Come for Me for Christmas

 

 

 

 

 

 

Come
For Me For Christmas

By E.L.
Devine

 

 

 

 

 

 

Text
Copyright © 2012

All
Rights Reserved

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the
spirit of the giving, and the taking, of the pleasures of the holidays…

 

 

 

 

At the end of a
long, hard day, topped off by more goddamned north city snow, complete with
idiot frigging asshole drivers who can't remember from one fucking winter to
the next how to drive in a half inch of "the white stuff", about the
last frickin thing you need when you walk in the door is to see your ex's
number on the caller ID. Friggin' great. It's not enough that she'd crushed my
hopes of finally finding a woman I'd want to be with indefinitely; now she has
to twist the knife 'round a little more.

I'm in one of
those moods where it'd be so easy to just ignore that she's even left her trace
here and deal with it later. But then I figure, what the hell?  My mood is shot
anyway, better not to risk ruining a perfectly good day tomorrow by dealing
with it when I'm in better spirits.  So I hit the button, dial voicemail, go
through the hoops that somehow with all this technology have yet to be
simplified, and finally hear her voice speak out quietly from the technological
abyss:

"Come to me
for Christmas? Come to me for Christmas."

I'm already
pissy so I don't really get it at first. And then I catch something in the
voice.  A timidity; a shyness; a coyness. It's not a question, it's an
invitation.

"Come to me
for Christmas…?"

It's really,
"[Will you] come to me for Christmas….?"

And then,
remembering her insatiable appetite, I get the rest of it. That second half
isn't a demand; it's not a statement. It's an invitation, too:

"Come to me
for Christmas."

No! Not come:
"Cum."

I hit the button
again, my mood lifting just slightly, just barely perceptibly improving, and I
hear what I really
didn't
hear right the first time—the slightly
seductive, invitational pouty whimper:

"Come to me
for Christmas? Cum FOR me for Christmas."

Come to her?  Do
I? Open that whole mess up again?

Cum
for
her? Cum
for
her!? 

So you want a
little present from your good Ol' Nick, do you? Well Christ's alive and even
Santa deserves his day. Maybe I'll just have to take this under consideration….

Well shit I'm a
man and there's only so much reasoning a man is capable of doing when presented
with an opportunity like that. I'm single with no real prospects for the
holiday save for a few stops and egg nogs at my sister's house. Heck even the
parents are out of the picture this year and Sissy's dinner invitation isn't an
obligation, just something to do. Of course a roll in the manger hay doesn't
negate any of those things, anyway. It's certainly not an obligation; it's just
a lay.  What promises to be a goddamned
good
lay all things considered
and judging from past experience.

But what about
my heart? My head? 

What the fuck
about it?  She stomped on it and it took long enough to get over it, but I've
finally reached that level of complacency and resignation, and I do believe I
can honestly say that I could chance the call-back. Besides; my prospects for
sex as of late, with the exception of a few cheap bar room thrills, hasn't been
so jolly. A man needs to let off his steam.

In a lot of ways
this actually seems the perfect middle ground.  Someone known but that I'm not
obliged to; one of the best fucks of my life bar-none so I know it's going to
be good and I don't give a rat's ass about her maintenance, and not too much
about her feelings.  I'm not heartless but I'm realistic and the way I see it
is that she sailed that ship. And let's not forget that
she
called
me
.
That definitely lets me off the hook a little more.

I almost have
myself convinced and then my mind wanders off a little further, remembering the
look of her. Fucking gorgeous.  And I know she hasn't lost it because all the
do-gooders feel inclined to keep me updated on the evolution and continuity of
her sexy good looks over the course of the past year or so.

And then I think
of her scent.  The real scent of a woman. The soft, light, powdery musk with a
slight overtone of flowers and a hint of something edible…like, vanilla,
maybe.  Heh. Sounds like some snobby description of a fine wine but that's
actually a good comparison for her….vintage sex and womanliness that you could
just inhale, and drink it all in, with an overtone of modern class.  A woman to
fill all your senses.

I still remember
everything about her…her willingness; her hunger; the curve of her hip rising
from her smooth line as she lay naked on her side…the tumble of brown hair down
her back to just below her shoulders…the clean, neat lines of her nicely
trimmed 'other' hair.

I remember so
well the swell of those beautifully mounded tits and the nicely-shaped nipples
that were just always so happy to see me and my big dick coming towards them. 
Oh fuck how I remember her pushing them together and burying my cock between
them, then dipping her chin and giving my cleft a little flick of her tongue.
Fucking God how sexy that was, and how incredibly good that little act would feel.

Self-preservation
check; am I falling too much into the idea of her? Think about iiit…nope. Safe.
Just a trip down sex's memory lane; an appreciation of the offer on the table.
Emotional attachment is in check; ability to see and appreciate the situation
for what it is, check.

An already
oncoming erection in my pants seals the deal. Let's do this. Let's make it a
Merry homecuming of a Christmas!

I crack a beer, click
over to Sports Center and decide to let her sweat it out a little.  I'm sure
she probably knows that I've remained unattached as well; less attached than
she has and since she's stopped seeing that pain in the ass Rick the Dick this
situation will also lend the added advantage of topping his holiday with the
knowledge that he ain't got her.  A little satisfaction is due me for listening
to his gloating, I think.

So yeah the call
back can wait. Sleep in nice and late tomorrow morning since it's Saturday. Let
her chew her nails overnight and sweat out the step she's taken (dirty little
habit of her, that—the chewing of the nails…which brings to mind a few other
fun little dirty habits of hers….) and then when I get damn good and ready I'll
inform her of my decision. It might not be an entirely warm and loving
Christmas, but it sure is going to be an exciting one.

***

Late afternoon
Saturday and apparently my little scheme is working out just about as
predicted, with the exception of the fact that I didn't properly account for
her level of want.  There are no more messages but I have noticed a couple of
calls and clicks when the voicemail picks up. Testing the line, are we, love?

Speaking of
tests, before I take the plunge let's double-check our own state of
well-being.  Think about it….yep, no true emotion. I mean yeah I care about her
somewhat, but no more than I care about a number of other old friends, lovers,
and acquaintances.

I'm not a
heartless bastard, just a jilted one and I am still capable of giving a care
about a person without diving back into the depths of relationship despair. No,
it was good while it lasted but I've worked through all that and it's really
just a memory, not something I'm desperate to revive. I can't speak for her end
of things; maybe she's hoping to lure me back in with the spirit of the season
and some evergreen-scented Christmas Eve sex.  Not my problem. I'm just the
guest accepting my invitation to the party.

Nevertheless I
am ready for a sweaty lay and a woman at my command. And rest assured that this
time I won't be quite so concerned with the "giving" as I am the
taking. You dotted that "i", honey; I just want to fuck.

So then let's
get on with it. I've left her hanging long enough. Anything else is just a
waste of a good weekend when I could be getting my rocks off and my head blown.
Literally, I think….oh yeah she always gave good head.

I chuckle to
myself and pick up the phone, full of hot sex memories and the imagined smell
of her in my nose, click back through the call log, then let the number dial. I
hold on for a few rings as the call connects and she finally picks up on her
end.  I know she knows it's me, and I hear her answer with slightly baited
breath, no doubt wondering which way this is going to go. Being that it's only
been a few minutes since her last hang-up, I imagine she takes that as a sign
that I've been sitting here ignoring her calls.

That gives me an
idea.  Why let the little bitch off that easily? Why give it all up entirely
right now?  Why not play this out a little longer, and let her squirm a little
more? I do so love it when she squirms….

"Hello,"
she says, not too loudly. It's a statement; a greeting, not a query. It's warm
and inviting, but hesitant still. Clearly she's affirming her invitation and
waiting for my answer.

"Hey."
I say, nonchalantly; neutrally. "I got your message. Sounds like you'd like
to see me again." I make it a statement, too. A fact. Not a question. Not
pleading. Not looking for her validation.

She pauses,
sounding a little unsure of how to reply. "Yeah," she says,
"yeah, I really would."

Well that's not
exactly insightful. I'll be goddamned if I'm about to beg her, though. I keep
right at the front of my mind the fact that
she
called
me
.
"What did you have in mind? You sounded a little….frustrated." I
smile to myself at the thought of leading her on, and also at the thought of
her being so hot and bothered that she needed to call up for a good dose of
Christmas cheer.

A breath; a
pause; "You know," she says, "I guess I am feeling kind of
frustrated. 'Spirit of the Season' and all that…it has a way of tying you up in
knots….Especially when I think about the things we were doing this time last year…"

She leaves the
thought hanging in the air. The memory of us both naked on the floor in front
of the fireplace at her place, where we all but lived together. My recollection
of cranking up the heat a while before to make sure it was good and warm in
there, practically a frigging sauna. The beauty of my plan working, her
stripping and glistening with just a sexy shimmer of sweat. The mental picture
of her arching her back, bare-ass naked from tip to toe, one leg outstretched
and the other bent, just the way the models do, hair falling down her back…and
the marathon of kinky sex on the plush living room rug off and on all night
long, ending only with the morning and a need to regenerate with a hearty
breakfast.

Snapping to, I
realize what she's doing. I realize, too, that it is working. I snicker to
myself, thinking what a crafty little wench she can be. But that is just the
left-of-center behavior that has always made her such a good lover. And then I
remind myself once more that two can play this game.

With a
deep-throated chuckle into the mouthpiece, I ask her, "So what does that
mean? That you want to see if we can relive those heady holidays?"

"Well,"
she purrs, "if you're not otherwise engaged, or you don't have other
plans…."

Not wanting to
let her think I'm desperate (and reminding myself that really I'm not), I tell
her, "I do have other plans." And then I pause and let her hang.
"But it's nothing I couldn't rearrange if I wanted." There. Let her
figure out what that means. I'm under no obligation to explain myself to her.

"I just
thought," she starts, "that….you know….we're two consulting
adults…and we always had such a good time together…maybe you'd like to bring me
a little of my favorite Christmas Cheer. Maybe we could cheer each other for
Christmas." Then hesitatingly she adds, like an afterthought, but like one
that's hung around in the back of her head, "And then, if you want, we can
see where that takes us. But mostly, I'd just really like some of your style of
company…you know the kind I like."

Yeah. I know
what you like. Cock. And lots of it. In so many different ways. I start to
smile as I renew my appreciation for that fact. Lonely little nymph; some
things never change. Thank God some things never change.

Maintaining the
cool vaguery that I've kept with her all along, I say, "well. If it's
reliving the good old days of hot and horny sex, I guess I could make some time
for you over the holidays.  I owe myself a present."

"Mmmmm,"
she starts, "let
me
be your present. I'll say please if you want me
to."

"Then say
it. Use your manners. Be a good girl, and convince me that you really want me
for Christmas this year."

"Oh yes,
please.  Pleeeaase, Nick. Let me have
you
for Christmas."

"Hm. Not
good enough. There are a lot of needy little girls out there, and I'm just not
sure you're needy enough. Maybe someone else deserves to have your present more
than you. You did, after all, send your present back last year."

"Oh no!  NO
I've
always
loved THAT present!  I mean…it's true I did give it up for
quite a while, but I've never had a present as good as you, Nick!  And I've
been such a good girl not taking smaller presents from other guys, all because
I wanted the real thing. Not some cheap imitation. The BIG gift only you have
ever been able to give to me!"

"I don't
know….I hope you haven't turned
too
good. Do you still know how to be a
bad little good girl?"

"Oh yes. I
still know all the ways you like me to be bad. I can be as bad as you want me
to be."

"And can
you be good enough to give me what I want for Christmas? Can you be good enough
to do what you're told?" If we're going to do this, I figure, it's going
to be on my terms. And there is nothing better than knowing ahead of time that
I'm Christmas King and I'll be getting exactly what I want under the tree….or
anywhere else I want it.

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