tagIllustratedWashing Up

Washing Up


Constance Garret stood by the kitchen sink. Dishes were piled high all about her, but then again it was Christmas Day. And all eight of her children and twelve of her grandchildren were packed into her tiny two bedroom flat for the day along with half a dozen or so friends and acquaintances from the school where she had taught for almost three decades. Their laughter drifted into the room as her gloved hands sank deeper into the hot, sudsy water.

She should be happy. She knew that. But after thirty-two years married to the same man, she would give herself a break that this first Christmas without him. Duncan had been a wonderful husband: kind, a good provider, a wonderful father and not too bad as a lover.

That was the other thing that his absence reminded her. It had been too long since her mature body felt the touch of a lover. At fifty-one, she was still a passably handsome woman. Of course, she was no longer the fresh young beauty that had first attracted her husband. Perhaps her size sixteen curves did not appeal to everyone, but still perhaps after ten months of mourning his loss she should consider seeking her pleasure somewhere. Duncan might be dead, but she most certainly was not.

She smiled secretively as she watched thee snow falling outside. She had kept her promise to him. Her special apron that she had sewn for their first Christmas together was tied about her waist. But beneath her soft slip, the conservative red satin skirt and plain white blouse, she wore the same attire that she had from the beginning. A white lace bra with slits that exposed her dark nipples, a matching garter belt and stockings. No knickers.

Just that this year, it all seemed pointless. Santa would not be stopping by to grope a feel of her wet pussy. Thick fingers would not torment her until she collapsed over the sink in a powerful orgasm. Not this year...never again.


Paul Windsor stared at the long, thin box that was neatly wrapped in the bright, metallic paper. He read the card once more as his best friend's oldest son went on to deliver the next gift to another reveler. He recognized the writing even if it were a bit messier than usual. Those last few months, Duncan had been so weakened by the cancer that ate away at his once brilliant brain.

Paul choked round the tightness that his friend's death always brought. It was fresh, but also the reminder of another loss. His own wife Margaret had been dead almost a decade now. Another victim to this nasty monster that turned one's body's own regenerative powers against it, causing cells to divide and grow unchecked until they choked out healthy ones, choked the life itself from its victims.

It was a reminder of how short life really was. At fifty-five, he did not feel old. His mind in its prime and his body still hanging on to its vitality, even if not quite as buff as it had once been. He had tried dating a couple of years after his wife's death, but he had never found a woman that interested him. Not the way she did. But then again, she was off limits. His best friend's girl.

He pushed the thought aside as he tore open the envelop and read the few scrawled words. 'I don't think I need to give you instructions on how to use this. She should be in the kitchen now. Go give her the Christmas present that all naughty girls get. Dunc.'

Paul stared at the words for a long moment. He dared not read more into them than his friend had meant. The box probably held nothing more than some bracelet or trinket for the dead man's wife. But his mind could not help but remember another Christmas.


He and Margaret had stopped by with their children on Boxing Day. Not only were the couples the best of friends but their growing young broods seemed to be the perfect match as well. Their oldest sons were playing the new Atari that Duncan had bought for his children. Their daughters hid in their rooms playing with dolls just their mothers sipped tea, nursed new babies and chatted in the kitchen.

The men watched a game of football on the telly and discussed their work as investment bankers in the city. This year had been tough. The new Prime Minister's austerity measures were hitting everyone hard, even the middle class.

"So what did you get, Connie for Christmas? I almost cleared out the savings to get Margaret the tennis bracelet she wanted."

The other man laughed, "You really need to take my advice, begin training that woman." He picked up the pint of ale on the table next to him and drained it. "I got her the same thing she gets every Christmas. A new metal spatula."

Paul frowned at him, but his friend just winked, "And a spanking from Santa for not washing up quick enough."


He fought to control the raging erection in his slacks just as he had all those years ago. The image of Constance Garret's lush bottom blazing red from a spanking was not what he needed to be thinking about in a room full of their friends, her children and grandchildren. Paul suddenly felt old. Like a very dirty old man.

He sighed and slowly began to peel back the paper from the plain white gift box. He would take his time, give his body the chance to recover from the naughty images filling his mind. But as he lifted the lid, he took in a deep breath and frowned. At the shiny, metal spatula resting among the leaves of red tissue paper.

Merry Christmas, old friend, he thought as he smiled at her youngest son, who sat next to him. Making his excuses, he said, "I'll just go see if I can help your mother with the washing up."


Connie placed the last of the dinner plates in the sink to soak for a moment. She bent over to check the Christmas pudding warming in the oven along side sheets of biscuits in festive shapes. Her grandchildren could ice and decorate those while the adults enjoyed the flaming brandy flavored dessert. She smiled as she pulled the cookies from the oven, setting them on the counter to cool. She turned down the temperature on the pudding so that it would not burn as she did the last of the washing up.

The nostalgia gripped her, an actual tightening in her chest reminded her why they called it a broken heart. Her hand sank into the hot water once, but she almost dropped the plate when she felt the slight chill of her skirt being lifted.

"Do not turn around," the gruff voice commanded from behind her. Her heart stuttered in her chest at the shock. Not since that first Christmas together had she truly been surprised by this little game. But Duncan was dead. Who was it running the cold metal back and forth across the bare flesh of her bottom?

She looked up into the window, tried to make out the images reflected in the dark night. But his head was bent behind her back. And his voice was so low and gravelly that she could not immediately discern its owner.

"Have you been bad again this year?" it asked.

She tried to control the erratic pounding in her chest. Was she really playing this familiar game in her kitchen with some stranger? Well, it was unlikely to be an actual stranger. The only people here today were her family and a few close friends. She frowned and her hand came up to cover her lips at the sharp intake of breath.

That could only mean that Duncan had shared their little secret with one of their friends. Her cheeks blazed red at the thought of someone else knowing of their perversion. And with her strict Catholic upbringing that was how she always felt of this little game, even if Father Thomas had only chuckled at her confession each year.

But despite the embarrassment, or perhaps because of it, she felt wetness gathering between the soft folds of her freshly shaven pussy. Her nipples hardened and rubbed against the soft polyester of her slip. She jerked a bit as she felt the first soft blow land on her bare left buttock.

"I asked you a question, slut," the voice reminded her.

Duncan had never used such foul language with her. She knew that she ought to turn around now. Dismiss this person as crude and uncouth, ask him to leave her home, heap words of guilt for betraying her husband's confidence and taking advantage of her like this. But the tingling awareness in her clitoris seemed to override all those ought-to's.

She feared for her sanity as she realized that she had never been more aroused than she was at that moment. Slut. Slag. Whore. Beneath all her polite upper-middle class rules and manners that was exactly what she was and in that moment it broke free of a lifetime of rules.

"Yes," she moaned, far louder than she should. "I'm a naughty girl. A dirty little slag." Her words were greeted with silence as her mystery lover ran the cold metal across her hot skin.


Paul's hand froze in mid-stroke. His friend had shared enough of this little game to know that despite her almost eager participation, Connie always held something back. Maintain her decorum as it were. But the woman shivering in his arm had no such decorum. She wild. Free. Pure sex. And more than he had ever dreamt possible.

If some part of his mind rebelled, wondered if perhaps he was not abusing his oldest friendship, he pushed it aside. He would deal with those doubts. Later.

Right now, he had the hottest woman he had ever fantasized about inches from him. He could even smell the sweet scent of arousal wafting from between those generous thighs. "Open your legs, slut. Santa wants to see how naughty you are?"

The sane part of him was surprised at how quickly she obeyed, but the beast that was in complete control now only smiled sadistically at her compliance. He lunged the spatula between her spread thighs. Drew it slowly along the slightly parted cleft of her womanhood. He smiled as he saw the thick cream coating the metal surface.

"Santa's little whore is very naughty this year. He's never seen such a messy cunt." He rose slowly, carefully to keep his features hidden in the soft grey-blond curls that fell about her shoulders. He brought the instrument around to her face, pressed it to her lips. "Wash this up, slut."

He felt her hand cover his around the metal handle. She tried to push it down towards the water, but he stopped her. "Not like that. Lick it clean. Lick your nasty cunt juices off like the slag you are."

She stilled in his arms and for a moment he feared that he had taken their game too far. But then he felt her lifting the tool once more towards her lips.


Connie froze as the cold metal met her lips. Was she really going to do this? Was she actually going to taste her own fluids? Her nasty cunt juices as he called them? But the pounding of her heart that filled her addled brain told her the truth even before she parted her lips and tasted the slightly salty fluids that over road the metallic taste of the spatula. She smiled a bit. It actually was not as bad as she had thought as she finished cleaning it off.

"Good girl," Santa purred down the back of her neck. His other hand came up to squeeze and knead her left breast. His fingers found the hard nipple protruding against the material. He pinched it, harder than she had ever experienced. She let out a muffled yelp of surprise.

"That will never do, slut. What would your children think if they came in her now? Mummy's skirt lifted high, showing her bare arse. Letting Santa feel her up like the whore she is. You don't want that now do you?" he whispered.

She shook her head in horror at the image. But still some part of her recognized the eroticism.

"I think we need something to shut you up, don't' you, whore?" Suddenly the oven mitt that she had used to take the cookies out was pressed against her lips. "Open up, slut."

Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as the rag was pressed deep down her throat. It had not gotten much use over the years. Usually once a year, after their special little game, she had tried her best to please Santa. Taking Duncan's cock as deep down her throat as her strong gag reflex would allow. But the mitt was pressed far deeper than her normally gentle husband had dared go.

But their game was not over yet. "How bad have you been, slut? Ten?" She nodded at the accepted number of quick lashes on her bare bottom. "No, ten is not enough for a whore like you. How about thirty? Maybe even fifty?" She shook her head violently from side to side as the hand that had been torturing her tit, suddenly gather both of hers and drew them up behind her back. His body leaned into her, pushing her against the edge of the counter, pinning her.


Paul snuck a quick glance at their reflection in the window. Her eyes were wide with fear as she shook her perfectly coiffed head from side to side loosened the curls. He would have backed off then, called it a day, apologized perhaps. Except he could feel the need strumming through her body. Need as deep as his own.

He had never really taken these games that far. Oh, he had read plenty of porn about Domination and submission. One of the women he had dated briefly had even had a fetish for this sort of thing. But it had not felt right. Not like this did. Nothing had ever felt this right.

"Close your eyes," he commanded. "Twenty. This year you deserve twenty spankings on that luscious arse."

He felt her relax a bit at his pronouncement. She even managed to nod her head in agreement before the first blow fell soundly on her upturned derrière. Nine more soon followed suit until her bottom was turning the most delicious pink, the exact color of a rare steak.

He could not resist. He laid the kitchen implement on the counter next to them. His hand caressing the heated surface of her skin, moving over it slowly and sensuously until she was moaning and writhing in his arms. He bent further placing a sacred kiss on each glowing cheek. She purred at this. Then he picked up the spatula and began the process again. Delivering ten more quick lashes.


Connie shivered. She was not sure how much more she could take of this. Not only was twenty twice as many as Duncan had ever dared deliver, but Santa used far more power in each stroke than her beloved husband ever had. So why was her body more aroused than it had ever been in her whole life she wondered as she waited for the next blow to land.

She heard the sound of metal hitting the hard tile surface of her kitchen floor. Then she felt the soft caressing of her bruised and burning flesh once more. "Good girl," Santa growled once more, this time his breath heated the abused flesh even more. But he followed that with soft kisses and gentle licks that soothed and comforted the inferno.

She was not sure how long they stayed like that. Time lost meaning. But suddenly she felt the brush of her polyester slip and the heaviness of her stain skirt lowering over her tormented bottom. Santa tugged them down, smoothing everything back into perfect place.

"Give me two minutes, then bring the Christmas puddings out." She jumped at the almost playful swat on her now covered arse. But it was enough to make her jump, the early spanking leaving her flesh tender. "Don't be late or there will be another twenty," Santa whispered.


Paul shifted uncomfortably in the hard chair as he watched her serving guest after guest the rich pudding, smiling as she poured the rich cream before moving onto the next person. By the time she reached him, his cock was harder than the wooden chair upon which he sat.

She bent and smiled just as she had with all the other guests. His heart fell just a bit. She really must not have guessed who her special Santa was. The sane part of his mind knew that was probably for the best. This was after all just his best friend's way of reaching back from the grave, making this first Christmas without him more palatable for the woman he had loved for most of his life. Paul had no more part in all of this than the spatula had. Just an instrument in the game between this couple.

"Thank you, Constance," he smiled as she began to pour the cream.

She smiled back at him, "No, thank you, Santa," she whispered. "Stick around later and I'll unwrap the yule log for you." She said as she winked and moved onto the next guest.

Paul's hand was shaking as he lifted the fork of dessert to his mouth. He did not taste a thing, but it was delicious. "Merry Christmas, old friend," he whispered as he lifted his fork.


It was hard for Duncan Garret the Third not to laugh as he watched his mother almost spill the cream over the man's lap. The satisfied smiles on both their faces confirmed that he had chosen well, which of his father's friends to gift with his greatest treasure. His father had been embarrassed but just days before his death he still had not figured out who to give this special Christmas present. He had written the card weeks before, but now he was too weak to wrap the gift.

Instead he had turned to his oldest son. It was not like he did not know about his parents' little game. He had made the mistake of barging into the kitchen when he came home from university one Christmas. His father had merely winked and nodded his head towards the door. At first he had been disgusted that his seemingly average parents partook of such defiance, but over the years as he grew older, married and had children of his own, he had come to recognize the special bond that this ritual held for them.

And now? Well, his father had never wanted his mother to spend the rest of her life grieving. Holding onto the past, the way their friend had for a decade. But perhaps his surprising choice this holiday might kill two birds one with stone. He thought this father would like that. "Here's to you, old man. Wherever you are," he said as he lifted his glass of sherry.

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