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When What To My Wondering Eyes Should Appear?
by Peter Pan (uds3@hotmail.com)

***

Old Jim Hadfield dreamed, like most any of us. Just 
sometimes though, when dreams and memories fall into a 
certain alignment, magic IS possible! (Mf, ped, rom)

***

You think Christmas is only for children? That is what 
old Jim Hadfield thought too and as he was to discover, 
it is simply a matter of never losing sight of what 
Christmas intrinsically means and what magic exists 
still, in those remote places holed-up between fantasy 
and reality, hope and disillusionment.

Jim dreamed – just like everyone else. He dreamed of 
bygone days when he would leap from his bed Christmas 
mornings, a flushed and excited eight-year old, taking 
the stairs two at a time on his descent to the lounge-
room. Pushing wide the door respectfully, a trait often 
exhibited by only-children, you could have lit-up a 
thousand cities from the glow on the youngster’s face 
as he gazed in awe at the presents piled up around the 
tree.

Jim’s parents had never been what you might call well-
heeled, yet they had ensured that at whatever cost, 
their little boy would remember the happiest of 
childhoods, most especially during the Yuletide season. 
Their efforts had paid-off handsomely.

Marrying in his mid-twenties "for better or for worse," 
it had proven most definitely the less desirable of 
those two options. Cathy, fundamentally was a bitch. He 
remembered back, not long before his mother’s death in 
fact and how she had more or less laid that particular 
fact out for him. 

His father had died years earlier and had been spared 
the worry of his son’s great unhappiness. All Jim had 
ever done was to love his wife unconditionally and in 
doing so, managing somehow to overlook her selfishness, 
emotional detachment and cruel insensitivity. For 
thirty-four years Cathy drove, while he sat out life in 
the back-seat! 

Bereft of meaning, the marriage had produced two 
daughters equally bereft of paternal interest and 
consideration. Perhaps genetically influenced, both 
girls from their teenage years onwards found a plethora 
of reasons not to be home, staying either with 
girlfriends or maternal relatives. Of little concern to 
Cathy, it simply afforded her more time to spend in 
front of the television. 

The few times Jim tried to talk to either girl about 
their school-work, their futures, even the most mundane 
of topics…it was obvious, they had little need for his 
input into their lives….that having ended one might 
conclude, with Cathy’s abrupt announcement of her 
subsequent pregnancies. 

After a while he left them to their own intractable 
devices. Both girls left home soon after completing 
school and their finding local employment. He saw them 
perhaps once a fortnight, usually when they came to 
visit their mother.

Jim would console himself some nights recalling the 
Christmases when they were yet children and the 
pleasure he had gotten in recreating for them what 
still stood-out so vividly from his own past. How had 
everything gone so wrong? he mused. All he had ever 
wanted was to love…and be loved!

**

Many years passed. Cathy had died of kidney disease, 
his daughters had married and moved away to the north 
of England. A postcard from Marion in the late eighties 
had put him on notice that he was now officially a 
grandfather. He had seen the lad but half a dozen times 
since, the last being when his daughter called in at 
the local hospital briefly following his triple-bypass.

**

He was in his sixty-fourth year now and living alone in 
a shabby semi in Portsmouth, the area’s solitude 
matching his own bleak and wind-swept life. Still, he 
took pleasure in wrapping-up during the wintry months 
and spending hours on the seafront, looking out at the 
gray Atlantic, perhaps sensing in the uncompromising 
and harsh environment, a kinship somehow with his own 
unstinting tidal existence.

The one thing that adverse circumstance had failed 
miserably in trying to dull or nullify in Jim’s life 
however, was December the 25th. Each year he would 
decorate the little tree using the same tinsel and 
colored balls he had so religiously protected and 
stored away following his parental loss. Within the 
limitations of his meagre savings, he would even buy 
himself a few presents to be religiously wrapped and 
placed beneath the tree on Christmas Eve.

To the outside world that year, it was an elderly and 
rather melancholy-looking gentleman that took his time 
wandering around the stores, picking up and studying 
the latest toys, deriving tactile pleasure from simply 
holding the many items that represented those seasonal 
childhood yearnings. 

Occasionally he would smile as he held aloft a doll or 
a farm animal. Mothers would glance at him warily and 
shepherd their youngsters into the adjoining aisle. 
They could not know that inside that tattered old coat 
and scarf, an eight-year old child looked out at his 
beloved world of remembrances. 

In Brackensfield’s, one of the largest Department 
stores on the east-side, the newly installed Santa was 
entertaining a long line of expectant children as their 
mothers jostled for the dubious privilege of parting 
with six pounds 75p in exchange for an instant photo of 
their loved one/s posed on the man in red’s knee. 

No one noticed the lonely old figure standing alongside 
the racks of games nearby, watching the awe-struck 
children as they progressed excitedly along the queue. 
The moment they had to relinquish their mom’s hand and 
take that last step up to that lofty perch. The 
encouragement to smile for the camera and then finally 
those few words with Santa himself. Unseen also, the 
occasional yet involuntary tear trickling down the 
man’s cheeks.

He stayed until the last child had scampered back to 
his mother and the helpers were hanging up the sign 
which read "Santa has gone to feed his reindeer and 
will be back at 6 p.m."

For a moment he was lost in his own thoughts.

"It means a lot to you doesn’t it?" 

The words jolted him upright. Kindly eyes considerably 
older than his own even, looked down at him.

 "I was just remembering," he half-stammered and 
feeling not a little embarrassed.

The eyes smiled. "Ah, the memory of happier times 
perhaps?" Then after the briefest of pauses, "And what 
then would you wish for yourself on this cold Christmas 
Eve?" came the question from deep beneath the bushy 
beard.

 "That’s easy, " Jim responded. "I’d wish that for just 
a few hours even, I could spend time with a young lady 
who might love me for simply myself. Someone I wished I 
could have met when I was young and had a future."

The hand caressed the white moustache. "All of us have 
a future my friend. It’s just a matter of recognising 
when it actually started! We must enjoy the 
opportunities that come along and for some of us," he 
looked at Jim almost sympathetically, "such times may 
be of regrettably brief duration." 

Smiling now, he took Jim’s hand. "Well now, a very 
merry Christmas to you Sir. I must be going. Those 
reindeer of mine are eating me out of house and home."

Jim watched as the tall figure disappeared around the 
sporting aisle and decided to head home. Although not 
snowing, it was icy cold outside and he was looking 
forward to the familiarity of the snug confines of his 
little home. Perhaps he would indulge himself with a 
small bottle of brandy, after all, Christmas was but 
once a year.

**

Entering the small latched gate that opened upon the 
narrow crazy-paving pathway that led to his front door, 
he felt upon his forehead first one, then another touch 
of crystalised cold. He looked up. The weather bureau 
had been right for once.

For only the eleventh time since the turn of the 
previous century, a genuine white Christmas had been 
predicted for the south of England. He watched for a 
few moments, the sporadic flakes as they eddied 
silently downwards, not yet in sufficient a flurry to 
lay the groundwork for their heavier relatives. 

The front door closed behind him, sealing off once more 
his own little eco-system from the withering elements. 
Everything was as he had left it. The tree over by the 
small French doors, those ancient but so well-loved 
glass balls reflecting the small lights as they winked 
on and off – tiny beacons of cheer in a room of such 
gentility and misplaced affection. 

Beneath the lower branches upon the threadbare carpet, 
four neatly-wrapped presents lay clustered there. So 
sad their message of loneliness, yet so inspiring a 
tradition of hope and goodwill. Jim knelt down and re-
arranged them as he liked to do occasionally. He had 
long since put out of his mind what they contained and 
was rather looking forward to the morning’s 
discoveries. He allowed his fingers contact with some 
of the long strands of tinsel. 

It took no effort on his part to recall his mother 
kneeling there beside him, showing an eager son how to 
hang them properly. Closing his eyes, it was her 
fingertips he now felt, her breath that perceptibly 
disturbed the symmetry of those lower branches.

The plummeting outside temperature was more than enough 
reason to light the fire in the open hearth that he had 
earlier prepared. He knelt there watching as the 
embryonic flames consumed the kindling, giving them 
sustenance to take-on the challenges of the thicker 
wood above. Within ten minutes the hearth was ablaze 
with pyrotechnic good cheer and Jim began to set 
strategically in place layers of coal that would keep 
the entire house warm during the night.

There is something intrinsically magnetic about an open 
fire. A lifetime’s thoughts and recollections can pass 
in an instant watching those glowing embers, the small 
pockets of gas igniting within the lumps of coal and 
the curious behavior of those tiny flame-creatures as 
they scurry along the base of the conflagrated logs.

Jim walked over to the small but serviceable 
kitchenette and cooked himself a couple of pork 
sausages with potatoes and mixed vegetables and with 
the small room at its optimum temperature now, he 
watched on television, as he had done every successive 
Christmas for as far back as he could remember – 
Miracle on 34th Street. 

Some years it was A Christmas Carol, but always one or 
the other. The brandy saw admirably well, to his 
transition from well-fed comfort to yawning tiredness. 
The last thing he did was to lay out a final layer of 
coal before drawing the fireguard across in front of 
the hearth.

He was aware of the old clock in the lounge-room 
striking, having listened to its comforting message of 
hourly regularity since he was a small child. 
Subconsciously he realised it was midnight. It was the 
other sound however that had him struggling between 
wakefulness and confused unreality. 

It’s repetition brought him fully awake. Someone at the 
front door? His front door? It was only the lightest of 
knocks. 

It would have been hard to tell what shocked him more. 
The inbound blast of freezing air with not a few 
flurries of heavy snow or the young girl standing on 
his doorstep shivering there, in just a thin dress. 

"Could I come in for a few moments please, I’m lost." 
was all she was able to mutter. 

The girl was in the last stages of hypothermia to judge 
by her color and aggravated shaking. Flakes of snow 
covered her shoulders and long brown hair. He did not 
fail to notice how pretty she was either and the 
likelihood that she was surely no more than seventeen 
or eighteen. He pulled her gently inside and closed the 
door.

"Good heavens child," he said, propelling her gently 
towards the fireplace. "What on earth are you doing 
walking around the streets at this time of night…and 
with no warm clothes."

 "I…I don’t remember," she said, crouching down near 
the hearth and holding her freezing arms out to the 
resuscitating warmth. "Something happened and I had to 
leave….that’s all I recall. I don’t even know this 
place!"

Jim selected a few small logs from the pile nearby and 
tossed them on the fire ahead of some more coal to 
bring up the level of flame.

"Are you hungry missy?" he asked. The girl looked-up at 
him and nodded shyly.

"Well you just stay there love – get yourself nice and 
warm and I’ll fetch you something to eat," he said to 
her. 

As he pottered about in his little kitchen alcove 
tossing some bacon and eggs into a frying pan, and a 
couple of pieces of bread into the toaster, he looked 
back at the girl. 

Obviously benefiting greatly from the warmth of the 
fire, she looked back at him once or twice, smiling and 
quite obviously at ease in his presence. Looking at her 
delicately formed body hunched up there on the floor, 
he realised he wasn’t yet too old to recognise the 
physical attraction of one so young, despite the 
obvious futility of such recognition.

"What about a mug of hot chocolate to be going on with 
love" he enquired, turning the eggs as he did so. 

"Oh, yes please," she answered gratefully, hugging 
herself around the knees as she sat there, seemingly 
entranced by the flames. Little wispy clouds of steam 
were rising from the sleeves of her dress and he 
realised that besides being half-frozen to death she 
must have been soaked through from the melting snow-
flakes. She sipped her hot chocolate delicately. 

By the time he took out the tray of hot food to her, 
the color was back in her cheeks and she was altogether 
a healthier-looking proposition to the freezing and 
bedraggled young thing that he had first ushered across 
his minimally populated threshold.

He had wanted to ask her all sorts of questions but 
thought better of it, preferring to watch as she 
relished the simple but satisfying meal he had brought 
her.

"What’s your name miss?" he found the courage to ask 
her.

"Cassandra," she replied, but most people call me 
"Cass, or Cassie." she added, looking up at him between 
mouthfuls.

"Well, I like Cassandra," he told her, "If you don’t 
mind I’ll call you that – it’s a lovely name….for a 
lovely young lady, if you don’t mind me saying so." he 
blushed at his own words and she caught the color 
rising in his cheeks.

"You’re a little shy with girls aren’t you?" she asked. 
"Oh, and you haven’t told me your name either, have 
you?"

"Ohh, sorry…no I forgot," he said to her. "I’m Jim…just 
old Jim!"

"You’re not that old," she observed with a commendable 
degree of tact

"Ah, but I am Cassandra," he smiled at her wistfully. 
"Way too old I’m afraid."

"You’re a very kind person, I know that much," she 
smiled up at him. "A girl knows instinctively who she’s 
safe with and who she can trust."

He was watching her now, noticing just how young she 
was, the beautiful unlined face, blemish-free skin, 
girlish figure that promised more than he dared 
remember. He wondered how he must look to her? Never 
realistically having been even "handsome" in his youth, 
his skin was old and sagging in places now – all the 
wrong places at that! 

Beneath his eyes, his jowls, around his considerably 
expanded and flabby waistline, even the tops of his 
gnarled old hands were wrinkly, the veins standing out 
like speed-humps gone feral. Liver-spots were starting 
to make their presence known and to describe his 
hairline as receding, would not begin to recount the 
cranial carnage wreaked over the past twenty years. 

Reduced to a few white hairs, those currently on-site 
presented themselves as little more than a ruffled 
patchwork at the best of times. As if subconsciously 
aware of his hirsute shortcomings, he ran his hand 
across his head suddenly, flattening a few rogue 
strands.

"Well to me you’re not old Jim... just a really nice 
man," she smiled up at him sweetly as she finished her 
food, offering him up the tray.

Her words touched him and quite without any logical 
reason, he wanted to put his arms around her and hold 
her tight... the daughter he had never had… the wife he 
had never known….the lover he had so futilely longed 
for. Instead however, he simply took the tray and 
trudged back to the kitchen, aware for the first time 
since he had let her in, how additionally grotty he 
must appear to her in those tatty old pyjamas and 
dressing-gown he was wearing.

Seemingly reading his mind, she called out to him,

"Jim, come and sit beside me in front of the fire for a 
while." 

Not even questioning why she would ask such a thing of 
him, he shuffled back to the fireplace and eased 
himself down beside her. For a while they both stared 
into the dwindling flames. He noticed now the little 
silver chain around her neck and the tiny locket that 
she seemed to be holding for comfort as she sat there.

"That’s a very pretty little treasure," he said to her.

Looking at it for just a few moments she smiled back at 
him. "Yes, it was given to me by a very dear person. It 
means everything to me." 

**

Now her immediacy was affecting his judgment and he 
took her hand in his. "May I please?" he asked, looking 
at her delicately shaped hand resident now in his own 
palm, "Only for a moment Cassandra... I just want to 
remember what it feels like... it’s been such a long 
time."
 
 Whatever response he had been expecting, he was not 
prepared for that which he received, as she leaned 
across and kissed him softly on the lips. It was not a 
long kiss but in the three or four seconds contact he 
was treated to a kaleidoscope of emotions. Shock, 
pleasure, embarrassment, disorientation and not the 
least – arousal!

Pulling back, but still holding the girl’s hand, which 
for some reason was recalling impossible memories, he 
was momentarily lost for words.

"Y-you shouldn’t be doing that," he stuttered.

"Why not?" she said, looking as cute as a button, "I 
wanted to! Didn’t you like it?" she teased, then 
looking serious for a moment. "You have been very kind 
to me. I just wanted you to know I really appreciate 
it. 

As she was speaking, he found himself studying her 
closely once more. The little wisps of brown hair 
curling around her earlobes, the almost unkempt locks 
that fell across her forehead and which jiggled as she 
emphasised her point. Her pretty and expressive little 
face without a trace of make-up, not that any could 
possibly improve on what nature had already set in 
place. Despite her youth, something about her was 
bordering on the old-fashioned. 

Perhaps it was the dress. Although well fitting – 
especially so he noted, in areas he hardly dared 
contemplate – the hemline was longer than girls her age 
tended to wear and certainly was without any mainstream 
appeal so far as he could judge. On her though it 
looked perfect and he found himself wishing he could 
hold and caress something other than her hand. 

A log suddenly crackled and the girl started in 
surprise. He took the opportunity to put his arm around 
her shoulders hoping against hope she would not react 
unfavorably. How he wished it was a young arm and not 
that of an old man that carried now the fully 
unrealistic hopes of its owner.

Far from rejecting the gesture though, Cassandra 
snuggled in to him.

"You make me feel safe and protected," she whispered, 
turning her head slightly. The movement caused her 
dress to gape slightly at the front and for a moment he 
saw the onset of the downward curve of her cleavage. 
She had fairly small breasts he had determined and 
again inexplicably, something of a hazy remembrance 
came to him. She was saying something to him. It surely 
couldn’t be what his mind was hearing?

"Kiss me again Jim, please," in that instant he fell 
apart emotionally. With what would appear to any 
onlooker to be the sad, if not pathetic spectacle of an 
old man trying to resurrect his forgotten romantic 
habits, he pulled her back until she lay in his arms 
and lowered his mouth to hers. Soft, gentle and 
confidently pliant lips met their coarse, trembling and 
long-since used partner’s. As both the beauty and 
hideous reality of the interaction washed over him, he 
was unable to prevent the tears building up.

"I’m so sorry Cassandra," he cried. "I don’t know 
what’s come over me. I’m just a really lonely old man 
and... and well, you’re just so pretty..." He was 
wracked in an agony of despair.

She smiled at him.

"You’re not an old man Jim….you never were…..Look, 
see!" So saying, she held his hands up before him.

Unable to accept what his eyes would have him believe, 
he stared at the strong and well-shaped hands. No hint 
of a wrinkle. Wide wrists heralded the onset of 
muscular arms that disappeared up beneath the sleeves 
of his old pyjamas. He had no need of a mirror, he knew 
his face was that of a young man. He could feel the 
weight of thick and luxuriant hair which even now 
curled almost to the nape of his neck. 

He sought not to question this miracle, merely to 
address its purpose.

Carrying her later to his bedroom where neither the 
crumpled bed linen, nor the faded and decrepit 
wallpaper held sway any longer, he laid Cassandra on 
the top sheet. Turning away from him she sat up and 
raised her arms. Gently he unzipped the dress and 
watched as she pulled it over her head. She wore 
nothing beneath. 

Such was her beauty he could but stare. She took his 
hand and brought it to her breasts where he gently 
caressed first one and then the other while she held 
his gaze and murmured the sweetest of soft little 
sounds. He marvelled at the perfection of her curves 
and the effect his touch was having on her nipples as 
they hardened rapidly.

Her needs mirrored his own and he found himself 
kneeling beside her on the bed, drawing down on her 
nipples gently until she lay back, her arms above her 
head aroused now to the point of moaning softly and 
needing his full complicity in what ultimately was to 
follow.

For a few moments he could do no more than look at her 
as she lay there completely at ease with him in her 
nakedness. The smoothest triangle of dark curls framed 
her exquisitely beautiful lower lips that he permitted 
himself the luxury of exposing further by gently 
parting her legs a little. She gave the smallest cry of 
anticipation, yielding up the most arousing expression 
of girlish tease as he hardly dared to push a finger 
inside her. Her look then of complete satisfaction as 
he pushed in deeper – her eyes were liquid in their 
need.

"Make love to me," she barely whispered.

He found disrobing in front of her, an act easily 
effected without the slightest inhibition. He 
remembered then, how it was something neither he nor 
Cathy had ever been comfortable with. He couldn’t 
recall ever actually seeing her fully naked – nor 
having the desire to.

Allowing him to spread her as far as he wished, she 
closed her eyes and wriggled her hips enticingly as he 
entered her. Making full use of his restored and 
youthful physique, Jim thrust hard into her – not with 
any semblance of distasteful force but rather, one of 
masculine dominance at a time a girl might 
understandably wish to be dominated.

As his rate and depth of entry increased, Cassandra was 
willing him on, raising her hips to meet his thrusts 
and experiencing in full, the pleasure they were so 
deeply sharing. He knew there was no expectation to 
observe any modicum of restraint on his part and this 
alone propelled him to greater heights. Cassandra was 
shaking her head from side to side now and completely 
given over to the forces in play.

"Make me pregnant Jim," she pleaded, the utterance of 
such words having anything but a passive effect on her 
super-heated partner. A lifetime’s unfulfilled sexual 
needs can understandably generate an impressive seminal 
build-up. How lucky the recipient one might muse. 

Cassandra was not complaining and as he pumped that 
very last cubic centimetre of procreative fluid deep 
inside her, she was transported way down her own Yellow 
Brick road courtesy of a multiply connected orgasm that 
to quote John C. Fogerty was a case of "Rollin’, 
rollin’, rollin’ on the river."

While still yet dizzy from their joint exertions, Jim 
pulled Cassandra up to a sitting position and kissing 
her, whispered to her softly. Compliantly, she turned 
around and getting down on all fours presented her 
lover with a cute little bottom of such arousing an 
aspect he first kissed her there several times, causing 
her to gasp and to wiggle her rear-end in evident 
pleasure. At the point he knelt behind her and took her 
in that same position – she was experiencing 
considerably more pleasure.

After their frenetic early needs subsided, Jim lay down 
behind her, pulled her close to him and pulled the 
bedclothes over them. Cassandra with her back to him, 
pulled his arms tightly around her breasts and lay 
still, listening to their respiratory rates even out 
and feeling his sperm deep inside her still. She didn’t 
want to think about having to leave or about what she 
knew had shortly to be.

All Jim was able to think about was by whatever 
miracle, an angel had been delivered to his door this 
night. He would worry about an explanation in the 
morning. God willing he should never lose her again, 
yet somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he knew 
he had experienced these thoughts some time in the 
past.

**
 
An old man woke Christmas morning. His cries of anguish 
at his loss would have melted the heart of the least 
compassionate of men.

"How could a dream be so real? How could any God be so 
cruel?" were just two of the questions he suspected he 
was never likely to be receiving an answer to. 
Determined however that nothing would ever undermine 
his love of the festive season, he decided he would 
first make himself a pot of tea and entering the tiny 
kitchen he had to grasp a hold of the door-frame to 
steady his nerves…if not his sanity. Sitting there on 
the bench was the tray, containing one dirty plate with 
traces still of bacon rind and a small yellowish stain. 

Struggling to make sense of the non-sensical, the only 
rational explanation in his view was that whilst in a 
semi-delusional state, he had actually cooked that meal 
last night….and presumably eaten it. He made his pot of 
tea and whilst waiting for it to draw, went to the 
front door and opened it. Snow must have been falling 
all night. The front path, grass and flowerbeds were 
now but a uniform white blanket, the trees - icy 
sculptured sentinels. All around, picturesque serenity, 
a silent white matte-work. 

Returning to the living room, he went across to the 
little tree – and stared! Five presents now sat in a 
cluster-pattern beneath those lower branches, one far 
smaller than the rest, slightly away to the right. The 
wrapping looked faded but again, somehow familiar. As 
he picked it up he felt a decided chill. 

His hands trembled as the little heart-shaped box was 
exposed. It looked quite old. Removing the lid, he saw 
what was inside and his world spun away. Shaking 
fingers opened the tiny silver locket, and with tears 
of passion raking his cheeks, he read what he already 
knew was so minutely inscribed there.

"To Cassandra from your loving husband Jim. Christmas 
1832"


(c) Peter_Pan http://www.lulu.com/content/106537 or 
http://www.lulu.com/noel

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
The author does not condone child abuse, this story is
meant as an erotic fantasy not real life. Anyone acting
out such scenarios in "real life" can look forward to
many unproductive years getting it up the butt by a 
fellow convict in their local prison.
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Kristen's collection - Directory 38