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Message-ID: <40064asstr$1040775003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: Christmas Eve (Christmas)
Date: Tue, 24 Dec 2002 19:10:03 -0500
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***Warning: Themes and descriptions in this story may 
offend some readers. ***




Christmas Eve
by Mat Twassel
==============

December 24th. The sun set an hour ago, and already the 
cool of desert evening covers his skin. He burrows deeper 
into himself, but he knows it is time to get up, to find 
food, warmth.  He is 33 years old, not as quick or as 
strong as in his prime, but still quick, still strong, 
and savvy now, knowledgeable of the ways of the world.  
Overhead the first few faint stars begin their 
glimmering.

An hour later he is on the edge of their camp, just 
beyond the scent of the dogs. He circles downwind, 
keeping near the earth, slipping closer to the fires 
until his mind can match crackle to flicker. Too far yet 
for warmth, always too far for warmth, he waits until the 
last body has settled into sleep.

Crouching, he creeps closer. The dogs smell him, rustle 
to his scent, but it's one they know, and they ease back 
into themselves. It would be good to have dogs again--
that would make life so much easier. His footfalls find 
quiet earth. He steps like slow fog passing one bundle 
after another. Near the center the little ones nestle, 
six of them now, those old enough to be out of their 
mothers' arms.

He chooses the biggest, a girl of about nine. He hoists 
her swiftly, her blanket falling away, so dreams of 
flight will smooth her waking. Her eyes open to his face. 
"Da?" she says, recognizing him. Her arms reach around 
his neck.  He smiles at her smile, the suddenly deep 
content in it, and kisses her, swallowing her tongue. The 
blood bolts, and he swallows that, too, one greedy gulp 
after another until the camp is out of earshot.

Miles later he feels her arms relax. He lays her upon the 
earth. Her smile is weaker. He might yet revive her. 
Start a new family.  Her eyes flicker. Her arms reach up.  
He takes her legs instead, pries them wide. His chin 
nuzzles the pudgy notch. He mouths the little lips, 
washing them with bloody spit. His teeth cut the membrane 
of her cunt.  New blood wells up, and he pushes it in 
with his tongue. Pushes it further in with his cock. 
Covering her with himself, he fucks her, crushing her 
body against the earth, fucking her with steady, slow, 
relentless thrusts, one after another until his surge--a 
heavenly shower of starfire, an earthquake of coming--
abates. He clasps the body, and for an hour or two it 
warms him. For an hour or two he sleeps a deep and 
peaceful sleep.

Bright stars ravage the night sky. The brightest of them 
wakens him.  It twinkles brighter than the rest. It winks 
at him, beckoning. He yearns to have it, body and soul.  
His howl reaches up, begging, imploring. Christmas is 
only an hour away.  An hour and thirty-thousand years and 
eight-thousand miles.  If he begins now, maybe he can get 
there in time.


==============
Christmas Eve
by Mat Twassel


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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