The Advent Calendar

Prologue

I come home from work on 8th November to find Ava crying inconsolably on our bed, a little piece of white plastic clutched in her fist.

"How long have you been here?" I ask gently, taking her in my arms and kissing her loose chestnut curls.

She doesn't answer so I ask again, "What time did you take the test?"

"At five," Ava hiccups indistinctly. "I wanted to be able to give you the good news when you got home."

It's now a quarter past seven.

We have been trying to get pregnant for two years. I long to have a baby with her too, but she says - when it doesn't happen - that it's easier for me; and she's probably right. I have two boisterous little boys of six and eight from my first marriage, for one thing. Certainly, I've never lain on our bed for more than two hours, my body racked with sobs over a blue horizontal line on white plastic.

I think the need to conceive has become an obsession for her. I feel rotten saying it, but it's sapping from her everything I fell in love with in the first place. I was still married to my ex when we met, although all Serena and I ever did was row, and Ava, apart from her beauty, sex appeal and sass, had this incredible joie de vivre. We worked together and I couldn't wait to get into the office every day to see her. She was an outrageous flirt, adventurous and willing to try whatever I asked. We would play truth or dare over lunch in the canteen and I swear she would do

anything

if it were prefaced with the phrase "I dare you to..." We would roar with laughter after she had stroked a non-executive board member forty years her senior to hardness under the conference table, or flashed a work experience student when he came to fix her PC. She loved those games.

And we would have amazing spontaneous sex, with each other and with others. Ava dislikes condoms and, for this reason, since she stopped taking the pill we have been entirely monogamous - but it wasn't always that way. Ava had been more than eager to participate in numerous threesomes, both mmf (and one amazing mmmf with two guys I knew from the pub, when my gorgeous Ava was made quite airtight) and ffm with several of her girlfriends.

I loved going out with - and later being married to - a hot slut like Ava.

Sex is never spontaneous now. For most of each month I'm not allowed to touch her at all (I'm not supposed to wank either, but I'm only human, and what she doesn't know won't hurt her) and then on her most fertile days I am supposed to be able to achieve instantaneous erections and fuck her five times in quick succession.

The more we try, and the more we fail, the more tense we both become. And if I've learnt anything from the stream of embarrassing appointments with GPs, fertility nurses and gynaecologists, it's that the more strung up you are, the less likely you are to conceive.

"Come down and have some dinner," I say, uselessly, at last.

. . .

After this latest disappointment, Ava loses interest in sex altogether. I try everything I can think of to seduce her: romantic, candlelit dinners; doing a striptease to reveal a posing pouch shaped like an elephant; watching "Bridget Jones' sodding Diary" with my arm round her on the sofa; bringing home little gifts of Turkish Delight, earrings, poetry books; writing notes telling her how much I love her and leaving them in her jewellery box, purse and make up bag for her to find throughout the day; ordering saucy lingerie, porn and sex toys. But while I might coax a smile from her, she turns her face away when I try to kiss her for longer than a couple of seconds.

"What's the point?" she says, listlessly. "Why bother if my body doesn't work?"

This can't go on. She's miserable; I'm miserable. I need to find a way to recapture the devil-may-care Ava of old; put the mischievous sparkle back into her beautiful hazel eyes; get her hot and hungry again. I rack my brains and finally it comes to me. It requires all my creativity, but by 30th November, by which time I haven't fucked my lovely wife for more than three weeks, it's all ready to go.

We have been to see a late-ish showing of the new Bond movie and then popped to a bar for a couple of glasses of wine. Ava is more relaxed and mellow than I have seen her in months, snuggling into me in the cinema and then letting me hold her hand as we walk back to the car. She doesn't turn her face away when I kiss her and even slips her tongue briefly into my mouth and her hand into my back pocket. Something about tonight - the 'date night' ambience? the alcohol (Ava never drinks these days: it's bad for the hypothetical baby)? hell, maybe even Daniel Craig whom she's always had the hots for - has re-awakened the ghost of the old Ava.

It's late when we reach home but Ava, as always, checks her email on the PC before bed. I use my phone to send the message with the link and go out to the kitchen to pour her a cold glass of water.

"I've got an email from you!" she calls, and I come through to the lounge and stand behind her, leaning over her and kissing her ear.

"Click on the link," I tell her.

She frowns at the webpage, a brightly-coloured picture of a Christmas scene with twenty-four boxes with red numbers in, each underlined to show that it's a link.

"Advent Calendare?" she scoffs. "Honestly, Dale, your spelling!"

"Nuh-uh," I say, shaking my head. "It's not a mistake. Each window contains a dare for you."

She turns her head, her interest piqued, and stares at me.

"A dare?"

"That's right," I say. "Just like the dares I used to give you at lunchtime back at Mayfield's."

A smile spreads slowly across her pale face and her eyes glow.

"I need proof you've done them," I say. "Either I need to be an eye witness or you need photographic evidence."

She looks at her watch and smiles.

"It's past midnight," she says. "Can I open the one for the 1st?"

I let out the breath I've been nervously holding. "Why not?"

She clicks on '1' and the picture on the screen fades away. The Ronettes' "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" plays (I'm a little nervous about this choice - so very many Christmas songs, for obvious reasons, mention mothers and babies - but Ava pays it no mind, staring intently at the monitor) and words appear. She reads them aloud, the pitch of her voice rising in excitement.

. . .

1st December

Visit a department store Santa, sit on his lap and kiss him. You may not wear a bra. Bonus points if you can get him to squeeze your tits.

I call work to say I will be taking a Christmas shopping day, before the crowds are unmanageable. Ava, meanwhile, dresses carefully. She secures black fishnet stockings to a black-and-pink suspender belt, laces up knee-high black leather boots and then selects a dark green sleeveless, fitted dress with an exposed zip all the way up the front. Her shiny chestnut hair falls in waves to the middle of her back. She applies smoky grey eyeshadow to lids half-concealing eyes that glitter with anticipation, and bright pink lipgloss to pouty lips. I have butterflies in my stomach - so much, I feel, hangs on the success or otherwise of this first dare - and my cock swells in my boxers as I drive us to Bluewater shopping centre, on the other side of the Thames estuary. En route, my wife sings along, slightly flat, to the Christmas songs on the radio and lays her cool palm on my thigh.

In the large department store we favour, Santa's grotto is all but deserted. It's first thing in the morning on a week day. Older children are at school and mums of younger children are still struggling to get organised and out of the door. It's perfect timing.

I'm pleased to see that the department store Santa is not a young man with artificial facial hair. This guy is the real deal, with crew cut white hair beneath his red hat, deep crows' feet around his merry eyes and a real, bushy snow-white beard. I spy from the exit as Ava, trembling, pushes her way through the drapery to where Santa sits waiting.

He laughs uproariously when he sees her.

"Aren't you a little old to be visiting Santa?" he asks, gruffly.

"I'm only twenty-eight," Ava replies, in mock-indignation.

He laughs again and says, "You'd better come and sit on my lap then, little girl," but is flabbergasted when she takes him at his word.

She licks her lips, crosses her legs so that the hem of her dress rides up to expose a centimetre of pale naked skin above her stocking tops and teases softly, "Santa, I've been very naughty. I thought maybe if I was really, really good to you now, you might transfer me to the nice list." She presses her lips to his, leaving his mouth covered in pink lipgloss; and before he can gather his wits the little minx pulls down the zip of her dress to her waist to expose her pretty breasts.

Santa is no longer laughing, but I am. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to muffle it.

Ava has really lovely breasts. They're not big - just a good handful - but high, firm and round, as white as Santa's beard, which is now tickling them, and topped with pale pink nipples. Santa gapes and Ava arches her back to thrust them out. His hands are on her waist so she puts hers on top of them and guides them up to her chest. His big hands engulf her little tits and squeeze reflexively.

"Mmmmmm," sighs Ava, letting her head drop back so her hair skims his thigh. She takes a deep breath in so her hardened nipples press into his palms. "That feels so

good

, Mr Claus."

She wriggles in his lap, rubbing her arse against his crotch, and then says, breathily, "Do you have an erection, Santa?"

He nods, mutely, and she moves his hands from her tits, parts his thighs and slides to her knees between them.

Oh my God! I didn't dare to hope for this, but it's happening. She is - as she so often used to do - smashing the boundaries, going beyond the terms of the dare. My slutty wife is going to suck Santa off!

Just as she rips open the Velcro fly of his Santa suit, looking up at him with sultry hazel eyes, I hear a rustling behind me. A member of staff, carrying a pile of boxes, is heading into the grotto. Hastily, I turn and deliberately cannon directly into her so the boxes scatter over the floor. I apologise profusely and clumsily help to collect them. Ava has yet to emerge once the boxes have been gathered so I say, with all the boyish charm I can muster, "I know it's an awful liberty after I caused so much trouble, but are the built-in appliances on this floor? Could you show me where, please?" The middle-aged woman smiles and tells me to follow her.

I pretend to look at ovens for a couple of minutes after she leaves me and then hasten back to the grotto exit. My timing is perfect: Ava is just emerging, her pupils dilated, her cheeks pink, but her dress is zipped up modestly, showing only a hint of cleavage. She falls into my arms, giggling. From one corner of her mouth to her chin is a slimy trail. I point to the same spot on my own face and she puts a finger to the slime, scooping it up and sucking the finger. I raise my eyebrows.

She leans closer and says in my ear, "Santa's spunk. Oops. I thought I'd swallowed it all."

Her warm body is pressed against mine and I shiver with lust, my swollen cock poking at her belly. She giggles again and takes my hand. "Come on!"

Together, we hurry to the nearest family toilet and I bundle her inside, turn her to face the wall and drop my trousers. I lift her skirt, clumsily rip open her knickers to reveal her pert little arse-cheeks and slip my fingers between her legs. She is sopping wet. I spread her thighs and ram my hard dick into her tight, hot pussy, over and over again. She unzips her dress again and my hands find the breasts Santa was so recently mauling. I pinch her nipples and she cries out in orgasm, her cunt clutching my shaft greedily as it contracts, her butt grinding into my pelvis.

"I can't believe you just blew Santa," I growl and coat her insides with my cum.

"Neither could he," she grins. "he gave me his number!" and as my dick slips wetly from her cunt she turns and shows me a mobile phone number scrawled in black ink on her left breast. We both giggle helplessly between kisses.

2nd December

(Wednesday)

"Rockin' Robin" - Jackson 5

Be a robin redbreast. The window cleaner is due today. When he knocks for payment, open the door wearing only your red, peephole bra and matching crotchless knickers. Remember, I'll be at work so photographic proof is required. If I know you as well as I think I do, you might be tempted to let another man fuck your pussy. Don't forget you are unprotected. I've left a jumbo box of condoms in the downstairs cloakroom. Use them!

I don't honestly believe, so early in the game, that Ava will again go further than my instructions require her to. Sucking off an old man she will never see again is one thing; fucking the young, fit window cleaner who visits monthly might well still be a step too far.

But apparently I under-estimate the power of my wife's libido, long-suppressed but - now it's been unleashed - irrepressible. A little after noon, my email pings and I receive two photographs. The first, taken from above, shows our window cleaner, Dean, lying on his back, bare-chested. He is in his mid twenties, with dark hair and skin, and has sculpted pectoral muscles and an impressive six pack, although his hairless chest will not have appealed to Ava. His mouth is open; his eyes closed. I suspect she took this just as he came.

The second photo strongly suggests he fucked her not once, but twice. This one was taken half an hour later, by Dean. Ava kneels upright in her underwear, her nipples nearly as red as the lace surrounding the peepholes they poke through, her chest flushed. The root of Dean's cock, sheathed in latex, can just be discerned where it emerges from the slit in the crotch of my wife's knickers. Her head is thrown back in abandon. I know this pose. She is in the throes of orgasm.

I had overlooked the text of Ava's email in my rush to open the attachments. She has written: "No charge for window cleaning this month."

When I arrive home, my wife, bubbling with excitement, pulls me up to our bedroom and, giggling, shows me the two full, knotted condoms in our bedroom waste paper basket. Consumed with lust, I throw her onto the bed and tear off my clothes.

Ava rides me cowgirl-style, just as she did the window cleaner. I hold her hips, gazing at her taut, flat belly and those pert, firm breasts which hardly move as she bounces on my stiff penis, which stretches the tight hole so recently filled by another.

3rd December

"The Seven Days of Creation" (trad.)

Your breasts are the heaven above, but there are earthier pleasures below. Spend the entire day at work wearing no knickers.

When we decided to try to start a family, Ava began to think ahead. She took a beauty course and resigned from her role at Mayfield's to work part-time as a beauty therapist. She does all the usual treatments, but the salon where she works belongs to a man and has lots of male clients. Ava specialises in massage, her customers enjoying being pummelled by a slim, fragile-looking girl, and more than once she has been felt up by a guy on the table. I am looking forward to hearing what happens when some guy slides his hands up her thighs today and finds not only that she is wearing stockings under her skirt, but that she is not wearing anything else.

It only happens once. One of her regulars is booked in - a forty-something business man named Keith who apparently has taken a day off to go Christmas shopping with his wife, as I did a couple of days ago, but has elected to spend a good chunk of this time not with his wife, but being caressed by mine. He clearly fancies her and is in the habit of feeling her up whenever he gets the chance.

Ava's pussy moistens as soon as she greets him in Reception, knowing how this is likely to go. He looks pointedly at her hard nipples, which are telegraphing her arousal, as she bids him remove his clothes and make himself comfortable on the table while she is out of the room. When she returns she drapes a towel over his lower half, turns on the relaxation music that always plays in the massage rooms and squeezes massage oil into her hands. She moves to his head and leans forward over the table to reach his shoulders.

Right on cue, Keith's hands find her stockinged legs. He runs them up the backs of her thighs and emits a little surprised-but-pleased grunt when he finds the raised seam and lace of her stocking tops. Ava lets out a little mewl as his fingers crawl up to her exposed flesh. Delighted by her failure to stop him, he pulls her closer and moves his hands higher, seeking her knickers. When he doesn't find them, his hands still for a second as he processes, then begin to move again, kneading her small, firm buttocks. He seems to decide she must be wearing a thong and his fingers inch towards her arse-crack. Finding nothing, he groans softly. Ava's juices bubble between her thighs and his questing fingers move inexorably towards her slippery pussy lips.

Still, not a word has been spoken by either of them since his hands began their exploration. She says, softly, "Mmmmmm," and he gasps as he encounters the warm, naked wetness between her legs. She presses closer and his index and middle fingers slide into her tight, clutching pussy. Now she says, "Oh God, yes." He pushes his fingers deep inside her, withdraws them and pushes them in again.

She clutches the edge of the massage table with her oily fingers, throwing her head back, and he lifts his head to watch her, sawing his fingers in and out of her sopping hole.

"Jesus, Ava," he breathes. "So fucking tight."

She just moans softly, wriggling her hips, and his thumb seeks her clit. She is so turned on that she cums instantly, her juices flowing over his hand. He eases his fingers from her and sucks her cum from them.

Ava leans forward over the table, panting as she recovers from her climax. Keith turns onto his back, staring in disbelief at the ceiling. But he is in for another surprise. Ava moves down the table and pushes the towel aside. She gives him her phone and asks him to film her as she extracts his erection from his boxers. She takes his hard cock in one oily hand and cups his balls in the other and strokes him to his own orgasm.

When Keith cries, "Oh God, I'm going to cum!" her face appears in shot, winking into the camera, and her warm mouth envelops his dick. His hand finds the back of her head as he fills her mouth with his cream and she gulps and swallows.

Afterwards, he is sheepish. I don't suppose it was his intention, when first copping a sneaky feel of his hot masseuse, to finger another woman and cum in her mouth on family Christmas shopping day. Ava tells him briskly that they have run out of time for his massage and ushers him from the room.

She shows me the footage while sucking my cock at the dinner table and I lift her up, bend her over the table and fuck her from behind.

4th December

"Blue Christmas" - Elvis Presley

Star in your very own blue movie. Film yourself masturbating to orgasm and post the video on an amateur porn site.

"Does my face need to be visible?" asks Ava. She sounds nervous but I can see her hard nipples poking at the gossamer-thin silk of her pale blue robe as she sits opposite me at the breakfast table, staring at the iPad screen.

"Of course," I say, shovelling cereal into my mouth. "Where would be the fun in posting it if you couldn't be identified? Just think, anyone might be a member of the site: Serena's husband, the newsagent where we buy our papers, your boss, clients, the guy who services your car, your step-dad. You'll never know who has seen you cum."