Message-ID: <6226eli$9712091150@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year97/6226.txt> From: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> Subject: XMAS CONTEST: "Christmas Carole"/MrSpraycan Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com> Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" X-Notes: You MUST Reply to "From" Address Above ONLY!! Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-Id: <199712080237.VAA10778@camel8.mindspring.com> * 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> -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /