Alone at that bar on my thirty-fifth birthday, I had to disagree with those magazines that claimed this was my sexual peak. Having a drink while I waited for the tow truck, about the last thing I expected to hear was someone offering to buy me another. I didn’t need to turn to know he was drunk and desperate. The former was confirmed by the sound of the voice; the latter, by my appearance: the bulky sweater that masked my out-of-shape body, the knit cap that tried to hide my winter hair, and my surly demeanor caused by the car trouble that drove me from the miserable weather into the dimly lit bar.

As I turned to snarl at the misbegotten masher, I saw a thousand reasons to reject him, the most significant being that he was my ex-husband.

“You’re drunk, George,” I sneered.

He tried to work out how I knew his name, then his face went through recognition, shock, and fear before settling on smarmy.

“Hey, Carol, nice to see you. You’re looking good,” he lied.

“Where’s Sherry?” I asked, more taunting than curious. “Or should I say, Mistress Cherie?” That was the name she used in their femdom sessions.

When George cheated on me with her, which led to our divorce five years ago after a decade of marriage, he said it was because I wouldn’t play those games with him. I was so in love with him, I tried many times. It never did anything for me and he was never satisfied with my efforts.

I discovered the affair when he couldn’t hide the amounts he spent on her. After paying the lawyers, I couldn’t afford to keep the house, so he got it and she moved in with him. The small settlement I received didn’t last long, so I was still driving the same car, which was right now dead in the street.

It was pure coincidence that I was in our old neighborhood when it stopped and that he was in this bar.

“She left me last year,” he glumly looked at his shoes. “I wasn’t good enough for her. I couldn’t give her what she deserved.” I was pretty sure there was a dollar figure involved, and she probably took whatever she could get for as long as he gave it.

The door opened to let in a blast of cold air. “Carol?” a voice rang out, “I’m Mack.” It was the tow truck guy.

“That’s me,” I said, walking away from my ex. After a few minutes outside in the cold with the hood raised, Mack said there wasn’t a quick fix. Taking my information and hooking the car to his truck, he promised to call me the next day with a diagnosis.

My apartment was on the other side of town, and I couldn’t expect him to take me all that way. The bad weather left no easy transportation options, so I returned to the bar. George sat alone.

“George, I’m sorry I was abrupt before,” I said, swallowing my pride. “My car died, and now I’m stuck.” I took a deep breath. “I need a favor.” Every fiber of my being ached at having to ask. “Can I borrow your car? I’ll drive you home and bring it back in the morning.”

“I guess that’s okay,” he said. It was Friday night and, if he had planned to keep drinking, he would have just been sleeping it off the next day anyhow.

I drove the car into his garage so he wouldn’t have to trudge through the unshoveled walkway to the front door.

“Why don’t you come in? I’ll make you a café mocha,” he suggested. It wasn’t a bad idea per se—it would be good to warm up and wake up before facing the drive home through the snow. I was curious about how things were in the house—our house!—now that Sherry was gone.

The espresso maker seemed to be one of the few expensive items Sherry hadn’t taken. The house was in disarray. I moved random items from the couch and coffee table to other piles as he made the drinks.

“No booze in mine!” I called when I saw him get a bottle.

The combination of coffee and chocolate did perk me up. He told me a little about his past couple of years, all of which would fit into the category of “I told you so.”

“Hey, do you remember how you wanted me to finish the basement so we could use it when we were stuck inside during the winter? Well, I did it!” he said, seemingly glad he found something I might care about.

“Want to see it?” he asked. I finished my drink and figured it would be a way to get me moving to leave, so I agreed.

“I want to wait to turn on the light, so stop when you get to the bottom of the stairs,” he said. The light through the door from the kitchen was enough to see the stairs, so I carefully descended into the dark basement.

When the lights came on, I could not believe what I saw. The floor, walls, and ceiling were finished and well lit, but the style could only be called “bordello”. In addition to some apparent BDSM equipment, the scarlet and black walls held an array of implements ready to be used.

“We had such fun here,” he said wistfully. “I mean, Sherry and me.” I was ready to leave. “It could have been you and me,” he interrupted, “if you had been willing.”

“Fuck you!” I screamed. “You know I tried. I worshipped you so much, I did whatever you wanted. But I couldn’t be mean enough to get you off.” I was fuming. “After all you put me through with the divorce and ‘Mistress Cherie’, you have a lot of nerve bringing me down here and showing me this.”

As I turned towards the stairs, I heard my voice mumble, “I bet I could whip you hard enough now!” I don’t know where the thought came from. All I wanted was to get out of there and go home.

“Would you?” he pleaded. Ignoring him, I started up the stairs. “I know I don’t deserve it,” he begged, “but I am lending you my car.”

I resented that he would hold that over my head, but I had no idea how I would get home at that point without the car so I stopped.

“It’s been so long. I miss it so much. I need it. Look at how I live with no discipline.” I couldn’t hide the pity and disgust I felt. “Just fifty strokes,” he said.

“Oh, alright,” I said, going back down the stairs, thinking it would be faster than arguing about it. “Get your pants off,” I said, looking at the options on the wall.

“Does Mistress Carol want me to be in chastity?” he asked eagerly.

More delay, I thought. “Whatever, but hurry up about it,” I said. He scurried about, quickly removing all his clothes, folding or hanging them up. Fetching a contraption of metal rings, he managed to force his half-erect penis into it and locked it. He draped the chain with the key on it over my head before I had a chance to stop him.

There was something that looked like a padded sawhorse, with straps for his ankles and wrists. Fortunately, he could slip his feet and hands through them without needing my assistance. It obviously had been made or adjusted to fit him.

It kept his ass solidly in place and stretched tight. With him bent over, that was all I saw. It could have been anyone. The silence finally made me realize he was waiting for me.

When we were married, I had used a few of the things I saw on the wall. I chose a familiar leather slapper. Not having anything else to say, I raised it to my shoulder and brought it down across his ass.

He jerked with the impact, but so did I. It was loud and the sound seemed to echo in the basement.

“One, thank you, Mistress Carol,” he said. I had forgotten all the rituals that went along with this. Wanting to get this over with, I did nine more in quick succession as he counted, sometimes hitting one cheek, sometimes hitting both. I noticed red marks appearing, so spread the next ten around.

Doing ten more, I began to realize what I was doing, what he had manipulated me to do, and I became angry.

“Shut up with the counting,” I commanded. I was going faster than he could count, and I didn’t want to slow down.

Five more strokes of increasing intensity.

“I can’t believe you conned me into this,” in rhythm with the words, I beat iambic pentameter onto his glowing ass.

Although his grunts and whimpers showed the blows were affecting him, he seemed to take them in stride. Suddenly, I wanted to cause him real pain. I reached for the cane. Long and thin, I remembered it could cause a sharp sting and leave a welt.

With his head down, he didn’t see what I had done, but I whipped the cane in the air. He tensed when he heard the characteristic whistle.

I took a wide swing and landed a stripe across both cheeks. His sharp cry told me I had done it right.

“Is this what you wanted?” I yelled.

Whap! Whap! Two more strokes landed, as he struggled to answer “Yes, Mistress Carol”.

“Is this what would have saved our marriage?”

Whap! Whap! Whap!

I didn’t wait for an answer.

“If so…” Whap! “I’m glad…” Whap! “it’s over.” Whap!

“I’m done,” I said with more venom than anger. Whap! The fiftieth blow landed and I dropped the cane.

Without looking at him or saying any more, I hurried up the steps, got my coat and his keys, and left. Driving home in the swirling snow, I didn’t know whether what I had given him was punishment or some weird pleasure.

Over the past five years, I sometimes wondered if I made a mistake in not acquiescing to his desires. I remembered being in love with him. When I saw him at the bar, I felt pity for him. In the basement, I felt rage. Back in my apartment, I gulped down a stiff drink and took a long, hot shower, letting it wash the cold and anger and any thoughts of George down the drain.

It was the end of another rotten birthday for me. Being born so close to Christmas meant I was always shortchanged on birthday presents. As an adult, my husband and friends would forget or be too busy with holiday stuff. Since the divorce, I haven’t been doing a lot of celebrating in any case.

In the morning, the mechanic called. He could fix my car, but the part was expensive. I hated putting more money into an old car but had no funds for a new one. Holiday bills were already stretching my credit limit.

My neighbor Harry helped me return my ex’s car and get mine. I help him out from time to time, so he was happy to do me a favor. He’s in his seventies but still drives. The snow had stopped for the moment and the streets were not too bad. He looked at me funny when I got into his car after tossing the chastity key chain into the snow in George’s front yard.

“George is an asshole,” was all I offered in explanation. Maybe he would find it in the spring; maybe he would have to cut himself out of the cage; maybe he’d find a kinky locksmith. I didn’t care.

Harry dropped me at the garage and I finally got a look at Mack. The night before, bundled up against the weather, he could have been anyone. In his shop, with grease on his hands—and his nose from where he scratched an itch—he looked like a teenager in a man’s body. I guessed he was in his late twenties, but he seemed awkward and unsure as he explained how he had fixed my car. He flinched when I took the bill from his hand. The cost was less than I feared, and there wasn’t even a charge for coming out last night and towing me in.

“The standard is two hours of labor, but it only took me five minutes to replace the part, so I just charged for the part,” he said. “It’s the holidays.”

I was bowled over by his bigheartedness, not to mention his working on Saturday so I wouldn’t be without my car.

“That is so sweet of you,” I gushed, leaning to give him a hug and a peck on the cheek. I was surprised when he recoiled at the contact.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” he blushed a deep red. “I’m not good with women, and you caught me unprepared.” He looked like a sad puppy and it seemed like he really wished I had kissed him.

“So get prepared,” I smiled, “and I’ll try it again.”

The way his face brightened, if he had been a puppy, he would have been wagging his tail.

As I took him in my arms slowly, he seemed to shiver at my touch. He leaned into my lips as they met his cheek. I lingered a bit, not wanting to cause any other upset, then withdrew. His face was red again.

“I wouldn’t want your wife or girlfriend to get the wrong idea,” I said. “I’m just grateful for your benevolence.”

I swear his complexion had just returned to normal when red flooded back.

“No, there’s no wife or even a girlfriend,” he confessed.

“We all go through dry periods,” I admitted, being in one myself.

“Not as long as mine,” he sighed. I wasn’t going to pry, so I just smiled and shrugged.

I would have turned to go, but he seemed like he was going to say something and, after a long pause, he did.

“I went to an all-boys school, and then auto mechanic school with only guys. This was my dad’s shop,” his voice seemed to catch. “I started working with him. Then he got sick and I had to take care of him and then he died and now it’s just me. So I just never had time for a girlfriend.”

My heart ached for him. Was it possible he really meant “never”?

“Mack, you seem like such a sweet guy. Forgive me if this bother’s you. If you want, we can just forget it ever came up,” I used my most soothing tone. “But, are you saying you’re a virgin?” I asked, trying to suppress any judgment or skepticism.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I am,” he said forlornly. “I was taught sex was only with my wife, and so far, I don’t have a wife.”

“Well, my friend, only you can decide your beliefs about sex,” I consoled him. “But a man your age will have trouble finding a virgin to marry. And a woman your age is going to want to take a test drive before she buys the car.”

“I know,” Mack sighed, eyes filling with tears. I had to grab his wrist to keep him from using a greasy finger to brush them away. He fought his reflex to jerk it back; I relaxed my grip but held it gently to show my concern.

Whether it was gratitude for his kindness, empathy for his situation, horniness from my dry spell, a need to purify myself after my encounter with George, or some combination, I reached a decision.

“Mack, if you want, in the holiday spirit, I will cure you of your virginity,” I said. His stunned expression told me I should be more explicit.

“After you close the shop for the day, get cleaned up and come by my apartment. I’ll have something for us to eat and we’ll go from there.” I made a mental note to pick up some take-out food. “By breakfast, your virginity will be history.” And some eggs.

It was six-thirty when he knocked at the door, carrying flowers.

“Now Mack,” I said gently, “the flowers are nice, but I don’t want to mislead you. This isn’t a date. We aren’t going out together. I’m helping you to solve a problem. There are all sorts of women you should be getting to know, and I hope this helps you get going in that direction.”

We sat on the couch and had a drink to relax us both. He did know how to kiss—at least he had done that—but I gave him a refresher course. When I saw the bulge straining his pants, I led him to the bedroom.

“Usually, people will dim the lights, but today I think you should see everything,” I explained as we sat next to each other on the side of the bed.

We undressed and I stretched out and encouraged him to explore my body. He had so much fun with my breasts and nipples, I had to nudge him to move on. The situation and the kissing had warmed me up. Guiding his hand to my pussy, I pressed his middle finger into my opening.

“Feel how warm and wet it is. That’s because I’m turned on. It seems small, but your penis will fit,” I explained. “ It will feel terrific for me when you stretch me open, and terrific for you when you’re buried inside me.”

His cock was dripping precum onto the sheets, and I was worried he might explode if I touched it. I distracted him a bit with some practical matters.

“You will need to use a condom. Fucking without a condom is something you can save for your wife. Otherwise, always use one.” I gave him one and let him try opening it and putting it on. It took a few attempts. “You can practice that at home,” I laughed.

“This first time will be different,” I warned, pushing him onto his back. “You’re horny and I’m turned on, so it may be quick. That’s okay; we’ll rest and do it again later.”

It was time. I straddled his rigid pole and lowered myself onto him. I almost came just from the joyous look on his face. When he was in as far as he could go, I paused.

“Feel my warmth around your cock? I feel you filling me up,” I cooed.

“It’s so good,” he said. I could feel his organ twitching.

“It gets better,” I said, slowly rising up an inch or two, then settling back down. Gradually, I moved farther and faster until, after a few dozen strokes, it was a normal slow fuck. I could see the pending orgasm on his face.

“Just let it happen,” I whispered, and I doubted he could have prevented it. His siren-like moan was accompanied by spontaneous thrusts as he exploded inside me. I rocked on top of him for a while after he came, making him squirm from the pressure on his still stiff organ.

“Before I let you out,” my voice was husky with my excitement, “I’m going to make myself cum.” I slipped my hand to my mound and leaned forward onto his chest, mashing my swollen nipples against his sweaty body.

“Squeeze my butt,” I suggested, and his hands kneaded my soft globes. My fingers found my clit and washboarded back and forth across it, accelerating me to the peak.

“Try to feel my cunt squeeze your dick,” I whispered. “Oh, yeah, that’s it, I’m cumming,” I moaned.

“I feel it,” Mack exclaimed as I writhed on top of him.

“That was amazing. It was all… so… amazing,” he said when I was finally still. I suppressed a laugh at his dazed but happy expression.

“For me, too,” I sighed. It felt great to have a warm body against mine. It was an experience I had been missing for too long.

When he softened enough to pop out of me, I went back into teaching mode, showing him how to handle a full condom. Getting out of bed, I grabbed a robe for each of us and suggested we have something to eat.

Over pasta and salad, we got to know each other better. He was a pensive guy and an eager student, hanging on my every word about women and relationships. That’s not to say I was an expert, but I could at least give him the basics.

After an hour or so, I asked if he was ready for more, and his ear-to-ear smile showed he was.

“An important thing to learn is how to get a woman ready,” I said, lying back on the bed. “You can’t just jump between her legs. You make love to the whole body, not just the pussy.” I caressed the sensitive spots on his body and showed him the tender parts of mine.

“You have to pay attention to the woman to see what they prefer. Some like to you be gentle, some firmer. And at different times, a woman may want more or less.” I was starting to respond to his activity.

“It takes more time and stimulation for a woman to climax, so you’ll want to develop different techniques. Believe me; it will pay off for you. I assume you’ve seen enough porn to know that women love to have their pussies licked,” I said.

“Uh, yeah,” he admitted. “But… I’ve never had the chance.”

“Well it’s time for you to lose that part of your virginity,” I said, spreading my legs. I guided him into a comfortable position and encouraged him to take some tentative licks. “Every woman is different, so you’ll want to try different things and see what they like. Don’t be too shy to ask.”

I talked him through a course of basic cunnilingus and he seemed so pleased—as was I!—when he gave me an orgasm. His cock looked ready to go again, so I had him put on a condom and climb between my legs. Instinct took over and he managed to get inside me.

“This part is like a symphony,” I explained. “Sometimes it will be fast, sometimes slow, sometimes hard, sometimes soft. You want to crescendo to the ultimate cymbal-crashing climax, but there can be many themes and movements to enjoy along the way.”

I applied my hands to his ass to give him some cues.

“It’s up to you and your partner. No two times need to be the same,” I said. “At some point, your body may take over and you’ll just explode. As you gain more experience, you may be able to control it so you can decide when you want to finish. Today, just do what feels best to you.”

At first, his thrusts were slow, but when he got more confident, he moved rapidly. I encouraged him to go deeper, which slowed him down a bit, but he was soon going as fast and deep as his primal brain drove him.

“That’s it, fuck me!” I urged him on. Looking up into his face, I could see the tension building and his eyes losing focus. I raised and spread my legs, meeting his thrusts.

“I’m doing it,” he cried. “I’m doing it.” I felt his body jerk and knew he had reached the point of no return. His series of grunts told me he was filling the condom as he pounded into me.

After a dozen or so thrusts he slowed down but continued, enjoying the aftershocks that made him shudder. When he finally stopped, I held him close, sharing the occasion with him. We stayed that way, breathing together but otherwise not moving, for several minutes.

After a brief interruption to dispense with the condom and visit the bathroom, we returned to spoon and fall asleep. In the morning, I introduced him to doggie-style and showed him how, by adjusting his thrusting and using my fingers on my clit, we could cum at the same time.

We showered together and had breakfast before I sent him on his way, a virgin no more.

Sunday afternoon, I got a call from Harry. It sounded like a computer problem. I’m no expert, but I’ve helped him before.

“It looks like you got a virus again,” I reported. “Have you been visiting unknown web sites?”

“Well…,” he said.

Glancing through his browser history, I found a suspect—a site that sells used panties.

“Harry, I warned you about this. Did you give them a credit card?” I scolded him.

“Yeah,” he admitted.

“Alright, give me your card,” I ordered. I called the number on the back and handed him the phone. “Have them cancel the card and send you another one while I work on cleaning your computer.”

I felt sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault that computers were so insecure. The fact that he was still horny at his age was a good thing in my book. The internet made it possible for him to see people enjoying sex and if that gave him some moments of pleasure, I was all for it. My browser history was full of links that had done the same for me.

“It will take a few hours to disinfect it,” I said when he finished his call. “I’ll be back. I’m going shopping, do you need anything?”

He mentioned a few items so I added them to my list. The weather had turned bad again, but I had Christmas shopping to do and needed some groceries.

There was a Santa Claus ringing a bell to raise money outside the department store. The poor guy looked half-frozen despite the outfit, which was probably more for show than insulation. Ducking into the coffee shop next door, I bought a steaming cup and took it to him.

“I got you a café mocha,” I said, handing it to him as I stuffed a few bills into his kettle. “If any kids ask, you can say it’s hot chocolate.”

“Thank you so much,” he said between careful sips. “You’re definitely on my ‘nice’ list!”

I spent a few hours purchasing gifts for some friends. As I wandered between departments, I was inspired to pick up something extra. Growing tired and still needing to get groceries, I went back out into the cold.

Santa was still there. He seemed more lively and I thought he might be a replacement, but as I walked by he called to me “Thanks again! Merry Christmas!”

After stopping at my house, I returned to Harry’s, putting what I bought for him in his refrigerator. His computer was back to normal, but he looked morose.

“Don’t feel bad, Harry,” I comforted him. “You just need to stick to the well-known porn sites I told you. They’re legit businesses, so they aren’t going to have viruses and try to cheat you.”

“I know,” he said. “Watching and hearing porn is nice, but sometimes I miss the, uh, other aspects.”

I had planned to surprise him later, but I decided not to wait.

“Maybe I can help with that—if you’re interested,” I suggested. “Why don’t you come over here?” I let him sit in the computer chair and pulled another chair over for me. “How about if we watch some videos together?”

He looked aghast, but I hugged his shoulders and reassured him I was serious.

“Show me what you like,” I encouraged. “Then I’ll show you what I like.”

He went to a web site and clicked on some scenes with a famous older porn star.

“She was my favorite when I was younger,” he said. “I still watch scenes from her early days, but I prefer her more recent clips. It’s like we grew older together.”

His candor motivated me to reveal some of my secrets.

“When I’m really horny, I’ll watch gay ones, just to see only dicks. And it’s nice to see some hairless ones. But usually, I like the category that shows men worshiping pussy,” I said, playing an example.

“That was nice,” he said when it ended. “I could almost taste….” His voice trailed off sadly.

While we were watching it, I had slipped my hand into my pants to stroke myself. I wasn’t gushing, but I was damp. Starting another video, I drew my fingers out and raised them to his lips.

“Oh, Carol!” he cried, recognizing the scent. “You don’t have to do that!”

“Go ahead,” I said, “smell, taste, remember what a pussy is like.”

He almost sniffed them dry before opening his mouth. I let him suck them clean as we watched the man lick the woman to orgasm.

“Let’s get comfortable,” I suggested, standing and lowering my pants. “How do you usually do it?”

I don’t know whether he was more shocked at my suggestion, or by the sight of my panties—the silky red pair with black lace trim I had purchased earlier that day. When he recovered, he stood and lowered his pants and briefs. Opening a desk drawer, he took out a hand towel and laid it on the chair, then pulled out a box of tissues and a bottle of lube. I reached over to grab a towel for my chair and sat down next to him.

We watched a bunch of porn together. His cock was older and not as hard and his balls more wrinkled than a younger man’s, but there are no beauty contests for genitals. We didn’t touch each other’s private parts—somehow that seemed a line we didn’t want to cross. It took him longer to get there, so I was ready to go whenever he was. The periodic tastes and smells of my juices seemed to make him silly, a side of him I had never seen before.

“I need to cum,” he finally said, “or I’ll lose the chance.” Even at his age, he was considerate of his partner’s satisfaction.

“Don’t worry about me,” I soothed, “I’ll join you!”

He clicked on a point-of-view clip that was on his favorites list. “She reminds me of my wife,” he said.

Tears flooded to my eyes, remembering the two of them together before she died a few years ago. Lost in the video, he pumped his shaft in time with the woman who was riding some anonymous cock. Harry was familiar with it, and he timed his release with hers.

He moaned softly. I thought I heard his wife’s name as he milked the cum out of his dick. It wasn’t a big explosion, but his sighs and gentle squeezing showed a satisfying result.

I had been distracted by the memory of his wife but seeing him ejaculate rewoke my excitement. As usual, after the clip showed the woman’s—real or acted—orgasm, the penis withdrew and shot a load, this one reached to between her bouncing tits and dripped down her belly. It was enough for me to climax, not an earthquake, but a pleasant low rumble of a passing train.

Harry watched me as I gasped and sighed but tried not to stare. In truth, there wasn’t much to see.

“That was marvelous! That’s why I went to that website, to remember that scent,” he said, using some tissues to clean himself up. He offered some to me, but I declined.

Standing, I slid off the panties and used them to mop myself up. I pulled my pants back on and went to the kitchen, sealed the undies in a plastic bag and stuck them in the freezer.

“They’re not edible,” I kidded Harry, who had put himself back in order. “But someday you can thaw them out and sniff them when you’re in the mood.”

The next day was Christmas Eve and the last stores were about to close. I was picking up a bottle of wine to take to a friend who had invited me to spend the next day with her and her family. Who should I see but a Santa Claus making a purchase?

“Don’t let any children see Santa buying booze,” I quipped.

“Hey, it’s the mocha lady!” he said, turning to me. I hadn’t suspected it was the same Santa.

“Getting something to keep you warm in the sleigh tonight?” I teased.

“Actually, I’m alone tonight,” he said. “The stores have finally closed, so I’m done for the year. I’ll just stay home and watch an old movie.”

“Me, too,” I confessed. Looking at the brandy he was buying I asked, “Do you drink it straight, or is that for your egg nog?”

“I don’t have any egg nog,” he said. “It’s probably too late to get some now.”

I don’t know why I was flirting with some guy in a Santa suit, but I blurted out, “I have some. Want to come to my place for a drink? Maybe we could watch a movie together.”

I guess I figured a guy who would stand out in the cold and raise money for a charity and try to spread Christmas cheer among the shoppers was safe. In fact, he seemed to be the skeptical one, looking me up and down.

“You said I was on the ‘nice’ list,” I reminded him, giggling.

He followed me to my apartment. I got the egg nog out as he removed his padded suit and beard. Until he did, I really had no idea what he would look like. Underneath, he wore jeans and a flannel shirt. It was hard to guess his age; whether in his twenties or thirties or even well-preserved forties, he glowed with life and good humor.

“I’m a student,” he explained, without being specific. “I’m stuck here between semesters, so I volunteered to raise money.”

However random the topics, he was easy to talk to and listen to; maybe it was the brandy. As we watched a classic Christmas movie, calling out some of the well-worn lines, we found ourselves moving together until we were snuggling. When I turned to look at him, he was looking at me with the same expression I felt. It seemed too unlikely, too much too soon, too foolish—but also too irresistible.

There was no way to know if he kissed me or I kissed him first. After two seconds, it didn’t matter. His lips were warm and soft, his tongue confident but not aggressive. His hand felt so natural on my breasts, warming me more than the brandy had. I slid my fingers between the buttons on his shirt and felt his warm skin. Like well-considered chess moves, we alternated, button by button, clasp by zipper, as clothes were opened and skin caressed. We reached the limits of our location: my fingers wrapped around his shaft as it protruded from his jeans; his mouth sucked my nipples while his fingers sought my pussy.

I rose and led him to my bedroom, shedding garments along the way. Reclining on the bed, I gazed at his naked body as he stood before me, scanning mine from head to toe. I pointed to the nightstand, guessing condoms weren’t a part of the Santa costume and he smiled when he found one in the drawer and understood my meaning.

He joined me in bed. My left hand pumped his cock to full strength while my right massaged his balls. His deep sigh urged me to continue. He reached between my legs and found me slick and warm; his fingers explored my hidden geography, unleashing my breathy moans.

I took the opened condom from him and rolled it onto his penis. There was no rush, but no reason for delay. We turned towards each other and I lifted my leg, inviting him into me then hugging his leg with mine. He squirmed closer, aligning our genitals, and we merged together. Our bodies were in maximum contact, enjoying the shared warmth, softness, and firmness.

My left arm cradled his head as my right hand roamed from his head to his ass. My spine tingled as his fingers traced every delighted nerve. His cock worked into my cunt, grinding against me and into me more than fucking me. Our excitement rose gradually but inexorably, our caresses becoming stronger and more focused.

How could this man I had just met be filling me and fulfilling me so well? I banished the question before it could disrupt what I was feeling. It was a passionate dance, the heat within me reflecting from his body, making me hotter and hotter. Our gasps and notes of pleasure rose in pitch and tempo.

There was no edge before the plunge, no urgency before the release. The tide of bliss just lifted me up more and more until it overwhelmed me. I felt my partner, the source—or at least the nexus—of that ecstasy, reach the same level, without competition or attribution. With no sharp beginning, there was no obvious ending, the fleeting peak smoothed to a seemingly unending swell.

Our position was so easy and comfortable; there was no need to alter it as the euphoria slowly faded. We dozed and woke, kissed and laughed, but did nothing to dare break the spell, which eventually flowed to dreams.

The morning light opened my eyes and reality returned, bit by bit. Santa was gone, first from my bed and, as I looked around, from my apartment. I realized it was Christmas Day. Somehow I couldn’t remember his name—had I ever known it? He left no note; two used glasses and the rest of the brandy were the only evidence that he had been there.

It was Christmas. He had left, but I felt no loss; rather I treasured the gift of that night. I would not besmirch it by thinking it could or should have been anything else. It was a sweet conclusion to the days since my birthday, which had purged my demons and filled me with spirit—not just the Christmas spirit, but a renewed joy for life as I began the New Year and my thirty-sixth.