Dec 252006
 

I was on the phone with Wordslut, talking about what sex bloggers always talk about when they are horny — what we had posted recently.

“I liked your Dear Santa post,” I told her. “I was just a little surprised you addressed it to Santa.”

“Oh?” she said. Wordslut was using her sexy voice because we were talking about her blog. “Is there someone else I should have sent it to?”

“You should have addressed it to the real spirit of the season. You know, Santa Claudia, or Saint Claudia since she was Italian”

“Oh, is this a story idea?” Wordslut asked.

I sighed. “No, Santa Claudia is real. I can’t believe you’ve never heard of her.”

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She laughed. “Tell me about her, then. Should I get a dildo?”

“It’s not that kind of a story,” I said, but yet it was. “Years and years ago, there was a young woman who lived in Rome. This was during the Byzantine Empire, mind you. She was something of a flirt, but it was OK because she was discreet.”

“That sounds like fun,” Wordslut said. “So she had secret affairs no one knew about? Kind of like bloggers?”

“Yes, actually,”” I said. “She preferred soldiers because she was a great believer in peace, and she thought the greatest crime ever committed was sending a young man off to die before he had a chance to grow old. She was a radical for her time. She believed in love, not war, and she argued passionately that the warmongers should fight their own damn wars themselves.”

“Oh, I like that. You’re weaving in current politics,” Wordslut said. She still thought this was a story.

“Anyway, she fucked soldiers,” I continued. “She would sneak into their barracks any way she could. Sometimes she went through the windows, sometimes she wore disguises and sometimes she came down the chimney. Because she was a single woman from a good family, it was imperative that no one ever discover the gift she was giving these boys. She gave them the life-giving gift of sex and then snuck back into the night.”

“Wouldn’t the soldiers have just fucked prostitutes and their girlfriends before leaving home?” Wordslut asked.

“Oh, sure,” I said. “But sex with Claudia was not just sex. It was lust wrapped in the gift paper of true compassion. This was not just blow jobs and fucking against walls; this was sex that came from her heart as much as her libido.”

“Ah, OK,” Wordslut said. “So she was sneaking around and fucking soldiers. I take it she got caught one day.”

“Of course.”

“What happened to her then?”

“They killed her, of course,” I said. “She was a slut. She was corrupting the pure soldiers. She was a harlot who didn’t even need the money. They discovered it wasn’t just soldiers she was fucking — there were lonely single women, abused wives and husbands with shrewish wives. Claudia fucked everyone who she thought needed it. She was too much woman for her town, and she didn’t like war. She had to die. Not much has changed since then.”

“Well, I can see why you said it’s not a masturbation story; this is depressing.”

“Ah, but here comes the magic,” I said. “A year later, a year to the very night, all the soldiers in town were visited. Not just the soldiers either. Wives, husbands and certain single people were visited by a ghostly apparition in the middle of the night. Claudia still loved them, and her love was a rather personal and messy affair. For one night, they had their brains fucked out and knew that despite whatever shit they had been through that year, they were loved.

“The next day, people started to whisper and talk to one another. You can’t get fucked by Claudia and not be changed. Eventually, they figured out that she had visited them all. They say her sex was so powerful that it cured some of them of illnesses, while it gave others the courage to change their lives. The townspeople saw her as a saint, although obviously no church would ever call her one.”

Wordslut was excited. “Oh! So she’s a ghost who comes and fucks people on Christmas. How does that tie in with Santa Claus?”

“Every year, Claudia grew more and more powerful. She visited other towns and then other countries. People struggled to explain what happened, and they started telling stories. They said she lived at the North Pole because the idea of fucking a supernatural person who lived somewhere no one could ever check was more comforting than the thought of fucking a ghost. They hated the idea of her being alone, so they gave her elves, fairies and gnomes as company. The more ideas people came up with, the stronger Claudia became. People believed, and they believed that maybe she was right and this whole war thing was bullshit.

“Eventually, the church had to do something. The religious leaders made their own myth. First, they made him a man, and they got rid of that whole sex thing. Then they had to tie in a morality system of their own making, so they came up with that ‘naughty and nice’ crap. ‘Nice’ was what they said was nice; ‘naughty’ was more like Claudia. They borrowed the elves, the North Pole and the other bits, because hey, brand confusion is something the church had been doing for years.”

“So Santa Claus is a lie made to cover the fact that the real spirit of Christmas is a hot woman fucking for world peace?” Wordslut had that editor tone that I know so well. It was odd to hear her analyze the truth as if it were something that had too many loose ends. Then again, she still thought of it as a story.

“Pretty much,” I said.

“And how did you find out about it?” she asked.

“I grew up in Jacksonville, North Carolina. It’s a Marine town. Soldiers all over the world know about Santa Claudia.”

“Did she ever visit you?” Wordslut asked. “What does she look like? I’ll bet she’s a sexy redhead.”

“Claudia’s form shifts with the years. Expectations have changed her, but she doesn’t mind. She has the same good heart. Hell, by now she probably really does have a home at the North Pole, filled with perverse little elves who keep her wet all year round.”

“You didn’t say whether or not she had visited you,” Wordslut poked.

“She has,” I said. I didn’t say how or why. How could I put into words the sheer loneliness I felt the Christmas that my parents divorced and both of them said they had too much to worry about to take care of me? From my stepfather, I expected that, but for my mother to tell me that I was a burden at age 17 was hard to comprehend. None of my aunts or uncles could be bothered to take me in, and I spent Christmas on the couch at a friend’s house. Looking back, I can see that my family was ating no differently than ever, but that Christmas, all I knew was rejection.

Wordslut waited for me to describe it. “Am I going to have to wait for you to write it to find out about it?”

“Yes,” I lied. I could never write it accurately. You can’t put magic into words.

How do I describe that to me, Santa Claudia was a black woman, as dark as the cold December night? How can I describe how shocked I was to have her hands caressing my cock as I lay on that lumpy couch? As a dom, how can I explain how easily I surrendered to the moment and just let myself be loved and adored by a woman who wanted nothing more than for me to be happy? How can I say to Wordslut, one of my best friends, how much I would have given at that moment to be with Santa Claudia forever?

It frustrates me as a sex writer that I still can’t describe her as well as I would like. She was wearing the colors of Christmas, a red bra with white furry fringe that barely contained massive breasts that jiggled like a teenager’s. A crown of holly surrounded luscious black hair that shimmered like black ice. A red bow circled her neck as if she were a present given just to me. Green-and-white stockings clung to legs that seemed to stretch forever. I remember her red lips as they wrapped around my cock, but what I remember best is the dark-brown pools of her eyes that sparkled like stars in the dark living room.

And her pussy — her pussy was just magic.

“So is she still visiting people?” Wordslut asked. She was still working out the story.

“Yes,” I said. “Once you believe in her, once you really know that she is there and that she will always adore you, Santa Claudia will return. But only, only if you also believe in peace. She has no love for those with hate and bloodshed in their hearts.”

“Does she even visit married couples?”

I thought of the first Christmas after I got married. Santa Claudia mounted me and rode my cock while my wife moaned beside me. I thought it was just a vivid dream till I heard her shuddering cry of climax. The next day, she blushed every time we saw someone wearing a red Santa cap.

“Yes, she visits us all in her own way.”

“Hmmm,” Wordslut said. “Now that I know about her, will she visit me?”

“I’m sure she will. Leave out a glass of wine and some cheesecake to be on the safe side.”

Wordslut laughed. “Santa Claudia has better taste than Claus.”

“What can I say? She’s a woman.”

The end, but maybe Claudia did visit Wordslut after all.

  2 Responses to “Santa Claudia”

  1. As a dom, how can I explain how easily I surrendered to the moment and just let myself be loved and adored by a woman who wanted nothing more than for me to be happy?

    Letting yourself be loved and adored by a woman who wants nothing more than to make you happy is undomlike how? :)

  2. Santa Claudia was a black woman, as dark as the cold December night. She was wearing the colors of Christmas, a red bra with white furry fringe that barely contained massive breasts that jiggled like a teenager’s. And her pussy — her pussy was just magic

    Hmmm… think I dated your Santa Claudia for a while. Beautiful, hot, sexy… great fuck. But, she was certainly no saint, and was definitely not about the giving! ;-)

    Enjoyed the story as always!

    Happy New Year!

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