by Alison Tyler
“Wait here,” Brad said. “I’ll be right back.”
Wait longer? I almost fainted from the thought. But I realized he was turning off the lights, making it clear that Santa’s Grotto wasn’t taking any new requests.
He reached for me, but I had other plans. Even as he kissed me hard enough to make my head spin, I nudged him backward until he was sitting on the throne again.
“You said Christmas was about giving, right?” I said, burrowing through the layers of padding and finally, blissfully, drawing out his cock. I sucked it like it was a candy cane and I was the starving Little Match Girl. I could’ve sworn he tasted like peppermint. I know he felt really good in my mouth, hard and sweet, and that his moans wove through and counterpointed the carols over the sound system like the tenor solo at church.
How could I never have come up with this kink before? Blowing Santa was bringing me closer to climax than being spanked by him.
We were both on the verge when, somehow, he found the strength to ease me off his cock. I whimpered with displeasure, but when he arranged me on my knees on the throne, my hands gripping the arm rests, I stopped complaining. I wiggled my ass invitingly, gazing over my shoulder at him.
He didn’t need further invitation.
He sank into me, and when the crisp rough curls of his hair scraped against my sore, spanked ass, a shudder convulsed me.
Call it the Spirit of Christmas. All I know is that when Bradley started thrusting, the Queen of Christmas had met her match.
Fezziwig’s Balls
Donna George Storey
It was becoming a tradition. Claire bought the tickets as soon as they went on sale in September. Robert booked the tower suite at the fancy bed-and-breakfast near the ballroom. In November, they splurged on private lessons to brush up on the schottische, mazurka, and, of course, the waltz. By the third year, they were even renting Victorian costumes for the occasion.
Claire didn’t think of herself as the historical reenactor type, but the annual Fezziwig Ball brought out yearnings she didn’t usually indulge at other seasons. The evening offered plenty to delight the senses: magnificent chandeliers twinkling like stars above the ballroom floor, a supper buffet laden with Christmas puddings and mince pies, the mellow pleasure of chatting and dancing with old friends at year’s end. And, of course, the fact that afterward she and Robert went back to the inn and fucked themselves silly until dawn.
The first year, Robert came up behind her as she was gazing out the window at the city lights spread out below them. “Don’t move. Don’t say a word,” he whispered and proceeded to lift her skirt and make love to her right there for any midnight passerby to see.The next year, Claire got the idea to play the virgin bride with Robert as her libertine husband intent on awakening her to every decadent pleasure the flesh could offer.The time after that, she cast him as the inattentive footman whose punishment was to crawl under Claire’s hoopskirt and feast on his mistress’s “quim” until she “spent”—not once but twice. Each year they pushed the boundaries just a bit further than the last.That was a tradition, too.
This October, when the leaves were just turning, Robert asked Claire to meet him after work at a certain address not far from the inn where they stayed the night of the ball. The sign above the old-fashioned doorbell was discreet: MADAME DOMINIQUE, CORSETIERE. However, the salon upstairs—where Robert sat waiting for her in a wingback chair, a glass of sherry in his hand—was a study in over-the-top bordello chic.The windows were hung with velvet draperies.The furnishings were rich mahogany, upholstered in baby-blue satin. A freestanding oval mirror occupied the center of the room, flanked by two headless mannequins. The one on the right wore a modest, cream-colored corset, the kind you see in BBC adaptations of Jane Austen novels.The other was the bad girl’s choice: black leather bristling with metal studs, the front deeply scalloped to expose the breasts. Claire had never seen a mannequin with nipples like that—deep pink, eternally erect, and shimmering faintly as if they’d just been licked.
A small, blond woman of “a certain age” stepped out from the counter to greet her. Behind the cordial smile, Claire sensed calculation, as if Madame Dominique had already judged her waist size, how much she would spend, and exactly what kind of kinky scenes she would act out later with her husband while wearing her new purchase.
“May I offer you a glass of sherry before we begin the fitting?” Madame asked.
Claire glanced at Robert, who gave a curt nod.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured. She might not be as quick at reading people as Madame, but she knew her husband. He’d obviously promoted himself from last year’s stint as her footman to imperious lord and master.
No doubt he meant for her to be tipsy when she slipped behind the Chinese screen to change into the undergarments Madame provided. The pantalets were comfortable enough. The chemise, however, was stiff with starch, and it chafed Claire’s sensitive nipples. To her embarrassment, they poked up provocatively through the thin cloth, rather like the whorish mannequin’s. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her chest as she stepped back out into the room.
Both heads turned toward her. Robert’s eyes glided down her body and then up again. Madame smiled and guided her over to the mirror, her hand warm against Claire’s back.
“We’ll begin the fitting now, so I must ask you to lower your arms, please, Mrs. Ryan. There’s no need to be shy,” she said in a soothing voice. “Mr. Ryan informed me you’ll be wearing this as the foundation for a ball gown from the mid-Victorian period, so, of course, I’ve selected the historically appropriate style.”
Claire glanced at the corset in Madame’s hands, a pale pink version of the one the “nice girl” mannequin was wearing. She felt a pang of disappointment. Part of her wanted to be the whore, wrapped tight in slick leather, tits exposed. On the other hand, the virgin-on-her-wedding-night scene proved well enough that playing the submissive wife brought its own satisfactions.
With a nervous smile, she lowered her arms. Madame wrapped the corset around Claire’s torso and quickly fastened the clasps in front. Then she circled behind to tighten the laces. With each tug, Claire felt her chest move forward and up in response.The corset seemed to embrace her, meld itself to her skin, squeezing her breath and her flesh vertically so that she felt inches taller.
She also felt an undeniable twinge of pleasure between her legs.
“It’s not too tight, is it?” Madame asked, her voice almost a whisper.
“No, it’s fine,” Claire responded, her own voice faint and breathless. For the first time she allowed herself to take in her full image in the mirror: the flushed cheeks, the pinched waist and voluptuous flaring of her hips, the shadow of dark hair between her legs through almost-translucent pantalets. Beside her in the mirror floated Robert’s face, his eyes glued to her perfect hourglass form.
“Lovely,” Madame breathed, resting her hands on Claire’s hips. “This suits you very well.Your figure is just full enough for a charming décolletage.”
As she spoke, Madame’s fingers glided upward over the boning of the corset. Claire held her breath. Surely the woman would not be so bold as to touch a customer’s breasts, if only to emphasize a compliment?
She had underestimated the corsetiere. For just an instant her fingers grazed Claire’s nipples, lightly, discreetly, before they pulled away.
Claire stiffened. She would have guessed the corset would provide a barrier to a stolen caress, but the satin—and the tightness—seemed to amplify the sensation. She glanced up and caught Madame’s gaze in the mirror.The woman had the brazenness to smile.
“This is just the thing for Fezziwig’s Ball, don’t you think?” Robert’s voice was husky. He cleared his throat. “Can you have the order ready by the middle of December?”
“Is this a Christmas present for your wife, then? How charming,” Madame cooed.
Claire watched the Robert in the mirror incline his head stiffly. He was playing his part well—the tig
ht-buttoned Victorian gentleman, giving nothing away—although all three of them knew that certain gifts can bring equal pleasure to the giver as well.
A four-hundred-dollar corset was only the beginning of Robert’s Yuletide bounty. At his request, Madame introduced them to a seamstress who specialized in historical costumes. After much discussion, Claire settled on a lavish ball gown of cornflower blue. As she stood through the endless fittings, she did wonder now and then if historical accuracy was worth all the trouble and expense.
Until the night of Fezziwig’s Ball.
Like most reasonably attractive women, Claire had experienced her share of lustful glances, but never had she felt so admired, so seen. No man, whether friend or stranger, could keep his eyes from devouring her shapely bosom, her tiny waist.The women’s gazes were even hungrier.They drank in the yards of shimmering silk and the nosegay of fresh flowers tucked in her sash as they might drool over a cup of frothy hot chocolate from a Viennese konditorei. Claire’s dance card filled quickly. She even yielded a few to strangers who asked for the favor of her company. She could hardly turn down the president of the Dickens Society himself, and a very young man who’d dressed up as a Union general asked so gallantly, she couldn’t refuse.
The first dance, of course, was with her husband.
“How are you feeling in that corset?” he asked as they took their first turn past the orchestra.
“A little dizzy, even though I haven’t had any Christmas punch. I’m sure I’ll be more than ready to take it off once we get out of here.”
“That can be arranged.” Robert pulled her closer.
“How does it feel to you?”
“Interesting. It’s you but it’s not. It’s like touching a doll, something man-made. To tell the truth, I miss the sensation of flesh.”
“Don’t worry, I’m still alive in here.” Claire was about to confess that his touch through the corset was oddly arousing, as if he were stroking her skin with satin gloves. But, she decided, there would be plenty of time for truth later, when the corset came off.
“You look ravishing, Claire,” their friend Paul said, bending over her gloved hand with a courtly flourish. “How did you manage to talk that skinflint husband of yours into springing for this get-up?”
“Actually, it was Robert’s idea.”
“Really? I didn’t think he had it in him.”
But when Paul took her in his arms for the dance, his smirk turned quickly to a look of surprise.
“Yes, I’m wearing a real corset. I’m historically accurate down to the lacy drawers with the split crotch.”
“What’s next, then? Reenacting Civil War battles every weekend?”
“You laugh, but you might be interested to know that historical reenactors are notorious spouse swappers. It makes sense.They are experts at bringing fantasies to life.”
“Then please let me do what I can to encourage your new hobby,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye. “I think I understand your husband’s motives better now. But still, the outfit must have cost him a fortune.”
“Don’t you think I’m worth it?”
“I have no doubt you command the highest price.”
They’d always flirted shamelessly, and it seemed innocent enough to Claire—that is, until tonight. It wasn’t just that Paul kept staring at her cleavage, or even that he couldn’t stop moving his hand over her bodice, fingering the boning and laces with obvious excitement. It was her own reaction that troubled her. She always found dancing with another man strangely intimate. If only for a few moments, she was captive to his rhythm, the heat or coolness of his hands, the smell of him—aftershave, sweat, or breath mints, if he was really insecure. But this time it was more, as if Paul were flashing images through his hands, through the corset, the obscene vision of her own body laid out on a bed in her corset and bloomers. Paul was there, too, bending over to kiss her breasts, his hand snaking through the gap in the crotch of the pantalets to strum her clit and coax out the sweet music of her moans.
Fortunately, the next dance was Robert’s, and in truth, she looked forward to his sober, conjugal company to save her from herself.
Five minutes later, her husband was still nowhere to be seen. Not that she minded. The dance with Paul left her winded, her bosom heaving like a heroine’s in a romance novel. When Robert did show up, she planned on begging him to let her sit this one out.
“If you’ll forgive the intrusion, madam.” A deep voice, faintly accented, slipped into her ear like warm syrup. Claire turned. A gray-haired man in white tie and tails stood beside her. He was not much taller than she and elegantly slim.With another quick glance she took in his white gloves, the blue blood’s aquiline nose.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you stepped straight out of Dickens.”
The man’s accent was too perfect for a nineteenth-century ball. She guessed Central Europe—Vienna or Budapest, perhaps.Was it real? Did it matter? She nodded graciously to accept the compliment.
He bowed in return.“May I inquire if you are free for the next dance?”
Claire was about to make her excuses, but at that moment the orchestra struck up the opening notes of “The Blue Danube,” and there was still no sign of Robert. He could hardly hold it against her if she chose a dance over the dreaded fate of wallflower.
Offering his arm, the man led her straight to the center of the floor. Bowing once more, he took her up in his arms. “Up” was exactly the word, for suddenly Claire was floating, her body turning and gliding at the faintest pressure of his hand. She had never danced with a partner who so clearly knew what he was doing, who could transport her to a place where she was no longer beholden to gravity, only to his whim.Was it his whim, then, that her nipples were throbbing under their satin casing and the secret place between her legs was tingling and distressingly wet? She didn’t even need to imagine his spit-moistened palms making slow circles over her breasts, or the way he’d gallantly slip a pillow under her ass before he fucked her, or any of the other time-honored tricks the rakes of the Old World used to seduce married ladies from the path of virtue. The intoxicating whirl of the dance was enough.
Afterward, she had to lean against him for a moment to get her bearings. Knees wobbling, her face hot and flushed, if she hadn’t had an actual orgasm, she probably looked as if she had. It was then she saw Robert, watching, eyes narrowed, a cool smile of triumph playing over his lips.
“Admit it, Claire, you enjoyed it. Far too much for a proper wife.” Robert’s voice was stern as he stood over her in the darkness of their room.
At first she tried to be modern and lighthearted. “Oh, come on.The guy must have been thirty years older than me. And he talked funny, too.”
“Don’t bore me with excuses. Did you like dancing with him?”
Claire lowered her gaze. It was strange how the pose alone made her feel guilty, contrite. Her pussy muscles clenched, arousal mixed with fear. Even if Robert hadn’t planned this from the start, he was taking full advantage of an incriminating circumstance.
What could a lady do, but follow her husband’s lead?
“Yes, I did like it,” she said softly.
“Just as I suspected. Now, I want you to lie back on the bed and lift your skirt like the whore you are.”
She flinched at the word, although in her twenty-first-century life, she had a feminist’s respect for any woman’s free choice to engage in sex work. But tonight her hands shook with Victorian shame as she gathered the skirt and petticoat in her hands and lay back on the soft mattress.
“Spread your legs and show me your twat through that very convenient slit in your drawers. No need to feign modesty. You were willing enough to show off the goods for those men tonight. I’m sure it gave you quite a ‘stirring in your loins.’ ”
She tried to protest, but all that came out was a whimper.
Robert probed her pussy lips, none too gently. “Ah, yes, the body never lies. You’re all slick and ready for a big,
hard cock. Will mine do, or shall I call in your European lover to do the honors?”
“I want you to make love to me, Robert. Please,” she managed to bleat out.
“Spoken like the slut you are. No lady wants it so bad she begs for it. Look at you, you’re even panting.”
“It’s the corset. It’s hard to breathe. Can you help me take it off?”
“In good time, my dear. First, I want to watch you come while you’re wearing it.”
She gulped. “I might faint.”
“That’s exactly what I had in mind, my little whore. I want to make you come so hard you’ll black out all the other men who had you tonight.”
Claire heard the rustle of cloth as he struggled out of his trousers.With no further preliminaries, he guided the head of his cock to her swollen cunt lips and pushed inside.Through her daze, Claire marveled at the perfection of the setting.The four-poster bed was just the right height for a stand-up fuck, and her position—thighs spread wide across the mattress—gave him easy access to her clit, a situation Robert immediately exploited.
Claire moaned and crossed her ankles behind his waist. It was true. She had enjoyed the glittering stares, the excitement pulsing through her partners’ hands, and most of all the consummate skill of that mysterious stranger who made her fly through the air. Maybe she was a trollop, willing to be handled and defiled by any man who gave her the time of day. But what about Robert? He might be proper and priggish from the waist up, but down below he was nothing more than a rutting beast, ramming his dick inside her all the way up to his family jewels.
Not that she minded that, either, because with each thrust his balls were rubbing up against her nether parts in the most stimulating way. She wriggled her ass to open herself wider, as if she were doing a little jig on the mattress. Suddenly the strangest vision danced before her eyes: round Mr. Fezziwig, capering across the warehouse floor with his wife, bringing cheer to kith and kin each year with his merry Yuletide balls.
