Gettin' Buck Wild: Sex Chronicles II (8 page)

It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve just returned home from the burn unit of the inner-city hospital where we portray Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus every year. We both have a great love of children. We don’t have any of our own yet, but it would be a crime for us not to in due time. While we wait for the stork to deliver us a baby, we enjoy donating time to “special” children like the ones at the hospital. Seeing their faces light up, even when their little bodies are in so much pain, is a joyous feeling.

Part of the reason I married you is because of your compassion and empathy for others. It’s a trait we share along with our love of travel, books, and the art of making love. I love everything about you, from the way you laugh to the way you rub your eyes like a little boy when they’re tired. Which is what you are doing right now, rubbing your eyes.

I go into the kitchen to get the gingerbread cookies and put on a huge kettle of water so I can make several cups of apple cider. You stay in the living room and start a fire. Our mantel is decorated with garlands and red bows and has three stockings hung from it—one for you, one for me, and one for Subzero, our Dalmatian, who is somewhere snuggled up in a corner of the house.

The tray of cups of cider is ready, so I ask you to carry it outside to the front porch. I follow behind you with gingerbread cookies in hand and a basket of candy canes hung on my arm. We get outside just in time to see the Christmas carolers making footprints through the blanket of snow toward our house, coming from the McKenzies, our neighbors, who always give them shiny new silver dollars every season. It is a tradition in our neighborhood that we hold dear.

We make sure the walkway is shoveled and clear before the serenading begins. The carolers arrive, holding songbooks in their precious little mitten-covered hands. They’re too cute for words. The smallest children are distracted from their singing, more intrigued by the way we’re dressed up. You’re in your fluffy red Santa suit, a silver wig and beard, black military boots, eyeglasses pushed down onto the tip of your nose, and a Santa hat. I’m in an old-fashioned ankle-length red dress covered with a long white cotton apron, black pilgrim shoes, silver wig, and white cotton bonnet.

We stand there overlooking the porch banister and watching them sing their little hearts out as the adult chaperones and parents look on. When they’re done, we applaud them and then descend the steps so we can pass out the goodies we have for them. All the children are well mannered, saying, “Thank you, ma’am,” and, “Thank you, sir.” We stand there, with your arm around the small of my waist, waving to them as they walk away sipping on the warm cider and munching on the cookies.

We get back inside the house and you start to take off the Santa outfit. I stop there and ask you to wait a second. I hurry to the upstairs closet to get our camera, put it up on the entertainment center, and set the timer. Then I hurry into your arms so we can take a Christmas photo together. We can use the photos on the Christmas cards we send out next year to our friends and family.

Like a firecracker bursting into a kaleidoscope of light on the Fourth of July, an idea pops into my head. I tell you to have a seat by the fireplace on some floor pillows. You have a bit of trouble sitting down, with all the extra inches from the pillow stuffed in your jacket and thick towels stuffed into your pants legs. After you slowly make it down, I go to the kitchen and get you a stein full of eggnog with rum and bring it to you.

I walk over to the entertainment center and flip through our tower of CDs, searching for our
Ebonics Christmas
CD, which your friend Dave bought us. It has a bunch of hilarious Christmas rap songs on it, with kicking-ass beats. I locate it, put it in the CD changer, hit play, and then grab the camera. I hand it to you just as the first cut comes on, telling you, “Ooh, Santa, you are so sexy. Can an old woman like me do a little dance for you?”

You laugh, and with the pillow and all, it really looks like you weigh a good three hundred pounds instead of being cut like you really are. You reply, “Dance for me, baby!”

So I do. I shake my ass off in my red dress, lifting up a hemline so you can see my black pilgrim shoes, black fishnet stockings, and puffy, white cotton bloomers with elastic around my center thighs. I look like somebody’s grandmother doing a hoochie dance, with the silver wig on and all.

As the beat goes on, I turn around and undo my white cotton apron, take it off, fling it around in the air, and then toss it toward you on the floor. It lands with a corner snagged on the edge of your glasses. You remove it, throw it beside you, and sip some more eggnog.

I unbutton my dress and pull it down off my shoulders, one at a time, until it is hanging around my waist, revealing my white lace bra. I let the dress fall all the way to the floor and kick it to the side, leaving me standing there looking like Old Mother Hubbard on ginseng.

You start snapping photos, saying, “Baby, we have got to put these in the family scrapbook for the kids!” We both start giggling while I reach behind my back, unsnap my bra, and let it ease down, allowing my erect nipples to break loose.

I walk over to you, spread my legs, and start gyrating my bloomers in your face, tits bouncing up and down. You grab one of my legs, put it on your shoulder, and then bite my thigh through the fishnet stockings, causing me to shriek out, “Ooh, Big Daddy, what a big appetite you have!”

You pull me down on the floor, flipping me back on the pillows by the fire, climb on top of me, and take one nipple in your mouth, grabbing it between your teeth and tugging gently on it. Then you say, “My turn! Time for Santa to give you what the elves made for you. Have you been naughty or nice?”

I yell out, “NAUGHTY!” as you jump to your feet in the Santa costume and start break dancing and unbuckling the wide-ass black patent-leather belt around your artificial tummy.

You throw the belt at me and start taking off the furry jacket, exposing the red pants held up by suspenders, over the white undershirt stuffed with a pillow. I sit up in the Indian position, start jiggling my tits to the rhythm, and egg you on—“Go Big Poppi, Go Big Poppi, Go!”

I grab the camera and start taking pics of you while you take the suspender straps down and pull off the undershirt, letting the round pillow fall to the carpet. Times like this make me realize why I married you. You are always down to act silly with me, and that’s why you will make such a great daddy one day.

You take off the stuffed pants, stepping out of them, leaving nothing on you but your black military boots, beard, wig, hat, eyeglasses, and boxer shorts that say “Ho-Ho-Ho” on them. You look so sexy, baby!

You turn the
Ebonics
CD off and switch it to some slow jams. Now there are songs we used to listen to in high school when we first fell in love, like “Fire and Desire” by Rick James and Teena Marie—back in the days we used to dedicate love songs to each other on the radio. We fell asleep at night talking to each other on the phone, sat in class all day staring at each other across the room, getting caught by the teacher as we passed love notes from each other back and forth. We carved our names inside hearts that said “2gether 4eva” on just about every oak tree in between your house and mine.

Now, in our home, I lie back on the pillows and wait for you to join me. You grab the basket of candy canes sitting by the front door on your way and sit down beside me. What a trip, looking at you with the wig and beard on. I am sure you feel the same, looking at me with a wig and bonnet on.

You lie on top of me and start kissing me as you remove the hat and wig from my head, allowing my long, thick, shiny hair to freely flow. The fiber from your beard starts to get caught in my mouth, so I pull it down around your chin, take your hat and wig off, and then straddle my legs around your back, pulling your hard dick closer in to me. I feel your dick pulsating against my excited clit through the material of your boxers and my bloomers.

We kiss for the length of two slow songs. You have always been so passionate and such a great kisser; you make me melt. You take the stein of eggnog, which is almost empty, and pour the remainder on my breasts. I begin to moan as you lick all the eggnog off my breasts, trying to catch every drop before it hits the floor.

I run my fingertips down your spine while you suckle on my nipples like a baby. You sit up for a moment and pull off my ugly-ass pilgrim shoes and then pull my bloomers down along with the fishnets until they are completely off. My freshly shaven pussy greets you, moist from the stimulation your hands and mouth have brought the rest of my body.

While you are on your knees, I sit up and pull down your boxers, helping you get them off. I pull the beard, which is still hanging on your chin, up and over your head and toss it aside, accidentally flinging it into the fireplace. You try to catch it, but it goes up in flames in a matter of seconds, and we break out in laughter.

Our eyes meet, and all the love we feel overwhelms us, both of us knowing what lies ahead. You reach over and pull a big candy cane out of the basket and stick the long part into my mouth. I take it in, deep-throating it like it is your dick, and place my hands on top of your hand, holding it as you push it in and out.

Once the candy cane is nice and sticky, you pull it out of my mouth, use your other hand to spread open the lips of my pussy, and then slowly glide it in. I start contracting my pussy muscles on it each time you stick it all the way in, leaving only the curved part sticking out. You start sucking my breasts again. I hold one for you, squeezing it so it is even more prominent, while you continue to fuck me with the candy cane.

You take the candy cane out and then lick it, tasting the mixture of the mint with my pussy juice. You utter, “Ummmm! Dayum delicious!”

You hold it up to my mouth, saying, “Taste how delicious you are.” I comply by licking around the cane with the tip of my tongue, tasting my own nectar. I know how much it turns you on to see me taste myself, and your dick, which was previously just hard, turns rock hard like a battering ram.

I tell you to lie down, and then I climb on top of you, placing my pussy smack on your face as my mouth makes its way toward your beautiful dick. My mouth is still sticky from the candy, and as I suckle on the head of your dick, it mixes with the precum oozing out of it.

I feel your tongue flickering in and out of my pussy while I start licking around the shaft of your dick, grabbing hold of the base so it doesn’t escape the spectrum of my tongue. I move your dick aside so I can lick your balls as you begin to shiver and moan because it is such a sensitive area.

I begin to wax your entire dick with my mouth while you part my ass cheeks and insert a single finger, which makes me flinch as you continue to suck on my sweet clit. Cum starts to trickle down my inner thighs onto your cheeks, and a drop or two even makes its way into your ear canals.

Your dick overflows my mouth, and saliva starts to trickle out the corners of my thick, juicy lips. Whenever I am sucking your dick, I feel the most close to you. It is like I am sucking the life out of you, and there is something so erotic about it.

You cum inside my mouth, and the heated substance, candyflavored because of the candy cane on my tongue, makes a warm lining in my belly. You start pushing your finger into my ass faster and faster, pulling my pussy deeper onto your tongue until I cum also, leaving you with a smile on your glazed face.

You wanna go upstairs, but I tell you I wanna make a quick stop in the kitchen. Once we are in the kitchen, I tell you to sit on the tabletop. I go over to the counter and get one of the decorating tubes full of homemade frosting I used to make the gingerbread men. I push you back onto the table, climb on top of you, and then start squeezing the red frosting onto your chest, making a design on it. I make your nipples look like eyes, squeeze a line down the center of your chest, forming it like a nose, and make your belly button look like a mouth.

Carefully, I lick all the frosting off you. You say the words you always say to me during lovemaking, “You are so crazy, baby! But I love your crazy ass!”

“I love you, too, baby!” I tell you with a mouth covered with red frosting. I kiss you, and you lick some of the frosting off. Then I go back to the task at hand until I have licked every inkling of it off.

Then you say, “I wanna do you, too, but you know what I want to decorate.”

I snicker, ’cause I know, right off the bat, you mean my ass.

I climb off you, you get up from the table, go get the tube of green frosting, and tell me, “Stand still!”

As you take a seat in one of the chairs at the square table, I get in the doggy-style position so my ass is all in your face. You start to decorate my ass like a face as well, and you even put a fancy hairdo on it. After you decide it looks enough like a van Gogh, you eat it all up while I absorb every second of the pleasure it brings.

We hear a noise, a whimper, and both of us turn our heads to see our dog, Subzero, standing in the kitchen doorway with his head bent to one side in curiosity, wondering what freaky shit his owners are up to this time. You throw him a gingerbread cookie and tell him to get. He catches it in his mouth and heads back to his cozy corner to snack on his treasure.

You sweep me up into your arms and almost break out in a run carrying me up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. You take me in our bedroom, toss me on the bed, and shut our door so Subzero won’t make any more sudden appearances.