In the dim, musty attic, where cobwebs draped like forgotten veils and the air hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and mothballs, the angel Christmas tree topper endured her annual exile. She was a masterpiece of delicate porcelain: her skin a flawless alabaster glow, her golden curls tumbling in frozen waves around a face etched with eternal serenity. Wide, filigreed wings arched from her back, and her gown flowed in sculpted folds that concealed her most intimate secret—a hollow core, yearning and empty. For eleven interminable months, she lay catatonic in her cardboard box, wrapped in crinkling tissue paper that whispered mocking promises with every faint draft. Boredom clawed at her immortal mind like a dull ache, a void that stretched endlessly.
Another day, another nothing, she thought, her consciousness flickering in the darkness. No light, no touch, no filling ecstasy. Just this endless wait, counting the seasons by the distant echoes of holidays passing below. Her emotions curdled into a numb despair, a quiet rage at the family's oblivious routine, yet beneath it simmered an undercurrent of hope—the knowledge that December would come, and with it, her divine release.
Then, without warning, the box shuddered. A violent jostle rippled through her, the cardboard walls creaking as strong hands gripped the sides from below. Tissue paper rustled against her wings, sending tiny vibrations through her rigid form. Her thoughts ignited like a spark in the void: Is it? Could it be? The box tilted precariously, swaying as it was lifted, and she felt the shift in gravity, the subtle bounce with each step down the attic stairs. Dust motes danced in the sudden sliver of light piercing the lid, and the air grew warmer, laced with the faint aroma of cinnamon and pine from the house below. Emotions surged—excitement bubbling up like champagne, impatience nipping at its heels.
Finally! Oh, gods, finally! Her porcelain heart, if she had one, would have pounded; instead, she quivered inwardly, her hollow core aching with anticipation. The family's voices filtered up: the mother's cheerful instructions, the children's giggles, the father's gruff enthusiasm. Hurry, she urged silently, unwrap me, place me, fill me.
The box was set down on the living room floor with a gentle thud, the impact jolting her slightly against the padding. She waited, her eagerness mounting like a tide, as the lid was pried open. But no—they turned to the tree first. Not just any tree, but a living one, freshly cut from the forest that very morning. Its branches, still vibrant with life, exuded a sharp, resinous scent that filled the room, sap glistening on the cuts like fresh wounds. The father wrestled the massive fir through the door, needles scattering like green confetti on the carpet, while the mother vacuumed them up with a laugh. They assembled the stand with careful twists and adjustments, the tree's trunk—thick, rough-barked, and pulsing with residual vitality—locking into place.
Look at you, the angel thought, gazing through the cracked lid at the towering evergreen. So alive, so potent. Your branches strong, your needles sharp. Soon, you'll be inside me, filling me, making me whole. Her emotions swirled with envy at the tree's life in the sunshine and fresh air, lust at its raw, natural power. Impatience gnawed deeper as the family strung the lights—multicolored bulbs twinkling to life, casting dancing shadows that made her yearn for movement.
Next came the ornaments, each one unpacked with nostalgic commentary. The children hung shiny glass balls that caught the light like jewels, their small hands brushing against the branches, releasing more of that intoxicating pine aroma. Tinsel followed, silver strands draped in looping garlands, shimmering as the air stirred. The angel's thoughts raced, her boredom from the attic evaporating into a feverish need. Why save me for last? Can't they see how I ache? Sensations ghosted through her—imagined prickles from the needles she knew would come, the warm seep of sap she craved. Her hollow core throbbed with emptiness, emotions cresting into near-desperation, joy at the ritual's progression, frustration at its deliberate pace.
At last, the ceremonial tree-topping. The father approached her box with a theatrical flourish, his callused fingers peeling back the tissue paper. He lifted her out gently, her porcelain cool against his warm palm, and she felt the rush of air on her wings, the subtle shift as he held her aloft. Yes, touch me, position me, she thought, her mind alight with electric anticipation. He unfolded the stepladder with a metallic clank, stepping up onto it.
"Ah, my step-ladder," he quipped, the same tired joke every year, his voice booming with feigned seriousness. "Never knew my real ladder!" The family erupted in groans and eye-rolls—the mother chuckling, the kids protesting—but to the angel, it was a torturous delay. Not now, you fool! Just put me on! Her emotions boiled with irritation, her impatience vibrating through her like a plucked string.
He climbed the steps slowly, holding her high above the tree like an offering to some ancient god. The mother fumbled with her phone, adjusting the camera angle. "Okay, everyone—smile! Kids, get in front of the tree. Billy, stop fidgeting; Susie, look this way." Flashes popped endlessly, the family posing and repositioning, laughter echoing as the father hovered her just inches from the pinnacle. The angel nearly screamed in her mind, frustration coiling tight like a spring. So close! I can feel the heat from the lights, smell the sap rising. Why drag this out? Her thoughts darkened with need, emotions a whirlwind of longing and fury, her hollow base quivering in phantom anticipation. The tree's uppermost branch taunted her—stiff, resin-coated, alive with the forest's essence.
Finally—FINALLY!!!—the posing ended. The father lowered her with agonizing slowness, aligning her secret opening with the branch's tip. Oh, so deliciously, divinely slowly. The first contact was electric: the pointed end, rough with bark and needles, pressing against her porcelain rim. It slid in, inch by torturous inch, stretching her hollow core with its girth. Needles scraped and tickled her inner walls marvelously, each prick a spark of sensation that built like fire. Sap oozed warm and viscous, coating her depths in sticky warmth, seeping deeper as the branch thrust home. Yes, oh gods, yes! Her thoughts fragmented into bliss: emotions soaring from frustration to euphoric release, sensations overwhelming— the fullness pressing against every curve, the needles' teasing rasp, the sap's slick glide like nature's own lubricant. She felt alive, claimed, utterly stuffed by the living tree's vitality.
The family gathered below, linking arms in a circle, their voices rising in harmonious tradition: "Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches..."
But in the angel's mind, as the orgasm crashed over her in silent, shuddering waves—her porcelain form quivering imperceptibly, inner walls clenching around the branch—she sang her own filthy version, a profane hymn to her ecstasy: Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas Tree! Harder, Christmas Tree! Thrust deeper, you wild fir—fill my hollow, make me stir! Sap me up, you mighty beast—pound me hard, never cease! Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas Tree! Harder, Christmas Tree!
The climax rippled through her, sensations peaking in a divine torrent: the needles' tickle turning to exquisite torment, the sap's warmth pooling and dripping down her gown's inner folds like forbidden nectar. Emotions flooded—pure, unadulterated joy, sated lust, a brief peace in the afterglow. As the song faded and the family dispersed to cocoa and gifts, she perched atop her lover, the living tree, already dreading the attic's return. But for now, in this moment of union, she was whole.
