“Emma, Emma, Emma. Don’t tell me you’re going to hang me by the chimney with care while you portal off to who-the-fuck-knows-where.”

“Oh, Stuffy, as a matter of fact, I do know where I’m portaling off to. The Christmas dance at the Lion’s Club.”

“Humpf. Well, good for you. And I must say, that enticingly off the shoulder gown is very becoming.”

“You think so? You don’t think it’s too much?”

“Not at all. And your pussy scent is especially beguiling.”

“It is?”

“Trust me, I’m beguiled. But, sniffle, here I am, stuffed in the proverbial oversized stocking with nothing for company but a couple of lame-ass candy canes.”

“But you’re comfy, right?”

“I could be comfier.”

“Oh? How so?”

“This sock doesn’t do anything for my toes, if you want to know the whole truth.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“Few do, alas.”

“So what would make it better for you? For your toes?”

“Cunt.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Yes, your goodness. Specifically the goodness of your cunt.”

“Jeepers Stuffy. You want to ... to...”

“Yes, very much so. I want to toe fuck your cunt. And while I was toe-fucking your cunt, you’d be toe-fucking my cock.”

“I see.”

“Uh huh. A mutual footsie-fuck is just what Santa ordered. You’ll find I’m exceptionally adept it.”

“I suspected you might be.”

“But eventually you’d need more.”

“I would?” What sort of more?”

“Cock. Deep in your cunt. What a stupendously glorious orgasm you’ll have!”

“Mm, sounds good. But since I’m all dressed and ready to go, and my quote unquote Uber is out in the driveway, I think it’s the Lion’s Club Ball for me.”

“Sniffle.”

“Oh, Stuffy, don’t be sad. When I get home we can footsie-fuck til the proverbial cows come home.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”