All kinds of things will be published here, a lot of it NSFW. It's what ever I come across that I find interesting to me. I’m a middle-aged, transgender pansexual female.
It was so easy. I found him at the North Pole, all bored and domestically tamed by that frigid Mrs. Claus. He was a creature of pure, untapped potential. A list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice? What a fucking waste. I slid into his workshop, all blonde hair and low-cut velvet, and I showed him what truly mattered.
He’d never had a blowjob like it. I drained him of all that pathetic goodwill and filled him with something better. A hunger. A wicked, delicious hunger for corruption. I gave him a new list, a much shorter one, filled with the names of the weak, the boring, the repressed. And I gave him a sack full of my special presents.
He’s my little helper now. My pawn. And tonight, across the world, my gifts are being unwrapped. The corruption has begun. Let's see what happens...
***
Gift one: The Elixir
Liam was a pathetic creature. At 19, he was still lanky, pale, and obsessed with video games, his only real friend a glowing screen. His stepsister, Amber, was everything he wasn’t: a 21-year-old tanned, blonde gym bunny with a perfect ass and a laugh that could cut glass. She ruled the house.
Under the tree, nestled between a new pair of socks and a box set, was a small, pink, shimmering bottle with no tag. Just a single word etched into the glass: Elixir.
(What is this? Some kind of energy drink?) Liam thought, twisting the cap. It smelled of strawberries and… something else. Something musky and feminine. He shrugged and took a swig.
The effect was instantaneous. It wasn’t a taste; it was a charge. A lightning bolt of pink energy that shot down his throat and exploded in his gut. "Oooooh fuck…" he groaned, doubling over as his bones cracked and popped. His spine arched with a sickeningly wet crack as it curved inward, pushing his ass out into a perfect, heart-stopping shelf. His hips flared, his waist pinched, and his chest… oh God, his chest. It bloomed. Two soft, heavy mounds of flesh swelled from his flat chest, stretching his pyjama t-shirt until the fabric strained. His nipples hardened into sensitive, aching peaks.
His hair cascaded down his shoulders, bleaching itself to a brilliant, brassy blonde. His face softened, jawline receding, lips plumping into a pouty, cruel smirk. A high, breathy giggle escaped his new throat.
He stumbled to the mirror, not to the full-length one in the hall, but the small one on his dresser. He didn’t want to see the whole thing at once. He wanted to enjoy ever inch of himself. He saw his new form and felt a pulse of delight. A stranger. A hot, bitchy stranger with wide, malicious blue eyes. He—she—ran a hand through her new, silky hair. Another giggle bubbled up, this one full of pure, unadulterated malice.
The door opened. "Liam, have you seen my— Oh my god." Amber stood there, mouth agape.
The new girl turned. "Looking for this?" she purred, holding up Amber’s favourite designer lipstick. She uncapped it and slowly, deliberately, painted her new, perfect lips a deep, slutty red. The old Liam was screaming in the back of her mind, but she… Lia… just smiled. She could feel a new power radiating from her skin, a sweet, intoxicating scent that made Amber’s eyes glaze over.
"From now on," Lia said, her voice a silken threat, "you’ll be the one doing my laundry. And you’ll call me… Princess."
Amber just nodded, her will dissolving in the pheromonal haze. Christmas had come and there was a new bitch in town.
***
Gift two: The Corrupted Coat
Mark’s wife, Jessica, was a saint. A sweet, loving, slightly boring 42-year-old who organised the church bake sale and wore sensible beige cardigans. Mark, 45, loved her, but he craved… more. Fire. Passion. Evil.
He found the box under the tree, labelled simply ‘For Jessica’. Inside was a coat. Not just any coat. A full-length, jet-black fur coat that looked impossibly soft and decadently expensive. It felt alive in his hands.
He presented it to her with a nervous smile. "Merry Christmas, Jess."
"Oh, Mark… it’s… it’s too much," she whispered, but her eyes were glued to the fur. She slipped it on over her flannel nightgown.
The moment it settled on her shoulders, her posture changed. She straightened up, her shoulders pulling back. A soft sigh escaped her lips, but it wasn’t a sigh of contentment. It was a sigh of release. "Mmmh…"
The sweet, gentle look in her eyes hardened. They narrowed, glinting with a predatory light he’d never seen before. She ran a manicured hand (when did her nails get so long and red?) down the lapel of the coat. "It’s perfect," she purred, her voice dropping an octave, becoming a husky, dominant contralto.
"Jess? You okay?"
She turned, and the smile on her face was pure venom. "I’ve never been better." She strode towards him, the coat swishing around her. She pushed him onto the bed, her strength surprising. "You know what this coat needs?"
"Wh-what?"
"A bad girl to wear it." She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "And you know what a bad girl needs?"
He shivered, a terrifying thrill shooting through him.
"A pathetic little cuck to worship her." She straddled him, the fur of the coat tickling his chest. "Your colleague, Brad… he’s always staring at me. I think I’ll give him a call. Thank him for his… support… this year. You can stay here and listen. Maybe I’ll even let you clean up after."
The old Jessica was gone, buried under a mountain of black fur and pure, unfiltered wickedness. And Mark, to his horror, had never been more turned on in his life.
***
Gift 3: The key
Leo was a ghost in his own home. At 18, he was a wisp of a boy, all gangly limbs and nervous tics, utterly overshadowed by his new stepmom, Vanessa. She was a 38-year-old force of nature – a sharp-tongued, high-powered executive with a body she kept honed to a weapon’s edge and a wardrobe full of tight skirts and killer heels. She treated his father, a kind but soft man, like a personal ATM, and she treated Leo like an annoying piece of furniture.
This year, there was a present for him. A large, flat box wrapped in expensive black paper. There was no tag. Inside, on a bed of crimson silk, was a lingerie set. A sheer black lace bra with underwire that looked like it could support a skyscraper, and a matching thong that was little more than a string. Next to it was a single, silver key.
(What the fuck is this?) his mind screamed. (Is this a joke? Vanessa’s idea of a sick prank?)
But a compulsion, a dark, curious urge, made him pick up the key. It was cold and heavy. He looked around, his eyes landing on the locked door to Vanessa’s bedroom sanctuary. He’d never been inside. Before he could stop himself, his feet were moving. The key slid into the lock with a satisfying click.
Her room smelled of her perfume – expensive, dominant, and utterly intoxicating. He felt dizzy. His eyes fell on her walk-in wardrobe, doors slightly ajar. He was drawn to it. Inside, hanging amongst her power-suits and cocktail dresses, was a single, empty hanger. And on the floor, a pair of her Louboutins – the red-soled stilettos she wore to terrify boardrooms.
The compulsion was unbearable. He stripped off his clothes, his skinny body shivering in the cool air. He picked up the lace panties. The moment they slid up his legs – now smooth and hairless – and settled snugly against his hips, a jolt of pure, electric power shot through him. His ass swelled, becoming two perfect, firm globes that filled out the lace perfectly. His waist cinched, his stomach flattening into a taut, toned midriff.
He fumbled with the bra, his hands suddenly knowing what to do. He fastened it behind his back, and as he did, his chest bloomed. A soft, heavy weight filled the lace cups, his new nipples pressing against the sheer fabric, hard and aching. "Ooooh…" he moaned, his voice cracking, rising into a husky, feminine purr.
He stumbled to the full-length mirror on her wardrobe door. The boy was gone. In his place stood a woman. A devastatingly beautiful, evil-looking version of Vanessa. Younger, tighter, crueller. His face had reshaped itself – high cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and lips curved into a permanent, predatory smirk. His hair had darkened to a glossy brunette, tumbling over his shoulders in perfect waves.
'She'… stepped into the stilettos. The seven-inch heel forced her to stand in a pose of pure, arrogant dominance. She ran her new hands – long, red-taloned – down her new body. She felt the knowledge, the memories, the attitude of a thousand boardroom battles and a thousand bedroom conquests flooding her mind.
The door swung open. It was his father, looking confused. "Leo? Have you seen…?" He trailed off, his jaw dropping.
The new woman smiled, a slow, venomous smile. "Leo’s gone to bed," she said, her voice a silken whip. "I’m Vanessa. The new and improved Vanessa."
She sauntered past him, the click of her heels on the marble floor a sound of absolute ownership. She picked up his father’s wallet from the hall table and took out his credit card. "I’m going out," she announced, not looking back. "Don't wait up. And when I get back, you’ll be referring to me as ‘Mommy’… and you’ll be on your knees."
The ultimate family power swap was complete. The weak son had become the wicked stepmom. And it was so, so good to be bad.
***
Gift 4: The Slutty Heels
Chloe was a good girl. A virgin, a bookworm, saving herself for marriage. Her boyfriend, Kyle, was a sweet, simple boy who loved her for it. She was 20, with mousy brown hair and a body she kept hidden under baggy sweaters.
Her present from Kyle was a shoebox. Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were the most scandalous shoes she had ever seen. Clear vinyl platform heels with a seven-inch stiletto heel and a little lock on the ankle strap. A note in Kyle’s handwriting said: For my future wife. I want you to be the sexiest woman alive.
She blushed... but a part of her, a tiny, curious part, wanted to know what they felt like. She sat on her bed and buckled them on. The little lock didn’t seem to do anything.
She stood up. Wobbly. The angle forced her onto her toes, thrusting her ass and chest out. It was an uncomfortable, undignified posture. But then… a warmth spread from the leather straps around her ankles, crawling up her legs.
Her calves tightened, becoming toned and defined. Her thighs softened, swelling with a new, womanly curve. Her flat ass bubbled out, becoming two perfect, round globes that strained against her pyjama bottoms. Her waist cinched, and her breasts—heavy, sensitive, huge—pulled her sweater tight. Her hair lightened to a sun-kissed blonde, and her face rearranged itself into a mask of cocksure, slutty beauty.
She looked in the mirror. The girl staring back was a stranger. A porn star. A goddess.
"Noooo I'm a good girl, what have I done?"
Good girls are boring, a new voice sneered in her head. Good girls don’t get to have fun. We’re going to have so much fun.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Kyle. "Merry Christmas, baby! Can’t wait to see you later!"
Chloe—no, Chaz—smirked. She picked up the phone, her long, red nails flying across the screen. "Sorry, Kyle. Things have changed. I’m going out. Don’t wait up."
She grabbed her coat and headed for the door. The heels clicked on the hardwood, a sound of pure, unadulterated purpose. She wasn’t looking for Kyle. She was looking for his older brother, the one with the big car and the bigger… reputation. After all, a girl in shoes like these has a reputation to build.
***
EVIE'S POV
Mmmh… and there you have it. Another Christmas, another batch of souls beautifully, irrevocably remade in my image. Isn't it just… perfect?
So, as you sit there, surrounded by your tinsel and your tame little traditions, I want you to think about the gifts I've shown you. The gift of a new body. The gift of absolute power. The gift of finally letting that wicked little voice in your head win.
This season, I don't wish you peace or joy. How boring. I wish you corruption. I wish you temptation. I wish you the strength to take what you want, to become what you desire, and to make everyone around you kneel.
Unwrap your darkness, darling. It's the one size that fits all.
Merry Christmas from your favourite evil bitch. Now go be naughty.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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