A Christmas Carol Ch. 01

Marley was dead, well he wasn't dead, but he was dead to me. His name wasn't even Marley or indeed Jacob but it doesn't quite fit the narrative.

Anyway it came as no surprise when his wife left him and his boys toys, the yacht and the motorbike and the motorcycle club, the Flaccid Bishops or whatever they were called, to come back home for Xmas.

Landing about 60 miles from home and walking through customs she was surprised to see her sister so stoney faced, barely cracking a smile. However, the news that their mother had been hospitalised was a setback. They drove back and little sister filled her in on the prognosis which meant that the old girl would probably be in for a month or more, then would need rehab at home, which meant that her daughter's month at home would probably stretch into February.

By the time they reached the quaint terraced house near the sea it was too late for hospital visiting. However, despite the jet lag it certainly wasn't too late to get fucked.

She waved goodbye to sis and the door was barely shut and the security chain on when she picked up the handset of the landline and dialled the number she knew off by heart. As it rang through she cleared her throat and immediately regretted it as her throaty option had now gone. Anyway she needed him to know it was her.

He picked up on the third ring and she tried her most seductive voice. "Well hello there."

She was kind of relieved when he laughed in immediate recognition. She hadn't told him when she would be back, it was better, well safer that way, so that the little prick back home would be left completely in the dark.

The next five minutes of the call were just a repeat of the last time and every other time she had come home: how was the flight? when did you get back? how was the traffic on the motorway? who picked you up? how long are you back for? And finally "what time can you be here?" with the added caveat of "you'd better pick up some pinot grigio because I've got no white wine in."

The penultimate one was fairly redundant as she briefly filled him in about her mother's operation and given she had the house to herself, perhaps he should come round to hers instead, with the retort of "don't forget the pinot and whatever you want. l'm going in the shower, I'll leave the key on a string inside the letterbox, just come straight up, and do not forget to bring the wine."

He sniggered and his balls tingled at the thought of being deep inside her in short order. He smiled to himself as she finished the sentence in a rather dominant tone. Even though they had been friends-with-benefits for more than a decade, it was only in the last few years that she had told him about her dominant side which had blossomed after getting in touch with a long standing admirer who both adored and worshipped her. He summised that probably wasn't difficult for a submissive man to do, she was after all, absolutely gorgeous; very pretty but in a self deprecating way, with an infectious laugh, which was sometimes a giggle, sometimes downright filthy and raucous, but delivered with near closed eyes, which made them look even more oriental than they were, but which most men, and it must be said, many many women found absolutely captivating. The nickname 'slanty eyes' which her best friend had given her when they were in infant school might be decidedly non PC these days but she revelled in it, even more so since she had gone for a corkscrew hairstyle and her submissive admirer had during a video call, picked up the guitar and serenaded her with the David Bowie lyric "screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo, like some cat from Japan."

Back at home from home, she had put the phone down and gotten the string from the telephone table, attaching the key to it and tied it to the eyelet above the letterbox, remembering to remove the security chain before she lugged her case and carry-on upstairs to her attic bedroom, pausing outside the bathroom and switching on the shower to allow the combi boiler to heat the water to above the lukewarm temperature her mother always left it on.

Once in her room she quickly looked round, fondly noting it had been thoroughly cleaned and the winter quilt laid out.

She stripped and left her travel clothes in a heap and ran down the stairs naked into the steamy bathroom and into the shower. She couldn't spend too long in there but quickly soaped up, nobody wanted to lick a sweaty cunt after all, and allowed the hot water to relax her tired muscles. Her hair wasn't too bad and could wait until morning and it shouldn't take her too long to freshen up her make up, not that she piled it on anyway.

No sooner had she dried off and freshened her lip gloss than she heard the rusty garden gate creak and quickly delved in her underwear drawer. She had left a brand new pair of black lace top holdups which her slave had sent her in the bottom of the drawer, broke the seal and paying attention to her red painted toenails to ensure she didn't ladder them slipped them on, pausing briefly to admire herself in the full length mirror, as she heard the key turn in the front door lock.

She opened the cupboard behind the mirror and selected her four inch red stilettos, slipping her feet into them as the bottom step of the staircase creaked, as it always did. She squirted one one short spray of her favourite perfume and sat on the bed. She crossed her legs waiting for him to step into the dimly lit room.

He surprised her by knocking on the door, something she would have insisted her slave did of course, but cleared her throat and said "Come," which she hoped he didn't do for at least an hour, and certainly not before she had. Twice.

The knock on the door had briefly took her mind back to the last session she had had with her slave when she had come five times, whilst denying him, edging him after each of her orgasms, and spanking him as a reward each time he tongued her to her own orgasm. When she did allow him to come the spunk had flown everywhere and he had collapsed to his knees between the twin queen beds of the airport hotel room.

Back in the present he opened the bedroom door and stepped in. He was simply dressed in a black shirt and jeans and the ever present wax jacket which she secretly hated wishing he would at least swap it for a bike jacket.

He walked towards her, white wine goblet in one hand, a bottle of real ale in the other and handed her the glass. He clinked the neck of the bottle on her glass and they both took a sip, well a swig in his case. The lemony zing made her frown and the first words spoken face to face was his apology that the local shop only had sauvignon blanc. She didn't mind, she liked sauvignon but had expected a lightly bubbly pinot.

Her frown quickly turned to a smile and she pursed her lips as he leaned in to kiss her and she slipped her tongue between their lips and breathed in deeply though her nose, savouring his after shave, even though her had a two day stubble on both his face and head.

The kiss was broken and her turned to put his bottle on the bedside locker, then began to undress. He kicked off his boots and flicked open his jeans, allowing them to fall to his ankles. She raised her eyebrows at the fact he was commando, even in December as his semi bobbed out in front of him, brushing the hem of his linen shirt. The jacket and shirt fell quickly to the floor and he took the bottle and another swig before turning to his right, his cock pointing straight at her face as he stepped closer.

She too took a sip and put the glass on the bedside locker whilst simultaneously wrapping her right hand around his thick cock, squeezing and pushing his foreskin back and forth ever so slowly. It seemed like more than five months since they had had sex but she had missed both the length and the girth, neither of which her slave nor her husband could match. In fact both of them had similarly sized cocks, although her slave's usually looked bigger, probably due to her insistence that his balls were always clean shaven and the rest of his blond pubes cropped right back.

She opened her mouth and he pushed forward taking his cock into her wet mouth, savouring the hardness of the head as her lips pushed on past his foreskin and down his shaft, the vein throbbing on her tongue as the slightly salty taste of his precum clung to her tastebuds.

"Oh god C, that is so good. So. Fucking. Good..."

Oh did I not say that's where she of the Christmas Carol comes in? Not that Dickens mentions it at all, or so I'm led to believe, although I will concede that he names his characters a bit sooner than I.

Carol loved, nay loves, cock-sucking. Not only cock sucking but sex in general, although she refuses to concede she's a nymphomaniac. I do not agree. And she likes nothing better than a faceful of cum, but not before she has been well and truly shafted.

She sucked up and down for a minute or two before lifting her head and withdrawing it almost entirely before turning her head to reach out for her glass and bringing it to her lips and letting the cold liquid dribble onto his cock. It took his breath away and she laughed and took a full mouthful swallowing some before taking his cock head again allowing the cold wine to run down his shaft making him catch his breath again.

She loved doing this with her slave but with ice cubes or crushed ice in her mouth. It was particularly good when his hands were tied tightly behind his back and his shaven cock and balls bound with red parachute cord. His gasps were always muted as he was either gagged with her knickers or the double ended dildo, the short end, a large cock head, in his mouth and the thick eight inch dildo curving slightly upwards.

So where do the ghosts come in? I hear you ask. Basically they are they men from her past, present and of course the one who is yet to come. But come where? You'll just have to open the next window of the Advent Calendar and find out.

Continued in Chapter Two.