City prison dungeon. Christmas Eve. Damp stone walls suck the life out. I’m Blanche, jailed for a damn pear. Days of dry bread, thin soup. Geôlier Amédée slams the iron door. I curl on vermin-infested straw. Coughs rip my chest. Fever gnaws bones. Winter bites harder. Tears soak the filth.
Glow erupts. Disney melody swells: ‘Someday My Prince Will Come.’ Heart pounds. Adrenaline floods veins. Who dares?
The Mutation
“Fear not, Blanche. It’s me.”
Santa leans on the door. Young. Ripped. Beard frames chiseled jaw. Eyes burn with heat. No jolly fat man. Pure predator vibe.
He claps once. Warmth blasts in. Straw steams. Twice. Plush king bed materializes, feathers begging touch. Three times. Golden cart rolls up. Caviar. Roasts. Wines. Four. Silk negligee clings to my curves, nipples peak hard. Five. Bath oils, perfumes, makeup sharpens my gaze. Six. Diamonds choke my throat, wrists, fingers. Crown sparkles.
Power ignites. Victim shell cracks. I rise. Legs steady. Pulse races like city sirens. Secret Heroine mutates. No more pleas. I own this night.
Knock. Door creaks. Amédée in striped livery. Bowed head. “Madame?”
Santa grins. “Serve supper, Amédée. We’re three.”
Table blooms. Gold-threaded cloth. Crystal gleams. Champagne pops. Bubbles dance on tongue. King sweeps in. Trumpets blare. Majestic robes hide hunger.
I sit right. Santa left. Dishes vanish into us. Stories spill from me. My grind: 18-hour shifts for Carabosse. Feeding 14 siblings. Parents crushed in crash. Pear theft. Gendarmes reek garlic. Trial farce.
King leans. Eyes glaze. “Gentle, and freedom’s yours.”
The Exploit
His cold hands grab. I seize his wrist. Twist. Slam him to bed. “Kneel, Sire. Worship.”
Straddle his face. Grind slow. His tongue laps desperate. Moans vibrate. I arch. Power throbs. Santa watches, bulge strains. “Your turn, Claus.”
Yank beard. Force cock down throat. Ride reverse. Ass cheeks slap. He growls ‘Porca miseria!’ I laugh. Harder. Deeper.
Amédée trembles. “Clean up, servant.”
Bend him over table. Rip pants. Plunge fingers. Then fist his ass. He bucks. Begs. I thrust strap from shadows—magic’s gift. Pound relentless. Sweat slicks skin. Grunts echo. City pulse matches mine. Adrenaline peaks.
Climaxes crash. King spurts on sheets. Santa floods my mouth. Amédée quakes empty. I command every drop. They pant. Broken. Mine.
King checks watch. “Palace calls.” Santa bolts. “Chimneys wait.”
Amédée claps reverse. Negligee shreds to rags. Bed vanishes. Cold rushes back. Table ghosts away. I flop on straw. Lamentations programmed: “Woe! Sunlight lost!”
But inside? Secret fire roars. They took? Lies. I conquered. Stronger than steel. Every Christmas dinde hides my grin. Unseen queen.