Chanukah celebrates a Jewish military victory, but more importantly, our resistance to cultural obliteration. In modern times, it brings many of us joy to gather with goyishe friends and share in each other's wintertime festivities. That being said—it was surreal and vexing to be imposed upon by someone akin to Grandfather Frost or Santa. Josefina and I had had these eight days set aside for each other all year. The resentment was still bubbling up in quiet moments like this one. I acknowledged it. Then let it go.

I hazarded the small extravagance of using my demonic energy to boil water for coffee, and set to work grinding and measuring beans for the French press.

"I'm curious," I called back to the living room, "how much did ol' Assface tell you about me?"

"What's to tell?" she replied. "He said you were handsome, good in bed, and nearly indestructible. All good qualities in a man."

As much as I knew how Yub-Shnagshoroth knew things—that scrying bowl, the one he used to keep tabs on Earth's timeline—I still couldn't get over the casual confidence with which he asserted things, sight unseen. For example my being good in bed.

"Not untrue," I said as I filled the chamber with water heated to a precise 88°C, "but there's something else you should probably know. I'm a shapeshifter. And while I am a man, I wasn't born with the same parts your Leppaludi might have. Do you... understand what I mean?"

"Yes," said Grýla, rather flatly. "You're like that scoundrel Loki. You can choose to have a kuk or a fitte."

"Basically, yes." I finished pressing and set aside the rig to rinse out later. When I came back in, the giantess had a raptor's smile and her tits fully out. I definitely felt something stirring in me.

"You have something else that's far more important to me than your face or your kuk. You have nerve. Most humans would see my body and run screaming. You're standing there looking right at me, with interest."

I chuckled to myself as I approached her and got down onto my knees at the edge of the mattress.

"Didn't he tell you? That was the very first qualification: I fuck monsters. In fact"—and here a quartet of rubbery brown octopus arms erupted from the white button-down, ripping it to pieces and sending a half dozen wooden buttons skittering across the room—"as a demi-shoggoth, fucking other monsters is a special treat."

It was a power move, one that Josefina had suggested I lead with when I wanted to make a dramatic impression. I'd set aside a little fund for new linen. Every so often, she and I would gather the salvaged buttons, bust out Bubbe's old Singer, and make some new shirts.

"You see—oh, can you sit up just a little?"

I reached out two of those long sucker-clad arms, and slid them under Grýla's rolls of flesh, simultaneously tipping up her chin slightly with my human left hand.

"—with humans, I'm usually holding back."

Our faces were rather mismatched in size, so I planted my kiss square in the middle of her lower lip. French was out of the question; I just let it linger, while my finger ran slowly down her neck and onto her shoulder.

Our faces only inches apart, she nearly whispered her reply: "No need for that."

I got a grip on her hair, and tipped her head the rest of the way back so I could neck her. Ah, yes, there you are. I felt her across the empathic skin-to-skin connection, albeit faintly. A curious presence. Hunger mingled with little drips of relief.

Her skin was tough, but her nerves, sensitive. Silently she mouthed the word, "ja," repeatedly as I trailed kisses and bites down to her collarbone, then her left breast. 

As I crouched there straddling her torso, fondling her, I felt a sudden bulge in my boxer briefs. The space dick, as I called my demonmade cock, would sometimes appear on instinct. But this one was extra-large. I had to wrest it free before it needlessly destroyed another article of clothing.

Grýla, a bit startled, reached out with calloused fingers to get a better feel for what was poking her belly. She seemed not to believe her senses.

"Faen. You really are a monster." She reached out to gather her enormous tits, which were trying to slip under me or sag onto the mattress, and pressed them forward and together.

"Of course," she continued, "it's what you do with it. And Leppaludi does nothing, all day and all night. You ever stick your pikk in a pair of pupps?"

"Not on this scale." I smiled despite myself at the absurdity of it all as I produced a tentacle pod, and wrung out lubricating slime that splashed over her tits and ran down her cleavage.

It ran off onto her neck, down the sides of her belly, and onto my crotch while I shimmied into position. With long, unhurried strokes, I stuffed myself between the giantess's breasts while she shut her eyes beatifically. The caress of her soft skin had my full attention at first. Then, I spared a thought to send one of my sucker-clad arms down her pants to graze her bits. Rubbing there yielded the first of several surprises that night: a seductive melody of pleasured moans and sighs. Pitched, seemingly improvised, flawless, and across at least a two octave range.

I'll tell you two things about the monsters of Spitzbergen. First, they get freaky in their caves up there, and second they've got some serious pipes on them. In singsong, Grýla was absolutely mellifluous.

"Faen," she cried, "I don't know what you're doing to my fitte, but keep doing it." 

As a queer man, I'll admit, I've never taken titfucking all that seriously. I hated having it done to me as a teenager with barely sufficient boobs; I certainly had no grievance when HRT made my chest far too small to bottom the activity. But after Josefina's recent breast augmentation, I discovered topping it can be goofy fun. With Grýla's absurd knockers, and me with the extra-large space dick and a tentacle slithering into her cunt, it was doubly absurd and still pretty damn fun.

So when the giantess's eyes went as wide as a pair of softballs, and she began to cry out in enraptured soprano and dribble wetness from between her legs, I was already rather invested; and I was a bit bummed when she said she needed a few minutes' intermission.

"Creation," she said, winded, her voice assuming its usual old-as-the-hills timbre. "I could do that a dozen times. How about you, Blekksprutgutt?"

"I'm sorry, what?" I was standing over the mattress now, stretching out my limbs.

"It means, ah... Octopus Boy."

"I love it. Can I grab you some water before we go again?"

We didn't spend the whole night titfucking, but we went again a couple times, each time trying something slightly different. Me facing away, towards her feet, while she teased my asshole with a wetted fingertip; her looming over me while I sat at the couch, as I treated her to a reacharound with octopus and squid tentacles. When I slid my eager cock against her, the tip nearly reached her chin.

Her proportions were such that that didn’t seem quite possible. But she could roll out her tongue like a red carpet to greet it, like nobody I'd ever met, save perhaps my mentor Kaesalpinnix with their bear snout.

Grýla tongue was soft and slick and warm. And it had a little canker-like bump that I could distinctly feel as it grazed my tip, slid past the tender bit of flesh that lovingly recreated circumcision scars of some of my partners, and halfway down the shaft.

Oh, fuck.

I looked into her eyes, which were nearly level with mine despite her kneeling position. They spoke volumes, on top of what I could already feel from her empathically: thrill, delight, and an aching desire to take things further.

“Grýla, I…”

“You want me to suck? I can tell, you're curious. This maw has swallowed baby seals whole, it is quite tough." 

I grabbed my dick with both hands. Not so much to beat it off as to try and gain control of what it was trying to do. The giantess looked untroubled. Me, not so much.

"You're thinking about it right now, aren't you. How much of it could pass my lips before you're shoving my uvula aside and sliding into my... heh." 

Oh. Oh shit, here we go. She stuck her tongue back out expectantly as the first spasm rippled through me.

“Shit!”

Warm cum, made sticky and briny and masculine by years of HRT, surged through my demon plumbing and erupted. Some of it hit her chin and tongue, some of it plastered the faint bit of peach fuzz above her upper lip, and some of it hit her neck and ran onto her chest. The rest dribbled down my cock and balls and left hand.

Grýla smiled from ear to ear, and she hummed a little ditty in that absurdly melodious singsong voice, as she wiped the jizz around and into her skin. “This stuff’s marvelous for my wrinkles, you know.”

I somehow doubted my cum was the reason, but actually, after going a few rounds, the giantess did look a bit younger. She was still a tubby 9-foot troll with warts. But her skin was a bit more like leather, and a bit less like tree bark. And her head didn’t hunch over quite so low.

“I’m, uh, glad you don’t mind,” I said. “I try to ask folks first if they want it, and where.”

“Relax, my little Blekksprutgutt. You’re doing fine. If I could get my Leppaludi to do a quarter of what you do, I would never leave the mountains. I'd say fuck it, let's be fat lazy sex pigs together. Let my boys handle Yule by themselves, they’re old enough.”