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From: amateurerotica.guide@miningco.com
Subject: XMAS Contest: Another Christmas Carol
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The following contains depictions of consensual and joyous sexual
stimulation. If you are under the age of 18, US law says you shouldn't
be reading this stuff. If the educational system hasn't failed you
completely, you should write your congressman and ask what they expect
you to do when God has bestowed upon you the physical equipment and
desire for sex at age 12 and society has made illegal all
dissemination of sexual knowledge to people below the age of 18. If
the system has failed you completely, call your congressman and demand
that they put at least as much money into education than they put into
spy planes that can't fly in the rain.

This story is the property of the author and requires the author's
written permission for commercial use.



ANOTHER CHRISTMAS CAROL

"And that's all I want," she sputtered defiantly in the way that wives
do when they want something just like the neighbor woman has.

"Not even a Ferrari?"

"God, no," she spat, crossing her arms across her chest and scowling.

It's no wonder Christmas grinches are male. Harrumph. So that's why
I'm here at the "Lacy Swan Boutique" pawing through undies so light I
imagine them costing somewhere in the range of a grand an ounce. At
this rate the Ferrari would be cheaper. But then again, who ever heard
of someone striding up to a counter and demanding from some crotchety
old geyser "an ounce of Italian sports car, please. Sorry, it's all I
can afford." 

But the conversation didn't stop with the Ferrari. Oh no. As if she
was making a point my piddly little brain might understand, the little
lady sidled up to me close enough that I could feel her breasts softly
padding against my arm and made as if she was telling a secret, "Dan
bought Lisa a set and you know what? She had an orgasm right there in
Chez Pannise! Can you imagine it? Between the goat cheese studded with
truffles and the Creme Brulee! He was evidently checking to see if she
had worn her little gift and his hand just happened to brush against
her clitty and bingo! The deed was done--just like that. I guess it
was her thinking about that sexy, diaphanous cloud of silk cuddling
her privates that did it, or rather it probably made up for the lack
of foreplay in any case."

And so here I was in something called a "boutique" keeping up with the
Joneses while wondering if my delightful wife was suffering from a
terminal lack of foreplay. I must have looked completely daffy,
muttering to myself and holding panties made from the spit of some
rare Asian caterpillar up to the light to see if they were translucent
enough.

"You like?"

The voice startled me into some involuntary muscular contortions so
goofy I almost shredded the panties into crotchless models. I figured
they coulda charged more.

"Yeah, but she wants like a whole set. You know: bra, garter belt,
seamed stockings, the works," I mumble, moving my hand languidly over
my body as if by this pantomime I'd be able to show her where the damn
things went. 

"Ah...what size?" she asks, her eyes raking my body like a set of
overgrown fingernails.

"I dunno." I was about to say "what are my choices?" when I realized
how stupid that would have sounded. Especially to this woman, who is a
real looker. Asian, maybe Japanese. Short, kinda like a little
miniature doll, her skin that translucent white like china. But she's
sporting rather large breasts to go with those wide hips. It's like
she was this voluptuous, statuesque model at one time and they melted
her down a little, and all her curves are exaggerated on account of
her small size. 

"She is like me?"

"Ah, no."

"In what way? Breasts bigger?" She demonstrates by cupping one and
holding it out to me.

"Smaller."

She crushes them with her tiny hands. They sort of ooze out the side
like squished marshmallows.

"Yeah, smaller. And she's tall and slender."

"Ah, and big nipples I bet. Those ones always have the big nipples."
she informed me.

"Yeah. You guessed it." They did turn me on. Maybe I married her just
to have them all to myself.

So she trundles off and rings someone up on the phone. As soon as she
hangs up she turns herself into a sort of whirling dervish, running
around the store picking up stuff and draping it over her left arm in
a pile that's getting taller and taller. Finally she walks over to me,
jerks the panties outta my hand, and adds them to the top of the
stack.

"Christmas?" She looks at me with big, almond rocca eyes.

"Yeah, a present." Of course! Jeez, you think I'd be in here if Santa
and the comely neighbor Lisa hadn't brainwashed her?

"Lucky girl!" she says, patting the stuff--my stuff, although I don't
exactly remember selecting it.

The door rattles and then there's a little ding of a bell. In sashays
a tall blond. The saleslady motions her over with a quick flapping of
her hand.

"Carol!" she acknowledges in a sort of huff, handing the stuff to her.
Carol gives her a look that could have melted the runners on Santa's
sleigh and then turns and wedges herself into the dressing cubicle.

The saleslady smiles condescendingly at me. "It'll be all right" her
eyes are saying. 

Or maybe it was "get a load of this!" because at that moment the door
to the cubicle swings open wildly, banging against the wall, and out
walks Carol chewing a wad of gum the size of a golf ball. She's
tugging at the thingy that holds the bra together in front and finally
yells "damn!" and her hands jerk resignedly to her sides while the bra
dangles from her sloping and defeated shoulders.

Wow! Those nipples! They're swollen mahogany thumbs raised to
prominence upon sacred swelling mounds, animated by frustration and
heavy breathing. I can't help it--I wax poetic in the presence of
monumental nipples.

"We fix this up for you," says the saleslady, grabbing the mechanism
and tugging a while. Then she lets it go and says to me, "She's like
this, your wife?" as her tiny little hand glides over a rubbery nipple
and it responds in a flash, growing and throbbing. At least I imagine
it throbbing. 

I'm speechless. My eyes wander and I see a little tuft of golden hair
through the panties. It's like an arrow. I can't help but stare.

The bra latch is finally fixed and the saleslady nudges me with her
hips. "You like?"

Yeah.

She evidently sees where I'm looking and mutters, her hand cupped over
her mouth "I tell her to shave. She does it but just a little bit.
Don't you think that stupid triangle left there is silly?"

I do not. Aware of the bulge growing in my pants, I ask boldly, "What
about access?"

"What?"

"I mean, she'll expect me to get my hand in there somehow." 

"Try." She's looking at my crotch as she motions toward the bored
Carol.

So there I am in front of a somewhat reluctant goddess and I'm just
about to slip my hand in her pants when the saleslady comes up and
jerks the waistband about a foot away from Carol's impossibly flat
stomach. "Plenty of room. Try." 

I slip my hand in. Then further. Past the wispy triangle. I'm dizzy.
My hands shake. But I'm okay when my finger begins to glide through
the moist furrow, bumping past her clit to a groove of swampy
slickness. She's motionless. I'm surprised. I almost fall against her.

She whimpers. Or I imagine it. She hasn't moved an inch since I have
begun to violate her, but now her legs wobble. She spreads her knees
apart as much as she can, an invitation I accept willingly. One
finger, then two. Three? I palm her clit and she leans into me, her
hot breath on my ear. Amazing, this dance.

"Whatever happens, don't stop, 'k?" she whispers breathily.  She
flattens herself against my chest; I feel her nipples, those swollen
thumbs smashed against me; her heart thuds. The tip of her tongue
flicks my earlobe. 

The reverie is broken with a harsh "Don't stretch them! Carol, don't
wet!" The agitated saleslady runs behind Carol and jerks the panties
down. They scrape against my knuckles, flattening my hand against
Carol's wetness.

As if this were her cue, Carol starts bucking wildly against my hand.
Her wet lips lap my earlobe and then suddenly she clamps down and the
very tip of an incisor pricks my ear. My hand can barely follow the
jerky undulations of her hips until she straightens, lets out a little
yelp, and goes limp against me. My ear is suddenly wet, cold. My hand
is drenched. I wrench it from between her thighs so I can hold her up.
It smells good. She's like a sack of cement so I clamp my hand to her
bare ass and the sensation brings me back to the unlikely spot where I
find myself, a boutique, (Jesus!)and I look around and the winter sun
seems a single thin ray bursting reluctantly through the grimy
windows, and through this murky light the melancholy glow of the bins
of translucent cloth like exotic treasure is even more striking than
before, it's like glittery magic, call it the magic of Christmas, and
it is in the shadows of this last dimness of light that I sense a
single finger meander slowly along my thigh, like a slug and the slimy
trail that slows it, until it rests against that perfect spot where my
pants are tented ridiculously and then I feel just there a single
little twitch, a tantalizing tweak of nerve endings that sends
powerful sensations coursing wildly from my cock to my brain and back
again and forth and it almost hurts, the forceful spewing fountain
angrily wetting my own very utilitarian underwear.

I stumble against Carol. Four hands struggle to keep me upright. When
my breathing turns to normal I look over at the lady holding up the
panties to the fading light and testing the waistband by pulling on it
repeatedly.

"Shall I wrap them? You want Santa and reindeer or just plain? Plain
is better."

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