Happy Holidays to all of you!  Here’s some Christmas-inspired Clit Lit.  I hope however your day went today, whatever family drama you may have had, you can now lay in your bed and get off to this story.  Enjoy!

 

All I Want for Christmas is You blared from my television like the stereotypical event this would become.  I wore an ugly sweater that I found at a Holiday market–a hand appliquéd reindeer with jingle bells on the antlers and a squeak-able nose that had all but turned me into this season’s Pillsbury Dough Boy.  I had not thought that part through.  I wore it all over leggings because I was too lazy for real pants.    I’d just gotten over what we’d been calling “Christmas Plague” at the office.  Christmas Plague was a weird mix between strep throat and a stomach virus, both ends.  In short, I was not appetizing.

Which is why I was surprised.  Surprised, as I was on my knees over a rubbermaid tupperware bin of ornaments that I was fishing through to find the right one, to have my ass cheek bitten.

“Ow!” I shrieked.  I looked back and you were staring at the ceiling.  I snorted.  “What?” You asked, looking at me with a grin that stretched from cheek to cheek.  “It was there!  It was there, in my face!  It looked good!  I imagined it would be crisp, like an apple!”

I rolled my eyes in an over-exaggerated head fling and went back to the ornaments.  But this time I popped my ass in the air, welcoming another sneak attack if you were willing to give it.

It wasn’t a bite this time, but more of a firm caress.  There was nothing hesitant about it, that’s what I like about you.  There’s always spring-loaded power behind every touch, like maybe you’re going to lift your hand and slap.  But maybe not.  I leaned into it, loving the tingling that followed your fingers around.  I know what dogs must feel like when you scratch their ears–it was all I could do not to motor my back leg or just flop over.  My shoulders came down from their thrones by my ears and set down my back.  And then you did slap me, like you got the memo I sent with my hopes and thoughts.  It smarted like elastic through the tight black fabric.

“I like your sweater,” you said, and I could hear the smile like icicles adorning each word.

“Shut up.”

“No, really.  If Aunt Mildred pokes you in the stomach one more time, I might piss myself laughing.”

“Because the murder of your Aunt Mildred will be funny?” I asked, falsely wide-eyed.

“Hysterical,” you said as you grabbed me by the ankles and pulled me toward you on my stomach.  The squeaker in my sweater rubbed against the carpet and my skin and gave me a rub that I knew would result in little red bumps.  Before I could protest, I felt your lips against my right hip.  That’s another thing I like about you.  You don’t kiss wet.  You kiss open, with your lips in a moving oh so that you draw rings of fire on me.  But they’re never sloppy.  If they were, my leggings would be cold against me.

You trace your lips in circles.  Circles are sexy.  Probably because they include curves.  You pulled my hips from the floor, propping my ass up over my knees again and sitting back to admire your work. I sensed you nodding but before I could make fun of you, your fingers were between my legs.  I gasped.

I could feel everything through the fabric and I contemplated how thin my sorry excuse for pants was.  But only for a second as you traced circles with your fingers instead of your lips.  You pinched and pulled a little.  That’s another thing I like. Not about you specifically, just in general.

“Honey, what if Aunt Mildred sees?  What if she comes down the stairs?” I gasp again.

You snorted.  “Did you see how hard she was hitting that eggnog?  She’s going to sleep like it’s the day after Saint Patrick’s day.” And you worked your hand under my Christmas sweater, thankfully ignoring the squeaker lump.  You pulled me up against you and I was surprised.

“You’re packing,” I accused and smiled.

“Yep.”

I could feel the smooth bump in your jeans, something not abnormal but certainly special.  I rubbed my ass on your shaft through the denim and you groaned.  Made kind of an mfph sound.  It was cute and I smiled.  Your hand found my nipple and I gasped, jerking up against you.

“Get me wet first, beautiful.”

Your body pulled back from mine and I felt the area just under my ribs droop in a frown–I was sad to not feel you up against me.  But as soon as your other hand found its way under my leggings, I wasn’t so sad about it anymore.  Sometimes you tease, but not tonight.  The sensitive skin on your fingers met my clit right away and that’s how I knew you were impatient.  Hungry for me.  You started hard, thumbing me fast and it was all I could do to keep from screaming.  I bit my lip.

You bit my shoulder.  Hard enough that I knew I’d have a mark and I liked it.  You hummed into my skin and I felt the vibrations begin there, by your lips, just above my shoulder blade.  The sound made my body wave and liquify; like good, loud music.  For just twenty-six seconds your fingers left and I mourned their loss.  But you lifted your head from my back and I heard your lips part and I knew you were licking them, humming still with the satisfaction of tasting me.

“Better than any Christmas cookie.”  You chuckled, and then plunged your fingers into me, slick.  My leggings were down around my ankles–when had they gotten there?  I never remember feeling them pulled down.

I pushed back against you.  “More,” I said.

“Greedy,” you replied.

“Come on, it’s Christmas,” I whined.

“Not for another nine minutes.”

“You are not making me wait nine minutes,” I said as I pushed myself back against her fingers, then pulled myself forward only to ram myself backward again.

“You’re right, I’m not.”

“Come on, beautiful.  Fuck me.”

You switched your fingers to my clit and took your other hand from my chest.  I heard the very distinct sound of an unzippering zipper and the heavy weight of your cock against the seam.

“Please?” You reminded me.

“Please,” I obliged.

And without the normal torture of feeling you circle me without entering, you pulled my ass toward you by my hips and filled me to your thickest.  It was wonderful.

I couldn’t bite back the scream without something in my mouth, so I grabbed fist-fulls of the red felt tree skirt and let my teeth sink into it, ignoring the generous helping of pine-needles I also wound up with.

“Fuck,” you said.  “Fuck, I can feel every inch of you.  Don’t you dare stop.”

What you didn’t want me to stop was switching my hips up and down.  I imagined you watching me, your cock sliding and how red and pink I was.  I imagined you seeing the dimples in my sides made by your fingers.  And I imagined the look on your face that goes with being unable to tease, to wait.  The intense stare coupled with the flick of your tongue licking your lips.  The almost decadent feeling of that motion, the feeling of tongue on lips.  I was fine imagining your vantage up until you started with that satisfied humming again.

I started to squirt and I felt the moment shift into a temporary panic.  I screamed, thankfully muffled by the tree skirt, and I felt you reach up and pluck a savior fruit from the nearest couch–the ugliest Christmas blanket I have ever laid eyes on.  You whisked it underneath me and just like that Aunt Mildred would never know that I ejaculated all over her living room.  I love that you never stop me from coming all over the surrounding environment or important possessions.  You always find ways to make it work.

You kept me coming, slapping my clit soft with your palm.  I twitched and jerked and screamed and screamed and screamed into the tree skirt, twisting up until it no longer looked fit to belong under the tree.  I loved feeling the muscles in your legs twang and imagining what that would look like.

By the time I had pulled my leggings back up, you were looking at your watch.  “It’s officially Christmas,” you said.  And you looked down.  “Also, you came on Santa’s face.” And we laughed until we couldn’t breathe to laugh anymore, trying to cover our mouths so we wouldn’t snort into the dark house and wake Aunt Mildred or anyone else. I wanted this moment to be only ours without any scrambling or sheepish blushing.

“Thank the good baby Jesus for washers and dryers,” I said.

“Yeah.” You paused.  “Why did you bring the tub of ornaments, anyway?  Aunt Mildred certainly has enough up.”

“Well,” I said, and I put knees on the ground and bent over the box, sticking my ass in the air again.  “Are you complaining?  Merry Christmas.”

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