Many thanks to Xenia over on Discord for this idea 😅 sorry for the tiny text - it isn't easy fitting a transformation and two murders into a single caption!
Just wanted to wish you all a very lovely Christmas season. Hope you all have a lovely weekend and get everything you want on Sunday 🎅🎅🎅
Also the bizarre thing is 'Mrsclausetransformation' is an already existing tag on deviantart 😅
--------------------------------------------------------
“Pst! Bro, wake up!”
My brother, Scott, is shaking me awake. “Huh? What’s up? Is it Christmas already?”
“There’s someone on the roof. Get your gun.”
Quick as I flash, I jump out of bed, pull a coat over my pajamas, grab the shotgun and race outside. Sure enough, someone is clambering over our roof. It's a fat guy, a drunk for sure judging by the sherry on him that we can smell all the way from the ground. Then, believe it or not, another pops her head up! A woman, tight little body on her too, platinum blonde curls framing the sweetest pair of tits you ever saw, as she hauls a sack of no-doubt stolen goods over one shoulder!
“Hey, asshole, get down from there!” my brother yells.
The fat man startles, arms windmilling. There arises such a clatter, roof tiles shattering as he careens down the snow-covered roof, landing with a horrifying crunch and... vanishing. A fur-lined cloak, black boots and red trousers lie empty in the snow in the outline of a man.
The woman flies at me. And I mean literally flies. I level the shotgun and fire. I swear I hit her with both barrels but… she’s gone. Just a poof of snow and glitter, and a woman’s red thong fluttering down through the air to land at my feet.
I tap the empty black boot with my foot. There’s nothing in there. No body. No blood.
“What are we gonna tell the cops,” my brother stammers, shaking from shock as much as the snowy night.
“We don’t tell them anything. This never happened.” I’m already wiping down the gun for prints. “Go back to bed. I’ll take care of this.”
As I burn the clothing in the fireplace, a card tumbles from one pocket. ‘If something should happen to me, put on my suit. The reindeer will know what to do.’ I crumple it into a ball and toss it in the fire.
Rationalizing it away proves easier without a body to show for it. In the morning, we put it down to too much mulled wine or a bad dream. Food poisoning maybe - an undigested bit of beef, a fragment of an underdone potato. Indeed only one scrap of evidence suggested it had taken place at all - as I got out of bed that morning, I looked down to find I was wearing the red underwear. The thong was wedged deep in my hairy ass, my dick making a banana hammock of the front. I swear I’d burnt it with the rest but I burn it again just to be sure.
We try to forget about it but, all year, I see it weighing on Scott. The guilt ages him prematurely, turning his hair as white as the snow. He stops taking care of himself, stops shaving, and has a thick, curly beard to show for it. He comfort eats too, sweet pies and biscuits that go straight to his belly, which jiggles like a bowl full of jelly whenever he’s merry, which is often with the way he's hitting the bottle. I try to keep his sherry intake below a gallon a day, and take care of him and the house as best as I can. Some days I feel more like his housewife than his brother.
Not that the new physique looks bad on him. Sure, he’s aged like 40 years, but like a fine wine. The way he moves… mmh. Perfection. I never thought the dadbod would do it for me, or any manbod for that matter, but something about his granddad bod just gets me so wet - uh, I mean hard.
As for how my year went, I feel like I’m losing my mind. That red thong I destroyed… every morning I wake to find myself wearing it, no matter how thoroughly I dispose of or destroy it. My psychiatrist, Dr Elfman, tells me suggests I must be slipping into them in my sleep, that it’s a closeted, subconscious cry for womanhood. He diagnoses me as trans, prescribed me pills, and who am I to argue? I’m crazy. I'm practically drooling over obese men thrice my age, wanting to run my fingers through their bushy beard. That just aint normal, said my girlfriend before she dumped me.
The pills don'tt do much at first. Just mood swings and sore nipples. At the psychiatrist's urging, I start shaving my body, even wearing feminine clothes. I throw out my wardrobe and buy it anew - scarlet silk nighties, frilly crimson panties snug against my withered dick, and fur-lined cherry-red stockings that just feel so right as they slide up my shaved legs. Somehow it all just feels... right.
But around December, the pills really kick in. I lose a lot of weight, muscle mass mostly, and my body hair falls out. One day it’s just as if my beard, which I’d been clinging onto as the last thread of my masculinity, turns to snow and blows away. I run a hand over my smooth jaw and cherry-red lips. On the flipside, Scott seems to acquire everything I lose, his figure and beard swelling majestically.
I develop food cravings. I can eat as many mince pies as I like and not get fat, though the calories certainly go to all the right places. I go through two new bras every week keeping up with the swelling in my glorious new titties. The more candy I eat, the bigger they grow. I love playing with them and the thought of enhancing them even more occupied my thoughts. I started dropping hints for potential Christmas presents - two nice big silicone presents specifically - flaunting them in the lowest cut tops for everyone.
And my ass. My ass is a glorious peach peaking out from beneath my short vermillion skirts.
On the night of Christmas Eve, I rest my curly blonde head (my male pattern baldness had really cleared up over the year) down to sleep, dreaming of the implants I hope to find under the christmas tree in the morning.
“Psst! Sweetie, wake up!”
My brother is shaking me awake. I roll over to find his enticingly rotund form over me. “Mhh, are you coming down my chimney tonight, baby?” I moan, half-asleep, spreading my plump thighs eagerly. How could I resist those eyes - my how they twinkle! And his dimples, how merry! His cheeks are like roses, I wish he'd pop my-
“There’s someone on the roof. Get your gun,” he hisses.
There are nine someones on our roof as we burst out the front door waving guns. Nine reindeer staring down at us expectantly.