A Climax for Christmas (A Holiday Romance Novella) Read online

  A Climax for Christmas

  A Holiday Romance Novella

  By: Chris Genovese

  A Climax for Christmas: A Holiday Romance Novella

  2nd Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Chris Genovese

  Published by Erotic Mayberry Publishing

  Written by Chris Genovese

  Cover created by Chris Genovese

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Dedication

  To my family, friends, and fans…all the people who’ve made this year such an amazing first year as an erotica writer. God bless you all and Merry Christmas!

  Chapter 1

  Dear world,

  Christmas, my favorite time of the year. For Santa, it wouldn’t make sense to have it any other way. Santa. I hate calling myself that. I always have. Does Madonna call herself Madonna? Does Prince call himself Prince? I suppose they probably do but I just feel odd calling myself a name that has been bestowed upon me by the world’s children and families.

  I’m Nicholas. Saint Nick to some. And as I write this letter I’m burdened with a heavy heart. The weight isn’t brought down by you people. For the most part, you’ve made my life a never-ending grand ball where my annual waltz is the highlight of the party.

  A glance at the window overlooking the North Pole gazebo presents me with a little joy, seeing the elves play and the bright colorful lights sway in the night breeze. I like hearing the sound of live Christmas songs flowing from the fiddles, trumpets, and snare drums played by the most talented of the elven crowd. They love their music and Jingle Bell Rock is played so often it can get annoying.

  I strain my ears and hear the familiar chorus of, “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

  It brings me back to my tale. Tale. Tail end I guess would make more sense. The ultimate climax to the Christmas story. The lifting of the load. A climax for Christmas. That’s what you get in this letter.

  This is an anvil of sorrow I bear. Its iron-like bulk puts pressure on my shoulders as I watch yet another wife of mine grow old. Marlena. She’s on the bed next to where I sit with this notepad, pen, and candle.

  Yes, a candle only seems right for a moment like this. For all the iPads and tablets and cell phones I carry around on Christmas Eve, I never could learn to stomach them. I’m old fashioned I guess and as an old fashioned man, I value the feel of the paper beneath my palm as my hand slides from left to right, carving each letter into the parchment.

  I look over at Marlena, the current Mrs. Claus, and see her struggle to breathe. I wish I could take her pain away. I wish I could replace life’s weight with the torture she’s enduring. But I can’t. I never could. See, I’ve had three wives prior to this one and even through so much love and loss, one can never be prepared for a loved one’s last night on earth.

  She’ll die tonight. The night before Christmas Eve and Marlena will die. I’ve seen it three times before and each of those times, the cold stillness of the night was different from the usual frigid temperature. It’s like the shadows creep in and darken the atmosphere slightly more on the night of the final goodbye.

  I lift my tumbler of Southern Comfort to my lips and take a long pull. This glass is tall and filled more than halfway as I plan to let it burn through my chest, stomach, and legs. I want it to strip all feeling away. And when I’m finally numb to the pain, that’s when I’ll do it.

  The shadows dance. Let them dance. Tonight they’ll dance a little longer than usual as I’ve decided to go with her. I cannot do this alone anymore. I just can’t. I’ve tried. I’m worn out and Marlena, even more than the others, gave me a peace, a sense that I wasn’t alone. And to be trapped in a solitary world, this frozen tundra, even with cheerful elves bouncing around all over the place, is a prison I can no longer handle.

  So I’ve decided to tell my final story, my true story, of love and loss, tonight.

  Oh, how the shadows dance in the candlelight, antagonizing me, daring me, waiting for me. They dance. Like their own final waltz.

  My waltz. Oh, how I love to dance.

  ***

  Dancing.

  That’s how I met my first wife, Agatha. I was a young man, a twenty year old carpenter. I came from a poor family, not wealthy I should say, as we were rich with love for one another.

  I had a mother, a father, a brother, and a sister. We were all creative people and liked to take our crafts into the local market. Back then, bartering was a normal form of currency. Money actually did very little in my community. To have someone owe you a favor or to give you a large sack of potatoes was worth more than paper bills.

  I remember I traded a carved plaque meant for the outside knocker of a family home. It said “welcome” and bore two birds caught in each other’s embrace, their wings wrapping around each other in a warm hug.

  My payment? An invitation to the constable’s ball. I was delighted but also a little nervous because I’d never been to one. I loved to dance with my siblings and nothing made me happier than the sound of music.

  I’m sorry, none of this is important really. Not in the grand scheme of things. What matters is the moment I saw her. I don’t remember the song, mostly because I stopped hearing it the moment I saw her across the room.

  Agatha. God, she was beautiful. She had long brown hair that hung in tangles down her back and her dress was the usual fluffy sort tied tight around the upper arms, creating pillows below her shoulders.

  I remember how I wanted to rest my head on them.

  And more than that, I remember how my cock hardened and throbbed at the sight of her.

  Now, let me explain before we go any further that your dear Santa is as horny as they come. I love beautiful women. I’m loyal but when I’m not tied down, I’m known to get a little crazy. I love sex. It’s one of God’s blessings as far as I’m concerned. Nothing would be made to feel so good if it were meant to be bad.

  I cannot be wrong in this.

  And I wanted to make love to Agatha. Of course, I didn’t know that was her name at the time but I knew that her full breasts were propped up and were so enticing I thought I might lose my mind.

  I made my way to her, closing the distance in the room, but she still hadn’t noticed me. So I simply stared at her, gawking really, probably looking like a crazy person to anyone who didn’t know me.

  It was her eyes that drew me in. Deep wells of honey swirling around like an earthy kaleidoscope welcoming me into their fantastic captivity.

  “Do you dance?” she asked.

  I had to look over my shoulder to see if she was speaking to me or someone in the background. Nobody was behind me and I realized I was her audience.

  “Umm…pardon me?” I asked.

  “Do you dance?”

  “I do. I do. Yes, of course I do.”

  I was a blabbering idiot but it didn’t matter. She giggled and that was all I needed to see. She was interested in me at least a little bit.

  So we danced. And we danced and we danced some more. We were light on our feet. For the most part, she led the way, knowing every formal dance possible. I was an ignorant carpenter while she was a master of musical movement.

  But w
hen the tone of the music changed and became more of a folksy jig type, I took over, gripping her hands and bouncing her around joyously. We were little kids and we laughed and drank and enjoyed each other’s company.

  I courted her for nearly a year after that. Most of it was done in secrecy as she was born into a wealthy family and I didn’t come from money. I was worried all the time but she didn’t care. Finally, we married. It was a small wedding as her family wanted nothing to do with me.

  But it was the sex I remember most. God, to completely wrap yourself up in a woman, to blend with her and become one with her, someone who’s never been with a man before when you’ve never been with a woman. It’s like two worlds become one. Romantic, I know. But the actual love making was anything but.

  We left the small chapel near my home, decorated by my parents the best they could, and rode by horseback far away, to a small cabin I was able to rent for the price of a handmade wooden table and chairs.

  She was nervous when I led her through the front door. I was nervous too. It was a bit chilly and our breath mixed together in the frosty air, like two swirls of smoke getting to know each other before our bodies did.

  We wasted no time. As soon as we entered and I lit a lantern, she smoothed back the bed sheets, stripped off her clothes, and lay naked on her back. I could do very little but watch in awe. I removed my clothes and stood at the side of the bed, completely naked, but unmoving. I just stood there. I don’t know why. But I couldn’t move.

  And I remember my cock thumped, pulsating with each beat of my heart. It was so stiff and she wasn’t even looking at me. She had her eyes closed as if waiting for a surprise. I suppose I was the gift she was waiting to receive. Me, Santa, the gift giver. Makes me laugh now that I think about it.

  ***

  Outside my room at the North Pole I hear the faint whisper of elves humming the tune of Silver Bells. It’s like they’re trying to set the slow, romantic mood for my story. It’s perfect.

  ***

  So as I was saying, I was just staring down at her body. She was so pale. Her skin was soft and smooth, like porcelain or something. Her body had curves, hips wide and meant for bearing children, and her breasts were large and soft, drooping slightly to her sides as gravity took hold.

  Her pussy was unshaven. That was the way it was back then, no racing stripes or bald skin. She was hairy but so fucking beautiful. Without even touching her I imagined what it would be like to place a hand there, to comb my fingers through her hair, and to touch her. I didn’t know what it would feel like. I had nothing to compare it to. I imagined it soft.

  Her eyes popped open and she looked at me, focusing on my face, as if afraid to look lower. But then she did. Her gaze ran down my chest and to my cock. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. She swallowed hard and her eyes were stretched wide. Her chest heaved and I realized how nervous she was.

  “It’s ok,” I remember saying. “You know me.”

  “I do.”

  Those two words, so simple, never left my mind. I do. She said them at our wedding and she said them that night in bed and she said them one other time.

  But I’ll tell you about that later.

  ***

  In my North Pole room, I look over at Marlena and watch as her chest heaves. The sound of her wheezing is louder than the music outside. I take a swig from my glass and return to my pen and paper.

  ***

  There she was, lying on her back in all her magnificence. I truly believe God is an artist for when he sets his brush to a canvas like Agatha, each stroke is brilliant and each shade is a celebration of perfection. Agatha was a masterpiece.

  As I stepped closer to the edge of the bed she spoke up.

  “Can I touch it?” she asked.

  “Always,” I replied, “You never have to ask to touch me. I’m yours. It’s yours.”

  She smiled, liking that. She reached out and lay her right hand over the top of my shaft, pressing down a little with her fingertips, as if reaching out to pet a strange and exotic animal. She waved her hand over it and as her index finger brushed the rim of my head, my nerve endings lit up and I lifted on my toes.

  “It feels good?” she asked.

  I only nodded. I was shivering. It was cold in the room but her touch was so warm and my desire was taking over.

  She ran a thumb down over my head and swirled it around at the tip.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  She held her thumb up and it was wet. She touched her fingers together and rubbed it in.

  “Oh my,” she said. “Very slippery.”

  She patted the bed next to her. “Come. Be with me.”

  It was the sweetest invitation I’d ever heard.

  I climbed on top of her and held my weight up over her, my arms flexing. She put her hands on my biceps and looked longingly into my eyes.

  “I want to make love to you,” I said.

  I know how awkward this all sounds but you have to understand that it was quite awkward. This isn’t nowadays where everyone watches porn and just gets right down to it in the backseat of a car out in a Walmart parking lot. This was a time where everything was basic and being promiscuous was for the wicked. So we were both unknowing virgins with nothing but a wanting for each other.

  Neither of us had practiced our words and unplanned, virgin dialogue can be ridiculously corny.

  As she told me she wanted to make love to me, I remember I leaned in a little, pressing my cock to her pussy, or into the hair I should say. And nothing happened.

  I imagined I’d plunge right in and we would do what couples did. But I just touched dryness.

  “A little lower,” she said.

  I reached down with my hand, found her to be really wet, and just like I’d thought, quite soft. I touched with two fingers, probed really, trying to find the opening I needed. And there it was. One finger nearly went inside and her eyes slammed shut. Her upper lip curled up under her nose.

  “There,” she said.

  “There,” I repeated.

  I grabbed the base of my cock and took it to the spot I’d found with my fingers. And as soon as I my head touched her warm lips, my legs shuddered. I felt an intense joy inside and knew that that much instant pleasure couldn’t be a good thing. I stopped.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I feel…really good.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “No, but I want this to last.”

  I’d never masturbated back then. It was forbidden. I’d heard stories of men who had grown hair all over their palms after jacking off. Another story was about a young man who’d gone blind. So I had no experience with coming. But I’d heard the tales and knew this feeling in my ass and balls and gut was probably that.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “Take your time.”

  And then the feeling settled down a bit and I pressed into her. Her mouth opened and her eyes squinted as I carefully worked my way in.

  “Unh, ohhh oww,” she complained.

  The tip of my cock was wetting in her juices but I wasn’t lubricated enough to really enter her the way I supposed I should. So I pulled out a little.

  “No, don’t go out.”

  I stopped and pushed back in and kept moving inch by inch until her painful cries subsided and my cock became coated in her wetness.

  “This is great,” she said.

  And then she went quiet. I grabbed her shoulders and pushed into her hard, driving in and out, loving the way her pussy swallowed my cock. She sighed into my ear and bit down on my shoulder softly as I did my best to fuck her while she held on so tight.

  Our bodies really were one as her legs wrapped around my hips and she kept her arms draped over my shoulders. And we fucked for a long time. That initial feeling of needing to come disappeared and I remember wondering when it would come back.

  And I kept fucking her. It was as loving as two people fucking for the first time can be. She wasn’t sure about my coc
k at first, hating but then loving the pain, and I wasn’t sure how good I could make love to her as I watched her deal with those mixed emotions.

  But in the end, we found our way, and we fucked three times that night. She came twice and I came all three times. She was sure to get pregnant.

  But she didn’t.

  We had sex every night for the first year. Every single night. And sometimes in the middle of the day. But a child didn’t come.

  Our marriage went on for twenty more years like this, hitting several dry spells where it seemed we loathed each other. I turned to my work and she turned to depression, sitting for days in front of the fire, knitting, or taking long walks into town to see her old friends.