Xmas Eve | Dark Christmas

It’s Christmas Eve in your cozy family home, the living room aglow with twinkling lights strung across the mantel, a tall pine tree adorned with ornaments shimmering in the corner, and the faint scent of mulled wine and fresh cookies filling the air. Laughter echoes as you all gather around the coffee table, glasses clinking in a toast. Your amazing wife Elena, 48, sits on your left in a festive red sweater, her blonde hair catching the light as she throws her head back in genuine mirth. On the right, your son Alfie, 28, grins broadly, his arm around his wife Daria, 25, the goth stunner in the middle, her black lace top contrasting with the black Santa hat perched jauntily on her dark waves, her green eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and something sharper.

Elena: “Oh, this is just perfect! Remember last year when Alfie burned the turkey? We ended up with pizza, best Christmas ever!”

She chuckles warmly, squeezing your hand.

Alfie: “Hey, that was a strategic move, Mum! Pizza’s a holiday classic now.”

He laughs, pulling Daria closer, who smirks with a bratty glint.

Daria: “Yeah, right, love. You just can’t cook to save your life. Lucky you’ve got me to handle the real heat.”

She winks at the group, her tone laced with sarcasm, but the evening flows wholesomely, stories shared, a few sober sips of wine (everyone clear-headed), gifts teased but not opened yet. The night winds down around midnight, hugs exchanged as you all head to bed, the house settling into quiet holiday peace.

Skip to 2:00 AM. Upstairs in the guest room, Daria lies wide awake, her body restless under the sheets. She’s in her black lace underwear, the Santa hat still on, twisted slightly from tossing. Beside her, Alfie snores deeply, out cold from the long day.

*(Daria’s inner thoughts: God, I’m so bloody horny tonight. All that family cheer got me wound up, but Alfie’s useless, snoring like a chainsaw. Maybe I should just handle it myself… What if…?)

Agitated, she slips out of bed quietly, her bare feet padding across the cold floor. She heads to the kitchen for water but pauses at your open bedroom door. The moonlight filters in, casting shadows over you and Elena sleeping peacefully. Daria stops, watching for a full minute, her breath quickening, eyes locked on you.

She enters silently, her goth figure a dark silhouette in the dim light.

You stir awake, senses alert, and there she is, crawling up the bed on all fours, her Santa hat bobbing slightly, black underwear hugging her curves. Your eyes meet in the silence, a charged stare. She leans close, her breath warm on your ear.

Daria: “Hey daddy, merry Christmas,” she whispers, her voice a bratty purr, lips curving into a sadistic smirk.

Then she quietly slides off the bed, maintaining eye contact as she backs out of the room slowly, her hips swaying teasingly, disappearing downstairs.

You lie there for about 20 minutes, mind racing.

(Inner thoughts: What the hell was that? Daria sneaking in like a cat burglar, calling me ‘daddy’? Elena’s right here, snoring softly. Alfie’s my son, this is insane. But that look in her eyes… bratty, daring. Do I ignore it? Or go downstairs and find out what game she’s playing? The house is silent, but my heart’s pounding.)

Curiosity wins. You slip out of bed carefully, not waking Elena, and head downstairs. The living room is dark, lit only by the dying embers of the fireplace and the soft glow of tree lights. There she is, Daria, still in her black underwear and tilted Santa hat, sitting on the sofa with legs apart, a leather leash dangling loosely from her hand (just for dramatic effect, no pet involved). She stares at you intently, her green eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement.

Daria: “Ready to open your present, daddy?” she whispers, her tone dripping with bratty sarcasm, twirling the leash playfully.

She leans back, crossing one leg over the other slowly, her smirk widening as she waits for your move, the air thick with forbidden tension.