SUBURBAN LEGENDZ: The Vindictive Claus(e)

 

 

“Tristan what are you doing!” Mr. Anderson came into the living room and found his son sitting cross-legged on the floor. Only this was not the son, Mr. Anderson had seen sleeping in bed minutes prior, this was a young man with the physicality of an avid gym member. His arms, torso, thighs, and legs triple their normal size. The Santa hat Mr. Anderson put on Tristan's head, tucking his curls away before bed, now had the hair spilling out.

 Mr. Anderson spotted a bitten cookie in Tristan’s hand. “Did you eat Santa’s cookies?”

“I only had a few.” Tristan stated.

“Oh, this is bad…this is very bad.” Mr. Anderson walked back and forth. “No wonder you look like,” he stopped and gestured towards his son, “that.” He ran his hands down his face. “You pissed off Santa.”

“Santa’s not real.” Tristan pouted.

“Who the hell would tell you something so stupid? Of course, Santa is real, you think parents have time to do all that Christmas shopping?” Mr. Anderson paced in the living room. “Santa hates coming to the suburbs. Been told that all my life. The houses are too far apart. The only thing–ONLY THING–He looks forward to his cookies and milk. We’re never supposed to fuc–MESS with it.”

“But I was so hungry and when I came down, they looked so good.” He pulled a cookie off the floor behind him. He had stolen a handful and created a stash, “I ate one and my stomach got warm. I got hungrier, so I kept eating.”

“Santa probably turned you into an athlete as punishment. Their metabolisms are like trash compactors. He’s trying to tell you to stop being greedy.” He looked at his son. Where did the underwear and socks even come from? He had never brought something that size. Santa might have been more pissed than he thought.

“Why would Santa do that?” He scoffed in a way that was unlike the boy Mr. Anderson knew. This Tristan had some bite to him. “We fucking baked them. He should be grateful."

“Shhhh!” Mr. Anderson looked up like the ceiling was about to fall on their heads. More upset about that than the language his son was using. “He could be listening. Try to stay on his good side; he might turn you back.”

Tristan presented the cookie in his hands to his father, “Are you sure you don’t want a bite?” He asked with dog-like puppy eyes. Mr. Anderson finally spotted the icing on Tristan's chest, resting on his pecs and between the valley. Santa wasn’t fucking around.

  

“No! Definitely not,” he tapped his foot, mind racing, “Maybe we should get on our knees and grovel.”

“I’m not groveling for shit.” Tristan replied. The personality of his older body seemed incongruent with making amends. Was that what Santa wanted, a reason to punish him further? Tristan bit into the cookie and munched on it, shoveling more into his mouth until it was gone. He let out a rude belch in the house. “Whew, that was great.” He had a dopey grin on his face.

Mr. Anderson waited for a deer to charge into the house and bowl Tristan over. Thankfully it didn't happen. Instead, what did happen was Tristan disappeared. He was there one minute, then gone the next. Mr. Anderson turned around looking for his son. He didn’t need to look far. His son popped up back in the dining room, sitting by the kitchen table. Except now he was in pajamas, another cookie in hand. Mr. Anderson watched as Tristan’s bottoms slid down and a festive jockstrap was revealed. The full scope of his body in view.

“Whoa,” Tristan said.

 

 “Okay, son. Put down the cookie.” Mr. Anderson held out a hand. He had no idea where Santa’s plan was going, but he got the feeling it was vindictive.

Tristan smirked, “Nah.” He put it in his mouth, almost daring his dad to stop him. Then bit into it.

 

 He paused for a moment, hand rubbing over his abs. “Oh that tingles.” His stomach gurgled, happily digesting Santa’s meal.

“Son, Santa’s not gonna forgive you for this. He’s gonna come for our suburban life and punish us.”

“How is he going to do that?” Tristan’s voice was full of arrogance. His stomach churned again, His hand moved lower.

“I don’t know, but we shouldn’t attempt to find out.”  Mr. Anderson whispered. He was never going to get presents again from Santa, all because his son decided to do late night snacking.

Tristan pulled his pajama bottoms up a tad. “The tingle is moving lower,” he said as he got up and knelt in the chair.  “I think it’s going to my ass dad,” and took another bite of Santa’s cookies. “Mmmmm. Oh yeah that’s exactly where it’s going,” He stuck his luscious rump out.

 

“Tristan, don’t joke like that.” Mr. Anderson joked out, unable to keep his eyes from roaming. The father’s cock throbbed in his own pajamas. “And didn’t I tell you to stop with Santa’s cookies?”

“But Santa still has a whole plate,” Tristan whined. “And I’m not joking; my ass IS tingling… I think it needs something.”

“What?” Mr. Anderson was far removed from current reality, too worried about Santa’s next move.

Tristan’s eyes went lower on his dad’s body. “I need your cock dad. I need it in my ass soooo bad.” Tristan closed his eyes, breathing heavily. 

Mr. Anderson, caught off guard, said nothing. His cock twitched in response though.

Turning fully around on the chair, Tristan present his ass to his own dad, “Please fuck me.”

One foot forward, cock leading the way, Mr. Anderson brushed up against something. He looked down. A colorful gift box that matched Tristan’s jockstrap appeared there. He leaned down shaking and wondered if Santa had ever tricked someone into opening a grenade. The top came off smoothly. No bomb inside. There was a simple note, and a lump of coal. He picked up the note.

“Merry Christmas Mr. Anderson,

Boys who steal other people's things get coal. Good dads should be rewarded with hunks.

Enjoy,

Santa  ;)”

Mr. Anderson looked back up at Tristan, ass out, waiting—needing. He continued to move closer, closing the gap.