Can You Hear Me Now, Little Fuck Bunny?

by Mat Twassel

Copyright© 2007 by Mat Twassel

Sex Story: Sandra gets an early Christmas present from her boyfriend, Dan--a cellphone. That way, even though Dan's going to be out of town on Christmas, they can keep in touch. But Sandra wants more than Dan's voice. She wants Dan. She uses the new cellphone to call Santa Claus to see if there's anything he can do. Too much static. The elves garble Sandra's message. Nevertheless, Santa is determined to make things right.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Heterosexual   .

Fuck the anytime minutes! The early Christmas present from her boyfriend Dan, a cellphone with scads of extras, wasn't what Sandra wanted. "But honey bunny, you know how crazy hectic the world is now," Dan had said. "Even if I can't get away to see you, we can talk. Now don't look so glum—it plays Christmas carols, too!"

Yup, the usual cacophony before Christmas. Santa's hot-line never had a chance to cool off, but somehow Sandra got through first try. "Santa's Secret Shop. Elf Norbert speaking. Hi, Sandra. What can I getcha? A what-you-say? Holy huh? Could you turn down your... ? Heavenly wha... ? Comma? ... Oh, okay, sure. No prob. Gotcha. Merry Christmas. Bye. Hello. Santa's Secret Shop. Elf Norbert speaking. What can I getcha?"

A few short hours later Santa and Mrs. Claus were making final preparations, going over the list, checking it twice. Santa stopped to scratch his beard. "Honey, what's this one? Can you make it out? Those elves have such scratchy penmanship. Looks like 'heavenly come.' What on earth is that?"

"Let me see, dear," said Mrs. Claus, snatching the list. "Oh!" She tittered. "'Heavenly come.' I bet that's shorthand for cum. You know ... orgasm."


"Yup." Her eyes twinkling, Mrs. Claus handed the list back to Santa. "That naughty Sandra."

"Yeah, but how are we gonna do that? Orgasm's not a toy. It's not a thing. Is it? Especially not heavenly orgasm."

"My word, I don't know," Mrs. Claus confessed. "Orgasm is a thing of the spirit and a thing of the flesh. A heavenly orgasm—I think that leans towards the spiritual side, don't you? I think we could possibly lend a hand."

"A hand?"

"It's no more outrageous than that request for pair of polka dot unicorns."

"I still say we shoulda used pink paint," Santa insisted.

"And I tell you it was pink—you know you're color blind."

"Okay, okay, so I messed up a little. Pink. Puce. Who cares? But what do you mean 'lend a hand'?"

"That's a figure of speech."

"A figure of speech? Then shouldn't it be 'lend a tongue'?"

"Oh, you naughty Santa," Mrs. Claus chided her husband.

Santa tried to hide his gleeful smirk. "I was just thinking maybe what Sandra needs is one of those spicy story books. Maybe Laura's Toes—it's so popular this year. Pretty hot stuff, don't you agree?"

"True, true," Mrs. Claus said. "Laura's Toes is certainly my favorite, but I was thinking more along the lines of a vibrating dildo. One of those new three-speed babies. Fast. Slow. Ho-ho-ho!"

Santa nodded sagely. "Good idea. And batteries to go with, right?"

"Of course," Mrs. Claus confirmed. "What good's a vibrating dildo without batteries? So that settles that—one of the new Unicorn Hummers."

"But wait," Santa said, examining the stock. "What color? Seems they come in silver and gold."

"Oh, that's right," said Mrs. Claus. "Hm." Her keen eyes carefully regarded the Hummers, the sleekly smooth shafts gleaming in workshop light. "They're both very attractive."

"So let's just say gold," Santa said, about to toss the gold Unicorn 3-Speed Hummer into his sack.

Mrs. Santa stopped him. "Gold might not go."

"What do you mean, 'might not go'?"

"You don't happen to know the color of Sandra's hair?" Mrs. Claus inquired. "We wouldn't want the Unicorn Hummer to clash."

Santa Claus frowned. "Clash, smash," he mumbled under his breath, but he consulted the list again. "No, it doesn't say," Santa grumbled. He adjusted his specs. He cleared his throat and read, "'Sandra Hochfeld, 123 Willow Way: Heavenly come.' Why on earth can't those elves get more info?" But then an impish grin spread across Santa's face. "Say, I've got an idea! I could pack both—silver and gold—then I could check out Sandra's hair color. Right there on the spot ... so to speak."

"Ho, ho, ho, I'll on-the-spot you," Mrs. Claus said, swatting her husband smartly on his sturdy backside. "We'll both go. That way no mistakes. No hanky-panky. Worse comes to worst, we give Sandra both Unicorns. A matched set. Six speeds divided by two, so to speak. Think of the combinations! Now that would really be a heavenly come!"

And so it was that Santa and Mrs. Claus set off on their Christmas Eve rounds. And so it was that they arrived at the rooftop of 123 Willow Way.

"Right," said Santa Claus. "Sandra Hochfeld. The Unicorn Hummer." Santa slipped off his gloves, extracted two Hummers from his sack, one of silver, one of gold, and shot speedily down the chimney. Mrs. Claus followed.

"Okay, let's check out that hair color," Santa said, brushing the faintest plume of golden soot into oblivion. He began galumping up the stairs and down the hall towards Sandra's bedroom.

"Shh," Mrs. Claus whispered. "You're so noisy in your big boots. Aren't you afraid of waking her?"

Santa Claus laughed. "Time stops during deliveries. C'mon, follow me!" And motioning to Mrs. Claus, he bounded the last few steps into Sandra's bedroom.

The bedroom, illumed by the warm light of a candle in frozen flicker, gave itself up to Santa and Mrs. Claus. Shadows slanted sensuously across the dark floor. But Santa was not looking at the floor, and the light was not enough to keep Santa from tripping. Snagged on something more substantial than the melt of shadow, something with a snowdrift's give and a rip-tide's take, Santa's body thudded to the carpet with a muffled boom. Mrs. Claus fell on top of him.

"Oof," said Santa.

"Oof," echoed Mrs. Claus.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, but what was that?" Mrs. Claus whispered.

"Appears to be a blanket," Santa said, and he helped Mrs. Claus untangle herself. "It's very soft," he added, bundling the blanket in his arms.

"And look," Mrs. Claus said, pointing to the design. "Unicorns. How appropriate." Sure enough, unicorns danced and cavorted upon the blanket. "Nice," Santa said, but now he was looking not at the blanket but at the bed and the bodies stock-still upon it, man below, woman above, astraddle, astride, riding, riding hard, her bouncy-firm buttocks a-bounding, her bare little breasts a-bobble, her long honey hair streaming down, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut, her nostrils flared wide with the sixth or seventh successive intake of breath without exhale.

"Wow," said Santa.

"I'll say," exclaimed Mrs. Claus. "Look how puffed with pleasure her little nipples are. She's going to come soon. She's right on the verge of it. I hope we haven't ruined it for her."

"Don't worry," Santa assured Mrs. Claus. He was inspecting Sandra's full little breasts—pear soft, apple firm, tangibly lovely and good and grabbable. "These are nice nipples, aren't they? Would you say pink or puce? I wish I could—"

"Don't you dare," Mrs. Claus hissed. "We've disturbed them enough already. We've got a job to do."

"Okay, okay," Santa said. "But from the looks of things she doesn't really need these." He held up the twin Unicorns. "So which one? What color Hummer goes with her hair?"

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