‘It’s not that big a deal for me,’ I said, ‘but it’s certainly smoothed out a few rough corners in our relationship. Now I’m less grumpy and Dan’s less anxious and we’re both a lot closer, I think.’
Prissy and I paired off while Dan and her husband (‘Slowhand’) did the same and then, after a couple more drinks, we merged back into the original quartet.
Slowhand asked Dan if he’d ever considered punishing me in front of anyone else and I began to bristle, thinking that invitations to swing weren’t far off. He shook his head, though, and said it was private and he wouldn’t want to do anything I was too uncomfortable with.
‘Dan’s the only man I’ll ever let near my bare bum,’ I said. ‘Ever.’
And they left it at that.
It’s nice to have friends in the ‘community’ though and, while that particular aspect isn’t for us, I think a lot of our online contacts enjoy a ‘spanking party’ now and again.
So that’s my update.
And now it’s Christmas Day, and the best one ever.
We’re at my parents’ house in the spare room, and Dan is still downstairs watching some crappy film with a mince pie and the last of several festively flavoured brandies. It’s the first year since we married that he hasn’t had to be on duty for at least some part of the holidays, and we’re making the most of it, before he has to go back and do the whole of the New Year.
I’ve crept up for a bit of peace and quiet and because I hate shoot-’em-up movies and … well … I’m feeling reflective.
Literally reflective, because as soon as I got up here, I went to the wardrobe mirror and lifted up my dress and had a look at my bottom. It’s still a tiny bit red and there are bruises here and there.
I’m on Santa’s Naughty List this year.
We spent Christmas morning at home before driving up here for lunch and I had some interesting stocking fillers. Dan made me look in my stocking before I could even give him his Christmas blowjob. I woke him up with a snog and a ‘Merry Christmas’ and I was slithering down his stomach, kissing all the way, when he put his hand in my hair and said, ‘No, not yet.’
‘But it’s traditional,’ I said, wide-eyed. ‘If we’re together on Christmas morning we have … breakfast in bed …’
‘We can still do that,’ he said. ‘But I want you to go into the living room and see what’s in your stocking.’
‘Oh.’ I began to see the way things might be going. ‘Santa’s been to the adult shops this year? Or did he get the elves to make them? Poor corrupted elves.’
‘Go and see.’ He gave my bottom a smack.
I jumped, naked, out of the bed and hotfooted it to the living room. My stocking hung, as usual, on the corner of the mantelpiece. Something was protruding from the top, the handle of something tied with red and green ribbon.
I dipped in my hand and brought out a supple leather riding crop. It looked and smelled expensive – a proper one from a tack shop, not a cheapy X-rated special.
Why did Dan think this would make a good present? I didn’t have a horse and I didn’t like riding … oh.
I was the horse. I was the one getting ridden.
I put it down and delved further. Tiny thong knickers in bright red velvet with white marabou trimming. How festive. I put them on; they barely covered anything. Then there were red sequinned pasties with beaded tassels to put on my nipples – this wasn’t easy as I had to get the suction right but I managed in the end. A headband with little fuzzy antlers was easy enough to work out, but what was this?
The final ingredient was a butt plug – a butt plug with a plaited horsehair tail attached. It seemed I was coming as Rudolph. Rude-olph.
I stuck the antler hair-band on and marched into the bedroom, brandishing the plug.
‘Is this your idea of festive?’ I said, pouting, and he laughed uproariously.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Totally. And you look gorgeous, but your outfit’s missing something. Get the lube and bring it over here.’
‘I’m not wearing a butt plug on Christmas Day!’
‘Yes, you are,’ he said, brooking no argument. ‘Get the lube.’
I had to fight the smile off my face but I managed somehow to turn it into a heavy frown and I took the lubricant bottle from my bedside cupboard and thrust it at him.
‘You can do this, can’t you?’ he said. ‘Put it in. I’ll hold the thong out of the way for you. Kneel in front of me.’
‘You’re horrible,’ I moaned, but I did as I was told, because I was quite excited by then.
I greased up the plug and reached around, straining to push it as easily as I could into my bottom. I’d done this a few times now and I knew it wasn’t impossible, but this plug was quite large and I had to huff and puff a bit and pull it out and try again a fair few times.
Dan held the thong aside patiently, uttering words of encouragement.
‘That’s it. Push. Get it in. Does that burn, love? Like it does when I fuck you there? That’s good, now you’re my little red-nosed reindeer. Without the red nose.’
I had a feeling something else might be red before he was finished with me.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘hands and knees, on the floor. Make your way back into the living room.’
I crawled along, Dan at my heels, until I reached the sofa on which I had thrown the riding crop.
‘Ah, here it is,’ he said, picking it up and holding it close to my face. ‘What do you think?’
‘Weird kind of Christmas present,’ I grumbled.
‘You might think so. But I’ve been dreaming of a red hot Christmas.’
‘Christmarse,’ I said.
‘Smart arse.’ He sliced the crop down on my bottom. It hurt a lot.
‘Ouch!’ I rubbed the affected area.
‘I like the idea of you sitting uncomfortably while you eat your turkey. I like it a lot.’
He began to beat a swift tattoo with the crop on my poor defenceless bottom while I bent forward and yowled into the cushions. That thing created a blaze in no time. I writhed and moaned but he gave me a good thirty solid strokes, all over my bottom and thighs, until I thought my skin was so tight it might burst.
‘You’re so mean,’ I howled, once he had put the thing down.
‘Tell me you don’t love it,’ he challenged.
Of course, I couldn’t.
‘It hurts,’ I prevaricated.
‘Of course it does. But that doesn’t mean you don’t love it, does it?’
I maintained a sulky silence, but only until he lowered his pyjama trousers and pushed, swiftly and surprisingly, into me from behind. The little plaited tail of the butt plug got wedged between his pelvis and my sore bottom as he thrust, creating an extra element of friction that I quite enjoyed. I also pushed back against him, revelling in the slap of his skin against my hot, aching bum and the way his cock jiggled the plug each time he plunged in.
‘Merry … Christmas …’ he panted. He curled two fingers between my soaked pussy lips, just in time for me to crash into a mighty climax.
He followed suit, clutching at the butt-plug tail, rolling his hips against my curved cheeks.
We slumped against the sofa together, hot, sticky bodies entwined.
‘What about your Christmas blowjob?’ I protested. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll want that now.’
‘Sometimes traditions can get a bit stale,’ he said, yawning. ‘It’s good to freshen up the routine.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Cream instead of brandy butter. White lights on the tree instead of multicoloured. Hot sex dressed as a reindeer instead of a blowjob. Shall I send that tip in to the festive style magazines?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Don’t fall asleep on me,’ I said, alarmed, as his full weight pinned me to the sofa. ‘We’ve got to be at Mum and Dad’s for half twelve, remember. We need to shower, dress, breakfast, remove butt plug, all the usual morning stuff.’
‘Think you should keep it in,’ he slurred, but he di
dn’t mean it. Thank God.
Christmas dinner with butt plug firmly ensconced would not have been fun. It was bad enough having to shift around on my seat to find the least bruised spot to perch on while I helped myself to stuffing and bread sauce. I usually wore a little black dress on Christmas Day, but this time I stuck to a safe trousers-and-sparkly-top combo. Didn’t want any accidental up-the-skirt eyefuls.
Dan had a knowing glint in his eye throughout the meal. He kept asking me if I was sitting comfortably, the git. Luckily, everyone else was oblivious. Everyone, that is, except Weird Great-Uncle Colin, who, despite his tendency to fall asleep halfway through dinner, is like an innuendo-seeking missile.
‘Still working with your difficult young ’uns, are you, Pip?’ he asked, necking back his third sherry.
‘That’s right,’ I confirmed. ‘They’re not all difficult, you know. Most of them want to live good lives. They just don’t know how.’
‘Hmm, well, I know what I’d do with ’em,’ he said. ‘Bring back the birch. Thrash the lot of ’em. That’d put all the drugs and gangs nonsense out of their heads all right.’
I shook my head, preparing my defence, but Dan nipped in before me.
‘Really, Colin?’ he asked, as if hanging on the man’s every word. ‘You think corporal punishment is effective?’
I kicked him under the table. In the process, a particularly painful area of my bottom made contact with the chair frame. Ouch.
‘I know so,’ he said. ‘Works wonders. All those ne’er-do-wells you must pick up every day of the week for … throwing stones and painting on walls. Don’t you wish you could just give ’em a good hiding instead of a caution? What bloody good’s a caution, eh? You’ve been a bad boy, don’t do it again. They do do it again. Don’t they? Eh?’
‘Many of them do, yes,’ admitted Dan. ‘And it is frustrating to see people given ASBOs which they break time and again, with no negative consequences for them. All the same, I wouldn’t want to go back to hanging and flogging. Not for kids.’
At ‘not for kids’, Uncle Colin’s ears pricked up and I felt a wave of heat plunge from my cheeks downwards. Shut up, Dan.
‘No? So who would you hang and flog then, if not kids?’
I pushed my plate away.
‘Blimey, I’m absolutely stuffed,’ I said. ‘Better take a break before pudding.’
‘I wouldn’t hang anyone,’ said Dan. He looked at me, lip curving upwards.
‘I’ll take out the empty plates, shall I?’
It was a relief to stand up, and even more of a relief to get out of the room and into the still of the kitchen.
Dan came in a few minutes later and stood behind me, his hands clasped around my waist, while I dealt with the leftovers.
‘Awkward,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘I thought you were going to give the game away then,’ I whispered.
‘Game? Is it a game?’
I looked up at him, at his earnest brow and his serious eyes. It was the first Christmas Day ever without a stress-related tiff.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s not a game.’
And it isn’t.
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Copyright
This novella is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Mischief
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An eBook Original 2013
Copyright © Justine Elyot 2013
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