Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 2)

January 2nd

It had been a relaxing week of rest, for the elves and Stanta Claus, who had spent much of the week in bed with John, as the chubby, cubby slut he’d become at the moment. The mirror pendant was capable of changing someone’s mental and physical form, but it needed time to recharge between each use–anywhere from several days, to even weeks–and John had resigned himself to the fact that, for the time being, he was stuck as a horny, desperate cub, his holes aching for cock at all hours of the day–and Stanta was all too happy to keep him satisfied, even though he told him, regularly, that while he enjoyed John’s slutty ways, this wasn’t a man he could love.

Still, it was time to get back to work. The elves were back in the workshop, toying around with old projects, putting together research and development groups, planning for next year’s logistics and reexamining last year’s weak points and production gaps. From January to March, little was done in the way of actual production–this was the chance for the elves and Stanta to plan for the coming year–and Stanta, in particular, needed to get caught up on the details of his new position, and that meant he needed a grand tour, which Timmy was providing. The two of them were up on the catwalks overseeing the workshop, and Timmy was discussing Stanta’s role as director–his primary duty being to construct the list of deliveries for the next year–while the head elf generally took on the position of production overseer–but Stanta wasn’t really paying close attention. Instead, he found himself focusing on the elves below.

Their looks up at him were often. He made them nervous, that much was clear. It was understandable, he supposed–even Stanta found his new appearance disturbing when he caught a glance of himself in a mirror, and didn’t expect it. Still, there was something else in the air as well, hanging over the entire place like a fog–more than unease, there was deception here, he could sense it. He caught more than one elf glancing at him and Timmy, and then at a door along the far wall–a door with a sizable padlock, and no handle. A door which, he wasn’t even sure he was “supposed” to have noticed. It was along the wall with several other private workshops for various elves in managerial roles, like Timmy, but it had no name hung on the front like the others. “Whose workshop is that?” he asked, interrupting Timmy’s monologue, and he pointed to the locked door.

“That’s not a workshop–it’s just storage,” Timmy said, but while it wasn’t a lie–Stanta had found his capacity for catching falsehoods to have skyrocketed with his new position–he could tell from Timmy’s sudden nervous glance that it wasn’t the entire truth.

“What are you storing inside? It seems odd that you’d have a room for storage in line with all the other workshops on that wall, don’t you think? I’d like to have a look.”

Without waiting for a reply, Stanta dropped down from the catwalks and crossed the floor of the workshop, Timmy racing after him, trying to divert his attention with excuses. The work on the floor had ceased–further confirming his suspicions. Still, Timmy wasn’t worried. That lock was his own design–no one could open it without the key–but Stanta held it in his hand, gave a light tug, and the padlock popped open without the slightest protest. The elves all turned to look at Timmy, whose jaw had dropped. All Santas had the ability to, say, unearth truths and secrets, but none of the Santas Timmy had worked with would have been able to pop open that lock–or at least not with such ease. This…did not bode well. He hurried his own pace, trying to catch up before Stanta could get inside, but–curse his tiny legs!–Stanta opened the door wide and stepped inside, where he found a destroyed workshop and two pigs rutting amongst the mess.

“I see,” Stanta said, as Timmy caught up to him in the doorway, “A rather odd thing to be storing, wouldn’t you say?”

“It’s complicated, and I can explain, but–”

“Shut up, Timmy,” Stanta said, and Timmy felt his mouth clamp up tight. Stanta sighed, and walked over to the pigs as they fucked, and laid a hand on each of them for a moment. They had been…people, it would seem, but who was a bit of a mystery. The animals in each of them had pushed most everything else out. One, the hog getting fucked, was nearly twice the size as the boar fucking him–though the boar’s cock was nearly a foot long. Still, there was something else in here, or perhaps, someone else. He looked around, but the entire room was a mess–still, one thing stood out to him, hanging on the wall–what looked like a human head and torso, the mouth misshapen into a funnel, and hung…quite low on the wall. A urinal for an elf, he supposed, though looking at it, it was clear the pigs had been using it as well, to some extent. He touched the flithy surface, and felt something stir within–some other poor soul, even further destroyed than the two pigs. Still, whatever had happened here, he knew he couldn’t trust Timmy to give him a full answer. “I think the tour’s over, for now,” Stanta said, “I’ll be confiscating a these for some personal research,” he added, grabbed the urinal, and tugged it free from the wall. The pipe, sticking out of the thing’s ass, began to wriggle wildly, like it was alive–he bound it up in a hand, and tucked the thing under his arm. With his other hand, he gave a wave, and two leashes flung from his leather wristband, securing themselves around the necks of both hogs. Timmy watched, still unable to speak, as Stanta dragged them both out of the room, and back to his house. A moment later, his mouth opened up again, and Timmy found the elves all staring at him, and muttering to one another.

This, Timmy knew, wasn’t good. A Santa this strong…Timmy hadn’t wanted to resort to the old tricks which had plagued the last few years and created so much strife, but if Stanta got the wrong idea, then Timmy was going to have to figure out some way to control him, for the sake of Christmas itself. He gathered the elves together, to discuss their options and, and consider contingencies. Still, if Stanta was as powerful an incarnation as he appeared to be, Timmy wasn’t quite sure there was much any of them could do, should Stanta come to the conclusion that the elves were his enemies.

Twelve Months ‘til Christmas (Part 1)

December 25th, Last Year

As confident as Timmy had tried to appear, when he was sending Stan off in the sleigh for his first Christmas, the truth was, he was dreadfully, horribly, nervous that something was going to go awry, and he spent much of the night staring at the massive clock in the midst of the workshop, counting down the last few hours to Christmas Day. The truth was, the contract…wasn’t quite as airtight as it might seem. If Stan felt he had been deceived in some way, or if he had come to believe that the presents the elves had fashioned weren’t fulfilling their purpose, there was a chance that this Christmas would be considered null and void…and when the clock struck zero…well, none of them would exist–or if his ploy worked, they’d all live on to another Christmas next year. Hopefully, Stan had remained none the wiser. When he got to the end of the night, if he had a conscience left, he would likely leave service, which was fine. That at least gave Timmy time to find yet another Santa for next year. The rest of the elves could sense his anxiety, and all eyes were on the clock as it ticked down, and neither Santa, nor the sleigh, had returned. That didn’t mean he’d failed, of course, but it didn’t help any of their anxiety. The clock at last struck zero, and every elf held their breath…until the entire device clicked, and reset–365 days and counting. Christmas had been a success–now all Timmy had to find out was what kind of success it had been.

It was another hour before the lookouts spotted Rudolph’s glowing cockhead in the storm clouds to the south. After a few minutes, they were able to confirm that there was indeed someone in the sleigh–it seemed that the beacon had chosen well–if Stan was returning, then that meant he must have…enjoyed some part of the entire exercise. Probably quite a bit of it, Timmy hoped. The sleigh banked around, but there was no celebratory “Ho, Ho, Ho!” like the previous incarnation, just steely silence and the ripping wind. The reindeer landed along the runway and slid to a halt–and Stanta hauled himself up, grabbed his nearly empty sack and the rubber bag containing his son, John, and dragged them out of the sleigh, into the calf high snow.

The elves were all agape. They’d…expected Stan to undergo a few changes along his first journey–after all, that was what they had planned. What they hadn’t expected was how extreme their new Santa would become in a single night. In fact, they’d never seen a Santa quite so…well decorated, before. Stanta stomped his way through the snow, over towards the cleared area where it was easier to walk, pipe smoke and steam streaming from his pierced nose, his huge, tattooed belly hanging down over the waist of his chaps, but not low enough to hide his massive, many times pierced cock, and pendulous sack. As he moved, the clatter of metal almost rang like sleigh bells, heard at a distance. His beard, rather than the usual pure white, looked more like freeway snow–a dingy brown, tinged with yellow around his mouth, his eyes hollowed and slightly sunken. He looked haunted. He looked…furious.

He dropped the sacks, one of them squirming, and walked up to Timmy, glaring down at the little elf. “I believe you have a contract I need to sign, Timmy.”

The words came out almost as a growl. With a gulp, Timmy conjured forth the contract–Stanta swearing to fulfill his obligation as the North Pole’s new Santa Claus for as long as he was willing and able–and then, after scrawling his signature, he grabbed Timmy by the leather collar, and hauled him up to eye level, snorting smoke in his face.

“For the record, I do not take kindly to being tricked. I…understand, with hindsight, why your ploy was necessary, but do not think it is forgotten, or forgiven, elf,” Stanta muttered. To Timmy, inches from his mouth, each word was a slap, but the rest of the elves heard nothing over the whistle of the constant wind around them. “I will not tolerate such antics ever again–not without due punishment. Is that clear?”

Timmy nodded, and Stanta dropped him to the snow. “Yes…sir. I’m sorry,” Timmy said. “If I….had had other options, trust me when I say I would have taken them/” He stood up, brushing off the snow, “I…hope your first trip was…pleasant, at least.”

Stanta took a long drag off his pipe, and exhaled into the dark air “It was enlightening.” His look of anger had diminished somewhat, “I do…thank you, Timmy. For giving me this chance. I appreciate it in ways I’m only beginning to understand.” He looked out at the other elves, their jaws gaping at his new appearance, “So now what? I hope we all get a day of rest, at least,” he said, grabbing his sacks, and heading for his home, “I could use some quiet time, with a project.”

“I’ll, uh, come meet with you in a couple of days, to discuss production plans for next year then!” Timmy shouted after him, but he wasn’t sure Stanta had heard, or cared. The massive man just tromped up to his door, flung it open, dragged in his things, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it. Timmy breathed a sigh of relief–that could have gone much worse. The elves, satisfied and exhausted, retreated to their own lodgings, for a bit of rest themselves.

Inside the house, Stanta grabbed the sack containing the still squirming John, opened it up, and shook his boy out onto the floor in a heap. The man, in his early forties, looked up at Stanta, at his father, at his captor, at the man he inexplicably loved and desired…and cowered, his ass still sore from the fucking a few hours prior. “Please…dad, I–”

“Shut up, John. You wanted my love, well you’re going to have to fucking earn it. You can start…hmmm…” he said, and rummaged around in his sack, examining the knicknacks which remained–found something useful, and pulled it out. A small square mirror, about an inch on each side, tied up in leather cord into a pendant and necklace. He tossed it to John, who, stared at it. “You can start by at least looking like someone I might be interested in loving, you sad sack.”

John was captivated by the reflection in the mirror–it wasn’t clear at all, and swirled around, like it was waiting for direction before forming. “I…what is this?” he asked.

“Put it on, boy. And don’t take it off, until I tell you otherwise.”

John found himself slipping it over his head, and the pendant came to rest on his bare chest, and as soon as his father looked at him again, he felt…a pulse, from the small mirror. He was reflecting something, becoming a reflection of something from his father–it was difficult to describe, but looking down at himself, he was changing. Growing younger, a bit shorter, his already pudgy body inflating further until he had a soft gut and wide ass…perfect for fucking, yeah, fuck! He looked at Stanta’s massive cock hanging from under his gut, and felt a strange stirring of desire, but also…also fear. He was just an innocent little cub, he’d never been with a daddy like this before–he’d never been with a daddy at all.

Stanta looked at the quaking cub standing in front of him, a bit surprised himself. The amulet turned whoever wore it into reflections of what the people who saw him desired, and while he’d wanted a cub, he hadn’t necessarily wanted one so…inexperienced. Then again, it might be fun, breaking in a new, tight hole. He stepped forward, bent down and gave the boy a smoky kiss, feeling him shudder with need, the boy’s small cock nearly blowing from his first taste of a proper daddy. Not someone he could love, of course–but a nice reward for his first successful night as Stanta. “Come on, boy, Daddy’s gonna give you your Christmas present in the bedroom.” Knowing this was wrong, knowing it was all wrong, John took his daddy’s hand as he was led back into the house, but the ache in his heart hadn’t stopped. He wanted this man’s love–he needed it, and he’d earn it, somehow. He had to. Maybe…maybe he wasn’t worthy of it yet, but this year, this long year, he’d prove himself, somehow. He could feel it.

12 Days of Christmas Recap

It’s that time of year again–and it’s coming a bit earlier this year that usual! I have another entry in the “12 Days Saga” for all of you, which will be starting next Monday, though this one’s…a bit different in format, than the previous entries. The reasons for that are several. First, I want the next chunk to be the final entry in the saga. This story and these characters feel fairly well exhausted, and keeping a narrative going though this next chunk was going to be a struggle, so I decided to focus this last part on wrapping up the many loose ends remaining from the previous three entries. Second, while I enjoy the episodic style of stories on occasion, each part has been veering more and more towards a plot heavy narrative. As such, breaking with tradition, the bulk of this entry is going to be focusing on what happens (or I suppose, what happened) at the North Pole between last Christmas, and this Christmas coming up. So, I’m excited to present “12 Months ‘til Christmas” to you all next week, and I hope you enjoy the final chapter in this weird story that started from three weird Christmas porn comics I’d always liked, way back when. So, now would be a good time to catch up, if you don’t remember anything from last year. You can find all the entries here, in reverse order. Or, here’s a briefer recap, if you don’t have time to go read all of that.

PART 1 – “The 12 Days of Christmas”: The elves have had enough of taking orders from Santa. In particular, one elf, named Marty, has decided that it’s time for Santa, and Christmas itself, to become a bit more…naughty than it ever has been before. After consolidating the elves under his control, he…disposes of Mrs. Claus, and then begins manipulating Old Saint Nick. Over a year, while the elves prepare for their new Christmas, Santa is…reprogrammed. Addicted to the elves’ magic cum, he does whatever Marty demands, and soon, a new, leather daddy Santa rides off into the night, delivering naughty toys to the men of the world. But when Santa returns, he has a new Mr. Claus on his arm–a man named Claude–and he exacts some revenge on Marty, turning him into a rubber dildo, and taking control of Christmas back from the elves.

PART 2 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: The Elves Strike Back”: It’s a new year, and Santa departs on his trip around the world, leaving Claude, his husbear, alone at the North Pole with the elves. What Santa doesn’t realize, however, is that the elves, led by the new head elf Timmy–Marty’s old second in command–have surprises planned for both of them, during that night. Claude is dominated by the elves, and forced to free Marty from his dildo prison–furious, and jealous of Claude for winning Santa’s heart, Marty exacts his own, demented revenge on Claude, turning his limbs into rubber gear, and infecting him with a rubber parasite of his own design, which melds to Claude’s body, turning him into a living, rubberized urinal, mounted on the wall of Marty’s workshop. Meanwhile, as Santa does his work, the elf cum he’d been given is revealed to be tainted, making his grow fatter, slobbier, and eventually turning him into a filthy pigman. But Timmy has always loved Marty, and is rebuffed–his unrequited love unreturned. Marty, meanwhile, has plans for Santa, when he returns. He has a love gun prototype, which he uses on Santa in his sleigh as he approaches, unaware that the Santa who is returning is rather…different from the one who he remembers. The now piggish Santa is deeply in love with the elf, and in a cruel twist, Marty finds himself enchanted by the Santapig’s magic, becoming a small, big cocked boar. Marty, desperate to reverse this, locks him and Santapig in his workshop, and doesn’t emerge. Timmy, equally distraught, takes the pieces of Marty’s love gun, and holes himself up in his own office. Meanwhile, the elves–without leadership or a Santa, keep working. Christmas has to go on somehow, right?

PART 3 – “The 12 Days of Christmas: A Whole New Stanta Claus”: It’s Early December, Christmas is weeks away, and Timmy, Marty, Santapig have yet to emerge from their lairs. At last, Timmy emerges, bearing the completed love gun, planning on forcing Marty to love him. He breaks into Marty’s workshop, and discovers the magic was too strong for Marty–both him and Santapig have lost their wits and reason, and are now little more than animals. He’s distraught, but realizes he’s neglected his duties. Thankfully the elves have been working on gifts this whole time, but without a Santa, there can be no Christmas, and without Christmas, the elves will all disappear. Thankfully, there are contingencies in place. With the help of a magical light, Timmy takes off in the sleigh to find a new Santa. The light leads him to a man named Stan–a stodgy, prudish, and rather conservative fellow, who Timmy eventually persuades to become the new Santa Claus…though he doesn’t reveal the changes the elves have made to the usual arrangements. Instead, they plan of making Stan see things their way, eventually. Stan flies off, unaware that he’s delivering leather, and sex toys to the men he visits…but the elves have indicated men who deserve…extra punishment, which Stan himself will be doling out. He is horrified to discover that the kinds of punishments he’d giving all seem to involve filthy, faggot sex…and that the more he does it, the more he’s enjoying it. Stan eventually gives in, and becomes Stanta–a massive, hulking, heavily pierced ad tattooed bear, hungry to punish the men of the world in whatever way he sees fit. His final stop is his old house, where he doles out punishments to his wife and three sons. Two of the boys end up living together as bearish men, but his youngest son, John–Stanta feels compelled to bring him home with him, to the North Pole. John, more than anything, wanted to earn his father’s love, and now it seems he has his chance.

Are you confused? Probably. It’s a long muddled thing. Still, I hope you all enjoy the fourth and final installment. It probably should have been three times as long, and might feel a bit rushed, but I think it’s a fitting end to the whole saga. See you on Monday, and Happy Holidays!

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 12)

The light cleared after a few moments, and a very different Matthew was sitting on Stanta’s knee. He’d traded debate and Christian Fellowship for football, fights in the school yard, and cigarettes and cigars whenever he could manage to get them. He’d gotten a bit too drunk when he was sixteen, and gotten that first tattoo and piercing–he…hadn’t really been able to stop getting them sense. Frustrated with school, he’d focused on autoshop and dropped out as soon as he’d found a mechanic that would hire him. He’d bought that Harley he’d always dreamed about, and he’d never looked back. And now? Now here he was–a six foot two, muscle bull with a thick gut hanging out of the ragged leather vest he was wearing, his skin a riot of tattoos, though still not as many as Stanta had, though Matt’s were of far inferior quality. His hands were calloused from work and scarred from drunken brawls in biker bars all over the state–he’d ever served a couple years in prison for assault, but he could always find some shop willing to hire him. He…he might not have always made the best choices, but they were the choices he’d wanted, and he’d never once regretted them, or looked back. he ran one hand through the long beard he’d been growing out for close to a decade and smiled over at Stanta, “Fuck, this…this feels good.”

“Ya look pretty good too,” Stanta said, leaned over and locked mouths with his son, tasting the stale smoke on his lips, their tongue studs clinking against one another, Stanta reaching over and freeing Matthew’s studded, tattooed cock from his grimy jeans. “Got a good head on your shoulders too–so you’re gonna have to take care of your stupid older brother. I don’t think either of you will mind, right? Matty, you love using Mark as a punching bag and fuck toy, right? And Mark, the chance of you fucking up is so much less if you let your brother make all the decisions, right? If you let him be your master? You want a master, you fucking pig? I think that’s the only way you’ll stay out of trouble.”

Mark hated it, but Stanta was right–without Matthew beating some sense into him on occasion, he’d only get in trouble. A leather collar wrapped its way around his neck, and a tattoo appeared on his wide ass, marking him as his brother’s property, just like…like he’d always wanted to be. He switched over and focused on his Master’s cock, sucking him expertly, just the way Matt liked it. If Mark did something wrong, he’d get a slap at best, or the shit beat out of him at worst. Stanta focused, and the two of them glowed bright once more, but this time they disappeared–whisked off to the run down trailer park where they lived now, content in their filth and sloth, and Stanta eyed his final, youngest son–John.

“Well come on boy, dawn’s coming quick, and I hate waiting.”

John thought about fighting it, but didn’t–he walked over and sat down on Stanta’s knee, and said what he’d knew would come out of his mouth, but which he was already dreading–something he’d…he’d been meaning to say for a long time. “I…All I really wanted, was for my father to love me.”

It was true–Stan had never loved John as much as his brothers. Where they had each grown up tall and strong and manly, John had lagged behind–short, a bit underdeveloped, a sissy, as Stan had seen it. Still, he knew, that as a father, he’d failed him, and he didn’t blame John for wanting more. Still…maybe, maybe Stanta could still fix things. He pulled John close to him, the young man feeling a pulse of lust flood into him. he tried to push him away, but Stanta’s tongue was shoved down his throat before he could fight it…and…and he didn’t want to fight it. He…He wanted it, someone to love him, to adore him.

Stanta laid him down on his belly and started eating out his son’s hole, listening to him moan, before he lined his massive cock up and started slipping it inside him. He screamed, but he couldn’t deny the satisfaction he felt, at how…full he was, even with just half of Stanta’s massive cock lodged inside of him. “You want my affection boy?” Stanta whispered in his ear, “You want me to love you? Then you’re going to have to become someone I can love. Someone who can satisfy me. Think you can do that? Is that what you really want?”

John didn’t know whether he was compelled to say yes or not, but it didn’t matter–he did want it, he did want this, as terrified as he was, and it came tumbling from his mouth over and over, in time with Stanta’s thrusts. Santa fucked his hole as best he could, and shot inside him–but as soon as he pulled out, he snapped his fingers and a strange rubber blob shot from his bag, and smacked John right in the chest, growing over him until he was completely mummified.

“Well boy? Daddy will be more than happy to give you what we both want. But no magic–well, maybe a little magic at times, but I have a long year ahead of me, and I’ll need a project to keep me occupied,” he said, shoved the squriming man into his bag, and shot back up onto the roof. The sun was cresting the horizon, but he’d finished his night–finally. It had felt like an age, long enough to die and become someone else entirely, but he could finally go home. Go home, and have a little chat with Timmy about how disappointed he was at his deception, and to settle upon a proper punishment.

To be continued…

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 11)

The three adult men all looked from one to another, not at all certain what was going on. The three of them had all woken up in their guest rooms and found themselves compelled to come to the living room, where they’d found all the lights on, the tree lit, and…a man, sitting in their dead dad’s recliner, who looked like some freak’s idea of Santa Claus. “Alright boys,” the man said, “Who wants to be the first to sit on Stanta’s lap?”

“Did…did he just say Stanta?” one of them whispered–James, the youngest. None of them stepped forward, or said anything at all.

“No volunteers? Well, how about we just go from oldest to youngest then. Mark–you first, get on over here and sit on Stanta’s knee, and tell him what you wanted most in your life, that you never got, Stanta wants to know.”

The oldest, in his early fifties, shuffled over, terrified that he had no control over his limbs, and gingerly sat down on the freak’s knee, trying his hardest to avoid touching the monstrous cock hanging below the man’s fat apron. “Please, I don’t–”

“Hush mark, no need to be afraid, just tell me what you wanted most, and be honest–Stanta knows when you’re lying,” Stanta smirked–lying wasn’t allowed anyway; no one on his knee could tell him anything but the truth.

The middle aged man stammered for a moment, and then said, “The…pressure. It was a lot, sometimes. My dad–I was the oldest, so I always had to set the example. I could never just relax, or fail, or do badly at anything.”

Stanta leaned in close, “Well I can take some of that pressure off–in fact, why don’t we make it easy, and make you a complete failure, eh Mark? You’ve never really succeeded at anything, have you?”

As his younger brother’s watched, their eldest brother, the man who’d always been the best at everything started to…change before their eyes, along with their memories of him. He’d flunked out of high school as a freshman, and never recovered. Never held down a job for more than a few months, never taken care of himself. A deadbeat, a slacker–he was fat now, greasy, stinking of the booze and cigarettes he was always drinking and smoking. He let off a belch, “Fuck, that was a big’un.”

“Feel better?”

“Fuck yeah, feel fuckin’ great…”

“Good, because I don’t think you’ll have to worry about succeeding at anything ever again, right Mark?”

“Fuck man, I don’ even try no more. Gonna be smokin’, drinkin’, eatin’ and jackin’ off til the day I die.” He was still changing, as he spoke–his hair and beard growing longer and longer–after all, he never bothered cutting it. His body expanded and began to stink, since he no longer showered, his teeth had already begun rotting from his mouth as well. “Thanks Stanta–this is all I ever wanted, ‘n I never even realized it.”

“If ya wanna thank me, then get down and put that faggot mouth to use, you worthless failure, you fucking disgust me.”

Some old, dying part of Mark knew those words should sting–but all they did was make him horny…and proud. He…liked being a failure after all, so why not relish it? He got down and started sucking at Stanta’s massive cock as best he could, but he wasn’t very well practiced–not many men wanted to use his disgusting mouth, not even at the rest area he cruised regularly.

“Alright, get over here Matthew, you’re next. Have a seat on my knee, and let’s hear what you want more than anything.”

His middle son, in his late forties, stumbled over. He’d always been a bit of a rebel, more so than his older brother, certainly, and he fought more against the strange compulsion dragging him over to where his now filthy, lazy brother was licking this freak’s huge cock, but as hard as he tried, he found himself settled on the man’s knee, trying not to let his legs touch the fat slob wedged below them. “Please, I don’t want anything–really! I’m happy.”

“Oh Matthew, I know you much better than that–you’ve never been happy. Now come on, tell me, what do you want? If you don’t tell me, then I’ll just have to guess…well, I won’t have to guess, I’ll just take a peek.” Matthew just kept his mouth glued shut, fighting his tongue back, refusing to say anything. So Stan smiled, stared deep into his son’s eyes, and Matthew…felt him inside his mind, rummaging about, looking in all the dark corners he’d tried to keep hidden from everyone for so long, all the secrets he’d kept out of fear and shame, all the fantasies he’d been saving for, at best, a mid life crisis.

“I always knew you were ugly on the inside, son, but I never quite understood how much,” Stanta said, finally.

“Wait…d-dad? Is that…”

Stan held a finger to his lips, quieting him. “Now now, that’s all in the past–we should leave it there. We should focus on you, and what you want, eh? So many things you’ve thought about doing, thought about buying, fantasized about for so long. Why don’t we just give you a bit more backbone, eh? A bit more…bravery, a little less shame. Imagine what you could have done for yourself, imagine who you might be if no one had ever held you back.

“No, please…I didn’t do any of those things for good reasons…I don’t want–”

Stanta’s finger flickered, and before he could finish Matthew was engulfed in a flash of light. “Son, everyone does things for reasons, but none of them are ever any good.”

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 10)

The rest of the night went smoothly, though Stan may have strayed from his explicit list of naughty men on occasion, to punish a few people who may have not deserved it, but it didn’t really matter–the pigs and bears and cubs all thanked him for it afterwards, licking his boots, his holes, or the cum dribbling from his cage. He felt so…happy now, so free. How had he managed to exist with all of this bottled up inside of him for so long? Now that it was out, he could barely remember what he’d been like before all of this, before he’d been given this great gift. The list whittled down, and dawn approached on all of the horizons he visited around the world, and as much as he was enjoying the night, he was happy when he finally came to the last name on the list–what he hadn’t been expecting, however, was to recognize it.

It was his name–his old name, maybe, he might say. He checked the notes, and found a personal note from Timmy the elf, addressed to him, Stan:

“By now, I’m sure you have discovered that I misled you during our initial meeting, but I hope that you can forgive me. I’m also sure that you have discovered our true intent as well, but I have a feeling you have probably enjoyed yourself more than you might have ever believed. Regardless, our deal stands. Your one year of service is up. If you wish to go back to your old life, simply leave your clothes in the sleigh–all of them–send the reindeer off, and everything will go back to normal–no one will have even noticed that you were gone. However, if you wish to continue your service, you are welcome to return to the North Pole for as many years as you are able and willing. I hope to see you soon, but if I do not, I understand.”

Go back? No–no, he could never go back. Not after this, not after what he’d experienced, not after what he’d become. But he also knew he couldn’t simply leave, either. This was his family, he had created them. He could at the very least say goodbye, and leave them some gifts. He slipped down the chimney and began poking around the house, eventually finding his way to the master bedroom, where he had spent so many years, but where his widow, Emily, was now sleeping alone.

From various bits of evidence around the house–some photos of them only Emily had liked that he’d hated were hanging were up, an ornate urn on the fireplace–it looked like his alter ego had simply died in the last year. Good riddance. But there she was, just as she’d always been, and he hated her so, so, much. He hated her for all the years he’d toiled away with her, both of them desperately unhappy, neither able to satisfy the other. Emily had always dreamed that all men adored her–she would, in an effort to garner his interest, attempt to inflame his jealousy, but she had never actually slept with anyone else that he’d known of. The room still reeked of the perfumes she insisted on wearing, along with all her makeup on the vanity–he had never once seen her face bare, in all their years together, like he’d married a mask. He focused, and all that reeking perfume turned into sweet, manly musk on the air, as he slipped into the room. Fussing with his cage until it came free, his massive cock unfurling. He’d never really given her a proper fuck, in all these years, so he might as well give it to her now.

He climbed on her, and rolled her onto her stomach. She didn’t fight him, the welling of lust in her at his hands was enough, but she tried to scream when his massive cock worked its way into her ass, but the scream faded into a moan, her physique expanding, filling out, hair growing across her body, until after a few minutes, Emily was now a fat old man, bucking back to meet Stanta’s thrusts, his vagina closing up, but leaving a miniscule, clit like cock and two tiny balls barely hanging at all below it. With a final thrust, he pumped his ass full of cum, and gave him the rest of his gift–from now on, his musk would be so powerful, that no man would be able to resist fucking him, but only so long as he remained as filthy and unwashed as possible. He would need to, however–his musk is the only way an old, disgusting, small cocked geezer like this was ever going to get someone to fill this hole. That desire would drive him more than any else, the need to be fucked at all times–if he needed men to adore him, then they’d have no choice. He pulled out, and Emil groaned, reaching around with a hand and shoving several fingers in all at once, pumping them in as he twiddled his tiny cock and shot a load all over the disgusting bedspread, before collapsing and falling asleep immediately, hand still firmly planted in his own hungry ass.

Still, Emil was only one of the people currently in the house; after their father’s sudden death, it would seem that all three of his son’s had come home for Christmas to soothe their former mother’s angst. Such good boys–now their father could deal with them all at once, instead of having to cross the country to find them. Still, Stanta was struck by how little he really knew of his son’s, even after all these years. he’d spent so much time pushing his own desires onto them, that he’d never really let them express themselves. Well, Stanta would fix that. These boys were going to get everything they’d ever wanted for Christmas this year, whether they liked it or not.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 9)

It all would have been so much easier, if anything that Joshua did to him had actually felt like a punishment. It was the first crack of the bullwhip across his back which caused Stan to jolt awake, screaming in pain from the lash, and yet, by the fifth strike, his cock was already throbbing hard and leaking. He tried to understand that reaction for a moment, but the pain was so intense, that Stan didn’t have much time to process much of anything, but he knew one thing–he deserved this. He deserved all of this, for flaunting God, for attempting to pass judgement on his fellow man, for being weak willed and giving in to the desires he’d kept locked away for so long. he deserved this, and he loved it.

After his introductory whipping, and seeing how hard his newest catch had become, Joshua decided that Stan’s pleasure should simply be another source of discomfort–he hooked his balls up to electrostimulation, and attached a milker over his cock–by the third load, he was begging for mercy, but Joshua shoved his hand inside his hole and began milking his prostate, draining him over the next several hours, until the old man was sweating, shivering and shooting completely dry loads every ten minutes, over and over again. Joshua was exhausted himself, and decided his victim had had enough for this round–he’d leave him in his cage, and in a few hours wake him up for another round. He detached the milker and locked up Santa’s cock in a chastity cage, and released the chains holding him in the air, sending him crashing to the concrete floor. Stan struggled to his hands and knees, his eyes still bright and desperate, and all he said was, “No, more.”

Not ‘No more,’ Stan wasn’t asking him to stop. He wanted him to continue. He wasn’t sure if this was because of how much he’d enjoyed it, or simply because he was terrified that if Joshua gave him a moment to recover, he would be able to free himself, but he needed more. Joshua ignored him, but Stan felt the magic welling up in him once more, pulsing from him, watching Joshua bulge further, revitalized, and felt his own body changing as well, but he didn’t understand how, until Joshua attached a leash to the collar which had appeared around his neck, and led him over to a mirror–and Stan saw his body had become covered in a riot of tattoos and piercings from foot to face–but he’d wanted them all. He’d wanted the pain, he loved it, and…and he loved inflicting it too, he loved the look on someone’s face when he was hurting them, he loved being cruel, he loved–no, no! What was he saying? This isn’t what he wanted, but looking up at Joshua, what he wanted more than anything was…was to join him. To play…with him. He focused, caught up in his erotic momentum, and the room shifted once more, and Stan and Joshua found themselves with a third member–Troy the cubslut, his first victim, the man Stan now believed he’d let off far too easily. He was chained to the St. Andrew’s cross, wondering how he’d gone from sucking off his elderly, perverse neighbor to this dank dungeon, but Stan grabbed a cat o’ nine tails from the table and began lashing him, laughing, leaking cum from his cock cage, enjoying the painful sensation of his huge cock trying to harden against the steel, and Joshua joined in with glee.

The two of them pummelled the cub for hours, and Troy enjoyed it from about the second hour on, after Stan made him Joshua’s newest subwhore and pain pig. After all those hours of denial, when Stan finally released his throbbing, heavily pierced cock from it’s cage and rammed it into the pig’s open hole, he only managed to thrust twice before he exploded, Joshua leaning over and sharing a kiss, Stan’s mouth tasting of metal and pipe smoke, and Stan knew himself now, at last, his deepest, truest self. It should scare him, he knew that, but all Stanta could do was smile with a strange glee.

It was true. He was weak. He was a sinner. He was corrupted and foul and unworthy of God’s love, just like everyone. A freak and abomination, of body, mind and spirit. But so was everyone else, whether they knew it or not. None of them was perfect, or ever would be. There was no escaping flesh or pain–in fact, both of them were the fundamental pleasures of human existence. He climbed from the basement, leaving Joshua and Troy to continue a more intimate session, made his way to the bathroom and stared at himself. At his shaved head, dotted with metal spike implanted in the bone of his skull, at the riot of bars and rings coating his wrinkled face, accented by the tattoos running up his neck and onto his cheeks. At his massively fat body, sagging over his well worn leathers, feeling the foot and a half long cock he now wielded, pierced and modded, as he locked it back in it’s cage, so his pleasure could build up again until it’s next painful release. This was him. This had always been him, he’d just been afraid of his own nature. He remembered now, back in his childhood bedroom, how he’d ripped open his friend’s pants and swallowed his cock, so…clumsy, and yet it had been the most satisfying thing he’d ever known–until his father had walked in on them both. Ever since, he’d done everything in his power to tamp down his desires, to erode the edges of himself to fit into the square society set for him, but no more. He’d been given more power than he had ever dreamed possible, and he was never going to relinquish it now–not ever. He’d punish the whole world, drag out their true selves, and he’d be there at the very center of the orgy, where he’d always wanted to be.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 8)

Stan wasn’t quite sure how he was going to stop himself. He had…a vague idea, but without understanding what was happening to him, or his own powers, he had to kind of wing it. What he knew, for sure, was that he couldn’t punish another person like that, and if that meant he had to create someone who could stop him, then so be it. Still, the next stop on his list–as soon as he read the notes on who he was giving his gift to, he knew it couldn’t be this place, this man. A young man named Joshua, a force for good in his community, a teacher, a good friend, a good person–no, he couldn’t hurt this man. He got out of the sleigh with his bag of gifts and slipped into the man’s home, careful not to wake him up, and slipped over to the small Christmas tree, and began rummaging about for Joshua’s gift.

He found it quickly, pulled it out, and set it under the tree, but as he did, he caught the wrapping on a tree branch and tore a large hole in it. Cursing softly under his breath, he inspected the damage, hoping he could fix it somehow…and saw that a leather strap had flopped out from beneath the paper. Curious what the elves might be giving this man which had a leather strap, he tore the paper a bit further to get a better look, and his heart caught in his throat when he saw what was inside.

A harness. A leather harness. Stan touched it, and immediately felt the purpose behind the gift, and he dropped it with a shout. No–No, this wasn’t a gift, this was a fucking punishment! Why would the elves give a good, honest man something like this? He double checked the tag, but he’d pulled out the correct gift–is this the sort of thing he’d been delivering all night? To everyone on his nice and naughty lists? No, it couldn’t be, it couldn’t be. He pulled another gift from his sack and opened that one–this time a massive, dildo in the shape of a fist. What the fucking hell? Was this some kind of joke?

“H-Hello? a voice said from the doorway of the living room, “Who–who are you, and how did you get in my house?” Joshua asked, when he saw the scantily clad old man kneeling by his Christmas tree, rummaging through a sack of some sort. Stan looked up with a start, not at all sure what to say, or what to think about what he’d just found–but the harness didn’t give him a chance to reply. Sensing it’s target, the leather came alive, ripped it’s way free from the rest of the wrapping and crawled it’s way across the carpet at an impossible speed, before launching itself into the air and wrapping itself around Joshua’s chest.

He screamed, and tried to pry the leather free from his body with his hands, but the thing only gripped him tighter, other bits of leather disconnecting from it, forming bands that wrapped around his biceps, his wrists and snaking down around his ankles, forming boots and gloves. He clomped around for a moment, before the physical changes began–he cried out in pain and crumpled to the floor, his muscle heating up and spasming as the throbbed and grew. Joshua had always kept himself in good shape, as well as time allowed at least, the his muscle quickly absorbed any fat from his body they could find to fuel their growth, and when his body fat came to rest at an absurdly low level, they began eating away at his brain and his bones–shrinking them both. When the changes subsided, a very different Joshua pushed himself up from the floor, hulking with muscle but only a couple inches over five feet tall. He’d lost forty points of IQ and all of his education, his mind now focused only on pleasure and domination, his balls throbbing with need. He wrapped one gloved hand around his foot long cock with a grunt and began jacking himself off, eyes empty, mouth hanging open and drooling, and all Stan could do was watch in horror at what he’d done–unwittingly, but he felt responsible all the same.

Had he simply been blind? Had the elves tricked him? This must have been their goal all along, but he’d been too caught up in his own selfish fantasies of punishing the naughty to realize what was going on right under his nose. He felt like a fool, but they wouldn’t win–he wouldn’t let them. Because there was one person who definitely deserved punishment here, and it was him. He hadn’t been willing to use Joshua before–but that old Joshua was dead. This brute in front of him? He was perfect, for what he’d had in mind before. He closed his eyes, focusing his will as best he could, trying to direct it, and he watched the empty headed look in Joshua’s eyes turn bright and cruel, his mouth turning up into a sneer. His muscles bulged further, fur bristling all over his body, a thick beard coating his face, now dotted with scars from the numerous fights he’d instigated and won, and he turned his attention to the old, fat man in his living room.

“Well now, don’t you know better than to get caught breaking and entering, Santa?” Joshua said, “I don’t take kindly to people busting into my home you know–people who cross me, why, they don’t usually leave for a very, very long time.” He stalked toward Stan, who braced himself as best he could, but he was still laid flat by a single haymaker from Joshua, straight to his jaw. The muscle pig stood over his latest acquisition, chuckled, and then grabbed one booted foot, and dragged him down into his basement dungeon for his due punishment.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 7)

“Your father gave you so fucking much, and how did you fucking repay him? By being some fucking bum on his fucking couch? Well I think it’s time you learned how to show your father the fucking respect he deserves, boy,” Stan said.

Another red name–another horrid young man deserving Santa’s punishment. This one–Liam–was nothing but a lazy moocher. Dropped out of college after two years–he couldn’t handle the pressure. He moved into his father’s basement and has barely left since. Couldn’t even bother to get a job, just a chubby, stinking lout Stan had found snoring on the couch in front of the TV, even as his father worked two menial jobs to support them both. Well no more of that. “I don’t, I mean–” Liam tried to say, but with a twinkle of magic, his lips suddenly shut themselves.

“No, I think what we need is your father down here, to help you learn to appreciate everything he’s given you,” Stan said, and with a snap of his fingers, Liam could hear someone upstairs above them, and a few moments later, his father came marching down the stairs, naked, not at all sure what was going on, and why he couldn’t control his own body. “Jerry! I was just talking with your slacker of a son here about how he’s wasted his life and your generosity. I think, if anything, it’s time for you to take a load off, what do you think? Liam–get up–let your dad here rest his tired feet.”

The son stood up, and his father took a seat, both of them terrified of this massively obese Santa figure in their midst, and neither of them able to control their own bodies. Jerry plopped down on the old couch, and with a flash, both of them were twisted up in Stan’s magic. When the light died away, Jerry tried to get up, but discovered that…he couldn’t. No, not that he couldn’t that he didn’t want to. That he didn’t have to. This was his fucking house after all, he deserved a chance to fucking enjoy it! Liam, on the other hand, found himself overwhelmed by his father there, dropped to his knees and licking his father’s feet…just…just like he always did.

As Stan watched, Jerry’s body began to expand, filling in with fat, his hair growing long, lank and unwashed, mouth reeking as he leered down at his boy slathering his nasty feet with spit. “Yeah boy, work that fuckin’ tongue–show daddy how glad you are that he let’s ya live here with him.”

Still…not enough. He tried to resist the urge for a moment, looking at the father and son. Surely this was enough punishment, right? But he wanted to see them suffer anyway, and his mind, it wouldn’t stop imagining the most horrendous things…“Here Jerry, have a smoke–enjoy yourself,” Stan said, handing him a thick cigar he hadn’t noticed in his hand to him, which Jerry was more than happy to light up, while Stan got down in front of the very confused Liam. “I know it can be hard, supporting your father like this, but you do it for family, right? Holding down three jobs…not that you don’t enjoy them. Janitor at a local gym–gives you plenty of time to perv out in those nasty locker rooms right? Trashman in the mornings, but you like that too–picking up all that junk, hell, the nastier something stinks, the harder it gets you, right? Hell, just walking into those porta-potties you clean out on the weekends is enough for you to shoot a load into those filthy coveralls you never take off, right?” He stood back up and looked down at Liam, now a very different young man. He was wearing the nastiest coveralls Stan had ever seen, moaning loudly and rubbing his cock as he worshiped his father’s feet. He looked over at Jerry, and the cigar he’d given Jerry was doing it’s work–he’d packed on so many pounds all of a sudden that he probably wouldn’t be able to stand up even if Jerry wanted to. The father’s guts gave a rumble, and he farted–Liam immediately shoving his face between his dad’s massive thighs, snorting in the foul stench, cum splattering it’s way from his cock across the base of the couch.

“I know ya gotta get tah work soon boy, but Daddy’s got a big load of shit for you, and I know ya don’t wanna clean it up off the couch tonight. Well, I know ya like cleanin’ it off the couch, but I don’t feel like sittin’ in it all day, waitin’ fer ya tah git home.”

“Sure…sure thing Daddy…But…maybe ya can piss while I’m gone, ‘n I can suck that out? I’m always so thirsty when I get home,” Liam said, and pushed his dad’s legs up, giving him better access to his dad’s shithole. Stan didn’t want to watch…but he did anyway. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene, and couldn’t tear his hand from his cock, eventually giving in, getting down behind Liam, ripping the back of his coveralls open a bit wider so he could slam his cock into the boy’s disgusting hole. He fucked him quickly, but after he came he couldn’t bear to be there any longer, and fled back up to the roof as quickly as he could, unable to believe what he’d just done to those two men. That…that he’d wanted to do that to them.

He’d been trying to avoid admitting it, but he was changing. This job, was changing him. This wasn’t the person he wanted to be, this wasn’t good, what he was doing, and yet…he didn’t want to stop. He didn’t want to stop, because in his heart, he enjoyed it. But this wasn’t God’s work, this wasn’t the work of any God. He…someone had to stop him. He couldn’t stop himself, but maybe…maybe he could get out of this somehow, stop anything like what he’d just done from happening again. He had to, this was out of control, and Stan knew that if he didn’t do something soon, he’d never be in control ever again. Because this…this felt too good. And that scared him more than anything else. He’d…he’d do it at the next stop, no matter what, before he lost his nerve, and before he got anymore lost in this…joy.

Christmas III: A Brand New Stanta Claus (Part 6)

Stan only grew more concerned as the next few hours passed…and he found himself running across more and more names marked in red on his list. In each case, he would try to resist, but unwittingly he would change his subject in some perverse manner, and then…fuck them. And he…he liked it. He liked it a lot. And all he could think about was when…when he’d been a teenager in his bedroom, when he and his buddy Alex had made that mistake, and he’d always wondered…wondered why he’d hated looking at Emily so much, why he’d always loathed touching her, why sex with her had always been so difficult. If that was what God had wanted him to do, then why make it so damn hard for him? This…this all felt so much more satisfying, as much as he hated saying it, but that wasn’t really the worst of it. The sex…it was nice, sure, but that wasn’t what he was enjoying the most. No, what made him feel better than anything else was punishing these naughty young men, and then…making them serve him. Rubbing their own failure to be good, moral people in their own utterly perverted faces…he took another suck off his pipe, unable to believe how hard he was in his bright red jock, just…just thinking about it. Still, he compartmentalized his urges as best he could. He was just doing his job; they all deserved it, in the end. He wasn’t responsible, not really. He managed to keep his moral distance for several hours, until he found himself on the roof of a college dorm, wormed his way down the chimney and popped out in the common room.

Another red name, this time, his cock throbbing in anticipation and excitement, not that Stan would let himself admit it. He read the details–a hotshot jock who’d spent all of his time at school, when he wasn’t working out, terrorizing the various fat kids on campus, and he felt…angry. This one was personal. Food…food had always been a weakness for Stan, and he’d spent so much of his youth being taunted and teased for his size…and now he could do something about it. And…and he’d always had an idea, not one he’d ever let see the light of day, but with the magic pulsing through him now, he stormed up the stairs, let himself into the jock’s room–named Terrance–and woke him up. “So you like teasing fatboys, eh, little man?” Stan said, looming over the leary eyed jock, “how about you help us out a bit instead? And we can help you out too,” the magic welled up in him, so much in his head, and he released it into the jock with a flash.

Terrance blinked, unable to really process what was happening to him, or who even was standing over him? Santa? Santa didn’t exist, and even if he did, Santa didn’t wear shit like that. Though…though he had to admit, he looked kind of good, with that harness stretched over his big gut. He’d look better if he…if he was bigger, though. No longer sure what he was doing or even why, beyond the fact that it felt good, and right, he sat up on the edge of his bed and buried his face in Stan’s massive gut, rubbing his face in it, his cock harder than ever before in his life. “Fuck…” he moaned, “Fuck, why am I…”

“Don’t worry about it Terrance,” Stan said, “I know what you really want anyway. You want it to get bigger, don’t you? You wanna feed my big gut, boy?”

The dorm room wasn’t a dorm room anymore–it was…it was a kitchen. Stan sat down at the small table for one in the middle, and Terrance got up and started cooking. He’d never known how to cook, but suddenly he was putting together gaining shakes, pulling fattening snacks from cupboards, and happily feeding Santa everything he had, watching his fat gut grow bigger as the hours past, not that the stars moved an inch out the window. Several thousand calories later, Santa was heaving his huge gut, beard caked with food, and he finally allowed Terrance the honor of serving him–of taking his proper reward for all his efforts. The jock got down under the table, hefted up Santa’s huge gut and started sucking at his thick, long cock–and was immediately rewarded with a blast of precum–milk which went right to Terrance’s gut. He sucked and sucked, and only after he too, had gained every pound of fat he’d just put on Santa’s body did he finally get the load of sweet, sugary cum he was craving. This–this is what Terrance wanted now. To feed fat men to bursting, and then suck their cum from their cocks, gaining along with them from cum alone. Before Santa left, he expanded Terrance’s kitchen dorm room a bit more, so it could accommodate all the fat men he’d ridiculed from campus–and fifteen of his usual targets appeared at the long table, as Terrance began cooking the feast of his life. By the time he’d finished sucking their cocks after the meal–he’d be the fattest of them all by several hundred pounds.

Santa let himself out, heaving his own huge gut along with him, and as the afterglow faded, his own doubts slipped back in. What had he just done to himself? He’d never been skinny by any means, but with Emily’s strict help, he’d limited his weight to around three hundred pounds. But that feeding–it had unleashing something inside him–he was ravenous. Ravenous, and huge. He’d packed on at least a hundred pounds, his gut sagging down into an apron. His harness had changed shape, and now clipped to the side of his chaps–like suspenders, allowing his fat to hang out over the front, a thick apron drooping down past his cock, slapping against him, getting his cock hard again already at the sensation of his fat body jiggling around him. Back in the sleigh, after he got his pipe relit, he couldn’t resist–he had to heft up his fat and jack off, tweaking his nipples, hefting his flabby moobs, feeling his second chin under his thick beard.

He didn’t feel like the same person anymore, but he wasn’t sure that was a bad thing. No–he felt like him, but like…like a more authentic him than ever before in his life. His limits and controls were being stripped away, and…and was this who he really was? Is this who he wanted to be? He exploded into his jock, huffing and puffing for a minute, trying to just…not think about it, just taking off into the night, already eager again to reach the next red name on the list.