"'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house,
Not a creature was stirring...

As you can probably tell, not a whole lot was going on!

So yeah, it's not exactly the Little House on the Prairie but our home sitting squarely on the Nebraskan high plains in a small mid-western township, is if nothing - congenial living. OK, so it was constructed in 1926. Interesting year that. Calvin Coolidge was in the White House, Eddie Cantor was running hot with "Bye Bye Blackbird," A.A. Milne had just published Winnie-the-Pooh," while the average US home would set you back around $6,800 and you could pick up a used Chrysler roadster for seventy-five bucks. Fidel Castro and Chuck Berry were born that year too - just in case you have an interest in such trivia.

But to get back to what I was saying – it really was Christmas Eve. Now, for those readers who have kept a handle on things, you will be aware that I recently re-married a very young American girl and that accordingly, I shifted base from Australia to the tumbleweed-strewn heart of America. Geographically we are as close to the center of Northern USA as makes no difference.

Old enough to be Katie's grandfather, I suppose we are the ultimate odd-couple. Lest anyone point the finger in my direction however, allow me to make a few observations. I love my PSG dearly (little in-house joke there for the few of you able to make the connection). Together, we view our life on a remarkably even keel. A life I may add that is not governed by social dictate or a need to have been born in "acceptably close" time-frames. She keeps me young, I chip-in with the recalled images and experiences of having lived through the fifties, sixties, seventies and eighties ... earlier, if the truth be known - though not quite, as a few have cruelly suggested, back to the days of Caesar Augustus.

Now I realize that most of you have come here to read a sex story and indeed sex is a shared activity perpetuated even in this somewhat high-altitude household. What else would you logically expect? Married to a very attractive young girl many years my junior, neither "Farmville" or "Twitter" were ever likely to satisfy the libido. All of which brings us back to Christmas Eve 2009.

"I've had a fantasy," she giggled, hunched-up against the pillows that night – presumably having stacked up all my presents under the tree – I hadn't checked yet.

"Yeah?" I replied, "You want to see me wash-up, dressed like Lady Gaga?"

"Interesting thought," she said, "But no, I, er ... I want you to tie me up!

I looked at her for a moment. She didn't appear to be under the influence of any illegal substance. This was a new route entirely she was contemplating. "C'mon," I muttered, "I left my rope on the horse out back and it's freezing tonight."

"I'm serious," she giggled afresh then, reaching down beneath her side of the bed, withdrew two scarves of indeterminate length, dropping them delicately on the coverlet in front of me.

I began to panic. "What the Hell?" I was thinking, "I've married a street whore." The concept gained appeal even as I pondered it.

"So ... you want I should tie you up." I countered. Where? To the bed? To the cat?

She indicated the bed-head behind her.

"Guess we'd better get you looking the part then," I sniggered, tugging her nightdress up over her knees until those sexy little green panties of her were clearly visible. She looked shocked but made no attempt to address the situation either by tugging the silky material back down or by closing up her legs totally. After all if one is wishing to be tied up and brutally raped, there isn't much point is there?

Having the foresight to dislodge first the shoulders of her nightdress that added a much needed wanton, if not abused look to her predicament, especially given the girl's fully bra-less condition, I aligned her right arm with the bed-head and using one of the scarves, tied the wrist securely to the protruding wooden carving.

Standing back to look at my handiwork, I had to admit to a certain racy thrill inherent in the situation. She looked so damned vulnerable! 'Twas the work of a few seconds to truss up her left arm in a similar fashion. Andromeda herself could have looked no more helpless, shackled to that rock-face, awaiting the Kraken's unwelcome attentions.

Now Katie's breasts are not what the drooling pervert might call voluminous but rather, sedate, well-rounded attributes that any girl would be proud to possess. Presented thus however, forcibly more pronounced by virtue of her restraints and having in mind also their un-encased reality, courtesy of the sheer material with which female night-attire is manufactured, the reader can visualize I am sure, her simmering aspect.

Gently caressing her breasts beneath their rayon protector, one could scarcely fail to notice both nipples' erect condition. Katie's eyes were wide-open, her breath coming in short snatches. She looked down semi-shocked as I continued to manipulate her freely. This had definitely been a good idea I was thinking.

Not that my wife is a slavish devotee of the "Twilight" ethos as such, she simply has more it seems, than a passing interest in vampirism. To put it in layman's terms, she has a thing about having her neck meaningfully fanged. Leaning across therefore, I pushed her head to one side and gently clamped my teeth upon the area below her right ear – at the exact spot where neck and shoulder are conjoined.

I can't say that she moaned as such but certainly I had injected sufficient kink-factor to procure a reaction. Her respiration noticeably increased and the smile was pure Lucy Van Helsing.

Kneeling beside Katie now, I allowed my left hand to infiltrate the upper part of her nightdress, making the gentle descent inside, where-in either a right or left deviation from her cleavage handed the intruder an array of illicit curves and possibilities. I heard a gasp but whether it was Katie's or my own, I couldn't rightly nominate. My right hand that for a few moments earlier had rested on her exposed knee, I now slipped between her legs, making deliberately slow progress along the inside of her thigh. The gasp this time was definitely hers. There is something so damned sexy about inching your way north to a woman's panties that when they happen to belong to the girl you married, the arousal factor accelerates significantly.