Dirty Treats

by West, Jade

  I pulled out a thick purple beast of a toy from the pile, casting Betty Royston’s mirror aside. I lined up that toy with a few sweeps along that beautiful wet slit and pushed it in hard as she whimpered.

  And then I fucked her.

  I fucked her with that one and then I fucked her with its bigger buddy.

  I fucked her so hard she was a wreck, that arm of the Roystons’ sofa creaking under her squirms.

  I fucked her until my own breaths were ragged, my own dick straining too tight to ignore any longer.

  And then I left that ribbed wonder of a fuck toy slammed deep in that pussy, and lined up my own thick wonder of a fuck toy alongside it.

  Right against that winking little asshole, still wet from my tongue.

  “Time to take both like a very good slut,” I grunted, and it had been so fucking long since she’d taken this that she flung her head back over her shoulder. “Oh yes,” I told her. “You heard that right. I really am going to be fucking both of those sweet little holes at once, my beautiful girl.”

  I enjoyed her shiver, the clench of her thighs and her ass and every fucking part of her as she struggled to prepare herself for my onslaught. But nothing could prepare her.

  My thrust was hard and deep as I shunted myself inside that glorious dirty hole of hers and slammed home to the balls. So fucking tight around my straining cock. So fucking nice as my wife whimpered.

  Yes. Oh fucking yes, I needed that.

  I took her hair in my grip without thinking and pulled her head back until her back was arching, and she whimpered some more and gasped but started to push back.

  Yes, of course she did.

  She always did push back for more, my horny little slut of a wife.

  The sofa was jolting and squeaking as I slammed her with everything I had, holding that dildo firm in her pussy for a few thrusts before changing position and taking hold enough to work it back and forth with the same rhythm.

  I fucked both of her holes in one vicious storm, and the Christmas tunes kept on blaring across the hallway and the elves kept on watching and it was festive bliss.

  I fucked both of her holes with Betty Royston’s mirror cast aside onto their rich cream carpet, and with Rob Royston’s fine work tie in her dribbling mouth.

  I fucked both of her holes with melted ice cream and splotches of cream and a busted stool in their kitchen, and a stolen apple pie half eaten and their butter dish a travesty of life.

  I fucked both of her holes with my balls tensing wild, and their bathroom upstairs still dye splattered, and their bedroom a state with the wardrobe open wide and the lamp trashed to shit. With their bed crumpled and stained, and the remnants of their mistletoe discarded.

  I fucked both of her holes and loved every minute of it. Every fucking minute of it. Crying her name out to the Roystons’ living room ceiling as I finally filled that asshole of hers up with a fresh load of my own thick double cream.

  Oh the joy as I thumped against my wife’s pinked-up ass and she bucked right back, hissing and cursing through her gag.

  And then. At the height of it all. When we were grunting and thrusting and making an absolute filthy spectacle of ourselves, came the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming shut.

  Fuck my life doesn’t even come close as a sentiment to find Betty and Rob standing in their living room doorway with wide open mouths and their eyes on stalks.

  Fuck my life definitely doesn’t fly anywhere near the sentiment of finding my panting wife staring back at me with a look of pure horror on the face I loved so much.

  My balls were still spurting, and I was still a panting beast, with no excuse for this spectacle in a hundred lifetimes. Not even close.

  “What the–” Rob said, as though there would be a response that could ever begin to cover it.

  “Jesus wept,” Betty hissed, and spun around, soaking in the full extent of the damage. And then she shrieked. She actually shrieked out loud and stumbled and fell against the door frame.

  That’s when Rob’s face reddened and his voice took on a whole deeper tone.

  “JUST WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING HERE?!” he bellowed, and Betty was glaring, and Jen was open-mouthed around his soaking wet tie.

  So, I just said the first words that entered my head.

  “Pussy sitting,” I told him, with the most pointless grin on my face of all time. “Merry Christmas!”

  Epilogue

  Jen

  Oh, the aftermath.

  I collapsed onto our own sofa in our own space, with my dress barely fastened straight and my pussy and ass still throbbing from the pounding. My hair was a mess and I’m sure there was still drool and cream and a whole load of other crap still dripping down my chin, and I was thoroughly spent.

  Spent and horrified with my heart thumping harder than it had ever thumped in my life.

  “Pussy sitting?!” I prompted as my husband flopped down beside me with his shirt still unbuttoned.

  He shrugged. “Pussy sitting, cat sitting, house sitting. Same difference.” He paused, and there was that smirk again. “Or so I thought until the Roystons showed up.”

  I still couldn’t believe it, that moment they’d stepped foot through their front door and found me draped over the arm of their swish cream sofa with my husband’s cock up my ass.

  “A spat with Betty’s mother that was enough of a tornado to send them back home for Christmas day?! Holy shit, it must have been a bad one.”

  Another shrug and another smirk. “You said she had plenty of spats with people at the school gates. I guess she’s a bit of a tornado in her own right.”

  I let out a groan. “I’m sure I’ll be finding out first hand next time I run into her.”

  I gave him a jokey slap as he let out a laugh, but I couldn’t help it, I was laughing along with him in a flash, the whole craziness of the episode bubbling up in my belly.

  We’d left the place a wreck. Broken furniture and stains and food smears. What a total disaster.

  Sure, we’d offered to help clean but they were having none of it. Can’t say I blamed them for wanting us out of there quick sharp.

  “Well, that was quite an adventure,” my husband said. “Quite a lead up to Christmas Day.”

  I looked over at our kids’ presents all wrapped up neatly under the tree. Our lights twinkling and our own set of elves grinning over. Perfect, even now our day would be perfect.

  I snuggled up to his side and loved the way he snuggled up right back, planting a kiss on my head and holding me tight.

  “I love you so damn much, Mr H. I’d do it all over again, even if the Roystons did still come home early,” I admitted in a whisper. “It was incredible.”

  He squeezed me even tighter. “So would I, Mrs Harrington. So would I.”

  “Maybe next year,” I laughed, and we were off again, giggling our way through the cringe fest our night had become. We couldn’t stop, no matter how bad the local gossip promised to be. We never would be able to, it would be impossible to stop rip roaring with the chuckles over this night of festive fucking.

  It was only when the laughter finally eased off that he pulled away enough to reach down to his side and hold up a bag. A bag I recognised.

  No way. I could barely believe it. Getting my dress and his pants had been hard enough a task to manage.

  “You rescued our dildos?!” I asked, my jaw dropping wide. “Wow, that must have been a dash of an effort.”

  He nodded, clearly proud, when he dipped his hand inside that fabric sack of promise and pulled out a possession of the utmost value.

  Yes. It was there. The white folded contents tumbling around inside as he shook it up all over again.

  “Round six?” he said, and raised an eyebrow. “Santa still has a little while to play before the kids wake up, after all.”

  I looked at the clock over the fireplace, and let out a fresh little giggle of my own.

  Yes. We could do it.

  I co
uldn’t resist. I’d never ever turn my back on my husband’s horny awesomeness again.

  “Round six, here we come. It just better be a quiet one,” I told him, and he was up and on me, pinning me down hard before leaning in close.

  “Merry fucking Christmas to us,” he said.

  * * *

  Betty Royston’s lips were still pursed tight as she finally finished scrubbing the shower tray clean in her master bathroom.

  “Bloody Harringtons,” she cursed under her breath. “Just wait until the rest of the world knows what filthy freaks live across the road.”

  They were filthy freaks as well. Nobody in their right mind would ever want to use their husband’s work ties for dirty games. Let alone trash the arm of such a beautiful cream couch in the process.

  And, oh to the Lord, their bedding. Such beautiful bedding down in the garbage, because there was no way they’d ever be sleeping in that.

  Those damn delinquents would be getting a bill for the new set, that was for sure. And for their replacement stool, and lamp, and even for their bloody apple pie. The Harringtons could go fuck themselves.

  She still had her rubber gloves on, sighing with relief as she headed back downstairs and found the kitchen glistening. Damage finally undone.

  She made herself a coffee and smiled at her husband when he came on in from the back garden after ditching their ruined bedding in their recycle bin.

  “Done,” he said. “Still can’t believe the bloody cheek of that prick across the street. House sitting my arse. He can get stuffed if he thinks he’s ever coming in here again.”

  “In both senses of the word,” Betty fumed.

  She checked on the turkey, cooking just fine in the oven.

  “Good job you did fall out with your mother last night,” Rob said. “Who the hell knows what carnage we’d have arrived back to otherwise.”

  “I dread to think,” she replied, and she meant it too.

  Even if there was a slight tingle of curiosity underneath her rage. But that wasn’t for now. Oh, no. That wasn’t worth even the tiniest sliver of speculation.

  The Harringtons were dead to her. Their antics were revolting.

  She surveyed the space again, enjoying the cleanliness. At last, she could relax and enjoy her Christmas Day. She was all done and finished and she hadn’t even had breakfast for the day.

  Just another indication of what an excellent domestic goddess she was. Rob should be grateful of her skills, and she told him so. He nodded his head in his regular appreciation, and turned the radio up higher.

  White Christmas.

  Oh yes, it would have been a white Christmas with Marcus Harrington’s cream spillages all over their home space.

  She poured herself out a morning sherry and congratulated herself on a great festive day looming.

  A great festive day which surprised her when their door bell rang out loud and clear.

  They both went to the hallway, opening the door slowly and peering outside, wondering just who the hell it could be before they found Betty’s mother there on the porch step with her overnight case in her hand.

  “If you won’t call me to apologise, then I figured I’d better come to you,” she grumbled. “Merry Christmas.”

  And so it was a Merry Christmas. The three of them singing along to the tunes around the kitchen island together as the turkey roasted away in the oven and the toast popped up from the toaster.

  Until that butter dish made its way to the middle of the kitchen island and the lid got lifted up ready for the butter to hit those toast slices.

  Everyone in the whole street heard the Harringtons’ names being cursed out loud that time around.

  THE END.

  Christmas Daddy

  Chapter 1

  Jenny

  Christmas. The season of joy and goodwill to all men. The season of open fires and good food and festive TV.

  And family. The most important ingredient of all.

  Just not for me, not this year. This time around I was going to be holed up in a tiny box apartment with barely enough room for a sprig of holly, far away from home without anyone to share the good times with.

  I ducked my head behind my PC screen, trying to avoid eye contact as my colleague Kristina called over from the desk opposite mine. She was wearing tinsel around her neck and a pair of sparkly red reindeer antlers on her head, clearly counting down the days of work left this week before clocking off for mince pies and family time.

  I did my best to be visually engaged in my spreadsheet, praying maybe for a phone call, or an urgent email ping, or for the office printer to spontaneously combust or something, but no. No such luck.

  The question came at me unperturbed.

  “Back home to Cornwall for Christmas, Jenny? What did you put on your Christmas list? Been a good girl for Santa this year, I hope.”

  She cracked a grin, and gave me a happy laugh, and I dragged my head up to face her, laughing along, even though I felt it grate in my throat like a sad piece of sandpaper. My heart pounded as my brain ran riot, struggling for an answer that didn’t make me sound like a pitiful loser without any friends.

  I’d been doing pretty well to avoid this inevitable festive line of questioning, or so I thought. I mean, it’s obvious — nobody wants to feel guilty at knowing someone else is alone for the holidays, and these people were really still just acquaintances to me. I didn’t want to bring that grumpy shit down on them.

  Even worse than leaving them feeling awkward at my isolation would be the potential mercy invitations. Come spend Christmas with me at my Uncle Bob’s. He won’t mind! Always room for one more!

  No, thanks. Even the idea of being a charity guest made me want the ground to open up.

  If the pressure of forming a response wasn’t bad enough already, the two other admin girls, Sally and Kay, looked up from their desks, tuning into our conversation. I felt the heat of four pairs of eyes fixed right on mine.

  The radio in the background was blaring out Driving Home for Christmas, which didn’t help any, and Dawn from accounts chose that moment to walk on through with an armful of Secret Santa presents to go under the office tree.

  I stuttered. I stumbled. I blustered my way around the question like a moron while they waited.

  And then, in the very nick of time, I was saved by the bell – the bell being the company accountant announcing that the pre-Christmas planning meeting was being brought forward.

  “Change of schedule!” she announced. “Mr Hart wants everyone ready to go in five minutes!”

  You could feel the ripple of panic right the way through the room.

  I was up on my feet in a heartbeat, and I had to be. I had notes from the previous meeting still to print off and I’d die if I didn’t have a fresh mug of coffee to take in there in case my throat dried up.

  It seemed that Kristina was in a similar predicament. She cursed under her breath as her fingers smashed her keyboard, all thoughts of my crappy little Christmas long gone.

  I’d been working at Hart Filtration for just two short months as a trainee logistics manager, and I was still far from finding my feet.

  It’s not the kind of opportunity I’d have generally considered moving four hours up the motorway for, but my mum knew the Managing Director, Mr Hart himself, from way back when in her school days.

  He was a man worth knowing, she told me. Doing very well for himself. Smart. Driven. Successful. Exactly the kind of boss I should align myself with for a firm foundation in business.

  I’d applied, as she told me to. I’d bitten my nails as the invitation to interview came back from the Hart Filtration HR team, but somehow I managed to shine in a good light through the meeting with the head of recruitment.

  And so here I was, and Mum was right in all those things she said about the big boss himself.

  Mr Hart was indeed smart, driven, and successful, and his business was indeed going great guns – supplying specialist filtration technology to water pl
ants across the country.

  What she didn’t mention, and probably didn’t know, was that Mr Hart was scary as all hell. Stern. Intimidating. Brash and non-communicative. Eyes like daggers whenever someone got flummoxed over a bullet point in a meeting.

  Oh, and gorgeous.

  Mr Hart was absolutely, scarily gorgeous. In that shivers-up-your-spine, heart-pounding-in-your-chest, borderline petrifying kind of way that got me all hot and bothered.

  Powerful men got me all hot and bothered.

  Not that I knew many of them. Really just him, and this old high school teacher I had a massive crush on through my teens. I’d doodled about him in my notebooks, daydreamed about him for years on the school bus, and finally, in my final year, I’d written a whole range of dirty fantasies about him and posted them anonymously online. They’re probably still out there somewhere.

  Anyway, Mr Fletcher was also stern and scary as all hell. When he’d get angry, he’d slam a text book down on his desk and curse in French under his breath.

  Mr Hart, however, curses in plain English and there’s nothing under his breath about any of it.

  He’s tall, dark, classically handsome in that approaching-forties businessman kind of way. His suits are clearly tailored, his hair is clearly barber-styled, and his eyes are light enough under dark brows that his glare could cut glass at fifty paces.

  Mum said he was a good-looking kid at school. She didn’t say he’d matured into the kind of guy you’d feel butterflies for every time he stepped into your general vicinity.

  I’d have told her all about it in detail over turkey if she wasn’t flying off to New York for the holidays.

  I grabbed a fresh mug of coffee from the kitchen, and the last meeting’s minutes were spewing from the main office printer quite nicely when I arrived to grab them. I scooped them up in an eager hand, sipping coffee happily as I scanned my eyes over the bullet points on the way back to my desk.