The sweat of his labour: a deeply unrealistic Christmas fantasy

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

As snow falls on the ground outside, she reaches out to him in the darkness and whispers: “Talk to me. Tell me something sexy.” He shifts a little to draw her closer, pressing his warm skin against her own. Bringing his lips close to her face, he ponders the things most likely to turn her on.

“I’ve finished writing all the Christmas cards,” he says. “All you need to do is sign them.”

She moans softly, as a blissful peace washes over her.

“I bought all the presents this year,” he continues. “The ones for my family, as well as the ones for you. They’re wrapped neatly in a cupboard downstairs.”

“Tell me more,” she murmurs, as her pulse begins to race.

“The Ocado order arrives on the day before Christmas Eve. I’ve checked it three times and there’s nothing I’ve missed. All you need to do is help me unpack it.”

She groans, and presses herself further into him – smelling the scent of his aftershave mixed with the sweat of his pre-Christmas labour, and it makes her head spin with pleasure. He senses her eagerness, how responsive she is to the sexy tale he’s weaving, so he goes on:

“That’s not all – far from it. You know that Christmas party that you need me to come to?”

“Oh God yeah…”

Running his hands over her skin, he can feel how hot she’s growing at the thought of all this, pausing briefly before he delivers the next morsel of joy: “I’m coming.”

“Fuck yes.” She rolls over onto her back and closes her eyes, to better let the words sink in. Never has she squirmed with so much delight, and he marvels to feel her wriggle under his touch.

“I’m actually coming to the party. I’ve got it in my diary, and I’ve made a mental note not to pout when you tell me it’s time to get going. I won’t make any last-minute excuses to drop out of it. When we leave the house – together – I’ll do it with a smile, suggesting that we put on Christmas songs in the car to get into the spirit. When we get there I’ll make small talk with the people you want to impress. I’ll drink a glass of wine and laugh heartily with your friends and relatives. I’ll stand arm-in-arm with you for as much of the night as you like.”

She’s writhing now, thighs clamped together and one hand gripping his wrist, tightly as if to say ‘don’t stop – keep going.’

“I won’t leave early just because I’m bored,” he murmurs, biting the soft skin on the side of her neck. “I’ll stay for as long as you need me to.”

“Don’t stop!” she urges, gripping the top of his thigh with her fingertips as if to urge him onwards.

“I won’t spend all night playing on my phone like one of the children.”

“That’s it!”

“And if that doesn’t get you going,” he says, knowing full well it really does, “then let me give you a glimpse of how hot the action will get when Christmas day rolls round…”

“Oh God,” she whimpers “I just can’t take it! It’s too fucking sexy!”

“Shall I stop?”

“No – more!” Because although she wants him to stop – needs him to stop if she’s going to keep a cool head through Christmas – far more urgent is her need to hear the climax.

He grips her tightly in his embrace – the better to feel the throb of her heartbeat and her wriggles of satisfaction – then makes her a solemn vow.

“Above all I swear that I won’t tell you to relax.”

She pants a little, and lets out a whimper of pleasure.

“I’ve banished the phrase ‘put your feet up’ from my vocabulary…”

Another moan. A wriggle.

“…because I recognise that while there are guests to be fed and watered, gifts to buy, cards to write, relatives to thank, rooms to clean and dishes to do, telling you to ‘relax’ would just add one more task onto an endless to-do list. I know that ordering you to ‘put your feet up’ is wildly unhelpful when in ten minutes we’ll need more clean dishes. I recognise that simply telling you not to bother with Christmas cards leaves you open to judgment from family members that I, as a man, would never be subjected to. I know there’s no point asking you to ‘relax’ when there are still a million things to do, so I vow that the word will not pass my lips until I’ve searched the house from top to bottom, noting bins to be emptied, beds to strip, cupboards to be stocked, leftover food to be clingfilmed and fridged. I will wrap those last-minute presents. I will comfort that weeping toddler. I will make smalltalk with your most tedious relative for as long as you need me to do so.”

Her eyes are still closed, but she’s nearly there now. Lusting after him with every atom of her being. Desperate for him to finish her off.

“Above all,” he tells her, as she lets out a half-moan half-croak that sounds a little like ‘don’t stop’.

“I will do all of this…”

She shudders against him, in the final throes of climax.

“Without ever, ever, referring to it as ‘help.’”


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