Most people spend Christmas with friends and family. This year, I'm not one of them.
Before you misjudge me as one of those saddos, sitting in my underpants and T-shirt in a soulless flat nursing a pint and the TV remote searching for Die Hard movies, let me stop you. It's not because I don't love my family or want to see the kids’ faces light up when they open their presents. I adore that. I desperately want that back. My wife is gorgeous. Brilliant with the kids. We make a fantastic cooking team. And she has a healthy sexual appetite that almost meets mine.
And see, that’s the rub. That almost is how my family-free holiday began. In the pursuit of the missing element that I've tried, and failed, to encourage my wife to try, I fucked up.
Big time.
I sigh and pick up my pint from beside the dog-eared sofa. Stare at the TV on the wall opposite. It's not even my place, but Shaun said I could stay as long as necessary. It’s good of him and I don't want to outstay my welcome, but Miranda hasn't called, won't let me in the house, and blocked my number. For the first time in well over a decade, I genuinely don't know what to do.
I stare at the remote. Press the power button. Hit Search. Type D-I-E H-A-R… and stop myself. As much as it's not Christmas until Hans Gruber plunges to his death off Nakatomi Plaza, I can't face it. I power off the screen. Stare at the blank rectangle. Ponder. Cogitate. Reminisce.
They say if you're going to fuck up, do it in the most spectacular fashion, then everyone wonders exactly how it could have gone so wrong.
That’s me.
And the tipping point was a bucket of ice.
.o0…REWIND…0o.
The office Christmas party is traditionally a hotbed of shame. Molly from accounts shagged Kieran last year and they've only just got over it. Jez lost track of which drink he’d spiked and roofied himself. The VP of acquisitions had his cock sucked by the VP of sales, which is pretty tragironic. We all assumed she was a prim fusspot, but she shed that misconception in the pub toilets by taking Tremayne's monument down her throat and his spunk across her generous cleavage. I've seen the video.
Me? Well, as much as I tout I’m happily married in a strong relationship and would never stray, turns out I'm a liar. ‘Cos ever since she started at the company, I've held an unhealthy fascination with Leanne Bishop.
She has this unassuming business demeanour that’s equally intimidating as alluring. And tits to die for; a rack she accentuates in scoop neck tops, without appearing slutty. She knows her stuff. Loves to delegate. But underneath the powerful veneer, from elegant heels and stockinged legs, to skirts that hug womanly hips where her brunette mane dusts, is the spark of a filthy girl who wants to be mistreated in the best possible way.
During meetings, my mind tends to drift as I flick my gaze up and down her body. Maybe those firm nipples need biting through her clothes? Would she like her hair pulled as she slobbers and deep-throats my cock? Would she let me spank her curvy ass over the conference room table, before pounding her as she snarls to be used? Deeper. Harder. More marks. Yeah, she oozes next-level fuckery.
My kind of animal.
Truth is, it wasn't just one sex act I couldn't convince my wife to try. It was one behaviour trait I craved, and sensed in Leanne:
Outright trust.
I wanted carte blanche with her body and mind. A playground where I could take her to peaks she wouldn't ever climb solo. Touches. Brushes. Caresses. The lash of my leather belt or sting of my palm on her upturned bottom, rope biting her wrists and ankles as she writhed and begged for more. The throaty moans of ecstasy as her orgasms rolled into one continuum. I wanted her to experience what she believed was the pinnacle of pleasure, only to be proven wrong over and over again.
Playful embers burned in Leanne, aching for the opportunity to be ignited. The viper tattoo coiled on her inner forearm gave away more than she probably realised.
We'd danced around this constant attraction since week one. Four months of respectful flirtation at the coffee machine. A shared laugh. An indignant nudge at risqué banter. Nothing beyond the odd suggestive comment and a few electric scuffs of skin against skin as I passed a cup of the best attempt at coffee the machine could muster.
But three G&Ts each in the chain pub the company chose for its annual party brought those self-imposed barriers crashing down.
Propped against the brass bar rail, I'd engaged her in small talk beneath the same tired mixtape of Christmas hits as every high street store since mid-November. I discovered what her gym regimen comprised. Why her dog wasn't as committed to the jogging lifestyle, so she'd given up taking him. Why Gary from Sales was a knobhead. Safe topics. The usual.
I listened. Nodded at appropriate moments. Innocently brushed her forearm and then built the courage to turn it face up to ask about the emblem tattooed there. It apparently signified her passion for biding time before striking, to get what she wanted. In business as well as pleasure, she confessed when I traced its spiral with my thumb pad before letting her slither free.
That simple focal point awoke something. Instead of being mere colleagues, we were suddenly much more. She turned her attention fully my way. My pulse thudded.
I bought the next round and eyed her over the glass. Her outfit didn't disappoint in the cleavage department and she noticed my attention.
“Why not take a picture? It'll last longer,” she challenged.
I grinned, whipped out my phone, held it above us and snapped before her hand could cover the cleft. She shrieked with laughter. “I can't believe you did that.”
“Your idea.”
“Yeah but… show me.”
I tapped the thumbnail and turned the phone around. Her face lit up and she reached out to drunkenly trace her cleavage. Her eyes bulged and hand flew to cover her mouth. “Oooh, impressive.”
I grinned. “You are.”
She turned my wrist back so the screen faced me. A full-size shot of my erect cock was on display and I hurriedly swiped it out of the way. “Fuck. Uuuh yeah, about that…”
She sipped her drink and eyed first my face, then drifted south. “Let me guess, big boy. It's not yours?”
“I… heh. Is that better or worse?” I studied her, light glinting off the silver nose stud. “What if it is me?”
Her tongue traced her upper lip. “Then we might have a problem.”
“How so?”
She tossed her hair back with a deft flick of vermilion polished fingertips and settled her gaze my way. “Because when I see something I want, I get it.”
I swallowed. It was probably the most overt sexual signal we'd shared. “Oh.” Flitting my attention to her tits again, I reconnected with the emerald spark in her eyes. “And what if it's not for the taking?”
Holding up my hand, I wiggled my fingers, wedding ring catching the subdued light. She dismissed it. “‘Tis the season for giving.” Then, leaning in so close her scent clawed my throat and breath tickled my ear lobe, she whispered, “I now know what I want in my stocking this year.”
Until that moment, I always thought air crackling between two people was a myth or the mainstay of storytellers. My throat dried out but I managed to croak, “Doesn't that depend if you've been good?” I downed the remainder of my drink. Confidence lubricator; inhibition destroyer.
She laughed. “Yeah, I'm a regular angel, me.”
Clapping my glass to the bar and tracing its rim, I tilted my head a fraction. Studied her and shivered. “Shame. Angels are boring.”
Miming straightening a crown, she giggled and whispered hoarsely, “I think mine’s broken.”
She eyed me and sank the remainder of her drink as they called our party for dinner.
Not gonna lie, the meal was torture. Leanne sat alongside me, the last seat on our side of the pushed-together tables. During the starter, she nudged my hand from the table top, grasped it and snuck it towards her inner thigh. She placed it carefully and rolled her legs apart enough that concealed heat spilled against my fingertips.
As gingerly as I could, I crept my hand closer to the source while still keeping up conversation and spooning in vegetable soup. Each millimetre ratcheted my heart rate until I feared someone would need to administer beta blockers.
Her inhalation when my fingers brushed her panties was thankfully covered by the clack of knives and forks and bubbly chatter. I recoiled, seared, but her sidelong glance was loaded with need and I slid to reconnect with the material. It was soaked.
Exploring her folds and appearing to remain calm from the waist up took more mental agility than I imagined. I pressed. Stroked. Pictured the stain blooming as I slipped a finger beyond one edge of the material and nearly came in my underwear. I dropped my spoon in the bowl and all eyes swivelled to me at the clatter. No way I could withdraw my fingertip from her slit without arousing suspicion so I sheepishly apologised to nobody in particular and repositioned my spoon properly.
When attention drifted away, I slithered my wet finger from her pussy and picked up my napkin with both hands from above the considerable tent in my trousers. Dabbing my mouth, she knew I was really breathing her scent and her eyes widened, staring down into her empty bowl.
After the waiters had cleared away the crockery, Leanne’s hand skimmed my thigh. Inched onto my lap. She scratched the mushroom head of my cock through the layers of fabric and placed her palm over it to grind and rub as they served the main course. I swear one of the staff raised an eyebrow as I leaned aside to accept my Christmas dinner, but couldn't be sure.
Leanne continued to torment my unending hard-on throughout dinner. Every time it began to wane between knife and forkfuls of food, she returned one hand to my lap. Walked, stroked, tapped or ground her fingers against me, ensuring I sprung back beneath her touches. I feared pre-cum had seeped through to stain my trousers.
When I finished my main, I drifted my hand between her legs again. Smeared leaking arousal from the bare strips of skin above her stay-ups across her underwear. I applied pressure to the centre and dug a pair of panty-covered fingers into her sopping pussy, gently fucking her as far as the material would allow.
She was desperately trying to remain calm for the benefit of public decency, but I could tell she was falling apart inside. The shape her mouth made, the whiteness of her knuckles gripping the table edge and shallowness of breaths gave her away between shaky laughs and one-word retorts for the benefit of appearances.
When her thighs clamped my hand, I knew she was close. Her body trembled until she released me, her chair scraped back and she made a show of leaving, scurrying to the bathroom.
Conversation flowed, much like I assumed the juices around her fingertips, the back of her head propped against a stall door, body arched as she finished what we'd started.
I met her sidelong glance when she returned. Relief was evident, and I smiled.
Even though she'd cum, it didn't seem enough. Dessert was as tense as earlier courses. Between spoonfuls of sorbet, she ran her fingertips up my thigh and circled the crown of my concealed dick. I thought I'd lose it at one point and would have to somehow explain the stain, but she mercifully held back, pre-cum simply oozing into my underwear.
By the time we’d paid, I was a wreck. Between the alcohol and raging erection, sneaking off to a nearby hotel was inevitable. As bad as it sounds, guilt didn’t even register. Or maybe it did but was eclipsed by lust.
The effervescent check-in clerk delivered picture perfect, blue-eyed hospitality; speared blonde bun, crisp business dress, and warm smiles, despite the way we giggled and tried not to paw one another beneath the eyeline of the countertop.
She flicked her eyes back and forth between us, light catching her garland of tinsel. “Do you need the room for the whole night?”
Leanne slapped my hand from squeezing her butt, tugged her phone case aside and took out her credit card. “Yes please...” she leaned in to squint at her name badge. “Holly.”
I giggled again and whispered to Leanne, “Festive. Like the spiky bush.”
Holly raised her eyebrow and I stood to attention. It didn’t occur to me until much later she might have thought I said I’d like her spiky bush. She processed the transaction and slid two key cards across, explaining, “One activates the power in the slot when you enter.” I reached to take them but she had them pinned to the desk beneath unpolished fingertips. We made eye contact. “Enjoy your stay.” Releasing them, I took both and we headed diagonally across the lobby to the lifts.
Eighth floor gave us enough time to slam against the mirrored back of the lift car and grope furiously under clothes, lips locked, tongues searching. Our bodies fused as floor numbers scrolled up and we didn't part even when the doors did, my fingers curled in Leanne’s drenched slit.
As the silver doors began to slide shut, I pulled away and shoved my foot out to interrupt them. Exited backwards, sucking my fingers clean.
She followed me through the fire door and three-quarters of the way down the flock-papered corridor to where I tapped the card against the lock of 808. The fact that almost opposite our door was a small alcove containing a vendie and an ice machine must have registered despite the sexual fog that closed in as the door hissed shut and latched.
The keycard didn't make it into the power slot. We didn't make it to the bed. Kicking off shoes, hopping to remove my socks and tearing off my trousers took longer than Leanne unzipping her skirt and hauling her top off to stand in just lingerie ahead of me.
Neither of us moved for what seemed an eternity. The last bastion of virtue, before it broke up under the waves of desire. Magnetism struck, and I paced into her space. She squealed as I span her around and marched her past the foot of the bed to the full-height window, slamming her palms into it above her head.
I circled her waist. Sank my teeth into her neck and she lolled her head aside to let my stubble scratch, bites peppering her smooth skin.
She rested her forehead against the glass as my hands slid to her panty crotch and rubbed wetness through them. I grew fully hard, pressing into her before nibbling my way to her shoulder and down her back, pausing to release her bra clasp, then tracing curves out to where the waistband of her panties nestled.
Sinking to my knees, I dragged her underwear with me, the bra tumbling to the floor as she repositioned her hands, one forearm across the glass in front of her forehead, the other snaking to her exposed gash.
My teeth found her exquisite arse. I grazed and bit, leaving darker circles that the moon and twinkling lights of the city ahead of us couldn't illuminate.
The intoxicating miasma of her arousal enveloped me as I peeled her cheeks apart and buried my face between them, tongue searching for and finding her drooling slit. She groaned against the window and stepped her stance a foot wider, fingers circling her needy nub.
I grabbed her ample flesh, lifted and let it bounce around my cheeks as I drew my hands away and crashed them into her buttocks. She howled and hissed, “Again,” as the heat released fresh arousal that I lapped clean.
Choosing a different area of her globes, I launched a volley of spanks and thought my cock was going to burst through the confines of my underwear at her encouraging cries. My heart thumped, I soothed the heat of the handprints and added more, begs rising from each gasp.
She dripped onto my tongue and I scooped everything I could reach, nose buried in the tight knot of her arse until I hauled free.
Standing, I stripped my boxers off, aligned my rigid prick with her folds and guided it up inside her. She groaned and rubbed her clit as our hips connected.
I set the pace, building thrusts until she huffed against the glass that she was cumming and her snatch rhythmically clenched around me. I wrapped her in a tight hug, slid one hand up to her opposite shoulder, nestling her throat in the crook of my elbow, and pulled.
Her hands flapped alongside us as she shrieked and continued to cum while I pounded into her sopping heat. Each thrust timed with the tugs at her throat practically lifted her to tiptoes as I growled in her ear, “Someone's on the very fucking naughty list,” and spurted inside her.
I don't know how long we stayed joined that way, just a sheet of glass between us and whoever the fuck cared to look across. But only when our legs shook did we disentangle and make our way to flop on the bed and snuggle up.
We explored our nakedness with fingertips and kisses. Rejuvenated until desire welled again and I crawled between her legs to feast on the sticky mess we’d made.
Lapping at her core, I scooped globs of spunk laced with her cream. Crawled up over her, sharing the mixture in dirty kisses, a loaded tongue at a time, until she was clean.
I began fluttering my tongue over her slick pussy lips and reawakened clit. Licked and devoured her as she arched off the bed to meet my face. It took a while to bring her to a second climax and I enjoyed teasing her almost to the edge and backing off, time and again.
She grew frustrated and more needy with each denial until she was writhing for me to finish her.
With a grin up at her lidded expression, I wrapped my mouth over her cunt and kissed furiously, probing my tongue deep, nose slathering her clit as she came beneath a series of rhythmic hard rasps, fists bunching the sheets.
I drank. Basked in her afterglow until she insisted I let her suck my cock. Who was I to argue? I knelt up and she repositioned on all fours, toying and nuzzling my gradually engorging hardness until it was ramrod straight for her to impale.
At a suitable pause to de-cramp our limbs, I fished over the bed and grabbed my belt from the floor. When she resumed sucking, I doubled up the leather and cracked it across her backside in time with each slurp. The vibrations of her moans at having her bottom whipped soon had me teetering on the edge of painting her throat.
She backed off and teased me, giving me a taste of what I'd done to her, until my cock was a twitching mess of pre-cum and saliva. I cursed but let her control. Lashed her behind, interrupting the smooth complexion. When her eyes slid up to mine and signalled I should cum, she jammed my meat down her throat and gurgled appreciation as I groaned and pulsed, thrashing her already striped bottom.