Well, Darlings, this is the Black Orchid, I’d best describe myself. I am tall 6’2” with a lank runner’s build and it takes three mortals to sate me. Soy Tigressa. Por cierto. If you don’t know Spanish, you don’t need to know. I run 10 miles a day and bathe nude in the icy lake on my property. I’m an immortal, and consort of Nefertiti and Cleopatra. Never befriend she who is less than you. Every year, I fete and sate Santa and there’s no danger of a back dislocation since we’re both immortals. Such is the intensity of our couplings.

I prepare a fine feast for him, roast boar, pheasant, chicken and rare steak. Santa only likes two vegetables, candied yams, a mashed potatoes swimming in butter, wild rich stuffing flavored with cloves, chilantro and mince garlic. And the pies, mincemeat and pumpkin slathered with whipped cream. The house reeks of Christmas cooking and the heady scent of the Blue Spruce Tree adorned with bubble ornaments and little Italian lights and little stuffed canaries.

He eats voraciously and may I say Santa has a “six pack” no matter how much he eats. The legend of obesity is two pillows. I perfume myself from head to toe with that deathy old fragrance, Tea Rose, and bathe not for two days before I see him swo I smell like a carcass hanging in a butcher’s window. He requires this. He wants to smell the wild in me. First I straddle him like a Valkrie and he moves up to meet each thrust, and when I am fit to burst forth he climbs on top changing to his rhythm that I may know who is “master” The lions un the forests roar to our coupling.

The we play “Catch as Catch Can” a rude, degrading game which gives him much pleasure as if I were still a slave girl. He tosses precious jewels in the air, such as emerald necklaces, and the ones I catch I get to keep. I, of course, catch them all and that’s just the hell of it. I catch them out of spite. Slave girl I indeed, after all this time. Santa you piss me off. But you will never know. That’s not how the game is played

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