A Festive Frolic Part II

In 2016 I started writing a Christmas cuckold story (Read part I here) Part II has been a while in the making, but finally, it has appeared, and on time too.

O Come! All Ye (Un)Faithful…

The blue room was delightfully warm after the chilly hallway. Cynthia’s nightgown was laid across the bedspread, engulfing Edgar’s pyjamas, and Matthew noted how it was not dissimilar to the clinging, slippery gown she wore now.

“How silly I was, complaining of the cold. Now I find I am frightfully hot. Perhaps if I took a little air….” She stepped to the window, her backside shuddering back and forth, and Matthew watched her breath cloud the pane before her mouth, blooming and breaking with exhalation.

After a minute or two she sighed.

“No, I am still quite overheated. Matthew, would you be a dear and unbutton my gown? Perhaps if a little more of my skin felt the cool chill of the Christmas air, I may be able to think more clearly.”

Here it was, his cue. His permission to lay his hands on the most beautiful woman he had ever cast his eye over.
Matthew fumbled uselessly with the buttons for a few moments, making no progress, and Cynthia flinched each time his knuckles brushed the smooth skin of her back.

“Matthew.” She said in a low voice, tinged with impatience. He swallowed.

“Nothing is amiss here. Take my hand.”
He laid his fingers over hers on the sill, and breathed deeply, nostrils flaring at the apricot scent of her.

They stood in silence for a short while, the steady clock and their breathing only punctuated by the pop of coals in the fire. He moved closer to her and kissed her bare shoulder, catching the reflection of her smile in the frosted windowpane.

“Still burning, I see.” he muttered. Cynthia ducked her head in agreement, expecting him to make her raise her arms so he could take the dress from her, but instead he placed his hands on her hips, a trifle firmer than she’d anticipated, and began to gather the dress upwards. He hid his surprise that she was naked beneath it well, choosing to luxuriate in her curves and beauty; but he held her more tightly, so she was acutely aware of the stiff urgency of his cock.

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I’ve got my love to keep me warm

She cooks. Always cooking. Itchy fingers, she says.

This morning – Christmas Eve Eve – I woke up to find her side of the bed empty and generic Christmas spice scent wafting through the door.

I padded naked – foolish, foolish child! – to the kitchen and found her at the hob, stirring her pot of festive cheer, also naked but for an oversized apron, her pinchable bum and smooth terracotta skin of her back peeking deliciously at me from behind the creaking folds of oilcoth. George Michael was nursing his broken heart through song on the radio.

“I’m making mincemeat.” she said without turning around.

“And why is that?” I carefully put my hand on the small of her back, easing my fingers up through the cords.

She set the spoon down and rested her hip against the counter top.

“I woke up with a craving. I needed mince pies.”

“The Co Op opens at ten.” My hand curved round onto her stomach. Her tender, beautiful stomach. The faintest sigh escaped her lips as I moved closer, the convex of my body fitting neatly into the concave of hers.

“I’ve been up since six. I needed to feel useful. Create. Get my hands dirty. Pastry’s chilling in the fridge. So rich and buttery.”

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Love sticks and stays.

Each year someone would nudge her, point out a handsome face in the street, or theatre.

“You’re only twenty five. He wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

Even his mother’s grief seemed to wane before hers, smiling when Frank was brought to memory and able to talk about her son with warmth and mirth. Lily smiled weakly and sipped her tea, aware of the minutes until she was alone and could weep.

“It’s…. Lily, it’s been three years.” Mrs Bates eyed the wedding band on Lily’s hand. “Frank would want you happy. Not weeping for him still.”

How could she tell her mother in law how she’d grown so unhappily used to the space on the bed beside her remaining cold and still, that she could not bring herself to think of another man’s warmth enveloping it.

“There is time.” She said at length, and Mrs Bates nodded.

The year dragged on. Snow began to threaten. Lily reached for her darned woollen stockings each morning, the fine nylons tucked away for warmer days. Still her poor heart didn’t heal, stagnating in her chest like sour meat. It was heavy to carry around and wearied her.

With no children to care for, she went through her days in a kind of repetitive haze. Wake. Work. Bathe. Bed. She barely ate. She was a ghost, keeping to a tight beat of streets and buildings. Venturing outside of comfort – to the park when she and Frank had met, or the pub they had visited often, was out of the question.

December began and the darkness was pricked with sharp white lights. Each shop window she passed was full of painful wonder, but she steeled herself to look. At the toys she would never buy for the child she didn’t have. At the pearl-handled razor she would never wrap in delicate paper, eager to see Frank open it on Christmas morning. Tears began to seep out from under her frost-tinged lashes.

“Sadness in winter burns brighter and more sorely than the summer, don’t it?”
Came a voice at her ear.

Lily turned her head; beside her was a woman a little taller than herself; older, perhaps sadder. Her hair was hidden behind a brightly coloured turban.

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Nuts About You

This is  my second usage of Exhibit A’s story prompts. In fact, I started writing this story first, but for some reason I couldn’t get it to go in the direction I wanted it to, and then the bukkake poem fell out of me instead. (Sentences you don’t expect to say in your life, ever).

Ironically, I am at a point in my life where, after over a decade of exposure, I hate seasonal Christmas markets. The infest towns, they make getting anywhere in central Manchester a fucking nightmare and they’re full of overpriced tat that gets more overpriced each year. But I do have a soft place in my heart, and my mouth, for those cones of fresh, caramelised nuts they sell.
Hot nuts = The way to my heart.
Also, sorry about the punny title.

Nuts About You

True story: German accents get me wet. They have done for half my life. As soon as I stepped into that classroom in Year 9 and was handed a folder with a tiny pencil-drawn Reichstag on it, and felt the word roll pleasurably off my tongue. “Deutsch.”. Hooked. So there you have my explanation for what follows.

He worked in the seasonal markets. He sold hot nuts. (I’m not making this up, I swear.)
From that first time I saw him three years ago, and each following year I’d felt my face flush pink whenever I spotted that he was back again.
Every Friday during December I toddled down into the city centre, to the furthest reaches of the stalls, where he sat over his brazier, waiting for me. It felt like he was waiting, anyway.
“You again! More sugared almonds? You’ll turn into an Almond!” He said when he saw me the third week, recognising my red duffel/red beret combination.
“I have a sweet tooth.” I said. Handing over the cash in exchange for another box, I stuck out my tongue.
“I see.” He said knowingly, turning to make change.
He began to recognise me after that, and when we were on first name terms, even made passable attempts at my name, calling out,
“Aoife!” if he saw me approach and wasn’t with a customer. That made my heart jump more.
His name was Andreas. Or that was what was on the name tag he wore, at any rate. His accent was lush. To replicate it in print would probably ruin it. Cute face. Rugged facial hair. That midpoint between blonde and brunette. Brown eyes. Chunky. Like a bear.
“Like Bruno.” I said, one Friday in the second year. The winter was getting milder every day. My coat was undone and my hat and scarf shoved deep into my work bag.
“The bear? In Berlin? Bruno…. I’m imagining he has a name, aren’t I?” I was simultaneously trying to fish my purse out of the black hole of my bag, shoving my arm in and out wildly. It made my chest shudder. I caught him looking.
“You are. He’s just a bear. Four pounds please.”
Daylight robbery but who cares? I’d have handed over my wallet for them. For him
Nothing ever happened, though. The odd wink or flirty remark. How did I get him out from behind that counter?

My New Year’s resolution this year was to try a little harder.

He smiled broadly and reached over the rows of bags to take my hand.
“Aoife! I was hoping you’d be back.”
“Always. Where else would I get my nuts?”
By now he was used to British innuendo and laughed.
“I am sure you wouldn’t go wanting.”
“I wish.” I said quietly, adding “How’s business?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Slow. No one wishes to brave the rain. English rain. More rain than anywhere else in Europe.”
“Embrace it. This is nothing to us. Besides, it’s barely spitting now. Practically bone dry.” I said, fingering the boxes. He tapped my hand like a naughty child and gently moved them out of the way “Haven’t you heard of singing in the rain?”
“But it’s Christmas. How can you sing Christmas carols in a rain storm? Stille Nacht suits the quiet peacefulness of a crisp, virgin snowscape. Not so the damp English streets.”
“Jesus was born in the desert, you know.” Piped up the person behind me in the queue.
I winked at Andreas, who rolled his eyes as I stepped aside to let the punter buy his single, sad loop of lebkuchen hearts. This done, Andreas took a paper cone from his shelf and tipped a few of the nuts into it. He handed it to me.
“Each year you buy the plain sugared almonds we buy from the manufacturer. They are so much nicer, so much more pleasurable when they’re warm in the mouth. Try them.”
I couldn’t help it, I blushed, reddening but still self aware enough to make a show of closing my eyes before sticking my tongue out and placing the fattest, sugariest almond in the centre, savouring the sweetness washing over my tongue.
“Good, huh?”
I made the noise I usually make when I have someone’s face between my thighs; the guttural moan that rises from my chest and escapes between my gritted teeth.
When I opened my eyes he was still looking. I wished I could see the half of him that was hidden behind the brazier.
“Very good.” I said in a small voice.
“Do you have to rush away again tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good, wait there.”
A small line had developed, and as he began to serve them, I realised that somewhere nearby a choir was singing. Silent Night.
I started to sing along, in English, and he looked over. Once he’d served the last customer in the line, he shook his head.
“Sounds much better in German.”
“Alles besser auf Deutsch.” I said without thinking. His glance was approving.
“Not bad. Not great, but not bad.”
“I apologise for my clumsy English tongue. I try my best to work it around your complex vowel sounds. Please serenade me in German.”
He frowned.
“Not out here.”
He took the closed sign out from behind the till and hung it on the side of the kiosk. Then he turned the single glaring light bulb off, leaving only the soft glow of the fairy lights clustered in the eaves.
He lifted the hinged counter top.
“Come here.”
Though my knees immediately turned to mush I managed to make it inside. As the last hut at the end of the row, the sign was likely to stop anyone venturing past us.
“Sit.” He gestured to the corner of the tiny room.
“Are you going to sing for me now?” I said nervously. He was standing over me, I felt slightly afraid.
A slow smile spread across his handsome face. He reached behind and unfastened his apron as he began to sing, very sweetly but very quietly.
“Stille nacht…. Heilige nacht…. Alles schläft; einsam wacht.”
He folded the apron and laid it on the counter. Then he began to unbutton his shirt.
“Nur das traute heilige paar.”
He left the shirt on, and went to unzipped his flies. I could see his cock straining against the taut fabric of his jeans, but he seemed to reconsider and instead, got down on his knees.
“Holder knab im lockigten haar,”
He gently let his hands slide up my thighs and under my skirt. He pulled down my tights and knickers, to my ankles. He lifted his head to kiss me, very very gently on the lips.
“Now, translate.” He murmured, before ducking his head beneath my skirt.
“Silent night… Holy night…”
I felt those same kisses on my inner thigh, his hands kneading the flesh.
“All is calm…. All is bright…”
He spread the outer lips of my cunt apart, the other hand still stroking me.
“Round yon virgin mother and child…”
I gasped when he entered me with two of his fingers and let his tongue travel over my clit. His stubble burned my thighs. It was very difficult to consider singing, let alone singing in tune. I kept forgetting the words.
“Holy infant so tender and mild….. Oh, Oh God. Oh…..”
My thighs tensed, I’d been startled that he was making me come so easily, that I wasn’t bothered that we could be found out at any moment. I gasped and tried to keep my moans clenched and quiet as he kept his lips pursed around me, his fingers shuddering in and out. He was going for a second attempt. Fuck. I’d completely forgotten the words now. I stroked his head.
“I can’t remember the rest!” I whimpered.
He kept his head bowed for a little while longer – interspersing his elegant Teutonic tongue with pinches and soft little bites to the fat. The second orgasm was a smaller wave, a flood of warmth. Satisfied, he sat up and pulled my skirt back down so I was relatively modest. I was still blinking in quiet, sated disbelief that this had happened.
All I could do was rest my head against his chest as though it was meant to be there.
He held me closely and took up the final refrain.
“Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….. Schlafe in himmlischer ruh….”

As if on cue, it started to rain again.

White Christmas

Exhibit A re-opened his Christmas prompts this week, and after spending a morning wailing and writing about hot nuts, this poured out of me earlier this evening. Presented with no comment.

White Christmas

I asked every week, and I was denied.
I put on my sweetest voice, my sluttiest undies.
“Frost me like a cupcake.” I plaintively cried.
My whines were left unanswered.

“Frost me like a cupcake!” I moaned, on my knees
A writhing mass on the pristine bedsheets.
“Your cum, your load, your anything, please.
Make me your art.” I begged, to no avail.

“JUST CUM ON ME PLEASE.” I shouted, aggrieved.
One night in the winter, my patience all gone.
“One cumshot, the money shot, right over these,”
And pulled off my t shirt, my breasts bared, my cheeks flushed.

He studied me fondly, that wintry night.
He set down his drink and went to the door.
And then left the room, disappearing from sight.
And all I could hear was a murmur of voices.

One by one, he lead them inside.
His boss, and his brother, the postman and more.
All smiling, all willing, all bursting with pride.
The circle surrounded me; then unfastened their flies.

“Your wish, my sweet angel, is about to come true.
As you see, it took quite a long while to arrange.
These men are all hungry, and their meal shall be you.
Why, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? My love?”

“You begged to be frosted with all of my might,
but alas I am only one man, with one cock.
And your only real wish was a Christmas that’s white.
And I, with love, have provided that for you.”

So he took pride of place, with his cock in my mouth,
And my eyes filled with tears, of love and delight.
Then of course when the eve of debauchery was done
And my body was drenched with a film of white cum.
(And we’d waved fare-thee-well to the very last one)
We called from our doorstep, all cuddled up tight,
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

A Festive Frolic (Part I)

Every year I say I’ll write a Christmas story, and every year I fail to do so. Not this year, though!

Anyone who read my story Judith and Eleanor, may recall Eleanor’s young brother Matthew. This story sheds a little light on his innermost desires, and the year all his Christmases came at once.
Themes of adultery, cuckoldry, and avoiding midnight mass.

This is part one of two, the second part should go up just before Christmas itself. Enjoy, and seasons greetings to you all!

NSFW erotica, All characters 18+ and all sex consensual. Resemblence to persons already living or dead is entirely in your head.

Part I:  It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Matthew knew he was an irritant. But he also knew that it had no bearing on his successes with the opposite sex, so he didn’t pay it much heed. He knew his sister was the golden child, who could do no wrong, even when she had descended into sapphism. Evidently parental love was strong enough to overcome the family shame. And perhaps being forever in her shadow was fortuitous – meaning he could do as he pleased with very little attention coming his way as a result.

Still, the girls who he found himself in bed with, or occasionally up against a wall or conveniently located tree – and they were girls, even in their twenties and thirties, flighty, annoying, more annoying than he could ever claim to be – were hardly the kind he truly desired. Caroline in particular, whose angular chest seemed to invade his personal environment every time he ventured home, was a pleasant enough fuck, but little about her personality or appearance aroused him otherwise.

No, only one woman had captured his heart, and made him throb with lust each time he encountered her, or even thought of her.

Each Christmas the family entertained the wider Addison clan, and amongst their number were cousin Edgar and his beautiful wife Cynthia and Matthew ingratiated himself to her and tried in vain to catch her attention and every year she resolutely ignored him in a dress more closely cut, more deep at the neck and tighter around her hips with every passing winter.

She yawned in his presence. She called him a child to his face and still his cock stiffened and he brought his hand to it over and over, imagining the feel of her, the sight of his come dripping over her chest. One year they roomed in the chamber next to his and all night through the wall he heard her moans of pleasure as Edgar fucked her. The next morning she smiled sweetly at everyone, with languid eyes, and Matthew felt sure he could see the pale residue of Edgar’s love on her elegant throat.

This year, his 26th, he stood in the nursery, watching the cars creep up the driveway as each guest arrived. First came his sister and Judith – still in the first flushes of love – and bearing large, ungainly parcels, which he did not feel inclined to help them with.

A gaggle of aunts and uncles arrived more or less in a clump, and then Matthew spied Edgar’s Jag gliding up to the front gates. He knew it was ridiculous that this made his cock twitch but he knew she was inside, and proximity to her made him giddy.

When she exited the car he was not disappointed. As Edgar took her hand, Matthew noted the new weight in her hips and chest, barely disguised by her heavy winter coat. In spite of the cold weather, his cock throbbed quietly.

Supper was a gay affair – they toasted and drank cocktails and played the many terrible party games their parents would insist on every year in spite of the youngest ‘child’ being a robust 24 and six foor seven. Matthew noticed Cynthia’s lingering glances but thought better than to encourage her. He drank, and flirted with Judith and angered his sister and watched a spill of champagne spread over Cynthia’s left breast, showing the puckered flesh of her nipple beneath it and he stared.

She seemed to be looking at him peculiarly, though. When the record player was brought out and some reluctant, aristocratic dancing broke out, Matthew watched Cynthia and Edgar talk quietly with their heads close together, before Edgar took Mrs Addison’s arm and began to steer her around the room. Cynthia licked her lips and advanced on Matthew.

“Care for a dance, cousin?” She asked innocently.

“Certainly.” He took her around the waist and they began to dance, rather awkwardly because he still held his glass in his hand.

“I’m sure you can hold me tighter than that, Matthew. Or else I’m likely to fly off.”

He swallowed the rest of his brandy and, emboldened by the fire in his belly, pulled her more tightly to him, the swell of her breasts firm and exciting against his chest.

“You’re suddenly very familiar. Is Father Christmas bringing you some charm tomorrow morning?”

Cynthia smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Oh no, I am already far too charming. I have charm for days, weeks, months, years… It’s only that you can be rather tiresome, you know. You know I am married, you know I am ten years your senior, and yet you persist in approaching me as if I were a flighty girl of nineteen. Five and thirty, Matthew.”
“Harmless flirting.” He replied, his hand sliding lower down her back to where her curves flared. If anyone raised their eyebrows he would only reply that the silk of her dress made his hands slip.

“Quite. And I have resisted your flirting for all these years. And Edgar has watched you. He has seen everything.”
“Has he? And what has cousin Edgar seen?”
“Enough. He has noted your dogged determination.”
She pressed her hips closer to him, could feel his cock acutely present in his trousers. She leant very closed and whispered.
“Tomorrow morning there will be no gift for you under the tree. As Judith opens a beautiful silver necklace, and your parents gush over Venetian glassware, there will be no parcel covered in ribbons addressed to Matthew. I am your gift. Tonight I will lie in your bed; display myself to you in all my glory, and you will fuck me. And fucking me will be your gift. The gift you have waited five Christmases for.”

Matthew covered his surprise admirably.

“And Edgar has agreed to this?”
Cynthia gestured to her husband. Matthew looked, and Edgar was watching them over Mrs Addison’s shoulder, nodding in approval. He caught Matthew’s questioning eyes. He laughed, and then nodded.

“That proves nothing. He could think we are discussing the weather.”

Cynthia rolled her eyes, and, still with her body as close to his as the shepherd to his lambs, manoeuvred them over to where the other couple stood. The record petered out and Mrs Addison kissed Edgar’s cheek before toddling off to see if supper was prepared. Edgar put a protective arm around Cynthia.

“Edgar, darling. Mayn’t Matthew fuck me tonight?” She purred, coiling herself around Edgar’s stout body.

“Of course, darling. That’s the particular Christmas gift we agreed to give him, isn’t it? To see you naked before him and know he can take you, for one entire night? And wake up on Christmas morning with your arms around him?”
“Before I slip quietly away back to your side to wake you up with your Christmas gift.” She giggled.

“You may have noticed, dear cousin, how well Cynthia is looking. How fleshy and rounded she is.”
Edgar moved his arm to her belly and continued. “I’m sure I don’t need to explain why this would be of particular interest to you.”
Matthew felt his cock jerk once more.

“Is this some kind of shoddy trick? Am I to be ridiculed as soon as my trousers are down?”
Cynthia shook her head.

“No, dear heart. Nothing of the sort. I know how you have desired me, and I have rebuffed your advances because it is unseemly for a married woman to be seen in flagrante with her husband’s cousin. Edgar – dear, sweet, loving Edgar – has never actually forbade me from taking you in hand and fulfilling your base desires, but I simply didn’t want to.”
Matthew sagged a little at this, but she pressed on, as Edgar, with a quick look to make sure they were hidden from immediate view, moved his hand from her waist to stroke her nipple through the damp material. She sighed and shivered into his shoulder.

“But these past few months, this winter in particular, as my belly has swelled and the fires have burned brighter, I have grown somewhat… needful. Insatiable. I have run poor Edgar quite ragged. Even a man has his limitations. But when one cannot truly satisfy oneself, one must look outside one’s own home. And so to you, dear Matthew. My body – my cunt.” She emphasises the word, her lips shiny, crimson, pressed together as if making love to it. His cock twitched again. “The gift you have always desired. And to me, Satiation. Desire fulfilled. So. Shall we?”

The room seemed quiet all at once – the guests had filtered away to eat morsels, and prepare for Midnight mass.

Midnight Mass.

“They’ll miss us at church.”

Matthew knew he sounded as though he was making excuses, finding flaws in the plan, however small, but he wanted so much for this to be true that he had to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, or being set up for a terrifying fall and being turned out from his family.
Edgar put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Matthew. When was the last time you attended Midnight Mass? Possibly when you were still in short trousers and chasing girls with frogs. No one will note your absence and be sent to fetch you. I shall go, leaving Cynthia to bed with fatigue. The house shall be quite deserted. Deserted enough for your purposes, at least.”

The clock struck the hour. 11.00pm.

“I really must go with them.” He enveloped Cynthia in his arms and she kissed him, his hand still cradling her breast and her fingers stroking his jawline.

“Tomorrow morning, my love.” She called, as he left to gather his coat and winter boots to walk the mile to the parish church. The last few guests set down their glasses and exited, and now they were alone.

“Come, will you take me to my room? I feel suddenly overcome and unable to return to bed without some assistance.” Matthew saw the lust in her eyes, and at last knew it to be true.

He took her arm, and lead her upstairs.