It Was Christmas Eve (standard:romance, 1065 words)
Author: Patricia	Added: Dec 28 2003	Views/Reads: 3264/2144	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Christmas Eve and a man is thinking. Set in the late 1800's.

It Was Christmas Eve 

It was Christmas Eve and, as was my custom, I sat in-front of the
fireplace sipping a rum toddy and admiring the spiralling dance of the 
flames leaping over the logs. 

My wife and children had long since gone to bed, the rigours of the
pre-Christmas night too much for the little ones to bear.  My wife had 
taken to bed early claiming that she would be up a dawns light anyway.  
I had bid her a good-night as I watched her nightgown clad buttocks 
sway up the stairs, the dark sweep of her legs outlined through her 
thin gown, dimly tantalizing from the light of the taper that she held. 
 I stayed up to watch the fire, joking that I was waiting for St. Nick, 
if only to hide my despair at the delights that I was foregoing. 

That had been hours before. 

My life was a mess: my wife was having an affair and my eldest daughter
wished to be wed to the town pauper.  All of which served to make me 
the laughingstock of this town.  Even the office clerks that I employed 
sniggered behind my back, making ribald comments about my lack of 
proficiency in the marital arena.  Baldly stating that I was lacking 
something that they obviously possessed. 

For she had had them as well. 

The evil tramp, spreading her legs for every male lance that came
a-calling.  A wife should be a whore in bed, someone had once said.  I 
suspect that they meant a whore in her husbands' bed, not someone 
else's. 

My daughters' pauper I could deal with.  I had plans to pay him a goodly
sum to quit with her.  For the life of me I could not understand the 
attraction that she had for him.  Certainly he was a handsome man, but, 
would she honestly believe that she could live in a carriage house with 
him?  Give up the cook in order to slave in front of the stove herself? 
Chop her own wood?  Fill her own coal scuttle? 

And the rumours that I had heard!  My own daughter behaving like some
common slut with that man!  Her standing at the door of the man's house 
wearing nothing but a bolt of Egyptian lace, and him practically taking 
her on the threshold.  The shrieks of laughter coming from that 
carriage house.  It was not proper I tell you. 

Suffice to say, my thoughts were black.  I had not had relations with my
wife for several months, opting to deny myself the pleasure that other 
men had so often plundered.  So angry, betrayed, that I could no longer 
perform in that most basic fashion.  No doubt this is why she sought 
the company of others.  Others more capable of satisfying her than I. 
The image of her saucy derriere shifting and clenching up the stairs 
was burnt into my brain, my own need clouding my thoughts want. 

I stayed to watch the fire, hoping that as it died so would my lust. 

The clock on the mantle chimed midnight. 

Happy Christmas, I congratulated myself sourly, draining my toddy and
setting the mug on the table beside my chair.  All I wanted was my wife 
back. 

Unsteadily I rose from my chair, resolve filling me as I stood.  Perhaps
it was the Jamaican rum, but tonight I intended to claim my present and 
reclaim my manhood... 

*** 

"Daddy!" shouted my youngest child happily playing with his box of
wooden soldiers, "this is the most wonderful Christmas ever!" 

A contented grin was my only response as I gazed fondly upon my wife. 
She glanced up from the frying bacon, and sent me a shy smile in return 
as she absently rubbed her backside.  A backside that was mine to 
admire and mine alone to touch.  As I had repeatedly, and at great 
length, reminded her during the night. 



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