Sleighless Ch 01

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.

Paris.

Shanghai.

Milan.

A beachside hut in Thailand.

A remote cabin in the wilderness of Alaska.

Every year, no matter how remote his location became, the coal was waiting for him (and for him to explain to whatever supermodel he was bedding at the time).

What did it mean? Was it a threat? Who was doing it? The government? The banks? The Russian billionaires he double-crossed on his meteoric rise to fame and fortune?

This year would be different: he was safe on his yacht with only his most trusted staff; he had paid for extra security; and he had decided that just this once he would spend Christmas night alone.

"Do you have any final words to end our segment, Max?"

"Yes, be good, everyone, because Santa is watching!" he said sarcastically.

--

"You're right, I am watching, Max." Santa smiled at the television in his office before swiveling his chair to face Tinsel, his most trusted elf.

"I have to hand it to Max. He never gives up. He also remains, by a wide margin, the naughtiest person on my naughty list."

Tinsel rolled her eyes. "I still don't see why we have to make him the last stop on our list every year. The jokes running thin, don't you think? Look at the poor guy. He's obviously paranoid."

Santa shrugged and took a sip of eggnog. He returned to reviewing the blueprints and plans spread across the entire surface of his desk.

"Have we repaired the communication interface on the teleporter?"

Tinsel tried her best to sound confident. "Everything is operational, sir."

Preparations

Santa put on his new red jumpsuit one leg at a time. In the candlelight of the bedroom the fabric gleamed and sparkled: the result of years of research by the tailor elves to find materials that would survive the bumpy journey through space and time.

Earlier plans required him to travel naked and dress from clothes pulled from his magic sack, but redressing at every stop eliminated the cost-time benefits of teleportation. Santa insisted on a suit; something modern and smart. The old ways had to go. It was time to innovate, to embrace technology completely. Everything should be new.

Mrs. Claus watched on from bed. Her beautiful plump curves were wrapped in red satin and white lace lingerie and rolled sensuous indentations into the great hand-sewn quilt beneath her. She turned her gaze to the window. Frost crept from its corners. Outside she could see the reindeer frolicking about, taken in heat.

"I still think it's awful what you did to the reindeer..." She watched on dreamily at the bustle outside. Snow had begun to fall.

Santa pulled his zipper in one smooth movement connecting the teeth from his crotch to his neck. "Maeve, they're fine. Look at them play. Don't they look happy?"

Outside Vixen was flirting with a young bull. They bounded about and chased each other in the snow. Maeve could hear the faint jingles of the reindeers' collars through the frosted window.

"I suppose they do. But I worry what will happen now that they have nothing big to hope for..."

Santa scoffed. "There's plenty for them to hope for... Why, I bet in a decade we'll have some amazing reindeer engineers working on projects even grander than Project Sleighless!"

Emma sighed. She rubbed her hands over the creamy skin of her inner thighs. "Animals shouldn't be stuck in a lab. They should be pulling something... straining their muscles... feeling vital and alive..." She traced the curve of her pelvis, up her belly to her breasts and began to play with her hardened nipples through the scarlet fabric of her bra.

Santa fetched his new boots and walked to the bed. He leaned over and kissed her and pulled back with a mischievous grin.

"And do you feel vital and alive?"

She smiled. She embraced him, pushing her breasts into him. "Always."

He winked and turned to put on his boots.

"Nick?" She pushed a hand back between her thighs.

"Yes."

"Do you think we have time for another... you know?" She smiled. "Since teleporting is so much more efficient."

He stood and turned.

"I have to get going. But be waiting okay."

She pretended to pout. "Aw, okay. I'll just play with myself until you get back."

"That a girl."