When the blindfold comes on, I can’t believe my luck. How have I been picked? From all these other options? Well, to be fair, the odds were not that unfavorable. Still... how absurd it felt when you urged me to type my secret desire into the Christmas wish box...
On that Sunday three weeks ago, when I thought you were napping while I spent the afternoon cooking dinner, you were actually browsing that swinger event site I had given up on months before. Deserted. No event for nearly a year. Not even an update from the organizers.
But you waved your phone under my nose.
“Naughty Christmas Eve — Santa only fulfills naughty kids’ wishes,” the title read.
Ridiculous.
Caught me off-guard, it did, though.
A chuckle escapes my lips as two people on either side of me take my hand and motion me to stand up. I feel so cared for; not something I’m familiar with. I just don’t give up control easily—or yet allow myself to receive tenderness. It’s not your fault, and you know it. My inability to accept love or even help is too deeply indoctrinated. And yet, here, I am forced to comply. I must obey. Just like the good little puppy boy I have been raised to be. It is your wish for me after all.
Just like it was your wish for me to express myself when you filled out the event application form for us. They needed pictures of us as a couple, promised discretion and held other participants as well as the location secret. It would only be revealed upon receipt of payment.
The event description was simple: Santa fulfills your wishes—but only the naughtiest ones. Tell him your most intimate fantasy, and he may invite you into his orgy of the chosen ones. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
It was intriguing, yes, but why should I deserve such affection?
Interestingly, other attendants’ wishes were publicly disclosed. Some were rather vanilla and fairly generic—not that there’s anything wrong with that—and some left my mind spinning: people of all genders asking for pansexual group action, airtight gangbangs, being drenched in piss and cum, or serving as house slaves.
I chuckle as I pace toward the stage, still guided by the two strangers. My steps gradually become more hesitant and nervous. A part of me still thinks this is an elaborate joke, while my mind recalls how you urged me on to type in the wish that had taken so much effort from you to extract from behind my walls.
“Type it in. Else, I will do it for you,” was your final offer. While your voice was playful, there was a stern tone to it. A tone that wouldn’t tolerate objection. Not from your husband.
Although I was compelled to argue that, compared to all those grand wishes, mine seemed trite and banal, my conditioning taught me better than to disobey. At least, the certainty of having my dull proposal rejected prepared me for the disappointment to come. Doesn’t mean it wouldn’t sting. But why should I get picked? My role was to submit. I didn’t get to ask for things, least of all for such little follies as sexual fantasies.
A quick glance in your eyes reminded me not to spiral, not to let the darkness engulf me.
If, in this case, submitting meant asking for things...
I sighed deeply.
Dear Santa,
I wish for my body to be used as a source of pleasure. Make me a sentient sex doll for whoever wants to derive satisfaction from me.
Season’s Greetings
I hear heavy curtains parting, being drawn to the side. Brighter light leaks through the blindfold at the corners of my eyes. A room full of people talking, glasses clinking.
Suddenly, a collective shift in attention.
My mind travels to the hours spent selecting our clothes, well, your clothes for the night. You were so certain my wish would get picked that you dismissed all my worries about appropriate attire as unimportant.
“You’ll be naked, mostly. You won’t need more than a plain ol’ boring suit for formalities’ sake. Besides,” you argued, “there will be plenty of candidates to fulfill your wish regardless of whether you get chosen.”
“Yes, Mistress,” I retorted, knowing not to question your judgment, still not believing one second that anyone would ever consider me.
“You'd better help me pick something that hugs my curves without taking the spotlight from you,” you continued. Spotlight—you knew this would appeal to an affirmation-seeking side of me that I try to keep suppressed, courtesy of my self-effacing upbringing.
“Maybe I should tie you up. A rope harness across your chest to present the goods might look neat,” you mused, then re-iterated after a brief moment of contemplation, “No.” You ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. “They should see you in your full glory. You’re a pretty boy as is. No need for ornaments.”
The murmur of several dozen conversations abates into the sensation of countless eyes silently scanning me, scoping me out, evaluating my naked body, sculpted by decades of hard work, duty, discipline and serfdom to dark spirits haunting me. I am naked except for the choker with the pink Christmas bauble, reminding everyone whose property I am and how generous you, my wife, are for sharing your top-shelf toy.
With a caution-sharpened mind, I remain still. My legs are apart shoulder-wide, knees slightly bent for a secure stance, spine proudly erect, chest high and arms hanging from my side—a soldier specimen ready for inspection.
The gasps in awe and giggles in amusement from my audience remind me of how you prepared me, did my hair, my chest-long cinnamon locks, as you call them. How you spent the better part of an hour carefully knotting them into two slutty Dutch braids "for better grip".
You truly prepared me for every eventuality. Even the lip balm was carefully chosen: sweet apple-flavored.
“To make your lips as lush and tasty as this pout of yours looks,” you explained. “Why should men not be soft, tender and cute just as is expected from us women?”
Seeing in the mirror how the balm emphasized my lips’ complexion and made them appear even thicker gave me confidence. It made me feel pretty. I understood why the effort. It was not to make me look presentable but, far more importantly, to make me feel worth the attention. To make me feel desirable. To give me strength and make me feel like I deserve the love.
The moment's excitement is running through my loins along with the nervousness before my performance. Such an ugly word. As if I needed to perform in front of anyone... All I am here for is that they use me to quench their needs.
Barely, I manage to keep control over the excitement of being so exposed, my deepest desires laid bare. The bunny-tailed plug that is preparing my sphincter—every eventuality—to accept any intrusion isn’t making the task much easier either. As a result, my cock remains at three-quarter its imposing size, hanging heavy from my crotch.
When Santa read the wishes out loud, and he and his helper conferred about which ones should be fulfilled, my heart was thumping up my throat. Unsure about how you or I would react to a possible rejection, I tried to breathe against my constricting ribcage.
When they snickered and elaborated on the possibilities, I could feel my lacrymal sacs fill with tears of shame. Oh, how I wanted the ground to open up before my feet and swallow me. Who would grant such a wish to me? Silly, dumb, little me...
Already bracing myself for getting my anxieties confirmed, my mouth fell agape, astounded, when Santa and his helper proclaimed that my wish would mark the night’s main event.
On stage? As a free-use sex toy? Moi?
A female voice breaks my reverie. One I’ve heard before. In a long-forgotten life, possibly. “Oh, he’s so delectable. Can I try him out?”
My heart skips a beat. Tonight’s first.
“Anything goes,” I hear you consent to sharing your boy toy.
“Come, honey,” the voice again, accompanied by a male giggling that sounds just as familiar.
As the blindfold falls, I first look down to escape the bright light and allow my eyes to adjust. A gentle, slender hand lifts my chin, and before I can even look at who will have me, my lips are sealed with a deep kiss that tells volumes about her ardent desire—desire for me.
“You should kiss him too, honey,” her words caress my eardrums, an enticing lilt in her voice. “He tastes so sweet.”
I chuckle internally. You were so right about the lip balm.
Finally, my eyes focus, and I see them standing in front of me: an unhealthy crush confessed to you in pillow talk, then brushed off—years ago. Plus her partner.
“Now let the feast begin.”
She licks her lips.
