Christmas Eve

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This story follows on from my ‘It Was a Few Days before Christmas’, and sees Lizzy gift wrapped for Mr P. Although this story stands by itself, it may make it more enjoyable to read the earlier story first.


It was Christmas Eve. At the end of the long dining room stood a big Norway spruce tree, 12 or 13 feet high, with the top brushing the ceiling of the room. Mr P had cut the tree that morning and he and two of the grooms brought it into the house and set it up. Next to the tree stood a pair of steps — the kind with a platform on top. On the platform stood a library stool and on top that stood Lizzy on tiptoe and at full stretch using both hands to fix a faded and much worn angel to the top branch. From the other end of the room, her mother called “Lizzy! You mad child, you’ll break your neck!”

“Not to worry Maggie; if she falls, your father will catch her,” Arthur said, nodding towards the man steadying the ladder. Although now in his seventies, he would be quite capable of catching the girl. The year before, while shopping in London with Lizzy he stopped a young thug with a knife who attempted to mug them. By the time the police arrived, he was administering first aid, having told Lizzy to say the hero of the day had modestly left the scene “In case police disagree with my interpretation of ‘reasonable force'”. The lad was in hospital for a week.

Lizzy, who usually wore no make-up at all, was wearing vivid red lipstick today. She was conscious that her mouth was very wide and when she did wear lipstick, she emphasized the middle part of her lips. She had on a black velvet off the shoulder skater dress with a short flared skirt: short enough so that the top of her hold up stockings were nearly visible even when she was as ground level. From the top of the ladder, the highly erotic area of leg above the top of her seamed stockings was visible from most of the room. The older man at the base of the tree was gazing fixedly up at her “You are wearing drawers, Lizzy,” he said with a heavy tone of mock disappointment.

“Yes, Mac; I knew we would be decorating the tree and I suspected you would offer to steady the ladder.”

“Killjoy”, he muttered. She climbed down the shaky ladder and he grabbed her gently but firmly around the waist to lift her gallantly, if redundantly, off the last step.

“Tree done, all the presents done, now for a drink,” said Lizzy.

Her mother corrected her, “Not all the presents, Lizzy. We haven’t done Mr P’s yet.”

“Oh, right. What are we giving him?” asked Lizzy breezily.

“Well, we rather thought… You,” replied her mother, tilting her head to one side.

“What? Last week you had Father fuck me on the dining table and now you acting as my pimp for the staff. This is too much,” said Lizzy angrily.

Her grandfather, Mac, who still had his hands on her waist, spun her round to face him “Lizzy, the Pargeters are not staff: they are like family. Pargeters have been serving this family for a thousand years. They were with us at Crécy and Agincourt and in every war since. Joe Pargeter, the present Mr P, was with me in Afghanistan when we helped the Mujahideen chase the Soviets out in 1989. If you do not want to do it, then say so, but do not call Joe Pargeter staff. Lizzy and her grandfather had a very close bond and his reproach hit home.

“Sorry, Mac” she almost whispered, “I did not know.”

“Well?” Her mother returned to business. “Will you do it? It is only for a couple of hours. It is not as if you are going to be his concubine.”

“I guess…”

“Elizabeth!” Her mother seldom used Lizzy’s full name and then only to scold her, “You are not American. I want to hear ‘Yes'”

“Very well, yes.”

Margaret addressed her father, “Father – Kağıthane Escort ” Only Lizzy called her grandfather Mac and only the two of them knew why, “- would you be so kind as to undress Lizzy.”

He tapped her left arm to indicate she should lift it, which she did. He then reached under her arm, unfastened the hook-and-eye at the top of the hidden zip, and pulled the zip down to her waist. Margaret was intrigued to know how he was able to go to the hidden zip without the slightest hesitation, but said nothing.

The boned top of Lizzy’s dress fell open revealing her small but well formed breasts and with the slightest nudge from her grandfather, the dress fell to her ankles. She stepped out of it. Now she was only wearing her hold up stockings and a pair of pale blue silk French knickers, having removed her shoes earlier to climb the ladder contraption.

“Beautiful knickers Lizzy,” her mother could not stop herself saying. “Where did you get them?”

“They let me off school one weekend last term because I was ahead and Mac took me to Paris as a treat: an atelier somewhere in the 8th — he’ll know,” replied Lizzy, nodding towards her grandfather, forgetting she was practically naked in front of most of her family.

“When you women have finished swapping fashion tips…” Arthur brought the room to order.

“Take them off Lizzy,” said her mother. While Lizzy wriggled out of her knickers, her mother and father moved behind her with a length of black silk ribbon. “Put your hands behind your back.” Starting in the middle of the length, they put a turn around her long slender neck, like a classic Victorian choker. Then with one of them on each end of the ribbon, they started to circle her like maypole dancers. The ribbon went from the back of her neck over her shoulders, crossed between her breasts, round the back and crossed again, coming forward at waist level and plunging in a deep V between her legs, up her arse crack and finishing by tying her arms together at the wrists and elbows at the back. “I do prefer tying the elbows together as well as the wrists: it keeps the shoulders back and the tits out, I find,” said her mother.

They had gift-wrapped Lizzy. The cross of black silk emphasized her breasts and the dramatic V directed the eye towards the delights of her sex.

“Let’s go,” said her father opening the French Windows onto the garden.

“Where are we going? The Pargeters live in.” said Lizzy, looking out through the open doors at the cold, dark garden.

“Rose Cottage. They use it if they do not want to say in the house. Mrs P is away at her sister’s tonight; she goes every Christmas Eve. She leaves out a cold supper for us and is back early enough to get our lunch on Christmas Day. Mr P spends the evening in the Red Lion and sleeps in the Cottage. I suspect he is expecting you, so he will not be late tonight,” explained her father.

“But Rose Collage is 5 minutes’ walk and it is cold,” pleaded Lizzy.

“Don’t whine, darling,” scolded her mother gently. You are happy to stand thigh deep in cold water for half the night to get a good shot at geese in morning, so don’t give me that.” They filed out of the doors into the garden and walked in a single line. Arthur in evening dress leading the way; then Lizzy naked but gift-wrapped, arms tied behind her, breasts high and forward, her hair up emphasizing her slender neck; followed by her grandfather also in evening dress and her mother who had thrown on a riding coat over her dress. It was a cool, but not cold, fine night with enough of a moon for them not to need lamps. The cool air made Lizzy’s nipples stand out and gave her goose bumps.

“This path goes near the road to the village. What if someone sees us?” complained Kağıthane Escort Bayan Lizzy.

“Then you will not have buy your own drinks in the Red Lion for while”, quipped her father.

“Arthur, I despair of you sometimes,” said Margaret feigning annoyance. They arrived at the cottage and went in. No one locked doors on the estate. It was neat and modern inside. They climbed the stairs and entered the bedroom. Margret pulled back the bedclothes said to Lizzy, “get in”.

“Wait a moment,” Arthur reached under his coat and pulled out an antique spreader bar: bronze with soft kidskin padding in the rings.

Lizzy, sitting on the edge of the bed, looked at the object, slightly puzzled. “Is that an ankle spreader? The rings are very big. One could simply pull one’s feet through the rings.”

“Yes it is a spreader, Lizzy. Modern ankle spreaders allow the woman to bring her knees together and so close her legs. This one fits just above the knee and actually keeps you open slightly.”

“Super,” said Lizzy ironically.

“It is a decoration really. Mr P will be kind to you,” said her mother bent over and fitted the spreader, lifted the girl’s legs on to the bed and drew up the bed covers. “You must have been eight when I last tucked you up in bed, Lizzy.”

“Get lost”, hissed Lizzy.

They took the hint, turned off the light and left, locking the door from the outside on the way out.

Lizzy had been alone for perhaps 30 minutes, keeping quite still at first because she was so cold, but was starting explore small movements when she heard someone climbing the stairs. The key in the lock turned and the overhead lights came on, blinding Lizzy momentarily.

“What have we here”, said Mr P in mock surprise. Then in real surprise he exclaimed, “Lady Elizabeth, Miss Lizzy!” For a moment, he seemed unsure of the correct form of address in these circumstances.

“Come off it, Mr P, you were expecting me.”

“I was expecting someone but usually it is one of the local girls. I don’t know the details. Your father arranges it all. The estate owns some farms and cottages and there is usually a family, with a pretty daughter or young wife, behind on the rent and I suspect he comes to an arrangement. But you are a real treat!” He pulled down the bedcovers and uncovered her slender body crisscrossed with ribbons. “Oh, and gift-wrapped too! How nice. Well, my lady, let’s get started”

“Mr P, Joe, you are about to rape me. Don’t you think ‘my lady’ is bit formal?”

“It’s not rape, Lady Elizabeth, and you know it. You can stop this now if you want.”

Well?” He asked, firmly. They both knew she could stop it, but they both knew she would not. Age-old forces of duty and tradition drove them, not to mention lust.

She shook her head.

“Say it, please,” my lady.

“Don’t stop”, she muttered quietly. He nodded and put his hands on her breasts.

“You are freezing,” he said. “Your nipples are like iron.” He slid his hands down her body and between her legs. She shivered, not entirely because of the cold. He explored her sex, probing with his fingers. “You are ready, though. I am going to fuck your face”. Like many young women, Lizzy did not regard taking a man’s cock in her mouth as real sex: more like heavy snogging.

“I will suck your cock”. She replied.

“No, I don’t want you to suck it. In fact, I do not want you to do anything except open your mouth and throat. Open your mouth. I am going to push hard down your throat. Try to open your throat — it is a knack but you will learn quickly. You will have a gag reaction, which I will enjoy because your throat muscles will grip the end of my cock. Do not worry. I will not let you choke.” She opened her mouth, Escort Kağıthane actually to speak, but he was ready for this and plunged his cock in hard. With a hand on either side of her head, he worked it backwards and forwards. Lizzy made unintelligible noises and struggled. “Breathe through your nose, girl. Keep up the noise though, I rather like it,” he encouraged. He was using her as a masturbation aid. He had no concern at all for her. It did not take him long to come and Lizzy had little choice but to swallow it. He pulled clear and flopped down beside her. They lay next to one another for a while.

“Mr P,” Lizzy spoke first.

“Yes, Miss”

“I haven’t come yet. Will you fuck me now; just a straightforward fuck in my cunt,” asked Lizzy quietly.

The older man took a few moments to answer, “I don’t use those pills, Miss, and I came pretty well in your throat. I will need some help getting hard again.”

“What do you want me to do?” she could hardly believe she was saying this to the old man.

He looked down at her. Her neat French Roll had started to disintegrate allowing wisps of hair to fall and frame her face. Lipstick smudges and come streaks surrounded her mouth. He pulled himself up off the bed and crossed the room to the sideboard, opened a drawer and took out a small Swaine and Adeney ladies’ hunting crop with a silk lash. “This will sting like hell but it will not damage you — the marks will be gone in a few days.” He raised it to strike her.

“But I am on my back, Joe!” She stopped him, using his first name. “At least turn me over, please.”

“If you want to turn over, I won’t stop you.”

“But look, my hands are tied, and I have a spreader on my legs. I can’t turn over by myself.”

“Try. This may help,” he said as he struck her across her breasts, quite lightly, with the whip.

“Aw!” She arched her back and started to wriggle in an attempt to turn over.

The whip snapped across her again, across her breasts then

quickly again just below them. He was working downwards. Again, it cracked across her stomach this time. She arched and wriggled furiously. “You just keep wriggling about like that, Miss.” Said Mr P as he drunk in the sight of the young woman, now glistening with sweat, writhing on the bed. “It has brought my cock to attention nicely.” Crack, now the whip struck just below the protruding bones of her thighs and across her pubic mound.

“Ow! That fucking hurt!”

He put down the whip turned her over onto her face. He grasped her hips and pulled her up so she was kneeling, legs held wide apart with the knee spreader. He grabbed her breasts and started to push his penis into her vagina from behind, not all at once, but a little at a time; withdrawing a little, and then pressing in a little further.

“Stop messing about and fuck me you old fart!” shouted Lizzy. He obliged by pushing all the way in and he felt the heat of her climax, the effect of which was to bring him off too.

He climbed off the bed and gently removed the spreader bar and with a knife from the bedside table, undid the ribbons that crisscrossed her body. He helped her up and led her downstairs. When they reached the front door, her handed her a full-length rainproof riding coat, which she put on. “I will walk with you to the garden of the big house, Miss,” he offered.

“After all I have been through, I think I can manage to get home Mr P,” she said rather contemptuously.

“But, Miss Elizabeth, the lads at the Red Lion know about my little Christmas treats and sometimes hang about for left overs, like. I don’t mind if it’s one of the village girls but it wouldn’t be right for you.”

“Do you have a priest, Mr P?”

He reached down into a wooden box by the front door and took out a small black wooden club, used for administering the last rites to rabbits if a shooter had not made a clean kill, and offered it to her.

“It is past closing time. They will be half-cut and I am not one of the village girls: I’ll manage.” She reassured him, and left.

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