Loving Christmas Pudding 

by John Ord

STEVE came to, freezing and in pain.

Christ… the plane, the crash!

Disorientated, hurting and so cold.

He shook his head and tried to stand, but immediately fell and again lost consciousness.

Hours later he woke once more and rolled onto his back. A grey-white nothing filled his eyes; a freezing wind bit at his face.


He dragged himself to his feet and tried to make sense of what he saw: the narrow shelf of an arctic ravine, steep and gloomy white, its cragged sides towering up around him; the plane broken, the cockpit missing and presumably at the bottom of the greater abyss they’d missed.

There’d been a terrible storm, they were well off course, then the instruments died.

Magda, the captain, had fought to land the thing somehow but everything was white, they couldn’t see, the wind sheared and swirled. Suddenly ice and snow rushed toward them, the engines screamed,. Then… impact and they were thrown around like dolls. Tumbling and skidding, they must have toppled into this gorge.

He’d been thrown clear. There was no sign of Magda. She couldn’t have survived.

The rear half of the fuselage looked relatively intact, but the rest of the plane was gone – presumably still up at the top of the cliffs or further down below. Debris was scattered all around and here and there lay pieces of cargo… some units intact, but others ripped apart as if made of tin foil.

Steve scrambled under the hull and, out of the biting wind, sat with his head in his hands, trying to gather his thoughts. He was alive… just about.

Well before nightfall, he’d pulled himself together and made something of a den. It was a freighter – no one else had been on board – so he’d pushed the units around, foraged in the payload for clothing and something to burn, and started a fire. A quick rummage had turned up… a Christmas pudding, of all things, and a bottle of brandy.

Warm, full, and drunk, a little fire skittering light around him, he consoled himself that things could be much worse. He raised his booze to the arctic night and soon was asleep.


He woke, sore and depressed. Dawn had long broken but the sun was not visible.

No, he determined, looking out into the half-light, he would not give in to gloom and would survive this ordeal. Soon he would be rescued but, until then, he swore he would organise shelter, food and keep himself in good spirits. After a quick glug of brandy, he set about making up a proper living area and, by the end of that first day, had a relatively comfortable little space that kept out the elements, and kept in some warmth.

Supper again was Christmas pudding.

The following day he started a systematic inventory of the wreckage, noting with pen and paper what resources were available to him, and storing things appropriately – rubbish out into the snow, good stuff in the back of the plane. Tired, but happy with the progress he’d made, he slept early – again after some more Christmas pudding.

On the third day, the weather closed in and there was little point going outside. Steve congratulated himself on his timely salvage work.

Going through his notebooks, however, he became concerned. Yes, there was lots of clothing, things to burn, plenty of handy odds and ends. But for drink, all he’d found was brandy – lots of it – and for food?  Well, inexplicably the flight seemed to have carried nothing but a massive consignment of Christmas pudding.

There were hundreds of them.

Drinking water wasn’t a problem – there was snow all around. And the brandy was an alternative, but all he’d eaten so far was Christmas pudding… and it looked like that was it. Soon he would be rescued but… Christmas pudding?


For the rest of that first week, Steve continued to consolidate his shelter and store. By day six he’d put together a kind of stove; if it had to be Christmas pudding, it would now at least be warm.

By the end of the second week, he’d settled into a routine: some morning exercise outside, weather permitting; firewood review; a snack of Christmas pudding and hot water; stock take; an hour’s reading of one of the paperbacks he’d turned up; an evening meal of hot Christmas pudding and brandy; sleep. It wasn’t much fun, but soon he’d be rescued…

Six weeks later, the routine was still in effect but Steve’s hopes were beginning to fade and his spirits sank. He was warm, safe, but to eat, all he had was Christmas pudding. At first it had almost been fun. No longer.

After four months, there wasn’t much routine and he was really sick of Christmas pudding. Still he ate the stuff, when he had to, when his stomach ached and he had to eat something.

Things got worse.

The shelter held, he’d have a brandy now and then, but… the Christmas pudding. When it was time he would heat it and stare emptily at the bubbling pan. Robotically he’d scoop the gloop onto a plate and force it into his mouth. He hated the dried fruit, he hated the nuts, he hated whatever else had been mixed in with the cakey stodge; he hated the cakey stodge. Still, he’d be rescued.


Six months had passed since the crash and Steve no longer slept well. Every night he was tormented by Christmas pudding nightmares. Mainly, he’d dream a whole one was forced into his mouth and down his neck, bursting his cheeks, throat, and then, inevitably, pushed out of his backside, bursting into even more.

It was like passing a cannonball and he would wake in a sweat.

In other dreams his fingers were covered in Christmas pudding and he couldn’t wash it off. He’d scrub and scrub and still the brown sticky gunk would cling to his skin. He’d wake in tears. At least with the change of season it was slightly less freezing and he could see the sun, when he had the energy to go outside. Perhaps he’d be rescued…

As a full year of isolation approached, the Christmas puddings began talking to him. They cursed him, taunted him, laughed at his loneliness. He hated them. Their disgusting almonds, their horrible dried rinds of lemon and orange.

He threatened to burn them all; they sneered.

Still, they were his only food.

One day, he filled up the pan with ice, waited till it had melted, then dejectedly lowered in one of the larger luxury Christmas puddings.

The water bubbled and the pudding began to jostle in its plastic tub.

Then he heard a voice.

‘Ooh, give it to me ,Steve.’

He looked around.

‘Magda?’ he said, with no conviction that it was her.

‘No. Here, here.’

The voice was coming from the Christmas pudding… in the pan.

Steve carefully lifted it out and placed it in front of him.

‘Oh yes, that’s better. Open my lid.’

Steve obeyed and saw a Christmas pudding, but with some of its ingredients arranged to resemble very vaguely a face – a face with a mouth. The mouth moved.

‘Now I see you, Steve. Oh, handsome and strong. Kiss me. Come on, pick me up, put me to your lips and kiss me.’

The voice was breathy, sensual, full of feeling, and Steve picked up the Christmas pudding and pressed it to his lips. His kiss was returned and he couldn’t help but push in his tongue.

A cakey, buttery, lumpy, nutty tongue responded and, though he was at first revolted – gagging almost as it explored his gums and cheeks – he soon was kissing with increased vehemence.

‘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…

John Ord studied English at Bristol University. In search of the exotic, he moved to Bangkok and then to Swindon, Wiltshire. He now lives in Liverpool, where he writes short fiction. This has included work for Dark Lane Anthology

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FIND other stories in our special Christmas quartet – written by Matthew G. Rees, Jon Gower and Sally Spedding – at Horla Fiction.