Let’s get this straight: I don’t believe in Fairy Tales, the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Santa Fucking Claus.
Then why am I sitting in one of the oldest pubs in “Auld Reekie”; The Cafe Royale in West Register Lane, drinking mulled wine and writing my wish for the Wishmas Tree?
Blame it on my best pal Missy. He or she, depending on how the mood takes him, believes in all that mystical crap.
Tonight he is resplendent in fishnet stockings, knee-length black boots, Black Watch Tartan Mini kilt, and a floor-length hooded dark green cape, like a contestant in Traitors! He is expertly made up, wearing his trademark black silk choker. I feel like a drab sparrow next to a vibrant peacock. Missy has a hot date tonight. I do not.
Now here I am, with a blank white card, pen in hand. The instructions are simple. Write the date, your initials and your wish. Insert the card into the clear bag and attach your wish to the beautiful Scots Pine tree; known as The Wishmas Tree. It stands on The Mound. A voluntary donation is made to The Hospice. It is an Edinburgh tradition stretching back over 100 years.
Make a Wish 2025
Date: 8/12
Name: EC
My wish
“To meet a knight in shining armour
Not a tosser in tinfoil.”
Helped by the mulled wine, I let Missy persuade me to tie my wish to the tree and make a generous donation.
I kiss Missy goodnight and wait for the tram home. While he/she heads for his hot date and a night of great sex.
At Christmas, Edinburgh is like a scene from Dickens. The tram rumbles along Princes Street, the old town and Castle are beautifully floodlit. The trees in Princes Street Gardens twinkling with fairy lights, the German Market buzzing with tourists. Why the market has to be German in Scotland’s capital, I have never worked out. A light dusting of snow completes the scene.
Alighting at Haymarket, I climb to my flat in a traditional tenement. Once inside, I contemplate the evening ahead. I think of last year when I was rolling around the floor naked with the love of my life, Andy. I have the luxury of an open fire and it added to the occasion. Sex with him was always varied, hot and plentiful. He certainly lived up to his nickname Randy Andy.
Two months ago I came home early from work to find Randy Andy receiving a blow job from a curvaceous, blonde bimbo, who just happens to be my cousin. The sight of her swaying tits and wobbling bum will take a while to dispel.
I switch on the tree lights and set a match to the ready-laid fire, watching the flames take hold. I wonder what Missy is doing. I’m unsure which “friend” Scarlet is. Is it the flame-haired buxom beauty with a penchant for leather and what I consider implements of torture? I think it is called BDSM but I’m not actually sure. Or is it the muscular Freddie Mercury look-alike with his trademark scarlet military jacket?
With these thoughts running through my head and mulled wine flowing through my body, is it any wonder that I have an itch that won’t be denied?
Thankfully my darling Missy provided me with an array of toys when Randy Andy got the boot.
As the levels of heat start to rise, I walk to my bedroom and rummage through the drawer, selecting only the best and most powerful. It is the Festive season after all. I return to the firelit room and the sparkling tree. My work dress is discarded and I stand in the finest lingerie and stockings, a perk of my job as head buyer of Le Gradh. Bespoke handmade lingerie made in Shetland and sold exclusively in Jenner’s of Princes Street.
I am tempted to turn on the lights so that any peeping Toms, or peepers, from the neighbouring tenements can view the scene, but I don’t.
Slowly I remove the fuchsia silk pants and let them drop to the floor, then I unhook the matching bra and my breasts are freed.
My breath is coming in rapid bursts as I lie on the rug in front of the fire, still wearing stockings and a fuchsia suspender belt. I fumble for the switch on my flexible friend and the familiar buzz fills my ears. My breasts are tingling, my nipples erect. Frantically I aim my FF for my throbbing clit. The pulse surges through me and I let out a moan of pleasure. The volume gets higher and faster, the sensations take over, as always my climax starts in a tingle in the toes of my right foot, gradually spreading upwards to my soaking pussy. The uncontrollable bucking and shuddering of my body follows and the torrent overcomes me. I am left a soaking, sweating heap on the floor. Fuck! That was quick.
Good, but quick. It’s been a dry time since Randy Andy left. Missy and I have spoken about him becoming a friend with benefits; but I love him too much to risk spoiling our unique friendship. Besides, I am straight and Missy is… well, open to more delights and adventures than I am! I first met him when he visited the exclusive lingerie department in Jenners. He was looking for a bespoke Basque. We struck up a special friendship that day.
Reluctantly I go for a long soak in my claw-footed bathtub and an early night.
~~~~~~
Nursing a slight hangover, I survey the display of beautiful lingerie from behind the counter, on the first floor of Jenners. The air is filled with the scent of cinnamon and spice, and discreet orchestral renditions of Christmas carols. As always, I am immaculately dressed in a beautiful fitted dress of muted, heather-toned Tartan. My Celtic red hair is arranged in a French plait. Only I know that underneath I am wearing matching underwear.
My name badge displays:
Enya Calder. Consultant. Le Gradh.
The chief buyer doesn’t look grand enough apparently.
Oh, in case you are wondering, Le Gradh is Gaelic for With Love. The usual shoppers are around, mainly tourists. A few are asking my staff for advice. Very few men have a clue about underwear. Red and sexy for Christmas! Size? I won’t repeat how that is indicated to us! We all know how to spot the pervs who say, the same size as you, in order to find out our bra size! Pathetic.
I am aware of a prickling sensation in my neck. I turn to see a drop-dead gorgeous male, wearing a dark wool coat with a scarf that looks the same Tartan as my dress!
“May I help you, sir?”
“I am looking for a gift for someone very special. I was thinking a nightdress and a matching robe?”
The voice was as gorgeous as the face and body. Canadian. No sexy red Santa stuff for the lady in his life. Le Gradh is sexy but in a classy, sensual, way. It also has a very expensive price tag.
Of course, he knew the size. I showed him several bespoke sets. He asked my opinion, and I spent a lot of attention and time with him. Eventually, he decided on a beautiful silk set trimmed with the finest lace. The colour was described as Whisper Grey. It was absolutely divine. The price was eye-watering. What a lucky lady. I wrapped the gift in tissue paper and placed it in a box with scented dried flowers.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” I wasn’t being suggestive, merely professional.
“Which item do you consider is the best from this Collection?”
I showed him my personal favourite. A camisole which could be worn with a fitted jacket and trousers, or with far less. It was the finest satin and lace in a beautiful shade of palest heather, one of Le Gradh’s trademark colours. He thanked me, paid for his purchase and left, no doubt to meet his gorgeous wife.
Reluctantly I turned to my next customer with a smile. The morning dragged and I had a late lunch. When I returned, I was aware of my staff watching for me. Had there been a problem?
Fiona, the youngest, stepped forward and handed me a beautifully wrapped box with an envelope attached. An early Secret Santa gift?
I opened the box first. My favourite piece from Le Gradh! I tore open the envelope. The stationery bore the name of The Balmoral Hotel. It was handwritten.
Enya,
My thanks for your help today in purchasing a Christmas gift for my sister who is getting married here in The Balmoral Hotel on Christmas Eve. Is it too forward to invite you to dinner here in The Palm Court tomorrow evening?
I can be contacted at The Hotel, Room 812.
Yours in anticipation,
Ewan Cameron.
P.S. It’s Christmas, so wishes can come true.
