laughter_n_love
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Nov 2, 2001
- Messages
- 293
- Points
- 0
Twas the day after Christmas,
That special time of the year,
When the spirit of the season
Remained in hearts full of good cheer.
The presents had all been opened,
The Carols all been sung.
The kisses had all been planted
Beneath where the mistletoe hung.
But for one jolly old elf,
The day was something much more.
A long night's work had ended,
Followed by an even longer snore.
Another Christmas has come and gone.
Another year's toil well done.
Santa was ready to enjoy his break
With his annual post-Christmas fun.
The elves helped him quickly dress,
Helped him spit, polish, and groom.
The old boy was practically giddy
As he sprinted from the room.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear
As he came upon the tree,
But Mrs. Claus, seated there,
Tied up, pretty as can be.
Tis true that Santa is old and merry,
With a beard as white as snow.
But the real Mrs. Claus is hardly that
Which you and I have come to know.
Her face was the picture of beauty.
Her body was shapely and tight.
She was young and full of vigor.
Her laughter was airy and light.
And as she did every year,
To reward Santa for his good deeds,
She gave herself as a gift to him.
For even Santa has needs.
She sat comfortably in a chair,
Her ankles locked tightly in stocks.
Her wrists were tied behind her,
With ribbons as strong as any locks.
Upon her head she wore a Christmas hat,
Upon her body a teddy.
She wore nothing else but a smile
To let Santa know she was ready.
He approached to where she sat,
His eyes glued to her bare feet.
There they waited, helpless and inviting.
A true Christmas treat.
Her soles were smooth and creamy.
Her arches were curved just so.
Her heels were soft and buttery.
Her insteps more high than low.
Her toes were polished a bright red
To match the holiday season.
The biggest ones were bound together
And tied back to the stocks for good reason.
For Mrs. Claus, wife of St. Nic
Was as ticklish one could get.
And when Santa tickled her poor little feet
She would do more than just whimper and fret.
She would thrash, and she would scream.
She would struggle with all her might.
So it was for both her and Santa's safety
That she was trussed up so well and tight.
Santa placed a lone finger upon her sole
And gave it a tiny wiggle.
Mrs. Claus' reaction was instant.
She burst out in a wee little giggle.
"Oh please, Santa," she begged already.
"Please go easy on me this year, my dear!"
Santa's belly shook with a chuckle,
For she said the same thing every year.
His fingers curled into claws,
He wiggled them so she could see.
Mrs. Claus could not keep from laughing
At this playful refusal of her plea.
His hands lowered to her feet,
Eager to quench their year-long thirst.
She scrunched up her eyes, steeled up her courage
And tried to prepare for the worst.
The tickling began as it always did,
With a light scratching beneath her toes.
She yelped as though stuck with a pin,
And began the first of many throes.
A whole year Santa had waited,
To enjoy his wife again in this way.
Her perfect bare feet, at his disposal
To tickle and tease all day.
A saint to some, a father to others,
Santa represented all that was good on Earth.
But when it came to tickling the feet of his wife,
Santa's inner demon did give birth.
Upon her soles his fingers danced
As graceful as any ballerina.
She pitched about like a ship at sea
And cackled like a hyena.
Santa "Ho ho ho'd!" with laughter,
His face beamed with glee.
But Mrs. Claus, who laughed as well
Was a picture of agony.
Her feet shook from side to side,
Her toes she curled in vain.
To escape the torturous tickling
She had volunteered for yet again.
Her hair did whip about.
The giggles poured from her like wine.
She begged for mercy, she gasped for breath.
Santa found her divine.
But though she squealed and protested
At the tickling of her feet.
In truth Mrs. Claus quite enjoyed it,
A need within her it did meet.
Her husband gave so much to others.
It was right that he know joy as well.
And though it drove her nearly crazy,
She happily endured this ticklish hell.
How her cheeks flushed red!
How desperate her laughter sounded!
But Mrs. Claus loved every minute
Of Santa's tickle torture unbounded!
"Please, Santa", she begged at last.
"No more tickling can I take!"
But Santa winked, and stroked his beard
Until she did a double-take.
"No, no, you wouldn't!" she cried.
"You won't tickle me with your beard!"
Santa only chuckled for an answer.
It was the one thing she had feared.
He lowered his face to her feet.
Upon her toes he did plant a kiss.
The whiskers of his beard covered her soles
And not a spot did they miss.
As Mrs. Claus howled with giggles,
Her torment risen to a new height,
Santa shouted, "Merry Christmas to all!"
"And to all, a ticklish night!'
That special time of the year,
When the spirit of the season
Remained in hearts full of good cheer.
The presents had all been opened,
The Carols all been sung.
The kisses had all been planted
Beneath where the mistletoe hung.
But for one jolly old elf,
The day was something much more.
A long night's work had ended,
Followed by an even longer snore.
Another Christmas has come and gone.
Another year's toil well done.
Santa was ready to enjoy his break
With his annual post-Christmas fun.
The elves helped him quickly dress,
Helped him spit, polish, and groom.
The old boy was practically giddy
As he sprinted from the room.
When, what to his wondering eyes should appear
As he came upon the tree,
But Mrs. Claus, seated there,
Tied up, pretty as can be.
Tis true that Santa is old and merry,
With a beard as white as snow.
But the real Mrs. Claus is hardly that
Which you and I have come to know.
Her face was the picture of beauty.
Her body was shapely and tight.
She was young and full of vigor.
Her laughter was airy and light.
And as she did every year,
To reward Santa for his good deeds,
She gave herself as a gift to him.
For even Santa has needs.
She sat comfortably in a chair,
Her ankles locked tightly in stocks.
Her wrists were tied behind her,
With ribbons as strong as any locks.
Upon her head she wore a Christmas hat,
Upon her body a teddy.
She wore nothing else but a smile
To let Santa know she was ready.
He approached to where she sat,
His eyes glued to her bare feet.
There they waited, helpless and inviting.
A true Christmas treat.
Her soles were smooth and creamy.
Her arches were curved just so.
Her heels were soft and buttery.
Her insteps more high than low.
Her toes were polished a bright red
To match the holiday season.
The biggest ones were bound together
And tied back to the stocks for good reason.
For Mrs. Claus, wife of St. Nic
Was as ticklish one could get.
And when Santa tickled her poor little feet
She would do more than just whimper and fret.
She would thrash, and she would scream.
She would struggle with all her might.
So it was for both her and Santa's safety
That she was trussed up so well and tight.
Santa placed a lone finger upon her sole
And gave it a tiny wiggle.
Mrs. Claus' reaction was instant.
She burst out in a wee little giggle.
"Oh please, Santa," she begged already.
"Please go easy on me this year, my dear!"
Santa's belly shook with a chuckle,
For she said the same thing every year.
His fingers curled into claws,
He wiggled them so she could see.
Mrs. Claus could not keep from laughing
At this playful refusal of her plea.
His hands lowered to her feet,
Eager to quench their year-long thirst.
She scrunched up her eyes, steeled up her courage
And tried to prepare for the worst.
The tickling began as it always did,
With a light scratching beneath her toes.
She yelped as though stuck with a pin,
And began the first of many throes.
A whole year Santa had waited,
To enjoy his wife again in this way.
Her perfect bare feet, at his disposal
To tickle and tease all day.
A saint to some, a father to others,
Santa represented all that was good on Earth.
But when it came to tickling the feet of his wife,
Santa's inner demon did give birth.
Upon her soles his fingers danced
As graceful as any ballerina.
She pitched about like a ship at sea
And cackled like a hyena.
Santa "Ho ho ho'd!" with laughter,
His face beamed with glee.
But Mrs. Claus, who laughed as well
Was a picture of agony.
Her feet shook from side to side,
Her toes she curled in vain.
To escape the torturous tickling
She had volunteered for yet again.
Her hair did whip about.
The giggles poured from her like wine.
She begged for mercy, she gasped for breath.
Santa found her divine.
But though she squealed and protested
At the tickling of her feet.
In truth Mrs. Claus quite enjoyed it,
A need within her it did meet.
Her husband gave so much to others.
It was right that he know joy as well.
And though it drove her nearly crazy,
She happily endured this ticklish hell.
How her cheeks flushed red!
How desperate her laughter sounded!
But Mrs. Claus loved every minute
Of Santa's tickle torture unbounded!
"Please, Santa", she begged at last.
"No more tickling can I take!"
But Santa winked, and stroked his beard
Until she did a double-take.
"No, no, you wouldn't!" she cried.
"You won't tickle me with your beard!"
Santa only chuckled for an answer.
It was the one thing she had feared.
He lowered his face to her feet.
Upon her toes he did plant a kiss.
The whiskers of his beard covered her soles
And not a spot did they miss.
As Mrs. Claus howled with giggles,
Her torment risen to a new height,
Santa shouted, "Merry Christmas to all!"
"And to all, a ticklish night!'
