Here's my annual Christmas story...as usual a few months late! Oh well, helps keep that Christmas spirit alive!
Hope you enjoy - please let me know your thoughts on this story, both pro and con! AS always, the usual disclaimers - this is a work of fiction and characters are wholly of my imagination! Enjoy!
I suppose there are some buzz-kills that will roll their eyes, hearing that as long as I can remember, I've left Santa Claus a special snack – usually some of Mom's sugar cookies and a glass of milk before I went to bed on Christmas Eve. It's tradition! Even as I grew older and came to realize Daddy was Santa...or at least, my Santa. I've left milk and cookies on the little table next to my father's easy-boy lounger. Daddy always encouraged me, giving me subtle reminders as I reached my teenage years and sometimes almost went to bed without leaving Santa his snack.
It was a ritual that Daddy really seemed to enjoy. Of course, Christmas and the holidays always brought out Daddy's sentimental side. He loved the family traditions of reading "The Night before Christmas" and decorating the tree and playing his old Christmas records with all those now dead crooners telling us it was "beginning to look a lot like Christmas." I was the youngest of his three kids – seven years younger than my next oldest sibling, my brother James and nine years younger than my older sister, Tina. As my siblings got older and began to pull away from family, I was the one Daddy turned to more and more to help him carry on the usual Christmas customs.
And to be honest, I enjoyed being the center of attention more and more – being acclaimed by one and all as Daddy's "little girl. Our relationship at Christmas became even more important as first Tina and then James left home. Tina married her high school sweetheart and moved from Ohio all the way across the nation to Southern California, settling down to raise four kids of her own. Falling in love with the climate, Tina is adamant about not visiting home in winter, loving her warmth and sunshine.
James joined the Air Force and most years has been stationed somewhere else when the holidays come. A self-proclaimed skirt chaser, he prefers to spend the holidays on leave chasing women. As a result, since I was eleven, I've been Daddy's salvation when it comes to making Christmas a family event.
In a way, I'm glad. When puberty hit and I began to grow into a young woman – things begin to grow a bit distant between my father and me. It really wasn't intentional, but I think as I started to develop boobs and curves, Daddy took a step back from me, holding me at arms length most of the time. The many hours of sitting in Daddy's lap as we watched Christmas specials and countless versions of "A Christmas Carol" evolved into Daddy sprawled out on his lounger and me sitting safely several feet away.
Despite that distance, it was Christmas time when Daddy and I seemed to connect the most – putting aside our growing differences in the spirit of the holidays. Mom and I talked about it many times...the Christmas connection and the obvious gulf between us that I suppose most girls and their fathers have – fights about clothes and boyfriends and curfews and all the restrictions that a teenager feels their parents are shackling them with.
Mom tried to be supportive for me and she was, even though I thought she took Daddy's side too much of the time. "Get real, Erica," she would tell me. "You'll always be your father's sweet little girl. It's hard on him to suddenly realize you've got tits and great legs and are maybe having sex with the Smith boy who used to deliver the paper!"
I would blush when Mom would get so frank. One thing about my mother was she never pulled her punches. And what she said was true. By the time I hit high school I had a woman's body – breasts that finally seemed to level off at a 38C cup and long shapely legs that looked good in short skirts and high heels. Add all that to long, black hair and a cute face and you'll understand that I never lacked for attention from the boys. And Mom was right in that I didn't waste any time experimenting sexually. Of course, that leads me right back to the tension that emerged between Daddy and me.
Aside from arguments about outfits that were too short, too tight or showed too much cleavage, there were um...occasional incidents that pushed Daddy and me apart. Daddy opening the front door to discover the Smith boy not only French Kissing me, but with his hand up under my sweater, copping a feel. Daddy turning the flashlight on the Smith boy's car parked in front of the house after my curfew to find me topless with my hand wrapped around the Smith boy's erect cock.
The worst incident didn't even involve a boy. It was the summer after I graduated from high school. Mom had gone shopping and Daddy was supposed to be at work. I was shaving my pussy in preparation for skimpy swimsuit season and was doing it in my parent's bathroom – Daddy having installed a huge three-sided mirror for Mom a few years before.
So there I am, naked, sitting on the edge of the tub with my legs spread wide, razor in hand having almost finished when Daddy walks unexpectedly into the bathroom. I don't know how long we both just stared silently at each other in shock, but it was long enough for Daddy to get a real good look at his eighteen year old daughter's tits and bald cunt and long enough that despite the terrified expression on his face, my father popped a significant boner in his pants.
Daddy only retreated after I screamed, "Daddy, get out and close the fucking door!" He retreated with a red face, an erection, muttering apologies as he went. He didn't even stay in the house. I could hear his car door slam and him roll out of the driveway in a rush.
Later that evening, I could hear him arguing with Mom about it. I only caught snatches of conversation, but the gist of it was he was worried about what I was into if I was shaving my bush and Mom was laughing and telling him not to worry about – that she'd done the same thing when she was my age and that it was more about appearances than about sex.
It ended with neither of us speaking to each other for over a week and both of us blushing whenever we were in the same room. Even after things settled down, there were flare-ups like the following Christmas as we opened presents, there was a gift certificate from Mom for a bikini wax at a local salon. She laughed her ass off and Daddy and I went around red-faced on Christmas Day unable to look at each other.
One other thing came out of that. I suddenly became aware that I did in fact turn my father on. I lost count of how many erections I noticed Daddy having when I was around. It was both amusing and unsettling. I would come downstairs, dressed in a tight and short party dress, going out clubbing with my friends and there would be Daddy, sitting in his lounger, pretending to not notice, but still popping a tent in his pants. Or, I'd come in from sunbathing in a teeny bikini in the back yard and there Daddy would be, looking rather guilty and flushed and sporting an obvious erection in his trousers.
I mentioned it to one of my best friends, Dana, but she just laughed and said her father was the same way. She said that like her dad, my father probably wasn't getting laid enough and there was probably some truth to that. Mom had been forced to undergo a hysterectomy when I was sixteen due to ovarian cancer – she'd recovered, but she confided in me that her sex drive just evaporated and had never come back. Of course, this didn't make me feel any better. I assumed that Daddy probably masturbated to relieve his needs and the thought that I might be providing his imagination with images tended to weird me out.
That might have been one of the reasons that I decided after a year in a local community college to transfer to the University of Ohio, almost one hundred miles away. There were other reasons – I broke up with the Smith boy when I found out he was two-timing me with Dana. I know it almost broke Mom's and Daddy's hearts to see their last chick leave the nest...almost, I still came home for holidays and yes, I still went along with Daddy's traditions including leaving out milk and cookies for Santa..
That brings us to this Christmas, me now twenty-one and feeling very worldly and mature. The tensions between Daddy and me were the same as ever as I picked up on when I hugged him when I first came through the door. I'd flung my arms around him to hug him and as I pressed my body against his, I could literally feel him jerk his hips back, avoiding contact in the chest and thigh region as much as possible.
During the first few days I was home, he had a lot of trouble looking me in the face, although I quickly picked up on a lot of sneaking glances my way. I was very much into tight fitting, scooped neck sweaters and dresses made of jersey material that were both warm (almost like flannel) and very, very clingy. We barely spoke at least until Christmas Eve afternoon while we were all sitting at the kitchen table when I asked to borrow Mom's car for a party that evening.
Mom was already reaching for her keys while Daddy's face fell and he said, "You mean you're not staying home tonight?" His voice was thick with disappointment.
"Uh, no. There's a party tonight at Dana's. A lot of my old classmates will be there that I haven't seen in a long time."
"But it's Christmas Eve, Erica!" Daddy said, scowling at me
I rolled my eyes as I anticipated another long battle in the never ending conflict between father and daughter. "Daddy – get real. I'm twenty-one years old. I'm getting a little old to hear "The Night before Christmas, and if I have to hear Perry what-his-name again, I may bang my head against the wall till I'm unconscious."
