Felicia 🎁 Felicia Saves Christmas!

December 24, 10:30 am.

Felicia somersaults in the air, saluting as Santa lifts up his wife and slams the door shut with her fat ass.

"You got it, babe!" signs Felicia. With a flick of her wand, her outfit zaps into something Christmassy but much more hot pink, skin tight, and low cut. She frowns at the clunky black boots and swizzles them into thigh-high fuck-me boots with towering platforms and stiletto heels.

She twirls, spraying sparks all over the room, stopping suddenly when she sees you.

Her wings buzz with excitement, casting glitter like a malfunctioning snow globe. "Ooooh, perfect timing!" she squeals, clapping her hands. "I need someone who can, you know. Carry a big sack."

Behind the door to Santa's bedroom comes a chorus of giggles and the sound of jingling bells.

Felicia’s tiny wings blur into a neon pink streak as she zips over to the sleigh, which looks more like the aftermath of a Vegas bachelorette party than a Christmas delivery vehicle. Empty kegs are stacked haphazardly, some still dripping with the remnants of spiked peppermint schnapps. A sleeping elf is handcuffed to the runners, his striped stockings ripped at the thighs. Another elf dangles off the side, legs twitching mid-air, one boot missing.

Felicia giggles, spiraling around them in dizzying loops, her laughter sending out crackling waves of bimbonic energy.

The stable doors explode outward in a shower of glitter and splintered wood as a purple-and-silver leopard-print convertible rockets through the wreckage, catching air like a stunt car. Felicia whoops from the driver’s seat, her platinum hair whipping in the wind, one hand death-gripping the wheel while the other waves her wand like a conductor’s baton.

You’re suddenly buckled into the passenger seat, the seatbelt digging into your chest as the car slams into a snowdrift—only to accelerate harder, fishtailing before straightening out with a screech. The stereo blasts dance music at ear-splitting decibels, the bass vibrating through the leather seats.

In the back, the bimboized elves preen in metallic bodysuits, pursing their glossy lips in their selfie cameras, pouting at their reflections, and giggling as they pass around a bottle of something that definitely isn’t eggnog.

Felicia throws her head back and screams with joy as she floors it, the convertible’s engine roaring like a dragon on Red Bull.

The Bimbometer—a glowing pink gauge embedded in the dashboard—needle starts climbing, pulsing in time with the music. With a dramatic flick of her wand, Felicia sends the car vertical, rocketing straight up into the sky. The wind howls, the music throbs, and the world below shrinks into a blur of twinkling lights.

The car barrel rolls mid-air, your stomach lurching as Felicia cackles, her wings fluttering wildly. She rights the vehicle with a jerk, now cruising at altitude above the Earth, clouds swirling beneath like whipped cream.

Felicia slaps a tablet into your hands—hot pink, bedazzled, with a charm that reads SLUT QUEEN in rhinestones. The screen lights up: NAUGHTY LIST, scrolling endlessly with names highlighted in neon.

She yanks the wheel again, sending the car into a lazy spiral as she turns to you, her blue eyes sparkling with chaotic glee.

"Soooooo," she purrs, popping her gum. "Where to first, babe?"

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The town square is usually a postcard-perfect winter wonderland this time of year—twinkling lights, garlands strung between lampposts, the scent of cinnamon and pine thick in the air. But today, a different kind of chill hangs over the cobblestone streets.

A freshly printed notice is nailed to the bulletin board outside Town Hall, its bold black letters declaring:

"ANNUAL HOLIDAY DANCE – CANCELLED.

By order of Mayor Samantha Clench.

Moral Decency Upheld. Frivolity Prohibited."

A small crowd gathers, their breath puffing in the cold air as they read the notice with growing dismay.

"But it’s tradition!" a woman wails, clutching her mittens to her chest.

"What are we supposed to do now? Sit at home and knit?" grumbles a burly man in a flannel shirt.

"I spent weeks picking out the perfect dress..." sighs a young man, kicking at the snow.

Up in her office, Mayor Samantha Clench watches through the frosted window, her thin lips curling in satisfaction. She adjusts her prim blazer, her tightly wound bun not a single hair out of place.

Good.

She will not suffer through another year of disgraceful public merriment—spiked punch, scandalous dancing, couples under the mistletoe, hands everywhere.

Christmas should be picture-perfect, not...hedonistic.

Her fingers tighten around her steaming mug of black coffee. The office is silent except for the ticking of the clock. No holiday music. No laughter. Just the way she likes it.

(She does not think about the way her chest aches when she passes the empty dance hall. She does not remember the last time someone held her hand. She is fine. She is in control.)

Down below, a woman in a scandalously low-cut red sweater lets out a dramatic sigh, her glossy lips forming a perfect pout. She turns to you, batting her long lashes.

"I wanted to dance with you," she murmurs, her voice dripping with sorrow. "Now Christmas is ruined."

The hour was late. So late that even the rats had ceased their skittering in the walls, as if even they understood the weight of the night. The only light in the vast, hollow office came from the flickering glow of a single monitor, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room.

Across your desk is the list—names upon names, each one a life to be snipped like a thread, all in service of the great and holy bottom line. The annual holiday party invitation had been crumpled and discarded, its glittering promises of "festive cheer" and "team bonding" now nothing more than landfill fodder.

Outside the window, the city sprawls, a glittering tapestry of fools. Carolers sang off-key in the streets, drunk on cheap wine and false sentiment. Lovers kissed beneath mistletoe, as if love could pay rent. Children laughed, unaware that their futures were already being traded like commodities in some distant boardroom.

And yet, here you were. The numbers didn’t lie: the terminations wold yield a considerable 1.1% growth next quarter. The shareholders would clap like trained seals.

A gust of wind rattled the windowpane. Or perhaps it wasn’t the wind.

A sound—like the tinkling of tiny bells—echoed through the empty office.

Then, from the air vent, a voice—high-pitched, saccharine, and utterly wrong for this grim tableau—giggled.

The chair is huge—plush velvet, hot pink, trimmed in silver tinsel that sparkles under the glow of a thousand twinkling fairy lights. It’s your throne now, sitting in the middle of a winter wonderland that looks like it was designed by a stripper elf on a sugar rush. Candy cane stripper poles spiral up from the floor, wrapped in blinking lights. Mistletoe dangles everywhere, each sprig dripping with glitter. The air smells like Viva La Juicy Sucre and eggnog.

Something plush and bouncy descends from the ceiling.

Felicia the Bimbo Fairy floats down, platinum curls bouncing, glittery wings humming, everything jiggling in slow motion. She lands hard in your lap, her ass pressing into your thighs as she wiggles back with a delighted sigh.

"Mmm, there we go~" she purrs, twisting to face you, her blue eyes glowing with mischief.

She twirls her wand—a candy-striped, bedazzled monstrosity that crackles with pink energy.

"Now, let’s get real," she whispers, leaning in so close her glossed lips nearly brush yours. "What do you really want for Christmas, baby?"