I usually struggle to take inspiration from image prompts but this by Kilted Wookie is such a great combination of cute and hot, that in my head the story just wrote itself…!
Image: Christmas is a cumming, by Kilted Wookie
“So, have you been naughty or nice?”
The voice from the doorway surprises me from my book-trance. I look up at him framed against the hallway fairy lights. Pause. Raise an eyebrow. One side of my mouth twitches at the corner.
He’s wearing his Secret Santa present from work; a novelty posing pouch adorning his sturdy cock with beard and hat. I’m not sure whether to burst into helpless laughter or lick my lips at the sight; his expression is an endearing mixture of hopefulness and hilarity.
“I’ve been both, Santa” I play along, addressing the jolly, bearded member of the household bobbing in front of my face. “I’m naughty in a very nice way”
“Mmm, that’s true” he says, edging forward so that Santa is within licking distance of my mouth. “Why don’t you remind me what a good girl you are? Wouldn’t want you to end up with coal in your stocking tomorrow morning.”
His words light the familiar fire of submissive lust within me, but the ridiculousness of his attire tempers the heat somewhat. I’m at a loss as to how to interact with ‘Santa’ – usually I’d be on my knees, face upturned, mouth willingly open by now but I’m kinda freaked out about swallowing Santa’s head in what seems to be to be a Scrooge-like display of cannibalistic fervour. “Um”, I dither, “how would you like me to do that?”
He knows I don’t handle surprises or mixing of contexts well, that my literal mind has categorised Christmas into the boxes marked ‘family’ and ‘childhood’ while his cock and my devotion to it lives in the mental drawers for kink and sex. Adult stuff, adult time. Confusion reigns. Taking pity on my bemused expression, he supplies me with verbal cues I can process, safe familiar ground.
“Go and fetch a mince pie” he grins, and no less bemused but reassured by a clear instruction, I do so; presenting it to him on the palm of my hand.
“I want you to eat the pastry lid and leave the rest” and obligingly, I nibble the sweet shortcrust off the pie until only dark, rich-smelling mincemeat remains, nestled in its case. A few crumbs stick to my lips, he leans forward and kisses them away.
“Good girl” he says, straightening up. “Now I want to see you eat out that mince pie like it was the most delicious cunt you’ve ever tasted”
Ah, now this I can do; this I understand. I can take or leave a mince pie, happy to demolish them in three bites when they’re presented to me but unlikely to give them a second glance when there’s something else on the menu (Yule log, for example…or a delicious cunt) but using one to get kinky with, yes this I am all in favour of.
I start with the gentlest of kisses, brushing my lips against the sticky fruity jelly and licking the residue from them slowly. A dip of my tongue point amongst the fruit, swirling in small circles before nibbling at a piece of caramelised orange that my ministrations have stirred up. I look up at him and meet his eyes, darkened, with pupils dilated in lust. “Keep going” he says hoarsely. Santa is standing to attention, enthralled.
I return my attention to the mince pie, giving it the kind of thorough licking-out that has earned the gasps and moans of various lady friends of my past acquaintance, eyes closed and tongue dancing until the naked pastry case is laid bare and there is mincemeat on my chin and dribbling from the corner of my mouth. From his flushed tone and rigid posture; Santa appears to approve.
My handsome boy reaches forward and extricates the pastry from its silver foil cradle. “Open your mouth wide” he says and crams the pastry inside when I obey. “Don’t swallow” he commands and hauls me off the sofa, onto all fours, yanking up my dress and pulling my tights and knickers down until my bare skin is exposed to his liking. “Keep that pie in your mouth” he orders and tugs off Santa’s accoutrements leaving only his proud hungry cock springing to action in their wake.
He fucks me hard and fast on the living room floor, a handful of my hair in one hand and a handful of my arse in the other, pulling me back onto him to bury himself all the way inside me with a grunt of satisfaction and hissing indrawn breaths of pleasure. Around a mouthful of pastry, I can only breathe through my nose, huffing and snorting to catch enough air as he spreads my legs wider, fills my cunt deeper.
“If you get crumbs on the carpet, I’m going to make you lick them up” he declares, slapping my thighs. I can’t see his face from my head-down, back-arched stance but I recognise the tone of amusement and challenge well enough. I fight to keep my mouth closed around the lump of dough that has now coalesced upon my tongue, struggle just as hard not to swallow it or allow a single thread of fruity drool to escape as he rides me like Santa taking the sleigh for a spin after a Boxing Day post-work bender.
He pulls out, motions for me to turn round and crouch before him. “Open your mouth” he orders again and I wait wide-eyed and pastry-stuffed as he holds me by the jaw until with a groan and a splash he pumps his hot salty come across my parted lips and into my mouth.
“Now you can swallow” he gasps and grips my chin until he sees the bobbing in my throat that signals my obedience. “Good girl” he smiles down at me. “I always said the naughty ones were more fun. Someone might just have earned themselves an orgasm or three for their Christmas stocking”
He sees my face light up.
“But not til tomorrow. No presents before Christmas Day”. He laughs at my stricken expression, knowing that he will inevitably relent before the bells chime for midnight mass but enjoying, for the moment, the power I have willingly ceded to him. As I groan and roll over, clutching my hands between my legs in unrelieved aching arousal, his expression turns thoughtful.
“Any of those mince pies left?”