferent to champagne, but you can worship me all night long, mister.

I am a non-denominational Christmas gift, for a reform Jewish Atheist, fucking in a £30,000-a-night hotel room.

This isn’t one night stand behaviour.

This isn’t a one night stand.

This is one night, though. Only one.

And so much to do. He wants the fuck he wants the suck he wants to come on my beautiful face, he wants to make the neighbours talk and slink into their festive muesli on Christmas Day. He wants to kiss the freckle on my throat, and hold my hand as he falls asleep.

“You’re just young, dumb, and something else that rhymes, ain’t ya?” He chides, stroking my hair. It’s Christmas morning, and he’s hard again. I take his cock in my mouth, frowning. There are presents under the tree and I want to open them but I also want to suck his cock and the tree is thirteen feet away near an open window and it’s cold and the bed is warm and luxurious and therefore, presents can wait. Giving head is a gift. Receiving head is a gift squared.

Tongue swirl, candy cane, come on my face, please and thank you.

He calls me Sugar Baby and I swallow him, reach up to the sweat in his chest hair, our eyes closed, and he’s spent and sinking into a 600 thread count pillow. When we kiss, he tells me I taste like sugar, champagne and salt.

He doesn’t know what a sugar baby is, or else he does and just thinks it’s funny to label me, in my wobbly 30s body.

I am nobody’s baby, sugar.

Carols in the courtyard at 10am, we hear a sweet and hollow sound and put on our Christmas pyjamas so he can shower me in diamonds, rubies, sapphires, cash, money, readies. I am half-dressed already, lounging in semen-drenched knickers, starfishing across the bed, a playground, ten miles wide and I want my presents.

He makes me spread my thighs so he can finger me in front of the family Christmas tree. The choir fa la las and O Holy Nights and his thumb circles my clit, the fingers deep, the air crisp and his breathing even as I shudder and shake and he tells me I’m a good girl but good girls don’t collect the loot.

Bad girl grins smugly when the white gold links are pushed into her cunt, cold and sharp and pleasantly weighted. Bad girl takes photos, recounts the time she came in rubies, sapphires and a white gold chain. When he licks me, the heavy ruby drop makes my heart lurch, and I cross my ankles in holly printed socks behind his head, wanting him more than the jewellery, the money, the affection, the glamour.

We drink more champagne, eat croissants and chocolate coins in the bathtub. He washes my hair as gently as my grandmother did when I was small, and I will never tell him this. He can’t get hard in the suds, but there are violent kisses, and a perfect bruise on my arse from a well-timed whack with the bath brush as I stood facing the black and white tile, on a time-out for laughing at the grey hairs on his chest.

At Christmas lunch, I am overdressed, even by their standards, all velvet and glitter, so hyper-feminine it’s almost drag. The rubies glimmer beneath my throat, and I blush to think that everyone can smell the scent of cum rising as my skin warms the metal.

There are other couples, in amongst the families. And I couldn’t tell you for sure that none of them came to the table holding the same sordid secrets that we did, searching for redemption, or freedom. To see their own sugar darling used, bedecked and bejewelled, or swapped for another, more interestingly-shaped gift.

There is perhaps a story in the accidental Christmas orgy; an avalanche of strangers fucking under the austere glamour of a twenty foot fir tree, dripping in gold and sincerity. But that isn’t this story. This is only the simple tale of a girl and her not-Sugar-Daddy. Of a night of ecstasy and insolence, and cold, hard cash.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.