Seasonal Steam
My Hot Neighbour Was My Christmas Present
He only popped round with the cards and box of chocolates. He did it every year. How come I’d only just noticed my neighbour was so damn hot?
Maybe after his wife left or when he sold that brute of a dildo sports car and shifted to a Prius.
Who knew? But damn, he was scorching.
A cynic might say I only noticed because I hadn’t had sex in a year since he last called with the round tin of gorgeous, sick-inducing calories. It didn’t matter. What mattered right then was me deciding I was going to fuck him.
He always did the chocolate thing on Christmas Eve, around seven. I was the last house on his circuit. This time I’d invite him in. I set my kitchen up, bottles laid out, glasses at the ready. The front room was a haven of fairy lights, candles and sexy lighting, cinnamon and scent of an actual pine tree. I hated pretend ones.
I’d even moved the sofa, so if we fell off we’d end up on the thick rug, not the wooden floor. This girl had got it going on. I guess I don’t have to tell you I’d waxed, plucked, moisturised and felt uncomfortable but horny wearing stockings and suspenders under a skintight dress. Not for going out in, or even wearing for very long, of course!
I stood in the bedroom window, in the dark, watching to see when I could answer the door, all surprised at his arrival. Seven, seven fifteen. No sign.
I sat on the sofa, listened to the smooth R & B tracks Trevor Nelson was talking me through. Seven thirty.
Moving to the kitchen, I sipped on my second glass of wine. I loved these crystal tulips, too good for just a night in, but joyous and indulgent. I should use them every day. Eight o’clock.
Now at this point I could’ve just gone to bed, or watched TV, but I had drunk two huge over filled glasses of a very expensive wine and I wasn’t in the mood for Die Hard or a quiz show with fake laughter. So I did what I bet you wouldn’t have expected. I hadn’t until that moment. I picked up my door key, phone and spare box of chocolates. Yes, my parents trained me well, to always have a spare gift at home at Christmas, just in case. Anyway, enough of my training.
If he wasn’t coming here, I’d go there. I opened the front door, damn it was pouring with rain. When did that happen? I laughed. It was perfect and suited my plan. It was a hastily arranged, tipsy plan, but a plan none the less.
I arriving at his doorstep, soaked, literally to the skin. Thank the stars for waterproof mascara. My hair stuck to my scalp. As I pressed his doorbell, I placed a tendril on my face so it dripped onto my nose. Over dramatic. He opened the door in seconds, he must have been hand on handle. He had on a coat and cap, and balanced a pile of chocolate tins in his hands. I kinda swore at my lack of patience. Then congratulated myself on my genius. He put the tins on the bottom stair in the hallway and dragged me inside.
‘Oh my god, you’re soaked!’
Nothing got past him, I thought. I muttered about how he’d inspired me to share chocolates with everyone and shivered in what was a brilliantly realistic tremble of flesh. I’d now realised that it was freezing, and I was going down with pneumonia if I didn’t get warmed up.
Seeing my discomfort, he closed the door. Ran upstairs to fetch a pair of huge, very fluffy towels. He wrapped one around my head and shoulders and held the other, ready for me to use. I grabbed it and walked past him, headed to his kitchen.
‘I don’t want to drip on your carpet.’
I dripped onto his kitchen tiles while he put the kettle on.
‘The least I can do is offer you a hot chocolate.’
I agreed, it was the very least.
He turned around. Saw me peeling off my dress. Now I am fit. I work damn hard, so I knew I looked amazing. If this tactic didn’t work, I’d drink the chocolate and go home to watch Die Hard. Yes, it’s a Christmas movie. Anyway, it worked.
He stepped towards me, kicked aside the fabric formally known as dress. Used the towel as a lasso, pulled me into his arms. My underwear was silk and almost see through now, soaking wet. My nipples stood out like hot pebbles. He grabbed at my tit with one hand and my waist with the other. The warmth from his hands made me shiver again.
His lips approached mine. Plump doesn’t sound good, but these were. Our first kiss was a dream of coffee and cinnamon chocolate. His tongue clashed with mine. I stood, legs parted to hold my ground. He pressed me back against the large US style fridge.
‘I need to get you out of these wet clothes.’
I sure as heck wasn’t going to argue. He reached around and undid my bra. Pulling it off my arms, he dropped the wet rag of red silk and white edging to the floor. He held me as I stepped out of my thong knickers. Stood close, held me to him. I unfastened his coat, threw his cap off in a dramatic frisbee flourish, and snuggled against his chest. Hard, nice. I knew he ran, he worked out too.
His mouth greedy on mine, then he lowered to bite my nipple, rock hard with cold. Despite the heat from his mouth it stayed pert as he pulled on it with his teeth. The tweak of pain shot a message to my pussy to get ready. My legs still wrapped in sexy black suspenders and wet silk stockings. I didn’t care, he was warming me up.
I peeled off his coat, unzipped his hoody. They joined the pile of clothes on the floor. His cock hard against my stomach, breath hot on my neck, hands caressed my body. They ran over me in the way a greedy teenager gropes at his first date. I almost panicked. Please tell me he wasn’t a grope and fuck guy?
I kissed him again, pressed one thigh between his, brazenly rubbing my clit on his warm, firm quad.
He read my mind, slowed his hands. They settled, one on my tit, thumb flicking at my nipple, the other on my ass pulling me onto him. I fumbled for his zip with icy fingers. He moved away and scooped out his length. Not too big, thick though, the end already wet for me. He took control, spun me around, and bent me over the small kitchen island counter.
My tits squashed against the cool marble. His hands stroked and caressed my ass. Warming it, tangling in my tight suspenders. He slapped my ass hard. Gasping, I felt the heat rise in my butt. He then stroked his hands over my back and butt again. Then a hard slap on the other butt cheek. I was hot now, my thighs parted, invited him in.
High heels held me at the right height for him. I lay prone over the island, gripped the edge, asked him to fuck me. Played the submissive game. One hand moved from my butt to my hips. I guessed his other was guiding his cock towards me. I wiggled to show him I was more than ready. His width stretched me as he pushed against me, then he slid in. He didn’t hold back, no tentative dipping in and out. He thrust, hard, and filled me in one insistent move. I moaned as he fucked with a passion that felt as long in the waiting as mine was. We bucked, moaned, fucked hard.
I held my ground, toes trying to dig into a tiled floor to stay balanced. He hammered into me. His balls slapped, my tits squashed. We were a wreck of sweat, grunts, passionate thrusts. Soon on that messy edge of kitchen sex. He told me he was going to come. I slid my hand down to my clit and as he held my hips tight to stay deep, I rubbed myself. We came together in a loud, take this, fuck me hard, crescendo of grunts, moans and yes tears. I cried.
He slid from me, turned me around, and held me tight against his chest. We calmed our breathing and his fingers trailed across my breasts. Lips on my neck. My nipples shot into buds again. He smiled down, hugged me close, and kissed me. Gently. Took my hand and led me towards the stairs.
‘I think you need a hot shower. Mind if I join you?’
It was going to be a merry Christmas after all.
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Another festive tale by Emily (Little Miss Right Now)