‘Harder,’ the girl ordered with something like impatience. ‘We must soften the outer casing, otherwise you won’t get I through.’
With perspiration pouring down his face, Andrew kneaded, punched, pressed and heaved, while the thing under his hands, bulged, squirmed, rippled, expanded and deflated. He felt like a baker trying to make a misshapen loaf.
‘I think that will do,’ she said after a while. ‘Give me the towels, I’ll put them back in the bowl, just in case. Do you want a rest before cutting?’
Andrew wiped his brow. ‘If I have time to think, I’ll never I start. Let’s get on with it.’
‘Right.’ She picked up the largest knife. ‘Now, listen carefully. I’ll sit on his legs and that will make your job a little easier, because then his chest will blow up and stretch the skin. You must make the first cut just under his throat, then slit downwards. I should stand back as far as you can - I otherwise you’ll get soaked. Have you got all that? ’
Andrew tried to nod but gurgled instead.
Without further words, the girl lowered herself down on to I the legs and instantly the chest assumed the proportions of an embryo mountain.
‘Now,’ she shouted, ‘stick the knife in.’
Andrew placed the knife point just under the ridged chin and pressed down. The skin bulged on either side, one quarter of the knife disappeared, but the razor-sharp point refused to penetrate.
‘Press harder,’ the girl ordered. ‘Use all your weight.’ Andrew did his best. He even jumped and pressed down at the same time, but the tough skin would not give and at length he sank down on a chair.
‘It’s no use, I can’t get through.’ He mopped his streaming brow and tried to regain his breath. ‘It’s like trying to cut through granite.’
Janet wriggled as though to make herself more comfortable on the grotesque legs, then wiped away a solitary tear.
‘Won’t you try again? Once you’ve got through, the rest shouldn’t be too difficult.’
It is in the depths of despair that the best ideas are found. Andrew sat up.
‘Have you got a hammer?’
She frowned. ‘Yes, I think so. Why?'
‘Fetch it.’
She brought him a hammer, a heavy affair with a gleaming head. He examined it with some satisfaction.
‘Should do the trick. Right, back on his legs.’
The young mountain was reformed, the head grew big and Andrew replaced the knife point where the throat should have been. Then holding the knife steady, he brought the hammer down on to its handle. The effect was instantaneous. Twin fountains shot up from either side of the knife-blade and generously sprayed Andrew’s apron. The girl cried out for joy.
‘You are clever,’ she said. ‘Now slit downwards.’
It took him five minutes to enlarge the hole, and another half an hour before he had a sizeable incision. By now, what appeared to be water, was flowing out in a continuous stream and splashing down on to the floor. The girl handed him a bread-knife.
‘You can saw the rest of the way down. Then we can slip the skin over his head and the job will be finished.’
Gradually the skin parted and as it did so, the rest of the hideous cocoon was covered in a network of crisscrossing wrinkles, so that it resembled a length of crumpled leather. ‘I’ll take over now,’ the girl said quietly.
Andrew watched with horrified fascination as she plunged her hands into the slit and stretched it to its fullest extent He had a glimpse of a wet, pink body, then she said: ‘Catch hold of the loose head-skin,’ and together they eased the cocoon (what else could it be?) over a head, pulled it down and down, until it finally parted company from a pair of feet with a nasty squelching sound. The girl held up the ridged crumpled skin.
‘When it’s washed,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it will make up nicely into a dress for wearing round the house.’
But Andrew Nesbitt was looking at the figure on the bed. A young man with a mop of black, curling hair, finely formed features and the body of a god. But he was wet and pink. Slimy wet and pink. The girl must have noticed his look of horror, for she laughed softly.
‘He won’t always be like that, silly. When I’ve washed him and given him his first feed, he’ll be beautiful. Simply beautiful.’
‘Then he ..
Janet’s eyes were bright and her voice was husky with loving pride. ‘Has just been reborn. We all have to go through this stage, sooner or later.’ She looked at Andrew with a certain, proprietary affection. ‘It will happen to you one day.’
‘Are you sure . . .?’ he began, but she smilingly interrupted him.
‘Absolutely certain. But don’t worry, when the time comes, we will know. After all, one good turn deserves another. Now . . She began to usher him towards the door. ‘You must go.’
‘But. . the apron was off and he was being eased into his overcoat, .. won’t I ever see you again? ’
‘Of course.’ The main door was open and the awful landing was waiting. ‘When you need us, we’ll be there. But tomorrow is moving day. We can never stay long in one place - can we? ’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He was out on the landing, the door was slowly closing. Her beautiful face smiled, her grey eyes glittered, and her soft voice mocked.
‘Thank you for everything. And - oh, yes - a merry Christmas.’
The door shut. Time snapped back into place.
* * *
The desk-receptionist looked up as a white-faced Andrew staggered in through the swing-doors. He grinned.
‘Been celebrating Christmas, sir? ’
Andrew grunted.
‘Never mind, sir. It only comes once a year.’
Andrew did not bother to answer, but staggered towards the lift.
Upstairs, he went into the bedroom and quickly stripped. Then, naked, he walked over to the wardrobe mirror and examined his body with lively interest. His legs were thin and hairy, his belly sagged, his shoulders bowed, and there were pronounced pouches under his eyes. He looked tired, old and ugly. Aloud, he asked the all important question,
‘What the bloody hell am I? ’
James Swingle
DELINQUENT’S YULETIDE
THE THEODORE GORE School for Juvenile Delinquents was known far and wide for the religious fervour with which its charges came to pursue good. As Christmas approached, the passion to avoid even the slightest transgression grew, until children who, mere months earlier, had barely escaped being tried as adults for the most horrible of crimes, were suddenly seen to stick their hands into flames, to stab their thighs with pens and pencils and letter openers, to kneel on cold stone until their knees screamed in agony, praying to God for grace, all to still the slightest wayward impulse that might lead them into temptation.
And then, Christmas morning arrived, and at the appointed hour, all the children marched into the Grand Dining Hall, beneath a twenty-foot Christmas tree, to sit in front of their presents. Tears of joy welled up as each child opened his present to find the School’s benefactor had given him a desired game or toy. Slowly, a buzz filled the room, until the child trying to hide his lump of coal was found, and the children descended to rip their Christmas dinner from his bones.
Lotus Rose
THE WORST CHRISTMAS EVER
T’WAS THE NIGHT before Christmas,
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Mary with her blouse.
Her stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
Mary walked into her room in a white silk blouse and a black lace thong, unbuttoning the blouse while daintily stepping over a pineapple pizza box from the night before. She slid the blouse off her shoulders and went to hang it in her closet, then went and stood in front of her full-length mirror in just her bra and panties. Her nubile, sixteen-year-old body looked so good it hurt. Her eyes were violet—to look into them was like a lotus dream, her red mouth was like a venomous rose, set in perpetua
l pout, her skin was pale from the months of winter, peaches and cream. She was a sweet mixture of naughty and nice—the quintessential bitchy, doe-eyed blond.
She turned her backside to the mirror, admired the sweet groove of her ass.
Her ass had really matured in the last few years, had grown more plump and round. She smacked it, and the loud sound revealed an ass that was firm from doing various exercises, such as squats. Oh, how it jiggled, how it swayed. The cherubs cried when she walked into a room, and suddenly that room became an anointed holy altar to her ass. Her ass was a work of art that should be framed. Had she lived in the time of the bards, they would have written epic poems of grandeur praising her ass, such as this one:
Oh, what is that sweet bulb conjoined to those thighs?
Sweet bulb of flesh that brings tears to mine eyes?
It is an onion ass, lush and full and round!
It is her onion ass, that when smacked makes glorious sound!
She started singing along to the Bad Boi pretty song on the radio, “Coming with a torch, uouhhh!! … Coming with a torch, ouh, make the bush fire bigger! Oh, sweet sister, make it bigger, make it bigger!” She started to shake her ass. She shook it to the left, she shook it to the right.
She smacked her ass again, so hard that it left a red mark.
She grabbed a handful of booty and jiggled it—everyone wanted a piece of this, it was irresistible, and tonight she would use it to seduce Santa.…
She couldn’t wait to tell all her friends afterward. She had aligned herself with the preps, and dutifully changed her wardrobe every few weeks as dictated by her ruling corporate store, known as, “The Wank,” a store providing, “contemporary, noninflammatory fashions for lower to median middle class suburban white kids.” She was also a member of a high school sorority and had gladly been urinated and defecated on during initiation. She was, after all, willing to do anything to fit in and not stand out—she’d even dyed her naturally-violet hair blond. She simply didn’t understand why anyone would want to be distinctive and special, when it was so much more comforting to give yourself over to a group.
Her passions were cheerleading and gymnastics. She hoped someday she would make it to the pros.
And she was a good Catholic girl, as pure as the driven snow.
Of course, sure she had done things.…
She’d of course had the obligatory sexual encounters with a few Catholic priests. She’d been kissed, fondled, undressed and stared at. And one time, a group of five priests had told her that to absolve her sins, she’d have to perform a special ceremony … so they’d formed a circle around her and she’d had to suck each one of them off, one by one while the others watched. But what did you expect from priests? It was no big deal. After all, she was still a virgin, and
HER HYMEN WAS INTACT.
She’d also done anal with a few of them, but of course that didn’t count as real sex, since it hadn’t been in her other hole. The first few times, it had been uncomfortable, but around the fourth or fifth time, she’d grown to like it.
She’d once even anally fisted one of the priests. (She’d learned how from her brother, who was a frat-boi at the university.)
She’d once even anally fisted herself, just out of curiosity. The bible didn’t say anything against it. And she figured it was okay since it didn’t hurt her hymen.
But really, though, she was a good girl.
She’d never even masturbated. The closest she’d ever come was when she’d been caressed between her legs for a while by the family doctor when she was a little girl, but that had only been to test if her genitalia was functioning properly, and after all, it hadn’t been her hand down there.
And though she’d come close, she’d never had an orgasm, praise the lord.
She turned around to face the mirror, then pulled her panties down to her knees.
Her pussy was shaved and bright pink—the inverted triangle glowed out from the pale skin of her thighs, and a gold ring dangled from her clit, sparkling in the light. Her girl place twitched in anticipation of what was to come later that night.
She liked to shave her pussy, because that way, when she wore her skintight hotpants, you could really see the outline of her clit ring as well as the notch and crevice of her cunny, which she liked to show off. She got a lot of compliments on her “camel toe.” (“Camel toe” was the slang term for when clothing hugged girls’ genitalia so tightly that its shape was revealed to the world.)
She liked to refer to her pussy as her “driven snow.”
It was a bit of an inside joke. She’d always fantasized about losing her virginity to Santa, ever since she was a little girl. Yes, she’d had countless fantasies about him “dashing through her snow.”
She reached down and diddled her clit ring. It twinkled in the light like a star.
BLINKY BLINKY BLINK
She had done it herself, so it wasn’t like anyone had seen her pink girl-place. Besides, there wasn’t anything in the bible against piercing your jelly bean.
And as she looked in the mirror, admiring her cunny, she began to sing a song:
O, clit ring, are you glistening?
If I cum are you listening?
A beautiful sight,
Is my slit tonight.
Sliding in a girly wonderland!
In the mirror, her pussy grew a bit redder, glowing with the smoldering embers of lust.
She looked at her alarm clock. It was sixteen minutes until midnight.
SOON HER HYMEN WOULD BE BROKEN.
She felt a mixture of sadness and excitement about that fact.
She pulled her panties all the way down, then stepped out of them.
She dragged the mirror up to foot of her bed, then crawled onto the bed and lay on her back.
She spread her legs in front of the mirror, then reached between her thighs with both hands, and pulled her pussy open and looked at her hymen.
It was so beautiful. It was like a beautiful flower, finally coming into full bloom—her gift that she would give to Santa.
She looked at the clock again. Thirteen more minutes until midnight. She was feeling anxious and fidgety. She had to calm down.
She decided to do some stretches.…
She had to remain extremely limber for the sake of her gymnastics and cheerleading. She kept to a rigorous stretching routine, several times a day. Her gymnastics coach was really strict about using exactly the right technique and form and he would even often take pictures of her during her stretching routines so he could look at them later and make sure she was doing everything exactly right. Sometimes he even took close-ups in order to inspect every particular aspect of her form.
Stretching would help calm her down, and besides, she figured that for what she was about to do it might help to be loosened up.
She stood by the side of her bed and bent all the way over and touched her toes. She grabbed her ankles while she was bent over and pulled and bounced.
She stood back up, grabbed her ankle then yanked her left foot to behind her head, and balanced that way for a few seconds.
She lowered her leg, then did the full splits on the floor, feeling the stretch and bouncing a little on the carpet.
Then she sat on her bottom, and pulled each leg up and hooked each foot behind her head and rocked back and forth. Mmmmmm, she was thinking, it felt soooo goooooddddd to streeeeetccchhhh.
She was horny now. Between her legs, things felt tingly.
Just then her Daddy knocked on the door and said, “Angel?”
“Just a second, Daddy.” She unhooked her legs and quickly grabbed a short skirt off the floor and wrapped it around herself.
She opened the door. Daddy was still wearing his shirt and tie.
“Merry Christmas!” Mary shouted.
“Merry Christmas, angel.” And he kissed her forehead and wiped the hair from her face with fatherly gentleness. “Did you leave cookies for Santa?”
“Yes, Daddy, and milk too.”
She could tell that Daddy was already drunk and would soon be passed out in bed.
“Okay, well I’m going to bed now. You make sure you go to bed too, or Santa won’t come tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Daddy.” And there was a bit of a mischievous tinge to her grin.
“Okay. Goodnight, honey. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Goodnight, Daddy,” she answered back, then Daddy closed the door.
Daddy had fingered her a few times, but it had only been to see if she was still pure. It had even oddly felt good, but she figured the nice feeling was the good feeling from knowing that her Daddy cared about her soul.
But she passed the test every time, because
HER HYMEN WAS INTACT.
She was Daddy’s little girl.
But not after tonight, she thought with a mischievous grin. Daddy’s little girl was growing up. If Daddy ever checked again, she would just tell him she’d accidentally sat on a stick.
Soon Daddy would be passed out, sleeping like a rock, and no one else would be in the house.
She grinned. In a few minutes, she would give herself to Santa. She’d always had a thing for Santa, ever since she was a little girl.
She’d always fantasized about it. She wanted to lick his jiggling, pasty white belly. She wanted to sit on his lap, wearing a short skirt and nothing underneath. She would straddle his thigh and move back and forth … as Santa grew hard under those red pants, then he would roughly flip her over his lap, raise her skirt up, and begin smacking her bottom over and over, reddening it with the blushes of his amorous blows, as tears came to her eyes and she screamed out in ecstacy and pain.
Oh, my, she thought. She was getting flushed, and she softly caressed her cheek with the backs of her fingers.
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 6
