What’s That Under the Mistletoe? — Giselle Renarde

They were the most ridiculous undies I’d ever seen.

And, yes, I’m well aware that a woman’s never supposed to laugh at a man with his pants down, but I couldn’t help it.  I’d never seen Lars in a thong before, and I’d certainly never seen him in novelty underwear.

“What’s that under the mistletoe?”  He raised one eyebrow, then the other.

Lars looked like a Christmas-time superhero standing like that, with his hands on his hips, smiling at me with gleaming white teeth.  But, really, in a thong like that it wasn’t his teeth I was focused on.  The fabric was candy cane red and there was a hole in front, smack dab in the middle.  Above the hole there was a silk sprig of mistletoe.  You can guess what filled that hole.

He was already hard, straining and veined, his tip as red as Rudolph’s nose.

“You are such a…”  I couldn’t find the right word, so I just laughed again.

His smile never faded.  “I’m such a what?”

Shaking my head, I backed up until my butt hit the side of the couch.  He followed me, led by his cock, like a dog on a leash.  “Where the hell did you find that thing?”

“Online,” he said with a slight shrug.

I nodded, all-knowing, zen-like. “Ah, the internet: teacher, mother, secret lover.”

“Not to mention provider of ridiculous undies.”

I loved that Lars wasn’t afraid to get silly with me.  That’s what Christmas was about, after all: a time to be children together.  Not that we did anything like this when we were young.  I remember calling him my boyfriend once in kindergarten, and rather than push me in the mud as other boys would have done, he explained to me thoroughly and reasonably why that was not the case.  He was such a nerd back then.

“You know you have to kiss it,” he said.

“Of course.”  My gaze shifted from his eyes to his erection.  I would never be sure which part of him I loved the most.  His gaze could penetrate me every bit as hard as his cock.

“Are you procrastinating?”

“Who, me?”  I ran a solitary finger down his bare chest.  “Never.”

“Well, then?”  His cock waved at me, up and down, all on its own, and I burst out laughing again.  “Gotta kiss what’s under the mistletoe.”

The sofa’s edge supported my back as I sank to my knees, trapped between the side of the couch and Lars’s legs.  When my eyes were level with his straining, muscled meat, the giggles died down and I just stared.  The thong itself was impressively tight, concealing his bulging balls and all but a few curls of blonde pubic hair curling over the top.  A couple strands mingled with the deep green sprigs of fabric mistletoe.  The visuals, the proximity, the distinctive scent of my man’s crotch—these cues spread a warmth like hot cocoa all through my belly.

“Jess?”

When I looked up to meet the dark flame of Lars’s gaze, my pussy clenched and pulsed in swift alternation.  There was a longing in his eyes that said, “I need you,” but there was something else, too, a blaze that communicated, “I want you,” or maybe, “I will have you.”

Of course he would.  I’d give that man anything.  I would certainly give him head.

“Gotta kiss what’s under the mistletoe,” he repeated, and the echo summoned forth a growl in me.

“Yes,” I whispered, so close I could feel my hot breath rebound from his cockhead, landing warm against my lips.  I licked them before closing the gap, and at the last second decided to overshoot my goal, to start at the base rather than the tip.

“Oh, you vixen.”  Lars moaned when I planted a dry kiss at the bottom of his shaft.

“You Prancer,” I teased before kissing his cock again, a little higher up.  I switched sides, then, still working the base of his shaft, and even ducking underneath to get the bottom.

“Prancer?”  Lars sounded very confused, and when I looked up, I met perplexity in his gaze.

“I thought we were calling each other reindeer names.”

He laughed.  “Then can I at least be Comet?”

“How about Cupid?” I asked in a mushy-gooey voice.

“Aren’t you sweet!”  Lars made his cock wave, and this time it reminded me of a man trying to hail a taxi.  “Now quit dragging your feet and suck my cock, will you?”

“Suck?”  I giggled even though his words tied my stomach in a hot knot that spread tingles halfway down my thighs.  “ I thought I was just supposed to kiss it.  What’s all this about sucking?  I don’t think that’s proper Christmas tradition.”

“I don’t think any of this is proper Christmas tradition.”  Lars gave my face a playful whack with his dick, leaving a sweet splash of precum across my cheek.  “So how ‘bout we make our own traditions, eh?”

A growl burbled into my throat and came out as a decadent chuckle.  “Ho ho ho,” I said, blowing cool air against his wet tip.

He shuddered visibly, then wrapped both hands around the back of my head and eased me forward.  “That’s right, Jess.”

“Mmmm…”

Lars’s cock tasted so damn good I couldn’t help moaning around his shaft.  His fingers nested in my hair and I rocked with him, opening my throat to his dick, giving it free reign.

“Oh God,” he groaned.  “I’ve never been so deep.”

I couldn’t respond, of course.  The silly fake mistletoe on his underwear tickled my nose.  He was buried to the hilt. Every time I even thought about my gag reflex, my throat started to clamp down and realize there was a cock in the way.  I made my mind a blank, nothing but pure white snow as far as the eye could see.

It felt good, to let him use me for his pleasure.  I can’t explain why.  I really don’t know, but to give him the freedom to fuck my throat, just pummel it as hard and as fast as he wanted—it made my pussy pulse even as my eyes watered.

“Fuck,” Lars whimpered.  “I gotta sit or I’m gonna fall over.”  He tumbled on to the couch.

It wasn’t until Lars stole his thick shaft away from my throat that I realized how tender he’d made me.  My whole mouth felt bee-stung and hot, as engorged as my pussy.  I had a choice to make now: fuck him or suck him.

The mistletoe made the choice for me.

Sneaking between Lars’s open legs, I bent over his lap, letting the loose strands of my hair bob against his thighs.  He hissed and said, “God, that feels good.”

I licked his tip and he shuddered.  I loved that I could do that to him.  I licked it again, in a slow, sloppy circle all the way around his cockhead.  When he started praising me in curses under his breath, I eased down, enveloping his hot tip and half his shaft in my wet mouth.  When I had what I wanted, I started to suck, making my mouth a vacuum.  I wrapped my fist around the lower part of his shaft to keep him from thrusting too hard into my tender throat.  In the second act, I regained control.  It was always a give and take.

My hand worked at its own pace, travelling up Lars’s shaft until it met my lustful lips, and then back down until it rebounded off his mistletoe undies.  I bobbed my head, sucking wetly, my mouth making sloppy popping sounds every time I came up too far and lost suction.

Curious of his expression, I eased away and looked up at him, my hand still working his wet cock.  He wasn’t watching me.  His eyes were closed, his mouth moulded into a yearning position, like his lips were jealous of mine, they wanted to suck something too.

When he realized my mouth was no longer on his cock, something seemed to burst in him and he looked the same way he always did when he was first waking up in the morning.  He found me there, between his legs, and he smiled.  “Hey, you.”

I returned his smile tenfold.  “Hey, you.”

It was a moment—one of those eternal moments that stay with you forever.

And then I went back at him.  Wrapping my mouth around his cock, I sucked with renewed vigour.  I wanted him to come, and I told him so in every action, every bob of my head, every twist of my wrist.  His underwear was soaked with my saliva, and when I slapped his swaddled balls he lurched, hissing, “Fuck!”

“Mmm-hmm!”  That was the best encouragement I could offer with a cock in my mouth.

I kept up my killer handjob-blowjob combo until he started bucking against my face and I had to push him back down on the couch.

But, with Lars, inaction spoke louder than action.  When he abruptly stopped fucking my face, I knew he was about to come.  He was perfectly silent, and I braced myself for the blast, glancing up at him quickly when it didn’t come.

I was about to ease away again when I felt a surge under my thumb, and then against my lip, then my tongue.  A stream travelled up the underside of his shaft, exploding in my mouth, striking the back of my throat.  It was hot and musky, and I swallowed and swallowed as the blasts kept coming.  They were endless, flooding my mouth so fast I struggled to down all the fluid.

And then he laughed, pressing his palm against my forehead.  “Enough, Jess.  Christ, you’re gonna kill me!”

He giggled like a schoolgirl as I sat between his knees, watching.

His face was the best face.  His hair was a little 1980’s punk rock, but I liked it in an ironic way.  I loved his dick.  I loved his sense of humour.  I loved him.

“I love sucking your cock,” I said, hoping he’d opt for a more romantic return statement.

He said, “Guess I bought the right underwear, then.”

“Yeah…”  I laughed even though my stomach was tied in knots.

Then he got up and I figured he’d head to the bathroom or to bed, but instead he went to the Christmas tree and brought me back a little package.  “Thought you might appreciate this.”

“What is it?” I asked.  I always did that.  It was stupid.

He said, “Open it up if you’re so curious.”

Popping off the box top, I peered inside.  There was tissue paper I couldn’t bear to daintily peel away.  I tore into it, finding a candy cane red pair of panties—crotchless—with a sprig of silky mistletoe over the slit.

I giddy thrill ran through me as I jumped up to hug Lars around the neck.

“Does this mean you like them?” he asked.

Kissing his neck, I gave him another squeeze before hopping away.  “I’m putting them on right now.  You’d better be ready when I get back!”

“Ready and willing,” he said with a wink.

____________________

Giselle is a favorite author here on Every Night Erotica, read more of her sexy stories.

Eroticist Giselle Renarde is a queer Canadian, avid volunteer, contributor to more than 50 short story anthologies, and author of dozens of electronic and print books, including Anonymous, Ondine, and My Mistress’ Thighs. Ms Renarde lives across from a park with two bilingual cats who sleep on her head.

For more information on Giselle and her work, visit her website at www.wix.com/gisellerenarde/erotica or visit her Donuts and Desires blog at donutsdesires.blogspot.com.

What's That Under the Mistletoe? -- Giselle Renarde, 4.7 out of 5 based on 10 ratings