Title: Don’t Open Till Christmas
Word count: 2,850
Author: Tim Wilkinson
Contact: Tlmntim59.gmail.com
Don’t Open Till Christmas
Tim Wilkinson
The girl from the club across the bay sat upon the edge of the lean, sleek boat, nude, bound and gagged. Johnnie stood before her, pulling up his light cotton shorts to cover his naked frame. Reaching down into the boat, he picked up her short uniform dress and brightly colored blouse and under things. Eyeing the gray tag pinned to her blouse, he read the words etched in bold white letters. “Carlota.” “Well Carlota, I don’t suspect you will need this anymore, besides, we wouldn’t want this washing up somewhere. would we?” he asked sarcastically, ripping the pin off her blouse, placing it in one pocket of the light windbreaker that covered his bare chest. Retrieving a roll of masking tape, also set upon the damp floor of the craft, he taped the cloths tightly to her exposed chest, rapping it securely around her body repeatedly. Chuckling merrily, he added. “Merry Christmas baby, thanks for the memories.” Sitting down beside her, he lit a smoke, inhaling deeply, before raising one arm across her chest and with a slight, backward stretching motion, rolled her into the sea.
Johnnie watched in silent, erotic delight as the cinnamon skinned girl sank slowly beneath the crystalline, turban blue waters, her face, chin and mouth wrapped tightly in the silvery, metallic hued tape. Nothing but her nose and two dark brown eyes shone clear, undraped by the long sticky ribbons that bound her hands, legs and silenced her cries. As she went down, the water rising to the level of her face, her eyes grew wide, imploring, darting left and right, wide, white…screaming.
* * *
The package arrived a week or so later, in late December, a large round box like an old-fashioned hatbox. Wrapped in plain tan paper, addressed to Johnnie, the housemaid set it upon his wide, tall columned bed as she straightened his room, whistling happily some foreign tune.
That night at dinner, as Johnnie, with his mother and father, sat about the huge oaken table, servants and maids fluttering about serving wine and cocktails, his father spoke. “So you think you will pass this year, and dare I hope, maybe graduate from that money sucking pit your mother calls a school?”
Johnnie said nothing.
“Ralph!” began his mother, her eyes piercing and harsh.
“Shut the hell up you drunken tramp. I don’t remember saying anything to you.”
She simply bowed her head, firmly biting her bottom lip before raising her glass and dashing its contents down in one huge gulp, signaling the dinner maid for more.
“Well what of it boy? You gonna flunk out again this semester, or am I going to see something for the hundred thousand a year I throw away on that den of tit sucking morons, and your dumb, worthless ass?”
Only quiet and the soft tinkling of silverware followed.
“Bring me another damn drink,” he demanded“; Whisky, and make it strong this time. You’d think for what I pay I could find a God damned maid who knew how to make fucking drink!”
Lifting the rounded silver tray covering the plate before him, Johnnie saw the usual, two, lip red lobster tails the size of a mans fist and one rare filet mignon wrapped in bacon, all set beside an assorted blend of green and orange vegetables, placed neatly atop a steaming bed of brown rice.
“Shit, lobster…again?”
“Watch your mouth boy! I Pay damn good money for that Lobster, twenty bucks a pound. Sides…didn’t I just ask you a question idiot?”
“Screw you…Dad!” Johnnie replied harshly, rising from the table and heading back to his room.
His mother, grumbling loudly, took the opened carafe of dark red wine sitting before her, stood up silently, turned her back on her husband and exited the room.
“Where you going bitch,” he called after her. “Too damn late for soap operas, you brain dead drunk.” Calling the dark haired dinner maid, dressed in a black short skirt and fishnet stockings, he pulled a few, crisp, one hundred dollar bills from the leather wallet he carried in the breast pocket of his silk dinner vest, placed them on the table before her. “Fuck dinner. Be in my room in five minutes,” he commanded. Standing briskly, he threw the silk napkin atop his untouched plate, scooped up his drink and left. “Bring the damn whisky!” He called. The tall, thin maid picked up the cash, untying her white, waist high apron, dropping it to the floor. She followed dutifully, silently, with an acceptance born of resignation and dreary repetition. Loud, booming echo’s from the television set in his wife’s room at the far end of the house, followed in her wake.
As Johnnie’s aging mother entered her own room, two sleeping figures stirred each wrapped in satin, tenderly entwined upon her bed, their bare backs striped, bloody and red. Stripping down quickly, she donned a black, slippery leather thong and bra, pouring a bit of the staining red wine down her front. Then picking up a small, multi armed lash, she slivered onto the deep velveteen bedspread, resting upon her knees, creeping forward.” Come here my darlings, Momma needs you tonight, have a drink,” she said as the two girls turned, fear and long learned discipline guided their movements.
* * *
Entering his room, Johnnie slammed the door screaming loudly, “Asshole!” Seeing the brown wrapped package upon his bed, he approached. Picking it up he held it briefly examining it, then with a few quick movements shook it, testing its weight and the size of the contents. Something inside slid back and forth, colliding lightly, yet solidly against the sides of the square box as he shook. It felt as if there were several larger objects inside, jumbled together with others much smaller. It wasn’t too heavy; a few pounds at best, yet whatever it held seemed soft, not solid like a cell phone or some electronic toy, sounding and feeling like something much less dense or interesting. Shaking it again, he listened for any metallic clinging sound or the clank of hardened plastic. Finding one slightly frayed corner in the tan wrapping, he tore back the paper, revealing a brightly colored paper, printed with the usual, festive holiday designs of green, red and white. Taped upon its surface lay a small, card shaped envelope sealed with a festive stamp and one, white faced, hand written tag. The tag read, “Don’t open until Christmas.” Hearing a knock at the door, he tossed the box onto the top of a deeply cushioned leather sofa set back against the wall at the end.
“Come in,” he answered severely.
Looking up he watched as to similarly clad maids entered the room, one female blond, one male dark.
“Your late,” he spat angrily. “Come here, both of you,” he ordered. “I feel like a stiff one…maybe a double.”
Later that night, as Johnnie stood upon the large balcony off his room, staring out across the moonlit Caribbean sea, two naked forms seated quietly beside him, he failed to notice the box as it shivered, nor heard the sounds from within, scratching, seeking.
* * *
Christmas Eve found Johnnie returning to his room earlier that usual, angry and livid. “Fucking tramp,” he exclaimed, nursing a long scratch across one cheek. “I’ll show her. Just wait till I see her again.” Walking hurriedly to the bathroom, he pulled a role of metallic hued tape from one pocket of his light windbreaker, setting it atop the marble counter top before looking impatiently into the mirror. Seeing the long trail of pink, reddish flesh, tipped with droplets of fresh, oozing blood he cursed again. “Fucking tramp, this better not leave a scar. I’ll teach you whom you’re dealing with. I’ll teach you good,” he said, casting his eyes to the half-used roll of masking tape, smiling broadly.
Walking to the large open doors leading to the balcony, he shivered excitedly, thinking of the pleasures soon to come, and of the last, still fresh in his mind. His need was growing fast. He felt it rise in his breast and groin, hot, insistent and glorious. He needed release, soon. His thoughts turning quickly to the maids, he faced the small beside table and the house phone sitting there. “Ah yes, a little room service. That’s what I need. Then tomorrow...tomorrow…I’ll show the bitch!”
Seeing the package sitting alone upon the sofa, he walked forward, picking it up. Tearing the festive paper from one corner, he slid two fingers under the edge flap, ripping it open. As he did, he noticed the small, card shaped enveloped attached to the paper. Pulling the envelope loose he tossed the box back down, tearing open one end of the envelope. Inside was a small, hand printed card reading, “Merry Christmas baby. All my love, Carlota.”
“What the Fuck,” he cried. “No Way! Who the hell is…?” Rushing to the dresser at the other end of the room, he yanked open one large drawer, tossing its contents across the floor around and behind him, until he found what he was looking for. There, in the back of the drawer, sat a small wooden box. Quickly retrieving and opening it, he rustled through its contents examining each whitely lettered tag in turn, until he found it, “Carlota,” it read.
“No way...No fucking way. She’s...she’s dead. Who the fuck…”
Hastening back to the box, he finished tearing it open, peering curiously inside. In the dim ambient light of his bedroom, all he could see were two pinpoints of red light, luminous and bright, shinning up from within. Thrusting one hand inside, he fished around, recoiling in disgust as he felt the large, furry body of something inside. Pausing for but a second, unsure, he felt it move, brushing across his hand. He gasped, pulling his hand out quickly, seeing three, black furred insects clinging to his flesh. Shivering with repugnance, he shook them free, hearing them hit the floor with a sickening, resounding thud as he threw the box to the floor. Dancing, stomping frantically, wildly, he vainly attempted to squash the swiftly scurrying creatures, managing to get only one. As he smashed his foot down, crushing the spiny-legged creature into a gooey patch of stringy, green sludge under the sole of one shoe, there came from within the box a piercing, high-pitched, mourning wail, filling the space of the room.
Looking back towards the box, now upended on the floor, he gasped in fearful disbelief as one, then two, then five, long hairy legs emerged, each as fat as his thumb. Stepping back quickly as the angry mother and dozen after dozen of her miniature, yet identical progeny emerged, he stepped back, tripping over the foot rail of his bed. Landing on his back atop the sheets, he looked up, gasping as eight, long, furry black legs wrapped around his face. Two, inch long fangs, needle pointed and venomous, sank deep into the flesh of one cheek. He felt the searing poison scorch into his skin, flowing into his veins, hot, burning like molten, liquid acid. As it sped through his system, his limbs went numb and stiff. His muscles taunt and ridged and before he passed into unconsciousness he watched in horror, whimpering lightly as another, larger creature joined her on his chest. Releasing her grip upon his face, she stepped back, acknowledging her mates presence before turning back on herself. Using her machinating mouthparts, she grabbed a large, liquid ball of white that had formed at the base of her bulbous, slick, balloon shaped abdomen. Then stretching it, as she bent back forward, she deftly attached the strand of sticky silk to one of her long front legs, sat still and smiled.
* * *
Opening his eyes in the darkened bedroom, hearing the screams from across the house, Johnnies father looked up into the face of the young long legged girl, sitting atop him, her bare thighs straddled across his waist and said, “Damn lush and her horror flicks.” Grabbing hold of the flesh at the young girls sides with both hands he squeezed, ordering, “Faster bitch! Faster.”
* * *
His father woke early Christmas morning, long before the sun had yet crested above the small private island. Pushing the naked girl beside him out of the bed with a shove of his fat stumpy legs, he laughed lightly. Hearing the soft thud of her long, slender body strike the polished wood floor, he barked. “Get me some damn coffee.”
Entering the large opulent den, set high above the beach upon stilts of tempered steel, overlooking the wide, dark ocean beyond, he made himself a drink. Turning, he noticed, set in front of the tall, luxuriantly decorated tree, two, large round, brightly wrapped packages. Curious, he drew closer, reading the small handwritten tags taped neatly atop each package beside a small, card shaped enveloped. The tags read, “Don’t open until Christmas,” one addressed to ‘Dad’, the other ‘Mother.’ “Well I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed. As he read, the solid gold clock hanging above the tree noisily tolled twice. “Two Am,” he said. “That aught to do it…Merry Christmas.”
As the maid entered, now fully uniformed and dressed, a deep dark bruise forming around one cheek and eye, extending down to her torn, cracked lips, he spoke, dressed only in a long, flowing robe of deep blue silk, open in the front. “Here, take this to the soddy bitch.” Tossing her one of the packages, then bending to pick up the one labeled, Dad, he settled down within the deep, overstuffed cushions of his easy chair.
* * *
Knocking lightly against Johnnie’s door, hearing no response, the tall, dark haired maid pushed it open slowly, peering within. “Hey baby” she whispered, “You here?” Seeing no one, she entered, cautiously. “Hello baby, hello,” she whispered again. “The old monster has had his fun. He’ll be sleeping soon. Are you here baby?”
Seeing the bed un-mussed and pristine, she searched the bath then out the balcony, again finding no sign of Johnnie. Stepping back in, she noticed a large round box, half wrapped in brightly colored paper, sitting on the floor at the end of the bed. The box lay torn and opened at one end. Bending, she stooped to pick it up, looking inside. Seeing nothing, shrugging lightly, she set it disinterestedly atop the bed and turned to leave. Felling a sudden itchy, crawling sensation on one exposed thigh, she looked down, seeing a few hundred, small, furry backed spiders the size of quarters, all with eyes of luminous red, scrambling up one leg. She screeched.
* * *
Hearing the high-pitched shrieks climbing up the wide spiral staircase to his second floor bedroom, Johnnie’s father merely shrugged. “What now bitch, can’t find your Valium?” he mumbled. Setting the neatly wrapped box upon his large, hugely rounded gut, he opened the small card, reading the words written there. “Merry Christmas, you monster.” “What the hell” he raged lividly, bristling with anger. Quickly tearing open the box, he added, “That little bastard, I’ll fix his ass,” before peering inside.
* * *
Outside, in the warm sands beneath Johnnie’s balcony, sat an old woman, looking out to sea, a lone tear trailing down her face, twitching with emotion and pent up laughter. “Merry Christmas you monsters,” she whispered, listening happily to the chorus of screams filling the large house, spilling from the open, wind swept windows, out into the soft night air.
* * *
Beneath the frame of Johnnie’s wide, tall bed, wrapped and tied face down to the wooden slats, laid Johnnie, draped in a silken cocoon, his face, chin and mouth wrapped tightly in white, sticky threads. Two coal black beasts clung to his stomach and neck, biting, slurping, and drinking a hearty draft of gore. Dozens of smaller, eight legged duplicates scampered hurriedly about his face and eyes, biting and feeding.
Johnnie hung motionless, paralyzed, unable to resist, his muscles, tight as stone, immovable. Fully conscious, his senses livid and sharp he could feel each and every nip and bite, each tiny fang, piercing his flesh.
He shivered, purging his intestines as the creature clinging to his stomach inserted a long, spear pointed shaft through the soft, rounded flesh of his belly and into his churning bowels. His gut cramped and churned as she spilled her load of blackened roe, stretching and filling his intestines with thousands of tiny, wiggling eggs. Here they would mature, feeding and suckling on Johnnie’s warm, living blood for weeks, until able, when mature, to chew their way out.
Nothing but Johnnie’s nose and two blue eyes shone clear, undraped by the long, sticky ribbons that bound his hands, legs and silenced his cries. As the maid fell to the floor before him, her face covered in a writhing mass of hundreds of furry, black legs, his eyes grew wide, imploring, darting left and right, wide, white…screaming.
The End
© 2012 Tim Wilkinson
