"So what do you want for Christmas, Colin?" my wife asked me a couple of weeks before the day. I had just lost my job; we had enough saved to be OK financially for quite a while, but we were trying to cut back this year all the same. We had agreed not to spend much on each other so we could spend a little more on our 8-year-old daughter, and we were both finding it hard to find something that wasn't a cliché. She didn't need more perfume, and I didn't need more ties.
I didn't really have any ideas for myself, either, except one. So I gave her that one: "You know what I want, Wendy? I want one orgasm a day for each of the 12 days of Christmas." I knew she wouldn't go for it; we'd hardly touched each other in over a year. In fact we didn't even really like each other all that much anymore; our daughter was the only reason I hadn't left yet. But I didn't have anything to lose; I'd stopped expecting her to say yes a long time ago, and stopped asking almost a year ago. Stopped trying, too, probably.
As I figured, she scoffed, and I laughed it off as if I'd been kidding. I told her I didn't really need anything; she could just grab some stuff out of our closet, wrap that up and we'd pretend it was new, and that was the end of the conversation.
We had a pretty nice Christmas, actually. We managed to find a few things our daughter really wanted on sale for good prices, surprised her with a few things she hadn't asked for, and gave each other a couple things that made us laugh, which was a nice change; we hadn't done that much lately, either. Around 7, our daughter announced she'd had a long day and was going up to get ready for bed. Wendy went up to help, and I stayed in the family room, reading a joke book she'd bought me and eating gingerbread cookies. After a while, like every night, Wendy called down that it was my turn, and I went up to read, sing, and say good-night to our daughter.
I went back downstairs about 20 minutes later and headed for the family room again to finish the joke book. But the lights were off, and in the light from the Christmas tree I saw Wendy, lying on her side on a blanket on the floor, facing away from me and watching the fire. She was wearing a fluffy bathrobe I'd bought her a couple of Christmases ago; I'd bought it along with a lacy set of underwear, hoping to rekindle something, but she'd never worn either one before now. The robe wasn't sexy at all, just something to keep her warm over the babydoll and panties I'd hoped to see her in back then -- so I didn't think much about seeing her in the robe. I said "Mind if I turn the light back on so I can read?" Without turning, she said, "You can ... but I've got one more present for you if you want it."
I said, "Sure, OK," and sat on the blanket behind her and waited. She rolled onto her back and put her head in my lap, looked up at me and said, "Aren't you going to unwrap me?"
You know, I almost didn't. I had pretty well convinced myself that she just didn't care about sex, or me, anymore, and I almost decided I'd rather not be reminded of how great our sex had always been together and then go without it for weeks or months or a year again. Finally, I thought, "What the hell, I'm tired of taking care of myself all the time, might as well." Out loud I said something incredibly smart like, "Oh, OK, sure." I did something smarter, though: I bent down and kissed her, then slid my hands down her shoulders and arms until I reached the belt on the robe. I loosened the belt slowly, then reached back to her shoulders and slid my hands down again, this time along the narrow V of the robe's neckline. My thumbs inside gently brushed her skin on the insides of her breasts and her stomach as I moved my hands slowly down and apart until I reached her hips, then down and to the sides to pull the robe completely open. She was naked under the robe.
Now, my wife let herself go not long after we got married. She's not obese, but she's a lot heavier than she should be, and I don't find that physically attractive, never have. But she's always had great breasts, at least in my book; the B cups she had when we met had filled out to C's while she was pregnant and had never gone back. And it had been a long time since I'd seen any breasts at all live and in person, and there in the firelight and the glow of the tree, for the first time in a long time I didn't care about the extra pounds. I felt a stirring in my jeans I hadn't expected to feel for her again, and I bent down and kissed her again, more seriously this time.
I had just started to slide my hands back up her stomach toward her breasts when she rolled out from under me, tucked her knees under herself and sat on her heels facing me, the robe still open. She said, "Today's the first day of Christmas. How do you want your orgasm?" That's the first time I'd thought about what I had asked for since our conversation a couple of weeks earlier, and the stirring in my jeans stopped stirring and started stiffening.
I knew what I wanted: I wanted her mouth, and I wanted to come down her throat. She gives fantastic blowjobs, taking her time, licking everywhere, and somehow doing an incredible variety of tricks with her tongue even when she's got all of me in her mouth. But after all this time, I didn't want to be selfish, and I didn't want to ask her for something she might not be emotionally ready to do. So I said, "You're the one giving the present. Your choice."
She looked at me a little mischievously and said, "Good answer." She lay on her back again, but with her head on a pillow this time instead of in my lap. She took my hand and pulled me over to her, guiding me until I understood where she wanted me: kneeling over her breasts.
