I fucking love the smell of a real pine tree – second only to that of mince pies in the hierarchy of Christmassy smells. I wish I could be celebrating Fuckmas today, rather than Christmas, so here is a wee bit of smut for anyone else who’d rather be somewhere else this year. Happy whatever you’re celebrating!
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The strong smell of pine hits me when I let myself into our flat, and I grin. If I can smell pine, my loveperson must be back, and I will soon be able to bury my face in something I love even more than Christmas trees. After a week, I’m desperate to push my nose in the hair above my partner’s cock and inhale deeply.
It seems like they’ve been thinking something similar, because as soon as I step through the door they are on me. The kiss is ruthless and demanding; I’m breathless when I pull away.
“Hey,” I say, smiling up at them. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too. But you’ve been a good girl for me, haven’t you?”
“You got us a Christmas tree.”
“That’s not the only thing I brought home, though,” they say, their hand gripping my neck and forcing my head to turn. A tiny whine escapes me. I thought they was joking when they said they would cut some of these (to make me scream) too.
Willow branches – or maybe birch. Either way, perfectly prepared to use on my arse.
“Were you a good girl for me?” they ask again, and I blush and look down.
“No, little slut?”
“I touched myself this morning, when I woke up to your texts. You had said so many filthy things and I was so wet and I was rubbing my cunt before I was properly awake.”
“You disobeyed me, little slut? Was that because you didn’t think I’d make good on my promise? Or because you’re a dirty wee brat who wants me to punish her?”
I push my face into their chest, blushing. They’re right, but I hate how they say all of my fantasies aloud, just to make me squirm and show they know exactly how filthy I am.
Their hand twists in my hair, pulling it sharply. I gasp.
“What was that?”
“Sorry – fuck you sir.”
“Better, but not now. Later, I’ll lie back and let you fuck my cock nice and hard with that pretty little cunt of yours. But first take off your jeans – I want you bent over the arm of the sofa.”
My cunt pulses at the words. I quickly strip, biting my lip the way they lean against the doorframe and eye-fuck me while I undress is so fucking hot. Their gaze is dark and possessive, as though they’re already calculating how they’ll reduce me to a whimpering mess with precise birch strokes.
I bend over, but – sadistic bean that they are – they make me wait. I try to relax, to get ready to accept the pain I know is coming, but I am a mess of adrenaline and arousal and anticipation. I moan when they run the birch rod down my back: I’m braced for stingy pain, not the drawn-out sensation of the moment before they hurt me.
And they do. Fuck, it really hurts. For a few seconds I think I’ll be able to take it, and then the intensity of the impact increases indefinably and I realise they were just warming up. A birching makes me wail when they lay down stroke after stroke on my ass, then mewl when they stop for a minute, just to scrape their nails down my quickly reddening cheeks, setting every inch of my skin alive with fiery pain.
I beg them to stop and I beg them for more, and I whimper when they press against me so I can feel their hard cock through their trousers. It’s that, knowing how much this turns them on, that let’s me surrender to the birching. I cry out as the strikes come, stingy and fast, and it takes me a while to realise that it has stopped, and instead their hand is on the small of my back. That gentle touch reminds me how to breathe again.
The only thing I’m aware of, apart from the burning pain in my arse and their hand on my back, is the overwhelmingly Christmassy smell of the as-yet-undecorated pine tree.
Masturbation Monday is run by the fabulous Kayla Lords. Click on the logo to see what everyone else is getting off to this week.
If you have enjoyed my festive filth over the last few weeks, please consider supporting by buying me a coffee:
Image sourced through Pixabay. In this story, I have used ‘loveperson’ as a gender neutral word for boyfriend/girlfriend because the story features a non-binary dominant bean.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex blogger. He’s a sex nerd with vaginismus who writes about his adventures in learning to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks. For his less explicit content on trans inclusivity, check out whatsinyourpants.co.