Since the story takes place in the early 1800s London, descriptions of clothing, places, language and such will reflect such a time. Things such as AIDS, safe sex, morals and plausibility have not yet come into being so deal with it. Thank you for your time.
Some parts of the chapters will contain no sex and are merely just part of the classic tale in order to keep the narrative feel of the story.
The sounds of the rest of the family could be heard off in the kitchen. They were bustling to get the Christmas dinner ready. Mrs. Cratchit sighed heavily and her heavy bosom rose up and down on her chest as she lay a hand on Tiny Tim's shoulder.
"What is it, my dear son? Why are you not pleased that it is Christmas?"
"Oh, I am, Mother, I truly am. But today, in church, I saw everyone looking at me, even though me and Father sat in the back of church with the other beggars and blind men and cripples. I was with my own kind, and I felt so loved and accepted. But there were others who looked at all of us in the back with more than a foul glance, Mother."
Mrs. Cratchit heaved another sigh. Again her matronly bosom moved on her chest as she gazed down at her youngest son with only the greatest love she could feel for him.
"Tiny Tim, you should remember, especially on this holiest of Holidays, who it was that made blind men see and crippled beggars walk, and that He accepts and loves all who come to him. And you know, don't you, that you are so very special to me."
"Am I, mum?" Tiny Tim asked, turning his head and looking up at her, spying his mother's quivering bosom.
"Yes, my Tiny Tim. You are, indeed."
"Mum, is there time for a bit of a rub before dinner?" Tiny Tim asked his mother.
"Why, I do believe so," Mrs. Cratchit said, smiling. "Would it make you much more cheerful on this special day, my son?"
"Oh, yes, mum, it certainly would!" Tiny Tim exclaimed, his mood clearing up brightly now.
Mrs. Cratchit bent down and hugged her crippled son to her chest. He was small for nine years of age, due to his crippled leg and somewhat-deformed other leg. But that never diminished her love for him.
Tiny Tim rested back against a stacked pile of cordwood and lay his stick crutch by his side.
Mrs. Cratchit kissed the top of his head and then began undoing his britches. She untied the lashing around his thin waist and then split open his britches wide. She reached inside Tiny Tim's underclothes, which was a simple bolt of cloth fashioned and sewn by Mrs. Cratchit into a V-shape which covered his groin loosely. Underneath the cloth covering she groped around until she felt her son's limp prick. She knew what Tiny Tim enjoyed. But she had to hurry as Christmas dinner was soon awaiting.
She began by simply rubbing Tiny Tim's prick-flesh using only her first and middle finger.
Then she alternated squeezing and rubbing it, and she could feel the small slip of flesh begin to grow under her touch. Tiny Tim began to mumble something under his breath as his mother stroked his prick. It always felt a hundred times better when she did it then when he did it himself. He began to moan and started thrusting his small hips about as his mother twiddled his prick.
When fully engorged, Tiny Tim's prick was no more than 3 inches in length. So Mrs. Cratchit still only had to use two fingers to continue her ministrations to her son. Tiny Tim raised up his arm and took his hand and pressed it against his mother's bosom, trying to squeeze the massive globes beneath her dress. But his hand was so little and his mother's tits so big that all he was able to do was grope the front of her dress.
Tiny Tim could feel the pleasurable feeling begin to course through his entire body, washing away any pain that he felt in his crippled leg. The moment of his arrival was nigh at hand.
Faster and faster Mrs. Cratchit's hand moved beneath Tiny Tim's underclothes. Her skilled fingers worked the little prick expertly and soon enough Tiny Tim's body began to convulse and shake and though nothing discharged from his small prick Mrs. Cratchit knew that her son had achieved his arrival.
She felt his prick dwindle back down to a limp piece of flesh and she withdrew her hand from his underclothes. She did up his britches and again kissed the top of his head.
"All better, Tim?" she asked him.
"Yes, mum. Perfect!"
"Well, then, little man, what say we go inside and see how much of the Christmas goose we can eat up, eh?"
At that, Tiny Tim and Mrs. Cratchit left the firewood closet and headed for the dining room. The spirit waved his hand again and Scrooge and the spirit were magically transported back to the Cratchit dining room, where dinner was being served.
Bob stood up with a cup of homemade punch and proposed a toast for the day.
"I give you the founder of the feast, Mr. Scrooge!"
At that the rest of the family cast their eyes downward and nobody raised their glass in a toast.
"Come, come, children, Mother, it's Christmas, after all," he implored.
"Well, all right, I'll drink a toast to his health for the day and for your sake, Bob, but not for HIS!" Mrs. Cratchit intoned, and held her glass out in front of her, but not upraised, and toasted to Mr. Scrooge.
"A Merry Christmas and a long life to him," she said smugly, "and a Happy New Year."
Scrooge glanced at the spirit and in his eyes the spirit saw sorrow, hurt and pain.
"Please, spirit, I beg of you, show me no more," Scrooge said pleadingly.
"Would you suffer to see your clerk's family enjoying their one day off a year that you provide grudgingly?" the spirit asked Scrooge.
Scrooge stood stoically. His eyes cast about the warm room filled with laughter and talk and fell upon the stick crutch of Tiny Tim leaning against the young boy's chair where he sat eating and drinking and laughing.
"Tell me, spirit, what will become of the boy?"
"Tiny Tim?" the spirit asked.
The spirit seemed to focus on the nearby fireplace where the fire crackled and spit.
"I see a vacant stool by the fireplace, and a crutch, unused."
"You mean --?" Scrooge asked, aghast.
"Yes, Tiny Tim will die -- if these shadows remain unchanged," the spirit told Scrooge.
Scrooge could take no more. He bade the spirit one more time to deliver him to the safety of his bed. The spirit waved his hand and suddenly Scrooge found himself standing in the middle of a dirty street and it was dark. Night time. But how could it be dark so soon?
Standing in the center of the street stood the spirit of Incest Present. His glorious robe was shut tight around him, but it seemed to be bulging out at the bottom of it. Scrooge approached cautiously, and when he got to within 10 feet of the spirit the spirit threw open his robe to reveal two naked little children, huddled at the spirit's feet.
It was a boy and a girl, and they were filthy. They looked scared and confused. Their eyes were blank and they stared at Scrooge, unnerving him.
"Who -- who are they? Are they yours, spirit?" Scrooge managed to squeak out.
"No, they are the world's! They are yours, Ebenezer Scrooge! This boy is Incest and this girl is Lust! Fulfill them both but most of all fulfill this boy. See how they shiver and cower from the light? See how they stare at you, Ebenezer? They are your making! They are your doing! Heed what you have seen and heard, Ebenezer, or you shall suffer the same fate that they have! Be warned, Ebenezer! Be fair warned!"
And Scrooge sank to his knees and began crying and asking the spirit to please explain the words that he had spoken. But the spirit began laughing. Laughter so loud that it began to sound like bombs bursting right in the street next to Scrooge. Oh, that laughter! That laughter!
Scrooge covered his ears and began praying for it to stop. He yelled out for help, for mercy, for even death, and then suddenly, as quick as it began, the noise stopped and a single BONG was heard as if struck by a giant bell.
Scrooge opened his eyes and looked all around him. The street was dark and deserted. No spirit. No naked children. Nothing.
He stood up and spun around in a circle, and when he had turned back to his original spot he spied a figure clad in a black robe standing there in front of him. The figure was hooded and even though Scrooge tried to make out the figure's features he could not see its face. It stood there silently and solemnly.
Scrooge broke the eerie silence.
"Are -- are you the spirit whose coming was foretold?"
No answer from the motionless figure.
"Are you the Spirit of Incest Future?"
Again, no answer.
"And you are here to show me the shadows of things that are to come?"
"I must tell you, Spirit, I fear you the most out of all the specters I've seen tonight. But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather be back at my home in my bed."
In response, the robed figure silently raised its arm and extended it towards Scrooge, almost menacingly.
"Very well, then, spirit. Get on with it, for I am weary and wish to have this night over with."
At that, the figure stuck out its hand, cowled in black robing, and pointed down the street, indicating the direction it wanted Scrooge to go.
Scrooge stared at the extended hand and in the dim moonlight noticed something odd. When he focused on the hand more clearly Scrooge's heart froze momentarily and a feeling of complete and utter dread befell him.
The hand was that of a skeleton.
Scrooge followed the robed figure, his eyes glancing around the darkened town. He could see lit interiors but no sign of any people. Then he remembered that no one could see him and the Spirit and so were not wont to watch their progress up the dirty street.
The figure ahead of him seemed to float on the very air itself and Scrooge found himself quivering and wishing that he were back home in his warm, comfortable, lonely bed, safe beneath his covers. But the cloaked specter beckoned him on.
They drew short of a ratty, dingy run-down lean-to assortment of tin shacks. Smoke billowed from a misshapen stack on the roof and light blazed from within through a broken window. Scrooge stopped and the Ghost of Incest Future pointed inside that window. Scrooge walked up next to the silent shrouded figure and peered into the grimy remaining panes of glass.
Inside he saw two old women, wild white hair sprouting from their heads, wearing shabby, grease-stained clothing, heavy woolen shawls, threadbare at best, wrapped around their shoulders. They were huddled near a blazing fire in an effort to stay warm in the airy tin shack. Standing near them was a tall, gaunt man, stick-thin, wearing a dusty suit and vest, with a top hat that had seen better days perched on his white-haired head.
They were chattering aimlessly and Scrooge could not make out their conversation. He looked back at the mute figure and it just kept pointing with its bony hand.
Scrooge looked back and now saw a portly red-cheeked fellow enter the room and he bade the occupants follow him. Scrooge felt the icy touch of the Spirit on his shoulder and instantly they both appeared inside the shack, in a larger room deeper into the huddle of shacks. This room also had a fire ablaze, and Scrooge spied the odd-looking trio from the other room there with the portly fellow.
Each of the women carried a bundle and a sack, haphazardly wrapped. The tall man held a few objects in his hands. Scrooge could not see what they were. The portly fellow sat on a chair made out of discarded wooden crates with old torn rags and scraps of soiled clothing strewn over them. His head was round and pudgy, his hair unkempt and graying.
Who were these misfits? Scrooge thought to himself. And what were they doing here? And why was he being privy to this scene?
Almost as if in answer to his unspoken question one of the old women said, "How do you do, Joe? Such a night as to be skulking about, don't you think?" and she cackled incessantly.
The other white-haired woman spoke up suddenly.
"Will you look at us? Who'd a-thought that the three of us would ever be together in one place at the same time, eh? The char lady, the laundress and the undertaker."
"All right, then, who'll go first?" the portly gent spoke up.
The three oddballs looked around the room at each other.
The one old lady with a small bundle and a small sack broke the silence by saying, "Here, then, I'll go. Ain't no reason to be ashamed. I mean if he'd been a lot nicer when he was alive we'd not even be here, eh?"
They all agreed to that.
There was a pause and then the tall man said,
He handed the few items he held to the portly fellow, who immediately began biting each piece.
The undertaker began reciting the objects from a list he had written.
"One watch, one watch fob, pencil case, sleeve buttons, broach."
The portly fellow examined each object and finally said,
The tall man sighed and shrugged and reluctantly accepted the payment.
The laundress, with the small sack, went next.
She handed the portly fellow her sack and bundle and he unwrapped it and began pawing through its contents. The woman whose bundle and sack it were began reciting out loud what was in them.
"Two sheets, two towels, shirt, teaspoons, 2 silver, sugar tongs."
The portly fellow canvassed the contents, deep in thought.
"17 and 6, and not another sixpence! I always give too much to a lady. It's a weakness of mine."
The old woman mumbled morosely but stuck out her wrinkled hand and accepted the money from the portly fellow.
"My turn, and I insist that you all stay and watch!" the char lady said.
She handed over her rather large bundle and the portly gent opened it and started pulling out the contents. Out came a large piece of ivory cloth, embroidered and fancy, and it seemed to occupy the entire of the bundle.
"Eh, what's this, then?" he asked.
"Bed curtains," she simply said.
"Bed curtains?" the portly fellow asked again.
"You mean you --"
The old woman nodded her head.
"With him lying there --?"
Again she nodded her head.
"Well, it wasn't gonna do him any bit of good, now was it?" she asked.
They all agreed that it wasn't going to.
The portly gent reached inside the sack and pulled out another piece of cloth, this one smaller and whiter.
"His bed shirt," the old woman offered.
The portly fellow dropped the shirt as if he'd been burned by it.
"It's all right," she said, "it ain't nothin' catchin' on it."
"Did you --" he began.
"I most certainly did," she replied, smiling.
"They'd a just gone and buried him in it, they woulda."
The whole lot of them cackled and laughed at some poor soul's misfortune. A misfortune that they were all benefiting from.
Scrooge was confused by this display of wanton pillaging. Whose items and clothes did they belong to? How horrible those people were, to snatch those things from what he supposed was a dead man. Scrooge shook his head and turned to look at the Spirit.
The Spirit was silent, and only pointed in another direction. Instantly, they were transported to another location. This one was familiar to Scrooge. But he wasn't quite sure of where he knew it from just yet.
They stood before an elegant house, surrounded by iron gates and railings, ornate carved statues, and now-barren trees, whose branches most likely were rife with leaves and foliage and provided much ample shade in the summertime. Obviously a house of wealth, and Scrooge figured them to be in North Londontown.
Inside Scrooge could see lights blazing and could hear muffled voices coming from somewhere in the distance. It sounded like a party!
The robed spectre pointed inside the house and suddenly Scrooge and it were standing inside the abode, inside a parlor room, inside a party.
Scrooge recognized his nephew, Fred, and the girl with him must most likely be his new bride, whom Scrooge had forbade his nephew to marry because she was poor. He had wanted his nephew to marry into money, but his nephew had insisted that he wanted to marry for love, and Scrooge all but disowned the man. While he, Scrooge, misered his money away, his nephew flaunted and spent it, as evidenced by the house he lived in. Scrooge had remembered where he had seen the house before now.
Scrooge's nephew was talking to his wife and several of their guests.
"And so I told him, 'A Merry Christmas, Uncle, and a Happy New Year! And you know what he said?"
"No, Fred, what?" his wife asked.
"He said, 'A humbug! Christmas is a humbug!'"
And at that all the guests began laughing uproariously.
"Well, despite that, he was a good old gent. In his own way," Fred remarked.
The laughter died down and the people in the room turned somber.
The spectre touched Scrooge again on his shoulder and they were taken to the other side of town, to where Scrooge had been before, with another Spirit.
Bob Cratchit's home.
Scrooge saw Mrs. Cratchit sitting in a rocker, sewing. Next to her was Mary, the middling, kneeling and resting her head against her mother's thigh. She was crying softly, and Scrooge saw that Mrs. Cratchit was making an effort not to cry as well.
The other children were all silent, and Scrooge could hear stifled sobs and heaving sighs all about the room. Master Peter was stoking the dying fire and looking all but white.
Suddenly, the door opened and Bob Cratchit came in from outside.
"Sorry I'm late, dear," he said, bending down and kissing his wife on her cheek. "But I stopped off to see where they will lay him. Oh, it's a beautiful place. There's a tree that stands right above and in the summer it will shade him from the sun."
At that, Bob Cratchit broke down and collapsed to the floor, and Master Peter and the other children gathered round him and comforted him.
Scrooge looked over in the corner and saw a lone crutch lying tilted against the fireplace. Realization struck him and he suddenly felt very bad at how he had treated his clerk.
Just then, the Spirit touched him again and before he knew it Scrooge was outside. They were in a cemetery, and it had started to snow.
Scrooge was cold and weary and shaking as he looked around him. There were tombstones all over and he could see the robed Spirit standing away from him, eerie and silent.
"Spirit, pray, tell me, if these are the shadows of things to be, then can they be changed by today's actions? If one alters his ways now, will those dark shadows be dispelled?"
The specter remained silent and motionless.
"Spirit, tell me, please, who were they talking about? At my nephew's house? Who died? Who did they mean?"
Again, the figure stayed still and silent.
"I -- I'm tired, Spirit. I don't know what you want me to learn from all this. What you have shown me. What --"
The Spirit raised its arm and extended its bony hand and pointed to a spot in front of Scrooge. Shadow concealed what lay before him, and Scrooge had a sinking feeling that he knew what lie there.
"No, Spirit, I cannot look. I will not look. You cannot make me look."
But still the spectre pointed, urging Scrooge to behold his fate.
Scrooge looked down and instantly the shadow dissipated and Scrooge could now clearly see a stone marker inscribed with the name Ebenezer Scrooge and the date of his own death!
"Nooooooooo!" Scrooge began wailing, falling to his knees on the cold, frozen barren ground. He began moaning and sobbing, asking for forgiveness, asking for pity. He promised to change, he promised to alter his ways. He fell prone on the ground, snow falling all around him. He buried his face in the cold stone tablet and began writhing across its surface, as if trying to erase what was written there.
He suddenly awoke indoors!
Scrooge gasped for breath and opened his eyes. He was in his bed, and his bedclothes and covers were bound to him. He wasn't dead, he wasn't freezing, he wasn't in a graveyard.
He bolted from his bed and ran to the window and looked down at the street. It was daylight.
But, what day was it? Had he missed Christmas? Had the Spirits done it all in one night?
He vowed to himself that he would change his ways He would keep Christmas. He would help Tiny Tim. He would be kinder to his clerk, Bob Cratchit. And he would make amends with his nephew, Fred.
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