Read Its a Wonderful Tangled Christmas Carol Online Free
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For those who cherish memories with family and still believe in the magic of the holidays.
chapter 1
Deck the halls with boughs of holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
'Tis the flavor to exist jolly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Urban legends. We've all heard of them--eating pop rocks and soda will brand your stomach explode; the tourist who gets his kidney stolen in a faraway country; alligators living in the sewers. By the fourth dimension you achieve adulthood, y'all realize they're all crocks of shit. Stories that get passed on from generation to generation to scare the hell out of us and keep usa on the direct and narrow.
Well . . . except for the alligator one--I've lived in New York Urban center my whole life and that'due south completely possible.
But the others, yeah, all lies.
In the latter part of the terminal century, new urban legends sprung up that society's all besides willing to fall for: action stars who die on picture sets doing stunts; rain-forest plants that cure obesity; and Justin Bieber actually having a prepare of balls.
Sometime in the belatedly 1970s, afterwards the urban center's crime rate began to drop and New York became more than tourist friendly, another urban fable was started--ane that annually throws a fucking wrench into the otherwise smoothly operating auto that is my life.
That would be the myth that New York City is a prime number place to go Christmas shopping.
I don't know what moron started the rumor, but I will gladly stick my foot up his ass if I always notice out. Because now, scores of people from Pennsylvania, New Bailiwick of jersey, Connecticut, and upstate clog our bridges, tunnels, and streets from Blackness Friday to Christmas Eve, scurrying to brand their holiday purchases like rats going subsequently a gourmet piece of cheese. To get little Timmy a train fix from FAO Schwarz and grandma a brooch from Tiffany.
Sure, they've heard of the Net. Of grade they know it'd be easier--and less expensive--to order online and accept packages delivered correct to their front door.
Only for them, information technology's not nigh what's easier. Christmas shopping in the metropolis is now--say information technology with me--tradition.
They want to see the big tree, the lights. They want to stand in an endless line to skate in Rockefeller Center and take a motion picture with Santa at Macy'south in Herald Foursquare. They want to scout the fucking Rockettes and eat a family unit dinner at a eating house whose menu has been price-gouged to the gills.
Yous can forget about getting a cab--they're all taken. And even walking down the sidewalk is an do in frustration, because every few anxiety a stroller-pushing, shopping-bag-carrying tourist volition come to a complete frigging stop right in front of you to take a motion-picture show of the ruby-and-green-lit Empire State Building.
You recollect I audio pissed off? How very perceptive of you. The Christmas spirit and me? We're non friends. Ebenezer Scrooge had the right idea: bah fucking humbug.
The reason for my electric current antiholiday rant is considering I'm in line--the same line I've been in for xl-5 minutes--trying to buy a terminal-infinitesimal gift for my perfect wife.
Please, accept my money and just permit me fucking leave.
When it comes to gifts, I'm usually way alee; eleventh-60 minutes purchases aren't my mode. But walking past Saks Fifth Artery, I saw a pair of Valentino crystal and silk heels that would look amazing on Kate. She'll enjoy wearing them, and I will definitely relish watching her wearable them--especially naked--so it's a win-win.
Except for the line.
I'm not used to waiting in lines. I'm used to personal shoppers and commission-seeking salespeople vying for my attention with phrases like, "Can I hold that for you, Mr. Evans?" "We have that in four other colors, Mr. Evans." "Would you like that wrapped, Mr. Evans?"
But this is Christmas Eve. Which means stores don't requite a crap well-nigh the quality of the shopping experience. It's all about quantity--getting equally many shoppers through their doors as possible before endmost time. Which brings me to my next point:
Most people in the globe today are fucking idiots.
Don't laugh--you may be one of the walking stupid and just not know it. But it'south true. Say what you lot want about income inequality or the inferior public school system--the harsh truth is, the majority of the population is simply not intelligent. And even more suck at their job. They don't give a rat's donkey about doing it well or longevity; they're only interested in performing the minimum required to become a check.
And there's no better instance of that than the temporary holiday employee.
Companies don't rent them because of their skill or what they may contribute to the work force. They're hired considering they have a pulse. Spare bodies, decked out in holiday ensembles, whose principal purpose is to corral consumers the same manner a fence encages cattle. And they're as as helpful.
The twentysomething blonde behind the register is one such employee. Yous can tell by the tiresome, cautious way she pecks at the keys and her confused expression if someone--God forestall--asks her where an item can be found. She's the reason for the sick corporeality of time I've wasted waiting to purchase these shoes.
The skillful news is, I'm about to cross the stop line. I step upwardly, with but ane more client left in front of me--a alpine, regal-looking older lady in a pricey ruddy coat and genuine pearl earrings. I take out my wallet then I can pay as speedily as possible and go the hell out of here.
See the blazing yule before us,
Fa la la la la la, la la la la.
Strike the harp and bring together the chorus,
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Just my hope of an imminent escape is crushed when the blond temp rings up the purple Burberry of London tie and tells the one-time lady, "That will exist 1 hundred and ninety-five dollars and thirty cents."
Pearl Earrings looks offended. "That can't be correct. This tie is on auction for ane hundred and fifty dollars--not one lxxx."
A panicked expression swamps the blonde'due south face up. She taps a few buttons on the register and swipes the tie's bar code with the red laser axle. "It'due south ringing upwards at one hundred and eighty. Plus tax."
I push a hand through my dark hair and listen for the predictable quondam adult female response.
"That's false advertising! I turn down to pay a penny over one fifty."
The hopeless temp looks effectually for help, but there'southward none to be found. So, similar the knight in shining armor I am, I come to her rescue.
"Why don't you do a manual override?"
Her optics gaze at me without a clue. "A what?"
I gesture to the register. "It's a computer--it has to practise what you tell it to. Override the cost and put it in as one fifty."
She gulps. "I . . . I don't know how to do that."
Of course she doesn't.
"I'one thousand going to accept to discover my director."
No. No way I'grand gonna stand here twiddling my thumbs for another twenty frigging minutes. And I decline to walk out, either--besides much of my precious time is already invested in these shoes.
Despite the frustration churning in my gut, I shift my attention to the pearl-wearing red glaze and turn on the charm that--even with a band on my finger--women of all ages are still helpless to resist. "Last-minute Christmas shopping?"
She nods. "That's right, for my married man."
"You accept excellent sense of taste. I'm a connoisseur of ties myself, and that one is superb."
It'south working--she smiles. "Cheers, beau."
"Tell you what, how near we save some
time and I'll front the extra xxx dollars so you tin purchase this tie for your lucky married man, at not a penny over i hundred and fifty dollars?"
Her brow wrinkles. It was already wrinkled with historic period--simply now it wrinkles more.
"It'due south non about the cost, it's the principle of the matter. They should stand by the price advertised."
"I couldn't agree more. Principles are important--which is exactly why I'm making my offer. Here it is, Christmas Eve, and I've been likewise decorated to show any goodwill toward my swain man--or adult female. This gesture will make me really experience the Christmas spirit. You'd be doing me a favor, miss."
The "miss" was just the right touch on. Because her eyes sparkle, and she grins warmly. "Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?"
I wink. "I approximate you can't."
I smack thirty dollars on the counter and the old lady hands over her black card. While the very relieved temp places the boxed necktie in a shopping purse with a ridiculous corporeality of useless tissue paper, Pearl Earrings glances at my left hand. Then she pulls a business menu out of her purse, slides information technology toward me, and whispers low, "My husband and I host parties every month. Parties for . . . adventurous . . . couples."
Oh boy.
"You'd certainly be doing me a favor if yous attend." She winks. "I would thoroughly enjoy having you. Retrieve about it."
I await until she walks abroad before I chuckle. Just goes to show you--don't judge a freak by their cover. The wild ones come in all shapes, sizes . . . and ages.
The holiday-hire hands me my prized shoes, and I'm finally able to caput habitation to my married woman and our terribly wonderful son.
Follow me in merry mensurate,
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
While I tell of Yuletide treasure,
Fa la la la la, la la la la
I shut the door to our apartment and toss the mail down on the front hall table--mostly concluding-infinitesimal Christmas cards. Nothing says "you were an afterthought" similar getting a Christmas card on Christmas Eve. I hang upwards my black wool coat and slide the shopping bag with Kate's new shoes under the tabular array, to be wrapped later.
Different me, Kate is skillful about waiting. She likes to be surprised, so I don't accept to put in the extra effort of hiding her gifts to go along her from sneaking a peek.
I walk into the living room--and stop dead in my tracks. I was planning on going home only for a few minutes, to let Kate know I'd exist at the function the rest of the evening. Only those plans get tossed out the window.
Considering reclining in the chaise longue is a gift that beats the hell out of annihilation I've ever seen sitting under a tree.
My wife, Kate Brooks-Evans.
Kate Brooks-Evans in lingerie.
Kate Brooks-Evans in see-through, Christmas-themed lingerie.
Her smooth legs are crossed at the ankle, bare except for the spiky heeled, shiny blackness boots that terminate below her knees. A sheer ruddy nightie, trimmed in fluffy white fur, covers tiny red panties--held together by two silk bows tied at her hips. A shiny black chugalug cinches her apartment tummy, and more white fur embellishes the strapless neckline, bringing my attention to her perfect breasts and pink nipples pressing confronting the gauzy fabric. Kate'due south luscious dark hair falls over her shoulders, curled at the ends, and a fleecy red-and-white Santa chapeau sits on height of her head.
She smiles mischievously. "Welcome home, Santa."
"Mrs. Claus," I smirk, "you've inverse."
"It was fourth dimension for a makeover."
I start unbuttoning my shirt. "Want to sit on my lap . . . or my face up . . . and tell me if you've been a squeamish girl this year?"
Kate chuckles. Then she tucks her legs under her, rises onto all fours, and crawls down the chaise toward me.
It's so damn sexy my cock stiffens so hard that you could hang an ornament from it.
"Well, I've tried to be overnice, but every time I look at you, the naughty just takes over."
Kate bites her lip--'cause she knows it drives me crazy--and watches my every move as I toss my shirt on the flooring. Her eyes cuddle my arms, chest, and abs, then focus on my fingers as I slowly unbutton my jeans and lower the attachment.
I shrug. "I've e'er thought 'nice' was manner fucking overrated."
With my typical lack of shyness, I push my pants downward and step out of them. My dick juts out proudly, eye level with Kate, straining for her attention. But before she touches me, I remember James--our five-twelvemonth-old.
"Where's the evil elf, past the way?"
"I dropped him off at your sister's. He's decorating gingerbread cookies with Mackenzie and Thomas."
"And biting their heads off?"
"Of course."
Here'due south an interesting fact: how you lot eat a gingerbread man says a lot about your personality. Caput-kickoff eaters are ambitious, contained, and magnetic. Feet-starting time are the more artistic, creative types, and those who get-go with the hands are kind and nurturing. Same rules utilise for chocolate Easter bunnies.
Maybe you're wondering how I came to know this data?
I looked information technology upwards. Because James is a head-first eater.
And Kate and I were . . . unsettled . . . by all the headless chocolate bunnies lying around last Easter.
But--good news--he's non a series killer in the making, he only has the same driven, bound-to-exist-a-success temperament as his parents.
During my enquiry, I besides discovered that sociopaths and CEOs share a lot of graphic symbol traits--but we'll talk almost that another time.
There are other, more crucial matters at hand.
"And so, we take the whole apartment to ourselves?" I enquire.
Kate licks her lips happily. "Yep."
My dick gets even harder, thinking of the possibilities. "That ways we tin fuck in the living room? The hallway? The kitchen?"
A center island is the perfect height to comfortably eat a adult female out while she'due south perched on the counter.
Coincidence?
I call back not.
Kind of makes you lot rethink the meaning of "eat-in kitchen," doesn't it?
Kate replies, "Yes. Yes. And definitely yes. I've missed kitchen sexual practice."
I've missed bending her over the arm of the sofa and pounding her from behind.
Oh--and sleeping naked. I haven't slept naked for a twelvemonth and a one-half. Not since my son crawled into our bed in the middle of the night and asked why I wasn't wearing pajamas. Telling him the truth--that it's liberating and makes it more convenient to spiral his mother--was out of the question. Then I but said I forgot.
He thought that was funny. And I've slept in boxers almost every dark since.
When people tell you lot having kids changes things--they're non screwing around.
But all thoughts of our kid fly out of my head as Kate envelops my dick in her warm, wet mouth. My caput lolls back, relishing the sensation of her stroking tongue. But later on a few seconds, I have to look and accept in the sensual sight of Kate's caput bobbing upwards and down, doing what she does and then very well.
My paw skims her spine. I lift the sheer reddish fabric, exposing her firm ass, scarcely covered past the red silk panties. My tum contracts in hot pleasure every bit she sucks me harder. I pull on the red ribbons tied at her hips and the panties fall away. And then I knead the soft flesh of her ass before sliding my fingers betwixt her open legs--into her warm pussy. She's already slick for me; her muscles tighten effectually my fingers equally I pump them slowly.
I pull my hips back and I slide out of Kate's awesome mouth. I cradle her face up with my hands and bring her up to run into my lips. Nosotros kiss playfully, my teeth scraping forth her jaw to her cervix, licking and sucking--both of united states moaning. I wrap an arm effectually her waist and lift her to her feet, dragging united states to the burrow.
Without a give-and-take, Kate assumes my favorite position--bent at the waist, her tum draped over the arm, feet apart, her delectable ass loftier and waiting. Her easily brace against the cushions and my manus rests on her shoulder. My other mitt grasps my dick and makes ii teasing passes across the opening of her sweetness cunt. She wriggles back against me, reaches out her mitt, and pushes backside my thigh--trying to maneuver me where she needs me
to be.
Always and so eager.
Although our sexual activity life is fantastically frequent, we can't exist as . . . vocal . . . equally nosotros once were. Non with a kid in the business firm. So I program on taking advantage of this opportunity to hear Kate's voice in all its hedonistically desperate dazzler.
I encompass her--my breast flush with her back--nudge her silken pilus with my nose, and bring my lips to her ear. "Do yous want me to fuck you, infant?"
"Mmm," she groans. "Yessss."
I nip her earlobe. "Tell me."
"Fuck me," she whispers.
Yeah. She's gonna have to do improve than that.
I straighten up, smiling, and tease her once again with the head of my dick. "I'm sad, I didn't quite get that."
Her hips squirm with frustration, and she yells, "I want you to fuck me, Drew!"
Well-nigh.
"God, at present . . . do information technology . . . please. Fuck . . ."
Beautiful.
I push within her with a moan and her back arches. I residue my hand on her hip, holding her in place equally I rear back. Then thrust in long and deadening and deep.
"Yes," she keens loudly. "Just like that."
I wait downwards where I move in and out of her--disappearing into her gorgeous, welcoming body. Information technology's a view that never gets one-time.
"Christ, you experience good, Kate. Always so goddamn adept."
It'south truthful. And it'due south got nil to practice with the fact that Kate'due south is the only pussy I've ever been inside without a rubber.
It's her. The life we've made together--the mode she matches me in every way--her desire, her humor, her mind.
Her soul.
I used to recollect that stuff about soul mates was bullshit. The idea that out of the billions of people on Earth, there was only one that you're supposed to be with. That you vest to. Sounded like a fairy tale, a stupid chick flick, or a terrible romance novel that my sister would read.
But now . . .
Now I believe there's something to it. Peradventure non for anybody--only definitely for us. Because I just tin't fathom having this profound, intense love that borders on obsession--the good kind--with anyone except her.
Information technology's crazy. Like . . . a miracle.
The rhythm of my hips speeds up, 'crusade it feels too fucking amazing not to. And Kate drives dorsum against me, coming together me thrust for thrust and moan for moan.
But and so I find the strength to grasp her waist with both hands.
And still our movements.
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