Letters to Santa: Frankie Incensed to Murder

    Francine had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the hearth on Christmas Eve, and now it was Christmas day! She awoke with a start as the night sky turned from black to cobalt, and giggled and clapped as she saw her novelty felt and velvet "christmas stockings" were now a pair of to-the-crotch fuck-me-now leather boots of exquisite make, with extra high heels and extra witchy toes. They were hung with care by slinky garters to the forged nailheads driven into the rough-hewn mantle, one boot on each side of the dying fire. Inside either leather shaft something wriggled and writhed and begged to be let out.

As much as Francine wanted to upend the boot to see what was inside, she noted the little parchment upon the hearth before of the last of the flickering sparks. She unrolled and read it with eagerness, and then laughed as it dissolved into little snowflakes. 

This year, she had asked for revenge.

* * *

    Francine had learned that if she asked nicely, Santa would bring her what she asked for in a letter she sent to the North Pole each year. When she was little, it would be a toy or game. She tried to break the system one year with a fifty-page hand written list, one item per line. She got the first half dozen items listed, and a little lump of coal made of cinnamon-flavored hard candy. Frankie got the message.

    Then one year, in a fit of rage over being denied a new skateboard for getting good grades, she asked for new parents. She awoke in a strange bed, much larger and softer than her old one, in a room much larger and opulent than her old one, in a house that was luxurious and tastefully fashionable. A strange couple called her daughter, and they were so doting and attentive, she didn't mind at all her old parents were gone. The skateboard they bought her for straight-A's was swee-eet!

    Frankie was something of a psychopath, and didn't really form emotional bonds like the other children and adults she knew. It was the way she was born, and she was never likely to change, so she should simply let go and enjoy it, but be careful not to get caught being a psychopath. Santa told her this in a letter written on parchment in old-timey calligraphy with gold ink that dissolved into a little snow flurry the moment she read it. She had added "An explanation as to why other people are so stupid" to that year's list, along with a hamster that could die cruelly and brutally and come back to life as if nothing happened no matter what. She named him "Stompedy Pete."

As she grew older, she asked for more grownup things - clear skin, bigger boobs, a slender-yet-strong body, a Maserati. Once she asked for boys to like her, and Santa sent her another parchment that said, "Be clever and cruel and they will like you." And she was, and they did. Until Byron.

Cold, aloof, raven-haired Byron. He wore a wool overcoat even in July, and underneath were skinny jeans and tucked-in tight-tees. He was everything she thought a college boy could ever be, and now she was in college she should simply have him. Instead, he was polite and smart and fun and refused, ever, to flirt back.

He was dating this little roly-poly of a girl with thick glasses and a constantly rotating collection of boots that refused to match whatever basic-bitch nerd outfit she was wearing at the moment. He was just, totally and completely tuned into her whenever she was around. Lucky. Her name was Lucky. Actually, for real, Lucille, but everyone called her Lucky. Awful.

Frankie realized plying her mind to seducing him was a waste with Lucky around, so on a cold December the weekend after Thanksgiving, at the little coffee-house just outside campus, she decided to take care of that. Byron was in class, Frankie had his schedule memorized, and dull, sad, little Lucky was usually sipping coffee and puzzling over lecture notes that Frankie had mastered on a first glance. She had Lucky's schedule memorized, too.

Frankie couldn't remember how it went. Wouldn't remember how it went. Refused to remember how it went. She said something cruel, she couldn't remember what, and the little roly-poly smiled up at her, and clasped her hands as she rested her elbows upon the table, and Frankie noted that the nerd was wearing way-long gloves under her peacoat sleeves. She may have been too lazy and confident in researching her rival.

Lucky was a comedienne. She was internet-famous for her wit. She broke down Frankie into a collection of weeping parts, and EV. ER. RY. ONE. in the goddamn coffee shop saw Frankie fail. Saw Lucky Win. All Of Them.

Frankie was not very rational marching back to her off-campus condo as the snow started to fall. Fuck it. Last year she asked for her own hedge fund. The material was well and truly taken care of. She needed something else, now. Something to take care of the spiritual. This year, her Christmas Letter to Santa had exactly two items, stated exactly thus:

1) Revenge.
2) Triumph.

* * *

Frankie noted the boot to the left of the hearth was filled more completely, and screaming and groaning much louder than the little whimpering from the nearly empty boot on the right. The one to the right also had a pair of to-the-pits nappa-stretch-leather gloves that were nearly as nimble as the latex ones tattoo artists wore. The boot on the right was where she went to first: pulling on the gloves, careful to tighten each finger so she could feel everything, and then upending the long, leather boot-shaft to gloat at the little lump of a girl on her palm. Plump little cunt felt so soft and squeezable, she did just that, squeezed the fuck out of the tiny bitch, and laughed as she squirmed and screamed. Frankie hated this... thing... so, so much! No. Not yet. Frankie placed Lucky on the seat of a nearby slat-backed wooden chair, coughing and gasping and clutching her sides. Frankie then upended the other boot into the ash-bucket of the hearth warming the room, and noted with satisfaction that everyone coughing and trying not to be set on fire with old-not-dead coals were the pukes who laughed when Lucky did what she did to her at the coffee shop. No witnesses to *that* would be left when she was done! Excellent.

"So. You wonder why you went to sleep with visions of sugarplums dancing in your head, and woke up in a high heeled boot," stated Frankie.
"Is that where I was? What, what is this place?" asked Lucky, kneeling on the chair's seat and trying her best to cover her cruelly bruised, paunchy little bod with her chubbly little hands as Frankie leered at her.
"You woke up in my stiletto-heeled, custom-crafted, elfin-made, second-skin-tight to-the-pussy LEATHER thigh-boot," Frankie made her watch as she sat upon the plush couch and zipped it up her amazing leg, "Because I am going to steal Byron from you with them, slut-bitch."
"That... that was a lot of hyphens," said Lucky, "And is there only the one boot? Because that would be awkward."
"Ffffff... fuh! You! I can't believe you! Witty. Little. Lucky. No. Here are all of your little friends, too!" stumbled then gloated Frankie as she upended a coal-scuttle full of campus coffee-shop patrons. All of the witnesses to Lucky's little takedown of her superior. They gathered their feet, and stumbled around amazed and disoriented as Frankie zipped up the other boot. The boots felt amazing, tight yet not constricting, the heels and winkle-toes a comfort women who did not have elves making their fetish footwear could ever experience.

Frankie stomped down in front of a college guy she had tumbled from that very boot into the coal scuttle. He was dirty and burnt and unkempt and having a hard time dealing. Frankie was more than a little turned on by this.

    "You. Drop. NOW. All fours. Crawl to my boot and lick, or I'll squash you like the puny IN-sect you are," she said with an imperious anger that was abated by neither his immediate obedience nor her *actually feeling* his little bug-tongue licking through the leather of her elf-crafted boots. She was deeply in the throes of her lust, now. Incredibly so. She would like it very much if someone would die. The particular tiny someone she had in mind was standing now, trying to judge if she could jump from the chair without too much harm. Frankie smirked with delight as she saw her one and only rival visibly chicken out.

    "Oh, yes, I know your secret, bitch! Boots. Byron has a boot fetish. You have never owned, nor could hope of dreaming to own, a pair like mine, on a set of legs like mine! Thrift-store finds, some back to the '60s, poor thing, on those plump little tree-stumps. Poor little Lucky, those are all you could manage?" gloated Frankie, lifting up her nightshirt to reveal a fitness-model perfect body and a sublimely natural rack, and discarded the garment with a flourish. Pale white skin, black leather boots and gloves, blue eyes and blonde-bordering-platinum mane with blue and magenta and turquoise highlights. The carefully kempt landing strip above her mons pubis was tastefully matched. She looked amazing, and everyone knew it, and trembled.

    "Now. You might be afraid I am going to rape you, by shoving you up inside my cunt," said Frankie as she loomed over Lucky crotch-first, her perfectly linear, taught vulva swollen and rosy and glistening with hate-lust, the nub of her clit red and proud at their apex beneath its hood.

    "This fear is well founded."

    Frankie sat down all of a sudden, her mons, boasting a perfectly delineated, dewy vulva slammed down wetly upon the wood of the chair's seat, right where little Lucky could not ignore it, and Frankie noted with sublime satisfaction the bitty bitch falling to her knees.
    "I am going to shove you up inside me, and then put on my silk party-dress, and then go to the Holliday Festival. Once I have his attention at the party tonight, with these boots of mine, I will take him someplace that I have arranged to be quiet, and then fuck his brains out. I am going to ride his cock and feel you break and smoosh.
    "You clear on that, Lucky? I am going to seduce your boyfriend with his secret fetish, and then fuck you to death with him," stated Frankie with clipped precision. The contempt and triumph she felt was transcendent.
    "Crystal?" trembled Lucky.
    "Good. I hope he's big enough, otherwise I'll have to come home and sit on my dildo until you die," snarled Frankie.
    "He's big enough. Really. And then? After I'm dead? What next? You'll keep him?" asked Lucky. Her mascara-stained tears were magnificent to behold. Lucky was very smart, in her little stand-up jokester way. Lucky's giantess rival slowly rose, leaving a fragrant, viscous patch where her slit had been. She sashayed back to where she first felt tongue upon boot and gazed down with wide-eyed intensity at the man who had introduced her to that pleasure.

    "No. The challenge would be gone. He'd be of very LITTLE, you get me, joke-girl? LITTLE use apart... from... this!" Frankie stepped upon her puny boot-licker, and slowly stood upon him, bringing her weight to bear in no kind of hurry. She laughed at how he squealed and thrashed, and then marveled at how he crunched and burst. Her gloved fingertips descended to fiddle with herself as his guts strew themselves about her hardwood floor under the cruel pressure of her foot. There, were, like a dozen tiny people on that floor, upended from the scuttle. All of them laughed as Lucky made her feel small, once upon a time, back at the coffee shop. They laughed because Santa's magic made their screams into laughter. All of them could die like this. Her hate was a tangible, electric presence, growing stronger with each act of cruelty, shading everything before her in shades of red and black. She was insanely wet, hate and rage fueling her lust, pussy juices creeping down her thigh to reach her boot-top. Who's laughing now, naughty, naughty children?

    Francine killed. Before she killed she tortured, and in torture, made every one of them submit. They all cried out her name, and it sounded so nice upon their tortured lips. It was best when they were fragile and vanilla. She made a few of them pray to her as she killed them beneath the Santa-bequeathed perfect Byron-boots. She stared a couple in the eye as she made them kiss each other. This, to her mind, made her a literal goddess. Practice makes perfect! Slowly step down, watch their little eyes bulge out, together as a couple in love, and then giggle as their blood gushed from under her boot from their shrieking maws in a little heart-shape. Lucky watched, weeping, knowing she was looking at the final fate of the man she loved. Killed, inch by painful inch, by a vicious, vengeful goddess who knew his secret desire, and would punish him for having it.

    Frankie came more than a few times, at first from seeing viscera and blood emerge from beneath her tread and the joy of feeling their soft flesh and fragile bones smearing and crinkling underboot. Then, more intensely from feeling Lucky squirm inside her while going to the party. Little, bitty, basic-bitch nerd-girl was tough, and fought ferociously the whole while, and it felt soooooo goooood. Frankie was really worked up, and eagerly awaited Byron's thick shaft sliding along her clit, his cock powering into Lucky until she crunched and smmmmeared up inside her!

    Bad-boy Byron showed up late, as usual. His cock reacted to her boots through his skinny jeans as anticipated. Lucky's luck?

    It was Christmas Day. Frankie always got what she wanted for Christmas.