I was in a walking bathtub.
I was in a walking bathtub, with my wrists and ankles snugly duct-taped.
I was in a walking bathtub, with my wrists and ankles snugly duct-taped, while a group of weird little demon women were snickering all around me.
I shut my eyes and groaned, shrugging off the effects of whatever chemical had been put over my mouth on that rough burlap cloth. I had been walking to my car in a rainy, chilled parking lot, eager to get off my Santa suit. The beard itched, my padding was uncomfortable, and my voice was sore.
It was Christmas Eve. I had dressed up as Santa to do my Uncle Frank a favor, who was a manager at the Ogdenville Mall. He had to fire his Santa at the last minute, because the guy was both drunk and crazy, as evidenced by his confusingly strong feelings on cartography, as he screamed about, ‘maps having rights, too.’
After this strange man was escorted off the premises by a sheriff’s deputy, I had to step in and do my best. ‘For the children,’ as my Uncle Frank kept shrieking into the phone. I suspected he was worried that his boss, Mister Ogdenville, might find out there was no Santa on duty and fire his ass. It would be well last due, since my Uncle Frank was the sleaziest asshole I knew. But my father would be on my ass about not helping him. And there was the kids. They deserved to have a shitty, awkward photo op with a mall Santa.
It had not been a particularly great day. The kids, while sweet enough, were loud and fearful of the crimson wearing stranger. The parents were obnoxious, and the Christmas music was all terrible, none of the good songs but all this new shit about sacrificing kids to appease the sun.
And when I didn’t think it could get any worse, the cancer patients came in. Fifty bald kids weak with chemo, all coming to see me with smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. They were matured beyond their years, yet so desperate for hope that they clung to the childish notion that a man in a padded red suit with a tied on beard could be a 1600 year old immortal saint.
God, how many times can you tell a bald kid who is coughing that, “I’m sure you DO want a bone marrow transplant, but Santa can’t get that for you. Santa is able to give you cheap plastic crap made by slaves in China, or a videogame developed by a game company that is staffed by the same stuff that is killing you. So with all that said, would you like this Robux gift card?”
After several minutes of trying not to cry while cancer children breathed raggedly in my arms, I was emotionally drained. I left that day, my Uncle Frank slapping me on the back and thanking me for helping him out. No talk of paying me, of course, but just a heartfelt reminder to tell my mother that she had a nice ass. I reminded him that I expected a paycheck, and he started ranting about the Christmas Spirit being dead. After my night of hell, I left the mall 100% convinced that he was right.
As I had gone to my car, three children approached me in the parking lot. At least, I thought they were children. On closer examination I realized they weren’t children at all, but full-bodied shortstacks demon girls with pear-shaped asses. One was red, one green, and one blue, and they quickly encircled me. One precision attack to the knee with a candy-striped baton and a chemical-soaked cloth to the mouth later, and the next thing I knew, I was coming out of unconsciousness in a walking bathtub.
“He’s awake. Maybe give him another snort of the chloroform,” the green demongirl said.
“That’ll hurt him, though,” the blue demongirl said.
“So? Pedos don’t have feelings or souls, hun…”
“Yeah, but we can’t kill him, that’s Bobbi’s job,” the blue demongirl said.
“Shush! You’re not supposed to use names!” The green demongirl admonished. “What if the fuzz hears?”
“The fuzz. The constabulary. The Skyrim Guards. The Agents of Moloch…”
“Oh right, sorry,” the blue demon girl said.
“…how is this bath tub walking?” I asked. My head was still swimming, and I clutched at my temple with my bound hands.
“You be quiet, too!” The green demongirl said, slamming the side of the bathtub with a loud echo that made my head throb.
“Ya know, I’m not sure this is the right guy,” the red demongirl said.
“Course it is. He was where the Boss said he’d be,” The blue demongirl said.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t look right.”
There was a long silence, and the only sounds was the unnatural walking of a totally metal, one piece bathtub.
“How can he not look right?” The green demongirl asked. “He’s Santa!”
“Well, what if this is an imposter?” The red demongirl answered.
“So you’re saying…red is su-” the blue girl began.
Green cut her off loudly. “Why would anyone impersonate Santa? The Boss said to go to the Ogdenville Mall, and get the Santa Claus. He’ll be in a red suit with a white beard, like the vintage cola ads.” Green answered. “And wasn’t he?”
“All I’m saying is that this guy don’t smell like no pervert. What if there was a second one?”
“Didn’t you hear what Bobbi said? She said THE Santa Claus. So there’s only one. This is basic English, Esther.” The blue demon responded.
“Don’t use real names!” The green demon cried.
“There were two Santas at the mall,” I answered, trying to help clear up the confusion. “The first was fired, and…”
“Shush, Santa,” the green demongirl admonished, slapping me on the forearm. “Of course you’d say that, after you heard it suggested.”
“No, there was another man before me. He was sniffing all the kids…”
“Know a lot about him, do you?” The red demongirl asked with narrowed eyes. “We don’t take kindly to kid sniffers where we’re from.”
“…Hell?” I asked.
The red demon girl stared at me as if I had insulted her father’s carpentry. “No, not hell! From the other side of the Portal…are you a kidfucker, or retarded?”
“I’m not a kidfucker My Uncle Frank manages the store. You can ask him…”
“If Frank is the manager, he’s also the guy who pinched my ass,” the green daemonette said with a scowl. She rubbed her posterior and flicked her tail like a whip. “When we talked to him about you, he said that you were ‘kind of an asshole.’ And when we asked if you diddled kids, he said – and I quote- ‘yeah, probably.'”
“That son of a bitch!” I exclaimed as a sleeping dog on the road yelped in surprise. “That fucker! He just wants to get out of paying me.”
“You’re trying to say he paid you to touch kids? Whatever, you pervert…”
“I was a mall Santa! It’s just putting on a Santa costume,” I answered.
“Look, Bobbi told us…”
“STOP SAYING HER NAME!” The green demon girl yelled.
The blue demon girl rolled her eyes and gave out an exasperated sigh. “Fine…’The Boss’ told us who to look for,” the blue demon said. “She said to grab the creepy, fat, red guy with a beard, the one who was talking about lowering the age of consent.”
“Are you sure she didn’t mean a Smash Brothers player?” I protested.
“She said Santa, and that’s you,” the blue demon added. “You look just like the vintage corporate advertising.”
“Look, lots of people dress as him…” I began.
“Enough of these lies! Let’s sing!” The Green Demon said.
“Great idea Maleeka…”
“AGAIN with the names! Cheese and Crackers, do you two want the cops to get us, *Ruth*?” The green demon, Maleeka, shouted at the blue demon (who was clearly Ruth.)
“Just shut up and sing, Mal,” Ruth snapped.
“Sing?” I asked. “Why sing?”
“Because we do that. Should we hum to start?” Maleeka asked.
“Sure,” Ruth answered.
“Hummmm…” sang Ruth.
“Hummmm…” sang Maleeka.
“Hummmm…” sang Esther.
They stopped a moment, and took a deep breath.
“La-la-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la-laaaaa, Laaa-la-la-la-la-laaa, la-la-la-la-laaaaa…” they all sang together. “Kidnap the Pedo Claus, nail him to a cross. Put him in a comic strip, draw him into Loss!” The three demon girls sang.
“What? What are you-” I began.
“Kidnap the Pedo Claus, kick him till he’s sick! Sterilize his pedo ass, punch him in the dick!” They added.
“I-I’m not the Pedo Claus…” I protested weakly.
“I bet he trashes anime!” Maleeka sang.
“And probably boobs in video games!” Esther joined.
“Remember gals, if he’s a white guy feminist…” Ruth began.
“…you can bet he’s raping kids!” Maleeka finished.
“I am not…I don’t trash anime!” I shouted. “I’m straight!”
“She’ll be so pleased by our success
That she’ll reward us too, I’ll bet,” Esther sang.”
“She?” I asked. “Bobbi, you mean?”
“Because Miss Bobbi Oogie Boogie has a rather rigid stance. If I were on her Naughty list, IIIIII would shiiiiiit my paaaaants!” The three demon girls sang in harmony.
“Bobbi Boogie?” I repeated, fearful. “Like one of those psycho clown girls who rages about society?”
“We’re her little henchmen and we snatch her witless prey, We do our best to grab them, to make sure she can play,” the girls sang.
The song ended with a chorus of sadistic giggles. The bath tub walked onward, and I went from seeing a black sky overhead to a dark and cracked ceiling. I was entering a warehouse of some sort.
The bath tub tilted, and I fell onto the ground in a heap. While I was still dazed, the three stout (and surprisingly strong) shortstacks seized me, and swiftly slammed me down onto a metal table. While I was duct taped, I had little ability to resist them, but the duct tape was removed from my wrists and ankles, and my hands were shackled above my head onto chains attached to the metal table. I struggled to free myself, but to no avail.
“Have fun, Santa,” Maleeka snickered. “Bobbi will be here, soon. Oh, and the movie should start soon.”
“Movie?” I asked.
The three girls left as quickly as they had come, the metal bathtub leaving with them, wiping its feet on the threshold of the warehouse as if in some sign of contempt for my presence there. As my eyes adjusted to my surroundings, I was aware that I was on a metal table in a mostly dark room. It was lit overhead by a bright, pitiless searchlight which cast an unflattering light upon me and made me almost entirely shut my eyes. Beyond this light, I could see very little.
An unseen projector flickered on, shining a movie on the ceiling above me. I saw a grainy recording of camera footage. It looked like something from a horror film. In it, there were two figures in the living room of a tidy high rise luxury apartment. An elaborate entertainment center dominated one wall of the room, the wall to the right of the camera. All the furniture was covered in festive Christmas fabric, and a man sat on one of these chairs, a man I recognized.
It was Scrooge Grinchus, the famous Hollywood producer. His stated goal was to ruin everything involving Christmas. To this end, he had purchased 98% of all Christmas intellectual property, which he was systematically reworking into weed and pot smoking buddy comedies about dysfunctional families. He had recently purchased the Charlie Brown Christmas in order to add jokes involving explosive diarrhea and statutory rape.
But that was not all. It was rumored that Epstein’s Island was, in fact, just the roof of a massive hollowed out volcano where Grinchus had adrenochrome harvested from third world children.
He looked heavily intoxicated, sitting in the chair with a rocks glass full of bourbon in one hand. Another person was standing in front of him, next to the entertainment center. A mamono.
My heart nearly stopped. She was a Bogie, one of the clown monster girls who, they said, teased and terrified wayward men into becoming good and productive members of society. Of course, it was also possible that they were just one hundred percent psychotic murder hobos, since that was how the mainstream media portrayed them. I mean, those guys hated monster girls, but they couldn’t be wrong about everything, could they?
But Bogies also, I had heard, just killed off men that were beyond hope, like kid diddlers. This had to be Bobbi Oogie Boogie, the serial killer clown the daemonettes had mentioned.
There was a voiceover from the projector:
“Scrooge has mistaken me for this dickhead Honkus Honkerstraum. It seems logical because Honkus works as a Television executive, so he dresses as a clown. He also has a penchant for banana cream pies and Groucho Marx glasses. It is true that I am a female and Honkus is not, but Scrooge has eaten so much spirit cooking that he has the visual and auditory acuity of a Ringwraith, and must rely upon a horse to tell him what objects are.”
“You like Mariah Carey?” Bobbi asked, holding up a white CD for Scrooge to see.
Scrooge sneered, his eyes glazed from alcohol. “She’s okay.”
Bobbi tilted her head, and raised her eyebrows with a fixed smile. I felt a tinge of fear. “She used to be too bubbly and saccharine for my tastes. But when Emotions came out in ’92, I think she really came into her own. Commercially and artistically.”
Bobbi snapped her fingers, and walked briskly into her spacious bathroom. Through the flickering of the projector, I could see into the dark, white-tiled room, even if Scrooge couldn’t. She picked up a yellow rain slicker and floppy shoes, and put them on.
“She had a great vocal style with some well-known hits, and her work with consummate professionals gave her albums a big boost,” Bobbi said, and her voice echoed in the bathroom.
I watched as Bobbi picked up a tiny pill, swallowed it, and then took a gulp from a rocks glass full of warm water. For a split second, she stared at herself in the mirror, before returning to her purpose.
When she exited the bathroom, she was in her yellow rain slicker and giant red shoes. She was also carrying a very large fire axe in one hand, doing a shuffle across the room towards the kitchen.
“She’s been compared to Diana Ross, but I think Mariah has a far more joyous, effervescent personality,” she said. She rested the axe in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Hey Honkerstraum. Why do you have tree skirts all over the place,” Scrooge asked, pointing at the red tree skirts covering everything in the room. “You have a tree, like a Douglas fir?” He asked with a haughty laugh.
“No, Scrooge,” Bobbi replied.
“Is that a poncho?” Scrooge asked.
“Yes it is!” Bobbi exclaimed happily. Bobbi walked on her squeaky clown shoes to her entertainment center.
“On November first, 1994, she released this…” she pointed at her CD Player as she pressed play. “Merry Christmas, her most successful album, with its number one hit, All I Want For Christmas Is You.”
A piano played loudly through the tall speakers, making the room tremble by its sound. Boogie began to dance a little, her movement both stiff and yet relaxed at the same time. “A song so widely played, that many people claim that they are sick of it,” she danced to the axe, and picked it up. “But they shouldn’t be! Because it’s not just a heartwarming song about Christmas, but also a positive affirmation of female sexuality, itself.”
Scrooge looked over his shoulder, and his somnolence disappeared into a look of shock and terror as the shadow of the axe darkened his face.
“GAAAAAAAAH!” Bobbi screamed ferociously, bringing the axe down into the producer’s skull. It embedded in an explosion of blood which came out at such pressure it hit the screen.
“TRY RUINING THE GARFIELD CHRISTMAS SPECIAL NOW, YOU STUPID FUCKING BASTARD!” Bobbi screamed, and the axe rose and fell in a blur of blood explosions. “YOU. STUPID. BASTAAAAARD!”
“I DON’T WANT A LOT FOR CHRISTMAS…” A recorded Mariah Carey interjected with cheer.
Four or five more whacks later, and the room was slick with the black, unnatural blood of a Hollywood producer. Bobbi was panting. She dropped her axe and began to unbutton her raincoat, then sat down in one of the chairs. Seemingly relaxed, removed a large lollipop from her coat pocket, and began to lick it.
The projector turned off. I was about to meet a terrifying, and admittedly cute, axe-murdering clown.
I sat in this uncomfortable light for an eternity, wondering when this mysterious Bobbi Oogie Boogie would appear. And then I heard a sound, like of a large switch being pulled. In front of me, a spotlight shown on a large, multi-colored box, yellow with red calligraphy and a blue border. The box was misshapen, uneven, almost like a crate that had fallen and gone askew. It looked otherworldly and…off. An unseen orchestra began playing as my heart raced.
With a sudden explosion of noise and splinters that made every muscle in my body twitch in fright, a figure emerged from the top of the box and into the spotlight.
The Bogie twirled about to the music, until her face met mine. She had the most fetching – and haunting- smile, a pair of shiny black eyes, and an hourglass figure to make a man weep. Her skin was pale white, like painted porcelain, except for her face, which was colored half black and half white. Seams ran up her body, as if she had been stitched together. Equally beautiful and terrifying.
She was wearing a polka dot bra and panties, but they were filthy with stains, and her whole body was covered in a thick, dark liquid which I prayed was some kind of syrup. Her eyes were so dark brown they were black, haunting and yet alluring. I felt myself tremble beneath their gaze.
She looked at me for a moment, and her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flittered as she smelled the air. I think she even smelled my fear, and when she did, she smiled widely, and opened her mouth, taking in a deep breath.
“Well, well, well, what have we here?
Santa Claus, huh? Ooh, I’m really scared! So you’re the one I told the girls to bring about, Ha, ha, ha, ha!” The bloody harlequin girl sang. The unseen orchestra began playing a frightening (but catchy) tune.
She twirled her way towards me, off her box, and that was when I noticed the ‘syrup’ covered meat cleavers in her hands. My heart pounded in my chest.
“They’re jokin’, they’re jokin’! I can’t believe my eyes! They’re jokin’ me, they gotta be, you can’t be the right guy!” She sang.
She embedded the cleavers into the platform, inches from my head, and ran her white-gloved hands along my face. “You’re handsome, you’re hunky; You’re supposed to look all cursed! Hell, I might just soak my panties, if I don’t start schlicking first.”
She stared into my eyes, her gaze a combination of a sweet and innocent crush and angry, possessive ex-girlfriend. In her eyes was a swirl of child-like innocence and psychotic mania, but she was reading me, the same way Heath Ledger would read a pill bottle.
“When Ms. Bobbi Boogie says that you’re a cutie, pal, you’d better pay attention now, cause I’m a Boogie Gal!” She sang, twirling about the room.
“Cause if I’m not mistaken, Then my hunch is very true: I think you haven’t diddled kids, and so I’ll diddle you! Woah!”
A group of ghoul girls emerged from a side closet. “Woah!”
“Woah!” Bobbi repeated.
“Woah!” The ghouls rejoined.
“Woooaaaaho!” Bobbi said, running her glove-hands up her red-stained body.
“Wooooooaaaaah!” A trio of batgirls, dangling upside-down, screamed out on the ceiling, nearly making me shit myself.
“I’m the Oogie Boogie Gal!” She sang triumphantly with her supporting cast, again running her gloved hands up her body.
“Release me, Gal, for this arrest, is caused by false pretenses. I’m not the pervert Santa Claus, I’ve committed no offences!” I said, strangely in rhythm with the song.
“No jokin’, no jokin’. The girls grabbed the wrong dude. But hey, I can’t just let you go; I mean, that’d be quite rude! It’s funny, I’m laughing; You really are too cute,” she drew a small, pointed knife from between her cleavage, like anglers might use to scale a fish. “And so without permission, I’m gonna take off your suit…”
My eyes widened, “What are you going to do?” I asked.
She raised the blade up to her eye, and smiled at me. The bells in her motley hair jingled a little. “I’m going to do the best I can.”
She brought the knife to her bikini top, and cut. With the pressure released, her massive clown tits burst forth from their imprisonment, overwhelming all things and all considerations. My penis, ever the fighter, stirred and grew taut, for perfect white tits with candy red nipples hovered just beyond my salivating lips.
Grinning, Bobbi lowered the knife to my large black Santa belt, and put the blade between my waist and the brass buckle. She cut upward and away from my body, sawing the strap. I trembled uncontrollably.
“Oh, the sound of quakin’ boys, is music in the air. Cause I’m a horny Boogie Gal, although I cause a scare,” she sang with a giant grin.
The wide black belt snapped, and she flung aside the pieces. I stared up at the crazy Oogie Boogie Gal with terrified eyes, and she grinned down at me wickedly. She circled the knife above my waistband.
“Cock tastes more sweet, I’ve always heard, when fear is in the bone. Not soft, of course but hard, oh boy, Now that means you’re my own!”
“Release me from this heinous trap before I have a heart attack!” I rasped, unsure if I was going to go into cardiac arrest or nut.
Bobbi laughed, putting one white-gloved hand to her massive bosom and another on my stiffening crotch. “Oh Santa, stop gripin’; you haven’t got a chance! I see your stiff erection, it’s poking through your pants! It’s LEGAL to RAPE you. You haven’t got a prayer…”
She slid the blade down my pant leg, and I could hear the cutting of the fabric even over the frenetic sounds of the band.
“Cause now I’m Mrs. Santa Claus, and you
I could hear the ghouls and bat girls laughing high-pitched laughs as the Bogie loomed over me. The music ended, and my pants were torn to pieces. Only my underwear remained, an ancient gray pair of Hanes that I called the Merovingian.
Sadly, the Merovingian was not long for this world. It had survived four presidents. It had survived Covid. But it did not survive the Oogie Boogie Gal, for she ripped them off.
With her teeth.
With the Merovingian in tatters in the ruins of my pants, Bobbi looked at my exposed, swollen penis with big eyes, and licked her ruby red lips.
“I can’t wait to taste this nice cock,” she said, smiling up at me. “I’m going to lick you like a lollipop, and make your eyes cross.”
My manhood pulsed, eager for this attention. Bobbi smiled and laughed.
“I see you agree!” She exclaimed, giving my cock a playful batting with her hand. She leaned down, and ran her tongue along my cock head, flicking it quickly. I groaned. The touch of her tongue had been a shock through my body, which made my arms and legs spasm.
The orchestra started again.
“He’s mine,” she began to sing. “He’s mine…”
Bobbi smacked me on my tip, leaving behind a red stain then pressed against my her lips all down my shaft.
“Raping Santa…” One of the ghouls said, watching as Bobbi fellated me.
“Raping Santa…” A second ghoul girl sang. Bobbi was bobbing up and down on my member, slurping loudly as her soft, wet, and warm mouth milked me.
“Raping Santa, Raping Santa, is so fine…” Bobbi sang, panting
“He’s Bobbi’s this time!” The ghouls sang.
“And isn’t Santa so surprised…” A bat girl said.
“This Santa’s all mine,” Bobbi sang with a smile, my cock resting on her lips. “Time to give him something fun, and make him frost my face with cum…”
As she said this, she wrapped her full clown milkers around my penis, sliding her soft mammaries up and down my shaft, drawing forth the broken halleluiah from my lips.
Her soft tits continued to work against me, overwhelming me. The red substance on her body – the syrup, I decided to call it – smeared against my dick, sliding her tits against me and overwhelming me in pleasure.
“Her lips and tits wrap his cock so nice
With gentle licks and flesh pillows,” the Bat girls sang in unison.
It was a true sentiment, and between the two, between her tits and her mouth, I could not decide which was more pleasurable. The best part of both was, in either case, the way she looked at me. The hunger, the insanity. She stared at me, and I felt as if she was capable of anything. It terrified me. And aroused me…
“He’s Bobbi’s this time…” the ghouls sang, and the words gave me a vision of an eternity in a jack in the box with this demented sexy clown, being her fuck toy for all ages. I grew harder, and detecting it, she made a happy cooing sound and slapped my cock between her boobs,
“All together, that and this with all my tricks I’m raping Santa, now!” Bobbi cried out. She licked me from my balls to my shaft, then greedily began sucking me, pulling the cum from my balls. I leaned up, reeling, and drew in a deep breath.
“Look, he’s gonna talk!” One of the ghoul girls exclaimed, watching
“I don’t believe what’s happening to me!” I exclaimed in between moans as I looked down on the terrifying and yet utterly erotic Bogie who was now force-sucking my throbbing manhood. “My hopes, my dreams, my fantasies…”
“Hee, hee, hee, hee!” The ghouls and bats sang. Bobbi smiled up at me, her dark eyes sparkling, as she licked my cock head.
“Don’t you be distressed, I am your Ven-e-us. See how I take your nice cock, into my throat and make a pop…”
The clown girl demonstrated, opening her lips just wide enough for my head and shaft, then pressing down upon them until my member worked her way down her throat. Her dark eyes bulged, and watered, but she held me there, deep throating me, as I could only groan and feel my cock twitch.
After a moment of existential crisis in which I and pleasure fused into one, she withdrew, releasing my cock with a loud pop like a champagne cork blasting off from pressure.
As my blurred vision refocused, and I again felt the presence of my Self return, I spoke:
“Hmm, my compliments from me to you
On this your most amazing pop. Consider though this alternative; Your tits instead of your sweet mouth.”
Smiling, Bobbi wrapped her tits around my dick, and rapidly jacked me off with them, the slurping sound so rapid it thundered with my frenzied heartbeats. Holy shit…
“Uuuuuh! Oh, oh, oh, now that’s so great!
My thing will never last such pleasure
I’ve been hard for so, so long and this chest fucking’s such a treasure!”
“Hold on friend, now don’t give up!” Bobbi encouraged. “All together, that and this with all my tricks I’m raping Santa, now.”
She slid her breasts against me some more, but then overwhelmed by desire she began to slurp and suck me aggressively. Her mouth was so warm, wet, and soft, that my penis began to spasm. I was going to cum soon.
“It’s time, it’s time…” I rasped, as I felt my balls tingling.
“Fucking Santa, Fucking Santa, La, la, la!” The chorus of horny monster girls sang, as Bobbi twirled her tongue around my trembling manhood.
“It’s almost here…” I croaked.
“And I can’t wait…” She answered, removing me with another pop and squeezing my cock in her tits. “I’ll squeeze these balls and celebrate…”
And she did, taking my testicles in her big hands and fumbling them so rapidly and completely that I groaned, and felt pure pleasure rising up from them. I was so close…
“Cause when your cock head starts to twitch, then you’ll sing out…” she sang. And as she did so, she gave my cock a powerful, final jerk in her soft, full tits.
“IT’S CHRISTMAS TIME!” I screamed, my voice breaking. I exploded. My cock was overwhelmed by the smooth tits around it, and I spurted out pure pleasure as my cries arose.
“Hee, hee, hee!” The girls -and Bobby- all laughed, as I shot load after load between Bobbi’s soft, pillowy tits, into her waiting mouth and onto ruby red tongue. Each pulsing shot made my whole body quake, and each rope strand was eagerly swallowed by my greedy Oogie Boogie Gal.
I collapsed backward, and my eyes crossed. I heard my Bogie take a swig of her water, then swallow, then felt her warm breath upon my face.
“You’re coming in my Box with me, cutie,” she whispered, kissing me on the cheek tenderly. “What’s your name, anyway, stud?”
I sighed. “Jack.”
She laughed heartily, then kissed me on the mouth, forcing a surprisingly long and muscular tongue almost into my throat.
“Well, Jack. We’re going to have lots of fun in the Box. And you’ll have to play Santa for me…”
“I have a lot of questions…” I began. “Like, the batgirls and the ghouls, and Honkerstraum…”
“We can talk about all of that later, Jack,” she laughed. “For now, let’s just cuddle.”
And so, we did. And that is the tale of how I gained an Oogie Boogie Girlfriend on Christmas Eve.