Mila crouched behind the worn armchair in the dim glow of the Christmas tree lights, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest. The house was silent except for the faint crackle of embers in the fireplace, where she’d positioned herself to guard the stairs leading to her kids’ rooms. At twenty-two, she’d learned to be fierce, a single mom, no room for weakness.

Santa was just a myth, but myths could hide predators. Her fingers tightened around the grip of the handgun, its cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of her flannel pajamas clinging to her curves. She wouldn’t let anyone near her babies tonight.

A soft whoosh echoed from the chimney, followed by the thud of boots hitting the hearth. Mila sprang up, gun leveled at the figure emerging in a swirl of soot. There he was, Santa, red suit dusted with ash, white beard framing a round face that twisted in shock. His eyes widened behind the wire-rimmed spectacles, hands shooting up as he froze mid-step.

“Don’t move,” Mila snarled, her voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through her veins. She stepped closer, the barrel unwavering. “Who the hell are you? Some creep in a costume?”

Santa’s gloved hands trembled slightly, his jolly facade cracking. “Ho-ho-ho ... Please, miss, I’m just delivering presents. No harm intended.”

Her fierce eyes narrowed, suspicion boiling over. She wasn’t buying it. “Strip. Now. I need to see you’re not some pervert hiding weapons or worse.”

Her protective instincts screamed at her to expose the truth, to strip away the illusion and protect what mattered. Santa hesitated, beads of sweat forming on his brow, but the gun’s aim left no choice. Slowly, Santa peeled off the red jacket, revealing a surprisingly toned chest beneath the padding. Pants followed, pooling at his ankles, then the boots and underwear. Mila’s gaze dropped, and a burst of laughter escaped her lips, loud, mocking, echoing in the quiet living room.

“Oh my God,” Mila said between chuckles, doubling over slightly. “That’s the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen! What, Santa’s packing a little acorn? No wonder Mrs. Claus looks so bored.”

Humiliation flushed Santa’s face redder than his suit, but then his lips curled into a smirk. Mila’s laughter faltered as he reached into a hidden pocket, pulling out a small pouch.

“Oh, Mrs. Claus is never bored,” Santa said with a smirk. “Let me show you why.”

Before she could react, he sprinkled shimmering dust over his exposed groin. A warm tingle spread through the air, and Mila watched, transfixed, as his tiny cock twitched and began to swell.

It grew inch by inch, veins pulsing along the thickening shaft, the head flaring wide like a mushroom cap. His balls expanded too, heavy and pendulous, hanging low between his thighs. Mila’s breath caught, her eyes widening at the monstrous transformation, easily over a foot long now, thick as her wrist, throbbing with unnatural vitality. The magic hummed in the room, a faint scent of pine and spice filling her nostrils, making her skin prickle with unexpected heat.

Santa’s fear evaporated, replaced by a gleam in his eyes. He straightened, the enormous cock bobbing heavily with the motion, casting a shadow on the rug. Mila’s hand wavered on the gun, her mind reeling from the impossible sight. Part of her still wanted to laugh, but a deeper, forbidden curiosity stirred. How would that beast feel?

“Come here and suck it, bitch,” Santa snarled, his voice dropping to a gravelly command that sent shivers down her spine. “I know this is what you really want for Christmas. Drop the gun and get on your knees.”

Mila’s pulse raced, a mix of defiance and arousal warring inside her. She was the protector, the fierce mom, but the sheer size of his cock mesmerized her, drawing her gaze like a magnet. Her nipples hardened against her pajama top, a flush creeping up her neck. Slowly, almost against her will, she lowered the gun to her side, the metal clinking softly on the floor. The dominance in his eyes pinned her, stripping away her control as surely as she’d stripped him.

He stepped closer, the massive shaft swaying, pre-cum already beading at the tip, glistening in the tree lights. Mila sank to her knees on the plush carpet, her hands trembling as they reached out. The heat radiating from his cock washed over her face, the musky scent intoxicating. She wrapped her fingers around the base, or tried to. Her hand couldn’t even close fully around the girth. A soft moan escaped her lips, unbidden, as she leaned in, her tongue flicking out to taste the salty droplet.

Santa’s hand tangled in her hair, guiding her forward with firm insistence. “That’s it,” he growled, his voice laced with triumph. “Open wide for Santa’s gift.”

Her mouth stretched around the bulbous head, lips straining as she took him in, the velvety skin sliding over her tongue. Mila’s mind swirled with conflicting emotions, shame at her submission, protectiveness for her kids now seemingly forgotten in the haze, and a raw hunger building low in her belly. She bobbed her head, sucking greedily, the enormous cock filling her mouth, pressing against the back of her throat. Saliva dripped down her chin, mixing with the soot on his thighs.

He thrust shallowly, asserting his new power, groans rumbling from his chest. Mila’s free hand slipped between her legs, rubbing her soaked pussy through her pajamas, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through her. The magic dust’s afterglow made everything sharper: the stretch of her jaw, the pulse of his veins against her palate, the way his balls brushed her chin with each movement.

But as she hollowed her cheeks, drawing a guttural moan from him, Mila wondered if this was just the beginning. Santa’s grip tightened, his hips rocking faster, and she felt the tension coiling in him and in her own body, aching for more.

Santa’s fingers dug into Mila’s scalp, his enormous cock pulsing against her tongue as she sucked harder, her own fingers circling her clit through the damp fabric of her pajamas. The taste of his pre-cum flooded her mouth, salty and thick, making her throat work to swallow it down. But suddenly, his hand released her hair, only to clamp around her wrist like a vice, yanking her upward with surprising strength. She gasped, her lips popping off his shaft with a wet smack, strings of saliva connecting her mouth to the glistening head.

“Enough teasing, slut,” Santa growled, his voice rough with lust and authority.

His eyes bored into hers, dark and commanding, the jolly Santa facade long gone. Mila stumbled to her feet, her knees aching from the carpet, her hand still slick from her pussy. Confusion swirled in her chest. Part of her wanted to snatch the gun back, to remember her kids upstairs, but the heat between her legs betrayed her, throbbing with need.

He didn’t let go, twisting her wrist just enough to make her wince, pulling her close until his massive cock pressed against her belly, the heat of it searing through her flannel top.

“Your turn now. Strip. Every fucking stitch. Show Santa what he’s working with.”

Mila’s breath hitched, her free hand hovering at the buttons of her pajama top. Trembling fingers fumbled them open, revealing the swell of her full breasts, nipples already peaked and begging for attention. She shrugged the top off, letting it fall to the floor, her curvy body exposed from the waist up. Santa’s gaze raked over her, hungry and unyielding, making her skin flush under the Christmas lights.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her pants, shoving them down along with her soaked panties, stepping out of them awkwardly. Now fully naked, she stood there, vulnerable, her heavy breasts rising and falling with each shaky breath, the trimmed patch of hair above her pussy glistening with her arousal.

A low chuckle rumbled from Santa’s chest as he released her wrist, stepping back to admire his handiwork. Mila’s arms twitched, instinct urging her to cover herself, the protective mom in her screaming at the exposure, but his stare held her still, like invisible chains. Her body felt alive, every nerve ending buzzing from the proximity to his magic, her pussy clenching emptily.

“Good girl,” he murmured, reaching for the pouch again.

Before she could protest, he flicked more shimmering elf dust over her bare skin. It settled like fine snow, warm and tingling, sinking into her pores. Instantly, her nerves ignited, a fire spreading from her chest to her core. Her skin flushed hot, nipples tightening painfully, and a deep ache bloomed in her pussy, making her thighs slick with fresh wetness. She felt shame at her nakedness, fear of losing control, but underneath it all, a submissive pull, like the dust whispered promises of release if she just gave in.

Santa’s cock twitched, still rock-hard and enormous, veins bulging along its length, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft. He stroked it once, lazily, the motion drawing Mila’s eyes like a moth to flame.

“Now parade for me. Walk that tight body around the room. Show off those tits and that dripping cunt. Let Santa see how bad you want this cock.”

Her heart hammered, defiance flickering in her mind. She was the one with the gun, the protector, but the enchantment coiled tighter, making her limbs heavy with compulsion. Shivering, Mila turned, her bare feet padding on the rug as she began to walk, hips swaying involuntarily.

The cool air kissed her flushed skin, heightening the sensitivity; each step sent jolts through her swollen clit, her breasts bouncing softly with the motion. She circled the Christmas tree, feeling his eyes on her ass, the curve of her hips, the way her pussy lips parted slightly with each stride, exposing her wetness.

Santa watched, his hand pumping his cock slowly, the size of it a blatant symbol of his dominance, thick, unyielding, promising to stretch her beyond limits. “Faster, bitch. Shake that ass. Imagine this monster splitting you open.”

Mila’s cheeks burned, tears pricking her eyes from the humiliation, but the magic dust amplified everything: the thrill of exposure, the ache of submission coiling in her gut like a spring. She quickened her pace, parading naked through the living room, her body on display under his gaze.

Her pussy throbbed, juices trickling down her inner thigh, and she bit her lip to stifle a whimper. Part of her hated how wet she was, how her body betrayed her fierce spirit, but another part, deeper, enchanted, craved his command, yearned to drop to all fours and beg for that giant cock to claim her.

He stepped forward as she passed the fireplace, his free hand grazing her hip, sending electric sparks through her sensitized skin. “Stop,” he ordered, voice thick with desire.

Mila froze, trembling, her back to him now, ass presented unwittingly. His cock brushed her thigh, hot and heavy, smearing pre-cum on her flesh. The scent of pine and musk filled her lungs, mixing with her own arousal, making her head spin.

“Turn around. Beg for it,” Santa demanded, his breath hot on her neck.

Mila’s mind raced, kids asleep upstairs, the gun forgotten on the floor, but the dust’s magic drowned it out, leaving only the pounding need in her veins, the emotional tug of surrender pulling her under. She pivoted slowly, eyes locking on his throbbing length, wondering how much more she could take before she broke completely.

Mila’s knees weakened under Santa’s intense stare, her body humming from the elf dust’s relentless grip. The air in the living room felt thicker, charged with the scent of her arousal and the faint, spicy tang of his magic. She wanted to fight it, to grab the gun, to scream for her kids to stay upstairs, but the pull in her core was too strong, a magnetic force drawing her toward surrender.

“On your hands and knees, slut,” Santa commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her bones. “Crawl to the fireplace. Show me how low you’ll go for this cock.”

Her breath caught, humiliation burning in her chest like fire. Crawl? Like some animal? The fierce mom in her recoiled, but the dust whispered temptations in her veins, making her pussy clench with desperate need.