Christmas cranberries, ainsley-ts and a wooden fork

By on November 29, 2010

When I get home, Rebekka is wearing her leather boots in the bath. “I opened my Christmas present early because you said it was a sex toy. But it isn’t!” She says. “I could have opened these in front of Aunty!”

christmas cranberries ainsley Ts and a wooden fork

I don’t tell her that Aunt Nigella would recognise even the most subtle sex toy. In fact, the last time I saw Rebekka’s aunt, I was chained to the foot of her bed. But that was before.

I pull Rebekka’s favourite stilettos from our bedroom cupboard, and slide the heel into the bubbles of her bath. “What are you doing?” She asks, looking thoroughly displeased. It’s only when I lift the heel to my lips that she laughs, realising all the shoes I’ve bought her these last few months, have also been sex toys.

She climbs out of the water and presses her naked body against my suit. “We don’t have time.” I tell her “I still have to get changed for dinner.” She gives me a look, as if to say ‘how dare you talk about turkey when I want you!’ Then she pushes me down onto the corridor carpet and crawls over my clothes. She takes the zip of my trousers between her teeth. I pray our guests will be late.

christmas cranberries ainsley Ts and a wooden fork

I leave Ben ruffled in the corridor and slip into some red latex. He follows me to the bedroom, but I push him away like Aunty taught me. ‘A bit of pain peppers…’ she would say, whisking pancake batter with a wooden fork.

It’s only when I’ve pinned Ben down onto the rough carpet in the entrance hall, that I remember the cranberries on the hob. “Must dash to the kitchen.” I tell him but he grabs me by the wrist and ties me to the wooden banister. He runs the smooth heel of my stilettos, down along my breasts and in between my legs. It feels cold and makes my hot skin wet. “The berries are burning” I tell him, as their sweet, caramel scent fills the house. He licks my nipples as the cool heel of my Christmas present slides into cranberries ainsley Ts and a wooden fork

Her perfume creeps around the edges of the keyhole and into the entrance hall. I know Aunt Nigella is there way before she presses the door bell. Memories of her wooden fork fill me with fear, even as Rebekka melts, dizzy with pleasure, in my arms.

by Tessa Ditner

ainsley-t shoes with unique butt plug heels are at
Photos by Sarah McGlathery

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