Her Christmas card went out in mid-December, bang on time.

On the face of it, the card painted a cozy festive scene – Julia and a young companion (a neice perhaps, or a stepdaughter?) curled up before a sparkling Christmas tree. Julia knew that most of the card’s recipients would take one look at it, then set it aside, perhaps chuckling at her self-absorbed arrogance and the camp stupidity of the card.

But those who dismissed it out of hand were not the true audience, and a cozy Christmas scene was not its true message. Instead, Julia had created the card with a specific group of people in mind.

It was created for those people that had ridiculed her sexual preferences, the group of people that had called her a freak or a pervert for her unconventional appetites. It was created for her accusers, for those that had sullied her good name, concocted grotesque rumours to prise the girl from her grasp, to destroy their fledgling relationship by taking her job or her home or her friends.

And the message that the card intended to convey to those familiar enough with the couple to realize it? Well, it was simple.

“She is mine. She belongs to me. Despite all of your efforts, all of your schemes, all of your futile betrayals, she is still my willing pet. I own her body and her mind, she exists only to give me pleasure. So, while you are tucking into your Christmas turkey, I will be enjoying her sweet, young pussy and she will be enjoying mine; while you are singing Christmas carols, she will be screaming out my name and begging me to let her come; while you are wrapping your trivial gifts, I will be tying her body and binding her eyes, preparing her for ecstasies that you can only dream of. Merry Christmas.”