The Christmas Carole Affair

"Sure, go!" I told him, "First though, do you know anything about what Caroline Christmas has been up to lately? Oh, and if you see them, ask either Santa Bear or the Sugar Plum Fairies about her while you're there... and also, what's in that big envelope those perv's gave you? Other new business Bob, or just sample lad's magazines?"

"Nothing work related, boss. Just some suspects that I'll need to keep my eye on! I'll peruse this later for ah, research, yea... research purposes. Just times when I've got a clogged drain and need to call in someone, as it were," he simpered, reluctantly leaving the thick packet on his desk. "And, no, I haven't seen Carole around town in weeks, but the Mrs. might have. Young Martha's might know also. She's got herself a good position with Lady Vixen now and doesn't have to stand out nights in the cold on street corners, neither! She's a six pence girl now for a nice rub and tug, no longer a common guttersnipe bunter gobbling nobs for just a pence a-pop! Martha gets to hear all of the gossip from the clients, including some from inside the castle, and the other girls and she brings it home for my wife's ears on her off days. She'll be home today, I imagine, so you can check and see. We're hoping that Lady Vixen will take in young Belinda next year, too, once she turns thirteen... it's important to get a young girl set in her career as early and securely as possible!"

Lady Vixen ran undoubtedly the fanciest and most upscale knocking shop just off of the High Street near the town square just downhill from the castle. Her girls specialized in strict deportment and obedience to their well-heeled clients wishes, albeit in a relatively safe and secure environment. From what I'd heard, some of the gals liked their amusement extremely secure, with stout leather restraints and other instruments of chastisement. For that matter, quite a few of their gentleman callers seemed to rather enjoy a good bit of submission to a haughty mistress equipped with a riding crop, and eager to apply it! Word was that Big Red's #1 enforcer, the Krampus himself, called the place home. Word was, the scary brute was a switch, with the switches, and enjoyed both giving and receiving festive presents and was extremely partial to golden showers.

As an investigator on his own, Bob was pretty much useless and invariably not even worth a copper of his salary, but he and his wife did have an ear for gossip and between the two of them they generally knew any and every rumor worth knowing. I'd originally hired him as an act of charity as a favor to my old late partner Jacob Marley, who had the habit of regularly buttering his buns. I still often regretted it, but in truth he did made for an adequate bookkeeper and secretary, especially when I made him wear a dress, wig and high heels here in the office every day. Now if he would only shave regularly and take it a bit easier when applying the white pancake makeup.

I let Bob scuttle off to the baths, where if nothing else the waters (and the steamy action) were much hotter than here in these cold chambers. Casually scanning inside the folder on his desk I found his collection of candid prints of gentlemen bodybuilders in an aroused state of rigidly muscular un-attire. Ah, just his usual bathroom reading materials. In addition there was a colorful illustrated periodical entitled 'The Right to Bear's Arms', which quite shockingly depicted groups of extremely muscular and hairy men wearing black leather forcefully inserting their paws into each other's fundaments, and to quite an alarming depth! No doubt, this was possibly a reason why Bob often had difficulty sitting or even walking after his regular visits to the bath house.

As for the well-worn collection of 'The Illustrated Adventures of Twink the Elf', the less said the better. My own collection of 'bathroom research materials' weren't much better, except that I'd like to think that the superior artwork of 'Elf Girls Tied in Tinsel' is destined to become a holiday classic of the genre.

As for the Crotchitch daughters, finding a situation for them at Lady Vixen's was good fortune indeed! I'd always been fond of Martha and now young Belinda was starting to ripen nicely as well. Both girls were (like their father) models of submissive obedience and always eager to please their uncle Scrooge during my regular visits to the family. Bob was rather incapable of handling many of his family responsibilities (and not much better with his business once here either) and in the spirit of holiday helpfulness I've tried to provide service to Mrs. Crotchitch with her more personal needs for over a decade now. Their youngest son Tim is quite the scamp and rascal, and is already at his young age the best second-story burglar in the city. In good light, he bears more than a passing resemblance to me, as a boy of the same age, but Emily has never confessed if I am his father, or if she had other admirers during that time.

Heck, I'd bet heavily against any of the children being Bob's. She's plumper now but still a squealer, and it had been awhile since I'd given her holiday goose a good internal basting and seasoning, so a visit to the Crotchitch house seemed as good a place as any to start my investigation as any.

***************************

It was a slight disappointment that both Martha and Belinda were out doing the shopping, so I had no one to rim my tight rosebud while I porked their mother's roundmouth, plowing her back field as she giggled, bent over her kitchen table. Her plump ass fit my cock like a glove, as I drove her hard all the way up to brown town, fishing for chocolate trout.

Since I was in something of a hurry, I held myself to just one booty-blast into her fart-box before we got down to exchanging gossip over a brisk pot of tea. Mrs. Crotchitch then demonstrated her oral skills at the whore-pipe, trying some mouth-to-junk resuscitation, she (between mouthfuls) shared her tittle-tattle with me and I started to get a better idea about the nature and character of the woman I was hunting for.

Unfortunately, no one had seen Carole Christmas in at least a week. There was just a vague rumor that she hung out sometimes at Goldilock's, a gay leather bear nightclub. Usually in the back room where the on-going poker game was held. This was a good place to find Santa Bear or his seven very gay elves, his vocal backup singing group, the Sugar Plum Fairies.

Not my usual sort of place, but the bear did know everyone and everything happening in Christmas Town. I bid the Crotchitch household a very fond farewell and wrapped my scarf up around my neck tightly to ward off the cold once more and forced myself back out into the snow.

*******************

Passing by the mid-town arena, I noticed that the Tranny Siberian Orchestra was playing tonight, but sold out as usual. I didn't much care, I'd seen them before a couple of dozen times. Even the holiday classics, like 'Who are you doing New Year's Eve', 'Blue Balls Christmas' and 'I Saw Mommy Blowing Santa Claus' can get stale over the decades.

The show I really wanted to see, the Slutcracker, was completely sold out, and had been for weeks. This classic performance of Tchaikovsky's timeless Christmas ballet would be performed by a dozen of the finest pole-dancers, featuring the signature pas de deux the 'Dance of the Sugar Tits Fairy'. Now that was a holiday classic!

Just past the central town square up ahead, on a side-street, I'd find Goldilock's and hopefully some knowledgeable bears or their cubs. Up at the next corner I stopped to give a pair of cute penny-girls a small coin each and a pat on the head. Their lips looked too cold and blue to get down to the cream filling of anyone's holiday éclair and I bid them to take a respite and get themselves creamed-up properly with a hot cocoa first. The young promising sluts of today are our future strumpets and trollops of tomorrow!

As always, there was no nativity scene in Christmas Town's square. This wasn't for any religious reasons... as usual no one could find three wise men or a virgin. There was a big Christmas tree in the center but, as always, there was a big fuss over who'd get the contract to decorate the tree and town square. I think this year, like last, it was a $10 billion ornament contract and of course it went to Halliburton.

The lawsuits from the usual sore losers will go on for years! Everyone accused Santa of using illegal immigrant labor. Rush Limbaugh said the gifts were part of some kind of socialist giveaway program. The AFL-CIO claimed that Santa underpays his elves and brings in foreign ones via H1B. Even the town mayoress said that she will not be exchanging gifts this Christmas with the councilmen, like they used to. She got tired of all the so-called 'big men' promising large things and then not delivering.

I tipped another small copper to some bare chested lady carolers in the square and admired how the frozen ice was dangling from their nipple rings, as they sang:

Pretty titties

Naked titties

Dressed in holiday style

In the air there's a feeling

Of titsmas.

Oh, yes indeed!

****************************

Inside Goldilock's, there were the usual assorted bit of eye-ball queens, gal-boys and basket-shoppers all looking for an afternoon of rough-trade, but I didn't make eye contact with anyone or anything until I was safely backstage and saw Santa Bear himself holding court.

The hairy old bear was looking very himself, today. A broad muscular daddy-bear of the old school and a three time winner of the Ernest Hemingway Look-Alike Contest in Key West, he was dressed in his usual performance costume of black leather chaps over his blue jeans and nothing else but a forest of chest hair covering his gold nipple rings and chest. He was bored and quite in the mood to talk, but had nothing to say worth repeating. He hadn't seen Carole in over a week... maybe two, but perhaps the Sugar Plum Fairies had seen her since then. I had been dreading that... none of the Seven Gay Elves were wrapped up too tightly in the head, or remotely tight in the sphincter anymore either. Still, they were now my last hope.

The Fairies hosted a seemingly endless on-going poker game backstage and most evening most of the serious gamblers could be found hanging out here, but this afternoon they were alone, and utterly bored to tears.

"What's the score?" I asked Bitchy, the only one of the elves that I knew even semi-casually.

"I'm up by a head!" He smiled, showing off to me the severed tip of an elf penis. "Want me to deal you in?"

Yep, they were seriously bored this afternoon and playing 'Chop Poker' again. The loser of a hand getting his elf saucer chopped off with a meat cleaver! They're elves and their pricks would grow right back again in just a few minutes... but fuck, that had to be painful anyway!

"Nope," I declined, "stakes are way too small for me!" To accentuate my point I unzipped my Royal Albert and slapped its eleven and a half inches upon the table, well away from the cutting board.

"That's one big drumstick on that turkey!" Twinky gasped, unable to remove his eyes from my holiday yule tree. I could sense Horny sneaking up from behind me, his little elf paws already stroking his far less impressive elf lollipop, and I gave him a fast kick in the balls that parked his skanky ass on the carpet and his nose out of my rear business.

Queeny, a rather flamboyant male elf decked out in a sequined ladies evening gown and full elbow length white gloves, sighed with undisguised longing as I tucked my trouser sausage back away. But I had his complete attention now and he actually had heard a rumor that quite got my attention.

"Your idiot nephew, Fred," Queeny gushed, "he's out by the castle gate and letting no one inside. When I saw him this morning, he was warbling some song about a 'Vertically Challenged Drummer Child of Undetermined Gender'. Madness! No one is entering or leaving the castle... and that means trouble! Oh, and I'd seen Carole speaking with him just earlier this morning, too!"

Don't be misled by the happy simple cheerful face of my nephew Fred. He may look like an idiot and he might sound like an idiot, but deep down in his core, he really is an idiot. Unfortunately, I now realize why there is an incest taboo... that screwing your hot slutty sister, nightly, can indeed lead to unfortunate consequences, like Fred!

It didn't help that Fred had married a bright young thing even dimmer than a sooty gas lamp. She had been at least rather pretty, maybe even exceedingly pretty, and always willing... both on her knees or on all fours. She had a mouth made for cock sucking; with a dimpled, surprised-looking, capital face; a ripe little mouth, that seemed made to be kissed and filled with penis pudding. Altogether she was what you would have called provoking, you know, quite a satisfactory shag... and far too neglected in the bedroom!

Then, sometime back in the 1960's, my nephew dumped her cucking slutty ass and promptly acquired some hippy round-heeled blonde slapper from California whose sausage wallet dick-depot was even more worn out than his ex's. Worse, this new even more vapid slag didn't seem to have a single functional brain cell! She talked, babbled really, constantly, but nothing out of her cum dumpster ever made the least bit of sense.

Fred was too stupid to create this sort of trouble. If anyone loved Christmas and lived it in his heart three-hundred and sixty-five days a fucking year, it was simple happy Fred. Someone had to be pulling his strings, and I suspected at once his hippy-dippy gutter-slut floozy. He at least could be reasoned with... especially since I carried in my long coat pockets an eighteen-inch persuader made out of lead pipe with duct tape wrapped around the handle. One of us would make him see sense!

***************

"A Merry Little Day of Winter, uncle!" Cried Fred's invariably cheerful voice as I approached the closed castle gate to meet with my idiot nephew and his even more clueless doxy.

"Bah!'' I said, "Humbug! It's fucking Christmas, and don't give me that 'Keep the Saturn in Saturnalia' crap either.''

"Uncle," his air-headed California hedge-whore vacuously stated, "please accept without obligation, implied or implicit, our best wishes for an environmentally- conscious, socially-responsible, politically-correct, low-stress, non-addictive, gender-neutral, celebration of the winter solstice holiday, practiced within the most enjoyable traditions of the religious persuasion of your choice, or secular practices of your choice, with respect for the religious/secular persuasions and/or traditions of others, or their choice not to practice religious or secular traditions at all... and a financially-successful, personally-fulfilling, and medically-uncomplicated recognition of the onset of the generally-accepted calendar year, but with due respect for the calendars of choice of other cultures or sects, and having regard to the race, creed, color, age, physical ability, religious faith, choice of computer platform, or dietary preference of the wishee."

What the fuck? Worse, her eyes never once even blinked either! I didn't have any better answer ready on the spur of the moment, so I just replied, "Bah!'' again, and followed it up with "Humbug.'' When in doubt, stick with the holiday classics. Now I was quite certain that knocking up my slutty sister had been a very bad idea.

Fred, full of the new seasonal spirit, started some jolly rendition of one of his new, modern politically correct carols, singing 'Chestnuts Roasting on a Safely Maintained Continuously Monitored Nontoxic Eco-friendly Outdoor Fire for which I do Have a Permit'. Which was quite a mouthful! Fortunately, I could out-think my idiot nephew any day of the week.

"I see..." I slyly told him, clasping one hand conspiratorially across his broad shoulder, "you can't be too careful when singing Christmas carols; they're teeming with anti-government undertones and urging anti-social behavior, all of them! The worst, most blatant example is 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire'. First of all, there are ordinances against open fires. You can't just flame one up wherever you want. If everybody started having open fires, imagine all the carbon monoxide detectors that would go off! Also ... chestnuts. Really? Do you know how many kids have nut allergies these days? These kinds of songs really need to be looked at by the FDA as conspiracies perpetrated by the National Association of Nutmeat Makers and Salters."

Poor Fred was confused already, nodding his head up and down like a reindeer bobble-head doll.

"And folks dressed up like Eskimos," I continued. "Is everybody is wearing pants of mottled sealskin and caribou skin coats trimmed with wolverine? Clearly some ethnic bias or prejudice there. Then that line, 'And so I'm offering this simple phrase, to kids from one to 92. Merry Christmas ...', does life end at 92? Are 93-year-olds in a subclass? Don't centurions deserve holiday wishes? Clearly age discrimination! Those carols... all of them! The hurt goes on and on, from the anti-animal 'one-horse open sleigh' to the disabled-insensitive 'Do you hear what I hear?' Forget, 'I'm Dreaming of a Multicultural Christmas'... let's all sing together 'O Come Let us Adore Him or Her (or It)!"

Fred's dim eyes glazed over at once and he collapsed into the snow in a semi-epileptic fit. His brain was trying to think... and I think he hurt himself while trying. I didn't even need to discuss EPA findings about flying reindeer methane emissions. Rudolph is apparently a fan of beans.

His blonde twat (I never could remember her hippy name) was too dim to be fooled by logic so I let her naturally expire due to severe lead poisoning, by braining in her empty skull with my lead pipe persuader, repeatedly. She wasn't elven, or Christmas canon, so I hoped I had done Christmas Town a permanent service by spreading her brains across the snow!

I pulled the castle doors open and waltzed right in.

****************************

Almost everyone who mattered in Christmas Town was there, lots of them, bleeding mostly, their heads and asses mounted up on impaled pikes. Carole Christmas was there alright, loudly singing her new politically correct anthems, while she lopped off heads of the establishment with a sickle. Very druidical and old-old school... I had to give her points for that!

Inside the castle, the battle lines had been drawn and the coup was apparently long over. The Kringle Gang, including Big Red Fat and Jolly himself, had lost and were now awaiting retribution. I would have liked to have thought that most of the old regime would have remained faithful unto the end, but to my jaundiced eyes the two sides of foes looked much even in strength, and the usurpers had all of the sharp cutlery. The elves, ever treacherous, had largely turned coat and followed the side with the most guns.

Even Frosty, now apparently the 'Indifferently-Sexed Snow Person', was holding an AK-47 and menacing a bunch of sad, dejectedly looking toyshop elves that had remained loyal. Blood was everywhere, covering the snow of the castle courtyard and each time that Carole swung her sickle, another elf's head flew off. Alas, unlikely to be for the permanent. The damned elves could regenerate their lost heads... as well as lopped off penises. It's always worth the effort to try and kill an elf, but the bastards seem to be nearly immortal and the cure never sticks.

The entire vile bunch would be back again tomorrow, as sure as there is a $ in Chri$tmas.

I think her chorus of lackeys were singing something about 'Grandma Allegedly Got Run Over by a Non-Human Perpetrator', when they noticed me and an awful lot of gun barrels started to get pointed in my direction and a few twinkle-toed traitors came over my way with swords to escort me over to where the main party was happening.