Author's Note:
This is part one of the Christmas erotic transformation story I've been working hard on. This one has been wonderful to write - a fun opportunity to spoof some genres while weaving a nice holiday yarn. I hope you enjoy it!
BL Quick (BQNK)
*****
Office Christmas Party
The new Santa had started two years back. He and his wife were young (mid-twenties). He was a go-getter.
He announced the layoffs during the annual corporate Christmas party.
"You have driven my sleigh faithfully for years and now, as thanks, I will reward you with rest and enjoyment for as long as you live." He laughed with a "ho ho ho" that made his chubby belly jiggle beneath his red dinner jacket.
They looked at each other, shocked.
Rest? Who wanted rest? They had gotten into this job for the action.
"You all owe yourselves a big round of applause for the happiness you have brought the world. I couldn't have done it without you!"
The eight reindeer glared at Santa and clopped their hooves together unenthusiastically.
Rumors
After the dinner, they approached Santa and asked him to reconsider. He rejected the idea flatly. When asked for a reason he simply stated, "I am not able to discuss the matter at this time."
By the next morning, the news had spread around the complex. The reindeer gathered around the water trough and traded theories.
Donner said they were all being replaced with robotic reindeer outfitted with jet engines. He said he had heard it from an elf in the accounting department.
Dancer vehemently disagreed. He fancied himself a day-trader and doomsday prepper. He ranted about how "all the metrics" pointed to a world stock market crash four days before Christmas; he believed Santa had arrived at the same conclusion and, for the safety of the whole team, canceled Christmas.
"It's going to be a long winter," Dancer sighed before growing quiet and staring into the distance. "I sure hope we have enough food... and munitions."
Vixen rolled her eyes. Whatever the cause, she was relieved. She had grown critical of Santa's business practices: keeping and training hundreds of reindeer only to select eight to transport corporate-manufactured goods around the world and back — this was not a sustainable business model and, worse, it perpetuated bourgeois ideals and unregulated capitalism.
Vixen admired her form in the stable mirror. Her heat was coming. It's time I take a break to frolic with the bulls. The thought made her tail wag.
The rest of the reindeer chimed in with their pet theories with each one more fantastic than the last. A lone bull stood separate from the crowd quietly taking in the hubbub. He was Candy Cane and had spent his whole life training in the hopes of one day joining Santa's team and driving the sleigh. All the elves had told him he was a shoo-in for the next season... but now there would be no season.
"Bullshit."
His dreams had been crushed in an instant by a ridiculous edict issued from a bureaucracy he had believed in faithfully. He wanted to throw up. He seethed. He blamed himself.
But, in spite of his dreams being shattered, an unexpected feeling of hope and determination began to well within Candy Cane. He made a decision:
Forget Santa. He would find a way to drive with or without him.
The Billionaire
Max Flow laughed at the female reporter. He was live, remote from the deck of his newly completed yacht, which was the largest and most luxurious vessel of it's kind in the entire world.
"Santa Claus? Seriously, do I have to say this every year? He's not real, people!"
A cameraman in the studio frowned, hoping his kids weren't watching the segment. He zoomed in on the reporter who was giggling. For all of Max's vitriol, he was quite a hunk. The reporter shifted in her seat, her panties were soaked through.
"Come on now, Max, you don't have to spoil Christmas for all the..." Max interrupted her. She bit her lip and smiled, listening intently.
"A surveillance state run from the North Pole by a fat man in red pajamas who keeps lists of who is bad and who is good and then flies through the night on a sled pulled by deer: this is the lie we keep selling?"
She brushed her hair from her face. One of the guys in production had made the same statement to her a week ago and she reported him to HR for being creepy. But Max...Max was different. He's just so...funny. And hot. "Max, come now, it's such a nice story."
Yes, come now, Max.
She imagined kneeling in front of him, naked.
Come all over me.
"A nice story? How is it nice? We already live in a surveillance state! Is this merely one of the nice stories we tell to condition people to accept it?" Max kept up his rant, his yearly charade. His fingers were fidgeting in his lap, outside the view of the camera. He had started this anti-Santa shtick as a lark six years ago but it only took a year for him to regret it.
Mere days after his first rant, on Christmas Day, Max awoke in his hotel room in Paris. He pushed the blonde model's arm off his chest and went to the kitchen for some espresso. Piled neatly on the marble counter was a small pyramid of coal topped with a red bow. He laughed; one of his friends were obviously playing a practical joke on him. He sipped his coffee and went back to wake up the model for a morning fuck.
The second year, after waking up to find an even larger stack of coal in the living room of his lavish penthouse in Shanghai, he stopped laughing.
