‘Come on, Steve, I want you,’ the Christmas pudding was saying.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Eh? Oh, Chrissy. Wow, Steve, you’re so hot.’
‘You’re hot yourself, Chrissy,’ said Steve and he meant it – he was very aroused. The passion of their kissing intensified.
‘Take me, Steve, do it to me, do it to me now!’
‘Come on, I want you inside me.’
Steve placed Chrissy down on the little bed he’d fashioned out of coats and blankets and took off his clothes.
‘Oh, yes. Take me,’ she said.
Slowly, carefully, he entered her roughly in the place where he thought it most appropriate.
‘So good,’ she moaned and closed her little sultana eyes.
Steve felt the moist interior of the Christmas pudding close around him – dried fruit, almonds, the cakey goo – and thrilled initially with disgust, but intense pleasure also. At first, he moved slowly but as Chrissy urged him on, he began to thrust more briskly; soon she was groaning, crying out his name, and he abandoned himself entirely to wild love-making.
‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ the Christmas pudding shuddered and squealed. For some time they were locked together in one consuming paroxysm then, spent, he fell back to the bed.
‘You were great, Steve,’ said Chrissy.
‘Yes I was,’ he replied, and deep sleep came over him.
When he woke, Chrissy wasn’t there or, rather, she was just another Christmas pudding, and one that had seen better days. Reluctantly he concluded that, for reasons of hygiene and just out of respect, it or she was no longer edible. As best he could, he picked the thing up and placed it on a shelf he’d put next to his bed.
That evening, again a voice called to him from the pan of bubbling water.
Again, he kissed madly a Christmas pudding – Lizzie, this one said she was called – and took it to bed. Over the following weeks, more puddings appeared on his shelf. He couldn’t stop.
Some mornings he’d wake revolted, sick with shame for his squalid pudding sex.
Other times, well,’Who cares?!’ he’d say, unrolling candied orange peel from his foreskin: he had sex with Christmas puddings… So what? Grow a pair – deal with it!
The pleasure increased, he worked out, with the heat of the pudding so he would wait longer and longer before succumbing to the voice from under the lid.
One night, having left a pudding for a good hour on the boil, he plunged into her – she claimed she was Susie – and scalded his penis. Yelping with pain, he scrambled half-naked out into the arctic night, and buried himself in a fresh bank of snow.
Freezing, aching, Steve experienced a moment of clarity: he’d almost burnt off his genitals trying to have sex with a piping hot Christmas pudding. Anger and despair swept over him. Weeping, shivering, he dragged himself back inside and collapsed on his bed. Would he ever be rescued?
For a while, he stopped. He ate hardly anything, he closed his ears. Then, one evening, after drinking too much brandy – again – he heard something outside. The fire crackled, the wind blew, but there was something else. Something was moving against the outer hull.
‘Hey, hey. Stop!’
Quickly he was frantic. This wouldn’t be good. There was thumping, thumping all around and from just the sound he could tell – from his intimate knowledge – what kind of body, what kind of mass was making the thumping. It could only be oversize Christmas puddings.
Out he stumbled into the freezing arctic night once more, to find himself confronted by a pack of them: bigger than beach balls, maybe up to his waist and very round, with a brandy butter topping and holly leaves and berries. Giant, angry Christmas puddings.
They accused him of all kinds of crimes, but he’d done nothing wrong, he said, he was just a man loving Christmas puddings.
Enraged, they attacked. It was a savage and prolonged assault. Hours later, after satisfying their hunger for violence, they disappeared into the darkness.
It happened every night.
Sometimes they’d pin him down and take turns grinding their pudding bottoms into his face, forcing bits of themselves – apple, raisin – into his nose, clogging his mouth, crushing and suffocating. Or they’d squirt brandy butter into his eyes and ears till his head was ready to pop.
Often, they’d force their berries up his anus – plucking them off each other’s tops and shoving them where they shouldn’t be shoved. Other times they’d jab at his already sore penis with their holly, laughing and joking, then pour on some liquor and set him alight so that little blue flames leapt from his groin. Most times he fainted with the pain.
One gloomy winter day thirteen months after the crash, he realised it couldn’t go on. He resolved, as the thin light faded, that if the Christmas puddings came for him again, he’d run out among them, kicking and punching as he went, then dive off the shelf of rock that had once saved his life, to certain death in the chasm below.
Sure enough, the noises in the snow, the thumping, returned.
So out he ran naked, ranting, kicking and punching wildly,.. and into a startled and not unafraid rescue party.
After a lot of bad language and some rough handling, Steve was contained, subdued, and eventually sedated. A helicopter evacuation completed his rescue.
Some months later, Steve found himself on a steel gantry above a giant vat of Christmas pudding mix.
Sure, the physical injuries had healed but, despite the interminable therapy, he was mentally shot. There were days when things weren’t so bad, when he felt something like normal, but they were few and far between. Most of the time his mind was thronged with Christmas puddings. They crowded his waking day and bounded into his dreams. Everyday interactions with other people, his friends his family even, were impossible, and he was on his own, as alone as ever he had been in those freezing nights of Arctic confinement.
After a little research he’d found a Chirstmas pudding manufacturing facility, cased out the place then, one crisp December night, snuck in.
Machinery gleamed in the dark, a heady and very familiar aroma of dried fruit, sugar… he was soon aroused.
He crept about, stroking sacks of raisins, rubbing against tubs of glacé cherries, then found the vat of mix.
Up he climbed, unfastening his trousers and pulling at his…
Suddenly Magda’s face came to him. He’d not thought of her since the crash but again he heard her screams and sank to his knees.
Perhaps he should have been the one to perish in the crash? Perhaps that would have been best?
There was a sudden clanking, the sound of deep motors waking.
Steve saw he’d knelt on a rocker switch which now was glowing green, and in the vat there was movement.
Yes, swirling and turning – he’d turned on the mixer and the tumbling contents were calling to him, the voices irresistible.
Unable to fight any longer or face another festive season, he tipped himself off the gantry.
For minutes the machinery groaned and whined as Steve was suffocated and crushed.
Then it resumed its steady churn: Just another batch of Christmas pudding…