A Celtic Christmas (L)

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Republishing from 1/21/21; you can find similarly themed stories in the category “Christmas Heat.”

It is a cold and crisp Christmas Eve morning, and I awake with the winter sun peeking out over the rolling Welsh hills to a delicious ache between my legs.

As I open my senses to the day, I hear the low, familiar, rumbling breath of a certain someone nearby. Feeling the deep vibration of the air on the back of my neck and the warmth of knowing hands grace my body, I let out a gentle moan. Slowly arching my back and lightly twisting my body, I provocatively present my bottom, round and smooth, to the sweat-moistened figure that fits so exquisitely next to mine.

Stirring in a sensual slumber next to me in our bed is my husband. Sleepily yet eagerly accepting my presentation, he responds in kind, as always. With his rough and ready hands, and in one swift movement, he pulls my bare roundness to meet his great hardness. And we sigh, and we moan, and we enjoy the feel of each other awhile. And I ache, and I drip, and I enjoy not doing anything about it just yet.

As my beloved drifts back off into a restful sleep, I rise. Before heading downstairs, I grab a few special items from the drawer. “This will be his first Christmas gift from me,” I think to myself with a smile.

I take myself and all my love-aching parts down to the kitchen to begin preparing a breakfast feast.

“I’d love to try American pancakes with bacon and maple syrup again someday,” my husband had said some weeks before.

My Not-So-Little Drummer Boy had left the Land of Our Fathers to play on a worship tour around the States with some friends from other Celtic nations a few years prior. And, of all the wonders to recall from a new land, my man, of course, remembered almost every meal.

“Oh, I will be a meal for you soon, my boy!” I muse to myself as I cook; I almost burn myself as I hurry about, hungry for my husband’s strong, bulging arms to lift me off the floor, up to the kitchen counter, and onto his huge, throbbing cock.

“Focus, gal, focus!” I breathe, trying desperately to control my heart rate without dampening my firey Welsh spirit.

With the breakfast all but ready and the scent of rich, smooth coffee filling the air, I prepare the second part of the morning’s feast: me.

Ridding myself of hubby’s old t-shirt, which had hung loosely below my bottom, I turned to the special items I had brought with me from upstairs: a silky white apron with a black lacey finish for my lower half and nothing but a cheeky little black bow tie for around my neck.

How I enjoy the freshness of the air that now hardens my pink nipples and tickles my swelling pussy. Looking into the mirror, I paint my lips a glowing red to match my long curly hair. Now for the final touch, black high heels.

“Not much nearer to his 6-foot-4-inch height, but a little!” I giggle.

Taking my place on the table with the rest of the breakfast feast, I call up to him. Nervous yet excited, I present myself to him on the table as he enters the room. He is unable to say much with his voice, but his eyes… his eyes tell me all I need to know. This man is hungry. This man is ravenous!

His voracity begins to consume me as, mouth agape, those wide green eyes devour every inch of my body from my snow-white skin to the mane of fire that cascades down my back and kisses my bottom. Reaching his sexy, tattooed arms behind his head without breaking his gaze, he turns his face to the side to reveal a cheeky grin.

My heart melts, and so does my pussy as I savour the fullness of this rugged hunk of a man before me. He now stands tall over the dining table, a mighty figure. He seductively swoops down to meet me, gently but firmly placing his thick arms on the table on either side of my head. His tasty torso skims my own, and his face leans in so that his thick brown beard playfully strokes my chin. His huge hands move to cradle the sides of my face, and he stares, he salivates, and I gulp.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me now!” I scream in my head; my eyes now glaze and my lips slightly part, almost but not quite yet meeting his. Wanting him. Needing him.

Before I could think another “fuck me,” in a deep, gruff voice that sounds like home, he finally says, “Merry Christmas to you an’ all, love!”

We laugh. I blush, suddenly so aware of myself propped somewhere between a stack of pancakes and a cafetière of coffee.

“Nice spread,” he whispers, surveying the first course. “Just one more thing.”

Taking the maple syrup, he drips a message onto my patiently waiting tits: his name. Curious, I go to rub my fingers in the sweet stickiness that now covers my breasts. I lather it around my chest and moan, showing him how I like to grip and flick my nipples with the syrupy goodness. And so the first course begins…

His tongue begins to fervently dance over my body in lustful licks and sweeping strokes before circling down to my now soaking wet pussy. He starts to gorge on the dripping wet feast between my legs.

“Baby, finger fuck me too!” I pant. “You know what to do.”

And I feel him there, his long, full finger bursting into my aching depths. With his tongue dining on my swollen clit and his fingers enjoying the warm gooey centre, my love groans into me. My Not-So-Little Drummer Boy plays me like a beat, and in a crescendo, I flood over him there on the edge of the table.

“Yeah! Squirt for me, baby!” he urges me, as his fingers rhythmically pound my pussy.

“I’m cumming! I’m squirting everywhere!” I reel.

“Mmmm,” he says, roughly wiping his face with his arm and then rubbing his drenched fingers on my serving apron. “Hope the second course is as good as the first.”