My Bizarre Obsession With The Fictional Narrative Of A War On Christmas Pounds My Butt

After bathing his brain in a cascade of right wing propaganda, George is utterly obsessed with the fictional narrative of a War on Christmas, fully convinced he will soon be banned from celebrating his favorite holiday. In an effort to fight back, George finds himself desperately trying to enlist in the Christmas army, but coming up short.

As George struggles to find his way through this yuletide chaos, he becomes increasingly worried about the season. All this culminates with a hardcore gay encounter between George and the physical manifestation of the fictional narrative of a War on Christmas.

Will George’s post-orgasmic clarity shed light on the real meaning of this warm and cozy season, or is George destined to fight a holiday war within his own mind forever?

This erotic tale is 4,200 words of sizzling human on sentient fictional War on Christmas action, including anal, blowjobs, rough sex, cream pies and living concept love.

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MY BIZARRE OBSESSION WITH THE FICTIONAL NARRATIVE OF A WAR ON CHRISTMAS POUNDS MY BUTT

By Chuck Tingle

With every step closer to the mailbox, I can feel the pace of my heart quicken. I’m trying to not get my hopes up, but when you’re this committed to the cause it’s difficult not to think about what could be lying there within this small, metal container.

My neighbor, Himbler, is approaching on his morning walk.

“Merry Chirstmas!” I call out with a friendly wave.

I arrive at the end of the driveway and rip my mailbox open, leaning down and gazing deep inside as my breath catches in my throat.

Then, nothing. The mailbox is empty, and the tension that had once built within me spills forth from my body in a wave of potent disappointment. I feel just as empty as this dark, oblong container.

“Everything okay, George?” Himbler questions.

I close the mailbox slowly, then turn to face my neighbor. I’m struggling to keep it together, but the disappointed ache that blooms within me is nearly too much to contain. I can feel an expression of sadness creeping its away across my lips, a visage of trembling frustration.

“It’s fine…” I start, attempting to cover up my fraught emotions, then breaking at the last second. “Actually, it’s not fine. Have you gotten a draft letter yet?”

Himbler narrows his eyes, slightly confused. “A draft letter? Like for football?”

“No, like for war,” I continue.

I can tell my neighbor is having trouble following along, and for a moment I get the impression he assumes I’m just messing with him. My expression doesn’t shift, however, and eventually he’s forced to consider my question at face value.

“Uhhh, well they haven’t had a draft since the Vietnam War,” Himbler explains.

I nod along, listening closely but still distracted by the aching fact that my mailbox was empty.

“Well, it could start again at any minute,” I retort.

“I don’t think so,” my neighbor continues. “George, are you feeling okay?”

“No,” I admit, shaking my head. “There’s a war going on, and I need to get out there and do my part.”
 My neighbor just stares at me with a blank, confused expression. I can tell he’s not sure if he wants to push any farther into this conversation, but his curiosity is also getting the better of him.

“What war are you talking about?” Himbler asks.

“The War on Christmas!” I blurt, throwing my hands in the air.

Unfortunately, this direct response doesn’t seem to alter my neighbors confused state. Instead of nodding in agreement, he glances around behind him, looking as though he expects the crew of a hidden camera show to come bursting through the nearby hedge.

“Are you serious?” he finally questions.

Now I’m the one who’s confused. Has Himbler not noticed the way Christmas is being systematically removed from our lives, eroded away more and more every year by the secular powers that be? If the liberal media had it their way, there’d be no Christmas at all.

I have to do something.

“Uh... I don’t know if I agree that’s a thing,” Himbler finally offers.

I scoff. “Are you serious? When’s the last time you heard someone say ‘merry Christmas?’”

“Literally twenty seconds ago when you walked down your driveway,” my neighbor reminds me.

“Yeah, but… that doesn’t count,” I stammer.

“Why not?” Himbler retorts.

“Because ‘happy holidays’ is taking the nation by storm,” I cry out.

“You don’t have to say it,” Himbler reminds me. “You can just say ‘merry Christmas’ if you want. Nobody is stopping you.”
 “Not yet,” I retort, dropping my voice into a deathly serious register.

With that, I turn and storm back up the driveway. If this encounter with Himbler has proven one thing, it’s that people have become utterly complacent about attacks on tradition. In a world where snowmen are showing up on holiday cards instead of good ol’

Santa Clause, something has to be done.

I’ve seen the news and I know this war is coming, but nobody seems to care.

Of course, I’m also partially to blame in all this. In my own way I’ve grown just as complacent as the sheep I’m so quick to dismiss. I’ve been waiting around to be drafted when I should’ve gone straight to the source.

What I need to find is a recruitment office.

Instead of turning back, I go straight to my car, opening the door and climbing inside. I start my ride and pull out of the driveway, headed straight for the mall.

It’s not long before I’ve arrived at the local shopping center, getting lucky and somehow managing to find a spot out front. This building features a large glass dome at the entrance, giving it a distinctly snow globe like feel.

Outside, a Christmas tree lot has been constructed, featuring a wide assortment of the lush, yuletide artifacts.

The sights and sounds of Christmas magic put me at ease, if only a little, and as I march into the mall I find myself focused and aware. I know exactly where to begin my mission, taking a hard right and heading toward the local marine recruiting office.

A woman clad head to toe in camouflage greets me. “Welcome sir! Are you looking to change your life?”

I nod. “Sign me up! I’m here to fight in the War on Christmas.”

The woman laughs and shakes her head skeptically. “Well, after three tours of duty, I can tell you fighting any war on Christmas is pretty lonesome.”

“Well, obviously not on Christmas Day,” I clarify. “Or Christmas Eve. I’ve gotta spend that time celebrating with my family and doing my part.”

“If you enlist, that’s not really gonna be up to you,” the woman informs me.

“If you’re fighting the War on Christmas they make you work on Christmas?” I erupt, utterly confused.

The solider stares back at me, wearing a similar expression to the one I’d seen plastered across my neighbor’s face. “Are you feeling okay?” she questions.

The more time goes by, the more I’m starting to think like the whole world’s gone mad. My nightly news programs have let me know, in no uncertain terms, that Christmas is under attack, yet when the rubber meets the road nobody seems to give a damn.

“Listen, do you sign people up for the War on Christmas or not?” I question.

The soldiers shakes her head.

Suddenly, an unexpected cascade of hearty laughter comes spilling through the mall, immediately perking up my ears with its familiar holiday cadence.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” comes the three powerful syllables that melt my heart like butter.

My conversation with these marine recruiters is going nowhere, so I might as well head straight to the true Christmas source. If Santa can’t help me fight for truth and justice in the War on Christmas, then nobody can.

I immediately turn and follow my ears toward the sweet sound of this bellowing holiday icon.

I weave my way through the crowd of shoppers to find Santa sitting on a large, comfy chair, the rotund man flanked by two elves in dark green. St. Nicholas himself is clad in the traditional red and white garb, his coat held tight with a large black belt and a golden buckle. A child sits on Santa’s lap, whispering something into his ear.

Immediately, I begin marching up to this hopeful beacon of light in the Christmas war, barely getting out his name before mall security steps before me and blocks my path.

“Back of the line,” the guard states gruffly.

I glance over to see that there is, in fact, a long line of children waiting for their turn with this holiday icon.

“This will only take a second,” I stammer, growing more and more frantic. “I need to enlist in the War on Christmas!”

The security guard’s expression flickers from angry to confused, then back to angry again. “Back of the line!” he repeats, pointing.

I take a deep breath and let it out, struggling to calm down. I realize now that all eyes are trained on me, including Santa’s, and I’m not exactly making a great impression.

Without another word, I stroll to the back of the line and take my place. I’m twice the height of everyone else here, a full grown man in a sea of kids, but the awkwardness will be worth it if it means I can save Christmas.

Slowly but surely the line begins to move, creeping its way through a winding path of fake snow and cardboard gingerbread huts. I’m tapping my foot loudly, struggling to maintain my composure as security keeps their eyes trained in my direction.

“Come on, come on,” I stammer under my breath. “Move it along.”

One of the children glances back at me, but I ignore them.

After a good half hour of waiting, I finally arrive at the front of the line. I can tell the elves are skeptical about my approach, but Santa is just as jolly as ever.

“Well, hello there!” St. Nicholas cries out, beckoning me toward him. “Looks like we’ve got a very big boy who wants to sit on Santa’s lap!”

I do as I’m told, not wanting to offend this ruthless general of the Christmas war. He can be powerful and benevolent, but his cruelty is also the stuff of legends. I’ve done everything I can to be nice this year, but the naughty ones are rarely aware of their own shortcomings.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” I offer.

“Have you been good this year?” Santa questions.

“I’m trying, sir, I really am,” I continue. “I’d like to enlist in the war.”
 Santa seems confused by this, clearly playing dumb in some kind of preliminary holiday test. “I’m… not sure how to help you with that.”

I lean a little closer, lowering my voice a bit. “The War on Christmas.”

Santa’s expression changes, but unlike the others who’ve crossed my path today, he’s not confused. Instead, I detect a hint of deep sadness behind his eyes.

“Dude,” Santa begins, his voice immediately shifting from the booming, jovial tone he’s known for. “There is no War on Christmas, that’s just a plot for ratings from right wing conservative news programs.”

“Is this a test?” I question.

Santa shakes his head. “You’ve gotta stop watching that stuff, it’s gonna rot your brain,” he continues.

“But… but…” I stammer, my face flushing red with tension and anxiety. “That’s impossible. My shows don’t lie!”

“They just want to keep you angry,” Santa continues, prompting me to cover my ears and shake my head violently from side to side.

“No! No!” I cry out. “You’re not the real Santa!”

The mall security guards approach me swiftly, swooping in from either side. The large, muscular men grab me and yank me away from Santa’s grasp, lifting me up and carrying me toward the mall exit as I kick and scream belligerently.

“No! I must save Christmas from the secular evils of liberal Hollywood!” I cry, my voice drawing the attention of a hundred frightened shoppers.

Before I get a chance to continue my diatribe, these security guards reach the door of the mall and toss me out. I fly through the air, tumbling end over end before landing in a snow bank with a thud.

I lay here in the frigid slush for a moment, gazing up at the sky above. Tiny snowflakes have started to fall, drifting from side to side as they dance through the air and land on my rosy face. They melt immediately, running down my cheeks like gentle tears. In the distance, Christmas songs play on.

“It’s tough being right,” comes an unexpected voice.

All I can do is groan in response.

Moments later, a figure appears before me. It’s a muscular shirtless man with a television for a head. His screen displays a series of images, each one more horrific than the last. These are haunting depictions of Christmas’s end, trees burning and gifts stomped under big black boots.

The figure reaches down, extending a hand. I accept his offer and the television-headed man helps me up.

“Thanks. I’m George,” I introduce myself.

“I’m the physical manifestation of the war on Christmas,” the figure replies, “but you can call me Chris.”

I’m immediately struck by just how attracted I am to this muscular, sentient concept. He’s traditionally handsome, of course, but there’s an additional attraction that I simply can’t deny. I feel myself pulled toward him, intoxicated by the visceral imagery that plays out across his flickering screen.

“I’m trying to help,” I stammer. “I’m trying to fight for what’s right.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” Chris retorts with a comforting nod. “I just need you to stay mad. That’s the only way I can exist.”

I’m not entirely following the logic here, but I’d be crazy to deny the authority of such an important holiday figure.

“Where do I enlist?” I question.

Chris hesitates. “Let’s just focus on staying upset.”

“But I want to help out in a real, tangibleway,” I continue.

The physical manifestation of the War on Christmas seems flustered by this. “Oh, um… well, we can hang out right here and make sure the season is going smoothly.”

For a brief moment, a terrifying idea surges through my mind. What if the reason this physical manifestation has no concrete action for me to take is because the war on Christmas isn’t real? What if all this really is just a plot to keep me upset and dialed into conservative news programming?

The second these horrible thoughts enter my mind I push them away. The very prospect is absolutely ridiculous, and as someone who’s deeply committed to this fight, I’m not interested in entertaining that kind of silliness.

“Let’s post here and make sure everything’s going good then,” I finally offer, sitting down on the curb.

The physical manifestation takes his seat next to me, the two of us gazing out at the holiday hustle and bustle.

There’s something very nice about this moment, cozy even. The longer we stay basking in this Christmas glow, the more I find myself drawn to Chris. I want to understand him more, to peel back the wrapping paper of his mysterious identify and see what lurks within.

I scoot a little closer, and the physical manifestation of the War on Christmas glances over curiously.

“How closely do we have to watch?” I offer. “Because something’s already caught my eye.”

“Oh yeah?” Chris offers playfully, picking up on the hints I’m dropping.

“I’ve been infatuated with the War on Christmas for a very long time, and now here you are,” I continue. “I always thought I was drawn to you out of principal, but now I feel like there might be something more… something erotic.”

The physical manifestation smiles. “Come here,” he offers, motioning around a corner of the building.

The two of us stand up and stroll over to this new location as my heart slams hard within my chest. The tension between us grows with every step, but the second we round this corner it breaks in an eruption of carnal passion.

Chris and I begin to kiss deeply, our lips meeting as we tear away one another’s clothing. I’m completely lost in the moment, fully giving in to these lustful feelings that’ve built up within me for far too long.

I kiss my way across the physically manifested concept’s face and neck, then down onto his shoulders and muscular chest. The topography of his body is incredible, and the fact I get to explore it with my lips is almost too glorious to believe.

Lower and lower I drift, eventually dropping to my knees before the handsome, television-headed man. I gaze up at him with a look of ravenous holiday hunger in my eyes, like a famished guest waiting for the Christmas ham to arrive at their annual dinner party.

This time, however, the ham is a big fat cock.

I reach up and unbutton the physical manifestation of the War on Christmas’s pants, unzipping swiftly and yanking the fabric down so Chris’s massive swollen cock can pop forth.

I gasp aloud as his rod springs out toward me, shocked by the incredible size of his member.

Of course, it’s not enough to slow me down or dissuade me from my erotic plans. I start by wrapping my fingers around his giant dick and stroking the living object off, pumping my grip up and down his length a few times and noting the way his body reacts to my movements. The living concept begins to push back against me, rocking his hips in time with my hand as the two of us find a potent rhythm.

We do this for a while, but soon enough I find myself compelled to take things to the next level. Without warning I open wide, slipping the physical manifestation of the War on Christmas’s dick between my lips and getting to work as I service him with equal ferocity.

I match the speed of my previous pumps, falling in time and picking up right where I left off. Meanwhile, I reach up and play with Chris’s hanging balls, only adding to the myriad of sensations that flow through him.

Faster and faster I bob my head across his girthy member, escalating my speed until there’s simply nowhere left to go. At this point I pull back, gasping loudly as a strand of semi-translucent saliva hangs between my lips and the head of Chris’s shaft.

I glance up at him, offering a playful wink before diving back in for more, only this time my technique has shifted.

Instead, of moving up and down, I focus on gracefully pushing the living concept’s rod deeper and deeper into my throat. I somehow manage to relax my gag reflex, taking him all the way down and finally coming to rest when he reaches my absolutely limits. Chris is now fully inserted within my neck, holding in place as he enjoys this incredible deepthroat performance.

I allow the physical manifestation to stay like this for quite a while, only pulling back once I’ve completely run out of air.

“Oh fuck, I love that war on Christmas cock,” I stammer, belligerent with lust. “I need it in my ass.”

With that, I turn around and fall to the ground, pulling off the rest of my clothing and tossing it to the side. I begin to crawl away from this handsome living concept, rocking my hips from side to side as I go. My bare ass tingles as the cool air of this winter afternoon rushes across my skin, only adding to the myriad of sensations that make up this wild erotic moment.

I stop crawling and arch my back, popping my ass out toward the physical manifestation so he can get a good look at me.

“Come on,” I coo playfully. “Teach me the true meaning of Christmas.”

The living concept climbs down into position behind me, aligning his enormous rod at my backdoor and teasing me for a minute. He tests the pressure of my anal seal, pushing against it, then pulling back just moments before the tension breaks. I grind against him, yearning for his penetration.

“Please,” I beg. “I’ve been so good this year.”

Finally, the physical manifestation of the War on Christmas has mercy, driving deep into my asshole and filling me with his enormity.

Despite the fact I’d been begging for his cock, I let out a startled gasp as the living concept slides into me. His massive dick stretches me to the absolute limits, filling me up well beyond anything I’ve ever experienced.

In the hands of some other lover this might be too much to take, but Chris is patient with his movements. The sentient concept holds tight within, allowing my body a moment to adjust to his incredible size. We stay like this, pressed together as my ass slowly begins to relax.

Eventually, the discomfort within me has melted away, replaced instead by a potent feeling of warmth and fullness. The physical manifestation of the war of Christmas begins to push in and out of my body slowly, grinding deep in a series of firm and direct pumps.

“Oh my god,” I groan, closing my eyes tight and biting my lip. “That feels so fucking good.”

“Merry Christmas,” the handsome physical manifestation whispers in my ear as the two of us rock together, gradually building speed.

It’s not long until we’ve found ourselves locked in a confident rhythm, the pleasure swirling between us and passing back and forth in an ever escalating loop. Chris knows exactly where to hit me, his massive rod angled in such a way that it perfectly massages my aching prostate.

I reach down between my legs and grab ahold of my hanging shaft, beating off this swollen rod in time with the War on Christmas’s powerful thrusts. This new sensation only adds to the potent erotic cocktail, creating something entirely new. I’m trembling and quaking now, my body no longer capable of controlling the sensual momentum that builds within.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” I repeat over and over again, the blissed out mantra falling from my lips in a trancelike refrain. With every repetition of the phrase my voice grows louder, until eventually I’m crying out at the top of my lungs. “Oh fuck! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!”

I can feel the first hints of climax bubbling up within me, the orgasmic warmth starting at the pit of my stomach, then spilling out across my arms and legs. I begins to overwhelm my entire frame, a beautiful tightness just waiting for its chance to erupt. With every hammer into my ass this feeling grows, looming larger and larger until finally, at long last, it breaks.

I throw my head back and let out a frantic scream, my voice carrying out across the mall parking lot as I cum hard. How white jizz erupts from the head of my shaft, splattering across the ground in glorious, pearly patterns.

At the while, the physical manifestation of the War on Chirstmas doesn’t let up with his pounds. The living concept hammers away at me with breathtaking confidence, carrying me all the way through my orgasm, then finally diving deep to unleash a torrent of his own milky spunk. I can feel Chris’s cock twitching within, pumping forth his load.

When the living concept finally finishes, he pulls out and collapses next to me, struggling to catch his breath. We stay like this for a moment, basking in our post orgasmic haze before pulling on our clothing once again.

“That was incredible,” I gush.

“It was,” Chris agrees with a nod.

Once then two of us have collected ourselves we head back out to our initial post, standing nearing the mall doors and making sure everything is exactly as it should be.

Now that my emotions have settled, I feel as though I can look at Chris in a way that is far less sensationalized. I’m seeing him clearly for the first time, and while this moment is a treat for most lovers, I can’t help but feel like something is off.

I’d expected to be even stronger in my convictions to save Christmas, but this post orgasmic clarity has me gazing out at the holiday scene with a newfound calmness. Everyone here is happy, regardless of what holiday they want to celebrate. Hell, some of them are probably just here to do a little shopping and don’t give a damn about the winter season around them.

That’s not an attack on my love of Christmas, it’s an expression of individual freedom.

I glance over at Chris’s television screen head, noticing that his display now shows a harrowing vision of burning Christmas trees. It’s quite the sight, but as I look back and forth between the images on his screen and the real-life tree lot before us, I can’t help but notice an obvious disconnect.

This physical manifestation of the War on Christmas doesn’t seem to represent objective reality… at all.

“Oh, whoa,” I stammer, shaking my head as though I’m literally clearing out the cobwebs. “What was I thinking?”

“Huh?” Chris replies, not really paying attention.

“Nevermind,” I offer. “I’m gonna go.”

The physical manifestation glances over at me. “What about the war?!”

“I’m… not really worried about it anymore,” I admit.

Before Chris has a chance to protest I start walking, strolling away and not looking back.

On the way back to my car I pass a family heading in the opposite direction, smiling warmly as they enjoy the season.

“Happy holidays!” I offer with a smile and a nod.

“Happy holidays,” they reply in turn.