© 2008 by EllaRegina
This story is a parody of "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry (a pen name for William Sydney Porter), written in 1906 and now in the public domain. No one owns a United States copyright on or for this work.
I have taken the original story and put it into an erotic context. Throughout, I've used bits from the O. Henry work, "as is," or paraphrased and repurposed; incorporating the words -- usually out of their original context's order -- into my retelling.
I tried to keep as close as possible to the word count of the original tale.
"The Gift of the Magi" can easily be found online -- you may wish to compare the two pieces and/or familiarize yourself with this classic American Christmas story if you do not already know it.
Apologies to O. Henry
One hundred and eighty-seven times. That was an exact tally. And sixty of those times had occurred out of bed -- whilst standing, sitting on a chair, or tethered together like marionettes in a slow walk amid their tiny rooms. Many a happy hour had been spent. Della kept count of their lovemaking in a small dog-eared leather-bound journal, kept within a tiny desk drawer next to the shabby couch, in the furnished flat rented at $8 a week; their love had been proven one hundred and eighty-seven times in the forty-five days they'd been married. There was not much in terms of material goods but they had each other and that seemed enough for now. And the next day would be Christmas.
Mr. James Dillingham Young was only twenty-two and already burdened with a family, but only in the financial sense -- his income having been cut from $30 weekly to $20; his nineteen-year-old bride, Della, gave him things a millionaire's money could not buy. It did not matter that he needed a new overcoat and went without gloves. It did not matter that their letter-box could not hold a missive nor that their electric button doorbell would not ring. Neither did they care that they lacked the means for proper wedding bands or even Christmas presents.
Whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above the entryway vestibule he was called "Jim" and fervently hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, his sweet Della. She would unleash her golden cascade of hair, falling beyond the knees, itself almost a garment, and greet him wearing nothing but her black lace-up boots and pink corset -- the flaxen thicket of muff hair that Jim so adored peeking out from the embroidered brocade -- slightly shivering unless standing close to the fire, but with the knowledge that another kind of warmth was soon to come.
Tomorrow would be Christmas Day. A threadbare upholstered chair stood by the rear window and Jim rested on its feather-poked cushion, his trouser buttons undone. He looked out on a dull gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard, empty of people. Had there been someone they could not bear witness to any activity in the second-floor Dillingham home taking place below the neck. Fortunately, the flat directly across the airshaft was occupied by a blind couple; they never so much as lit a gas lamp for illumination. Della impaled herself atop Jim, his cock shooting up hard against her insides as she sat on his lap. He lifted the mass of her hair with a practiced hand.
"What do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas, little girl?" he queried, his sword-moving accompanying every other word.
"Nothing, Santa," answered Della, moaning low. "This is more than plenty."
"How about if Santa gives you a special present -- a baby for next Christmas?"
At the word baby Della felt Jim's flesh within her arch rigidly to the left -- like a bat being swung -- in an uncontrollable pulse.
"No, James," said Della, soberly slipping out of the role for a moment to note their fiscal circumstances. "We cannot afford a baby. You know that. Finish how you always do, please, and give it to me quick. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me."
"Ah," replied Santa, "so there will be no baby as there can be no milk to feed him. I understand. But Santa always has plenty of milk for beloved mothers."
On cue with that phrase Della left Jim's lap and briskly switched to a kneeling position at his feet, taking his milk-filled prick inside her mouth, lips and tongue holding it tightly as she moved to and fro. She looked up at him -- her brilliantly sparkling emerald eyes in an unwavering gaze, rosy nipples peering over the laced corset, her surrounding hair a shiny gilded rippling curtain -- as he thickly spouted, a drop or two splashing on the worn red carpet, though Della was careful, as ever, to keep his issue behind her lips the best she could. He spent so copiously it was always a challenge.
"Santa isn't finished with you, Little Miss. Go put on your skirt and come back here."
Della complied, revisiting his post in a petticoat and wool swirl, mounting herself as directed across Santa's muscular knees. Jim unpeeled the seemingly infinite layers of fabric until he reached Della's plump ivory buttocks and took his old leather strap -- the one he used in place of a fob chain on the gold watch he inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father -- and brought the cowhide down with a resounding slap, causing Della to whelp and blush, thinking perhaps Mme. Sofronie below could hear them. Jim alternated between the strap and his strong bare hand, stroking her muff hair soothingly between blows.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings.
Sometimes Jim paused and insinuated a finger into the eye of Della's rear, causing her to topple and groan with pleasure on his thighs; he had to hold her steady while he dipped the finger in and out. When he felt she was ready, Jim deposited some saliva into the palm of his hand and spread a portion over the little hole, widening it until it could contain a bigger part of himself. Then, skirt still topsy-turvy and aflutter, Della sat upright and eased her private entrance onto Jim's stiffness, slowly and gently -- her leg muscles hard at work controlling the speed of her descent -- until Jim was firmly encased in the spot that was his alone; it surely had been made for him and no one else.
Once they met in this way she became intoxicated, leaning into him, purring like a cat, rotating her hips like a spinning hoop. Jim, too, was transported -- and delighted to be doing something so clandestine and dirty that no other soul in the world could possibly have conceived it -- erupting again like a testy whale, coating Della's posterior walls with his warm milk as the scaffold man's tin of white paint covered the billboard by the Elevated tracks on Second Avenue.
Della swiftly wedged the powder rag inside her thatched crevice to collect any excess drippings. There could not be a baby next Christmas. There simply could not.
They settled themselves and Jim went to his overcoat, drew a package from the pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Merry Christmas, Della."
She approached the parcel curiously. White fingers and nimble tore at string and brown paper. No ecstatic scream of joy, just hysterical tears and confused wails at what she had found: a lump of coal. Della ran and flung herself on the couch. Jim offered comfort immediately and explained:
"This isn't as it appears, my dearest. You shall see. In twelve days our fortunes will change, and for the better. Come."
Jim led his wife to the table and bent her over its top. Again he raised her skirt, revealing her charms. A small vial of salve emerged from his trouser pocket and he put an even layer on the lump. He re-entered Della's most intimate space, this time with the coal as pathfinder.
"No," protested Della, her hindquarters not used to such an unyielding invasion.
Jim made soft noises of assurance as he guided the lump farther and, in fact, Della was accustomed to it within a few minutes.
"Have no fear," said Jim. "We shall begin to celebrate tomorrow, on Christmas Day. Then you will understand."
The young couple went to bed and slept soundly, enfolded in each other's arms.
When they awoke Della made coffee and a simple, forlornly festive Christmas breakfast. She herself did not eat as the lump of coal suggested a liquid subsistence. She could spare the food given how plump she was. Almost like a Christmas goose, she reckoned.
Jim came to the table with a twinkle in his eye.
"After breakfast, we shall take a nice walk," he said.
The mere thought of their promenading along the Avenues, greeting fellow neighbors and strangers in Christmas spirit, all the while knowing that his lovely wife hid a pitch black secret beyond her buttocks excited Jim greatly. So much so, that before Della had finished her beef broth he insisted on starting to make use of the particular gift he had bestowed upon her. He laid Della over the table, pulled her nightgown above her waist, and tucked his prick into the opening that had no coal, thrusting towards her heart like a shovel. She wriggled her behind, further arousing him; he fondled her hairy muff in response. Before he could spend he took care to extract himself and instead of penetrating her mouth -- though she could actually swallow whatever he had to give as it was not solid food -- he deftly lodged in her rear, bucking deeply, stopped by the hard object at the end of his cock.
"Oh!" exclaimed Della.
"Do not worry, my dearest. The coal shall remain in place and I shall leave no babies here." Jim spent against the lump, which promptly absorbed every drop he surged.
He was right. There was no need for Della to insert her powder rag as usual -- no effluvia remained.
They dressed. On went his mended overcoat, with holes in pockets where gloved hands should be. On went her old brown jacket and her old brown hat and the whirl of a skirt and her lace-up boots.
They wandered to Broadway and observed the scene. A light snow had fallen overnight and lines from the carriages were already engraved as if the quiet white surface had been combed. Apple-cheeked youngsters tossed snowballs at one another. They walked past the shop windows, admiring goods exceeding their grasp. They exchanged pleasantries with the grocer, the vegetable man and the butcher; all in repose, out of their work uniforms. Della did not even feel the lump of coal whereas Jim could think of nothing but.
"Squeeze yourself together," he instructed her. "It shan't be noticed and will greatly assist things."
"As you say, my dearest," obeyed Della. "Nobody could ever count my love for you."
Mr. and Mrs. James Dillingham Young went back to the flat and Jim folded Della over the table once more and plugged at her coal until they both were absolutely spent.
Jim returned to work the morning after Christmas but the evening routine continued for twelve days. At 7 o'clock on each of those nights the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the stove, hot and ready to cook Jim's chops. When she heard his step on the first flight stairs Della briefly turned pale, anticipating what awaited her. While Jim ate she drank the beef broth and the juice of a few oranges. They followed with the postprandial promenade to the Avenues, smiling and nodding at passersby as if nothing was out of order. When they arrived home Jim undid his wife's clothes and churned into her coal bin with enough sparks to start a fire that would be sure competition for the one glowing beneath their mantle.
On the twelfth day of Christmas, while Jim was at work, Della had the notion to surprise him by completely shearing off the curls between her legs, using his long steel razor blade. "Please make him think I am still pretty," she whispered to herself.
The door opened at 7 pm; Jim stepped inside and closed it. His eyes were fixed on Della, prepared for him in corset and boots. "You've cut off your hair...," he murmured. "Let's have a sight at the looks of it."
"Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, aren't I?" she entreated. "It'll grow out, and fast. You'll see! I just had to do it, Jim!"
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave that could make me like my girl any less." He tumbled down on the couch, brought Della close, nestled his face in the bald mound between her thighs -- inhaling its scent while teasing the exposed flushed bud with his tongue tip -- and smiled.
He did indeed fancy her shorn. A little schoolgirl, she was. He jolted her rump that night with greater ardor, hugging her bosom as he released. And, shuddering together in their pleasures, they both felt something had changed. Della sensed a contraction within and the warm flow of her husband's baby-making liquid. Jim hit no wall at the end of Della's dark tunnel. He reached into her tight aperture with a few fingers and beamed. It was as he knew it would be.
Della leaped up like a singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
She had not yet seen her beautiful present and eagerly held out an open palm. Jim deposited an item of precious metal upon it -- something fine and rare and sterling -- that seemed to flash with a reflection of Della's bright and ardent spirit. Covered with his spunk, ever the more easy to slip on a finger, was a diamond ring.
First draft written on Christmas Day, 2007, not far from the Manhattan location where O. Henry allegedly penned "The Gift of the Magi" in 1906.
Copyright 2008 EllaRegina. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without prior written permission from the author.
First published on Literotica.com.