Naughty or Nice?

by Alison Tyler

“Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed, “I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.Will you not speak to me?”

  —A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens (1843)

  It had been a strange night. Perhaps the strangest of her life—although she conceded that was a pretty tight judgment call. No one dabbles with BDSM, humiliation, and bondage without garnering a few piquant memories. But with a succession of ghosts, visitations, and warnings to mend her errant ways, Carol had to admit this ranked high on the list of her remarkable nights. It was certainly the most surreal way she had ever spent a Christmas Eve. She pulled at the cuffs holding her wrists and ankles to the corners of the bedposts.

  They remained tight.

  Secure.

  Inescapable.

  Her naked body glistened with an unseasonable sheen of perspiration. In the moonlight that filtered through the bedroom window she could see her flesh sparkled like the glossiest of glossy Christmas wrapping paper. It was a monochrome scene: beautifully lit but bereft of color. Her bare breasts were tipped by rigid nipples. Hard. Fat. Sensitive. Her shaved pussy was a softly pouting mouth. Her chest pounded with the familiar sensations of adrenaline, excitement, and a heartfelt fear of the unknown.

  “I am in the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?”

  The spirit said nothing.

  “Shit!” she thought. “The strong-and-silent-type.” They were the men who always inspired her most depraved appetites. Her breathing deepened. The knowledge she was bound, naked, and helpless beneath the intruder sent a shock of raw arousal coursing through her body. Her rigid nipples throbbed from the charge of explicit excitement. The inner muscles of her sex clenched and convulsed with hungry anticipation. Struggling to appear as stoic as the stranger looming in the shadows, Carol tried not to show any symptoms of the tingling tension that held her in its thrall. But when she released her breath and heard it drawl from her lips with a lusty and desperate growl, she knew the excitement was a secret she couldn’t hope to contain.

  The first spirit had revealed a montage of past Christmases. The morning when she received a pair of cuffs and a butt plug and had to use them as soon as they were unwrapped; the Christmas where she had been bound in decorative ribbons like a seasonal gift; the holiday week she had spent as a tree, unclothed and adorned with dangling ornaments and fairy lights; the festive meal where she had taken the roast’s place on the centre of the table: kneeling, naked, tied, and basted.There had been a welter of punishing memories, each one strong enough to induce another degree of fetid perspiration. And Carol had understood this was the way things had always been. It was the way she had always wanted.

  The second ghost had shown a series of tableaux that represented the current season. She had giggled when he described himself as the Ghost of Christmas Present. It was like the lamest pun in the world. Christmas present (here, now, today). Christmas present (gift, souvenir, token of affection). She had still been chuckling as the spirit showed her the party going on in the room beneath hers. Naked bodies carpeted the floor. Two blondes, both women she called friends, knelt in front of her master. He barked curt instructions at them as they lapped and licked at the purple flesh of his engorged cock. Occasionally, their tongues would touch as they chased their mouths against his hardness. Slyly, the pair tried touching each other rather than paying proper attention to her master’s rigid shaft. Caresses slipped against bare breasts.Warm hands stroked soft, feminine flesh. Exploratory fingers dipped into wet, inviting folds. Around them was a barrage of torrid excess and cruel humiliation. Whips kissed buttocks. Candle wax dripped onto crimson skin. Clamps and cuffs bit viciously against whimpering, willing victims.

  Thick shafts.

  Wet holes.

  Greedy moans.

  Desperate pleas.

  A perfume of sexual musk and perspiration seasoned each breath like the tang of mulled wine.The cruelty was intolerable throughout the room. But nowhere was it more severe than in her own torment: chained to a bed away from the party and unable to participate in the delicious and decadent depravity.

  Carol hadn’t been able to suppress a moan.

  The Ghost of Christmas Present had regarded her with pitying sympathy. Taking her sigh as an indicator to end the series of tableaux, he snapped his fingers and showed her another element of the current Christmas.

  The second scene was far less lurid than its predecessor. Carol instantly recognized Tim, her line manager from the office. He was the man who had welcomed everyone to the staff Christmas party with a reading from Matthew. It was a dull passage that he ended with a sanctimonious smile and the declaration, “God bless us! Every one.” His fingers had still been wet from turning the pages of the Bible when he urged Carol into a roomy stationery cabinet and tried to force his tongue down her throat. She might have considered making his Christmas, giving in to his suggestions, taking receipt of the present he so desperately wanted to give her. But when her fingers found the meager length in his pants, she thought the breach of office protocol was not worth the effort for anything that “Tiny Tim” could provide.

  Tiny Tim was shown alone in front of a Spartan tree. He stared reverentially up at the angel on its top: an angel with a face that Carol thought resembled her own.The simplicity of the scene was touching, although she felt it would have been more wholesome if Tiny Tim hadn’t been fumbling with his skinny one and a half inches as he admired the angel.

  And then the second spirit, and its visions, had disappeared.

  She had been left to face the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come.

  “You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened but will happen in the time before us,” she pursued. “Is that so, Spirit?”

  Nothing.

  Only strong-and-silent silence.

  The inner muscles of her sex trembled. Her nipples ached from her need to have them touched, caressed, stroked, sucked, and nibbled. She drew a faltering breath and realized her body was already teetering on the brink of another climax. Her thighs felt sticky from the pleasures she had so far endured with all these voyeuristic treats. Her heart raced as she realized the next orgasm was building and swelling furiously in her loins.

  And then the first of the visions struck her.

  She was alone with a stranger. Her hands were bound behind her back. Tied with rope. The weave of the hemp scratching at her wrists. In the corner of the room an un-watched TV set showed some Dickensian melodrama with a festive theme. Her lips were wet with precome. The flavor of cock lingered at the back of her throat, as rich and cloying as the most potent brandy sauce.The dribble from her lower lip showed it was equally white and creamy. But the stranger had snatched his length from her lips. Now she was being pushed over a table and taken from behind. His shaft plundered her sex. Pushed deep into her hole. Battered her with coarse and continuous sensations.

  Even though she was only watching, Carol could feel the mounting climax swell inside her body. She held her breath, sure the roaring orgasm was about to be released in a grateful and gratuitous scream.

  The spirit snapped his fingers.

  The vision disappeared.

  Replaced by another.

  On an unconscious level she understood she was seeing another Christmas. A Christmas later than the last one. She stood in a gloomy dungeon, surrounded only by stone walls. Lit by a single candle.The only thing to suggest this might be Christmas was the sprig of mistletoe suspended over the aged wooden door.

  “This is to be your new home.”

  The voice came from outside the room. She didn’t know who had spoken, but she recognized the words had come from someone powerful and taciturn. Someone strong and silent.The muscles of her sex quivered with a quiet spasm of arousal.

  “This is to be your new home. Merry Christmas.”

  The vision disappeared as t
hough the candle had been blown out.

  The next showed another Christmas. The mistletoe over the cell door had been replaced by a stocking. It hung limp and empty from its nail. Carol was laid on the floor of the dungeon with four nubile blondes holding her wrists and ankles. Between her legs a shaven-headed master paid scrupulous attention to her sex. She couldn’t fully understand what he was doing until he moved back and revealed the piercings he had slipped into her labia.The stainless steel rings glittered like the season’s traditional silver bells.They looked so perfect against the flushed flesh of her pussy lips she was struck by a tear of overwhelming delight. Her master lowered his face to her freshly decorated sex and pressed a gentle kiss against her clit. As the climax thundered through her, Carol heard him whisper, “Merry Christmas.”

  Then the vision had disappeared and Carol saw another year had passed. The stocking over the dungeon door had been replaced by a decorative star.The rings that pierced her pussy lips were an identical match to those that dangled from her nipples.

  Another vision.

  Chains dangled from her piercings.

  Heavy. Round. Fat.Weighty chains.

  And another.

  She was suspended from the stone wall, writhing in an agony of frustration and satisfaction. Sweat speckled her brow. The tops of her thighs were daubed with a viscous smear of wetness that was fresh and close to bubbling with its own passionate heat. The chains that dangled from her body quivered in a tempo that matched the echo of her own recent climax.

  Another vision.

  Another Christmas.

  Her master stood before her with a huge slab of stone. He had cuffed her wrists behind her back. A spreader bar at her ankles made every step uncomfortable. Unbearable. The chains that dangled from her nipples and labia had been collected so they were joined with a single ring of steel. And, as she watched, the ring of steel was being soldered to the ring of steel fixed into the stone. Bright blue sparks danced from the heated tip where the links were connected.

  The menacing darkness of the future vision was powerful. Carol had dabbled with BDSM before, but she had never expected to find herself being chained, pierced, and secured to stones. The totality of commitment—the dedicated involvement to submissive satisfaction—was more than she had ever thought she would find. More than she had ever dared hope she would find.

  Another spasm of euphoria exploded from between her legs.

  When she finally blinked the tears of satisfaction from her eyes, she realized the spirit was pointing at the vision’s stone. He didn’t speak. He was strong and silent and incapable of speech. He simply continued to point, quietly instructing her to obey his command and look at the stone.

  “Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,” said Carol, “answer me one question: Are these the shadows of the things that will be, or are they shadows of things that may be, only?”

  The spirit remained still and silent.

  The inner muscles of Carol’s sex convulsed in a greedy triumph.

  A shockwave of pleasure buffeted her frame and threw her into a glorious furor of release. Her body was stretched taut against the bondage at her wrists and ankles. Involuntary contractions in her abdomen pulled her repeatedly against them. And as the agony pounded through her, the flavor of the climax deepened in intensity. Staring up through a haze of red mist, Carol saw the spirit was still immovable. Understanding came like a revelation, and she instantly realized the choice she was being given.

  She could continue with her current ways, subordinate to a master, enduring the punishments and penalties of being a sexual submissive. She could continue to be the bound and humiliated pain slut of her darkest and most dire fantasies. Or she could change her ways and step away from the physical pleasures of her BDSM lifestyle. She could marry and live a life of sexual frustration and pious respectability with the aptly named Tiny Tim.

  Her hesitation lasted less than a heartbeat.

  The choice was the most blatant no-brainer she had ever come across. Who the hell needed Tiny Tim when there were future pleasures like the stone to look forward to? The days would be hard. And every pleasure would be an absolute agony. But weren’t those the best sorts of pleasures? She laughed giddily and allowed another rush of glorious satisfaction to quiver through her frame. She had been blessed with a glimpse of a bleak and agonizing future and she couldn’t wait to experience every one of the painful torments she had been shown.

  “God bless us,” she thought cheerfully. “God bless us. Every one!”

  Nog

  Joel A. Nichols

  On the first day of Christmas vacation, Matt drove to his parents’ house for the first time in a semester, for the first time since he’d left for college—for the first time since he’d come out over the phone to his mother after Thanksgiving. Matt was listening to a holiday CD mix a friend had made for his ride home, and he sang along with Britney Spears’s “Under the Christmas Tree.” His friend Rider was on the road headed toward their small Vermont town from his college in Boston; he called Matt every time he passed a hot guy on the interstate.

  Matt didn’t have a hands-free set, so as he held the tiny phone up to his ear, he tried to stay in the right lane. They hadn’t talked in a few weeks.

  “Are they going to make you go to church?” Rider asked.

  “Probably.They always have.”

  “But now you’re a gay. The gay. Are they going to make you confess or something?” Matt came up on a slow-moving station wagon and anxiously swerved into the left lane to overtake it. “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Yes. I was passing a car.”

  “Good. So didn’t your mom tell the priest?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “Whatever, Matt. Don’t go. They’ll kidnap you or prick you with a testosterone needle—make you fuck a girl.”

  “Shut up.” The next song was Judy, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” Then Matt said, “Whatever. They’re Catholic, not evangelicals. And I’ve fucked girls... Look, there’s traffic. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Matt looked at himself in the rearview window. When you’re alone in a car and you make such close eye contact, you can’t lie. And he didn’t mind the way he looked, up close. His eyes were brown-red and sparkled, and he liked the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he caught himself smiling at his own reflection.

  “I won’t go to church,” he thought to himself. “I won’t let them take me.”

  Hours later, he pulled into his parents’ snowy driveway. His legs were stiff. Matt pulled his giant duffle bag from the truck and dragged it to the front door. There were patches of grainy ice under the matted snow, and twice he almost lost his balance. He pushed open the front door. His mother stood, blocking the doorway. She hugged him hello and told him to take off his shoes.

  “Your father will be back in a few minutes.Why don’t you bring that thing to your room? Fill a laundry basket, and I’ll wash a load before we go caroling.”

  He started to walk toward the staircase, dragging a snail sheen of moisture across the linoleum.Then he turned around. “I’m not going, Mom.”

  “But you’ve always gone caroling! You know we’re bringing the carolers back here for cider and cookies. What are you going to tell them when they ask why you weren’t out with us?”

  Later, his father came home, and he heard them arguing. Their voices radiated up through the metal grates with the heat. His mother wanted to make him come caroling. But his father echoed what Matt had said to her: it was his decision. “I’ll make sure he sticks around for the refreshments, though, don’t worry. I want him to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Grunau and to Father Ted.”

  The Grunaus were old Germans whose son had died of AIDS. He was years older than Matt, but Matt remembered his solos at Mass and his starring roles in the school musicals.

  He knew that talking to the Grunaus about AIDS would not prevent him from wanting to rub his cheek along a stubbly chin or c
ure him of falling in love with his roommate, who played ice hockey and left stinking gear in the corner of their room.

  Matt came downstairs just as his mother was buttoning up her coat. His father had gone out to start the car in the frigid, snowless night. He came back in and stamped his feet.“Please warm up the cider at eight thirty.We’ll be back with a crowd by nine.”

  “And put the eggnog out on the table, and uncover those platters of cookies. I want everything ready when we get back.” She waited for Matt to nod. “It’s really the least you can do, Matt, if you’re not going to come with us.”

  He nodded again. “Rider’s coming over. Is that okay?”

  His father frowned. “I don’t think he’s the best influence for you right now.”

  “He’s my friend, Dad. And I haven’t seen him since September.”

  His mother rubbed her fingernail along the underside of her eyelid, searching for a mascara clump she could feel when she blinked. “We wouldn’t exactly want you here with a girl alone, Matt, if you weren’t, if—”

  Matt blushed.“It’s not like that. I don’t like Rider that way. That’s ridiculous! A few months ago you let him spend the night here!”

  “It’s not appropriate for you two to be here alone. And stop talking back. You’re making us late.” His mother pulled the door shut behind them, and a few seconds later, Matt watched their red tail lights disappear into the road. He dialed Rider’s number and told him to hurry over.

  The moon had been up for hours and it shone bright on the snow in Matt’s front yard. He and Rider sat on the deck, bundled in parkas and toques, with cigarettes pinched in the Vs of their gloved fingers. The only light came from twinkling green-and-red rope lights strung along the eaves. In long shadows, they sat next to each other on the bench and blew clouds of smoke into the cold night. Matt kept coughing.

  “I can’t even tell when it’s smoke and when it’s just my breath,” he said. The smoke and icy air made his chest ache, but he accepted the second and third cigarette from Rider. “You smoke too much,” Matt said.