Christmas on a Stic

You've been after me all evening to open your Christmas gift to me as soon as the others had left—and this after you'd pestered me about what I wanted for Christmas even after I'd given you that flippant answer. It had just been an expression, something to stave you off after you'd put me off that last time and then wouldn't accept that I didn't need anything for Christmas.

You'd had this Christmas Eve party at your place and insisted that I be there and that I stay after to help you clean up. And then you sent me into the kitchen to open the present, saying you wanted me to do that when I was alone.

So, here I am, in the kitchen, and listening to you hum, obviously very pleased with yourself, in the other room while you pick up empty glasses and food trays. And I'm opening the present. I haven't brought you anything, but now I'll have to think of something—something I can say just hasn't arrived yet. It's not that I didn't want to get you something, but I haven't been sure where we stood. I've wanted you and you've thought of one excuse after the other to put me off. What do you get someone for Christmas who you pine to fuck but who continually says he isn't ready for that?

"Oh, very funny, Don," I call into the other room when I've got the present open. "I didn't even know they made condoms in candy cane colors."

No answer from the other room. And I'm such a dummy. I think it's just a gag gift. I miss the whole point.

I open the door and move into the other room, repeating that I have appreciated the joke—when, of course, I haven't, really—when I stop there dead in my tracks.

There, stretched out on a bear rug between a roaring fire in the fireplace and the soft glow of a fully lit and decorated Christmas tree in the semidarkness, are you . . . in your altogether. At least mostly in your altogether—lying on your belly, a Santa hat on your head. There's also a big red ribbon wound around your chest and, most shocking at all, a candy cane sticking out of your ass.

"What . . .?" I start to ask, bewildered and amused. Then, "What in the hell do you have that up your ass for?"

"Don't you remember what you said you wanted for Christmas?" you ask, your head turned to me; that and the rest of you looking absolutely hunky.

"Yes, I told you I had everything I needed," I reply.

"No, after that . . . after I wouldn't take that for an answer."

"Oh, that. I said I'd like to have hot sex on a stick. But that's just . . ."

"An expression," you answer with that dazzling smile of yours. "So I'm nothing more than an expression to you. Something to just be discussed across a room."

"The hell you are," I snort. And then I am upon you. I have no idea how I could have kept my hands off you long enough even to have this short discussion. I lay down behind you, my hands running up your sides, overwhelmed with the feeling of skin on skin, and I enjoy the candy cane with my lips, tongue, and teeth. And you begin to writhe under me and moan as I run out of candy and move to enjoying your rim and puckered hole with my candy coated lips, tongue, and teeth.

I pull my clothes off and turn you over to find, to my delight, that your risen cock is encircled with a red ribbon and a bow, too. And I laugh when I see there is a small bell tied to the ribbon as well. I take you in and untie the bow with my teeth as I ring the bell with the sliding action of my warm mouth over your manhood. You are groaning now and digging your heels into the bear rug and pulling at my hair with your clawing fingers, lost in the moment, showing me all of the passion I knew you'd have in you.

I look up to see your face, lit up with desire and joy, illuminated in the blaze from the fireplace. The ribbon around your chest covers your nipples, and I suddenly want to feel them in my mouth. I pull myself up your body, and you throw your legs around my waist and ring your cock bell against my navel, as I pull the ribbon away with my teeth and dive for your nipples.

You are arching your back up from your shoulder blades, lifting your pelvis with those heels dug into the bear rug and chiming your cock up into my belly with rhythmic thrusts of your hips.

"I want it too," you are whimpering at me. "I want the same present."

"What?" I ask, pulling my lips away from your nipples and look up at you, lost in your lust-filled eyes.

"For Christmas," you are gasping. "Sex on a stick! Me too. That other gift. From you."

"What other . . . Oh, these," I say, remembering now, reaching over and picking up the candy cane-colored condoms I'd opened in the kitchen. "You want me to . . ."

"Yes, yes. Now. Stick. Candy. Me on your candy stick."

Rolling one of my presents on my throbbing tool as I turn you over and bring you up on all fours, there on the fur rug between the roaring fire and the twinkling Christmas tree. I replace the candy cane you offered me when I entered in the room with a much thicker, longer, deeper-probing candy cane. And I give you all that you asked for. Hot sex on a stick, my stick, plunging to your core and fucking you from Christmas to New Years.

Afterward, you lying flat on the rug and me stretched over your back, still dipping in the sweet candy of me inside you, both of our spent, yet fully satisfied faces shining in the firelight, you return to what you had been pestering me about.

"You said there was nothing you needed for Christmas. Do you still feel . . .?"

"Shush, shush," I murmur, covering your shoulder and the hollow of your neck with my kisses and running my hands from your sides down your hips and along your thighs, "I misspoke. I needed you for Christmas. You are all of the Christmas that I needed."

"And would it be possible for you to need more?" you ask in a dreamy voice. "I know you have such a sweet tooth. Now? Can you fuck me again now?"

But that was a question you needn't even have asked.

But I am disturbed, embarrassed now, as my hands glide across your warm skin, rekindling our shared desire. "I'm so sorry, I don't have a present for you."

"Like hell, you don't," you retort with a little laugh. "All your present lacks is a bell."

And you adorn your "present," and I spread your legs wide on the fur rug and ring in the New Year in rhythmic tolling of the bell clappering between my shimmering balls and your inner thighs to the tune of your harmonied laughter, sighs, and groans.