‘Twas the twenty-sixth of December, not this year, but last year, and Jessica was sipping another cranberry vodka. Settled into a giant, overstuffed chair that she had restored herself, she leafed through the pictures and biographies of next year’s prospective models. Sketches of faces, penises, and butts were layered around her like dirty Christmas snow. Her apprentice and assistant would return next week to address the mess that was her studio.
Every item of every one her infamous artisanal Advent calendars was individually composed. Designing them had to start now, since crafting them all would take much of the upcoming year. Miss Christine was Jessica’s most demanding and most generous patron, and so she worked on that project all by herself.
The model for Christine’s calendar was pliant, literally virginal clay, and had been selected thirty-six months prior. Jessica had years to mold him, but fewer than eleven months to fire and glaze him. He had a name, but she called him “Twenty-four.”
~~~
‘Twas the third of January, earlier this year, and Twenty-four would be twenty-one by year’s end. Incessantly, perhaps excessively, posing nude before the artist, he had become more manly, less uncomfortable, but no less a virgin than he was at the start. On Christmas Eve, Christine will be the first to take him as a man. Prostituting his purity paid for his college, and he was okay, albeit frustrated, with that.
Jessica shaped his diet and regimen. His muscles became well-defined but did not define him, and his curated machismo was evident with every move. His smooth torso, front and back, had long since been epilated hairless.
Twenty-four’s above-average cock was aesthetic perfection and inspiring. And even though he was born to eat pussy, Jessica made him practice anyway.
~~~
‘Twas the first of December, and genteel Christine’s servants would not return to her more-than-comfortable townhouse until the new year. Stopping at one of many mirrors, she checked her makeup, hair, and resting facade. There was a suggestion of an upward curl at the edges of her mouth, but that was unavoidable at this time of year.
“Come.”
Soundlessly, the doorman set a large package down, and Christine presented him with a small gift. “Thank you, Miss. Merry Christmas, Miss,” he said.
Momentarily forgetting that she was not alone, she contemplated the hand-painted ribbon and bow that were meticulously centered around her package’s plain brown wrapping. “Yes. Merry Christmas,” she eventually replied, and he let himself out.
Under the heavy paper was a hand-carved Advent calendar that consisted of twenty-four doors, drawers, and sacks. Day One contained a divine confection with a soft shell, firm nougat, and an earthy, musky, creamy center—her first taste of Twenty-four. On cue, the doorman returned with the remaining eleven, and she savored them all quickly, lest they spoil.
Day Two of the calendar held a rough, charcoal portrait of Twenty-four at eighteen. Day Three was his erection, detailed in pen and ink. Characteristically impatient and uncharacteristically excited as the days progressed, she remained outwardly unflappable for the sake of the mirrors.
A man can be more than a tally of his cocks. Jessica had studied Twenty-four's intimately by sight and by sightless touch in order to memorize its topography. One such phallus, calendar Day Three, was a fine figurine, tiny but painstakingly authentic. Another day’s was oak, carved to scale and sanded satiny smooth.
Every day was another Twenty-four treasure: pencils and pens, oils and watercolors, glass and clay, analog and digital. A tawdry, Warholesque Polaroid caught him pants down and abusing himself.
~~~
‘Twas the night before the twenty-fifth.
“Oh, my.” Christine avoided his eyes to compose herself. She loved the word dapper, and Twenty-four certainly was. “I’ll have a mojito. Shoes first, please, and lock the door.” She lifted the jacket from his back as he stepped to the bar, and he stole, he thought he had stolen, a lingering look while she hung it. The empty candy box was there, and he thought back to when Jessica had milked him specifically for the candy’s crème.
“Am I what you expected?” Christine accepted her drink and gestured toward the bar. “Please help yourself.”
In truth, he hadn’t known what to expect. Jessica had never told him what to expect. Christine was not what he expected. “You’re very attractive.”
Christine held up one side of her long, sheer, flowing nightgown, and her breasts hung and swung on full display as she curtsied. “Thank you. And you’re very dapper.” She glided to him and tasted his lips. “Bourbon. I knew you’d be a whiskey man the moment you walked in.”
Her comment made him self-conscious, but he couldn’t say why. He was, however, quite certain about why a prominently displayed painting made him feel that way.
“That was yesterday’s surprise, you know, on the twenty-third. Darling, hadn’t Jessica shown it to you?”
“No. She always refused.” His muscles ached just from looking at it. He had spent hours posing naked with his ass and heels on a cold pedestal, holding his knees spread apart to exhibit his erection. The head in the painting was thrown back in ecstasy as thick ejaculate shot extraordinarily high into the air.
Is that how I look when I cum? Twenty-four had lost count of the number of times Jessica jerked and sucked him off so she could learn his O-face. He often masturbated like that, too, while fantasizing about this night with Christine.
“I don’t really shoot high up like that,” he admitted.
“We’ll see.” She brought his face down to hers for a long, loving kiss. “Jessica tells me you’re a virgin.”
He paused. “I am.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous.” Christine stared at his chest while unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m a bit of one myself.” She cast his shirt aside to attend to his trousers. “I choose not to bother with men during the year, but Christmastime is special, isn’t it?” She leaped into his arms then, and he held her without faltering. “Well done!” she exclaimed and smiled a genuine smile. She kicked off her stiletto slippers and directed him to their bed.
The snow-white coverlet of the canopied bed had been pulled back to show off the candy cane red satin sheets. As he set her down, he recognized the silicone penis on her nightstand. It was the same as the one in the painting, the same as the sculpted marble one on the mantle below the painting, and the same as the one throbbing against his boxer briefs. Each and every one of them was some day’s Advent prize.
Christine turned her back and lifted her hair so he could release the single clasp that held her gown. She shimmied out, lasciviously spread her legs, and theatrically tipped her head aside. Her chest rose high and fell, heaved, one might say, and she held her breath when the mattress sank under Twenty-four’s weight. His cock grazed her thigh, and she fingered her pussy wider.
She almost wanted him to fumble, and after a few tentative pokes, she guided him in by hand.
Oh, my.
Oh, God, he thought. I’m fucking! Better than a fistful of lotion, Twenty-four thrust wildly with mindless passion.
Well worth the wait and cost, she told him not to hold back. Young men had eager cocks, and this time was for his. They had more days and times to come, after all, and she knew she’d get hers.
He didn’t hold back, but he didn’t give in. He wanted the feel of her cock-crushing cunt to last forever, and he switched up his rhythms when he needed to. Christine was driven mad until an orgasm flashed throughout her body, and she gushed over his cock.
She was almost too slippery to stay in, and he fought for friction to gain his own release. Christine climaxed again, and her high-pitched squeal and spasming cunt took him over the edge. He groaned out his cum, and she told him that she could feel him as he unloaded, and could feel the rich, hot load inside. He groaned again when he was done, collapsed, and rolled off.
“Sleep, darling,” she whispered. She straddled him and released their combined ambrosia and honey onto his taut stomach and then merrily lapped it all up: a wealthy woman’s cum-nog. “A man needs his rest,” she stated and padded off to shower, ready to tell him “No” if he made to join her. She had spent too much for him to smell like anything other than a spent man.
His satisfied smile found her upon her return, and she snuggled herself under his arm. “Merry Christmas, darling,” she softly said. She insisted that he sleep, and as they did, she held her cherished toy close and dreamed.
‘Twas next, the first morn of Christmas, and there would be twelve.
