Dessert For Christmas
I didn’t have a date for Christmas dinner. It was years since I brought a guy home and introduced him to my parents. This wouldn’t be much of a problem, but I’m almost thirty-five, and well, as my mother puts it, “I’m not getting any younger.”
This Christmas, everyone is coming to my parent’s place. When I mean everyone, I mean everyone. My uncles, aunts, grandparents, and cousins - everyone was staying over.
So what was I going to do? I didn’t want to listen to my aunts and uncles bitch to me about my pathetic love life, or my grandma who tried to set me up with the accountant who does her taxes. So I decided to hire a Christmas date.
Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, but it was a win-win for everyone. My date would come for dinner, sit next to my grandma in front of the fire with some eggnog, share some laughs, and then be on his merry way. What could go wrong?
I did some googling and found a company that hired out men for acting positions. I was pretty desperate. They recommended me one of their actors, who goes by the name Kevin. Two minutes later, they e-mailed me his photo and contact details.
Oh shit, he’s cute. Like really cute. Kevin had blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and a body that would make Magic Mike shit its pants. Maybe he was a little out of my league, but a guy like him dumping me would be a good cover story for a couple of months of silence from my parents. I texted him and set the date up. It was a done deal.
Christmas dinner came, and everyone was eagerly waiting for my date to arrive.
“What’s his name again?” my mom asked curiously.
“Kevin, mom. His name is Kevin.” I replied, picking at the turkey. “He’s pretty excited to meet you.”
“Well,” my mom giggled, “we’re excited to meet him! It’s been so long since you’ve had a man come over. We were starting to think maybe you were...you know...batting for the other team.”
I rolled my eyes, “I wish it was that easy.” I grabbed the Brussel sprouts and brought them to the dinner table when someone rang the doorbell. Right on time.
I ran to the door in fear my dad would get there first. I opened the door to see Kevin standing there in a white button-down shirt and khakis. He looks so fucking yummy, but remember, he’s hired. Nothing is going to happen.
I quickly snapped out of it, “Hi Kevin, I’m Sarah,” as I stuttered. “Umm, so everyone is in the dining room right now, I’ll let you do the talking.”
He winked at me, “Don’t worry, I got this.”
Kevin walked into the dining room, and everyone went silent. “That’s Kevin?” my aunt, said shocked. I could hear some giggles, but I tried to keep my cool, “uh, yes, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is everyone.”
My family introduced themselves, and the dinner went by smoothly as Kevin answered all their questions. But every now and then, Kevin’s leg would brush my leg, and his arm would go over my shoulder paired with a kiss on my cheek. It’s all part of the act, don’t take it seriously. He’s not going to fuck you; you paid him.
With every touch, my panties became wetter and wetter. I don’t even know this guy, calm down Sarah. Don’t get horny at the dinner table. “I would like to say,” Kevin announced, while his arm caressing my inner thigh, “thank you for having me here. The dinner is wonderful; it’s so great to finally meet you all.”
Oh my god, I’m going to cum if he stays here another minute. After dinner, my mother shuffled us to the living room where everyone sat half-passed out from the turkey and gravy.
“Does anyone want anything from the kitchen?” I asked as I got up from the couch. Everyone gave slurred answers that I took as a no. “I’ll come with you,” Kevin said, as he followed me into the kitchen.
“Uh, thank you for doing such a great job,” I said to him as he took a step towards me. “I’m having a great time,” he replied, his face inches away from mine, his breath touching my skin. I nervously giggled, “I couldn’t help but notice you squirm in your seat every time I touched you during dinner,” he said with a serious face.
His hand slowly caressed my throbbing pussy, “was everything okay?” Shocked and surprised, I grabbed his hand and held it harder against my pussy, “it was a little too wet.”
He grabbed me, lifting me up on the kitchen counter, “I can help you with that.” He slid my panties down to my ankles, exposing the wet stain on them. He lifted my dress up, lowering himself.
I could feel his mouth inch its way closer to my pussy as his fingers slid inside of me. I tried not to moan, so I quickly grabbed the counter for support. His tongue licked my lips gently, as they made their way to my clit. “Oh my god,” I whispered.
I tried to relax, but every sound I heard made me twitch in fear. Oh god, I hope no one walks in on us. He stopped and lifted his head up, “no one is going to catch us. Just relax.” His head sunk back between my legs, as he started to kiss my lips, sucking my clit in and out.
“You’re going to make me cum,” I tried to say in between gasps of air. I could feel him eat my pussy harder and harder, my clit swelling from delight. I grabbed his hair with one hand, pressing his head deeper into my pussy. Eat me harder, yes, harder, harder, harder.
“I’m cumming,” I whispered, slamming my hand against the counter. He kept eating my pussy, drinking up my juices. He took a moment, slowing down and gently licking my pussy; he poked his head out from my dress. I laid back in sheer bliss, “Look,” I pointed to the ceiling, “Mistletoe!”
He looked up as he wiped his mouth, “Merry Christmas.” We giggled together, and he kissed me passionately on the mouth, I tasted myself all over his face.
My mother’s voice was heard from the living room, “Are you two okay in there?”
I pulled down my dress and shook myself off, “Yeah, mom, we’re great.”
Natasha Ivanovic is an intimacy, dating, and relationship writer best known for her writings on Kiiroo, LovePanky, Post Pravda, and more. She's the creator and author of her short stories on TheLonelySerb. She completed her first degree in Criminology and continued and finished her Masters in Investigative Psychology, but then decided to follow her true passion of writing.
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