5 Days to go!

5 Days! An isolated cabin, a winter storm, a hungry cougar—what could possibly go wrong? In a word: everything. https://books2read.com/letsgetnaughty/

Continued from Yesterday's Post...

Mike shoots me a quick, scorching glance, then crosses to the mantel.  “I’m telling you again, these stocking holders are much too flimsy. They’re probably okay for empty stockings, but they’re just not weighty enough to support anything heavier.”

“All the more reason to take out a gift, then, and lighten the load.” It’s true that the humping reindeer stocking holders looked much more substantial online. I assumed they’d be brass, but I think they’re actually aluminum. If they’re metal at all. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

 

Mike picks a package and comes to sit beside me on the rug. I became very familiar with all the toys because I unboxed and washed each one before wrapping them, so I know immediately which he chose. Given his concern about the weight of the stockings, I’m not surprised. It’s the biggest and heaviest of them all. 

“Wow.” Mike stares admiringly at the blown glass candy cane dildo he’s just unwrapped. “This is gorgeous.” 

I nod agreement. It’s multifunctional, too. It can be displayed as art or used as a paperweight. But, just to make sure Mike understands its true purpose, I’ve included travel-sized packets of lube. 

“Shouldn’t this have been in your stocking?” he teases. “Seems like it’s for you more than me.”

“No, it’s not,” I protest. Although… Shit. He might have a point.

“Let’s find out.” Mike slides the dildo onto the coffee table, close to the container of adult toy and body wipes that I’d put out earlier, then says, “I think it’s time you lose the sweater.”

That works for me, as well. 

I whip the sweater over my head and off. My nipples harden instantly when exposed to the cool air. Meanwhile, Mike takes a moment to straighten up, clearing away the wine glasses and pizza box. When he resumes his seat on the rug, I immediately spy the length of ribbon he’s holding. I know what’s coming next. 

Mike extends a hand and says, “Give me your wrists.” 

I hesitate for an instant, then reluctantly comply. There was a scene like this in the movie. But that wasn’t real. And the ribbon we used was stretchy and soft, nothing like the wired-backed ribbon Mike has now. I hope he can’t hear how hard my heart is pounding. We’ve played with restraints before, but not like this. 

He takes his time, wrapping my wrists like a very secure present—complete with a festive bow. It’s pretty but, “I feel like I should have a safe word.” 

I try to sound casual, just kidding around. And I think, I’ve succeeded when he teases back, “Don’t you trust me?” But then his smile fades. “I mean, yes. Of course. What is it?” 

My mind is blank. I have no idea.

“Red?” Mike suggests. 

 “It’s Christmas. Everything’s red.” 

“Orange? Blue?”

“Pineapple.”  The second most commonly used safe word in the world, apparently.

Mike smirks. “Good thing we’ve finished eating.” Then he blinks and adds, “I meant because of the pizza.”

“Right. Me, too.”

He helps me lie back—tricky without hands, no matter how many core workouts you do per week—stretches my arms up above my head, presses my wrists to the floor. I can’t suppress the tremor that rockets through me, from clenched fists to curled toes. So, I exaggerate the movement, turn it into a tease. And feel a surge of empowerment as his gaze automatically clocks the motion, as his pupils dilate.   

Still in control, I think in relief. Still calling the shots.

“Okay?” Mike asks, gaze returning to my face. 

I nod, smiling faintly, not trusting my voice. He leans in and kisses me. His free hand curves around my breast, thumb brushing across my nipple. It’s sweet, familiar. Safe. For a moment, I forget about the firm hand at my wrists, the unbreakable bonds encircling them. Mike’s lips coast down my neck, up the swell of my breast. Now he’s teasing both nipples. And I’m writhing on the rug, whimpering for more.  

I feel flushed and bleary-eyed by the time Mike lifts his head, and it’s comforting to see that he looks about the same. 

He gives my bound hands one last squeeze, says, “Leave them there,” then moves between my legs. He smiles at me as he spreads my legs wide, holding them open with gentle hands on my thighs. “Like I said: I’m done with the pizza, not done eating.” 

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