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Subject: XMAS CONTEST: "Christmas Carole"/MrSpraycan
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* Entry for the Celeste Xmas story contest. *



Feedback is appreciated. This is not 'typical' Spraycan product.

For those who've not looked recently, the MrSpraycan homepage is back,
mostly repaired. All free, non (or un-!) commercial. Find it at:
<http://spraycan.sinewave.com> 

From now on, it'll get frequent upgrades, and there'll be fresh stories in
due course. As well as 'other stuff.' The story list is up-to-date, and
pretty long. So, bookmark it.

Also at the site, or nearby, a new "web soap," serial, whatever you want
to call it. "Primal" by name, it lives at
<http://spraycan.sinewave.com/primal>.


Disclaimer: Fiction, I suppose. Any resemblances are coincidence,
improbable, whatever. (C) stuff: Intended for entertainment. Private use
only. Do not archive, redistribute. All rights reserved. Copyright (c) 1997
MrSpraycan.



CHRISTMAS CAROLE
by MrSpraycan


What is it with mistletoe? Something to do with Druids? Holly with anemia.
Looks like cum on a stick. And that, perhaps, is the concept. 

The office Christmas party is underway, and several Lotharios are
circulating, tumblers of whiskey in hand, sprigs of the tree-strangling
evergreen sucker tucked in their lapels. It's Christmas Eve, December 1941,
and the massed typewriters have stopped clicking for a minute or two at
Robinson & O'Reilly. Late enough in the day for the switchboard to be
staffed by one girl: they'll take turns. Card files and cabinets are locked
up, and some little decorations have been strung up. There's a small tree,
a few lights on it. A radio is tuned to a big band concert. Glenn Miller's
Orchestra, cycling through "Little Brown Jug," "Sunrise Serenade,"
"Moonlight Serenade and "In the Mood." 

It's one of the busiest of Madison Avenue advertising agencies, but
Christmas is special to one co-owner, Pat O'Reilly. Oh, he's abstemious,
he's even been called "Scrooge," but he knows that this Pearl Harbor attack
is going to change the economy to a war footing. He knows he'll lose a good
number of his talented young writers to glamorous war work, to volunteering
for the Army or Navy.

There's an atmosphere of 'eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we die.' The
war news isn't good. The office had been very Anglophile since the summer
of 1940--the many Jewish staff had been so much longer--and they'd been
enraged by the Japanese attack. But the constant stream of defeats is
worrisome. It still seems like Hitler's tanks will be in Moscow by
Christmas. And then what? All bad news from the Pacific, too. 

Where's Robinson? Several have asked. He's already in Washington, talking
about how the agency can help win the war, with artful posters, clever
speeches. Radio shows and films to be peppered with morale-boosting
messages. A perpetual hustler, Robinson.

O'Reilly is the organizer of the business. He hopes Robinson's idea works.
If not, he clenches his teeth, if not then we'd better find alternatives.
There'll be rationing of luxury goods. The automobile companies, they'll be
making tanks, not convertibles. Austerity doesn't call for fancy
advertising. Vacations, forget it. We'll have to focus on the food
business, be practical. Maybe we can use more of our women as writers. Hey,
there's an idea, they work cheaper too.

Carole Muhlstein has already shooed away two or three of the young bucks
when Pat walks over and sits on a nearby desk. She's the senior woman in
the copywriting department. And, he realizes, his most talented writer. In
her early 30s, tall--almost 5' 7"--slim, with long wavy auburn hair.
Poised. Dresses well for her money, lives with her two sisters somewhere up
on Amsterdam Avenue. Today she's in a tweed skirt and a green silk blouse.
High heels, making her even taller than him. Perfect straight seams in her
stockings. Dark red lipstick. Pat asks himself the question that so many
have posed: 'Does she, I wonder?' She isn't bubbling and friendly like so
many of the other women here.

She nods and smiles as Pat starts talking about his idea. Oh, he doesn't
package it as a survival strategy, or a cheap labor option. No, like
Robinson, he's a cunning man. You have to be, in advertising. 

He woos her with this concept: "Carole, it seems highly likely that home
economics and cooking will become far more important to the agency than our
automobile work. And good old Pan American? I think we'll not hear from
them in a while. How would you feel if I moved some of my young fellows to
your department?"

She thinks for a moment, shrugs and says: "What can they do?"

"Write, of course."

"Yes, but write things that will entertain, amuse, persuade women,
housewives?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then I may be looking for another job."

"How so?"

"Because I doubt if they can. And the only way they will, is if I show
them. Why would I want to teach your 'fellows' how to do this work when I
already have plenty of help?"

"Because you'd be in charge."

"Oh? For how long?" she asks cynically.

"For as long as you do it right. A promise. And I'd pay you," he
improvises, "$115 a week, instead of $70 now." As he said it, he saw her
eyes light up, and also heard the anguished scream that Robinson would
emit: 'You did what??'

"Make it $125 and you have a deal," she smiles.


It is a deal. The party is turning boisterous. Several of the younger
secretaries are quite drunk, giggly. Kissing and cuddling with men.
O'Reilly watches Carole's eyes. Disapproval? No, not quite. But her
interest in them disturbs him. Could she be, he wonders, one of those dykes
you keep meeting in this business? Should he risk spoiling this new
promising arrangement by asking her?

No, instead, he embarks on a fresh tale of woe, one of those never-fail
'my wife didn't understand me' stories. Oh, it's mock-ironic, he doesn't
stint the jokes against himself. Carole laughs politely. Says: "Oh, Pat,
you're just exaggerating. I'm sure she didn't leave you over the laundry!"

"No, I guess it was more than that," he chuckles. "Too much of everything.
I'm a very demanding kind of guy."

She is trying not to radiate the thought: 'I doubt it.'  A fusspot, yes,
she'd believe it. Someone who'd drive you mad about creases in his pants
and starch in his shirts. But is he trying to say that he is such an ardent
lover he'd worn his wife out with his demands? Was that the drift here?
This man doesn't know women, at all.

Carole realizes that she isn't going to be able to make a plausible case
to escort that delicious redhead Eva home. A pity, because she is
exceptionally drunk, and has hinted more than once that . . . well, some
other time. Instead, Eva is being helped by Bob. An aging lecher, one who
had been a disappointment to several women here. If he were the eighth of
Snow White's dwarves, he'd be Droopy. And good luck to both of you, Carole
thinks. You'll be singing "Someday My Prince Will Come" tonight. She
couldn't break from Pat now, clearly. Unless she calls his bluff.

"Pat?" she nudges him. "Party's winding down. Do we 'seniors' have to stay
to the bitter end?"

"Uh no, I guess Clarence or Miss Whittaker could lock up."

"Then, uh, do you mind escorting me to the subway?"

"Oh, I can do better than that, Carole! I have my car, and I'm driving up
to Scarsdale. I can drop you off. Somewhere on the west side of the park,
isn't it?"

"Amsterdam Avenue. Thanks! That's very. . .gallant of you."

Goodbyes are said, lots of 'Happy Christmases' and kisses on the cheek.
They leave a few minutes apart, rendezvous in the building lobby.


It's Carole who grabs his hand as they cross the street. It's dark, rainy,
a little icy underfoot. But her hand lingers longer than it needs to. She's
thought about it a little, in the ladies' room, and decided she wants to.
It'll be fun.

In the car--it's a 1940 Packard, a beauty--she turns to talk with him as
they drive. "Oh, this is a wonderful car, Mr. O'Reilly."

"It's still Pat. In fact, outside work, it's only Pat."

"Yes, but it is."

"Mind if I smoke?" he asks.

"No, and me?"

"Oh, do you? I've not noticed in the office?"

"Occasionally. But you're right, I don't there, usually."

"Luckies?" He's offering her one of his.

He lights both cigarettes with a fancy European lighter. She takes a deep
drag. "Thanks. You know, one day there'll be cigarette brands just sold to
women."

He nods. "It's possible, Carole. Possible. You think like a marketing
person. But will women be a," he chooses his words carefully after a couple
of scotches, "a significant purchasing influence?"

"Oh, women have jobs and money. And those who don't, have men," she says
simply.

"Touche!" he laughs. "The ashtray's here, by the way."



The car pulls into the curb near 87th and Amsterdam.

"Thanks, Pat," she says. "Not just for the lift home. For the trust, the
opportunity, I mean."

"Oh, it's deserved," he says, thinking, Robinson will be mad for a while,
but it's still a good idea. Women in charge, what's so wrong with that? The
idea, he finds, is making his cock bulge a little. Just because I need to
go to the bathroom, he tells himself, or is it something else? No, I like
that phrase. Another New Deal, almost.

Carole leans close. She's in a long camelhair coat, has on a neat little
hat. Katherine Hepburn, he thinks to himself. She's kind of like her, just
not English, and taller. Or is she English? That Philadelphia Story. Maybe
not then. Carol Lombard.

Pat is confused, but knows what is on Carole's mind. She wraps an arm over
his shoulder, and kisses him hard on the mouth. Her eyes are closed.

After a moment she breaks free and asks quietly: "You are interested in
women, aren't you Pat?"

He bristles. "Oh, you bet, ma'am, I . . ."

"No, I didn't mean that. Didn't mean that at all. I saw the way you were
looking at some of our young ladies at the office," she reassures. "I
meant. . ."

He's still offended. "Well, I might say the same for you, Miss Muhlstein."

She chuckles, kisses him again.

"You might," she purrs. "But an eye for female beauty isn't just
restricted to men, I think. And," there's an impish quality to her
expression, "I don't think that men need to spend all of their lives trying
to impress each other, or dazzling women with their superior qualities.
There are enough little dictators around, quite enough. . ."

"Oh, do you think I was being. . .?" he starts, to be shut up with another
hungry kiss from her.

Her free hand is patting along his leg, and gets to the front of his
pants. He gives a gasp as she grips his penis, sensing its hardness. Which
is considerable. Women this forward, outside of whorehouses, are rare, he
knows.

"Very good. Not, that impresses me, Pat. Very communicative. Sign
language, isn't it? And what is it saying, hmm?" she breathes.

With difficulty he replies: "It's saying, I'd like to make love to you,
Carole." 
He's blushing. She, however is not.

"Oh," she replies. "I was hoping it was saying it wanted to fuck me."

He gasps. To hear a woman say this forbidden word, so rare outside of
lower class circles.

"I. . .well. . ."

"Is that it? Hmm?" she asks, licking her lips.

"Yes, I. . ."

"Oh. Weren't you the very demanding man who wore his poor wife out though?
Turned her into a nun?" she asks, affecting mock concern. "Oh, dear. Have I
gotten myself into terrible trouble here? Will I regret this?"

"I'll be gentle, Carole," he reassures her, in that foolish way men do.

"Oh, darling, " she murmurs. "Are we going to do it here, in your nice
car? What if a policeman looks in the window?"

He shakes his head. "No! We can't do that. I, uh, well, I wonder. .
.couldn't we go up to your place?"

"My sisters," she says flatly. A whole world of meaning is neatly packaged
there.

"Couldn't they, uh?" he waves his arms vaguely.

"Couldn't they what? Sit and watch? Concentrate on their knitting? Hide
behind their newspapers?" 

She's chuckling. He's turned crimson.

"No! I mean, couldn't they go somewhere? Do you only have one room?"

"Wait here," she instructs. "I'll be back in a minute."


He sits in the darkened car, staring ahead. There's little traffic
tonight. Wind and rain on the windscreen, blurred yellowish lights. Ten
minutes, longer. He stares at his watch. Is she just teasing? He hopes not,
but at the same time, it might be a relief. She's somewhat strange, and
very demanding. Hungry, the way she kisses. She wants things her way.

There's a knock on the side window. He starts. It's her.

"Come on, then," she says through a crack in the door. "It's okay. Coast's
clear."

He gets out, locks the car. Follows her up a short stone staircase, into a
poorly lit hallway that smells of stale cooking. Cabbage. There's a tiny
elevator, like a wooden cupboard. A coffin for two. They both squeeze in,
and she pushes the trellis door behind him. Presses a button marked "5".

"Romantic," she says, squashed against him. They kiss as the elevator
lurches, sets off. He gives another little cry of surprise. She's still
wearing her camelhair coat. But she's unbuttoned it. And underneath,
there's only a peach colored, lace-trimmed petticoat. Her body is soft and
yielding.

"Carole!" he exclaims.

"I was all sweaty from being bundled up. C'mon, Pat. Show some initiative.
Show some gumption."

"But you, well you've. . ." he fumbles. She pulls him to her.

"Yes. I was going to take them off anyway, wasn't I? Don't you take your
clothes off when you fuck, Pat?"

"Oh, God."

"Is that a cue for some religious observation, or are you just feeling
horny?"

"Carole," he moans, hugging her tight. "You're behaving so strangely."

"Oh?" She replies. "I thought I was being very normal, myself."

The elevator stops with a clunk. She reaches past him and forces the doors
open. "You could help a bit, you know?"

He does, and they spill out onto a darkened landing. She finds a light
switch. He reaches for her, she takes his hand and simply says, raising a
vertical forefinger to her lips: "Hush. Nosy people."

What else need be said in an apartment building? They tiptoe to the far
end, 5H. Carole's key opens it. He whispers: "Where are they?"

"My bedroom's the smallest. We've swapped. This way."

The small living room is crowded with furniture. One dim tablelamp is on.
A chink of light shows under one closed door. A second is ajar, and a
bright beam leads them on, like bombers headed for a burning city.

A room scarcely bigger than the double bed at its center, under a low
Tiffany lamp. She closes the door behind him, motions to a hook, hangers.
"Hang some things up."

"Will my car be okay there?"

"No, you'd better go bring it up too," she snorts. "Come on, Pat."

She watches him hang up his coat, her jacket. Loosen his tie, nervously.
He's hopeless, she sighs to herself. Well, I'm taking over then.

Stepping close, she kisses him tentatively, allows him to place his hands
on her shoulders. We'll be all night at this rate, she tells herself. And
if it's going to be all night, I want all night to be spent on serious stuff.

She begins to unbutton his shirt, quickly. Almost ignoring him. Like
nurses do when they have to undress men. Lifts the undershirt over his head
smoothly. Hairy chest, not a bad body for a guy in his forties, she thinks
to herself. Kisses him again as she squeezes up close and begins to
unfasten his pants. They're both kicking their shoes off. He's holding on
to her shoulders like a life preserver. Man overboard, she thinks to herself.

She tugs his pants and shorts down round his ankles, murmurs, 'step out'
and places her foot on them to make this easier. Her left hand has his
erect cock in a firm tennis racket grip.

"Happy Christmas," she whispers, leading him by his penis to the bed.
"Carole," he gasps. "I, uh. . .?"

"I have some under the pillow. Get in." She watches as he slips between
the flannel sheets. Coward, she thinks, I want to look. She grabs the hem
of her petticoat, lifts it off in a smooth gesture. He gives a gasp at her
pale body, covered only by her brassiere and tight cotton panties. She
crawls in next to him, starts kissing again. Soon, he's tugging at the bra
straps. Not very expertly either. She helps. Soon he has both her large
soft breasts in his hot hands. Is licking and sucking on her nipples, with
babylike greed. They're hard, and she gives a little moan of delight. First
time tonight she's really felt the heat in her. But now she knows, Santa's
coming. A little chuckle of pleasure.

"Want to see?" she asks, wriggling the tip of her tongue in his ear.

"Yes, he gasps.

"Show me yours, then."

The sheets are pushed back, and she has his penis in her hands again.
Plump, not blitzkrieg-hard and ready to come, but serviceable. A weapon of
love. She stares at his purple glans, emerging from the crumpled concertina
of foreskin, admires the thick purple veins that appear as she squeezes the
shaft. His big balls, his thick curly black hair. He's entangled in her
arms, but manages to loop a finger in the elasticized waist of her panties,
and with her assistance in lifting her backside off the bed, pull them
free. His hand grabs at her pudendum, like a child petting a spaniel.
Doesn't know what to do, it seems. Just strokes the damp hair.

She shows him, parting her thighs, steering his fingers. Wide-eyed like a
kid with a new toy on Christmas morning. Which, she recalls, it almost is.
She shows him how to stroke it more productively, lets him slip his fingers
into her vagina.

It's not long before they both want to see these toys play together.
Maneuvering into position. . .do this, put this here, and this there. .
.pushing. Oh. Soon he's inside her, and galloping like a racehorse at the
Kentucky Derby. Her arms pinned above her head, his hips pumping wildly. 

"Slower!" she urges. 

"I can't, I have to. . ."

And in a minute or two it's over, to Carole's great annoyance. But she is
too cunning to openly say what goes through her mind: "That's it? Oh, I'd
like to compare notes with your ex!" Instead she holds him tight, thinks of
$125 a week and what it'll buy, then begins to stroke his cock again. The
cum-filled rubber has been tossed on the floor. He takes a deep breath but
doesn't push her away. Soon, she's ready for her magic trick. Raising the
dead. Her mouth wrapped round him, coaxing, persuading. Licking, sucking.
He seems surprised as he eventually hardens again, but won't let her take
the credit. "See?" he preens, "I told you."

"Oh, it's amazing, " she agrees. "Do you want to? Again?"

"Yeah, think you can take it?" he growls, kissing her long neck, snorting
and grunting in her hair.

"Yes, Pat. . .I think so. . .. It's only Father Christmas who comes once,
isn't it? But, darling, slower this time, please? So I don't get sore?"


Laying there gasping, an hour later, Carole reflects, I've got a sore
throat from talking. But he did come quite impressively, when we finally
got there. Next to her, Pat is on the verge of sleep, a big smile on his
face. She lights a Lucky, trying not to disentangle his arms too much.
Looks across the room at her faint reflection in a darkened mirror, the red
tip of the cigarette glowing like a basilisk's eye.

I have this one under my spell, I think. So easy, sometimes. He'd never
been sucked before, she muses. And I know what's going through his head now
when he says this stuff about 'women in charge.' Well, so be it. I'll be a
partner in the company in no time at this rate. Robinson, O'Reilly &
Muhlstein. Then the bucks will roll in. And the guarantee is right here,
between my legs. And in what we talked about. Imagine that, a guy his age
who had never licked a pussy before. Always too nervous to do it with
whores. Worried they'd be 'dirty.' Ha. His wife, the nun. Though the jury
is still out on that story. She smiled. And that real revelation at the
end? About those books he'd collected? Krafft-Ebing, Havelock Ellis? How
they were full of 'interesting things' Carole and Pat should try? His
little gasp of excitement when she said that yes, she'd licked another
woman's cunt. And that she found the idea of spanking a man very appealing.
Was it that idea that inflamed him the most? He'd come about then. Later
on, when he wakes up. Maybe we'll take the car, go up to that big empty
house in Scarsdale. Somewhere I can walk around naked. Look at those dirty
books. See his pin-up collection. You'll recognize some of them, some of
our models, he'd said. But they're not dressed the way you expect to see
them, he'd said. Naked. Oh, that appealed to her, a lot. A couple of days
off work, that's what we need. Somewhere we can both explore each other,
find out what things he likes. Oh, not just find out. Do them. Dirty sex,
the best kind. Teach him to fuck. She squeezes her clitoris between thumb
and forefinger. Mmm. See, Christmas might not be such a bad time this year,
at all.


Copyright (c) MrSpraycan 1997
Visit the website: <http://spraycan.sinewave.com>
Check the new series: <http://spraycan.sinewave.com/primal>


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