Don't Mess with Santa!

"You don't understand," said Santa. "Now I have to grant you a wish."

Bob stared at the jolly, fat man. "A wish?"

Santa nodded glumly. "It's not that I want to, it's just...Its sort of required. Supernatural law and all that."

Bob thought about all the things he wanted. He thought about all the things he could have. In the end, however, there was only one wish he could make.

"Santa?"

"Yes?"

"How did this happen to me?"

Santa blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I've just been fucked by my family. Tied up, beaten and raped. But why me? What did I do to deserve this? How come?"

Santa leaned forward. "You really want to know?"

Bob nodded.

"More than you want to get loose? More than you want money? Or anything else?"

Bob said: "Somebody will let me loose sometime, and I've got lots of money, and," he paused, "No matter what else I could wish for, unless I can understand why this all happened to me...nothing is going to mean anything. I mean, if I don't figure this out...I'll go insane."

Santa nodded, and there was even a bit of compassion in his glance. "Well, I guess so, if that's your wish."

"It is."

Santa leaned forward then, and he said, "Merry Christmas." And he snapped his fingers.

And now, dear reader, we must go back, back, and not almost to the beginning. Now we must go all the way back, to the real beginning of this tale.

Bob's hand hovered over the keyboard. His family had woken up a short time ago, and it was time to go surprise them.

Boy, would they be surprised!

And he stared, one last time, at the message he had written.

Dear Santa,

Every year I get a dumb tie, usually
with some stupid dancing girl on it.
Boy, am I tired of that shit! For once, just once,
I'd like a real present! But I'm not going to
get one, am I? And you know why? Because you're
just a made up piece of crap! You're just a fat,
piece of shit! And I know it, and you know it.
And you know what I have to say to you?
Merry fucking Christmas, you big, fat asshole!

Sincerely

Bob

And Bob stared at the message, and he knew what was going to happen. He knew he would find out that his son was fucking his wife and daughters, and that they would tie him up, and spank his butt, and torment his balls, and tie that stupid tie on his most precious part, and rape his ass with alcohol, and he wouldn't even be allowed to cum.

Yes, he knew, and he knew that Santa, that jolly, fat man, had really fixed him, fixed him good.

It was the present to end all presents.

And his hand hovered over the keyboard, and he thought about the tube up his ass, and the soft feel of his daughter's lips on his cock.

And he thought of his wife, so sexually starved that she had taken his son to bed.

And he thought of the blue angel up his ass.

And then he thought of the laughter of them, the way they had enjoyed themselves, and he thought that maybe this present wasn't just for him, and he pressed his finger down to the keyboard.

Send.