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adventdrabblesTitle: Blanche's Yearly Present
Fandom: Golden Girls
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: George/Blanche, Santa/Blanche
Rating: R/M
Summary: Blanche gives herself a gift every year.
Word Count: 587
Written For: Advent Drabbles: Day 4: Puppiessitting on Santa's lap
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
Blanche moaned lustfully as she leaned across Santa's lap, rubbing her bare breasts against the genuine, red velvet of her latest beau's costume. The girls would never understand. They had never understood and always teased her about the way she fantasized about Santa, but they couldn't understand. No matter how much they loved her, they could never truly begin to understand the life she had led, or the passion that consumed, or how dreadfully, desperately much she always missed her beloved, cherished George.
Nor could they begin to understand how he had chased her around the Christmas tree every year or how he had looked so utterly delectable the first time he had ever dressed as Santa for the neighborhood kids. He had been the tallest boy, and when all the adults had fallen sick that year, he had been the only one left to dress as the jolly, old Elf. He had been jolly, but there certainly had been nothing that had appeared as old in or on him that holiday. Of course, Blanche reflected, she had never seen George particularly look old. He had never looked old. He had always been just as handsome as he had been when she'd first laid eyes on him, all the way to the day he'd died on her.
And she had been so lost ever since then, far more lost than any little girl on Christmas without candy or a man in her stocking, or a Santa to bring her presents, or anything else. She had felt so barren for so many years after his death, and if the truth were known, deep down, she still did. That was why she abhorred being single so greatly and why she had a different man, or even men, in her room every holiday, sometimes almost every night. No man could compare to her darling George.
But there was one night a year she could pretend far more than any others, and as she twisted her not-as-nubile-as-it-had-once-been body into different shapes around Santa's lap, teasing his knees and groin and everything in between with her luscious puppies, barren but for a single strand of fuzzy tinsel, Blanche did just that. She shut her eyes, and the years fell away. The deaths fell away. George wasn't gone. He was there with her very much alive. Of course, her rational mind knew that if she plucked the white beard and the Santa clothes off of her date, she wouldn't find her husband. She wouldn't find her husband until she got to go home to Heaven. So she didn't.
She didn't undress him. She didn't even think about undressing him, or consider the man beneath the robes. She thought only of Santa, and of George as that Santa, as her Santa. He had always been the greatest gift she'd ever received and, she knew, ever would. He had been her husband, the one great, true love of her life, the only man who had ever and could ever appease her and keep her happy in all ways.
She moaned his name as she rubbed herself against Santa's lap, and true to his word, her latest doctor didn't question her. He didn't protest that she called out another man's name. He said nothing, not a word, but gave her the greatest gift he could, letting her pretend for one night that her husband was not gone, she was not old, she was not a widow, and George and their love were very, very much alive.
The End
Fandom: Golden Girls
Author: Apache Firecat
Characters: George/Blanche, Santa/Blanche
Rating: R/M
Summary: Blanche gives herself a gift every year.
Word Count: 587
Written For: Advent Drabbles: Day 4: Puppies
Disclaimer: All characters within belong to their rightful owners, not the author, and are used without permission.
Blanche moaned lustfully as she leaned across Santa's lap, rubbing her bare breasts against the genuine, red velvet of her latest beau's costume. The girls would never understand. They had never understood and always teased her about the way she fantasized about Santa, but they couldn't understand. No matter how much they loved her, they could never truly begin to understand the life she had led, or the passion that consumed, or how dreadfully, desperately much she always missed her beloved, cherished George.
Nor could they begin to understand how he had chased her around the Christmas tree every year or how he had looked so utterly delectable the first time he had ever dressed as Santa for the neighborhood kids. He had been the tallest boy, and when all the adults had fallen sick that year, he had been the only one left to dress as the jolly, old Elf. He had been jolly, but there certainly had been nothing that had appeared as old in or on him that holiday. Of course, Blanche reflected, she had never seen George particularly look old. He had never looked old. He had always been just as handsome as he had been when she'd first laid eyes on him, all the way to the day he'd died on her.
And she had been so lost ever since then, far more lost than any little girl on Christmas without candy or a man in her stocking, or a Santa to bring her presents, or anything else. She had felt so barren for so many years after his death, and if the truth were known, deep down, she still did. That was why she abhorred being single so greatly and why she had a different man, or even men, in her room every holiday, sometimes almost every night. No man could compare to her darling George.
But there was one night a year she could pretend far more than any others, and as she twisted her not-as-nubile-as-it-had-once-been body into different shapes around Santa's lap, teasing his knees and groin and everything in between with her luscious puppies, barren but for a single strand of fuzzy tinsel, Blanche did just that. She shut her eyes, and the years fell away. The deaths fell away. George wasn't gone. He was there with her very much alive. Of course, her rational mind knew that if she plucked the white beard and the Santa clothes off of her date, she wouldn't find her husband. She wouldn't find her husband until she got to go home to Heaven. So she didn't.
She didn't undress him. She didn't even think about undressing him, or consider the man beneath the robes. She thought only of Santa, and of George as that Santa, as her Santa. He had always been the greatest gift she'd ever received and, she knew, ever would. He had been her husband, the one great, true love of her life, the only man who had ever and could ever appease her and keep her happy in all ways.
She moaned his name as she rubbed herself against Santa's lap, and true to his word, her latest doctor didn't question her. He didn't protest that she called out another man's name. He said nothing, not a word, but gave her the greatest gift he could, letting her pretend for one night that her husband was not gone, she was not old, she was not a widow, and George and their love were very, very much alive.
The End
