Friday, November 23, 2018

Yule Error

Yule Error
Bobby Derie

"Where's the mistletoe?"

Joe blinked, wheels turning in his head. Terrible visions ran past his mind's eye as he replayed the events of the last hour.

"One of the elves crushed it and snorted it."

Mary blinked twice.

"Joe," she sighed. "Were you the elf?"

Shuddering, Joe sagged into his costume, the fake red and white fur suddenly a lot less warming than it had been a few drinks ago.

"It's okay, Joe." Mary tugged playfully at his beard. "But seriously, mistletoe is toxic if ingested. I'm not even sure if you can handle it, big guy."

She rearranged his hat...revealing a livid line on his scalp, black stitches poking through the skin. Mary was taken aback.


"Reindeer." Joe muttered, carefully pulling the cap back down over the wound. "I told the kid not to ride it, but..."

Mary shook her head, and Joe didn't finish. He watched her legs, covered in those tight green stockings, and heard the bells on her shoes jingle jangle as she peeked outside.

"No one in line yet. Stores open in an hour." She turned back. "Are you going to be okay? Want some coffee or anything?"

"It's too late for coffee," Joe found a peppermint stick and began sucking on it. There was always something clean and cool about peppermint.

Mary jingled her way over, hips swaying. She sat in his lap, warm ass pressed up against his crotch.

"What am I going to do with you Joe? You can't go on like this."

He popped the candy out of his mouth for a second, the ivory stick already being worn down like a prison shank. "It's just the season, Mary. Once the spring comes, I'll be fine. Get some sun, a little exercise. Dry out."

"But you come back," she ground her booty into him, just enough so that they could feel each other. "Every year."

She didn't add: and it'll start again.

Somewhere, an angel got its wings. Mary pushed herself up off of his lap. "Looks like we're on. You really ready, Joe?"

"How's my breath?"

The kiss was short and full, leaving behind the taste of Mary's lipstick, the warm memory of a small tongue slipping quickly into and out of his mouth.

"Good enough."


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