It is my job to put up the Christmas tree lights while Emma makes the oatmeal. “Thirty minutes,” she said, “that’ should give you enough time, right?”

“No problem,” I said. We only had about a dozen lights, and the tree was only about eighteen inches tall. Some of the lights were burnt out, and I didn’t have any spares, but I did the best I could with the arranging, and then I went to the kitchen to see how Emma’s oatmeal was coming along. She was stirring the pot.

“The lights are done,” I announced.

“Good job,” she said. “The oatmeal should be ready in about ten minutes, give or take.”

“Need me to do anything?” I asked.

“I’ve set out the spoons and berries and syrup and nuts, and I’ve poured us each a little glass of orange juice, so we should be all set.”

“Want me to help stir?”

“No. There’s a special technique to it. See I use this flexible rubber spatula and I sort of jitter it as I stir. That way we don’t get burnt oatmeal or a scorched pot.”

“Nothing worse that a scorched pot,” I said, my hand making circles on Emma’s bare bottom in time to her stirring.

“Done,” she said, about five or six dozen circles later. I wouldn’t have minded if the oatmeal had taken longer. I wouldn’t have minded burnt oatmeal and a scorched pot. But the oatmeal, as always, was delicious.

I rinsed the dishes and pot while Emma went to the living room to inspect the tree.

“Look okay?” I asked, having joined her.

Emma nodded. She turned to me and kissed me. Her cheeks were wet. “Go put on your Santa suit while I finish crying in front of the tree,” she told me.

I went upstairs and rummaged through the closet. Some minutes later I was back in the living room. “I could only find the hat,” I told Emma.

She smiled. “Perfect. Unless you’re planning on going up on the roof, the hat is all you need.”

“So should we start putting presents under the tree?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not yet. Right now we’re the presents.” She lay down on the carpet near the tree and let her legs slip apart. I thought she wanted us to make love, and got down at her feet, but she put her hands up to keep me away. “First I have to wrap the present,” she said. “I have a special technique for wrapping.” Her hand went to her sex. “See, I use kind of a jittery motion with my finger.”

“Is that to keep your clit from burning and your cunt from scorching?” I asked.

“My clit’s already burning,” she said. “Now hush and watch.”

I watched. Emma’s finger jittered as it circled her clit. After a minute or so her cunt opened. The moisture within gleamed in the lights of the Christmas tree. Another minute and she was coming, her cunt opening and closing with each spasm.

“Oh Mat,” she sighed, a minute or so after her orgasm abated. “I’m ready for my present now.” She opened her arms and welcomed me into her embrace, into the sweet wet heat of her core.

Later, much later, we kissed almost shyly, and giggled almost like children. “I love your present,” I told her. “It fits perfectly. I plan on wearing it forever.”