Aphex Twin “Come To Daddy (Pappy Mix)”
Francis Beckett had celebrated Christmas at the same location for the past thirty-seven years, since only a wee girl. An old listed building on the outskirts of the rural village she inhabited, her old family house was almost twenty minutes from the first signs of civilization, tucked away beyond badly marked twisting dirt-tracks, the likes of which very few ever traversed. This was the ideal hideaway for Fran, especially this year, as she had lost her dear grandpa just months ago and was still no closer to coming to terms with the tremendous loss. He had lived in this building for pretty much his entire life and died suddenly in his sleep back in March. While selling the property was proving particularly troublesome, she was mindful that this may well be her last opportunity to keep up this tradition and see in Christmas here. Doing so just felt right.
Fran had been orphaned at a very young age, after both her parents were killed in a freeway pile-up when she was barely two-years-old. She had always been Grandpa’s “little pickle” and, along with his wife who had lost a long fight with cancer several years earlier, he’d raised her single-handedly since the tragic accident. Now he too was gone and there was nobody left, so Fran had spent the last seven months totally cut off from society. She had inherited her grandpa’s vast collection of vintage wirelesses and listened to them daily to keep her spirits from dipping. That was all she required to exist, that and her beloved long-haired cat Nolan, although he did pretty much what he pleased anyway and regularly disappeared for days at a time. As for men in her life, well she just hadn’t had either the time or inclination to date, and looked more like she was approaching fifty than forty so that wasn’t in danger of changing anytime soon.
She had been dreading the night before Christmas since the advent had commenced as she had been only too aware that it would be the first she had ever spent alone. While she prided herself on being self-sufficient and enjoyed nothing more than her own company, she knew she would miss Grandpa’s long-winded yarns and the delicious Rum tartlets he baked every year without fail. He never confided his secret recipe to anyone, not even Fran, and she had reluctantly accepted that feeling them delicately crumbling between her lips would be the thing she’d miss most. Thankfully, Nolan had decided against going on one of his famous three-day expeditions so, at least, she wasn’t totally alone.
There were only minutes left until the turn of the 25th, not that you would have known by the dearth of anything even remotely festive in the house. It looked as it always did, everything under pale throws, still unpacked from her arrival in May when Grandpa passed and she inherited the estate. Fran’s body was aching from a laborious afternoon pruning the bushes outside her window and she was prepared for the midnight hour to simply wash over her. The log burner had long since burned out and Nolan had now vacated his regular spot on the mantle so, without his endorsement for full-body relaxation to encourage her to hang this out any longer, she decided to call it a day and retire upstairs. She blew out any remaining candles one by one until plunged into complete blackness and didn’t need light to make it to her quarters anyway as she had meticulously learned the floor-plan some time ago and never left anything out of sorts. Once upstairs, she struck a match and lit the oil-lantern in the corner. Fran had never been a particularly good sleeper so at least its glow gave her something to focus on to stave off the boredom. Besides, the heat from its warm glow kept her toasty through long winter nights such as these.
It had been a long time since she had been held in loving arms, told she was beautiful and sang to softly. Despite her haggard appearance she was actually reasonably attractive; had a supple pear-shaped curvature and long flowing fire-red hair which reached down to the dimple above her buttocks. She also carried her weight rather well too,; her body belied her size and her skin just fitted her snugly. Yet each time she glanced over herself in her full-length Elizabethan mirror, she was assaulted optically by the most hideous of creatures. It’s a sad point when one doesn’t see their own beauty and Fran had long-since become cruelly blinkered. Tonight Fran was feeling a little curious so she slid her laced gown to her feet and stepped out before her mirror for inspection.
She dared herself to peek and eventually plucked up the courage to take a fleeting glance at her wares, even though she knew full well she wouldn’t like what was looking back at her. Her pubic hair had been given free rein to express itself how it saw fit and there was a long enough tuft to braid hanging below her vulva, as well as unruly stragglers randomly strewn about her inner thighs. Somewhere inside this shabby shagpile was the ripened sex of a woman but you wouldn’t know it from the surrounding moss. Fran sighed and turned away in utter disgust, glancing back briefly to peruse her rear profile for further confirmation that she was hideous.
However, as she slid between her satin bed sheets, she began to feel the infrequent faint twinge of arousal. Thus she leaned over to her bedside cabinet, squeezed some jelly into her palm and settled in to investigate this curiosity further. No sooner had she commenced to strum with her fingers, than an icy chill began circulating her ankles, both of which were concealed beneath the linen. The chilly sensation was quickly on the move, weaving in and out as it fastened around her calves and hoisted her knees wide apart. She was startled and attempted to resist but whatever had her in its python-like grip was sure as shit not about to release her.
Instead it continued its ascension as it started to approach her moistened centre. This provoked vague shudders and gentle convulsions as her blushing quim rolled out the red carpet willingly. The appreciative night fiend saw its opening and began to thrash wildly with its snapping jaws of blackened torment. As it entered her, she felt it pulsating against her inner walls and this just reddened her rosy lips further. Thrashing wildly, she tugged the sheets with one hand while the other thumbed her fully swollen nipples. She was panting now, eyes wild with a concoction of forbidden pleasure and fast spreading consternation. Whatever had breached her in this callous manner had electrified each of her G-spots and she was positively buzzing from her hub. She felt the wetness of her imperceivable visitor’s tongue all over her body, all in the same moment and, with that, the juddering commenced. Lifting her buttocks from the mattress to accommodate its elongated slide action, her juices began to congregate around her bloated sex.
One last stroke and she let out an almighty growl, spilling forth her excitement onto the sodden sheets between her trembling legs. It was then that she could take no more, her morbid curiosity got the better of her momentarily as she simply had to introduce herself to whomever or whatever had given her such heightened pleasure. The sight which greeted her as she slid back the fabric caused her to instantly wretch with sheer horror. There were a pair of unnaturally long withered arms fed through the bottom of the sheet and they were clasping what looked like a medieval instrument of torture while it gyrated, attached to her outer lips and drawing from her a dicey amount of her blood supply. She could barely so much as protest as the sixth pint glugged forth onto the bed linen.
In addition, she could feel something pressing down hard on her windpipe, constricting her breath considerably. One last futile attempt at lifting her head from the pillow and she slumped back weathered and broken. With the last few droplets of her diminishing supplies dribbling out and the serrated tool of anguish probing ever deeper she began to feel herself drifting out of consciousness. However, while Fran had all but surrendered at this point, it felt as though something else was present in the room, unwilling to allow this darkness to whisk her away. Just as she was preparing to succumb a final time, her previously imperceivable guardian made itself known and a feeling of wellbeing washed over her all at once. Her Grandpa had always told her that he wouldn’t let any harm befall her and, while no longer present in a physical sense, he had come good on his word and protected his “little pickle” one final time. With that, Fran passed out exactly where she laid.
When she awoke she was in the exact position she had last recalled; a little tender around her haunch but, otherwise, as fit as a fiddle. She never spoke of the event as there was simply nobody to tell and retained ownership of the cottage, as though all that happened that night had been mere figments of her imagination even though she knew only too well that they weren’t. However each year on Christmas Eve, when families all around were making their last-minute preparations, Fran would take no chances, grab her overnight belongings, and head into town to the nearest travel lodge.