Xmas Cake 4 (final)


I cupped Ryan’s sleeping cock in my hand. It lay curled within like a small delicate animal. Soft. Heavy. Twitchy. Velvet-smooth. Part of me wanted to caress and stroke it into life, the other part of me was content to simply appreciate it in the moment.

Today would be another day of clearing blackberries, and filling holes along the track we were preparing as an alternative access point. When complete the track would enable us to drive to a point midway up the hill, close to where we planned to level the house site. With any luck, next pay we would be able to afford to buy a small concrete culvert to create both channel and bridge. Technically this driveway was not on our property, but it wasn’t on the elderly neighbour’s property either. It was a narrow strip of government owned no-mans land, which we hoped might eventually become ours through the right of constant occupancy.


Thinking about the elderly neighbour my face crinkled in a smile and I had to muffle the laugh which threatened to erupt and wake my sleeping lover. He was crusty old coot (the neighbour – not Ryan), given to providing unsolicited advice and turning up at the most inconvenient times. I swear he had a radar which told him when Ryan and I were about to get down and dirty. But to be fair we were horny most of the time so it was probably just co-incidence. He’d had this wild part of the country to himself for so long that our intrusion probably felt like  an invasion. Maybe he wondered about us too. The age difference was obvious. We’d felt it strongly at first but now it had receded into the background as our relationship and commitment grew and we were just lovers, male and female, Indie and Ryan.

Ryan stirred and stretched, his blue-grey eyes opening, his muscled arms and legs finding the boundaries of the car interior, pushing against them. He smiled.

“Hello you.”


“What time is it?”

I raised myself on one elbow, twisting my body around to peer at the console, my breast grazing his back.


He yawned, a jaw cracking stretch, that made me feel newly tired. I wriggled under his arm, rested my head on his shoulder.  Began tracing patterns across his smooth chest with two fingers, feeling the firm muscles beneath his skin, enjoying the changes in texture between his small springy nipples and the velvety aureola which surrounded them. He ignored my overtures, reached a hand down to his cock, greeting it with one hand at the base, pushing against the root of what was now a well grown erection.

“I need a pee” he declared, lifting my questing hand and kissing the fingertips before resting it firmly back on my hip, disentangling himself from my body and the remaining bedclothes as he did so.

I rolled over on my back and snuggled back down into the blankets, half listening to the sounds of him tugging on his boots, crunching through the twiggy undergrowth unlaced leather flapping with each step; letting loose a copious stream of urine. I heard him pad back to the makeshift kitchen area, heard the rustle and clink as he gathered a selection of twigs from the pile and manoeuvred them into position in the clay burner we used for cooking in summer. Picturing his tall frame bending and stretching, lithely naked but for his boots. I mused for a moment on the likelihood of our neighbour dropping by so early in the day. His reaction, I fancied, to the sight of Ryan; partly loosened braid streaming down his back, cock and balls swinging as he went about the chores, would be rather different to my own…

The sweet smell of woodsmoke began to drift through the open door of the hatch and I ran my hands over my belly and across my mound, enjoying the sensations without any conscious intent beyond that. My cunt was quick to respond to stimulation however, and I gradually began to move my right hand lower, fingering my clit, which, while still tender from our previous few days activities, perked satisfyingly to attention at my touch. Dipping my finger between the rapidly engorging lips, I slowly spread wetness upward, concentrating on the area to the left of the tender hotspot, lightly tapping, arcing back and forth in a semi-circle, before descending to the hot, wet source again.

The soles of my feet began to tingle and burn, tension mounted between my thighs. Dimly aware of the sounds of tea-making taking place at the campsite, I increased the pace and pressure of the rubbing. My clit was swollen, eager for persistent touch, my opening  begging to be filled. Hooking my fingers repeatedly into the wet entrance I dragged them firmly back over the lips, wanting the plug and the tug and the friction. Fueling the heat, inviting the searing sensation, rapid strokes sending fire along nerves, flashing inwards and upwards.
Back arching, cunt spurting.


Footsteps approaching.


Ryan’s head was framed in the entrance of the hatchback, two cups in one hand, the remains of a half eaten piece of cake in the other.

“Tea?” he mumbled, jaw working.

“Ta.” I nodded, awkwardly hoisting my body into a sitting position, the bedcovers tumbling around my waist, before reaching for the cup with my left hand.

Eyeing my flushed face and chest through narrowed eyes Ryan put down his own cup and scoffed another bite of the booty. Gulping down a portion of barely chewed cake, he sniffed pointedly, inhaling the smells of my arousal which wafted from under the tumbled bed covers into the confined space of the vehicle, before adding suspiciously.

“And what have you been up to missy?”

Ignoring the question I raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at his still moving jaw. “Was that the last of the Xmas cake?”



It wasn’t the last of the fruitcake. There was a little bit left and I put it in a plastic bag in my jacket to consume at my leisure. Dressed and breakfasted, we removed the bedding from car, laying it on a tarp in the sun, before driving into town for a couple of supplies. On the way home, we made the small detour to our local rubbish tip, a familiar source for materials we recycled to save money. Scrounging for discarded fencing wire, useable pieces of wood and metal for Ryan’s sculptures and plant cuttings was a fun activity we both enjoyed. The tip was not large, and not overly smelly being semi-rural. We’d found some useful and interesting items in the time we’d been visiting there.

Today marked a difference in the loot however. Moving around a pile of discarded and rusty paint tins, I saw movement near some cardboard boxes on my left. I peered harder, but nothing stirred. Moving cautiously I stepped toward them, wondering if it was my imagination or more likely a wild rat which had taken fright at my approach. Ryan’s own rat, that little black and white trouble maker of our courtship days, was no longer part of our household. He’d chewed through too many items including his cage, and in the subsequent foray several of Ryan’s computer cables. When he began to bite human flesh in earnest Ryan’s tolerance thinned and he was no longer welcome. An alternative home was found for him.

Still no movement, but then I as my foot stirred a box I heard a faint sound.

“Ryan! Ryan! Come here, quick!” Ryan dropped the piece of metal he was carrying toward the rear of the car, and sprinted to my side.

“What is it?” he asked scanning the area around us for the source of my excitement.

“Listen. Over there.” I pointed to where the cardboard boxes butted against a piece of corrugated iron. The sound came again. Then movement. A small black and white shape tumbled toward us mewing plaintively. Ryan stretched out one long arm and scooped it up.

“Hello little.” Ryan said, holding the furry body to his chest and turning toward me, so I could see.

The plaintive mewing eased, a huge purr of delight shook the tiny frame as I stroked her furry head. She was thin, but not morbidly so, and we deduced she’d not been abandoned here long. Angry at human callousness, but delighted by her friendly ways, we deferred the days scrounging to return to the block. Under the shade of the trees, we poured water into a container, and lacking any other immediate source of sustenance, I sacrificed my last bit of Xmas cake in a worthy cause.


‘Chess’ was never my kitty, Ryan was her saviour and her hero. She followed him everywhere, even venturing into the water to reach him when he stepped onto the flat stones which peppered the creek. If we prepared the car for work at the block she was ready, willing and able to insist on coming too, although as she grew, our care for the birdlife there meant she had to be left home with the other cats.

She was part of our family for a further two years, then stayed with Ryan after we parted. The circumstances of her death remain a mystery, although Ryan blamed himself for neglecting her in heat of his new romance. She is buried under a small stone cairn on the block. I saw it when I visited the other day. It was another piece of sadness in what was a difficult but necessary reminder of what I had lost.

It’s not very erotic to end the Xmas cake stories on this note. But then life isn’t always about eroticism, and the lines between pleasure and pain are thin, as we are well aware.  Writing this has been at times shockingly painful, I’m remembering a lot of things I had pushed away at the time. I searched despairingly for over half an hour to find the photo of Chess with Baggins, my own little found cat, believing it may no longer be in my collection, hoping it was. I found the photo of the culvert we installed too. Every stone in that section painstakingly put into place by my own hand, now lost under the long grass.

Often in my reader I encounter stories of subs dealing with the unbearable stroke which is and must be borne. I’m coming to see these memories as necessary in the same way. I’m going to give Ryan and Indie a rest for a little while. I want to come back in the New Year with some lighter stories about their times together. But i will be writing other material in the interrum. Thank you for sticking with the tale so far.

To see who else has cat tails/tales, nosy neighbours or masturbatory delights follow the link below to #WickedWednesday




7 thoughts on “Xmas Cake 4 (final)

  1. ah so that is what being triggered means 😉 always read the phrase and think “yeah ok” – but you triggered me… A very beautiful and moving post x

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks May. I think it’s most often used to warn people who have had bad experiences such a sexual assaults so they don’t get flashbacks. But I think any content which may set off a difficult memory can also fit the bill. I figure if I’m crying or angry while I’m writing it might have the same effect on someone else, come to think of it when writing our erotica we aim to trigger arousal in our readers…❤️X


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