Mistress for Christmas

"Mistress For Christmas"

by J. D. Savanyu

(Winter holidays contest entry 2026)

Another dreary white Christmas, but it's about to get hot in Cleveland. Gathered by a crackling fireplace where four stockings are hung with care. I haven't banged my hot busty blonde wife since last year's New Year's Eve, but we're still putting on a perfect happy "nuclear family" act for Tiny Tim and Cindy Loo-Hoo.

"A Switch! A Switch! A Switch! A Switch!" seven-year old Tim Chatham shrieks ecstatically after opening his fourth present. Hoisting the shiny cardboard box high in the air, eager to plug in his new Japanese mind-melting machine. Much more powerful than the 8-bit Japanese mind-melting machine that dominated my own childhood and adolescence, back in those grungy pre-internet and clunky dialup glory days.

"K-Pah Deema-Huffas! K-Pah Deema-Huffas! K-Pah Deema-Huffas! K-Pah Deema-Huffas!" six year-old Cindy Chatham shrieks just as ecstatically. Still unable to pronounce "K-Pop Demon Hunters," or understand the concept of demons, or religion in general. Or even find Korea on a map, North or South.

"Enjoy your presents, guys. Remember, that's a lot more than most children in the world are getting for Christmas," Mary beams with a twinkle in her big blue eyes, tossing her long shiny golden hair.

"Yes, mommy. I'm cown-tink my bwess-inks," Cindy utters adorably, batting long dark lashes over her own big blue eyes. Eerily resembling JonBenét Ramsey.

"Don't let that Switch switch off your mind," I add sternly toward Timmy. "Just one hour of video games a day, and one hour of TV. I won't let you make the same mistake I did when I was a kid, drowning out my intellect with pixelated mumbo-jumbo."

"What's an een-ta-leck, Daddy?" Timmy asks awkwardly.

"Never mind," I grunt more awkwardly.

"Less pixels, more pages!" my wife Mary beams, patting my right hand. She used to "pat" a lot more of me, before our lofty career goals derailed our sexual gravy train. I've only fucked her six times over the past year, and now I'm secretly fucking Emma Carson. My wife doesn't even know my mistress exists because I'm pretty damn good at deception. Applying my MFA English degree to the real world of adults and adultery.

"Less screen time, more lean time," I add with an insincere "Father Knows Best" tone, stealing a glance at Mary's natural DDD wonders. My wife is still smokin' hot after squeezing two tiny humans out her hoo-ha. The second baby was the charm, putting a force field around her nether region. Like a sexual Mount Doom, guarded by the vaginal eye of Sauron. Impossible to penetrate without a magic ring crafted by horny dwarf wizards.

The morning and afternoon go by in a blur as I look forward to opening my biggest "present" on the other side of town. Mary's Christmas dinner is "scrum-diddily-umptious," but I'm too preoccupied to savor it. My mind is swirling with sugarplum visions of my hot ginger mistress from the office. I can't wait to explore every inch of Emma's curvaceous corporate body, and pound her red-haired pussy with white-collar machismo.

I wolf down some homemade pumpkin pie with my 'perfect' nuclear 2.5 family, and then I commence my exit strategy, eager to engage in coital combat on a distant front.

"Great dessert, honey. Deeee-lish," I beam, smacking my full belly like Chris Cringle. "I think I'll go out for a nice drive by myself, looking at all the pretty light displays."

"We aw-weddy saw the dumb wights wast wight, daddy," Cindy snickers.

"Weren't they tacky enough the first time?" Mary chortles.

"Not at all, honey. They give me lots of... literary inspiration," I add slyly, grinning at my dirty inside joke.

"Fine, whatever. Go off on another kooky artsy journey," she grunts, revealing a hint of marital frustration. "We'll just stay here and watch Red One for the umpteenth time."

I put on my puffer jacket and march out to a crisp Christmas night. Whistling an earwig holiday tune, "Baby It's Cold Outside." A 1944 ditty about a horndog bachelor who seduces a cute schoolgirl on a chilly night, ignoring her repeated verbal denials of consent. ("The answer is noooo!") Creepily misogynistic by 2026 standards, yet it's still being played on mainstream radio stations! Strange how cancel culture destroys some things right away, but it lets other things slide. Me and Emma will definitely get "cancelled" if we get caught, because our "intimate partnership" would cause "unfair conflicts of interest in the workplace power dynamics." Playing Russian roulette with those woke HR department bitches, and my bitchy wife.

River Road is saturated with tacky lights, enhanced by four inches of freshly fallen snow. Those ugly motorized yard balloons get taller every year. It's just a matter of time until a ten-foot Santa Claus keels over onto a major road, causing a multi-car pileup. "Ho-ho-ho, I'm gonna sue your ass for eight million bucks!"

I turn a corner and finally arrive at 13 Merry Lane. An oddly apropos address for my extramarital escapades on Halloween and Christmas. Emma definitely heard my Beamer pulling up the driveway, and saw my headlights blaring right into her living room, but she still acts surprised when she opens the door.

"Billy boy! What a pleasant surprise!" beams my stunning busty ginger fellow Big Insurance board room member. Hopping up and down like a giddy teenybopper, jiggling her flaming red hair and pale natural DDD's, covered by an ugly Christmas sweater full of prancing reindeer and drunken elves. She kisses me passionately on the threshold, initiating the launch sequence on my "sleigh."

"I've been thinking about you all fucking day, you hot little ginger snap."

"Me too, you big hunky fruitcake," Emma giggles delightfully. I frown at her mild insult toward my heterosexuality, then I smack her great heart-shaped ass as she prances into a living room full of her weird "artsy" painting projects.

"Naughty-naughty," she snickers, waving her index finger.

"Your parents went back home an hour ago, so why are you still wearing that ugly sweater they got you last christmas?"

"Because it's nice and toasty. My old-school Irish momma never skimps on the wool."

"Take that sheep shit off, right now. Take everything off, and we'll get 'nice and toasty' by the fireplace."

"Yes sir, Mister Chatham," she giggles adorably. "Whatever it takes to please my boss, Human Resources be damned."

She wiggles like a stripper at Pandora's BoXXX in the seediest part of Cleveland. Removing each item of clothing slowly and methodically, killing me with suspense. Peeling off her skimpy pink panties a millimeter at a time, eventually revealing a flaming fire crotch. I groan with repressed erotic lust, and she tosses those Intimissi intimates right in my face.

"Fuck yeah, ginger," I groan louder, taking a big whiff of vaginal musk. "This is way better than those stupid panty raids during my frat boy days."

"You went from banging sorority bitches to schtupping VP's of finance. What a cliché white-privleged cis man," Emma giggles sweetly, tossing her sleek red bangs.

"I love the way you spout those stupid woke buzzwords," I chortle while ripping off my own clothes. My huge cock springs out ten seconds later, making her groan in admiration and lick her lips in hunger. I step close to the warm crackling fire, pointing my throbbing stick right at her full red lips.

"Ooh yeah, that big sausage looks so yummy. Much more appetizing than momma's pecan pie."

"Shut up and eat your dessert, naughty girl."

"Yes sir, Mister Chatham."

She grabs my ass cheeks and shoves my stick right down her throat, gagging right off the bat. I howl triumphantly toward her ceiling, which she painted with a stunning replica of Michelangelo's Creation of Man. She twists her head back and forth on my thick shaft, sucking hard and slurping loudly. The heavy stress of Christmas with my crumbling family melts like butter as she sucks my dick like a Bomb Pop.

"Just like that, you dirty ginger. A whore in the board room, and a crazy slut by the fireplace."

She laughs with a mouthful, then she pulls back and shoots me a sexy grin. "I love my posh job. I'm like a slutty intern who earns two hundred grand a year, with benefits."

"Shut the fuck up and suck my big benefit, bitch!"

She shoves my penis back down her throat, gagging yet again. Whipping her head back and forth in a blur of white skin and red hair. The heat from the fireplace enhances my inner erotic warmth, surging with passion in our secret love nest on Merry Lane. Foamy drool oozes out of her mouth as she keeps gagging and gagging, oozing down on her big milky-white boobs and sleek yoga-toned abs. Mary's blowjobs were never that good. My wife has watched "Deep Throat" with Linda Lovelace about fifty times, but she's only average at actual fellatio.

"Can't Beat The Real Thing, bitch!" I growl ecstatically, quoting a song from that iconic 1972 skin flick.

"I love that vintage porno too, boss," she utters sweetly, wiping spittle off her chin. "Hey, I just got a great idea. Wait right here, sugar-plum!"

Emma hops off the floor and prances toward her kitchen. I watch her bouncing heart-shaped ass all the way, stroking my stick slowly but surely.

"I hate seeing you go, but I love watching you leave," I remark as she rummages through her refrigerator. She wiggles her ass while bending over, with her wet pink muff winking out alluringly. She turns around and prances back toward the living room, holding a glass soda bottle and an old-school bottle opener beneath her jiggling milky white boobies.

"Coca-Cola Classic, baby. This oughta cool your jets."

"I'm not thirsty, Ginger Spice."

"Well, I am."

She cracks off the lid with a crisp vintage thunk sound, then she drops down on her knees and pours that sugary shit all over my cock, just like Doctor Young in Deep Throat.

"Holy shiiiit," I groan with the intense stinging sensation. Goose bumps flare up from my head to my toe, despite the warmth from the burning Yule logs. "That's so fucking cold!"

"Like your cold greedy corporate soul," Emma cackles delightfully. She grabs my thick shaft and pours it right on my throbbing mushroom cockhead, making me groan louder with more goose bumps flaring up by the fire.

"God daaaamn, bitch! You're so fucking crazy!"

"Don't call me a bitch, boss. That's another blatant HR violation."

"So what? Are you gonna punish me?"

"Hmmm... I think I'll punish you and reward you at the same time."

She shoves my dick back in her mouth, sucking off that sweet sugary elixir. I moan with renewed pleasure, then groan with renewed pain when she clamps her teeth down on my man meat.

"Oh shit, oh shit! God, you make it hurt so good!"

She nibbles her way slowly up the shaft. My entire body shudders in masochistic rapture. I never had this much freaky fun with Mary, even before that one-two crying baby knockout punch. My freaky mistress pauses right before the tip, glancing up at me with those hypnotizing green eyes, with her teeth poised to chomp.

"Oh god, that's the most sensitive parrrAAAAAAAHHH!"

My cockhead burns with painful pleasure against her pearly whites. She jerks her head from side to side like an attacking guard dog, and I groan even louder.

"Oh shit, oh shit, shit-shit-shiiit! I'm sorry, Miss Carson! I'm sorry!"

"That's better, Mister Chatham," she giggles playfully. Then she resumes "vanilla" fellatio, slurping delightfully with each head-twisting stroke, jamming her left hand under my ballsack and massaging my prostate just right. I grab her shiny red bangs and twirl them into a pony tail, feeling so alive with my corporate Barbie doll.

"Come on baby, don't make me cum so soon. I wanna give you a taste of 'The Real Thing.'"

"Fuck yeah, boss. Your big salty sausage always makes me thirsty."

"Soda pop rots your teeth, ginger. I'm putting this shit where the sun don't shine."

I get down on the floor and yank her sexy legs way back against her shoulders. She yelps playfully like a dirty schoolgirl, then she yelps louder when I pour cold Coke right on her cunt.

"Ooooh yeaaah! That really hits the spot, boss!"

"Ice cold refreshment for a hot skank."

I pour it harder "down there," masturbating with my free hand. Loving how that brown fizzy liquid oozes deep into her pink vagina, carbonating her entire body with convulsive erotic effervescence. I bury my face in her fire crotch, slurping out the sweetness while growling like an alpha timberwolf.

"Damn, that really does hit the spot. I hate their stupid AI Christmas commercials, but their drink is still 'the real thing.'"

I keep devouring her fizzy cunt with rabid intent, getting buzzed on high fructose corn syrup and female pheromones. She moans louder and louder, soon reaching an epic squirting climax. Her clear natural ejaculate mixes with the brown soda pop, making a nasty tan puddle on her fireplace tiles.

"Oooooh FUUUU-HU-HUUUUUUCK!"

"Damn, ginger. Cocaine-Cola really makes you 'sprite.'"

Emma laughs in orgasmic glee, squirming pathetically on the soaked floor. I love reducing that upwardly mobile feminist to a bowl of submissive jelly... the same way I used to with Mary.

"Stop fucking around, Mister Chatham," she groans desperately. "Fuck the shit out of your Big Insurance whore!"

"Yes ma'am. Get down on all fours, and I'll bang you like Liberty Biberty."

She assumes her favorite doggy-style position with her face trained toward the fire, wiggling her hot heart-shaped ass so invitingly. I grab those glutes with both hands and slam my dick all the way in with brutal force. A literal shockwave ripples up her spinal cord, undulating her sleek torso like a snake.

"Holy shit, just like that! Pound my ass up, boss!"

I purge my deep well of aggression with hard fast fucking, crashing against her athletic glutes in a steady pash-pash-pash-pash-pash rhythm. Knocking her flaming red head toward those burning logs with every thrust.

"God daaamn, you're a good ginger girly-girl. Do you really want that promotion?"

"Fuck yeah, boss. I need more money, and more cock!"

"You better hope those woke HR bitches won't catch you in flagrante delicto."

I spank her ass nice and hard, over and over. She moans awkwardly with simultaneous pleasure and pain, soon reaching another geyser-like orgasm.

"Hooowaaaa! Shit-shit-shiiit, you make me cum so hard!"

"And you never fake it, unlike my old ball-and-chain," I grunt frustratedly, still pounding away as her female fluids keep gushing and gushing.

"Your dumb blonde wife hasn't fucked you since Flag Day. She fucking deserves to get cheated on," Emma growls toward the fire.

"Don't talk shit about Mary, bitch. You deserve a lump of coal in your slutty stockings!"

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

My hands and hips swing in a frantic blur, punishing and fucking her like hell, roaring with savage machismo. She moans just as loudly, caught up in this crazy corporate holiday role-playing. Her lack of true love and my loss of true love collide in a spectacular blizzard of passion.

"I'm gonna cum all over your fucking face, cunt!"

"Gimme that hot fucking jizz, boss! I want a big paycheck and a big money shot!"

I yank her lean body away from the fireplace, doing a 180 that points her pale Irish lass face right at my thick prick. Aiming right between her big emerald eyes, jerking off in a total blur.

"Call me your Big Insurance Daddy, bitch."

"You're my Big Insurance Daddy, baby! You better make your stockholder happy!"

"Hoo yeah! Huuwaah, huuwaah, huuuuuwUUUUUUZUUUHH!"

A staggering climax reduces me to a bowl full of jelly. Collapsing on the cum and Coke-soaked floor in exhausted ecstasy, giggling like a stupid horny teenager. Emma sinks down next to me, humming dreamily while fiddling with her fiery hair. I gaze up at her replica of Michelangelo's nude Adam, extending his finger toward the divine finger of nude God. Adam's desire for carnal pleasures would lead to the creation of Eve, who would pick that evil apple and unleash a Pandora's Box of troubles upon the face of the flat earth for the next five thousand years.

"Michelangelo's models must have pumped mad iron at the Italian renaissance version of Gold's Gym."

"Damn, that's some rather 'queer' pillow talk," Emma snickers.

"Just because I like fine art and literature doesn't make me a wrist-flapping cocksucker."

"It doesn't make a nose-ringed carpet muncher either," she giggles girlishly, stroking my ripped pecs. "That was a really sweet Christmas present, Billy-boy."

The reminder of my crumbling family harshes my postcoital buzz.

"I bet Mary is cheating on me too, with some mimbo personal trainer from Crunch Fitness," I mutter distantly.

"He probably offered her some private hot yoga lessons at his house, wink-wink."

"She's a clever English major just like me. We're playing an elaborate X-rated game of Tag behind each other's backs."

"Tag, baby. You're it," she snickers, slapping my shrinking dick.

"How long can we keep playing Tag until it turns into Twister?"

"There's only one way to find out. I wanna keep spinning that color wheel until we keel over in a sweaty naked knot."

"Me too, ginger-muffin," I utter wearily, shutting her up by massaging her sugary clit. We sink into awkward silence near the crackling flames, hearing the muffled strains of Christmas music emanating from the living room of 12 Merry Lane. "Baby It's Cold Outside," of course.