Little Red Riding Hood’s Blazing Christmas Sin with Santa

Marie-Groseille slams the door shut behind her. Cold flees. Heat slams in. Fire roars in the hearth. Champagne bubbles on the low table. Petit fours gleam. The big armchair faces the flames. ‘Joyeux Noël, Mère-grand!’ She peels off red gloves, red cape, red coat, red pants. Moon-boots still cling to her feet.

‘Joyeux Noël, my child.’ The voice rumbles deep. Gravel and honey. She freezes. Not grandma’s rasp. She edges closer. Trips on wolf pelts. Arms flail. Strong arms catch her. Red suit. White beard. Eyes sparkle wicked. Santa Claus. Heart thuds. His grip burns through fabric. ‘Such eagerness, child. Gifts later.’ She stumbles upright. Flushed.

The Fever Rises

‘Where’s Mère-grand?’ ‘Out sledding with Mrs. Claus.’ Tracks in snow. Makes sense. He pours champagne. Golden fizz. She sinks into the facing chair. Sips. Bubbles burst on tongue. His eyes lock hers. Familiar. Piercing. White hair shimmers. Beard soft waves. Fingers itch to touch. Voice vibrates low. Talks year-round prep. Words stroke her core. Belly tightens. Heat pools.

More flutes. Head spins. She rises. Wobbly. ‘Fois gras. Galette.’ Wants to show. He chuckles. ‘Love those green moon-boots.’ Forgot them. Bends. Dizziness. Grabs chair. He kneels. ‘Let me.’ Large hands. Fingers long, thick. Palms swallow her boot. Peel it off. Foot tiny in his heat. Skin prickles. Second boot gone. Hands linger. Ankle. Calf curve through red stocking. Up. Skirts rustle.

‘Père Noël… what?’ ‘Feeling your dress. So soft.’ Hand dives under layers. Traces thigh. Stocking top. Bare skin. Fingers brush damp fabric. Heart hammers. Breath short. ‘Père Noël…’ ‘Hunting the butter pot.’ No butter. Today fois gras. Fingers part wet folds. Slide in. Hot. Slick. ‘Found the bean.’ She sways. Fingers circle. Press. Flick. Pleasure spikes. Hips rock. Bumps his face. Eyes command. Pull her deeper.

Into the Ashes

Fingers withdraw. She whimpers. Empty ache. ‘Cruel!’ ‘To peel you better, child. Layered like onion.’ Stockings slither down. Skirts pool. Corset unlaced. Chemise tugs free. Breasts bounce. Pale. Nipples cherry-red. His mouth claims. Sucks hard. Tongue lashes. She arches. Fire everywhere.

Wolf skins under her. Naked. His lips devour. Tongue invades. Licks inner thighs. Nips. Sucks clit. Fingers plunge pussy. Beard rasps skin. Waves of silk friction. Shudders rack her. Legs clamp his head. ‘Soft beard, Père Noël.’ He growls. No words. Pushes in. Cock massive. Stretches. Fills. Thrusts savage. Deep. Heart races. Skin slicks sweat. Possessed. Nails rake his back. Hips buck wild. Urgency consumes. No control. Only blaze.

Pounds relentless. G-spot hammered. Climax builds. Coils tight. ‘How… entered?’ Gasps between slams. ‘Chimney… child.’ Laugh rumbles. Pushes her over. She screams. ‘Joyeux Noël!’ Waves crash. Body convulses. Milks him. He roars. Fills her. Hot spurts.

Spent. He collapses atop. Weight pins. Breath syncs. Skin glows fever-hot. Lips brush beard. Sticky thighs. Heart slows. Fire crackles soft. Champagne forgotten. Fois gras waits. Galette too. Body hums. Burn lingers. Unique. Devoured whole. Reborn in ashes. She smiles. Danger tasted sweet.