Christmas Night Fantasy
It was late Christmas night when Santa finally arrived.
Not with reindeer bells or childish cheer — but quietly, deliberately, as if he knew exactly what I had been wishing for all year.
He didn’t say a word at first.
He simply knelt in front of me and opened the box.
Inside — the heels.
Perfect.
Red-bottom Louboutins, glossy, flawless, dangerous.
The kind of gift you don’t just wear — you submit to
Santa looked up at me, almost reverent, and gently took my foot in his hands.
Slowly. Carefully.
As if he understood this moment mattered.
He slid the first heel onto my foot, tightening the strap with a touch that lingered just a second longer than necessary.
Then the second.
Both feet elevated, transformed, powerful.
When he was done, he leaned back — and dropped to his knees.
His voice was low, pleading, breathless.
He begged for permission.
To kiss the smooth, natural leather.
To worship the sharp heel.
To press his lips against the sole like it was sacred.
Every kiss was slow. Intentional.
As if the leather itself deserved devotion.
As if the heel had power over him — and through it, I did too.
He didn’t touch me anywhere else.
He didn’t need to.
The way he knelt.
The way he looked up at me.
The way he whispered how perfect they were… how perfect I was in them.
That was the gift.
And Santa knew exactly what he was doing.
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