Wicksteed Happy Christmas

A tale suggested in Lit. C by a fellow author in the UK who PM'd me and suggested the idea in which I have reversed one of the genders.

*****

Wicksteed's Christmas at Home.

"Don't do that lads, she'll be upset," cautioned Moira with a resigned, roll eyed sigh, from the dingy kitchen, preparing a Christmas free range chicken provided free by a local charity for households in dire straights. Stan Wicksteed, her forty year old, unemployed husband and Wayne their eighteen year old son, giggled as they stood aside Enid's, Grandma Holmbush's chair, with handfuls of cheap decorations for the lounge in their scruffy, council house in Pundle Green, near Southampton. The Wicksteed tribe was small. The other offspring, Kelly, home for Christmas, 19yr old, lived in Fratton, Portsmouth, separated from some drunken bloke, with her two year old, twin brats - she wasn't sure who their father was.

"Don't think so, you silly moo," retorted Stan. "She's well away," adding two false holly berries to the silver tinsel on Moira's mum's sturdy right nipple as the old gal snoozed. He nudged his crotch against Enid's bony hand, which rested on the arm of the chair. He felt a slight responsive movement which wasn't defensive and devised plans for the day. Wayne grinned inanely, staring at his grandma's flat old paps, swiping runny snot from his nose with the back of his hand and shrugging his hand over the dark damp stain on his denim crotch.

The teen fingered some tinsel and made to put it on Enid's other naked nipple until his dad slapped his hand away.

"Ger'off nipper. Don't upset your gran like that..."

"But you're doin' it dad..." Wayne whined.

"For fucks sake you two - behave your selfs," shouted an unseen Moira, "They's private like."

"She plays with 'em her self, I've seen 'er," chuckled the lad...whoops, he shouldn't have said that. "ave you dad?" He slunk out of the room.

Stan didn't answer, a guilty frown flitted past on his pockmarked yet avuncular face, still nudging Enid's hand, she hadn't moved it away, as he collected stray bits of tinsel off her bony chest. Moira continued meal preps and silently agreed with her son, that her mother had no regard for her surroundings and must do something about it, it wasn't nice, but she was getting on a bit.

Only yesterday morning, she had been shopping at Lidl with Kel mid morning, and returned to find Enid watching TV. Kel had just giggled and gone upstairs. Enid was slumped in a chair, with a spilled mug of coffee hanging loose in her scrawny, liver spotted hand, her long, skinny, bare legs, not looking their best being a bit close to the gas fire, out stretched at near enough ninety degrees. Enid's pop socks were very wrinkled, one still up to her bony knee, the other like a collapsed drain pipe halfway down to the slippered foot. She had slumped down, leaving a section of a threadbare house coat, jammed under her butt, revealing her wiry legs all the way to her crotch, which was shielded from view by her free hand, resting there, but not entirely hiding part of a nest of grey, straggly pubes. Shit! she wasn't wearing knickers again.

Enid had a satisfied smirk on her lined face and merely glanced dismissively towards her puzzled daughter, why the smirk? before reverting to the quiz show on the box. In passing her mum, Moira had pulled the top of the old woman's housecoat together to hide the one flabby, stretch marked, once proud and full naked breast and lifted her frail legs side by side, sorting the coat tidy.

Stan and Wayne were out somewhere.

Moira was thankful Stan had not seen her mother like that knowing his dirty, and at the moment, rampantly randy heh heh mind and also that Wayne hadn't either, judging by the magazines she found tucked away behind the wardrobe in their son's bedroom. The last time she had shifted the wardrobe, moving the sparse furniture when Kel's two kids had to share Wayne's room, much to his displeasure, she hadn't noticed the strange holes behind faded and part torn football posters close to the wardrobe. Kelly, his big sister, had been ensconced in what was once the spare bedroom and now taken over by his seventy-one year old grandma on her festive 'old peoples home-staff holiday' period visit. For Christmas, Kelly had a blow up sleeper on the lounge floor.

The following day, Moira dragged on a messy, food stained, Portsmouth football logoed tracksuit and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers, shedding the worn, baggy and discoloured brassiere because of its tight fit round her torso, she'd don it later. She was looking forward to a family occasion later in the afternoon, before her plundering visit to the community hall, when the pubs and clubs closed and was intending to wear Matalan jeans and a three year old Christmas sweater, Stan had given her - no doubt scrounged, with the grotesque reindeer head's nose in a huge red bulge and where he had, when he was drunk - when not drunk?- on last Boxing Day laughingly?? pinned two red buttons where her nipples would be. She decided to arrange the table of eating and drinking for them all later, minus Kel's kids who were in foster care, result of the Welfare and Social authorities who had deemed that Kel's foul-mouthed outbursts and her drunken partner's violence meant that little Troy and Blossom were at risk.

Wayne, in his room, for once was not pissed off that he couldn't peep on his teenage sister changing her clothes, he had done that many times. He was locked into a stolen I Pad and there was lots to see and plunder on it.

Stan was having his seventh pint of Fosters in the club, wondering if he could get to shag his wife tonight - it was Christmas Day after all. She had imposed a punishment embargo on Stan, making him sleep on a stack of cushions on the bedroom floor, since he got out of prison a week ago after another bout and sentencing for theft and handling stolen goods. Moira was pissed off with Stan's seemingly endless weeks in prison for minor house breaking, handling stolen goods, shop lifting, breaking into cars and the occasional groping young women at bus stops. He wasn't going to grope her until he mended his ways.

The forever in trouble with authorities, ex-street cleaner, guzzled his lager, belched and grinned inwardly that he had ways, so fuck her...no - he couldn't...but he had ways.

Moira busied herself with the table in the TV dominated living room, laying knives and forks out - her contribution for a festive table. Then she went upstairs to help her mother to undress and get into more cheery gear for the Chrissy meal later in the day. Enid was just emerging from the bathroom and told Moira she'd had a sluice round as told.

Wayne had enjoyed it.

"Get rid of that grotty housecoat and try this dress I bought you," said Moira, brandishing the floral garment, not mentioning it was from one of the many charity shops costing her two pounds.

"Oh why bother, it's only us," grumbled the old dear, thinking very UN-Christmas y and resolutely perching on the edge of the bed with a disgruntled expression and folding her arms she had a plan.

"Maybe it is only us" muttered Moira, knowing she was running out of time, considering the stuff in the kitchen, which would be her sole responsibility. "It is Christmas mum."

"Kelly' the proper name," she bellowed. "Get in here and help."

Her daughter grumpily arrived, wearing only a undersized, black thong which dramatically carved her ample, wobbly, white, derrière into two luscious globes and a black ill-fitting, wired, stuff'em-up brassiere, which even considering her small tits, was not good enough to hold and support them properly.

"She ain't got her bra on yet," exclaimed Kel, noticing her granny's pale, thumb size nipples, silently comparing her little bee stings.

"Nah, she ain't got one, she's dumped them all apparently said the warden at the home. Where the fuck knows and why, haven't a clue, but I ain't buying her new stuff," replied Moira, shaking her head, thinking that once upon a time Enid was very fussy about the design of her underwear, some with Zips, some not and the very latest hah hah, albeit twenty years back only had Velcro to keep it together.

"Anyway she's flashed her tits and fanny all over the place, who hasn't seen 'em? so it's nothin new, but not these days, it's not nice and put some knickers in mum," she nagged.

Kelly shuddered, shook her head, struggling with her recalcitrant grannies lack of cooperation and stooping to put slippers on her scrawny feet.

The three females were seen by Wayne, alerted by the word knickers, as he sauntered along the landing, leering into the active bedroom before slithering downstairs, thinking nice arse sis.

"That was Wayne, did he see me?" shrieked Enid, holding the skirt of the dress being manipulated over her elderly body.

"Don't worry Grandma, he didn't see anything," soothed a very under dressed Kelly, Moira's dis-approving eyes scowling at her. She wondered why grandma was so concerned when all her working life had been, after a spell working in a fish and chip shop, as a disco cage dancer, graduating to a West End stripper, local pub pole dancer and a bit of nude modelling for blokes who as far as Kelly could make out, didn't have the slightest artistic temperament and only wanted to see bare fannies.

She knew some of them and made a quiet few bob pleasing some.

"While we on that subject Mum," moaned Moira, trying to sort out her mothers arm into the sleeve.

"You know we love you and you're welcome to stay with us the whole week, it is Christmas after all, but me and Kel is a bit uncomfortable that you're letting your clothes fall open when you sit down and..." she just remembered this, "You don't close the bathroom door. I mean he...our Wayne or Stan, hasn't said nothing but it's not right they sees you."

Enid had the glimmer of a smile breaking the down turned, disgruntled expression on her thin, reedy lips. She might get a good old present later, better than yesterday morning. Depends when Moira and Kelly went to the community hall to help sort the stuff to be packed off to Syria for the refugees, after picking some choice bits for themselves.

The meal passed without drama, Stan's festive contribution being four cans of Stella in place of Fosters, they watched the Queen's speech on the 50" Panasonic TV, Stan went upstairs to have a snooze and Enid fell asleep on the sofa. Kelly and Moira did a cursory clean up and buggered off to the community centre, Kelly nagging Moira to at least put a bra on, the vicar would be there. Wayne went out, later returning and going up to his room, to tinker with a new gadget he had picked up in exchange for giving one of his work mates a wank, twice a week, for the last month.

Work mates, that was a laugh. Simon Fox was the son of a transport company and Wayne did occasional shifts for it.

Doors slammed, one pair of stilettos and pair of trainers could be heard going down the path and Stan woke from a perfunctory doze and carefully descended the stairs, his eyes furtively darting around. He got to the living room. Enid's gentle snores pleased him but he didn't care about wakening her as he loosened his belt. The old dear sensed his presence, opened her eyes, grinned and reached for his groin. Stan quietly stood as she hefted out his cock and gathering his balls too.

"This that present you told me luvvy?" she snickered, shuffling upright so she could use both hands peering as close as she could at his tackle.

"S'what you wanted Enid, yeah?" he replied stepping closer and reaching into the dress, undoing some buttons to fondle her breast. "Good - no bra gran," he chuckled.

"Ain't got none," she giggled. "Can't be bothered with the fucking things...oooohhh!...ooh yeeas," she chuckled as he expertly stroked her big nubs. "They all out?...uuuhhhooo!"

He nodded, knowing he was good at it according to Moira and that fat black woman who was the cleaner at the club, he once supplied her with stuff he shoplifted at the Pound Shop. He played with his nipples often during the day and wished they were big like Enid's. Due to a DIY accident at home, he had very little feeling in some of his fingers and when he twiddled his tits, he was amazed to find out that it was just like someone else doing it - Fine! His thick, not long cock was now standing erect. Enid was as good as Stan at sexual manipulation even considering her seventy-one years and he wanted a shag, but thought he could play a bit. She groaned as he pulled away from her hands and stepped round to her front, his cock quivering. The ex-professional stripper and occasional prostitute, when times were hard, dragged the new dress up, exposing her legs and her bare snatch getting a huge grin for her son-in-law.

He knelt down shoving her legs wider and gazed at the wonder of an old woman's mott. Sparsely scattered, long, grey hairs sprouted all round the hoary old puss pouch. It was a neat, albeit saggy bag of slim labia which showed their age with wrinkles and folds due to gravity. Stan sank nearer, not smelling the strong feminine odours mixed with piss he had tasted yesterday. Enid did have a minor incontinence problem.

"No nicks Enid, perfect. You're a right old goer aren't you?"

"Thought it's easier Stan, you know. Our Moira plays hell with me, but I don't care...I mean lots of men have seen me fanny," she snickered. "I washed it too...just for you...oooohhhhHHH."

He dived in with his lips and grabbed her labia, sticking his tongue into her raddled, well fucked and once very minor celebrity twat. She was moist when he entered; he hadn't a clue if old dears got wet for sex, like they dried up, but no - Enid was slick.

Time was important - she didn't know, but Stan was running the risk of his wife and daughter getting back, so he levered up using his powerful arms either side of his ready and willing mother-in-law, shuffling forward trying not to bear his weight down on her frail frame. Enid grabbed his wavering tool and guided him, grunting with pleasure as he thrust and entered her. He thought she'd be tight and to take it slowly, after all she was getting on a bit, but no way, she reached for his hips and buttocks and pulled him close. FUCKING HELL! it was so good to be in a cunt after Moira's embargo. He glanced down and received an encouraging grin, so he started to pound into her.

Stan was experienced, but frustrated, and was thinking to himself as he fucked Enid that he must try and be good in the future to get back into his wife's knickers when he wanted. He came quickly with a grunt and sank, resting on her until he slid to his knees, his spent dick sloppily exiting Enid's elderly minge. They stayed close, Enid stroking his back and wondering is he could get her to cum - maybe next time. Finally, being sensible, Stan stood, puffing and grinning down at an equally pleasured Enid, then grabbed some tissues from a box and shoved them at her. She realised he had no finesse and proceeded to wipe her groin.

"Better sort your gear out Enid," he gestured to her dress top and hem, as he stuffed his own gear back into his jeans.

"That was fucking great fucking Stan ta! When you gobbled me yesterday, you know, you took me by surprise, just 'cos me tits were out...but I liked it...as you found out." Enid chuckled.

"They're always fucking out - your tits, our Moira's going ape shit about them," he snickered. "And our Kel...well she, she needn't moan but she does."

"Well I don't care, I can please me self at my age...and maybe we can do it when I go back to the home if you visit...? Anyway the way Kelly walks round in her underwear and she's got a nice body, she can't talk." said Enid, giving him the sticky tissues to dump in the bin.

"Yeah, I've seen our Kel's knockers all her life," Stan chuckled. "Yeah, she's got a nice rack, see'em all the time. If she ever wanted spare cash she could do a bit of stripping like. Good job our Wayne don't see em."

Enid remembered something about Wayne, but couldn't remember what it was, and got up, putting the kettle on while Stan got a left over Stella from the fridge. She sneaked a hand to her crotch and had a further play while alone.

A self satisfied Wayne swiftly deserted the kitchen when he saw his Dad move at the end of the action he had just witnessed though a crack in the serving hatch and scooted silently upstairs with his new gadget. He took a diversion on the way to his room to rifle through the dirty washing hamper in the bathroom and collected a goodly handful of ladies underwear. His pal Simon Fox, who had lent him the compact, digital cam-corder was visiting later to view on Wayne's computer, the assured footage while sniffing the dirty panties etc. All part of the deal and if he demanded a wank too - not part of the deal, young master Wicksteed would no doubt oblige.

"For fucks sake Kel, it's Christmas Day," groaned Moira, as if that meant anything to a Wicksteed, finally locating her daughter in a cupboard off the storeroom at the community centre.

Leroy, a black, fuzzy haired, wiry library assistant, was chewing her neck, while his hand fumbled inside her thong, her white, pussy pelmet of a mini skirt was round her waist. He made a cursory glance up from the hickey near her shoulder blade and decided to ignore his target's mother, as he had two long fingers reaming her willing cunt. Kelly indicated that as soon as she finished the cigarette she brandished over his shoulder, she would join her Mum and go. Moira wanted help to carry several clothing items she had secreted in the store room, intended to be ferried to the Middle East, but diverted to Pundle Green. She returned to the store room, dropping a few items.

"Oh not you again Dwight, I mean vicar," moaned Moira, stooping while gathering the stolen goods.

The tall, powerful, Barbadian priest in his long, black cassock, stood barring her way, a massive grin on his big round face, his arms outstretched in a welcome to the pudgy, slovenly big arse housewife, whose nipples had been a magnet to his eyes. Kel had told Moira, that they looked like organ stops the way they bulged through her bra and the faded, grey, Nike tee-shirt when they arrived. She had answered that no one would notice, they would all be too busy finding things to take home. Obviously he had made it so. Dwight had shadowed her all the time she had been there, hiding no lack of interest in her chest and it's shamefully erect non-seasonal baubles.

Dwight beamed down at her, the lights catching his bristly, white/grey curls and the sweat on his broad forehead.

"Wanted to catch you before you left Mrs Wicksteed," his voice rumbled.

Oh shit! Catch - She thought, I shouldn't have been so desperate, but Stan ain't ever going to earn. She made a weak attempt at redemption by thrusting the bundle at his mountainous bulk, until his pink palmed mitt stopped her.

"No no my child, it's not that, everybody is doing that," he glanced dismissively at her stuff, then stared at her nipples which stood proud and knobbly through her clothing when her adrenaline rushed. The vicar just wanted a good close leer, but couldn't find a way of seeing them naked. Moira, being the switched on, put upon, sexually starved housewife she was, suddenly dawned she could get away with murder, so to speak, if The Reverend Dwight Holder could be distracted from Kel's plundered stuff, which was in a back bin bag at the entrance to the cupboard where Leroy was groping her.

She glanced behind Dwight, the door to the main hall had closed on it's sprung hinge, dropped her ill gotten gains and hoisted her tee-shirt, exposing the skaggy, amply filled, frayed bra. The vicars eyes were like a rabbits in the headlamps, small black pupils in huge, white/grey pool irises.

"This what you want Dwight?" she challenged gently, smiling at his transfixed gaze as he licked his enormous lips.