Preface:
It's been nearly ten years since I took my first stab at erotic writing with 'The Christmas Portrait.' One of the most common questions I've received over the years is when it would receive the sequel hinted at in its conclusion.
In the fall, I decided to finally get to work on the sequel as a thank you to my readers on Lit. But before I could do so, I needed to re-read the original to get myself back in the headspace of these characters. I'd planned to give the story a light makeover as I went, but the more I read, the less satisfied I felt with the original product. Almost without realizing it, what started as a minor touch up turned into an almost total rewrite. What you'll find here is a version of my original story that is similar in the broad strokes -- the same premise, the same characters, the same beginning and ending. But the specifics are entirely new. This version is also significantly longer
and does include some father/son content
, though it should be pretty easy to skip without interfering too much with the rest of the story if you so desire. Undoubtedly, there will be some who prefer the original, so I will leave that one posted here, too.
Okay. Enough rambling from me. I hope you all enjoy Another Christmas Portrait!
~~~
John woke to the loud buzzing of his parents' coffee grinder, a sure sign that they were awake and starting their day. His mom, Susan, liked to get up early and drink a cup of brew before waking him and his sister. Hearing that buzz was normally a pleasant reminder that he still had some time to snooze before getting out of bed.
But not today.
It was Christmas morning, and he had no intention of sleeping in. He jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of boxer briefs, which only partially covered the length of his morning erection. Checking to make sure no one was coming, he dashed across the hall to the safety of the bathroom.
After relieving his full bladder, he hopped in the shower. He'd been home from school for about a week, and he'd gotten in the habit of jerking off there when he woke up. It was Christmas morning, though, so he decided to forego that ritual. Even at 19, the allure of Christmas presents still filled him with a sense of excitement and urgency.
His dad, Bill, was a professor at the local university, and made more than enough money to let his wife stay home and raise their son and daughter. His parents didn't skimp when it came to Christmas gifts. It wasn't uncommon for him to receive nearly everything on his list, and he hoped this year would be no different. He bounded down the stairs in excitement before screeching to a halt as he remembered the
other
part of the Hamilton family Christmas tradition.
Presents were exciting, but they came at a painful price. Each year, his parents made them pose for a family portrait in front of the tree. John didn't mind having his picture taken, but it was never that simple.
The tradition started when John and his younger sister, Emma, were toddlers. Their parents traded Christmas portraits every year with Susan's brother, Craig, and his wife, Sally. Over time, the portraits became a kind of competition to see who could come up with the most garish, over the top sweaters, decorations, and costumes they could think of. When they were younger, John and Emma had enjoyed dressing up each Christmas morning, but at the ages of nineteen and eighteen, they found the ritual intensely humiliating.
As he made his way to the kitchen, John wondered what kind of tacky matching outfits his parents would be dressed in this year. He was surprised when he turned the corner and found them sitting at the kitchen table, stirring their coffee in plain white robes.
"What gives?" he asked. "Are we not doing the family portrait this year?"
"Well, good morning to you, too!" his mom replied, ignoring his question. She sleepily covered up a yawn and then flashed him a warm, if slightly sarcastic, smile.
It struck John as strange that they were wearing robes instead of regular clothes. He couldn't remember them ever dressing so casually around the house.
"I mean... Merry Christmas!" he said, recovering slightly.
"Merry Christmas," they replied, smiling up at him as he poured himself a cup of coffee. As his mom stood to give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, she inadvertently exposed the pale, freckled skin of her upper chest to his gaze. John couldn't help it -- his eyes flicked down before guiltily flicking back up to her smiling face. She didn't seem to notice his transgression. As she pulled him into the hug, he found himself wondering what she was wearing underneath. Before he had time to let his imagination run away with him, though, she withdrew and sat back down at the table with his dad.
"To answer your earlier question," Bill said, taking another sip of his coffee and granting both John and Susan a subdued smile, "Yes. We are still doing the family portrait this year, but you might find that you enjoy the experience quite a bit more this year than you have in the past."
They'd made this claim before, but it was never true. John mentally braced himself for an earnest explanation of how much fun it would be to dress up as Santa's elves or some other, even worse indignity.
"Sure. I bet," he said, not even trying to hide his disbelief. "So, should I go put on my robe as well?" They chuckled nervously and exchanged meaningful glances. They clearly had something they wanted to say, but neither wanted to go first.
Susan cleared her throat. "Wait until Emma comes down for breakfast, and we'll talk about it," she said.
Sensing that no more answers would be forthcoming, he took a seat. For several long minutes, they sat there, sipping their coffee, and waiting. His parents kept stealing glances at each other, and at their son as well. Susan's cheeks carried a perpetual blush, and Bill tapped his feet impatiently while keeping his eyes laser focused on the stairs.
What are they so nervous about?
he asked himself. His parents always took the Christmas portrait seriously, but this felt different.
Maybe we won't have to do it this year
, he thought, allowing himself the smallest ember of hope.
As he waited and tried to figure out what was going on, his gaze fell upon his mother. She sat in front of him with her legs crossed, exposing quite a bit of her smooth inner thigh. Naturally, he'd seen her in a bathing suit many times, but there was something about the way she wore a bathrobe in the kitchen felt out of place and exciting -- like a constant reminder that there was a naked woman underneath that thin layer of terrycloth. He knew he shouldn't stare, but he couldn't stop himself from gazing up to the opening of her robe and the slight hint of freckled cleavage it revealed. It was impossible not to wonder whether she was fully naked underneath. The mere thought made him shiver with a mixture of excitement and shame at having such a perverted thought about his mother.
Susan was a red-head with the pale, freckled skin that often went along with it. She'd just celebrated her forty-fifth birthday but didn't seem over the hill by any means. She kept herself fit through daily walks around the neighborhood and a well-used gym membership. Although she didn't have the body of a twenty-year-old anymore, she still turned a lot of heads wherever she went.
John had always known on an intellectual level that his mom was an attractive woman, but now those thoughts were bending in a whole new direction.
