by Alison Tyler
Table of Contents
Also by Alison Tyler:
Title Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
The Queen of Christmas
Fezziwig’s Balls
A Good Little Girl
Carol’s Christmas
Nog
Jingle All the Way
Two Gifts
Flirting with Santa
Return Policy
A Visit from the Man in Red
Everything You Need on Christmas
Christmas Blizzard
Mulled Wine
Melting
Stocking Stuffers
Dangerous Fruitcake
Tagged
Caught Watching
Hollywood Christmas
Naughty or Nice?
About the Authors
About the Editor
Copyright Page
Also by Alison Tyler:
Best Bondage Erotica
Best Bondage Erotica 2
Exposed
The Happy Birthday Book of Erotica
Heat Wave: Sizzling Sex Stories
Luscious: Stories of Anal Eroticism
The Merry XXXmas Book of Erotica
Red Hot Erotica
Slave to Love
Three-Way
Caught Looking (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
A Is for Amour
B Is for Bondage
C Is for Coeds
D Is for Dress-Up
E Is for Exotic
F Is for Fetish
G Is for Games
H Is for Hardcore
Got a Minute?
Love at First Sting
Hide and Seek (with Rachel Kramer Bussel)
Acknowledgments
To those who make the naughty list every single year: Violet Blue, Kiki Bouche, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Eliza Castle, Kristina Lloyd, Mathilde Madden, Barbara Pizio, Thomas S. Roche, and to SAM, always.
“I used to be Snow White. But I drifted.”
—Mae West
Introduction
I don’t even have to ask, do I?
If you’re reading this, if you’re standing there with the book open in your hot little hands, then you have to admit to being among the naughty. But don’t worry if your bright-red fishnet stockings are destined to be filled with coal each year, because naughty is the best way to be.
Why?
When you’re naughty, you can leave a few extra buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of bare skin or a bit of racy lingerie. When you’re naughty, you can hold a stranger’s eye for an extra-long beat, imparting visions of twisted sex fantasies with your gaze alone. And when you’re naughty, you can plunge yourself into the delicious confections created by the authors in this book—all of them just as naughty as you are! Or perhaps even naughtier still.
Check out Shanna Germain, for instance. Her character might pretend to be a good little girl. At least, at first. But when she goes before her lover who is dressed in drag as Santa, the truth comes out:
“I don’t see you on my good list, though,” Shannon pulled at her beard with one white-gloved hand. “Something tells me you were a bad girl this year.”
“Oh, no, Santa, I was…” I didn’t know what to say. Had I been good? And if so, was I going to get whatever I wanted? But if I was bad, then maybe I would have to be punished. I couldn’t decide.
But it didn’t matter, because Shannon was rubbing her gloved hands up my bare thighs. The fabric was soft and silky against my skin, and I imagined her pressing the tips to my clit, rubbing, soaking up my juices. She was whispering in my ear, her beard scratching against my skin, “I think you were a very bad girl, don’t you?”
In “Carol’s Christmas,” Lisette Ashton retells the famed A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Unfortunately, Carol doesn’t learn from the lessons shown to her by the Ghost of Christmas Future. But that doesn’t mean she won’t get what she wants for Christmas:
She laughed giddily and allowed another rush of glorious satisfaction to quiver through her frame. She had been blessed with a glimpse of a bleak and agonizing future, and she couldn’t wait to experience every one of the painful torments she had been shown.
Being naughty can add spice to any relationship, as deliciously displayed in Dominic Santi’s humorously sexy “Mulled Wine”:
“Why does your dick taste like mulled wine?”
If Glen and I were monogamous, that would be a problem. Fortunately, we’re not. So I grinned when I looked down at him and said,“I stopped at Jake and Karl’s Christmas party on the way home.”
“Oh, indeed!” Glen leaned forward, once more sucking my dick into his mouth. His short blond curls bobbed against his Santa hat, and his blue eyes twinkled up at me. He sucked me long and slowly, like he was drawing the flavor off my skin to differentiate each of the specific tastes.“Cinnamon, clove,” he laughed, pulling back for a moment. “Perhaps a hint of allspice…”
In my opinion, life doesn’t get much naughtier than performing a taste test for exotic spices on your lover’s cock. And as the Queen of Naughty, I should know.
So pour your own goblet of mulled wine, find a willing partner, and get ready to do a taste test of your own. Or at least find someone willing to listen to a few X-rated Xmas tales.
Wishing you a truly naughty holiday season,
Alison Tyler
The Queen of Christmas
Andrea Dale
They called me the Queen of Christmas. I was the Queen of Christmas.
I was the one who organized the carolers in full, proper Victorian clothing. I was the one who welcomed other caroling groups with wassail, candy canes, and stockings (lovingly hand-embroidered) stuffed with goodies. I was the one who liberated the Nativity scene that the city was retiring, so I was the one with life-size camels in my front yard. I was the one with the lighted, moving reindeer on the roof and the Santa who moved up and down the chimney.
People came from miles around to see what the Queen of Christmas had in store this year.
That is, until he moved across the street.
He went pretty elaborate for Halloween, and I thought, “Fine, that’s your holiday.” But then Christmas rolled around.
At first, his display seemed innocuous: Mostly lights. Lots of them but all white. He might illuminate the neighborhood like it was midday, but all the better to see my yard, you know?
Then one night I heard the music. He’d cleverly hidden some impressive speakers in the bushes, because I could hear the tunes with the window closed and the carols on my own stereo. So help me, my china rattled.
We’ve all seen the Trans-Siberian Orchestra house, right? He’d recreated the damn thing. Impressive, yes. But it was seriously detracting from my own decorations.
So I went over there and hammered on his front door, making his cranberry-and-ivy wreath bounce against the wood.
“Oh, hey, Shelly,” he said.
Of course, he knew who I was. On December 1, I deliver plates of hand-decorated sugar cookies to everyone in the neighborhood and then, on the fifth, a schedule of all of the local schools’ pageants and concerts, printed on fir-scented paper. On the fifteenth, gingerbread men and eggnog. On the twenty-first, solstice candles and, at the appropriate time, oil for Hanukkah. (Never let it be said I don’t respect all of the winter holidays.)
See, now here’s the other problem. I’d had my eye on Bradley St. Clair since the moment he moved into the neighborhood. He’s one yummy-looking man, and he had my panties damp from the start. I’d done some flirting, but I was waiting to make my move until after Twelfth Night, when things calmed down again. That didn’t mean I hadn’t masturbated more than once thinking about him, and I’d even dusted off a pair o
f binoculars to find how much I could see across the street.
Sadly, his bedroom was at the back of the house, and I was not enough of a Peeping Tom to hide in his backyard bushes.
Right now, he had on a long-underwear top with a convenient tear highlighting his chest and faded jeans that molded to his muscular thighs. Casual but oh-so-sexy. He held a snifter of brandy in one hand, and his dark hair was rumpled.
For a long moment, I forgot why I’d stormed over there. I forgot that I’d stormed, even. I was too busy staring at him, my nipples at greater attention than the tin soldiers in “The Nutcracker.” Salute me, baby.
Then I realized he was talking, and I couldn’t hear him over that damnable music.
“Turn it down!” I shouted.
“What? Oh, right.” He turned a knob just inside the front door, and the orchestra from hell retreated a few thousand decibels.
“C’mon in,” he said. “Want some brandy?”
Well, damn, I wasn’t about to turn that down.
“That’s some display,” I said as he poured my drink. I meant the lights and music, but the sight of his fine ass as he bent over to pick up the cap he’d dropped was something to behold.
“Thanks,” he said. He handed me the drink and sat down next to me. He smelled kind of piney, kind of cinnamony. Like Christmas. I squirmed in my seat. It was hot in here, and not just from the fire crackling in the fireplace. “I’ve been working on the specs for a couple of years,” he continued. “The electrical engineering degree finally came in handy for something interesting.”
“It’s really loud,” I said, cursing myself for sounding like someone’s mother at a rock concert.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I’m still smoothing out the details. I didn’t realize how far the sound carried.” He didn’t look abashed or repentant, although I didn’t doubt the sincerity of his apology. He was simply acknowledging his mistake, confident that he could fix the problem.
Maybe it was the brandy, or the heat off his tight bod, or the glint of a tiny gold hoop in his right ear. Whatever. I accepted his apology, and I don’t remember much of the conversation after that. Something about our mutual love of the season. He liked my chimney-climbing Santa, was impressed by my mechanical ability. Cool. Go me. Do you mind if I lean in and just inhale you?
I caught myself before I did anything stupid. I had the holidays to get through before I could allow myself to move into full-on seduction mode. And besides, he was still pissing me off a little.
Best intentions and all that. I was standing in his foyer, pulling on my faux-fur-cuffed leather gloves for the chilly tromp across the street, when I clued in to his wolfish grin.
“What?”
He tilted his head up.
I followed his gaze, and saw the mistletoe dangling from the amber Arts-and-Crafts light fixture. Aw, hell.
He kissed with the same confidence he’d shown when talking about his engineering expertise. One hand loosely threaded through my hair, keeping me against him. His lips moved against mine, his teeth nipping my lower lip and then his tongue darting out to soothe.
I felt that kiss all the way down to my clit, and then some.
I was pretty much ready to hop up and wrap my legs around his waist in preparation for him carrying me off to some soft surface where he could ring my jingle bells, when he eased away.
“Happy holidays, Shelly,” he said.
Oh, yeah, I was sure they’d be happy, all right. And once they were over…
Once they were over, I was simply going to have to kill him. Call it the candy-cane defense.
True to his word, Bradley kept the music to a reasonable level. His impressive decorations had something to do with the increase in the number of people visiting our street, and it irked the hell out of me to stand on my front porch in a holly-patterned apron with a tray of green-and-red sparkled cupcakes and face everyone’s backs.
And then there was the line to get into his backyard.What in Jesus’ birthday was that all about?
I’ll tell you. I went over and found out he’d set up a whole Santa’s Grotto, and dressed himself as Santa. He had a huge bag of gifts, and he didn’t discriminate about who got them.
That wasn’t all. He had a slide—a slide—for kids to skim down to land right next to ol’ Santa.
He had completely, utterly, totally gazumped everything I’d ever done.
And he was going to pay.
In my defense, he started it. It was his mistletoe, and he kissed me.
That’s what gave me the idea. I had to find a way through his defenses; I had to hit him where it hurt. Which, I realized, was below the belt.
Santa could not work effectively with a boner is what I’m saying.
I went for less of a Mrs. Claus look and more of a Santa’s helper theme. Skimpy white-fur-trimmed, red stretch-velvet top and flippy, short velvet skirt.Wide black belt cinching my waist in an attractive fashion. Black fishnet thigh-highs and short black boots with a sassy heel.
To top it all off, a perky Santa hat with a pin that said, MISTLETOE: KISS BELOW.
The plan was simple: Distract him, and then offer him the goods only if he backed down from the contest. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long because in this outfit, I was going to freeze my cute buns off very quickly.
I loaded up a basket of cookies and made my way across the street, my boots crunching in the snow at the curb.There was a line of people all down the sidewalk, waiting to get back there. I smiled at them, and they parted to let me through, assuming I was part of the show.
I waited until a kid came out of the grotto, and popped inside before Brad could call for the next one to come down the slide.
“Shelly!” He stood when he saw me. “I’d say ‘ho-ho-ho,’ but I wouldn’t want you to take it the wrong way.”
“You like?” I asked, pirouetting to give him a full view.
“I do, indeed,” he said. “But why are you here?”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s obvious that you can’t stand the competition—that you hate anyone having what might be construed as a better holiday display.”
I’d always thought jaw-dropping was a cliché, but mine did. I’d had no freaking clue he knew how I felt.
“I’ve always had the house everyone talks about,” I said. “It’s my thing.”
He shook his head. Even with the padded suit and the wig and the poufy white eyebrows, he was still majorly hot, and that tingle I was feeling wasn’t from the cold. “Christmas is about sharing, about giving.”
“So back off.”
“Can’t we both have great displays?”
I didn’t want him to be reasonable. It made me feel unreasonable. And unseasonable. “No,” I said stubbornly.
I knew I was being pouty. I knew I deserved coal in my stocking. But I was still surprised when Brad snatched me up and sat down on his throne with me head down and ass up.
I started to say something about this not being the appropriate way to sit on Santa’s lap when his hand connected with my now-very-vulnerable ass. I squealed as the pain and heat seared through me, knowing it was worse because my flesh was cold.
“Careful,” Bradley said, his voice low and dark and dangerous. “You don’t want the kiddies outside to hear.”
As stubborn as I am, it’s still about Christmas, and there was no way I’d risk spoiling Christmas for children. I squirmed, but I couldn’t get any purchase, and Bradley’s other hand was firmly in the small of my back. Another sharp smack, and I wondered whether that was audible over the cheerful holiday music. I assumed not, or he would’ve stopped. Somehow, I trusted that.
His hand came down on my ass again. I’d received play-spankings from partners in the past, but they’d never been my be-all, end-all.
This was entirely different.
Maybe it was the music, or the smell of spiced eggnog, or the crisp winter air. Probably all those things. It was definitely the fact that it was Santa’s lap on
which I was being thoroughly put in my place.
Three spanks in and I was completely, irretrievably aroused. Nipples hard like last year’s fruitcake, my red stretch-lace panties drenched and my clit buzzing.
“Twelve,” I dimly heard Brad say. “One for each day of Christmas.”
Slap, slap, slap, and I was sure my ass was as red as the panties that covered it. I wanted him to pull them down; I wanted him to smell my arousal. I wanted him to search out my clit with his fingers and bring me over the edge, which I was sure would take only a stroke or two.
In the final flurry of smacks, I thought I might even come without the benefit of that. So close…
He stopped. Damn it. I could feel his erection pressing against my belly.
“Bradley…”
“The kids are waiting, Shell.” He helped me to my feet, even though the last thing I wanted to do was stand up, and pointed to the basket of cookies I’d brought. “You can hand those out once they tell me what they want.”
My cheeks flamed as red as my ass. He expected me to stand here, desperate for release, and make nice to the children as if nothing was going on?
Apparently so. Because he grinned that wolfish grin and added, “Then I’ll give you what you really want.”
He grabbed the pillow he’d used to cushion the wooden throne’s seat and plopped it on his lap. Smart guy. Resourceful. Damn him.
No matter how much I resented him right now, I wanted my gift from Santa in the worst way. So I smiled and handed out cookies, constantly, achingly aware of the slickness between my thighs with every movement I made.
The kids were thrilled. Cranky as I was, I could see that. And a kid thrilled from meeting Santa went a long way to warm the cockles of the Queen of Christmas’s heart. What could I do but succumb, even if I had to clutch the basket against my chest so they couldn’t see my protruding nubs, even as I prayed the scent of gingerbread masked the scent of my own arousal.
By the time the last child toddled out of the grotto, I was light-headed from Christmas joy and joyous, desperate arousal.