Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Welcome

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Welcome to my blog! 🙂

Our high school selves… who knew?

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Yup, I’m getting notices for yet another one of mine. And not just any high school, mind you, but good old Beverly Hills High School. Home of former/future stars, kids and other relations of famous people.

Have any of my readers attended their high school reunions? I’ve never gone to any of mine. High school wasn’t a good time for me; I was pretty much a loner and a misfit there. I didn’t fit into any of the cliques; I wasn’t a brain, I wasn’t in the popular crowd, I wasn’t into sports, I didn’t belong to any clubs. I wasn’t even part of the “bad” crowd; I dabbled in that in my first two years, cutting classes, smoking cigarettes in the 3rd floor girls’ bathroom, hanging out with stoners and highly sexually active kids (I was a virgin). But that wasn’t a good fit for me either. In my freshman and sophomore years, I was overweight. Then I lost a bunch of weight, developed an eating disorder, and in my junior and senior years, I was pretty much invisible. I really doubt anyone would remember me, so why bother attending?

Then, when I think back on school days and people I knew, my mind wanders to this story. When I was in grade school, I had a friend named Rebecca. She had one of those moms who were involved in everything — Girl Scouts and other groups, school functions, etc. — and Rebecca’s family was always on some adventure or having some party or gathering. Rebecca was very sweet… and painfully shy. Like me, she went through years of being pudgy, of having braces. She was smart, friendly, but quiet. I liked being at her house because there was a warmth and family enthusiasm there that wasn’t present in mine. But she and I fell out of touch and went through high school basically passing one another in the halls, but not in contact.

Cut to my high school’s 10-year reunion. I did not attend, but another friend did, and she told me all about it, showing me pictures and relating stories about people we knew. The biggest shocker? Rebecca. She had changed her name from Rebecca Xxxxx to Becky Xxxxxx, lost weight, dyed her hair blonde, bought a pair of 39DDs, and was now acting in soft-core porn. I saw a picture of her and she was unrecognizable.

Who knew??

I Googled her recently, thinking about her after I got the high school reunion notice. She is certainly all over the internet, not just as a model and actress, but a producer and distributor. She has an IMDB page; I was amused when I looked it up to see she’d shaved five years off her birth date, when I know she was born the same year as I was. She’s successful, no doubt wealthy, and although I don’t think I saw any recent pictures, she’s probably still quite stunning.

I wonder if she’d remember me. There’s a contact on one of her websites, and I thought for about thirty seconds about writing to her, then thought “Nahhhhh.” Ancient history.

But it makes me think. What did my high school peers think of this sad, colorless, semi-invisible girl?

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Looking at this picture makes me sad. I was sixteen. I look sad. I was sad. And, like Rebecca, there was a whole other self yearning to break free and express herself. Rebecca transformed herself, and so did I. I just took a lot longer.

Did anyone who saw that girl imagine she’d become this woman?

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So no, I won’t be going to my high school reunion. I seriously don’t think anyone there would care about Erica [real name] OR Erica Scott. But in a week, I’ll be going to another reunion of sorts — the party in Las Vegas. After a year off.

I have a feeling — at least I am hoping — that this reunion will be much more fulfilling. ♥

Happy “birthday” to Erica Scott

No, technically, it is not my birthday, which is why I put it in quotes. January is nearly over, and I’ve been so busy with work that I completely forgot to acknowledge a passage of time. Twenty years ago, in January 2000, I shot my first video. Twenty years ago in January, “Erica Scott” was born. I had come out as a spanko in 1996, but 2000 was the beginning of my online presence, my video presence. When I decided I wanted to keep my first name, but change my last, for simplicity.

I will never forget that day… the unbelievable excitement, the nerves, the joy, the exhilaration. The huge script to memorize for what turned out to be a 90-minute video. All the costume changes. Actually working with Keith Jones, who had been my first spanko crush from afar. Shooting for 9 1/2 hours, then going out to a late dinner, then playing some more, then coming home after midnight… and being so wound up, I still couldn’t go to sleep.

So very many experiences since then. Erica Scott may only be twenty, but she’s crammed a lifetime into those years. My alter ego has served me well.

Still my favorite picture from the “Naughty Secretaries Week Part 2” shoot, although I can’t recall what the hell we were laughing at. (Apologies for the poor picture quality.)

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I never would have thought I was launching something so monumental in my life, back on that day in January 2000. The birth of my alter ego changed my life. Broadened it. Freed it. Freed me.

And now Erica [real name] must get back to work.

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I haven’t written in over two weeks. Main reason? I don’t feel like I’ve had anything new or interesting to say. This sucks. But you know, life. All work and no play. Responsibilities. Deadlines. Stuff.

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve had lots of subjects come up in my mind, things for random discussion, but then I’d get back to work and forget about them. And honestly, I shouldn’t be writing this now, but I felt the need for a break. So instead of elaborating on any of them, I’m just going to toss out some random thoughts here, and if any of you would like to pick up on one or more of them, please feel free.

  1. Good tops are worth their weight in gold. The more stories I hear about the crappy ones (and the more I recall my own experiences with a few of them over the years), the more I appreciate the kind, considerate and thoughtful tops who know they hold our vulnerability in their hands and treat it well. ♥
  2. I don’t regret my bad scene experiences. Luckily, I was not badly damaged by any of them, and I learned from them.
  3. Always keep your instincts well honed. If things seem off, or too good to be true, then oftentimes that’s your gut trying to tell you something. People are not always what they seem to be.
  4. (Here comes Granny Buzzkill) A moving car is not a toy. It’s a potentially lethal weapon. Horsing around in them, texting, speeding, isn’t funny; it’s utterly irresponsible. And to keep this on topic, no, it’s not a spanking offense. It warrants license suspension. Yeah, I know, I’m being a hard-ass. I will say this once and then never again — if you ever lose a loved one to a car accident, you will know where I’m coming from. Please. Just don’t.
  5. Question: Why does a top who ended things with me keep checking out my profile on a kink site? I mean, what’s up with that? If he didn’t want anything more to do with me, why does he keep looking at me? (sigh) And yes, I’d welcome him back in a heartbeat were he to change his mind.
  6. I am nervous AF about going back to a national party next month. Excited too, looking forward to seeing/meeting some people, but after a year off, it’s going to feel weird. I’m really not sure where my place is in these things, nowadays.
  7. And finally, last but most definitely not least: My friend Jay has returned to blogging. Like me, she took a long break (hers was four years to my one). Like me, she’s trying to find her way back, find her people, dipping her toes back in and trying to get past some hard times. Please welcome her back, link her blog to your roll if it isn’t there already, and give her a read. I hope she will stick around.

Back to work with me. 🙂

Yes, we’re strong, but…

Earlier this morning, a conversation on Twitter got my mind going. A friend was saying how hard it is to let go, to admit that she needs/wants to be taken care of, that her strong, independent and take-charge personality won’t allow it. How many bottoms — women and men — have struggled with this? We work. We function. We struggle and juggle. We make decisions. We pay bills and take care of others. We are responsible. And yet… for many of us, there’s that tiny inner vulnerable person who just wants to give up the control and hand it over to someone stronger.

Me too.

(For the sake of simplicity and my own viewpoint, I’m going to assume the strong female/stronger male dynamic, but please feel free to substitute whatever works for you.)

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How do women reconcile their strength, their feminism and independence with that inner need to be taken down, spanked, held and comforted? I’ve heard that question for years and years, and I still don’t know the answer to it. I only know the need is real.

I am fiercely independent to a fault. I am a loner. I have lived alone since I was seventeen years old. And I hate needing people. That is one hell of a clash with the part of me who wants to lie over a man’s lap, feel his strong hand spanking me, and then disappear into his arms. Who wants to hear his voice in my ear, softly crooning, “Shhh. Good girl. That’s my girl. I’ve got you.” Who wants to sob until his shirt is soaked with my tears… knowing he won’t think my crying is ugly.

An old (and honestly, really sexist) song from the movie “Funny Girl” comes to mind, in particular the lyric, “You are woman, I am man. You are smaller, so I can be taller than.” I’m not a small woman; I’m 5′ 7″ flat-footed. I accepted years ago that a lot of men (and play partners) aren’t going to be taller/bigger than I am, and that’s fine. But guess what… yup. There’s still that part of me that yearns to be tiny, that loves the fact that John is 6′ 2″. When I’m barefooted and he’s hugging me, he likes to say, “What are you doing down there?” My answer is always the same: “Looking up at you.”

Does that make me weak? A traitor to the feminist cause? I don’t think so. I’m not looking for a caretaker or a protector. I don’t want to be absolved of all responsibility, to be permanently removed from adulthood. I just want the chance now and then to be vulnerable, to let go and know I have a safety net. To know that if I crack my hard exterior and let the softer, inner me show, that side will be cherished, not crushed.

This is an old picture of a former play partner. Sadly, he showed himself to be someone with whom I can no longer share my vulnerability.  But I still love this picture. And I want this — not him, but this — back in my life again regularly, in my home, in my moments of softness. So, so, so damn much.

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I hope I find it again.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Happy 2020

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope everyone had safe, happy and healthy holidays. Mine were quiet, exactly as I wanted them. Now it’s time to get back into work mode.

Also, it’s time for a fresh start, to dip my toes tentatively back into the scheme of things. I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since I wrote Notes on the Scene. Back then, I was coming from a place of sadness, hurt and disillusionment. Now, after coming out the other side of an ocean of tears, I think I’m more in a place of clarity. This past year opened my eyes to many things, and I will never again look upon the kink scene as I once did. However, I feel like I can now start to take back what’s good, and leave the rest.

To that end, I reactivated my FetLife account after being off for eleven months. And I plan to go to 50 Freaks in Vegas at the end of February, after a year off from parties. It’s a scary prospect, going back, but there are people I look forward to seeing. As for local play partners, the search continues. But I am hopeful.

For everyone out there reading this who is having a hard time, please hang in there. This time last year, I was going to bed each night and wishing I wouldn’t wake up. But the worst of it seems to have passed. There is a flip side to the darkness. And once again, I recall this expression of hope and comfort: May the depth of your despair be the height of your joy.

So, here’s to a new year, to new beginnings. Because I want to come out from under the covers and get back into this part of who I am. To bring some color back into my life.

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Cheers. ♥

A little holiday fantasy

I’m a couple of days late with this, but it’s still December, soooo… I was doing some file cleanup on my computer and ran across this story I wrote several years ago and never publicized — not sure why. I thought some of you might get a kick out of it. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! 🙂

MY Kind of Christmas

It was Christmas Day; actually, to me, it was December twenty-fifth, a day like any other. Christmas meant nothing to me and I was spending it alone, which didn’t bother me in the least. I didn’t believe in all that sugarplum crap anyway. I was bundled up in comfy sweats with the heater on, had plenty of chocolate, and the TV, books or internet if I got bored. I was content in my grumpiness.

I was watching the TV Land marathon of classic Christmas shows. Oh, crap. They were just starting that insipid Brady Bunch episode where Carol loses her voice before she has to sing in the Christmas choir. Picking up the remote, I was poised to change channels when the doorbell rang. Who could that be? Had to be a mistake. I ignored it, but the bell rang again, more insistently. I lowered the volume, got up and shuffled to the door, looking out the peephole. Whoever it was, he/she was standing outside of view. Irritably, I yanked open the door.

WTF? There stood a tall, handsome man, dressed in a Santa suit. Who was playing tricks on me? I squinted at him. “Uh… can I help you?” He smiled at me, although it was more like a smirk. “Nope. I’m here to help you.”

I stared at him. “Ohhhhkay. Who are you?” “Silly woman,” he replied. “I’m Santa Claus, who else?”

Oh, good grief. Apparently, the local nuthouse had an escapee. I started to slam the door, but strangely, it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pushed on it. “Don’t believe me, huh?” he taunted.

I was getting nervous now. “No, I don’t,” I snapped, looking him up and down. “You don’t look anything like Santa Claus, except for that stupid suit. You’re not fat.”

He made a face. “Ever hear of Jenny Craig? I needed to lighten the load on the reindeer. Blitzen was getting a hernia and Rudolph’s face was as red as his nose. My cholesterol was off the charts. I figured it was time to ditch the fruitcake and pick up the celery sticks.”

This was ridiculous. “Okay, where’s your beard?” I challenged.

“Oh, that,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket and then withdrawing it, something white and fluffy in his fist. He slipped a fake beard over his face and then hooked it behind his ears. “Happy now?”

“It’s fake?” I blurted. “Of course it is,” he replied impatiently, pulling it off. “I could never grow a real beard like this. Besides, this damn thing itches; I take it off whenever I can. Are you going to let me in, or what?”

“No! I have no idea who you are, but you’re creeping me out. Who do you think you’re kidding? If you were Santa, you’d come down the chimney. And why are you here, instead of delivering presents to all the boys and girls in the world?”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. “Uh… you live in an apartment. No chimney.  And it’s Christmas Day. I delivered all the presents last night. Don’t you know anything?”

That did it; I tried once again to slam the door, but it still wouldn’t move. He shook his head at me. “You know, you’re trying my patience. I suggest you let me in. And turn that TV off; it’s rude to have it on when you have company.” Then he waved his hand, and the TV went black. I stared at the blank screen in shock. Numbly, I moved aside, and he stepped into my apartment, closing the now-unstuck door behind him.

“That’s better,” he said, walking over to my recliner and settling into it. “Got any eggnog?”

I stood in the middle of my living room, gawking at him. Clearly, I was dreaming. “No, I do not have any eggnog,” I said rudely. “That’s not on Jenny Craig, anyway.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Okay, how about a Diet Coke?”

What the hell was going on here? “Sorry, fresh out of that too,” I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I guess you could whip some up yourself if you want it, no?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he smiled, and once again waved his hand. Within a second, he was sipping from a tall, frosty glass of bubbling soda. Bobbing at the top, instead of a slice of lemon, was a bright red maraschino cherry. My legs suddenly felt weak and I sat down abruptly. “What—what are you doing here?”

He started to put his drink down on the coffee table, hesitated, then snapped his fingers. Once a coaster appeared, he placed the glass on it and sat back. “Simple, my dear. You don’t believe in me, and I can’t have you going around implying to anyone who will listen to you that I’m not real. You’re such a Grinch, you don’t deserve any presents, but I thought I’d pop by and grant you one wish. Then perhaps you’ll get a little Christmas spirit infused into that cranky system of yours, finally.”

Oh yeah, right. Some sleight-of-hand tricks were one thing, but if he expected me to buy this, he’d been dipping into the rum balls once too often. Before I could say a word, though, he scowled at me. “I did not have any rum balls, young lady. They’re not on Jenny Craig either. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

My heart pounded; I was getting truly scared now. Apparently he could read that as well, because his face softened. “There’s no reason to be scared; I’m not here for any other reason except to give you something you want. Now come on, spit it out. I want to go home; I was up all night and I’m dead tired. What do you want? A few million dollars? A fully furnished and soundproofed townhouse, mortgage free? A portrait that ages while you don’t? What?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want any of that,” I muttered.

“You really are hard to please,” he grumbled. “Dammit, it’s warm in here.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, opening it to reveal a rather chiseled torso. I couldn’t help staring; I was beginning to feel a bit warm myself. After all, I couldn’t remember the last time someone came down—or up—my chimney, if you get my drift. Suddenly I wished I was wearing something a little less… unsexy. He caught me ogling. “Don’t even think about it, little girl. Let’s have it—tell me something you want. The reindeer are double-parked on this insanely crowded street of yours.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Okay, if you’re really Santa Claus, this is what I want. It’s not for me; it’s for my friend Bill. I want him to not have lost his job. I want it to all be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up from it and everything will be as it was, and he’ll have a wonderful holiday with his family.”

He stared at me. “That’s what you want? That’s it? You can have anything, and that’s what you’re gonna wish for?” Squirming under his gaze, I nodded my head and looked down. I’d been very worried about my friend, and wanted things to be better for him. He had a wife and three children.

He continued to watch me for a long beat, his eyes searching. Then he spoke.

“Well. I can see I’m going to have to adjust my assessment of you, Erica.” (He knew my name?) “That’s a remarkably unselfish and generous wish. You sure?” Once again, I nodded, and he shrugged. “Okay, then.” He closed his eyes for a moment, waved his hands around a bit, then clapped them together. “It’s done.”

“It is?” I said skeptically. “How do I know?”

He stood and buttoned his jacket, his face impatient once again. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? Trust me, it’s done. Your friend is home celebrating Christmas with his family without a care in the world. His job has been reinstated and he got a promotion. Good thing, since that highfalutin private school his kids go to is expensive. And I’ll tell you what else—I wasn’t going to do this, but you know, I’m feeling extra generous today. I’m giving you another wish, just for you. What would you like?”

Oh, my. I didn’t see that coming. From his body language, I could tell I didn’t have much time to think about it. As I stood there watching this hunk in my living room, I realized just how long it had been since, well, pretty much everything. Underneath my sloppy clothes, I felt some long-forgotten sensations stirring. Lust. Desire. A craving to be anywhere else but here, be anyone else but me, just for a little while. Anything I wanted, huh? Right then, I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Hmmm… okay, but I don’t know if you can do this. I want to suspend time for twenty-four hours. I want everyone out there to just freeze, for everything to stand still. And during those twenty-four hours, I want to be with you in a luxury five-star hotel, where we can do whatever we want, no distractions, no one calling or needing us. That’s my wish.”

He stared at me once again. “That’s it? You flatter me, my dear. All right, are you ready?”

“Really?” I stammered. “You can, just like that? You’ll do it? But you’re married… no judgments?”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I’ve been around for hundreds of years and been in millions of homes. You think Mrs. Claus has been my one-and-only, all this time? Some of those grateful moms rewarded me with more than milk and cookies, you know.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, stifling giggles. “Hey!” he added, giving me a stern look. “You keep that to yourself, now. I have a reputation to maintain. Now shut your eyes.”

“Wait a minute!” I pled. “How is this going to work? How will I get back into my life when the time is up?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said irritably, with a dismissive gesture. “You think you’re dealing with some amateur here? Don’t worry about it. When the twenty-four hours are up, you’ll end up back here. Simple as that, with no one the wiser but you. It will be the same day and time as it is now.”

“But—” I said, but he cut me off. “Enough with the questions, or I’ll leave you with a lump of coal. Shut. Your. Eyes.” I obeyed him. I felt a sensation of being airborne, with a whooshing sound in my ears. Fighting the temptation to see what was going on, I kept my eyes closed tightly until I felt myself settle. A delicate scent filled my nostrils, and slowly, I opened my eyes. And gasped.

I was lying on a beautiful four-poster bed, made up with satin sheets and strewn with red rose petals. Looking around, I could see that I was indeed in a luxuriously appointed hotel room. There were flowers, fruit, chocolates and a bottle of champagne sitting next to a bucket. I looked down at myself, then jumped up and ran to a full-length mirror. My sweats were gone, replaced by a sexy, lacy black nightie with a matching lace thong. My face was flawlessly made up and my hair was perfect. I had high heels on, but my legs were bare. Oh, God! I reached down and swept my hand up one leg, then sighed in relief. Good old Santa had taken care of everything—even my legs were shaved. I peeked underneath the nightie. Well, now. He’d seen to the landscaping too.

The door opened and Santa walked in, carrying a small bag of ice. His red suit was gone; he wore dress slacks and a crisp shirt and tie, no jacket, and looked impeccable and delicious. Jolly old fat man, my ass. “There you are,” he smiled, going over to place the champagne in the bucket and dumping the ice around it, and then crossing over to me. “Mmmmm… look at you. You clean up well. Or should I say, I cleaned you up well.” Immediately we were enveloped in each other’s arms, and his mouth sought mine. For a guy who was centuries old, he was a damn good kisser.

“Well, hello to you too,” I murmured against his lips. “Merry Christmas.” He pulled back a bit and looked at me in amusement.

“What was that? Did I just hear ‘Merry Christmas’ from you, Miss Grinch?” he laughed. I squirmed a little. Okay, so I’d been a wee bit cranky the past month or so, cursing the holiday and wishing it would be over and done with. “Why the change in attitude?”

Of course, he knew damn well why, so I didn’t bother explaining. I was going to enjoy every minute of this fantasy. “I dunno—does it matter? I’m here, aren’t I?”

His eyes swept me from head to foot, hungrily. “Indeed you are.” He crossed his arms. “But don’t you think we should address your behavior over the past few weeks before we move on to fully enjoying our stay here?” Nervously, my eyes skittered away from him and fell on his toy bag, on the floor by the dresser. I got the feeling there weren’t any Legos or Barbie dolls in there.

Still unable to look at him, I shifted from foot to foot, knowing I was getting excited despite myself. “Ahh, come on, Santa…” I mumbled.

“Come on, what?” he said, his tone taunting me. “Don’t you think you deserve to be punished, at least a little bit?” I was silent, and he added, “I didn’t hear an answer from you. Answer me when I ask you a question, please.” “Okay, okay,” I snapped, suddenly feeling very… unclothed. “Maybe a little…”

“Yeah, maybe a little.” He stared at me a while longer, then turned toward his toy bag. As I stood and watched, he pulled out a strap, a small paddle and a flogger. And then, to my shock, several lengths of rope. “What—what is that for?” I sputtered.

He didn’t answer me, just glanced toward the four-poster bed, and then I understood. Oh, my. I bit my lip, speechless, and shivered, even though it was comfortably warm in the room. He gestured to the bed. “Take off your clothes, please, and then lie on the bed, face-down and spread-eagled.” With my hands trembling, I pulled the nightie over my head, then took off the thong. “You can leave the shoes on,” he said. “They look hot.”

I assumed the position on the bed, my arms and legs stretching toward the four corners. Deftly, Santa tied my wrists and my ankles to the posts, snug but not too tight. The ropes felt soft and did not chafe my skin. I continued to shiver, half with trepidation and half with arousal. I was completely vulnerable, open to him. I heard him moving around, and shifted my head to the side to look at him. He was unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, and he caught my eye and held it. My face burned and I looked away.

The message was clear: my Scrooge-ish demeanor had been inappropriate. After a brief warm-up spanking with his hand, he used the paddle on my bottom and upper thighs, covering them thoroughly, increasing the intensity and tempo subtly but surely. I squirmed and writhed, jerked against the ropes, but they held me fast. “Stop wriggling,” he chided. “I can’t help it! It hurts!” came my muffled whine from the pillow. He paused, and I heard him snicker. “So what’s my line now?” I groaned and thumped my head against the soft bed in frustration. “Yeah, yeah… it’s supposed to hurt,” I mumbled. Freaking know-it-all.

Then I felt him place the paddle between my widespread legs, up against my crotch. It was startling at first, but then I realized why it was there—for protection. It was to shield my genitalia from the strap he had just picked up, to avoid stray shots. Despite my pain, I smiled. Once again, I knew I was safe and cared for.

The strapping was intense, precise and stung fiercely. He didn’t make me count, just told me to keep still. (Like I could move, anyway?) Then he finished me off with a flogging all over my back, bottom and legs. My blood thrummed under the strikes and I felt my body tingle and respond, heard moans escape from my throat. I closed my eyes and buried my face into the satiny comforter, knowing I was staining it with my arousal, and not caring in the least. This was so fucking hot. Who knew Santa Claus was so kinky?

At last, he stopped, and I heard him say, “All right. Do you have something you want to say to me?”

“Yes,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I was such a Grinch. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in Christmas. I didn’t deserve my wish to come true, but I’m really glad it did. I’m going to look at the holidays differently from now on.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, caressing my heated flesh with gentle hands, his hand dipping teasingly between my legs, then kneading my back, caressing my hair. Slowly he untied me, and as I lay there, rotating my ankles and wrists, I watched him strip. (Guess what? Santa Claus has a tattoo of a mistletoe sprig on his right butt cheek.)

The next few hours were a blur of sex, kissing until our mouths were raw, employing every position known to Santa-kind. We played again, more sensually this time, until I was deliciously sensitized and sore. Screw sugarplums, whatever those are. Santa’s candy cane was far more satisfying.

And then speaking of sweets, we feasted on grapes, wonderfully sweet strawberries, rich chocolate truffles and champagne, with nary a doorstop fruitcake in sight. Even better, Santa proclaimed that since it was Christmas, none of the calories counted. Works for me.

As we settled down under the covers, spent, sleepy, sated with alcohol and sugar and sex, I glanced at the nightstand clock. Only six hours had gone by; still so much more time left. I sighed with contentment.

But alas, time passed, or it seemed to, anyway. “I have to get going home for Christmas dinner,” Santa said, yawning and stretching. “Mrs. Claus said that if she saw roast goose and yams once more time, she’d throw them against the wall, so I promised to bring home a pizza.” Once again, after we said our goodbyes, I was commanded to close my eyes. Again with the whooshing and swirling. I opened them and saw I was back in my living room and in my sweats. I turned on the TV, just in time to see Cindy Brady lisping to the department store Santa about how her mommy had “larry gitis.” Taken aback, I looked at the time stamp on my phone. It was still the afternoon of Christmas Day; Santa had spoken the truth. No time had passed.

Mystified, I wandered into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror. My hair was its usual disheveled mop, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on my face. But what was different? Ah, yes… the tingling, tenderness and somewhat pleasant soreness in my nether regions. Pulling down my sweatpants, I took a peek at my butt. Wow. It certainly looked a lot like Christmas back there. You would even say it glowed. And there was no mistaking my stiff walk of (non)shame; Santa had filled a whole hell of a lot more than my stocking. Repeatedly. Still in a state of disbelief, I went back into my living room, and then did a double take. There, on my coffee table, still fizzing merrily, was the glass of Diet Coke.

Thanks, Santa. I believe in you now, albeit my image of you is far removed from your public one. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your true being. Who would believe me, anyway? But from this Christmas forward, whenever I see one of your chubby impostors and hear them bellow “Ho, ho, ho!” I will smile enigmatically and think to myself, “Why yes, I certainly am.”

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