Seriously Sexy Stocking Filler

by Miranda Forbes

  Until the towering clock in the corner suddenly tolled midnight. And a violent rattling of chains sounded even above the coins and the grunting and gasping.

  “What is this display!?” someone wailed.

  Helen and Ted twisted their heads around, stared at the man standing across the room from them. He was short and curly-haired, pale beyond belief, his body wrapped almost entirely in chains. Helen spat out Ted’s cock, Ted’s jaw dropping like his erection.

  “M-Moberly!?” the pair gasped.

  The man stomped over to the weighted-down bed, loudly dragging the chains that weighed him down. “It is I. And I see you’re up to your usual tricks, eh, Helen?”

  She blushed, Ted looking down at her. “What-what do you want?” she quailed.

  Moberly rattled his chains with a frightful flourish, screamed, “I was here to visit Screwge!” Then he grinned, luminously eyeing Helen’s pussy. “But now I find more hospitable company.”

  Ted blanched. “But, surely you can’t –”

  “The Hell I can’t!” Moberly snapped, climbing up onto the bed in behind the startled young man. “You can have her mouth. Lord knows, I had my fill of it over the years – forever imploring me to sail off to Australia with her, where it’s hot and sunny all year long, especially during the Yuletide. I’ll take her pussy.”

  Helen opened her mouth to protest. Then clamped it shut again, when she felt something long and hard and soothingly cool slide into her heated loins, begin ably stroking back and forth. She moaned in recognition at the familiar beat, and Ted slid back into her mouth, not to be outdone.

  The bed sagged to the floor with its burden of shifting bodies and coins and chains. It creaked, money and links clanking, as the two men pumped the laid-out woman faster and harder; Ted gripping Helen’s hair and sitting on her tits and fucking her cauldron of a mouth; Moberly clutching Helen’s shapely legs to his wan chest and stoking her pussy; Helen stuffed blessedly full like a Christmas goose, flooded with a cool heat that burned all through her body with an ethereal intensity.

  And as the frenzied threesome proceeded, the links Moberly had forged in life somehow found their way around Ted’s waist, and Helen’s legs. Not that the pair paid any attention, so thoroughly overcome were they with their carnal and monetary lust. Nor did they heed the banging on the wall from the neighbour next door, as the raunchy cacophony of coins, chains, bed, and gleeful occupants rudely shattered the peaceful silence of the night.

  “Fuck, Helen, I’m coming!” Ted bleated, almost tearing the woman’s hair out, wildly pistoning his cock back and forth in her mouth.

  He bucked and blasted, filling Helen with a hot, spicy nog not wholly appropriate to the season. But she urgently gulped, shivering with her own Christmas spirit, frantically fucking her pussy.

  The lovers basked in the rich golden glow of their Xmas ecstasy.

  Until the pounding in their chests and ears was replaced by a pounding on the stairs – the unmistakable sound of people rushing up!

  Helen tried to push Ted off her chest. And Ted tried to get off. But they succeeded only in tumbling over onto their sides on the laden bed, bound together by Moberly’s chains. The door burst open.

  “What in blazes …!?” a ruddy-faced constable blurted.

  The next-door neighbour, who’d roused the bobby, gaped at the wicked scene from around the stout officer of the law. While Screwge’s gaunt face in back broke into a rare and pale imitation of a smile.

  “All trussed up like a fine pair of Christmas turkeys,” he commented, tipping his hat at the apparition disappearing through the snow-dusted window Helen and Ted had desperately sought to attain.

  “Half of that money was mine, after all,” the spectre remarked. Before fading out of sight with a final ghostly rattle.

  Christmas Down Under

  by Mary Borsellino

  Christmas in Australia was exactly what I needed after the year I’d had, so I decided to ignore all the doom and gloom about the credit crisis that the television was going on and on about and do exactly what I needed to do for myself for a change.

  My flight landed in the afternoon of Christmas Eve, which is the absolute worst time in the entire year to be anywhere near an airport. Hundreds upon hundreds of people, most of them gathered in clumps right in the middle of the terminal, hugging and crying and getting in the way. I’m not one of those people who gets frustrated at seeing other people’s happiness, but I was tired and clammy from the long flight and just wanted to get to my hotel.

  The taxi driver was a beautiful, clear-skinned man in his early twenties, with the dark complexion of Greek or Italian heritage. He was chatty and friendly, with very white teeth in a gleaming grin when he laughed at my grumblings about how the thought of spending the holidays in the snow with my family, eating a huge home-cooked meal of turkey and stuffing and all the rest, had sounded like the worst torture possible.

  When I paid the cab fare at the hotel, he gave me a card with his name – Alex – and his phone number written on it, and winked at me cheekily. I tucked it into my purse and winked back. If the lovely Alex wanted to have some holiday fun with a reasonably pretty, rather exhausted tourist in her early forties, well, it wasn’t as if I was going to turn him down.

  I’d gone all-out in my decision to have a proper break, so the hotel was a sumptuous one with gleaming ocean views from the balcony, soft white linen of a ridiculously high thread count on the bed, and a huge bath with spa jets. I washed away the grime and weariness of travel and settled down for an early night, letting the sounds of the ocean soothe me down to sleep.

  The sounds of children woke me; there was a family staying in the next suite over and their young son and daughter had clearly wasted no time at all in tearing the wrappings off their gifts. They were playing on the balcony, a boy and a girl, still dressed in their summery nightshirts as they made their new toys battle one another. I made myself a cup of tea and waved good morning to the children’s bleary-eyed parents when they emerged into daylight. I even felt refreshed enough to wish them a Merry Christmas.

  Down on the golden beach below, I could see the small shapes of tanned surfers moving on the tideline and swimming in the white-capped waves. Their bodies were perfect, gleaming and almost unbearably gorgeous after the cold and rain and dreariness of winter. I ate the fresh-cut mangoes and apricots and rockmelons left in the hotel minibar fridge for me, taking sensual pleasure in the tart cold fresh of the fruit against my lips and tongue.

  Feeling a languorous kind of excitement shiver over my skin, I closed and locked the balcony doors, drawing the curtains closed over the sunshine outside. The light filtering in through the rose-coloured fabric made the warm mood of my room shift from the crisp summery feel it had worn only moments before. Now it seemed decadent, as if the heat in the air might stir the blood to any kind of mad indulgence.

  I peeled my clothes off and lay back on the bed, luxuriating in my own touch, the way I could make myself arch and moan with a pinch of fingers against my nipple or the slow trace of a palm down the quivering skin below my navel. I guided myself to a lazy, dreamlike climax once, and then again, and then a third breathless time, feeling utterly at peace in the hot still air.

  I slipped on a swimsuit and sarong and ventured from my room into the glorious breeze coming from the ocean. The sand of the beach was too hot to walk on, but only pleasingly warm through the soles of my sandals.

  As I stepped down towards the water, one of the surfers emerged from the waves. It was Alex, my taxi driver from the night before. He gave me another of his bright beaming smiles as he recognised me, and then wished me a Merry Christmas. I wished the same to him in return, and he told me that it was twice as merry now that he’d seen me again.

  We walked together to the shady space near where his car – his own car, not the taxi – was parked. Trees
covered us from the worst of the sun there, making the air comparatively cool and green. It was a surprisingly private spot, so close to the public beach.

  We kissed, my mango-apricot taste and his mouth of peppermint and seawater. One of the trees above us was a pine, and the fallen needles scratched against my knees and shins as I knelt down before him, my mouth watering as I tasted the sharp crease of his thigh, the tan smoothness of his belly, the musky firmness of his cock. I breathed the taste of him in deeply, careful not to let him come close to orgasm. After a while I sat back, unable to resist a small satisfied smirk as he looked down at me with lust-dark eyes, disappointment that I’d stopped plain on his face.

  I had a condom tucked into the small velcro pocket stitched into the hip of my swimsuit, which had originally been put there to hold a car or locker key. I felt that my own use of the design was a much better one, all things considered. I opened the small packet now, sliding the condom onto Alex’s beautiful thick cock. He laughed again, his lovely warm summer laugh, and told me I had better packing skills than any other tourist he’d met.

  He pinned me against the rough bark of one of the trees around us, holding my weight up as he pulled the crotch of my swimsuit to one side and rubbed his fingers against me. I was still slick and wet from my self-enjoyment in the hotel room earlier, and that fact earned me another wicked grin as Alex hitched me higher and slid inside.

  We fucked for what felt like hours, against the tree and on the ground and in the back of his old, solid car. The seats were leather and, in the heat, our skin stuck to the surfaces as if glued, pinning us in place and to each other as our breaths caught in gasps and Alex pushed inside me over and over again. It felt so good that I think I would have gone numb, my fragile nerves swelled too full with sensation to process any more, but the feel of the uneven car seat against my shoulderblades, or the warm smoothness of the glass of the car window against my hands as I braced myself for Alex to take me from behind, kept my body singing on the fever pitch with no relief or pause.

  When we were too hot and exhausted to move any more we pulled our clothes on as much as we could bear and went into the ocean, letting the cold of the waves cradle us and revive our energies. Then we fucked some more.

  Finally, as night fell, we drove out along the shoreline, watching the families and couples barbecuing their dinners of sausages and bacon and steaks – not a turkey in sight. We found a pizzeria and ordered a large to go, then bought a few bottles of local red wine from the tavern next door while we waited for our dinner to cook.

  In the hotel room, Alex and I ate and kissed and drank good wine. We tried out the spa, kissing in the rushing water for so long our fingertips and toes went wrinkled. Then we got into bed and decided to see if there was anything we’d failed to try out in the sun that afternoon. There wasn’t, but we did everything again anyway, because the switch of context from the thick warm outdoors of the afternoon to the cool smooth expanse of bed in the evening made every movement new. I licked and sucked and nibbled at the fleshy muscles of Alex’s inner thighs, flattened my tongue against the throbbing vein which traced up the underside of his cock, held his hips down with the heels of my hands as I swallowed him deep.

  Alex retrieved the rest of the fruit left over from my breakfast from the fridge, painting streaks of chilled mango juice down my body and slipping the fruit itself into my mouth, muffling the moans I couldn’t help but make as I responded to the change of temperature, the sensation of cold against one nipple as Alex sucked at the other with his almost too-hot mouth. His broad fingers pushed inside me and I arched, squeezing hard around him. His skin seemed to carry the warmth of the day inside it, even indoors, as if he was some embodiment of the bright slow day melting slowly into night. His thumb had calluses from the hours he spent driving his taxi, the pad of his fingerprint leathery and almost hard as he rubbed tortuously slow circles on my clitoris. I tried to shift, to force more pressure on my nerves – I felt for sure that I’d die if I didn’t get relief soon – but he smiled his wicked, wicked smile again and kept the pace at his own even measure, taking his time to see what actions made me particularly wild.

  I’d almost lost my mind with lust by the time he put his mouth on me, this time, his tongue clever and deft as he lapped tiny licks against where his fingers still stretched me wide, filling me up so full that it seemed impossible that I still felt so greedy for more, pulsing and clenching around him again and again thoughtlessly, my hair loose across the pillow as I thrashed my head back and forth and moaned again. The flat of Alex’s tongue was rough as he worked at my clit, almost as rough as his thumb had been, and I had to grab at a pillow and put it over my face so I could scream and scream without worrying any of the other guests of the hotel. He curled his fingers inside me and I came, shuddering, my thighs squeezing at the sides of his head and my vision sparking silver and black behind my eyelids.

  His dark hair was a tangle of damp sweaty curls as he crawled up my body for kisses, his mouth and chin slick with my wetness and his lips a deep swollen pink. I wanted to bite him all over, mark him with sucking kisses on his throat and tanned shoulders, but couldn’t bring myself to mar the loveliness of his form. Instead I let my thighs fall open, letting him enter me once again even as the aftershocks of my orgasm still fluttered through my veins. We were less rabid now, though no less wanting, finding a lazier beat to rock together to, more in sync with the deepening purples of the night painting the room in dark shades and hues.

  Sometime after midnight, my young lover finally exhausted into sleep, I pulled my robe on and stepped out onto the balcony, looking out at the dark ocean and the scatter of stars above. On the other side of the world, Christmas day was just starting, but I’d already had the best one I could imagine.

  Sunny Side Up

  by Candy Bagham

  Donna won’t be here till tomorrow. We always buddy up for holidays, she’s the best company, and the way we work we always get plenty of cock when we’re away. But this time she had to come from Glasgow, so I’ve come on ahead. Never mind, a day in front to work on the tan.

  There’s something about Christmas in the heat. I love it! I love the idea that everyone I know is freezing their arse off or getting lashed with non-stop rain. No one seems to do office parties any more, well not in the office anyway; probably some stupid ‘Health and Safety’ thing about not sitting on the photocopier or shagging in the stationery cupboard. They all go out to a Greek, or a Gastro-pub to sit at a long table munching on the same old turkey and stuffing and put on silly hats. Even if everyone gets pissed there’s none of that let’s give the office junior a blow job in the gents, or letting the boss shag you over his desk. No, it’s vodka, cheap champagne and the disco for me; and if you choose the right travelling companion there ain’t nothing that can go wrong.

  I love to sunbathe nude on holiday but it’s not really on round a hotel pool, so for now I just shrug off my top, oil up my body, being sure to slide my hands over my nipples – oooh! shivers! – and lie back on the sun bed to soak up the warmth. The horny book I started on the plane can wait a while.

  I’d clocked everyone on the terrace before choosing my spot. There were two lads who might make the grade at the disco tonight, after a bottle of wine or so anyway, and three couples of varying ages nearby. I’d watched the men’s eyes follow me as I crossed the rough tiled surface – I shouldn’t torture them but then …

  Now, through eyes half-closed behind my designer shades, I can see one guy keep flicking his gaze to me when his wife isn’t looking, and another staring straight past the book he’s pretending to read, and fixing on the mound of my pussy. Pervy bastard – time for a tease! If I just reach down to adjust this skimpy bikini bottom, and run a finger up the crease of my fanny … Yup – there’s definitely a lump growing in his trunks! Ooh yes, and Mr Married spotted that too … he’s having to roll over so wifey won’t notice he’s been doin
g a bit of window shopping.

  Before settling I’d caught the attention of the poolside waiter and ordered a vodka tonic, no need to ask for a large one here, there’s always more vodka than tonic. Feeling a shadow block out the sun I raise myself ready to sign the tab, but it’s not my waiter.

  “G’day.” Comes an unmistakeably Australian twang. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to ask a favour.”

  Well he certainly can! I guess about twenty five-ish, six foot or so, fit, tanned, fair curly hair that hasn’t seen a comb since school, and with a little stubble framing the cheekiest grin I’ve seen in a long while.

  “And that would be?” I reply trying to sound a little bored and world-weary.

  “Well I’m a photographer and I’ve got this gig to do – publicity shots for next year’s brochure here.”

  “Well done you.”

  “Yeah, well trouble is I just had a call from my model and she’s only gone and broken her fucking leg hasn’t she! And I’m on a deadline, the pics have to be done today ’cos it’s the only day for a month the penthouse suite’s not booked, and they’ve got it all fucking laid out for me.”

  “And?”

  “OK, so, you’re a shit-hot Sheila and you’d look great.”

  “Sheila? I didn’t think Aussies really said that!” I’m tempted … sounds like fun, and he’s saying the right things.

  “So what’s in it for me if I help you out? I guess your model was getting paid?”

  “Not as such.” He grins. “But I’ve got a bit of pull with the management and I reckon I could get your room for free.”

  “My friend arrives tomorrow, same for her?”

  “I’ll be right back, don’t go away.”

  There’s a nativity scene laid out on a table in the lobby ; it’s quite fancy and I look for the ‘Cagador’ while Greg (I’ve never had a Greg before) fetches keys. Someone told me about the ‘Cagador’ a few years ago. In Spain, apart from the usual wise men and shepherds standing round in the stable scene, there’s usually a shepherd squatting down taking a dump – it always cracks me up.