Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Elf on the Shelf (Patreon)

My Dearest Sister:

I am informed that it is customary to extend “season’s greetings” to one’s family. For reasons unfathomable to me (or indeed to any elf), a simple sending does not constitute an acceptable mode of communication for this purpose. I therefore hope you will accept this large, glitter-encrusted scroll depicting two anthropomorphic reindeer ice skating. Their noses have been enchanted to light up. Again, I am told this is customary.

In point of fact, there appears to be a great deal of tradition surrounding the Yule season. While I have been abroad in the human lands for some years now, and have experienced divers winter festivals in the course of my Olarin, it would seem that a single elf abroad in the world misses out on many such experiences. Only now, having joined in wedded bliss with my beloved Thief, do I begin to glimpse the broader meaning of the season. And my sister? That meaning is unconstrained carnality. Trust me when I say that Yule is a far more licentious affair than we outsiders give it credit for.

For example, the tradition of mistletoe — as it was related to me — is for any two persons who happen to find themselves standing directly beneath the parasitic shrub to engage in wanton displays of public affection. When I attempted to reassure Thief of my intent to be wary of any such plantlife, thus preserving our mutual decorum, she produced a sprig of the stuff from her pouch. Then, holding it above our heads, she demanded that I participate in the expected spectacle then and there in the market square! I stammered, blushed prettily, and made such protests as I thought fitting. My beloved brushed them all aside. And what is more, once the deed was done, none of the passersby in the street paid us any mind. In fact, I spotted several additional specimens of mistletoe used as decoration, tied with red ribbon and hung above doors and archways all about town. Standing beneath them were lovers both young and old engaged in the most shameless liplocks. None seemed to see anything amiss in the practice.

It would seem to me that we are too prudish and restrained in the Heart Grove. The Yule celebrants of Plotsville were completely at home with their public canoodling. It was then that I resolved to get properly into the spirit of the holiday. I even think I managed to beat Thief at her own game.

There is a euphemism common to the season: “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire.” It does not take a great scholar to divine the meaning. Nevertheless, Thief seemed taken aback that I had managed to guess the custom without her assistance. Let me assure you, my Sister, that it is a perfectly divine sensation letting one’s “chestnuts” dangle free before a roaring hearth on a snowy day. The King’s Arms never seemed so cozy.

The stockings too were an unexpectedly titillating undertaking. And again, I believe that I got the better of my beloved. Thief explained to me that decorating one’s stockings is a favorite pastime of the season.

“You personalize them,” she explained. “Most people use fur trim or glass beads. Mine is going to have my name on it.”

I knew immediately that I could improve upon the design. When we returned from our respective workshops some hours later, I was eager to showcase my handywork. Into the silk I had worked runes of passion and grace. The former clearly caught and held her regard, while the latter leant an otherworldly glide to my natural gait. The sheer fabric had been scented with notes of cinnamon and chocolate, and the very weave of the threads spelled our own words for “love,” “conjugal harmony,” and “maybe butt stuff?” I fear I may have overdone it though, as Thief returned to her old bashful ways, refusing to show her handiwork in turn.

Complaining of the heat in our chambers, she suggested we take a walk out under the open sky. There was some talk of building an effigy from snow, and at first I could not divine the reason why Thief wished to participate in a casting of simulacrum. It was only when we cut into a secluded horse pasture that I understood.

“We are going to make snow angels,” she explained. “That should cool things down a bit.”  But she got no further in her unraveling of this particular euphemism. For lying there in the snow, apparently benefitting from the protections of an endure elements spell, was… On second thought, I had better not commit this to paper. Speaking in my ambassadorial role, I should hate to risk a scandal. Suffice it to say that a certain person of high rank within Elf Princess’s court had already beaten us to the spot, apparently waiting for a romantic rendezvous of her own.

Thwarted in our latest hedonistic escapades, we returned once again for home. By the flush of her cheek, the cool of the evening had done nothing at all to soothe my beloved. She still complained of the heat in our chambers, and I began to worry that she had contracted some minor fever. Putting a brave face on her apparent discomfort, she resolved to carry on with the holiday, proclaiming her intention of giving me the “full traditional experience.” Perhaps you will understand when you are wed, but I was very nearly panting in anticipation at this announcement!

The next activity was the traditional exchange of gifts, and I had been given to understand that “toys” were the most common option. Suffice it to say that I had taken pains to add to Thief’s already impressive collection. Once the colorful paper had been torn away and the bows undone, it was clear at once that I had chosen well. For no sooner had Thief unwrapped her presents than she introduced me to a final tradition. Propriety forbids that I describe the exact mechanics of “Elf on the Shelf,” but I only hope that you find such joy in your holiday season.

Happy Yule to you, Aristocrat! Your affectionate (and very satisfied) elder sister,

—Wizard