A Lesbian Christmas Story

Note: Sorry the state made me edit this so much - I hope you still understand it. Also, this story is rated X (for language), so if you're of a delicate nature stop reading now!

A Lesbian Christmas Story

By one thousand wolves

Copyright 2008

It was a storm and darky night. Frozen tin can wind chimes hung askew from the porch awning, clanging in the winter gales. Santa's beard was made of hostile wasps. The insects, black and yellow, hummed and writhed on his face. One lighted on my arm and stung me in the heroin vein, injecting venom into my bloodstream and making me allergic to everything. Christmas trees burst into flames in a field of snow-covered scarecrows. I ingested a vial of crushed medicated blue roses to stave off infection and lit my fourth cigarette of the witching hour.

"Witch board, witch board, spirits at the switch board," Lesley said, navigating the Ouija with a clear, upside down drinking glass. "Give me a cigarette, before I slap you so hard in the face your head spins around like that cunt in the Exorcist."

"You said cunt," I replied, appalled.

"You think that's bad?" Lesley asked, setting her glass aside for dramatic effect. "Check this out: (Censored By Homeland Security)."

"Woah," I said, holding my hands up and taking a healthy step backwards. "That'll be enough of that kind of language."

"Let's play a game called, How Desperate Are You For A Blowjob."

"How do you play that game?" I asked, seeing potential in the name alone.

"Okay," Lesley said, her breath making the flame dance on the tip of the candle that stood in a silver stand on the living room floor. Wax pooled and dripped down the side, hardening in the fabric of the carpet. "Here's how you play. I'm going to say something to you, and then you have a choice. You can either put your penis in my mouth, or admit you're a (Censored By Homeland Security) and give me ten dollars."

I happened to have a ten spot burning a hole in my pocket.

"Okay," I said, removing the bill and holding it firmly between thumb and forefinger.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," I said.

"There's a ten percent chance I'll bite it off."

"Uh..." was all I could think to say to that.

"Now listen," Lesley said, rising to her knees. "There's something you need to understand. As you know, I'm a lesbian, and I don't like the idea of you shooting a piping hot load of semen down my throat and gagging me with your cock until tears of shame squirt from my mucus membranes. I don't want to castrate you, but it's crucial that you understand that, when I say there's a ten percent chance, I mean there's a real, honest to God ten percent chance that I will clamp down on your dick with my teeth harder than a bear trap on a mongrel dog's hind leg. Now, the odds are very much in your favor. There's a ninety percent chance that you'll smack me around a little, pull my hair for good measure, have your perverted way with my tonsils, then celebrate with a victory cigarette while I spend the next forty-five minutes gargling with antibacterial soap and contemplating the rough draft of my suicide note."

"I'm in," I said, releasing the ten dollar bill. It fluttered to the ground, a corner catching the candle fire. Lesley picked it up, blew it out, and unzipped my jeans.

"We'll put the money in the center. Neutral territory. If you put your cock in my mouth for a second and then back out before you cum, I get the money and I also get to kick you in the balls."

"What's with these new rules?" I asked.

"Shut up," she said. "You need to use that brain of yours. See, the future of your dick depends a lot on how fast you can orgasm. The longer you keep it in there, the more dangerous it gets. Simple mathematics."

"Wait," I said, "I don't think I understand the rules anymore."

"That's because you're an idiot. Okay, here we go."

I placed my semi-erect penis in Lesley's mouth and she ripped it off with her teeth like a wolf tearing a cheap, stringy piece of steak. Her mouth overflowed with blood and I screamed, shredding each and every one of my vocal chords.

"And what would you like for Christmas?" Santa asked, the wasps crawling in and out of his eye sockets buzzing like a frayed power cable. They bunched together and winked at me.

"A penis," I gasped. The living room window was glowing orange from the burning scarecrows.

"Here you go," Santa said, and pulled (Censored By Homeland Security) out of a burlap sack by the hair of his Presidential head.

END