Christmas is less erotic than it should be, really. Yes, there are roaring fires and party dresses and bank holidays; but there’s also all that rushing around and indigestion to contend with. Not to mention the presence of one’s family at every turn.
This year, I decide to get in before the rush starts. After dinner on Tuesday evening, I retire to the bedroom to gift-wrap myself for Herbert.
I will start by saying that gift-wrapping oneself is not as simple as it sounds. I begin by sticking a little sparky rosette to each nipple, which is very fetching, and then a larger one to my pudenda. Then, I lay on the bed and begin to sellotape holly-sprigged paper around my legs, until I realise that I’ve forgotten a key ingredient: the Toblerone.
Now, I would like to state clearly at this point that I am using a small Toblerone here, and not one of the enormous prisms that you used to get in your Christmas stocking. I unwrap it, insert it into my vagina, and recommence my efforts with the wrapping paper.
Immediately, I feel the Toblerone snap in half. Okay, I think, I’m sure I’ll be able to get it out again. An image flashes into my head in which I am trying to explain to a casualty doctor how a Toblerone ended up there. I reach down for a reassuring check, and am surprised to find that the Toblerone is worryingly soft.
Yes, Betty, chocolate melts. I knew this, obviously, but I just didn’t think it would melt that quickly. Well, I think, there’s only one way it’ll come out now. I redouble my self-wrapping efforts. This is less easy than it sounds after you’ve got past your knees, particularly if you’re moving rather gingerly due to a rapidly-melting Toblerone. From my hips upward, I just tuck the paper around me and hope for the best, leaving my decorated nipples peeping out over the top. Then, I put on my Santa-girl hat (complete with two white plaits) and text Herbert to come upstairs.
What, now? he replies.
Hang on, I’ll just grab another glass of wine.
I want to text back to encourage him to run up the stairs as quickly as possible to salvage the remains of the Toblerone, but I fear that this would add a sour tone to the offer I’m making. In any case, he doesn’t take long. He knocks on the door, opens it, and then stares at me for a few seconds.
‘I’ve gift-wrapped myself for you,’ I say. ‘And there’s a chocolate surprise somewhere too. But it’s melting.’
He stares at me some more. ‘I like the festive nipple tassles.’
‘Just hurry up and find the chocolate!’
Herbert begins to unwrap with great gusto. I open my legs, and say, ‘Can you see it?’
‘No, it’s melted away altogether. It looks a little bit like you’ve shat yourself.’
‘Damn! Would you just start eating it please? I’m worried I’ll get some kind of an infection.’ H dips a finger rather gingerly into the chocolate and tastes it, just to reassure himself, before putting his head down and licking it delicately.
I’m going to need a bit more effort than that, I think. I dip a finger down there myself, and suck the chocolate from it.
‘Bloody hell, I’d forgotten the nougat bits!’ I say.
‘Mmmm,’ says H, ‘that’s the best bit.’
‘Not in this context.’ I excavate more of the chocolate from my vagina and chew on what emerges. I swear I’m already feeling the beginnings of cystitis. Or thrush. Whatever: it burns. ‘I just didn’t realise I was so hot inside,’ I say.
‘I did. You should have asked me.’
‘Look, do you want to stop and get in a bath?’
I decline with the sad eyes of a martyr, and set about employing every trick in my armoury to bring Herbert to orgasm as quickly as possible.
Merry Christmas Everyone!
Don’t Do Anything
I Wouldn’t Do
Thanks to English Thorn for suggesting this seduction (though it’s a bit lame for her tastes!)