11/12/2025
Before you read this, if you don't like swearing or s*x, please scroll on. If you read on and then complain, it will make you look like a k**b jockey or a Cuntalina, depending on gender preference.
Every now and then, especially around Christmas time, Mrs Santa pays my husband a visit.
Sometimes she pays him a visit in July but this is only because the Mrs Santa outfit is the only one that fits properly.
The French Maid has had to be retired due to over eating.
Mrs Santa decided to visit the other night.
She had, it turned out, consumed rather a lot of prosecco.
It took her quite a while to put her little outfit on the right way round, and the thong was a no no for two reasons.
Number one, it is nigh on impossible to step into a piece of string when you are pi**ed.
Number two, there is a very real danger of said string wedging up Mrs Santa's arse like a cheese wire and never being found again. Mrs Santa's arse is a cloth chomper.
Mrs Santa finally got in her outfit, had a quick, seductive scratch of her groin and shimmied - some might say staggered - towards my husband.
My husband had also taken a few beers on board and decided to overlook the groin scratch - at least she didn't sniff as well.
He had also taken time to prepare himself; a quick wash of his lad and a sq**rt of underarm spray and he was good to go.
He'd had time to take all his clothes off and fold them neatly whilst Mrs Santa was getting changed.
Christ, he'd had time to do a wash, dry and iron whilst she was fannying about.
Mrs Santa was not as tidy and had flung her clothes around the room. She had been looking for her suspender belt because my husband likes stockings and suspenders but very rarely gets to see them.
He normally gets told to fu***ng wear them himself if he likes them so much and that tights might not be s*xy but they keep the thunder crackers warm and tucked in.
He wouldn't find stocking and suspenders so s*xy if Dumbledore's beard popped out to wave in the breeze.
Alas, Mrs Santa could not find her suspender belt, but she wanted to wear stockings because her legs had a five o'clock shadow.
In a drunken haze, she thought it would be a marvellous notion to wear the stockings, hold the tops up herself and then roll them down in a s*xy fashion once she reached the bed.
This notion was, indeed, the stuff of fantasy.
Mrs Santa approached the bed, leering and hunched over, looking more like Mrs Overall from Acorn Antiques, than the s*x goddess she envisaged. Instead of holding 'two soups' she held her stockings up on the outer thigh which meant the inner stockings sagged and wrinkled down towards her knees.
This was not a good look.
Mrs Santa quickly changed the position of her hands to hoist up the stockings from the inner thigh.
She managed to grab the left hand stocking but missed the right hand one, which collapsed down her prickly leg like a deflated balloon, and pooled around her ankle - as if she had got tangled in a fisherman's net and was hellbent on dragging it along for the ride.
Mrs Santa pondered bending over to reach down and grab the errant stocking, but, God, she needed to fart and she wasn't entirely sure the chilli she had eaten earlier wouldn't make a sudden reappearance.
Which might ruin the mood somewhat.
Deciding it was better to just cut and run, Mrs Santa threw herself on the bed, left my husband to do all the work, had a nice time and fell asleep farting from every available hole and giggling.
Mrs Santa is not in the good books, but when she woke up this morning, a very grumpy elf had tidied up all the thrown around clothes and made her a cup of tea. He had also located the suspender belt and put it somewhere prominent so that he wouldn't have to ride Nora Batty again.
©middle age madness/Sarah Stenton
If you enjoy this, I have written several books. Search Sarah Stenton on Amazon and up I pop. This pink glasses one is first xx
