Marlee's Christmas Gift

My breathing became more labored and I began to pant as his hands ran over my body, and then his tongue. I gave a little lurch and moaned as I felt his hands part my buttocks cheeks and his tongue start to rim me. I groaned when the tongue began to flick inside my anus and grunted when the lubricated fingers started to open me up.

Neither of us spoke. Lars was hard at work and I was trembling in anticipation and surprise. He straddled my thighs and I felt the heaviness of his engorged cock at the small of my back. I also felt cold hard metal.

He had a heavy cock ring! I shuddered and began to whimper. And then he was entering me in a long, slow slide. He moved his cock head back to where his cock ring rubbed on my prostate, which he sustained until I begged him for the fuck. He dove deep then and started to pump me in earnest. I cried out at the taking—it had been so long since my last one—and moaned and groaned quietly as he lay full length on top of me, holding my legs together with the strength of his knees and the bindings at my ankles, which constricted my channel so that it was a real effort to accommodate the size of him. Once he was saddled and setting a steady rhythm, the memory of how good it could be came back to me. I lifted and set my hips in a rolling motion that gave Lars a good ride and dragged my cock through the fur of the throw underneath me.

Lars laughed and fucked me into Christmas morning.

When he let me free, he pulled me up, and I shuddered again looking down and seeing the size of his cock. He guided me into a back hallway and past a closed door. I could hear moaning inside that room. Two women moaning. If I had felt guilty about letting Lars fuck me before, that was all dispelled now.

I was led into a small room that was almost filled with a twin bed.

I looked skeptical, but Lars laughed and said, "We'll manage."

Then he commanded me to lay on my back on the bed, which I did, looking up at his magnificently toned body. I would do anything he asked at that point.

He opened the closet, in which there was a bureau. Opening the top drawer, he took out two black metallic sets of velvet-lined handcuffs and a long leather strip with wide loops at each end.

I said nothing, just enjoyed every twist and turn of his muscular body, as he cuffed my wrists to the headboard above my head and then pulled the leather sling around my neck and forced my calves into the loops at either end, trussing me up completely to his whims.

Lars came up on the bed between my spread legs and, after sheathing his cock inside my channel again, hovered his torso over mine, the heels of his hands supporting him on the surface of the bed on either side of my chest, and fucked me gloriously for what seemed to be hours.

The Jeff Palmer Beautiful Bondage photographs were racing through my mind as I moaned and whispered how much I was enjoying what Lars was doing to me. Increasingly, the actual photos were replaced in my mind by poses they inspired for my drawings.

I was torn. I was loving the fuck and the bondage experience, but I wanted blank paper and a piece of charcoal in my hand.

When Lars was finished and was releasing me, though, I was too exhausted to do more than cup my body inside his on the narrow bed and drift off to sleep.

When I woke, it was morning and Lars was gone. I found that there was a small bathroom off the bedroom, and I waddled in there, not being able to keep my thighs together, my channel on fire—but a very satisfying "on fire."

I showered and did what I could to look presentable. I couldn't shave, but I decided, looking in the mirror, that I looked quite good with a day's growth of beard. I certainly was smiling and looking well fucked. I looked and felt more relaxed than I had been for months.

I recalled that my clothes were still in the living room, but I found a robe and some slippers behind the bathroom door.

I padded out to the living room and only had time to reach down to retrieve and pull on my briefs, when I heard a woman's voice trilling from the kitchen.

"We're in here, Frank. Come as you are."

I reached into the pocket of my jacket and transferred the velvet gift box to the pocket of the robe, and, not taking any more time to do more than that, walked slowly to the kitchen, wondering if there would be some sort of confrontation this morning for what I'd done—what I'd let Lars do—the previous night. The only excuse I could give was that I was drunk. It was the same excuse I'd given twenty years earlier when I had fumble fucked Marlee, so she should be able to accept it. I knew that Sally should be the one I was worried about. But she'd left me with Lars to have sex with the woman I'd brought to the party. I wasn't the most guilty person in this swap—not by a long shot. Still I couldn't tell them I had been seduced by photographs. They certainly couldn't understand the effect that those Jeff Palmer photographs had on me. Well, Marlee might. She was brilliant that way.

But there was no confrontation. There also was no Lars. What there was was a kitchen that looked like a hurricane had gone through and emptied everything out of the cupboards and onto the counter. I quickly remembered, though, that the maid had been shooed out the previous night before cleanup. What there also was were two women—both only in bathrobes and slippers as far as I could see—with smiles on their faces and purrs on their lips that brought to mind kittens falling into the bowl of cream.

"He's gone," Sally said in terse answer to my question. But she was smiling and there was no tension in her voice, so I didn't think she was angry—or particularly surprised at what might have happened. I couldn't believe that she had the imagination that would be able to grasp what actually happened. I wasn't sure I could grasp what had happened. Why and how? All I knew was that I would do it again in a flash, given the opportunity.

Marlee was sitting at a kitchen table and Sally was flitting around the counters. She quickly produced another cup for me and told me to sit. Then she took a long look at Marlee and me and announced that she was going to go take a shower.

When she was gone, I reached into the pocket of the robe and pulled out the velvet box. I set it on the table, and eyes downcast, still uncertain of my bearings here, said. "Happy Christmas, Marlee. This is for you."

Marlee reached for the box, opened it, exclaimed her delight, threw her arms around my neck, and gave me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. "This is wonderful, Frank," she cried out. "It's the perfect gift."

When I heard her say the word "perfect," it was the first time since I'd dragged myself into the kitchen that I permitted myself to take a deep breath. It would be OK. She thought it was perfect.

"I have a gift for you too, Frank," she said. Then she produced a long, thin, wrapped box that she'd been keeping under the table and I hadn't seen when I entered the kitchen.

"Open it, Frank."

I tore the paper off. It was a drawing pad, and a small box of black charcoal sticks fell out of the box as I opened it and fell to the floor.

"Oh, damn," she exclaimed. "The charcoal will be broken."

"That's OK," I answered, almost absentmindedly. "I break them before I use them anyway. Umm, thanks."

I didn't quite know what to say. I had hundreds of tablets of drawing pads and boxes of charcoal back at the studio. It began to dawn on me then, though. They were back at the studio, not here.

"These aren't your gift, silly," Marlee said, her voice excited. "These are just tools to make use of your gift. Lars was your special Christmas gift. He's an actor. Just a friend of Sally's. But I thought he was what you needed to return your technique to perfection. You can only take so much inspiration from photographs. And, yes, I bought the Jeff Palmer photographs too. You need real-life inspiration too, I think, to attain that perfection in your work again."

"I don't know what to—"

"Say nothing, Frank. I know where your mind is at this moment." She rose and walked to the door into the dining room.

"I think it's time I got into the shower too, Frank. I think Sally must be lonely. And, I almost forgot. This is a gift that will keep on giving—like those flower of the month gifts. Lars is in a club. I'm sure you know what kind. I've signed up for monthly sessions for you with Lars and his friends. I want your art to sell well. You need constant inspiration."

I should have thanked her then, but I didn't really notice that she was gone. I had already opened the drawing pad to the top sheet and my hand, holding a piece of charcoal, was racing across the surface in bold—and what I knew, with assurance, were—perfect strokes.