Santa Is a Woman

Jenna Sativa's got that Christmas glow going, stringing lights on her tree, laughing into the phone with her folks. Milk and cookies sit out like she's twelve again. She hangs up, heads to bed early so the drive won't suck tomorrow. Middle of the night she gets up to pee and sees the cookies have straight-up vanished. A noise pulls her toward her room and there she is—Lexi Belle, perched on the damn bed, decked out like Santa Claus if Santa shopped at the after-hours boutique. Jenna's halfway to calling the cops when Lexi nods toward the tree. Down there, wrapped in shiny paper, sit the boots Jenna's been stalking online. Nobody knew she wanted them. Santa in her bedroom—female, curvy, dimples and a smirk. Lexi owns it fast: she's a mystical holdover with old-school powers, glam picked purely for crowd control. "All those boys would've camped on my porch," she grins. One wish left before the clock flips, one Christmas bonus on the house. Jenna says it flat: she needs to get fucked. Nothing polite about it. Lexi just spreads, merry and filthy, letting Jenna peel off the fur-trimmed red like she's unwrapping the last present under the tree. Turns out Saint Nick in fishnets knows exactly how to ho-ho-ho.