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Subject: {ASSM} The Mistletoe Belt: A Christmas Story By Mkarl [mother/son/kinky imagery/sex]
Date: Thu, 13 Jul 2000 05:10:04 -0400
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Copyright (C) 1999, mkarl. ALL Rights Reserved
This story may not be reproduced in any form for profit or on another website
without the written permission of the author. The author may be contacted by
writing mrdouble@mrdouble.com, mrdouble@mindspring.com, or
mrdouble@ix.netcom.com.
Original posting date:
Wednesday PM, December 22, 1999
A Resident Author story from MrDouble's archive,
Filename: mistleto.txt
http://www.mrdouble.com
Story_codes: [mother/son/kinky imagery/sex]
I recently read a clever little concept entitled all "I want for Christmas is
my mom's sweat ass and a web TV" or something like that, I wish I could
remember where I saw it but even though the concept appealed to me, the writing
was a little weak and I didn't make a permanent note of it. Still, it got me to
thinking it might be interesting to take a sacrilegious shot at making my own
Christmas porn offering. After several failed attempts at a "Night Before
Christmas" style rip-off, I happened to be watching a television commercial the
other day for an upcoming "The Man's Show" and they're seemingly going to have
a sight-gag joke about a mistletoe belt. Anyhow, those are my inspirations now
I guess ill see if I can get a story out of these beginnings.
The Mistletoe Belt: A Christmas Story
By mkarl
I recently read a clever little concept entitled all "I want for
Christmas is my mom's sweat ass and a web TV" or something like that, I wish I
could remember where I saw it but even though the concept appealed to me, the
writing was a little weak and I didn't make a permanent note of it. Still, it
got me to thinking it might be interesting to take a sacrilegious shot at
making my own Christmas porn offering. After several failed attempts at a
"Night Before Christmas" style rip-off, I happened to be watching a television
commercial the other day for an upcoming "The Man's Show" and they're seemingly
going to have a sight-gag joke about a mistletoe belt. Anyhow, those are my
inspirations now I guess ill see if I can get a story out of these beginnings.
It was early Christmas morning and little Michael was just a bundle of
anticipation as he lay in his pee soaked bed. The child had another accident
during the night, but instead of the usual feelings of humiliation the
discomfort might cause the preteen, on this "special"-holiday morning, the boy
had to sicker that his "accident" would actually add a certain "flavoring" to
the festivities that would surely follow if Santa had got the "wish-list."
It wasn't really that the boy-child was an especially naughty little
tyke, in fact he was actually so very well behaved that he could count with a
certainty that he would be on Saint Nick's "good"-list; it was more just the
nature of things that conspired to peak the kid's rather unusual interests with
regards to his budding sexuality. To be more precise, little Michael had a
mother who even as she approached thirty years of age, still had the package
that would give thoughts of impurity to the savior himself. For even such a
young conusor of the charms-of-a-women, like Michael, himself, the allure of
his lovely mother "talents and assets" were still utterly intoxicating and
undeniably irresistible.
So with shaking hand the boy had written out his Christmas wish list this
year, asking for "date-rape" drugs, solid-steal handcuffs, mind-control devices
and even simple, x-ray goggles. Anything that could aid the child in his
"appreciation" of his sweet mother. Above all else though, Michael especially
asked for a Mistletoe Belt.
And that was what led to the boy's eager anticipation that Christmas
morning as he listened to his favorite Christmas song of "I saw mommy kissing
Santa Claus," waiting for his own mother to awake so they could begin the
joyous festivities of the day. It always made little Michael giggle as he heard
the child wonder aloud in the song about the possibilities of blackmailing his
mother. Michael had always wished so much that maybe he would have been able
to catch his own mother with Santa Claus maybe even actually "filling her
stockings," so-to-speak, but alas, that was never to be. Not that it would
matter, mused the boy, as he knew by looking at the clock, his mother's alarm
would soon buzz her out of her dreams and into his own.
As her son bounded into her bedroom, the pretty, young mother couldn't
help the smile, not that she could have had a clue as to what was to soon be
her fate. She wished her husband would have been able to be home for this
joyous day, but someone needed to pay for the gifts that lay wrapped beneath
that tree, so Leta pulled back her covers and stepped forth to begin the next
step of this Christmas fable.
At this point, to spice things up and totally alter the flow of the
proceedings, let me say that mom was wearing a cute little shortie-nightie.
With maybe just a hint of transparenty to allow the coloring and outline of her
bra and panties to come through. That is, if she was wearing any. Well.
Panties, yeah, but a bra. Definitely not. Her tits actually really aren't
like, huge melon types anyhow, so she really is firm enough not to need a bra
at all in my opinion, but she definitely doesn't wear one to bed, as I've had
the pleasure of ascertaining from empirical observation. And yes, the nighty
is sheer enough that this is again, quite obvious to the observation. Hell.
Let's just say the nighty is short enough that her panties get into view with
her every little bounce and wiggle too, and maybe they're the glass type where
I can see the darkness of her pussy too [okay, maybe that's going too far so
let's get back to the story.]
When last we left our little Christmas fable, we were just at the point
were mother and son were headed to the tree to do some paper tearing. We have
already foreshadowed that this won't exactly be a traditional family
celebration so let's see just what could happen instead given my warped
imagination free reign to blasphemies the holiday spirit.
Little Michael's eyes lit with glee as he saw the colored bundles
awaiting beneath the tree. He saw the sweaters from his aunt's and the toys
from his dad, but it was the care packages from Kris Kringle that were the
sought after prizes. As mom grabbed her camera to capture some Kodak moments
for her husband's later pleasure, she felt a warm glow as she gave the first go
ahead to her precious angle to start the unwrappings [yeah, the unwrappings
that would eventually include her robe, sorry, I know my writing styles might
irritate a little but I cant help but beat the obvious little word gags over
the head with my sledgehammer until they become utterly cliche]
Michael knew he might have to pause with package in hand while mommy
snapped of every one of her pictures so he decided to open what would be his
video recorder first. Eventually, the camera would make his mother an Internet
starlet, but in the short order, it would speed along the proceedings more to
the boy's likings. Of course, mommy insisted that Michael shake the package and
make his guess. In a way it annoyed the child, like he felt to old to behave
in such infantile manners, but the kid grinned and bore it as he rationed it
would be ever so soon that he would be able to "correct" his mother's
understandings on exactly just how "big" a boy he truly now was.
As Leta's eyes saw the contents of Michael's first package, her jaw
almost hit the floor [yeah, I have to say this was probably good warm-up
exercise for the mistletoe belt] Leta was absolutely flabbergasted that Santa
would bring such an expensive gift for her child and it filled her with a
mother's pride, that her baby must have been a very good little boy indeed to
warrant such an extravagant gift.
"Michael, I had no idea that you asked Santa Claus for a video recorder,"
the prideful mother spoke.
"Yeah mom, I told his representative at the mall when I gave him my
letter. Just to make sure, I told him I would give him copies of the videos I'm
going to make. Maybe you can videotape the rest of the gift opening to it won't
waste so much time while yo try to get the perfect picture."
Leta had never used a video camera before, but luckily it was one of
those easy, idiot-proof ones and so she was able to narrow down the view finder
to crop out any accidental documentation of her child's wetness in the front of
his pajama's. She was such a good mother to be so diligent in such regards.
Michael saw the next package which was just heavy enough to likely be the
solid steel constraining devices and leather wear that would be so much fun to
use on his mother. He hoped Santa had got the sizes right. Mom did have quite
a slender neck, so Michael was pretty sure that he cold always use his own
dog's studded collar for the outfit even if Santa's wasn't right, but the rest
of the all-black, slick-and-shiny slut suit with the appropriate openings for
easy accommodations had to be just right. The hand cuffs, ankle chains, ball
gags and other restricting devices really were more one-size-fits-all types so
they would not be much of a concern.... Michael almost decided to open the
package, just to reassure himself of the sizing, but than he decided some
things might be better left as a surprise for mommy later, like maybe even on
boxing-day.
The next gift under the tree from jolly old Saint Nick, was a little
bundle of pill and powder filled bottles. Michael saw that he had all the good
ones from GHB to Ecstasy and even some good old fashioned chloroform. Since it
looked like Michael had been good enough to get all his wish list fulfilled,
these date-enhancers would not be necessary with mom at this point, but they
could still lead to fun with some teachers and other pretty little things
later, so the present was well received.
Leta was a little curious as to what was on the pills. It seamed to the
somewhat innocent mother that she had heard something about GHB, but in the
excitement of the moment she couldn't remember exactly what. Oh well, Michael
was already setting aside the bottles anyhow, and it would be time enough later
for the conscientious mother to make sure that the drug were okay for her
child. Still, they came from Santa Claus, so how bad could they be?
It may have been sound reasoning for the good mother, but it was to be
challenged with her child's next gift unwrapped. A super-deluxe home
tattooing-kit.
"Michael, what is that?" The shocked parent asked.
"It's my tattoo-kit from Santa," came the matter-of-fact reply.
"You're not getting any tattoos, young man," mother stated.
"I'm not going to tattoo myself, mom," the boy foreshadowed.
"I can't believe Santa Claus would give you a tattoo-kit. Or that you
would even ask for one. Well. You can't have it. Give it to me NOW!"
It didn't really matter. The real fun with the tattoo kit wouldn't come
until the day of the super bowl party in January anyhow when Michael would
finally find a way to make friends with the popular Negro boys in his school.
Michael had heard they liked to do art and stuff with graffiti and would really
enjoy the permanence of inking some stuff on his mother's pretty body.
For now, let her put away the tattoo kit, because with only the one last
unexplored package from Santa, Michael was about to have the Christmas that
would forever end the innocence.
Leta was a little off-kilter still from the tattoo-kit. In her mind she
was definitely mulling over the needs to discuss this with her husband. He
wouldn't be home till late, but than again, he would see this video anyhow, so
he cold make his own decisions on the best response. At the very least of
concern to Santa would seem to be the first order of business, first though,
her child still had the two unopened presents so she lifted camera to eye and
focused again as her precious angle went to the smaller, and yet-unexplored,
silver wrapped packaged.
As the paper was torn away and the box fell open to reveal the contents
stored unsuspectingly inside, Leta at first, had no idea what she behold. It
seamed to be a belt of some sort. Looking leather in it's construct, but the
curiosity was the green oddness of what would be the buckle.. It truly was a
strangeness and brought the query to the mother's lips," What is that,
Michael?"
"It's a Mistletoe Belt, mommy."
"A. Mistletoe Bel. Michael, DON'T PUT IT ON!!!!"
"Yeah, mommy, I'm putting it on write now, on top of my wet pajamas"
"No sweaty, you don't understand," gasped the silly mother.
But little Michael certainly did understand as was immediately evident my
his growing bulge tenting the front of his piss-soaked pjs. And mommy was not
fast enough to stop her grinning child from snapping the mistletoe belt in
place right where it belonged [at least for my amusement.]
"Michael, quick, take that belt off, before its too late," Mom said as
the panic began to swim.
"Not yet mommy, you haven't given me my kiss already."
It was useless for the poor mother to try to resist. She knew the rules
just as well as anyone. In fact it had been her that had answered her child's
quizzings just the previous year. Now there was nothing left but to accept her
fate.
"Just a second mommy. First I want to put the video camera on the tripod
to record the kissing. Also make sure that we do it good so your face will be
easily identified."
"Michael, no. What are you saying. If my face is identified than it
will be so humiliating for anyone else to see this video."
"I know mommy, you will probably rather do anything than get so
embarrassed."
"Yes I would, Michael. ANYTHING. So we can't risk having my face easily
identifiable when I kiss under your mistletoe belt."
"Sorry mommy, but the camera already knows it is you here so we need
proof that you obeyed the rules and kissed under the mistletoe," the boy
reasoned.
Michael glanced just once more to confirm the indicating red glow of the
video camera to insure that the moment would be captured for eternity and than
focused all of his attention to the enjoyment of finally having his mother drop
submissively at his feet with her lips puckered to begin his pleasuring.
"Sorry I peed in my pajama's mom. The kiss is going to taste for you
now," Michael mocked.
And so it did. As Leta pursed her lips and planted a smack to fulfill
her mistletoe obligations, she couldn't help but fight the gag reflex brought
forth not only from the total inappropriateness of kissing the crotch of her
own son, but doing so when the crotch in question brought with it a dripping
wet face full of still warm urine for her morning refresher.
"The kiss tasted like pee. Didn't it mom?" The boy again mocked his
regrets.
"Yes Michael, I know you didn't mean to wet the bed last night and would
have had no way of knowing I would be forced to kiss you under the mistletoe
like this, but it did taste like piss and it makes me feel very dirty."
"I'll pull my pajama's off mommy," the helpful child offered, knowing
full-well, the consequences.
"Michael NO!" The mother responded, too-late again.
The boy was now down to just his jockeys under the belt, but the real
significance was that their was a new target for the unfortunate mother
underneath that mistletoe, and this one was every bit as piss flavored as the
last, if not more so.
"Michael, now I have to kiss you, AGAIN."
"It's okay mommy, the tape is still running," the brat feigned his
innocence.
Even if poor Leta was beginning to understand her seemingly innocent
child's duplicity in orchestrating her dilemma, she was still powerless to deny
tradition on this most holy of holidays. Her eyes couldn't help but see the now
full bulge threatening to explode forth out of her son's shorts, and it shamed
her to be so inappropriate but there was no other option but to drop once more
to her knees and pucker up for her womanly duties.
It really was everything the boy had dreamed of to be able to glance down
at his mother's head as it pressed snugly against his pee soaked gonch. The
tickling of his mother's sweat full ruby red lips caressing his cock through
that thin layer of wet cloth was really nice, but the teasing really had
outlived its allure and it was time to get a little more "explicit."
"I bet my underwear really tasted like piss, didn't it mommy?"
"It's okay Michael, don't take it of. " [opps, too late]
What's a mom to do. Sure she may have seen it before. Certainly.
During baths and what not. But like THIS. Under these conditions. Standing
out so erect, and so purposeable and so totally under that damn mistletoe. It
was almost enough to mandate she not obey the rules. Almost.
"Michael, you're doing this on purpose." It wasn't a question anymore.
"The camera is rolling mommy, and make sure that you don't try to cover
your face so these pictures can really identify you the easiest. [okay, I have
no idea why she would go along with this even if I could allow that she would
go along with the mistletoe thing at all, but I'm not writing brain surgery
manuals here so go with the flow.]
"Michael, we have to shut off the video. Your dadd."
"It wouldn't be good for dad to see, would it mom?" The boy interrupted.
"Wha. What does that mean," mom sensed the meaning in her child's tone.
"Dad just wouldn't understand. You know he doesn't believe in mistletoe
like we do"
"Michael.. You wouldn't"
"Just make sure your face is easily identifiable when you kiss my cock
mom. Don't worry daddy won't have to see the video as long as you keep kissing
my cock for as long as I like until I come all over your face. Than I guess it
will be time for me to give you my present when I put a baby in you."
And daddy never did see the video. [although he was the only one. Poor
mom became the ultimate little sex slave but that is a tale for another
holiday.]
Should I write the untold tale of "Mommy, the Christmas Fuck-Toy" and maybe
fill in the rest of the days activities. I won't have time before Saturday, so
I'm thinking of leaving it till next year, but if you can't wait feel free to
drop me a line and maybe ill move it up on the calendar.
In the meantime I hope everyone has a happy holiday season and that dreaded y2k
Armageddon proves just as fictitious as this story was.
Mkarl2000@hotmail.com
December 21/1999
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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