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Ghosts of Christmas Past
 by Richard V Raiment© 2003



It is six o'clock on Christmas morning and I wake up like I always do.  That way I am awake enough to roll out of the way just before Jake bounces on the spot where my gut would have been, knocking all the breath out of my body being his chosen way of celebrating the excitement of Santa's deliveries, together with his ecstatically whispered mantra; "Santa's been! Daddy! Daddy! Santa's been!"

The same routine every year.  Weary from a night too late, too many compensatory nips or glasses of something to while away the tedium of wrapping so many presents, I crawl out of bed still blitzed to a household full of the raucous joy of young children, bodies blurred beneath a fake autumnal fall of torn wrapping-paper leaves as they leap from excitement to excitement, laughing and awestruck by turns.

The dross—the rummage-sale stuff—is opened first, the stuff they know will disappoint—the inevitable socks from granny, Auntie May's movie merchandise that is always from last year's forgotten hit, the perfumed soap and candles—because when that's all over and duty's done they can focus on the best.

And then it's shrieks and screams and hugs and kisses, for Jodie and for me, though it's Jodie who deserves it most.  She makes all the consequential choices, always gets it absolutely right.

But then again, she chose me, didn't she?

Jake won't arrive in the big bedroom till seven.  Even Christmas doesn't get our heavy sleepers out of bed that early, so there is always time enough for us and for our Christmas Morning ritual.  Not that our Christmas Morning ritual is really any different to our every-other-holiday and day-off ritual, except that it happens to be Christmas Morning.

At 40 Jodie's as beautiful as the day I met her.  Her legs are long and firm, the gateway to her Heaven still an open arch, that lovely crotch-gap unclosed yet by swelling flesh, and the slithers of silvery testimony to the three kids she has had are almost too fine and slender to detect.  Her belly's a gentle swell of silk, still, easily sinking into an inviting soft concave when she is in repose, and the breasts which fill my own large hands so neatly remain pert and firm—firm as her nature.

And Jodie can be very firm.

Looking at the body warm in bed beside me I remember all I have known with my lovely Jodie and I stir, blood flooding warmly where it matters, soft-inflating.  I've always woken Jodie the same way, since the first delightful morning of discovery when I found her asleep on her back, one leg diagonally outstretched, one knee drawn up, the lovely sweetness of her sex smiling pinkly open, inviting and sleepy warm.

Not this time, though.  This morning is different.  The body beside me in a bed still warm and musky with the scents of our sleep and Christmas Eve fucking lies with its legs still softly together, and the difference is poignant, bitterly emblematic of the change between us.  Only she drank as much, perhaps, as I did, last night, and I can coax her gently apart without her even knowing.

She sighs and mumbles sleepily as I move her, and it is not the same, not the lethargy of a good, sound, innocent sleep this morning, and I miss that.  God, I miss that.  I wish I could change it all back again.

My tongue on her full pink lips, softly questing the small pink trigger within, snaps her eyes open, her thigh muscles tautening as her knees draw upward and apart, opening to me, and I sink deeper, both because I know she wants it and because it builds in me, turning me to iron still, the delayed gratification making all hotter and harder when it comes, when 'he' comes, I come.

Not yet.  Delay.  Scent her, scent that animal musk that blends acrid with joy, probe her wet and hard and taste her, taste the salt of cunny-juice and morning sweat, nuzzle in the softness of shaven mons, the electric coolness of inner thigh.  Slip my hands beneath the lovely gift of ass, finding in the full, firm mounds an intimacy which, in their nature, in their ever-secret, ever-private function, is somehow even more poignant than intimacy with her sex.  I feel their soft, slick weight, caress their infinite smoothness as I lift her to my tongue, then slide away, stroke the inside of her thighs with teasing fingertips.

Long fingers, now, deep inside her, rolling, softly thrusting, tongue flicking and slipping and circling the little, questing periscope arisen in search of fulfilment, then back inside her again, tongue rolling and thrusting, tremors in my ass as my cock seeks to find the same rhythm, hungry for his own completion.

In a sleep-warm bed, the air-conditioner still not fixed, I slide up a body warm and slick with perspiration, hers and mine, fill my mouth briefly first with one breast, then the other, licking the hardness of woken, hungry, teat, and she is pulling me upward, urgently, and a hand takes hold of me, urgently, knuckles softly bruising my groin in the clumsy desperation of her want of me, fingers round my shaft guiding him to her lips, and he is sliding, hard, so softly, smooth and wetly.

My mouth tasting of her other, carrying its scent, presses firmly on hers, her tongue sudden and hungry in mine, grappling as if in a dance of serpents seeking to entwine, and I am pushing, thrusting, feel her rhythm matching, the upward shift of buttock and groin as her vulva seeks to grasp me in her, snatching pressures of grabbing muscle seeking to hold me, to milk me.  And I am thrusting hard, now, a violence in me scarce-suppressed, groin and balls slapping and punching into that wet-warm, slippery firmness, almost as if I am punishing her.  But she is accustomed to it.  Perhaps it makes her writhe a little more, perhaps there are small, silent squeals of pain passing unheard from her mouth to mine, but she does not fight me and I think she likes it.

Mouths part suddenly in hurried, end-of-race exhalations, in cursing and in prayer, the glorious blasphemies of coming, of twin surging, melding wetness spurting white and gushing clear, the hard dry ache of craving balls replaced with the softer ache of release, iron hardness suddenly softening, always reluctant at parting, drawn to curl up and sleep, drawn to remain in warm, wet comfort.

"Boy; that was something!" Her breathless words sound trite in my present state of mind.  I fight the desire to be angry with her, to hurt her with my guilt and pain.

It is almost seven.  The presents sit wrapped beneath the tree in the parlor, awaiting onslaught, and Jake, no doubt, is stirring in his bed.  I look at the woman beside me and try to keep the hate and hurt from my eyes.  It is not her fault, after all.

I think her name is Ellie, though in the warm suffusion of alcohol that made this Christmas Eve so barely bearable I may have misheard her, and she is just another one-night stand, just another pick-up from yet another bar.

And she and the others, my cock-driven follies, are the reason Jake won't be trying to jump onto my belly this morning.  She is why my place in that bed, that house, is empty.  It is Jodie, after all, who makes all the consequential choices, always gets it absolutely right, whilst it was I who made my own consequential choices and got it absolutely wrong.

And I can't fix it.  Jodie can be very firm.

© 2003 Richard V Raiment. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

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