For most of the year, I am locked up in a dark attic. It’s actually not as bad as it sounds; I sleep in a comfortable bed made of cotton wool, inside a cardboard box. Sometimes there are mice scurrying around in the dark, but they usually leave me alone. Only occasionally do they steal a piece of my bedding for their own nests.

But when the seasons turn, when the days grow shorter and the leaves outside start to change colors, I always grow anxious. I know that the dark days are coming again. Then I wait in fear for the trapdoor to the attic to creak open, and when I hear the heavy footsteps on the stairs, I know that my torment is about to begin anew, and that there is nothing I can do about it.

It usually starts with a violent shaking of my box; they want to make sure that I didn’t somehow escape during the long months when they completely ignored me. Once they are satisfied that I’m still there, I am hauled out of my attic refuge and down into the large room where I soon will be violated again. A few years ago I almost escaped when a large furry beast snatched me and tried to run off with me, but it was stopped before it could get out of the room. I don’t know where it was planning to take me, but anywhere would have been better than here!

When my box is finally opened and the bright light is blinding me, the first thing I notice is the smell of fresh pine. There are many who consider this a pleasant smell, but I don’t. I hate the smell of pine, because to me pine just equals pain!

They are all standing around me, looking down at me, wearing their evil smiles. It’s usually the smallest one who grabs me, but he still looks huge to me. He carries me over to that monstrous pine tree, climbs up a ladder and, with a gleeful giggle, impales me on the highest tip. And just like that, with only some sticky sap as lubrication, I am wearing a pine butt plug.

The life of a Christmas Tree Topper is hard, and its butt is full of needles.

Published January 2, 2016

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