There’s a black fake Christmas tree in my living room, twinkling. Flint and I decorated it on the anniversary of my Dad’s death; it’s loaded with silver, red and black baubles, a couple of felt robins and my childhood hedgehog decoration. A Christmas playlist is soft in the background: James Brown, Crosby/Bowie, Fleet Foxes.

I’ve never had sex on Christmas day. Neither has Flint. It feels wrong, he says. I disagree, laughing. I’ve been drinking since the morning and I’m full of that post-family time relief that nobody yelled, nobody cried and everyone was happy. When Flint arrives at my flat, 6.30pm or so, I greet him with Champagne in a pink flute, and food nicked from my mum’s fridge. 

We open presents on the sofa, picking at cheese, veggie sausages and crisps. We add songs to the playlist; he sings along to Jose Feliciano’s ‘Feliz Navidad’ and we both agree Ariana Grande’s ‘Santa Tell Me’ is an absolute bop. We put that one on repeat. The evening is hazy with happy drunkness, relative peace and a tingling feeling of contentment: all the elements I’ve been looking for in Christmasses past.

In my bedroom, we fuck languidly, moving from position to position until I’m on my knees. Doggy style with Flint always does it for me. I’m dangerously close which is normally my involuntary cue to start flinching away from Flint or trying to bat his hands away. I’m clear with my consent: ‘Don’t stop,’ and he double checks. I’m aching, pushing my face into the pillow and my cunt towards him. Something happens.

I sit upright, checking between my legs with my right hand. It is soaking. 

‘You squirted,’ Flint’s smiling.

That’s never happened before.

I’m done, but he’s not and I want to taste all of him, feel all of him on me and in me. I don’t think I talk enough – in real life or on here – about just how attracted I am to Flint. There’s a pull, dragging me to him, unlike anything I’ve felt, sexually, before. He occupies my mind during the day, suddenly, and I’ll feel that sharp tug deep in the pit of my belly. I dream about him and wake up mid-orgasm. 

I wonder if I should touch him more, to explore him. To trail a finger to the back of his knee or the hollow below his Adam’s apple. To stroke behind his ear. Pause a fingertip on his philtrum before kissing him.

A beat. The evening has slipped away from me.

He’s on his knees. I’m kneeling beside him, behind him, next to him? It’s foggy. My left hand is jerking him off. My right index and middle finger are coated in lube and I’m easing my way inside him as he moans softly. I’m gentle, probing with caution, keeping an ear and eye out for his reactions and tempering my movements to suit. He veers between tentatively wriggling and pushing back onto my fingers. I get confused, curling my fingers upwards instead of down; he makes quiet noises of pleasure anyway. We flip him back over and at some point I stick my fingers in my mouth – he pulls them out, shaking his head and laughing. They tasted of soap and musk anyway.

Deep in the night, he comes. Later, we’ll laugh about how I mastered squirting before I mastered coming, and about this decadent, debauched Christmas day. 

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