There are two types of people in this world: those who unwrap their gifts with care and precision, trying not to shred the paper as they go, and those who tear into it with eager, gleeful joy, destroying the wrapping in their haste to get to the gift. If you’re the second type of person, this Christmas erotica is for you.
In the morning, he finds stockings in his stocking. Black, silky, tactile and clearly expensive. He looks at her quizzically and she raises one eyebrow. “I’ll wear them later,” she explains, and his dick twitches under the soft cotton of the duvet.
Later, over breakfast, she gives him the next gift. A pair of wine-coloured knickers to complement the stockings. Silky, again. Expensive, again. The fabric smooth and cool in his hands. She winks at him over coffee and tells him once more: “Later.”
There are four more packages throughout the day, each one a new layer that she promises to put on that evening. An open-cup bra, a wisp of suspender belt, long smooth gloves that will cover her arms from fingertip to bicep.
He opens each package carefully – reverently – stroking the pricey fabrics in his hands. At one point raising the knickers to his face so he can feel the cool silk against his skin. He imagines what it will feel like when the wetness of her cunt drips through them. He wonders what it would feel like to tear them with his bare hands.
She teases him for how gentle he is with the wrapping – usually he’s the sort of person to rip into his presents, recycling-be-damned. She’s the one who carefully unsticks sellotape and saves the larger bits to reuse when birthdays roll round.
The final package is even more surprising. Not underwear this time, but a dress. Long, rich, dark fabric which will drape from her shoulders to her feet. The kind of dress you’d wear if you were a bridesmaid, at the wedding of your best and richest friend.
“Later,” she tells him again. “I’ll wear this for you later.”
She’s never worn dresses before.
When he unwraps the dress he pictures her wearing it, with those heels she bought that – so far – have never been outside. The ones she purchased purely so she could be being bent over while them. Heels and a t-shirt and no knickers, cunt tight as he fucked her, at just the perfect height. The first time she wore them, she looked over her shoulder at him with eyes like fire and hatred. Told him: fuck me harder, fuck me up. And he was only too happy to oblige.
This time she’ll wear the heels with that lavish, elegant dress. And he’ll find it hard not to fuck her that same way: intense, brutal strokes and smacks to the skin where flesh is exposed. His belt threaded round her hips and gripped in both hands so he can yank her good and hard down to the base of his cock.
He will struggle to call her ‘bitch’ because she’ll look like a goddess. And maybe that’s what she wants: to be a goddess for one night.
Christmas this year is a boring affair: no giggling nieces and nephews running round, or obligatory massive roast dinners with the family. The two of them spend the day in companionable silence – her playing video games, him reading by the fire, occasionally turning to catch a glimpse of the other when they think they’re not being watched. She admires the frown of concentration as he turns each page: the same frown he wears when he’s pretending she’s been naughty. He admires the way she grits her teeth as she tackles a difficult enemy: the same determination she conjures when he’s punishing her for some perceived slight.
And every half-hour or so, he glances at the neat pile of rich fabrics in the corner. Wonders when ‘later’ will come.
They exchange funny, playful gifts: lego sets and board games and those books each of them have dropped heavy hints about in the weeks running up to this day. And while he tears into them like an excitable child, she rolls her eyes and laughs and carefully folds and saves paper.
Occasionally they dissolve into giggles.
Constantly, he thinks about that dress.
When ‘later’ finally comes, she doesn’t say a single fucking word. Just throws down the controller, flicks the TV off, and saunters to the table in the corner of the living room, where the stockings and knickers and dress and other items all sit ready and waiting.
She picks up the pile, and does not glance towards him. He, watching her every move, shifts slightly in his seat. It’s time. She’s ready. He’s aching for it. Having steadfastly not mentioned the whole thing all day, he wants to bubble over with orders and commands and instructions: that’s how this usually works.
Good girl. Wear the dress. Let me feel the meat of your arse through the soft fabric. Get those knickers on so I can press my face against your cunt clad in expensive silk. Put on the stockings so I can enjoy ripping them off you. Dress up to please me you filthy fucking slut.
But no – that doesn’t seem the way of it, today. She’s in control and that dress is expensive. He’s eager to fuck her in it, but knows he should probably be careful, to avoid wasting her money. That dress doesn’t say ‘fuck me like a slut’ but ‘fuck me like a goddess.’ Slow but intense. Careful. The way she unwraps all her gifts. He’ll peel the dress off gradually, teasing her into a frenzy. Roll the stockings down inch by inch so she wriggles under his touch. Perhaps order her to take the knickers off herself, while he sits observing from a chair in the corner of the room: worshipping her from a distance.
His cock twitches at the thought of not doing that, though. Of holding her down instead, gloved wrists pressed against the floor with one of his big hands. Her body laid out before him like a treat he can devour in one go. He pictures grabbing fistfuls of silk and ripping it with strong fists. Taking his teeth to the delicate silk knickers and biting, tearing to reveal the wetness of her cunt.
But no. Not that. It’s expensive. Perhaps the reason she revealed her outfit early is because she wanted him pondering exactly this: how he’d ravish her without destruction. Maybe that’s what she’s after here, to teach him to have patience – savouring his best gift by unwrapping it oh-so-slowly.
He can hear her upstairs walking back and forth: from bed to mirror and back again. He imagines her putting on first the stockings, then the knickers, then hooking the bra up behind her back. He hears a creak as she sits at her dressing table and imagines her applying lipstick and eyeliner. Mascara in thick black layers. Painting on a face so delicate and beautiful he’ll be frightened to slap it in case he breaks the spell.
And – God help him – as he touches himself he doesn’t imagine her face staying perfectly painted. He pictures utterly fucking it up. Gripping her jaw in one hand and deliberately smearing her lipstick with one thumb. Shoving his now-rock-solid dick into her mouth and having her choke on it – the way she does so beautifully, the way she loves – until her eyes stream black rivers down her eager face.
But the dress. It’s expensive.
It’s all so expensive.
He grips his cock through the denim of his jeans and tries instead to focus on how he might unwrap her without spoiling any of the beautiful things she has shown him. Remembers his years of practicing to undo a bra one-handed mid-kiss, and how sometimes he’s managed to strip her slowly and carefully. He’s a little out of practice because their fucking these days is so brutal, but perhaps what she wants today is caution and care and teasing. Why else would she show him what she’d picked? Why else would she choose such expensive, beautiful things?
By the time she returns, his heart is in his mouth and his cock is in hand. He hears her footsteps on the stairs and feels the throb of the long day’s build-up, like a pressure. Urging him to come. To take her. To fuck her quick and hard for this first time, and leave the teasing stuff till after he’s relieved that ache. If he were to follow that feeling and that alone, he’d have himself in her throat before she were halfway down the hall. Pull out as she gagged and spray come all over that made-up face and the silk dress. Despoiling her perfect skin and trashing her outfit. He grips his cock tighter and tries to clear his mind.
She walks in.
A vision: polished and perfect and shimmering in the dark silk dress. She’s wearing those heels. That make-up. Eyes rimmed with black kohl and mascara. Lips dark red to match the dress. Hair piled in a style that makes her look regal. Beautiful. Untouchable. Exactly as he’d pictured.
“You look so…”
“Ssssh,” she tells him, and winks again – the same one she gave him when he opened those packages.
With slow, determined steps she crosses the room to the table next to where he sits, glances at his dick and smiles. She positively shimmers in that dress. Her hair looks neat and perfect. He’s breathless and speechless and for once unsure what to do. Where to put his hands. Where to look. What to say. His cock throbs, pounds, and his head spins with visions of him spraying spunk in thick ropes all over that expensive silk.
She smooths the dress with the palm of one of her gloved hands, then pats her head to make sure her hair is still perfect. Takes a quick glance in the mirror over the fireplace, flicks a brief smile of satisfaction.
Then she takes the hand she’s been hiding behind her back, and places a pair of scissors on the table. Grips facing him. Like an offering.
As he tries to process what this final gift might mean, she drops to her knees on the floor.
Looks up into his eyes, tells him: “Fuck me up.”
And then spits at his feet.
It’s become something of a personal tradition that I write something filthy and/or Christmas–themed to publish on Christmas Eve, usually just to distract you (and me) from the otherwise wholesome family-focused funtimes that are planned. This year fewer of us are doing this, and so 2020 might be more lonely than previous years. But wherever you are I hope you have something to bring you cheer, whether it’s random Christmas-themed porn or something tasty or drinkable with which to treat yourself, or even just the knowledge that next year will be different.
Merry Christmas, you lovely fuckers. Thank you for sticking with me through the hell of 2020 – in 2021 I’ll tell you the real life story which inspired this piece of fiction. Here’s to next year.