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It was midnight on Christmas Eve, and for the first time in his five short years of life, Tommy couldn’t sleep one wink. The anticipation of the morning, of Christmas Day and the presents waiting for him under the tree (not many presents, and only wrapped in newspaper, not the shiny Christmassy colours other kids’ gifts came wrapped in, but he knew at least one of them was for him) had kept him wound up like the toy soldier in the movie they watched—wound up all month, tighter and tighter as the tree and the lights and the tinsel went up and the advent calendar filled up with X’s, until all his inside parts felt like elastic and springs. He just wanted it to be morning already so he could see what Santa had given him.
He sat up in bed, and lay down again; he squirmed on his plush little belly and on his plusher butt; he threw his legs up under the sheets and tucked his feet under his ears, staring into the pale green galaxy of glow-in-the-dark plastic stars on the ceiling, wishing for the minutes to run faster. But nothing worked. He couldn’t sleep and Christmas was still an eternity away, even though the whole room and house seemed to vibrate invisibly with anticipation of it.
Finally he pushed back the covers, swung his slim wishbone legs over the side of the bed and dropped the few inches to the floor. If he was going to wait up all night, he might as well watch Santa coming in. Who knows, maybe Santa would be nice and let him open his present early?
Tommy and Mommy weren’t supposed to leave their bedrooms when it was dark. It was to keep them safe, Daddy said. But tonight was Christmas Eve, and Tommy just couldn’t stay in bed. As long as he stayed in the light, he told himself, he would be okay.
He padded on all fours down the hallway, moving with childish cunning and an animal grace around the spots where the floorboards creaked and the spots where the shadows fell. If Mommy or Daddy saw him he’d tell them he was going to get a glass of water. He didn’t want to make them angry, especially not Daddy. Daddy was scary when he got angry, and he got angry a lot since he came back from being an army man, especially when he drunk that icky-smelling stuff from the brown bottles that made Mommy sigh and pinch up her face like a prune.
While creeping down the hall he caught a flash of movement behind him. He sprang awkwardly to his feet and turned around, pillowdown soft pink lips parting in a gasp of terror. The hallway mirror showed him a freckled boy with a cloud of yellow hair and startled blue eyes; a boy who was small even for a five-year-old, with a fringe of babyfat around the curve of his belly, visible like a slice of moon beneath the hem of his palm-tree pyjama shirt, which was small even for a small five-year-old. Mommy had been saying it was time to buy the boy some new PJs, but Daddy always said there wasn’t any money for it. Maybe Santa would bring him some, though. He hoped not. He didn’t mind that his tummy showed and liked it when Daddy kissed it and blew on it, even if his chin was kind of scratchy in the evenings, and besides, he wanted a cool present, not stupid PJs.
He stuck out his tongue at the stupid reflection and continued on his way. When he reached the hall table that stood outside the living room his heart gave a giant leap and bound. This was where they had left Santa’s cookies.
Mommy had been annoyed about having to make them, but Tommy had wheedled and moaned, scared that if they didn’t put out milk and cookies, Santa would be angry and not give him any presents. In the end Daddy had put his foot down and told her to shut up and bake the cookies.
But now they were gone. The plate held only a mess of crumbs, the glass a creamy white film down one side. His heart jumped again. That meant—
He tiptoed, if possible, even more silently than before, to the door of the living room, and paused just outside to listen. Sure enough, he could hear someone inside—deep, huffing grunts and groans, like a man moving something heavy.
Tommy smothered a giggle in his chubby hand. He must be coming down the chimney, and of course he’d have to squeeze and wriggle to get through cause of that big fat funny tummy of his. Tommy had the same trouble getting into his clothes sometimes. He patted his moonbeam belly thoughtfully. Then he gripped the doorframe with all the strength in his stubby five-year-old fingers, wishing with all the power in his puny five-year-old heart, and looked inside.
He was wearing red clothes with a white fluffy trim and a floppy pointed hat with a pom-pom on the end, and even though he didn’t have that much of a tummy, he had a long, curly white beard, just like all the pictures showed. The only thing funny was the teddy-bear that was sort of sitting under his tummy, like it was stuck there, though Tommy didn’t see how.
As he watched, Santa lifted the toy up and down, up and down, over his crotch, his legs slightly bent, making more grunting noises as he did so.
‘Watcha doing, Mr Santa?’ Tommy asked. He didn’t know grown-ups liked to play with teddies, and he’d never seen the kind of game Santa was playing.
Santa turned around and made a sound that might have been a word or might not have been. If it was, it was a word Tommy didn’t know. Then he said, ‘Hello, Tommy.’
As he moved toward him the teddy in front of him bobbed up and down like he was nodding hello as well, and Tommy giggled.
Santa’s eyes were very dark, so dark Tommy almost couldn’t see the white in them, but he could see the twinkle that came into them when he laughed, like the small desperate flare of a Christmas light about to die.
‘Watcha doing out of bed, Tommy?’
‘Wanted to see my present’, Tommy answered matter-of-factly.
He batted at the bear, and the bear nodded back toward him, his black beads of eyes seeming to twinkle as well in the soft glow of the fairy lights strung around the room.
‘Is that my present?’ It was kind of lame. Didn’t Santa realise he was too old for teddy-bears?
‘It was going to be, Tommy. But you were too naughty. So me and the elves had to change it. Your new present’s inside.’
Tommy stared. ‘Naughty?
‘Oh yes you have. Don’t think I haven’t seen you—wriggling away or fussing when Daddy wants you to sit in his lap. And when you kisses you, you scrunch up your nose and turn your head away, and wipe your mouth, don’t you? That’s not what a good boy would do, is it?’
‘I don’t know’, Tommy mumbled.
‘And that’s not all, is it. You know what I’m talking about. Playing in your pants when you think nobody's watching. Touching your weenie and your butthole. I’ve seen you do it, Tommy. You’re just a regular little first-grade boywhore, aintcha?’
Tommy was overpowered by a hot flush that left him cold. He didn’t think anybody knew about that. But of course Santa knew; he knew all the secret naughty things little boys and girls did.
‘So you have been a naughty boy, haven’t you, Tommy?’
Tommy looked down, his lower lip sticking out and tears making silver crescents at the bottom of his eyes. ‘Yes, Santa’, he whispered. His teeny tinsel heart was breaking in two, thinking about all the wonderful presents he’d wanted and now wasn’t going to get; about how much he’d always wanted to meet Santa, and now Santa was upset with him.
‘And what do naughty boys get, Tommy’?’
'Um...’
'I'll give you a hint, Tommy. It starts with C-O.’
'Um. Coal?’
Santa smiled, sharp and sharkish. 'Wrong answer.’
With that, he took hold of the stuffed bear and ripped the toy in two before Tommy’s horrified eyes, his head going one way, and an arm and two paws going the other, his soft fluffy middle vaporised in a hail of white fluff. The tears were so thick now in Tommy’s eyes that it was a few seconds before he saw the thing that was left behind, the thing that must have been inside the teddy, holding him up. It was a very funny thing; it seemed to be in the same place as Tommy’s wee-wee, but it didn’t look a bit like it. It was long and thick and red, like a full Christmas stocking, and it came out of Santa’s pants just under his tummy and went straight up with a little bit of a curve toward, up, up, above his bellybutton.
What’s that, Santa’, Tommy said, awed by it, by its menacing throbbing hugeness, even though he didn’t know what it was. Looking at it gave Tommy kind of a funny feeling, in his tummy, and lower down, in the soft marshmallow cleft between his cheeks. It was only then that he noticed the state the room was in: decorations hanging askew, furniture knocked over, wood shattered, upholstery torn, and deep, wide gouges torn in the carpet and the walls and the moulding around the ceiling, like it had been mauled by a giant dog.
‘That’s my candy cane, Tommy. This is your present’
‘It don’t look much like a candy cane, mister.’
‘This is a special candy cane. Only very special boys get to see it. It can make sweet sugar syrup come out the end, see?’
And sure enough, there was a clear fluid steadily pulsing out an oval-shapes hole at the end. More and more seeped out as Tommy watched, long strings dipping down and breaking to make clear globlets on the carpet.
‘Am I apposed to lick it?’ he inquired seriously, sticking a finger in his mouth.
‘No, Tommy. Only good boys get to lick my candy-cane.’
‘Oh.’ Tommy wasn’t that disappointed. Now that it was almost touching his face, it smelt kind of funny, kind of heavy, like the scent was battering against his face, trying to push its way inside him.
Santa reached down and pulled Tommy’s hand away from his mouth, scraping his finger a little on his tiny milk-teeth.
‘You’re going to eat it.’
‘Eat it!’ Tommy’s eyes went round like blue moons. ‘I can’t eat that thing, Mr Santa. It won’t fit in my tummy; I’ll be sick.’
‘Or rather’, Santa continued, as if he had not spoken, ‘I’m going to fuck your throat with it. To begin with.’
It was not possible for Tommy’s eyes to get any wider without them falling out of their sockets. ‘You said a bad word, Santa.’
‘You’re going to hear a lot of bad words tonight. That’s because you’re a bad boy, and I’m gonna talk to you the way little scum-sucking sluts like you deserve. Now, open your mouth-cunt wide as you fucking can, or I’ll pull out every one of your little baby teeth.’
To this Tommy had no answer. He had never heard anybody talk this way before, not even Daddy when he had been drinking the bad stuff out of the brown bottles. He didn’t understand most of it, but he felt the words like stinging slaps. He felt as if he had been lifted up by his ears and was floating somewhere in the ceiling. He felt the menace of the house, which he had forgotten in his excitement, suddenly press in upon him like a hundred clawing hands. And he realised, inching slowly backwards, that sometime while he hadn’t been looking the door had swung shut behind his back, closing off its reassuring rectangle of light, and he was standing in the dark.
Santa stroked his candy-cane with a huge hairy hand, and stroked Tommy’s face with the other and Tommy could only let him, paralysed with a mounting fear that as yet had no clear source.
‘Look at it, Tommy. Get a good look while he’s still outside you. From now on, this is your GOD. And He demands your worship.’
'But God’s in heaven.’
‘Not tonight. Heaven is empty and the All-Seeing Eye is blind. But you’re gonna be in hell when He comes into your soft little heart.’
Santa fisted GOD in meaty, rolling motions, and the goopy candy-syrup shuddered out of GOD’s wet, sideways mouth in thickening streams, slopping to the floor with an acidic sizzle.
‘Now, get down on your knees and pray not to die before I’m done with you.’
His hand came to rest on Tommy’s head, forcing him down under an irresistible weight; Tommy’s short legs crumpled underneath him like papier-mâché props and he knelt. As he did so, all the fairy lights around the room winked out one by one, leaving no source of light. Yet somehow he could still see Santa, as clearly as by the light of a full moon, though there was no moon that night. It was as if even the darkness was repelled by him, rolling off the bright blood-redness of his clothes and the GOD between his thighs, lit by its own infernal heat.
Santa hooked a hand in corner of his mouth and pulled it open, bringing the round, sticky head of his candy-cane in and shoving it brusquely against Tommy’s lips.
It was like the worst part of being at the dentist, the part where the tears could no longer be restrained and Tommy knew with deathly certainty that if the man didn’t stop his mouth would tear right in two, just rip from the corners right up to his eyes.
Then the thing pushed in, past his lips and his teeth, and now it was like bobbing for apples, only this apple was being shoved right between his teeth and down his throat. It couldn’t go in, it couldn’t fit; it was too big and Tommy’s mouth was too small—all of him was too small; he didn’t think there was enough free space anywhere in his body to take in a candy-cane of that size.
But Santa Claus did not seem to realise this (or maybe, said a scared little voice in Tommy’s mind that was starting seriously to panic, he knew but didn’t care, didn’t mind if he broke Tommy punishing him for his naughtiness) for he kept on pushing, now with his hands clamped on both sides of Tommy’s head, covering his face completely, smothering his mouth and nose in sweaty palms. There was a pop that made him light-headed and then, like a demonic miracle, it was in, bulging out his flushed-pink cheeks.
Santa didn’t give him even a second to adjust. The fat, salt-tasting girth scrubbed across his tiny pink tongue, bashed in the backdoor of his mouth and bulldozed its way down his throat, layering bruises and scrapes over the supple virgin lining, forcing its way further and further down until Tommy felt it squeezing its way between his lungs and jabbing at the entrance to his stomach.
It wasn’t made of candy at all. It was made of meat—raw, rank, throbbing meat that made Tommy gag so bad he thought he might throw up, except it didn’t have anywhere to go. It was like he was trying to suck down an elephant’s trunk and his throat spasmed around it like the worst coughing fit imaginable, except nothing could really escape, his mouth was stuffed so full. Santa dragged his thing in and out, feeling like it was taking the lining of his stomach with it each time it pulled back and as he really started to piledrive it in, he lifted Tommy up by his head, till his toes were barely brushing the carpet, and he hung limp like a ragdoll as Santa destroyed his throat.
With the enormous pressure on his lungs, it was almost impossible to breathe, even in the brief moments when Santa pulled back enough so his nose wasn’t crushed into his groin, so it could drag in a few snorts of dank, crotch-scented air. Tommy’s vision got dimmer and dimmer as the man battered and bashed his thing into his face, yet somehow Santa’s black eyes only burned brighter and brighter as he thrust faster and faster, churning up a froth of spit and snot from Tommy’s mouth and nose as he pummelled the vast horrible thing down his aching throat again and again.
After what seemed like an eternity of this, he pulled Tommy in very close to his body, mashing his nose into wiry black hair and tickling his eyes with the white fluffy fringe of his jacket. The fat meat-GOD inside his gullet strained and jumped against the thin membrane of his airway, as if trying to tear through and Tommy could hear—he would swear he could hear it—the rattling gurgle of something boiling up inside the man’s body.
His balls drew up, the hairy orbs jumping under Tommy’s chin. Tommy whimpered, pushing his soft little hands against his gut, trying to get free. The man groaned and something that had the texture and temperature of hot tar flooded the short space between the head of the man’s thing and Tommy’s stomach.
It didn’t feel like drowning; Tommy was drowning, for the several minutes it took the man to unload all his special sweet candy-syrup (though it wasn’t sweet at all; it was salty and bitter and spicy at the same time, like the world’s yuckiest sauce) into Tommy’s gut, pulling out to spew a few thick splodges over Tommy’s face, sticking his lips together, gumming his hair into paintbrush strands and clogging his nostrils for several terrifying seconds in which Tommy came perilously close to passing out.
‘Okay. Phase one of the punishment is done. Phase two commencing—now.’
Santa picked him up under the armpits and whispered huskily in his ear. ‘This is the fun one. For me, anyway—ho, fucking ho.’ His breath smelt like cookies and death.
Tommy couldn’t help coughing up a wad of globby syrup and the man threw him down in disgust. He landed hard on the threadbare carpet, the impact dislodging more slimy gobbets of grey-white sauce. Then Santa was on him again, gripping his hips and lifting them.
He was dimly aware of his pajama bottoms being ripped away, his hips gripped in rough hands and hoisted upwards, his legs efficiently tucked under his quivering body, his buttcheeks thumbed apart to present his hole to the evil presence he could not see but whose invisible glare seemed to penetrate into the core of his being. Then Santa's knees hit the floor with a heavy thud, shuffling in close to press against his legs.
His thighs were bare, and like his hands coarse with wiry bristles and Tommy shivered as they rubbed against him with unwelcome intimacy.
Why was Santa undressing him? Only Mommy and Daddy was supposed to do that, he knew. Daddy had spanked him several times for being naked in front of other people, especially other boys. Was Santa going to spank him? Gee-whizz, that would hurt a lot. Tommy braced himself, pre-emptively clawing at the carpet, determined not to cry like a big wuss.
But it was not Santa's hand that descended on his butt.
A firm round weight like a baseball, but warm and sticky, came to rest against his pucker. It throbbed there, seeming to grow, then shrink, with every frantic beta of his heart. The pulses flowed into Tommy’s body, and made it throb, resonating with GOD’s unholy rhythm. His face was tacky with spit and the gooey white stuff, and his smooth pudgy thighs were slick with fear-sweat.
Try as he might, Tommy could not fathom what Santa was now going to do to him. Was he going to spank him with his candy-cane?
He's going to put it inside me and break my butt just like he broke my mouth, said a small, quiet voice in Timmy’s head, calm because it had come to the uttermost end of terror. But Tommy ignored that voice, pushed it aside and trampled it down. There was no way that was true. No way ho-zay. It was impossible. He’d have to slice Tommy open with an apple-corer just to get it in.
But Good Saint Nick, who had a career squeezing himself and heavy sacks of presents down the chimneys of millions of homes all around the world to stuff his gifts into little children’s eager, waiting stockings, did not truck with such mundane concepts as impossibility.
‘Prepare to meet your GOD, Tommy. Because your butt, your gut, your upper and lower intestine—hell, maybe even your heart and lungs as well—are about to get very well-acquainted with Him.’
Tommy flung his hand behind him in a futile gesture of refusal, but Santa seized it by the wrist and pinned it up on his back, using it as a lever to get a better angle into Tommy’s small body.
‘Decent of you to give me a hand, Tommy-boy.'
He yanked back hard on Tommy’s arm, so violently his shoulder was almost dislocated. The stiff heat at his butthole started to move forward, inward, so huge it felt like it was trying to stuff his entire butt back inside his body.
The living room seemed to have become an echoing tunnel which Tommy was trapped at the end of, pants down and butt spread wide open for the train that was booming down toward him, about to drive right
IN
In so much and so deep so fast for the moment Tommy was annihilated. There was only a Platonic form of pale preteen fuckmeat spasming around a pillar of meat almost as long as its torso, limbs jerking epileptically as his asshole was not so much penetrated as removed deeper into his body. Much deeper.
When he returned tentatively to himself he found that where his internal organs had previously resided, there was a vast mass of alien flesh, firm as an iron rod but pulsating with an evil life of its own. The cookie-cutter-crinkled muscle of his ass-ring was stretched to atom thinness, nothing but a tight ring of agony. Once more he could barely breathe, now from the throbbing pressure of the huge fat awful thing pressed under his lungs.
‘Now your real punishment can begin’, Santa groaned. ‘Holy fuck, I’ve wanted this.’
The only thing that stopped, or rather delayed, him at first, was the sheer tightness and smallness of Tommy’s body, cramped all along his length. But by sheer force of fucking, this was soon overcome.
With a hiss, Santa started to painfully withdraw, and as he did so he seemed to draw Tommy’s mind with him, hauling it out through his butt until it floated free, sticking somewhere on the ceiling, looking down at what was happening below.
He saw the huge, hulking form of a man hauling on his arm like with one hand and using the other to smush his face into the floor, forcing his back into a spine-snapping arc as he rammed the huge rod between his legs into him over and over again, driving it straight down inside him mercilessly. He saw Santa shift positions and crush him flat to the floor with his weight, forcing his legs apart at a broken-looking angle, and really hammer in, huge meaty thighs slapping against the little boy’s puddingy butt so fast it jiggled like jello. It would almost have been funny if he didn’t know (much as he tried to convince himself it was some other little boy he was watching) that it was happening to him.
Tommy saw it all, the heavy furred eggs that hung tight and full below the man’s huge thing thudding against the little boy’s soft underside, the frozen expression of terror on his face, the immense, stupefying length that vanished again and again into the boy's petite, trembling form.
He smelt the man’s heavy musky scent that wasn’t anything like what he’d thought Santa Claus would smell like, and the raw, ripped-up smell of his innards. And blood. Oh GOD, he smelt the blood.
The man grunted and shoved in all the way, doing a little shimmy with his hips to nestle his candy-cane right in, as far in as it could go, all the hideous immensity of it somehow hidden inside Tommy’s tiny body—hidden except for the sickening bulge that extended well above his bellybutton.
The boy spasmed and jerked like he was having a seizure. The shadows in the room fell very long.
Then Tommy was in himself again and oh Jesus, oh GOD, it was like somebody was playing baseball inside his body and every hit was a home run, right into the soft beds of his organs. It hurt so bad he couldn’t even cry anymore; his mouth gaped soundlessly, a pink hole of pain.
But no one came.
Except GOD.
Punching a fist down between Tommy’s shoulderblades in an effort to rip the too-tight cunt-toy off his girth, he wrenched his stick out with a savage pull. It tore up out of his hole and twitched as it unloaded a sea of viscous fluid over Tommy’s back, so much it pooled between his shoulder blades and waterfalled down over his butt.
Slowly, excruciatingly, Tommy’s hole attempted to close itself and Tommy’s mind attempted to come to terms with the destruction that had been wrought upon his young body. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t hurt worse than a spanking with a thousand slippers, or with the belt with the buckle.
Perhaps, fortunately, he did not have time for rumination, for Santa picked him up again, slamming him down on the coffee-table with a crack that made half of Tommy’s face go numb, even as his GOD-stick slammed back into his gory hole with a smack that was like a noise from an abattoir.
He pounded him face down for a while, then shifted him so he was lying on his side and GOD was hurtling into him at a right-angle. This would have been better, since Tommy’s face wasn’t being ground into the glass tabletop, except this way, Santa’s thing stabbed straight into his stomach, the outline of the flared head clearly visible even under Tommy’s layer of chub, distending it so far Tommy’s crescent moon was in danger of turning into a blood moon any minute. His wails hadn’t abated one decibel in the whole of this ordeal. But somehow nobody—not Daddy, not Mommy, heck, not even the neighbours, though they must surely be able to hear his screams—had come to his rescue. He was all on his own in the dark with GOD burrowing into his preteen guts.
Then GOD came again and it was like an acid rain falling inside him, somehow, spraying him like a fire-hose of hot coffee and oh he writhed and wriggled but couldn’t get free, couldn’t get off the punishing length of GOD, not even by an inch.
Then Santa let go of him, at the same time shoving in so hard he sent the boy skidding over the table, thumping into the couch halfway across the room. GOD felt like it took half of Tommy’ with him leaving his guts, but oh, the relief to be free of the awful crushing weight and scorching heat.
Tommy pushed himself up on his hands, snivelling, head spinning. Santa leisurely walked toward him, skirting the coffee table, sack jiggling, huge Godmeat bouncing jubilantly, daubing the carpet with long stringy dribbles of Godly goop and Tommy’s blood. Tommy, legs to shaky too stand, gave a little cry of fright, and scrabbled over the carpet, trying to push himself away.
He tried to get to the door, behind which was the hallway, and then his bedroom, and Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom and their bed, where he could dive under the covers and not come up till the monster was gone. But though he crawled as fast as his broken body would carry him, somehow the door never got any closer and he kept crawling in circles, ending up where he started.
The room seemed to have become a thicket crowded with the unseen shadows of trees, and there was only one path back to the foot of the enormous, ancient pine that loomed higher than the roof the house, glaring balefully from its hundred beady eyes and bristling its cruel black branches.
Tommy, panicked almost to the limits of his fragile child’s mind, did the only thing he could think to do. He climbed the tree.
The needles, sharp and resiny even though before the tree had only been plastic, stabbed and cut at his hands, his face, his legs, his belly, his balls and winkie as he climbed, but it couldn’t be worse than the punishment of GOD, so he whimpered and climbed higher, slobbering bloody gouts of Santa-seed over the branches below him.
He’d made it about halfway up when Santa came up behind him, quite leisurely and took him by the hips. He pulled Tommy back toward him, but Tommy clung on with all the strength he had left, twisting his legs and arms around the Christmas tree, determined not to let go no matter what, even if he pulled his arms and legs right off.
Santa laughed and said, ‘Works for me’, and then Tommy felt that horrible hard GOD nosing in stickily between his cheeks, forcing its hugeness back into his stretched, bleeding, half-destroyed guts.
He gazed up through stinging eyes toward the sparkling angel sitting perched so primly at the top of the tree, silently pleading with her to save him, begging for a Christmas miracle to end this nightmare of torment, promising to be a good boy forever from now on, if only the hurting would stop. But she winked at him and then lifted her skirt to show that her wiener was hard too, and unleashed a stream of shimmering silver pee that stung his eyes like wasps.
‘I’m gonna put my milk in your little cookie, boy’, Santa crooned in between huffs and animal growls of triumph. ‘So much milk it’ll be coming out your little slut ears.’
Tommy was determined he wasn’t going to let him put that nasty poison stuff in his butt again, and the next time Santa hauled his fat fleshpole out again he let go of the tree.
The fall to the floor forced out an agonising cry, as his poor semi-crushed innards were jolted painfully together. But he forced himself to his feet and ran as quick as his wobbly legs could carry him to the door.
Santa let him go a little way, then he tackled him to the floor as if he’d been a full-grown football player instead of a puny five-year-old. He lay down behind him, pulling Tommy back against the brazen bulk of his body, lifting Tommy’s leg with one hand and shove several acrid-tasting fingers in his mouth with the other. The fierce red pillar of GOD nudged up between his splayed legs and then it was inside him again.
Now Tommy was numb, at least as far as movement went (though he could feel every movement IT made inside him, every second of grinding agony). He lay there, taking it, not even trying to fight or run or struggle. There was no point. Everything was pain. All he could do was what for his punishment to end.
Finally Santa hunched in deep, his sweaty balls grinding between Tommy’s soft thighs, and he dispensed more of the boiling syrup deep into his guts. Tommy hardly felt it this time; all his insides were a lake of fire. It was just more fullness, more disgusting, defiling wetness.
While it was still coming Santa pulled out, rolling Tommy up into a ball like an aardvark and shuffling into him, letting the huge thing, longer than Tommy's balled-up body, jerk out the last of its sticky loud all over Tommy’s face and hair and neck.
‘Phew. That was fun, boy, but I’m not having you do that again.’
The fairy lights were back on, now, Tommy noticed dully, but they were all red, like the eyes of evil things waiting ravenous in the dark to devour whatever meagre scraps Santa left of him. Santa pulled down a string of them, and they came off the wall like a band-aid tearing off a wound. He crossed Tommy’s wrists over behind his back and used the strong of lights to tie them together, then did the same with his legs, folding them up over his torso and thing his ankles together with a loop behind his neck, so he was trussed up like a turkey, ready to be stuffed.
Now Santa could really go at him—all tied up like a parcel of warm white meat he could ram his girth into as fast as he pleased, at any angle he pleased, without any resistance.
But before he resumed pulping Tommy’s organs, he took another string of lights from off the tree and wrapped him around the enormous girth of GOD. It took a whole line of them to spiral up around his candy-cane. He smacked his now-sparkling rod against Tommy’s face a few times, speckling it with candy-juice, and then viciously crammed it back inside him.
The enormous length seemed to lift Tommy’s stomach with it, shoving it up into his lungs, making acid bile fill his throat. His tummy hurt so bad, he was gonna puke, he was gonna puke, he wanted to, but nothing could get out, not even his screams.
A few times he pulled it out and scrubbed the length over the red inflamed wound that had been Tommy’s butthole, the lights catching now and then in the puffy ring and burning it with an audible sizzle.
Then he stuck it back in, and, rather than turning Tommy around before when it would have hurt less, he slowly wrenched him around while pinned on his hard rod, until he was facing outward, GOD now stabbing up as if trying to break through his spine. He could feel the little beads of glass scorching his insides in points of fire, like the stabs of a needle all up and down his inner walls. Just when he thought it couldn’t hurt anymore—but every time thought this he discovered new depths of pain, as GOD discovered new depths of his body, plundering him deeper and deeper, leaving not one morsel of tender boyflesh unscathed.
He tried to get out of his head again, but it wouldn’t go, he was trapped there, trapped between the black throbbing and the cruel GOD ravaging his body.
Santa picked him up and shuffled along the floor, pulling him down onto his staff with firm remorseless motions of his muscular arms. He carried him effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing, as if no more than a doll made for his weapon to ruin.
The door opened and out in the hall, over the plate where a lifetime ago Tommy had carefully arranged a plate of cookies and glass of milk, there was a mirror. Santa stopped in front of it. The glass was speckled with dull blotches and cracked in one corner, with ratty green tinsel all round it. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see, but Santa held him around the waist with one arm and the enormous stiff piston of GOD hilted in Tommy’s body like a piece of steel rebar in concrete, and used the other meaty hand to open Tommy’s eyes, lifting up his lids so there was no escape from the sight.
And what a sight.
His tiny little boy-wiener, swollen somewhat from the relentless pressure inside his butt rather than from any semblance of pleasure, flapped forlornly as Santa’s GOD caved in his cheeks and stuffed all its iron length inside his secret places, streaks of white and red slobbering down the fluted shaft, smearing over Tommy’s buttcheeks. He was pulling it out almost all the way to the tip, then slapping it back up inside Tommy with such ease it was impossible to believe even though Tommy could see it, could see it and couldn’t look away. Could see the dark shape of GOD burrowing up through body like a gopher in a cartoon, right up between his straining pink nipples.
Santa was huffing and puffing and moving as fast as Tommy could blink. Blink. In. Blink. Out. Scream. Breathe. Silence.
‘Mommy’, Tommy sobbed hoarsely, finding that shredded remnants of his voice again. ‘Mommy, Mommy’, but Mommy didn’t answer, couldn’t hear, so must be dead, he thought desperately. The whole world must be dead, that was the only explanation for why no one was helping him. Dead except for him and this monster in red clothes and the pom-pom hat.
‘You wanna see Mommy?’ Santa husked. ‘I’ll show you fucking Mommy. Let’s go see Mommy, Tommy, old bitch, old boy. Let’s go see her together. Let’s show what Santa’s stuffed up your little slut-chimney.’
Santa stomped down the hall, fee-fie-foe-fum, the giant impaling little Jack on his beanstalk with murderous energy, the shadowy patches no longer creaking but yammering with delight to see Tommy’s destruction. The life was bleeding out of Tommy now and his vision was dimming once more. He wasn’t even sure if they would make it to Mommy’s room. He knew with absolute certainty he would die. There was no way all the doctors in the world could fix all the things Santa had broken inside him. His insides felt goopy, like there was just a kind of soup left where all the important stuff had been. He was all mashed up like potatoes and whipped with cream. Even his heart was beating funny, he could hear it, an irregular rabbit patter almost drowned out by the much deeper throbbing of the prickhead just under it.
It was the tunnel once more, only vertical, a long pit with the light at the end bursting upward in violent penetrating lunges, then retreating again. Tommy saw things only in those flashes, now, with long intervals of throbbing, pounding red dark in-between (but the pain was there all the time, and the inescapable consciousness of his own irreparable ruination), but was aware enough to know at some point they were climbing the stairs, Santa thrusting in on each step, his huge balls thwacking painfully against Tommy’s tight swollen testes, each about the size of a hazelnut, whereas Santa’s were at least the size of grapefruit, with loud splatting thuds. He held Tommy close to his massive body, which, like the GOD he bore, seemed somehow to have only become bigger through the night. Or maybe Tommy had just shrunk. There wasn't much left of him at this point; just a thin layer of skin and spunk stretched over a vast mass of dickmeat.
Santa gnawed at Tommy’s face, mostly around the mouth, in a kind of mockery of a kiss, puncturing right through his tongue with a long hooked tooth. At the top of the stairs he slung him over the banister, driving into him with greater fury than ever before. Tommy could feel his cheeks splitting apart on the vast horrible thing, then the whole of him up to his chin, rubbing the layer of tissue between it and the wooden railing so hard and fast Tommy was terrified it would wear right through. It hurt like the worst Chinese burn ever, and he wished Santa would just punish him the old way, because every new method of torment he devised hurt so much more than the last.
‘Feels—so—fucking—good’, Santa gasped. ‘God, thank you, Tommy. Thank God you were a naughty little rapebait brat of a boyslut, because, fuck, even if you had been the goodest little boy there ever was, and begged every man in the fucking neighbourhood to rape you to within an inch of your worthless first-grader life, I would still have done this. You hear that, boy? You fucking deserve every shred of agony you’ll live with the rest of your life, but even if you didn’t you’d still get it, because boys with hair and eyes and tight pink holes like yours deserve to be raped every fucking day of their whore lives until they're fucking DEAD.’
Tommy could hardly hear what Santa was saying, let alone decipher it. His whole head was pounding if anything worse now than his hole, which he couldn’t even feel anymore (and probably wasn’t even there anymore). He was choking on his own blood and the thick chunks of Santa’s stocking-juice which were still lodged in his oesophagus.
Maybe Santa was afraid he really was about to snuff it before the grand finale, because he hoisted him up again, and staggered toward the master bedroom, thrusting into him deep and hard all the way, treading unsteadily, as if stumbling against his own overwhelming pleasure.
Tommy didn’t like Daddy’s bedroom, since the only time Daddy took him in there was to belt him or cuddle him (or one after the other or both at the same time), and usually when this happened the sheets his face was mashed into smelt funny, and sometimes were kind of damp and sticky. Sometimes when Mommy and Daddy were in there together Tommy heard funny noises too, like they were playing some kind of dumb adult game.
But now he wanted to go there more than anything, for the thought had possessed him that this was all some awful bad dream, and if he could only get to Mommy and Daddy he would wake up and everything would be all right again.
They moved forward, humping, hunching, huffing man, squirming boy, rippling muscle and rending flesh.
Rather than knock or turn the handle, Santa used Tommy’s head to bash the door ajar. When the leering stars in his eyes shrieked cackling away, Tommy opened his mouth, ready to yell as loud as his bashed-in prunes of lungs would let him.
The shout puttered out of him in a pathetic whimper, jolted out of him by the fat head and miles of thick shaft behind stabbing right for his heart. The sound fell lead-weighted in the suffocating silence, dying without an echo.
All Tommy’s few lingering hopes died with it.
Daddy couldn’t save him; Daddy wasn’t there. Mommy was asleep, and when Tommy cried out to her, she only frowned and turned over on the other side. He was forsaken, abandoned to the judgment of the good Saint, and the tearing teeth of night.
‘She won’t wake up’, Santa panted. ‘She’s taken her magic potion. She’ll—hnnhh, fuck!—sleep all night, sound as a fucking rock. Won’t hear a fucking thing, no matter how loud you scream, dumb little cunt.’
And as if to prove this, he walked right over to the bed, and climbed on top of it, Tommy slung beneath him like some perverted marsupial’s young, impaled firmly on GOD despite his kicking legs and clawing hands.
‘You want Mommy?’ Santa whispered. ‘Go to Mommy’
He let go of Tommy’s hips, let him fall forward onto his mother’s body, the painful wrench of his still-impaled length against Tommy’s abused innards this caused eliciting a high-pitched shriek.
Santa punched his punishment tool in again with renewed brutality, making the bed squeal almost as loud as Tommy, the headboard banging against the wall, laying stroke after savage stroke along the passage of Tommy’s innards. ‘Let it out, boy. Scream loud as you fucking want. See who comes. I tell ya, it won’t fuckin be her.’
But still Tommy begged and moaned, kissing and pawing at her unresponsive face, unable to believe his mother couldn’t hear him, couldn’t feel in her own body each bone-splintering thrust of the fleshy deity that had become his doom.
It was truly alive now, he could feel it, expanding up and up into his throat, writhing around like a squid’s tentacle, but iron-stern and scaly and hot as the boiling baths Daddy used to make Tommy take with him. It was eating him alive. It was eating him from the inside out.
‘Mr Santa. Mr Santa, please don’t eat me. You said you’d teach me to be a good boy, but I can’t be a good boy if Mr GOD just kills me, so please, please take it out and let my go back to my room, I won’t tell anyone ever I promise.’
‘Mr Santa, pwease!’ the creature mocked. ‘Stupid fucking kid.’ Then, ‘God. God.’ Shuddering muscle and hands pinching into the soft flesh of his flanks, and mashing him against his mother’s soft, breathing but lifeless form, and spitting out violent stinging streams, what felt like an ocean of the black sugar-tar nectar of GOD, only this was alive too, and it was dissolving him like acid and here at last was blessed relief, because at least what was destroyed could no longer hurt.
Tommy could taste it in his tongue, could feel it filling his lungs and tainting every scrap of viscera in his body. He felt like he would start vomiting the stuff up into Mommy’s face at any moment, but Santa put his hands around his throat to close it off, able to wrap each one round almost all the way, crunching Tommy’s shredded windpipe between them. At the same time letting all his weight fall on Tommy’s battered body, pressing GOD in so deep the two grapefruit-globes felt about to slip in behind Him.
Tommy pressed one last goodbye kiss to his mother’s cheek, and the darkness swallowed him and he knew no more.
❆
‘Well, I slept well last night’, Mommy said, giving Daddy another pancake. ‘God, I haven’t had a sleep like that in ages. I’m surprised you didn’t wake me up, Tommy.’
‘I tried, mommy’, Tommy said sadly. ‘But Santa said were sleeping too hard, cause of the magic potion.’
Mommy gave him the look she always did when she thought he was being silly and didn't think it was funny.
‘Did you get a nice present, Daddy?’ he asked, because Santa told him he had to be extra nice to Daddy or he’d visit him again next year.
‘Yes I did, Tommy. I got the best present I’ve ever had in my life.’ Mommy smiled into her coffee. But Daddy wasn’t looking at her. He was looking straight at Tommy, smiling in a way that sent chills down his spine, though he couldn’t quite remember why. Somehow it reminded him of something. He looked back down at his pancake.
When he had woken up on Christmas morning he hadn’t remembered what had happened that night until the pain hit him like a dump-truck and he had to bite his pillow to keep from rousing Mommy and Daddy with his screams.
But everything in the living room had been just as it ought to be—and there, put back together with thread and tape, was the stuffed bear, reeking of the foul burning GOD-milk that Santa had drenched Tommy in, its two black eye-beads seeming to mock him malevolently, as if the teddy-bear remembered what had happened the night before, remembered and relished it. Even the candy in his stocking had been coated in the same slimy stuff, every last piece of it, the cloying foul fluid even getting inside the foil of the wrapped candies. There wasn’t a single piece that had been left edible.
‘What’s the matter, Tommy? You didn’t like your present?’
‘I…’
‘You should say thank you to Daddy, Tommy. Don’t be an ungrateful brat.’
‘I sorry, Mommy. I like it, Daddy.’
‘I know you do, snugglebutt.’ Daddy winked at him, but Tommy couldn’t muster up a smile in return, not even an appetite for the chocolate and blueberry pancakes Mommy had made. His mouth and throat hurt too much, like somebody had scrubbed them down with a belt sander. And his tummy still ached deep inside, like that horrible big candy-GOD of Mr Santa’s was still in there.
He’d tried to tell Mommy that, had run crying on unsteady bowed legs to her while she was opening the curtains in her bathrobe. She hadn’t even looked down at him until he’d started to wail, the pain of being ignored compounding the pain that shivered through his body.
‘Oh, for goodness—who hurt you, honey?’
‘Santa.’
‘Santa? Santa who?’
‘Santa Claus. It was last night—I went down to see the tree and—and I sorry for being out of bed, mommy, I know I wasn’t aposed to, but I just wanted to see Santa and he—'
But his mother was already pushing him away, exasperated. ‘Oh for crying out loud. I’ve told you before about making up stories like that, Tommy.’
And Tommy was left with his mouth hanging open dumbly, not knowing what to say to convince her it was real, it happened, literally right in front of her nose. If only he could show how hurt he was on the inside.
Across the table Daddy’s thin mouth split into a toothy upside-down alien smile and he used his long barbed tongue to pull in a pancake while Mommy wasn’t looking. The wet chewing sounds he made reminded Tommy of the noises GOD made inside his tummy, and he pushed his plate away with a trembling hand, trying not to puke.
Something slithery yet hard at the same time tapped its way along the underside of the table, rustled under his shorts and crawled up his leg, nimble as dancing fingers. Tommy could hear the seam of his undies pop. Mommy didn’t look up from her magazine.
Even though Daddy was on the other side of the and both his hands are on the table, and both his feet were on the floor, Tommy felt it was him, playing some inscrutable adult Daddy-joke. He wanted to tell him stop, to quit it, just cut it out, Daddy, it’s not funny and I’m real sore. But he knew that was silly, and that if he said it Daddy would be real mad and would pick him up and pull his pants down and fuck him over the table.
No. That was wrong, wasn't it? Beat him, that was what he meant. Daddies beat their little boys but they didn't fuck them, because that was against the law. They fucked their wives, but couldn't beat them, and they beat their kids, but couldn't fuck them. Wasn't that right? Tommy couldn't remember anymore what was right or wrong.
Mommy took away his empty plate and put down a plate of eggs in its place. Only they weren’t eggs, Tommy saw when he looked, but big puddles of the same horrible white candy-sap stuff that had stained all his orifices the night before. The yolks were two big yellow eyes that opened and winked at Tommy one by one, as he watched.
The tip of the crawling thing wormed between his buttcheeks, pressing hugely at his hole, and Tommy knew that if it went he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from screaming out loud.
But then Tommy blinked and whatever it was was gone, leaving only a hot sting in his butthole. And Daddy’s mouth was normal and he was eating his breakfast with his knife and fork, normally and everything was okay, it was fine, except for the hurting in his tummy and butt but that would stop, it had to eventually, didn’t it? It had to or—or…
Tommy got up from the table. He carefully carried (careful because of how much it hurt between his legs and how sore his arms still were) his plate to the sink and then his glass too.
When he turned around Daddy was watching him. He smiled and spread his legs expectantly.
And Tommy, though he dreaded what was to come, knew what he had to do.
He padded obediently over to Daddy’s chair, and climbed up his thick hairy legs into his lap, wincing a little when his sore butt hit the hard lump under Daddy’s robe. He put his arm around Daddy and tucking his head under his chin. ‘I love you, Daddy. I sorry for being a naughty boy’
‘That’s okay, baby-boy. That’s okay.’ Daddy’s hand trailed down his back to rub little circles between his buttcheeks, and it made Tommy want to run away or scream, but he didn’t, he stayed in Daddy’s lap even though it hurt so bad, because he wanted to be a good boy, he didn’t want it to happen again—he’d die, he was sure of it.
Tears wet his cheeks. Daddy didn’t say anything but he kissed them away, then kissed Tommy’s mouth, staining his lips with the salt. When he pushed his long thick wet tongue inside, Tommy’s whole tiny being throbbed with a memory he couldn’t quite remember, the taste pooling acrid like cigarette ash and sugar on the tip of his mind.
And when the knife came down to saw a little slit in the seam of his shorts he didn’t say anything. When the knife danced around the rim of his hole, the blunt serrated edge carving deep gouges of fire on the bruised, inflamed flesh, he wept, but silently and did not cry out or push away, not even when the slippery-hard thing came again, crawling, worming, gnawing at the tight tenderness of his hole, slavering for the moist interior of his pain-wracked body.
‘That’s a good boy’, Daddy said, grunting and grinning and thrusting up into Tommy with audible thick wet slap-sounds while Tommy wept, mouth gaped in a silent scream and Mommy hummed happily in the kitchen. ‘Fuck! That’s my good little fuckin boy.’