Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology

by Dr. Freud Funkenstein, ed.

  She looked at the clock and her heart jumped. It was a minute until midnight!

  Out on the lawn there arose a big clatter, so

  Away to the window she flew like a flash!

  Tore open her skirt and unveiled her gash!

  The moon on her breast as if on driven snow,

  Gave the luster of mid-day to her object below!

  Through the window, she saw Santa Claus, sitting in a sleigh in the snow, with eight reindeer pulling it. His eyes met hers and he was drawn into her big peepers—he saw the lust there, the sixteen years of pent-up carnal lust becoming unwound as she looked back intensely, her eyes narrowing.…

  Girls had tried it before on him. Santa was a very popular sort of lust object. He filled a need many girls had inside—he cared, he gave gifts. Many little girls’ early memories were comprised of the joy they felt sitting on his lap. Little girls often felt a great deal of affection for him, and as they came into age, those feelings often crossed over into lust.…

  Normally he sent them back to bed.

  But this wasn’t an ordinary Christmas and Mary wasn’t an ordinary girl.…

  As Santa stood mesmerized, staring longingly into this gorgeous girl’s violet eyes, the seconds were counting down to midnight … tick tick tick.…

  It was midnight … and at that instant, seven thousand miles away, as a symbolic act of war, a nuclear warhead was dropped on Bethlehem, immediately destroying it.

  And in that instant, things changed forever.

  The sudden destruction of that holy city sent ripples of energy throughout the world—it wasn’t nuclear energy—it was some sort of wave of sorrow that touched deep inside the soul of every single human being on the planet. In that instant, each and every human being in the world felt a sudden emptiness, a jolt like a shock of electricity, and everyone on the planet sensed at that moment, without having to be told, that something had gone very wrong in the world.

  Mary felt it. She jolted.

  Santa felt it. He shuddered suddenly.

  Mary lowered her head and then a sudden change came over her.

  When Santa looked into that face again, it was if he was looking into a face that had suddenly been robbed of all its innocence.…

  It was as if her sixteen years of pent-up carnal lust had been suddenly unleashed and she could not stop it.

  She gazed back at Santa now, her eyes narrowed like razors and Santa felt a twinge of fear.

  She went to the door and opened it and beckoned him inside. Santa noticed that she was dressed in just a bra and nothing else. He could clearly see her vertical smile between her thighs. He felt himself growing hard despite himself.

  Then, despite himself, he was walking through the door! What was this power this girl had over him?!!

  He stood in a daze, lowered his sack of toys to the floor, then turned around and eyed her nubile, half-naked body. Mary closed the door, then clasped her hands behind her and looked up at him in mock innocence.

  She met his gaze, her eyes locking onto his, then he was looking into those big violet eyes, those blinking long, long lashes.

  Then she slid her hand dowwwwwwn on her body, over her stomach, to between her legs and with two fingers, spread herself and while she did it, it was as if the smoldering ember in her pussy burst into sudden flame, as her pussy became fluorescent red. And if you ever saw it, you would even say it glows.

  In a lusty voice, she said to him, “Santa, why don’t you kiss me underneath the camel toe?”

  He stared at her cunny, and the gold ring dangling from it, studying her femaleness, longing for it, longing to touch it, to caress it, to taste it.…

  And as he stared intensely at the gap between her thighs, he sang this song:

  I’m dreaming of cunnilingus,

  Just like the kind I used to know,

  Where clit rings glisten,

  And girls are wishin’

  For me to slide in driven snow.

  She swayed as he sang, then kneeled in front of him and began unbuttoning his pants—she was breathing deeply in her excitement and so was Santa as he looked down at her.

  Underneath his pants, he was hard and throbbing … she pulled the pants all the way down, then the boxer shorts underneath.

  Her eyes went wide with wonder. “Oooohhhhh,” and she wrapped her hand around his stiff man-meat and it twitched in her hand, and Santa caught his breath.

  Santa didn’t know why he was letting this girl do this, it was as if he had lost all control and then the girl was tenderly kissing it, then licking it. It was quivering. “I’m a bad girl,” she whispered. “Such a bad girl.”

  She circled her lips around it, and she brought her hand up to aid her mouth, moving back and forth and sucking with her mouth and for a moment, the only sound was the sound of her slurping.

  Santa gave himself up to the pleasure for a moment, closing his eyes and leaning his head back.

  But then he suddenly jolted into sudden awareness, and he screamed out in a mixture of horror and pleasure, “What a ho, ho, ho!” Then he flinched away, yanking his penis from her suckling mouth and she was left with her mouth in the shape of an “O.”

  Her jaw closed and she scowled, giving Santa a disapproving look. “I want you inside of me!” she shouted angrily, and she lay back on the ground and spread her legs, waiting.

  Santa panicked, terrified of the lust that was taking over him. He thought of Mrs. Claus at home. He didn’t want to betray his wife. The girl was between him and the front door.

  The girl suddenly changed into a madwoman.

  “Fuck me, now!” she screamed.

  Santa looked at her, and said, “I— I— can’t.”

  Mary howled in a piercing, long tone, “AWOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!”

  She rolled backwards from her position, into a crouch, then did a back flip and stood in front of the front door.

  Santa backed away, as she eyed his crotch hungrily—his penis was still hard, throbbing now. He thought that maybe if he ran fast enough he might be able to make it out of the house through another door.…

  She met his eyes, then crouched, lowered her hands onto the ground, then transferred her weight to balance on them, spreading her legs behind them, holding herself over the ground. The lips of her pussy opened and glistened with her excitement—it was like some kind of flower—a girl-flower—that was coming into bloom—he could even see inside the hole.

  Santa stood mesmerized, stunned for a moment.

  She was rocking gently back and forth, almost as if she was trying to hypnotize him, a wicked grin on her face. He stared.…

  Then she suddenly rolled forward and flung herself up from the floor and was propelling through the air, yelling “SKREEEEEEEEE!!!!!” with her legs spread wide and her crotch heading straight for his neck.

  Then her cooch slammed into his neck and her legs locked together, choking him. He stumbled back and flailed around madly, panicking as she tried to pull him down, and as she was trying to pull him down, she had wrapped her lips again around his penis and was sucking him off.

  Then he was stumbling backward while pulling at her legs. He tripped against something and fell backward and somehow managed to slip the girl off of him as he fell to the ground. He realized that he was in the living room of the house and he had fallen against the Christmas tree.

  The girl fell face down, but she somehow managed to twist as she fell, and went into the full splits on the floor, with her back to him. She whipped her head back to glare at him with devil-eyes, then stared at his stiff man-meat.

  Santa looked desperately around him. There was a sliding glass door behind him that opened into the backyard. If he could make it there, he might be able to escape this psycho girl.

  Then the girl smoothly glided up from her split into a standing position, and as Santa stood and turned to face the glass door she did a massive triple backward somersault in the air and landed in front of him.

  She lowered her head and
glared intensely into his eyes. She wouldn’t stop until she got what she wanted.

  She was backing up, as if she was going to take a running start and lunge at him again, but she misjudged the distance behind her and backed into the glass door, and it was that distraction that saved him. Quickly, Santa backed up and picked up the Christmas tree by its trunk. It was a medium-size tree, heavy, but manageable—the adrenalin coursing through his veins gave him extra strength. He poked it into the girl’s chest between her breasts, the angel ornament on top of the tree fell to the ground, and the girl was knocked back.

  He backed away, while still carrying the tree, into the short hallway leading to the front door. The girl didn’t recover until he was fumbling at the door knob.

  He felt the blessed feeling of the cold air against the back of his neck as he got the door open, while still holding the tree in his shaking arm—he was keeping the girl at a distance as she watched his every move and glared at him.

  He backed out into the crunchy snow, making his way to the sleigh as the girl stepped out through the door.

  She undid her bra and showed him her breasts.

  It was a distraction, and it worked. He was mesmerized for a moment, he lowered the tree in a daze, and almost dropped it.

  Then she sprang into action. She ran and shouted a battle cry—”AHHHoaoWWooOOoOo!!!!” and she propelled herself into the air, spreading her legs wide, flying spread-eagled through the air, with the pinpoint precision only a gymnast cheerleader could accomplish … her girl-hole was flying directly toward his half-erect penis.…

  … and in reflex, he raised the Christmas tree in front of himself to protect himself.…

  … and she slammed into it—the tip of the tree hit her pussy, sliding inside of her, and the impact caused the tree to lift in Santa’s grasp, rising upward like some sort of pussy pole vault in a perverted olympics.

  The tree stood upright, the weight of the tree dropped from Santa’s hands, drove into the snow and the ground, and planted itself there. Her clit ring had been torn free upon impact, and flung into the air, flipping upward end over end … then plopped right onto the top of her head.

  And Mary became in that moment, a glorious, spread-eagled angel, balancing by her pussy atop the Christmas tree and as the cold air hit her bare breasts, her pink nipples stiffened, reaching out into the cold air.…

  And then she suddenly started shuddering, with her arms and legs quivering, she was hissing out breaths of steam, she was going, “Mmmm, oh, oh, oh!” She rolled her head, she cried out and bit her lip, then she was shouting, “Oh, god. Oh GOD, oh GOD!!!”

  And all across the world, as if compelled by some instinct of female sisterhood—to the horror of fathers and family—virgin girls were climbing to the top of Christmas trees, slipping them inside themselves and balancing there.

  Kealan Patrick Burke

  BLACK STATIC

  “WHAT DATE IS it?" my father asked. The television was off. On the screen I could see the reflection of his face, and the snow, as if the world outside our window had lost reception.

  "The 25th," I reminded him, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "Remember?" It wasn't his fault his mind was going, or that every second sentence emerged tethered to the end of a ropy cord of drool. It'll require a great deal of patience, the doctor had said, And it'll exhaust you, but remember he can't control what's happening to him. Neither can you.

  "It's Christmas."

  "Oh," he said.

  I looked down at the milk and cookies I had prepared for him. Such a childish ritual, one I could scarcely reconcile as a memory from my own turbulent childhood. But here we were. Roles reversed. He'd lost his mind; I'd lost everything else.

  "It's cold in here. I can see my breath. Why is it so cold?"

  "I'll take care of it."

  "Christmas," my father grumbled as I delivered his treat. Standing there facing him, I saw that he looked little different from his reflection in the television screen. Haggard, drawn, eyes sunken. Only the snow was gone, but all I had to do to see it again was raise my face to the window, to the dizzying maelstrom of white and the children dashing past the yard trailing gleeful screams as they pelted each other with hard orbs of snow and ice and pretended it hurt. "Christmas for whom?"

  Beyond the haze of white, Christmas lights twinkled feebly like lost memories struggling to resurface.

  "For me, Dad," I replied.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his tattered armchair. Brought his face close to the glass and sniffed. "There's something in my milk."

  The snow was mesmerizing. A temporary escape. A blanket beneath which forty years of contempt could be buried and forgotten. A shroud beneath which anything could be hidden.

  I looked at him. At the look of desperate concentration on his face.

  I looked at the milk.

  Black specks. Black static. In a moment he would drink it because he would forget why he ever thought he shouldn't.

  "This year it's just for me."

  Ramsey Campbell

  THE DECORATIONS

  “HERE THEY ARE at last,” David’s grandmother cried, and her face lit up: green from the luminous plastic holly that bordered the front door and then, as she took a plump step to hug David’s mother, red with the glow from the costume of the Santa in the sleigh beneath the window. “Was the traffic that bad, Jane?”

  “I still don’t drive, Mummy. One of the trains was held up and we missed a connection.”

  “You want to get yourself another man. Never mind, you’ll always have Davy,” his grandmother panted as she waddled to embrace him.

  Her clasp was even fatter than last time. It smelled of clothes he thought could be as old as she was, and of perfume that didn’t quite disguise a further staleness he was afraid was her. His embarrassment was aggravated by a car that slowed outside the house, though the driver was only admiring the Christmas display. When his grandmother abruptly released him he thought she’d noticed his reaction, but she was peering at the sleigh. “Has he got down?” she whispered.

  David understood before his mother seemed to. He retreated along the path between the flower-beds full of grass to squint past the lights that flashed MERRY CHRISTMAS above the bedroom windows. The second Santa was still perched on the roof; a wind set the illuminated figure rocking back and forth as if with silent laughter. “He’s there,” David said.

  “I expect he has to be in lots of places at once.”

  Now that he was nearly eight, David knew that his father had always been Santa. Before he could say as much, his grandmother plodded to gaze at the roof. “Do you like him?”

  “I like coming to see all your Christmas things.”

  “I’m not so fond of him. He looks too empty for my liking.” As the figure shifted in another wind she shouted “You stay up there where you belong. Never mind thinking of jumping on us.”

  David’s grandfather hurried out to her, his slippers flapping on his thin feet, his reduced face wincing. “Come inside, Dora. You’ll have the neighbours looking.”

  “I don’t care about the fat old thing,” she said loud enough to be heard on the roof and tramped into the house. “You can take your mummy’s case up, can’t you, David? You’re a big strong boy now.”

  He enjoyed hauling the wheeled suitcase on its leash – it was like having a dog he could talk to, sometimes not only in his head – but bumping the luggage upstairs risked snagging the already threadbare carpet, and so his mother supported the burden. “I’ll just unpack quickly,” she told him. “Go down and see if anyone needs help.”

  He used the frilly toilet in the equally pink bathroom and lingered until his mother asked if he was all right. He was trying to stay clear of the argument he could just hear through the salmon carpet. As he ventured downstairs his grandmother pounced on some remark so muted it was almost silent. “You do better, then. Let’s see you cook.”

  He could smell the subject of the disagreement. Once he’d f
inished setting the table from the tray with which his grandfather sent him out of the kitchen, he and his mother saw it too: a casserole encrusted with gravy and containing a shrivelled lump of beef. Potatoes roasted close to impenetrability came with it, and green beans from which someone had tried to scrape the worst of the charring. “It’s not as bad as it looks, is it?” David’s grandmother said through her first mouthful. “I expect it’s like having a barbecue, Davy.”

  “I don’t know,” he confessed, never having had one.

  “They’ve no idea, these men, have they, Jane? They don’t have to keep dinner waiting for people. I expect your hubby’s the same.”

  “Was, but can we not talk about him?”

  “He’s learned his lesson, then. No call to make that face at me, Tom. I’m only saying Davy’s father – Oh, you’ve split up, Jane, haven’t you. Sorry about my big fat trap. Sorry Davy too.”

  “Just eat what you want,” his grandfather advised him, “and then you’d best be scampering off to bed so Santa can make his deliveries.”

  “We all want to be tucked up before he’s on the move,” said his grandmother before remembering to smile.

  Santa had gone away like David’s father, and David was too old to miss either of them. He managed to breach the carapace of a second potato and chewed several forkfuls of dried-up beef, but the burned remains of beans defeated him. All the same, he thanked his grandmother as he stood up. “There’s a good boy,” she said rather too loudly, as if interceding with someone on his behalf. “Do your best to go to sleep.”

  That sounded like an inexplicit warning, and was one of the elements that kept him awake in his bedroom, which was no larger than his room in the flat he’d moved to with his mother. Despite their heaviness, the curtains admitted a repetitive flicker from the letters ERR above the window, and a buzz that suggested an insect was hovering over the bed. He could just hear voices downstairs, which gave him the impression that they didn’t want him to know what they were saying. He was most troubled by a hollow creaking that reminded him of someone in a rocking chair, but overhead. The Santa figure must be swaying in the wind, not doing its best to heave itself free. David was too old for stories: while real ones didn’t always stay true, that wasn’t an excuse to make any up. Still, he was glad to hear his mother and her parents coming upstairs at last, lowering their voices to compensate. He heard doors shutting for the night, and then a nervous question from his grandmother through the wall between their rooms. “What’s he doing? Is he loose?”