Chestnuts roasting on an open fire Jack Frost nipping at your nose.

Nat King Cole’s timeless voice croons in the distance. Were it not for the lyrics burned into my memory, I’d barely be able to make out the words. The crackle and pop of the fireplace drowning Nat out every six or seventh word.

I’m succumbing to the sort of warmth that numbs and fuzzies all your senses. It blurs your vision at its edges and your nostrils fill with the smell of joyful gratitude and comfort. Pine, sage, cardamom, cloves, orange… you.

I feel myself sinking into the couch and then as if on cue, there you are. A pair of warm mugs in hand that give way to the fuzziest fucking sweater I’ve ever seen. And somehow that sweater wears you like it was knit solely to hold you within. I’m incapable of containing my adoration as you simper and smirk climbing onto my lap and placing the mugs past my head on the console behind.

My face and nose are treated to the very edges of your fuzzy sweater. Everything compounds and I am a hazy dazed creature spellbound by you.

You draw back and my nose, inchy and still filled with your scent, wrinkles lightly as you squish down into my lap. Your right arm lifts and you pull the hair tie out and your hair cascades down and frames perfectly your face. I can’t help the lump of arousal that catches in my throat as I try to swallow.

Your hands find my chest and my breathe catches somewhere just south of that lingering lump in my throat. My hands, trembling in spite of myself, dance onto your thighs as your eyes burrow into mine.

He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh.

The music feels foreign and distant. As if you and I exist outside time and space. The fuzz of your sweater enshrouding the very wrinkles of my brain as I pine for that which is underneath. Your hands keeping me at bay.

Hands that slowly trace and blaze upward. Onto my shoulders and along my collarbone. Up my neck, teasing at my adams apple as if you know distinctly of the lump taking up residence within.

As your fingers begin to trace along my jawline, your hips gently gyrate into me, I pray you take no notice of the way in which my body quivers and my fingertips dig at your thighs. But who am I kidding, the faint hint of a giggle tells me all I need to know as your fingers draw along my lips.

No words are spoken, my lips part and your delicate fingers dance into my mouth and tangle with my tongue. Your eyes transfixed on my mouth as I stare up and yearn to make contact. Your body leaning in as your fingers delve deeper. Your own mouth opening ever so slightly in accordance with my own.

All four fingers of your right hand begin to slide in and out of my mouth as I work my tongue against and tease between, showing you just how good a boy I can be. Your little purrs and gentle moans of delight are overwhelmingly gratifying as I suck and slurp on your fingers.

I see your eyes aflame, accepting the challenge as you begin to work deeper and faster. Thick saliva coating your fingers and oozing past my lips. Trickling slowly down my cheeks and neck. Glistening in the firelight.

The flames dancing within the fireplace, unfazed by you or I. The two of us blazing in euphoria.

It’s no longer the crackle and pop that is drowning out the music, it is the gagging and gurgling coming from my mouth as you properly finger fuck me, preparing me for all the night’s festivities.

And so it’s been said, many times, many ways Merry Christmas, to you.