Yuletide At Holly Hollow

WARNING! AUTHOR'S NOTES APPROACHING!

Ho ho ho, friendly readers! This is my submission for the

Literotica 2021 Winter Holidays Story Contest

. Be aware that this story contains content tags such as huge cock, excessive cum, petite woman, throat fucking, womb fucking, and cum inflation. If those aren't your jam, then let us part as friends, with my warmest wishes for a happy holiday. But if you're into it, then read on!

This story features a character who has appeared in a previous work of mine. However, you don't need to read any of my other stories to enjoy this one. Please enjoy this silly, dirty, Yuletide reverie!

AUTHOR'S NOTES CONCLUDED. MERRY CHRISTMAS, YA FILTHY ANIMAL.

~~~~~~

Quentin

hated

parties.

Generally speaking, he preferred to be alone, or in the company of a few close friends. He liked peace and quiet. It gave him time to read, and study, and appreciate the arts. Nobody expected a broad-shouldered, barrel-chested guy to be the sensitive, introspective type, but somehow that's just how Quentin had ended up.

Mort and Franklin, his two best friends, had sort of adopted him since he arrived for college at Great Midwestern University (Go Rivermen!). They made an effort to coax him to venture out of his dorm room, which they jokingly called his hermit's hole. His social anxiety often kept him cooped up, but they insisted that he at least finish each school day by having dinner with them at the student union, and he had to admit that it often felt good to get out. Still, he drew the line at parties. Every so often they managed to badger him into attending one, and every time he came away swearing to never go through that torture again.

Quentin's introverted tendencies had only gotten worse since the breakup. Lyn had probably never been the

right

girl for him, but she'd been his high school sweetheart. While Quentin had stayed close to home for college, she'd gone to a prestigious school on the east coast. They'd promised to make the long-distance thing work -- they were in

love

, after all, and Lyn had been the first and only girl he'd ever slept with. But while Quentin was quietly studying library science, Lyn was partying it up in New England.

At first they'd done video calls three times a week, with Quentin flying out to visit her every month. But by October, things had begun to feel off. Lyn became increasingly guarded and evasive from his innocent questions about what she'd been up to recently. He had begun to suspect something was up, even as they made plans to get together in November. Things came to a head when Lyn had accidentally turned her video on during an audio-only call, revealing a very handsome, and very shirtless, man skulking around her apartment. She'd tried to play it off like he was just a friend, but it didn't take long for her to admit she'd been cheating on him. And, as it turned out, she'd been cheating on him for months.

The worst part? She didn't even seem to feel

bad

about it. If anything, she seemed irritated at Quentin for being upset.

So Quentin had spent the better part of November alone in his room, reading and watching movies and sleeping too much, only really venturing out for classes and groceries. Mort and Franklin said that he should get back out there and try dating again -- he really was pretty good looking, they insisted. He was certainly starting to get a bit lonely, and, dare he say it,

horny

. But the thought of going on dates with strangers terrified him, so he contented himself with internet girls and his trusty right hand.

December rolled around, and Quentin was starting to feel a little less depressed. It being the holiday season, Mort and Franklin had hectored and badgered him about attending an exclusive annual soiree they'd somehow obtained invitations to. Quentin had protested that he wasn't really a Christmas type of guy, but they'd insisted, going on and on about how interesting and different and

weird

this party would be, and thus not to be missed under any circumstances.

Eventually he'd given in and allowed himself to be cajoled. They drove to a secluded part of the county, down winding, tree-shrouded roads, until they arrived at an enormous manor house at the end of a dark and quiet street called Holly Hollow. It was an old dwelling, made of solid red brick and gray stone, with long, sloping eaves and tall, arched windows. There was even a spire towering above the western side of the house, windows glowing with yellow light.

As the trio stepped through the front door, Quentin took stock of the situation.

I have no idea whose house this was, nor am I likely to know anyone at the party. Great. Just great.

The usual awkward dread settled over him, made ten times worse by the knowledge that his burly frame drew every eye in the room like a magnet. He hated being the center of attention. People always made assumptions about him: that because of his height and size, he must be an athlete of some kind, or at just a dumb meathead, both of which couldn't have been further from the truth. He hated sports, although he exercised often enough, and his GPA was a solid 3.8. Sometimes Quentin wished he could just give away four or five inches. A solid 5'9 seemed like the sweet spot, but he'd forever be stuck at an awkward 6'4.

Sensing his unease, Mort and Franklin swiftly located drinks, which always helped. As Quentin slowly quaffed a gin and tonic, he could feel the pangs of anxiety and self-consciousness fading as the heat of the booze took over. He acquiesced as his friends pulled him from room to room, interfacing with various throngs of revelers that his buddies knew in some attenuated way. Quentin dutifully murmured polite greetings each time he was introduced, and did his best to maintain amiable chit chat whenever someone engaged him. He even almost convinced himself that he was coming off as charming and warm, rather than awkward and weird, which was one of his greatest fears in life.

Passing into each chamber, Quentin took notice of the elegant dark woodwork that ran along the floorboards, flowing smoothly into doorframes and cornices running the length and breadth of each interior wall. Unusual symbols, which reminded him of the zodiac, were carved into footboards and mantels with seeming irregularity, which Quentin chalked up to the eccentricities of whoever built this place circa 1890 or so. Smoothly polished hardwood echoed beneath their feet where the floor was not covered in rich, thick rugs. Beautiful mid-century furniture decorated every room, where revelers draped themselves onto chairs, loveseats, benches, and stools. There was no Christmas Tree, nor were there images of Christ, or Santa, for that matter, but there were wreaths above every doorframe and garlands curling about every inch of railing and banister. The name

Holly Hollow

was beginning to seem more and more appropriate.

Eventually, his tolerance for social interaction ran its course, and he told his friends he was going to find a quiet place to sit down for a bit. Mort and Franklin let him go with only some gentle razzing mixed with affectioned fist bumps and claps on the shoulder.

Wandering through the house with his third G&T held firmly in one big fist, Quentin descended a short set of hardwood stairs near the rear of the building to a small, squarish reading room. It was too small to be a library, really, but two matching armchairs faced four tall bookshelves replete with volumes. The shelves flanked wide bay windows opening out onto the yard, which might more properly have been called a

forest

, filled with oak trees, whose bare branches looked black and skeletal in the winter moonlight, and evergreens which jealously held their needles, even in the frosty winter air. A sense of chilly serenity hung in the air.

Perfect. It's like there's no one else in all the world.

He set his drink on the side table, where he noticed a leather-bound copy of

The Divine Comedy

. He'd read only excerpts before, and curiosity and serendipity compelled him to take just a brief look. Before he knew it, nearly an hour had passed, and Quentin had blown through the first fifty pages of Dante's misadventures. He was so engrossed that he nearly jumped out of his seat when a woman's voice said, "Some party, isn't it?"

The voice, low and husky despite its evident femininity, was very close to his ear, and Quentin lurched away from it involuntarily, dropping the book and knocking over his drink with an elbow.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, cursing himself inwardly. He was always knocking things over, never quite at ease with the amount of space he took up. As he fumbled for a napkin to wipe up the spill, a tinkle of musical laughter echoed behind him.

"Don't sweat it," said the woman. "It's a

party.

Spills are expected."

She at last stepped into view, occupying the space between him and the bay windows, silvery moonlight framing her figure. Quentin ceased his efforts at cleaning, struck dumb in spite of himself as he admired the singular woman before him.

With a dancer's grace, she turned in place, stepping lightly over to the window to gaze at the denuded oaks and proud evergreens. A long, black braid swung pendulously behind her back, down all the way past her butt. Turning back around, she smiled at him. Her lips were painted a deep blood-red, and the grin split the soft pale skin of her face so wide that it almost seemed unnatural. Her features were youthful, free of lines or blemishes, but nevertheless there was an ageless quality to her intelligent yellow eyes as she regarded him thoughtfully. Quentin wasn't sure if he should be thinking of her as a

girl

or a

woman.

Her short stature made him lean more towards

girl.

She was barely five feet tall, he guessed, her figure petite and elfin. Her top was made of dark, semi-translucent lace, but beneath it was the upper part of a form-fitting bodysuit. The shape of the girl's small breasts were plainly visible, as was the immodest outline of her nipples. Her skirt, made of shiny black leather, was festooned with narrow belts and silvery buckles. Tall stockings of alternating burgundy and viridian climbed her slender legs, and soft black slippers encased her feet. Piercings which glimmered silver in the nighttime dotted her ears, lips, eyebrows, and nose. Quentin might have termed her a

goth,

but the look seemed on her quite casual and effortless, free somehow of the performative affect he would have expected from someone his age.

She was also, needless to say,

stupidly

hot.

Quentin had always had a thing for short girls. He loved the idea of a petite woman's tiny body snuggled up against his larger frame, and he liked to think of himself as the chairman of GMU's chapter of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee. There was a certain kinky element to it, he'd be the first to admit: a great big man doing dirty things to a small, soft woman. Lyn had been average size and relatively conversative when it came to sex, so Quentin had never felt comfortable telling her about his fantasies.

He realized that he'd been staring, lost in thought as usual, painfully aware that he hadn't had sex in months and that his dream girl was standing right in front of him. Clearing his throat awkwardly, trying to salvage some dignity.

"Uh," he began abortively. "Hi."

"Hi, yourself," said the girl. She dropped into the empty armchair beside him, draping her body across it languorously, and released a heavy sigh. "So. Not much of a party animal, I take it?"

"Er," he said awkwardly, trying to think of a charming quip and failing. "Parties aren't really my thing, I'm afraid."

"Yeah, me neither. Isn't there more to life than just standing in rooms together, drinking and talking? People can be so odd."

The way she said

people

seemed slightly odd to Quentin. It was as if the girl didn't count herself among them, and put a bit of a sneer into the word. Still, he couldn't help but agree with her assessment.

"It's always seemed odd to me too," he replied. "I prefer a good book to a room full of strangers."

She glanced down at the copy of

The Divine Comedy

he'd been reading, raising one eyebrow curiously when she saw the title. Her eyes found him again, fixating in a penetrating way. He shifted awkwardly in his chair, a confusing mix of anxious and aroused.

"You're an interesting one," she said. She leaned in closer and cast an appraising eye upon him, as if she were sizing up a prospective purchase. "Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscular." The girl suddenly reached out and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, earning a little yelp from Quentin. Her hand slipped from his hair to the side of his face, cupping his cheek. "

Great

hair. And handsome, as well. Yet you have the personality of a meek intellectual. Curious." Her red lips curled into a self-satisfied smirk. "Nevertheless, I approve."

"Uhhh... thanks, I think?" Quentin managed to say, stunned by her presumptuous behavior.

"You're welcome," she said, her eyes flashing with mischief. "So, what's your name?"

"Quentin," he replied.

"Quentin,"

she repeated, rolling the name around on her tongue. "Yes. Very good. I'm Astarte. How would you like to help me out, Quentin? I have a little tradition I like to observe each year, and you'd be just

perfect

for it."

"Oh, well, you're very kind, but I should probably get back to my friends--"

"Your friends are fine," she said cutting him off with a flippant wave of her hand. "Do you know whose house this is, Quentin?"

"Um... no?"

"It's

my

house. And you've been sitting in my furniture, reading my books, and drinking my alcohol. I'd say that the least you could do is give me a bit of your time, in return for my hospitality?"

He wasn't sure what else to say. Mort and Franklin were surely starting to wonder about him at this point, but her logic sounded perfectly reasonable. Astarte was certainly insanely attractive to him, but she made him slightly nervous as well. Her supercilious tone and otherworldly beauty made for a startling combination, and Quentin wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss her or run from her.

As if reading his thoughts, Astarte said, "I promise that what I have in mind is nothing

bad.

It's just a silly little ritual of mine. In fact, I think you might quite like it. Just accompany me up into the tower, hear what I have to say, and make up your mind then. What do you say?"

She gave him a pouty, pleading look, adopting the demeanor of a petulant girl. It was hard to say no to those pleading yellow eyes and the coquettish frown on her snow-white face.

"Okay," he said. "What's in the tower?"

"You'll see."

~~~~~~

The tower was at the top of a long flight of twisting stairs which had the feeling of a medieval castle, save for the fact that the intermittent lights were electric lamps and not burning torches. A heavy wooden door barred the way to the room at the tower's summit. Producing a heavy brass key from the voluminous pockets of her black skirt, Astarte unlocked the door with a sonorous

clank.

"Come in, and know me better, man," she said with a wry chuckle.

She seemed on the verge of breaking into dance as she glided into the room on the balls of her feet. Quentin stepped in after her, shutting the heavy oak door behind him.

The room was furnished in the same rich, dark wood as the rest of the house. The vaulted ceiling was decorated in the pattern of the night sky, with dozens of tiny stars spread across a dark field. Four arched windows faced into the night at cardinal directions. A brass telescope mounted atop a tripod stood before one of them -- north, he thought. The fireplace roared and crackled, filling the spacious room with warmth. Shelves of books lined this room as well, but these volumes had a more eldritch look than those downstairs, their wide spines lined with gold filigree and titles written in runic script Quentin didn't recognize. In the center of the room, a miniature orrery rotated slowly, describing the motion of celestial bodies across the cosmos. Quentin thought he recognized the earth, the sun, and most of the planets, but other orbs seemed totally foreign to him as they glided past, suspended from thin metal armatures.

Beneath one window, a cushioned bench nestled into the curve of the wall, with a matching chaise beside it. Astarte gestured for Quentin to sit while she poured them two glasses of a honey-colored spirit from a decanter on the side table. Quentin took it with both hands as he settled onto the bench, and up close the liquid seemed almost to glow like honed sunlight. Wonder had replaced apprehension, accompanied of course by the constant low thrum of arousal as he watched the slender, attractive girl glide across the room before settling catlike on the bench beside him. He took a sip of the spirit, inhaling sharply as the liquid spilled across his tongue. It was sweet and strong, feeling warm and heady as he swallowed. That, combined with the two and a half G&Ts he'd consumed downstairs, was lowering his inhibitions considerably.

"So," she said. "Here we are. What do you think of my observatory?"

"It's incredible," said Quentin. "How accurate is that contraption?"

She shrugged. "Fairly accurate, I suppose. Or at least it was, at one time. Things change. Even the cosmos, given enough time."

Astarte quaffed her drink, swirling the glass as a pensive look shadowed her face.

"Do you know what this party is celebrating, Quentin?"

"Er... Christmas?"

"Bzzz, wrong! This is a

Yule

party, not a

Christmas

party. The fucking Christians stole all the fun winter traditions from the pagans. But those martyr-worshipping weirdos missed the best part about Yule: the

magic."

Astarte rose from her seat on the bench and stalked catlike across the room, nimble and agile on her feet. She spoke to him as she glided gracefully behind the orrery, momentarily obscured from view by the device.

"Tonight is the winter solstice, the longest night of the year. Magic is as potent tonight as it will ever be. It is said that on this night, the Holly King, lord of winter, reaches the height of his powers. He stands in opposition to the Oak King, the lord of summer, and shall rule until the seasons change again."

She reappeared from behind the globes and armatures, and Quentin's breath caught. The girl had divested herself of blouse, skirt, and slippers, leaving her in naught but a form-fitting bodysuit, colored such a dark crimson it was almost black, and her banded green and red stockings. Her nipples stood out firmly beneath her garment, and Quentin was sure he saw the outline of piercings straining against the fabric. Astarte's lips curled wide again in a satisfied smirk as she soaked up his attentive, lecherous gaze.

Holy shit. What have I gotten myself into?

"I have a little tradition. Every year, on the solstice, I like to find a suitable man to play the role of the Holly King. Where the Oak King is brash and blunt, the Holly King is patient and circumspect. You seem like a man who has been waiting for his moment, Quentin, and I think it has arrived. Will you be my Holly King?"

"What are you... what do you want from me?" he asked in his nervous, halting manner.

She giggled at his nervousness. "Don't be shy, Quentin. It's easy. Magic like this requires some kind of potent

charge

to set things in motion. Sometimes we literally burn things, which can be quite effective. But I prefer another way. When all of your life essence is gathered and then released in a single instant, your latent magic reaches its zenith."