Explicit Yuletide/Christmas/Holiday Fantasy
I scribble my filthiest Christmas wish on a scrap of paper and toss it into the fire—Send me a man. Or two. No rules. No limits.—then strip down to nothing but tinsel and hope.
The knock comes at midnight.
Two towering, bow-wrapped slabs of muscle stand in my doorway, their red velvet thongs barely containing the gifts they’re packing.
I don’t hesitate. Not when one pins me against the wall, his mouth hot on my neck while his fingers tease my hole. Not when the other drops to his knees, yanks down my pants, and swallows me whole. They take turns—fingers, tongues, rods —stretching me open, filling me up, until I’m nothing but a trembling, needy mess.
And by the time they’re done with me, I’m ruined, wrecked, and stuffed to the brim with their cum.
Best. Christmas. Ever.
Now, who’s next?
