It's Christmas Eve. I'm naked. Blindfolded. Facing the bed, the carpet springy under my toes. Warm breath plays across my ear, Oliver's body heat close behind as he whispers:

“Ready for your final gift?”

There's a catch to his voice and I shiver despite the room’s warmth. Bite my lip. Nod.

In truth, I've no idea how he'll top the last 23 days. It's been a whirlwind of exploration. Boundaries pushed, then shattered. Every day, one more little test, one more act to make my heart skip. Before work, after work, Jesus even at work a couple of times, his breathing through the phone as laboured as mine, telling me what to do.

Why do I want it? No idea. But I do. It's intoxicating. Frightening, even. The anticipation kills me, heart fluttering at random times of day recalling recent events. And imagining what’s to come.

On December 1st I was innocent. Well, okay, no angel. But I'd certainly never been blindfolded and teased with a feather.

And ice.

My skin responded like it wasn't mine, body arching away from the beautiful torment as my boyfriend of three years patiently toyed until I couldn't take any more. Until I gasped for him to make me cum.

And he did. With just his freezing fingers inside me and thumb on my clit, I swear new stars formed.

By December 8th, any innocence I clung to was academic. He'd cuffed me to the bed and teased me with hot wax and a cucumber until I begged him to use it inside me. He'd secured a collar around my neck and made me crawl to him across the room carrying a leash, which he clipped to the harness and used to guide my mouth to his delicious, hard cock.

He took me to an ice cream parlour and made me flash my tits across the table. The day after: pantyless at work in a short summer dress, before phoning to insist I touch myself at the desk until I dripped. That was wild. Wilder when he made me stop on the cusp of orgasm, walk past all my colleagues, then finish myself off, clawing the bathroom stall with one hand and biting my knuckles with the other to stifle cries.

Day 7—Jesus, Day 7—he presented me with a jewelled buttplug and requested I wear it all morning at work. Such a distraction, squirming during meetings and daydreaming at my desk. I swear I got funny looks from at least three male colleagues as my private fantasies took hold.

I remember Day 8 vividly. The way he'd knelt before me in the bedroom and slithered a remote control vibrator inside me, then took me to dinner wearing it. I can't even recall what I'd eaten, his finger hovering his phone, on the pulse of the motor directly over my throbbing clit. Mercilessly teased, I gripped the table edge until my knuckles whitened. The tormenting bastard made me wait for release.

In the car park. Hunched against the car.

Into the second week, he'd introduced me to BDSM, starting with a spiky pinwheel that he rolled across my skin, making me gasp. My god it stung as he trundled it over my nipples, but I ravaged him after. Swung my leg over his body and plunged onto his cock, riding him to a noisy conclusion that earned us a reprimand from the apartment manager.

The next day, he wrapped me in fairy lights and fucked me in the dark. By the halfway point of the week, my nipples ached where he'd clamped them with chopsticks, rubber bands binding the ends as he toyed and almost made me cum through teasing the peaks alone. I cursed his name but never used the safe word. I needed to discover how much I could take.

No idea why…

Ollie exhales, steps back, trailing hands over my shoulders and up to brush my neck, undoing the knot and letting the blindfold fall from my eyes. It doesn't go far before he secures it around my neck and I blink.

Blink again, hand flying to cover my mouth. Glance back at him. “For real?”

He simply nods. And I turn to face the bed again, unable to suppress a grin.

He'd certainly outdone himself.  This whole crazy month had started with fishing in our fantasy jar, picking one folded piece of paper and acting out the contents. He'd suggested making an Advent game out of it. I agreed, before he told me the rules: he'd select all 24, gradually escalating to the finale. Today.

I don't know which has been my favourite. Being bound and helpless while he fucked me was up there. But so was being spanked. And paddled. And, Jesus, the crop stung my pinkening bottom. My pussy and tits too. I'd been so close to blurting out the safe word, but each time he struck me, he'd follow up with a soothing caress; a kiss, a stroke. Or to simply tell me how much of a good girl I was. And I'd swallow. Take more. Harder. Faster. Even begging. Fuck, I don't know why, but it tumbled out.

Day 18 had been particularly memorable. A Saturday. He'd brought my favourite breakfast up to bed: porridge and orange juice. But on the tray was also a wand vibrator.

When I'd finished and we’d lazed for a while, cuddling and kissing, he sat up, took two belts—one that he'd lashed me with, while fucking me ragged the night before—and secured the vibe to my inner thigh. Started it. Then tied my legs together.

There was no escaping the throb against my clit. He'd varied the insistent buzzing as I neared orgasm, then backed off or silenced it completely and left me to stew while he fetched food and drink. We ate as if I wasn't trussed and ragingly horny.

I think I lasted three hours before my body threatened to implode. Shrieked the place down, writhing and convulsing as the buzzing toy maxed, tearing orgasms from me. Plural.

The manager issued us our second warning.

Next day was another step up: ass play. Anal beads that he eased into my slippery tight hole, then fucked me while the toy protruded from my ass.

And day 22. The hook. My fucking god, the hook. He dawdled plaiting my hair so he could secure rope to it and thread the other end through the anal hook’s eyelet. That thing is fucking huge, but he was so patient, so gentle, stopping every so often to apply more lube and check I was okay.

His patience ran out when it was fully inserted. He tugged the taut rope between the toy and my dark ponytail, and the animal surfaced.

He drove his cock into my sopping cunt and we fucked madly. Every time my head dipped as I reached under myself to mash my clit, the toy shifted in my ass, his cock relentless alongside it and he called me naughty names I loved. Beautiful slut. Filthy angel. Cock whore.

At his sustained groan, I came for the five zillionth time and he erupted inside me. Claimed me.

Fuck I loved it. Love him. It ought to be degrading but it's the exact opposite; somehow empowering. His care, attention and patience undoes me to the point I want to cry. Even when, last night after work, he tightly bound my legs, wrapped them in tinsel and lights and secured a star to my feet, then made me lie on my back, legs vertical like a Christmas tree.

He showed me the photos after he'd finished licking my pussy to orgasm. I looked quite the part. Not sure Christmas trees leak pussy juice, but that's what makes ours different, I guess. Unique.

And so, no, I didn't think anything could top the last 23 days of torment, discovery, lust, pain and dazzling electricity.

But I was wrong. 

It isn't just the way the diamond solitaire catches the lamplight. It's the fact it rests on a tiny cushion nestled on the belly of a pretty, naked brunette, four limbs spread and tied to the corners.

I blink again. He reaches for the ring.

“Faith Raleigh. Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

A tear streams down my cheek. Then another, and I swipe at them before whirling and hugging him, sobbing, “Yes. Yes.”

When we part, he places the ring on my finger and I admire it. So beautiful.

He grins at me, some stupid lopsided boyish smile that could be relief or elation or both, and nods behind me at our trussed guest. “Don’t keep the lady waiting. I'll be over there watching.”

I give him a huge kiss, turn and, with predatory intent, crawl onto the bed between the legs of the delicious young woman. She smells sweet. Stronger as I kiss my way up her inner thigh. And tick off one more item from our fantasy jar.