It was April outside, but for Saint Nicholas, the days and nights had all blended together into one long jack off session, one long night, his arm aching, magazine pages stuck together with his cum, calling for another bottle of whisky from his elves, Marty and Timmy never batting an eye at his state, Santa too busy engrossed in his very naughty porn to even think about preparing for Christmas at this time of year. He was months behind–if the elves didn’t start up the toy production soon, they would never be ready in time, but then again, Marty had taken it upon himself to start getting the workshop up and running. Dildos, collars, harnesses, poppers, pipes, cigars, slings–everything for the naughty men of the world. Marty was tired of making toys–Marty wanted to fuck–and with his magic whisky, it seemed like Christmas was his for the taking.
That is, until he’d forgotten to deliver his whisky to Nicholas for a day, and a very hung over fat man, his body crusted with cum, stumbled out of his study, wondering what had come over him. No one was in the house, but the workshop lights were on–he threw on his coat and crossed the compound, entering the workshop, where he found his elves, leathered and rubbered up, crafting all of the sex toys any man could want, and he nearly screamed. He looked up and saw Marty on the upper level overseeing the workers, and glared at him, the elf’s face growing pale as he fled deeper into the factory.
“Marty? Marty!” Santa called, hurrying up the stairs and chasing after him, “What in the hell have you done!” He chased him down a hallway and into a dark room, where something slammed into the back of his head, and Santa crumpled to the floor, out like a light.
When he woke up half an hour later, the elves had been busy. He was in a small room in the bowels of the workshop, handcuffed, his hands pulled up high, and his usual red suit was gone–replaced by a red rubber singlet and a white leather harness, his cock exposed and rigid, connected to two tubes–one shoved up his ass, and the second down his throat.
“Guess I’m just going to have to keep you around here from now on, eh Santa?” Marty said, dressed in leather chaps and harness, Timmy next to him, collared and leashed with a gimp mask over his face.
Santa tried to speak, but couldn’t get anything out, especially after the thick, creamy substance started emptying from the tanks next to him into his guts and bowels. Some of it was the same whisky Marty had been feeding him for months now, but the cream was something else…it was…cum. He could read it on the side of the tanks, and he shuddered.
“Don’t worry Santa, we’ll have you addicted to all of our cum in a few days–then I’m sure you won’t be objecting to my new Christmas plans. In fact, by December, I’m sure you’ll be as excited as I am about all the toys you’ll be delivering to naughty boys around the world.”
Marty laughed and left the room, Santa struggling against the cuffs, the whisky already working against his mind. He had to do something–he had to try and save Christmas from Marty, that crazy, demented…sexy elf was going to ruin everything. Fuck, when Santa got his hands on him he’d…he’d fucking suck that cock of his, drain his elf balls of every drop of cum he could find…yeah…Marty had better watch his back–and that was his last thought before he fell back into his haze, gut bloated with cum, already excited for next Christmas to come around.