A Christmas Carl
With thanks (and apologies) to Mr. Dickens
This is an original fiction story, obviously inspired by an old Christmas classic. Why should "Screwge" be old and wrinkled? We all know hot, but sour, young men. It is a slow burn--no person of character opens Christmas presents before the morning! So stick with it, as I unwrap a bit at a time. No one under18 is engaged in sexual activity in this story. Happy Christmas. © 2023. All rights reserved. Brunosden
There was great excitement in the barn-like structure which Bob Cratchet rented to house his large family: a wife and eight children, all more or less infirm, all but two adopted, some informally from the streets where they had been abandoned to fend for themselves. Some of the older boys were already apprenticing at various trades in the Old City and were returning for the traditional dinner on Christmas Eve. Strays were always welcome, so Maryanne never knew how far her wild bird and potato stew would need to stretch. But, there was always room at the table and in the loft for those needing a place to eat and sleep. They were waiting for Bob's return, the sole breadwinner, a "clark" at Screwge & Marley, an English firm of barristers that had existed for over a hundred years.
Bob's job was simple, but important: receive and record legal documents served on the firm; file papers produced by the firm at the various courthouses in the Old City; maintain the firm calendar; and keep the client files. Occasionally, he was required to be a scrivener or bookkeeper, but not often, since his handwriting was mediocre at best. He was one of a dozen associate attorneys and "clarks"--of course all male, and presentable young guys--who served the firm--which had five partners.
In fact, if one lined up all the clarks and young associates, they could easily make up a lineup at the new Thomas Chippendale's Tavern and Playhouse on the other (dark) side of the Thames near the docks. Some moonlighted there. They had been selected for looks, not brains. All of them were pale skinned, clean-shaven, dark-haired (generally long and often unkempt, dropping sensually over their foreheads), about six foot, muscled, but slim, and all sported respectable bulges behind the codpieces of their prescribed-uniform tight britches. Bob was one of the oldest at 30. He had been hired only a few months after Sir Marley had died, now just over seven years ago.
Bob's partner, Maryanne, was a housewife. She cooked and kept house which she did extraordinarily well. She stretched Bob's meager wages with skill. She managed an enormous family through illness, near-starvation, and fatigue. And always with good humor. And, she was very good in bed and usually receptive to Bob's advances. Bob's cock was of the donkey variety. So, Maryanne was a very contented housewife, I'm sure, but I bet she could only handle Bob occasionally. I, on the other hand, got to use him more frequently at the office.
S&M was a tough firm, although Bob's job was relatively routine. As the only managing senior partner, I knew I was considered to be a brutal boss and disciplinarian. I sported a perpetual frown--like I was smelling a stale fart in a small room. Frankly, I knew that I had become a morose tyrant, but I really didn't care. I needed to maintain discipline. Any mistake resulted in a violent reaction (hallmarked by a string of curses worthy of any wharf worker) and docked pay. Serious offenses merited a trip to the firm's notorious basement--where I had perfected and equipped an ancient dungeon, filled with various instruments of discipline.
Actually, I sort of waited for mistakes. I loved watching the young bucks strip to prepare for punishment, and I loved even more spanking or wielding the whip or rod on bare backs and butts as their erections hardened. If I thought one of the boys was particularly insolent or macho, I enjoyed inserting enormous lubed plugs into the young men's supple holes to twist and turn until they screamed and creamed. I often tied a guy down and covered him with my spunk--or forced it down his throat. On occasion, I'd even use their asses for my pleasure--but always after first wrapping my sausage in a lamb's intestine. One never knew what STD's lurked in the young men of the Old City. One couldn't be too careful.
They took it as part of the job--corporal punishment for mistakes was common in the Old City. Most even seemed to like it, trying me from time to time to earn a trip downstairs and typically reaching orgasm before returning to work. It made for a nice break in an otherwise dull day.
Curiously however, although I "punished" often, I was losing the joy of it. In fact I'm pretty much a down person. Except of course when Bob makes a mistake and ends up on the dungeon table. I just loved to punish Bob by fisting his huge dick tightly as I stimulated him unmercifully while he cried out in pain from the trapped erection. Usually, I let him cum after I had had my fun, but occasionally, I would send him back to work without relief. Unfortunately, I had been deprived of that pleasure for over two weeks now. Bob's work had been flawless. I guess he was expecting Santa. He's being a very good boy. Too bad for me.
It was a foggy but cold late afternoon. Visibility was really poor. Curiously snowflakes drifted down in the fog, graying as they hit the pavement. The day had been slow--very little law was done on Christmas Eve, even in a commercial secular city like Old City. The office had been loud and filled with anticipatory joy--which enraged me well beyond my worst days. And there had been no punishable offenses that day!
Just as the firm was about to close for the day before a reluctantly created three-day weekend--since the next day was Christmas, my "nephew" Brent stopped by to invite me to either or both of two parties that he and his fiancé (a male "actor" from the shady cross-Thames theatre district) were hosting on Christmas eve and night. I heard him out, berated him for spending his hard-earned money on parties for "strangers" and ushered him out. (Actually, he hadn't earned most of it; it had come from his uncle and my partner, Marley, as inheritance.) As he left, Brent called out "Happy Christmas." And I shouted back, "Humbug" and muttered under my breath, "And fuck you, boy." (Then I thought to myself that, given the boy's reputation and looks, I guess he will be, won't he?)
I then made the rounds and distributed the meager Christmas bonuses that I was forced to give because "all the other firms were doing so" and if I didn't, I risked losing valuable staff. It had taken me years to collect the "talent" and I didn't want to lose it over a few pounds. Each envelope contained ten pounds (a month's wage for most) and a certificate for a turkey from the local butchery. I had thrown in the certificate because it was really cheap--it couldn't be used until after the holiday, and by then turkeys were being given away.
Bob thanked me, wished me a happy holiday and left for home. By then the rest of the staff was gone. I closed up, turning off all the holiday lights in the windows. (It was Christmas Eve, but gas or oil costs money.) I bundled into my very old but expensive black woolen longcoat and cashmere scarf and headed home for a hot toddy and some left-over joint that cook had left in the icebox. It would be just another dark winter night, reading by a coal fire.
My long walk home was cold. I wouldn't waste a twopence on a hansom, and the exercise would be good for me. I was frequently interrupted by revelers, wishing a happy eve and day. By the time I reached home, I was frozen and even more than normally sour. I approached the door of the townhouse and inserted the two keys necessary to open the large black-enameled door. When I did so, I stared at the large brass knocker (an unusual, probably custom-made device in the shape of a long eggplant "knocker" with a knock-plate of two lemons--a joke Jacob had had installed many years ago). I hated it, but had never been willing to spend the money to replace it. But, tonight, for some reason I touched it, and it was very warm, almost hot, despite the ambient temperature, and it seemed to glow from within. My hand sprung back. What the fuck!
Incidentally, I'm sometimes taken for an aged pensioner, but I am not an old man. I'm thirty-five, 6 foot tall, with long dark hair that had not yet begun to grey. I normally kept it bound with leather cords into a large tail--in the current fashion. My face and jaw are square, and I have piercing deep blue eyes with dark brows. When I lose the frown, I actually can look like a desirable young bloke. I work out regularly, an activity for which I'm always criticizing myself as a total waste of time and energy. But old habits die hard, and Marley had insisted that I maintain my athletic physique when he was alive. Who cares? But, doing so means that I'm maintaining a fairly nice body, even now. But, I feel old. I'm ready to die. I've been dealt a raw deal in life, cushioned of course by wealth and position, and I in general hate people and society. Humbug!
I had lost the love of my life some seven years ago; and nothing since offered consolation. If it is possible to be a young curmudgeon, I am one--in spades; but one of potentially dazzling allure nevertheless. I just keep it covered in old black garments. Who cares about impressions? I'm ready to pay for the pleasure I take. Humbug!
I entered the living space of the empty townhouse--a lofty, ostentations receiving room with a double-wide staircase leading up, and moved back into the scullery on the ground floor which also held a comfortable chair before the hearth. I should light a fire. But why? I'm warm enough in wrapped woolens and blankets. I cut some meat from the joint, and some slices from the bread on the board, poured myself a generous portion of the liquid cook had previously brewed and moved to my library space upstairs. I lit another candle (what waste!) and ate in silence. Then, for reasons I will never be able to explain, I pulled my diary from the bookshelf. I hadn't added to it in years. It was ancient history.
I began to read--paging back to ten years ago when my relationship with Jacob was hot and exciting--and soon found myself stroking in the comfortable leather chair. I was dreaming of Marley, again. The wind continued to whistle outside, and the clock continued to chime. I was almost there. My rigid cock was dark, rock hard and leaking that familiar viscous fluid.
