My Girlfriend is Santa Claus & Together We Must Stop the Christmas Apocalypse Based on a True Story

“Come on! What are you doing?!” she growled.

Princess Peppermint latched onto Peter and pulled him down onto the bed and the rolling continued, this way and that, fully clothed. Even though this wasn’t what Peter had envisioned, still the act of having a cute girl clinging onto him in bed was pretty exciting, even through all the many layers of lace and ermine. Then suddenly she shouted, “Yes! Yes! I’m close! So close! Together! Together! Right now!”

She gripped Peter’s hair, locked her legs around his waist, and kissed him so hard it made his kiss with Squee seem like child’s play. Princess Peppermint’s kiss was insane with love. When their lips unsuctioned from each other, Peter rolled off and looked up at the canopy of her bed. The princess lay sweating and panting from her utterly fake orgasm. Peter licked the lipgloss on his teeth, unbearably frustrated and unsatisfied. Peter looked at her and thought she looked kind of cute sprawled out and exhausted.

“Ok, well… I guess I fulfilled my part of the contract,” Peter said.

Her voice was falsetto: “Are you still here?! Guards! Guards!”

The Spearmints burst into the room, fully clad in armor, terrifyingly fast despite their short legs. They gripped Peter by his ankles and dragged him out of Princess Peppermint’s bedroom. His head banged on the stone floor with every drop. As his carcass squeaked against the marble floor he heard her shouting, “And bring me clean sheets! Ugh!”

♩♪♫♩♬♪♩♫♫

Santa was enjoying some cocktails and cookies by a fireplace, her boots up on an ottoman. The gramophone in the corner of the room played Carol of the Bells.

“Santa! Santa!” the murderous voice of Princess Peppermint cried out. “Treason! Don’t touch me, you stupid elf!”

The door cracked open and Princess Peppermint came marching into the dimly lit room.

“Treason!” she cried out. “Treason! I ought to take you to the dungeons!”

Santa was completely unfazed, completely unmoved, completely unconcerned as the hurricane of rage swirled around Princess Peppermint and rained down upon her. She took it all with complete indifference, stoic as a marble statue. She slowly finished her cookie, took a sip of her Hot Toddy, and only then looked the princess in the eye.

“What’s the business?” she asked.

“I still have no heir!” she shouted. “You tricked me! Peter has given me nothing! Nothing!” She then took a deep breath of air and raised her voice an octave: “Nothing!”

The Princess began to sit down although there was no chair to catch her fall— very swiftly a Spearmint acted and slid one underneath her frilly royal buttocks. Santa took a ceramic teapot and carefully poured the Princess a cup. She drank the scalding tea as if it were a shot of liquor and then stuck out her tongue and said, “Blegh. I’m 14,000 years old, Santa! 14,000! I will not enter my twenties without an heir! It’s unthinkable!”

Santa poured her another cup and asked, “Are you certain you did everything properly?”

“Yes, of course. I’m not an idiot!”

“Did you remove all your clothes?”

“No! Of course not!” She scoffed. “Disgusting!”

“Did you roll around on the bed together?”

Princess Peppermint took a cookie and sprinkled some of her mint extract on it before eating it. “Yes, naturally.”

“Did you kiss when you climaxed? The magic kiss is the most important part.”

“Of course yes!”

“Did Peter break your hymen?”

All the rage and fury in Princess Peppermint’s face drained in an instant. It was as if a sudden clarity had befallen her. The realization was apparent in her eyes. “No,” she said softly.

“Ah,” Santa took a bite of a cookie. “Well there’s your problem. You’ll have to do it again. But this time make sure Peter breaks your hymen.”

“Is it painful?” She clutched a handful of skirt.

Santa nodded. “Oh yes.”

Oh, the hymen, the most valuable yet mythical part of a girl. Sometimes strong as mithril and surviving several sexual poundings. Other times a gentle summer breeze is all it takes to fracture it to fairy dust— or so some girls say. Horseback riding? A bicycle? Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Little Miss Carousel Rider. So Peter found himself back in the stagecoach with the hot headed lolita, back to the Peppermint Kremlin, with a new task now: to obliterate the Princess’ hymen. And this time Peter was truly wracked with doubt over what Santa wanted him to do. They returned to her lofty bedchamber, and the Princess hopped onto her bed fully clothed like before, and she swiftly removed her panties and flung them across the room. Was this it? Was this the moment Peter was finally going to lose his virginity, he wondered?

“I order you to turn around,” Princess Peppermint said.

Peter turned, and there was an ornate table. Upon it rested three elegantly embroidered kerchiefs with small items resting under each one.

“These are my three hymens. You may destroy whichever one you like.”

Peter looked back at her, his eyebrows crooked.

“Don’t make eye contact with me while you do it, you beast!” she shouted.

Peter reluctantly uncovered one of Princess Peppermint’s hymens, and was relieved when what he found underneath was actually a Fabergé egg. The shell glistened like a gemstone, encrusted with jewels and superimposed with golden rococo scrolls. Within the egg stood a miniature snowman of platinum and diamonds. Peter looked under the other two kerchiefs and saw that they too were Fabergé eggs— a golden shell, a mother-of-pearl shell, one studded with midnight sapphires, the other embroidered in kaleidoscopic geometry with precious mithril threads. They were museum quality chicken ovum, sparkling like chandeliers, vacated of their poultry embryos and stuffed with blazing rubies like the glittering placenta of a priceless golem.

“You’re sure you want me to break one of these?” Peter asked.

“Yes. I’m absolutely sure! But be gentle!”

Peter made a fist and held it over what he judged to be the least expensive egg.

“Okay…” Peter said. “Here I go…”

He crushed his hand down upon the egg, and it cracked and splintered and spat out diamonds and gems under his fist. Peter winced and looked at his hand to see if the egg had cut into his flesh because it certainly felt like it. Behind him Princess Peppermint thrashed in the bed and shouted, “Oh! Ah! The pain! Ooooh! The pain is unbearable! Oh my hymen! You’ve truly obliterated it!”

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And then they went through the act again: the rolling, the leg locking, the desperate cries. Peter, forbidden from removing his pants his whole time. Princess Peppermint, missing the most vital component of the farce. Upon the faux climax she kissed him again, and it was like she tried to devour Peter mouth first. And then he was expelled from her room, exiled from her castle, and back in the carriage, alone, his hair disheveled, the magical glittering Clydesdalecorns trotting him back to Santa’s workshop. The driver, a Spearmint in a top hot, waited for for the castle to be out of sight before he chuckled and turned. He said, “You sure gave it to her, kid.”

♩♪♫♩♬♪♩♫♫

Santa loomed over an ancient map of our world, tiptoeing her sextant from meridian to meridian— quite the novel approach for using a sextant— most people spied through them directly into the sun until they went blind, but who’s going to embarrass Santa and tell her she’s been using it wrong for hundreds of years— you? And while she sketched routes across the continents and oceans, the sound of a kerfuffle clattered from another room. Glasses and furniture were hurled and crashed and broken. And then came the sound of Princess Peppermint’s voice, “Outta my way, you pointy-eared toy tinkerer!” The door exploded open and the furious princess marched in.

“How dare you, Santa! My hymen! My precious hymen! Gone! Obliterated! Shattered to smithereens! All for nothing!”

Santa lay her sextant down and took a seat. Princess Peppermint slammed her hands down on the table.

“You’re certain Peter broke your hymen?”

“Positive!” she shouted.

“And he licked your breasts like they were ice cream?”

“Is that necessary?” she asked.

Santa shrugged. “I suppose it could be skipped. But that’s your loss.”

“The deal is off,” Princess Peppermint said. “No heir? No throne? No Spearmints for your apocalypse.”

“Hold on. Hold on.” Santa furrowed her brow and pursed her lips deep in thought. “Did Peter cream pie you?”

Princess Peppermint turned to Santa wide eyed. “No.”

Peter and Princess Peppermint rode the carriage back to her frosty frosting castle in silence. She still smoldered with bitterness. He looked down at the pie in his lap Santa had given him for the rendezvous. They returned to the bedchamber together. Peter broke another one of her Fabergé hymens and it was just as painful as the previous one he broke. They rolled and rolled. Princess Peppermint cried out and gasped. There was a big kiss. And then Peter took the pie in his hand and wondered if he should throw it at her face or stuff it up her skirt. When the Princess saw him winding up and about to cover her in custard when she said, “Don’t you dare!”

The Spearmints brought in a small table, some chairs, some plates and silverware, and the pie was served in a civil manner. Princess Peppermint carefully cut into the delicate dessert with her tiny silver fork and ate it mouse-bite by mouse-bite. Peter, still frustrated, was unable to enjoy the midnight snack, and grumpily spanked his slice with a fork.

“Mmmm.” Princess Peppermint chewed. “This could use some crushed candy canes on top.”

“Do you know how babies are made?”

“Shut up! Of course I do! How dare you? Guards!”

And Peter was promptly taken by the Spearmints and hurled out the highest window of Candy Stripe Castle. Outside he tumbled hilariously from tower to tower like a human pinball into the powdery snow below— but worry not, for plot armor imbues main characters with invincibility— or at least, with enough protection so they don’t die from pratfalls.