I loathe Christmas. In fact I loathe any prescribed festivity which obliges one to feign good will towards people one is at best indifferent to at all other times. Christmas is especially vile since the people most likely to go into a huff over the gift you’ve bought them are those who have spent weeks telling you, “It’s the thought that counts.” And you can’t go shopping without being force fed trite sentiment masquerading as music, much as turkeys are twice-stuffed, alive and dead. I said as much to my wife, when the annual invitation arrived from Benjamin and Anne Taylor.

“Don’t be silly,” Sandra told me. “It’ll be nice to socialize properly for a change.” I had no idea why my wife regarded indulging in silly games to be an instance of socializing properly. Presumably she was thinking more of the explicit ban on personal electronic devices contained in the invitation.

“There’s a reason the smartphone and the iPad were invented,” I said darkly.

“It’s no use complaining,” Sandra said. “We can’t not go. You know that perfectly well.”

I sighed, eyeing the invitation theatrically. “’Christmas themed dress’,” I muttered. Please tell me you’ve thrown out those ridiculous green tights you forced me to wear last year.”

“Don’t be such a Scrooge,” Sandra said.

Now there was an idea. The next day I visited a fancy dress outfitters, where a very patient young woman furnished me with the necessary Victorian costume, including a stovepipe hat, wire-framed glasses and a rather fetching watch chain. Sandra rolled her eyes when she saw me. “What do you expect me to go as? Scrooge’s wife?”

“I don’t think Scrooge was married,” I said.

“I imagine his wife divorced him,” Sandra said darkly.

But of course my choice couldn’t be undone without running to extra expense, so on the evening I arrived at the Taylors’ as Ebeneezer Scrooge, with my wife attired in something vaguely middle eastern that I thought made her look suitably like the Ghost of Christmases Past, though I deemed it prudent not to say so.

“You can’t get hold of good myrrh for love nor money these days,” I told our hosts. “So you’ll have to make do with the usual bottle of plonk.”

“David!” my wife exclaimed, looking embarrassed to be offering the bottle, as well she might. The other half of the 2 for 1 offer at the local supermarket was waiting at home. “Behave!” The Taylors exchanged glances, but I didn’t care. We’d all been here and done this before; last year, and the year before that, and the year before the year before the year before.

“Bah, humbug!” I intoned loudly, immediately attracting the attention of other guests.

Those other guests included an impossibly large assortment of elves, a sprinkling of angels, and a couple of Virgin Marys. There was also a Mr and Mrs Santa, who neither my wife nor I had met before. They were introduced to us as Daniel and Carol Walker. “Have you been good this year?” Daniel enquired, as if we were errant children. Carol gave him a look of scorn that endeared her to me at once.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep tabs on us all throughout the year?” I asked.

“David!” my wife hissed, elbowing me in the side. Mr Santa gave the kind of worried frown that suggested he wasn’t sure it was worth the trouble clambering down my chimney, while his wife flashed me an appreciative smile.

I was rather flattered by this. She may have come dressed as Mrs Santa, but like no Mrs Santa Disney would ever dare to invent; a dress modelled as a coat that ended so high up her thighs that the fur trim didn’t even meet the tops of her hold-ups (patterned with red and white hoops). The garment was also cut in such a way as to invite a man to gaze longingly on her bosom. It was impossible for me not to think of her as Mrs Slutty Claus, and I soon discovered that Mr Santa was none too pleased at the appreciative glances she attracted from the other men.

Well at least there was one upside to the evening, I thought. Unfortunately it was almost immediately overshadowed by the downside: Benjamin’s and Anne’s weird mix of 19th and 21st century.

It started with Anne playing the part of the ugly sister in any one of a shoal of Victorian novels, whose only function seems to be to accompany herself on the piano at social occasions. A medley of sentimentality followed, with people actually joining in. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad, except Benjamin and Anne didn’t actually have a piano, but they did have a synthesizer which was set to replicate the 1980’s, when two bars of any intro alerted you to this being a song about the children being our future, or any ballad by Lionel Richie.

What followed was even worse. A quiz. Benjamin played ten seconds of what he felt pleased to call “festive favourites,” a fine euphemism for some of the most hideous crimes ever perpetrated in the name of music, and invited us in turn to name the artist. When he turned to me, I couldn’t bring myself to admit that I did indeed know the answer, feeling that so doing would have been more embarrassing than splitting my britches.

“But you must know!” Benjamin exclaimed as I feigned bewilderment.

“I know one thing,” I said. “The song makes no sense. If the singer really had given someone his heart last Christmas, he’d hardly be around to tell the tale this Christmas. Especially if the recipient thoughtfully donated it to charity.”

“It’s metaphorical!” someone called out, as if describing clichéd lyrics with polysyllables could somehow elevate them to pure art.

“David! Behave!” my wife snapped.

“Bah, humbug!” I retorted, resulting in a black look that told me that perhaps I would be wise to make myself scarce for a while.

So I went outside for a cigarette. I was supposed to have abandoned the habit, but faced with the present event, I’d re-acquired my annual death wish and concealed a packet in a deep Victorian pocket. There was a narrow passageway between house and garage where I knew from experience I would be hidden from view. Except that suddenly I found myself coming face to face with Mrs Slutty Claus in mid puff. “Hello!” I said. “I didn’t see you slip out.”

“Keeping your eye on me, were you?” she said. “Lord knows everyone else is.”

She didn’t sound too put out about it, so I allowed myself to point out, “You can hardly blame them.”

Carol took a long drag on her cigarette. “Dan’s too nice to turn down the invitation, so I go the naughty route just to spite him.” She sighed. “What’s your excuse?”

“An allergic reaction to sanctimonious bollocks.”

Mrs Slutty Claus threw back her head and laughed. “Did you come out here voluntarily or were you thrown out?”

“Ten minutes’ penance for inappropriate behaviour.”

“And here was I thinking I had a monopoly on inappropriate.”

We sucked on our cigarettes in silence for a moment. It was impossible not to wonder exactly how inappropriate Mrs Slutty Claus was prepared to be. By now I’d had just enough to drink to not care that I was eyeing her stocking tops and cleavage in a very obvious manner. Not that anything would come of it. We were both married, however annoyed we were with our spouses. Besides, anyone might poke their head round the corner at any moment.

“Are we the only smokers still standing?” I asked.

“Bunch of freaks,” Carol replied. “What’s the point of a party if you can’t live unhealthily for a change?”

“There are sausages on sticks,” I ventured.

“Now I’m as fond of a good sausage as the next girl,” Carol said. “But those things are puny.”

She was looking at me in a certain way, as if willing me to latch on to the salacious innuendo. “Now you really are sounding like Mrs Slutty Claus,” I said, inadvertently voicing my private name for her. She raised an eyebrow, and I instinctively backtracked. “I’m sorry…”

Carol cut me off. “Don’t bother playing nice,” she said. “I’ll be as naughty as you want me to be.”

I took a drag on my cigarette, trying to figure her out. Was she really coming on to me? For the first time that evening, words failed me.

She fixed me with cool blue eyes. “What good’s a party if you don’t do something you come to regret in the morning?” she said.

I found my tongue again. “Interesting philosophy.”

Carol smiled and took a final drag on her cigarette. Since Benjamin and Anne hadn’t bothered to put out an ashtray she merely dropped the butt on the concrete and stamped on it. “Not that I'm the type to harbour regrets. Maybe I’ll see you out here later?”

“I don’t think there are any maybes about it,” I said.

I watched as Mrs Slutty Claus departed to go indoors. I certainly wasn’t imagining things, she really did wiggle her bum at me as she did so. I finished my cigarette, then smoked another for good measure. I wasn’t about to ransack my conscience about being married. It was obviously an unusually bold flirtation, a bit of a thrill, a private joke between two people briefly allied over their distaste of the circumstances in which they found themselves.

Back inside I was cornered by a man who looked as if he’d torn down every curtain in the house and draped himself in them. He was carrying a miniature astrolabe and saw fit to lecture me enthusiastically on how the magi were really astrologers, is if I was ignorant of this. I endured for as long as I decently could, before saying, “You’re obviously a wise man.” Not wise enough to be alerted to the sarcasm. He laughed as if it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Very droll!” he dribbled.

I kept an eye out for Mrs Slutty Claus, without making it obvious. She was still being ogled by every man in the room, and her husband was looking very unhappy. Well, that was his problem. I rejoined Sandra, who was deep in conversation with another couple about recipes for stuffing and vegan turkey. “Let them eat Brussels sprouts!” I opined.

“David,” my wife chided. “That’s not helpful!”

“Bah, humbug!” I cried, immediately attracting everyone’s attention.

Benjamin chose this as his cue, letting me off the hook. “Listen up everybody! It’s time for charades!”

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse. I manoeuvred myself to the back of the room, desperate to keep out of the firing line. Neither team seemed keen to admit me, and I certainly wasn't going to force the issue. Carol had already had the same idea. “What’s her problem?” I whispered, nodding at the women who was first up, supposedly acting out the title of a piece of music. She’d arrived smiling and draped in tinsel, now she just looked like the Ice Queen.

“Her husband tried to grab my bum when he thought she wasn’t looking,” Carol whispered back. “And she’s not best pleased about it. He’ll be for it later.”

The woman was making an odd hand-wringing gesture with an angry scowl on her face, and I couldn’t help myself. “The Nutcracker Suite!” I cried. Heads turned. Carol did her best to stifle a fit of the giggles.

“David! Stop misbehaving! It’s not funny!” Sandra snapped.

“Bah, humbug!” I exclaimed, leaving the room. If I hadn’t had enough before, I certainly had now. Sandra knew perfectly well how much I hated being here, and now she was scolding me as if I were a small child. Perhaps I was behaving like a resentful teenager, but even resentful teenagers may have good reasons for bad behaviour.

I’d just about had time to light a cigarette when Carol appeared. She winked at me. “Are you always this naughty?” she asked.

I shrugged. Her flirtatiousness made my resentment crumble. “Only when I’m required to be nice.” Noticing that she wasn’t carrying anything, I offered her a cigarette. She took one with nimble fingers and allowed me to light it for her. I watched as Carol took a drag, the smoke lingering as she exhaled.

“Well, naughty you is bringing out the naughty in me,” Carol said, leaning back against the wall and taking another drag on her cigarette. The way she was standing, it was as if she was offering herself to me. In another place, in another outfit, in other circumstances, she might almost have been a street walker. “How long do you think charades will last?” I asked.

“Enough time for us to exchange gifts,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be missed, do you?”

I was about to answer, but Carol’s hands were moving, and instead I was rendered speechless as she began undoing the buttons in her skimpy Santa dress, opening it up. Her stocking-tops had already been obvious, but now I got to see her gauzy red knickers and red lace bra, which was barely able to contain her voluptuous breasts. Her nipples were conspicuously swollen underneath.

She took a new drag, practically blowing the smoke in my face. “Feel free to unwrap the rest,” she said.

We both had spouses inside, but both of us had been dragged here against our will, and I for my part was feeling humiliated by mine. We wouldn’t be missed, and most likely the others would be glad if we kept out of the way. Charades would go on for a while, and there were only so many things to do outside. We could moan about Christmas together, or we could…

I took a drag on my cigarette, staring at Carol’s boobs as she stared back at me with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Her breasts looked fantastic wrapped in red lace, but she’d more or less told me to unwrap them, and at this moment, what she wanted she would get.

The half-finished cigarette fell to the ground as I reached out, pulling the fleshy mounds from her bra. Carol just stood there, inhaling and exhaling, nictotine smoke swirling but going nowhere as I rolled hard nipples between my fingers. As I closed my lips round one of them, she reached the end of her cigarette, flicking the butt away. She gave a little gasp as I shifted to her other nipple, lips clenching as if I was thirsty for festive fluid. I flicked my tongue, and a soft moan brought my cock up to full throb. As if she knew precisely what was happening, she cooed, “You do have a present for me, don’t you?”

“Of course I have,” I replied. “And there are no prizes for working out where it is.”

Carol giggled as I attended to her breasts some more. “Or for guessing what it is,” she decided, her hand going to my crotch, where I was yearning for attention. My tongue continued lashing at the best pair of Christmas gifts I’d received in many a year as her fingers fumbled with the unfamiliar fastening in my Victorian trousers.

“Why, Mr Scrooge!” Carol exclaimed. “That’s a very generous package!”

“I’m quickly realising that there are perks to the festive season,” I said, digging my fingers into her more than generous breasts, then giving a playful nibble that caused her to give a little shriek.

Her fingers finally found a way to liberate me from my Victorian prison. Then she pushed me back, but only so that she could adjust her legs and rub a hand over the crotch of her snug, red panties. I held my cock as I watched, enjoying the way Mrs Slutty Claus was eyeing me. She pulled a hand away. “You’ve got one gift left to unwrap,” she decided.”

“Thank you, Mrs Slutty Claus. That’s very kind of you.”

I got down on my haunches, discovering that the fabric was damp as I pulled it to one side. Carol hummed as I stroked her labia. Enflamed by this I leaned forward, the scent of her burrowing into my nostrils as my stovepipe hat bumped against her and fell to the ground. I let it lay, leaning further in. My tongue was suddenly in her slit, tasting her. “Oh, Mr Scrooge!” Carol exclaimed. “Who knew you were such a giver!”

She moved her hands down, opening herself right up to my greedy mouth. I angled my head, darting my tongue into her, feeling her juices seep into it. “Oh, Mr Scrooge!” Carol gasped. “I think Mrs Slutty Claus is in the mood to give you a very special gift!”

Part of me wanted to ask what that might be, but the other part wasn’t keen to speak. I pulled my tongue out of her to crush it against her clit. She gave a delicious moan, one of her hands suddenly on the back of my head, pushing me into her. I wriggled my tongue, eager to please. Judging from Carol’s moans she was very pleased indeed.

Then she got filthy. “I’m glad I came now!” she gasped. “All I need for Christmas is a good seeing to from an eager tongue.” She moaned again. “Actually, that’s not true. Do you know what else I need?” With my mouth scrunched up against her delicious quim I was in no position to answer. “A good fucking. I need that big cock in my cunt. Mrs Slutty Claus needs you to fuck her so hard!”

My cock gave an involuntary twitch at this flood of filth. There was a dribble of cum, but that was only in the nature of a relief valve, taking off some of the tension. I reached up, tugging on her knickers so I could clutch at her buttocks. She moaned and now both hands were on the back of my head. I heard myself slurp as my tongue teased up and down. “Aah! Please, Mr Scrooge! Please favour me with your delicious Christmas stick! Mrs Slutty Claus needs you to fuck her!”

She was rising to her feet. “Yes, I’m definitely getting into the festive spirit,” I decided.

Carol turned, placing her palms against the wall and bending over. The passage was so narrow I could just about get behind her. I lifted her dress, wrenched her knickers down to her knees and gave her bare bottom a slap.

“Ow! Mr Scrooge!  What was that for?” she exclaimed.

“Because you’re very naughty and I’m not very nice.”

This made her laugh. “Get your fucking dick inside me!” she breathed.

I was already half way there. Her pussy sucked me inside and I began thrusting at once. “Ah!” she gasped. “Mr Scrooge, sir. You’re a ruffian!”

“A slutty little tart has no business slurring the good name of a gentleman,” I admonished, working faster and harder, reaching round and mauling her breasts as I gave her the sharp end of my stiff rod.

“Oh yes!” she groaned as flesh slapped against flesh. If anyone had opened the door at that point, they couldn’t have failed to hear what was going on. Fortunately they were still probably convincing themselves that charades was fun, as opposed to red, raw, real fun.

Carol’s nipples were so hard against the palms of my hands I felt sure they must leave a mark, her pussy was squeezing me every bit as hard as I was clutching at her breasts. I moved my fingers, pulling on her hard nipples. She moaned out loud again, squelching rebounding off the narrow walls of the passage. I upped the pace even more. I’d lost my head. Maybe this really was a dream to which I’d been dragged by the Ghost of Whichever Christmas. There was nothing in my head now except the urge to keep pounding at Carol’s saturated insides, to just fuck and fuck until the inevitable happened.

But then Carol was pulling away, turning. She grabbed my cock which was slick with her juices. “You may not be very nice, Mr Scrooge, but you know how to give a girl what she wants.” She began tugging on my steely organ. “And you still deserve the best a girl can give.”

She sank to her haunches, her legs parted wide. Her free hand was between her thighs and she began rubbing herself. “Let Mrs Slutty Claus do her best for you,” she breathed. “Stick it in my mouth!”

“If you're angling for a sticky Christmas treat, you're definitely going the right way about it.”

Carol smiled. “Just stick it in my mouth. Now!” Then she moaned out loud, her hand still working between her thighs.

I stepped forward, not really having to stick anything anywhere since she had me in her hand and popped me in her mouth herself. Holding her lips steady just below the helmet, she began twisting her hand, hard and fast. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I stood there in total disbelief, letting this gorgeous woman manipulate my stiff cock, her tongue teasing me a little until her determination paid dividends.

I honestly can’t say who came first. Suddenly we were both gasping as if we were performing some obscene Christmas duet. I felt utterly drained when Carol had finished with me, yet not a drop had been spilled – she’d swallowed the lot. There was damp on the concrete, and some splashes on the stove pipe hat, indicating an extraordinarily intense orgasm.

“I’d suggest you make yourself decent,” I said. “Except you weren’t that decent to begin with.”

“Cheeky!” Carol said. “Though I can’t say I disagree with you.”

I placed the hat back on my head, wondering if there’d be an added charge for removal of vaginal secretions, and replaced my wilting organ. Then I brought out the packet of cigarettes, and once Carol had her skimpy outfit back in shape, we indulged in some post-coital nicotine intake.

Back inside we made sure not to be seen together. Charades were over, and I sidled over to the drinks table, hoping to avoid being cornered by someone talkative. I was wondering if there were more dreadful parlour games to come, or if we were nearing the moment when our leave might be taken. That decision required sensitive negotiations, and I scanned the room for Sandra.

Except that I couldn’t locate her. Eventually the robed man with the astrolabe told me he thought he’d seen her venture upstairs. Now why would she do that? Unless she desperately needed a lavatory and the downstairs ones were occupied.

At the foot of the stairs I came face to face with Carol again. “Someone told me they thought Dan might be upstairs,” she said.

“Funny,” I said. “Someone said the same about Sandra.”

We looked at each other, and our faces registered the same outlandish suspicion at the exact same time. “They can’t be… surely,” Carol said.

“I suppose if we can, they can,” I replied.

“Oh this could be so good!” Carol exclaimed, setting off upstairs with me in her wake.

It was a big house, and we didn’t hear the voices immediately, but we didn’t have to move far down the hallway until we did. Clearly the pair thought that shutting the door to one of the bedrooms was enough, but of course it wasn’t. We didn’t even have to push our ears up to the door to hear Sandra say, “Oh, Father Christmas! I am such a lucky girl! What have I done to deserve such an enormous present?”

“Nothing but the best for you, my beauty,” Daniel said. “Don’t delay! Just have your way!”

Carol rolled her eyes at me as Sandra exclaimed, “Oh, Santa! It looks delicious. I can’t wait to have my way!”

“Are we going to listen to much more of this?” Carol whispered.

“Just a moment longer,” I whispered back. “Just to make sure we really catch them in the act.”

Carol smiled. “Feeling vengeful rather than hypocritical?”

I shook my head. “Hypocrisy be damned,” I said. “This is just desserts for dragging us along to this shindig in the first place.”

“Not that we haven’t had fun,” Carol said.

“True,” I said. “But that was hardly their intention, was it?”

I tilted my head towards the door as a groan was heard from within. “Oh, you’re such a good girl,” Daniel said.

There was a giggle from Sandra. “A lovely gift deserves a good turn.”

“Are you sure we should break it up?” Carol said. “I mean, we don’t want to put them off dragging us along next year, do we?” And she winked at me.

I thought about it for a moment. “I’m prepared to risk it,” I decided. “This will buy me a year’s worth of good will. Besides, if you want to get in touch, I’m not hard to find.”

There was obvious and rather exaggerated slurping behind the door. Carol nodded, taking one final look at me before turning the handle and throwing the door wide open. “Daniel!” she exclaimed, her voice dripping with the kind of indignation that is wholly inappropriate coming from a wife who has just swallowed a colossal, creamy, Christmas load from another man.

“Carol!” her husband exclaimed. “It’s not how it looks!”

Why would he even say that when his Santa trousers were pulled down and his big cock lodged firmly in my wife’s mouth, her cheek bulging and her eyes widening in shame?

Under the circumstances there was only one thing worth saying, and I said it loud and clear.

“Bah, humbug!”