On day 24, we have an amazing short story from Primula Bond. I love this story….
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The light is white and fuzzy through my eyelids, as if I’m lying in a cloud. Gustav must have opened the blinds, because he knows I can only sleep in the pitch dark. Reluctantly I open my eyes, squint in the dazzle, then the full magic hits me. It’s snowing. The sky has pressed right up against the windows, cocooning us in our top floor apartment. Fat flakes are drifting down in an endless, lazy shower. It’s so thick that the next building is just a shadowy hump.
We’re in the middle of Manhattan, but there’s no sound. No siren. Not even a songbird.
Except one. Winding through the speakers hidden in the corner of each room the lone soprano of a choir boy is singing the opening bars of Once in Royal David’s City.
Gustav is nowhere to be seen, but as I heave myself up against the bank of pillows the aroma of Columbian blend coffee pricks my nostrils. Surely any minute he’s going to swagger into the room, balancing a huge pile of presents in his arms and wearing nothing but a Santa hat?
I wriggle impatiently, and something slides silently off the end of the bed.
I crawl across the duvet and see a frothy set of snow white lingerie lying in a lacy, silky heap on the floor. It’s so flimsy and delicate I can fold it away in the palm of my hand. It’s from the Fifi range of Agent Provocateur. I smile to think of Gustav selecting these barely-there garments for me, fingering the French lace and satin and being pestered by salivating shop assistants.
Now I can hear the melody of thick crystal glasses chinking from the kitchen. If my man is busy preparing the first drinks of the day, I’ve got time to try these on.
‘Happy Christmas, Mr President.’
I greet him in a kittenish, Marilyn Monroe voice. I’m leaning in the doorway, one arm stretched up the lintel. One leg, elongated in the fresh new white hold-ups, is crooked in front of the other as if I’m posing for a photo shoot. My breasts swell out of the bra, cupped tightly and squeezed together. The frill trim running over the seams is echoed by the frill playing on the tiny knickers. It accentuates my hips and the whole ensemble makes me feel curvacious and womanly.
Gustav is cross-legged under the tree, ripping at a roll of sticky tape with his teeth. He’s bare chested and wearing soft brushed cotton tartan pajama trousers. They are only loosely tied and are slipping tantalisingly down his hips. And yes, he’s wearing a Santa hat. It gives him a devastating mix of kissable cute and the most wicked, sexiest devil you’ve ever seen. A strand of glossy hair is caught in his eyelashes, flicking each time he blinks, and his beard has grown black and piratical.
He sees me and holds up an opened bottle of Krug.
‘All my Christmasses have come at once!’ he laughs. His eyes rove slowly up my legs, lingering on the white triangle of silk nestling between my thighs. I shake my hair over my shoulder and let him admire me. The heat in his eyes is making my nipples hard.
I sashay nonchalantly across the room and just at that moment, glorious as a spotlight following me up a catwalk, a shaft of morning sunlight finds a way through the shimmering fall of snow. Gustav watches me walk past him and into the kitchen where I pick up a huge, buttery croissant from a warm pile by the oven. I break a piece off and wander back into the sitting room, chewing greedily.
‘Right. That’s it. I can’t keep my hands off you a minute longer!’
Gustav is standing now and grabs me as I circle the tree, flicking at the silver bells to start a harmony of chiming. He waggles the champagne invitingly but as I open my mouth to drink, the neck of it slips and the cold fizz dribbles down my chin, slicks down my throat, soaks the skin between my breasts.
We both look down as my fingers wipe at the deep cleavage.
‘Don’t want to spoil the new underwear Santa brought me,’ I murmur, running my fingers over my warm flesh, already pricked by the drying bubbles. ‘Maybe we should take it off.’
‘I love you just the way you are,’ Gustav replies huskily, putting the bottle down on the window sill. ‘It’s a perfect fit.’
‘And so are you, lover.’
He kisses me then, his lips so tender yet sending little darts of electricity right through me. I wind my bare arms around his neck. I feel so slender and fragile, a virtually naked fairy amongst the Christmas presents. As soon as my body comes into contact with the hard bulge in his soft trousers Gustav groans. I’m guessing he’s had a hard-on ever since he woke up this morning and left my present scattered on the bed.
He scoops me up in his arms and tosses me easily into one of the huge suede sofas which we have draped with soft animal print blankets to keep us warm during the winter nights.
My arms are flung above my head, my legs splayed like a dolly. Gustav stands over me for a moment, breathing hard, his erection pushing out from the soft trousers. I stretch out one foot and hook my toes in his waist band and then I ease the trousers down over his hips. The tartan fabric catches on the hard obstacle for a moment, then the pyjamas slip down. His hardness bounces free, standing proud and ready for me, rising in response to the way my tongue runs lasciviously over my mouth.
‘My Christmas cracker,’ Gustav grins, kicking away the trousers in a triumphant way that makes me giggle. He whips out a strand of glittering tinsel and twists it round my wrists, holds them above my head as he kneels between my legs. As my thighs part, the silky knickers creep up into my crack, rubbing slightly and catching on the wetness there. If they weren’t brand new Gustav would rip them off me, but today he’s going to fuck me, underwear and all.
He cups my softness for a moment, not speaking, still running his finger up and down possessively until I can feel the spring of wetness soaking the silk, and then he strokes upwards, over my stomach, my breasts, up to frame my face.
I arch my spine and hook at him with my legs, and he kisses me again, his mouth warm and wet, his tongue pushing in deep as his body echoes the action and then he half chuckles, half groans as he tugs my new white panties aside and enters me with one hard thrust.
I lift beneath my lover, embracing him as he comes deeper inside me and waves of pleasure wash towards me. Gustav’s breath is hot on my face, and I reach for him blindly. His warm skin grows slippery against mine as he pushes harder, faster, his hands roving over me to keep me in the position he wants me. He swells inside me and as I cling to him like a limpet he draws back, his hips slowly rocking, and at last we are in harmony, two parts of the same machine, his dark, solemn head steady above mine as his black eyes own me and he increases his speed.
I feast my eyes on the muscles rippling in his arms, his neck, the slow blink of his eyes as they start to glaze over, the jiggle of the silly red hat, and then we’re slamming into each other, pulling back, arching, slamming back, bone on bone. He is moaning out my name, my body is filled, his face is dark with the effort of holding on, and then he makes another low groan as we both loosen and let go.
The sun has melted away again, averting its eyes. The snow falls ever thicker, sealing us up against the world.
And as our breathing slows the playlist clicks to the next track. The angelic choir boy ceases telling all ye faithful to come, and Barry White croons that he loves me, just the way I am.
© Primula Bond 2013