SANTA CLAUS IS COMING! {Burnt_Feathers}  (MF, humor, magic, ScFi, toys )


Santa Claus Is Coming!
by Burnt Feathers ©

The Westminster clock on the mantelpiece had just finished
striking midnight on Christmas Eve when an unusual noise broke
the hushed silence in the lavishly furnished bachelor pad.

Santa oozed from the five-inch fireplace exhaust vent and reached
past the wrought-iron firedogs with the toe of one big black
boot. With practised ease the supple old elf pushed aside the Art
Deco firescreen guarding the white shag carpet beyond.

With one foot planted squarely upon the faux coal burner and the
other foot on the hearth, the ancient elf stepped from the
firebox dragging his rapidly decompressing sack of toys from the
constriction of the flue.

"Diese verdammten neumodischen Kamine," Santa muttered under his
breath as he snagged his cap on the damper control.

Coughing up soot, Santa looked about for the usual refreshment
provided him. There was none.

"Was? Keine Milch? Keine Plätzchen?" Santa was aghast.

Shaking his head in disbelief, the old elf dragged his sack of
toys toward the unlit Christmas tree.

"Ich werde zu alt für diesen Scheiß," he muttered, affirming his
resolution to retire.

In the murky darkness Santa tripped over an obstruction on the
floor. With a wave of one red mitten the Christmas tree lights
flashed on.

"Gott im Himmel!"

A middle-aged man lay motionless upon his back. His features were
relaxed and his complexion mottled. He was lightly snoring.

"Goodness!" A young blonde woman blinked in the glare from the
bright Christmas tree lights. "Santa?"

"Kris Kring . . . er . . . yes, I'm Santa Claus. Who are you?"

"I'm Sunnie Dey."

"I thought. . . ." Santa pulled a large scroll from his pocket.
With his other hand he drew on a pair of rimless steel glasses,
". . . T. D. Merkle lived here."

"Him," the blonde waved a dismissive hand at the man on the

"Is he sick?"

"Yes, but not the way you mean," the blonde replied. "He was
given a vintage bottle by one of his old frat buddies. Then he
insisted on sampling it. Now look at him," she pouted. "Useless!"

Santa took a half-emptied bottle from the unconscious man's
clammy grip, cautiously sniffing the contents.

"Absinthe," Santa identified the contents with a smile.

"Yeah, that's it," the blonde agreed. "My whole Christmas Eve
wasted, and I didn't bring money for a cab home."

"I can't believe that he's on my list," Santa complained. "The
elves are slacking off again. I've really got to retire."

"Did you say T. J. Merkle?" Sunnie inquired cautiously.

"That's correct, Timothy James Merkle."

"That explains everything. This is Tom," the blonde elaborated,
"You want his brother, Tim."

"Tim? Ah, yes, here it is: Tom - naughty, Tim - nice."

"That's right," the blonde agreed. "I saw Tim at a benefit dance
once. I wish I could date Tim."

"Hmm," Santa polished his glasses and looked at the list again.
"I can't seem to find any Sunnie Dey here," Santa shot the young
woman an accusing glance from beneath his bushy eyebrows, adding,
"Not on either list."

"Oh well, that's not my real name."

"Not your real name?" The shaggy eyebrows shot up against the fur
trim of Santa's red cap. "Not your real name!"

"No, that's my stage name," the blonde replied, missing the old
Saint's mounting irritability. "My real name used to be Ethel
Fittlewaite. I changed it.

"Why?" she added brightening, "Do you have something for me?"

"Fittlewabble, Fittlewacker, Fittlewaggar . . . ah, here it is
Fittlewaite, Ethel," beady eyes glared from beneath bushy white
eyebrows. "As I suspected. You've been a bad girl."

"Oh, there must be some mistake, Santa," the blonde objected.
"All the men I've dated agree that I'm very, very good."

"Er, yes, perhaps, but I mean naughty."


An uncomfortable silence grew between the blonde floozie and the
ancient elf.

"I could check the list again," Santa offered.

"Never mind," Ethel Fittlewaite replied, primly. "But if I'm
supposed to be so naughty how come I'm all alone on Christmas

"Here," Santa held out his hand to the dejected woman.

"What's that?"

"A lump of coal."

"Keep it!"

"But, it's traditional."

"I don't care if it's kosher," the blonde insisted. "Keep it

Santa studied his list for a moment, then asked, "If Tom Merkle
lives here, then where does his brother live?"

"In the Brentwood section."

"Marble Arch Boulevard?"


"Another dyslexic elf," Santa sighed to himself. "It's bloody
well time that I do retire."

Drawing his warm red mittens back on, Santa paused to inquire,
"Before I go, is there anything I can do for you."

"I don't want any coal," the blonde pouted.

"Something else, I mean."

"How about a date?"


"If it weren't for that stupid bottle, we would have gone out
dancing," the woman explained. "If you can squeeze down a
chimney, why can't you wave your hand and fetch me a date?"

"Transportational magic I can do," Santa explained, "but I have
no control over people. Free will is enforced from the top.

"Besides, its after midnight. Surely it's too late to go

"A date is more than just dancing," the blonde explained. With a
pretty pout she added, "I'm horny."



"You are a naughty girl," Santa temporized.

"As listed," Sunnie Dey agreed. "Got someone in your pack for

With a sigh Santa set down his pack and removed his gloves.

"If I catch a tailwind past Kansas City," he muttered to himself,
"I can surely make up the time."

"What is that?" the blonde asked curiously, as Santa removed a
small parcel and began to unwrap it.

"It's a thermoelectric-powered, bionic, penile implant," the
ancient Saint replied as though he were reciting an algebraic

"Eww!" Sunnie shuddered. "Who is that for?"

"An old but very generous philanthropist," Santa responded. "And
he couldn't have bought this for himself. This is a special
prototype created in my workshop. It will be years before they
are in general production."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Well," the old elf explained, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "we
never actually did get around to testing it."

"You're not using that thing on me!"

"You're the one who claimed to be horny."

"Yes, but . . ." the blonde hesitated, "couldn't you just do me
without that?"

"My dear young woman," Santa exclaimed, "Yuletide magic aside, I
am more than eight hundred years old. What do you think?"

Looking curiously at the elongated ceramic tube Santa held in his
hand, the blonde inquired, "What must be done with it?"


Laying his finger alongside of his nose, Santa stuffed the hand
in which he grasped the penile implant down his pants. For a
moment his expression was anxious, then this brow cleared, and he
smiled in relief.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, now let's hurry," Santa suggested. I'm falling further
behind every second we speak."

"Oh, no. A quickie? I hate quickies. I never get off!"

"Just leave everything to me," Santa commanded, as his heavy red
coat hit the floor and he started pulling at his boots.

The blonde, reached behind, and undid a single clasp. The
low-backed dress loosened about her waist so that a simple wiggle
of her shoulders sent the dress slipping down her body to
collapse onto the floor. Two steps and she was out of her shoes.
With her thumb hooked beneath the elastic waistband, she quickly
skinned her panties down to join the small drift of material
about her feet.

The blonde had undressed in exactly eleven seconds, but she was
not too fast for Santa. When she looked up, he awaited her

He still wore his red flannel longjohns unbuttoned all down his
front, grey woolly stockings, and his red fur-lined cap.
Protruding from the lower end of the unbuttoned aperture of
Santa's red flannels, the old elf's implant-augmented penis was
something awesome to behold.

"Oh!" the blonde squeaked, "It's vibrating."

"It's merely turned on," Santa explained. "Give me a second while
I test the neural connections."

Santa concentrated and Sunnie gawked while the old elf ran his
bionic implant through its paces.

First it lengthened and shortened, then two thicker rings ran
forwards and back along the length of the shaft, while three long
ridges passing from base to tip circled his tool's circumference.
The various components moving at different speeds within his
penis caused the member to change in appearance through a series
of hypnotically-shifting shapes.

"What makes it do that?" Sunnie asked, a trifle disconcerted.

"I control the actions consciously with my mind," Santa replied,
"but the mechanism is powered by a 'minipile.' That means it's
powered by the heat from the host's body, using a thermoelectric

"The interesting feature," Santa added, waxing enthusiastic, "is
that as the host's body-heat rises, more power becomes

"Vury . . . intrus-ting," Sunnie pronounced, swallowing noisily,
unable to tear her eyes from the old elf's hypnotically
modulating member.

"On the couch," Santa instructed. "I've no more time to waste."

The blonde backed onto the couch and parted her thighs, never
once lifting her eyes above Santa's waist.

As lightly as thistledown Santa settled between the woman's
outspread knees, and deftly entered.


"I should hope so," the elf responded, as he activated the bionic

"Oh, yes. Yes. Deeper, deeper. No, stop! A little to the left.
Oh, yes. Left is lovely. Back now. A little, more, a little,
more. Oh, yes! Almost there, almost. Oh, yes! That's good. Harder
now. . . ."

Santa levered himself high above the woman, to rest upon his

"Why did you stop?"

"I was getting an earache," the old elf complained.


"Don't you ever shut up?"

"I was only trying to help."

"My dear young woman, I am entrusted to drive a sleigh with eight
skittish, magically-flying reindeer all the way from the North
Pole, and land them upon the eight-foot-wide stretch of sloping
shingles that you laughingly call a roof. If I can do that, you
may rest assured that I can cover the relatively small distance
required to locate your g-spot."

With that, Santa returned to business, while Sunnie bit her lip
in an effort to remain silent.

"Oh!" she cried, failing almost instantly in her attempt at
stoicism. "Oh, my goodness! You're using magic, aren't you?"

"I wasn't," Santa replied, puffing heavily, "always a saint."

Long minutes passed while nothing but the creaking of the leather
couch, Santa's asthmatic breathing, and Sunnie's delighted cooing
disturbed the room.

Then in a rush, the journey was ended. Being the excellent
fiddler that he was, the old elf made certain that they arrived

"I must remember to give the Elftronics division some extra
cookies," was the first thing Santa said once he regained the
ability to speak.

"Oh! I know just what I want for next Christmas," Sunnie sighed
contentedly. "Ill write you a letter tomorrow."

"If you're a good little girl. . . ." Santa temporized.

"Oh, no! I'd never be able to tell you that."

"I won't be asking you," the old elf replied craftily. "I shall
check that twice with the guys."

"Then you'll know that I've been naughty," Sunnie declared.

"I'm starting a new 'Naughty But Nice' list, just for you."

Sunnie kissed Santa on the end of his nose, "Thank you Santa.
Merry Christmas!"

"Christmas!" Santa exclaimed, jumping off of the couch and into
his pants. "I almost forgot."

In a flurry the lively and quick old elf threw on his clothing
and hoisted his pack.

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot! I have something for you," Santa

"You already gave me what I wanted," Sunnie replied.

"I had gotten excessively tired of the yearly Christmas grind,
and just couldn't take it anymore," Santa confessed. "I planned
to retire after tonight, but you've changed my mind. I'd like you
to accept this special gift from me."

Sunnie took the present from Santa's hand.

"What is it?" she inquired, already tearing away the wrappings.

"It's a lump of coal," Santa replied, as he turned toward the

Sunnie pulled out a black velvet jewel box, opening it to reveal
a glittering necklace.

"It's a diamond!" Sunnie squealed.

"Perhaps it is," Santa agreed. "I've been under a tremendous
amount of pressure recently."

As Sunnie watched, Santa stepped onto the faux coal burner within
the firebox of the flickering gas fireplace.

"Frohe Weihnachten! he exclaimed as he disappeared up the
chimney. "Auf Wiedersehen!"


 Comments are appreciated, contact: Burnt.Feathers@gmail.com