My husband and I have this silly little Christmas tradition, which we've observed every year since we married. Each Christmas Eve, Steve goes out for a drink with his mates while I get the girls round for a few cocktails. Then, around midnight, he comes home, dresses up in a ratty old Santa Claus outfit, creeps into the bedroom and, erm, gives me my first present of the season, so to speak. Like I say, I know it's silly, but it amuses us.
Last Christmas was our fourth together, and as usual off Steve went, once my sister Shirley and a few of our pals arrived. They only stay for about three hours, but it's surprising just how much alcohol you can put away in that time if you work hard at it. By ten p.m. my mascara was running down my face with tears of laughter, my sides were aching, and I was feeling pretty woozy. I was glad to get to bed to sleep it off a bit, planning to get a couple of hours before 'Santa' arrived to ravish me. I pulled on my sheer baby doll nightie, brushed my long blonde hair, and slipped between the sheets, nodding off almost immediately.
I was woken by a noise. At first I couldn't make out anything in the bedroom, but as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw the familiar flash of red velvet and white fur in the moonlight. I glanced at the clock, and saw it was 11.15. I sat up and, still a bit bleary, muttered, "You're back early Stevie." The figure had his back to me and froze. He turned slowly and stared at me. Realising what I'd done wrong, I started to get into character, thrusting out my considerable chest and putting on the Marilyn Monroe little girl voice which so turns my husband on. "Sorry, I mean Santa. Oh I'm so scared, all alone and unprotected on Christmas Eve, with a big horny man in my bedroom with me. Have you got any nice presents for me Santa? A big, hot, juicy sausage, perhaps?"
'Santa' continued to stare at me for a moment, then moved towards me, slowly, almost warily it seemed. Steve was really acting the part I thought. As I saw him more clearly, I realised his suit looked a lot better than last year too: the white beard was fuller, the tunic a much brighter red, and a much better quality material than the usual rather dingy outfit. I hadn't realised Steve had splashed out on a new costume, the sly dog! He even had a quite realistic looking present sack, bulging with what I assumed were clothes or something. Between the beard and his hat, pulled low on his head, I could hardly see his face. He stood inches from me, and I reached out and stroked the palm of my hand firmly down the front of his red trousers, giggling as I heard his sharp intake of breath. "Oh Santa, that's not just a sausage, that's a saveloy! I'm a greedy girl, I don't want to wait until Christmas morning for it. I want it now, with lovely sticky mustard all over it."
He stared down at my hands as I unbelted his tunic, pulled the drawstring on his trousers, and tugged them down around his knees. Then I wrapped a hand around his thigh and pulled him into a kneeling position on the bed. "I think you'd better take off those nice new shiny boots of yours Santa -- I don't want these sheets ripped." In seconds he had them off, then he fell on me, his hands clutching my head as I felt cotton wool press to my lips and his tongue thrust deep into my mouth. I could taste whisky on it; perhaps that explains his odd behaviour, I thought; he's normally a beer man, he hardly ever touches spirits.
