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So, biting back on the laugh, I chew my cheek and tell the kid, “You have to give and you have to share. You know? That’s what Christmas is all about.”
The kid says, “I ain’t sharing shit. I ain’t giving shit. And I hate Christmas.” I know how he feels.
The blonde woman is watching me, and I swear I feel something. Oh, my God, I could just fucking eat her and die happy. The other kids close into a circle around me, the little boy, and the crying little girl.
The kid’s angry prune face puckers up at me. “I ain’t got nothing to give. And, unless I take stuff, I never will have neither.”
Gentle, but firm, I tell him, “Give the candy cane back.”
His face reddens as it bunches tighter. “Don’t want to.”
The blonde bombshell watches me and smiles. I felt it warm the inside of me. I tell the little punk, “No. But that’s kind of the point. Now do it.”
And I just can’t get enough of that woman looking at me. Just looking at me. I know then, I have to have her.
I tell the kid, “Take the candy cane back to the little girl. Tell her you’re sorry.” I remember all this bullshit from when I was a kid, in church and at school, high in the Sicilian mountains. Funny thing, it didn’t mean shit to me then, and I haven’t thought about it since.
One look from her, and it all starts pouring out. I’m even sure I was going to stop in time.
With his head hanging and his face down, the little boy slumps as he turns back to the little girl. His mouth wrinkles as he sticks out his hand with the candy cane toward her.
Her face is still wet, but she blinks and starts to smile as she takes hold of his hand. Not the candy cane. His hand.
He wells up, and he blurts, “I’m sorry.” The blonde angel beams at me.
The other kids make a cheer. One of the other boys calls out, “Hey, Jack, you want a half of a Reese’s Cup?”
Then another voice pipes up, “You like some M&M’s, Jack?”
I tell Jack, “So, you learned something, right?” though I am as close as I can to practically praying that none of these kids, and especially not the stunning blonde Christmas angel in charge of them, ask me what the moral or the lesson is. Because I’m fucked if I can remember.
All of the kids huddle and bustle together like a buzzing swarm, offering and swapping candies, shouting and laughing.
They all start to move off. The blonde woman comes up to me, following the throng.
And she smiles. “The magic of Christmas, eh?”
And that’s when I open up with the first thing in my head, and it’s my brainless rant.
“Christmas was different where I grew up.”
“Where was that?” She smells like sex and Christmas candy. Sugar and spice. The glow of her eyes and the beam of her smile makes me want to grab her ass and stretch her wide open. Taste her hot, sweet wetness. Get my hard cock up inside her. Everywhere.
“In Sicily. It was as much of a huge deal as it is here in the States.” I go on, talking and walking with her now. “Sicily is a big Catholic country, you know?”
“Isn’t Sicily a part of Italy?”
“Technically.”
I don’t event take offense. I just babble on. I could have been talking about moon rocks or hula-hoops. Anything. I would have rambled on just to keep her eyes fixed on me and her face looking up at me and watch her big eyes sparkle as she listened to me.
The look in her face is so sweet, and I’m thinking, I want to hear you shout. Beg me to stop and beg me for more when you’re filled up on my tree. I want to feel you shake when you splutter and choke on my cock. I just want to grab her by her arm, slam her against me. Taste her mouth, her throat. Nip and bite her ear. Wrap her thighs around me and suck on her pussy.
I am going to nail her, for sure. But this is going to be more than that. Giving this curvy beauty a bone is not just for Christmas. She’s going to be my gift that will keep on giving. I’m having this treasure for keeps.
And, I’m thinking about where and when I’m going to slide my fingers into her wet pussy and feel the cheeks of her ass slap and bounce against my thighs while I bury my poker hard and deep inside her.
So I’m yammering on, “All over the island there were processions. Strands of little round old women in black, follow a grim-faced priest behind a big cross carried high, waving in the cool air. A choir of kids in a line, mouths open, eyes aloft, their feet kicking out of blood-red cassocks, all dressed alike, with angelic white surplices billowing over their top halves.”
