We were four friends—Rita, Chinny, Aisha and me. And we all hated Christmas. Although we were all eleven, we never liked going to the church's Christmas party where our source of terror usually masked himself with a flowing white beard, red clothes, black boots and a fake paunch.

Okay, truth be told, there was a time we all loved going for the Christmas party; that was before he gave us the finger—literally. I was sitting on his laps, happily anticipating a gift from Father Christmas. But what I noticed was his large, calloused hand snaking up my bum and tugging at my cotton panties. At first, I didn't understand what he was doing; I'd remarked rather offhandedly that his hand was tickling my bum. He laughed and carried me, and in the perfect Santa tone, asked me if I would like to join him in bringing more sweets as the ones he had had finished. I nodded and he took me to the backroom; there, he sat me on his laps, removed my pant, and slotted his huge finger into me.

The sharp punch of the pain I felt in my abdomen was equal to the shock of seeing him flip out his fat member and rubbing his other hand along his length as he groaned.

"Your hand is painful," I'd complained, somehow vaguely aware that what was happening was no sweet-producing affair.

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