Stars and Angels

Note: This story is a complete work of fiction, and in no way represents the personal experiences of the author. It is primarily a love story for anyone to read, but it is erotic, and if you're offended by incest, gay lovers, mild language, or graphic descriptions of straight sex, I strongly suggest that you don't read this!!! That being said, this is my first story and I hope you all enjoy it.

*

Christmas Eve

The sky was glittering. When Glinda looked up she felt a bit dizzy; she wondered if it were really stars she was seeing or if angels had strung up the holiday lights. She shivered with cold. It was so deeply winter that the air actually hurt to inhale, so she kept burying her face further into her red, fuzzy scarf.

Glinda listened absent-mindedly to the sound of carolers passing on the sidewalk next to her, listened to the bells jingling on the sides of the carriage of which she was an unenthusiastic passenger, listened to the horses snort and clop merrily through the snow on the asphalt. After spending her entire life in New York, the charms of the city and old-fashioned carriage rides wouldn't raise her spirits. She shut her eyes and prayed that Christmas would just vanish. It was a similar prayer to the ones she'd murmured every December during her childhood, but maybe after eighteen years the gods would finally hear her and she would wake up long after Christmas had gone.

* * * * *

December 24, 1989

Dear Diary,

Today Daddy died. I was out throwing snowballs with Mallory and Mommy was lying there sleeping. She was in one of her deep sleeps so she didn't hear him fall. I feel sick and very sad. I love Daddy a lot. Maybe God will wake him up tomorrow. It's Christmas and nothing bad can ever happen on Christmas. I wanted to send a letter to Santa asking to give Daddy life instead of presents but I don't think he'll get it in time. I can't sleep tonight, but I'll try. I'm crying too much.

When she was six, the Fairy Girl (as her father affectionately called her) lost her daddy. He fell down two flights of stairs in their home after suffering a mild stroke and broke several ribs. He may have lived, but his wife had passed out drunk at the kitchen table. Fairy Girl found him first when she came inside, covered in a thick winter coat and a light sprinkling of snowflakes.

The thing Glinda remembered most these days wasn't the awkward way he was sprawled out on the floor or the blood on the carpet, but the large, beautiful pine tree in the corner. Daddy bought it at Central Park the day before and had decorated it while she was out. The lights were turned on and the ornaments were colorful and enchanting. All that was missing was the star on top: Glinda put it up every year.

That year felt least like Christmas to Glinda because her mother was crying and her father was gone and there wasn't even a star to top off the tree. Fairy Girl sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the tree, gently touching every glass ball and garland and popcorn kernel as Daddy had left it, waiting all day for one of the holiday miracles she'd always heard about to happen and her father to burst through the front door.

* * * * *

The morning before, bright white light had woken her up, streaming in through her bedroom window. When Glinda forced her eyes open, she saw the first snowfall of the year, fluttering elegantly and wetly outside.

She went to the bathroom to get dressed for work, although she would have done anything to get out of it. She worked at a coffee shop with her best friend Jean; her only real friend. Jean was dragging her to a party at a friend's house tomorrow night. "You need to get out and meet people," she'd told her. "Actually do something for the holidays."

Glinda didn't care. She stared at her reflection, wondering where the lonely child she still felt like had gone. She had short blonde hair that didn't quite reach her shoulders. The platinum streaks she'd bleached in had almost grown out, making her look a bit older and more sophisticated. She had big, bright blue eyes and quite pale skin. She was definitely too short and thin to be a conventional beauty, and she could cup her breasts neatly in the palms of her own small hands, but she thought she looked nice enough.

Daddy had always told her so. He'd call her his beautiful girl, taking her to the theatre on Broadway to see musicals, buying her peanuts during the intermission and fanning her with the playbill when she got too hot.

Glinda listened to the running water in the shower, waiting for the steam to fog up the windows before she'd bother undressing. It was too cold in that house. The tiles beneath her feet froze her toes. She remembered how Daddy used to nibble on them, to dance her around the house, to call her a Fairy Girl.

"Why do you call me that?" she asked him once.

"Call you that? Isn't it true, my girl?" Daddy had joked.

"How -- I'm no fairy." She thought of the illustrations in the books Daddy read to her.

"You're not? I thought I saw wings hiding back there somewhere..." and he would grab her and tickle her until she cried mercy, mercy.

Glinda realized that she was a little old to still miss him. But how could she not? Even though it had been forever, she remembered him perfectly. He was tall and muscular, and he had brown hair that was lightly graying at the temples. He was a beautiful man with beautiful brown doe eyes that crinkled in a smile, with a ringing laugh that warmed her heart. He'd tease her about the princes in Disney movies and fairy stories, promising her that someday she'd have her very own prince.

Glinda was too young to understand, but now she did and it made her angry, resentful. She may be a woman now and not a child but she would much rather have her Daddy back instead of Prince Charming. She sometimes imagined her prince finally rescuing her, but Prince was really her Daddy in disguise.

Glinda took her hot shower, soaping her body vigorously, trying to wash away pain like dirt. After drying in a fuzzy towel, she escaped into the hallway and began dressing herself. She'd only gotten as far as her black cotton panties and bra when she stopped, her nerve endings tingling from the shower and thoughts of Prince waking her up on Christmas morning.

He'd be tall and handsome, with a strong and musky scent. Glinda sighed softly, leaning back against the wall. He'd take her and kiss her and call her his beautiful fairy, and he'd kiss her again only this time less gently and with need. Her fingers slipped inside of her panties and she slid them down over her lightly trimmed bush, nudging them through her swollen pussy lips. She gasped at the first touch to her clitoris -- fantasies like these always aroused her quickly.

"Open up your legs, baby," Prince would say, breathing fast. Glinda stripped quickly for him and he lifted her up (Daddy had been very tall, she remembered, so the best and most comforting thing was for him to reach down and raise her off the ground, holding her neatly so they were eye to eye). Now she felt every detail, the heaving of his chest through the soft cotton shirt he wore, his erect nipples and the growing bulge against her thigh telling her he loved her and would protect her.

Glinda massaged herself with her knuckle, tracing her hot, wet pussy lips and then slid a finger deep inside, flicking her clit with her thumb and imagining Prince's tongue there. Whether his mouth was lavishing her own or her vagina, he was always making noise -- moaning or gasping or simply breathing so she knew he was there and she felt him, voicing his pleasure and causing vibrations to hum and flow over her skin.

Prince grabbed her breasts and tongued the nipples, kissing them. He hugged her close and as soon as he'd unzipped his pants, his cock sprung out at attention. Glinda touched it innocently, angelically, filled with desire. He delicately slid his big hard cock in her. It was the most beautiful thing, and Glinda drove herself against him.

As she pumped with him, she imagined that each thrust brought both of them back to life. Glinda felt the petals spreading open as she fingered herself faster to keep up with the imaginary Prince's speed. Like a fire in her belly, the flames licked her opening. If sex were only magic, it could bring Daddy back to life and make up for his never being there, make up for her whole childhood wasted on a mother who didn't love her and whose eyes were always coated with alcohol and couldn't even see her, let alone raise her. Daddy... Prince came inside of her, the thick streams of cum shooting in her groping pussy, and the fire in Glinda erupted too until she felt her own pulse between her thighs, her whole hand wet. She slid down to the floor, quivering, heart pounding and her orgasm ended as so many of them did: in tears.

* * * * *

Having sex never pleasured Glinda like her own dreams did. She'd tried a few times with guys she wasn't that interested in, usually Jean's blind dates, but she just couldn't come with them. She would thrust and thrust and open her eyes and see not Prince but someone so much less real groaning weakly on top of her. Glinda knew Jean meant well and in some ways was the only one who cared if she was alive -- really living -- or just going through the motions. But she didn't go out on arranged dates anymore. She didn't bother.

All that day at work, making people lattes and scratching her sweating forehead beneath the ridiculous white fur brim of the Santa hat employees had to wear, Glinda kept thinking about a decision she'd made with Daddy when she was still a child. How she so vividly heard her little girl voice in her mind was a mystery to herself, but she clung to the memory like a lifeline:

"Oh, Daddy, you forgot to put the star on top of the tree!"

"So I did. Listen, Fairy Girl, why don't you put the star up?"

"Me?"

"Yes you, silly baby...don't you remember? You put it up every year!"

"Do I, do I really Daddy? Did I last year?"

"Well of course. You're my helpful girl. And guess what -- I have a surprise for you."

"What is it? Can I open my presents now?"

Daddy threw back his head and laughed; Glinda was glowing with pleasure for making him happy. "Not quite. But I do have something for you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ornament -- a new one.

"It's a fairy!" Glinda screamed, clapping her hands.

"Nope -- an angel, sweetpea. Doesn't she look like you? And it's for the top of the tree."

"But I thought the star went on top."

"It can. It's up to you, darling."

Stars or angels...should she put the star that looked like Daddy's sparkling eyes or the angel with the fairy wings who really did look like her with golden hair and shimmering eyes and a harp like a toy on the top of the tree this year?

* * * * *

Glinda sat on her bed, staring into her closet. The electronic train that Daddy had had was chugging around her Christmas tree. She hated decorating for the holidays but the realistic train noises reminded her so much of him and she could still imagine him beside her when she turned it on.

"Pathetic," Glinda murmured. "Too pathetic. A girl in her twenties going to an adult party and still wishing Daddy was here to help dress her." It's not like Glinda thought about him all the time. Sometimes whole days passed -- guilty days, days where she felt ashamed and like she was missing something she needed, and only remembered later at night when she felt turned on and alone who she'd missed. But at the holidays, she kept replaying scenes in her head. Scenes of Daddy, scenes of Prince, scenes of the death of the dream of both.

While Glinda gazed unseeingly into her closet, her mind drifted off what she would wear to the party that night and onto other memories of Daddy. She thought about rubbing between her legs again but figured it wasn't worth it; her hand would be tired and she would cry and have to shower again. The party was in two hours.

"Jean, if you didn't mean so damn much to me I wouldn't bother going!" Glinda said out loud.

Only Jean did mean everything to her. When Jean had first met Glinda, she did everything she could think of to cheer Glinda up. She took her to concerts, she threw her surprise picnics and brought her library books she thought she'd enjoy, and she gave her flowers on every birthday. It wasn't until she came over late one Valentines' night with a box of chocolates and discovered Glinda crying that she learned exactly what was troubling her friend.

"Sick, isn't it?" Glinda mumbled, sniffling. Jean handed her some tissues. "I sound awful."

"No, you sound like a poor little girl who lost her father," Jean said quietly.

"I never...I never was like that when he was alive."

"Of course not."

"I mean, I was only six. I was innocent. It's just that he was my whole world, and the only thing that meant anything...and he loved me, and when he told me I would find a prince..."

"Haven't you ever heard about Oedipus?" Jean asked her.

"Please don't start preaching Freud psychology to me..." Glinda groaned, covering her face with her hands.

"I'm just explaining to you -- lots of children develop an attraction to their parents. It's very normal!" Jean insisted.

"Yeah, I feel normal. I'm twenty-four years old and I'm single because I'm in love with my dead father. I'm sure it happens all the time," Glinda said with a sigh. Jean didn't know what to say. Glinda sighed. "It isn't that I'm actually in love with him, really. I don't know what I am. Because I didn't really have much of a mother, well, I depended on him. Everything about my past is so strange. I just miss him. I miss the good part of my life."

"Well, how about making the best of the life you've got now?" Jean tried, coaxing her with the open box of truffles.

She looked so hopeful that Glinda couldn't help but laugh. She selected a white chocolate truffle that looked irresistibly creamy and expensive and smiled. "Thanks, Jean. I'll try," she said, taking a bite.

"I'll try," Glinda said out loud, decidedly, standing up and walking straight into the closet. She grabbed a gorgeous, red velvet dress that looked like a Gothic ball gown and held it up to herself in front of the mirror. It was soft and lovely, and it hadn't been worn in years. Glinda smiled. "This Christmas, I'll really try," she murmured.

* * * * *

As soon as Glinda got to the party, she found Jean waiting for her. The party was at a fairly big house; she'd never met the host and apparently Jean hadn't either, but was invited by a friend of a friend. It was ridiculously crowded.

"You look beautiful!" Jean exclaimed when she saw Glinda, transformed into a spectacular vision complete with snowflake earrings.

"Thanks, so do you," Glinda replied, admiring the artful way Jean had done up her hair.

"Have a cookie?" Jean offered a tray of butter cookies shaped into bells and sleighs and things, topped with rich sugary sweet frosting. "They're warm -- freshly baked, too. I stole it right out of the kitchen," she whispered excitedly.

Glinda laughed and took one. "They look delicious. But what on earth is this supposed to be?"

Jean cocked her head and studied Glinda's cookie. "I don't know. It looks like the baby Jesus or something."

"Good God!" Glinda cried, laughing. "What kind of barbaric cookie cutter is that?"

"I don't know...listen, grab yourself a glass of champagne and go dancing. Enjoy the party -- I've gotta go mingle."

Glinda let Jean go. Jean was the perfect party girl, able to flutter gracefully and sweetly through the crowds, meeting guys and charming girls, but Glinda wasn't so good at it. She took the champagne but suddenly didn't want any. She made her way through all the fancifully dressed merrymakers until she found an empty seat on the couch in the front parlor. She sat there beside a pot of holly, watching people dancing with garlands like feather boas and kiss under mistletoe, wishing only to be with her father when she was young, setting out plates of cookies and carrots and a glass of fresh milk for Santa.

"Now Fairy Girl, stop bouncing around," Daddy said gently. "You need to go to bed! Early to bed on Christmas Eve or Santa might not come."

"Read me a story first?"

"Oh, alright..."

Glinda hid her eyes discreetly behind her hand, pretending to be resting on it, so no one could see her crying.

* * * * *

Christopher saw Glinda first. How could anyone, he wondered, have missed her? She sat by herself in a stunning red dress, cradling an untouched glass of champagne and staring impassively into space, and she wouldn't have looked more gorgeous or more heart-broken if she had been laughing or weeping.

He had strode in confidently, preparing to yell out, "Ho ho ho, merry Christmas!" trying desperately to have fun and be dignified in the ridiculous Santa costume he'd adorned for the party. Glinda stopped him cold. That blonde haired girl with the blue eyes stared at him; she saw him too. The way she was looking at him made him feel naked and uncomfortable, because he thought she saw through him.

Christopher pushed his way through the crowd, offering silent smiles to everyone, trying to get to Glinda before someone else did. He felt urgent. Glinda watched him approach. She could see it in his eyes from across the room, and she wondered why such a cute guy dressed up for the party was so unhappy. Still, she really wasn't in the mood.

Christopher almost went away, but the contemptuous look she was giving him made him want to step up to the challenge.

"Hi there," the guy said, grinning at her.

Glinda offered a half-smile.

"What do you want for Christmas?"

"Another glass of champagne?" Glinda suggested, hoping he'd fetch her one and she could escape.

Unfortunately for her, a whole tray of champagne went drifting by at that precise moment and Santa snatched one, handing it to her and taking the full glass she already held. In one swift motion, he ripped off the white beard he was wearing and drank the entire glass. "Waste not, want not," he said with a shrug and a smile.

Glinda tried not to laugh.

"Your name is?"

"Glinda. Who are you?"

"Can't you tell?" Glinda made a face. "Oh, alright. I'm Chris." As though wanting to introduce himself properly, Christopher removed his hat and white wig revealing a sexy crop of shoulder-length dyed-black hair and a handsome, youthful face. "It's a pleasure, Glinda."

Glinda shook hands and with a sort of defeated expression patted the seat beside her on the couch. "So," she began when he sat beside her. "Who coerced you into playing the fat and fuzzy man this year?"

"Easy now! Santa may not give you what you want this year if you talk about him like that," Christopher joked.

"I'm not worried. He hasn't given me what I want in eighteen years," Glinda replied.

Christopher bit his lower lip. Glinda took that moment to give him the once over. She couldn't tell what his body was like under the red coat, but he was wearing black silk pants, and judging from his legs, hands, and face, he was thin and well-built. A bit of a prince, perhaps. Anyway, he smelled nice too -- like cologne and peppermint, and he had a nice-sounding, low voice. He could have been a singer.

Christopher, in turn, looked at her. The red dress was low-cut and revealed a small, satisfying swell of cleavage and an unblemished pale neck and chest. It was like she was cut from perfect porcelain. Her face was round and very pretty, memorable by the dark makeup, bright red lipstick, and shimmering blue eyes. As if she had read his mind, she said, "Mine is lighter than yours. Do you think I ought to go darker?"

"What?" Christopher asked, confused.

"My eyeliner. Do you think I should go darker? We have the same skin tone almost, and yours is a lot blacker than mine."