Nutt Buster Crypto

The Frostbite Arena was a coliseum of black ice and neon, sixty-nine hundred seats filled with Elf Legion in red latex, jingle plugs vibrating in 3-SE beat: DENY. RELEASE. BURN.

At 11:11:00 p.m., the Rap Battle Stage rose from the floor—a carbon-fiber circle etched with the Cartel sigil, sixty-nine feet wide, rimmed with sixty-nine-thousand-lumen LEDs synced to Rudolph’s nose.

inSANiTy clAws sat on the Zaddy Throne, velvet suit open, eighteen-inch cock dripping pre-cum that froze into MIC mid-air. Mrs. C beside him, blood-red PVC unzipped, nipple-bell chiming DROP. Kinky the Elf activated the global stream. Vixen’s 8K 360 rig went live.

“Cartel fam, Rudolph rap battle. Diss Blitzen’s premature zap. Tips = extra beats.”

Chat: sixty-nine thousand dollars | “ROAST HIM”

A single red spotlight finds Rudolph first. He steps out alone, nose pulsing blood-bright, antlers wrapped in gold chains that clink like sleigh bells when he moves. The beat hasn’t even dropped yet and the elves are already screaming. Rave-strobe nose at sixty-nine thousand lumens, nuclear red. USB-C port glowing. Rehab chip at seventy-five percent. He grabbed a candy-cane mic, tip vibrating at six thousand nine hundred hertz.

Then the lights die. Total black. A low, sub-bass growl rolls through the floor.

Black strobes cut on, and Blitzen is suddenly there, stage left, claws out, antlers filed to obsidian points, wearing nothing but a black leather harness and the word FUCK RUDY tattooed across his chest in dripping red. The beat slams in: a mutilated “Carol of the Bells” flipped into 808 hell. Eleven-inch cock twitching. He grabbed a lightning bolt mic, sparking.

Kinky cracked her crop. “Rules: sixty-nine bars each. Diss the zap. Winner mints sixty-nine million $NUTT SE.”

At 11:17:47, they don’t circle. They don’t posture. They just start.

Rudolph’s nose glowin’ like a spotlight, voice velvet and venom.

“Yo, Blitzen, you fast? I’m the reason we fly,

Without my red beam, y’all crash in the sky!

You pull in the back, just a muscle-bound mule,

I’m the GPS, fool— inSANiTy’s number-one tool!

Fog so thick, couldn’t see your own snout,

I cut through the haze while you whimper and pout.

“Rudolph with your nose so bright”—that’s my anthem, son,

You just “Blitzen”? Sounds like a glitch when I’m done!”

Elf Legion roared and applaud. Frozen cum spelled RUDOLPH.

Blitzen stomps forward, hooves crackin’ ice.

“Ha! Little lightbulb, you glow, that’s cute,

But who hauls the sleigh when the blizzard’s acute?

I’m thunder, I’m lightning, I’m speed incarnate,

You’re a night-light on reindeer—admit it, you’re soft, mate!

inSANiTy calls me when the workload’s insane,

You prance in the front ‘cause you can’t handle strain.

Your nose is a gimmick, a one-trick parade,

I’m the engine, the power—without me, you’re delayed!”

Chat: sixty-nine thousand dollars | “ZAP BACK”

At 11:23:11, Rudolph’s second verse.

“Engine? Please—you’re diesel, I’m solar-powered,

Outshine your whole squad while you cower and glower.

Remember the games? They laughed, called me lame,

Till I saved Snortmas—now they scream my name!

You flex in the traces, all grunt and no flair,

I’m the face on the merch, the plushies, the prayer!

“Blitzen the brave”? Nah, more like “Blitzen the backup,

” I’m the MVP, you just fill in the crackup!”

At 11:26:33, Blitzen’s verse.

“MVP? You a mascot, a feel-good distraction,

I’m the traction, the action, the midnight transaction!

Delivering gifts at Mach speed, no brakes,

Your glow’s just aesthetics—I’m the one inSANiTy stakes!

You got bullied to brilliance, I was born for the role,

Storm in my veins, got the heart of a troll.

Red nose gonna fade when the batteries die,

But my thunder keeps rollin’ long after goodbye!”

They trade bars like blades. Rudolph’s flow is surgical, every punchline timed to the flash of his nose (strobes that make the elves see ghosts). Blitzen’s is pure avalanche: slower, heavier, each syllable landing like a hoof to the ribs.

At 11:37:47, a yeti heckler breached the arena. Eight feet tall, fur matted, wielding a frozen tuna mic. It roared. “Both y’all weak, yeti bars slay!” BOOM. Tuna mic drop. BallBuster’s steel-toe intercepted. CRUNCH. The yeti flew sixty-nine feet. Spankle’s paddle cracked its skull. CumVault harvested sixty-nine liters.

They go back and forth, faster, meaner, until words piling like wreckage. The temperature drops twenty degrees. Breath hangs frozen in the air, forming tiny red and black crystals that rain down like sharp confetti.

At 11:44:11, Final Round-Sudden Death: Both at once, overlapping bars

Rudolph: “I’m the beacon, the reason, the holiday flare!”

Blitzen: “I’m the power, the tower, the sleigh in the air!”

Rudolph: “Without my glow, y’all lost in despair!”

Blitzen: “Without my pull, that sleigh ain’t nowhere!”

DJ Elf cuts the beat – inSANiTy steps in.

inSANiTy: “Ho-ho-hold up! Enough with the beef,

Both of y’all legends—now harness the sleigh, no grief!

Rudolph, you guide; Blitzen, you drive,

Together we deliver—Snortmas stays alive!”

Outro – Crowd roars, aurora flashes red and gold

Rudolph and Blitzen dap antlers, smirkin’,

North Pole’s greatest duo—still workin’.

Mic drop in the snow, battle’s a wrap,

But next year? Rematch—strap in for more rap!

At 12:12:00 in epilogue, the arena dimmed.

· Vixen’s stream hit three hundred fifty million viewers.

· Kinky projected holoscreen:

o BARS DROPPED: 138.

o WINNER: UNDECIDED.

o GLOBAL PRE-ORDERS: 69,696,969 + 69,000 UNITS.

inSANiTy turned. “21 days to Snortmas; 28 days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop”.

CHAPTER 17 – DECEMBER 6: FIRST SNOW TEST FLIGHT

Outside temp: −42 °C. Inside temp: whatever hell feels like when nine reindeer are main-lining espresso and Colombian snow. The sleigh sits on a hydraulic catapult the size of a city bus. Matte-black carbon frame, nitrous veins pulsing electric blue, subwoofers thumping “Sleigh Ride” remixed by Skrillex and a 1980s porn soundtrack. License plate now reads CUM-ET69

The launch bay doors yawned open at 04:20:00 a.m. sharp, a mechanical maw exhaling a cloud of nitrous-laced peppermint so thick it froze mid-air into diamond snowflakes that clinked like crystal chastity cages rattling in a global orgasm. The vapor swirled around the sleigh—a carbon-fiber beast with glory-hole drop bays lined in reindeer velvet, nitrous veins pulsing like arteries of pure speed, and runners forged from frozen cum harvested from last year’s Snortmas orgy.

inSANiTy-clAws stood at the helm, dark-red suit jacket open, oiled pecs gleaming under Rudolph’s supernova nose. His velvet pants were unzipped, cock swinging free—18 inches of veined dominance, dripping with pre-cum lube distilled from elf tears. Mrs. C knelt at his boots, leash clipped to the throttle, nipple-bell chiming the countdown in 69-note bursts—each chime a micro-orgasm for every collared submissive on the planet.

Kinky the Elf strapped the reindeer in, ruby crop tracing each harness, leaving welts that glowed ultraviolet under Rudolph’s 69,000 LEDs ramped to full ultraviolet—first bump of the season railed, reindeer-coke snorted off Mrs. C’s ass, powdered lines etched into her brand "His Eternal".

“Clear the runway, toys,” inSANiTy growled, voice a sub-bass avalanche that shook the bay, cracking ice into 69-foot fractures.

He plugs a titanium USB dongle into the dash, and, the sleigh purrs like a collared lion, nitrous veins throbbing with aphrodisiac fuel.

· The HUD lights up: ROOFTOP PENETRATION: 0 / 1,000,000

· LUBE RESERVES: 110%

· RUDOLPH COKE LEVEL: DANGEROUSED

Rudolph prances to the front, harness bells replaced with actual sleigh bells filled with poprocks and poppers. He snorts a line off the GPS screen.

The route auto-plots in neon pink: North Pole → Reykjavik → Amsterdam → Ibiza → back before brunch. Nose flares white-hot.

“Preflight bump complete. Let’s make the auroras jealous.”

Kinky stands at the control pulpit in a full leather flight suit, goggles made of mirrored ball-gag plastic. “Launch window: T-minus sixty seconds. Safe word is ‘global warming.’ Say it and we abort.”

The reindeer lock into carbon-fiber quick-release traces.

· Dasher vibrating so fast he’s a brown blur.

· Dancer already doing aerial splits between the runners.

· Prancer’s cock ring now has a countdown timer: 47 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.

· Vixen’s phone is duct-taped to the dash, live-streaming to 2.8 million. Chat spamming rocket and eggplant emojis.

· Comet’s tail plug is literally on fire.

· Cupid’s arrows are frozen mid-quiver.

· Donner’s shibari rigging doubles as structural reinforcement.

· Blitzen’s electro pads sync to the engine RPM; every rev sends 50 volts through his prostate.

inSANiTy-clAws grabs the reins, actual reins tonight, braided from retired dominatrix bullwhips, “Sound off!”

“HO-ready!” eight voices bark. Rudolph screams, “HO-FUCKING-HO!” and his nose detonates into a red supernova. Kinky slams the big red button labeled LAUNCH ORGASM.

The catapult fires.
- 0 to Mach 1 in 1.2 seconds.

- 0 to Mach 3 in 4.0 seconds.

The g-force pins every antler flat. Prancer’s eyes roll back; he’s speaking in tongues and binary. Altitude: 12 km. The sky is black velvet. The sleigh leaves a contrail of glitter, lube, and what scientists will later call “anomalous auroral cocaine.”

First checkpoint: Reykjavik

They dive. Rudolph’s nose paints the harbor blood-red. inSANiTy-clAws yanks a lever marked ROOFTOP RAIL. The sleigh skids across a geothermal-heated roof, carving a perfect heart shape in the snow. A thermal camera later captures eight reindeer hoofprints spelling NPC WAS HERE.

Vixen leans out, drops a care package: One geothermal butt plug (pre-warmed)

50 grams of “Viking Snow” (coke cut with crushed Viagra). A coupon for 20% off her OnlyFans. The homeowner wakes up, looks at the chimney and immediately calls his ex.

Second checkpoint: Amsterdam
They buzz the Red Light District so low Dancer high-fives a window worker. Comet flicks his tail; a glitter bomb explodes over the canals. Every canal boat instantly becomes a rave.
Blitzen’s electro pads short-circuit from the humidity; he cums mid-loop-de-loop and paints a bicycle white.

Third checkpoint: Ibiza
Wrong season, zero fucks given. The sleigh barrel-rolls over Pacha nightclub. Cupid fires three arrows into the DJ booth. The DJ (David Guetta) instantly falls in love with a traffic cone. Rudolph hovers, nose strobing to the beat.

inSANiTy-clAws moonwalks along the runner, tosses 10,000 ecstasy tabs that parachute down on little candy-cane strings. Crowd loses its collective mind. #Snortmas trends worldwide in 11 minutes.

The Incident: 300 km south of Greenland
A wild yeti appears on radar, drunk on fermented penguin. Yeti swings a frozen tuna like a baseball bat. CLANG! Hits the port runner. Sleigh spins.

Prancer finally loses his edging battle; his orgasm registers 2.1 on the Richter scale.
Lube tanks rupture; the Atlantic gets an oil-slick rainbow. Rudolph snorts emergency reserve directly from inSANiTy-clAws’ cufflink. Nose goes nuclear. He rights the sleigh with a barrel-roll that corkscrews through a flock of confused geese. Feathers rain like confetti at a stripper funeral.

Return vector: North Pole

They punch the stratosphere. Speed: Mach 4.2. Heat shield glows cherry. Blitzen’s pads are now strobing “SOS” in actual Morse. Vixen’s stream hits 8 million viewers; Twitch bans her mid-broadcast, then un-bans her because the CEO wants a discount code.

Touchdown: 3:14 a.m.

The catapult catches them. Sparks. Smoke. The faint smell of burnt reindeer musk. The bay doors sealed. The sleigh purred cooldown, nitrous veins dimming to ember glow. Outside, the northern lights flicker in the exact shape of a middle finger, synced to the sleigh’s heartbeat.

Kinky is waiting with a fire hose full of champagne and a clipboard. “Time: 2 hours 41 minutes. New record. Roof penetrations: 12. Lube expenditure: 112%. Casualties: one yeti ego.”

inSANiTy-clAws unbuckles, suit somehow still pristine. He pats Rudolph’s glowing nose. “Good coke, better reindeer.”

Rudolph collapses, tongue lolling, nose dimming to a satisfied smolder. “Permission to crash, sir?”

“Permission granted, but first, debrief mimosas. Extra poppers,” inSANiTy-says with a smile.

The North Pole Cartel just drew first blood on the sky, still trailing glitter at 40,000 feet. The world would drown in cum, lube, and nitrous. The countdown continued. 19… 18… 17…

AIRBORNE PROTOCOL: MAX LEAK. GLOBAL ORGY INITIATED.

19 days to Snortmas

Chapter 18: Sleigh Turbo Kit

December 7, 04:59 a.m. Bay 69 – “The Nitrous Nativity”

The sleigh hangs nose-down from carbon-fiber chains, looking less like inSANiTy clAws’ ride and more like a Bond villain’s fuck-toy. It doesn’t rest in the hangar. It dangles, crucified in violet light, swaying just enough to make the chains sing a low, metallic moan. The carbon-fiber tethers (rated for 40,000 lbs each) are looped through obsidian eyelets welded into the fortress ceiling. They glint like spider silk under the strobing underglow, each pulse synced to the global sales ticker—every 10K units sold, a deeper throb. Right now? It’s purring.

The sleigh isn’t transportation. It’s a weapon of mass seduction, suspended in chains like a promise. Touch it wrong? It touches back. Touch it right? The world bends.

Matte-black everything. Not paint. Not powder-coat. This is void-anodized titanium, the same alloy used in stealth bombers and Mrs. C’s personal restraints. It drinks light. You stare too long and your reflection starts to forget your face. The runners? Hollow-core, filled with liquid mercury for dynamic weight-shifting—lets the sleigh tilt mid-flight like a predator leaning into a kill. The dash? A single slab of smoked sapphire, HUD etched in blood-red runes that spell out NAUGHTY LEVEL: CRITICAL.

Underglow veins pulsing electric violet. Not LEDs. These are bio-luminescent plasma conduits, grown in the cartel’s bio-vats from genetically tweaked aurora squid.

They throb in patterns:

· Slow pulse = idle.

· Frenzied strobe = Blitzen’s heartbeat (post-ribbon trauma).

· Morse code = Mrs. C texting the God-King: “Bring the leash.”

The glow leaks through micro-fractures in the chassis, painting the hangar floor in shifting glyphs. Elves use it as a dance floor. Someone’s already etched “CORE THRUST OR BUST” in lube.

Eight nitrous bottles the size of reindeer torsos, candy-cane striped, labeled HO-HO-NO₂. These aren’t props. Each bottle is a dual-stage cryogenic NOS reactor, pressurized to 3,000 psi, striped in thermo-chromatic paint that flips from peppermint red to hellfire crimson when armed. The labels? Hand-painted by Elf #69 in glitter glue (still sticky).

· Bottle 1: “Blitzen’s Breath” – pre-mixed with reindeer pheromones. One whiff = instant mating season.

· Bottle 4: “Mrs. C’s Kiss” – laced with aphrodisiac micro-dust. Deployed over Tokyo. Blackout in Shibuya.

· Bottle 7: “Greg’s Revenge” – filled with snowman tears (long story).

Comet (tail plug glowing welding-torch blue) stands on a hydraulic lift, arc-welder in hoof, safety goggles made from Mrs. C’s spare sunglasses. “Clear the bay, sluts. We’re strapping rocket fuel to Zaddy’s ride.”

TEAM - The sleigh dangles nose-down in violet chains, but the real engine of the empire is the TEAM who collective turn Santa’s workshop into a black-site pleasure forge. Here’s the roster, still buzzing from the launch drop, lube-slick and half-feral.

· Comet – Lead Mad-Scientist

o Comet never sleeps. He’s elbow-deep in the sleigh’s quantum flywheel, muttering about “negative-mass reindeer.” After the nitrous explosion, he’s using Greg the Snowman’s melted torso as a beaker.

· Blitzen – Human Lightning Rod

o Blitzen’s electro-stim pads are stuck on perma-edge. Every time the sales ticker hits +10K, he jolts like a Tesla coil.

· Donner – Shibari Rigger for the fuel lines

o Donner spent the flight weaving HO-HO-NO₂ bottles into a lattice of red-and-white shibari knots. Post-landing, he’s teaching Elf #69 how to tie a “reindeer bowline” using the carbon-fiber chains.

· Vixen – Live-Streaming to 14 million

o Vixen’s stream never went offline. Tips unlock underglow colors: 50K = Arctic Teal, 100K = Hellfire Magenta. Right now, chat’s spamming “MAKE RUDOLPH BLINK SOS”.

· Rudolph – clean 6 days, nose a steady crimson spotlight

o Rudolph’s been sober since the ‘23 Eggnog Incident. His nose is now the hangar’s only reliable light source. He’s using it to guide drunk elves to the bathroom.

· Dancer – Pole-dancing prodigy

o She’s choreographing a new routine called “The Twelve Lashes of Christmas,” using a carbon-fiber candy cane as a cane. Her safe-word is “chestnuts,” but nobody’s heard it yet.

· Prancer – Edging expert

o Prancer’s antlers are strung with spinning LED spirals that pulse in Fibonacci sequence. One look and you’ll swear the nice list was always the naughty list. He’s the one who convinced half the penguins they wanted to be waterboarded in peppermint schnapps. Currently perched on a stack of unsold NFTs, whispering reverse-psych mantras into a megaphone made from Mrs. C’s old funnel cake mold: “You love the burn. You paid for the burn. Thank you for your purchase.”

· Cupid – Chem-Romancer & Love Dealer

o Cupid ditched the bow for a modified Nerf gun loaded with weaponized MDMA micro-darts. One pink barb to the neck and you’re in love with whatever’s closest (right now that’s usually Blitzen’s left ass cheek or a pallet of limited-edition butt plugs).

· Dasher – Speed Freak & Extraction Artist

o Fastest hooves in the North. He’s currently doing laps around the dangling sleigh, dragging a 69-foot strand of Christmas lights behind him like a comet tail, screaming “MAINNET OR DIE” every time he breaks the sound barrier in a 69-foot concrete box.

THE KIT

· Quad NOS Cylinders – 4 × 50 hp shots, peppermint-scented purge

· Flux-Capacitor Manifold – glows when you hit 88 mph

· Prostate Thruster™ – hidden seat vibrator synced to boost

· Glitter Trail Injectors – leaves a 2-mile rainbow contrail

· Zaddy Overdrive Switch – one flex = full stage 3

INSTALL SEQUENCE – SLOW-MO
00:00 – Comet welds the first bottle. Sparks shower like a money shot in 4K. Blitzen catches one on his electro pads → accidental orgasm → lights the bay in strobes.

00:47 – Donner ropes the lines in perfect diamond knots.
“These hoses won’t slip unless Sir says slip.”

01:69 – Vixen’s tip jar hits 69 ETH. Chat votes: add a cum-lube cooling system.
Comet shrugs, drills a port straight into the seat. “Zaddy’s morning milk keeps the turbos chill.”

02:10 – Rudolph tests the purge. Peppermint fog billows. His nose flares once—clean, proud, luminous.

“Smells like victory and mouthwash.”

TEST RUN – “THE ARCTIC ORGASM”
Sleigh drops to the launch rail. Zaddy straps in shirtless, suit pants unzipped for “aerodynamics.” Mrs. C on her knees in the cockpit, leash clipped to the gear shift.

“Countdown, good girl.”

“Ten… nine… thank you, Sir…”

3… Comet slams the red candy-button.

2… Blitzen flips the electro switch—50,000 volts through the chassis.

1… Zaddy flexes.

PROSTATE THRUSTER ACTIVATES. GO.
0–60 in 0.8 seconds; 0–Mach 1 in 2.4 seconds. G-force pins Mrs. C’s tits to the dashboard, and her squeal registers on the Richter scale. Altitude: 15 km.

The sleigh leaves a neon contrail spelling NPC WAS HERE in cursive glitter. Rudolph’s nose paints the sky crimson. Comet’s tail plug detonates a glitter bomb that freezes mid-air into a 10-mile dick pic.

Top Speed: Mach 4.7
Zaddy hits the Zaddy Overdrive. One pec bounce = 200 extra hp. Mrs. C cums on command, squirt flash-freezing into diamond snowflakes. Vixen’s stream: 42 million viewers, #TurboDaddy trends worldwide.

The Oh-Shit Moment
At 18 km the flux manifold overheats. Warning klaxon moans like Prancer on denial day. Comet, patched in via comms: “Purge the lube line!” Zaddy rips the emergency lever. A 500-ft plume of warmed coconut lube shoots out the ass-end. Instant cooling + instant slip-n-slide across three time zones.

Touchdown: 04:59:47
Sleigh skids 400 yards on a runway of frozen squirt. Stops one inch from the Lube Fountain. Zaddy unbuckles, suit pants now a second skin. “New record. And Mrs. C just baptized the Arctic.”

Stats Screen

· 0:00 → Mach 4:0 in 2.9 seconds

· Glitter expended: 2.3 tons

· Orgasms triggered: 1 (Mrs. C), 69 million (viewers)

· Structural integrity: 69 %

Post-Flight
Comet high-hooves Rudolph. “Clean nose, dirty boost. You’re the new heart of this beast.” Rudolph’s nose glows soft, proud crimson.

Zaddy scoops Mrs. C into his arms, leash dangling. “Bed. Now. You’ve earned a gold star on your collar.”

The sleigh just went from “fast” to “faster than your ex’s rebound.”

Eighteen days to Snortmas. Twenty-five days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop.

Chapter 19 – December 9 Cookie Recipe Leak

The vault doors sighed open at 00:01 sharp, and the entire North Pole Cartel kitchen inhaled like it was taking its first hit of the night. A rolling fog of THC, MDMA, and popper-laced frosting punched the air so hard half the security elves dropped to their knees on instinct.

In the center, Candy “Popper Princess” Cain straddled the industrial mixer like it was a mechanical bull, cotton-candy curls bouncing every time her spinning nipple barbells caught the strobe. Her apron read BAKE & BEG in dripping red icing letters that were already sliding south.

inSANiTy-clAws stood behind her, shirtless, oiled, silent. One slow tilt of the bowl and thick ropes of liquid gold (his own contribution) poured into the batter like encrypted code. Each drop landed with an audible plop that made the mixture moan, low and filthy, like it was already coming.

Mrs. C popped open Grandma’s ancient scroll case with a crack of her ruby riding crop against her own thigh (the leather left a red welt that wept clear honey). The parchment unrolled itself mid-air, hovering, glowing, already wet.
Kinky caught the floating tasting spoon between her teeth so hard her teeth left marks, “Read it, Red.”

Rudolph stepped forward. Nose 2.0 ignited ultraviolet. The recipe exploded across the vault ceiling in throbbing holograms:

· 69 g triple-infused THC butter (sourced from the Reindeer Reserve)

· 690 mg raw MDMA crystals (hand-cut by Tinsel Twinkletoes)

· 6.9 oz popper reduction (distilled from Mrs. C’s personal stash)

· Final glaze: fresh obedience nog, milked live on premises

Candy slammed the mixer to 69 RPM. The barbells on her tits spun in perfect sync, clink-clink-clink, throwing pink sparks into the haze. The batter thickened, turned pearlescent, started pulsing like a second heartbeat.

First tray: exactly 69 cookies, each stamped with a tiny glowing cage symbol. Mrs. C took the first cookie between trembling fingers, brought it to her lips and bit. Chewed once. Her knees buckled. A guttural, broken moan tore out of her as her cunt clenched visibly, once, twice, then unleashed a 69-foot ribbon of molten glaze that shot through the air, thick, pearlescent, splattering across the vault wall in perfect dripping letters: L E A K E D.

Tinsel Twinkletoes was already live-streaming to the dark web, collar blinking upload-complete. Grandma’s emergency batch auto-ejected from the oven and got vacuum-sealed for “quality control” while sixty-nine workshop elves hit the floor in unison, collars clamping tight, mouths open, begging in surround-sound.

inSANiTy clAws flexed. The shockwave rippled every bowl of glaze into a perfect 69-kilometer heart that hung in the air like a brand. Kinky flicked her crop, caught a still-warm cookie mid-flight, dragged it slow across her tongue, and smirked. “Tastes like surrender.”

Rudolph flared ultraviolet one final time. Every locked device on the planet pulsed the recipe straight into submissive brains. The vault doors hissed shut. Somewhere far below, millions of ovens preheated themselves at once.

The moment Rudolph’s ultraviolet flare pulsed the final recipe out across the planet, every single smart-oven, vintage gas range, and industrial bakery deck on Earth received the same silent, overriding command buried in the holographic code: Preheat to 350 °F.

“Open wide. You’re about to get stuffed.”

The cookie wasn’t just a recipe. It was a trojan orgasm baked in THC, MDMA, and Mrs. C’s obedience nog, and the instant the data packet hit, every appliance that had ever dreamed of being filled felt its pilot light turn into a throbbing clit.

Ovens didn’t just preheat. They begged. Doors cracked open on their own, racks slid forward like eager tongues, interior lights dimmed to a sultry red glow. Some started leaking butter from their seams. Others moaned through their vents in 69 BPM.

00:30 – The First Pulse

It was a carrier wave riding every screen, every smart fridge, every collar cam. One silent frame (1/69th of a second) embedded in the hologram: a single line of code that translated into pure, urgent need.

01:03 – Tokyo

A 24-hour conbini (convenience store) oven in Shibuya hits 350 °F on its own.

· The lone night-shift clerk (collar peeking above his uniform) drops to his knees when the door swings open like a mouth.

o Inside: one perfect cookie already cooling on the rack, stamped with a glowing cage.

o He bites.

o Live security feed catches him stripping, spreading glaze across his chest, uploading the recipe with the caption PROPERTY OF NPC before he even cums.

01:07 – Berlin

A techno club’s pizza ovens slam open mid-set.

· Six hundred ravers smell popper frosting and lose their minds.

· Phones up. Collars sync.

· The DJ drops the beat to exactly 69 BPM and the entire dance floor starts baking in a haze of sweat and MDMA sugar.

02:21 – Rural Nebraska

A 1956 Chambers stove that hasn’t worked since 1983 suddenly roars to life.

· The farmer’s wife finds a single cookie on the rack, still warm.

· One bite and she’s on the kitchen floor, wedding ring clattering away, filming herself with the oven door open behind her like a glory hole.

· Her husband walks in, smells obedience nog and drops his belt without a word.

02:42 – Los Angeles

Influencer @lockedbylight wakes up to her smart oven screaming. Door wide, interior glowing crimson.

· She’s live on OnlyFans before she even touches the cookie.

· Title: “Mrs. C made me her oven — watch me leak the recipe.”

· Tips hit six figures in four minutes.

03:34 – The Dark Web

Tinsel’s original upload forks into 69,000 mirrors. Each mirror adds its own local glaze variant:

· Seoul: gochujang popper drizzle

· Mexico City: mezcal THC infusion

· Amsterdam: space-cake obedience nog

Every version stamped with the same ultraviolet cage watermark.

04:13 – Global Collar Network

Every locked device on the planet (chastity cages, day collars, smart plugs) begins a slow, synchronized throb at 69 pulses per minute.

· Owners wake up humping air, ovens already open and waiting.

04:23 – The First Million

Windowsills from Mumbai to Montreal fill with cooling trays.

· Every cookie drips a perfect heart of glaze that spells the same thing in whatever language the eater fears most: Eigentum. Propiedad. 所有物. Property.

04:33 – The Cartel Ledger

inSANiTy-clAws watches the live map from the vault. Red dots bloom like cumshots across every continent.

Mrs. C straddles his lap, licking glaze off his thumb, whispering, “By sunrise they’ll be baking for us in their sleep.”

05:55 – Dawn

The first rays of sun catch 69 million fresh cookies cooling on windowsills worldwide, each one dripping a perfect heart of glaze that spelled the same thing: Property of the North Pole Cartel.

Across the world, sleepy subs woke up to the smell of molten sugar and surrender, stumbled into kitchens, and found their ovens already hot, ready, and pulsing the word LEAKED in digital readouts.

The recipe had gone viral in the most literal sense. Every single person who takes a bite will feel the same reaction: A velvet voice in their head, warm as an oven, soft as a crop across the ass. “Good pet. Kneel. The next batch needs your milk.”

The leak wasn’t a mistake. It was recruitment. Sixteen days to Snortmas.