Guess Who Stole Xmas 2019

I mean, of course, that whoever it was (you’ll find out soon enough), only stole my Xmas 2019. It would have gone viral and still been talked about had this occurred to everyone’s Xmas. But imagine if it had happened. This pandemic would have probably not transpired, and if it still had, it would have been beaten by this cat burglar. If this pussycat could have stolen Xmas from everyone, COVID-19 would have been a breeze, a cinch, a five-finger exercise.

Isn’t this too early? Xmas is still over two months away, some of you may think. I agree. But do remember, my favourite friends, foes, or indifferent figures, that it’s always Xmas when a woman becomes the topic. It’s, after all, the point par excellence. Yes! A woman stole my Xmas 2019. But a woman is Xmas, which you can celebrate all year-round providing (provided), of course, that a woman sympathizes with your plight and your prick. Santa is just a prop. But if a woman conceals her beautiful self underneath a Santa suit, even those that believe in Santa would prefer her Oh, Oh, Oh over his Ho, Ho, Ho.

Before I ferret through this Xmas story, I want to set one thing straight. Some of you may wonder at some point or another why I call the anus the anus and not the asshole. The anus is not an asshole. The asshole is the asshole. The anus can be cute, even pretty. No! Even beautiful! I’m almost teary typing about it. Of course, it can’t hold a bougie to the pussy: the Hawai’i of the woman’s body, the atoll that will never disappear, the I-need-to-get-me-some eternity. I like the sound of the last one. Pussy perpetually! Woman always! Can you imagine anything more beautiful than a woman?

Sandra! Let’s call her Santa, instead! Santa stole my Xmas 2019. At least that’s the story. The real Santa was nowhere to be seen. Even the Xmas tree looked dispirited. This is turning into a children’s story. Come on; M! Let’s call M, Mauricio, instead! Let’s do a little tally! There’s Sandra but she’s my Santa and there’s M but he’s Mauricio. No! He’s not Italian if it floated in your head. But Italian is my second favourite language; French is my third and the reason why he’s not Maurice. My favourite language, in case you’re still wondering, is Portuguese. Why didn’t I call him, Maurício, then? Because I don’t like that accent on the i. I don’t like accented words. It’s perhaps the reason why I don’t write much in French. I read it a lot, nonetheless. Who cares? You’re right. Back to Santa and Mauricio!

I met Santa after getting some groceries from a local supermarket. I actually met her in the parking lot in front of my car. I was putting the bags into the trunk when I heard her say that she liked the colour of my car. Thanks! I replied.

I always wanted a yellow car and this past year, I returned my previous white sporty one to the dealer and exchanged it for this yellow even sportier car. I only drove it once or twice a week to get my groceries and thus only reached less than 1,000 kilometres (620 miles) after a year. I work from home writing medical reports about various clinical trials and thus don’t need to drive to work or anywhere else except to get my groceries. I had very low mileage with my previous cars as well since I always lived only a few kilometres from work. I thus rarely faced rush-hour traffic. The dealers always looked happy when I returned the car after three or four years to exchange it for a new one. It’s part of the story.

Can I give you a lift somewhere? I asked Santa.

“My car is parked over there,” she replied, pointing to it.

I can follow you, then, I declared. I can give you the directions first and then follow you, I added.

“Directions to where?” she asked with a smile.

Anywhere, really, but I prefer my place where I can drop off these groceries and cook us a nutritious meal. I’m a good capable cook and you can take a peppermint bath while I prepare the food.

“What’s a peppermint bath?” she asked (she did).

I add some peppermint extract to the hot water just before you step in. It relaxes you and the smell is heavenly. Do you like peppermint?

“I love to drink it in a tea, but I never thought that it could be added to a bath.”

Oh, there are many things that you can do with peppermint. It can also replace many medications since it soothes and even heals many digestive and breathing issues. I have none.

“Wow!” she exclaimed.

I gave Santa the directions and followed her to my place. “Why didn’t she follow you?” you may ask. I simply refuse to have a woman follow me when a prick should always follow a woman. Come on! Don’t come on, me! I’m serious. Women are safer drivers. The statistics have been showing it for decades. You may have also forgotten that the supermarket was just a few kilometres away from my place. The directions were easy. Straight on Street X and a right of Street Y and my place is on the right. We were there within four minutes. She helped me with the bags even when I told her that I could easily manage by myself. I kissed her for that. She was a bit surprised but she kissed me back. I loved this Santa more than any other Santa whom I had ever seen or met, and that’s surely an understatement.

As promised (suggested), I prepared a peppermint bath for her, but we kissed again before and almost forgot about everything else. I may have put a bit too much of peppermint extract since she soon called out asking if it was normal for her skin to sting a bit. No! I replied. It’s the peppermint. I put too much. Please come out and I’ll prepare you a lavender bath instead! It’ll help you forgive me. She did, come out, allowing me to see some of her sexy skin (she barely held a towel around her) and prepare a new bath for her. And she forgave me. I still would have preferred the smell of peppermint. Not that there’s anything wrong with lavender. But peppermint is peppermint. I should write a story about peppermint: The Pepperminty Hip Dip or Deep Inside Pepperminty.

Santa was very good to me this year; 2019, that is. I was very good too; as far as I know, that is. Someone surely didn’t like me. I can at least sum up a score from my downhearted bloodline. Santa was perfect. She was all that Santa should be, plus so much more had Santa been a sexy woman. My Santa was stunning and she didn’t have to keep her Santa suit on for very long. Of course, there was no Santa suit. I only got to see her birthday suit. I need to stop for a minute. Please stand by! I actually stopped for a longer while. You can believe me.

Those images of Santa in the nude got my heart racing in the wrong direction. I had to drink some water with a few drops of peppermint. I felt better after a few minutes. My breathing was clear. I didn’t feel my stomach, which is the optimal state. But my heart was still somewhat racing, perhaps aware of the relays to come. Usually, I’m a good long-distance lover, but Santa seemed to be a marathoner. She came out of the bath relaxed and happy. We should all take a bath every other day. Showers have other advantages every other day unless one takes both every day. Lavender is a dependable substitute for peppermint, but, as you know, peppermint is king and queen.

She allowed me to leave her alone while I took a peppermint shower. Yes! You can even use it under a shower by adding it to the soap. I kissed her again before going in, asking her to make herself feel at home. Chez moi c’est chez toi, I had said (My home is your home). But it sounds much nicer in French, and it sounds as nice in Italian (Casa mia è casa tua) and Portuguese (Minha casa é sua casa). Obviously, three Latin-based languages. Yet, Shakespeare renders all these languages serenely lesser.

She had completed setting the table when I came out about fifteen minutes later. We kissed again, and again it seemed impossible, at least for me, to let go. I can eat food tomorrow, I must have thought. I rather eat Santa, even if she smells of lavender. What do they mean by the scent of a woman? Is it the perfume that she’s wearing or her natural aroma? I dislike most perfumes. I like the fragrance Santa’s Pussy.

She was hungry, so we ate, but I was already eating her in my head. It’s exciting to be sitting across or beside a woman. Every passing moment moves the sitters (those sitting) closer together until they end up on the sofa or a real bed. Any surface could be sufficient, but a large bed (king or queen) provides more space for maneuvers. I don’t like floors and I don’t like walls. A bed can play them both without the stiffness. Only the prick (and your tongue) should be stiff. Santa kept it stiff just by being Santa. After all, Santa was the manifest meaning of Xmas; its true representative. Even a cat could be made to wear a Santa suit.

She chose the sofa. We embraced. I could smell lavender in her hair. I kissed her senses. I started with her ears. Her eyes were next. Then came her mouth. I lingered there. Her neck was long and bare. Her breasts beseeched me to take notice. I gorged on everything they had to offer. A baby’s got it good. Her stomach was smoother than a shave. A baby’s got it good in there too. I closed my eyes to avoid first contact with her pussy.

“What’s wrong?” Santa asked.

I’m afraid to look at your pussy.

“Why is that?” Santa asked concerned.

I’m done for if it’s there.

“I know what you mean,” Santa tittered. “But it’s there. It’s all there.”

I know. That’s why I’m afraid.

“It’ll be good to you; I promise,” Santa said.

I don’t doubt it for half a second.

“I bet that you don’t. Yet, you’re afraid,” Santa said.

I’m afraid of what comes after.

“My ass?” Santa asked smiling.

Now I’m terrified. I’ll skip to your legs and later ask you to show me your back.

“So you’ll be leaving the best for last,” Santa said still smiling.

It looks that way. Is my car yellow? I only see purple. I must be in a haze.

“It’s still yellow and Hendrix was the best,” Santa said.

Yes, foxy Santa!

“Santa?”

You’re my Santa, Sandra, so I refer to you as my Santa.

“Oh my God! You are in a purple haze,” Santa laughed.

I thought that you said that it was yellow.

“The car, not your state!”

I know, Santa; I know. Can I call you Santa?

“You don’t like my name?”

Sandra is stunning, but Santa is staggering.

“I don’t mind if you call me Santa. But you know that Santa has no pussy.”

I know, Santa. He has no prick either, but remember that I’m still your little helper.

“I know,” Santa replied, laughing heartily.

A helper waiting

for Santa to deliver

all the little goods.

“Santa delivered some of them already and you surely helped,” Santa said still laughing.

However, the two that remain require at least a pound of sweat, I replied. Both lavender and peppermint can offset this type of wetness, but, of course, not the desired dampness of the pussy, not the ass. I closed my eyes again and asked Santa to show me her back. Santa silently assented. It was as smooth as her ass, save a Lilliputian spot on the left cheek, pointing imperceptibly to her silky circular anus. I dawdled there, trying out every combination, as if I was about to open a safe. It’s a curious site, the anus. Any inner exploration can be detrimental to one’s sense of place. Where am I? one may ask. In her ass, is the only sensible answer. In her ass!

Now to Santa’s pièce de résistance. It’s not her sled nor her suit nor the other presents she appends. It’s the irreplaceable (believe me, I tried) pussy. Just saying the word fills me with love and longing. Pussy! It’s a sacred word. Lucky cats! To think that dogs are mutts. Santa’s pussy was a work of art. Picasso would have cried. I was teary myself. Santa knew then why I closed my eyes. It was like looking at God. Santa’s pussy sent shivers down my spare spine. I have a special one for such occasions.

“Do I see tears in your eyes?” Santa asked with concern straddling her voice.

Tears of happiness, tears of joy; I’m looking at your last part, I imparted, spellbound, stunned. To think that there are those who only see the pussy for its reproductive worth. It’s actually an aspect that I’m blind to. I don’t see birth; I see girth. I don’t see life; I see my fife celebrating the beauty of a budding wife. I wouldn’t mind being married to Santa, I thought when my face met Santa’s ace. I must have the beginning of Alzheimer’s since I don’t remember a thing that happened during my encounter with Santa’s pussy. I only remember murmurs of mirth, yelps of euphoria, whispers of warmth. I just love yellow cars.

At some point, I carried Santa to bed. It was dark except for a night-table light that shone like Xmas morning after a good night. I was teary again when she left before noon, but she had promised to return very soon, and Santa doesn’t lie.