I’m a fucking pariah in this shitty real world, no job, no outings, nobody believing this latex leotard is my skin. It’s fused to my body, a cursed mark from my second strike for twisting Christmas magic to make it for my own greedy bullshit, and my tits are trapped in this thing, driving me insane. I’m fuming, spitting curses at my own dumbass choices, cheating in that snowman contest, conjuring this latex prison. Nobody gets it, they think I’m nuts, and the isolation’s a raw wound that’s got me ready to snap. I’m stuck with shitty vibrators in this world, no way to break this curse.
In my dingy apartment, I’ve tried every pathetic trick to get off. I jam a buzzing vibrator against the latex, its hum teasing my pussy until I’m gasping, but it snuffs out any spark, leaving me a trembling wreck. I light a cheap candle, staring into a cracked mirror like some desperate fool, smearing drugstore lotions across the leotard, hoping for a breakthrough, but it laughs off my efforts, my thighs slick with failure. A handheld massager, cranked to max, presses so hard my hips ache, driving me to whimpers, yet the latex holds firm, leaving me sobbing, body shaking with unrelieved agony. I’ve tried brushes, oils, a knotted scarf, anything I can grab. “Fucking useless junk,” I snarl, sarcasm dripping as every attempt fizzles, my anguish clawing at me for my greedy fuck-ups.
At 12:00 AM on December 1, a glowing aurora swirls around me, green and shimmering, pulling me to the North Pole’s snowy square. I land amid Christmas trees twinkling, snow blanketing the ground, light flakes falling. The festive cheer feels like a slap in the face, and I’m bitter as hell, thinking, “This jolly glow’s just what I need.” I stumble around for days, my frustration boiling, until December 5, when I can’t take this bullshit anymore. In a shadowed alley behind a gingerbread workshop, tinsel crunching under my boots, hands trembling, breath ragged, my fingers graze the leotard’s taunting surface at my hips, pushing me to madness.
On December 5, I whisper a forbidden spell, twisting the North Pole’s magic for my own pleasure, my third strike, because I’m clearly a fucking genius. Crimson and emerald lights flare around my pussy, igniting a molten heat that surges through me. My pulse pounds, a moan ripping out as the magic pulses deeper, teasing me so close to the climax I’ve chased for a year. My body arches, snow melting beneath my knees, hips rocking as I gasp, teetering on the edge of shattering. But before I can break, an icy voice booms from the snow itself, stern and unyielding, like the North Pole’s magic has eyes.
“Taylor, you selfish elf,” thunders the council, their words woven into the frost-laden air, ever-present bastards guarding Christmas magic. “Three strikes for twisting our magic for your own gain. For the rest of December, you’ll pay on our square’s sidewalk.” My heart thuds as a magical pulse rips through the alley, the leotard dissolving, reforming as a skintight catsuit, fused to my body, replacing my skin entirely. The suit burns and presses against my tits and pussy, binding me to the village’s pulse. “This catsuit will cycle through the rainbow, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, with every climax in the village, teaching you selflessness. You’ll feel their pleasure, but never your own.” Normal ropes, shimmering with enchanted Christmas magic, snake from the ground, coiling tightly around my wrists behind my back and ankles together, yanking me to stand on the sidewalk in the village square’s center. Bound under the aurora’s kaleidoscopic glow, I’m a wriggling spectacle, the suit’s surface catching every flicker of light. “Fucking perfect,” I spit, sarcasm dripping.
The first pulse hits like a thunderclap. Some elf gets off, and the catsuit blazes red, its magic searing through my nerves like molten fire, burning against my tits and pussy. My body bucks, a sharp gasp tearing from my throat as their pleasure floods me, a scorching surge that curls my toes but stops short of my release. The ropes snap violently, like a goddamn roller-coaster, jerking me into a kneeling pose, arms tight behind me, the sudden shift making me cry out in shock. My hips thrust against the bindings, ropes biting into my wrists and ankles as I squirm, the fused suit pressing tighter, turning every burn into a cruel, taunting tease. “Oh, awesome, another elf’s happy fucking ending,” I mutter, sarcasm thick as another peak shifts the suit to vibrant orange. The ropes yank again, forcing me to sit, legs bound, arms at my sides, leaving me gasping as their pleasure, never mine, washes over me. The suit cycles to yellow, then green, each color and tight repositioning a vivid, mocking display of my punishment for being a greedy asshole.
My body’s a battlefield of unrelieved agony and violent motion. Every villager’s climax is a fresh stab, the fused catsuit channeling their bliss into my nerves, burning and pressing against my tits and pussy, a reminder of my fucking greed. A third pulse, brilliant blue, sends my head tipping back, a desperate cry escaping as my muscles clench, chasing a peak that won’t come. The ropes jerk me into a standing pose, arms in front, the tight bindings biting deep as the suit dances through indigo, then violet, its rainbow cycle a constant lesson in my stupid misuse of Christmas magic. My breaths come in ragged pants, sweat beading despite the light snowfall, the suit’s magic making every inch of me hypersensitive. Another climax, red again, rips through me, the ropes snapping me into a hogtied pose, wrists and ankles bound together behind me, my vision blurring as I writhe, the bindings creaking with my futile struggles. “Fuck these elves,” I snarl, but my sarcasm’s cracking, anguish seeping in.
Days bleed into weeks, my agony a relentless haze of color and violent motion in the snowy square. Christmas Eve hits, and the pulses slam faster, the suit flaring blue, then red, the ropes jerking me into a kneeling pose, arms behind, the burning pressure so intense my knees buckle, my limbs trembling. My lips part in a silent plea, every nerve screaming for relief that won’t come. The suit’s fused surface, alive with Christmas magic, makes my body an exposed nerve, each rapid rainbow pulse, yellow, green, violet, and tight rope shift a fresh wave of exquisite torture. A baker’s climax shifts the suit to orange, the ropes yanking me into a sitting pose, arms at my sides, and my cry echoes across the square, my body arching as their pleasure tears through me, leaving me dangling on the edge of madness. “Another shitty day in this circus,” I mutter, but despair’s taking over.
New Year’s Eve, December 31, pulses slam faster, the suit blazing indigo, then red, as a toymaker gets off, the ropes snapping me into a standing pose, arms in front, my body shuddering, moans ragged as their pleasure surges, stopping short of mine. My mind’s a haze, my agony a pulsing knot, the suit’s burning pressure making every touch of air, every rope shift, a punishment. Another pulse, red, then yellow, hits as a pair slips away behind a sleigh, the ropes yanking me into a hogtied pose, my sob becoming a wail, hips bucking uselessly. I’m the North Pole’s fucked-up centerpiece, and these ropes are having a goddamn field day, my voice breaking into anguish. As midnight hits, the village’s climaxes peak, the suit flaring through its rainbow, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, faster and faster, the ropes jerking me into a frenzied dance of poses: standing, kneeling, sitting, hogtied. My body trembles, moans escalating to screams as every pent-up climax I’ve felt surges within me. A cataclysmic orgasm erupts, my body convulsing in a searing, shattering wave, every denied release flooding out in a chaotic, quaking rush. The ground shakes like a fucking earthquake, my frame shuddering as the suit erupts in a dazzling burst of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet sparks. The force tears through me, muscles seizing, breath stopping, the intensity snuffing me out in a brilliant, magical blaze. About time, I think, as everything goes black.
My eyes snap open in my North Pole room, sprawled on a shitty cot, my blown-up tits, that cursed mark from my first strike, heaving with each ragged breath. The council’s voice, stern and scathing, echoes from the walls. “Your greedy bullshit erased your pussy, a cursed tattoo that disgusts all who see its ‘do not enter’ mark. We block your fucking, deny your climax, and ban you from our North Pole forever.” New Year’s midnight hits, and I’m cast out forever. I materialize in my old apartment, my skin my own, but my blown-up tits drawing eyes to a body now untouchable. Where my pussy once was, a grotesque tattoo, shaped like my lost flesh with a “do not enter” circle slashed through it, glowing with an eerie red light, raised an eighth of an inch, clean and shaved-looking, pulses with faint, teasing sensations, forever barring intimacy. I stare at it, horrified, my stomach churning at the mocking mark. Relief hits first, no ropes, no catsuit, just freedom from that fucking sidewalk’s punishment. But anguish crashes in, sharp and heavy, as I realize my blown-up tits will draw eyes to a body I can never share, my shame a permanent scar of my three stupid strikes.
