Sue’s After-Dark Diaries Ep 26 – Christmas Eve: Festive Chaos
Sue’s After-Dark Diaries Ep 26 – Christmas Eve: Festive Chaos
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the extended version of Sue’s After-Dark Diaries, Ep 26 – Christmas Eve: Festive Chaos.
What follows contains additional chaos, unnecessary honesty, and festive behaviour that technically counts as “character development,” if you squint.
It’s longer than the original, less sensible, and best consumed with something mulled in hand.
You’ve been gently warned.
Christmas Eve: Festive Chaos
I don’t trust Christmas Eve.
It’s too quiet.
Too expectant.
Like it’s waiting for you to embarrass yourself so it can tell Christmas Day.
Everyone acts like Christmas Eve is calm and magical, but that’s propaganda. Christmas Eve is just Christmas Day’s messy little sister who drinks Prosecco in the bath and says “it’ll be fine” about things that absolutely will not be fine.
And this year, I am home alone.
Which sounds peaceful.
It isn’t.
It means there are no witnesses.
The House: Festive But Unstable
The house is lit exclusively by fairy lights and bad judgment. The tree’s on, the lamps are off, and everything looks softer… it’s a bit like Instagram has filtered my entire personality.
Benji is asleep under the tree, positioned with surgical precision to ensure I trip if I need the loo urgently. He has eaten tinsel before and feels no shame about it. Honestly, if he makes it to the New Year, it’ll be a miracle.
The place smells like mulled wine, pine needles, and that faint undertone of what are you doing with your life.
I take a sip of mulled wine.
It’s no longer mulled.
It’s just wine that once met a cinnamon stick.
Still festive.
Wrapping Presents Is My Villain Origin Story
I am wrapping presents.
I say “wrapping”.
What I mean is: aggressively taping items while whispering threats at paper.
Why is wrapping paper so thin? Why does it tear emotionally? Why does it rip diagonally like it’s making a point?
One present looks neat from the front and like a crime from the back. Another has so much tape it could survive a flood. One gift tag has already fallen off, which means tomorrow someone’s getting a present and I’ll say “oh! That one’s yours!” with no proof whatsoever.
Benji wakes up, attacks a bow as if it owes him money, then goes back to sleep. Honestly, same.
I pour another mulled wine.
Christmas Music Cannot Be Trusted
I started with carols.
Respectable ones, you know the classics.
Somehow… and I’m not taking responsibility… we’ve moved into slow, sexy Christmas music. Someone is whisper-singing about snow and longing, and it feels inappropriate while I’m holding sellotape.
I tell myself it’s background music.
It is absolutely foreground music.
I catch my reflection in the microwave door… leggings, jumper, hair doing something non-committal, and still manage to think, alright, calm down.
It’s a weird level of confidence for a woman standing next to a half-wrapped Lynx set.
Tomorrow Is Family Sue™ (Tonight Is Not)
Tomorrow I’m off to the family’s, where I’ll transform into Family Sue™: polite, helpful, and smiling like I’ve got a coat hanger in my mouth.
I’ll offer tea to people who’ve already said no thrice. I’ll attack the washing-up like it owes me money and I’m here to collect.
“How’s work?”
“Busy!” I’ll chirp, as if that explains everything.
“How’s life?”
“Good!” I’ll beam, while internally screaming, “define good.”
They’ll give me that gentle family squint… the one that says, “She says she’s fine, but why does she look like she’s hiding a secret cult?”
Auntie Linda will ask if I’m seeing anyone special.
I’ll laugh lightly and say, “Oh, just focusing on me,” while silently toasting Dan, the only dependable male who never ghosts and has a turbo setting.
Tonight I’m still feral Sue… wine-fuelled, chaotic, and owning every bad-good decision.
Tomorrow I’m wholesome, responsible, and faking serenity in a reindeer jumper.
Send help.
And a bigger spoon for the trifle.
The Sherry Trifle Is a Weapon
Ah, yes, the trifle. It’s already assembled and lurking in the fridge like a delicious little sociopath.
It’s chilling. Literally and figuratively. I swear it knows the power it holds.
This trifle carries the weight of tradition, family expectation, and my entire reputation as a functioning adult. Too weak and Christmas is ruined… polite disappointment all round. Too strong and Christmas becomes interesting… as in, Uncle Dave starts to serenade his turkey and tries to propose to the sofa. A hilarious moment not to be missed.
The sherry went in “until it felt right.”
Same measuring technique I use for mascara, breakups, and life decisions. Explains a lot.
If anyone dares comment on the potency, I’ll channel my inner innocent and say, “That’s exactly how Mum used to make it,” with the serene confidence of a woman who knows Mum absolutely did not pour like a pirate on shore leave.
I open the fridge door for the third time tonight just to check on it.
Still there.
Still smug.
Still silently judging my entire existence.
Frankly, between the trifle and Benji, I’m not sure which one has the higher moral ground.
One more splash “for luck”?
Don’t tempt me.
The Knock That Changes Everything
There’s a knock at the door.
Not the timid tap-tap of a neighbour borrowing batteries.
Not the bored thump of a delivery driver who’s already walking away.
This is a knock with confidence. Three solid raps, evenly spaced, like the knocker has rehearsed it in the car and decided it was perfect.
I freeze, mid-sip of my mulled wine. Benji… doesn’t even twitch. He believes in letting humans reap what they sow.
I open the door.
It’s Mark.
Coat still on (expensive wool, slightly damp from the drizzle). Bottle of wine in one hand. That half-smile that says “Merry Christmas” out loud but whispers “I absolutely knew what I was doing” directly into your nervous system.
For one stupid second, my body does that thing where it forgets time exists.
“Merry Christmas,” he says, like he’s reading the weather.
He smells like cold night air, some overpriced aftershave that should be illegal, and bad ideas that once felt like plans. The hallway shrinks. The temperature rises about six degrees. The fairy lights on the tree seem to lean in, nosy.
“You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow,” I say, hating how carefully casual it sounds… like I haven’t clocked his movements before. Like I haven’t thought about him at all.
“I know,” he says, stepping inside. “Thought I’d pop by.”
Pop by.
Those words have ruined more women than tequila and nostalgia combined.
Festive Boxer Shorts
He takes in the scene: half-wrapped presents, tinsel stuck to the sofa because Benji was tugging at it, mince pies abandoned like emotional baggage.
“Very… lived-in,” he says.
Something about the way he says it… fond, familiar… makes my chest do a stupid, traitorous little squeeze.
We do not open the wine.
We do not discuss Christmas.
We don’t talk about anything we’d have to remember tomorrow.
Christmas Eve has a weird urgency… like the calendar is slamming shut and everyone suddenly remembers they’re mortal. There’s laughing, fumbling with coat buttons, that reckless we’ve done this before and survived the energy.
At one point, clothes mostly off, my brain reboots just long enough to register his boxer shorts.
Red. Festive. Reindeer. Complete with little antlers and noses that… God help me… actually flashes.
I lose it. A full, wheezing, unattractive cackle that echoes off the walls.
“Oh no,” he groans, laughing too, “Don’t. Don’t start.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp, tears forming. “It’s just… I wasn’t prepared for a glowing Rudolph on your…”
“They were a gift!” he protests. “From my sister”
“They’re committed,” I say. “Full Christmas spirit. Ten out of ten.”
“You love it,” he says, smug.
I do.
Which is exactly the problem.
It’s fast, breathless, disastrously easy. The kind of familiarity that slips past your boundaries because your body remembers before your brain can object.
Afterwards, we end up in the kitchen, pretending we’re respectable grown-ups who didn’t just wreck the hallway. I tug my jumper down. He buttons his coat back up like he’s heading into battle.
He picks up the still-unopened wine bottle, glances at it, then sets it down again.
For a moment… just one… he looks like he might say something real.
Instead, he grins. “That was definitely worth the forty-minute drive.”
He kisses my cheek this time, like we’re suddenly respectable, and heads for the door.
“Merry Christmas,” he calls over his shoulder.
The door clicks shut.
I lean against it, heart hammering, staring at Benji.
Not regret.
Not happiness.
Just that annoying ache of something unfinished.
Benji looks up at me, unimpressed.
I whisper to the empty hallway, “January. We are unpacking this in January.”
Benji raises one eyebrow. Translation: Good luck with that, human.
Sue Pretends This Is Fine
The door clicks shut.
I stay there for a second, forehead against the wood, like a woman processing nothing at all.
Because obviously, that was fine.
Completely normal.
Just a quick Christmas Eve shag in the hallway with a man who knows exactly how to ruin my emotional immune system and then leave before the wine’s even opened.
Festive.
I exhale, straighten my jumper, and turn around.
The house looks the same… fairy lights blinking, presents half-wrapped, Benji still wedged under the tree like a furry trip hazard… but I don’t. Something’s been rattled loose. Again.
I pour myself more mulled wine, because I am nothing if not committed to healthy coping strategies.
This is the part where a sensible adult would:
– Reflect
– Journal
– Go to bed
I do none of those things.
Instead, my eyes land on Dan.
There he is. On his little charging dock. Waiting. Fully charged. No opinions. No emotional shrapnel left in the hallway. Just quiet, dependable availability.
I laugh. A short, humourless huff.
Of course.
Because if Mark is chaos with cheekbones, Dan is closure in silicone form.
One of these men leaves me staring at a closed door, wondering what I’m doing with my life.
The other has a setting called “earthquake” and never asks follow-up questions.
I take another sip of wine and nod at him, like we’re professionals acknowledging the inevitable.
“Well,” I mutter, “this evening’s really committed to its theme.”
Dan doesn’t move.
He never does.
Reliable bastard.
Dan Is Being Extremely Present
I’m wiping the counter like it’s committed a felony… circular motions, elbow grease, the works, when my eyes glance at Dan.
There he is.
Perched on his little charging dock like a smug silicone monarch.
Fully charged (that green light glowing with the quiet confidence of someone who’s never ghosted anyone in his life).
Dan. My no-drama, high-achieving, multi-speed vibrator.
Not moving. Not buzzing. Not demanding emotional labour or explanations about “where this is going.”
Just… existing. Radiating that calm, dependable, I’ve got you energy that feels like a personal attack after two glasses of mulled wine and leftover hallway adrenaline.
He looks almost innocent from this angle… sleek, bright pink, discreet curve with a tickler… but I know better. Dan’s seen things. Dan’s done things. Dan has a setting called “earthquake” that could register on the Richter scale.
I think: Don’t be ridiculous.
I think: Put the cloth down and go to bed like a functioning adult.
I’m thinking: Mark left me revved up and nowhere to go, and Dan’s literally plugged in and ready to finish the job properly.
I scrub the same invisible crumb for the fifth time. The counter is now shiny enough to use as a mirror. Mariah’s still crooning in the background about what she really wants for Christmas, and I’m over here negotiating with a sex toy like it’s got opinions.
Benji, from his under-the-tree throne, gives me a slow, deliberate blink. Translation: “You’re going to cave. We both know it.”
Dan just sits there. Patient. Zero notes. No awkward morning departure. No glowing reindeer boxers to roast him for.
I sigh, toss the cloth into the sink, and mutter, “Fine. You absolute bastard. You win.”
I pick him up… cool silicone warming instantly in my hand… and head toward the bedroom.
Mark gave me fireworks.
Dan’s about to give me the grand finale.
January resolutions can sod right off.
Tonight, Dan’s the main event.
Enter Sharon, Agent of Chaos
I’m halfway down the hall… Dan clutched in my sweaty palm like forbidden fruit, mind already fast-forwarding to the bedroom symphony, body still buzzing from Mark’s hit-and-run holiday special… when the front door rattles like it’s being burgled by a tipsy elf.
Then it flings open with all the subtlety of a fireworks finale.
I skid to a halt. Dan gets shoved behind my back faster than a guilty secret. Heart pounding. Cheeks flaming.
I don’t ask who it is.
It’s Sharon. Obviously.
She storms in like a glitter hurricane with her faux-fur coat shedding sparkles like dandruff from hell, boots thudding, clutching a half-empty bottle of bubbly that’s definitely seen worse nights than this one.
She kicks the door shut, drops her bag, and zeros in on me: dishevelled hair, flushed everything, hand suspiciously hidden.
Her grin was feral. “Sue, darling! You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put away wet. Did you finally shag that ex or what?”
“Nothing happened,” I squeak, voice betraying me like a bad alibi. Dan warms against my skin, a silent accomplice screaming “liar.”
She charges into the living room, plops onto the sofa (squashing a gift box flat), pours herself a aggressive slug of my wine, and nudges another gift with her boot.
“What’s this sad lump?”
“Someone. Mind your hooves.”
She spots Benji under the tree and squeals. “Hello, you furry tyrant!” Benji… ever the opportunist, rolls over like she’s his new sugar mama. Traitor.
Then she leans in, eyes gleaming, voice dropping to a whisper that could summon the neighbours.
“So… hypothetically…”
I brace. Sharon’s hypotheticals are never hypothetical.
“If someone… let’s say me… had a one-night stand last night with this absolute Adonis from the office party… filthy mouth, moves that could make angels weep… but woke up this morning thinking ‘absolutely not, what fresh hell was that tequila-fuelled mistake?’ Do you block him? Ghost him? Or quietly punish Roger… my big, black, rabbit-eared powerhouse of a vibe… by never charge the poor sod again?”
I inhaled and choked on my wine, spraying it like a faulty sprinkler. “Roger? You named your vibrator Roger?!”
She shrugs. “He’s reliable. British accent in my head. Dual motors, waterproof, and zero morning breath. What’s not to love? But seriously… block or battery exile?”
Benji cracks one eye, judges the state of humanity, and goes back to sleep. Smart dog.
I’m laughing, blushing, trying not to drop Dan. “Sharon, you’re a menace. Block the man if he’s a dick, charge Roger regardless. Your clit didn’t do anything wrong.”
She cackles like a witch on nitrous, downs her drink, then raids the mince pies: “These? Mine now. Road snacks for the walk of no shame.”
She hugs me… instant glitter contamination, smacks a kiss on my forehead, and heads for the door.
“Love you, Sue! Charge Dan while you’re at it… don’t think I didn’t clock him!”
Door slams. Silence. Glitter everywhere.
I glance at Dan, now fully exposed.
Benji yawns.
“Mission resumed,” I mutter. “With added emotional damage”
Bedroom-bound. Dan’s about to earn his keep.
Sharon’s chaos: legendary. My night: upgraded to epic.
The Aftermath
And then it’s quiet.
The tree lights twinkle like they’re in on every filthy secret.
The trifle sits in the fridge, quietly judging my life choices while it sets.
And the wine is pulling double shifts, turning my bloodstream into a warm, fuzzy yes-man.
I flop onto the sofa… legs still a bit wobbly, jumper askew, glitter in places glitter has no business being… surrounded by the carnage of half-wrapped presents, Sharon’s glitter bombs, and one very smug cat who’s seen it all.
Dan is finally back on his charging dock, green light pulsing like a satisfied heartbeat. Mission accomplished. Twice. (He earned every setting tonight, after all, it is Christmas Eve.)
I’m slightly tipsy, thoroughly debauched, and weirdly, deeply content. Mark’s glowing reindeer are probably still haunting his laundry basket. Sharon’s probably already texting the adonis into early retirement. And me? I’ve had hallway wall sex, a chaotic best-friend interrogation, and a solo encore that could power the National Grid.
Tomorrow I’ll morph into Wholesome Sue™: hugging relatives, serving trifle with a straight face, pretending I didn’t spend Christmas Eve getting railed against my own shoe rack by a man in illuminated novelty boxers.
I’ll smile sweetly when Aunt Linda asks if I’m “seeing anyone special.”
I’ll nod politely while Uncle Dave rants about politics.
And I will be fine. Picture-perfect. Festive as hell.
But tonight?
Tonight I’m festive, feral, freshly orgasm’d, and gloriously unrepentant.
I’m the woman who answered the door to chaos and said “yes, please” not once, not twice, but three delicious times.
I’m glitter-dusted, wine-flushed, and riding the high of terrible decisions that felt bloody spectacular.
And honestly?
That’s the real Christmas miracle:
A night where my vagina got more action than the King’s speech, my friend calls her vibrator Roger, and nobody caught fire.
Merry bloody Christmas to me.
Benji stretches and kicks his legs out, knocking a bauble off the tree for emphasis, and curls up again.
He approves.
I raise my glass to the empty room.
“Cheers to glowing reindeer, reliable Dans, and friends who burst in with zero chill.”
Tomorrow can wait with its hangovers and small talk.
Tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be:
Satisfied, sparkling, and spectacularly un-wholesome.
Fa la la la la, la la… Hell yes.
Merry Christmas everyone 💋
Thank You & Merry Christmas
If you’ve made it this far, thank you… genuinely. I know this one was on the longer side, but it’s Christmas, and it felt like the right time to let Sue run a little feral and stretch her legs (and Dan’s battery life).
I started writing for Femalemassuse.co.uk halfway through this year, and bringing you the After-Dark Diaries… along with a few extra articles for good measure… has been an absolute joy. It’s been chaotic, occasionally unhinged, and far more fun than it probably should be.
So thank you to every reader who’s laughed, winced, nodded in recognition, or thought “well… that escalated quickly.” I hope I’ve managed to entertain you along the way… and possibly make you feel a little less alone in your questionable decisions.
Thank you again, and I wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas – full of good company, strong drinks, reliable batteries, and only the best kind of chaos. 🎄✨
Author Sue x
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Suggested Reading:
🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries Ep25: Tinsel & Total Loss of Dignity
🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries – Episode 24 The Trouble with Tantric Tutorials
The After-Dark Diaries 2025 Naughty Christmas Quiz
After-Dark Diaries -The Train Home
🌶️ Sue’s After-Dark Diaries – Episode 23
📧 Drop Me a Line, You Cheeky Little Devils…
Hey, my deliciously daring darlings… I can practically feel the secrets crackling in the air. That midnight tiptoe across a hotel carpet, the sly brush of a hand under the dinner table, the time you “accidentally” wandered straight into trouble and loved every scandalous second of it.
Why hoard those pulse-racing tales? Kick off your heels, pour yourself something strong, and spill the juiciest, most wicked confessions you’ve got. I want the stories that make my cheeks flush, my heart skip a beat, and leave me fanning myself dramatically.
Think you’ve got what it takes to make me squirm? Slide your boldest, steamiest, most ridiculous secret into my inbox at [email protected]. Fair warning: I’m basically unshockable… but a truly outrageous confession? That might just send me sliding off my chair in delighted hysterics.
Go on then, you gorgeous troublemakers, make me blush. I double-dare you.
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