There came a night when Amanda Harper finally suffered that personality split which had been so long threatened by her rather odd psyche. But rather than all three personalities fighting for control, or walking out onto the street to orchestrate a revolution, leading to her inevitable advancement to the title of Empress of Mankind. They instead decided to each write a letter to Satan Claws. These are the transcripts of those letters, which have been preserved as a terrible warning to the future.
(Satan Claws, for those without a true understand of how our world works, is a six-foot tall anthropomorphic vixen. She took over responsibility from Santa Claus for rewarding the transgirls, futagirls, and kinky people of the world for being very, very naughty about 20 years ago. Frankly Santa needed the help, after the centuries of trying to make sense of what the less vanilla parts of society considered naughty or nice in the end caused him to have a minor nervous breakdown.)
Letter 1: Slavegirl Amanda.
Dear Satan Claws,
I’ve been a very good girl this year. I did all my chores with a minimum of grumbling, and I only told my Mistress that she “hits like a girl!” a few dozen times. I’ve made sure to dress in lots of short skirts, tight tops, and lots of very heavy, skanky eye make-up, just to make my Mistress happy, of course. I’ve done my best to be obedient, polite, charming, and appropriately slutty. And I like to think I’ve made my Mistress proud of me. Apart maybe from when I dressed up in that onesy, and insisted on calling her “Mommy.” But I think the spanking I got from her more than wipes out any naughtiness from that situation.
In short I’ve been a really good slavegirl, and I think I deserve a reward.
So for XXX-Mas I’d like a shiny new steel slave collar, because Vanilla Amanda may have eaten too much chocolate this year, and she’s made my old one just a little snug. I’d like a pretty new corset to wear for my Mistress, to make her smile. I’d also like a new tattoo somewhere on my body. And if you could have a word with the kinky-stork I’d like my Mistress Carnelian to find a pretty, submissive, obedient, and not completely sex obsessed slaveboy to make her happier. Though admittedly the last one might be a bit of a stretch in Ireland, even for you.
Thank you in advance,
P.S. I’ll make sure to leave out a snort of that latex flavoured vodka you liked so much last year, and the customary extra strong condoms for you to use with the ponyboys, and ponygirls who pull your sleigh when you’ve finished work.
Letter 2: Miss Amanda.
With respects to, and for the attention of Satan Claws,
Right, I know that snivelling wretch Slavegirl Amanda already sent you a letter, and that since we inhabit the same body we’re only getting one present. So you can just ignore her. Come on we’re both dominas here. We both know how the world works. We get the goodies, and the pets get to play with them if we’re ever done.
Now I’ve been a very naughty lesbian domina this year. I spent the Summer making lots of men walk face first into lampposts by wearing low-cut tops, and the good type of slutty make-up. I purposely replied to only the first message, and then completely ignored hundreds of return online messages from men on dating websites, thus adding immeasurably to the average level of male frustration in the world. I wrote some pretty good extreme BDSM erotica (see attached file). I didn’t pine over every single submissive woman I met on the street, I only pined after the one of those this year. I made sure I was ravishing, and worshipable whenever I left the house. And most importantly I was a viciously protective force of nature for any and all submissives who needed me to be.
So let’s be clear on this, I was the good type of naughty. I deserve that my demands met. So make sure they are, or it’ll be your furry arse over my knee, and I won’t use any of the gentle stuff on it.
1: I want you to stop Vanilla Amanda from eating all the chocolate on Earth. Seriously, just stop her, I want to have a definable a waistline again.
2: I want a thrice goddess damned little one of my own to possess, and lovingly abuse. This BDSM drought better damn well stop, or there’s gonna be trouble.
3: Leather. Lots, of, leather!
4: A futagirl of my own. That bastard Dimitrys has filled my mind with his characters Peach and Meryl for years now, and now I want one of my own. Come on fair’s fair. I could easily point one out to you. if you need a hint of what I like…
5: I demand that Slavegirl Amanda be moved to a more appropriate body, ie any other body. Her whining worry about Mistress Carnelian is really getting on my tits.
6: Oh, failing that could you just give her Mistress Carnelian that slaveboy. It’d make her smile, and Slavegirl Amanda considerably less annoying.
Thank you in advance,
P.S. I hope you found a good use for the Deep Heat coated cactus I left out for you last year. But of course if you don’t bring me what I want this year, well, I’m sure that you know where you can shove it.
Letter 3: Vanilla Amanda.
My dearest Satan Claws,
I’m not going to try and pretend that I’ve been good or bad naughty this year. I know that there’s no damn use trying to convince you, not with that system of surveillance satellites you have in orbit. Or with the way you have every futagirl’s phone tapped, email hacked, and snail-mail preread. Or for that matter when I know for a fact that you’ve had GPS tracking devices secretly installed somewhere in all of our bodies. No I’ll just say that this year I was me, but good and hard.
I’m not going to ask for physical gifts. I have everything I want. But what I would like to ask for is to not be known as Vanilla Amanda anymore. I’m not frikkin’ vanilla. For frik sake, I’m a male-to-hermaphrodite dominant, who chooses to submit. How goddess damned vanilla could I actually be? Even the most vanilla parts of my personality demand to be clothed in designer leather, and latex. So could you please, please tell those other two pains that share my mind to stop calling me Vanilla? After all chocolate is far more my flavour.
So that’s all I want, although if you were to…insist on giving a reward to me I’d love that tattoo Slavegirl Amanda mentioned. The futagirl Miss Amanda mentioned would be welcomed with open leg…well anyway, and seriously our Mistress Carnelian could really use an actually good slaveboy.
Amanda, not Vanilla Amanda, just plain ole Amanda.
P.S. I’d watch out for that vodka the Slavegirl’s planning to leave out for you. She has lustful, calculating look on her face the whole time. So I’m pretty sure she’s been slipping roofies into it.
Satan Claws looked up from the trio of letters on her desk and rolled her eyes. “Every damned year!” standing up off of the slaveboy who had been providing the service of being her seat, she grabbed her leather great-coat, and headed for the door. “Oi Claus you fat, bearded bastard. Letters on my desk, you can deal with them this year you git. I’ve had enough of that weirdo, I’m going for a drink.”