With a wave of his hand, Mr. Fezziwig laid aside his ledger and bid enter Miss Tuggensuckle to review the guest list for the Christmas Ball to be held that night.
“You’ve welcomed Jane Peggenoffen, I presume? I’m afraid only she will do for our poor Ebenezer.” He rubbed the arms of his chair with great relish at the thought of some pleasurable respite for the hardworking Scrooge.
“I dare say, Fezzi, Dick Wilkins appears to have adopted the moniker Dick Milkins down there in their room. I’m not sure Miss Peggenoffen would be a gift they care to be given.”
“No harm in building bridges, my pet. And Pegleg Jack? He will be joining, as is his custom, for our fete?”
“To be sure, my dearest Fezziwig. His family has already been presented with their ham hock.”
“Their other ham hock, Miss Tuggensuckle!” Fezziwig jiggled from head to toe like finest aspic.
“And Heather Mills? You know I hate for there to be too much pressure on dear old Jack. A solitary amputee will not suffice!”
“Mistress Mills sends her regrets, dear Fezzi. She holds fast to the sentiment that there are more contemporary and compassionate lubricants than lard available, especially to a man of your means.”
“Ah, ’tis a pity. A sublimer stump was never seen. More perfect with a lardy sheen!”
“Yes, Fezzi, she did not hesitate to mention that your most excellent verses also unnerved her.”
“So they should, my dearest Tuggensuckle, so they should! Have you tended to Mrs. Fezziwig, my sweet?”
“Thrice since noon. The holiday spirit is full upon her.”
“I am most pleased to hear it.”
Miss Tuggensuckle had been in Fezziwig’s employ for nigh upon a dozen years. Her exuberant worship at Eros’s altar assured her a generous income and constant friendship with Mr. and Mrs. Fezziwig. Coming upon her thirty-sixth year, she continued to come upon much else and to ever so generously have much else come upon her. Even her hair was possessed of an easy laugh; her brown ringlets were the perfect accent to her universal roundness. Press upon her and bear witness to a depression short-lived. Only the solitary dimple in her chin seemed to recede from the light; all the rest was resilience and good humor.
“Bring me those rosy cheeks this minute, my sweetest Tuggensuckle.” Fezziwig reached out his hand while the Miss parried with a laughing skip about the desk.
“You wish to see my rosy cheeks, do you?” she said, lifting her skirts to reveal her bareness. Fezziwig clapped his hands and did a little jig. “I daresay they are nearly blue with cold. If you wish to see them ruddy, you shall need to bring the blood up.”
Miss Tuggensuckle leaned over the desk and slid open the drawer in which was kept the little paddle.
“Oh that all the lads had such daily merriments as you bring! Every day a Christmas!” She was on her knees upon the desk dispensing with his vest and suspenders as he kissed her on the mouth.
“Oh dearest Fezziwig, would that every lass could know such unabashed hungers with skills well met.” Miss Tuggensuckle opened her chemise and lifted her breasts up under her chin where they presented like royal oranges. Fezziwig, glossy of eye and mouth, fell immediately upon them. He made a chanson of the la la la his tongue made as it flicked her nipples to and fro. He nibbled until she moaned. He sucked until she squealed. He fingerbanged until she squirted. Ah! Such relief he felt as he buried his face between her breasts and spread his open mouth betwixt them. She held fast his head until constellations appeared behind his eyes from want of air. Upon the quick double tap of his foot, she released him. They had a language of symbols between them, those mutual cartographers.
“I do adore helping you prepare for the party, my dear,” he told her, tugging off her sodden underskirt as he bent her back over the desk. He lifted her dangling feet, the better to lick from the arches up the entirety of her pale and solid legs. He buried his face in her lady’s moss. She liked the way his face looked, nostril deep in fur, with only the merest indication of the thick fervor with which his tongue circled, sucked, and licked.
As Fezziwig’s tongue darted into her slit, Miss Ellen tried to grasp it each time, impossible with such slickened lips. The loss was more acutely delicious each time it slipped away.
“And what of my cheeks then?” she inquired. He lifted her legs into the air with one large hand while the other meandered over the seam of her, lingering trippingly across her pinks, dragging past the pucker on its way to spread wide and warm between the dips in the small of her back.
“A frosty rime there is upon them. We must remedy that anon.”
“My ever-reliable Fezziwig!” Her legs butterflied upon the high mahogany desk and Fezziwig dipped two stout fingers inside her.
“Yes, we must warm them up like this ripe delicacy here,” he said, pulling her fleshy red hood back with his thumb. He gave her clit a long wet kiss. “Oh sweetest holly bush!” He passed his tongue along the entirety of her openness, bottom to top until he landed to suck, but not before speaking once more of her “Most admirable berry.” Miss Tuggensuckle made no attempt to grasp now. She simply took most replenishing breaths, of the sort that filled her very toes. She offered up the very essence of her softness. When the sound of her might drown the church bell striking six, Fezziwig removed his head from twixt her thighs.
“Belly down with you for trussing, my perfect swine!” said Fezziwig.
She flipped herself upon the desk and he gave a quick spank to her flank. He pulled the trussing scarves, of finest China silk, from the Drawer of Amusements, followed by a jewel box containing a truffle. He grated the fragrant fungus onto a little heap of lard from the bucket under his desk. Miss Ellen Tuggensuckle approximated the song of a sow and was rewarded for her jubilant efforts with a quick poke-and-press upon her back from all the forms of Fezziwig’s girth and a smear of scented lard across her lips.
“Come now, my feral piglet! It’s you who’ll be trussed today!” Tuggensuckle slipped out from under him like a tiddly wink and bound dear Fezziwig’s hands behind him. His happy exhortations did indeed suggest a juvenile boar. “Chair now. Sit.” The scented fat did begin to slide down Miss Tuggensuckle’s chin.
“I fear I’m in for a terrible basting,” cried Fezziwig.
“Terrible,” Miss Ellen said with a smile and a slash of lard across his violet turgidity.
“Hilli-ho!” cried Fezziwig as Ellen’s skillful finger coaxed the pulse behind his sack. “Criminy!” shouted Fezziwig as Ellen’s hands, not entirely wrapped around Fezzwig’s considerable shaft, expunged his joyful brine with a shudder. Fezziwig came all over himself, from his shoes to his organ of benevolence and called out in a rich, fat, jovial, oily voice:
“Yo ho, there! Ebenezer! Dick!”
The two appeared at last, panting like racehorses, accompanied by the estimable Master Felcher. “Gentlemen, you might conserve coal, for there’s a sheen of heat upon your brows!”
Mr. Scrooge suppressed a creamy belch. “’Tis the spirit of the season, my boys! Have at it! No more work tonight. Christmas Eve, Dick!” proclaimed Fezziwig, his sex now glistening low upon his thighs.
“Indeed!” said Ebenezer.
“Christmas, Ebenezer! Let’s have the shutters up,” cried old Fezziwig with a sharp clap of his hands, “before a man can say Jack Robinson!”
“’Tis the spirit of the season!” cried Dick and Felcher.
“’Tis the spirit!” echoed Ebenezer.
Then cried Tuggensuckle, with her radiant gloss, “May it bless us, everyone!”
Bob and I haven’t had a good fuck all year, thought Mrs. Cratchit as she wistfully scrubbed her pots in preparation for the morrow’s Christmas feast. Before Old Mr. Scrooge had found Jesus or whatever and raised her husband’s salary, Bob Cratchit had been an insatiable sex fiend. He would return home from toiling away for his abusive overlord, to a litter of needy children and seem utterly defeated. But when the candles went out, Bob would take Mrs. Cratchit like a drowning man takes breath, pounding her Queen Victoria and yelling “Humbug!” and “Surplus population!” Bob would fuck like it was the last salvation for his remaining scraps of manhood, and Mrs. Cratchit loved him for it.
But once Old Scrooge learned the true meaning of Christmas, the fire left the Cratchit bedroom. Bob was just so damned jolly all the time. Several times over the past year, Mrs. Cratchit had tried to get her husband in the mood, but all he wanted to do was cuddle and talk about how much happier he was at Scrooge and Marley’s, and how thankful he was for their new standard of living. It was disgusting.
It was the old Scrooge that made Bob want to fuck, she realized. That old miser used to boil Bob’s gravy. If I ever want a good hard screwing again, I need the old Scrooge back. But how?
An idea came to Mrs. Cratchit that she laughed away at first. But as the hours passed, she realized that this preposterous idea might be her only hope.
That evening, she slipped their eldest son a few shillings and convinced him to take the young Cratchits out caroling. “Don’t come back until you’ve seen Santa Claus,” she whispered harshly.
Once they were alone, Bob yawned. “I’d best be off to bed if I’m to make it to church on time tomorrow.”
Mrs. Cratchit smiled coyly. “I’ve some mending to see to. You go on up without me, dear.”
Nearly an hour later, Mrs. Cratchit opened the bedroom door. The candle was still lit, but Bob was fast asleep. As the door creaked, he stirred and opened his eyes. After one look at his wife, he nearly jumped out of bed, his face as white as a ghost.
Mrs. Cratchit leaned on an old black cane, clad in a heavy woolen suit, complete with top hat, but it was her face that caused Bob to gasp. From under the hat flowed thin cobwebs of white hair, shaggy white sideburns, and two bushy white eyebrows.
“Cratchit!” she yelled in a raspy voice she’d been practicing.
Bob was aghast. “Darling?”
“Let me hear another sound from you,” she growled, “and you’ll keep your Christmas by losing your… situation.” She pointed the tip of her cane toward his loins.
Bob crossed his legs, speechless.
“Now, Cratchit, I have a small gift for you this Christmas Eve, though you scarcely deserve it.” She approached the bed and produced a turkey baster from her pocket, filled with her famous Christmas pudding.
Flabbergasted, Bob reached for the baster, but Mrs. Cratchit rapped his knuckles with her cane. He gasped and withdrew his hand. Without another word, Mrs. Cratchit undid her belt and let the black woolen trousers drop to the floor. She inserted the tip of the baster into her womanly cavity and squeezed out every last drop of the festive dessert.
“Now, Cratchit, see that not a morsel goes to waste.” When Bob did not move, she hooked the back of his neck with the head of her cane and pulled him off the bed. As he fell to his knees, she grabbed a handful of hair from his balding head and pressed his face against her fruity vagina.
Bob began to lap up the pudding with such vigor that Mrs. Cratchit pushed his head away. “Slowly, Cratchit! Or have you forgotten your table manners?” Before he could reply, she pulled his face back to the feast between her legs. Bob resumed, with more deliberate movements of his tongue. Mrs. Cratchit moaned in approval, moving her hips back and forth against his face. “Keep this up, Cratchit, or you’ll find yourself in the workhouse!” After Bob had lapped up the last of the dessert, he opened his own trousers and began stroking his Christmas sausage. Mrs. Cratchit again rapped his knuckles with her cane. “I don’t recall giving you permission to pull that out!” Before Bob could reply, she pulled his head back down to her wet cunt. Ever the dutiful clerk, Bob began scribbling on her clit with his tongue. She held him by the hair and rode his face, yelling, “Yes, yes, Humbug!” Harder and harder she rode, until she noticed Bob flailing his arms; he couldn’t breathe. She was on the verge of coming and wasn’t about to let Bob’s need for oxygen spoil it. Bob grasped her hips and tried to pry them away. The tension sent her over the edge. She released his head just as she came, her ejaculate (and a little bit of pudding) squirting on Bob’s face as he fell to the floor.
Mrs. Cratchit looked down at Bob. His dick was hard as a doornail. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to get off.”
Bob caught his breath and smiled. “If quite convenient, sir.”
“Very well. On your hands and knees, Cratchit.”
Cautiously, Bob did as he was told, and Mrs. Cratchit produced three spheres of polished coal from her pocket. They were chained together on a string of twine, in size order. Bob’s eyes grew wide as she put the smallest one in her mouth and soaked it with her saliva. “First, let’s start a proper fire.”
She knelt behind him, spit in his tight bureaucrat asshole, pulled his cheeks apart, and firmly inserted the smallest piece of coal. Bob moaned as she rolled the coal back and forth with her thumb, fondling his Tale and Two Cities with her other hand.
“Would you like another coal in your fire, Cratchit?” she asked. Bob nodded eagerly. She spit on the next coal and pressed it through Bob’s cellar door. As she rolled the larger coal back and forth, she cupped his jingle bells and rolled them around in her palm. After only a few seconds, Bob groaned, “Please!”
“Please what?” she growled.
“Please, sir, may I have some more!” Bob shouted.
Mrs. Cratchit pushed the third and final coal into Bob’s rump, leaving a string of twine dangling out of him. Then she lay on the floor. “Now fuck me, Cratchit!”
Bob shoved his rock-hard yule log into her sopping wet pussy. She moaned and pushed his ass cheeks together to keep the coals from spilling out. He ripped at her shirt until her breasts fell out, then began licking and biting at her exposed nipples. His hands grabbed hold of her sideburns, and he used them for leverage as he plowed and suckled away. The hard floor at her back, the tug of hair on her face, Bob suckling on her tits, were all so much that she felt herself coming again. “Bah! Fucking! Humbug!” she cried. As she came again, Bob pulled out and ejaculated all over her chest, face, and eyebrows, then collapsed onto her cum-covered jugs.
“A merry Christmas, Bob!” said Mrs. Cratchit after a moment of silence. “A merrier Christmas, Bob, my good fellow, than I have given you for many a year!”
Ebenezer Scrooge sat at the head of the table that hosted his assembled family and friends and sighed contentedly as they neared the end of another prosperous, happy year. He closed his eyes a moment, sleepy from the night spent with his dearest Belle fucking in anticipation of the Lord’s birth. His nephew Fred shook him awake.
“The bird, Uncle Scrooge!” he said. “It’s the carving hour. This year’s roast is a newfangled creation. The turkey is stuffed with a duck that is stuffed with a chicken that is stuffed with a pregnant mouse! The butcher tried to tell me its name, but I mostly heard screams!”
Scrooge thought the combination strange but decided to “just go with it,” per his newfound agreeable manner. Fred’s wife brought the ornate serving tray from the kitchen and deposited it in the center of the table. She pulled away the lid to reveal an orgiastic massacre of violated meat, a hole poked in the side of the turkey through which its contents were rent outward. A thin stream of clear liquid ran from the penetrative wound, its makeup equal parts grease and jizm.
“Sweet, white Jesus!” Bob Cratchit exclaimed. “Somebody fucked the Christmas turkey!”
Moments later, they gathered in the drawing room. All the possible suspects, all the post-pubescent males in attendance. Ebenezer paced the room.
“The case is clear, gentlemen,” he began. “Our turkey has been ruined, in ways both physical and moral. We must ask ‘Cui bono?’ Who benefits? Who would take the bird meant to nourish so many on so special a day and make it suffer as if a thriving African nation thrust under the sweaty, entitled bulk of colonialism?”
Jacob Marley clinked his chains.
“As a level two ectoplasmic entity incapable of effecting a corporeal manifestation, I would prefer to be left out of these proceedings.”
“Come off it, Marley,” said the Ghost of Christmas Present. “I’ve seen you corporeally manifest behind the scullery. Need we bring in that walking sore of a milkmaid to demonstrate?”
“You’re one to talk,” Marley retorted, chains clacking indignantly. “What with being patient zero for the afterlife’s worst hepatitis outbreak since Saint Peter accidentally let in Caligula.”
“Gentlemen!” said the Ghost of Christmas Past. “We gain nothing by the bandying about of epithets and accusations. There is a turkeyfucker in our midst, and we would do well to root him out. Future, have you any insight into the matter?”
The Ghost of Christmas Future shrugged in his long black robe, then returned to tuning his acoustic guitar.
“Thinks he’s so cool because he’s the physical manifestation of man’s fear of the great unknown dimensions beyond life,” muttered Present.
“I have surmised,” Scrooge began, “that this predator would require motive, opportunity, and ability. In this, I can only accuse one man: my loyal employee with a cute butt, Bob Cratchit!”
Cratchit dropped his snifter of brandy and clenched the cheeks of his admittedly cute butt.
“You expressed dismay that you could not host this year’s festivities, you excused yourself to the bathroom for oddly long intervals, and you are widely reputed to be one of the finest cocksmen in all of whatever era of London this is!”
“Why, I resent most of your accusations, Mr. Scrooge,” Cratchit said. “While I have enjoyed accepting you all into the bosom of my home in the past, I took the time that would have been spent preparing last night and used it to bugger Mrs. Cratchit as she assembled the delicious mincemeat pies you have enjoyed today. The bathroom breaks have been in the service of a kidney stone that I, to my chagrin, have yet to pass. And though I shall not repudiate my reputation for cockery, nor shall I revel in it.”
“Well,” Nephew Fred said, “I’ve heard enough. He’s guilty.”
At once, lightning and thunder struck. And in that quick flash, Bob Cratchit was strung up naked from the chandelier, cute, dead butt agape to the heavens.
“Your conjecture now, Scrooge?” Past asked.
Ebenezer scratched his chin as his little gray cells worked. He turned to the Ghost of Christmas Present.
“You, with your bacchanalian undead lifestyle. This great bird would prove too tempting a prize to pass. What fetish would that satisfy, I wonder? That of the sexual liaise most foul, or most fowl?”
Present clapped slow in appreciation of the pun.
“Interesting theory,” he guffawed. “You would prove more correct were I not of preference to eat food rather than fuck it. Though I’d accomplish both, given my druthers.” Scrooge resolved never to accept the ghost’s dinner invitations.
The thunder and lightning cracked conveniently. When it finished, the Ghost of Christmas Present appeared dead—that is to say, doubly dead, a sizable hambone what would never know the glory of making stock protruding from his anal cavity.
“Now, Scrooge?” Marley demanded. “What theories have you this time? Was it me who gamed the gamebird? Who even now picks us off one by one, as if the plot of a wildly problematically named Agatha Christie novel?”
The thunder and lightning returned, and Jacob Marley’s ghost hung suspended from the rafters by his chains. His sputtering breath reached a climax as he did, a thick wad of ectoplasm shooting from his spectral cock and onto a portrait of the queen. The Ghosts of Christmas Past and Future took this as a cue to leave, disappearing in queef-like puffs. And then there were two.
“How could you, Fred?” Ebenezer said. “Your own turkey? I pray it was satisfying. Did it make you hard to take food out of your children’s mouths and onto your cock?”
“Uncle, I would never! Sure, I put a blood sausage up me bum once. And there’s not a man alive who hasn’t teabagged a figgy pudding. But this is beyond me.”
“Then who, dear nephew? Who?”
The thunder and lightning made their final appearance, and there the turkophiliac stood. Fred’s body twitched in its death throes, a veiny, malformed limb shoved deep down his throat.
“Tim?”
“That’s Big Tim to you, Scrooge.”
He pulled what functioned as a cruel parody of a leg from Fred’s jaw.
“What happened to you?” Scrooge asked.
The Tim formerly known as Tiny crept toward his former benefactor.
“The doctors, they said they could cure me. But the cures lay in deep, ancient knowledge, from forgotten cities eons past. From the sunken shores of Lemuria to the bedeviled scriptures of Abdul Alhazred and the demoniac oaths of the Great, Old Ones, I searched. There was a price to be paid, and only now does it make its cum-laden bargain known. Bear witness, Ebenezer Scrooge, for here is what your meddling has wrought!” He hoisted aloft the limb that once was crippled and weak, revealing a twisted, undulating tentacle that resembled a penis lined with rows of gnashing, serrated teeth.
“You’ve cursed me to this cockfoot, and now I curse you to hell!”
Tim leapt and pulled Scrooge to the floor. When the monstrous appendage was but inches from his face, Ebenezer felt his nephew prod his shoulder. He shook himself awake, again at the table.
“The bird, Uncle Scrooge,” Fred said. “You simply must carve the turkey.”
“Bird? Ah, yes. The bird,” he said, looking over the creature for any malfeasance and finding none. The turkey was delicious, the company gregarious, the tidings good. All the same, Scrooge made Tiny Tim eat outside, behind the scullery.