IT”S CHRISTMAS TIME, PRETTY BABY
This is the Black Orchid, my darlings, and have I got a Christmas Tale for you. I have Elvis singing Christmas songs on the CD player. “It’s Christmas, time, pretty baby and the snow is fallin’ down.” Nothing like Elvis to warm one’s blood. This is Christmas Eve, and I am waiting for my erotic encounter, with Le Jolly Old Elf, Himself, Santa Claus. After we finish our Tete a Tete, he is even more Jolly or in French, Tres Jolie. I think it important for you to know I can wrap my legs around my neck. This came in handy when I entertained a troupe of clowns from Cirque Soleil. Afterward, they tended to dally around doing flips in the air and such and I had to whisper to my acolytes, “Get rid of these clowns!”. Love is like an orchid: it wilts…
With Santa, I like to extend our mutual admiration society. It is seldom I have sexual congress with one of my peers, an immortal like myself. I remember last Christmas, when Santa was in a blue funk and I asked him why the malaise of spirit and he replied, “Frosty died.” I took him in my alabaster arms, and held his face against my breasts, and said, “We cannot always understand the ways of God. It was his time, Dear.” I think he felt somewhat comforted, and he rose to the occasion. Oh yes, he did.
Well, on with my story. I am so proud of my Christmas music. I have Lena Horn & Louis Armstrong reciting “The Night Before Christmas” and “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” with Boris Karloff narrating. I also have numerous other gems like Lou Rawls, Elvis, and the Jackson Five. And I want to tell you about the real Santa. The song, “I Saw Mommie Kissing Santa Claus” is fact not fiction. Dare I say it? Santa is a naughty boy, Dears! And I am glad of it. If I close my eyes I can see his massive Instrument in my mind’s eye.
I usually Christmasize my house on the Eve of Christmas by putting glowing white candles in all my rooms as Mon Claus likes a merry atmosphere, and he especially likes the orange light casting its beautiful shadows in a chiascuro pattern, and he likes the way my flesh takes on a golden, orange tinge. I cook apples and cinnemon to flood the house with a strong scent of happiness and peace and I tell my slaves to have the night off and go frolic and give each two thousand dollars. The Lord does not love “stingy”, my friends. At any rate, I decorate with spruce and holly berries on the fireplace mantle and the staircases. I think scent is very important in establishing a mood as is lighting. The spruce breathes its sharp, happy essence into the air. I bake his special yellow, apple cake and smother it in rum days before, and I also bake honey and cracked wheat breads so he will know I am domestic. However, I will say that the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomache: It is considerably lower down. If you would know the truth. I have a thirty foot tree in the main ballroom with one lone silver star on top, the Star of Bethlehem. Never mind how I acquired it. I shall not tell you as it embarrasses me. I also put little colored Italian lights and bubble ornaments on my tree. Faux foxes, squirrels and redbirds peak out between the branches and I must tell you that a very large part of me is the artist. I made my own ornaments, seashells painted Chinese red and metallic silver. On the pearly insides I put little sprigs of greenery with tiny candles or sometimes elves, reindeer, or angels. Little worlds inside shells. I love Christmas. Oh, yes I do. Sometimes I look in the red, green, silver and gold balls and laugh as I see my face reflected in the balls: It looks like I am a fat faced cupid blowing wind out of my mouth. This always makes me laugh and I laugh all the time, especially on Christmas. Tres Magnifique!
There are so many myths I must dispel about Santa. Yes, it is true that he visits each house leaving toys for the children, their heart’s desires. He does not enter by chimney: he has a magic key which opens all doors. The major myth about Santa is that he is androgynous, and uninterested in sex. This is blatantly untrue for I have seen his “Godhead” many a time. It is not that he fails to love his wife. It’s just that like all men, Santa, though an elf craves erotic excitement.
Let me tell you of my evening with Santa. Santa, true to legend does like milk and shortbread cookies and then he moves no to the Salignac and expensive cheeses which I feed him with my hand. I wear my dark, green velveteen, fur trimmed sheath with the breasts cut out, and as I feed him I keep my breasts level with his face that he may grab them as the fire of the brandy slides down his throat. My breasts are like two hard, little lemons and as I sit in his lap he sucks on them. We always start slow as he needs to unwind from his high pressure job. I know he likes my thigh high spiky patent leather boots, and darlings, it is true that patent leather does reflect up. I am a wry and seductive woman and I feel his excitement from under his red velvet pants. Yet, I do not surrender soon nor easy. A prize gotten too easy is worthless. I see lust exploding in his cerulean blue eyes and I draw back and magnify his lust ten fold as I put on Gregorian chants and strip down to my panties. I do a belly dance for him, a real belly dance I learned in Egypt while being a slave girl to the famed Nefertiti. I do move my body: I move the muscles in my stomache. I think I shall mention that my thong panties are made from raven feathers, ( a paen to my favorite author, Edgar Allen Poe). The sweat glistens on my silken limbs, and I feel the cold winter air coming in from an open window. I am at once, hot as molten lava inside, and chilled by the relentless breeze.
At the moment of absolute lust, Santa disrobes and sits on the white polar bear skin rug located on the floor next to the raging fire. I like the blue flame the most as it is the hottest. His hand moves so fast on his cock and cannot be seen by mortal eyes. I continue to resist, and keep on dancing until he releases himself as I caress my own body mimicking an orgasm. I might add, at this juncture that his elves are looking on, hungrily looking on at our darling little joining of spirits. I clean him up like a modest slave, then I slap him hard across the face, and in a lithe, cat like way, I drag my long talon like fingernails over his nipples, cutting to the quick. He becomes hard immediately, and sputters insults to me like “harlot, strumpet and whore”, and he slaps me back leaving a pink blotch on my cheek. And this thrills me as I mount him from the top, guiding our movement, soft and gentle interspersed with rough and wild. I am making him think I am like two women, one kind and loving, the other harsh, and violent. I am like an Escher drawing, cryptic, and unknowable. The violence of my thrusts pushes us both over the edge. And all reason and sanity eludes us as he melts into me like one lone, white candle eating up the darkness of my secret cave.
And from the deep barrel of his chest he roars, “Ho. Ho. Ho.”
And I say, “What, darling? An editorial comment at this stage in the game?
CAROL ANN writer of POEMS OF THUNDER @ Amazon.com & BN.com