As we approach Christmas, I have been horrified to find that some people I considered to possess excellent taste consider a Christmas pudding to be superior to a Yule log. I’m being as serious with this statement as one can be about festive desserts, of course, but the debate sparked an idea. To correct the whole of Twitter, though, the perfect Christmas sweet treat is a mince pie, and if anyone writes me a piece of erotica involving mince pies they will be declared The Best.
“You’re objectively wrong,” I tell you, and you turn to face me with a suitably confused expression. I hold out my phone as means of explanation.
“You’ve tweeted that you think Christmas pudding is better than Yule log. You’re objectively wrong.”
“You can’t exactly be objective about the best Christmas dessert,” you point out, “but hypothetically, if you could then the Christmas pudding would be objectively better.”
I shake my head mournfully, trying to hide my smirk. “It’s terribly sad, how wrong you are…”
You smile, beginning to catch on to the fact I must have something in mind. “Oh yes? Can you prove that, by any chance?”
“Actually I can,” I tell you, stepping closer and placing my phone carefully out of the way on the kitchen table. “I think I can very much convince you that Yule log is a far superior choice.”
You lean back against the table, grinning. “Go in then. Convince me.”
I step closer, smirking openly now.
“Imagine coming through in the morning and seeing me, wearing one of your shirts. My cunt is bare, and you stand there in the doorway watching me, hoping I’ll bend over so you can get a glimpse.” I try to keep my voice as low and seductive as possible. “Then you spy the long length of ribbon – yes, the one I tied your cock up in last night, you looked so pretty – on the table, and the opened Yule log sitting on a plate next to it.”
“Uh hu?” There is curiosity and, I hope, a hitch that can be attributed to arousal in his voice. I continue.
“You’re already half hard – you woke up to find the bed empty of my cute little arse to push your morning boner into – so me naked but for your shirt, bending over to expose my cunt. Wouldn’t it be?” I step closer again, looking up at you. Obligingly, you nod. I haven’t quite got you under my spell yet, though.
“You want to fuck me, but not just an ordinary bread-and-butter fuck. We haven’t had time alone together for a few days, because it’s Christmas and life is chaotic and there are gifts to buy and projects to finish up, and as much as we wish they didn’t these things have got in the way of sex. You want a Christmas dinner of a fuck. Your cock begins to harden as you work out what would make up for all those evenings we weren’t in together.”
I move closer to you again, reaching out to touch your dick, which is straining against your jeans.
“I’m not aware of you yet, so you’re just watching quietly. I’m surprised when you cross the kitchen I’m three quick strides and spin me around, kissing me roughly. I respond eagerly, melting into your arms.”
I stand up on tip toe to press the lightest of kisses against your lips, knowing I’ve won at the small sound you make in your throat as I pull away. I keep talking.
“You keep kissing me, half picking me up as you get me into position. You bend me over the table, and I’m hoping for a spanking –”
“Of course you are,” you interrupt, “right now you’d want me to bend you over in the middle of Tesco to spank you.”
“Yeah,” I admit, rubbing my hand against your cock through the denim. “Maybe. But not the point. Instead, though, you take the ribbon and tie my hands behind my back. Your hand is on the small of my back, pushing me down. I’m squirming underneath you, but eager to see what you have planned.”
I lean even closer, so I’m all but whispering in your ear now. You feel my breath hot against your cheek, and I can hear the tiny sounds that give away how turned on you are.
“I’m wet, you’re hard, and we’re both horny. You mutter filthy words in my ear and call me a good girl as you hold me down. You fuck me from behind: hard, fast, trying to satisfy your hunger. With my arms tied behind me, you’re very much in control. You hold nothing back, thrusting deep inside me, and my moans spill out, filling our kitchen.”
I begin undoing your jeans, knocking your greedy hands away, because I want to be the one to release your cock.
“You call me a filthy girl, and tell me to shut up so you can enjoy the sensations of fucking your toy. I try to muffle my whimpers of pleasure but you begin fucking me harder, deeper. Then, almost before I realise what you’re doing, you’re reaching forward and taking a messy handful of the chocolate Yule log. Before I can stop you, you’re shoving the cake into my mouth. He thrusts inside me again, and I choke on the chocolate stickiness. I gag and struggle, and you smear the rest of the handful over my face.”
I’m holding your dick now, stroking it gently. Your hands are roaming over me, squeezing my arse and boobs, and your eyes hold a hungry, desperate look as you look down at me. I grin up at you.
“The sticky chocolate is overwhelming, and there I’m chocking on the cake and fuck, there is so much food smeared across my face… I’m embarrassed, humiliated, and so turned on. I’m writhing underneath you my cunt twitching around your cock.”
I move my hand faster, jerking you off with the practiced skill of someone who knows your dick maybe not as well as you, but has made a point of studying it.
“Your chocolate covered fingers are trying to push more Yule log into my mouth. My cunt clenches as I gag, and you’re coming inside me…”
You let out small groan as my hand speeds up again and you’re coming in my hand, spunk spurting over my fingers. When I’ve finished milking your cock, I bring a finger to my lips to slowly suck it clean.
“Like that?” I ask you, and you nod, unable to speak in that post-orgasm second of satisfaction.
“Really hot,” you tell me when you’ve regained your words. “Fucking you from behind and making you choke on chocolate cake? Really, really hot.”
I flash you my most adorable smile.
“The thing I don’t get, though, is how that is supposed to convince me that Yule log is superior?”
I reach up and kiss you before I answer, enjoying the stickiness of your come between us.
“Because even if I would let gag me and fuck me with Christmas pudding – which I wouldn’t – do you really think it would be as sexy?”
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.