Oh, I know I should be using this blog time to promote my latest release,
Ambrose and the Waif (click to order...you'll be so glad you did), but Christmas is but a week away and it's snowing in Seattle this morning, and I just can't help myself. I'm a kid at heart and filled with the Christmas spirit. I've got Duke Ellington and his
Nutcracker Suite playing in the background, the tree is up, and the stockings are hung (no, not like that! Get your minds out of the gutter), so I thought I'd use my blog today to share a heartwarming Christmas tale with you. This is my favorite Christmas story, among the several I've written.
But be warned: my idea of heartwarming ain't exactly Frank Capra's or even Dr. Seuss's. The story you are about to read, "It Came Upon the Midnight Clear" is one twisted tale. It may not warm your heart, but it'll warm a few other places. Enjoy...
It Came Upon the Midnight Clear(c) by Rick R. Reed
The nurse pulled the heated blanket tight up around Amelia's neck. “There you go, sweetie. You just give me a holler if you need anything else.”
Amelia basked in the warmth for a moment, then remembered her predicament. She was in the corridor of Our Lady of Perpetual Agony, waiting to be wheeled in for surgery. The procedure: a clitorectomy. Yesterday, Dr. Terry Terhune had squinted at Amelia through the smoke from her More cigarette. “Listen, kid, there's only one way to stop this thing. And that's yanking your clittie out and snipping it off.” Dr. Terhune had snorted with laughter as Amelia grew pale, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck.
But the surgery truly was the only solution to the rare medical condition that had afflicted her: hyperorgasmia. Amelia had become overly sensitive and orgasmic to the point where a breeze blowing up her dress could make her come.
She glanced over to where Helen was sitting. Why they even let the old bag in the pre-op corridor was a riddle Amelia had yet to unravel.
Helen was frowning and slowly shaking her head.
Amelia gritted her teeth. “Mother, I can't help it. It's a medical condition, for cryin' out loud.”
“Medical condition my ass. You're just sleaze.”
“Oh...merry Christmas to you, too!” Amelia cried, her stomach churning with tension.
“There's nothing merry about a Christmas with the likes of you.”
“Thanks very much, Mum,” Amelia said, thinking of the elegant cubic zirconia brooch she planned to give Mother Christmas morn.
Her thoughts of just how to present the brooch were interrupted by an orderly, coming to wheel her into the operating room. Lying there, Amelia reflected back to the day, two weeks ago, when she had first become aware of her condition.
A job interview. Amelia was thrilled: she had the chance to work as an the manager of a large ice-skating rink. “Fitness on Ice” rink didn't even care that she hadn't completed her degree. The program included complete training and Amelia knew this could be a real upswing, professionally speaking. She had dressed carefully for this one: black patent leather spikes, a red and black pleated shift with a small seahorse design and black seamed stockings. Now, as she sat in Personnel Administrator Bessie McComb's office, listening to her spell out what her salary would be and all the benefits to which she would be entitled, Amelia grew giddy with excitement. Then, Bessie began talking about the job:
“So, Miss Bauers, you'll be working for Richard Thompson, our building superintendent.” Bessie paused and smiled. “Dick is a really nice guy. I'm sure you'll love Dick.”
Amelia squirmed in her seat. What was wrong with her? It felt like her panties were getting wet.
“Anyway, everyone around here just loves Dick.” Bessie giggled. “Big Dick, we call him, because he's so tall.” Bessie shook her head. “Big, big Dick.”
Amelia crossed her legs, wincing when she heard a squishing noise she hoped Bessie McComb hadn't picked up on.
Bessie looked at Amelia. “But you do have to work independently, Miss Bauers. Dick sees a lot of people outside the company and he's in and out, in and out all day long.” Bessie cocked her head. “Do you get the thrust of what I'm saying?”
Amelia gripped the bottom of her chair, digging her nails into the upholstery. Her thighs were wet and her panties were sopping. What was wrong with her? Her breathing was coming more quickly.
“Everyone who's been under Dick has just loved it.”
Amelia began to tremble. My God, she felt like she was about to...no...it couldn't be...she felt like she was going to come.
Bessie laughed. “You know Dick and I like to play canasta at lunch, Miss Bauers. He's such a good player; he always wins.” Bessie shook her head and smiled at Amelia. “I know I'll never be able to lick Dick, Miss Bauers, but maybe you can.”
Amelia was shaking. She dug her nails into her palms until little bloody half moons appeared, trying with every ounce of will she possessed to hold back the orgasm she knew was on its way. “What?” she gasped.
“Lick Dick. Perhaps one day you can lick Dick.”
Amelia placed her purse over her crotch and thrust against the leather; she could barely hear what Bessie McComb was saying.
“You'll be under Dick, Miss Bauers. Under Dick...” Bessie sighed. “What a wonderful place to be.”
“Ohhhh God,” Amelia moaned, no longer able to hold back. She flung back her head and arched her back, her body stiffening with the first of string of orgasms. As she moaned out into the little cubicle, bucking and riding out the orgasm, she knew someone else would be getting this job.
The nurse's station was just outside the operating room. Waiting for the surgical staff to assemble, Amelia could hear the small TV one of the nurses kept at the station. The music for the commercial was familiar, especially now, at Yuletide. The product being advertised was a spiced cider, named for Charles Dickens. The ad campaign featured a middle-aged single woman with whom Amelia strongly identified, who had enjoyed the cider at various occasions throughout the years. As Amelia listened to the strains of the new age music adopted for the campaign, she pictured Eleanor in the by-now familiar soft-focus scenes: Eleanor trimming her tree, writing out her Christmas cards, laughing over a holiday TV special, all accompanied by a glass mug filled with steaming cider and garnished with a cinnamon stick. Amelia tensed, then, wishing she could close her ears to the commercial's tag line.
But it was too late.
Amelia shuddered as the rich, baritone of the announcer proclaimed:
“Eleanor has but three wishes this holiday season:
“Peace on Earth,
“good will toward man
and a hot Dickens cider.”
And then Amelia recalled, with mounting horror, what happened when she went to the Quick-Mart to pick up items for the festive holiday menu she had planned for Mother and herself. Skirting her way around the cucumbers and pickles, Amelia thought she could make it out of the store safely when she arrived at the deli counter.
She remembered her mother's request.” Why don't you make up one of them ante-pasto plates, Amelia? There's nothing to cook, so you can't screw it up.”
“Gee thanks, Mum. I have half a notion to send you to McDonalds for Christmas dinner.”
“That's the problem with you: you always just have half a notion. You wouldn't recognize a full notion if it bit you on the ass.”
“Oh Mother - shut up.”
Now, as Amelia paced in front of the glass display cases, she was seized with apprehension: stomach gurgling and beads of sweat popping out above her painted-on eyebrows. Dare she risk it?
What the hell? she thought, with her admittedly low supply of common sense. I can control it - this time.
Stepping up to the counter, she handed the waiting clerk her number.
“I'll have 3/4 of a pound of that prosciutto,” Amelia began, straining to remain calm. “And some of those black olives...gimme about a half pound of that provolone.” Amelia paused. It seemed the store had gone quiet. A train whistle began to blow in her head; bells chimed.
She dared not say it.
But she had to.
What was an ante-pasto without salami?
Amelia cleared her throat. The clerk cocked her head.
“Anything else, ma'am?”
“Yeah,” Amelia whispered, voice husky and full of anxiety. “A pound of salami,” she said in a rush, looking away.
“What?”
“Salami!” Amelia snapped, trying to look elsewhere, but failing, her eyes drawn back to the case like a magnet.
All it took was a glance. Amelia felt the first shudders as she watched the woman wrap her fingers around the huge roll of meat. When she raised it up, it was all over for Amelia.
The next thing she knew, she was on the floor, red and green skirt hiked up around her waist, a crowd of flabbergasted on-lookers gathered' round, as if this were some bizarre Christmas pageant.
Amelia stood on quivering legs, smoothed her skirt and trembling, took her parcels from the smirking clerk.
Just as she was about to sigh with a measure of relief, the store's public address speaker began a new carol.
Amelia moaned as the first strains of “O Come All Ye Faithful” began.
She dropped her meats and cheeses, heading for the nearest exit as fast as her legs could carry her.
And then her worst memory came back to her, born aloft by a wave of shame and revulsion...the climax, as it were, of the whole sordid affair.
It had only been the day before yesterday. Amelia remembered the announcer on the radio that morning trying to make everyone even more stressed by announcing there were only three shopping days until Christmas.
Her condition, ecstatic as its moments were, had induced in Amelia a profound depression. Her social life, such as it was, was ruined. She had no hopes for a career. And a man! What did she need a man for when all she needed for a mind-blowing orgasm was to watch the opening credits of
Bay Watch?
She had lost count of the number of orgasms she had on a daily basis. Even sleep offered no relief from the torment of those delicious muscular spasms she once found so rare and delightful. Peopled with men like Vic Damone, Jerry Vale and Andy Williams, Amelia awakened each morning to find her sheets drenched...and not with sweat.
Exhausted, bleary-eyed and berated by Helen, Amelia soon found she had no choice but to give into this bizarre gift of nature.
Helen would have murdered her had she known what Amelia was getting herself up to. But Amelia figured, what the hell? My life is ruined. I might as well make the best of things.
And so now, finding herself at Shoney's on a winter afternoon, where the pewter gray sky threatened snow, Amelia found herself looking forward to the walk across the parking lot that would bring her to K-Mart.
After knocking back a couple of eggnogs, Amelia stood and peered through the plate glass, making sure there were no children usurping her object of desire.
Her view was blocked momentarily by the passage of a wood-paneled, Harvest gold Pacer.
And then she saw it: the item that brought her the most profound pleasure a woman can experience: the K-Mart pony. Why, for the mere price of a quarter, Amelia could ride that pony, its soothing, gentle back and forth motion bringing her the most intense, delirious orgasms...dozens in one ride.
Mouth watering, Amelia rushed from Shoney's, oblivious to the cries of her waitress and the manager, who exhorted her to pay. Dodging angry holiday shoppers, Amelia made it, unharmed to the area outside K-Mart, where the kiddie rides were set up. Perhaps one day she would try the little rocket.
Holiday shoppers passed her by, thinking her just another harried mother.
No one took any notice of her until she climbed aboard the pony. Then, a few of those passing by did stop, regarding Amelia out of the corner of an eye, impressed by the agility of this large woman in mounting a ride designed for children.
Amelia slid the quarter into the slot and then rocking motion commenced. It was only instants before Amelia's head was thrown back, before moans, groans and yes, even roars, were issuing lustily forth as wave upon wave of orgasmic pleasure ripped through her.
Later, Amelia found that it took only moments for a large crowd to gather around her. One little boy shouted to passersby in the manner of a carnival barker, “Watch the lady come!”
Soon, hunting capped fathers were giving their sons quarters to pop into the slot, knowing that, if their son's lives mirrored theirs, they would never get to see so many female orgasms. Giggling matrons joined in the fun, digging in their purses for spare change.
It might have gone on for hours, testing the limits of Amelia's central nervous system had not Helen arrived.
Struggling through the crowd which had now grown so large it was spilling into the parking lot and causing a traffic problem, Helen marched up to her daughter and yanked her from the pony. A collective groan went up from the masses when Amelia's writhing form slammed into the concrete below.
As her eyes gradually came into focus, she saw Helen standing above her, glaring. “Leave it to you to change the meaning of Christmas from 'Christ is coming,' to 'Oh Christ, I'm coming.”
Amelia, tongue thick, humiliated and her eyes barely focused, managed to groan: “Ah, Mother...go tell it on the mountain.”
The End
