Chapter 1

Caution: This Christmas Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, Humor, Tear Jerker, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Double Penetration, Slow, .

Desc: Christmas Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Christmas just wasn't the same without Holly under the mistletoe. A very romantic longer Christmas tale of old lovers reunited and new chances, with plenty of erotic sizzle for your own moments under the mistletoe. An older holiday favorite story returned at last to SOL!

(Almost) Every year I write at least one Christmas story and on a good year two or more. Very odd for someone who maintains that they dislike the holiday in the first place! This was supposed to be a rather shorter story about yet another strange holiday party, but I became interested in the characters and wanted to tell their story in much fuller detail. The story just kept going and going ... but probably in a good sort of way.


It was without a doubt the best Christmas present of my entire life. My older brother Jeffery had shipped out with the Marines to a new duty station, this time overseas to Japan and he had gifted me, a few weeks before Christmas, his pride and joy – a 1967 Chevy Camaro convertible! She was pure vintage Detroit steel and muscle, with the biggest rocket engine the factory could put in her in those days, a whopper of a 396 cu in (6.5 L) V8 engine. He'd tinkered with her all year long wanting to turn her into a mega-street racer, but with very mixed results. Yeah, almost just like the Springsteen song Racing in the Streets, except the one in the song was a sixty-nine Chevy and this didn't have Fuelie heads or a Hurst on the floor. Probably only because my brother hadn't finished screwing up this gem of a car to quite that degree just yet.

He'd bought the car in nearly pristine condition with his saved up pay from his last tour in Iraq and then he decided to 'upgrade' it, piece by piece ... screwing it up at every step along the way. In fact when the car was delivered to me she wasn't even drivable!

To make a long story short, he'd decided to replace the original 2-barrel carburetor with a 4-barrel Holley so he'd taken off the old intake manifold and replaced it with a 4-barrel one from a later model Camaro ... and then realized he'd reached his automotive level of incompetence while installing the new carb. Rebuilt rather incompetently, it leaked gas like crazy and his engine caught on fire twice after that. Now the car was a mess inside and out (it also leaked engine oil under the dashboard due to an indifferently installed aftermarket oil gauge my brother had left dangling) and he'd totally lost patience and interest in the street racer project. Now it was my problem to deal with!

Actually, my older brother and I weren't all that tight so he probably thought he was having a laugh at me, dumping me with his completely screwed up restoration project that he'd run out of time, pocket money and ambition to deal with. He was five years older than me and was only just now getting his life and shit together, deciding to re-up with the Marines and go career. He wasn't the college type (barely getting through high school) and he was genuinely proud of me for my recent graduation from college with a double degree in both business and petroleum engineering. Tops in my class, Valedictorian even.

It wasn't fair really; I had gotten all of the brains in the family (and the more pleasant personality) and even in a soft economy I was apparently going to be doing pretty well in life, considering all of the calls from corporate recruiters I'd been getting lately. Jeff had been an ass for most of his teenaged and early adult life but the Corps had straightened his shit out, mostly. Big brother was going to become a pretty decent NCO and likely have a respectable and full career far away from home and his troubled past. I think by gifting me his beloved car this was a last step to turning a page in his life and career, putting the dodgier parts of his past behind him and maybe there was even a token of 'I'm sorry for being a shit to you, kid brother', but I wouldn't take any bets on that.

If nothing else, I'd soon be earning the kind of big bucks that could put this one last mess of his back to rightness once more. It would have to wait though, until I completed my internship and hopefully had accepted a permanent job offer ... or better yet the highest of several competing offers!


Right now, being a semi-starving and mostly unpaid intern, I didn't have much for money, but at the moment I really needed this car ... and absolutely had to get it minimally running. My old Nissan Stanza was on the verge of another major breakdown and the sixty mile trip back and forth to work (well ... internship) each way was a killer.

The Stanza immediately sensed that she had competition for my affections and promptly snapped her timing belt the very next day, bending two of her camshafts and several of her rocker arms in the process of her final violent death spasms. I promptly sold her 'as-is' for cash, enough to get maybe the minimal necessities required to get the Camaro rolling again.

While I wasn't much of a do-it-yourselfer, I did have an old high school friend who was sort of a shade tree grease-monkey, or at least competent enough to help me bolt the old two-barrel intake manifold back on, with the old plain factory (working) carburetor still mounted and injecting gas without starting engine fires, at least in theory.

It was worth the case of beer I'd promised him for his labor and nine hours and four trips to the local auto parts store later I had the Camaro running. Not well, mind you ... but she was at least now firing on most of her eight cylinders. Enough to hold together for perhaps another week and with luck, perhaps two.

She did, barely ... but I could tell that under new and more enlightened ownership she was now determined to cling to life.


Being a semi-starving unpaid intern learning the process hands-on at a local petrochemical plant of a big corporation, and even getting my hands rather dirty at times with actual work, I was rather surprised the Friday before Christmas to get summoned to our regional district corporate office in Clear Lake City for a day long series of rather high-pressure interviews with groups of directors and even VP's from both the upstream and downstream divisions of the company. I was clearly being considered for permanent hire now that I had my degree, but I couldn't quite figure out by exactly whom, or for what sort of job it would be.

Finally, late in the afternoon I was hustled into one last final meeting, but not with the HR department. Instead, one of the local division presidents wanted to eyeball me and provide a few more probing questions.

"Mike, your Process Manager, Bill, has spoken well of you and told me rather bluntly that we'd be foolish to let you get away from us after your internship ... or even allow you the opportunity to solicit any competing offers. Most of the folks who've spoken with you today share that opinion." He paused for dramatic effect, but I didn't think there was much of a question there being asked of me, so I just kept smiling and tried not to look too horribly shocked or surprised and waited a few moments for him to continue.

"So, would you have an interest in remaining with us? You'd remain, at least for now, here working in production at the Texas City plant but when Bill says you're ready you'll be in line for a promotion, probably project management related at another plant or production unit. Would this be of interest to you?"

It was!

Frankly, the rest of the interview, which was really only a few minutes longer, was mostly a blur. The salary offer was absurdly good, generous even for any starting position straight out of college. There was even a signing bonus, a check for $10,000, probably more than enough to fix up my car and even make her purr!

The final surprise was an invitation card to the executive Christmas party to be held the next evening, Saturday night at a very fancy restaurant/club right on the bay near Kemah.

"Dress sharp!" He extorted, while handing me the party invitation and shaking my hand to welcome me to the company. "You're with our team now and this will be your first chance to meet the rest of the management group from the division office here and show them why we've got high future expectations for you. And you should certainly bring something pretty with you to dangle off your arm as well!"

That part was going to be a bit harder, especially on short notice. Currently, I was without a girlfriend, and I wasn't on good enough terms with my last ex to call her for an emergency favor. I'd have to go to the party solo, but at least I could claim that I'd received too short of an advance notice to arrange for a date.


The corporate bonus check was from a local big bank and surprisingly I had no difficulties cashing it first thing that Saturday morning immediately when the bank opened. With ten grand cash in hand, and a vintage Camaro right on the verge of dropping her entire exhaust system onto the freeway, I headed to my final destination, Hamilton Motor Restorations in Stafford, way out on the southwest side of Houston, over an hour away.

Almost immediately after being gifted with this car, I had been in somewhat of a loss to figure out exactly what to do with her next. Fixing her up myself was entirely out of the question. Sure I'd graduated tops from a prestigious engineering school (Rice University, the 'Harvard of Texas') but I was definitely not an auto mechanic. So I'd asked my semi-mechanically inclined friend for advice and he'd talked to his friends in the business and nearly everyone had come to a consensus.

"They're fairly new to the business, younger fellows I hear, but they're earning a great reputation for primo work on old cars. If money is no object and you want the job of fixing up a vintage car done right (i.e., not fast or on the cheap) and with the right vintage parts, then take it to Hamilton."

The 'but' caveat of the equation was that the Hamilton brothers were both considered to be certifiably crazy, nearly impossible to deal with, and didn't perceive the universal concept of time quite in the same way that most other sane and rational people did. Getting something done by next week was laughable, and even finishing a project by the next month was only slight less dubious.

I thought I could deal with this. With the bonus money in my hot eager hands, I could leave up to a $5k deposit, take a taxi to the nearest mega used car lot on the nearby freeway and buy an older Honda or something to use for cheap reliable transportation for the next three to six months. If it took them longer ... fine. I'd be working and earning a pretty good paycheck and could buy or lease something better and nicer then if necessary. I could even save the Camaro for weekend fun. This would give me options.

Sure enough, the Hamilton brothers were both absolutely, certifiable, complete, and total fruitcakes. The only thing missing was the festive holiday box from my grandmother! As for their customer service skills, on a scale of one to ten I'd rank them as a minus seven! In fact, I never even quite made it out of my car before the pair of them came outside to look me and my ride over ... and didn't think very much of either of us!

"Hey, asshole!" The taller, darker haired brother bellowed at me as he looked over the Camaro, "just what the fuck did you do to this glorious set of wheels?" He was a tall weedy looking guy that looked to be in his mid-thirties and perhaps just about as sharp as a sack of wet rice.

"Yeah," the other added, "you raped this bitch good! Someone let you borrow daddy's tool set?" This brother was a bit shorter and stouter and probably three odd years younger. He might be able to count to 21 without unzipping his pants but he'd definitely fallen off of an ugly tree (one of the taller ones) and had hit every branch on the way down.

"Nah," I commented, keeping my tone low and impersonal, "my shit of an older brother did all this, probably while my dad was otherwise busy boning your mom."

These should have been fighting words but I'd been warned about these two idiots. They would invariably insult you ... so you then should respond by insulting them right back. Supposedly this would gain their respect, minimally ... in theory anyway.

"Bodacious ride! I hope you worked him over with a tire iron for the way he worked over the body and the interior. Is the engine as bad or worse?"

"Worse, probably laughably so. She's a classic Greek tragedy exported from Detroit. There are more parts in the truck too, probably some original and some not but who the fuck knows at this stage. I want her fixed to cherry – perfect, not just 99.99%."

"Righteous! That we can do, if you've got the green ... and I'd definitely want to keep her that factory forest green paint job! Chevy only did this tone of forest racing green for some of the early test and production models in 1967 and switched to a slightly lighter shade of paint for the rest of the year and the two later first gen models. The factory name for this paint is Mistletoe Green, so I'd bet that you have a really early model, one of the first few hundred or so that rolled off the assembly line!" It took some research later, but he ended up being exactly right! My leafy green Camaro was in fact the 97th car produced.

"It's not easy being green, but it'll do fine. It's beautiful, and I think it's what I want to be." When in profound doubt, you can't go too badly by quoting Kermit the Frog. "Can you make her something of a priority? I'd hate to see her age out in the back with all of the junkers."

The descriptions of their shop had been spot-on accurate too. The place looked like an old 1960's service station, un-remodeled, with junk and trash strewn everywhere, and at least two dozen cars parked in the back all covered up with tarps ... abandoned or neglected for years, by the looks of them. I didn't want my green machine to join them.

They debated privately but thought that they could start the work fairly soon, but they needed a second opinion to see exactly what parts would need to be replaced. The introductory formalities now handled, my Camaro was rolled into the empty service bay of the garage for a closer inspection and a trip up the lift, and there I got to meet their other partner, who was in fact their stepsister ... and the real brains apparently behind the business.

Even half covered in engine grease Holly was a stunning beauty. She was younger than the brothers, perhaps in her mid-twenties and petite, barely five feet tall in her work boots with long light brown colored hair secured into a ponytail halfway down her partially bare oil stained and sweat covered back. She was wearing cut-off short shorts that fell barely a fraction of an inch below her ass cheeks and her respectable breasts were fettered but straining the seams of a well-stained shirt tied off into a halter top. I had to wonder what she'd look like all cleaned up and dolled out but it was obvious right from the start that her present work attire was her preferred fashion state ... and that she was a complete stunner of a beauty. Where her brothers had been cheated out of both good looks and brains, she'd gotten their share, and probably more!

She might have briefly given me a good looking-over at first, but after the first few seconds of eyeballing me it was my Camaro instead that had her complete and total undivided attention. She was soon caressing and soothing it like a cruelly beaten puppy, muttering not quite entirely under her breath that she'd soon fix everything that the 'big mean nasty man' had done to her!

For a second time I politely explained that my older brother had done all of non-factory alterations (I didn't bother to mention my replacement of the original 2-barrel carb and intake manifold), and that he had even wrecked her twice in the last year in the process of test driving her street mods. She eventually got the hint that I wasn't the sadistic abuser responsible for the current travesty of this once fine vintage car and over the next half hour she began to even talk to me with increasing civility as we together took a long detailed inspection of the car, inside and out, top and bottom.

"Restore her to complete original factory condition, I assume? Or are you going to race her?" The tone in her voice more than hinted that there was only one possible correct answer to this probing question. She was sitting in the passenger seat next to me and casually, almost unconsciously she was caressing the ball of the stick shift like it was a phallus, her fingertips gently twirling around the top, as if it were the tip of a cock.

"Very original," I hastened to agree. "I do think going with the four barrel intake manifold in the trunk and a Holley carb might be good, if they're both period."

"That manifold is first generation, '67 to '69, and it will do. The Holley mounted on it is late 1970's shit and I've got stuff that's much better out back. Really, I can't wait to get started on this!"

"Your brothers don't do any of the work? It's just you?"

I think she thought for a moment that I'd said something sexist, devaluing her achievements as a woman vintage car restorer, but I smiled earnestly enough to eventually convince her that I might have been making her a compliment.

"Mostly me, especially on the rebuilding stages. They're my stepbrothers actually and they're decent enough at taking things apart, so the knuckleheads can do that and maybe a little simple body work and frame welding. Anything tricky with more than two moving parts, or stuff concerning the engine or the detailing of the interior and it's all me ... assuming you want the job done right."

I did. I also had my brain wondering about how she could be done, right or otherwise. It was nearly impossible to keep my eyes focused on hers, and not her long tanned legs, flat stomach, ample cleavage or her increasing hard and poking nipples that were unmistakable under her oil covered red cotton shirt. Young (well, about my age anyway) and already a master mechanic ... and a holiday feast for the eyes too!


All too soon our joint inspection was completed and we went into the small front office to fill out the paperwork. Her two dysfunctional older stepbrothers had disappeared off somewhere so we were alone. I signed the work order and paid the requested deposit of three thousand dollars, a good bit less than I'd expected or planned for. The final job was going to cost about that much yet again, when completed, at the very bare minimum and that was fine with me as well. She was going to need a lot of scarce replacement parts and I certainly wasn't going to question the number of labor hours involved.

Reluctantly bidding farewell, I mentioned that I was going to call for a cab for a trip to a used car lot to get some basic transportation for the next month or so and I thought she was going jump right out of her halter top! She gave such a splendid bounce of surprise that I wondered how her shirt stayed knotted together, or how the lovely round and firm objects inside didn't come flying out into view.

"Not a chance, Bubba! You drove in with one piece of mechanical shit already today and that's enough. Let me throw on a shirt and I'll drive you over myself ... and make sure that they don't push off a freshly pinched steaming turd on you!"

She grabbed another white shirt (this one spotlessly clean) from a hanger behind the door and threw it on, not bothering to button it. This left the lovely display of cleavage still on display but did somewhat hide the rest of her breasts, and reduced the view of protruding nipples.

Her car was an older Ford pickup but it purred like cat with a belly full of cream and she drove like one of Furies getting us to the nearest car lot that she claimed wasn't entirely composed of liars and con-artists ... just mostly so. Then, for the next hour, she inspected and rejected every car shown to us, dismissing some models as inherently unreliable and most of the rest as indifferently maintained. Grudgingly, she at length pronounced that one of the Toyota Corollas, which was just three years old with very low mileage, had more or less passed her inspection and just might survive the next few months of driving about 120 miles per day back and forth commuting to work.

Not content with how clean (or not) the piston rings appeared to be based upon her microscopic assessment of minute exhaust particles, she argued with the salesman for the next full hour, identifying additional minute mechanical flaws that deserved additional and significant sales discounting. In the end, they accepted our (her) final offer and I signed the paperwork and paid the full amount in cash. Actually, I think they were tired of us and sold the vehicle at their cost, just under my budget of remaining bonus money solely to be rid of us (her) as quickly as possible!

Returning back briefly to the garage (the two stooges were now back), I was completely now in a quandary as to how to make my final goodbyes. I'd really enjoyed my time with Holly and really didn't want my time with her that afternoon to end, and she in turn wasn't quite making excuses about how she really needed to get right back to work that instant. I was also now under quite a bit of obligation to her, with Holly picking out a worry-free vehicle and effectively obtaining a fantastic bargain that I could afford.

So, with my brain just spinning loops, I did the only thing that I could think of, which was to invite her to come with me to the executive corporate Christmas party that evening. I immediately flinched afterwards, thinking that I'd come over as being too desperate, but she accepted at once.

"Sure, I'd love to go! I can be ready here by six, if we need to be there at Kemah by seven-thirty."

Off I drove, happy as a lark. I diddled away the afternoon running small errands and trying (with extremely little success) to get my mind off of Holly. My lovely little mechanic (and her remarkable breasts, butt and legs) were stuck in my mind and I was full of anticipation wondering what she'd look like in a dress. The results were quite worthy of the wait!


At six o'clock it was already dark outside and only the interior office light was on inside the garage, so my first look at my date was just a silhouette, short but lithe, a shadow in the darkness. Then one leg stepped forward, showing a hint of a gown that came to about mid-thigh, highlighting a well-formed leg culminating in a stiletto heeled shoe. This minimal tease was enough by itself to make my cock swell a bit inside my pants, but when Holly now turned a bit more sideways to the light, displaying the profile and outline of her chest and flat stomach, an instant complete erection was unavoidable. The walk to the car, which was slow and emphasized the swaying of her entirely adequate hips, was just the frosting to an already perfect holiday package.

Even in better light the dress was superb! I discovered later that earlier today Holly hadn't even owned a dress, formal or otherwise, until this afternoon. Not to mention some proper shoes, a clutch handbag or even much in the way of makeup. The moment I'd left she raced off to frantically go shopping and then she'd gone to a hair stylist, only just making it back to garage in time to change and apply some war-paint to her lovely face.

The gown was from a department store, but so what? So was my suit. In any case it fit her like second skin, showing off her bare shoulders and lovely legs to their best advantage. How she managed to shove all of her bust up into the confines of the low-cut but still tasteful bodice, I'm still not sure. Probably something involving lots of toupee tape keeping the girls held up, strapped in, somewhat pressed together and yet still presented in all their magnificent perkiness.

With more mental self-control that was usual for me, I miraculously avoiding saying anything stupid, like marveling how nicely she 'cleaned up'. Instead I just said what I was obviously thinking, that she looked absolutely lovely!

"You're a good looking hunk in a suit yourself!" She laughed and let me kiss her on cheek. "But sorry, Prince Charming, that Toyota's not the chariot we're taking tonight!"

She then laughed and grabbed my hand, then prancing off in her mile-high heels, she led me right back to the garage and to my waiting mistletoe green Camaro, which had been decorated appropriately for the occasion with bits of live mistletoe tied onto the radio antenna and dangling on a ribbon from the rear view mirror.

"Mistletoe." I commented with a smile as we climbed into the seats and promptly noticed another dangling bit of romantic greenery just above our heads at the top of the windshield, where the convertible top was open.

"Clever boy! Are you referring to the plant or the car?" She laughed and moved into position to be kissed a bit better and not just on her cheek either.

"Both will do!"

Holly got her romantic kiss, and then another two or three more for good measure.

"Are you sure you trust this poor beat up gal to make another long trip there and back?" I seriously enquired. Holly was adamant that she wanted me to take the Camaro.

"I haven't had time to give it a test drive yet," she commented as she ran a slender delicate finger over my right hand, now resting on the gear shift, "So I want to hear the engine at highway speed and get a feel for the stability of the body and the suspension. Don't worry about losing the rear tailpipe and muffler, they're not original anyway. Think of this as combining both business and pleasure!"

She gave my hand a little squeeze to prod me into action and I fired up poor Mistletoe and launched her towards the highway. It was a good name for the car ... more so when I turned on the AM radio to the oldies channel playing Christmas songs to hear the scratchy sounds of Frank Sinatra singing "Oh, by gosh, by golly, It's time for mistletoe and holly".

The radio speakers were old and scratchy (not Frank), but we were now having a magical moment as we sang the song together with the radio up as loud as it would go driving topless down the freeway (Mistletoe, not Holly ... alas).

Now, this really was the best Christmas present I'd ever had in my life!

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