by Thomas Roche
(12/17/03)

Traveling during the holidays -- it's a bitch. When I called from Phoenix to tell you there was another delay, that I wouldn't be home until two in the morning, I could positively see you pouting. "I'd hoped we could have a little Christmas fun," you told me.

"Tomorrow," I said. "Tomorrow's Christmas. We'll sleep in and open our presents whenever we feel like it."

"I was hoping you'd open your present tonight," you said with a rich sense of mischief in your voice. "I think you're going to like it."

"Tomorrow morning," I said.

My car is freezing cold after a week in long-term parking. The long bus ride out to the distant lot seems to take forever, and it's more like 3:00 when I finally pull into the driveway. I shouldn't be surprised to see milk and cookies waiting for me in the living room, laid out on the little end table near the chimney. But I am surprised to see, suddenly, what you had in mind for Christmas Fun.

I should have figured it out when the package came from Costume Mart. "Is that my present?" I'd asked naughtily. "It's a present," you'd said. "But not for you."

"Who, then?"

"You'll find out on Christmas Eve."

And now I know what you bought for me: a furry red Santa suit, complete with a big black belt and fur-trimmed cap, laid out on the sofa. I eye it suspiciously as I take a cookie from the plate, have a sip of milk rendered icy by December's chill. There's a note on the table in your handwriting, in glittery red-gel ink:

"More treats in the bedroom, Santa."

In case I hadn't figured it out yet, I now know: you are the biggest pervert in the world.

I tiptoe down the hall and find the bedroom door open. You've left the bedside lamp on, but you're quite asleep -- snoring softly, but still dressed for the occasion, illuminated in the soft light with a dirty paperback propped open, the spine broken, next to you on the bed. I have no idea where one buys green stockings, green high heels, and a sparkling green garter belt with a matching G-string, not to mention a green push-up bra. The elf cap, of course, is strictly dime-store fare, but it's slipped off your head and lays forgotten next to the dirty book. The metallic green lipgloss is from the dime store, too, from the way it's gotten smeared across your face as you drooled in your sleep. It gives you a vague sickly look, but despite that I have to admit that it does complete the costume nicely. "The Carol of the Bells" plays softly on the clock radio next to the bed.

I say your name, but you don't stir. I guess you couldn't wait for Santa to finish his rounds. I tiptoe back to the living room.

Exhausted as I am after almost twelve hours of traveling, I'm not going to let you miss out on your Christmas Eve fantasy. After all, it's the elves' night off, and Santa's got a present for your stocking, hardening quickly as I strip myself out of my jeans and underwear. I leave my clothes scattered across the living room and climb into the furry pants without underwear, feeling my hard cock rub on the soft fabric. I button the jacket over my sweater and sit down on the sofa to pull on the knee-high black boots, shimmering PVC -- you thought of everything, but I'd bet you didn't get these boots at Costume Mart.

I'm so distracted by the costume, in fact, that I don't even notice the shreds of red paper littered around the Christmas tree. The box I so carefully wrapped is torn open, and the present I bought you is gone. Before I put the boots on, I tiptoe back down the hall and peer into the bedroom again -- and see you definitely didn't wait for Santa to finish his rounds. The vibrator I bought you lies next to the bed, its cord snaking to the power strip in the corner.

I go back to the living room and don the boots. Down the hall for the third time, I don't tiptoe; my boots make a heavy rhythmic pulse against the hardwood. Nearing the bedroom, I unbuckle the three-inch thick leather belt and slip it out of the belt loops.

The clock radio is playing "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," a maudlin version from some fourth-rate '60s pop singer. Santa is positively sick of Christmas carols.

Your eyes pop open and you look at me bewildered for a moment.

You smile.

"Merry Christmas, Santa," you say. Then your eyes flicker down to the thick belt in my hands. You see the stern look on my face.

"You've been a very naughty elf," I tell you.

I see the shiver go through you -- a familiar sight in late December, but this isn't a shiver of cold; though the living room's freezing, the vents in the bedroom are open and the small, plushly-furnished room is warm enough to cook a goose. I kick the door closed behind me to hold in the warmth and start toward the bed.

"Sorry, Santa," you say naughtily. "An elf gets horny waiting for her Master to get back to the North Pole."

"I've got your North Pole right here," I tell you. I sit on the side of the bed and reach for your sleepy mop of blonde hair, pulling you over my knee. The light from the bedside lamp flickers across your hair and I see you've even dyed the tips green. That makes me pull harder, wrestle you into position with greater urgency.

You yelp, but don't resist; on the contrary, you slide smoothly into your proper position, stretched across my lap with your ass in the air, the tiny strap of your sparkly silver G-string the only thing covering your perfect ass.

"Naughty elf." I bring the belt down across your upper thighs. You whimper and squirm with dismay, but obediently push your elf ass up toward me. I strap you harder, and the shudder through your body is stronger this time. You wriggle your ass back and forth and spread your legs a little, your green high-heeled shoes carelessly kicking the pillows off the bed.

"I'm sorry, Santa," you mewl rapturously. "I promise I didn't let myself come!"

I transfer the belt to my left hand and slide my ice-cold hand between your legs, easing them under the soaked crotch of the G-string so I can feel your pussy. You gasp as two of my freezing fingers open your cunt and feel the trickle of hot moisture oozing out.

"You got yourself good and wet, though, didn't you?"

"All ready for Santa," you say with a husky exigency. "Is he nice and horny after visiting all those children?"

The second that saucy line is out of your mouth, I'm back on you, the heavy belt rising and falling rapidly as you writhe in my lap. Little cries of dismay erupt from your green-glossed lips as you clutch at my thighs and rub your breasts against my steadily hardening cock. I redden your bottom until it contrasts just the way I like it with the green garters and the green lace tops of your stockings. Then I reach down and pick up the new vibrator from where it lays on the floor.

"Show Santa how you got yourself in trouble," I growl, seizing your hand and wrapping it around the vibrator's handle.

I click the vibrator on to HIGH, knowing full well that you likely would prefer the low setting.

But you don't hesitate. Obediently, you reach down with your green-nailed fingers and pluck your G-string out of the way, pressing the head of the vibe to your clit. You shriek immediately, but when you try to pull away I grab your hand and force the vibrator more firmly against your clit which makes you shudder all over and lose your grip on the crotch of your G-string. I thoughtfully yank it up painfully, then bend down and seize the strap between my teeth. It's cheap fabric; it tears without a sound and the soaked triangle of fabric falls useless between your thighs, exposing your pussy.

"Show Santa what you did," I grate. "Show Santa how you've been naughty. While I tan your elf ass."

You press the vibrator even harder against your clit, bending your knees so you can lift your ass high into the air and show me everything. I raise my hand and bring the belt down across your elfin ass once again, harder this time. You squeal and I grab your hair, moulding your body, pushing you back onto the bed until you're doubled over, ass still exposed but face in my crotch. You've got one free hand, and you put it to good use, unbuttoning the fly of the cheap costume and reaching in for my cock.

You find it, unfettered by underwear, and in an instant you've got it in your mouth, even as I strap you harder. You take my cock in your mouth and moan softly, a muffled sound of pleasure as you mount toward orgasm, the vibrator's hum rhythmically stifled by the press of your clit against the head. You wrap your fingers around the shaft of my cock to steady it as you bob up and down, your eyes turned up toward me to make sure Santa likes what you're doing.

Half of me expects to see green contact lenses hovering in your eyes, but when I don't, I bring the belt down swiftly and your head bobs faster. I can tell you're close to coming; your tongue strokes up and down my shaft, going crazy, unfocused and confused as your coordination is assaulted by the approach of your orgasm. A swift blow with the belt across your upper thighs brings your focus back, and you suck my cock expertly as your ass, pushed so high your back must hurt, humps back desperately onto the vibrator.

You can't keep sucking me when you finally come; my cock pops free of your mouth and your lips part wide in a big "O" as a thunderous moan explodes from deep inside you. You keep stroking, though, your hand clutching the shaft of my cock as I strap you across the ass unexpectedly, which only serves to heighten your orgasm. When the first stream of come explodes from my cock, it hits you squarely across the face, and you quickly forgo the rest of your moan in favor of a muffled gulping sound as you clamp your lips around my cockhead. You keep stroking as I groan in orgasm, filling your mouth as I give you three more quick strokes and savor the shudder through your body that signals the final pulsing sensations of your orgasm. As I finish coming, you sink down, sprawling across the bed, now only your head in my lap, your mouth still on my cock, your legs spread wide and the vibrator still humming between them until I reach down to turn it off.

You roll onto your back and look up at me, pleased and hungry like the naughty elf you are. Your breasts have popped out of the push-up, your nipples now evident -- ringed with green niobium jewelry.

"There are more presents under the tree," I tell you. "But I think you've been too naughty to have them."

You wriggle your way up to a kneeling position, putting your arms around me.

You nuzzle your face against my neck and breathe warmly: "I've got the only present I care about, Santa."

My arm curves around you and I cup your pussy, feeling its moisture as I stroke your slit. You clutch me more tightly and bite the flesh of my neck, growling softly.

"In that case," I say, "you haven't been naughty enough. But we'll keep working on it."

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