Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 12)

~~December 24th~~

“How do I look?”

“Handsome as always, daddy,” John said, and with a few grunts, he adjusted a strap of Stanta’s harness, making sure it ran from shoulder to the central ring along the most handsome line. He smiled up at Stanta, and even though it wasn’t the first time he’d seen it, when Stanta smiled back at him with that odd warmth of his, he found it difficult to contain the strange joy it gave him every time. He turned away and blushed, but Stanta had wrapped both arms around him and pulled John into his chest, his snout turned towards one of his daddy’s musky pits, and he felt his piggy cock jump as the smell.

Stanta had been exhausted when he’d finally returned to the house, and John had spent the next few days focusing on caring for him, and as the days of recovery wore on, Stanta found himself surprised by this strange boarman, and the strength he exuded. Had that always been there? He wasn’t quite sure. He’d spent so much time wrapped up in his dreams and plans of vengeance for the last year that he hadn’t quite allowed himself the chance to feel much of anything else. But something had happened, and everyone could feel it. The world didn’t seem quite so dark any longer.

If Timmy had had any mind left, he might have recalled his surprise at the light’s selection of Stan the year before. He had expected the light to choose someone from a more conservative bent, and certain it’s choice of Stan had been that on the surface, but now, he would have seen something different. The light wasn’t searching for conservatism, the light had been searching for balance, and it seemed to have found it.

John pushed away from the hug with a snort, Stanta reached for his hard piggy cock, but John shook his head. “It’ll still be here when you get back, daddy–you have a job to do!” He shoved Stanta towards the door, and he gave a booming laugh which rang through the dark night outside. The elves were running to and fro on the runway, double checking manifests, looking at last minute changes to the various naughty lists Stanta had drafted up over the last year, detailing men all over the world who would need to some form of punishment for a whole variety of reasons this coming trip. Petey was in the thick of it, shouting orders, and he looked frustrated that Stanta wasn’t already in the sleigh, the reindeermen prancing eagerly, Rudolph’s cock erect and shining bright in the flurries of snow.

Still, he pulled John close and gave the pig one last, long kiss. He’d offered to help John return to his more normal form already, but he’d refused. “I’d rather get something as a Christmas present, daddy,” he’d told him, “Make me into something fun next year, that we can both enjoy.”

Stanta still hadn’t quite decided on what that was going to be, but he had quite a few ideas rolling around in his head. But one thing he knew he’d never be able to change was the fact that, after all of this, John had finally become a man–a son–that he loved, deeply, and without reservation, and without some silly love gun to make it happen.

Indeed, the gun had been sealed away down in the basement of the house, along with the hundreds of other dangers previous Santas and the elves had faced over the eras. The urinals–and the remaining eggs–were sealed away as well, and that one even deeper and tighter than the rest. Marty would have laughed, knowing that his strange, failed creation had caused so much havoc over the last year, though he would have found no joy knowing it was the fruits of his own labor which had brought his rebellion to an end, at last.

Stanta climbed up into the sleigh, and found his list, excitement stirring at all the names on his list, and this year, all of them in red! Yes, that old Santa, who’d revelled in giving gifts to boys and girls all over the world was gone now–the world would now hear tales of a new Stanta, who punished evil men all over the world, one who spread sex and mischief in his wake at every turn. It was a whole new Christmas, really, and with the crack of a whip, the reindeer took off down the runway and into the sky, towing the sleigh behind, leaving Petey and John beside one another on the runway, the elves cheering and celebrating around them.

“I never did get to thank you properly, Petey,” John said, “If you hadn’t found me that night, in the snow, I don’t know what I could have done without you.”

“Give yourself a bit of credit,” Petey said in reply, “Still, if you really want to thank me, I have a few suggestions.”

With a laugh, John picked the elf up in his arms and carried him off into the workshop, the elves clustering around them, tearing off each other’s leather pants and harnesses for a night of revelry. Christmas had returned, Christmas was reborn, Christmas was a miracle–one they hoped would last for centuries to come.

~~~THE END~~~

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 11)

~~November 7th~~

It took John a few days for his mind to pick up speed again, and for some of the changes inflicted on him by Santapig to regress–though he had a feeling he wouldn’t truly be back to normal anytime soon. The pendant around his neck no longer shown as brilliantly as before, when it had caught every bit of light and every eye in a room–the metal seemed tarnished, almost like it had become muddied. Any longer with the pig, under his sway, and the pendant may have lost all of it’s luster, leaving him trapped.

Petey had to keep up appearances, and so it took a few more days for him to bring enough supplies that they could unlock the door and enter the room. The late fall snows had been flowing in through the window, and everything was coated in a soft layer of white. Carefully, they dusted the dry flakes from the urinal, and began collecting the eggs, wrapping them carefully to keep them from breaking, and placing them in a case. Petey’s one concern about the plan was that there simply wouldn’t be enough eggs, but there turned out to be an ample supply. Petey would have preferred a chance to study the specimens and learn more about them–how they functioned, and more importantly, what sorts of defenses one might raise to prevent…infestation. But they had no time, and any further experimentation would have raised further suspicion, as well as exposed both Petey and John to further risk.

Lenny had been conducting meetings in a small conference room with several other of his closest associates several times a week. They were actively plotting a broader takeover of the system, focusing on ousting Petey. He’d avoided any direct attack thus far by simply feigning ambivalence, and allowing Lenny and his crew to do as they pleased, but he, and many other elves, could see that Lenny was drunk on power, and was endangering Christmas further. Stanta was now little more than a gimp slave, dressed all in rubber, always at Lenny’s heel, ready and eager to do whatever his love ordered. He spent much of his time chained down in the workshop, Lenny ordering the elves to abuse him, ensuring that Stanta was being properly conditioned to enjoy it–and need it, of course.

The addictive cum had originally been Petey’s idea, in fact, when he’d been collaborating with Marty, at the beginning. He had, of course, synthesized an antidote which had been administered to all of the elves, but he was the sole guardian of the formula. This, Lenny could not stand, because without love, the only thing tethering Stanta to his control now was his newfound addiction. Petey also didn’t dare trust the formula with anyone else, and kept it only in his mind, and that, even more than his willingness to cooperate with Stanta, was the reason he bore a target on his back, and the reason Lenny needed to be dealt with.

And so, Petey and several of his close confidants snuck into the vents, and huddled over the conference room, until Lenny and his friends entered, with Stanta in tow. That was the true sticking point. Thankfully, when Stanta wasn’t in use, Lenny kept all of his holes sealed with a special mask and buttplug. Without testing, Petey couldn’t know if that was enough to keep him safe or not…but he could hope. Once the business of abusing Stanta had finished, and he’d been sealed up and business had commenced, the elves dropped the literal bomb down onto the table–smoke bombs first, followed by an exact number of eggs shattered on the table.

They couldn’t see, through the smoke, to know if their plan had worked. They could certainly hear screams, as the strange, rubber bugs found their newest hosts and infested them. The smoke cleared ten minutes later, and the last of the elves was shuddering as the rubber began to coat them–whether the mask and plug had been enough to protect him, or whether he’d just gotten lucky, it was never known, but where Lenny and his lieutenants had, minutes before, been laughing and plotting their seizure of power, there were now five urinals attached to the wall, ten toilets adhered to the floor, and Stanta, chained to the wall, trying to call out to his love through the mask.

Petey found the love gun in Lenny’s workshop, and used it to undo the spell of love over Stanta’s mind–only then did they dare release him from the chains holding him. If he had gotten free and seen what had happened to his lover…chances were good that no elf would have been safe. Instead, Stanta was disgusted with himself, appalled with his behavior, and surprised, more than anything, to find Petey and John, together, standing over him. Petey took one further step, to demonstrate his good will–he provided both Stanta and John with the same immunity to elf cum they all enjoyed–further levelling the playing field. Then, together, they went out into the workshop, John carrying the hard rubber toilet which had been Lenny, and dropped it to the floor of the workshop, and the elves all stared at Stanta, at his cold, furious eyes, but he steeled himself.

“The ones who deserved to be punished have been dealt with, as you can see. I desire no further conflict between Stanta and the elves. I implore you: let justice stand here, let no one seek further revenge, in the…spirit of Christmas.”

The sincerity could only be proven in time, but everyone in the room knew that there were larger stakes to be dealt with–Christmas was now only a month and a half away, and the existence of all of them hung in the balance, just as it did every year. Stanta did his best to show his good spirit, and even though the nights turned dark, and the winds colder than ever, everyone could feel a Christmas spirit warming the workshop which many had thought gone forever. Christmas, was back, and everyone was rejoicing without even realizing it.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 10)

~~October 28th~~

He needed to do something, right? He couldn’t just…stay here. John was plowing Santapig’s ass, but the action was rote at this point. At least with his fifteen inch pig cock buried in a hole, the desperate desire to fuck receded enough to allow him a chance to think, but lately, even that was becoming difficult. The long summer days had returned to a more natural day and night cycle, and now the days were incredibly short–just a few hours at a time. His mind felt similar–John was descending below a horizon of the mind. At first, he’d worried that he’d be subsumed by “Claude”, by some personality dictated by Santapig, but the reality was turning out to be far worse. Whatever magic had restored the previous Santa’s mind, over the last month is was clearly beginning to fade. Santapig barely spoke any longer, and his appearance was devolving further, his snout and tusks longer, hide thicker, and he rarely walked on two legs any longer. This change in him had, in turned, affected his desires, and John too, was changing.

The room had no mirror, but from where he was standing he could see a transparent reflection of his head and torso in the window, and he no longer…looked particularly human. Even the features of Claude had begun to fade, and he was looking more like a stocky, brutish boar–even his hands and feet were beginning to curl up, the nails of his fingers growing back up along the fingers, threatening to become true trotters. He turned away from the window, and over to the other wall, where the urinal was…where the eggs were still growing. They hadn’t burst yet, but the outside had become translucent, and he could clearly see things squirming around inside of them. They looked like bugs of some strange variety, and given what they were coming from, he had few doubts regarding what they might do to someone they found once they hatched. He was trapped between the beast he was becoming and the strange things growing–one or the other would finish him off if he didn’t leave, but how? The door was locked, and the window didn’t open, but maybe…maybe if he wasn’t too far gone, he could still try and talk some sense into him.

It hurt to do so, but he hauled his cock free, feeling that scratching, aching voice start up in his mind again, that desperate desire to fuck, and Santapig looked over one shoulder. “Not finished–keep fucking!” he said in his guttural voice.

“No–No, we have to get out of here, we can’t stay here. We have to get out,” John said. It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to talk to the pig about this, but all signs indicated that this attempt would go as poorly as the others. Already, his hand was lining his massive cock back up with the hole, hungry to back inside him…but he fight harder, and stepped back, turning to the door, pounding on it with his fists. “Dad….Dad! Please, I know…you told me to stay, but please, you have to let me out now!” Again, this wasn’t his first attempt at rousing his father, but that too, had proven fruitless.

“Stupid boar–boar only good for fucking! Now fuck!” Santapig said, and at the words, John felt the amulet around his neck warm up again, his mind…draining further than it had already, and a stupid grin spread across his face. Yeah, he did need to fuck–what had he been thinking? But still, he hesitated, trying to grasp at the straws of his mind–but it was too long for the pig’s preferences. “I said fuck!” Santapig said, and got off the bed, stomped over, grabbed John by the shoulders and threw him at the wall beside him. He collided with it hard enough that one of the eggs hanging from the urinal snapped off, dropped to the floor and shattered. Something resembling a centipede coated in shiny black and yellow rubber uncurled itself, and began slithering it’s way across the floor towards John, who stepped away. Santapig tried to get in his path, but John just grabbed him and threw him behind him, his heart aching at what he was doing, but he…wasn’t going to become one of those things.

Santapig stumbled forward, snout open–the creature sensed him, and leapt. As he fell, the thing shoved it’s way into his mouth and down his throat, the tail in unfurling into a funnel with sharp hooks that embedded themselves around the pig’s mouth, as he struggled for air on the ground. After a minute, the creature erupted from Santapig’s asshole, swiveled for a moment, and then drove into the floor, dragging the pig down with it and anchoring it in place. The remaining changes…took several hours. The funnel began to secrete a rubber solution which began to coat the pig’s body–from the look on his face, and judging by how much cum he shot, the experience must have been…quite pleasurable, but from the outside, John could only watch on it horror as his facial features were sanded down, his back bent back at an impossible angle, arms and legs adhered to the body until all that remained was a standing toilet, ready and eager to be used. And for the first time in months, John was also alone.

His mind returned quickly, and he realized that the obvious step was to simply break the window. He did so and managed to squeeze his way out into the cold snow, before returning to the house through the back door, searching for Stanta, but the house was empty–and seemed to have been empty for quite some time. Worried that the worst might have happened, the pig crept to the workshop and investigated, and saw his father dressed as a rubber gimp, bound to the floor of the workshop, as a line of elves waited to use his mouth either as a cumdump or a urinal. The anger he felt surprised him. He hadn’t expected to ever care that much about this man, and yet…he did, and seeing him there, like that, it gave him an glimmer of an idea–but how would he even manage to do something like that?

“You must be John.”

He spun around, and found himself facing a wiry elf. He didn’t know what to say, other than stammer, but the elf calmed him.

“My name is Petey. I did some…investigating around the house, and noticed your situation. I wasn’t going to intervene unless you managed to escape. You can see that…Stanta is in a bit of a bind. It isn’t, in my opinion, the best option, but unless we can get rid of the elves supporting Lenny, it’s the situation we will have to endure. You can return to the house, if you’d like. As long as you don’t interfere, I can guarantee you a measure of safety and comfort. But if you’d like to…resolve the situation you can see in the window, we can discuss a few plans I’ve drawn up.”

“No, I have a plan. Come with me,” John said, and he led Petey back to the window, hoisted him up so he could see the remains of the room, and explained the outlines of his idea.

“Ah, yes…poetic, and feasible,” Petey said, “If you invite me in for tea, we can see about making it happen.”

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 9)

~~September 14th~~

In their early meetings, Lenny made it clear where he stood, regarding the last few years struggles for power in the north–that, while he held Stanta in relative contempt, so long as he considered the elves to be equals and they continued their joint work towards reshaping the world in this new image, then he was perfectly willing to accept the majority of Petey’s proposals regarding detente between Stanta and the elves. Timmy, he said, in delivering the love gun to John, had acted recklessly, and alone. Petey concurred on that point, and while Stanta had tried to pry deeper into some sort of understanding regarding why Timmy had acted so rashly, neither Lenny or Petey would–or even could, give an answer. Of course, Timmy’s love for Marty had been well known, but none of them could have known about that chance encounter on the porch, and the deep longing that it had awakened in Timmy. His actions had never, really, been aggression towards Stanta, but only the hope that John could replace the love which had never been requited.

Stanta did not particularly trust Lenny at all, and even towards Petey, who did his very best to demonstrate his good intentions, his paranoia demanded caution. Still, production continued apace–and Stanta knew that if Lenny was planning something, either with or without Petey’s assistance–it would strike on his yearly ride around the world or immediately afterward, when he was at his most vulnerable. This meant, that if he was going to secure himself, he would need to strike first. Stanta had no real desire to put either Lenny or Petey out of commission, of course–in fact, the two of them, despite their deep philosophical disagreements, were both able managers and generally cooperated on the floor. Their interests were aligned after all–both sought to secure the future well being of the elves, and keeping Christmas alive was the only way to do so, but their sizable long term disagreements could be set aside, now that Christmas was mere months away. Stanta, however, couldn’t afford to wait. He needed to know now if he was facing a threat, and so he retrieved the love gun once again.

Lenny would be his target. After all, if there was a plot against him, Lenny would be leading it in any case, whether Petey was colluding or not. If Lenny revealed that Petey was a pawn of his, then Stanta would deal with him as well, but this was the reasonable first step. Lenny, this particular evening, left the workshop to discuss logistics with Stanta while Petey managed the floor, and Stanta was surprised that an opportunity had presented itself so readily. He hadn’t quite anticipated that Lenny might have already made preparations against a first strike. When he leveled the gun at the elf and fired, intending to make the small man fall deeply in love with him, the pink ray slammed into some invisible force surrounding the small elf, and bounced right back at him. Before Stanta could do anything, he felt emotion overwhelm him, the gun dropping to the floor as he stared at Lenny, at the love of his life, weeping slightly at the sight of him, horrified, now, at his own attempted betrayal.

In fact, Lenny had been true to his word. He’d promised Stanta that so long as he allowed elves equality, then nothing would happen. However, his shield charm had been in place for just such a possible act on Stanta’s part, since he’d already revealed himself as someone who preferred striking first. Lenny’s main surprise was that Stanta had resorted to the same trick twice. He made the large man get down on his knees and crawl over towards him, kiss his leather boots and properly apologize, and then Stanta got his first taste of elf cock, and their magic, addictive semen. After Lenny had sampled both holes, and found a collar and lead for his loving pet, he led the large man through the snow back to the workshop. Petey saw them enter, and his jaw dropped at the sight.

“See? I told you the fucker was going to try something,” Lenny said, tugging Stanta in front of him, “Tried to hit me with Timmy’s love gun.”

Petey sighed–he’d been worried something like this was going to happen. He’d talked Lenny out of trying any tricks of his own, but in turn, had promised him that should Stanta try anything first, then “that fat ugly pig”, as Lenny called him, was going to get what was coming to him.

“Just make sure he can still fly the sleigh, please,” Petey said.

“Oh, I will–I think Stanta here will do anything for me, right?”

“Yeah Lenny, please–can…can I have some more cum please? I can’t believe how good that shit tasted before,” Stanta said, the tone…meek and quiet, compared to the brutish shouting the elves had grown accustomed to on the workshop floor.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be getting plenty of that. Why don’t you crawl around the floor, and beg some of the elves for theirs? It would make me very happy to see you do that, you stupid pig.”

“R-Really?” Stanta said, “Ok! I…I really want you to be happy Lenny, I really do.”

“Don’t use my name cunt–you address us all as sir, understand?”

“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Stanta said, and the crawled off to the nearest elf, who he politely asked for his cum. Petey just watched the sorry sight, but he still felt relieved. Christmas would survive, at any rate, and if that took maintaining a lovesick, cumdump Stanta, then so be it.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 8)

~~September 6th~~

The previous three months under the literal whip of Stanta, producing toys non-stop under the summer sun, may sound hellish to an outsider, but a substantial number of elves felt a sensation of relief. After all, they had all spent centuries under similar conditions, often worse than this. The previous years of relative freedom and control now felt like some strange fever dream, and to them, Christmas was once again returning to it’s proper order. But for a second camp, those who had tasted freedom, control, and self-determination for the first time, bristled. They were the ones who created the toys, and Stanta was never intended to be more than a delivery boy, a human elevated by the elves who ought to serve at their whim, not the other way around.

This tension was clear to Stanta, even before his final encounter with Timmy several months prior, and was also why he hadn’t yet bothered to free John from his cloistered tryst with Santapig–he himself didn’t feel safe so long as there was a chance that the elves might choose to align themselves against him once more. His time as taskmaster in the workshop was not only spent ensuring production remained on schedule, of course–he was also gathering information, attempting to tip the scales in his own favor, ahead of the elves election. To begin with, a sizable majority of the elves had been furious at him, for whatever he might have done with Timmy, but he could also sense a large reservoir of nostalgia within the group, which he tapped into–maintaining a firm hand, pushing them and encouraging them, reminding them of what a proper santa could do, pulling from examples their own history, which he had culled from the library. He had made progress–the faction of elves who no longer desired to oppose him, who saw a way forward driven by cooperation and mutual understanding was growing, but on the eve of the vote, even he wasn’t sure he had done enough. He, as a non-elf, was barred from the meeting, which took place on the floor of the workshop. The elves mulled about, and fell silent, waiting for the first elf to stand on a table and announce their candidacy.

No one was surprised when Lenny was the first to clamber up onto a table, and announce to the room his desire to be elected head elf. Many had been surprised when Marty selected Timmy as his second in command, and not Lenny, who had been most eager to put Santa under his new boots. He gave his speech, urging a hardline against Stanta, and the attempt to establish the equality, if not the dominance, of the elves once more. This shocked many of them, to hear the goal stated so bluntly. No one got up on a table after he finished, and some were worried no one desired to contest him at all, but at last, a second elf climbed on a different table–Petey.

Where Lenny was thick, muscular and hairy, with a full beard and rough, hard demeanor, Petey was lean, tall, and considered to be one of the more intelligent elves on the workshop floor. He had emerged early on as a supporter of detente–and in his speech, he redoubled Lenny’s call for equality, but pushed in a different direction, towards self-sacrifice, for a new world, for the sake of Christmas itself. No one else threw their hat into the ring, and the elves began to sort themselves, gathering into two camps around each table. The votes were tallied, and to everyone’s shock, it was a perfect tie–something which was unprecedented. Rule books, bylaws, and histories were consulted, but there was no plan in place to resolve a tie. The two camps pleaded with one another, trying to flip one vote, but no elf wanted to become the true deciding factor. And so, it was decided that, for the time being, the two of them would have to serve in the position together, and Lenny and Petey, together, trapsed through the summer snow to Stanta’s home, where the man was waiting to hear the results of the elves deliberations. The rest of the elves, eyeing one another with suspicion, all returned to their own positions, and resumed their labor.

The meeting with Stanta was short, and the two head elves returned to the workshop after an hour, and the two of them made a surprisingly good team, though no elf was blind to the wary looks the two were casting one another across the room. Back in his house, smoking his pipe, Stanta deliberated the situation himself. Even he had expected Lenny to win by a substantial margin, and that he too, would need to be dealt with. But with a vote this close, the short, stocky elf was now the one thing standing between him, and a chance at peace with Petey at the helm. He went to his room, and found the love gun. He would give it a few weeks, to see how things developed, but he had a feeling Lenny would have a change of heart about Stanta very soon. Very soon indeed.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 7)

~~June & July~~

Summer at the North Pole was an odd kind of misery, particularly for those who hadn’t experienced it before. The sun never set, it only traced a strange, wavering path in a circle around the sky, never quite rising fully, and certainly never setting close to the horizon. It made every day blend together, particularly because sleep was largely impossible. As immortals, the inhabitants’ bodies had entered their own kind of perpetual state, with no need for the basic necessities which had governed their entire lives before. Now, their bodies had no need for anything, and with the sun never setting, sleepiness never came, leading to a strange twilight of the mind, the sensation that this was a day doomed to last forever.

For the workshop, this strange mania was necessary–from the month of May to September the elves largely worked non-stop in the omnipresent sunlight, producing nearly all the toys and gear for the next Christmas in those few bright months. It was a time for Stanta and the head elf to be near constant presences on the workshop floor, but with the sudden, unexplained disappearance of Timmy, that left the entire task of guiding the elves to Stanta himself. Of course, all of the elves knew what must have happened to Timmy–even if they didn’t know the details. The last several years of strife led them all to presume Timmy’s plan of subjugating Stanta had failed, or backfired, and he had been taken out of commission as well. It was lucky, in some ways, that their new Stanta possessed a strong authoritarian streak, or production would have been derailed entirely–they likely would have never made their yearly quota. This was complicated by the fact that Timmy, in a breach of protocol, hadn’t bothered to name another elf to act in his place should something happen to him–this meant that the elves would need to hold elections for a new head elf, but they were barred from doing so until 90 days had passed, placing the election date in early August.

Inside the house, a different sort of hell was emerging for John. Despite having dealt with Timmy, his father still had not returned to free him from his forced cohabitation with Santapig, and he was quickly learning that the effects of the mirror pendant he was wearing only grew more intense with sustained contact. His only way of juding the passage of time in the room, without the presence of night, was to try and keep track of each time to sun passed through the single window in the room, shining across the increasingly filthy room each day, where the two men spent nearly every moment fucking. Santapig was insatiable, and clearly, his mind had been relatively shattered by his experiences over the past few years. He insisted on addressing John by the name Claude, and would grow violently angry should John try to assert his true identity to him. But to make matters even more confusing, the pig harboured deep, emotional sentiment towards both of the Claudes in the room–John was certain, in fact, that the pig loved the strange urinal on the wall far, far more than he could ever love him.

The pig insisted the urinal be fed–he claimed that he could hear when it was thirsty, and he would milk Claude’s cock into the thing’s funnelmouth, demanding that he piss for him, demanding that he feed his lover, demanding that he feed himself. John found his own mind beginning to warp–at first, he thought it was simply the fact that he was trapped with this insane pigman as some form of Stockholm Syndrome, but he became convinced, with time, that it was largely the doing of the amulet. He was, it would seem, still changing. Each time Santapig grew unhappy with him, or dissatisfied with his performance, John would change a bit more. He wasn’t even sure that the pig was aware of what he was doing to him–at least, he never mentioned it, but as the months wore on, John noticed that as his mind was beginning to twist, his body was shifting slowly as well.

His cock was the first thing he noticed. First, it was massive–after all Santapig, despite his control over the entire relationship, had remained a resolute bottom in bed. He demanded constant satisfaction from John, and in turn, found himself in a state of constant horniness, needing to fuck at all times to even be able to think about anything else. But he noticed, soon, that at some point his cock had ceased to be human, and had taken on the same corkscrew shape as the pig’s. He noticed other shifts as well–increased muscle mass, short tusks pushing out from his mouth as his skull began to form a snout. He was becoming the same sort of monstrosity as Santapig, and worse, he…liked it.

His mind was slowing. He didn’t need to worry about anything, really. He just needed to be Claude–or half of Claude, really. He could never be complete, he knew that, somehow. He too, found himself developing an odd attraction to the urinal, but rather than wanting to care for it, he found himself…mourning it, somehow. Trapped within that rubber, was himself, a piece of himself he needed to reclaim in order to be complete. He could only ever really be Claude’s body, but his soul was there, deep inside, and the loss he began to feel was indescribable, even as he desperately tried to tell himself it was deeply irrational. It was in late July that John noticed something else–the urinal…something was happening to it. Around the base, where the body adhered to the wall, strange bulges had appeared–and more began to appear as well, all over the surface. Once, he felt one of the bulges stir, as though something inside it was alive. In his strange midsummer dream, he felt an odd sense of joy–part of him, it was alive, there, in these strange mounds of rubber. They continued to grow, however, and alongside the joy was a constant dread. They were eggs–he knew that, somehow. He also knew, that he didn’t want to be in this room when they hatched.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 6)

~~May 3rd~~

Timmy stood in the room, where Stanta had invited him to hold their weekly progress meeting, wondering what, exactly, this was concerning. It was rather unorthodox for them to meet in Stanta’s house, and not on the floor of the workshop, where production was ramping up, so they could discuss various bottlenecks and production issues on several new toy lines the elves had developed. But he’d insisted. Stanta wasn’t even in the room at the moment–he’d ushered Timmy in, and the left, puffing on his pipe, saying he’d forgotten something. It was…suspicious, to say the least.

Stanta returned a moment later, bearing a large animal crate with him–and there, in the crate, Timmy could clearly see the small pig which until a year and a half ago had been Marty. He kept his face as cold as he could, desperate to not let any tell-tale emotion seep through. He didn’t think Stanta would have been able to get any information from either pig of that strange urinal, but he couldn’t be certain of anything. “As you recall, back in January, I confiscated some…curiosities from the elves’ workshop,” Stanta said, “I can’t say I’ve had much luck discovering much about what had happened in there. That said, I can say with some certainty that the larger pig is likely my predecessor, and this little piggy here is an elf. Am I correct in my assessment?”

He knew he couldn’t lie, but that certainly didn’t mean he needed to provide the entire truth, either. “That’s…correct.” Stanta set the crate on the floor, a few feet from where Timmy was standing. He concentrated on Stanta instead. “Is there something you’d like to discuss about that?”

“Why wasn’t I told about this?”

“Because it didn’t deem it relevant. The previous Santa was unable to serve, and I needed a replacement. Informing you at any stage of any of your predecessor’s…eventual fates would likely have deterred you from taking the position. No Santa lasts forever, and the only things which can dispose of immortals are…generally harsh. You can understand why I’d be reluctant to share that information with you.”

“That’s a rather cold calculation, Timmy,” Stanta said, “You do seem to have a penchant for sneaking behind people’s backs, and laying traps.” With that, Stanta pulled the love gun from small box he had on a table, and examined it. “This, for example. Given to my boy. Why in the world would an elf such as yourself give him something like this?”

Timmy wasn’t quite sure what to say. He’d assumed John simply hadn’t worked up the courage to use the gun–he hadn’t imagined that Stanta would have gotten his hands on it instead.

Still, Stanta didn’t need an admission of guilt. “You know, I did learn a bit about who this little piggy is, from a friend. You had such…passion for him. Why don’t we melt that cold, manipulative heart, and divert your attention to something a bit more warm, eh?”

“No! Wait, just give me a chance to explain!” Timmy shouted, but Stanta had already leveled the gun at him, coating Timmy with it’s soft pink glow. Holding down the trigger, he dragged the beam over to the boar who had been Marty, connecting the two of them together. He held the beam solid for a moment, making sure Timmy’s feelings would be sufficiently intense, and then released the trigger, allowing Timmy to move and think again.

Well, try to think, at least. He had to do something, he couldn’t let Stanta get away with this, but those concerns were overwhelmed by something else–by Marty, by that pig. How could he have been so cold? Marty was still in there, and he’d tried to deny it so much, but he couldn’t anymore–he still loved him, even more than he had as a elf. With a whimper of need, he scrambled for the door to the crate, opened it, and dragged the pig out, trying to embrace it, but the pig seemed…uninterested.

“Oh goodness, I seem to have set the gun to ‘unrequited’, silly me,” Stanta said. “Also, I can assure you Marty there doesn’t have much interest in elves–I have a feeling that if you want that little pig to love you, it’s going to require a few…changes, Timmy. Still, I’m more than happy to help,” Stanta said, walking towards Timmy, where he was trying to kiss the pig, and the pig was trying to shove him off with his trotters.

“Please…” Timmy said, but even he wasn’t sure whether it was asking Stanta to give him his free will back, or asking him to change. In any case, Stanta took his plea as the second, and laid his hand on Timmy’s head. His body began to shift immediately, his slender frame piling on layer after layer of fat. Timmy felt his mind dulling, his rationality draining away and allowing his love to become a single-minded drive, as his feet and hands became trotters, his clothes shredding apart as he grew out of them, and with the last flickers of his mind, he realized something else. He didn’t look like the same kind of pig as Marty–while Marty was a hairy, muscular boar with a huge cock, Timmy was soft, hairless and flabby, with four rows of teats running down his belly. Worse, he felt his cock and balls shrink until they were just nubs, and a new, gaping pussy opened up below them. Marty took one sniff of Timmy’s new cunt, and could tell this sowboi was in heat–Timmy was more than happy to go onto all fours, and allow his new boar to mount him, driving in deep, the pleasure washing all of his other concerns away.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 5)

~~April 26th~~

He’d fucked up–he knew that. But the simple fact was, John hadn’t been able to take it anymore. He…wasn’t even sure who he was anymore. It was the middle of March, when his father had picked up a renewed interest in John, after close of a month of paying him almost no attention at all–and from that first day, when he’d taken on a new form…John had known something was different with Stanta. He had never been particularly jolly, of course, but when he’d laid eyes on John that next time, he’d become an old painpig–obese, coated in metal, hair and tattoos, begging for pain and abuse. But inside–unlike the last times–John had still been inside there, and Stanta had known it, had taunted him with the knowledge that he knew John was in there and he didn’t care. That he wanted him to suffer.

John couldn’t think of anything he’d done to deserve such treatment, and in fact, he hadn’t been guilty of anything at all–but punishing him had been convenient. After his discussions with Santapig, Stanta had been furious. Furious with Timmy. Furious with that little pig who had been Marty. So furious in fact that, with Santapig watching gleefully, he’d destroyed every remnant of Marty’s old self still residing in that pig body, as Santapig had requested. After all, Timmy didn’t have to know what he’d done to use the pig as leverage, if he needed it, and having any chunk of Marty still hanging around was much too large a risk for him. So furious at himself, for being sucked into this entire mess, for bringing his son here, the son he’d always hated. It wasn’t surprising that, after a few weeks of that treatment, John had snapped.

Pushing through the persona, he’d gone for the love gun Timmy had left him, and threatened his father with it. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, however, and Stanta had, after disarming him, beaten him even harder, and made John tell him everything that had happened, leading up to him getting the gun, and he had–everything about his strange encounter with Timmy on the porch, and the gift left the next day for him. After Stanta was satisfied, he’d locked John in this room again, where he was still sitting, weeks later. He’d returned to himself at this point, close to a week ago, now, but his father hadn’t returned to check up on him. So here he was, naked on his small bed, wondering what, exactly, his daddy would do to punish him–because that was the one thing he was certain would happen.

But today was different than the other days–today, he heard the lock on the door falling away–apparently his isolation was over, and his punishment was about to commence. He braced himself for whatever he might become when Stanta laid eyes on him after opening the door–he was certain it wouldn’t be anything good. But it wasn’t Stanta who opened the door. Instead, John found himself looking at a massive pigman, standing upright on two trotter-like feet, staring at him with tiny dark, greedy eyes, and with a lurch, he felt his body shifting around him.

A pig? Who in the world was this? He remembered seeing Stanta bringing those two pigs back with him from the workshop months ago, but…what in the world had he done to them? Was he going to become a pig too, thanks to the amulet? He looked down at himself, expecting the worst, but was somewhat surprised to see that he wasn’t losing his human features. He was shrinking slightly, and growing a sizable gut coated with white hair, with a thick white beard as well. He himself looked a bit Santa-esque, but he wasn’t Santa–his name…his name was Claude?

It was similar to what had happened when Timmy had seen him on the porch–he wasn’t simply assuming a form, he was assuming an identity along with it–one which was…slightly warped, it seemed, as his cock engorged itself, growing over a foot long and as thick as a two liter bottle, the pigman (Santa, his new mind told him, but this pig couldn’t be Santa, could it?) started drooling at the sight. “I’ve…*grunt* missed you more than I even realized,” the pig said, walking into the room and embracing John, “Claude…fuck, I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Shut up you pig–I’ve missed you too, and that hole of yours,” John heard himself say, and then shove the pig over the side of the bed, lined his huge cock up with his hole, and slid into him with a long shudder of pleasure, and…and love. Not true love, some strange, warped desire that was close enough to fill in the void, but one which felt…so dirty, to him. John fucked the pig’s filthy hole, disgusted by the sensation, but the pig was pushing back, eager to be filled to the brim. John looked over and saw Stanta in the doorway, watching the scene with a stony face, waiting for them to finish–which took about half an hour. John slid out after he’d shot a massive load of cum deep into Santapig’s bowels, and then the pig whirled around, got down and started cleaning off the massive cock, grunting and snorting while he did, and John looked to his father. “Dad, I–”

“John, you made a mistake, but not an unforgivable one. But my friend here…has been very helpful to me, over the last month or so, and he deserves a reward. That’s going to be you, for the next several months.”

“But–”

Stanta walked over, and put a finger to his son’s lips. “You’re still mine–don’t forget that. He’s merely…borrowing you, right pig?”

There was a disgruntled sound made around John’s big cock, and he felt it bob, as Santapig nodded, reluctantly.

“I have business to settle, and I can’t have you getting in the middle of it. Once it’s settled…” he paused, “I’ll try harder too. I promise. To be the father for you I never was. But for now, I need you to do this, for me, understand?”

John nodded. All in all, it wasn’t that bad, right? He got a cute piggy ass to plow whenever he wanted, right? He was less enthused, when Stanta made them move into Santapig’s room with that…creepy urinal attached to the wall, but he knew, without a doubt, it could have been much, much worse.

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 4)

~~March 12th~~

Stanta had named them Big Pig, Little Pig, and Urinal, for lack of better names. He hadn’t been quite sure what, exactly, he was going to do with them all once they were at him house–in all honesty, he’d been more interested in keeping them out of the elves’ hands since they had seemed so interested in keeping them away from Stanta. The question then, was: Why? What in the world was so dangerous about two rutting pigs and a urinal in a messed up workshop that it had been worth locking them all up inside? He’d had a pretty good guess, after the first week–it didn’t have anything to do with what they were–it was about who they all had been.

Stanta, after all, had been recruited under rather quick and shady circumstances. It begged the question of what, exactly, had happened to his predecessor. Timmy hadn’t mentioned anything about him to Stanta, not that he’d really thought to ask much, either. In any case, he didn’t think he could really trust Timmy to deliver him the truth anyway. That meant he’d just have to try and figure out what happened himself–but thankfully, he seemed to have two eye witnesses right here in the room with him. Well, three–but Urinal didn’t have enough of a mind remaining to even try reviving. Whatever had happened to him, there was no fixing it. For the two pigs, however, there was hope, and after a couple weeks of research in the library he’d found in the house, he thought he’d give it a try.

All that was left, then, was to decide which pig he wanted to talk to first. Chances were, Little Pig was an elf. It was probably the elf who’s workshop had been boarded up by the others. Big Pig was a…bigger curiosity. Chances were, Big Pig was the previous Santa…but that brought up some concerns. If the last Santa came back, would he want his old position back? Stanta had read through the contract, and found that even if an old Santa returned, he wouldn’t have any claim to his old position–unless something happened to Stanta in the meantime, which made him unable to perform his duties. In any case, he’d need to be careful, but the risk, in his mind, was worth it. If he was going to figure out what was going on up here, he’d need the story straight from the Santapig’s mouth–assuming that was, in fact, who this pig was.

He grabbed Little Pig by the collar and dragged him over to a small cage, locking him up. Big Pig wasn’t very happy about that–but the fucker wasn’t ever very happy without a cock inside him. Still, maybe with more of a mind, he’d be able to control himself a bit better. Stanta laid his palm on the pig’s forehead, like the book had instructed, and felt the pig freeze. Stanta focused–it was a lot harder fixing things in someone’s head than it was breaking them, and he also didn’t want to fix too much. Still, he started unravelling the pig in him, letting the human surface again–and much to Stanta’s surprise, some of the man’s physical form began to revert as well. The full pig snout retracted until it was much shorter, with a mostly human mouth capable of speech, his trotters becoming somewhat functional hands, the bones in his body shifting until he could, with some effort, push himself up and balance on his back trotters. Big Pig shook his head, and looked around–then looked at Stanta. “Well fuck–guess that means I’m out of a job then.”

So that was one suspicion confirmed. Stanta shrugged, “I’d offer to give it back, but I’m growing a bit fond of it, I must say. The name’s Stanta.”

“Alright, and to what do I owe the pleasure? Last I remember, I was…it was Christmas? What year is it?”

“March, 2016.”

“Fuck, seriously? It’s been over a year? Those little, manipulative fucks!”

Stanta waved a chair into exist, behind Santapig, as he figured he’d be calling him from now on, and motioned for him to sit. “I think I’d like to hear your story, if you don’t mind.”

Santapig sat down, and crossed his flabby arms. “Yeah? But then you have to do something for me. I want you to find Claude for me.”

“Claude? Who’s Claude? Is that the other pig?” Stanta said, looking over at the small one squealing in the cage.

Santapig shook his head. “No, that’s fucking Marty. Do whatever the fuck you want with him…just don’t…let him fuck me anymore. I feel dirty enough already. No, Claude was my…Mr. Claus. They couldn’t just send him away, not as an immortal. So he has to be here somewhere.”

Stanta looked over at the urinal, another piece of the puzzle sliding into place. “I think…I may have found him already.”

Santapig followed his eyes to the urinal hanging on the wall, where the tail had reattached itself to the pipes in the walls. His eyes went wide, and he got up from the chair and went over to him. “No…No, it can’t…You can’t be fucking serious! Bring him back!”

He shook his head. “There’s nothing left. It was…messy, whatever happened to him.”

Santapig clung to the Urinal for a bit, trying to deny it, but…but he could tell. The face was featureless, but he’d rested his head on this chest enough times to recognize it, rubber coated or not. “You can’t trust them. Not for a moment. Not after what they did to me–to us. And him!” He said, whirling on Little Pig in the cage, “I want him gone. Dead, banished, I don’t care. He’s the one who did all of this, who started all of this. As long as he’s here, you’re never going to be safe.”

Stanta considered a moment, but told Santapig he’d wait until he’d heard his story. So they sat down, and he learned what had happened the prior years, ever since Marty had decided to take matters into his own hands and change Christmas forever. One thing Stanta knew, was that he wasn’t safe–not nearly. Especially with Marty here, and Timmy as head elf. The pig was right–he’d have to dispose of him at some point–but if Timmy still harbored feelings for him, then he might also be leveraged. In any case, he should try and make the first move. If he did nothing, then he’d only be playing defense–and the elves had proven themselves…rather capable of dealing with Santas so far. It was time for Santa Claus to be back in charge around here, and Stanta figured he was just the one to make that happen.

12 Months ‘til Christmas (Part 3)

~~February 20th~~

John was on the back porch of the house, naked as usual, but not feeling the cold wind against his skin. Not thinking about much at all, really, just…remembering. Thinking back, to that first night, with his…father…

It was so confusing, trying to understand what had happened. His father had died last year, hadn’t he? And yet, when that strange, fucked up Stanta had appeared in that house, with him and his brothers…he’d known, somehow, that this man was his father. Stanta hadn’t wanted to talk about this, the few times John had managed to clear his head enough to bring it up. Usually John didn’t have much attention for these sorts of things, because the pendant around his neck had kept him rather…preoccupied.

That first week or so, while the elves had been resting, he’d remained his father’s innocent little cub the entire time. Everything had felt so new, and exciting, and while Stanta had enjoyed it for a few days, he’d grown bored with his inexperience, and begun pushing him harder and further than that persona (John wasn’t sure that was the right word, but it was the one he’d used to separate out the various forms he’d taken over the last two months) had been able to take. Finally, disgusted by him, Stanta had dumped him in a back guest room and told John that he didn’t want to lay eyes on him until he was back to himself. At first, John–as that cub–hadn’t known what he meant. He tried to get out, but Stanta had locked him inside. John had worried he might starve, but the gift of immortality made that a laughable concern. So he sat, alone, and felt himself begin to return, bit by bit. The pendant, it seemed, would maintain a persona once created, but if he was alone, he would slowly revert back to his original body and mind–thankfully.

Once he was normal again, Stanta had been willing to see him again–and this time, he was the same cub…somewhat. Just much, much more experienced. Tattoos all over his body, cock permanently locked and pierced, he’d desired nothing more than to serve his daddy’s every perverse whim, but Stanta had tired of that even faster–and when John had been sent back to the room, he’d returned to himself faster as well.

In this way, he’d begun to discover some of the rules of the amulet. If Stanta saw him when he was normal, he’d change into whatever he desired at the moment. The longer he was in a persona, the longer it took him to return to normal, once he was isolated. Figuring this out, at least, helped him feel like he had a measure of control, even though he had none at all.

He’d been through a few other personas at this point–all of them equally unsuccessful, and he was back to himself, now, for a moment. Stanta no longer locked him in the room, but he’d told John he wasn’t ready to see him yet. In fact, he hadn’t seen Stanta much at all, the last few weeks, ever since he’d come back from the workshop with those two pigs and that rubber thing, and taken them down into the basement with him. So here he sat, perfectly comfortable in temperatures of thirty below, staring into the endless dark of winter (well, there was a peek of sun now, but just a peek) above the arctic circle, wishing he could stop loving his captor. Wishing he knew what Stanta wanted. Wishing he could just be…perfect, for him.

In the wind, he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps approaching around the side of the house–an elf. It didn’t occur to him to be concerned, when he saw the small figure, until he felt the amulet heat up, signalling a change. A new rule then: when he was normal, he’d change when anyone saw him, not just Stanta. He felt himself shrinking–much more than when he’d become that cub–until he was about three and a half feet tall, but with substantial muscle and a short full beard. The elf came closer, stopped like he recognized him, and his jaw dropped. John knew his name, somehow–Timmy. And he…his name was…Marty? His head felt fuzzy, like it usually did, when under the amulet’s effects, especially at first–he beckoned Timmy closer, and said, “I…never meant any of those things I said, Timmy. I always wanted you–so come…come and get it…”

Timmy did. The two of them fucked on the back porch for nearly two hours, until they’d both come multiple times, and John’s head began to clarify slightly, and he could pull away. Timmy, too, stepped back, cheeks flaring red, unable to believe what he’d just done. He’d…known that this wasn’t Marty, but fuck, just seeing him there…

“I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Timmy started to say.

“Don’t. It’s alright. I wanted you to,” John said, “I mean, I…it’s this amulet. Stanta is forcing me to wear it, I can’t really…stop.”

“I just wanted to introduce myself is all. I suppose this was a bit more than an introduction,” Timmy said, “I’m Timmy.”

“Right–the…second in command, right? I’m M–…John…” He said, finding it very hard to get his real name out, and not say “Marty” instead.

Timmy looked at him a bit odd. “No I’m head elf.”

“Oh I thought I was…” John said, and then realized his memories had gotten crossed, and shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t always…separate these thoughts apart. Who is Marty? Is he another elf?”

“I…don’t really want to talk about it,” Timmy said, “I just wanted to make sure you were settling in alright, but it looks like…do you need help?”

John shook his head, “No, I…I want him to love me. It’s complicated. Just…just let us be. You should leave, and let me change back. If he finds out someone else changed me, he’ll want to know who, and you might not want him asking those things. He’s…already suspicious of you.”

Timmy was more than happy to get back to the workshop, trying to sort out what had just happened. He thought he’d set Marty aside. He thought he’d been able to forget about it, but apparently he was never going to be over it. But could…could he really…be Marty? Did it really matter? He could be whatever Timmy wanted him to be, couldn’t he? Timmy hadn’t really gone there to simply introduce himself, after all–he’d been looking for information, or a weakness…and he may very well have found one.

The next day, John returned to the porch, no longer Marty–that one had only lasted a few hours, but it was…strange. He’d…known things, about that elf. Things from his own mind, and he still knew them. Not all of them good things, either. But there, on the stoop, was a wrapped present, with his name on the tag. He opened it, and found a small toy gun inside, and a short note. A love gun, apparently. John took it inside and stashed it in his room. He couldn’t use something like that, could he? No…no, that would be…wrong. But his father had made him fall in love with him–was it really so unjust if he returned the favor?