Tim Returns Home for the Holidays

This romantic story has sexual descriptions including fellatio, female masturbation, and heterosexual intercourse. There is an interracial fellatio scene. It also contains some pee references regarding snow events. All characters are of the age of consent.

My thanks to Kenjisato for his editorial assistance with this 2022 winter contest entry. He is a volunteer Literotica Editor.

'Hell. This isn't what I anticipated,' I sighed, although pleasantly surprised, as the last page of my master's thesis rumbled out of my printer.

I didn't expect it to go so quickly. Nothing else in life had worked that way for me in clawing my way through grad school. Four years as an undergrad interrupted by four years in the Army had delayed my life's ambitions. Yet, Army service made it easy to financially take the master's degree program in stride, using the GI Bill for Education. All that laborious time on task and planning had finally synchronized. Writing the thesis had smoothed out as I found my rhythm. Four years of Army time had dulled my writing capabilities and certainly didn't do much for my fucking civilian vocabulary. An MBA wasn't a breeze, but the insurmountable wall of writer's block that loomed before me had suddenly crumbled. It was done. My master's thesis lay in the tray. One more semester and I would be free.

Two weeks earlier, things had been different at the beginning of December. My writing had hit a brick wall, and I was literally at the point of snatching up my laptop and hurling it out the Graduate Student Floor's sixteenth-story dorm window. What stopped the insanity was a bugler's reveille ringtone on my phone -- a call from home. I set the laptop down and took the call.

"But ... Mom, I've got to submit my thesis ... it's not finalized. I can't get home for the holidays now. This is a do-or-die situation. It's a thesis, Mom ... no ... there isn't any flight to catch -- it's all drive time ...."

"Baby, you have to come home," she begged. "Your sister's gone this Christmas. She went overseas for six years, too - Japan - I think, honey. Some place over there on a ship again. Come home, Timmy, please. I don't want to spend Christmas ... alone."

"Mom, be realistic. Life doesn't always run smoothly, and you can't get everything you want -- when you want it -- or how you want it. I can't promise ... you're not alone; you have Uncle Ned and Aunt Sara .... It's my degree ... I can't ...."

I was exasperated. Moms can be melodramatic at times. Mine was a grandmaster of histrionics and manipulations. For instance, she never gave up on arranging for her friends' daughters to drop by on some pretext when I came home on leave. My mother was relentless in those contrivances. I'd walk in the door, and after a hug, there would be someone standing there who just happened to come by to pick up a book or gift for her mother.

'You know Timmy, her mama says she's not engaged. Don't you think she's lovely, Timmy?' she'd ask no sooner than they walked out the door. Not subtle at all.

Once in a while, it was a lovely girlwho usually already had plans of her own as to what she wanted to do with her beautiful body. None of those was a relationship with a GI on leave coming home for the holidays. Let's face it, a year ago, as a guy in uniform, I looked handsome, like the poster, but when women learned about my pay and my lifestyle, they were turned off -- if they were looking for a long-term relationship. And I, certainly wasn't looking for one of those yet. Today, a year after my ETS, my adult financial stability was barely upright as a full-time student. Sure, I enjoyed one or two of mom's enticements in some between-the-sheets time, but those were rare in a week-home scenario.

And, yes, Sis was on an aircraft carrier, again, back in southeast Asia. But probably not for six years. She'd get home sometime ... just not this Christmas. Neither would I, it seemed. This damn paper had me by the short hairs.

Two weeks ago, I was sure some calamity would screw up the thesis process. It was a nagging, foreboding thought in the back of my mind. It would take the form of a power surge to fry my hard drive; or a damn 'low-ink, change the cartridge.' It would probably be the one cartridge you don't have. Something to mess up the process in a similar way ten minutes before it was due or some such karma event. Yet, none of those terrorizing thoughts rumbling in the back of my mind came true ... the intensive research and analysis culminated smoothly, and the stewing over the structural content - elfinly - fell into place as though some holiday fairy dust had been sprinkled onto it. Finally, that mental quagmire that sucked my brain dry as a prune, my writer's block, moved aside as well.

I paid an online service to do the proofing, and they straightened out all the ... shit ... with formatting and even the footnoting corrections. The returned edit looked like it was some damn professionally published document I'd been staring at for days in the library stacks during my research! That major pain-in-my ... was done.

Miracles happen as the holidays approach; my thesis was proof of that. I listened to the radio as holiday music played amidst the rhythmic clatter of pages spewing out of the printer ... like the hoof beats of reindeer, the last page landed in the tall stack. The printer clicked and whirled and wound down. I lifted the document, as though it was a fragile antiquity inscribed on parchment paper. Page by page, I scanned it looking for ... anything ... with printing or formatting. It was golden. Mother ... fucking ... done!

The walk across the quad was brisk. A smile lit up my face; it had that shit-eating grin of a guy who just got laid by kinky twins. I delivered it to the secretary at the dean's office. Done. Holy Shit. It was done two days before winter break. I had visions of working through the Christmas holidays and barely making the deadline two weeks from now, when Mom's plaintive plea came to keep her company during Christmas.

Sitting in my dorm room, looking at the four walls, I had time to think. Everyone, well, almost everyone, had split for the holidays. I had two weeks to kill and figured I'd work on the remaining papers for my other classes. It felt good to be ahead for a change instead of being caught by the short hairs, as karma seemed to dump on me frequently. I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, and slowly exhaled a long breath as Perry Como's mellow voice floated out of the radio.

The words were from '(There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays.'

My eyes popped open. They fell on a family photo on my desk. The one taken the year before Dad was taken from us. That summer, Laura and I stood behind Mom and Dad, seated on the back porch bench. Laurie was in her Navy uniform. I was in my Army OD Greens. Mom wanted a picture of her proud military family as a remembrance for Dad, knowing we would both be on the other side of the ocean, so far away. The two knew time was short, but neither explained that to Laura and me. They threw themselves into making sure we had a lot of good memories from those two weeks we were both home that summer. Bereavement leave brought us back together that year during a sober Christmas as we laid Dad to rest.

The air was crisp, and the first snowflakes fell at the dorms. The winds were blustery as I threw some things into my old Army duffle bag. I used it for nearly everything. It was like Linus's blanket, you could say. My home was a nine-hour drive if you only stopped for fuel and drove straight through. I had made much longer journeys home from greater distances. It would be a piece of cake, nearly all Interstate once I reached the central crossroads. It takes nine or ten hours to make it to Armada on a good day. Our slice of Heaven amidst cornfields, orchards, and dairy farms.

What can I say? You can't turn down your Mother's request to come home, especially when you no longer have a valid reason. Being alone on Christmas sucks. It sucks worse if you are standing watch overseas as some asshole lurks in the hills surrounding you -- waiting for a chance to send your ass home in a body bag. During those times, I'd thought of my father's recollection of Patton's famous rant ... "No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making some other poor dumb bastard die for his country."

I did my part to ensure that happened.

"You lousy son-of-a-bitching mother-fucker! ... Fuck you, too, asshole ... Oh yeah, on that note, I hope you get syphilis from her!" wailed a voice standing on the sidewalk in front of the dorm as I flung my duffle bag into my Chevy Silverado's camper.

I watched as she stuffed her phone into her jacket and crumpled down to sit on her suitcase. The tears were in full-faucet mode, and those sobs shook her body like a marionette doll on strings. She was far too cute to be so distraught. Usually, I'd leave things like this alone and give the girl a wide berth. But I was in an upbeat mood. So I stuck my nose where it didn't belong.

"My name's Tim," I ventured. Frequently, I found that much better than asking people what was wrong ... which usually got me a pissed-off answer. My way was less confrontational. If someone were halfway civil or wanted to get something off their chest, they would spit it out. This girl certainly had plenty of chest to carry her burden.

"What?" she blurted out.

"Tim. My name is Tim," I repeated, "Do you need some help with your suitcase?"

"No. ... I don't ... know. Shit. I don't know what to do now. My boyfriend just dumped me. He told me his new girlfriend wouldn't let him come and get me for the break. He should already have been here, and he just now calls and whines he can't get me because ... fuck him."

"Ex-boyfriend, then?"

"Yes. Fucking ex-boyfriend, sorry," she sniffled. It came out as steam in the frosty air.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I didn't make arrangements to stay in the dorm, and I don't know anybody to come and get me right away. That would take hours anyway. Fuckin' asshole, sorry again."

"Where's home?"

"What?"

"Home, where's home for you?"

"Lansing, Michigan," she blurted out. Adding, "Fuckin' asshole. Sorry, my ex-fucking-boyfriend, not you."

"Lansing is about a hundred miles from my home. I could get you close by if you have someone to come and pick you up," I offered. It was the least I could do to help a damsel in distress.

"You'd do that? Give me a ride?" Her eyes widened, and the dour pout lifted a bit with a hopeful look edging onto her blustery cheeks.

"Sure. It's no big deal. Having some company on a nine, no, make that eleven-hour drive would be nice."

"I'm Abcde," she said, holding out her hand. "Spelled like A-B-C-D-E in the alphabet. My mom was delirious at the hospital when they asked her for a name. So she says, anyway. She just wanted to be a show-off whenever someone asked her my name."

It didn't take Abcde, pronounced Ab-see-dee, more than thirty seconds to decide. I hoisted her suitcase into the back of my truck.

"You a GI Joe?" she asked, looking at my tailgate and camper top.

"Was," I answered. "What gave it away?" I asked laconically.

She smirked, "Guess it was all those damn Ft. Bragg parachute stickers plastered all over the ass-end of your truck."

"Yeah. They are a dead giveaway."

We weaved our way out of the lot, headed to the two-lane exit out of Macomb, and headed northward toward Chicago. The landscape lay barren with miles of crumpled corn stalks from the fall harvests. The winds swirled the falling snow around us. At times the wipers were on full blast as the heavy-wet snowflakes, the size of golf balls, plopped quickly onto the windshield to obscure my vision. The farther north I drove, the more snow we encountered until I had to drop our speed for safety. It would add some time to the journey. Eleven hours was becoming like an accordion -- stretching out toward fourteen hours or so of drive time.

It gave Abcde time to expound on life, school, and why she was at W.I.U. instead of Michigan State. Time to rail against her ex-boyfriend for a while and eventually become less -- peeved about her new situation. She was a talker. I didn't mind. It was nice to hear a deeper-toned feminine voice and a few giggles, as the miles passed.

Quickly, I found Abcde had her personal suitcase filled with that attitude manifested overtly, through language and kinesics, by a young black woman's ability to talk with an attitude, walk with an attitude, act with an attitude, and be with an attitude. Part of her cultural background traits -- her self-defense mechanism out in the world. I saw it in the military. The bravado of push-back to establish boundaries for self-identification among a larger ethnic group. Fine by me, just as long as it wasn't affecting a mission. It was fine by me, too, for Abcde, with all her animation and exuberance. It accentuated her positively sexy look from top to bottom.

Eventually, when we approached Chicago, she changed topics and asked questions about the military in the lulls. I gave her a light brush stroke about my time there, my sister's background in the Navy, and my Dad's time in the Air Force.

"Abcde, we have a family joke. My Dad used to say that if ever war came to our country, at least the three of us had all the bases covered in experience on land, sea, and air. We'd be prepared to take the battle to them."

"You be drinking the Kool-Aid, GI. But that's cool. Defend us ... that's cool, too," she sighed. Her eyes had turned to look at me more closely. As though she was doing a character study for a sculpting class ... or something along those lines. I guess unabashedly checking me out might be another way to describe it.

"What up, Girlfriend? Don't be looking at me with those soul-sistah eyes. I ain't a replacement for ya' meatstick," I chuckled, doing my best Black impersonation. The last comment slipped out. I'd been thinking about it as I listened to her banter for over two hours. Sex had been sparse recently. I'd been holding up in the graduate study rooms in the library under mounds of documents gathering data for my thesis. It was all-consuming -- except for a few dates with Rosey Palm and her five sisters lately.

There was a brief moment of silence; then, she burst out in laughter. Her arms were waving around in the air over her head, and she danced as well as she could, buckled up in her seatbelt. I could see she thought my poor imitation was funny as hell.

"Soul-Sistah, my ass. You be funny, Tim," she giggled, amping up her mock vocabulary before turning more serious. Then out of the blue, her questions turned frank and forthright.

"Seriously, though, you ever been with ... a Black woman ... or any woman of color?"

"Black? No. Asian? Yes," I answered; the uncomfortable reply caught a bit in the back of my throat.

"Why not?"

The question was a surprise. I didn't have an answer to it.

"Asian, because it was overseas and ... expected."

"You live in the 'Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave' GI Tim. You didn't expect to fuck a Black woman here?" her bemused inquiry hung in the cab's air amidst the sound of Christmas music on the radio.

"I'll work on it. Make you happy, soul-sistah?" I quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Tim, sorry, I ... was being a bi-atch for a moment. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. Guess it was thinking about my ex-asshole. Just fuck whomever you want as long as you're comfortable with them."

Those dark eyelashes flashed a bit as she talked with that Black attitude trait, as she added, "I'm cool with that."

We were midway between Grand Rapids and Lansing, when the snow became lighter and the flakes smaller. The temperature had dropped, and the slush had given way to dryer pavement. The concentration needed to drive was more manageable, and I relaxed a bit. My hands eased up on the wheel, as my right hand dropped into the seat to rest.

"Not far to go," I breathed out. "I'll take you into Lansing, so you don't have to call someone to get you. Door-to-door delivery. Call it Christmas Spirit Delivery." We were northward bound in that sparsely populated hinterland outside Lansing. I'd get home later than I initially projected. That didn't matter. Mom wasn't expecting me. I hadn't called her, so my delay wasn't a big deal.

I was 'cool with that.'

"You're a true prince, GI Tim," she laughed. The cab was filled with her merriment, as she sang along with the radio 'Let It Snow, Let It Snow.' Abcde could sing! It was amazing to listen to her strong and vibrant voice taking command of the lyrics and making them her own.

"Ever kissed in a truck, Tim?"

I looked over at her, wondering where that came from. "Not driving, I haven't."

"How 'bout just a quickie one, so you could at least say you romanced a Black lady?" she giggled, as she latched onto my free hand and put it against her cheek. It was a slow, smooth, gentle movement. I felt the warmth and softness of her skin, as she rubbed her cheek against the back of my hand.

"Careful, Sistah, I need that hand to drive, and a kiss could be enough to cause me to take my eyes off the road. We might not make it home."

"Oh, I wouldn't want that, Tim. Just keep both hands on the wheel and your eyes on the road. Anyway, I wasn't planning on kissing your lips, sugar."

At that point in our conversation, I heard the unclicking of her seatbelt. She quickly leaned across the bench to stroke the outline in my pants. The soft curve in my jeans swelled and came to life. I groaned, sucking in a deep breath.

"Oh, hello, nice to meet you," she giggled, as her fingertips felt the bulbous endpoint and gave it a gentle circular rub.

"Abcde ..." I grunted, between clenched jaws, thinking this was a bad idea -- a terrible idea.

"Relax, sugar. I'm experienced at this. Please, put it on cruise control and slide your seat back a bit. Don't worry. Keep your feet away from the gas pedal and brakes. Trust me on that. Just keep your eyes on the road, not down here," she whispered, as her hands worked my belt and unbuttoned my jeans.

"Don't worry, Tim. I'll kiss you goodnight, hold you real tight, and all the way home, you'll be warm ... it's the least I can do for giving me a ride to my home for Christmas."

She was quick and good at pulling my clothing down to my knees. Her luscious lips met my glans just as she finished her sentence. Guess she was really experienced at this, as she indicated.