So, you thought sneaking to the North Pole to try and spy on Santa was a good idea, did you? I can guarantee you weren’t expecting my ten inch shemale surprise, were you? I caught you, and have you tied between some posts in Santa’s Workshop. You had been trying to obtain information, but now, I was the one with questions. The table beside us had several tools laid out on it; scalpels, a belt, a flogger, a whip. My fingertips danced over them, picking up a big pink feather. Your eyes go wide as I wrestle your ankles into stocks so you are “seated” in mid air, suspended by your wrists between the posts.
I giggle as I begin to rub oil on your feet, especially the soles. I drag my sharp nails from your toes to your heel, and I watch the panic ensue on your face. You are deathly ticklish. “Now, I’ll ask you again, who sent you?” I started to tickle your feet, making you squirm and helplessly giggle, gasping for breath. I’m cruel, and relentless. For two entire minutes, which feel like hours to you, I tickle right below your toes, your arches, your soles. Your cock is rock hard by the time I’m done; you’re sweating, trembling. Already this is too much. “I’ll talk.” You whine.
But, I’m not ready for you to talk. I spend hours tickling you, your feet, your rib cage, your armpits. Within the first five minutes, you swear you’re going to die, that you can’t take it. I prove you wrong. You take it, and more. You take as much as I say you do. And then, I make you suck this thick shemale cock I have for you. “Please, Mrs. Claus! Let me talk!” You beg, but I think I’ll just keep tickling, edging, and throat fucking you until Christmas.