Everybody was saying it’d be a white Christmas, except for the meteorologist, who pointed out that lately they’d been been setting record highs for December. The air barely carried a hint of the crisp chill necessary for a good old-fashioned snowstorm, according to Stan Weatherman, but Casey persisted in her fantasies of falling snow, a roaring fire, cookies and hot chocolate… and catching Santa as he climbed down her chimney.

A fellow Santa-lover, at New York SantaCon 2008 (photo by Flickr member istolethetv)

Sure, Casey was a bit old to still believe in Santa Claus, 18-year-olds being so hip and jaded these days, but she was a romantic at heart and a pervert at bottom. The thought of some jolly fat man in a red plush suit shimmying down a sooty pipe to bring her whatever her coal black heart desired made her lady bits get all wet and tingly, and she spent most of her 12 days of Christmas break masturbating to the tune of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” Sick, really, but it happened to be the closest anybody ever got to writing a song whose lyrics flat-out screamed “I want Santa to screw my brains out under the old Tannenbaum!”

The poor girl was so smitten with the fat pseudo-saint that she’d wait in hour-long line-ups at her local mall just to sit on an elderly man’s knee, kiss him on the cheek and—when asked what she wanted for Christmas this year—whisper that she wanted to be fucked reindeer-style while Santa’s elves watched… and could she get a picture of that? A few of the Santas called security and had the poor stray lamb banned from Santa Land. Some of them kindly suggested she get a boyfriend her own age. One horny Santa took her number and told her he’d call once the stores had closed for the evening.

It was December 24. Casey knew she had it in the bag. Who could resist her prurient smile, her lithe body, her hint of innocence mixed with a need for total degradation at the hands of a man who played with little people all day long?

Around midnight, Casey’s cell phone started to jiggle like a bowlful of jelly, playing a muffled version of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” from the confines of her jeans pocket. She knew it was him.

“Hey, Santa baby,” she cooed. “Hurry down my chimney.”

“I’ll be there in a flash,” he replied.

Luckily for St. Nick, not a creature was stirring in Casey’s parents’ house—unless you counted the dirty mouse herself. She crept downstairs to the living room where the stockings were hung and the tree silently flashed its coloured lights to the tune of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” Casey wondered if it was true that Santa was married to that bitch, Mary Christmas. But it was a fleeting thought, briefly chased off with, “I bet she can’t make his yule log burn like *I* can.”

With a pop and a whoosh of chilly Christmas air, a man leapt out of the fireplace. He was wearing the red plush suit, shiny black boots, a giant belt with a golden buckle and carried a sack fat with presents. His white beard was enormous. His eyes sparkled behind gold wire spectacles. He removed his red stocking cap and took a little bow.

“Good evening, my dear,” Santa said, taking Casey’s hand and planting a kiss upon her delicate knuckles.

Casey blushed. She couldn’t believe her XXXmas fantasy was about to come true, and for all her filthy bluster, she was just a nice, Midwestern 18-year-old girl meeting her idol in person for the first time. She couldn’t speak.

“Now, I’ve checked my list twice, and it seems you’re on the Naughty side,” Santa continued, pulling a paddle from his bag of tricks. “Come over here and let me teach you about the true spirit of Christmas, young lady.”

Santa seated himself in the family’s Lay-Z-Boy, and Casey bent over his knees. He pushed her nightie up over her firm, round backside and spanked her three times. She could feel her nipples hardening and her cunt getting moist. Santa paused in his paddling to remove her nightgown entirely and fondle her breasts. She bit her lip to keep from moaning.

“I can’t stay long, dear, because the other children will be waiting for their presents,” Santa whispered hoarsely, “but you’ve been waiting all year for a few licks from my candy cane, so let’s get it on.”

He unbuckled his belt and let his red pants slide down his legs. Casey climbed into Santa’s lap and took a sleigh ride to the place where passion knows no bounds, all the time observed by eight tiny reindeer. As she came all over Santa’s little helper, he placed his finger alongside his nose and, quick as a wink, disappeared from sight. Casey was left alone in the living room with Santa’s hearty “ho ho ho!” echoing in her ears. The silent night went on as she collapsed into a feverish slumber, still feeling Santa’s phantom hands caressing her body until morning.

I type, “come over and fuck my brains out,” into my phone and press Send. I need his cock to rock me with its depth charges. I need him to obey my text messages the way he obeys the sound of my voice. I need to be fucked roughly by a real man.

“Be there in 5,” he replies, not three seconds later. His hands are more nimble than mine. Typing is an excellent way to limber up those muscles for sex; he is almost as good as a musician. I picture his fingers gliding over my skin and purr in anticipation.

The bell sounds and I buzz him in. As I unlock the door he forces it open, pins me to the wall with a lizard’s kiss that searches my throat for weapons. I am unarmed, except for my slutty lingerie. My tits rise and fall, perched on their lace balcony, as he fingers my nipples.

“This is hot,” he murmurs. “Too bad it’s going to get destroyed.”

“There will always be others,” I say. He smiles and presses a small knife against the center of the bra, slicing downward with calculated violence. The bra falls to the floor, my tits point directly at their aggressor, nipples stiff with longing.

He ignores their cry for attention, bending instead to slash the strings of my bikini. Slipping the knife back into his pocket, he slides a finger toward my cunt. I sigh softly, hoping he won’t hear, knowing he will. His finger withdraws – he loves to torment me.

He wanders off toward the living room, removing his jacket and tie as he goes. I follow him and straddle his body when he sits on the couch.

“Fuck me, darling.” I unbutton his shirt.

“Later, perhaps,” he says, feigning distraction. The television is on, but the sound is off. A girl in tight jeans and a tube top writhes in the sand. He licks his lips.

“Surely you don’t find her as interesting as me.” I pretend to be offended.

He shrugs off his shirt, slips a hand into his pants in response.

I grab the remote and shut off the TV. He laughs and removes his hand from his pants, placing it on my smooth stomach and sliding it slowly towards my cunt.

“I love it when you’re angry. The sex is so much hotter.” He caresses my slippery lips.

“You just like to be in control.” I swirl my hips to force his fingers deeper.

“I just like to see you squirm.” He slides his other hand back into his pants. I loosen his belt and unzip his fly as he plays with both of us, pausing briefly to move to one side and pull his pants down completely. He is sunk deep in my couch, wearing only his boxers and his pants in a heap around his smart Italian loafers. I stand, bend to remove his shoes, facing away from him.

And that’s when he slides his fingers deep into my willing cunt and pleasures me gently. I fumble his laces and finally get his shoes and pants off, knees wobbling.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers, twisting and turning his fingers inside me, pumping his cock beneath his boxers, slowly pulling it out of the fabric. I can see its pink head between my Jell-o legs.

“God, yeah,” I whisper hoarsely.

“Slut,” he hisses, enjoying every minute.

“Tease,” I hiss back.

He takes his cue, withdrawing his finger and slapping my ass. I stand quickly, the blood rushing to my head, as he gets to his feet and slides off his boxers in one swift movement. And in a flash he has my tits to the wall, legs spread, his cock pressing deep within.

“You love it, don’t you?” he breathes into my ear. “You love it when I nail you to the wall.”

“I love it more when you tie me up.” I moan softly as his cock glides in and out, in and out. He pinches my nipples and I cry out.

“Say it,” he commands.

“Fuck me harder,” I breathe.

“Say it!”

“Fuck my brains out!”

And he does.

RealDoll image courtesy of Anoush Abrar and Aimée Hoving

the Kama Sutra says that there are
64 erotic positions
which one may use to seduce,
and that those who are experts in the art of love
shall never want for anything in this life

so I have made it my calling:
the art of love,
the pursuit of pleasure,
and I invite you to seek your happiness
between my sweet silicone thighs

Once upon a time I knew a man with a golden cock. Whatever he did with it was gold, whether he was alone or getting intimate with others. He swung both ways, enjoying the feel of anyone’s lips wrapped around his cock. He didn’t discriminate, though he was picky; they had to be intelligent enough to hold a conversation with him first, though the subject matter was occasionally as shallow as Paris Hilton. This man liked to fuck girls senseless, fuck men stupid; he fucked in groups and solo shows. He sometimes even made sweet sweet love with Al Green on the stereo.

One day the man with the golden cock took me out for dinner and drinks. I had heard about his golden cock, and figured it was all talk, no rock. As we sipped cocktails, I was made bold by the alcohol.

“Whip it out,” I instructed. “Right here. Let’s see this infamous cock of yours.”

“Here?” he smiled. “Why not head back to my place?”

“I want to see it first. Show me.”

He took my hand, kissed it so charmingly, disarmingly, then pressed it soft against his hardness. I could feel it throbbing, hot, waiting for me to release it from bondage.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing up. He placed some bills on the bar, winked at the bartender, then followed me out the front door with his eyes glued to my ass.

When we hit the street he hailed a cab, helped me in. I directed the driver to my place. His hand pinched my knee at that place where you want to squeal, but you’re not sure if it’s in pleasure or pain. He took no other liberties. I ran my fingers up and down his thigh, anxiously awaiting the moment of impact.

At last we closed the door to my apartment, locking us in together. Alone. Darkness. His hands caressed, removed clothing. He steered me towards the bedroom.

“Light!” I said, “I want to see it!”

He flicked on the switch.

“Drop your pants,” I ordered. He did. It was perfect. I knelt, closed my lips over it like I was praying. Listened to him sigh.

When he touched it to my cunt, I screamed. He made me come a dozen times, in forty positions. It was unreal, dehydrating.

In the morning, he was gone, and I wondered if I’d dreamt it all.

"there is a light that never goes out" by Zoe Navarro

Men think they are such hard-nosed realists, such truth-seekers, such no-nonsense, straightforward, take-no-guff individuals.

The truth is, men love being lied to. They like to be told things that are simply not true, in order to maintain a fantasy world where they are the most desirable, wonderful, awesome guy in that world. And that goes double for when they are pigs.

Men with money particularly want this fantasy world to hold up around them. It’s the reason they go to strip clubs and pay hookers to sleep with them. Because nobody else would. Because money is all they have, along with a mistaken sense of entitlement–that feeling that everything is theirs for the taking, with enough cold hard cash to back them up.

Not everything is for sale. Money can’t buy my love. Oh, sure, maybe for a night, but for a lifetime? You must be out of your goddamn mind.

Rings on the finger are typically symbols of the woman who has been bought. Her price has been set, paid. She no longer has any value, once purchased. Not unless she is in the bedroom or the kitchen, where she belongs. This is why you’ll never see a diamond within 40 feet of my little finger. I ain’t nuthin’ to nobody. Least of all some man who’s gonna call me “sweetie.”

I ain’t sweet. And I ain’t bitter. I’m far too spicy for you, darlin’.

Thing is, I never lie to the ones I love. Or even the ones I hate. I just keep my mouth shut, and let ‘em think what they want. When their theories get too much to bear, as they inevitably do, I just heave ‘em out the window of another fast-moving vehicle and change lanes, change gears, change cities and states.

Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine, they say.

So you’ll never know the real Val, and you’ll never get close enough to see right through me, but that’s just fine with you, because you think you like mystery. You think you’ve got me all figured out. You think what you want to think, and I let you go on thinking it. If you really knew what went on in this purty little head of mine, you’d probably lose your lunch.

Everybody loves a hustler, baby. And I’m the best of the best.