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A Missy Christmas
by Michael K. Smith







[This one got written because (1) I was feeling a bit guilty about not having submitted a Christmas story to the contest, (2) I've been thinking about doing a "rich kids" story, and (3) I was reminiscing about a semi-similar incident from college, involving an attic and a dormer window. Enjoy!]



Holiday get-togethers are a pretty big deal in my family, especially for July Fourth and Christmas. Smaller subgroups within the family celebrate Thanksgiving and whatnot together, but twice a year everybody makes a major effort to convocate.

For instance, Aunt Marie made advance plans for her whole family to go to Europe last July for some big special art museum thing, but Uncle Grant refused to hear of it because it would have meant missing the Fourth. So everyone troops off to Great-Uncle Edwin's twenty-room "summer cottage" in the Berkshires for a week every Independence Day, and every Christmas we all foregather at Grandfather Travis McIver's big old Victorian house in Dutchess County.

When I say "everyone," I'm talking about a contingent of adults, adolescents, and toddlers sufficient to occupy a small nation. I go to school with a couple of my cousins at St. Osbert's, of course, and we see some of these people more or less regularly at one country club or sports day or another, but putting all of them together at one time in one place, even a large, sprawling place, is always an interesting experiment in the chemistry of genetics and the physics of personality. And I've been going to these things twice a year for as long as I can remember.

My cousins are mostly an okay bunch, if you discount the usual adolescent neuroses. My first cousin George -- who, like me, is a McIver and a senior at St. Ozzie's -- is actually a few months younger than I am, but rather more daring. I learned how to smoke from him the summer we were both fourteen. His older sister, Cecily, caught us and ratted us out to both her mother and mine, and we caught all kinds of hell about it because, of course, my mother believed her over our protests of innocence.

See, Cecily's named after *my* mother because her mother and mine are sisters, in addition to her father and mine being brothers. Plus, Aunt Christine, who is father's sister -- one of them, anyway -- married Uncle Gerald, who is my mother's first cousin. It gets complicated. (At least no one is named after my father, which is probably just as well; "Randolph" is a pretty dorky name.) I think the idea is to keep all the money circulating tightly within the tribe forever.

As you can imagine, we've had a lot of advantages -- especially my generation -- but you shouldn't get the idea we're all a bunch of rich snobs and ne'er-do-wells. My great-grandfather, Grandfather Travis's father, who built the place in Dutchess County, was originally a gentleman farmer who did very well in the market back in the '20s and then somehow managed to get completely out of Wall Street shortly before The Crash. Then he invested in all the right technology companies just before World War II. Grandfather Travis, when he got his turn, knew what "semiconductor" meant about forty-eight hours after it was invented, and the family fortunes just kept growing.

But Grandfather and his father were/are strong Presbyterian types and they wanted the next generation to have to work for what they would, in time, inherit. My father and his siblings all received good educations but they were expected to labor for their bread afterward, and they did. Earlier last year, on my eighteenth birthday, my grandfather and my father sat me down and told me there was a trust fund waiting for me, but that I wouldn't get my hands on it until I was thirty. And even then, it had various restrictions to keep me from excessive frittering.

I started drawing a generous monthly allowance that very day, however, which was entirely mine to do with as I pleased. I could bury it in a hole in the ground, or invest it and learn how to manage it, or blow it all on candy -- it was all up to me. (My grandfather loves that parable about the talents of silver.)

I knew this milestone was coming, of course, having learned the details long ago from my older cousins. At first I was thrilled, but by Christmas I was beginning to be aware of the responsibilities it involved. Nobody was going to tell me how to spend my income, but nobody would rescue me if I screwed up, either.




So, anyway: Last month, I was spending the first evening of my first financially sort-of-independent Christmas leaning against my great-grandmother's piano in the third floor drawing room, trying to look suave in my new cashmere jacket and sipping a cup of my grandfather's really excellent hot cider. I was listening to George's sister, Astrid, and another cousin, Tommy Schroeder, politely but earnestly trying to pressure me into declaring for Princeton or Brown, respectively (where they each were serving their sophomore years, respectively). I had arrived with my family that afternoon wearing a Stanford sweatshirt -- trying, I confess, to get a rise out of my stolidly Ivy League kin -- and both of them apparently were horrified that I was seriously considering college on the West Coast.

The thing was, what we called "the other side" -- our second cousins who were the grandchildren of Great-Uncle Edwin -- had recently taken to hanging out at weird places like the University of Michigan, and Tommy especially was worried that the blight might creep over to our side of the family tree.

"But, Daniel, you need to go to a really good business school *here*," he was saying.

"I'm planning on electronics engineering," I replied. "Anyway, Stanford has a first-rate B-school. So does Berkeley."

Tommy sighed. "But it's not the same--" he began. Then he paused when George slipped up close behind him and whispered in his ear. Astrid was taking a slug of her own cider and didn't hear what was said . . . but I did, just barely: "She's here."

Tommy got a strange look in his eye. He straightened up a little taller and licked his lips (unconsciously, I suspected). I opened my mouth to ask who "she" was, but George shot me a stern warning look and flicked a quick glance at his sister.

"We'll talk again later," Tommy said to me. He seemed distracted. And then he and George were gone, trying to hurry casually.

Astrid raised a carefully shaped eyebrow and shrugged. "Boys," she decided, displaying the natural superiority of a twenty-year-old woman toward a nineteen-year-old male child. Then Carolyn, an "other side" cousin, came to plead Astrid's advice about the music for the customary dancing later , and I found myself all alone.




Not for more than thirty second, however. Gwen Schroeder, Tommy's little sister, had been lurking in the background, awaiting her chance. She seemed to have filled out just since July and she sidled over and pushed my arm with one of her new tits.

"Hi, Danny," she purred.

"Dan," I automatically corrected her, and tried to think of a polite way to escape.

Now, Gwen's not a bad kid, don't get me wrong. She's pretty enough, I suppose, especially since the braces came off, and she's bright and all that, but she's just not my type. But I'd once made a mistake and she had been vamping me ever since. I'd kissed Gwen exactly once, in a moment of weakness at my sixteenth birthday party -- she was a cute fourteen then and I was feeling desperate for some reason -- and apparently she'd never forgotten it.

I was sure Gwen had a full quota of panting boyfriends the rest of the time, but for the past two years, every July and December, she seemed overcome with romantic nostalgia and fixated on me, and it was driving me crazy.

I couldn't just tell her to beat it, though. First, that sort of thing isn't done, not when you'd have to deal with so many other relatives afterward if she decided to make a stink about it. And second, I didn't actually dislike Gwen or anything and I couldn't bring myself to be that nasty to her.

Maybe, I thought, I could get George to pry her loose from me; he was well known to have a way with women. But, no -- he would just take her off to a quiet corner and pound her pudding for her. He'd get away with it, too, God knows how.

Finally, I offered to get her some more cider, which was downstairs, hoping some distraction would arise along the way. And, in fact, I never did return -- but I had a very good excuse. I was standing on the second floor landing with two cups of fresh cider, waiting for a break in the traffic of relatives coming down so I could plod back up to Gwen, when I felt a fingertip stroke my neck and a soft voice said "Hi, Dan."

How in the world did she get down here? I was wondering, and I turned my head to say something, but it wasn't Gwen.




Melissa Ann Markham is Uncle George's daughter. My cousin George, in fact, was named for him, as was my young brother George, but Uncle George and Aunt Julie (she's the McIver of the two) only have two daughters, Annie (for Annette), who's thirteen, and Missy, who had just turned eighteen the month before.

Missy Markham had been the cause (the root cause, so to speak) of most of my wet dreams and early morning erections for about two years. She'd always been cute, though not really cover girl material, and she had a nice body, though nothing really extraordinary. What she had was more raw sexiness than any three other girls. It was like she carried around her own fog of pheromones. She could look any boy in the eye without blinking and curl up one side of her mouth, and his knees would turn to jelly. She could widen those eyes innocently, and raise her eyebrows, and suck on her lower lip, and a guy would have to stand behind a chair to conceal his hard-on. (I could speak from experience.) Maybe this sort of witchcraft came naturally to her, but Missy was certainly adept at applying her talents.

When I saw who it was behind me, I turned around so fast, I bumped into Uncle David -- the only unmarried uncle -- and got a bitchy look in return. (Uncle David has an unending series of live-in male friends about whom we all loved to gossip.)

Missy took my arm and guided me away from the stairs to a huge potted fern that stood in front of the window on the landing. She leaned back against the wall, toes neatly together, and waited for me to say something. It wasn't easy. She was wearing a sort of Empire-style party dress that was fitted close up beneath her breasts, made of fine, chocolate-brown velveteen, with wide white cuffs and a big square-cut collar with long points in front, all of handmade lace. There was more lace edging the hem, which ended about a mile above her knees. Her hair was long and silky and caramel-colored, partly falling over her shoulders and partly gathered at the back by a large, matching velveteen bow. Her stockings were very faintly white and she wore dark brown Mary Janes with little silver buckles. She looked like an extremely grown-up Alice in Wonderland. Her nails and lipstick were screaming-banshee red, which went beautifully with her immaculately creamy skin.

I cleared my throat. "You look very nice tonight," I said. She knew that but she smiled anyway. Then she glanced over my shoulder and said "Merry Christmas, boys."

I turned and found Tommy and George at the foot of the stairs. George, of course, was checking her out avidly, but what surprised me was that even Tommy, the self-conscious gentleman, had a wolfish expression. They were looking rather curiously at me, too.

"We'll see you later, okay? I want to dance with both of you, you know." At that dismissal, both guys grinned like apes and stumbled away. I wondered what had just happened.

Missy's eyes were moving up and down me in a way that made me feel distinctly warm. I wanted to readjust my tie and straighten my jacket, but I didn't want to fidget. Watching her knee flex idly back and forth as she leaned there against the wall, half concealed by the fern, wasn't helping me think any more clearly.

"Dan, would you like to be my escort this Christmas?" Her voice was low and soft and promising.

"Um, yes, absolutely. I'd like that very much," I said. I couldn't quite believe this was happening.

"Thank you. You're very good-looking, you know, Dan. It'll be fun -- I promise." And I got the full effect of that smile. "Would you meet me back here at eight o'clock, for the dancing?" I nodded mutely. "Okay. But now I have to go powder my nose . . ." (she wrinkled it at me) ". . . or whatever."

She pushed away from the wall and practically skipped up the stairs while I stood there like a flatfooted bumpkin, watching the muscles move in the backs of her thighs. Then I cleared my throat again and headed downstairs.

George and Tommy waylaid me at the bottom and George gave me a little poke with his elbow. "So, old Dan, what are you two up to?"

"Nothing. She just asked me to be her escort." I shrugged.

George and Tommy exchanged a glance and their eyebrows rose in unison. "Oh, yeah?" George smirked. "Well, enjoy yourself, Danny-Boy. You'll never get a chance like this again, I can promise you."

Tommy eyed me thoughtfully, then patted me on the shoulder. "You'll do fine, Dan," he said, sounding like an uncle, as they departed. Why did I always feel like other people knew things that I didn't?




One of the advantages of coming to Grandfather's house every Christmas was that we all knew what we were expected to do at all times. On Christmas Eve, there was a buffet dinner laid out for those who had arrived hungry. Afterward, a few of the old-timers took short naps while the rest of the adults visited in each others' rooms (there were about a dozen bedrooms and make-dos in the house). The smaller kids played in the big, glassed-in solarium, which was a sun porch in the summer, and the older kids, like us, wandered around and gossiped and made connections for later.

About eight in the evening, the adults took over the ballroom (only about the size of a basketball half-court, actually) and did their style of dancing, while we pushed back the furniture in the big parlor and did our style. There were always a few girls of maternal bent who took turns rocking the infants and keeping an eye on the little kids.

Tomorrow, a minister from the town would come in and lead an early morning Christmas service (attendance was mandatory, Grandfather said, and no one balked him on it), followed by a huge breakfast. And then everyone would gather in the ballroom for the distribution of gifts, which would take most of the afternoon. Each person was made the center of attention as they opened their first package, and everyone else would oohh and ahh over whatever it turned out to be, and the recipient was expected to acknowledge the gift and exclaim over it. (Generally, the kids knew that whatever package they were handed first was their biggie that year.)




So, a few minutes before eight, I was back at the fern, having carefully brushed my hair and touched up my shave with a borrowed razor. I was determined to be a standout escort.

I was peering absently out the window, watching the wind in the trees and wondering if it was going to snow (probably not), when I smelled Missy's warm presence behind me. I found myself beaming like an ass as I turned and made a little bow. She grinned and sketched a curtsy, and then hooked her arm through mine as I took her into the parlor. I had no expectation of monopolizing her attentions that evening, and it was a good thing because Missy was always a popular dance partner. We'd all had dancing lessons, of course -- it was one of the social trials of Fourth Form -- but some of us were a lot better at it than others. Missy was particularly graceful, drawing the admiration of the guys and the envy of the girls.

She made a point of dancing with both Tommy and George, neither of whom seemed very willing to give her up to her next partner. And she danced several times with me, sometimes brushing her cheek against mine during the slow parts.

I also danced with most of the other girls there, including Gwen, who seemed resigned to my obvious distraction. I even cut in on my sister, Violet, who, at twelve and a half, seemed to be developing an interest in Gwen's younger brother, Michael. Perhaps it goes against natural law, but Vi and I have usually gotten along, and I enjoyed dancing with her. Astrid herself even asked me to dance, but it turned out to be another pitch for Brown.

Around eleven o'clock, Missy whispered that the parlor was becoming too warm and stuffy and wouldn't I like to stretch my legs? Does the Pope shit in the woods?

It was cold and windy out and I didn't especially want to muffle her up in a heavy coat where I couldn't get at her, so we climbed to the fourth floor and strolled down the passageway between what had once been servants' quarters, chatting about inconsequentialities. At this hour, the rooms mostly were filled with snoring small children. At the end of the passage was a narrow back stair to the part of the attic used for storing household supplies, and we climbed that, too.

The attic was dark but there was a nearly full moon in the cold, clear sky and it filled one side of the space with a soft, romantic light. I figured conditions would never be better, so I gently and carefully guided Missy into position in front of a dormer window and kissed her. She drew me in so completely, I couldn't breathe for a minute, and I wasn't sure whether I had planned this encounter or she had. Her tongue drifted across my teeth and she sucked slowly at my lip while her fingers stroked the short hairs at the back of my neck. I could feel my cock stiffening and tried to shift position so I wouldn't poke her with it, but she bent her knee and pressed her slender thigh between my legs. I could feel my pulse beginning to hammer and I wanted to grab her ass in both hands and squeeze, but I was still trying to go slowly. I absolutely did not want to give her cause to push me away. Which shows you how little I still understood of what was happening.

When we both came up for air, Missy sighed and laid her head against my chest, and I stroked her hair -- partly because I really didn't know what to do next. But she took care of that by sliding her manicured little hand slowly down the front of my flannels until it covered my bulging cock. She squeezed it, just a little, and I couldn't stifle a groan. When she leaned back in my arms, the look in her eyes heated up my blood even more. But then she turned and leaned on the window ledge and looked out at the wind whipping the tree branches. I put my hands on her shoulders, stroking the velveteen over her shoulder blades. She cocked a hip and nudged me in the groin with it, . . . and then she reached a hand back and drew the hem of her dress up over her ass.

I was transfixed. The white stockings ended at the very tops of her smooth thighs and her ass was completely bare. I laid the palms of my hands on those perfect curves and stroked circles over her bottom and squeezed them, feeling more lightheaded every second. Missy looked over her shoulder, her face partly hidden by a honeyed cascade of hair, and sucked her lip with that irresistible air of sultry, knowing innocence. Then she spread her feet slightly, locked her knees, and arched her back downward -- the most undeniable invitation I'd ever received.

I fumbled with my zipper and pushed my slacks and briefs down around my knees, and my cock sprang up as stiff as the proverbial barge-pole. I leaned into her, letting my cock slide up and down a few times in the silky smooth vee between her cheeks, and she purred and reached back to stroke it with her fingertips. Then she looked back over her shoulder again and fixed me with that steady, heated gaze.

"Daniel, I want you to fuck me, okay? Don't worry: I'm on the pill. And I've been careful, so you won't catch anything." She didn't even ask if I had been as careful. I'd only had sex twice, with two different girls, and I was reasonably sure both of them were virgins at the time. At least, I hoped they were. For all I knew, Missy was aware of all that. She seemed to know a lot.

She pushed that sweet little ass back against me and I pressed my aching cock downward and slid smoothly into her. She took a deep, deep breath and I felt her cunt muscles squeezing me. Jesus, I couldn't believe how fantastic it felt, being inside her like that. Missy was slender in the legs and hips (definitely not skinny, though) and her cunt was unbelievably snug and wet and warm. I drew back experimentally and pushed even deeper inside her, and it felt like a thousand tiny fingers stroking me. I squeezed her hips between my hands and looked down to watch her asshole opening and closing with every stroke I made. Un-fucking-believable. . . .

Even as I moved within her, I was glancing around, trying to find a spot where I could lay her down and do it properly, but everything was dusty and uninviting. Then I caught myself and wondered what I was thinking of: How could I possibly complain about having to fuck Missy Markham standing up in the attic? I slid my hands farther around her hips, trying to reach her pubic hair, but she must have trimmed it. All I found was more soft, smooth flesh. I wanted to run my hands all up and down her legs. I wanted to squeeze her tits and suck her nipples. I wanted to lie on my back and have her sit on my cock. I wanted everything -- but I was happy just to be up here in the dusty moonlight, fucking Missy from behind in a dormer window.

I wasn't in any hurry for our encounter to end, but sex has its own schedule and there's nothing you can do about it. Missy's breathing was becoming ragged and hurried, and she was clutching the window sill tightly. The back of her neck was flushed and there was a rosy glow spreading across her lower back. I could feel a growing tingling deep in my gut and I tried desperately to pace myself . . . and then Missy began to make little "hunh-hunh-hunh" sounds, almost like crying, and I couldn't hold back any longer.

When I jerk off, if I'm really aroused, I sometimes end up with cum on my kneecaps -- or on my chest, if I'm lying down. This time, it felt like I could have shot a wad of semen clear out the window and all the way down to the duck pond. I clutched Missy's hips and slammed into her a last couple of times, then thrust hard and deep into her and jerked and trembled as I came, and tried not to fall down in a faint. She was shaking, too, caught by the wavefront of her own climax, panting and making those extremely erotic little animal noises.

She didn't want to break the connection any more than I did, and we stood like that for a minute or two, her clinging to the window ledge and me clinging to her. I wanted to leave my cock in her for awhile longer, but finally she took a deep breath and gently extricated herself. She turned around, her dress still rucked up in back, and leaned against me. I ran my hands down over that gorgeous little ass (which was hot to the touch now) and she reached down and took my scorched cock in both hands. We kissed again, long and slow and sweet, and I didn't ever want to leave the attic.

And I was thinking hard, trying to work out a chance to get together again. I wanted to lie in a real bed with her and touch her all over, and fall asleep with her in my arms, and wake up with her, and fuck all day.

"When can we--?" I began, but Missy touched her finger to my lips.

"We can't, Dan. This is -- was -- a one-time thing. We won't be able ever to make love like this again, . . . but it was very, very nice, Danny."

"But why--?"

"You have to accept this, Dan," she cut in. "I'm sorry, but you have to. Others have."

Oh? Then I remembered George and Tommy. And she saw me remember, and she nodded.

"You're a very sweet boy, Dan, but you're not the first cousin I've fucked and you probably won't be the last. But that doesn't mean I'm not *very* selective." She smiled a bit impishly. "There are a lot of cousins."

Hunh. Well. Well, okay. I suppose. Then she kissed me again and I decided to take what she had given me and not make a fuss about it.

I walked her downstairs to her room in the other, newer wing of the house. She was sharing it with Annie and Vi, and they were already in bed, so we had to be quiet. I looked at my watch: almost two o'clock. Amazing. I kissed her again in the hall beside her door and carefully kept my hands to myself, but it was hard. She stroked my cheek with a warm little hand, and that was very nice indeed. And then she whispered in my ear.

"Danny, I've been doing this since Christmas last year. I don't know why, exactly, except that it's fun and exciting, and I can get away with it. Maybe I'll try it with Mike next summer. Or your brother, George, for that matter." She was trying to get a rise out of me but I refused to play.

"But I think tonight I'm going to lie in bed and think about your penis inside me and how wonderful it felt. I think I can still feel your cum in there, too. Maybe I'll imagine what it would be like to suck your dick until you cum in my mouth. . . ."

Okay, okay, *that* got a rise out of me. A rise in the front of my flannels, too. "Stop that," I said, and stuck my tongue in her ear. She shivered once and laughed softly, deep in her throat. "Merry Christmas, Daniel," she whispered, and ducked through the door.




As late as it was, there was no way I was going to be able to sleep yet, so I wandered back down to the main kitchen. It was a big place, with a couple of old wooden tables off to the sides and a large fireplace at the back. There were usually a few people hanging out there and tonight was no exception: George and Tommy were sitting in tipped-back captain's chairs in front of the fire, drinking hot chocolate with their feet up on the hearth.

George hopped up with a gleam in his eye, took me firmly by the arm, and led me to an empty chair which Tommy had placed between them. They handed me a steaming cup and waited expectantly. When I kept silent, George glanced at Tommy, who cleared his throat. "Daniel, we'd never ask you to be less than a gentleman," Tommy began in a low voice, "but we know perfectly well where you've been. We've been there ourselves, both of us, as you may have figured out by now."

"Dan, speaking for myself, it was a truly religious experience," George interjected. "And I've never told anyone the details either, and I won't ask them of you now." He gripped my forearm and shook it a little.

"But *please* tell us that's where you've been. Will you at least do that?"

"Please, Daniel," Tommy added. "Like he said, a religious experience. Even an epiphany. Are you one of the Elect now, Brother?"

That was too much and I broke down and laughed aloud. I felt like I ought to be a bit jealous or something, but how could I possibly be jealous of these two?

George leaned back and relaxed. "She's really something, isn't she?"

I took a sip of cocoa and nodded. "Yeah, she's definitely that."

Tommy cleared his throat. "I was the first, you know. At least, I assume I was. If it really is all in the family, that is. Exactly a year ago." He got kind of a faraway look. "God knows, I'll never forget it. Damn."

"Yeah, and I was last July Fourth," Tommy said quietly. "I mean, I'm not exactly a beginner with women--" (Tommy and I snorted derisively and in unison) "--but Missy is absolutely a whole other thing."

I was feeling more relaxed about this and I was a little surprised by George's apparent awe. But I thought I understood it. I was beginning to feel like I had just been knighted, or inducted into Skull and Bones.

"I guess that means someone else will be The Chosen One next July," I commented. "I wonder who it'll be?"

"Hard to say, man." George chuckled. "She's about out of men our age. There're a couple of younger guys coming up, though. . . ."

"She said something about that, but I thought she was kidding, or teasing me." I thought about it. "I don't know if my brother could handle it."

"Or her. No shit." George turned to Tommy. "What about *your* brother?"

"Mike? He'd be traumatized." Tommy shook his head. "Seriously, he'd faint dead away if she came on to him. That's the stiffest kid I ever saw; I wonder where he gets it?" He looked at the two of us, cackling and whooping. "I swear, I don't understand the younger generation sometimes."

Tommy's perfectly serious face kept us laughing for several minutes but we finally recovered and sat in companionable silence until the cocoa was gone. When we all departed to try to get a little sleep before Christmas morning, I knew we would all gather in a few months to greet Missy's arrival at the Independence Day party. I was looking forward to it.


--- END ---
13 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-07-19 20:17:59
you should be banned and sued for posting someone elses stories delete them all now and never post here again loser

anonymous readerReport

2013-12-03 12:44:36
hey asshole ever think he never wanted his stories here? i emailed him and told him you posted it here and he was not happy at all. delete at once and stop stealing stories either write your own or just be happy reading.

anonymous readerReport

2013-08-17 02:31:27
His website specifically states that as long as credit is given, it's alright to repost for non-commercial reasons. And I give him credit. I never claim this as my own story; I'm not nearly so good a writer.

anonymous readerReport

2013-06-30 19:06:06
michael smith is not happy you stole his stories delete them at once.

anonymous readerReport

2013-04-24 18:59:11
more more more more!!!!!!

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