Elfie

You came through the door already wired, the pink note on the fridge hitting you like a slap straight to the cock. Her looping, shameless handwriting promised everything you both crave: chosen porn, filthy stories, fantasies you’ll read aloud and then fuck into reality until neither of you can stand. Your pulse slammed south so fast it left you dizzy.The laptop waited on the coffee table, lid propped open like it was already panting for you.

A fresh notebook lay beside it, a single yellow sticky glowing on the trackpad: Just click play.You dropped into the chair, hit the spacebar, and the screen exploded.A woman in a shredded Santa dress (red velvet clinging to heavy tits, white fur barely containing them, boots spread wide) was bent over a velvet chaise in front of a roaring fire, ass high, begging with her eyes. Behind her loomed Santa: beard wild, belly real, trousers pooled at his ankles, cock monstrous and gleaming. One brutal thrust and he buried himself balls-deep.

The woman’s scream tore through the speakers (raw, grateful, wrecked).You ripped your belt open, shoved trousers and briefs down in one frantic move, and gripped your cock hard. It was already leaking, angry-red, aching. The notebook flipped open under shaking fingers. Pen in one fist, shaft in the other, you started writing while the couple on screen fucked like apocalypse.You wrote:I’m watching your gift right now, baby, and I’m so fucking hard the pen’s shaking. This is us. This is tonight.Christmas Eve. Fire roaring. Tree glittering. You hear my boots and turn to see me filling the doorway in the Santa suit (crimson velvet stretched tight over muscle, white trim framing the thick bulge you’ve been wet for all day). That obscene little dress you’re wearing is already ruined (soaked through at the crotch, hem barely covering your dripping cunt). No panties. Never panties when you want to be destroyed.You drop to your knees before I speak.“I’ve been a filthy little whore this year, Santa,” you breathe, voice cracking with need.I drop the sack (bells clashing like a threat) and fist your hair hard enough to burn your scalp.

I yank your head back until your throat is bared.“Naughty girls don’t get gifts,” I snarl. “They get fucked senseless.”Your moan is pure surrender.I tear the suit open. Buttons scatter. My cock surges free (veined, heavy, dripping). You lunge, but I hold you an inch away, letting you smell it, letting you ache.“Beg, slut.”“Please, Santa,” you whimper, tears already welling. “Please ram that fat cock down my throat.

I’ll **** for you. I’ll worship it. I need it.”So I give it to you.You swallow me in one **** plunge, throat spasming, spit flooding your chin instantly. I drive forward until your nose is crushed into the white fur at my base, hold you there while you gag and claw at my thighs, then drag you off just long enough to gasp before I slam back in. I use your mouth like a sleeve (hard, relentless, merciless) until mascara streams down your cheeks and thick ropes of saliva connect your swollen lips to my shaft every time I pull free.On screen, Santa has her folded in half on the chaise, ankles by her ears, pile-driving so deep her belly bulges. Her screams are animal.Your fist flies now, brutal strokes, pre-cum slicking your knuckles, dripping onto the floor in heavy drops.

You write faster, words smearing.I haul you up by the throat and hurl you over the arm of the couch. Your dress flips up; your cunt is a glistening ruin (lips swollen, clit throbbing, begging). I don’t warm you up. I grip your hips hard enough to bruise and slam home in one savage thrust.Your scream rips through the house (raw, shocked, grateful).

I bottom out, balls grinding against your clit, and hold there just to feel you clench in panic and pleasure. Then I start fucking you like punishment: long, violent strokes that punch the air from your lungs, wet slaps louder than the fire. The bells on my suit jingle with every thrust (a filthy Christmas carol).You claw the cushions, shove back, beg in broken pieces: “Harder… please… wreck me… own me… break me…”I slap your ass until it brands glowing red, until the heat floods your cunt and makes you squeeze me like a fist. I hook two fingers into your mouth, stretch your cheek, make you taste your own desperation while I rail you. Your pussy flutters, right on the edge, and I stop (pull out completely, leave you gaping and clenching at nothing).You wail, frantic, grinding back on air. I wait until you’re shaking, until tears soak the couch, then I drive back in so hard the furniture scoots. I do it again. Again.

Until you’re a sobbing, pleading wreck promising me every hole, every toy, every dark fantasy we’ve only whispered in the dark.On screen, Santa has her slammed against the mantel, one leg hooked high, cock pistoning upward while fake snow drifts over their sweat-slick bodies. Her cunt grips him visibly with every withdrawal (obscene, greedy).Your breath saws in and out, hips jerking off the chair, cock so hard it hurts. Veins stand out on your forearms as you write the final scene.I spin you, lift you, slam your back against the hot brick of the fireplace. Your legs lock around my waist like you’ll die if I pull out. You sink down onto me with a guttural cry that vibrates through my chest.We fuck like we’re trying to kill each other. Your nails shred the velvet on my back, rake skin, draw blood.

I bite your throat hard enough to mark for days, suck bruises across your tits until they bloom purple under the fur. You’re chanting filth (my name, Santa, fuck, please, more) and your cunt starts spasming, milking me in violent waves.“Come,” I growl against your ear, teeth scraping. “Come all over Santa’s cock like the **** little cumslut you are.”You detonate (screaming, convulsing, pussy locking down so tight my vision whites out).

I roar and follow, slamming deep and unloading in thick, endless pulses, flooding you until it spills out around my cock, runs in hot rivers down your thighs and drips onto the hearth like melted snow.We stay impaled, trembling, the fire painting your ruined body gold and crimson. I kiss you (slow, deep, filthy) tasting my cum on your tongue from earlier.Then you smile, wicked and wrecked, and whisper, “There’s still more in the sack, Santa.”You come with a hoarse shout, cock jerking wildly, thick ropes streaking your shirt, stomach, the open notebook. The orgasm rips through you, keeps going, until your legs shake and your vision tunnels.When it finally ebbs, you wipe your hand on your thigh, close the notebook with reverence, and center it on the keyboard. The pen rests on top (loaded promise).You stand, trousers still around your thighs, cum cooling on your skin, and head for the shower (already aching again at the thought of tomorrow’s sticky note).Behind you, the laptop fades to black, but the yellow note still glows under the lamp: