By the Garters, With Care

"That's exactly the sort of language I don't want you teaching Billy, you son of a... you... freak! Don't you ever, ever call me again!" She pushed several buttons at once on her cell phone, one of which probably hung up on him. Her head was in her hands for several moments before Susie asked her if she was okay.

"Yes, dear, I'm fine. We're just not going to see my friend Colin anymore because he was teaching Billy naughty things. Billy," she added, turning to face him directly, "it's not your fault, but please, please, don't sing any other songs or use any other words Colin taught you, okay? He's not a very nice man."

"Okay, mom."

"Thank you, sweetie. Thank you." She took another breath, then blew both of the kids kisses and started edging the car back into traffic again. She felt oddly relieved by the whole ordeal, and confident of the future. And with her newfound confidence she felt, as she sometimes did, even a little bit aroused. The foul lyrics of the songs, troubling as they were coming out of Billy's lips, had left her with a bit of an edge she'd have to work off tonight when the kids were sleeping.

Billy had no clue what had come over his mother, but he was glad he wouldn't have to spend time with that stupid Colin anymore, so he didn't want to argue with her. He smiled and pushed the button on the Space Charger again.

"Kill! Kill! Kill!"

It wasn't until the following October that Katie gave the incident another thought.

***

Halloween had not even passed yet and already Costco had mechanical reindeer for sale, sprinkled with miniature lights and stooping to eat nonexistent grass. It never failed to amaze Katie how the Christmas season migrated forward in the year. Soon they would be selling Nativity displays during Back to School sales, she felt certain.

At any rate, even here in Michigan snowfall was a month away except in the humongous snow globe sitting on the top shelf, wedged between the leftover six-person tents and the reasonably priced backyard jungle-gym. The kids were in the next aisle, digging through the children's DVDs and snagging a few to try and surreptitiously sneak into the cart, but Katie stood and looked at the snow globe. Inside, a Frosty-wannabe smiled down on her while a cute little house in the background was invaded by a red-coated marauder with a getaway sleigh parked up top. She stared at the scene for several moments, imagining the snowflakes alighting on her breasts, nipples stiffening with their chill... and suddenly, even the snowman's carrot nose was starting to look pretty good to her.

She shook herself out of this reverie, trying to remember how long it had been since she'd been with a man. Not since Colin, and that was before Christmas last year. But work had been busy, the kids had needed her, and there wasn't much time or opportunity to meet men of any other kind than the random, useless sort. She sighed, then turned and removed Disney Princesses Save The World II from the cart and kept moving.

She couldn't stop thinking about Christmas, though, after that light taste in the store, and when the kids were in the back yard playing she put in her favorite holiday CD, An Old-Fashioned Christmas. Why was it, she wondered, that the 1950s and 60s generated so many good Christmas tunes?

Eartha Kitt's sultry voice came out of her speakers and Katie began to do a cute little dance around the room:

Santa baby,
just slip a finger under my thong.
So wrong!
Been an awful bad girl
Santa baby,
so plunge into my chimney tonight.

Katie stopped short. What the hell is this, the Madonna version? She checked the CD case, and even pulled the disk out of the player to check the cover. Totally legitimate. Shaking her head, she put the disk back in and fast forwarded to track four.

Up on the housetop, reindeer's paws
Out jumps good old Santa Claus.
Down in your pussy he'll put some toys,
don't wake the little ones with your noise!

Ho, ho, ho
who wouldn't blow?
Ho, ho, ho
who wouldn't blow...

Up on the housetop, (clit clit clit)
Down on the bed when he's in your slit.

Her eyes bulged. She tried another disk, a Mannheim Steamroller of some flavor or other.

Veni, veni, Emmanuel!
Veni in my mouth, on my tits as well.

She made an exasperated noise. That was a fucking hymn! I mean... sorry, God... a gosh darn hymn. What the hell was going on?

She was confused. And frantic.

And hornier than she'd been in years.

She tried disk after disk, and it seemed only the Christmas tunes had been affected; all of her Amy Grant CDs were fine except the Christmas ones, where she sweetly informed listeners

It's the most wonderful time of the year!
When the guys all have hard-ons and girls say "Beg pardon,
there's cum in my ear."
It's the most wonderful time of the year..."

Then memories of last year's car ride crashed into her and she recalled Billy's look of confusion when she'd hollered at him for singing those naughty lyrics. When she'd asked him what he'd said, he'd repeated the proper lyrics... was it just her? Her own head, messing with the lyrics of Christmas tunes, making them outrageously disgusting (and hot, admit it!) (disgusting! well, yes, okay, hot...). What in the world did that say about her sanity, her piety... her very suitability as a mother? Should she call Doctor Blaise and make an appointment?

No. Something else was going on. Susie chose that moment to come in. "I have to go potty," she chimed.

"Just a second, honey. Can you sing Jingle Bells for me right now?"

Susie's eyebrows furrowed, and she giggled. "Okay."

Dashing through my lips
in a bed shaped like a sleigh
in and out he slips
thrusting all the way...

Katie winced and stopped her in the middle of "ha ha ha". "Okay, honey, now could you say those words again for mommy?"

"Okay. 'Dashing through my lips--'"

"No, dear, don't sing them, say them."

"Okay." Her singsong became a chant. "Dash-ing-through-the-snow, in-a--" She stopped and looked bemused.

"What is it, dear? Did the words sound different to you, too, when you said them instead of sang them?"

"No."

"Then why did you stop?"

She looked a bit bashful. "Mommy, I had a accident."

***

Doctor Blaise couldn't get her in to see him until January because he was booked solid through the end of the year. "Holidays really bring out the nuttiness in people," his receptionist commented, chuckling. Katie did not punch her.

As the weeks went on, she was able to mostly avoid the music. (With the exception of her own furtive little listening sessions late at night when the kids had crashed and previews of Cinemax's late night offerings made her a little edgy.) But post-Thanksgiving it became nearly impossible to fend the stuff off.

It was like living life with a filthy, relentless, less talented "Weird Al" Yankovic who would not shut up. If Weird Al made you horny every time you heard his music, that is. Because that was certainly what was happening every time she heard a Christmas carol of any stripe.

More modern ditties were not immune, as Katie had discovered when the "Band-Aid" song Do They Know It's Christmas? came on and even queer-as-a-three-dollar-bill Boy George urged her to

... throw your legs around the world
at Christmastime...

Of course, being in the car at the time, she'd had the luxury of being able to hike up her skirt and massage her clit at a red light, but the car behind her had spoiled her almost-orgasm by laying on the horn as she missed the green light. She'd returned one cunt-steamed hand to the wheel, but couldn't stop pumping herself with the other, despite the rather awkward positioning. When Bono had wailed

... well, tonight thank God it's them
inside of you!

while still somehow making it sound socially relevant, she'd swerved a second before the antilock took hold; involuntarily curling toes on the brake pedal spelled trouble in any weather, but with the dirt-blackened slush inches deep on the road, she risked life and limb in her continued efforts to fuck herself. She had shut off the radio again in self-preservation.

Work was a nightmare, alternating between sopping panties at her desk and trips to the ladies' room in order to "take the edge off" (and perhaps to wipe up a bit). She'd gone to her boss early on to ask that the Christmas songs not be played over the sound system.

Tiny tarts with their thighs all askew
will find it hard to sleep tonight.

"Hal, don't you think the Christmas music is a little... well, it might be offensive to people who don't have Christian beliefs."

"You know, I wondered that myself. Brought it up to Old Man Scoggins, in fact, at executive staff."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I won't be doing that again. He yelled at me. Said that all this newfangled politically correct nonsense can kiss his ass. That it's his company and he'd be damned if he let some lawyers tell him what kind of music he can and can't play in the office, and fuck 'em if they don't like it." He realized what he'd just said. "Um... sorry. That was a quote, you know, not me talking, and I-- Well, anyway, it's kind of out of my hands."

"I see."

"But I'm trying to do a little bit, anyway, to make it all more inclusive." He looked proud of himself. "I've snuck a couple of Hanukkah songs into the mix. And even some hip-hop."

"Hip-hop?"

"You know, for Kwanzaa."

***

She skipped church the last several weeks before the holiday, as the choirs were in attendance and being appropriately seasonal:

Don't rest, ye merry gentlemen,
until you suck my tits!
Then make your way between my legs
to tongue my needy clit.
When I've come twice I'd find it nice
if you would fill my slit.

O tidings of cunt, porn, and toys
(cum from my boys!)
O tidings of cunt, porn, and toys.

and it gave her the wiggins to have her head filled with... well, having herself filled while Pastor Salem looked on. And sometimes participated, in her imagination, despite his age and marital status. After a resounding chorus of

Joy to the world!
The whore has cum.
Let Kate
receive
your dick!

had her hand snaking involuntarily down her tummy, she vowed to stay away until after New Year's Day. The kids would be okay if they missed a couple of Sunday school classes-- far better off than if their mother was publicly ostracized for masturbating in the pews.

Evading church was one thing, but there was no way to avoid shopping, and though the mall was the one place on earth she most wanted to avoid, she had little choice but to make the pilgrimage during her lunch hours, though she postponed it to the last week possible.

The first day, as she'd passed the "Santa's Palace" display with its excessively long queue of mommies and three-year-olds, she had only a little trouble resisting the urge to go inside and sit on the bearded man's lap. By the third day, she found herself in line instead of in a toy store, and forty-five minutes later had stepped into the man's presence. "Ho, ho, ho!" he said, glancing about for the requisite child. "Now, who's going to sit on my lap today, young lady?"

"Um... I am?" she replied, flushed with embarrassment and not a little lust.

"Er... I suppose. Um..."

She took the opportunity before he could change his mind. Or before she could. In an instant, she was resting her pert derriere on his red mock-fur pants.

"Now, uh... what would you like for Christmas, my dear?"

"I think you know what I'd like," she heard herself saying, as if from a long way away.

"Is that... is that so?"

"Yes. In fact, I think I can feel it on my ass right now." She ground her butt down on the growing bulge in his pants and looked him straight in the eye. "So what'll it be, Santa? Care to make my day be merry and bright?"

"I... but, there are children here." His voice dropped several decibels but went up an octave. "Lady, I can't do this. I need this job. And my wife... well, anyway, I need this job. Maybe you can come back in a couple of hours, when I'm on break?"

It wasn't the same, now, with him out of character, and Katie shook herself loose from the hold her body had placed on her. "I... I'm sorry. I have to go."

"My break starts at---" He looked around at the expectant child next in line. "I mean, er, Rudolph needs to be fed at two-thirty. Perhaps you can be a good little elf and help me?"

But she was already gone, on her way to a snatch-fingering appointment in the women's rest room, and then back to work.

The following day she'd repeated the drill, this time straddling his lap instead of sitting on it, whispering in his ear that she wasn't wearing any panties under her dress, and couldn't he please give her a present? Unfortunately, she'd been overheard by the mother next in line, who began screeching and otherwise making a fuss, and she'd fled once more. This time she was so agitated and flustered she even didn't even stop to wash her hands afterward, and smelled of cunt all afternoon. Somehow, that was even better.

The next day, she had worked herself into a dripping, stinking frenzy, but before she could even get in line, two gentlemen in suit coats and ties approached her. "Ma'am, can we have a talk?"

"Not right now." They stood in her way. "You don't understand, I have some... shopping to do."

"This is the line to see Santa Claus, ma'am." He waited an instant, but she didn't object. "Please come with us."

She followed the men, gazing back wistfully at the Palace, and sighed.

In the privacy of a the mall back office, at the urging of the background Muzak version of "Bring a Torch, Jeannette, Isabella" (which her slutty little cuntbrain filled in with the "proper" lyrics)

Bring me off, you and that other fella'

bring me off with your fingers and tongues...

she offered to blow them both if they would ignore her little altercations with Saint Nick's doppleganger. One of the pair seemed up for it-- even when she asked that he wear a red-and-white fuzzy hat (the thought of which made her shiver deliciously)-- but the other was a complete spoilsport and reminded him about his girlfriend. She had been indignant about how they treated customers, and even made noises about how much money they would miss out on when she told all her friends not to shop here, but in the end, they had kicked her out of the mall and in very polite and apologetic terms asked that she not return. Until next year, at the very least.

Somehow, she did get her shopping done in smaller, family owned stores, though it cost her a bit more in both price and gasoline. And she tried in vain to find a Salvation Army Santa, hoping that he would prove more amenable to her offerings, but though SA Clauses were ubiquitous in every normal year, for some reason she couldn't find one. And wasn't that just like a man? Always lurking about, swinging his thick juicy... um, bell... around until you actually needed him. Then: nowhere to be found!

And, oh, how she needed him! She needed him in her chimney something awful.

***

"An entire sleigh on your front lawn?" The idea was immensely hot to her

(Just hear those sleigh bells jingling
ring-ting-tingling, too.
Come on my face together
then put on all your leather: let's screw!)

but she suppressed her excitement. She was at work, after all, even though most of her coworkers had slowly trickled out over the last hour or so to get an early start on the holiday traffic.

"Yeah, we bought it last summer at Bronner's in Frankenmuth."

"Last summer? What kind of shop sells Santa sleighs in summertime?"

Whitney giggled. "I know! It's a huge Christmas store that's open like three hundred sixty-odd days a year.

Katie imagined what it would be like to live in a place that was Christmas all year round. I might have to move to Frankenmuth, she murmured.

Giddy-yap giddy-yap giddy-yap it's great
this pussy I ate.
She's riding me long with a dong
while the twins and you masturbate!

That was the moment Kensington chose to show up in her cubicle, blathering on about something she wanted done. She was wearing her typical power-suit, supplemented with a Santa hat to add a touch of whimsy. Even Katie had to admit it was rather fetching.

She made her goodbyes to Whitney and hung up the phone as over the office P.A. system, the next song started:

Have yourself a merry little clitoris:
Kensington is gay.
Grab her by the hair and force her to obey.

and though Katie really wasn't into girls, something about being pleasured by the mouth of Kensington Tate, bitch-bane of her existence, was putting her in serious danger of leaving a puddle in her chair.

"Hmmm?" she replied, having not really been listening to the other woman but instead wondering what her tits looked like.

"I said I need it done before the end of the year because the conference is January 3rd, and I want to make sure I have time to proofread it this time."

Katie grabbed her coat and her keys and retorted, "I'll do it after New Year's."

The blonde's smile was icy. "I don't consider that acceptable, and I'll go to Hal."

"Kensington," she sighed, "you can feel free to go straight to hell," and drawled the last word enough that she could later claim she'd said "Hal". Plausible deniability.

Through the night she will seduce your pussy
if you will allow.
Hang an "I'm a slut!" sign on that stupid cow!

That had her nipples stiff and was giggle-making, but not very practical. However, there was something the illustrious Miss Tate could provide her with which would give her joy...

She stood up, purse in hand, and made a mock-kissing sound at the woman. "You're under the mistletoe," she lied in explanation, and when Kensington looked up to see if it was true, Katie plucked the hat from her head and walked away.

Ignoring Kensington's indignant "Hey!" and placing the bitch's hat on her own head, she strutted out of the office to the unabashed laughter of her colleagues, the closing lyric on her lips, hoping no one heard her singing about having her merry little clitoris, now.

***

This year's trip to the guest bathroom to get dolled up was a mirror image of last year: the same, but with some element of reversal. Every minor action, from slipping on her bra to applying her eyeliner, was done with a sensuous delicacy. Even smoothing the wrinkles in her stockings was performed with relish, savoring every last ripple and pulling the sheen taut on her thighs. Last year, while putting stuff on for that idiot Colin, her movements had been entirely mechanical and meaningless; now the feeling of her own body beneath her hands was causing her to juice in excited response. Her panties would be ruined by night's end, she felt certain.

There were other differences, too: she'd complemented this year's outfit with matching elbow-length gloves, for instance. The main shift, however, had been in her choice of color: this time, every silken inch of her lingerie was a shimmering black. And no slippers, now, however sexy; no, this year the fuck-me pumps came out of the closet, glossy and sleek, elevating her ass in that way she knew men drooled about. She avoided looking in the full-length mirror: it was all she could do to keep from lying back on the bed and fucking herself with her hands, and she still had some minor preparations before it was time. She pranced into the living room with a swing in her hips.