The Santa

by Russell Hoisington

Copyright© 2005 by Russell Hoisington

: It's Christmas Eve, and your beloved author hears a tapping as if someone gently rapping, rapping at his fireplace door in this Edgar Allan Poe-m parody for the holiday season.

Tags: Ma/Fa   Humor  

An Edgar Allen Poe-m for Christmas

Copyright© 2005 Russell Hoisington

(With deepest apologies to the author of the original.)

This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are purely imaginary, and this story is not intended to be a guide for actual behavior. Any similarities between this poem and actual people or actual events you should be ashamed of are purely coincidental. If it is illegal in your part of the world to access and read erotic fiction, or if you are underage, or if you don't like sex stories, then you should stop now.

This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington. Please do not remove the author information or make any changes to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the free area of commercial sites. That does not mean that these stories are in the public domain, nor does it mean that I give permission for you to use them in spam advertising. I reserve the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by my definition, not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

Special thanks to Denny Wheeler for editing this opus.

Those who frequent the newsgroup or who are familiar with the writers who have story sites at ASSTR may recognize some of the names herein. They are not to blame for what follows.

Once upon a midnight, dearie, while I sat with eyes so bleary,
Viewing many a strange and curious website of forbidden lore,
While I nodded, lightly napping, from the fireplace came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the damper door.
" 'Tis some rodent pest," I muttered, "tapping at my damper door;
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And my tired and flaccid member'd spent its last upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From the website joy, not sorrow, sorrow from the webcam whore.
For the raw and naked maiden whom the spammers name Lenore,
True name lost forevermore.

How her silken, soaking finger, rustling briskly on her zinger,
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic longings never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
" 'Tis some squirrel or rat entreating entrance at my damper door,
Some late rodent pest entreating entrance at my damper door.
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my sense did weaken; hesitated, then went seekin',
Through my dark subconconscous it went seekin' for the whore.
But again while I was napping, came again the gentle rapping,
Like a crowbar faintly tapping, tapping at my damper door,
That I scarce was sure I heard... Here opened wide the damper door!
Flames winked out; then nothing more.

Deep into the darkness seeking, long I sat there, almost leaking
Yellow stains into my undies as I'd sometimes done before;
Briefly silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
'Til the only words there spoken were the whispered sound, "Go lower."
Stricken was I, and in echo murmured I the words, "'Go lower?'
These are rodents, nothing more!"

From the fireplace came a huffing, as of someone gruffly puffing,
Soon thereaft I heard a grunting, somewhat louder than before,
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something bigger than a rat is.
Armed I'm not save my Thesaurus, for this myst'ry to explore.
Let my heart be still a moment, for it cannot be my whore.
" 'Tis a rodent, nothing more."

Down into the ashes fell he, landing on his rotund belly,
Bouncing out and landing seated, looking saintly on my floor.
'Twas a bit fore he was ready; to his feet he rose, unsteady,
And in fury oh so petty, stomped across my once-clean floor.
"Snap!" went fingers, sending more soot from his suit to soil my floor.
Then he spat and stomped once more.

Thereupon, with pipestem reeking, Santa sent his fingers seeking,
Down his lower spinal column, giving comfort where 'twas sore.
Left- and rightward he was bending while sore muscles he was tending.
And he soon seemed to be sending warm relief straight to their core.
Friction then his pack released, and it came crashing to the floor.
Quoth the Santa, "Shit!"

Stunned I was! This roly-poly man was said to be so holy,
Yet, just like a hockey goalie, thru his lips he cussed and swore.
Then his pack he levitated as if grav'ty no more weighted
And I, rapt, anticipated what within for me it bore.
Santa reached inside and pulled out... Oh my God! It was my whore!
Quoth the Santa, "Not here, damn it! You're the next door pervert's."

Back went she. I started crying. Deep within began my dying
As I rose to commence vying for the one I did adore.
Santa muttered, "There's no cookie. There's no milk, nor Girl Scout Nookie.
Goddamn bastard's such a rookie! Hoistigon is just a bore."
"Hoisington" I said. He jumped and made a puddle on my floor.
Quoth the Santa, "What the fuck are you doing awake?"

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so crudely spoken,
I replied in manner jokin', "Chokin' chicken, and it's sore,"
Then explained how I'd been searchin' for the lovely bit of merchan
Dise he had there in his sack now lying back upon the floor.
I'd aroused, then spent, and drowsed until he rapped my damper door.
Quoth the Santa, "What kind of asshole closes the damper on Christmas Eve?"

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