Santa Claws

I’ve always loved stories that give our myths a little twist.

This is a playful “night before Christmas” story that tips its hat at the worlds we all know from comics and movies where the things that go bump in the night some times say “OUCH! Who put that there?”

“Don’t move fat man! You think that red suit is fooling anyone? Turn around real slow or I’m gonna open fire and I guarantee you won’t like the holy water in this pistol – it’s from Lourdes and it will send you straight back to hell.”

Everything was going fine up till then. I’d parked the Slay on the roof. On my way down the chimney I’d heard her making those little moans that said she was getting real close to coming. I figured I had time to take a sip of the brandy she’d left out before I had to get my sack ready to take her. Wrong. As soon as I bent over, she snapped on the lights and went all Charlie’s Angels on me (think of Drew Barrymore only add 60lbs) kneeling up on the bed with that damned water pistol braced in both hands like a real professional.

“Hey, who are you calling fat. I’m not the one demonstrating why it’s called a bustier by bustin outta the top of it. I’m not the one with an ass so big you have to look real close to see which hole you were using that candy cane in.”

She’s a fine looking woman, with lots to look at. Auburn hair in waves down her back, nipples like pink icing, all wrapped up in leather and lace. For a moment I think she’s gonna let go of the pistol and remove the candy cane, but she’s too smart for that.

Blushing magnificently she says, “You’re insults won’t distract me, fiend. You come in here on Christmas Eve pretending to be Santa Claus, you’d better be prepared for the consequences.”

I lick my lips. Then my eyebrows. That gets her attention.

“Hey, Lady. I know exactly what I’m here to take ok? And stop with the Santa Claus thing. You ever been visited by Santa Claus? No? I thought not, you ain’t the type.”

I take a step towards her, letting both sets of Freddy Krueger Claws extend with that great spring-release noise that the guys down in R&D took years to perfect.

“Stay where you are, foul creature of the night.”

Aw now that pisses me off. I hate being mistaken for a fucking vampire. You’d think a member of the American Heroine’s League would know what she was looking at.

“Creature of the night? Man, Anne Rice has a lot to answer for. I’m a demon, not a vampire ok? And tonight I’m on Santa Claws duty, hence the finger cutlery and red suit. It’s blood red by the way. Dyed with real blood. Do you like it?”

“I warn you, I am The Red Shadow, member of the American Heroines’ League and fearless fighter for freedom and justice for all.”

Must be a hell of a shadow, I think to myself, more like an eclipse. I can see she’s working herself up to doing something drastic. I don’t want her to pull that trigger, holy water stings and it takes months for the scars to go away. I need to distract her.

“Look, it’s not my fault. I never meant to be Santa Claws; it’s just that the paperwork got screwed up. But when you sign a contract in blood, even the typos are binding. There’s me thinking I ‘d sold my soul for a job in a warm climate, running errands for Big Lu (don’t EVER call him Luci – the last guy who did that is still butt-fucking himself first thing every morning) but my contract said I’d signed up to be a Santa Claws – not Satan’s Claws like I thought. At least they say it’s a typo but I’m thinking it’s maybe a little joke. Lu likes to play jokes. He’s got quite a sense of humour: Hey, the guy who put Hell in Hello and Lie in the middle of believe has to have a way with words. So now, every Christmas Eve, I get to be Santa Claws.”

It’s working. If I’d growled at her there’d be holy water everywhere. I hate that singed flesh smell, especially when it’s my flesh. “Walk softly and carry a big stick”, that’s my motto. Ok, time for the big stick.

“And I’m not fat neither. It’s just the suit. Let me show you.”

I open the coat. She should have fired the pistol then, but she was too busy watching old Whiplash rise up between my legs. The first time you see a 36” penis in the shape of whip, it comes as a bit of a surprise.

I leap on her. She gives me a nice soft landing. Next thing she knows, she’s lost the gun and is lying on her back, with her hands pinned above her head and Whiplash curled around her throat, his shiny head just rubbing her chin. Even then she doesn’t give in. She struggles. Mmmm, I love it when they struggle.

“Why are you here, demon? American Heroines should be safe from hell’s minions.”

She is so warm to the touch and she smells so good it takes me a while to realise she’s asked a question.

“I’m here because you’re a fake, cutie-pie. You know those lists where Santa knows who’s naughty and who’s nice – well who do you think he gives the naughty ones to?”

“I have NOT been naughty. I’m an independent woman who satisfies her own sexual needs. There’s nothing wrong with that. And I work a lot for charities when I’m not saving the world.”

“I ain’t here because you like to polish candy canes on Christmas Eve, lady. I’m here because of what you did to a certain department store Santa.”

She goes pale. Makes her look even cuter.

“I can see you remember. You went along with your friends and insisted on sitting on Santa’s knee, even though you were eighteen. And when he asked you what you wanted for Christmas you looked shy and whispered in his ear. Do you remember what you whispered? ”

I tighten Whiplash around her neck just a little, by way of encouraging an answer.

“I said I wanted to be gangbanged by Santa and every one of his elves.”

There are tears of shame in her eyes. I lick one away.

“And when the poor man got a hard-on, you had him fired. You and your friends thought that was SO funny. Well it’s payback time. I’m gonna put you in my sack and introduce you to a long line of fallen elves.”

Suddenly I’m not on her anymore; I’m across the room, picking up my sack. I love the way the speed catches them by surprise. She’s still lying there like I was on top of her: legs spread, nipples hard, looking at someone who isn’t there any more. I’m back at the foot of the bed, before she can sit up. Just for fun, I reach between her sturdy thighs and pull out the candy cane. She blushes again. I slurp on the cane and then grin. I know where it’s been.

“I see we like the path less travelled by. I guess you still had miles to go before you came huh?”

I open the neck of the sack.

“Wait,” she says, “that was ten years ago. Why didn’t you come and get me then?”

Uh oh, this could get tricky. She struggles as I pick her up. There’s a lot of her to hold. I try to distract her again by curling Whiplash around her thigh but she just slams her legs together. Whiplash doesn’t mind. Any minute now he’ll go looking for a dark space to crawl into.

“There was a problem wasn’t there,” she says.

I hate these Heroine’s League types. Why can’t they just plead or faint the way women are supposed to?

“The paperwork was delayed. We had a backlog.”

Whiplash pushes between her thighs but can’t get any traction. Either the lady uses a lot of lube or she’s a gusher.

“I DEMAND to see the paperwork.”

Shit.

I drop her and the sack and hand her the document. Whiplash is trembling a bit. He was really looking forward to her.

“I KNEW IT.” She jumps up and down in excitement. It was worth the trip just to see that. “This paperwork expired five years ago. I don’t have to come with you at all do I? Admit it, demon, you’re beaten.”

Whiplash droops when he hears that, slipping himself back into my boot in a sulk. But I’m more resourceful than he is. I know how to bait a hook for a passionate woman whose Christmas Eve companion is a candy cane.

“OK, Lady.” I say letting my shoulders sag and my claws retract. “You win. I forgot to come and get you and now it’s too late. I had it all set up, a quick trip to the demon sextoy shop, Whiplash here would warm you up some, Satan’s little helper’s would demonstrate the latest gadgets, and then we’d let the every elf give you a little bit of elf esteem and believe me, those guys know how to steam.” I look pathetic as I drag my sack along the floor towards the hearth.  “My boss will really give me hell for this,” I say, not looking back.

“Wait,” she says, “Do you have to go so soon? I have mince pies.”

Gotcha!

“I could stay awhile. If you wanted.” I say, taking a mince pie.

We both sit down on the edge of the bed, side by side. She puts her hand on my knee and Whiplash knocks a mince pie out of my hand.

“He’s very big, isn’t he?” she says.

“Well you know what they say, the bigger they are, the harder they come.”

Whiplash does his ingratiating puppy thing and strokes his head up her forearm. She licks her lips.

“It must be lonely for you here by yourself on Christmas Eve,” I say. “A fine looking woman like yourself shouldn’t be alone.”

She’s stroking Whiplash now. She can’t look away from him. Whiplash has that effect on people.

She moved almost as fast as I can. One moment we’re side by side, the next she’s pushing me back on the bed and trying to stuff Whiplash inside her. Must have been her League training.

“Not like that,” I say, “Like this.”

I go gently the first time, pulling her up my body until she straddles my face, then feeding only about a third of Whiplash into her and working her fun button with my long doggy-tongue. She goes off like a firecracker, all noise and hot red flashes.

The second time, I fold Whiplash over and push him in, bend first. Double the thickness is double the fun. And he has enough length sticking out her to allow his head to follow the candy cane road.

When she regains consciousness she smiles at me and snuggles up against my leg, patting Whiplash affectionately.

“You know, the fact that the paper is out of date is just a technicality, really.”

She kisses my belly and lets Whiplash delve between her substantial breasts.

“I mean, this is what I deserve for Christmas. I shouldn’t try to wriggle out of it.”

She pushes her breasts together and she and Whiplash play hide and seek.

“I should take responsibility for my actions.”

“Are you sure?” I say.

“How many elves did you say there would be in that line?” she asks, looking hopeful rather than worried.

We get to the Slay without me having to put her in the sack. She loves the lost souls in bondage harnesses that we use instead of reindeer. I let her crack Whiplash above their heads.

“Up Lasher and Spanker. Up Cummer and Wanker. Up Friggin’ and Fistin,'” I cry and we head off back to a place that is way too hot for snow.


© Mike Kimera 2002 All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from mikekimera@yahoo.co.uk


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