19 December 2011

Seasons Greetings!

  So the festive season is upon us again and I wanted to take this chance to tell you all that I finished my present buying ages ago now. Ha! Oh and to wish you all a merry Christmas. Or indeed a messy Christmas, which is what I just typed. 
   In the spirit of all this festive bullshit, though mainly because I had insomnia the other night, so stayed up until 5am writing this, I've penned a little seasonal story for y'all. 
   I'll put it up in three parts over the next few days as I type it up. I'm not sure how to classify this. It's not sexy really, but I hope you enjoy it none the less.
  Just to get you in the mood, first here's a seasonal picture you might like... hands up who wants a candy cane!

An XXXmas Carol

By Putya Dicksin.


   It was the afternoon of Christmas eve and Scroogella was sat in her lounge kissing her boyfriend. His name was Bob Scratchit and he was currently the most frustrated man in all of England. Scroogella had just pushed his advancing hand away from her chest for the 35th time that afternoon.

   Bob sighed with the woebegone frustration of any man who was being denied some boob. But these weren't any boobs. For it was said by all who knew her that Scroogella was the possessor of the finest breasts in all the land. This made it equally frustrating for Bob as he knew she loved him, but she constantly denied him access to her delightful D-cups.

   "But why Scroogella?" he pleaded. "We've been dating for six months now and I still haven;t gotten past first base. Why, oh why do you deny me so? It is Christmas. Christmas is the time for sharing and caring. For giving and receiving." He stared at her bulging top before adding "Perhaps if you give me a little something you'll receive a warm feeling inside. For isn't that the nature of Christmas?"
   "Xmas?!" Exclaimed Scroogella. "Humbug. That's not what Christmas is about. Nothing in today's Christmas is right and proper. It's all about money and sex these days, just like everything else."

   Her face screwed up as she said this. It changed from her usual beautiful countenance into a grim mask of disdain.
   "Xmas should be about spirituality," she went on, "It should be about remembering what is truly important in one's life. About invigorating what's in one's soul. Not what's in one's pants."
She spat out the final word like a girl spits out a mouthful of cum deposited by a man who'd been eating curry for a week beforehand.
   "And I hope none of my gifts from you are in any way sexually related," she warned Bob meanly.
   "Definitely not my dear," replied Bob as he kicked the peek-a-boo underwear behind the sofa to retrieve when she made their next pot of tea.
   "Why won't you let me touch you," Bob's full heavy balls pushed him recklessly onwards, "don't you love me?"
   "Why of course I love you Bob," Scroogella replied, her face softening, her foreheads and cheeks smoothing out, her natural beauty once more revealed. "I love you, I love your soul with my soul."
   "It's not your soul I want," muttered Bob in an aside to no-one. "Couldn't I have a little boob? For Christmas? Hands over tops, I promise." With that he reached out a trembling, hopeful hand towards Scroogella's promised land. His fingers were only an inch away from her soft, pliant yet firm flesh when she pulled away.
   "Nuh-huh, No Bob!" Scroogella slapped away his hand for the 36th time that day and went off to put on a fresh pot of tea before fetching her boyfriend's present. It was a book called How to be More Spiritual and Less Sexual. She'd bought it for him in the hopes that he would stop pestering her every single time they got together. He was always grabbing and groping at her chest and behind. One time he had even tried to squeeze a hand between her legs!
   She gave him the gift as they drank there tea. Then Bob left for home with a promise from Scroogella that she would text him sometime before the new year.

   Bob Scratchit cut a forlorn figure as he trudged home through the snow filled streets. He was heavy of heart and heavier of balls. Why did he have to have a girlfriend who could have posed for Playboy, whose body could have got her any man she wanted, even the gay ones, yet wouldn't even let him feel any part of her below the neck?"
   Why, oh why did she have to be so frigid? She was as cold as the snow on the street and as hard as the ice underneath it. Bob saw a two children building a snowman, laughing and frolicking in the snow. They were happy without women or sex, why couldn't he be like them? Full of the innocent joys of Christmas?    
   Bob walked over to them, smiling at their gleeful childishness. Then he kicked the snowman to death until they fled crying. After this he went to the corner shop where he purchased a six pack of beer, a festive candy cane and this month's copy of Readers' Wives.
   Then all alone on Christmas eve, he went home, drank the beer and violently masturbated over pictures of other men's sexually liberated, slutty wives and girlfriends whilst pushing the candy cane in and out of his behind. That done, he passed out covered in a large splattering of his own jism. There he slept until Christmas day.
   Whilst Bob Scratchit was defiling himself in such an ungentlemanly fashion, Scroogella was preparing her turkey and all the trimmings for the festive celebration the next day. She had invited lots of needy people to share in her munificent bounty. That done, she had a light supper and then bathed. She took care not to wash any part of her body in a too vigorous manner with the carbolic soap, then had an early night, dressed in her starched thick cotton pjs, to be all the fresher for the big day. 
   Before she fell asleep her mind once more turned to her boyfriend's insistent hands. Why was sex so important to him? Scroogella had no time for such things. Sex just wasn't productive or really that much fun. She hadn't really got any idea of what was involved, but from what she remembered from biology class with Mr Herms, it all sounded most unpleasant. Scroogella preferred to spend her time in more constructive activities such as charity work, hiking and her current favourite, grouting tiles. 
   Just because men told her she had a body made for carnal pleasures, it didn't mean she had to use it for such uncouth and vulgar practices. With this her mind started to drift more and more as sleep took her in its gentle embrace.

   She was about asleep when she heard it. Or perhaps she was asleep and the strange buzzing sound was simply a part of her dream. It sounded very close, as though it were coming from somewhere inside her bedroom.
   "Hello?" she called out into the lonely darkness of her chamber. "Who's there?" she asked, but there was no reply.
   "I've a cricket bat under my bed you know?" she said into the shadows just in case there was anybody there. Still the buzzing continued, like there was a very large unseasonable bee in there. Scroogella decided that it was probably something to do with the electrics and resolved to call her electrician as soon as was polite. Not wishing to risk turning on the light, just in case, she leaned over and lit one of the stout fragrance free candles on her bedside cabinet. She peered into the gloom seeking the source of the buzz.
   What happened next only convinced Scroogella that she was in fact still asleep and this was all a very queer dream. Surely a dream, for a ghostly groan came out of the black night.
   "Scroogella..." it called out, "Scroogella... it is all your fault. You led me to my doom."
   "What? Who's there? Answer me dammit!"
   "You caused my death Scroogella... it was your fault."
   "Who's there? Who's there?" Scroogella's voice was rising in panic as the voice called out its accusations. He thought she almost recognised the voice, but couldn't quite place it, what with all the buzzing that filled her ears. Finally she got an answer.
   "It is I. Your ex-boyfriend." A voice as heavy as the grave intoned through out the room.
   "Marley is that really you? You're dead? I thought you'd dumped me and moved to Droitwich. That's what the gossip was anyway." Scroogella said wonderingly. 
   "No Scroogella, you killed me." The same cold inflection, intoned like gravestones, the accusation strong and undeniable. It softened somewhat as it conceded "Though it is better to be dead than to move to Droitwich." 
   Then it regained its former deathly accusations. "It is I, Marley, your ex-boyfriend and I've come to punish you for your part in my despise, and to teach you the true meaning of sex."
Scroogella looked around wildly, her carefully pinned hair coming uncoiled from their restraining pins which she wore every night to bed. "Where are you Marley. I can't see you. If it is really you, then show yourself. Show yourself. SHOW YOURSELF!" Scroogella yelled into the shadows cast by her candle.

   With that she sat back against her headboard staring horrified as a naked backside appeared over her rug. As she'd never seen any man naked, she couldn't tell if it was the behind of her ex-boyfriend or not. It certainly had a large brown mole on one see through cheek as it hovered there, unattached to anything else. She was being haunted by a ghost bottom. How peculiar.
   The naked cheeks clenched with apparent effort and soon she looked upon the whole of her old beau's naked rear. She gasped twice in horror. Once for his transparent nature and once for his nudity.
   "Why are you here? Why are you naked? Why won't you face me?" Scroogella demanded, firing questions one after another at the nude spectre's back. 
   "Actually," she corrected herself, "don't turn around, stay as you are Marley."
   It was too late for that however, as Marley started turning towards her, inching around excruciatingly slowly. The buzzing grew louder as he revolved in midair, until its noise filled her ears then the entire room.
   The source of the buzzing was revealed as he completed his manoeuvre. Scroogella tried to close her eyes, but didn't manage to in time to avoid seeing the 8 inch plastic vibrating tube attached to her ex-boyfriend's penis. It buzzed merrily away just over his ghostly blue testicles.
   Scroogella screamed. Then she screamed again. She finally averted her eyes away from the disturbing sight. One hand clapped over them, she pointed with the other in his general direction. 
   "What the heck is that?"
   "This.. this is your fault Scroogella," the ghost said accusingly. "I will not allow you to avoid seeing what you caused. Look upon me." Scroogella felt her hands pull away behind her back out of her control. Then both eyelids flicked open and her gaze was on the encased member. Uncaring of her distress the ghost of Marley went on.
   "This is what a year of dating you drove me too Scroogella. I was forced into using pitiful devices such as this sex-aid since you wouldn't even give me a small handjob. All I ever had from you was a hug, and you held back from that, not even giving me the tiniest brush of those amazing tits."
   "So I bought this," the spectre continued mercilessly, "I got it off e-bay from a company in China. I didn't want to buy such a tacky thing, but I did it to ease my suffering. Suffering caused by you Scroogella." Marley stared angrily at her with eyes which were lit with the fires of hell itself.
   "I... I... I..." Whilst Scroogella was lost for words Marley had enough for the both of them.
   "I was so happy when I got it, the day it came I plugged it in straight away and slipped my cock inside it. However it turned out it was a shoddy knock-off replica with a faulty resister. That very first time I used it I electrocuted myself." He gestured to his groin. "Under here there is only black dried ash. No-one found me for three days until my Mother popped round to see how I was. You can imagine her shock."
   Marley's fearsome visage turned melancholic as Scroogella nodded in sympathy, feeling her sense of guilt rising.
   "I'm sorry, so sorry," she began earnestly, "but I thought you'd just left me because I wouldn't let you do perverted things to me. It wouldn't be the first time a man has been so shallow and unfeeling. Then someone told me you'd gone to Droitwich. I was heartbroken. Until then I had thought you loved me for who I was inside, not for my body."
   "I wanted to love both parts of you," Marley intoned, "now you must be punished most severely so you are taught the error of your frigid ways. For too long Scroogella you have denied men your ample chest, long blonde hair and that oh-so-fuckable ass. Too often have you denied men and women, yes women the treasure which you house between your long slim legs. You have been judged and found to be a cock-tease of the highest order Scroogella."

   Scroogella babbled and called out as he called her on her pleasure free life. "Tonight Scroogella," he continued without pause, "tonight you will be visited by three more spectres, they will be your guides. They will show you what you have been missing for these long sexless years."
   Marley looked briefly at the bedside clock. "They will be here within the next three hours. Unless they've been held up. You think the traffic’s bad on this plane of existence at this time of year. It's nothing compared to where I'm living now. It makes the M25 look like a sleepy Dorset village, and no mistaking. I blame the seasonal spate of suicides and muggings. It's a crime I tell you. They want to string those hooligans up though hanging's too good for them."
Marley noticed he was babbling and fought to regain his former strident death-like tone.
   "Three guides I say. They will visit you in turn and then, by dawn, we shall see what is what and no mistake."
   With that last dire prophecy he began to vanish slowly. He dematerialised until all that was left of him were a set of hairy blue balls hanging in the centre of the room. Then, one by one, they too vanished each with a small popping sound.
Scroogella gibbered into the night. Her mind reeling. She wasn't helped when Marley abruptly rematerialised thirty seconds later as she went to take a sip from her glass of water. The buzzing returned as he held out a long pointing finger.
   "One more thing Scroogella," his tombstone voice cried out, causing her to spill liquid all over her bedding.
   "Yes, yes, foul shade, what else would you have of me this pestilent night?" Scroogella called out, eager to be rid of this apparition. 
   "That DVD set of David Attenborough documentaries I lent to you. They were my sister's and she'd quite like them back, if that's OK."
   "Yes despicable demon, anything, anything, just leave me please."
   "Do you know where she lives?" The terrible spectre asked.
   "Is she the one near the roundabout across from the Chip Shop?" Scroogella queried in reply.
   "No, that's Mary, this is Beth I'm talking about, she's living down on the new estate."
   "Oh I remember now. That semi-detached place with the long drive way?"
   "That's the bunny." Marley confirmed some what less than threateningly.
   "OK, I'll take them round next week I promise. Anything, anything to rid me of your terribleness."
   "No need to be like that." Then he was gone once more, the sound of buzzing growing ever quieter until that too had died away....

To be continued...

1 comment:

Oldgate said...

Hahaha Love your way of telling the story! Humorus and always so pleasent!