A Christmas Card
Three lightly erotic vignettes
This is a work of fiction that contains explicit sex scenes and strong language. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 or older. By continuing beyond this point, you represent, warrant and agree that you are aged 18 or older and do not have any sensitivity to sexual material, and indemnify and hold harmless the author and publisher from any damages (including attorney’s fees) they may incur, at law or in equity, resulting from your breach of said representation.
Issues such as STD’s and other physical/emotional risks of sexual conduct are, for the most part, ignored, which means this story is fantasy in that it takes place in a world where such complications do not exist.
If you are not aged 18 or older or believe you may not enjoy material of this nature, or have any sensitivity to sexual material, do not read further.
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Copyright © 2025 by Ema Stonig. All rights reserved. Published by Avenue Oh ™
Sara’s husband is working the late shift. Not because he wants to, but because he’d gotten on the boss’ bad side, who knows from doing what, because Jack isn’t a bad guy. A little predictable maybe. He likes his beer and his Bears.
For Christmas, Sara’s gotten him an autographed picture of Gale Sayers. It’s framed and wrapped with a pretty bow and now rests beneath their tree—which is a real one this year.
Their kids are at her mom’s house at the end of the block. A new ritual since her dad died and her mother doesn’t didn’t want to wake up alone on Christmas morning. Plus, the kids love Grandy, who spoils them rotten.
It will take an hour for them to open all the presents Grandy’s bought them, which will make the stuff under their own tree (which they’ll open once Jack gets home from work Christmas afternoon) a comparative yawn. Jack will probably laugh and ask why they bothered getting them anything at all.
Grandy will be there, too, happy to be surrounded by family.
What all this means for right now is that Sara is alone for the first time ever in her life on Christmas Eve.
She’s played the last of a record, Percy Faith, that was one of her father’s favorites. And spent a while looking out the living window at the strings of lights along their street twinkling in the snowfall. A few cars came down the block, headlights catching snowflakes.
Their small house is cooling off as warmth from the fireplace fades into orange embers.
Just before ten, Sara walks in her thick socks down the short hall to their bedroom, a sense of excitement stirring inside her that intensifies as she undresses and doesn’t put on her usual winter pajamas but gets into bed naked.
She closes her eyes. And waits. Getting more and more excited as the hands of the Baby Ben clock on her nightstand turn slowly toward midnight.
Just as the minute and hour hands unite perfectly upright, she hears the gentle thump in the living room. Hears the quiet shuffling. The crinkle of wrapping paper.
She eases out of bed and slips on her robe. Belts it loosely, so it falls off one shoulder as she tiptoes down the hall.
She stops at the threshold to the living room, peeks around the corner, and sees him. The large man. The red suit. The bag of gifts. He’s eating one of the cookies she left on a plate by the fireplace.
His back is to her as Sara steps into the living room, opens her robe, and is about to say, “If you want to fuck me…” But she hesitates, the words caught in her throat, trapped by her inhibitions, and before she can bring herself to say aloud what she wants, he was back up the chimney, avoiding hot coals as magically as he’d come down…
Decades later, Sara’s kids are all grown with kids of their own. Sara and Jack are both gone. But every Christmas brings fond memories. And every conversation about Sara will recall how she had always been so encouraging. Always told them that whenever an opportunity presented itself, don’t hesitate. Take it. Because it might be their only chance.
Cassie stole a motorcycle and drove off on Christmas Day. Although she didn’t consider it stealing. You couldn’t steal from your brother, could you? Not after a lifetime of taking, using, “borrowing” one another’s stuff, a practice started when they shared a bedroom as five-year-olds that never really stopped.
Billy probably isn’t thinking of it that way, though. Probably gave the police an entirely different version of events. Different interpretation. “Crazy-assed stepsister” is how she imagined he’d describe her. And there’s gratitude for you, all the times she covered for him when he did goofy shit growing up—not just with their parents but at school. How many times had she alibied him out of a bad decision? Too many to count.
But Billy had gone sanctimonious on her. Blame that on his new wife. Not his first wife, who’d been a lot of fun. That first wife had been Vienna and she was long gone now. Well, she did have that shoplifting habit. But cosmetics were so fucking expensive, almost begging to be stolen. And it’s not like the security guards at the mall were saints—two of them were guys Vienna had blown back in high school and offered to do that again when she got pinched for stealing in the mall, which Joel, who’d she’d done under the bleachers after a football game, would have gone for if his boss hadn’t been there. Instead, Vienna ended up back in court and the public defender with all the ink said a weekend in jail was as good as she was going to be able to do for her that time.
Which was about when her stepbrother Billy decided to divorce Vienna. Which coincided with his starting to fuck Beverly, who he worked with. And Cassie had covered for him doing that, too, the ungrateful prick. Because women will leave a marriage if they’re being ignored, but guys who leave, 99% of the time it’s because they’re fucking someone new.
Now Billy’s married to Josaphine, who insists on making a big deal out of Christmas, and assigns chores to everyone, and this year told Cassie she was in charge of pumpkin pie, and it had to be homemade, not that big thing from Costco—even though everyone loves that fucking Costco pie. But Cassie doesn’t bake, and isn’t that crazy about pumpkin pie, anyway, which was just part of her fucked up family life, which was why she borrowed Billy’s new motorcycle, because another Christmas with that bunch was more than she was ready to deal with.
Especially when she could be miles and miles away, out here in the woods, out in the quiet, the fresh snowfall on the ground, in a clearing making snow angels in a Santa suit—which was probably also considered stolen, not by her dick of a stepbrother but the party rental company who’d hired her and supplied the Santa suit for her to stand outside, holding a placard and waving at traffic, trying to drum up business.
Now, lying on her back, arms and legs spread out making a snow angel, her breath fogging the air, Cassie unzips the Santa jacket because she likes cold air on her bare skin.
It’s just then—with her tits exposed—that the eagle flies out of the trees and looks down at her.
Cassie watches it bank effortlessly, angling up into the tall pines, where it lands on a branch, dislodging bits of snow that flutter toward the ground just as a moose clomps into the clearing.
The big animal’s impressive antlers cast an imposing shadow it seems to follow as it trods forward. It pauses briefly as if just noticing Cassie, as if weighing its options how to react to her presence.
Cassie smiles and waves with a gloved hand and thinks this is such a much better way to spend Christmas. Even if the moose might not agree one way or the other, as it simply plods ahead, appearing to take no note of her. Which Cassie finds refreshing.
As the moose disappears back into the woods, its antlers scraping low branches, Cassie returns to her angel making, the repetitious motion of her arms and legs deepening her body’s imprint in the snow.
The savage-looking man emerges from the trees moments later.
His footfall is nearly silent as he carries a crude bow and supply of arrows, something in his ready posture making Cassie believe he’s stalking the moose. He’s outfitted in a long fur coat that looks crudely pieced together. His hat is similarly fashioned, but of a different fur—soft grey instead of rich brown. His laced boots are worn. His face is as rugged as his clothes. His hair and beard are long and untrimmed.
He stops seeing Cassie, who makes no effort to cover herself, but sits up on her elbows, still smiling, and greets him, “Merry Christmas.”
He’s not wearing anything under his fur coat, which allows his erection to show. It’s long, very hard, surrounded by a wild flock of pubic hair.
Cassie tells him, “I like that,” looking at his hard cock.
He starts toward her, then stops as if awaiting permission.
“It’s okay,” she tells him. When he continues closer, she imagines he’s going to get on top of her and fuck her in the snow.
But that’s not what he does. Slinging his bow over his shoulder, he scoops her into his arms as if she’s weightless and carries her into the woods.
Held in his strong arms, she snuggles against him—the musky scent of him, the surprisingly soft tickle of his beard against her cheeks. She asks if he knows it’s Christmas.
He shakes his head no.
“Do you like Christmas?” she wonders.
“I do now.” His response, offered through a scratchy throat, makes it sound as if he hasn’t spoken in a while.
“Yeah. I do now, too.” She wraps her arms around his neck and breathes deeply. “Is it far,” she asks, “wherever we’re going?”
“No.”
But what feels like twenty minutes later, he’s still carrying her across the snow, then she picks up the smell of a wood fire and believes maybe they’re getting close.
A few hundred yards later, where the dense woods trap sunlight behind them, Cassie sees the small cabin. It’s no more than a solitary room she imagines, with one door, one window, and a stone chimney which sends curls of smoke into the air.
He pushes open the unlocked door with the scuffed toe of his boot, then turns sideways and ducks to clear the threshold with Cassie in his arms.
The cabin is dark and not much warmer inside than out, despite the crackling fire. There is no bed, only a pile of various fabrics which have been mounded together on the wood floor to make a bed.
As he lies her down, Cassie shivers from losing his body heat, so he takes off his long coat and covers her with its rough quilt of various furs, which feels primitive, as if just stripped off animals days ago. But it is warm.
He is naked now except for his hat and boots but seems unaffected by the cold. His cock remains hard. Wordlessly, he retreats to a basin positioned up against the fireplace, where the warm stone helps take the chill off water he splashes onto his face.
Cassie watches him remove his hat and tie back his hair into a thick ponytail, then he begins to shave with a straight razor, taking away months—years—of facial hair. Details of his lined face emerge. She has no guess how old he is—doesn’t care—who knows what being in the wilderness does to aging.
His cock stays rock hard the whole time. The sight of it is more than a distraction to Cassie, who is excited for him by the time he comes back and settles on top of her. His weight is powerful and firm as he puts himself inside her.
She wraps her legs and arms around him.
He is slow. Deliberate. Intense. Fucking her. His hands are large, holding her ass as he pushes his cock forward, draws back, pauses, pushes forward. Then pulls back out of her. Then pushes in. Draws back. Slides in. Out. In. Out… In…
Cassie gasps, and whispers, “This is so much better than pumpkin pie. So much better. So much better,” she repeats, then, about to come, moans, “Merry Christmas. Oh, Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas.”
The Missus keeps watch on the entire village. Every day of the year. Not just the days leading up to Christmas.
Her attention to detail is unrivaled, though she scoffs at suggestions that AI might help, much as she’d politely said no to computers decades ago. The Missus works with paper and pencil, as she always has, and always will.
Under her watch, every year, every Christmas, the toys go out, the toys are delivered. Santa’s magical route, the suspension—the defiance—of time and space which allows him to traverse the entire globe in a matter of human minutes still works on the formula the Missus devised centuries ago.
There have been tweaks to the process—updates the tech world might call them—but basically the same clockworks make Santa’s yearly delivery possible today as before the dawn of electricity.
It isn’t a solitary effort, of course. The Missus couldn’t do it without the tireless elves, whose numbers are much greater than when this all began. And while the elves are all magnificent, some stand out above the others. Some have that certain something.
Every year, one elf catches the Missus’ watchful attention and receives the coveted invitation, which, always kept private and never revealed, causes many elves to believe the “Invitation” isn’t real at all, but based upon a misunderstood story handed down from generations ago.
Analee is one of those elves who thinks of the invitation as myth, although she hopes it’s true. Tonight, she discovers the actuality from a whisper from the Missus herself, asking Analee if she’d like to spend the night with Santa.
“Tonight?” Analee asks, not because she didn’t hear, not because she needs time to think about her response, but to confirm this isn’t a dream.
The Missus nods. “Tonight.”
Hours later, as snow lightly falls, Analee arrives at the lodge at the appointed time. She opens the heavy wood door to the plain timber building and steps inside where it is warm.
Flames lick softly against the interior walls of the stone fireplace, casting a pleasing golden-orange light all around the lodge.
Santa sits at the long bar built against one wall, his trademark red jacket unbuttoned. He sips whiskey which gives him a satisfied glow after another Christmas magically accomplished. He greets Analee in his deep, powerful voice, calling her by name.
Analee smiles, shy, but aroused, and pads softly toward him, taking her time, wanting this moment, but also wanting it to last. From the corner of her eye she sees the Missus, who is smiling… Who is naked… Who is watching…
The Missus likes to watch.
To read more now, First Blush, which includes stories originally posted in this newsletter along with new works, is available from Amazon.
Also available at Amazon is SEX SCENES FROM A MARRIAGE, an earlier collection of my stories and novellas.
