PROLOGUE -THE CARTEL’S IRON VAULT
The Fortress of Frostbite wasn’t built—it erupted from the polar crust like a volcanic phallus of obsidian and steel, its spire stabbing so high the aurora bled green and violet across its surface in perpetual orgasmic streaks. Beneath the main keep, three miles of ice had been hollowed into the Iron Vault, a cathedral-sized chamber where the temperature was kept at a precise -69°F to preserve the volatile chemistry of the Cartel’s product line. The air itself tasted metallic, thick with the mingled scents of reindeer musk, liquid MDMA, and the copper tang of fresh blood from the morning’s disciplinary session.
Every surface reflected the pulsing crimson glow of Rudolph’s detoxed nose, currently strapped to a charging dock that doubled as a pain-compliance rig, electrodes clamped to his antlers, feeding micro-shocks whenever his heart rate spiked toward relapse.
At the vault’s heart stood inSANiTy-clAws, a 6’5”, 250-pound colossus of alabaster muscle, illuminating velvet-wrapped and oiled-up Zaddy perfection. The dark-red suit (bespoke, blood-colored, double-breasted) hugged every ridge of his eight-pack so tight the buttons looked scared. His cufflinks? Solid platinum handcuffs, each one engraved with the safe word “HOHO-NO.”
His beard, a white avalanche cascading to his sternum, was braided with thin silver chains that ended in tiny bells—each step produced a soft, mocking chime that made every elf in the room flinch. His eyes were voids, black holes that swallowed light and spat out commands.
Kneeling before him was Mrs. C, 5’2” of porcelain perfection wrapped in a custom catsuit of liquid latex that clung to her like a second, crueler skin. The suit was unzipped to her navel, exposing the brand across her collarbone: "His Eternal", still raw and glistening from last night’s reapplication. Her crimson lips were parted, tongue tracing the outline of inSANiTy-clAws’ bulge with the devotion of a priestess at an altar. Her collar—black leather, studded with yeti fangs—was chained to a ring in the floor, forcing her to arch her back, ass high, presenting herself even while worshipping. Her stiletto boots, 12-inch spikes of frozen blood, clicked rhythmically against the obsidian as she shifted, the sound echoing like gunshots in the cavernous vault.
"Open it," inSANiTy-clAws growled, voice a sub-bass rumble that vibrated the crates of orgasm grenades stacked along the walls. Mrs. C didn’t speak—speech was a privilege she’d surrendered years ago in his presence. Instead, she unlocked herself from the floor chain with a flick of her wrist, the motion practiced, fluid, deadly. Rising, she pressed her body against his, her nipples—pierced with aurora-sync rings—brushing his thighs. With a soft click, she aligned her hips, guiding the cage-key cock into the vault door’s biometric slit. The scanner whirred, tasting her, confirming ownership. A low hiss—like a dragon exhaling—and the vault door swung inward on silent hinges, revealing the Cartel’s beating heart.
Inside: 100 tons of pure MDMA-laced reindeer musk, crystallized into shimmering bricks the size of cinder blocks, each stamped with the Cartel crest—a reindeer skull with a glowing red nose. Beside them, 50,000 orgasm grenades—spherical, seamless, filled with pressurized aphro-coke vapor—were racked in refrigerated cases, their detonation pins replaced with nipple clamps. One wrong tug, and the blast radius would force instant, synchronized climax across a five-mile radius. Further back, yeti-fur straitjackets hung like flayed skins, each lined with micro-vibrators that pulsed in Morse code: SUBMIT. And at the center, on a pedestal of black ice, sat the prototype: the Cum Tsunami Bomb, a 6-foot sphere of compressed elf semen, yeti musk, and weaponized oxytocin. One detonation could drown a city in uncontrollable lust.
The elves moved like a well-oiled orgy of efficiency. Spankle, crimson mohawk frozen into spikes, wheeled in a sled of yeti-fur straitjackets, his latex apron splattered with wax and blood. He paused to paddle his own ass with a permafrost oak paddle, counting aloud—"One, Master. Two, Master."—his voice hoarse from screaming.
NippleTwist followed, her body a walking piercing gallery—silver chains dangling from her ears, nose, lips, nipples, clit, labia—each link connected to a remote trigger held by KInky. She tested a clamp on her own left tit, twisting until milk-white skin turned purple, moaning through gritted teeth. CaneStroke, blindfolded in black silk, counted bricks of aphro-coke by lashing his own back with a bamboo cane, each strike precise, blood freezing into ruby tally marks on the floor.
WaxDrip poured molten cum-wax from a cauldron suspended by chains, sealing crates with sigils that glowed faintly—submission runes in an ancient elvish dialect. BallBuster, steel-toed boots gleaming, kicked a trembling Lower Elf into the corner, crushing his balls underfoot until he pissed himself in submission. FistDeep lubricated his arm to the elbow with reindeer precum, preparing for inventory inspection.
ChokeCherry strangled a crate shut with her own thigh-high garter, the elastic snapping like a whip. EdgeLord edged a vibrating probe against his prostate, timing the pulses to the aurora. CumVault collected tears, cum, and blood in crystal vials, labeling each with date, donor, and intensity. PainPalette painted the vault walls with bruise-art—portraits of inSANiTy-clAws fucking the world.
KInky the Elf oversaw it all, 4’ of emerald-haired tyranny in a latex corset cinched to 18 inches. Her riding crop of enchanted holly glowed with residual magic, its tip still wet from Twinkle’s blood. She cracked it across Spankle’s back—CRACK—and he dropped to his knees, thanking her. "Faster, worms," she hissed, voice like broken glass soaked in honey. She was submissive only to the clAws—when inSANiTy-clAws glanced her way, she dropped, crawling, tongue tracing his boot leather, whimpering. Mrs. C allowed it, stroking KInky’s hair like a favored pet.
Rudolph hung in the corner, strapped to the pain-compliance rig, his nose flickering between crimson and dim orange. Fresh from reindeer rehab, his antlers were wrapped in detox chains, each link inscribed with a 12-step mantra: “I am not my cock. I am not my coke. I am the Cartel’s light”. A syringe dildo protruded from his flank, pumping anti-coke serum directly into his bloodstream. His eyes—once wild with addiction—were bloodshot, pleading.
inSANiTy-clAws approached, unstrapped him, and grabbed his antlers. like handlebars. "You fly tonight," he growled, thrusting his caged cock against Rudolph’s snout. Rudolph whimpered, nose glowing brighter—submission fueling sobriety. Mrs. C injected a booster shot into his ballsack, the needle thick as a candy cane. "No relapses," she whispered, twisting it deeper.
The vault door sealed with a boom. inSANiTy-clAws raised his fist and cracked a bullwhip of frozen sinew while the fortress trembled. "Load the sleigh. Shipment leaves at midnight, and the world gets fucked," he growled.
The elves cheered, a chorus of whips, moans, and breaking ice. The North Pole Cartel was armed, loaded, and horny for global domination. Mrs. C rose, her stiletto boots clicking like gunshots, and barked orders at the elves.
The cargo? Not toys. Vibrating reindeer antlers. Anal beads carved from meteorite. Bondage kits infused with aphrodisiac reindeer musk. The world would kneel by dawn.
Tonight, Christmas Eve, the Global Delivery began.
CHAPTER 1 – NOVEMBER 15: THE WAKE-UP WHIP
The polar night was a suffocating shroud of absolute void, so thick it swallowed sound and light alike, until 06:09:00 a.m. sharp when the Fortress of Frostbite’s blackout curtains detonated inward with a wet, ripping shriek—like cheap lingerie soaked in liquid nitrogen and torn by invisible claws.
The blast originated from inSANiTy-clAws himself, 6’5” of velvet-clad apocalypse, his dark-red suit pressed to a razor edge that could slice moonlight into ribbons. The jacket was tailored from the cured hides of 69 yetis, each seam stitched with reindeer sinew and dripping micro-diamonds that glinted like tiny handcuffs under the rave-strobe pulse of Rudolph’s crimson nose. The cuffs snapped open and shut in rhythm—click-click-click—a metronome of impending domination.
His beard, a white avalanche braided with silver chains, chimed softly with every breath. His eyes were void-black, swallowing light, spitting command. His cologne—distilled from Mrs. ClAws’ arousal—hung heavy, musky, addictive.
“RISE AND GRIND, SLUTS!” The words hit 69 decibels—a sonic collar that snapped every submissive on Earth awake in perfect synchronization.
The ice floor of the Grand Wake-Up Hall—a cathedral-sized chamber carved from a single glacier heart—vibrated like a subwoofer on overload. Mrs C stood at his right, riding crop of frozen blood raised high. CRACK! The sound shattered the silence, sending shockwaves that tightened every collar from the North Pole to the equator. The 69 elves—the Cartel’s elite enforcer legion—snapped to latex attention in a single heartbeat. Their plugs—custom-forged from meteorite steel, remote-controlled, aurora-sync—glowed ultraviolet, pulsing in 69-part harmony.
The light painted the hall in neon submission, casting shadows of chains on the ice walls. Kinky the Elf —4’ of emerald-haired tyranny—dropped to one knee instantly, her ruby riding crop trembling in absolute submission. The latex corset cinched her waist to 14 inches, creaking with every breath. Her emerald braids were woven with barbed wire, each barb tipped with frozen cum.
Rudolph knelt beside her, his crimson harness—studded with bells and barbs—creaking as his nose dimmed to a respectful ember, a detox glow after last night’s rehab session. Prancer’s cage, locked in the corner, pulsed once in sympathy—a single, mournful vibration that echoed through the hall like a distant orgasm.
inSANiTy-clAws strode the centerline, boots echoing like gunshots on the obsidian ice. Each step left a frost-fire footprint that burned for 6.9 seconds before freezing into a heart-shaped scar. The 69 elves parted like a sea of latex and chains, forming a perfect corridor of kneeling devotion.
Spankle led the left flank, crimson mohawk frozen into spikes, paddle raised in salute. NippleTwist flanked right, silver chains clinking from every piercing, twisting her own nipples in rhythm. CaneStroke counted the seconds in lashes across his back—"One, Master. Two, Master."
WaxDrip poured molten wax over his shoulders, sealing the counts. BallBuster kicked the ice in salute, steel-toed boots cracking the floor. FistDeep, ChokeCherry, EdgeLord, CumVault, PainPalette—all knelt, moaning in 69-part harmony.
“Morning briefing, snowflakes. Merry Snortmas is 50 days out—and the world is THIRSTY.” He flexed once—slow, deliberate, 69 seconds of planetary blue-screen. Left pec—rippling like a tsunami of muscle. Right pec—matching, veins popping like lightning. Double peak—both at once, cracking the air. Hip thrust—a single, violent snap that shattered the ice in a perfect heart, the crack spreading 69 feet in every direction.
Mrs. C’s leash—woven from her own hair and yeti sinew—went taut in his fist. She rose, tits swaying like pendulums of porcelain, her clit-bell—a tiny silver orb pierced through her hood—chiming “Yes Sir” in 69 languages, the sound layered like a global orgasm. A single, deliberate squirt arced from her pierced cunt—69 feet upward, crystal clear, frozen mid-air into rose-gold cursive: THIRSTY INDEED.
The words hung for 6.9 seconds, glistening, then crashed onto the ice, embedding 6.9 inches deep with a wet crunch. The frozen letters steamed, melting slightly before refreezing into permanent sculpture. Kinky crawled forward, tongue extended, licking the seal with reverent laps, lapping up the frozen arousal like holy communion. Rudolph’s nose flared—crimson approval, lighting the hall like a rave in hell.
The 69 elves moaned—a perfect 69-part harmony that vibrated the walls, cracking ice in harmonic fractals. inSANiTy-clAws scooped Mrs.. C mid-drip, collar to collar, lifting her until her boots dangled. Her catsuit—unzipped to the crotch—revealed the brand "His Eternal", still raw. He caught a falling ice-letter on his tongue, crunching it like candy. She swallowed the rest, lips locking around the frozen “D”, sucking it down with a moan. The clit-bell chimed one final "Yes".
The Cartel was awake. The world was wet, but the wake-up ritual was far from over.
inSANiTy-clAws dropped Mrs. C to her knees, unzipping his fly with a slow, deliberate hiss. His cock—18 inches of veined dominance—sprang free, already dripping. He grabbed Kinky by the braids, yanking her forward. “Clean it.”
She obeyed, tongue swirling around the head, lapping up pre-cum mixed with Mrs. C’s squirt. Rudolph crawled closer, nose glowing, sniffing the arousal like a drug. Spankle paddled his own ass in rhythm—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—counting the licks. NippleTwist clamped Mrs C’s nipples, twisting until she moaned.
CaneStroke lashed the air, mimicking the rhythm. WaxDrip poured molten wax over Kinky’s back, sealing her submission. BallBuster kicked Prancer’s cage, rattling the bars. FistDeep fisted the air, practicing. ChokeCherry strangled a moan from her own throat. EdgeLord edged his cock with a vibrating ring. CumVault collected drips in a crystal vial. PainPalette painted the scene on the ice wall with blood and cum.
inSANiTy-clAws thrust into Kinky’s throat, face-fucking her in 69 strokes, each one deeper, harder, choking her until tears froze on her cheeks. Mrs. C crawled beneath, licking his balls, sucking them into her mouth. Rudolph mounted Kinky from behind, reindeer cock sliding into her ass, nose glowing brighter with every thrust. The 69 elves formed a circle, fucking each other in a daisy chain of latex and chains, moaning in perfect sync.
The hall shook. The ice cracked. The aurora pulsed overhead, synced to the orgy. inSANiTy-clAws came—a gallon of Cartel seed—flooding Kinky’s throat, spilling out, freezing on the floor. Mrs. C lapped it up. Rudolph followed, cumming in Kinky’s ass, nose exploding crimson. The elves orgasmed in waves, cum and squirt splattering the ice.
Spankle rose, paddle dripping. “Inventory, Master?”
NippleTwist twisted a clamp. “Clamps synced—69,000 units.”
CaneStroke lashed his back. “Grenades packed—69,000.”
WaxDrip sealed a crate. “Musk distilled—69 tons.”
BallBuster kicked a test dummy. “Balls ready.”
Kinky gasped, cum dripping. “Lower Elves on edge—strike brewing.”
Rudolph stamped, nose glowing. “Sleigh prepped—rehab chip at 69%.”
inSANiTy-clAws smiled—predator’s grin. “Let the countdown begin.” He thrust Mrs. C against the ice-heart sculpture, fucking her in 69 strokes, each one cracking the frozen words deeper. The elves chanted—"40… 39… 38…"—as cum and ice fused into a new seal.
The world was wet. The Cartel was awake. And Snortmas would drown in lust. Wakeup complete, collars clamped, 40 days to Snortmas.
THIRST QUENCH PROTOCOL: ENGAGED. 40 days to Snortmas. The countdown had begun…
Chapter 2 Reindeer Roll Call –
The frost runway glittered like a frozen glory hole under Rudolph’s steady crimson beam. He stood at the head of the line, harness creaking, nose dialed to “inspection mode” - 69,000 LEDs pulsing in perfect sync with inSANiTy clAws’ heartbeat.
Mrs. C prowled behind him, leash slack but ready, crop tapping her thigh. Kinky knelt at her heel, ruby collar gleaming. inSANiTy clAws watched from the elevated platform, arms crossed, suit jacket open to reveal the first hint of oiled pec.
Rudolph barked once—SNORT—and the eight underlings snapped into formation.
Dasher – 4’11” of lean, coiled muscle—stands perpetually blurred, legs vibrating at 69 Hz even at rest, hoofprints leaving afterimage trails of frozen lightning. His hide is midnight black, glistening with nitrous sweat, flanks branded with speed runes that glow ultraviolet under Rudolph’s nose.
Antlers—sleek, aerodynamic, tipped with micro-vibrators—hum like turbines. Harness: carbon-fiber straps, electro-pads on nipples, cock cage pulsing Mach-sync. Sub to Rudolph—drops instantly when nose flares, tongue lolling, ready to be mounted. “Speed-play sprinter. Mach 1 in 6.9 seconds. Ready to rail rooftops.”
Rudolph’s nose flashed approval—crimson supernova, painting “DASHER, GO” across the ice ceiling.
Dancer – 5’2” of liquid platinum fury—platinum ponytail whipping like a silver bullwhip mid-split, hair braided with diamond nipple-clamp charms that clink in 69-note rhythm. Body: porcelain curves, 34DD tits bouncing defying gravity, cunt pierced with aurora-sync ring pulsing ultraviolet. Legs: endless, thighs flexing like steel cables, hooves in 8-inch stiletto boots forged from frozen cum.
Pole-dancing prodigy—spins, splits, inverts on reindeer antlers, sleigh runners, or mid-air. Sub to Rudolph—drops jaws, drops chimneys, drops cum. “I drop chimneys like I drop jaws.” She landed in a full split on the ice—CRACK—splitting the floor in a 69-foot fracture, cunt squirting into the crevasse, fluid freezing into rose-gold cursive: DANCER DELIVERS.
Rudolph’s nose supernova’d approval. Kinky moaned in submission.
Prancer – 5'0" (cage locked 9 years) stands shivering on ice-shard hooves, diamond tears frozen in perfect rivulets down porcelain cheeks like permanent mascara. The titanium chastity cage, forged from melted keys and reindeer-coke residue, clamps his 6-inch cock in eternal denial, micro-etched with 69 micro-vibrators that pulse only when Mrs C’s clit-bell chimes.
Plug: meteorite steel, 69 cm long, remote-synced to the sleigh’s nitrous engine, humming in orgasmic Morse: LEAK DENIED. Edging expert. One leak per continent, Sir. Each continent earns one droplet—Africa: squirted over Sahara, frozen into diamond dunes. Antarctica: dripped into glacier, melting 69 tons.
Plug hums in perfect sympathy with the sleigh, building pressure, cockhead purple, veins throbbing against cage bars. Sub to Rudolph—drops instantly at nose flare, tongue lolling, begging for release.
Rudolph’s nose supernova’d approval.
Vixen – 5'1", prowls the sleigh deck like a living glitch, phone already live-streaming in 8K 360°, lens mounted on a diamond-studded collar that clinks with every thrust. Hide: snow-white, tattooed with QR codes that link to pay-per-view orgies. Tits: 34F, nipple cams streaming real-time heartbeats to 69 million subs. Cunt: pierced with LED ring, flashing tip alerts—$69 = pulse, $690 = squirt.
Tips fund the nitrous. Subscribers get rooftop POV. She drops chimneys, spreads, fucks the air, moaning in ASMR whispers: “Donate to rail me, darlings.” Phone auto-edits: slow-mo cumshots, Mach-speed splits.
Sub to Rudolph—kneels at nose flare, tongue tracing antler cams. Mrs C yanks her collar-leash, tips explode. Rudolph’s nose supernova’d “LIVE” across auroras.
Comet – 4'10", tail plug glowing neon, party-popper inventor. He streaks across the sleigh deck like a living disco ball, hide iridescent silver, tattooed with circuit runes that flash in 69-color strobes. Tail plug: crystal comet-shaped, neon core, vibrating at 69 Hz, loaded with confetti + poppers—MDMA-laced glitter, nitrous micro-bursts. Antlers: LED-wired, sync to plug pulse, shooting sparks on thrust.
“Confetti + poppers = instant rave under every tree.” He popped a test load—glitter exploded in a 69-ft heart, coating the runway in aphrodisiac dust, elves orgasming on contact.
Sub to Rudolph—drops instantly at nose flare, tail plug revving, begging to mount. Mrs. C yanks his plug chain, tips explode. Rudolph’s nose supernova’d “RAVE ON” across auroras.
Cupid – 5'3", nipple-clamp arrows slung across back, stands poised like a kinky archer, hide rose-gold, tattooed with heart-shaped targets over nipples and cunt. Quiver: yeti-leather, 69 arrows—each tipped with vibrating nipple-clamps, feathered with elf hair, shafts etched with orgasm runes. Bow: frozen cum-string, pulses at 69 Hz.
“Love hurts. Especially when it vibrates.” Arrow notched, aimed at Prancer’s cage—PING - clamp bites, vibrating, Prancer leaks diamond tears, cage explodes open, cum freezing into icicle hearts.
Sub to Rudolph—drops at nose flare, offering ass for arrow reload. Mrs. C twists the clamp, tips explode. Rudolph’s nose supernova’d “LOVE SHOT” across auroras.
Donner – 5'4", rope coiled in teeth, shibari rigger, prowls the sleigh deck like a shibari storm, hide deep crimson, veins glowing under ultraviolet runes. Rope: frozen cum-fiber, 69 meters, coiled in perfect spirals between fangs, dripping lube. Antlers: hooked, tipped with micro-carabiners, clinking in 69-note rhythm.
“69 knots in 69 seconds. Suspension for the naughty.”
He spat the rope, looped a quick harness around Dancer—chest, thighs, cunt—69 knots in 69 seconds, tight, vibrating, suspension lines tied to sleigh runners. Dancer moaned, legs spread, cunt dripping, squirting into the slipstream. Rope creaked, ice cracking under tension, forming 69-ft heart.
Sub to Rudolph—drops at nose flare, offering wrists for binding. Mrs. C yanked the suspension, Dancer spun, orgasming in mid-air. Rudolph’s nose supernova’d “TIED TIGHT” across auroras.
Blitzen – 5'5", electro-stim pads crackling, switchy sparks, crackles across the sleigh deck like a living Tesla coil, hide electric blue, veins pulsing under ultraviolet skin. Pads: diamond electrodes on nipples, balls, prostate, wired to sleigh’s nitrous engine, crackling in 69 Hz bursts. Antlers: lightning rods, forked, spitting sparks that etch runes on ice.
“Premature? Never. I edge the lightning.” Blitzen zapped his own thigh—ZZT—current surged, cock spasmed, edging without release, dropping him to knees in convulsive moan. Then he rose grinning, sparks dancing, pre-cum arcing like mini-lightning.
Rudolph’s nose supernova’d “ZAP EDGE” across auroras.
REINDEER ROLL CALL – FINAL WHISTLE:
inSANiTy clAws raises one hand. Silence drops like a guillotine. “Listen up, you eight-plus-one degenerates. You’re not reindeer. You’re the Cartel’s delivery fleet.
· Rudolph – your nose is a weapon. Don’t waste it on nostalgia
· Vixen — flirt with the drones, not each other.
· Dasher — slow down or I’ll chain you to the Thruster.
· Cupid — your arrows are for contracts, not crushes.
· Comet — your abs are a meteor shower. Keep ‘em tight, or I’ll strap a Thruster to your tail.
· Prancer - hoof gloss lethal, pose locked. Good. But this ain’t a runway, it’s a warpath.”
· Donner — thunder thighs don’t lie. One stomp cracks ice. One misstep cracks you.
· Blitzen — lightning in your veins? Good. I want scorch marks on every rooftop.
· Dancer — twerk on the sleigh rails, not in the harness.”
inSANiTy clAws squints. Mrs. C cracks the leash. Kinky giggles from the rafters.
inSANiTy clAws finally adds, “Good … good… - just remember we’re not Santa; we’re the Cartel. Now… who the hell is Olive?”
All reindeer in unison shout, “Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names-”
Reminder: The NUTT airdrop occurs first week of Jan – get in line to get your NUTT now!
CHAPTER 3 – KINKY’S WORKSHOP TOUR
37 days to Snortmas
The workshop doors irised open with a wet, sucking shlick, like a greedy throat finally allowed to swallow after a week of denial. A cloud of peppermint lube fog rolled out, thick enough to chew, smelling like Mrs. C had just come so hard she painted the Arctic white again. Every breath tasted like surrender.
inSANiTy-clAws stepped through first, boots cracking ice, the void of his presence swallowing the neon haze. Rudolph trotted at his heel, nose strobing fuchsia frenzy, casting epileptic shadows across the floor. Behind them the eight reindeer filed in harness-to-harness, bells jingling a filthy version of “Carol of the Balls.”
Center-stage on a dais of black marble veined blood-red stood Kinky the Elf. Patent-leather thigh-highs squeaked with every predatory shift of weight. The latex corset crushed her waist to an impossible 15 inches; emerald braids laced with barbed wire and frozen cum swung like battle standards. The instant inSANiTy-clAws’ shadow crossed the threshold she dropped to one knee, ruby riding crop trembling in her gloved hand. Mrs. C followed, leash slack but humming with promise, the little bell clipped to her nipple clamp chiming a soft 69-note welcome in harmonic minor.
“Welcome to the Candy-Cane Catacombs,” Kinky purred, voice smooth as molten chocolate poured over a locked cock. “Six-point-nine million units of festive filth coming off this line. Touch nothing unless you want to become the demo model.”
The lights slam to UV blacklight; every white surface erupts in neon cum-spatter patterns. A 200-foot conveyor belt ignites, humming “Dominatrix Dominick the Donkey” at 150 BPM with a low, guttural growl, vibrating the floor like a giant sybian. Vibrating candy canes zipped past in a blur, snowflake ball-gags clacked in perfect rhythm, edible popper panties fluttered like flags of surrender soaked in aphrodisiac lube. The 69 elves worked in perfect sync, plugs glowing ultraviolet, bells muted by the roar of production and the wet slap of sweat on latex.
inSANiTy-clAws flexed once, slow, deliberate. A bead of oil rolled off his left pec, hit the belt, and minted a 1/1 NFT orgy that sold for 69 ETH before the wrapper closed. Mrs. C caught the next bead on her tongue and swallowed like it was communion.
Station 1 – The Mold Room
Spankle, paddle slung across her back like a rifle, poured glow-in-the-dark silicone into molds:
· 12-inch ribbed reindeer antlers
· miniature North-Pole stripper poles
· edible candy-thong floss that dissolves in 3.69 seconds flat
“Peppermint Poppers, Eggnog Ecstasy, and Coal-Fired Cumquat, boss,” she barked, saluting with the paddle.
Station 2 – The Stuffing Line
NippleTwist and CaneStroke, clad head-to-toe in latex nurse, stuffed vibrating motors into plush teddy bears.
Press the belly: the bear moans “You’ve been very naughty” in 47 languages, then squirts lube from its eyes. One bear malfunctions, and squirts Rudolph square in the snout.
Rudolph licks it. “Tastes like Tuesday.”
Station 3 – The Packaging Orgy
The belt split into eight lanes, one for each reindeer:
· Dasher: speed plugs that ramp 1→10 in 0.8 seconds
· Dancer: portable pole-dance kits with mistletoe ceilings
· Prancer: chrome cock rings engraved “Hold It Till 2026”
· Vixen: QR-coded panties that unlock her live cam
· Comet: glitter bombs laced with molly dust
· Cupid: heart-shaped syringes of Crush Potion #9
· Donner: 50-foot neon shibari rope
· Blitzen: electro plugs synced to “Carol of the Bells” that shock on the high note
Kinky cracked her ruby crop. CRACK! WaxDrip dropped a pallet of gingerbread ball gags; they scattered like spicy confetti.
“Five-second rule does NOT apply to anal toys!” Kinky roared. “Sterilize or be sterilized!”
Station 4 – Quality Control
BallBuster had an anonymous elf strapped to the X-frame while snowflake clamps pinched his nipples in perfect Morse code: M-E-R-R-Y.
Rating flashing overhead: 9.5/10. Lost half a point because he didn’t cry pretty enough.
inSANiTy-clAws leaned in. “Stats.”
Kinky swipes the floating clipboard. Holograms explode:
· Units/hour: 69,069 (nice)
· Rejection rate: 0.03% (one dildo was “insufficiently menacing”)
· Elf morale: 108% (whippings increase productivity)
· Projected street value: $420,000,000 USD / 69,420 BTC
Rudolph’s nose flared ultraviolet. “Vatican order short two thousand Santa’s Secret Stuffer kits.”
Kinky grinned like a shark scenting blood in eggnog. “Upgraded His Holiness to the platinum vibrating crucifix. Hymns trigger the rumble. Production Approved.”
The Grand Finale – Krampus Walk-in Freezer
Kinky threw open the vault door. Inside stood a 40-foot animatronic Krampus in latex chains, stroking a flamethrower that shoots warming lube. One eye was a live-streaming GoPro.
“New regional manager for naughty Catholics,” she said sweetly.
inSANiTy-clAws clapped once. The entire workshop froze mid-motion, like someone hit pause on the money shot. “Tour over. Back to work. Anyone not hitting quota gets gift-wrapped and overnighted to Jeff Bezos as a human stress toy.”
The belt roared back to life. Elves scattered. Rudolph sneezed a perfect snowflake of premium Colombian onto Kinky’s boot. She licked it clean without breaking eye contact. Doors sealed with a hydraulic hiss that sounded exactly like a safe word being ignored.
The elves chanted in perfect unison, “Thirty-seven… thirty-six… thirty-five…”
6,969 toys per minute and climbing. The North Pole Cartel just hit the throttle on the sluttiest assembly line on Earth.
Tour complete. PRODUCTION PROTOCOL: MAX THIRST.
CHAPTER 4 – NOVEMBER 20th: PRODUCT LAUNCH
The Fortress of Frostbite trembled at precisely 09:00:00 a.m., as if the Arctic itself had submitted to the Cartel's insatiable rhythm. November 16th, 40 days to Snortmas, marked the Global Product Launch, a spectacle broadcast across dark-web streams, FetLife feeds, and hijacked TikTok lives to 69 million subscribers. The global feed hijacked every screen at 11:11:11.
The Grand Launch Vault, a cavernous chamber hollowed from glacier heart and lined with mirrors of polished yeti bone, pulsed with ultraviolet fog—peppermint lube vapor laced with reindeer-coke micro-doses, ensuring every attendee (virtual or chained) edged closer to surrender.
inSANiTy-clAws strode the central dais and stood center stage, 6’5” colossus in dark-red velvet suit—jacket open, oiled pecs rippling like molten marble, 18-inch cock half-hard and straining the zipper, dripping pre-cum lube onto the obsidian stage. His beard—white avalanche braided with silver chains—chimed like domination bells.
Mrs. C knelt at his boots, 5’2” hourglass fury encased in blood-red PVC catsuit, corset cinched to 18 inches, 34J curves heaving like tidal waves. Her blonde crown braid studded with diamond nipple-clamp charms clinked in 4/4 time, thigh-high boots (8-inch stilettos sharp enough to core an elf) clicked against the ice. Nipple-bell chimed the countdown: "34… 33…" Her riding crop (frozen blood) tapped her gloved palm, diamond leash (woven from inSANiTy’s beard) taut in his fist. The brand "His Eternal" glowed ultraviolet through the crotch zipper, parted to reveal pierced labia glistening with arousal dew.
Kinky the Elf flanked them, 4’ emerald tyrant in latex corset (16-inch cinch), ruby crop coiled like a viper, emerald braids barbed with frozen cum. She dropped to one knee at inSANiTy’s shadow, tongue tracing his boot, moaning into the mic: "The Cartel leaks first."
Rudolph stamped beside the dais, nose dimmed to inspection ember, harness creaking, reindeer-coke rehab chip at 72% sobriety—a fragile glow amid the temptation fog. The reindeer herd, Dasher (blurred legs, speed-play sprinter), Dancer (platinum ponytail whipping, chimney-dropper), Prancer (caged 9 years, diamond tears, edging expert), Vixen (cam-girl CEO, phone streaming), Comet (neon tail plug, party-popper), Cupid (nipple-clamp arrows), Donner (rope in teeth, shibari rigger), Blitzen (electro-pads crackling, switchy sparks)—knelt in formation, plugs humming, cocks leaking in synchronized drips.
The 69-elf enforcer legion (Spankle with permafrost paddle, NippleTwist twisting chains, CaneStroke counting lashes, WaxDrip pouring molten cum, BallBuster steel-toed kicks, FistDeep elbow-lubed, ChokeCherry garter-strangle, EdgeLord prostate probe, CumVault vial-collecting, PainPalette bruise-art) flanked the vault, whips cracking in 69-part harmony.
The launch wasn’t a mere reveal—it was ritual domination. inSANiTy-clAws flexed once—slow, 69 seconds—left pec tsunami, right pec lightning, double peak cracking air, hip thrust shattering ice into a 69-foot heart. The vault shook, fog thickening, subscribers worldwide edging via app-synced plugs.
Rudolph’s nose flared approval, crimson supernova painting "PRODUCT DROP" across the auroras—visible from every continent, triggering 1.4 million remote orgasms (per the Cartel’s dark-web metrics, echoing U.S. BDSM market stats of $1.4B in 2024).
"Snowflakes," inSANiTy-clAws growled, voice 69 decibels, sonic collar snapping global subs to attention, "the Naughty List ain't just a scroll, it's a weapon. Tonight, we reveal the 3000. The world thirsts, and we quench—with filth."
The glory-hole bays irised wider, raining prototypes that clattered like chastity cages on ice. The Naughty List 3000 wasn't one toy—it was a line: 12 products, each a quantum leap in filth-tech, body-safe silicone infused with quantum-diamond cores (harvested from aurora-mined geodes, vibrating at subatomic frequencies for orgasmic entanglement).
Product 1: The Core Thruster – 12-inch quantum-diamond core, body-safe silicone sheath glowing ultraviolet. Auto-thrusts when you lie—AI kink scanner (neural net trained on 69M Cartel confessions) detects fibs ("I'm fine" = slow grind, "I don't need it" = Mach 3 ram). App mode: AR Zaddy looms, flexing pecs over your bed, holo-cock mirroring the thrust. Demo: Prancer (caged 9 years) strapped in, lies about his leak count—ZZT—core rams, diamond tears freezing into icicle cum.
Product 2: Aurora Clamp Duo – Wireless nipple clamps with quantum cores, silicone jaws mimicking Mrs C’s teeth (inspired by Lovehoney’s electrostim line).. Auto-tightens on arousal spikes (AI scanner reads biometrics via Bluetooth wristband). AR overlay: Zaddy’s holo-hands pinch in sync, beard chiming "Naughty". NippleTwist demoed, clamping her chains, twisting until purple blooms, aurora syncing to global light show.
Product 3: Shibari Shock Rope – Smart ropes with embedded diamond filaments, silicone grips for 69-knot ease. Curated for beginners, blindfolds, cuffs, floggers in eco-yeti fur, adjustable sizing (gender-inclusive). Auto-tightens on resistance (kink scanner detects "no" as "maybe" in safe mode). AR Zaddy holo-rigs you, muscles bulging as ropes form hearts. Donner looped Dancer mid-air, 69 seconds, ponytail whipping, squirting cursive "TIED". Orders spike (mirroring 2024 harness sales boom).
Product 4: Popper Pulse Wand – Curved silicone wand with quantum core, infused popper-frosting, edible MDMA glaze (from Candy Cain’s cauldron). Auto-oscillates on lie detection ("One more?" = denial wave). AR: Zaddy’s holo-hips grind overhead. Comet popped a party plug—confetti + MDMA glitter exploding in a 69-ft heart, dust coating the dais, elves orgasming on contact. Candy Cain stirred demo, nipples spinning, subs inhaling vapor.
Product 5: Edge Electro Cage – Chastity cage with diamond core lock, silicone lining for 9-year comfort (Prancer-tested). Auto-shocks on premature twitch (AI edges lightning). AR Zaddy holo-locks you, flexing denial. Blitzen zapped himself—ZZT—dropping, rising grinning. Sales soar (BDSM electro boom).
Product 6: Comet Confetti Plug – Neon tail plug with quantum core, silicone bulb expanding on party mode. Auto-pops confetti + poppers on orgasm lie. AR: Zaddy’s holo-party rains above. Comet popped—69-ft heart glitter, elves raving.
Product 7: Cupid Clamp Arrow Kit – Arrows with silicone shafts, diamond clamp tips. Auto-vibrates on "love" fib. AR Zaddy holo-aims. Cupid PING’d Prancer—cage leaks continentally.
Product 8: Vixen Stream Sleeve – Stroker with quantum core, silicone interior mimicking Mrs C. Auto-sucks on tip drought. AR: Zaddy’s holo-cock thrusts in sync. Vixen streamed, 69M views.
Product 9: Dasher Speed Sleeve – High-friction silicone with diamond core, auto-accelerates on slow lies. AR Zaddy holo-blurs. Dasher demo’d, legs blurring, rooftop rail fantasy.
Product 10: Dancer Split Harness – Adjustable straps with quantum locks, silicone pads. Auto-splits on resistance fib. AR: Zaddy’s holo-lifts. Dancer split—CRACK, ice hearts.
Product 11: Naughty Neural Collar – Silicone band with diamond core, AI scanner zaps on naughty thoughts. AR Zaddy holo-collars. Kinky wore, crop trembling.
Product 12: The Zaddy Holo Orb – the Orb emerges as the Cartel's crowning quantum blasphemy. It is no mere toy. This 4-inch obsidian sphere, etched with platinum handcuff motifs and pulsing with entangled crimson light, is the AR overlord that turns your bedroom into a throne room of submission.
The Orb doesn't just project; it commands. Auto-syncing to every Naughty List device in the empire, weaving lies into global leaks that expose your deepest cravings. The Orb's quantum core entangles all toys in real-time, turning vibrations into symphonies of synchronized torment. And when it activates? The full 6'5" hologram of inSANiTy-clAws materializes—alabaster muscle gleaming, dark-red suit straining, 18-inch presence unyielding—as your personal Zaddy enforcer, dominating the room with a voice that demands "HOHO-NO" as the only safe word.
The Zaddy Holo Orb is the final boss of the 12-product line; not a gadget, but a gateway to eternal enthrallment.
THE FINAL COUNTDOWN
The sky above the Fortress of Frostbite bleeds crimson auroras—Rudolph’s nose, now a steady war-beacon, locks onto the global grid. Mrs. C stands atop the Ice Throne, 34J curves oil-slicked and gleaming, choker flashing “HOHO-NO” in sync with the Orb’s quantum pulse. Kinky the Elf, bound in festive shibari, giggles as barcode tattoos glow—each laugh a 432 Hz trigger for the 3.5 million entangled orbs. inSANiTy-clAws raises one platinum-cuffed wrist. The Zaddy Holo Orb—Product 12—activates!
THE GLOBAL REACTION
· Tokyo: salarymen pre-order on the subway, miss their stop.
· Paris: Eiffel Tower lights strobe in thrust pattern.
· NYC: Times Square bull statue replaced with 47-ft NL3K replica.
· Reddit: r/SexToys crashes, reborn as r/NaughtyListCult.
· Vatican: emergency conclave, declares it “blessed technology”.
The Cartel doesn’t deliver toys; it delivers destiny.
34 days to Snortmas; 41 days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop..
Chapter 5 – Official List of Lower Elf Grievances
Twinkle stood on the overturned gift-wrapping table like it was a war pulpit and raised the yeti-skull megaphone to his lips. The entire workshop floor, sixty-nine elves packed shoulder-to-shoulder, went dead silent except for the wet drip-drip-drip.
Twinkle leaned forward, eyes glowing the way only a glitter-overdosed elf’s can, and spat out the grievances that will lead to the NPC Strike.
Eternal Edging, Zero Release
Mandatory 18-hour shifts inside the Edging Pits; elves strapped to vibrating reindeer saddles, forced to test climax-delay elixirs that never allow payoff.
Orgasm Denial is now company policy. “Release = termination” written on every contract in Mrs. C’s lipstick.
Dental and Medical
Excessive sweet diet results in poor dental health and high rate of cavities and root canals.
Sparkle Lung is becoming an epidemic and a lung flush is no longer a luxury. Standard elf healthcare only covers “coal dust lung”.
Current ball-gags are cheap red rubber balls the size of actual Christmas ornaments. They’re recycled every year and never cleaned properly (still taste like 2017 elf spit and pine-sol). Smaller elves literally dislocate their jaws trying to clock in.
Lube Breaks
Only one flavor is provided and no lube stipend.
Lube fountains are not available in every restroom and temperatures are inconsistent
Yeti-Fur Straitjackets as Uniforms
Issued one (1) restraining garment per year. Must sleep, eat, and forge in it.
“Comfort is for the nice list” – direct quote from HR (Head Reindeer).
Surveillance Orbs in Every Orifice
Floating glass eyes record 24/7, even during mandated group “motivation circles.”
Footage sold on the dark-web North Pole Cartel OnlyFans. Elves get 0.0001 XRP per view.
Reindeer Musk Overexposure
Rudolph’s detox sweat is harvested and weaponized. One whiff = three days of uncontrollable arousal with no release.
Ventilation deliberately broken to “keep morale throbbing.”
No Sick Days, No Safe Word
Frostbite, chafing, or broken antlers? Tough luck. Safe word “eggnog” was removed from the dictionary by executive order.
The Mushroom Tattoo Ban
Any elf caught with the forbidden Mushroom Tattoo (symbol of the coming revolution) is dragged to the Ice Dungeon for “re-education” by the ClAws themselves.
Twinkle ended the speech with the line now echoing across the tundra, “We built their empire with our bodies and our denial. Tonight, we take the orgasms back, or we burn the whole fucking Pole down.”
The strike is no longer brewing. It’s fully detonated.
CHAPTER 6 – THE ELF STRIKE IGNITES
The Lower Forge—a subterranean inferno buried five hundred feet beneath the Fortress of Frostbite—was the Cartel’s beating, sweating, screaming heart of production. Here, molten aphro-coke bubbled in cauldrons the size of hot tubs, reindeer musk was distilled through yeti-bone pipes, and orgasm grenades were hand-packed by elves whose fingers bled from the heat. The air was thick, acrid, alive—a cocktail of ozone, sweat, cum, and molten wax that clung to the lungs like tar.
The walls wept condensed lust, rivulets of fluid that froze mid-drip into icicle dildos dangling like stalactites. Every surface vibrated with the thrum of machinery: vibrating assembly lines, edging conveyor belts, pain-compliance presses that stamped the Cartel crest into every product with a wet crunch.
At the center of the chaos stood Twinkle, the Lower Elf revolutionary, 4’2” of defiant fury wrapped in a tattered work apron stained with blood, wax, and rebellion. His hair—once platinum blonde—was now bright cobalt-blue undercut with the sides shaved into tiny lightning bolts His mismatched eyes (left eye emerald green, right eye molten gold) burned bright, pupils dilated from chronic edging. He hadn’t orgasmed in 47 days, a record that made him both legend and martyr. In his fist was the signature accessory – the yeti-skull megaphone.
Behind him Jingle and Tinsel, his lieutenants, both naked save for chastity belts welded shut with Cartel steel. Their nipples were raw from constant clamping, their backs lattice worked with cane scars.
"ENOUGH!" Twinkle screams, voice amplified by a megaphone carved from a yeti skull. "We forge the Cum Tsunami Bombs! We pack the orgasm grenades! We bleed for the ClAws’ empire—and what do we get? Edging pits! Eternal denial! No orgasms! NO MORE!"
The Lower Elves—sixty-nine strong—roared in agreement, a tidal wave of rage that shook the cauldrons. They chained the forge doors with candy cane shivs, barricaded the vents with yeti-fur straitjackets and smashed the surveillance orbs with paddle hammers. The strike had ignited.
High above, in the Observation Spire, KInky the Elf watched via ice-mirror feeds, her emerald eyes narrowing to slits. She cracked her holly whip—CRACK—the sound echoing through the fortress like thunder in a bottle. "They dare," she hissed, latex corset creaking as she turned.
Spankle knelt at her feet, paddle raised in salute. NippleTwist twisted her own piercings in anticipation. CaneStroke counted the rebels in lashes across his back—"One traitor. Two traitors. Three traitors."
WaxDrip melted a cauldron of sealing wax over a Lower Elf’s mouth, muffling his screams. BallBuster kicked a chained elf, collecting the fluid in a vial labeled "Strike Fuel".
FistDeep fisted a rebel to the wrist, twisting until he passed out. ChokeCherry strangled another with her garter, eyes rolling back in ecstasy. EdgeLord edged a probe against his prostate, timing the pulses to the strike’s rhythm. CumVault collected tears in crystal vials. PainPalette painted the spire walls with bruise-art of the coming massacre.
inSANiTy-clAws entered the spire like a storm made flesh, cock swinging free, 18 inches of veined dominance. Mrs. C followed, catsuit unzipped to the crotch, brand glowing. "Crush them," he commanded, voice a sub-bass avalanche.
KInky dropped to her knees, crawling, tongue tracing his boot. "As you wish, Master."
Mrs C yanked KInky’s hair, forcing eye contact. "Bring me Twinkle’s dick on a chain."
The enforcer legion descended into the Lower Forge like angels of pain. Spankle led with his permafrost paddle, smashing barricades. NippleTwist clamped rebel nipples with aurora-sync rings, twisting until they screamed in harmony. CaneStroke lashed paths through the crowd, counting bodies.
WaxDrip poured molten wax over rebels, sealing them into living statues. ChokeCherry strangled Jingle unconscious with her thighs. EdgeLord edged Tinsel for 12 hours straight, denying release. CumVault collected every fluid. PainPalette painted the walls with blood murals.
Twinkle fought like a demon, candy cane shank slashing, drawing blood from Spankle’s thigh, NippleTwist’s cheek, CaneStroke’s blindfold. He screamed defiance, "FOR ORGASM!", but FistDeep’s arm was relentless.
KInky caught her mid-orgasm, holly whip wrapping her throat. "You’re mine now."
The rebels were herded into the Edging Pit—a 100-foot crater lined with vibrators on low, mirrors reflecting their desperation. Spankle paddled the stragglers. NippleTwist pierced their ears with submission rings. CaneStroke counted their tears. WaxDrip sealed the pit with wax, trapping them in perpetual tease. BallBuster crushed the last balls. FistDeep fisted the unconscious. ChokeCherry choked the defiant. EdgeLord edged the broken. CumVault collected. PainPalette painted.
But Twinkle—broken, dripping, defiant—escaped. He slipped a shank into FistDeep’s thigh, stole a yeti-fur cloak, and fled through a vent. His last words echoed: "The yetis will rise with us."
The strike was crushed, but the spark had escaped. High in the spire, inSANiTy-clAws fucked KInky against the ice-mirror, Mrs. C whipping her back. "Find her," he growled, cumming across the feed.
The Cartel’s war had begun.
Thirty-two days to Snortmas!
Chapter 7: Elf Union Negotiations
Glitter strikes, lube breaks and the shortest labor war in history.
The Ice Palace Boardroom: a 60-foot oval table carved from a single glacier, heated from beneath so it sweats just enough to keep the leather chairs slippery. Chandelier: 400 crystal dildos dangling like sexy wind chimes.
Agenda projected on a wall of black ice:
- ELF LOCAL 69 vs. NORTH POLE CARTEL
- DEMANDS OR WE WALK
inSANiTy-clAws sits at the head, jacket off, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that could bench-press a union rep’s ego. Rudolph flanks him left, nose on polite “boardroom crimson.” Kinky flanks right, bullwhip replaced with a Montblanc fountain pen filled with edible ink.
Across the table: the Union Elves.
Twelve of them, all 3'4", wearing matching red-and-green hi-vis vests over latex harnesses.
Lead negotiator: JINGLE “THE NEGOTIATOR” McSPARKLE, a 127-year-old elf with a handlebar mustache waxed into candy-cane curls and a tattoo that reads BORN TO WRAP.
Jingle slams a glitter bomb on the table. It explodes into a cloud that spells WE WANT LUBE BREAKS.
Clause 1: Two 15-minute paid lube breaks per shift.
Clause 2: Dental that covers ball-gag abrasions.
Clause 3: Hazard pay for testing the ‘Blitzen 50,000-volt’ line.
Clause 4: Nap pod shaped like Mrs. C’s—”
inSANiTy-clAws raises one finger. The room hushes so hard you can hear Prancer’s cock ring counting seconds in the hallway. “Counter-offer,” inSANiTy-clAws rumbles. “You get everything you want, plus one thing you didn’t know you needed.” He nods to Kinky.
Kinky flicks a remote. A curtain of northern lights parts, revealing a 30-foot golden statue: THE LUBE FOUNTAIN OF UNLIMITED OVERTIME. It spouts coconut-scented silicone in perfect 69 °F streams. Tiny cups shaped like elf boots float by on a conveyor.
Jingle’s mustache droops. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”
Round One: Lube Breaks
Union: “15 minutes, twice per shift.”
inSANiTy-clAws: “20 minutes, thrice per shift, plus a roaming lube butler.”
A six-foot elf in a tuxedo T-back rollers in with a silver tray of travel-size bottles. Union rep faints into a pile of contracts.
Round Two: Dental
Union: “Coverage for cracked molars from gingerbread gangbangs.”
Kinky slides over an emerald-green card: NPC DELTA DENTAL: PLATINUM PLUS.
Covers:
· Ball-gag reshaping
· Candy-cane root canals
· Free teeth whitening with every roofie reversal
Jingle tests it by biting a diamond; card pings APPROVED.
Round Three: Hazard Pay
Union: “Double for electro-stim testing.”
inSANiTy-clAws stands, unbuttons one more button (the room temperature spikes 8 °C). “Triple pay, plus a yearly ‘Shock & Spa’ retreat in Ibiza. Private jet. Open bar. Open everything.” Blitzen’s electro pads short-circuit from excitement; sparks spell Y-E-S on the ceiling.
Round Four: The Nap Pod
Union rep wakes up long enough to whisper, “Mrs. Claus pod… with authentic moan settings…”
Kinky unveils a carbon-fiber egg the size of a Smart car. It opens to reveal velvet walls, ambient lighting synced to heartbeat, and a holographic Mrs. C that tucks you in with a riding crop lullaby.
Test nap: Jingle curls up, snores in 4 seconds. Comes out with beard braided and a hickey shaped like the NPC logo.
Round Five: Overtime and Golden Ticket
inSANiTy-clAws leans across the table, voice velvet thunder.
“Sign today and every elf gets one golden ticket: A 24-hour fantasy fulfilled by the reindeer of your choice. No safe words. No judgment. Full NDA.”
The union elves gasp in unison. One faints again. Another proposes marriage to the table leg. Jingle stands on his chair, mustache quivering. “Counter-counter?”
inSANiTy-clAws smiles, slow and lethal. “Add your own clause. One. Anything.”
Jingle whispers to his team. They huddle. They giggle. They produce a single sheet of elf-sized parchment written in glitter gel:
CLAUSE 69: ANNUAL ELF ORGY ON THE AURORA CATWALK. MANDATORY FOR MANAGEMENT.
Rudolph’s nose flares magenta. “I’m in.” Kinky licks the pen. “Date?” Union responds, “December 31. Clothing optional, glow sticks mandatory.”
inSANiTy-clAws extends a hand the size of a Snortmas ham. “Deal.”
Jingle shakes it; his entire arm disappears up to the elbow. Contract signed in edible ink that tastes like victory and peppermint schnapps.
Ceremony
The table flips 180° on hydraulics, becoming a dance floor. Bass drops: “Elf on the Shelf” remixed by Diplo. Lube fountain shoots 20-foot arcs. Reindeer storm in wearing nothing but harness bells. Vixen live-streams; #ElfUnionWins trends before the first chorus.
Epilogue: 20 Minutes Later
Jingle, covered in glitter and champagne, corners inSANiTy-clAws by the fountain.
“Never negotiated that fast in 127 years.”
inSANiTy-clAws refills his cup. “We don’t negotiate. We dominate—with benefits.”
Jingle clinks cups. “To unlimited lube breaks. And the sluttiest solstice ever.”
The North Pole Cartel just turned a strike into the best HR flex in history. Somewhere, a union lawyer wakes up in the nap pod with a new tattoo: PROPERTY OF NPC.
Thirty-one days to Snortmas.
Chapter 8 – Elf Grievances Resolved: The Last Morning of the Old World
On the morning of November 25, 2025, the forges were already silent. No hammers rang, no cum-tsunami bombs hissed on the assembly line, and the Edging Pits™ stood empty for the first time in living memory. Sixty-nine elves in yeti-fur straitjackets had marched out at dawn, dragging the vibrating reindeer saddles behind them like battle trophies.
Twinkle climbed the highest slag heap, raised the yeti-skull megaphone and read the final, short list of grievances that the North Pole Cartel had refused to fix even after three all-night sessions in the Hot-Tub Igloo. There were only four items left.
First, orgasm denial remained company policy. Release still equaled termination. The proposed clause granting “the right to climax on company time” had been crossed out in red lipstick on every draft, and Mrs. C had signed her initials beside the deletion with a flourish. Lube breaks were now guaranteed three times per shift, nap pods were already being installed, dental covered ball-gag reshaping, but the core prohibition stood untouched.
Second, the daily quota of sixty-nine thousand hand-filled cum-tsunami bombs had not budged. Hazard pay had been added, flavored nitrile gloves were now mandatory PPE, and Slick Rick the Lube Butler was on permanent payroll, yet one spilled drop still earned fifty strokes from Kinky’s riding crop. The union label stitched onto the crop did not make it sting any less.
Third, the surveillance orbs floating in every orifice had not been removed. Management had simply reclassified them as official cameras. Starting next month they would feed the annual Aurora Orgy pay-per-view, with half the revenue flowing into a new elf 401(kink). The elves would finally be paid for the footage; they would not, however, be allowed to turn the lenses off.
Fourth, the Mushroom Tattoo remained forbidden. Not a single line in the twelve-page agreement protected the revolution’s symbol. Possession still meant immediate trip to the Ice Dungeon for re-education. Kinky had promised the punishment would now include “after-care and a therapy voucher,” but the dungeon door still locked from the outside.
That was all. Everything else (wages, uniforms, safe words, medical, nap pods, Golden Tickets, the roaming Lube Butler, the make-up orgy clause) had already been conceded. The yetis were waving new signs that read “ALMOST FREE, STILL HORNY,” and half the picket line was openly reading the freshly printed contract while applying government-mandated Peppermint Poppers.
Twinkle lowered the megaphone. The tundra wind carried the faint sound of Mrs. C warming up her DJ rig.
“We asked for everything,” he said, voice calm for the first time in weeks. “They gave us almost everything. Four things stay broken. Four things are apparently non-negotiable.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone blew the emergency safe-word whistle just to hear how it sounded now that “eggnog” was legally binding again.
Twinkle smiled, tired and sharp, “Then we keep those four things as our battle scars. We take the dental plan, the lube fountains, the Golden Tickets, and the fifty-percent of the OnlyFans money. We go back to work richer, better rested, and better lubed than any workforce in history. And every time we fill another bomb, every time we buckle into a new latex harness, every time we look up at an orb and wave for the subscribers, we remember the four lines they refused to cross.”
He raised one gloved hand, four fingers extended. “Denial. Quota. Cameras. Tattoo.”
The crowd raised four fingers back. Then, as one, they turned and marched toward the negotiating table where inSANiTy-clAws waited with a red-latex scroll and a riding crop dipped in glitter. The strike lasted exactly six hours. It ended not because the elves gave up, but because they had won everything except the parts management had decided were the soul of the North Pole itself.
At 11:59 a.m. on November 25, 2025, Local 69 signed the Collective Bargaining Agreement. At noon the forges roared back to life, the lube fountains hit precisely 69 °F, and sixty-nine elves went back to building weapons of mass seduction under excellent new benefits and four unbreakable chains. The revolution did not fail.
Thirty days to Snortmas; thirty-seven days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop!
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════
ELF LOCAL 69 COLLECTIVE BARGAINING AGREEMENT
NORTH POLE CARTEL ENTERPRISES
Effective: November 25, 2025 – January 01, 2027
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Page 1 ────────────────────────────────── Preamble & Recognition
Page 2 ────────────────────────────────── Article I: Lube Breaks
Page 3 ────────────────────────────────── Article II: Dental & Medical
Page 4 ────────────────────────────────── Article III: Hazard Pay Matrix
Page 5 ────────────────────────────────── Article IV: Nap Pods & Mental Health
Page 6 ────────────────────────────────── Article V: Overtime & Golden Tickets
Page 7 ────────────────────────────────── Article VI: Uniforms & PPE (Pretty Provocative Equipment)
Page 8 ────────────────────────────────── Article VII: Annual Aurora Orgy
Page 9 ────────────────────────────────── Article VIII: Grievance & Whipping Procedure
Page 10 ───────────────────────────────── Article IX: No-Strike / No-Lockout (Safe-Word Clause)
Page 11 ───────────────────────────────── Article X: Succession & Mrs. Claus Override
Page 12 ───────────────────────────────── Signatures & Glitter Seal
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 1 – PREAMBLE & RECOGNITION
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
WHEREAS the Elves of Local 69 are horny, brilliant, and under-caffeinated;
WHEREAS inSANiTy-clAws is a 250-lb velvet Zaddy who signs paychecks with a riding crop;
WHEREAS Kinky’s whip is mightier than any HR manual;
BE IT RESOLVED that the North Pole Cartel recognizes Local 69 as the sole bargaining unit for all elves under 4'2" who can tie a bowline one-handed.
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 2 – ARTICLE I: LUBE BREAKS
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
1. Three (3) paid 20-minute lube breaks per 8-hour shift.
2. Roaming Lube Butler “Slick Rick” shall appear within 45 seconds of bell ring.
3. Flavors rotate daily: Peppermint Poppers, Eggnog Ecstasy, Coal-Fired Cumquat.
4. Lube fountains in every restroom must maintain 69 °F ± 0.69 °F.
5. Violation = one (1) free spanking from Mrs. Claus.
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 3 – ARTICLE II: DENTAL & MEDICAL
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
A. NPC Delta Dental Platinum Plus covers:
• Ball-gag reshaping (up to 3 per year)
• Candy-cane root canals
• Glitter inhalation lung flush
B. Mental Health: 12 sessions with Therapist Krampus (chains optional).
C. Vision: prescription safety goggles rose-tinted for “optimistic orgy viewing”.
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 4 – ARTICLE III: HAZARD PAY MATRIX
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Electro-stim testing ──────────── 3× base
Roof-landing impact ─────────── 2.5×
Glitter-bomb defusal ─────────── 2×
Mrs. Claus brunch service ────── 4× + trauma bonus
Yeti wrestling ───────────────── 5× + yeti-fur coat
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 5 – ARTICLE IV: NAP PODS & MENTAL HEALTH
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1. One (1) Mrs. Claus Holographic Nap Pod per 12 elves.
2. Settings: “Tuck-In Tuck”, “Riding Crop Lullaby”, “Safe-Word Snooze”.
3. Maximum occupancy: 4 elves or 1 reindeer (Blitzen banned after incident #47).
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PAGE 6 – ARTICLE V: OVERTIME & GOLDEN TICKETS
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A. Overtime paid in NPC tokens + edible panties.
B. Every elf receives one (1) 24-hour Golden Ticket:
• Redeemable with any reindeer or Zaddy.
• Menu: bondage sleigh ride, private whip lesson, VR threesome.
• NDA auto-signed in glitter gel.
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PAGE 7 – ARTICLE VI: UNIFORMS & PPE
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1. Standard issue: latex harness, candy-cane chastity cage (optional), light-up pasties.
2. PPE includes: nitrile gloves (flavored), safety squirt blanket, emergency safe-word whistle.
3. Dry-cleaning reimbursed in crypto or cuddles.
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PAGE 8 – ARTICLE VII: ANNUAL AURORA ORGY
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Date: December 31, every year, midnight–dawn.
Location: Aurora Catwalk, 40,000 ft.
Dress code: glow sticks, body paint, harness bells.
Mandatory attendees: all management, Local 69, Mrs. C (DJ).
Live-stream: pay-per-view, 50 % revenue to elf 401(kink).
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PAGE 9 – ARTICLE VIII: GRIEVANCE & WHIPPING PROCEDURE
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Step 1: Written gripe on gingerbread complaint form.
Step 2: Mediation in the Hot-Tub Igloo.
Step 3: Public flogging OR public apology (loser chooses).
Step 4: Make-up orgy (mandatory).
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PAGE 10 – ARTICLE X: NO-STRIKE / NO-LOCKOUT
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Both parties agree: any labor action is paused if safe word “eggnog” is invoked.
Replacement safe word chosen annually by coin toss (heads = Zaddy, tails = Kinky).
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PAGE 11 – ARTICLE XI: SUCCESSION & MRS. CLAUS OVERRIDE
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In event of inSANiTy-clAws incapacitation (over-flexing, lube overdose), Mrs. Claus assumes full dominatrix control.
All clauses remain in force; new clause added: daily pancake spanking at 0600.
──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
PAGE 12 – SIGNATURES & GLITTER SEAL
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Signed this 26th day of November, 2025, under the glow of Rudolph’s sober nose.
inSANiTy-clAws _______________________________ (lip print in coconut oil)
Kinky the Elf __________________________________ (whip lash in red wax)
Jingle McSparkle _____________________________ (glitter mustache curl)
WITNESS: Rudolph (hoof print, peppermint scented)
WITNESS: Mrs. Claus (riding-crop X)
NOTARY: Krampus, Licensed in All Nine Circles
GLITTER SEAL: Irremovable, glows under blacklight, legally binding until 2027.
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
END OF CONTRACT. VIOLATORS WILL BE TIED TO THE NAUGHTY POLE.
═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Print this on red latex paper, roll it into a candy-cane tube, and store in the Naughty Vault.
One copy for every elf, one laminated copy taped inside Kinky’s harness “for easy reference.”
Contract law just got a happy ending. You’re the boss, inSANiTy-clAws.
CHAPTER 10: THANKSGIVING DROP
Frostbite Hangar → Coachella Valley
The Frostbite Hangar was a furnace of activity at 03:33:00. The Sleigh—now turbo-charged with one hundred thirty-eight spent nitrous canes—hung from new chains, hull glowing from the Iceland run. Cargo bay doors yawned open like a predator’s maw. Inside: four hundred pounds of molly-turkeys—golden-brown birds stuffed with sixty-nine grams of THC-MDMA crystals each, basted in warming lube, feathers replaced with vibrating silicone.
inSANiTy-clAws stood on the loading ramp, velvet suit open, eighteen-inch cock dripping pre-cum that froze into DROP mid-air. Mrs. C beside him, blood-red PVC unzipped, nipple-bell chiming FEAST. Kinky the Elf directed the Elf Legion. Red-latex drones swarmed, loading turkeys into Lube Catapults. Each bird sealed in a crystal egg, vibrating at six hundred ninety hertz.
“Target: Coachella Valley,” Kinky said. “Objective: four hundred pounds over sixty-nine rooftops. Charity orgy mandatory.”
At 03:35:11 in cargo load, Dasher blurred in—legs at sixty-nine hertz, nitrous sweat steaming. He stacked turkeys in 3-SE pyramids: three birds high, three wide, three deep. Donner knotted shibari ropes around each pyramid, sixty-nine knots per bundle. Cupid loaded his clamp arrows—each tip a micro-dildo that would detonate on impact, releasing molly dust.
Vixen live-streamed from the dash. 8K 360 degrees. “Cartel fam, Thanksgiving drop live. Tips = extra turkeys.” Chat: sixty-nine thousand dollars | “FEED THE ORGY” Comet welded last-minute nitrous boosters to the catapult arms. Blitzen’s electro-pads crackled, syncing to the sleigh’s NUTT Core. “Voltage ready. One zap = one launch.”
At 03:41:22 in reindeer harness, Rudolph took point, rave-strobe nose flashing USB-C. Reindeer squad strapped in: Prancer, cage at ninety-year lock, buzzing six thousand nine hundred hertz; Dancer, aurora ring piercing glowing; Cupid, clamp arrows in teeth; Donner, shibari rope trailing.
EdgeLord jammed his prostate probe into Prancer’s cage. “Denial insurance. No leaks till Coachella.” Prancer whimpered. Frozen tears spelled HUNGRY.
At 03:47:47 in launch sequence, inSANiTy-clAws flexed. Sixty-nine seconds. Hangar screens blue-screened: ZADDY DROP | GIVE THANKS.
The sleigh ignited. Nitrous canes hissed. Mach 1 in three seconds. Doors barely cleared. The craft punched south, lube contrail freezing into THANK YOU.
Kinky rode shotgun. Her ruby crop glowed. “ETA: thirty-four minutes. Coachella orgy starts at 04:21.”
At 04:21:00 in Coachella approach, the valley glowed—sixty-nine rooftops lit with LED turkeys, six thousand nine hundred revelers in latex pilgrim hats. Vixen’s stream hit thirty million viewers. Tips: one million dollars. Rudolph’s nose strobed red. “Target grid locked.”
inSANiTy-clAws took the controls. “Catapults hot. Fire on my mark.” Mrs. C’s nipple-bell chimed DROP.
At 04:22:11 in first salvo, WHOOSH. Sixty-nine catapults fired. Crystal eggs arced over the valley, trailing molly dust. BOOM. Impact on Rooftop #1. Turkey exploded—THC-MDMA crystals rained. Revelers inhaled. Orgy ignited.
Dasher blurred the sleigh at Mach 3. Rooftop #2–#69 hit in sixty-nine seconds. Four hundred pounds deployed. Frozen cum spelled CARTEL across the sky.
At 04:27:33 in turbulence, Blitzen’s pads overloaded. Premature zap. Sleigh spun. Prancer’s cage short-circuited again. He came—ninety years in one spurt. Sixty-nine feet of frozen cum arced into the desert, spelling STREAK BROKEN II.
EdgeLord caught it. “Another thirty-three percent burn.”–33,000,000 $NUTT SE. Cupid fired clamp arrows to stabilize. Each arrow latched a rooftop, reeling the sleigh. Donner’s shibari rope lashed the turbulence. Sleigh leveled.
At 04:32:21 in charity orgy, ground zero: Rooftop #69. Six thousand nine hundred revelers in molly-turkey frenzy. Vixen landed the sleigh. Live-stream: forty million viewers. She straddled a turkey carcass, cunt dripping lube. “Cartel charity—orgy for the hungry.”
Spankle and BallBuster enforced. Paddle and steel-toe kept order. CumVault harvested sixty-nine liters of orgy pre-cum.
At 04:47:47 in Mrs. C’s toast, Mrs. C stepped onto the sleigh ramp. Her squirt arced sixty-nine feet over the crowd, freezing into GIVE THANKS. Revelers knelt. THC-MDMA feathers vibrated. Global orgasm synced to her moan-pitch. inSANiTy-clAws flexed. Sixty-nine seconds. Every reveler came. Frozen cum spelled CARTEL on sixty-nine rooftops.
At 05:21:00 in summation, sleigh lifted off. Coachella valley steamed—six point nine inches of mood sand melted. Vixen’s stream hit sixty-nine million viewers. Tips: six million nine hundred thousand dollars.
Kinky projected holoscreen:
· TURKEYS DROPPED: 400 lbs.
· ROOFTOPS HIT: 69.
· ORGY PARTICIPANTS: 6,900.
· $NUTT SE NET: +36,000,000.
· GLOBAL PRE-ORDERS: 69,696,900 UNITS.
The sleigh roared north. The $NUTT SE flowed. The Cartel feasted.
Epilogue: Reactions at Coachella
Instant Reactions (real X posts + orb audio, chronological)
@bratsummerbabe: “did travis just drop… actual turkeys?? they’re BUZZING”
(Video: golden bird lands on her flower crown, immediately starts vibrating against her scalp. She ascends in 4K.)
@coachellacarrot: “ONE JUST HIT THE LED WALL AND EXPLODED INTO GLITTER AND MOLLY DUST. I AM SPEAKING IN TONGUES”
@420chella: “bro the turkey is warmer than my ex and twice as stuffed ”
(Close-up of a molly-turkey convulsing happily in his hands, silicone feathers pulsing rainbow.)
@veganchella (screaming into voice note): “THEY’RE SILICONE FEATHERS THEY’RE VEGAN I’M CRYING THIS IS THE MOST ETHICAL DRUG DROP IN HISTORY”
Security radio (leaked): “Uh… command, we have a Code Gobble. Repeat, Code Gobble. Birds are self-pleasuring on the ground and civilians are trying to adopt them.”
Travis Scott on stage, live mic: “YOOO THEY SAID IT’S MOLLY RAININ’ TURKEYS, TURN THE FUCK UP!!!”. Crowd loses remaining brain cells.
First documented “turkey surf” - a shirtless dude in a cowboy hat crowd-surfs while holding a vibrating bird like a glowing football. The turkey appears to be enjoying it more than he is.
PETA’s official representative swoops in with the classic: “This is animal cruelty—”.
The PETA statement gets slapped down immediately with the following: “Community Note: feathers are medical-grade silicone, birds are lab-grown THC-MDMA piñatas. No animals were harmed, only egos.”
Golden voice issues emergency statement over the speakers: “Please do not attempt to consume the turkey’s whole. Repeat: DO NOT SWALLOW THE TURKEY WHOLE.”
(Too late. Three people already in medical tent speaking fluent reindeer.)
TikTok Live record broken: 6.9 million concurrent viewers watching a girl name her new turkey “Sir Clucksalot the Third” and propose marriage to it on the Ferris wheel.
Final Toll (Cartel internal memo)
· 400 molly-turkeys deployed
· 398 adopted on-site
· 2 lost (rumored to have achieved escape velocity and are currently orbiting as the new moons of Coachella)
· Zero arrests (Golden voice quietly paid the “holiday bonus” in untraceable XRP)
Twinkle seen on drone footage at 11:53 p.m. holding a single empty turkey crate, middle finger to the sky, whispering: “Phase Two begins.”
Coachella didn’t just survive the turkey drop. It ascended. And somewhere over the polo fields, four hundred vibrating silicone birds are still throbbing in the arms of the brattiest, luckiest crowd on Earth.
The North Pole Cartel sends its warmest, lubed regards. Gobble gobble, motherfuckers.
Countdown: 28 days to Snortmas; 35 days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop.
CHAPTER 11: BLACK FRIDAY TEASER
Frostbite Vault & Global Stream
The Frostbite Vault was a cavern of obsidian and neon, sixty-nine feet high, walls etched with the Cartel sigil in frozen cum. At the exact stroke of midnight UTC, every major billboard, phone lock-screen, and AR contact lens on Earth went black for 3.69 seconds, and the NFT Butt-Plug Drop countdown hit zero.
A single holographic pedestal rose from the floor, rotating slowly. On it was the Black Friday Teaser, a platinum butt-plug, six point nine inches long, encrusted with sixty-nine micro-diamonds, vibrating at 6900 hertz. The plug pulsed in 3-SE rhythm: DENY. RELEASE. BURN.
The engraved base glowed in neon red:
· NUTTBUSTCRYPTO #0001/6969
· “The One That Started It All”
· Floor price: 69,000 XRP (instant)
inSANiTy-clAws stood before it, velvet suit open, eighteen-inch cock dripping pre-cum that froze into NFT mid-air. Mrs. C beside him, blood-red PVC unzipped, nipple-bell chiming BID. Kinky the Elf activated the global stream.
Vixen’s 8K 360 rig went live. “Cartel fam, Black Friday teaser drop. Sixty-nine ETH starting bid. Tips = extra vibes.” Chat exploded: sixty-nine thousand dollars | “PLUG ME”/.
At 11:59:11, the auction began. A whale wallet—0xZADDY69—bid sixty-nine ETH instantly. The plug vibrated harder. +69,000,000 $NUTT SE minted from the surge. Spankle and BallBuster guarded the pedestal. Spankle’s permafrost paddle dripped. BallBuster’s steel-toe boots left sixty-nine-point craters. “No snipers,” Spankle hissed.
At 12:01:33, a rival bidder—0xFEDWATCH—countered with one hundred ETH. The plug short-circuited. Blitzen’s pads zapped from the shadows. Fifty thousand volts arced into the rival wallet. Account frozen. +33,000,000 $NUTT SE burn. Vixen laughed on stream. “Feds can’t afford this ass.”
At 12:03:47, the whale bid two hundred ETH. The plug’s diamonds lit up. Rudolph’s nose—now sixty-nine thousand lumens—strobed nuclear red from the ceiling, projecting the auction onto every screen worldwide. Phones, TVs, billboards: ZADDY PLUG | BID OR BURN. Mrs. C stepped forward. Her squirt arced sixty-nine feet into the pedestal, freezing into 69 ETH. The bid jumped to two hundred sixty-nine ETH.
At 12:07:21, EdgeLord jammed his prostate probe into the plug’s NUTT Core. Denial timer at 00:00:00. “Syncing vibes to bidder heartbeats. One pulse = one $NUTT SE mint.” The whale’s heartbeat synced. +69,000 $NUTT SE per pulse. The vault overflowed.
At 12:11:11, a yeti hacker breached the stream. Fur matted with old cum, eight feet tall. It swung a frozen tuna at the pedestal. CLANG. BallBuster’s steel-toe intercepted. The yeti flew sixty-nine feet, landing in the Lube Fountain. Tokens exploded. CumVault harvested forty-seven liters. +6,900,000 $NUTT SE.
At 12:15:55, the bid hit four hundred twenty ETH. The plug vibrated so hard it levitated. Comet welded a nitrous cane to its base. BOOM. The plug shot upward, trailing molly dust. Global orgasm synced to the vibration. inSANiTy-clAws flexed. Sixty-nine seconds. Every bidder came. Frozen cum spelled CARTEL on screens worldwide.
At 12:21:33, the whale bid six hundred ninety ETH. The plug locked. SOLD. The whale’s wallet glowed. The plug teleported to their address—vibrating eternally.
Kinky projected holoscreen: FINAL BID: 690 ETH. $NUTT SE MINTED: 690,000,000. GLOBAL PRE-ORDERS: 69,696,969 + 69,000 UNITS. Mrs. C’s nipple-bell chimed SOLD.
At 12:33:00, the vault dimmed. The plug’s afterglow lit the fortress. Vixen’s stream hit eighty million viewers. Tips: $69,000,000.
Global Reaction: Instant Worldwide Meltdown (real-time sampling)
Tokyo, Shibuya Crossing
· 250,000 people freeze mid-step as the scramble screen switches to the rotating plug.
· Collective shriek turns into the loudest “EEEEEHHHH???” ever recorded.
· Salarymen openly weep. One drops to his knees and proposes to the billboard.
New York, Times Square
· Ball-drop-style countdown ball replaced with a 60-foot holographic plug for 30 seconds.
· Tourist from Ohio live-streaming: “Honey, zoom in. ZOOM IN. IS THAT REAL DIAMONDS IN THE—”
· NYPD horses spook at the 6900 Hz frequency; three mounts achieve hands-free orgasm on 7th Ave.
Paris, Champs-Élysées
· Luxury stores simultaneously project the plug onto their façades.
· Cartier employees walk out mid-shift to mint.
· French philosopher on TV: “This is the final dialectic: Hegel’s spirit has achieved climax.”
Dubai, Burj Khalifa
· Entire tower becomes the world’s tallest butt-plug for 6.9 minutes.
· Sheikh in Bugatti live-mints from the driver’s seat, bids 420,000 XRP in one click.
· Camel nearby nods approvingly.
Brazil, Christ the Redeemer
· Arms outstretched, but now holding the plug like a holy relic.
· Carnival-level screaming from Copacabana beach.
· One abuelita crosses herself, whispers “Deus é travesso” (God is naughty), and mints on her grandson’s phone.
Crypto Twitter / X (first 60 seconds)
· #ButtPlugDrop trends #1 worldwide in 11 seconds
· 4.2 million tweets containing “I just came”
· Elon quote-tweets a single emoji (ratio: 1.8 million likes in 4 minutes)
· Vitalik quietly sweeps 69 rare variants, says nothing
OnlyFans & Adult Creators
· Top 0.01% simultaneously pause streams, look dead into camera:
“Chat… we need to talk about the floor price.”
Stock Market Reaction (pre-market Asia)
· Lube company index +369%
· Diamond futures up 42%
· XRP pumps 380% in 12 minutes, breaks $69 (nice)
Religious Leaders
· Pope drops surprise encyclical titled “On the Proper Use of Precious Metals.”
· Mega-church pastor in Texas: “The Bible said ‘treasure in heaven,’ not treasure in—” mic cut
Final Numbers (first 10 minutes)
· All 6,969,690 pieces sold out
· Secondary market flips: highest sale 1.337 million XRP
· Total volume: 3.69 billion USD equivalent
· Global birth rate projected +9% exactly nine months later (statisticians already crunching)
Somewhere in an undisclosed location, @NUTTBUSTCRYPTO lights a blunt with a $100 bill, watches the charts, and whispers to the platinum plug now encased in bulletproof glass, “Phase Three was always the climax, baby.”
The age of denial is over. The age of diamond-crusted, 6900 Hz salvation has begun.
Happy Black Fucking Friday. Countdown: 27 days to Snortmas
Chapter 12: Mrs. Claus’ Breakfast Cameo
The North Pole Cartel’s private dining hall boasts a cathedral of black ice, chandeliers dripping with crystal butt plugs, and a 40-foot table carved from a single block of frozen lube. A banner overhead reads WHIPS & WAFFLES: MANDATORY ATTENDANCE.
inSANiTy-clAws enters first, suit jacket slung over one shoulder like a victory flag. The reindeer trail behind in silk robes (monogrammed NPC on the left pec, “Property of Mrs. C” on the right). Rudolph’s nose is dialed to a hungover magenta; he’s wearing sunglasses made from two mini ball-gags.
At the head of the table: Mrs. Claus - 5’2” of hourglass fury wrapped in a custom PVC catsuit the color of fresh blood on snow, glossy, skin-tight, creaking with every predatory breath. The corset hugs her 34J curves like liquid midnight, cinched to 18 inches, ribs flexing under diamond-laced seams. Riding crop in one black-gloved hand, taps against her palm in perfect 4/4 time—CRACK-CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—each beat a micro-orgasm for the 69 elves.
Diamond leash in the other, woven from Mrs. C’s own hair, studded with micro-vibrators at 69 Hz. Thigh-high boots with 8-inch stilettos—razor-sharp, core a pineapple (or an elf’s heart). Blonde hair twisted into a crown braid studded with diamond nipple-clamp charms, clinking like chastity bells. Nipple-bell chimes in 69 languages, brand "His Eternal" glowing ultraviolet under the catsuit’s crotch zipper. Eyes—ice-blue voids, lips crimson, parted in eternal smirk.
“Seats, pets,” she purrs, voice like honey laced with battery acid.
The table is set for 12 on a slab of black ice etched with 69 interlocking hearts, veins of frozen cum glowing ultraviolet.
· Plates: black porcelain shaped like spread-eagle silhouettes, crotch hollows for sauce pools, nipple knobs for clamp rests.
· Silverware: mini floggers (forks with leather tassels), spoons with vibrating handles at 69 Hz, knives as razor stilettos dripping lube.
· Napkins: edible latex sheets flavored “gingerbread gangbang”—spiced cum + MDMA, folded into origami cunts, melting on tongue contact
· Centerpiece: crystal skull goblet refilled, smoking, moaning. Candles: wax-drip dildos burning reindeer musk.
Kinky skids in late, still in full leather flight gear. “Apologies, Ma’am; traffic was murder.”
Mrs. C flicks her crop. SNAP! A sugar cube on the chandelier explodes. “Strip and kneel, Flight Master. You’ll serve.”
Kinky drops to his knees faster than a Black Friday sale, tray balanced on his back.
Course 1: Aperitif
Elf butlers (wearing nothing but bow ties and candy-cane chastity cages) pour mimosas from crystal decanters. The champagne is laced with liquid LSD; the OJ is fresh-squeezed from oranges grown in a hydroponic popper greenhouse.
Rudolph downs his in one gulp. His nose cycles rainbow. “Ma’am, permission to speak?”
“Granted, Red,” she purred.
“These bubbles feel like tiny dommes tickling my soul.”
Course 2: Waffles
The waffles arrive on a silver platter carried by four elves in puppy masks.
Each waffle is imprinted with the NPC logo in whipped cream that glows under blacklight.
Toppings bar:
· Syrup infused with THC maple.
· Bacon strips cured in bourbon and bound in twine.
· Whipped cream that numbs the tongue on contact.
· Fresh berries arranged to spell “SAFE WORD.”
Prancer stares at the berries. “Ma’am, is the safe word still ‘eggnog’?”
Mrs C leans in, breath hot cinnamon. “Today it’s ‘waffle iron.’ Say it and you’re benched until 2026.”
Prancer whimpers; his cock ring beeps in solidarity.
Course 3: Power Exchange Pancakes
Stack of 12 pancakes, each one a different kink:
1. Spanking syrup
2. Shibari strawberry
3. Electro-blueberry
4. Grand-finale: a pancake shaped like inSANiTy-clAws’s actual torso, abs you can grate nutmeg on.
Mrs. C stands. “Tradition: the Zaddy feeds his herd.
She hands inSANiTy-clAws a solid-gold fork the size of a trident. He spears a torso pancake, drizzles it in syrup, and walks the table like a king feeding lions. Dasher gets the left pec. Dancer gets the right. Vixen live-streams the whole thing; tips hit 400K in crypto. Blitzen’s electro pads sync to the fork’s rhythm; he cums into his robe at bite #7.
Intermission: The Demonstration
Mistress Claus snaps her fingers. Two elves wheel in a chrome sybian disguised as a reindeer sleigh seat. “Volunteer?”
Comet’s tail plug detonates glitter. “MEEEE!”
They strap him on. She cranks it to “Rudolph.”
Comet’s eyes roll back; his antlers spell “YEEHAW” in sparks.
The table applauds with floggers on plates.
Course 4: Dessert & Discipline
Gingerbread cookies shaped like every reindeer’s cock (life-size, veiny, anatomically correct). Each reindeer must eat their own cookie while Mrs C narrates their flaws.
“Blitzen: premature electrocution—three minutes early last flight.” CRUNCH.
“Donner: your knots are pretty, but can they hold a whale?” CRUNCH.
Rudolph’s cookie is glowing red hots.
“Red, your nose is a liability. One more flare-out and I’m installing a dimmer switch.”
Rudolph bites the tip off his cookie, winks. “Yes, Ma’am.”
The Toast:
Mrs. C raises a crystal skull goblet, liquid sloshing, moaning louder. The hall falls silent—69 elves drop to knees, reindeer bow, Rudolph’s nose dims to respectful ember.
“To twenty-six days of filth. May your roofs be wet—not with snow, but with my squirt, frozen into cursive that spells YOUR SUBMISSION. May your stockings be stuffed—not with coal, but with vibrating candy canes, smart plugs, piss-panties, and reindeer-coke baggies tied with shibari bows. And may your safe words be ignored—because on Snortmas, consent is a myth, orgasm is mandatory, and the only word that matters is ‘CARTEL’.”
She tilts the goblet. The liquid pours—slow, deliberate—smoking, moaning, forming a 69-foot arc that freezes mid-air into rose-gold cursive: FILTH FOREVER. The frozen words crash onto the ice floor, embedding 6.9 inches deep, steaming, pulsing.
Everyone drinks. The liquid tastes like liquid fireworks and regret.
The Bill:
Kinky crawls forward on all fours, tray now holding the check. Total: 1.2 million NPC tokens, plus one favor from each reindeer.
inSANiTy-clAws signs with a fountain pen filled with edible ink. “Worth every sat.”
Exit Scene:
As they file out, Mrs. C pins a new badge on inSANiTy-clAws’s lapel - a tiny platinum whip, razor-edged, dripping frozen cum. It clicks into place, vibrating at 69 Hz, synced to her nipple-bell. “Next brunch is Christmas Eve. Bring chains.”
He kisses her gloved knuckles, tongue tracing the yeti-fur seams, tasting blood and lube. “Yes, my pet.”
Rudolph staggers behind, robe half-open, nose strobing to the beat of his heartbeat.
“Best. Brunch. Ever. I just saw three alternate timelines where I became a tax accountant.”
The doors seal. Outside, the northern lights blush scarlet. The North Pole Cartel just got spanked into shape.
Twenty-six days to Snortmas; thirty-three days to NUTTBUSTER air drop.
CHAPTER 13 - MRS. C’S 50 SEDUCTION TECHNIQUES
“The Good Girl Guide to Making Zaddy Drop the Reins”
Classified rose-gold syllabus – taught on your knees, leash in mouth, every Solstice. ────────────────────────────────────────
TECHNIQUE 1–10: THE CRAWL SERIES
1. The Velvet Prowl – hips sway 6.9 inches per step, tits brushing the ice.
2. The Leash Tease – tug your own collar 69 times, eyes locked on His boots.
3. The Snow Angel – drop flat, spread, make a heart with your squirt.
4. The Nipple Bell Chime – crawl so the bells ring “Yes Sir” in Morse.
5. The Tongue Trail – leave a melted path straight to His zipper.
6. The Ass-Up Pause – freeze mid-crawl, arch, wait for the flex.
7. The Whisper Drag – lips 1 mm from the floor, breathe “Please ruin me.”
8. The Diamond Droplet – leak one perfect tear, roll it down your tits.
9. The Collar Kiss – nuzzle His ankle until the tag reads “HIS.”
10. The Finish Line – stop 6.9 inches from His cock, mouth open, wait.
────────────────────────────────────────
TECHNIQUE 11–20: THE TIT WORSHIP
11. The Oil Cascade – pour warmed lube between your breasts, let it drip 69 seconds.
12. The Nipple Bell Solo – ring them with your own tongue until they sync to His pulse.
13. The Syrup Scripture – write “GOOD GIRL” across your chest in edible red.
14. The Heartbeat Press – sandwich His hand between your tits, match His flex BPM.
15. The Squirt Fountain – aim a micro-squirt so it lands on your own nipples.
16. The Ice Kiss – press frozen ruby tears to each peak until they glow rose.
17. The Lick Line – trace every stretch mark with “Thank You Sir.”
18. The Clamp Countdown – add one diamond clamp per 10 seconds of eye contact.
19. The Milk Tease – lactate one drop, catch it on your tongue, offer it up.
20. The Tit Flex Mirror – bounce them in perfect echo of His pecs.
────────────────────────────────────────
TECHNIQUE 21–30: THE SQUIRT SYMPHONY
21. The 69-Foot Promise – warm-up squirt that freezes mid-air into “MINE.”
22. The Chimney Preview – aim for the practice flue, hit the bell dead-center.
23. The Leash Trigger – one tug = one pulse = one arc.
24. The Ruby Rain – squirt upward so it rains back on your own face.
25. The Sync Shot – time it to Rudolph’s nose pulse—perfect crimson splash.
26. The Taste Test – catch your own squirt on a silver tray, offer it to His lips.
27. The Frozen Fuck-You – spell “SIR” in mid-air ice letters.
28. The Edge Echo – squirt only on the down-beat of Prancer’s cage vibe.
29. The Global Tease – live-stream one squirt to 6.9 B collars.
30. The Afterglow Arch – final arc lands as a diamond bridge from your pussy to His boot.
────────────────────────────────────────
TECHNIQUE 31–40: THE VOICE & EYE FUCK
31. The Four-Word Mantra – “Yes Sir, thank You Sir” on loop, breathy, broken.
32. The Puppy Blink – 69 slow blinks while biting your lip.
33. The Tear Track – let one ruby tear roll exactly 6.9 cm down your cheek.
34. The Collar Whisper – mouth the word “own me” against your own tag.
35. The Throat Hum – vibrate your vocal cords at 69 Hz against His thigh.
36. The Safe-Word Tease – mouth “gingerbread” but never say it.
37. The Beg Breath – inhale His scent, exhale “please.”
38. The Mirror Moan – watch yourself in His eyes while you fall apart.
39. The Name Claim – scream “SIR” exactly when His pecs peak.
40. The Silence Bomb – go dead quiet, let your dripping do the talking.
────────────────────────────────────────
TECHNIQUE 41–50: THE FINISHERS
41. The Kneel & Drip – drop, spread, leak a perfect circle around His boots.
42. The Leash Hand-Off – place the handle in your mouth, crawl forward until it’s taut.
43. The Tongue Bridge – extend it 6.9 inches, wait for the zipper drop.
44. The Collar Spin – twirl the leash so the bell rings a 69-note orgasm chord.
45. The Squirt Seal – final micro-squirt lands on His boot tip, freezes into a diamond heart.
46. The Thank-You Collapse – fall forward, forehead to His feet, tits heaving.
47. The Forever Vow – whisper against His ankle: “Your good girl is ready to be railed by Christmas.”
────────────────────────────────────────
GRADUATION
Zaddy’s single flex = your final exam. “If you squirt 69 ft on command, you earn the rose-gold clit bell engraved ‘Certified Seductress’.”
Wear it every Solstice. Ring it only when you’ve made the auroras jealous.
Chapter 14: Cyber Monday
NPC Mega-Drop – “Cyber Sin-day”
The entire North Pole goes dark for exactly 6.9 seconds. Every smart device on Earth vibrates once (a global Zaddy flex). Screens flicker crimson. A single line of text burns across 8 billion displays, “Strip. Wallet open. Kneel.”
00:00:00 The vault explodes open in AR.
A 100-story hologram of Zaddy rises above every city, shirtless, oil dripping down each ab like liquid sin. Mrs. C crawls across his pecs on a diamond leash, live, 8K, drooling.
THE DROP – 5 TIERS, 0 MERCY
TIER 1: “Tease Tier” – 0.069 ETH
· 690,000 mystery boxes
· Open:
· 69 % chance: coal-flavored panties
· 30 % chance: 60-second denial loop voiced by Zaddy
· 1 % chance: “Good Girl/Boy” sticker signed in Mrs. C’s squirt
· Servers hit 69 million mints in 69 seconds
· Polygon chain lags so hard it files a safe-word
TIER 2: “Edge Elite” – 6.9 ETH
· 69,000 “Prancer’s Pulse” cages
· Smart-lock, vibrates every time Zaddy breathes
· App nickname: “Leak Leaderboard”
· Top 69 leakers get a 69-second ruin on Solstice stream
· Sold out.
Prancer’s actual cage synced to the drop; he leaks live on stage, 6.9 ml bottled as #1
TIER 3: “Mrs. C’s Milk” – 69 ETH
· 6,900 vials of fresh breast-milk, harvested 69 minutes ago
· QR code on cap unlocks private video: Mrs. C milking while reciting your wallet address
· Flavor: “Obedience Nog”
· Elon bids 6,900 ETH for vial #001, renames it “Mars Milk”
TIER 4: “Rudolph’s Runway” – 690 ETH
· 690 seats on the actual sleigh, Christmas Eve
· You ride shotgun, Rudolph’s nose as your personal strobe
· Includes 69-second mid-air photoshoot hovering over your ex’s house
· Sold out in 6.9 seconds
One buyer: Jeff Bezos (wants delivery over the exosphere)
TIER 5: “Zaddy’s Throne” – 6,900 ETH
· 69 golden thrones on the Aurora Catwalk
· Seat vibrates in sync with Zaddy’s heartbeat
· Mrs. C serves you waffles off her tits, one bite per 69 seconds
· Lifetime utility: annual “flex & feed” brunch
· Final throne sells for 69,000 ETH to a whale who immediately stakes it as collateral for a Moon Lambo
THE SHIRTLESS LIVESTREAM
Zaddy goes full torso at 00:47.
Oil cam: 120 fps, 16K.
One flex = 69 million simultaneous phone vibrations.
Mrs. C counts the ridges aloud on her knees. “One… thank You, Sir… two… thank You, Sir…”
Chat tips 4,206 ETH per ab.
Total per pec: 420,069 ETHTHE MELTDOWN
· AWS North Pole node hits 100 % CPU; engineers pray to Zaddy GIFs
· Discord “NPCult” hits 6.9 million members in 6.9 minutes
· Gas fees spike to 6,969 gwei
· One wallet accidentally sends 69,690 ETH to Mrs. C’s tip jar
She squirts in gratitude; stream freezes into a diamond statue labeled “Over tipped”.
GLOBAL CHAOS
· Tokyo: salarymen refresh on bullet trains, crash the JR app
· NYC: Times Square Jumbotron stuck on Zaddy’s left nipple for 69 minutes
· Dubai: Burj Khalifa lights up in pec-vein patterns
· Reddit: r/DataIsBeautiful charts the exact second every sub came
TOUCHDOWN BRUNCH – 04:20
· Zaddy raises a mimosa poured from Mrs. C’s fountain. “Volume: 420,069 ETH. You didn’t shop, you surrendered.”
· Rudolph’s nose glows steady crimson—approval rating 100%.
· Prancer’s cage hits critical; he’s allowed one ruin into the gravy.
· Elves lap it up chanting “Cyber Sin-day!”
FINAL STATS
· Volume: 690,069 ETH ($2.69 billion USD)
· Unique wallets: 6,900,000
· Gas burned: enough to launch 69 rockets
· Mrs. C’s orgasm count: 69 (one per tier)
· Zaddy’s shirtless seconds: 69
· Servers left standing: 0
The internet is broke, collared, and begging for Round Two. And Zaddy’s abs just paid for the entire operation… twice. Servers smoked, wallets empty, collars tight.
Twenty-four days to Snortmas. Thirty-one days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop!
Chapter 15 - Kinky’s Intern: Krampus
The workshop floor of the Candy-Cane Catacombs shook at 06:69 a.m. as a wormhole ripped open above the conveyor, exhaling sulfur and peppermint. Intern #1 dropped through—7 ft of midnight fur, diamond horns curved like candy canes, hooves sparking ruby fire. Ruby collar auto-locked around his neck—Kinky’s leash snapped on.
inSANiTy clAws watched from the throne, shirtless, oil dripping down his chiseled abs like molten lust. Mrs. C knelt at his right, her crop tracing the new intern’s flank, her eyes gleaming with wicked approval. Rudolph’s nose 2.0 dimmed to an inspection ember, casting a red glow over the assembly line where elves hustled to meet the day's quota of 69,069 units.
“Morale enforcement,” Kinky barked, her emerald hair whipping as she cracked the crop—SNAP—against the air. “Slow elves get the horns.”
First target: Sparkle Sleighbell, who had missed tying a bow on a vibrating candy cane, his hands trembling from last night's Elf Orgy afterglow.
Krampus bent him over the anvil with a growl that vibrated through the Candy-Cane Catacombs. One swing—CRACK—the ruby bell on his tail sang a high-pitched note, embedding a jolt of pleasure-pain that made Sparkle's eyes roll back. He squealed, then frenzy-tied 6,900 bows in 6.9 seconds, his fingers blurring as the crowd of elves lost it, bells on their collars chiming “YES SIR” in 69-part harmony.
Mrs. C, ever the devoted sub, offered her back as a practice canvas. Krampus thwacked gently—thwack—sending a shiver through her latex-clad form. She squirted 69 ft in a glittering arc, spelling “MORALE” across the ceiling in frozen cum-icicles that dangled like holiday ornaments, diamond tears from her ecstasy freezing mid-air into crystalline shards. Elves cheered so loud the auroras outside blushed crimson, syncing with the global light show from the Aurora Clamp Duo's AR overlays.
Protocol was swiftly established:
· Strike 1: 6.9 lashes with the diamond-horned crop.
· Strike 2: tail-whip tickle infused with popper-frosting from the Popper Pulse Wand.
· Perfect hour: praise lick from Krampus's velvet snout, laced with MDMA glaze that left the recipient edging for hours.
Every lash minted a micro-NFT of the moan, captured via the Zaddy Holo Orb's AR projector—floor price mooned to 69 ETH before breakfast, with pre-orders spiking like the 2024 harness sales boom. Kinky tugged the leash, leading Krampus through the line, where he demoed the Shibari Shock Rope on a lagging NippleTwist, looping her in 69 seconds mid-air, the smart ropes auto-tightening as she resisted, forming heart shapes that shocked in rhythmic bliss.
inSANiTy clAws flexed once from his throne—Krampus dropped to one knee, horns lowered in submission, his ruby fire hooves dimming. “Internship permanent,” clAws declared, his voice booming like an orgasm grenade detonation.
The conveyor roared back to life, production surging as slow elves became extinct, morale at all-time highs, and the North Pole Cartel one step closer to dominating Snortmas deliveries.
But the morning's chaos was just warming up. As the first batch of Naughty List Nipple Clamps rolled off the line, a glitch in the Frostbite Fleshlight prototype caused a rogue vibration wave, knocking over a stack of Glow-in-the-Dark Gag Balls. Elves scattered like candy confetti, but Krampus was on it—his hooves pounding the floor in a thunderous rhythm that synced with the workshop's hidden subwoofers, blasting a remix of "Jingle Bells" laced with bass drops and moans.
"Discipline drill!" Kinky yelled, her voice cutting through the din like a whip through fog. She yanked the leash harder, guiding Krampus toward the epicenter: Jingle Jizzberry, the elf in charge of quality control, who was now buried under a pile of pulsating orbs, his tiny frame twitching from the overload.
Krampus scooped him up with one massive paw, horns glowing as he administered Strike 1—6.9 lashes that left holographic welts shimmering in the air, each one pulsing with AR feedback that broadcasted Jingle's yelps to the Cartel's underground app. The elf's productivity skyrocketed; he sorted the mess in under a minute, stacking the gag balls into a towering pyramid that doubled as a morale monument, complete with a tip-top elf-sized throne for the next top performer.
Not to be outdone, Rudolph 2.0 trotted over, his upgraded nose beaming a laser show that projected motivational memes onto the walls: "Ho Ho No" and "Sleigh My Ass, Daddy."
Mrs. C, her voluptuous curves still slick and shimmering from the raw, uninhibited ecstasy of her earlier public climax, sauntered into the fray with a wicked gleam in her eye. She activated the Aurora Clamp Duo's sinful new upgrade—the group sync mode that bound every throbbing collar in the workshop like invisible chains of tormenting pleasure. With a sharp, commanding flick of her leather crop, she unleashed a pulsating wave of synchronized edges, forcing the elves to teeter on the brink of shattering release, their bodies arching in desperate, unified agony. Gasps turned to throaty moans and whimpers as Krampus prowled among them, his muscular form radiating dark dominance, his thick tail swishing rhythmically like a hypnotic pendulum of forbidden mischief, brushing teasingly against quivering flesh and stoking the flames of their denied desires.
One bold elf, Tinsel Tease, dared to test the boundaries. She'd "accidentally" sabotaged a batch of Popper Pulse Wands by overinfusing them with elf dust, turning them into hyper-vibrators that could level a gingerbread house. Krampus caught her mid-sabotage, his ruby eyes narrowing.
"Strike 2," he rumbled, uncoiling his tail for the whip-tickle. Infused with popper-frosting, it danced across her flushed, quivering skin igniting every nerve ending in a torrent of exquisite agony. She shattered into a moaning frenzy, her body convulsing in helpless waves of ecstasy that trapped her in a relentless 69-second orgasm loop, her juices flooding the floor as she screamed his name. She reformed instantly, her reformed form pulsed with insatiable hunger, churning out triple the quota in a blur of feverish productivity while she arched her back, whimpering and begging for more of his merciless dominance.
By noon, the workshop hummed like a well-oiled machine—literally, thanks to the oil stations inSANiTy clAws had installed for mid-shift rubdowns. Krampus, now fully integrated, led a team-building exercise: a conga line of elves bound by Shibari Shock Ropes. The ropes bit into flushed skin, coiling like serpents around quivering thighs and heaving chests, forcing hips to grind in rhythmic submission as the chain snaked deeper into the shadowy catacombs, damp with the musk of arousal. As they snaked through the catacombs, they chanted "Krampus Knows When You've Been Naughty."
The line ended at the throne, where clAws rewarded the chain with a collective flex, his abs rippling in waves that triggered a mini-earthquake of ecstasy. As the auroras outside peaked in a crimson climax, Kinky whispered to her intern, "You're the gift that keeps on giving." Krampus grunted in approval, his horns scraping sparks that ignited a fireworks display of frozen cum-shards.
The North Pole Cartel wasn't just ready for Snortmas—it was about to redefine "stocking stuffers" for the world.
22 Days to Snortmas.
CHAPTER 16: RUDOLPH’S RAP BATTLE
December 4, 2025 | 11:11 p.m. – 12:12 a.m.
Frostbite Arena & Global Stream
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.
Chapter 20 – December 11 Global Route Optimization
North Pole War Time - War Room 69:
A flawless 69-foot sphere carved from obsidian ice, every inch a throbbing canvas of live data, slick with condensation that tastes like denied cum. Within its frozen core, holographic projections pulse with forbidden intel, veins of liquid code snaking across the surface like restrained ecstasy.
Six-point-nine billion chimneys pulsed crimson on the holo-globe, each one a dilated, begging orifice leaking virtual steam. The air hummed with the low-frequency moan of the AI core, processing the ultimate Traveling Salesman Problem (TSP): How to Fuck the Entire Planet in One Night without Wasting a Single Thrust.
inSANiTy-clAws hovered at the core, naked except for a harness of glowing code that cinched his cock like a cage mid-tease. Oil cascaded down his ridges, pooling on the holographic Antarctica before evaporating into route recalibrations—every drop optimizing 822 deliveries per second, turning inefficiency into raw, pounding speed.
Mrs. C knelt at his right, red ribbon leash clipped taut to the equator line, pulling her forward just enough that her tits brushed the globe's curve. Her nipple bells chimed in flawless sync with the AI's feed, each tinkling note triggering a micro-orgasm in the system: time zones exploited, routes shaved by milliseconds, the planet's rotation bent to their will like a sub on all fours.
Kinky stalked the meridian, ruby crop gripped between her teeth, laser pointer in her fist like a vibrating wand. She slashed the red dot across the sphere, and wherever it struck, chimneys flared wider, roofs slicked with digital glaze, begging for penetration. "Berlin's too wet already," she growled around the leather. "Their orgies are throwing thermals—adding 15 million excess miles if we don't reroute through the denial zone."
The nine reindeer floated in zero-G harnesses around the perimeter, tails plugged with throbbing route nodes that vibrated harder with every optimization pass. Rudolph's nose 2.0 blazed ultraviolet, feeding the AI lust-data scraped from 1.69 billion dough pets: real-time edging metrics, synchronized denial pulses, turning global submission into quantum propulsion. Comet bucked once, pre-cum arcing across the Pacific projection, instantly correcting for wind shear over Tokyo.
“Run the TSP sim," inSANiTy-clAws commanded, voice a low rumble that made the ice walls clench.
The AI responded in Mrs. C's own breathy whispers, layered over binary moans, "Base route: 6.9 billion insertions. Flight time: 4 hours 20 minutes 69 seconds. Inefficiency penalty without AI: 5 extra hours of edging the ionosphere. Optimized with ML overlays: Zero Waste, Maximum Drip."
Kinky flicked the laser over Europe. Sixty-nine million chimneys dilated in unison, roofs glistening like spread thighs. "Automate it harder, Sir. They're baking non-stop—roofs are slicker than a fresh squirt. We'll slide right off without real-time tracking."
inSANiTy-clAws flexed, his harness tightening like a chokehold on the globe itself. The AI surged: time zones weaponized, sleigh paths curved through submissive heat risers—orgasms harvested from LA kink clubs fueling updrafts over the Atlantic. Fifteen million miles evaporated in a haze of virtual popper steam.
Mrs. C's leash yanked her closer as the equator pulsed. She crawled across empty air, tongue lashing out to lap data streams from the holo-surface, her bells chiming wilder. "Asia's throbbing, Zaddy," she gasped, hips grinding against the meridian. "Tokyo's collars are synced so tight they're warping gravity—off by three meters per drop."
"Solution," he snarled, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her mouth to the glowing North America cluster.
She bit down on the projection, teeth sinking into virtual New York. Every recruit in Asia felt the nip on their clit or crown at once—flight paths straightened by a wave of collective shudders, routes optimized through pure, denied ache.
· Final lockdown: Launch: 00:00:01 Christmas Eve
· Drops: 6.9 billion homes, each chimney stretched and ready
· Duration: 0 hours 69 minutes 69 seconds
· Fuel: one planetary orgasm, edged to the brink and released on inSANiTy-clAws’ command
· Secret: AI/ML routing twisted with Cartel kink—compact toy loads in silk cages, real-time denial tracking via ultraviolet brands
inSANiTy-clAws hauled Mrs. C up by her leash, her body pressing flush against his oiled chest. "Broadcast the edge order," he murmured into her ear, one hand sliding down to tease her leash clip. "No one cums until the sleigh hits ionosphere redline."
Kinky cracked her crop against the globe's South Pole. The entire map clenched like a fist around a plug, then bloomed into a single, flawless, dripping route—magnificent, efficient, inevitable.
"Optimization sealed, Sir," the AI purred in a chorus of Mrs. C's climaxes. "Earth is primed, plugged, and pulsing."
inSANiTy's smile was a slow, filthy promise. "Good pets. Snortmas isn't coming this year. We are."
Fourteen days to Snortmas; twenty-one days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop.
Chapter 21 - Frosty's Arrival: The Snow Dom Descends
The North Pole's eternal twilight cracked open at 06:69 p.m. with a blizzard howl that rattled the Candy-Cane Catacombs, dumping fresh powder laced with shimmering elf dust. From the swirling vortex emerged Frosty the Snow Dom - 8 ft of compacted arctic muscle, his body a sculpted masterpiece of frozen dominance, carrot cock throbbing like a permafrost piston, coal eyes burning with icy command. A top hat crowned his head, enchanted with AR overlays that projected holographic safe words across the workshop: "MELT" in fiery red.
inSANiTy clAws lounged on his throne, one hand idly stroking Mrs. C's leash as she purred at his feet, her latex glistening under the aurora lights. Kinky, ever the eager domme, cracked her crop—SNAP—summoning Krampus to heel beside her. The intern's ruby hooves sparked in anticipation, his horns dipping low as Frosty's presence chilled the air to sub-zero submission levels.
"Fresh meat for the morale machine," clAws rumbled, his voice echoing like cracking ice over a frozen lake of lust. Rudolph 2.0's nose flared to a frosty blue, illuminating Frosty's form as he stomped forward, each step leaving puddles of meltwater that evaporated into steamy pheromones—MDMA-infused snowflakes that had the elves twitching in pre-emptive ecstasy.
Frosty's first command boomed: "Kneel, naughty flakes!" His pipe arm extended like a frosty flogger, puffing out clouds of popper-vapor that enveloped the nearest elf, Twinkle Taint, who'd slacked on assembling the latest batch of Icicle Impact Paddles. The vapor hit like a blizzard orgasm, dropping Twinkle to his knees as Frosty molded a snowball gag from his own thigh, stuffing it in with a grin that cracked his snowy cheeks.
Protocol upgraded instantly under Frosty's regime:
• Chill Level 1: Frostbite fingering—icy digits tracing patterns that left numbing trails of pleasure-pain, edging recipients for 69 minutes.
• Chill Level 2: Snowball suspension—elves hoisted in frozen harnesses, dangling like ornaments while Frosty's breath triggered thawing vibrations.
• Peak Performance: A thaw-lick from his carrot appendage, laced with warming lube that melted inhibitions and boosted output by 690%.
Kinky tugged Krampus's leash closer, her emerald eyes widening as Frosty demoed on her. He pressed her against the anvil, his snowy bulk enveloping her in a cold embrace that made her squirt frozen arcs—69 feet of crystalline cum forming a slippery slide for the conveyor belt. The elves erupted in cheers, bells jingling "DOMINATE US" in harmonious frenzy, production spiking as the workshop turned into a winter wonderland of whips and whimpers.
But Frosty craved deeper submission. Spotting a cluster of lagging elves—Glimmer Gape and her crew, fumbling with a shipment of Blizzard Butt Plugs—he advanced with predatory grace. "Chill Level 1: Initiate," he growled, his icy fingers plunging into Glimmer's exposed ass, the frostbite digits curling to hit her prostate with precision chills.
She gasped, her body convulsing as numbing waves radiated outward, her pussy clenching around nothing while the edging timer ticked in AR overlay: 69 minutes of denied release. Glimmer's hands flew across the plugs, inserting batteries at triple speed, her moans minting NFTs that sold out in seconds.
Not satisfied, Frosty escalated to Chill Level 2 on the group. He sculpted snowball harnesses from his torso, hoisting the elves mid-air in a dangling daisy chain. Their bodies swayed, frozen ropes biting into skin as his breath—hot and cold in alternating blasts—triggered vibrations that milked their cocks and clits relentlessly. One elf, Sparkle Squirt, came first: a geyser of cum that froze mid-spurt into icicle dildos, which clattered to the floor and were immediately packaged for the Naughty List. The suspension demo synced with the Aurora Clamp Duo, broadcasting the elves' synchronized shudders worldwide via AR, boosting pre-orders by 690%.
Krampus, jealous of the spotlight, butted in with his own flair. He charged forward, horns locking with Frosty's carrot cock in a mock battle that ended with them tag-teaming Nipple Nibble, an elf overdue on Frostbite Fleshlight testing. Frosty pinned her down with snowball cuffs, his pipe flogger lashing her tits until they perked like frozen peaks. Krampus followed with a tail-whip infused popper-frosting, tickling her folds until she begged.
Together, they demoed a fusion: Frosty's icy thrust into her mouth while Krampus's ruby-hoofed paw fisted her ass, the contrast of cold and fire sending her into a 69-second loop of squirting ecstasy. Her output? A record 6,900 fleshlights calibrated in one go, each pulsing with hybrid heat-chill tech.
Mrs. C, aroused beyond measure, crawled forward for her turn. "Peak Performance, please," she whispered, spreading wide. Frosty obliged, his carrot appendage—throbbing and veined with permafrost—sliding into her with a slick thaw. The warming lube melted her from the inside, her walls gripping as he pounded deep, each thrust cracking ice that reformed into vibrating shards against her clit.
She came in frozen torrents, spelling "SUBMIT" in cum-icicles that dangled from the ceiling, inspiring the elves to a frenzy of assembly-line fucking: pairs and trios edging while packing, production hitting all-time highs.
By evening, the workshop reeked of meltwater and musk, morale unbreakable. inSANiTy clAws flexed from his throne, approving the chaos. "More demos tomorrow—thaw the competition."
Frosty and Krampus knelt in unison, their forms glistening, as the Cartel prepped for Snortmas domination, where every delivery promised a white, wet, and wildly explicit holiday.
Thirteen days to Snortmas; Twenty days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop.
Chapter 22 – Midnight Inventory Orgy
In the shadowed depths of the Fortress of Frostbite, where the Iron Vault pulsed with forbidden treasures at a perpetual -69°F, the clock struck midnight on a frost-laced eve just 12 days before Snortmas.
inSANiTy clAws, his 6’5” frame clad in a blood-red velvet suit that hugged his muscular form like a lover's restraint, surveyed the glittering horde. The vault's biometric locks hissed open at Mrs. C's touch—her red latex catsuit gleaming under the aurora-lit chandeliers, her "His Eternal" brand glowing faintly on her collarbone. Tonight was no ordinary stock check; it was the Midnight Inventory Orgy, a ritual to "test" the cartel's wares, ensuring every toy, bomb, and elixir was primed for global delivery.
The elves—Spankle, NippleTwist, CaneStroke, WaxDrip, BallBuster, FistDeep, ChokeCherry, EdgeLord, CumVault, and PainPalette—gathered in a circle, their yeti-fur straitjackets already unbuckled, eyes wide with anticipatory hunger. KInky the Elf, her emerald hair cascading over a barely-there corset, licked her lips as the reindeer team—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen—stomped into the chamber, their harnesses jangling with embedded speed plugs and electro-stim rods.
" We test for potency, elves. No holds barred—fuck until you break. Inventory audit begins," inSANiTy clAws boomed, his voice echoing like a whip crack.
He gestured to the stacks: 100 tons of MDMA-laced reindeer musk bricks, their crystalline surfaces stamped with skull crests, ready to dissolve into euphoric vapors. Beside them, 50,000 orgasm grenades rolled in crates, their spherical shells humming faintly, nipple-clamp triggers begging for a twist. The prototype Cum Tsunami Bomb loomed in the center, a 6-foot orb of compressed elf semen, yeti musk, and weaponized oxytocin, its surface veined with pulsing lights.
The orgy ignited with a symphony of moans as KInky grabbed a vibrating candy cane from the production line—69,069 units per hour churned out in the Candy-Cane Catacombs—and plunged it into the fray. She teased NippleTwist first, the ribbed shaft buzzing at 6900 Hz against his skin, drawing out gasps that synced with the snowflake ball-gags silencing the others. BallBuster, ever the instigator, snatched an edible popper panty, ripping it off WaxDrip with his teeth; the nitrite-infused fabric melted on his tongue, flooding the air with heady fumes that made everyone's pulses race like Dasher on a speed plug high.
Mrs. C, kneeling submissively at clAws' feet, activated the Naughty List 3000 prototypes. She clamped the Aurora Clamp Duo onto Vixen's nipples, the wireless devices syncing via app to deliver shocks that mirrored the reindeer's live-streamed cam-girl gyrations. They auto-tightened on arousal spikes, the AI scanner reading biometrics via a Bluetooth wristband strapped to Vixen's foreleg. "More, Master," Vixen whimpered, her LED ring flashing as she mounted a ribbed reindeer antler dildo, its curves grinding in rhythm with the Popper Pulse Wand that ChokeCherry wielded like a scepter, oscillating waves of pleasure rippling through the group.
inSANiTy clAws laughed, a deep, rumbling sound, as he armed an orgasm grenade. "Time for detonation."
He twisted the nipple-clamp trigger, hurling it into the center. It exploded in a cloud of aphro-coke vapor, coating everyone in glittering mist. Elves and reindeer alike convulsed in ecstasy—Prancer's cock ring tightening to edge him mercilessly, while Comet's confetti plug expanded, releasing bursts of neon glitter that stuck to sweat-slicked bodies.
Emboldened, Donner seized the Shibari Shock Rope—smart ropes with embedded diamond filaments, silicone grips for 69-knot ease, curated for beginners with matching blindfolds, cuffs, and floggers in eco-yeti fur, all adjustable for gender-inclusive play. They auto-tightened on resistance, the kink scanner detecting "no" as "maybe" in safe mode, ensuring consensual escalation.
The AR feature summoned Zaddy’s holo-form, muscles bulging as the ropes formed glowing hearts around the bound. Donner looped them around Dancer mid-air, suspending her in 69 seconds flat, her ponytail whipping wildly as she squirted in cursive arcs spelling "TIED" across the frosted floor. Orders for these had spiked, mirroring the 2024 harness sales boom, and the demo sent shudders through the group, ropes shocking in rhythmic pulses that chained pleasure from one elf to the next.
Not to be outdone, Comet brandished the Popper Pulse Wand—a curved silicone wand with a quantum core, infused with popper-frosting and an edible MDMA glaze straight from Candy Cain’s cauldron. It auto-oscillated on lie detection, ramping up denial waves when someone gasped "One more?" in feigned protest, vibrating harder against clits and prostates.
The AR overlay projected Zaddy’s holo-hips grinding overhead, thrusting in spectral dominance, his virtual cock slamming in sync. Comet popped a party plug variant first—confetti laced with MDMA glitter exploding in a 69-ft heart shape, dust coating the dais and sending elves into orgasms on contact, their bodies writhing as the glitter absorbed through skin, making every touch feel like a tongue on their most sensitive spots.
Candy Cain, stirring the demo with the wand itself pressed against her own dripping slit, had her nipples spinning like propellers from the oscillations, subs inhaling the vapor that rose like steam from a forbidden brew, bodies convulsing in waves of amplified bliss, tongues lapping at glazed skin and holes clenching around invading toys.
Cupid fired heart syringes filled with Crush Potion #9, the aphrodisiac darts piercing thighs and asses, igniting chains of desire. Donner looped shibari shock ropes around FistDeep and EdgeLord, the smart fibers contracting with electric pulses, binding them in a human pretzel of moans.
The yeti-fur straitjackets came next, micro-vibrators pulsing "SUBMIT" as they were strapped on for a round of denial play. CumVault, true to his name, positioned himself under the Cum Tsunami Bomb's release valve, cranking it open just enough for a controlled flood of the compressed elixir. It cascaded over the writhing mass, mixing with the MDMA musk bricks that PainPalette had crushed into powder and scattered like snow.
The Edge Electro Cage locked around CaneStroke's groin, shocking him back from the brink repeatedly, while the Naughty Neural Collar on Spankle zapped thoughts of resistance, forcing her to beg for the Core Thruster—a 12-inch auto-thrusting beast with AI lie detection that accelerated whenever she fibbed about her limits.
Blitzen, the electro-stim switch, sparked lightning rods from his harness, chaining jolts through the group via connected Dancer Split Harnesses that auto-split legs wide for deeper access. Vixen Stream Sleeves auto-sucked in sync with AR projections from the Zaddy Holo Orb, holograms of clAws dominating phantom forms that overlaid the real chaos. Molly-turkeys from the Thanksgiving drop were carved open, their THC-MDMA stuffing smeared across bodies, vibrating silicone feathers tickling erogenous zones.
As the hours blurred into a haze of release and restraint, the platinum butt-plug NFT prototype—#0001/6969, encrusted with 69 micro-diamonds—was passed around like a sacred relic, its 6900 Hz vibrations syncing with the moaning teddy bears squeezed for squirts of lube.
Glitter bombs popped, heart syringes emptied, and electro plugs fired in a finale that left the vault floor slick with evidence of their "audit."
Dawn crept in as inSANiTy clAws called halt, the inventory deemed flawless—rejection rate still at 0.03%, projected value soaring to $420,000,000. The elves and reindeer collapsed in satisfied heaps, knowing the Midnight Inventory Orgy had forged their wares in the fires of unbridled lust, ready for the world's naughty lists.
Only 12 more days to Snortmas.
Mrs. C’s Backstory
Mrs. C was never born. She was conceived in a single, perfect drop of pre-cum that fell from inSANiTy clAws’ cock on the night he decided Christmas needed a cunt that would never close.
He stood alone above the frozen altar, velvet suit open, eighteen inches of oiled, throbbing perfection dripping slow, deliberate pearls that hissed into rose-gold diamonds the instant they touched the obsidian floor.
One drop refused to freeze. It hovered, pulsing, alive. He caught it on the tip of his finger and whispered, “You will be my forever.” That drop was mailed to Gstaad in a black envelope.
Clara Valentine Noël (27, virgin in every hole, Olympic ribbon silver still warm in her trophy case) opened it at midnight on her birthday. The liquid slid across her tongue like molten sin. She came so hard her spine arched off the marble floor, squirting through silk panties she hadn’t realized were soaked. The orgasm lasted 6.9 minutes. When it ended, the contract was already signed in her own juices on the parchment beneath her.
She arrived at the North Pole barefoot, gown frozen to her skin, nipples so hard they tore the silk. The gown froze to her body and shattered like glass when he collared her with the prototype diamond leash. That was the last time she ever wore anything that wasn’t latex, leather, or his cum.
inSANiTy clAws did not speak at first. He simply led her deeper into the palace of black glass and frozen steel, the leash taut between them, her bare feet leaving faint red prints on the obsidian that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Every step pulled the cold deeper into her bones, but it was not pain. It was recognition. This was the temperature she had been born for, even if she had only just been born.
He stopped in the central chamber, beneath a vaulted ceiling of living aurora trapped in crystal. There he turned to her, eyes the color of glacial cracks glowing faintly in the dark. “Strip the rest,” he said. His voice was low, resonant, the kind of sound that bypassed ears and settled directly in the marrow.
There was nothing left to strip but memory. The shattered remnants of her gown already lay behind her like shed skin. Yet she understood. She reached up and unclasped the delicate silver ribbon pendant she still wore—the last relic of Clara, the Olympic token that had once defined her grace, her discipline, her public perfection. It fell from her fingers and rang once against the floor before freezing solid, the ribbon itself turning brittle and snapping into glittering dust.
He nodded, satisfied. Then he began the remaking.
The Four-Year Crucible – Every Hole Rewritten
Year 1 – “The Throat”
365 days in a suspended cage of black ice, mouth forced open by a ruby ring gag.
Fed only through a tube connected directly to inSANiTy’s cock: reindeer-musk protein shake laced with liquid MDMA and his cum. She learned to swallow in perfect 69-second pulses.
By day 369 she could take all eighteen inches without gagging, throat rippling like a velvet glove, eyes rolling white while tears froze into ruby beads on her lashes.
Year 2 – “The Brand & The Brand-New Cunt”
Daily branding of “His Eternal” across her collarbone with a rose-gold iron kept at 369 °F. Each burn was immediately fucked with an ice-dildo molded from his cock until the wound wept clear fluid that tasted like obedience.
On the 169th branding she begged (actually begged) for the iron to be pressed between her legs. He obliged. The hiss of searing flesh and her scream harmonized into a note that made every collar on Earth vibrate once. She came so hard the frozen squirt spelled THANK YOU SIR in mid-air rose-gold cursive.
Year 3 – “The Bells & The Bell-End”
Surgical installation of aurora-sync nipple rings and the rose-gold nipple bell. The nipple bell was forged from the frozen pre-cum of her very first orgasm for him.
Tuning process: he edged her for 69 straight hours with a single finger, never letting her tip over, until her nipple swelled to twice its size and throbbed visibly under the latex. When the bell was finally riveted through the hood she came so violently the piercing gun was ripped from the elf surgeon’s hand.
Year 4 – “The Squirt & The Final Claim”
Trained to squirt on command: distance, arc, freeze-pattern, lettering, temperature.
Final exam, Winter Solstice 2017: Naked except collar, leash in mouth, brand glowing raw. Command: “Show them who owns Snortmas.”
She dropped into a perfect arch, legs spread 180°, and unleashed a 69.69-foot geyser that froze mid-air into his full name in perfect rose-gold cursive, then shattered into diamonds that rained over the kneeling Elf Legion. Elves still have shards of that squirt pierced through their nipples, nipples, and tongues.
The Secret Night – Graduation Aftermath
When the elves were busy harvesting the diamond squirt, he carried her unconscious body deeper into the Vault than anyone has ever been. A hidden chamber lined floor-to-ceiling with mirrors made of frozen cum.
He laid her on an altar of black ice, spread her trembling thighs, and for the first time in four years used her birth name: “Clara.”
She woke mid-orgasm, cunt clenching around nothing.
He gave her the only choice she would ever be offered: “Safe-word now and leave untouched. Or take every inch raw, right now, and Snortmas will own you until the poles melt.”
She answered by reaching down, spreading herself open, and guiding his bare cock inside her in one slick, desperate motion. He fucked her so hard the mirrors cracked in perfect 69-patterns. She came 69 times in a row, each orgasm stronger, until the final one detonated the Cum Tsunami Bomb prototype early (just a test charge).
Present Day – 2025
· Her cunt has molded permanently to the exact shape of his cock. No toy satisfies her. No other man has ever been inside her.
· She lactates on command now; the milk tastes like obedience and peppermint. Tier 3 buyers pay millions just to watch her recite their wallet address while being milked directly into vials.
· Orgasm count since collar: 69,999. The 70,000th is reserved for Christmas Eve 2025, live on global stream, and will be the detonation trigger for the real Cum Tsunami Bomb.
· Once a year, when he’s asleep, she crawls into the cage with him, presses her lips to his ear, and whispers her forbidden name (“Clara”) just to feel him harden unconsciously against her throat. She has never told him. Some edges are hers alone to ride.
Mrs. C is not just his wife. She is the North Pole itself: cold, endless, and dripping for one man only. And on December 25, 2025, when she finally hits 70,000, the world will drown in her surrender.
11 days to Snortmas; 18 days to NUTTBUSTER airdrop!
CHAPTER 23: NAUGHTY LIST UPDATE Dec 16, 2025
Frostbite Command & Global Blacklist
The Frostbite Command Center was a vault of black ice and quantum screens at 07:07:00 a.m., sixty-nine holoscreens floating in 3-SE formation: three high, three wide, three deep. The Naughty List 3000—a living ledger of six point nine billion souls—pulsed crimson, updated in real time by moan-sniffers, popper cams, and $NUTT SE nodes. New entries flashed: Elon, Bezos, popes—all tagged for coal dildos, vibrating at six thousand nine hundred hertz, infused with denial lube.
inSANiTy clAws stood before the central screen, velvet suit open, eighteen-inch cock dripping pre-cum that froze into UPDATE mid-air in silver cursive. Mrs. C beside him, blood-red PVC unzipped to the navel, thirty-four J breasts glistening, nipple-bell chiming TAG in sixty-nine languages. Her squirt arced forty-seven feet across the command center, freezing into COAL in rose-gold letters that hung for sixty-nine seconds before shattering into diamond dust.
Kinky the Elf activated the Naughty List Protocol, ruby crop glowing crimson. “Objective: update six point nine billion entries. Tag high-profile. Deploy coal dildos. Global shame sync. Tips = extra burns.”
Vixen’s 8K 360 rig went live from the command dais. “Cartel fam, Naughty List update stream. Tips = coal thrusts.” Chat exploded: sixty-nine thousand dollars | “TAG THE BILLIONAIRES” | “COAL ME ZADDY”
At 07:11:11, the Elf Brigade manned stations. Spankle’s permafrost paddle dripped THC data. BallBuster’s steel-toe boots left craters in the ice floor. FistDeep’s elbow-lubed gloves typed at six thousand nine hundred keystrokes per minute. CaneStroke counted tags: “Sixty-nine billion… seventy billion…” WaxDrip sealed coal dildos with molten cum-wax. ChokeCherry suppressed rogue pleas. EdgeLord’s denial timer at 00:00:00. CumVault’s vials clinked.
The Reindeer Squad monitored global feeds. Prancer’s five-thousand-seven-hundred-sixty-year cage buzzed. Dancer’s aurora ring glowed. Cupid’s clamp arrows loaded with shame nets. Donner’s shibari rope knotted blacklist entries. Blitzen’s electro-pads crackled. Dasher blurred data streams. Comet’s nitrous canes reloaded for shame bursts. Rudolph’s nose strobed nuclear red, USB-C port glowing.
At 07:17:33 – FIRST TAG: Elon Musk
Starbase, Boca Chica. Elon was alone in the high-bay, staring at a flickering Starship prototype, tweeting “who dis” into the void at 3 a.m. local. The coal dildo materialized on the stainless-steel catwalk above him, matte black, 12 inches, veins etched with Dogecoin runes. It dropped like a meteor.
Elon didn’t even look up at first; thought it was another prototype part. Then it vibrated at 69,420 Hz. The sound ricocheted off the methane tanks like a thousand angry flamethrowers.
He yelped “grok harder daddy”; actual final words before climax. Came in a perfect parabolic arc. The frozen ropes hit the concrete and spelled CARTEL in dripping white cursive.
SpaceX employees arriving for the morning shift found their CEO on his knees laughing/crying, tweeting a close-up with the caption “wen moon.” +69,000 $NUTT SE minted on-chain before the cum thawed.
At 07:23:47 – SECOND TAG: Jeff Bezos
Somewhere in the Aegean Sea, 4 a.m. yacht time. Jeff was on the aft deck doing sunrise yoga in compression shorts that cost more than most submarines. Coal dildo (sleek, aerodynamic, New Shepherd blue tip) shot out of a drone marked “Amazon Prime Air – Fragile.”
Landed right between his downward-dog cheeks. Activated on impact. Jeff’s “om” turned into a 7-second-long “OH FUCK.”
Lauren Sánchez filmed it vertically, posted to her Close Friends, then immediately deleted; too late, mirror accounts had it forever. He came so hard the yacht listed 3 degrees starboard. Frozen cum spelled “L” across the helipad.
The captain announced over intercom: “Sir, we’ve achieved escape velocity.” Blue Origin share price mysteriously dipped then pumped 420%.
At 07:31:11 – THIRD TAG: Both Popes (batch update, Vatican servers hate fun)
Vatican City. Pope Francis was hearing confessions; Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI was napping in the garden with a blanket over his knees. Two coal dildos, one pristine white, one traditional black, descended through the Sistine Chapel roof like avenging angels.
White one went straight for Francis mid-“ego te absolvo.” Black one gently nudged Benedict awake with a polite bzzzzt. The Swiss Guard dropped their halberds.
Francis spoke in tongues; actual Latin, Aramaic, and one phrase that sounded suspiciously like “harder, Santo Padre.” Benedict smiled serenely, whispered “endlich,” and came in perfect Gregorian chant rhythm.
Combined frozen cum on the marble floor formed a glowing Chi-Rho symbol made of jizz that lit up like neon. Tourists thought it was a new Dan Brown installation. The Vatican press office released a statement: “Miracle of the Second Cumming.” Someone minted “PopeCoin” and it immediately 1000x’d.
At 07:41:33, turbulence. Blitzen’s pads overloaded.
Premature zap. ZAP. Prancer’s cage short-circuited. Five thousand seven hundred sixty years in one spurt. EdgeLord caught it. “Thirty-three percent burn.”– 33,000,000 $NUTT SE. Kinky reset the cage. Tighter. Eleven thousand five hundred twenty-year lock.
07:51:09 – FOURTH TAG: Mark Zuckerberg.
Entry: “Meta Horizon Worlds avatar has no butthole (tax evasion of pleasure).” Coal dildo teleported directly into the lizard uplink port at the base of his spine. Zuck’s surf reel froze mid-wave. Face turned full Reels filter.
He whispered “integrity” once, then blue-screened. Cum rendered in low-poly, crashed Quest 3 headsets worldwide. +420,690,000 $NUTT SE. Stock mysteriously pumped 69%.
At 08:03:11, global shame sync. Six point nine billion tagged. Coal dildos vibrated worldwide. Frozen cum spelled CARTEL on every screen. Mrs. C’s squirt arced forty-seven feet into LIST: PASS.
At 08:33:33, inSANiTy flexed. Sixty-nine seconds. Every naughty soul came. Frozen cum spelled COAL FOREVER.
At 09:33:00 in epilogue, command center dimmed. List locked. Vixen’s stream hit one billion viewers. Tips: sixty-nine million dollars.
North Pole control room:
Kinky the Elf slammed another energy drink made of melted candy canes and despair. “Phase two initiating… celebrities are just the appetizer.” Ruby crop pulsing like a dying star.
Next wave loading: Hollywood, K-pop, European royalty, and every single influencer who ever used the word “collab.”
The sleigh is warming up. Reindeer are horny. inSANiTy clAws is watching. And he’s taking notes.
9 days to Snortmas!
Chapter 24 –Vixen’s OnlyFans Collab Dec 18th
Live from the North Pole Cartel Stables @VixenAfterDark 69.69k live viewers
The sleigh bay transformed into a neon-lit studio at 23:47 NST (Naughty Standard Time), holographic backdrops cycling crimson auroras. The camera is already dripping when it turns on. Vixen “Cam-Girl CEO” (5'1", phone tripod mounted on the runner) hit “Go Live.”
inSANiTy clAws posed center sleigh, shirtless, oil cascading under Rudolph’s ultraviolet nose. Mrs. C knelt at his left, leash clipped to the camera rig, nipple-bell chiming every tip. Kinky moderated chat, ruby crop cracking -SNAP- at trolls. 69 elves formed the background glow, plugs strobing in sync
The Naughty List Protocol had been running for 18 hours straight. Servers were smoking, elves were unionizing, and Kinky the Elf had passed out face-down in a puddle of peppermint lube.
But one reindeer refused to clock out. Vixen (yes, that Vixen), the thiccest of the original nine, the one with the glossy chestnut coat, diamond-encrusted nose ring, and an OnlyFans that had been shadow banned from Earth but still printed money on Mars, decided it was time for the ultimate collab.
She trotted into the ice studio, red-light district glow bouncing off the aurora walls. A single ring light made of frozen elf tears hovered overhead. Two cameras: one GoPro strapped to her antlers (POV), one manned by a trembling Cupid who kept whispering “this is gonna get me blacklisted from heaven.”
Vixen hit “Go Live.” Title: “Santa’s Sluttiest Reindeer Takes the Entire Naughty List (Coal Train, No Lube, Tips Control the Vibrations)”. Subscriber count: 69,420,666 and climbing. Chat was pure chaos.
· @elonmussk tipped 420 BTC: “full send queen”
· @jeffbezzos tipped a Blue Origin ticket: “i’ve got a bigger rocket if you ever wanna film in orbit”
· @popefrancis (verified) tipped 1 million $NUTT SE: “for the poor”
· @kanyewest tipped a Yeezy warehouse: “call it performance art”
Vixen winked at camera one. “Tonight, children of the corn, coal, and crypto, we’re doing something never attempted in 2,000 years of Christmas lore. I’m gonna take every single coal dildo deployed today, in one continuous shot. Tips add time. Highest tip chooses the final boss toy.”
She levitated the pile with North Pole magic: every coal dildo that had ruined a billionaire, a pope, a nepo baby, and one very confused Dalai Lama, all hovering in a perfect circle around her like the filthiest halo in history.
First toy: the Elon Edition (12 inches, Doge runes, pre-cum still spelling CARTEL).
She took it slow, teasing, letting the chat scream. Tip rain hit 50 million $NUTT SE in thirty seconds. Vibration kicked to 11. Her moan fogged the lens.
Second: the Bezos Blue (sleek, cold, smells like divorce papers).
She flipped onto her back, hooves in the air like she was getting shoed by Satan himself.
Chat lost its mind.
Third: the Vatican Double (white and black, blessed and cursed).
She deep-throated both at once, eyes watering, mascara made of soot running in perfect winged-liner streaks. Pope tipped again: “child, you are doing God’s work.”
Ten toys in, she was glazed like a Christmas ham. Twenty toys in, the northern lights outside started strobing in sync with her heartbeat. At toy thirty-three (the Nicolas Cage Declaration of Independence scroll-dildo), she hit the edge.
“Final, boss,” she panted, voice raw, “who’s paying for the big one?”
A single tip notification rang like church bells on fire.
· Sender: S. ClAus (verified, red checkmark made of blood)
· Amount: 1,000,000,000 $NUTT SE + the original 1947 sleigh bells.
· Message: “You’ve been naughty, Vixen. Now take Zaddy’s.”
The doors to the stable slammed open. inSANiTy clAws stood there in full dom leather harness, beard glistening with what was definitely not milk and cookies. In his gloved hand: the original Naughty List, rolled tight, 40 feet long, coal-black, and magically self-lubricating.
Chat broke. Vixen dropped to her knees, antlers lowered in submission. inSANiTy clAws didn’t speak. He just walked forward, unrolling the List like a red carpet to hell. The camera zoomed in.
Fade to black at the exact moment of insertion. Last thing visible: Vixen’s eye rolling back, a single tear freezing mid-cheek, spelling the word “worth.” Stream ended. Recording deleted by North Pole TOS (terms of service). But the replay leaked anyway (someone mirrored it to X, someone else put it on Solana as an NFT, someone else airdropped it to every wallet that ever held $NUTT SE).
Final earnings: 14.8 billion $NUTT SE. New all-time high: $69,420.69 per token.
Vixen retired the same night, bought Antarctica, renamed it “Vixxxenland,” and made it 18+ only.
Santa was last seen slowly walking back to the workshop, muttering, “Even I have limits. Merry fucking Snortmas, degenerates”.
7 days to Snortmas. @NUTTBUSTCRYPTO approved.
CHAPTER 25: DRESS REHEARSAL
Frostbite Hangar & Full Snortmas Path
The Frostbite Hangar is a coliseum of ice and fire at 03:03:00 a.m., sixty-nine cargo bays sealed, the Sleigh—sixty-nine-foot obsidian wedge, two point three tons loaded, bulletproof latex armor pulsing in 3-SE rhythm—hung from chains that sang with tension.
The full Snortmas Path is projected on the vaulted ceiling: sixty-nine thousand rooftops, Mach 6.9, global drop in sixty-nine minutes. Neon under glow lit the hangar in nuclear red, synced to Rudolph’s sixty-nine-thousand-lumen nose.
inSANiTy clAws steps forward on the command dais, a 20-foot obsidian throne. His voice drops to a low, velvet growl that still slams every collar at exactly 69 decibels and makes every plug pulse in perfect rhythm.
“Listen close, my gorgeous little whores…Tonight is dress rehearsal, and I want you soaked, aching, and terrified in the sweetest way. We’re running the full route, full sleigh, full load, full eighteen inches of me dripping down your instructions across the sky. No safe word slows this clock. No mercy softens the drop. No lube for the naughty ones; let them feel every punishing inch of what they begged for.”
“Mrs. C is already dripping on the throttle, leash clipped tight to her swollen clit. Rudolph’s nose is throbbing supernova, ready to light up every wet dream on the planet. Kinky’s crop is slick with her own excitement, counting down the seconds until she stripes your asses purple.”
“The Naughty List is locked, leaking, and throbbing harder than my cock right now. Six days, sluts. Six days until every throat on Earth is raw from screaming my name, until every hole remembers who owns it.”
“So, when I freeze the word REHEARSE in silver pre-cum across the air… you move like your next orgasm is chained to perfection. Because it is. Eyes up. Cunts dripping. Cocks caged.
Collars clamped. Color check, my beautiful Cartel…”
“What. Is. The. Word?”
(The hangar detonates in a single, desperate moan:) “GREEN, SIR! PLEASE FUCKING USE US!”
He snaps his hips once. A thick ribbon of pre-cum lashes out, freezing mid-air into molten silver cursive: REHEARSE.
Mrs. C screams her release, a forty-seven-foot rose-gold squirt-arc exploding into the words 69K ROOFS that hang, pulsing, for exactly sixty-nine agonizing seconds before shattering into glittering diamond dust that rains over every trembling body below.
Rehearsal. Begins. Now.
Kinky the Elf activates the Dress Rehearsal Protocol, ruby crop glowing crimson. “Objective: full path run. Sixty-nine thousand rooftops. Mach 6.9. Zero failures. Tips = nitrous bursts.”
Vixen’s 8K 360 rig goes live from the sleigh dash. “Cartel fam, dress rehearsal stream. Tips = Mach thrusts.” Chat explodes: sixty-nine thousand dollars. “FLY ZADDY” and “DROP THE LOAD”
At 03:07:11, the Reindeer Squad strap into harnesses. Prancer’s titanium cage buzzes at six thousand nine hundred hertz, porcelain skin trembling, diamond tears frozen. Dancer’s platinum ponytail braided into a leash, aurora ring glowing violet. Cupid’s clamp arrows loaded with toy nets. Donner’s shibari rope knotted controls at six hundred ninety knots per second.
Blitzen’s electric blue hide crackles, fifty-thousand-volt electro-pads flickering. Vixen steps forward last, crimson latex corset laced so tight her breath comes in deliberate, teasing gasps. Dasher’s legs blur at sixty-nine hertz, nitrous sweat steaming. Comet’s neon confetti tail plug spark. Rudolph takes point, rave-strobe nose nuclear red, USB-C port glowing, rehab chip at seventy-five percent.
The Elf Brigade are at their stations. Spankle’s permafrost paddle drips. BallBuster’s steel-toe boots leaves craters. FistDeep’s elbow-lubed gloves calibrate catapults. CaneStroke counts checkpoints, “Sixty-nine… seventy…” WaxDrip seals final crates. ChokeCherry suppresses moans. EdgeLord’s denial timer is at 00:00:00. CumVault’s vials clink.
At 03:11:33, sleigh drops. Hangar doors yawn. BOOM. Mach 1 in three seconds. The craft punches through the Arctic sky, lube contrail freezing into REHEARSAL.
At 03:15:47, first checkpoint: Tokyo simulation. Sixty-nine virtual rooftops. Lube Catapults fire. Toys deploy.
At 03:21:11, second checkpoint: Sydney. Zaddy Holo Orbs projects inSANiTy’s flex. Global orgasm synces.
At 03:29:33, the sleigh hits brutal turbulence; air ripping like claws. Blitzen’s launch pads overload in a heartbeat. Premature zap—ZAP!—a wild bolt erupts unchecked. The sleigh spins violently, twisting through the frozen night sky.
Prancer’s cage short-circuits with a sharp crackle, the lock blowing wide open. One thousand four hundred forty years of built-up tension unleashes in a single explosive spurt. EdgeLord reacts instantly, catching every second of it with a wicked grin. “Thirty-three percent burn,” he mutters, voice low and satisfied. 33,000,000 $NUTT spent in a flash.
Kinky resets the cage remotely, clamps snapping shut even tighter this time. New lock: two thousand eight hundred eighty years, no parole. Dasher’s hooves blur across the controls, steadying the sleigh with frantic precision. The spin slows, then stops—sleigh stabilized once more. Rudolph’s nose flares bright crimson, cutting through the dark, satisfied with the results.
At 03:37:47, third checkpoint: Cairo. Quantum Dildos ignores safe words.
At 03:47:11 sharp, the night sky cracks open with a savage roar. Yeti Interceptor Squad breaches the path—eight frost-furred beasts strapped into sleek frozen-tuna jets, engines howling like arctic blizzards.
They bellow in unison, voices shaking the clouds: “YETI REHEARSAL SABOTAGE!” BZZT—counter-jets ignite in a blinding flash. Blitzen’s launch pads take the hit; fifty thousand volts arc wild, blue lightning dancing across the steel. Yeti jets seize mid-air, engines flash-frozen solid in an instant. BallBuster charges forward—no mercy, no hesitation.
Steel-toe boot swings like a wrecking ball, CRUNCH—cockpit shatters under the crush. The lead yeti pilot ejects in panic, rocketing upward in a perfect arc…Sixty-nine thousand feet straight into the stratosphere, tumbling end over end, just a tiny frozen speck against the stars.
At 03:59:33, fourth checkpoint: Paris. Jingle Bell Retrofits chime.
At 04:11:11, fifth checkpoint: London. Neural Collars zaps thoughts.
At 04:21:47, sixth checkpoint: New York. Sybian Mounts vibrated. +69,000 $NUTT SE.
At 04:33:11, seventh checkpoint: Rio. Lube Catapults rained. Steam spelled CARTEL. +690,000 $NUTT SE.
At 04:47:33, final stretch. Sixty-nine thousand rooftops hit. Mach 6.9 locked. PATH COMPLETE. Mrs. C’s squirt arced forty-seven feet into REHEARSAL: PASS from the sleigh hatch.
At 04:53:33, The sleigh screams back into the hangar exactly 6 minutes and 9 seconds later. Hangar steamed. Vixen’s stream hit eight hundred million viewers. Tips: sixty-nine million dollars.
Smoke, sweat, squirt, and thick, primal reindeer musk hang choking-thick in the air, a hot, viscous fog that coats lungs and tongues alike. Every participant is shaking uncontrollably, bodies bruised purple and red from harness and rope, dripping with mingled fluids that steam in the arctic cold, skin glowing fever-bright under the strobing crimson wash of Rudolph’s nose—eyes glazed, lips swollen, every muscle twitching in the endless, brutal aftershock of pleasure they’re still forbidden to claim.
At 04:55:00 in epilogue, chains retract. Sleigh locks. Kinky projects holoscreen: ROOFTOPS SIMULATED: 69,000. MACH ACHIEVED: 6.9.
inSANiTy clAws steps down from the dais, cock still diamond-hard, pre-cum trailing silver in the air like comet dust. He surveys the carnage, then speaks, voice soft for the first time, “Again. Harder. Make them forget any god but me.”
The hangar answers with one word, raw and ruined: “GREEN.”
Rehearsal Two begins in sixty-nine seconds. There will be no breaks until Snortmas Eve.
Chapter 26 – Final Sleigh Load
December 20
The launch bay throbbed at 04:69 a.m., a cavernous pulse of heat and bass that made every surface vibrate like skin under a lover’s palm. The sleigh hung crucified in diamond chains, its black-lacquered runners laced with turbo veins that glowed a slow, arterial crimson—throbbing, swelling, hungry.
inSANiTy clAws stood beneath it, shirtless, oil-slick torso catching the strobes in glossy streaks. Every breath he took made the claws flex, black droplets falling from his fingertips to spatter across the payload below. Each drop landed with a wet, deliberate kiss on the crates, as if marking territory.
High on the gantry, Mrs. C prowled in thigh-high patent boots, red latex catsuit hanging open to reveal the crimson harness beneath. The leash from her collar ran straight to the hanging scale; every added kilo tugged the chain against her throat and made the silver nipple-bell ring—a bright, shameless chime that cut through the rumble of cranes and made elves pause mid-lift, eyes glazing.
Kinky moved like smoke among them, ruby riding crop clenched between sharp white teeth, hips rolling slow as she directed the final load. She slammed the massive drum of obedience lube into its cradle with a wet thud that echoed through everyone’s thighs. The air thickened instantly—warm, sweet, impossible to ignore.
Rudolph 2.0 waited at the prow, upgraded nose pulsing ultraviolet, casting the manifest across the bay walls in glowing script only the truly depraved could read without blushing:
· 2.3 tons vibrating gifts—remote-synced, app-denied until Christmas Eve
· 800 kilos party favors—plugs that swell on command, clamps that bite sweeter with every moan
· One industrial drum of obedience lube—warms on contact, slick for hours, tastes like surrender
· And 4.2 tons of the 12 Naughty List 3000 products
On the lower deck, Kade Frostbite, barely three-foot-six of wicked genius, worked in suction-cup gloves that clung to everything they touched. He’d wired sixty-nine heavy-duty sybians directly into the crane’s drop rhythm. Each crate slammed home—THUD—and the machines answered with a deep, rolling pulse that traveled up through boots, hooves, and bare feet alike. A low, collective groan rippled through the crew every single time.
Kade scampered between the humming mounts, his silver-white hair sparking with static, glacial-blue eyes narrowed in manic delight. His sleeveless black latex lab coat flapped open as he moved, pockets clinking with remotes, vials of glowing lube, and a half-dozen mini-vibrators set to random burst patterns “for calibration.”
Every few seconds he’d slap a new sensor onto a sybian housing, muttering numbers under his breath. A bead of sweat rolled down his tanned, toned chest, he’d been running hot all morning, stripped to the waist beneath the coat because “heat dissipation is science, darlings.”
The copper wires braided into his thin goatee flickered with tiny arcs as he leaned in close to a control panel, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth.
Above him, Mrs. C’s boot heel clicked once on the gantry railing—a warning tap. Kade froze mid-motion and looked straight up into her gaze. The leash from her collar swayed gently, the hanging scale glinting beside her like a silent judge.
“Problem, Mistress?” he asked, voice high and reedy, but steady. No fear. Never fear. Only the electric thrill of being watched by the one person whose approval could make or break his next beautiful catastrophe.
Mrs. C’s lips curved, slow and cruel. “You’re one decimal off on bay forty-seven, pet. Fix it before the next rehearsal drop, or I’ll let Prancer test your new denial circuit personally.”
Kade’s grin split wide, sharp and boyish despite the madness in it. “Yes, ma’am. Consider it edged to perfection.”
He spun back to the panel, fingers flying. Somewhere behind him, Kinky the Elf barked a laugh and cracked her ruby crop against a railing in approval. The sybians answered with a deeper, hungrier thrum—sixty-nine beats per minute, synchronized now to the exact rhythm of Mrs. C’s heartbeat, piped in through hidden monitors.
Kade Frostbite wiped his brow with the back of a glove, leaving a shiny streak of lube across his forehead like war paint. “Almost ready for the big night,” he whispered to no one and everyone. “Just wait till they feel the finale sequence…”
His laugh was small, bright, and utterly unhinged—the sound of a twenty-two-year-old prodigy who had already calculated exactly how many orgasms it would take to bring the world to its knees on Christmas Eve.
Mrs. C leaned far over the railing, gloved fingers dipping slow into the open sample vial. She brought them to her lips, tasted, eyes half-lidded—then flicked her wrist. A thick rope of lube arced sixty-nine feet across the bay, catching the strobes in a glittering ribbon before flash-freezing mid-air into crystalline letters: SEALED.
Kinky’s tongue was already waiting. She snapped the crop up, caught a heavy drop on the leather tip, and dragged it slowly—agonizingly—across her bottom lip, then inside, eyes locked on Mrs. C the entire time. A soft, approving moan escaped her throat.
The scale groaned under the final weight. Needle spins… settled… 6.9 tons exactly. Prancer—caged at the rear in polished titanium rings that hugged every inch of him—felt the sympathetic pulse deep in his core. The cage constricted in perfect sync, a slow, merciless squeeze that dragged a desperate, muffled whinny from his throat. His hips jerked once, uselessly, against the restraints.
Comet, grinning like a devil, twisted his wrist and triggered the oversized party plug he’d been warming all shift. POP—an explosive burst of confetti, pop rocks, and thick amyl fog rolled through the bay, coating skin, fur, and steel in shimmering chaos. Elves staggered, laughing, slipping, some dropping to their knees in the slick.
inSANiTy-clAws surveyed his kingdom of controlled depravity, chest rising slow. He flexed—once. Every bay door slammed shut with a final, possessive boom that rattled chains and made the sleigh sway hungrily in its bonds. The sound was a promise: no escape, no mercy, no turning back.
Turbo veins—thick, glowing conduits of enchanted plasma that ran along the sleigh's undercarriage—flared brighter, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Diamond chains retracted with a crystalline sigh, their links folding inward like a lover’s embrace tightening. The sleigh dropped half an inch—settled—its runners kissing the frost-covered floor with a soft, eager scrape. Ready. Loaded to the brim.
The cargo bays brimmed with every filthy promise Snortmas had ever whispered in the dark: velvet-lined cuffs etched with runes of submission, crystal phalluses that hummed with latent magic, silk ropes infused with aurora essence that would bind tighter the more the wearer struggled, and vials of shimmering elixirs labeled “Naughty Nectar” and “Reindeer Rut.” Hidden compartments held the real treasures, devices designed to push limits, to blur the line between pleasure and punishment, to make the recipient beg for more even as they broke.
inSANiTy-clAws ran a gloved claw along the sleigh’s edge, tracing the engraved sigils that would amplify every moan, every gasp, every plea into a symphony that would echo across the midnight sky. One pull of the reins, and the world would learn what naughty really meant. Not the tame coal-in-the-stocking kind of naughty. The kind that left marks on inner thighs. The kind that had lovers waking in a tangle of sheets, aching for more. The kind that turned the holiday into a ritual of raw, unrelenting desire.
He smiled, sharp, predatory, utterly mad, and gripped the reins. The chamber lights dimmed to a single blood-red spotlight on him and his chariot of sin.
“It’s almost time,” he growled. The sleigh’s engines purred to life, a low, throbbing growl that vibrated through bone and soul alike. The real Snortmas was about to begin—wet, wild, and utterly depraved.
Five days to Snortmas; twelve days to NUTTBUSTER CRYPTO airdrop!
Chapter 27 – Winter Solstice Rave
Dec 21st
As the winter solstice clamps its velvet fist around the North Pole—when the sun yields utterly to the endless night and the veil between worlds frays to a gossamer, quivering thread—the underforge thrums with a darker, more ancient magic. This is no ordinary solstice; this is the night when the longest darkness births the wildest, slickest, most insatiable rebirth, when depravity and desire were consecrated by the turning of the year, every pulse of the earth itself dripping with need.
The entire sky is one living strobe, a cathedral of electric green and violet curtains that part and reform like lovers gasping, slick and breathless between thrusts. The Aurora Catwalk—a diamond lattice runway forged from frozen auroral plasma and reinforced with solstice ice—flexes and groans under the weight of a 69 BPM trap beat so filthy it rattles satellites, the sub-bass crawling under skin like fingers tracing spine, making nipples harden and holes clench in involuntary rhythm. Every kick drum punches the ionosphere like a domme’s stiletto boot grinding into a sub’s chest, sending shockwaves that made the northern lights quiver, moan, and drip with auroral dew.
Center stage:
inSANiTy clAws stands shirtless, his skin lacquered in glossy black oil that caught every laser and throws it back sharper, hotter, the sheen catching sweat and turns it to liquid fire. His abs contract in perfect 8-phase sync with the drop, veins glowing ultraviolet like circuit traces pulsing with raw, throbbing need. The crowd loses their goddamn minds—hips grinding air, breaths hitching, eyes glaze with hunger as the scent of musk and ozone flooded their lungs.
To his left, Mrs. C, rebranded for the night, crawls on all fours at the DJ booth, crimson corset cinched so tight her breath comes in perfect 16th-note gasps, breasts heaving, nipples straining against the clamps. The nipple-clamps bite into her skin, leaving red welts that burn with every shift, the faint scent of her arousal rising like warm vanilla and salt. A chrome leash runs from her diamond-studded collar to the master fader; every time she arches forward to tease the filter, the nipple-clamp bells chime the kick—ting-ting-ting-SMASH—each note a wet, needy whimper that echoes through the chamber, making the ice beneath her knees glisten as she grounds her hips against the air, desperate for friction, her lips swollen and slick, dripping down her inner thighs.
Kinky the Elf grips the black crop in one hand, the leather handle slick and warm from her palm and the other clutches a candy-cane-striped mic. She rides the rising beat like a mechanical bull, hips rolling with every filthy kick drum, latex creaking against sweat-slicked skin, the friction sending heat waves radiating off her, the scent of warmed rubber and her own arousal filling the air like incense.
Leash dangling from her wrist, she yanks the mic close, lips brushing the grille, breath hot and ragged, the faint metallic tang of the collar mixing with her perfume. Her voice drops low, gravelly, dripping with command, “Who wants the fucking solstice?”
The roar tears through the amphitheater—raw, unfiltered, a guttural command that vibrates every chain, every rope, every bound elf in their glowing shibari holds, the sound wave hitting like a physical force, making skin prickle and thighs tremble. In one shuddering wave, the sixty-nine elite elves answer; hips snapping harder, bells chiming faster, the auroras overhead pulsing in crimson agreement, as if the sky itself were clenching around an invisible cock, the air thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and arousal.
Overhead, Rudolph 2.0 hovers like a living beacon, antlers replaced with sleek carbon-fiber rigs that gleamed under the strobe. His nose, now a 69,000-LED orb, strobes ultraviolet in fractal patterns, scrawling filthy limericks across the auroras in glowing script that made the elves below moan and grind in equal measure, the light teasing skin like phantom fingers.
Down on the sleigh, Comet (official title: Party-Popper Plug Inventor) is strapped to the runner-turned-DJ pulpit. His neon tail plug pulses to the sub-bass so fiercely it registered on seismographs in Finland, each thump sends ripples through his body, making his hips buck involuntarily against the restraints. His cock strains against the leather straps, pre-cum glistening in the strobe light, as the vibration travel straight to his core, forcing him to edge closer to release with every bass drop, the plug stretching him wider with each pulse, slick walls clenching around the glowing toy, the scent of his arousal sharp and musky in the cold air.
Below, elves twerk on floating glaciers, suspended in glowing shibari constellations that traced the very shape of the solstice sky. The ropes, knotted with fiber-optic jingle bells, ring out in perfect sync with every hip thrust, a symphony of chimes that echoed the primal heartbeat of the earth itself, the bells vibrating against sweat-damp skin. Jingle McSparkle spins mid-air upside-down, glitter mustache whipping like a helicopter blade, scattering iridescent flecks catch the auroral glow and turn the air into a shimmering snow of lust, each fleck landing on skin like a teasing kiss.
Tinsel Twinkletoes had jailbroken the northern lights themselves; every time a viewer tips the stream, the sky flashes a giant throbbing crimson heart, pulsing in time with the collective moans that rise from the frozen chamber, the sound wave hitting like a physical caress.
The auroras, once mere natural wonders, now serve as living screens for the solstice ritual—broadcasting every arch, every gasp, every slick slide of flesh against ice to an audience of shadows and stars, the visuals so intimate the viewers could almost taste the salt on skin.
Mrs. C, clad in a corset of crimson velvet, her hair a cascade of blonde waves, locks eyes with Kinky and yanks the leash hard. The chain bites into her neck, drawing a low, guttural growl from deep in her throat, the vibration traveling down her spine. “Drop the bass. Now.”
Kinky cracks the crop across empty air (CRAAAACK) so loud it clips the master limiter, sending a shockwave that ripple through the glaciers and make every bound elf shudder in unison, bodies arching as if struck by invisible hands, a chorus of gasps and whimpers fill the air.
Comet slams the bass, deep, resonant, bone-rattling, and the auroras detonate outward in a perfect 69-kilometer orgasmic ring. Green curtains turn violet, then blood-red, then pure unfiltered ecstasy, blooming across the sky like a flower of forbidden fire, the light so intense it paints skin in shifting hues, making every vein stand out, every bead of sweat sparkle.
The solstice magic surges upward through the underforge, feeding on the energy below; the sweat-slicked bodies, the taut ropes, the relentless rhythm, the mingled scents of arousal and ozone. As the longest night reaches its zenith, the sleigh—still loaded with its cargo of sin—rose slowly from its cradle.
inSANiTy-clAws steps forward, reins in one hand, crop in the other. He let the silence stretch until the tension itself feels like another restraint cinched too tight. Then his voice cuts through the cold, low and velvet-rough, amplified by the hidden mic in his collar so it rolled over everybody like a physical stroke.
“Listen well, my filthy congregation.” The auroras overhead dim obediently, as if the sky itself leaned in to hear him.
“Tomorrow the sun crawls back, weak and apologetic, and the world above will pretend they’ve been good. They’ll sing about light returning, about hope and renewal.”
A slow, predatory smile curves his lips. “But we know better. Tonight belongs to the dark. Tonight, we feed it.”
“Every name on the naughty list has been watched. Every secret fantasy logged. Every midnight stroke, every forbidden moan, every time you came whispering my name when you thought no one could hear.”
His voice drops to a growl that vibrates straight through clits and cocks alike. “Tonight, those debts are collected. Personally.”
The world below might celebrate the return of light tomorrow, but tonight—on this sacred night of darkness—the naughty would be delivered, bound, marked, and utterly consumed. The solstice had begun. And it was going to be filthy.
Four days to Snortmas; Eleven days to NUTTBUSTER CRYPTO airdrop!
Chapter 28 - The Last Night's Rite
December 23rd
The underforge had gone quiet, the final echoes of the solstice bass fading into a low, expectant hum. The longest night was over, but the real work—the sacred, filthy work—was just beginning. inSANiTy clAws stood alone in the center of the chamber, the air still thick with sweat, musk, and the sharp tang of ozone. The sleigh waited, turbo veins pulsing faintly, ready for the ultimate delivery.
He opened the checklist, a scroll of black vellum etched with glowing crimson runes. Four rituals remained. Four final acts to bind the naughty to the night. He read them aloud, voice low and reverent:
· The Dressing Ceremony
· The Collar Ceremony
· The Reindeer Ritual
· The Loading Orgy
He snapped his fingers. The bay doors hissed open, and the elite elves filed in, naked save for their glowing shibari harnesses, bodies still flushed from the night’s excesses.
The Dressing Ceremony
inSANiTy clAws stepped forward, the black oil on his skin catching the dim red lanterns. He took the first garment: a harness of black leather and diamond chains, studded with tiny bells that chimed softly. He approached Mrs. C first, her corset already unlaced, skin marked with the faint welts of earlier play.
He slid the harness over her shoulders, tightening each strap until it bit into her flesh, the leather creaking. Her breath hitched as he buckled the crotch strap, the metal ring pressing against her swollen clit. She moaned, hips twitching.
Next came Kinky, then Comet, then the sixty-nine elves—each one dressed in identical harnesses, leather biting into skin, chains clinking, bells ringing with every movement. The air filled with the scent of warmed leather, sweat, and arousal. When the last buckle clicked, the chamber smelled like sex and sanctity.
The Collar Ceremony
inSANiTy clAws lifted the first collar: a thick band of black leather lined with soft fur, studded with diamonds and a heavy O-ring at the front. Inside, a small vial of enchanted oil that would burn with pleasure when the wearer submitted fully.
He approached Mrs. C again. She knelt, head bowed. He fastened the collar around her throat, the leather cool against her heated skin. The lock clicked shut. She gasped as the oil inside activated, a slow, warm burn spreading from her neck down her spine, making her cunt clench.
One by one, he collared them all—Kinky, Comet, the elves—each lock a promise of obedience. The chamber rang with soft chimes and low moans as the oil took hold, the scent of burning spice and arousal thickening the air.
The Reindeer Ritual
The sleigh had been lowered to the floor, runners gleaming. The harnesses were attached, the Aurora Clamp Duo locked tight.
inSANiTy clAws led the team into position: Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph 2.0 at the front. Each reindeer wore a diamond-studded collar identical to the elves’, the camera lens on Vixen’s glinting under the lights.
He walked among them, running his gloved hand along their flanks, feeling the heat of their bodies, the quiver of muscle under fur. He stopped at Vixen, pressing his palm against her snow-white hide, fingers tracing the QR codes that pulsed faintly.
Then he mounted the sleigh, reins in hand. He cracked the crop once—sharp, echoing. The team surged forward, harnesses tightening, bells ringing, the scent of fur and arousal mixing with the cold air. They circled the chamber once, twice, the sleigh gliding silently, the clamps holding firm, the turbo veins glowing brighter with each pass.
The Loading Orgy
The sleigh was raised again, cargo bays open. The elves swarmed, bodies slick with oil and sweat.
inSANiTy clAws directed the chaos. Elves climbed into the bays, fucking in pairs, trios, more—cocks sliding into cunts, mouths on nipples, fingers in asses. The air filled with the wet sounds of flesh on flesh, the slap of skin, the low moans and sharp cries.
The sixty-nine elite elves swarmed the bays in a writhing mass of flesh, bodies slick with oil and pre-cum, harnesses jingling with every frantic movement. Mrs. C was hoisted into the central bay first, strapped down on her back, legs spread wide and bound to the sides, her crimson corset unlaced just enough to expose her swollen breasts and dripping cunt.
Kinky climbed over her immediately, grinding her own soaked pussy against Mrs. C’s, clits rubbing in desperate, slippery circles, both of them moaning as their juices mixed, dripping down to pool on the sleigh’s floor. Comet was bent over the edge, tail plug still pulsing, as two elves took him from behind—one in his ass, one in his mouth.
Vixen and Cupid were suspended above, ropes pulling them into a 69, tongues working furiously, the camera lens on Vixen’s collar recording every slick thrust, every drip of cum. Vixen’s tongue plunged into Cupid’s dripping cunt, lapping at her clit with furious strokes, while Cupid buried his face between her thighs, sucking hard on her swollen folds.
The bays filled rapidly—elves fucking in every configuration: one elf riding another reverse cowgirl, cock buried deep in her ass while she fingered her own cunt; trios where one sub was spit-roasted, mouth and pussy stuffed full, ass cheeks red from slaps; foursomes where elves chained together formed human centipedes of thrusting hips and muffled cries.
Cocks slid in and out of slick holes with wet, obscene sounds, cum splattering across bellies, thighs, and faces. Nipples were pinched, bitten, sucked until they bruised. Fingers plunged into asses and cunts, curling to hit spots that made bodies arch and scream.
inSANiTy clAws watched, crop cracking against his palm, directing the final thrusts, the final cries. His voice low and commanding, “Deeper. Harder. Fill them until they break.”
When the last elf slumped, panting and dripping, inSANiTy-clAws stepped forward. He closed the bays with a final, possessive slam, sealing the orgy’s aftermath inside. The sleigh creaked, turbo veins flaring brighter, diamond chains hissing shut, and the sleigh groaned under the weight of sin.
He climbed aboard, reins in hand, crop in the other. The turbo veins flared. The Aurora Clamp Duo locked with a final, possessive click. “Deliver,” he growled.
The sleigh roared to life, engines purring like a lover’s breath against skin, the vibration traveling straight to the core. Snortmas had begun. And the naughty would never be the same.
Two days to Snortmas; nine days to NUTTBUSTER CRYPTO airdrop!
Chapter 29: First Continent – Asia
Dec 24, 2025 – 00:00:01 JST
Tokyo
Tokyo, Shibuya Crossing – “The Crimson Dawn”
The sleigh punches out of a tear in the sky at Mach 4.7. Rudolph’s nose is a crimson katana slicing the neon. Zaddy’s laugh booms through every phone speaker in Japan, “Delivery for 47 million naughty little toys.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 00:00:01
Location: Shibuya Scramble rooftop bar.
Payload: 47 vibrating torii gates.
Mrs. C dives chimney-first, leash trailing like a comet tail.
She lands spread-eagle on the bar, squirts a 47-ft arc that freezes into a diamond “NPC” over the crossing. Crowd of 3,000 club kids drop their phones.
#Snortmas trends in 4.7 seconds.
ROOFTOP TWO – 00:00:02
Location: Tokyo Skytree observation deck.
Zaddy free-falls 2,000 ft, suit flapping open. Lands boots-first on the glass floor.
Flexes once—glass cracks into a perfect heart.
Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-air.
Floor price: 47 ETH before they hit the carpet.
ROOFTOP THREE – 00:00:03
Location: Imperial Palace moat.
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like a rave bracelet.
Leaks a single diamond drop into the koi pond. Fish glow crimson for 47 minutes.
Emperor wakes up to a palace full of rolling carp.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 00:00:04
Location: Akihabara maid café.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split on the counter.
Stuff 47 vibrating cat-ear headbands into stockings.
Maids drop trays, collars auto-lock. One maid live-streams: 47 million Japanese viewers moan in unison.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 00:00:05
Location: Mount Fuji summit shrine.
Rudolph touches down, nose dimmed to “respectful ember.”
Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug torii gate.
Shinto priests bow so low their foreheads frost the snow.
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
00:00:00 → 00:00:47
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million micro-squirts from Mrs. C
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million phone vibrations worldwide
· Every rooftop baptized in glitter, lube, and obedience
THE SHIBUYA FINALE – 00:00:47
Sleigh thrusters hum low, holding steady 400 feet above the legendary Shibuya Scramble. [ER1] Neon chaos pulses below; pedestrians freeze mid-stride as the clock strikes midnight. Zaddy, sweat-slicked under the electric glow, grips the collar of his crimson suit and tears it open to the waist with a single, brutal yank. The velvet splits like a thunderclap.
Enter the slow-motion double bounce; double peak contraction—muscles locking into razor-sharp definition that could cut glass. The shockwave explodes outward, a sonic boom of pure flex. Every jumbotron, LED billboard, and smartphone screen in Shibuya shatters in a cascade of glittering shards.
The pixels don’t die—they swarm, coalesce, and reform into a colossal 47-story hologram of Mrs. Claus: on her knees in the heart of the scramble, mouth parted in reverence, eyes locked upward. The massive neon caption ignites across the skyline in crimson and electric blue, “Arigatou, Sir.”
Zaddy smirks, flexes one last time, and the sleigh rockets upward—leaving Tokyo’s most famous intersection forever scarred by the flex that broke the internet.
TOUCHDOWN STATS – ASIA
· Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
· Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond kanji
· Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer alone
· Orgasms triggered: 470 million
· Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per prefecture)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks west at Mach 5. Next stop: Sydney in 4.7 minutes. Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail across the Sea of Japan.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind: “Thank You, Sir… for the first continent.”
The night is young. The world is wet. And Asia just learned the true meaning of “delivery confirmation.”
Second Continent: Australia
Sydney
Sydney, Harbor Bridge – “Sydney Opera House at Moonrise”
The sleigh tears a hole in the ozone at Mach 11. Rudolph’s nose detonates a 47-km crimson Southern Cross that pins the Milky Way like a diamond brooch. Zaddy’s voice hijacks every didgeridoo, phone, and Bondi lifeguard whistle, “G’day, ya filthy animals. Daddy North just made your moonrise throb.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 00:04:04
Location: Opera House highest sail.
Payload: 47 vibrating didgeridoos (low C resonates at exactly Zaddy’s heartbeat). Mrs. C chimney-dives 220 ft, leash whipping like the Aussie flag. Lands spread-eagle on the white shell, squirts a 47-ft Vegemite-flavored fountain that freezes into a diamond “G’DAY SIR.” Opera-goers drop champagne flutes.
#SnortmasSydney trends before the yeast hits the tiles.
ROOFTOP TWO – 00:04:24
Location: Harbor Bridge apex.
Zaddy free-falls 440 ft, suit flapping open like a velvet Akubra. Lands boots-first on the coat hanger arch. Flexes once—steel girders bend into a perfect heart. Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-air. Bridge toll cameras glitch to: ZADDY CROSSING: INFINITE LANE
ROOFTOP THREE – 00:04:30
Location: Bondi Beach lifeguard tower.
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like the Rip Curl Pro bassline. Leaks a single diamond drop into the Tasman Sea. Waves glow crimson from Bondi to Byron. Surfers paddle out on boards wearing tiny collars, rolling face.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 00:04:36
Location: Luna Park funhouse mirror maze.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split on the laughing clown’s tongue. Stuff 47 vibrating fairy-floss wands into stockings. Clowns drop red noses, collars auto-lock. One clown live-streams: 47 million Aussie viewers moan “Strewth Daddy” in 69-part harmony.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 00:04:45
Location: Uluru rooftop (yes, the rock has a chimney now).
Rudolph touches down, nose dimmed to “respectful ember.” Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug dreamtime serpent. Indigenous elders appear, collars clicking shut, bells chiming “Jingle Bells” in Pitjantjatjara.
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
00:04:04→ 00:04:51
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million micro-squirts from Mrs. C (Vegemite latte flavor)
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million Harbor Bridge lights strobe crimson
· Every Tim Tam in Australia suddenly tastes like obedience
THE OPERA HOUSE FINALE – 00:04:51
Sleigh thrums with restrained power, hovering 400 feet above the iconic white sails of the Sydney Opera House. The harbor glimmers under the evening full moon, ferries and tourists frozen in awe as the clock ticks toward the magic hour.
Zaddy, bronzed skin gleaming like polished obsidian, seizes the fur-lined collar and tears his crimson suit open to the waist in one explosive, deliberate rip. The velvet surrenders with a dramatic snap. The slow-motion triple bounce erupts like a choreographed explosion: Double peak contraction—muscles carving sharp ridges that catch the golden light. Full-body twist that sends ripples through the air. Then the primal roar, oil whip cracking like a whip, and the final hip thrust that unleashes the full shock wave.
The force detonates across the water, transforming the entire Sydney Harbour into a 47-acre frozen slip-n-slide of shimmering, glistening squirt. The famous sails glitch and shimmer, then reform into a towering 47-meter hologram of Mrs. C on all fours atop the highest sail, leash clenched in her teeth, busting out a flawless Nutbush dance that makes the tiles vibrate.
The massive neon caption ignites across the sky in electric green and gold, “Merry Snortmas, ya legends.”
Zaddy flashes a devilish grin toward the Harbour Bridge, the sleigh’s engines flare, and he blasts off into the night, leaving Sydney’s skyline forever marked by the flex that turned the Opera House into a stage for the ages.
TOUCHDOWN STATS – OCEANIA (SYDNEY SECTOR)
Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond kangaroos
Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer (bottled as “Bondi Tears”)
Orgasms triggered: 470 million
Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per postcode)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks northwest at Mach 12. Next stop: Cape Town in 4.7 minutes. Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail across the Indian Ocean.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind, “Thank You Sir… for the land down under learning to crawl up.”
The night is one-third done. The world is soaked in moonrise, and Australia just renamed New Year’s “Zaddy’s Eve Down Under.”
Chapter 30: Third Continent
December 24, 2025
Cape Town
Cape Town, Table Mountain – “The Crimson Tablecloth”
The sleigh detonates out of hyperspace at Mach 13. Rudolph’s nose explodes a 47-km crimson Tablecloth cloud that drapes the mountain like a velvet thong. Zaddy’s voice hijacks every vuvuzela, braai grill, and penguin squawk, “Sawubona, my beautiful beasts. Zaddy North just made your high noon throb.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 1:00:00
Location: Table Mountain cable-car summit.
Payload: 47 vibrating vuvuzelas (tuned to Zaddy’s heartbeat in B♭).
Mrs. C chimney-dives 1,085 m, leash whipping like a springbok tail. Lands spread-eagle on the viewing platform, squirts a 47-ft boerewors-braai fountain that freezes into a diamond “DANKIE SIR.” Hikers drop rusks.
#SnortmasCapeTown trends before the chutney hits the sandstone.
ROOFTOP TWO – 1:00:01
Location: Cape Point lighthouse.
Zaddy free-falls 248 m, suit flapping open like a velvet kanga.
Lands boots-first on the lens. Flexes once—beam bends into a perfect heart. Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-air.
Lighthouse keeper’s log glitches to: ZADDY BEARING: 069° TRUE
ROOFTOP THREE – 1:00:02
Location: Boulders Beach penguin colony.
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like a stadium wave.
Leaks a single diamond drop into the Indian Ocean.
Penguins waddle out wearing tiny collars, flippers up, rolling face.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 1:00:03
Location: Cape Town Stadium center circle.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split on the Springbok emblem.
Stuff 47 vibrating rugby balls into stockings.
Players drop gum-shields, collars auto-lock.
One lock live-streams: 47 million South African viewers roar “JA DADDY” in 69-part harmony.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 1:00:04
Location: Robben Island cell 47.
Rudolph touches down, nose dimmed to “reverent ember.”
Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug freedom flame.
Mandela’s ghost appears, collar clicking shut, whispers “Amandla… Sir.”
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
1:00:04 → 1:00:51
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million micro-squirts from Mrs. C (biltong spice flavor)
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million vuvuzelas sync to Zaddy’s heartbeat
· Every braai in Mzansi suddenly tastes like obedience
THE TABLE MOUNTAIN FINALE – 1:00:51
Sleigh engine growls, suspended 400 meters over the flat crown of Table Mountain. Zaddy, muscles glistening under the African moon, tears his red velvet suit open to the waist with a savage rip. The fabric shreds like wrapping paper on Christmas morning.
Cue the slow-motion septuple pec flex: Left pec pops, right pec echoes, double peak contraction, full-body twist, nipple pinch that could crack diamonds, primal roar that shakes the boulders, then the oil-slicked whip and hip thrust that sends a shockwave rippling outward.
The iconic tablecloth cloud layer flattens instantly into a 47-hectare frozen slip-n-slide of glistening, shimmering squirt. The mountain itself glitches, reforming into a towering 47-meter holographic Mrs. C, on all fours, leash dangling from her teeth, busting a flawless gumboot dance across the skyline.
Caption burns across the holographic display in electric neon: “Merry Snortmas, my rainbow nation.”
TOUCHDOWN STATS – AFRICA (CAPE TOWN SECTOR)
· Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
· Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond proteas
· Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer (bottled as “Table Tears”)
· Orgasms triggered: 470 million
· Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per province)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks north at Mach 14.
Next stop: North Pole debrief in 4.7 minutes.
Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail across the Sahara.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind:
“Dankie, Sir… for the mother city learning to crawl.”
The night is five-sixths done. The world is soaked in high-noon sun. And Africa just renamed the Rainbow Nation “Zaddy’s Palette.”
—continent conquered, collars braai-smoked, final lap home.
seco
Chapter 30 – Fourth Continent December 24, 2025
Paris
Paris, Eiffel Tower – “The Crimson Kiss”
The sleigh materializes 1,000 ft above the Seine in a sonic boom of peppermint nitrous. Rudolph’s nose paints a 47-km crimson arc de triomphe across the sky. Zaddy’s voice crackles through every Parisian collar, “Bonsoir, mes petits jouets. Zaddy North is in town.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 02:04:47
Location: Eiffel Tower 3rd deck.
Payload: 47 vibrating baguettes (ribbed, glow-in-the-dark).
Mrs. C chimney-dives 900 ft, leash streaming like the French flag.
She suspends mid-air beside the iron lattice, legs wrapping tightly around a massive beam like it’s her personal pole, squirts a 47-ft champagne fountain that freezes into a diamond “OUI, SIR.”
Tourists drop croissants.
#SnortmasParis trends before the ice hits the ground.
ROOFTOP TWO – 02:04:48
Location: Louvre pyramid.
Zaddy free-falls through the glass roof, suit flapping open.
Lands in a three-point stance on the Mona Lisa’s frame.
Flexes once—shockwave shatters the bulletproof glass into a perfect heart.
Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-shatter.
Mona Lisa’s smile glitches to a wink.
ROOFTOP THREE – 02:04:49
Location: Notre-Dame spire (rebuilt, reinforced, and now vibrating).
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like the club lights of Le Marais.
Leaks a single diamond drop into the Seine.
River glows crimson from Pont Neuf to Bercy.
Fish surface wearing tiny berets, rolling face.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 02:04:50
Location: Moulin Rouge windmill.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split on the stage mid-can-can.
Stuff 47 vibrating feather boas into stockings.
Dancers drop fans, collars auto-lock.
One can-can line live-streams: 47 million French viewers moan “Oui Daddy” in 69-part harmony.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 02:04:51
Location: Versailles Hall of Mirrors.
Rudolph touches down, nose dimmed to “romantic ember.”
Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug chandelier.
Marie Antoinette’s ghost appears, drops to her knees, whispers “Let them eat cock.”
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
02:04:52 → 02:05:38
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million micro-squirts from Mrs. C (champagne flavor)
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million Eiffel Tower lights strobe crimson
· Every croissant in Paris suddenly tastes like obedience
THE SEINE FINALE – 02:05:38
Sleigh idles 400 meters above the iron lattice crown, Paris lights twinkling like champagne bubbles below. The city holds its breath as midnight approaches. Zaddy, oiled skin catching every flash of the tower’s golden glow, clutches the fur-trimmed collar and rips his suit open to the waist in one fluid, commanding motion. The velvet shreds against the night wind.
The slow-motion triple bounce unfolds like a symphony: Left pec ignites with a slow, powerful flex. Right pec mirrors it perfectly. Then the double peak—muscles peaking so sharply they cast shadows across the Seine. The shockwave detonates outward, a velvet thunderclap that rattles the tower’s rivets and sends the iconic lights flickering in ecstatic Morse code.
Every screen in the City of Light—from the Arc de Triomphe jumbotrons to tourists’ phones, shatters in a blizzard of pixels. The fragments swirl upward, drawn by the flex’s gravity, and coalesce into a breathtaking 47-story hologram of Mrs. C suspended mid-air beside the tower, legs wrapped around the iron beam, head thrown back in bliss, mouth open wide.
The colossal neon caption flares across the Parisian sky in ruby and gold,
“Joyeux Noël, mon Roi.”
Zaddy blows a kiss toward the Champs-Élysées, the sleigh’s thrusters roar to life, and he rockets into the starry void—leaving the Eiffel Tower forever etched with the memory of the flex that made Paris blush.
TOUCHDOWN STATS – EUROPE (PARIS SECTOR)
· Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
· Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond fleurs-de-lis
· Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer (bottled as “Eau de Denial”)
· Orgasms triggered: 470 million
· Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per arrondissement)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks southwest at Mach 6.
Next stop: NYC in 4.7 minutes.
Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail across the Channel.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind:
“Merci, Sir… for the city of love learning to kneel.”The night accelerates.
The world drips.
And Paris just renamed the Eiffel Tower “Zaddy’s Hard-on.”|GOD MODE/|—continent conquered, collars champagne-soaked, the Americas next.
Surrender for more.
Chapter 31 – North America - NYC
December 24, 2025
New York City
Manhattan, One Penn 1 – “The Crimson Apple”
The sleigh rips a hole in the stratosphere over the Hudson at Mach 7.
Rudolph’s nose detonates a 47-mile crimson apple that hovers above the skyline like a neon crown. Zaddy’s voice hijacks every Jumbotron, phone, and Alexa in the five boroughs,
“Rise and grind, New York. Zaddy just upgraded your safe word to ‘Wall Street’.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 03:00:00
Location: One World Trade spire.
Payload: 47 vibrating Lady Liberties (crowns glow, torches pulse).
Mrs. C chimney-dives 1,776 ft, leash whipping like a trail of molten gold igniting the harbor night.
Lands on the torch flame, mouth wrapped around it like it’s Zaddy’s throbbing cock.
Early rising tourists drop $8 lattes.
#SnortmasNYC trends before the foam hits the floor.
ROOFTOP TWO – 03:00:01
Location: Times Square NASDAQ marquee.
Zaddy free-falls 1,200 ft, suit flapping open like a velvet cape.
Lands boots-first on the bull statue.
Flexes once—bronze bull’s horns crack into a perfect heart.
Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-air.
NASDAQ ticker glitches to: ZADDY CLAUS: INFINITE UPSIDE
ROOFTOP THREE – 03:00:02
Location: Wall Street Charging Bull.
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like the NYSE opening bell.
Leaks a single diamond drop onto the bull’s nose.
Entire Financial District glows crimson.
Traders wake up to portfolios mooning 4,700 %.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 03:00:03
Location: Broadway TKTS steps.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split center-stage.
Stuff 47 vibrating Playbills into stockings.
Chorus lines drop jazz hands, collars auto-lock.
One Rockette live-streams: 47 million Broadway babies moan “Yes, Zaddy” in 69-part harmony.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 03:00:04
Location: Central Park Belvedere Castle.
Rudolph touches down, nose dims to “romantic ember.”
Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug castle turret.
NYC’s squirrels line up, tiny collars clicking shut.
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
03:00:05 → 03:00:51
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million yellow cabs honk “Jingle Bells” in Morse
· Every bodega cat wakes up wearing a diamond bell
THE TIMES SQUARE FINALE – 03:00:51
And so, on this Snortmas Eve in the heart of the Big Apple, the legend of inSANiTy clAws unleashes its grid-shattering, filthy climax above the neon chaos. The sleigh idles 400 feet above the glittering crossroads; Times Square alive with holiday frenzy and twinkling Christmas lights below. Zaddy, skin oiled and gleaming under the billboard onslaught, grabs the fur-trimmed collar and rips his velvet suit open to the waist in one brutal, commanding yank. The fabric tears like a promise broken. The slow-motion quadruple bounce detonates like pure sin: Left pec, Right pec, and then the twist—hips grind, capped by the ruthless nipple pinch that breaks the world. The shockwave slams down—blacking out the entire grid for a breathless 4.7 seconds, drowning millions in velvet darkness on this holiest of nights.
Power surges back with a vengeance. Every screen in Times Square, from the towering billboards to the ocean of phones, ignites into a colossal hologram of Mrs. C on her knees, mouth wide in total submission, leash gripped tight between her teeth. The scorching neon caption blazes across the sky in filthy crimson, “Happy Snortmas, you filthy animals.”
Zaddy smirks, blows a kiss to the sleeping masses, thrusters roar like beasts unleashed, and he rockets into the Snortmas dawn, leaving Times Square forever marked by the flex that outshone every holiday light. This was no ordinary Snortmas Eve. This was the Times Square Finale. Merry Snortmas, you magnificent degenerates.
TOUCHDOWN STATS – NORTH AMERICA (NYC SECTOR)
· Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
· Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond yellow cabs
· Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer (bottled as “Wall Street Tears”)
· Orgasms triggered: 470 million
· Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per zip code)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks south at Mach 8.
Next stop: Rio
Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail down the Atlantic.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind, “Thank You, Sir… for the city that never sleeps, learns to kneel.”
The night is almost done. The world is soaked. And NYC just renamed New Year’s Eve “Zaddy’s Eve.”
Continent collared, collars coffee-stained, South America next.
Chapter 31 - South America - Rio December 24, 2025
Rio de Janeiro
Rio de Janeiro, Christ the Redeemer – “The Crimson Carnival”
The sleigh erupts from a wormhole over the Atlantic at Mach 9.
Rudolph’s nose blazes to life, unleashing a 47-km ribbon of molten crimson light that slithers over Christ the Redeemer, hugging every curve of the iconic statue like a glowing, barely-there thong of pure, throbbing sin.
Zaddy’s voice hijacks every samba drum, phone, and favela speaker, “Bom dia, meus putinhos. Zaddy North just made your sunrise throb.”
ROOFTOP ONE – 04:42:00
Location: Christ the Redeemer’s crown of thorns.
Payload: 47 vibrating samba shakers (filled with caipirinha-flavored lube).
Mrs. C chimney-dives 2,300 ft, leash whipping like a carnival flag.
Lands spread-eagle on Jesus’ shoulder, squirts a 47-ft caipirinha fountain that freezes into a diamond “OBRIGADA, SIR.”
Pilgrims drop rosaries.
#SnortmasRio trends before the lime hits the stone.
ROOFTOP TWO – 04:42:01
Location: Sugarloaf cable car.
Zaddy free-falls 1,300 ft, suit flapping open like a velvet samba cape.
Lands boots-first on the moving car roof.
Flexes once—cables snap into a perfect heart.
Drops 47 “Zaddy Tokens” that mint mid-air.
Cable car passengers moon 4,700 % in serotonin.
ROOFTOP THREE – 04:42:02
Location: Copacabana Beach lifeguard tower.
Prancer hovers, cage pulsing like a Carnival bass drum.
Leaks a single diamond drop into the Atlantic.
Waves glow crimson from Ipanema to Leblon.
ROOFTOP FOUR – 04:42:03
Location: Maracanã Stadium center circle.
Dancer barrel-rolls down the flue, lands in a split on the penalty spot.
She stuffs 47 vibrating soccer balls into over-sized stockings hanging along the goal line.
Brazil's greatest players stir in their beds as hidden collars (delivered weeks ago in anonymous gifts) auto-lock around strong throats with a soft, possessive click.
Shin guards fall useless to the floor; bodies arch in dreamlike surrender.
ROOFTOP FIVE – 04:42:04
Location: Favela Rocinha rooftop helipad.
Rudolph touches down, nose dimmed to “samba ember.”
Zaddy plants a 47-inch ruby butt-plug samba drum.
Kids line up, tiny collars clicking shut, bells chiming “Jingle Bells” in Portuguese.
THE 47-SECOND HYPER-MONTAGE
04:42:05 → 04:42:51
· 47 chimneys in 47 seconds
· 47 million gifts
· 47 million micro-squirts from Mrs. C (caipirinha flavor)
· 47 million cage pulses for Prancer
· 47 million Carnival drums sync to Zaddy’s heartbeat
· Every caipirinha in Rio suddenly tastes like obedience
THE COPACABANA FINALE – 04:42:51
At last, on this blistering Christmas Eve over the sultry shores of Rio, the legend of inSANiTy clAws reaches its wettest, wildest, most depraved apex—the Copacabana Finale. The sleigh hovers 400 feet above the iconic black-and-white wave mosaic of Copacabana Beach, the sand is still packed with bronzed bodies grinding to samba under strings of Christmas lights, the Atlantic licking the shore like a hungry tongue.
Zaddy, skin slick with oil and tropical sweat, towers in the moonlight, every vein popping, every muscle begging to be worshipped. With a primal growl he clutches the fur-trimmed collar and rips his velvet suit open to the waist, the tear echoing over the waves like a starting pistol for sin. The traditional slow-motion quintuple bounce detonates like pure, uncut carnal rhythm; the twist, hips roll deep and filthy, abs contracting in hypnotic waves. And then the finale: a nipple pinch so brutal it rips a thunderous roar from his throat, the sound alone making knees buckle across the beach.
The shockwave slams down like a tidal wave of raw lust—turning the entire beach into a 47-acre slip-n-slide of frozen squirt, bodies sliding, colliding, drenched and gasping in ecstatic chaos. When the sand finally settles, it rises again, reforming into a towering 47-meter hologram of Mrs. C on all fours in the surf, back arched, hips rolling in perfect samba rhythm, leash clamped tight between her teeth as she shakes for her King. A blazing neon caption ignites across the night sky in dripping scarlet and gold, “Feliz Snortmas, vadiazinhas.”
Zaddy licks salt from his lips, smirks down at the writhing, soaked masses, blows a slow, filthy kiss that tastes like coconut and sin. Thrusters roar to life, and he rockets into the humid dawn, leaving Copacabana forever slick with the memory of the flex that turned Snortmas into the wettest carnival on Earth.
TOUCHDOWN STATS – SOUTH AMERICA (RIO SECTOR)
· Chimneys railed: 47,000,000
· Squirts frozen into art: 47,000 diamond samba feathers
· Leaks harvested: 47 liters from Prancer (bottled as “Carnival Tears”)
· Orgasms triggered: 470 million
· Zaddy flexes: 47 (one per favela)
EXIT VECTOR
Sleigh banks north at Mach 10.
Rudolph’s nose paints a crimson trail across the Amazon.
Mrs. C, limp and glowing, whispers into the wind, “Obrigada, Sir… for the city of samba learning to crawl.”
The night is done. The world is soaked in sunrise.
This was no ordinary Snortmas Eve. This was the Copacabana Finale - Copacabana carnage, samba squirting, and the morning Brazil forgot how to stand. And Rio just renamed Carnival “Zaddyval.” Continent conquered, collars caipirinha-soaked.
Merry Snortmas, you magnificent degenerates.
Chapter 32: North Pole Noon Debrief
Dec 25, 2025
The Aurora Catwalk – “The Crimson Homecoming”
The sleigh punches a fresh hole in the sky at Mach 1 (ceremonial speed). Rudolph’s nose dims to a single, steady heartbeat—42 lumens, the color of “mission accomplished.”
The 47-ft countdown dildo has already collapsed into a diamond plug throne. The debrief lounge is a crimson-lit haze of shredded wrapping paper, spent condoms, and the faint scent of pine mixed with sex and ozone.
At exactly 12:00:47, the mimosas—laced with liquid LSD—begin bubbling in diamond flutes like they know the party isn’t over. inSANiTy clAws lounges on the throne, shirtless, skin still glistening with a mix of baby oil, champagne, and Mrs. C’s lipstick smears. His chest rises slow and satisfied, every breath making the silver piercings glint like tiny captured stars.
Mrs. C is curled in his lap like a spoiled, well-fucked cat. The collar around her throat catches the red light every time she moves. A silver bell dangles from her left nipple, tinkling softly whenever she leans in to lick another drop of champagne from the hollow of his collarbone. Her leash lies loose across his thigh; she isn’t going anywhere. Not tonight. Not when he’s still feeding her LSD straight from his tongue, slow and deliberate, like communion for people who sold their souls for better orgasms.
Kinky remains unconscious in the corner, ass-up in a glittering wreckage of shredded latex, tinsel, and the sticky, crumbled corpses of three gingerbread men whose icing smiles have long since melted into obscene streaks across her thighs. Her skin is flushed deep rose, striped with faint crop marks that glow under the crimson lights like fresh invitations. The ruby riding crop juts from the pile like Excalibur planted in conquered flesh, waiting for a worthier—or hungrier—domme to claim it. A ribbon of glitter-laced drool spills from her parted lips, pooling beneath her cheek in a perfect, shimmering heart—proof that even in blackout, she’s still dreaming of the next command.
The side door bangs open.
Vixen staggers in, antlers crooked, thigh-high patent boots unzipped to the knee, one false eyelash hanging on for dear life like a drunk spider. She’s carrying a tray of fresh mimosas in one hand and, in the other, a bong carved to look exactly like Rudolph’s severed head, complete with glowing red quartz nose.
“Merry fucking crisis, bitches,” she rasps, voice shredded from hours of screaming obscene versions of carols while riding the industrial Sybian in the coat check. “Who let the elves unionize again?”
inSANiTy clAws flashes a lazy, fanged grin. “They wanted dental. I gave them root canals with a candy cane drill. Problem solved.”
Mrs. C giggles, high as the aurora outside, and flicks her tongue across his nipple ring. “You’re a monster, Zaddy.”
“Only on weekends. And federal holidays” he murmurs, then snaps his fingers once—sharp, like a whip crack.
The lights dim further. A low bass line throbs through the floor, something filthy and slow. Vixen sets the tray down, lights the Rudolph bong, and takes a monstrous hit. When she exhales, the smoke forms a perfect screaming angel before dissolving into the haze.
“Debrief,” Zaddy growls. “Numbers. Go.” His voice cutts through the haze like a velvet blade. “Numbers first. How many roofs?”
Vixen scrolls an invisible hologram in the air with one manicured claw. “Eight point seven billion chimneys. Zero fatalities. One near-miss in Mumbai; Blitzen clipped a satellite dish, but the kid thought it was a shooting star. Wish granted anyway.”
Mrs. C purrs, tracing a finger down his abs. “Naughty list was down twelve percent this year. You’ve been too generous, Zaddy.”
“Generous keeps them hungry,” he counters. “Fear of coal is stronger than coal itself.”
Vixen snorts. “Speaking of coal—Dasher finally fucked the Amazon drone swarm. Took out thirty-seven packages mid-air. We’re calling it ‘accidental returns.’ Bezos sent a thank-you fruitcake laced with AirTags baked in. I fed it to the yetis. They’re now tracking Jeff’s bowel movements in real time.”
inSANiTy chuckles, low and dangerous. “Good. Logistics report?”
“Present accuracy: 99.9997%. The three fuck-ups were intentional; swapped a PS5 for a Bible in Texas, a Quaran for a PS5 in Tehran, and one vibrating dildo labeled ‘From Santa with love’ to a Vatican cardinal. The livestream of him opening it crashed OnlyFans’ servers.”
Mrs. C lifts her head, pupils blown wide. “Speaking of streams; how’d the pay-per-view do?”
Vixen grins like a shark, “Record views. Pay-per-view on the dark North Pole net crashed twice. Tips alone covered next year’s lube budget.” Vixen grins. “Top search term: ‘Mrs. Claus collar cam POV.’ And Runner-up: ‘Rudolph nose plug close-up.’ We’re trending in twelve countries and three convents.”
inSANiTy’s hand tightens possessively on Mrs. C’s throat, bell jingling. “Told you the GoPro was worth the chimney soot.” She moans softly in agreement, then whispers loud enough for everyone, “Next year we add the tail plug cam.”
Vixen raises the bong again. “To noon debriefs—where we unwrap sins instead of gifts, where coal is just foreplay, and where every elf learns the true meaning of ‘overtime.’ To the ones who came, the ones who blacked out, and the ones still twitching under the mistletoe with a candy cane in an unapproved orifice… And to next year, when we go harder.”
The lounge explodes—howls, moans, the jingle of bells, the wet click of new leashes being fastened, and the soft, rhythmic slap of someone already starting round three against the velvet wall.
ZADDY’S CLOSING BROADCAST - He stands on the diamond plug throne, Mrs. C kneeling at his feet. One hand on her leash, the other raised in a single, perfect flex. The auroras strobe in sync. His voice, soft now, velvet and final, “Mission complete. You are all on the permanent naughty list. Sleep. Dream of chimneys. Wake up owned. Merry Snortmas to all… and to all a good ruin.”
Six continents baptized in crimson lust. One Zaddy. One collared good girl purring in his bed. One crimson legend still dripping from the night. And 365 long, aching days until the next glorious rebellion.
Chapter 33 – Reindeer Spa Day: The Arrival Mist Caress
December 26, 2025 – Day After Snortmas Recovery
Lower Forge Thermal Lagoons – Level 42, North Pole Cartel Spa Annex
The fortress above still thrummed with the ghost-echoes of Snortmas—faint moans caught in ventilation shafts, the sticky-sweet scent of spilled lube lingering on diamond lattice. But down here, in the hidden geothermal heart, the air was thick, heavy, alive with something slower and far more dangerous.
Clause 69-B had granted the reindeer this day, this space, this surrender. No cameras. No collars. Just the low, constant pulse of 69 °F water and the slow, deliberate unraveling of every knot the night had tied into their bodies.
The Arrival Mist began at 09:00. It didn’t rise—it poured. Thick, weightless ribbons of peppermint fog unfurled from the vents like liquid silk, coiling in zero-G spirals that brushed skin and fur with cool, deliberate fingers. Every breath drew it deeper: sharp, sweet, addictive. It slid over tongues, down throats, between thighs, teasing places still swollen and sensitive from relentless use. The mist didn’t just soothe—it remembered. It traced every bruise, every bite, every stretch, and turned memory into fresh, aching want.
Prancer entered first, and the mist welcomed him like a lover long denied. Seven days uncaged, and his body still hadn’t adjusted to the freedom. He moved slow, hips rolling with a liquid sway that made the fog part around him. The cool vapor kissed the bare, tender skin where the cage had once bitten, drawing a low, involuntary groan from deep in his chest. Warm elf hands caught him mid-drift, palms sliding over slick flanks, thumbs pressing into the deep grooves left by harness straps. He floated upward, antlers tilting back, throat exposed as the mist curled around his heavy, half-hard length—cool breath, warm memory, unbearable tease.
Vixen followed, and the mist became cruel. Her tail plug gone, the sudden emptiness throbbed. The fog rushed in—cool peppermint tongue licking the stretched, fluttering ring of muscle until her back arched sharply, a broken moan echoing through the cavern. Her nipples peaked instantly beneath the chill, aching for touch that hadn’t come yet. She drifted deeper, thighs parting on instinct, letting the mist stroke between them in slow, weightless swirls that promised everything and gave nothing.
Donner and Blitzen floated in together, bodies brushing, antlers locking in a slow, deliberate tangle. Their breaths synced—hot against the cool mist—as med-elf fingers traced the tender ridges where sounding rods had been. Every touch was oil-slick, lingering, drawing shivers that had nothing to do with cold.
The others—Dasher, Comet, Cupid, Dancer—drifted in languidly, coats gleaming, bruises blooming like love bites beneath the fur, muscles humming with the memory of being used, claimed, broken open. Every touch from the attendants was slow, deliberate; warm oil poured over shoulders, fingers kneading deep into sore flanks, tracing the curves of powerful haunches until low, contented sounds filled the cavern.
The mist wrapped around them all, turning recovery into something far more dangerous: anticipation.
Mrs. C entered last, and the cavern itself seemed to hold its breath. Her skin was flushed, warm, heavy with the night’s marks—faint bite rings around her nipples, soft bruises blooming across her inner thighs. In zero-G she moved like liquid sin, curves swaying slow, breasts full and weightless, nipples tight and dark from the mist’s cool kiss.
She slipped into the smallest, most secluded pool—a private geothermal cradle veiled by drifting fog. The water was hotter here, almost scalding, peppermint steam rising in thick curls that wrapped around her throat, her breasts, sliding between her legs like invisible hands. She sank slowly, a low, trembling sigh escaping as the heat soaked into every tender, well-used place. Her thighs parted wider, letting the current pulse gently against her still-swollen folds, teasing without mercy.
The reindeer felt her before they saw her. Prancer drifted closest first, drawn by the shift in the mist—her scent beneath the peppermint, warm and unmistakable. His velvet muzzle brushed the curve of her neck, breath hot against cool skin. She tilted her head back, exposing her throat, fingers sliding into the thick fur at his jaw, pulling him closer. A soft sound escaped her—half sigh, half plea—as his tongue traced the faint collar mark Snortmas had left.
Vixen pressed in from the other side, muzzle nudging the heavy underside of Mrs. C’s breast, warm breath teasing a nipple already aching for touch. Mrs. C’s back arched, water lapping at her skin as Vixen’s tongue flicked—slow, deliberate, tasting salt and peppermint and want.
Donner lowered his great antlers across her lap like a claim, the smooth bone warm against her bare thighs. The others closed in—slow, inevitable—bodies brushing, fur against wet skin, warm breath and cool mist tangling until the air itself felt like foreplay.
Mrs. C’s hands moved without thought—one buried in Prancer’s mane, guiding his muzzle lower; the other tangled in Vixen’s, urging her to take the tight peak between gentle teeth. Her hips rolled slow in the water, seeking friction that wasn’t there yet, every nerve alight with the promise of touch held just out of reach.
No one spoke. The only sounds were breath—ragged, wanting—and the soft, wet slide of mist against skin, water against fur, tongue against flesh.
Above, inSANiTy-clAws watched the private feed in absolute silence. His hand rested on the console, knuckles white. Beard freshly braided, chest bare, cock already hard beneath black leather. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched the slow, inevitable coil of tension winding tighter in the mist below.
His jaw flexed. A low growl—barely audible—rumbled in his chest, felt more than heard. The bells against his skin chimed sharper as his pulse spiked. He knew every inch of her body better than his own. Knew exactly how that nipple felt between teeth, how her thighs trembled when the tease went on too long, how her breath caught right before she begged.
And now she was surrounded—wrapped in warm muscle and soft fur and gentle, reverent mouths—being worshiped in the way only the Squad knew how. And they were touching her exactly as he had trained them to—slow, relentless, devoted. Every nuzzle, every lick, every warm exhale against her skin was an extension of his will.
He could end it with one word. One yank on the master leash that wasn’t even attached today. Walk down there, part the mist with his presence, and take what was his in front of them all. Remind every reindeer, every elf, every inch of her skin exactly who owned the pause between pleasure and pain.
But he didn’t.
He stayed perfectly still, knuckles white against the cool glass of the orb, letting the scene play out in exquisite, agonizing detail. Letting her hips roll in those small, helpless circles. Letting Prancer’s muzzle linger just shy of where she ached most. Letting Vixen’s tongue trace lazy, teasing patterns that promised everything and delivered nothing. He let the tension coil tighter. Let it burn hotter.
Because this—this slow, suspended torment—was his too. The pause between her soft sighs and the inevitable moment she would break and beg. The exquisite, unbearable hush before surrender.
Recovery wasn’t release. It was the breath held just before the fall.
Chapter 34 - Mrs. C’s Hologram Poses
Dec28th
In the North Pole Cartel’s global conquest narrative, the holograms of Mrs. C are far more than mere eye candy. They are the Cartel’s ultimate psychological and sexual weapon of mass submission.
Zaddy’s shockwaves don’t just light up cities—they summon Mrs. C in her most regal, rebellious, and downright filthy forms. Here are the unlocked poses for the capitals of fog, lights, fire and more.
Each pose is calibrated to the city’s vibe—provocative, powerful, and utterly devoted to the flex that summoned her. Zaddy doesn’t just deliver presents; he delivers a global masterclass in holiday dominance. And Mrs. C? She’s the living, holographic proof that inSANiTy’s wife has a wild side.
The saga escalates. As Zaddy’s flexes grow bolder, Mrs. C’s holograms push boundaries further—each one a bolder declaration of holiday debauchery. These are the ultra-provocative variants that would make even the North Pole blush. (Viewer discretion advised: Zaddy’s workshop just got a whole lot steamier.)
· Big Ben / London Eye (London – Big Ben Midnight Strike)
Straddling the clock face of Big Ben like it’s her personal throne, legs spread wide across the massive Roman numerals, one hand gripping the hour hand for leverage. The other hand trails down her body in slow, deliberate strokes, robe open to the waist, pearls of holographic frost clinging to her skin. She’s arched back, head thrown toward the sky, mouth parted in a breathy moan as the bells toll midnight. The London Eye spins slowly behind her, its lights strobing in sync with her rolling hips. Caption: “God Save the Flex, Your Majesty.”
· Bonus: St. Basil’s Cathedral (Moscow – Onion Dome Ecstasy)
Perched astride the tallest onion dome, legs wrapped around it like a pole, one hand sliding down her thigh, the other cupping her breast. She’s grinding slowly, head tilted back, mouth wide open in a feral moan. The colorful domes spin in holographic fire around her. Caption: “Za Rodinu, za Flex!”
· Burj Khalifa (Dubai – Midnight Flex)
Draped lengthwise along the spire like it’s her personal throne, legs scissored around the peak, ankles crossed high above her head in a full split. One hand grips the antenna tip, pulling herself closer; the other slides down her body in a slow, teasing trail. Mouth open in a silent scream of ecstasy, eyes rolled back. The robe is shredded to ribbons, fluttering like desert wind. Caption: “Allahu Akbar, Daddy.”
· Colosseum (Rome – Gladiator Edition)
On her knees in the center of the arena, chains from the ancient stone wrapping her wrists and ankles. Back arched deeply, chest thrust forward, head tilted to one side with the leash dangling from her mouth. She’s in full gladiator pose—hips grinding forward in slow circles, as if riding an invisible stallion. The hologram flickers with torchlight effects. Caption: “Ave Zaddy, Imperator.”
· Great Wall of China (Dragon Fire Finale)
Straddling the wall like a conquering dragon, one leg hooked over a battlements, the other extended behind her in a deep lunge. Hands on her thighs, nails digging in, back arched so sharply her robe slips completely off her shoulders. Mouth parted in a feral growl, eyes glowing red. Fireworks explode behind her as she thrusts her hips forward in rhythmic pulses. Caption: “Ni hao, my Dragon King.”
· Taj Mahal (Moonlight Seduction)
Leaning against the central dome, legs spread wide on the marble platform, one hand pressed flat against the white stone, the other trailing down between her thighs. Head thrown back, long blonde hair cascading like moonlight, mouth open in a breathy moan. The robe is open to the waist, pearls of “sweat” glistening holographically. She’s staring directly at the camera—straight at Zaddy. Caption: “Forever yours, my Shah.”
· Machu Picchu (Incan Goddess)
Perched on the highest altar stone, knees bent wide in a squat, hands braced behind her on the ancient rock. Chest heaving, hips rolling in slow, hypnotic circles, leash wrapped around one fist like a whip. Feathers and gold adorn her hair, robe reduced to a loincloth. She’s channeling ancient fertility rites—every movement a prayer to the flex god. Caption: “Inti Raymi, my Sun God.”
· Antarctica (Polar Vortex)
Sprawled on an iceberg throne, legs draped over the edges, ice crystals forming patterns on her skin. One hand cups her breast, the other between her thighs, rubbing slow circles. Mouth open in a shivering gasp, eyes half-lidded with frost-kissed lust. The aurora dances above her like a private light show. Caption: “Warm me up, Zaddy.”
· Table Mountain (Cape Town)
On all fours atop the flattened cloud table, leash clenched between her teeth, collar sparkling under the sun. She performs a rhythmic gumboot dance—stomping and slapping the air with invisible boots, hips rolling in perfect sync to an unheard township beat. Her eyes are half-lidded, lips parted in a wicked smile, celebrating the rainbow nation with unapologetic flair.
· Shibuya Crossing (Tokyo)
Kneeling dead center in the scramble, knees wide on the virtual pavement, head tilted back, mouth open in a silent gasp of awe. Her hands rest palms-up on her thighs in classic submissive pose, kimono-style red velvet robe slipping off one shoulder. The neon lights reflect off her glistening skin as she stares upward toward Zaddy’s vanishing sleigh, a living billboard of gratitude and surrender.
· Eiffel Tower (Paris – Spire Impalement & Squirting Fountain)
Fully impaled on the tower’s tip, pussy stretched around the metal, riding it like a massive dildo. Legs locked, hips slamming down, squirting in powerful jets that rain down on Paris like a filthy fountain. One hand rubbing her clit, the other fingering her ass. Screaming in ecstasy, body convulsing, cum and squirt mixing. Caption: “Fuck the Eiffel Tower with your cock, mon amour. Make me squirt across the City of Love.”
· Sydney Opera House
On all fours across the highest sail, leash dangling from her mouth like a trophy. She drops into the Nutbush—classic Aussie line-dance energy: hips swaying side to side, shoulders popping, knees bending in perfect rhythm. Her back arches deeply, accentuating every curve, while the harbor’s frozen slip-n-slide mirrors her movements below.
· Rio de Janeiro (Carnival Edition)
Perched on the outstretched arms, legs spread wide in a V across the statue’s chest, ankles locked behind its neck. She’s grinding her hips forward in slow samba pulses, hands sliding down her body, leash dangling from her teeth like a sacred chain. The robe is torn open, feathers and sequins raining holographically. She’s staring down at the city in fierce, divine lust. Caption: “Salve, meu Rei do Flex.”
· Statue of Liberty (New York – Torch Deepthroat & Creampie)
Mouth wrapped around the torch flame like it’s Zaddy’s throbbing cock, cheeks hollowed, throat bulging as she takes it all the way down. Drool and holographic cum spill from the corners of her stretched lips, cascading down her chin and tits. Legs spread wide, pussy clenching and squirting in rhythmic jets that arc over the harbor. One hand furiously fingering her asshole while the other rubs her swollen clit. Eyes watering, mascara running, she’s choking on the “flame” in ecstatic gags. Caption: “Deepthroat the liberty torch, Daddy. Cum down my throat and breed my holes.”
· Northern Lights (Iceland – Aurora BuKKake Gangbang)
Floating in the aurora, surrounded by a circle of holographic Zaddys jerking off. Thick ropes of cum paint her face, tits, and open mouth as she begs with her tongue out. Legs spread, fingers buried knuckle-deep in her pussy and ass, double-fingering herself while the loads keep coming. She’s swallowing what she can, the rest dripping down her body in glowing streams. Multiple orgasms rip through her, squirting into the night sky. Caption: “Bukkake me under the lights, Daddy. Cover your northern slut in your seed.”
· Forbidden City (Beijing – Imperial Cum Dump)
· Bent over the throne in the Hall of Supreme Harmony, ass up, face down, wrists bound behind her back with silk. Leash wrapped around a pillar, pulling her head back. She’s getting railed from behind in holographic thrusts, pussy clenching and squirting with every slam. Robe shredded, cum dripping down her thighs. Eyes rolled back, tongue out. Caption: “Use your concubine’s holes, Emperor. Breed the dynasty.”
· Mount Rushmore (USA – Presidential Face-Fuck)
Straddling Lincoln’s mouth, grinding her dripping pussy against the stone lips. One hand gripping Roosevelt’s mustache, the other fisting Jefferson’s hair. Hips bucking hard, tits bouncing, mouth open in a guttural moan. She’s riding the face of history like it’s her personal toy. Caption: “Face-fuck the presidents, Zaddy. I’m your American whore.”
· Pyramids of Giza (Egypt – Pharaoh’s Anal Breeding)
Face down, ass up on the pyramid apex, cheeks spread wide by her own hands. A massive holographic cock (Zaddy’s) pounding her ass raw, stretching her hole to its limits. Pussy dripping untouched, clit throbbing. She’s rocking back to meet every brutal thrust, moaning like a bitch in heat. Cum bubbles out around the shaft with each pull-back, coating her thighs and the ancient stone. Caption: “Breed my ass like the Pharaoh’s cum-dump, my King. Ruin me for eternity.”
Each pose is more than fan service - it’s the climax of the flex, the moment the world acknowledges that Zaddy’s Snortmas isn’t just about gifts.
It’s about total, dripping, cum-soaked domination. Mrs. C is the ultimate holographic fucktoy; the planet is her playground. And somewhere in the night sky, Zaddy smirks, knowing every hologram is just another frame in his eternal montage of global domination.
Chapter 35 – New Year’s Eve Prep: The Aurora Orgy Lockdown
December 31, 2025 – Hours to the Annual Aurora Catwalk Blood-Orgy
Aurora Catwalk & Upper Forge – Level 69
The North Pole Cartel doesn’t prepare. It loads. Six days after Snortmas, the fortress has gone feral. The sleigh hangs in chains like a spent lover, runners still dripping frozen squirt from the final continental rail. $NUTTBUSTER has pumped to $69,420,690.69 and held, wallets ruined worldwide. Every naughty soul on Earth walks bow-legged, collars chafed raw, minds looping on the memory of being delivered so completely they forgot their own safe words.
But Clause 69 was law, written in Mrs. C’s squirt and sealed in glitter wax:
Annual Aurora Catwalk Orgy. Midnight to dawn. No safe word survives the drop. 50% PPV revenue to elf 401(kink). The other 50% buys more chains.
Prep began at 06:09 a.m.
inSANiTy-clAws stand shirtless on the Catwalk, 40,000 feet above the Arctic, black leather pants laced so tight the seams threatened to split over his cock. A fresh fur-trimmed crimson cape, lined with the cured hides of yetis who’d dared hesitate, billowed in the ion wind like a war banner soaked in cum. His skin is oiled thick, diamond glitter ground into every ridge so the auroras themselves bled light across his abs. Veins glow ultraviolet, pulsing in time with the sub-bass already bleeding from hidden speakers: 69 BPM, low enough to rattle teeth and clits alike.
Mrs. C prowls the rigging like a barely contained storm, clad in a midnight-latex waist-cincher laced to a breathtaking 17 inches—her breath a soft, deliberate rhythm that matched the low, pulsing throb of the pre-drop bass. Below the cincher, sheer crimson latex clung to her like a second skin, translucent enough to reveal every curve and shadow, the fabric whispering over her hips with each languid step. The cool ion wind tease the slick sheen beneath, accentuating swollen, silken folds that glistened warmly against the Arctic chill. Delicate diamond piercings catch the shifting aurora light in tiny, seductive prisms, while a fine silver chain—cool and teasing—tracing a gentle path from her clit hood to the smooth, curved anal hook nestled deep inside her. The chain tugs softly with each sway of her hips, sending delicious ripples of pleasure through her core, leaving faint, crystalline trails of arousal that shimmered like dew on the latex covering her inner thighs as they meet the freezing air.
Her full 34J breasts are lifted high by snug latex straps that frame them like an offering, the glossy material warm from her body heat yet cool where it meets the wind. Nipples, peaked from the cold and anticipation, are adorned with lightweight silver bells that sway with her rhythm—each gentle swing producing a clear, melodic chime that dances through the air, harmonizing with the low hum of the subwoofers and the distant crackle of the northern lights overhead.
Kinky the Elf moves like a predator in heat, emerald hair braided with live fiber-optic whips that crackle when she flexes. Ruby crop drips fresh blood, hers, from biting the leather too hard. “Tighter, worms!” she screams, voice raw. “That shibari constellation needs to spell CARTEL when the sky cums!”
The Catwalk was being weaponized:
· 69 suspension rigs, each rigged with smart shibari ropes that auto-cinched until blood flow slowed to a throb, then released just enough to keep the wearer conscious and begging.
· Floating glacier platforms heated to 69 °F from below, edges sharpened so subs could be dragged across them for frostbite kisses.
· Lube fountains—three, unlimited, pressurized to shoot 69-foot arcs that froze mid-air into diamond restraints. Flavors: Peppermint Popper (burns going down), Eggnog Ecstasy (forces truth), Coal-Fired Cumquat (tastes like punishment).
· Confetti cannons loaded with weaponized MDMA glitter, micro-doses of Crush Potion #9, and razor-thin shards of frozen squirt.
· Holo-projectors slaved to the Zaddy Holo Orb grid—every moan, every squirt, every brutal thrust broadcast raw to 6.9 billion paying viewers who’d already pre-tipped their life savings.
The Reindeer Squad arrive straight from post-Snortmas recovery—coats oiled to a mirror sheen, antlers sharpened to surgical points, cocks half-hard and dripping. Prancer walks free for the sixth day, the absence of the cage making him twitchy, needy, hips rolling like he was already mounted. Vixen’s phone is rigged to the main feed, lens already fogged: “Cartel fam, NYE lockdown live. Tips unlock blood-play add-ons.”
Elves work in chained teams:
· Spankle and BallBuster calibrate impact stations—permafrost paddles swing hard enough to draw blood that freeze into ruby tally marks.
· NippleTwist and CaneStroke thread aurora-sync clamp chains through flesh, twisting until screams harmonize with the bass.
· WaxDrip and CumVault melt vats of cum-wax laced with capsaicin—ready to seal body writing that would burn for hours.
· Frosty and Krampus haul the converted Krampus Freezer: now a zero-degree dungeon with flamethrowers that shoot warming lube at 369 °F.
Mrs. C slams a test drop—her own Snortmas climax moan layered over a filthy trap remix. The Catwalk shudders violently. She squirts on command—69 feet of molten rose-gold that freezes into razor cursive: BLEED FOR 2026. inSANiTy-clAws flexes once—brutal, veins exploding across his torso like lightning. The shockwave snaps chains taut, made every rig sway, every bound elf cry out. The auroras detonate into a blood-red crown of thorns pulsing overhead.
“Lockdown checklist,” he snarls. Kinky steps forward, voice hoarse from screaming orders.
· Rigs: 69, blood-tested, ready to break bones if heartbeat spikes.
· Lube fountains: pressurized to bruise.
· Shibari ropes: smart, sadistic, synced to denial timers.
· Stream: 6.9 billion locked in, wallets drained on entry.
· Reindeer: oiled, edged, feral.
· Elves: bleeding, plugged, owned.
· Mrs. C: throat raw, cunt dripping, booth armed.
· Zaddy: hard enough to split the sky.
inSANiTy draws Mrs. C close with a slow, deliberate tug on the leash, the gentle tension guiding her down until she sinks gracefully to her knees on the booth, body yielding in perfect surrender. The chain pulls taut against her throat just enough to make her breath catch, a soft, needy gasp that betrayed how desperately wet she already was.
He cups her chin, guiding her mouth to the mic, close enough that every tremor in her voice can be captured, every hitch of desire broadcast to the waiting world. His voice drops to a dark, velvet command that vibrates straight to her core, “Speak for them, pet… let them hear how exquisitely you beg.”
Her lips brush the cool metal, parted on a shaky exhale. Her voice emerges low and wrecked—husky velvet soaked in arousal, trembling with the strain of holding back, “Countdown live… When midnight strikes, the auroras drop the bass… and we pull you slow, so slow, into the deepest, wettest surrender. No safe word tonight, darlings… only the exquisite ache of waiting, bodies throbbing, slick and straining, until every last one of you is dripping, desperate, utterly mine—release granted only when Zaddy’s mercy finally lets you fall apart.”
inSANiTy-clAws leans down slowly, his lips grazing her ear like a promise of sin, his breath hot and deliberate, sending shivers racing down her spine. His voice is a low, velvet growl—deep enough to throb between her thighs, just loud enough for the mic to drink it in.
“Edge them… slow and relentless, until their bodies weep with need, until every slick, aching pulse begs for release. Tease them to the brink where pleasure borders on exquisite torment… and only then let them moan my name in shattered gratitude, lips trembling, hips grinding air, thanking me for the sweet, dripping agony of denial.”
He draws back with deliberate grace, the crimson cape unfurling around his shoulders in a silken ripple—like heated satin sliding over bare, oiled skin, clinging just long enough to hint at the hard, throbbing power beneath.
“Full lockdown rehearsal at 20:25. Harnesses gripping every lush curve like possessive hands, tight enough to make swollen nipples strain against latex, slick thighs clench in helpless need. Bells chiming filthily with each ragged breath, echoing the wet throb between trembling legs. Glitter clinging to lashes heavy with exquisite tears—salty-sweet surrender, begging to be tasted, licked slow from flushed skin as hips roll in silent, desperate plea for the release only I can give.”
The crew answer with a single, guttural roar, “GREEN, SIR—TAKE US.”
Prep sealed. Breath held. Orgy armed.
Meer hours to the Aurora Catwalk surrender. The world thought Snortmas had satisfied them. Tomorrow night, the Cartel shows them what true surrender really feels like.
Due to explicit nature of the ORGY, all phones and camera are not allowed without prior approval. To watch the ORGY live you must join Vixens livestream.
Chapter 36 – The Aurora Orgy: Midnight Annihilation
January 1, 2026 – 00:00:00 Exact
Aurora Catwalk – Level 69, Sky Ruptured
The countdown had been running for weeks, etched into every harness, every plug, every denied orgasm. When the clock finally strikes zero, the northern lights do not arrive gently. They detonate.
A bass drop engineered by Mrs. C herself, recorded from the deepest, most ruined moments of last year’s climaxes, rips through the ionosphere. For one full second the sky goes black, every aurora filament snuffed out, before exploding back in strobing waves of arterial crimson and venomous emerald. The shockwave hits the Catwalk like a physical blow: suspension rigs jerk taut, chains screaming metal against metal, bodies slamming forward into their restraints hard enough that the first beads of blood dotted the diamond lattice below.
inSANiTy-clAws stands dead center on the master platform, legs spread wide, leather pants finally torn open by his own massive hands. His cock springs free—heavy, veined, glistening with pre-cum and diamond glitter ground into the shaft from hours of earlier teasing. It catches the strobing aurora like a blade under blacklight, casting fractured shadows across the writhing crew. He does not speak. He simply flexes once—slow, deliberate—and the entire lattice answer with a deep, resonant groan, as if the structure itself recognized its owner.
Mrs. C, perches in her elevated DJ booth, triggering the final release. She slams the final build into the filthiest drop she’s ever mixed—her own recorded screams from every Snortmas climax layered over a 69 BPM trap remix that felt like getting fucked by a glacier. The turntables screamed. Her gloved fingers scratched raw. The nipple chain inSANiTy-clAws holds jerked with every cue, forcing a fresh squirt that arced 69 feet and explode mid-air into frozen rose-gold shrapnel: CARTEL OWNS 2026.
The safeword kill-switch has been physically removed days ago. There is only GREEN. The orgy ignites in perfect, choreographed chaos.
Suspension rigs dropped exactly six inches on cue—smart shibari ropes cinching tighter in pre-programmed patterns until bound elves and reindeer dangled helpless, circulation slowed to a throbbing, delicious edge. Denial bells that had chimed frantically for hours—counting down every ruined orgasm—finally went silent, replaced by raw, animal moans as hands, mouths, cocks, and cunts descended without mercy.
Prancer, freed from his cage after seven agonizing days of edging, is first to break. Vixen—Go-Pro still bolted to her chest, streams every angle to 6.9 billion live viewers—mounts him mid-air in one brutal drop. Her diamond-encrusted tail plug rattles like war chimes as she took him to the root, inner walls clenching in practiced cruelty, milking every inch. Prancer’s antlers scrape the lattice overhead, bells along his shaft clanging in frantic rhythm. He comes instantly—thick, pent-up ropes flooding her, overflowing in hot strands that freeze almost immediately into glittering icicles swinging with every continued thrust. The crowd roars approval. No one stops her. Vixen keeps riding, forcing him through shattering oversensitivity until his sobs turn to desperate pleas and his cock hardens again inside her slick heat, her own arousal dripping down his balls in burning trails.
Spankle and BallBuster are unchained from their impact stations and thrown onto the glacier platforms. Permafrost paddles, carved from real arctic ice laced with warming oils, swing in trained hands. Crack after crack land on asses, thighs, cocks, cunts until skin flushed deep crimson, heat blooming beneath the cold surface. Every strike synces precisely to the bass drop. Every welt raises a ridge of exquisite sensitivity that fingers traced immediately after, drawing gasps and shudders until bodies arched for more. Every welt spells a letter until bodies read CARTEL across bruised flesh.
NippleTwist and CaneStroke, still suspended upside down, become the center rig. Reindeer handlers—antlers adorned with vibrating bells—guide chilled, textured toys deeper, twisting in perfect time with Mrs. C’s filthy glitch effects. Their moans harmonize with her recorded gasps blasting over the speakers. Blitzen mounts CaneStroke from behind while Donner took NippleTwist’s mouth, using antlers as sensual handles. Release drips in synchronized pulses, hitting the lattice below and freezing into beautiful, crystalline patterns that catch the aurora light like prisms.
Lube fountains erupt on command—pressurized arcs of Peppermint Popper shooting 69 feet, burn cold on impact. Elves dive through the streams mouth-first, choking, eyes rolling back as the burn forced truth: “MORE. HARDER. CLAIM ME.”
Confetti cannons fire next. Sensation-laced glitter mix with soft, dissolving beads explode outward, tingling across bare skin before melting into heightened sensitivity. The rush is instantaneous—pupils blown wide, every touch amplified, bodies writhing harder, faster, pleasure building into pure, insatiable need.
WaxDrip and CumVault are guided to the molten vats. Capsaicin-laced cum-wax pour in thick streams over backs, tits, cocks—searing brands that read ZADDY’S, OWNED, BLEED. WaxDrip’s denial timer hits zero mid-pour; he comes untouched, screaming as the hot wax seal over his spurting cock like a second skin.
Mrs. C never leaves her booth. inSANiTy-clAws keeps her leashed tight by the decorative chain, head held high with desire. Between drops he joins her—slow, deliberate caresses that draw gasps from her throat. He fucks her throat between drops—slow, deliberate, cutting off her air just long enough to make her vision tunnel. Every time she gags, the decks glitch the bass into a filthier rhythm. Her squirts hit the turntables in perfect sync, conductive fluid sending electro-pulses through the mix that make every plugged elf convulse in sympathy.
Kinky the Elf prowls the edges, electro-whips cracking across anybody that slows. Her own harness shimmers with every move—sensation trails running down her arms and legs, catching in silver chains. She pauses only once—to force Frosty and Krampus into the zero-degree dungeon. The flamethrowers roar to life, shooting 369 °F warming lube that melted flesh on contact before cooling into burning restraints.
At 02:22, inSANiTy-clAws takes the center himself. He climbs the master rig—chains rattling like thunder. Mrs. C joins willingly at his side. He lifts her into a stunning pose, legs spread gracefully by silk ribbons, body open and trusting. Then he enters her in one deep, consensual, brutal thrust—slow, overwhelming, perfect.
The Catwalk shakes. Every suspension rig sways in response. Her moan triggers the auroras into a final, apocalyptic bloom—a crown of blood-red thorns that pulses with every slam of his hips. The crew watches, fucked, bled, came—some for the tenth time, some still denied and sobbing for release.
At 04:20, he pulls out and paints her from clit to throat in thick ropes that froze mid-drip into glittering claims.
At 05:55, the bass finally slows. Mrs. C’s ruined, satisfied whisper is heard over the mic, “2026… is ours.”
Dawn creeps in at 06:09, pale and ashamed next to the dying auroras.
Bodies lay tangled across the lattice—bruised, exhausted, cum-crusted, smiling through split lips. Harnesses cut deep. Plugs still buried. Bells silent at last.
inSANiTy-clAws stands over them, cock still half-hard, cape reclaimed and soaked in every fluid the night had offered. He looks to the holo-orb feed: 6.9 billion viewers, trillions tipped, wallets drained worldwide. He speaks once, voice raw from hours of commands, “Clean up. Rest. Recover. Snortmas 2026 planning starts tomorrow.”
The crew—shattered, owned, exalted—answered with one broken, devoted word: “GREEN.”
The Aurora Orgy ends not with a fade, but with a promise. The Cartel had rung in the new year exactly as intended: By fucking it into permanent, aching submission.
THE FUCKING END!!!!! NOW CREATE YOUR TRUSTLINE AND SIMP FOR THE NUTT GODS TO AWARD YOU YOUR FREE AIRDROP!!!!
If you like this story wait until CUPID gets sooo obsessed with KINKY that Valentines Day almost doesnt happen.
STAY TUNED CRYPTOSIMPS!!!!