I used to love Christmas parties in my previous job working at an office. Those were my kind of people: down-to-earth, chatty, witty. The Christmas party was just one of the many excuses to get together, get shit-faced, giggle and dance through the night.
Now, I’m a freelancer and on top of having to do my own taxes and pay my own pension, I really do miss those work dos.
So, I decided that unlike many previous years I will go to my husband’s. I knew it wouldn’t be anything close to the parties I was used to. Hubby warned me that most of his colleagues are pretty stuck up and it will be more like a formal ball than a drunken fest. But he likes free drinks and as his mum was staying with us for three weeks in the Christmas period, we didn’t have to worry about babysitters. I thought it would be fun playing his picture-perfect, sophisticated wife just this once.
The venue, the decorations, the meal and dress code were all so showy and pretentious, they left very little doubt that I had absolutely nothing in common with this crowd. Think sixteen-foot Christmas tree, that you can’t even see from the head-sized baubles and giant, tacky, glittery bows. Maybe the company did make six-seven figures a year, but in my eyes, their pride and joy was still just a well-dressed, dull and dusty factory.
I knew only a handful of people: my husband’s bosses and a few couples who lived in our neighbourhood.
“How are the boys?” I asked Sarah, whose twin boys went to the same school as our son. It took quite an effort not to sound too bored-off-my-head. Then, of course, we started talking about kids which was the last fucking thing I wanted to talk about.
With the rest of them, it was even worse. “How terribly cold the weather’s been...” “Have you finished wrapping presents yet?” For some reason, they all felt the need to boast about the new, trendy toys they bought for their offspring. Was I a bit smug when I replied that my kids are too old for gifts and are getting experiences instead? Maybe. I’m not too popular at parties. Not these kinds of parties anyway.
I couldn’t even drink much as I didn’t want to embarrass my dear prestigious husband. He was seemingly having a good time having some banter with his workmates. I didn’t want to nag him to go home just yet, but I was starting to realise that coming here was a bad idea. Even watching Disney with the kids at home would have been better than this.
Trying to pass time, at some point I was standing by the punch bowl, absentmindedly trying to scoop out the last remaining clementine slices, when I felt a shadow emerging over me. When I turned around my heart stopped for a few seconds as a very familiar face greeted me “Hi, Kat.”
I stared straight at him blushing because for the life of me I couldn’t quite place his handsome face.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked with a devilish smirk.
“I...I do, just ...”
“Mmm, do you?” he probed again, his voice like the soft rumble of distant thunderstorms. He narrowed his eyes wolfishly and bit the inside of his lips, seemingly rolling that tiny bit of flesh between his canines.
“Fuck.”
Like fast rewinding an old video tape, all the memories come flooding my tipsy, woolly brain. Series of overwhelmingly carnal images flash in front of my eyes: his strong hold on my wrists, around my neck, his possessive rough kisses, the taste of his fingers in my mouth, the same gnarly voice as he told me to get on my knees...
How could I have forgotten that voice?
...Looking up to him with eyes pleading for more...
Then I catch myself staring at him the same way and I swallow hard.
“I see you do, indeed,” he grins jubilantly. His soft whisper of “Good girl” spins my head 360 degrees. I have to grab onto the side of the buffet table for support, almost pulling off the fancy gold-laced red tablecloth, as my legs seem to suddenly turn to jelly.
“Please what?” he questions revelling in my discomfort. I have heard that request before... That night, when he made me beg for his cock. My body burns with shame as I recall how he made me lick his shaft through thick denim, how he gave me a playful slap across my cheek for leaving a wet patch. Holding my hair in his strong grip, he had me spend agonising minutes that seemed like hours, just licking his deliciously smooth balls until I was out of my head with dripping need. Watering at my mouth, I remember how huge he is and how he made me gag and choke on him and how fucking much I loved it. That flashback floods much more than just my brain.
All of that filth is so out of place here. As if it never happened or only happened in a distant previous life. Or as if it wasn’t even me, just some very dirty, very kinky porn clip I watched(= masturbated to weeks on end till all the fine details burned into my memory).