While not exactly erotica, Ms. Pace’s sexy story about holiday masturbation is still. . . stimulating. You may never look at Christmas candy the same way.
Lots of love this holiday season,
Each Christmas, my family gathered at our house to eat and exchange gifts. My parents liked to host but not to cook, so I helped prepare the food. I loved making fancy finger foods and arranging them on platters with frilly napkins and garnishes.
My favorite aunt, an eccentric woman with blue stripes in her hair, always arrived last, lugging a large, yellow suede bag full of presents. While we were occupied with deviled eggs and gingerbread cookies, she would slide books, Rubik’s cubes, patterned socks and candies into our stockings. She did not mind if we swapped gifts. I always exchanged my candy for the excellent books she bought, about children stranded in the wilderness or wizards on adventures to save the world from power hungry evildoers.
The Christmas after my fifteenth birthday, my aunt gifted us long, thick peppermint sticks. I never liked peppermint much, but I decided to keep my candy stick. While the other kids tore the plastic wrapping from theirs, exclaiming all the while, “It’s so big!” I tucked my gift back into my stocking.
That night, after the guests had left and my family had gone to bed, I examined my peppermint stick. It was as long as my hand and as thick as three of my fingers. It was wrapped in smooth plastic, one end tapered into a nub.
As I turned the stick this way and that, I thought about how wonderful it felt to dip my finger into what I lovingly called my “whimwham,” but I was a timid girl with a head full of fearsome stories. My best friend often stole romance novels from the magazine counter at the grocery store. She would pull me aside during lunch to tell me of her deeds, and, after school, we would go to her house to read. We would lie side by side in bed, the books between us. I never remembered much about their plots, but I remember that that we giggled and squealed and squirmed, and that, in one story, the woman was a virgin whose hymen tore with sharp, searing pain and blood.
My finger caused me no discomfort, but my peppermint stick was much bigger. Its size both intimidated and enticed me as I didn’t want my hymen to tear. There’s got to be more than one way to lick a peppermint stick, I said to myself and took the stick to bed.
I locked my door, undressed, lay down on my back and began to touch myself all over, from my feet to my neck. My body fascinated me. It was so pretty, so smooth and curvy. I liked the indentations I made in my skin when I grabbed and tugged at myself, and the way my nipples puckered and hardened when I traced my fingers around their dark circles. I liked the soft pop my lips made as they opened, and the goo that seeped from between my legs.
After fondling myself, I found my peppermint stick amongst the sheets and gently rubbed it up and down my moist, puffy lips before placing it against the entrance to my whimwham. I found that I came easily if I pressed it gently it against my whimwham while rubbing myself.
I began to play with my toy almost every night. I was careful not to push it too hard against myself lest the candy stick accidentally slide inside me and hurt me. Lying on my back with my knees spread wide, I imagined that I was with a man who liked to make love to me with his mouth. He would put his hands on the inside of my thighs and hold my legs open. When I came, he would push the tip of his tongue inside me so he could feel my contractions.
I would pull his face to mine and tell him, “I’m ready. Please, I’m ready.”
He would respond, “Not yet,” then rub himself between my legs and whisper into my ear, “I love how wet you get.” I would writhe beneath him, aching with desire.
One night, as I was pulsing the candy stick against myself, its nubby tip slid suddenly into my tight, soft pocket. I froze in surprise but felt no pain. Though I did not see blood, I pulled the stick out. My body resisted my efforts, but as I continued pulling, it expelled the peppermint stick with a pop. A string of creamy goo hung from the stick before falling on the bed.
When, after a minute, I still saw no blood, I carefully pushed the tip back inside me. I made this my new limit. I would close my eyes and imagine scenes from my friend’s stolen romance novels as I pulsed the candy against my whimwham and then popped the stick’s nub in and out of it.
When I was done, I would pad to the bathroom and carefully rinse my toy so as not to tear its plastic cover. During the day, I kept it on top of my dresser. My mother, who often checked my room for cleanliness, did not mention it.
I told no one about my games. I felt as if my body and I were engaged in a secret affair, and I was a jealous lover who demanded my mistress share her desires with no one but me. Around this time, my friend stole another romance novel. On its cover were two figures, a man and a woman embracing on the steps of an old, stone building. The woman’s shoulders were bare and the man had no shirt. Halfway through the book, the man taught the woman how to use her other hole. My friend and I squealed with disgust.
That night, I was lying on my back after coming and felt goo drip down my bum. Curiosity overwhelmed my inhibitions, and I reached my hand towards my legs. I rubbed the thick liquid between my cheeks and began to pulse the peppermint stick against my backside. It felt strange but good. I rubbed myself with my free hand and came quickly. When I was done, I curled onto my side and giggled. I felt audacious.
Each night, I pushed the candy stick harder and harder against my backside. Eventually, its tip slid inside me and lodged in the entrance to my bum. It burned. I pulled the stick out, but the next night I repeated the process. The stick entered me fully this time, and as I moved it cautiously back and forth, the burning sensation went away.
Though naive, I had enough sense to rinse the candy after I used it this way. I began to play with my bum regularly. I imagined that I had fallen in love with a man who enjoyed tormenting me. For weeks at a time, he would make love only to my backside. He would take me from behind then turn me over, open my legs and marvel at my swollen whimwham.
“You’re so wet,” he would say before flipping me back onto my stomach. I would plead with him, but my desire only made him crueler. He would thrust harder and faster. After he came, he would flip me once more onto my back. “Touch yourself,” he would say. “Make yourself come.” He would pinch the inside of my thighs and watch.
For a while, my fantasies satisfied me, but as the days passed, I grew frustrated. I played with myself until I was sore. I would come two, three, four times, and still I wanted more. My insides burned and throbbed. Unable to sleep, I would move my fan to the foot of my bed, lie before it and spread my legs. I developed a mild, migrating pain in my groin. My body felt unbalanced, and I couldn’t concentrate. Even stories of magic and adventure did not hold my attention. Sometimes, in class or when I was reading or watching television, I would unknowingly touch myself. I would catch myself and, blushing, pull my hand quickly away.
One night I was preparing dinner when my knife slid and lodged in the side of my hand, next to the knuckle of my index finger. When I pulled the knife away, blood poured down my wrist and splashed onto the counter. I grabbed a towel, pressed it hard against my seeping hand and sank to the floor. My mother, who was a nurse, decided the cut didn’t need stitches. She cleaned it, pulled the skin closed with adhesive strips and wrapped my hand in gauze. At night, the throbbing wound distracted me from the ache between my legs.
I couldn’t play with my peppermint stick for a week. It sat on my dresser, gathering dust. When, finally, I could wrap my hand around the candy stick, I washed the toy in warm water. My body was excited after its forced abstinence, but I remained unsatisfied with my games. Frustrated, I threw the pole onto the floor and fell onto my back, spread-eagle and sweating.
A few days later, I cut the tip of my finger while dicing an onion. I felt only a little pain, but when I lifted my hand, I saw my fingertip was attached by a sliver of skin. It dangled precariously. Again I grabbed a towel, pressed it hard against my seeping hand and sank to the floor. This time, my mother took me to the hospital where an emergency room technician pinned my fingertip in place with a round bandage.
“What has come over you?” My mother asked after the technician left. “Do you want to hurt yourself?”
When we returned home, I cut my thigh on a sprawling cactus that bordered the driveway. The cut wasn’t severe, nothing more than a jagged scratch. I cleaned and bandaged it myself.
That night, I went to bed early. I skirted my wounded thigh as I touched myself. I was nervous, and my body didn’t respond as readily as usual. I closed my eyes and forced my imagination into action. I envisioned a secret encounter between a man and woman, back in the day when men wore vests and women wore layered dresses that fell to their ankles. The lovers were standing. One of the woman’s legs was raised, and her foot rested on a chair. The man had a hand around her neck and another beneath her skirts and was fingering her. He bit her breasts through her dress.
As I fantasized, I touched my own breasts and rubbed myself until I came. Then I took hold of my peppermint stick. My newly injured hand clasped it awkwardly. Undeterred, I pulsed it against the entrance to my whimwham until it slipped inside. I held the pole in place, rolled onto my knees and, after inhaling deeply, pushed my body backward. The sensation was so intense, and so pleasing, that my thighs trembled. I forgot my fears and rocked my hips with a slow, steady motion. My excitement grew, and I arched my back. The new position stimulated different parts of my insides. Fascinated, I curved my back in the opposite direction. I looked down and saw blood dripping onto the sheets.
I squealed, jumped from my bed and ran to the bathroom, holding a pair of knotted underwear between my legs. After a few minutes, the bleeding stopped. I rinsed myself and stripped my bed. After putting fresh sheets on the bed, I returned to it–with my peppermint stick.