Wendy the Elf

Wendy, gingerbread in skin,
and black as ink in hair,
did rest upon the Satin sheets,
those soft of shade so fair.

She'd wait, so sure, for Santa Claus,
all wet and legs spread wide,
she dreamed of what he'd give to her,
imagined him inside.

He'd gently bite her elvish ears.
He'd play with her hair black.
He'd take her on the chimney tops
and rest her on her back.

Oh, Wendy's sex grew wetter still,
imagining him there.
His snowy beard against her skin,
against most everywhere.

How generous he was, she knew,
and oh, how good with toys.
And she would give to him, of course,
most all that he enjoys.

She used her wand upon her clit,
and thought of Santa's mouth.
The North Pole was a wondrous place,
but what was best was south.

Oh, how she could imagine him,
his body warm and sweet,
and how he'd fill her stockings
once he'd slip them off her feet.

She moaned hard, and harder still,
as hard as piles of coal,
as her own little belly shook,
like jelly from her soul.

Hotter than the fireplace,
while Wendy cums and cums,
moaning louder than the sound
of twelve damn drummers' drums!

And as she twitched, convulsed, and sighed,
so long it'd been, that day,
she'd heard a merry, joyous laugh,
and on her roof, a sleigh.