Bringing Down Santa

Only recently transferred to Xmas Division, I was initially glad to get the case.

Hungry for the case, even, and what I was complacently sure cracking it would gain for me.

I was ambitious; I wanted to prove myself in the Division, move up in rank, gain all those kudos of money and power.

‘Course I also had a kind of chip on my shoulder, frustrated by being seen as the new girl, the one too young, too slight of frame, too curly-haired and small-voiced to command any authority. No university degrees, no lethal acuity on the firing range, no superlative scores in Preternatural Assault and Defense, was going to change any minds around here.

What I needed was a big case. And what I needed was to solve it in a big, flashy way.

I thought I might just have found it.

“X.D., Jones speaking,” I answered the phone, consciously deepening my voice.

The Division mandated décor, and therefore cheap silvery tinsel wavered from the ceiling of my cubical, vying with tacky snowmen and dingy, cut-out snowflakes.

(Cubical! I was greedy for a real office.)

“Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas!” a little voice frantically whispered and I immediately sat up straight. After long boring weeks of investigating reindeer cruelty, the fear and tension on the other end of the line fired up my interest.

“And the Appropriate Seasonal Greeting to you as well,” I responded in the also mandated Correct Division-Speak. “How can I help you, Sir-Or-Ma’am?”

With these elves, you can never be too sure about gender. Better politically safe than sorry.

“I want to report…” the rest of the words were cut off in a hideous tinkle of Seasonal Muzak along with the regulated flurry of fake snow that the Division, in all its wisdom, deemed necessary to assault the entire office with at 22 minute intervals. To keep us focused, keep us in the Xmas Division mood. By the end of the day, I’d be calf-deep in faux snow, my head splitting with the sound of sleigh bells.

“Could you please repeat that?” I asked, huffing snowflakes from my face.

“Abuse! Coercion! A sexually hostile work environment!” the elf gasped. I decided right away that this was a female elf. No guy, elf or otherwise with any delusion of cojones,
was going to use that old SHWE complaint.

“Ma’am, you’ll have to be more explicit,” I said.

I was losing interest, sure this was going to be another version of the boy elves teasing the girl elves. Same shit, different day; not even the cheapest so-called media personality would come near these stories any more. At the Xmas Division, we were regularly inundated with these grievances.

Petty… my brain sighed, and I slumped back into my chair, reached for my mug of tepid coffee. Predictably, tiny garish santas cavorted around the plastic cup.

I was barely listening as the elf squeaked into the phone. “Butt plugs! Forced oral copulation! Latex body suits! Whips! Bondage! Eggnog enemas!”

That almost caught my attention. “Alcoholic or otherwise?” I asked, making notes. This might require referral to the ATF.

This paused the elf in mid sputter. “Uh… there’s just no telling! No way to be sure! But I’d have to presume… yes! Alcoholic eggnog! Rum, most likely! The Big Guy likes his rum…”

I sat up so abruptly that I set the tinsel to fluttering madly. The pencil creaked in my hand. The Big Guy? This could only mean… the case of a lifetime. Recognition, promotion, and a big fat raise.

My much coveted 15 Minutes of Fame.

***

Talk shows, book deals and film rights dancing through my head, I worked with the elf I’d immediately code-named Mini Throat, for nearly a week, exhaustively documenting each and every aspect of abuse and assault.

There was a fairly wide range of offenses. From the much clichéd Tickle My Beard/Grab Your Titties misconduct, to the graver assault of verbal harassment (“Ho! Ho! Ho!”), to the more interesting felonious assaults involving racially profiled dildos, frozen reindeer spunk and auto asphyxiation.

I kept the details of the case to myself, faking to my co-workers that I was involved drearily in yet another case of Illegal Mistletoe Harvest.

This was in direct violation of more than one Division ordinance, but I didn’t want to share. No Guts, No Glory, I told myself, and jealously guarded my burgeoning case.

I was going to single handedly bring down the Big Guy. Reveal him to the whole world as the disgusting, foul pervert he really was. Strip away that whole benevolent, benign, altruistic jolly-old-soul PR campaign thing he’d hidden behind for all these years.

Toys, candy, sled-and-reindeer! One-man charity in a red suit! Cookies and freaking milk!

I was going to ruin him.

Me.

Ruin.

Santa.

It topped my Seasonally Appropriate Wish List!

***

My one-girl investigation reached the point where the only thing left was to confront the Man In Red himself.

Of course I wore a wire. This was going to be good. I didn’t want to lose a single syllable.

I was undecided as to what actress I preferred to play my role in the miniseries I was certain this would become. I nursed a secret fantasy that I would be Discovered by the casting agent who would plead with me to give up my very powerful and lucrative command of the Division to fulfill my potential in acting.

As I pulled my arctic glider into the Guest parking lot at Kringle Central, my mind was full of the projected persuasion of the casting agent. But please Ms Jones! You must, you simply must allow the world to applaud you in this role! No one else could bring to the screen your beauty, wit, and feisty intelligence! Please Ms Jones, oh please-please-please…

“You got security clearance?” I was rudely interrupted by a misshapen little elf rapping on my window.

“I’m with the Xmas Division!” I snapped. “I don’t need any security clearance.”

The elf made a crude sound and spat into the dirty snow. I sensed his depraved little eyes on my ass as I walked up the candy cane bordered path and into the building.

The receptionist stank of cigarettes and peppermint schnapps. She indifferently waved me toward the elevator. “Big Guy’s expecting you, “ she said, puffing smoke, and then convulsing into a sort of hacking laughter.

Charming. A clear violation of the Clean Air Act. I made a mental note to report her once back at the Division.

I had to share the elevator with more elves wrangling a badly decorated tree.

“Is that from a licensed Seasonal Tree Forest?” I demanded. They just snickered. One of them tried to look under the hem of my skirt.

I fumed in silence the rest of the ascent. The corruption and noncompliance were more widespread than I’d even imagined.

The Big Guy’s floor had no number. The elevator doors slid open to reveal a foyer glowing with strings of red bulbs. I stepped out onto thick, no doubt illegally imported rug. My heels sank silently. The doors shut behind me to the disgusting mouth noises of the elves.

I fumbled surreptiously within my cleavage; activated the recording device. I strode decisively down the long hallway towards the only office on the entire floor. Holiday tunes emanated jeeringly from within. The red bulbs flickered. The atmosphere was both tawdry good cheer and somehow lewd.

“Come in! Come in!” a jolly voice called from within the vast office room. “Merry Christmas! Ho ho ho!”

I frowned, couldn’t decide if this was some double entendre of verbal abuse. Decided to let it pass. For now. Stepped into the room.

There was the proverbial fire. Things I assumed to be chestnuts appeared to be popping on an iron plate over the flames. Plates of brightly frosted cookies seemed to cover every available flat surface. Above the mantle, a reindeer’s head was mounted. The nose was a disconcerting faded claret.

His desk chair was huge. Throne would have been an appropriate word. He sprawled there, one long leg draped almost insolently over the vast plush arm of it. He was garbed in only thermal long johns and my lips tightened into a frown at this blatant show of disrespect.

I was from the Xmas Division, dammit! Get some freaking clothes on.

His bushy white beard tumbled down to his obscenely rounded belly. His lips were disgustingly bowed as they curled around his pipe stem, puffing wreathes of second-hand smoke unlawfully into the air. His nose was indeed that bright cherry red of the insipient alcoholic. His dimples were lewd.

“Wanna sit in my lap, little girl?” he leered.

“I am from the Xmas Division and I am here on official Division business, Mr. Kringle!” I proclaimed.

“Awwww,” he chuckled. “Call me Santa, honey. Everyone does. Want a cookie?”

“No thank you Mr…. Saint Nick.” I was getting uncomfortable and this annoyed me. There was something demeaning about standing here before him in his huge chair, his blue eyes twinkling impudently upon me, his tongue lasciviously darting out to wet the pipe stem.

I found myself shifting nervously, my high heels sinking lopsidedly into the rich carpeting. I forced myself to stand still. Schooled my expression into one of cold disdain.

“There have been numerous complaints lodged against you,” I began officiously.

“You cold, sweetie?” he interrupted. “Come closer to the fire.”

His eyes were unabashedly upon my breasts. My nipples had drawn into hard little peaks behind my camisole, behind the heavy silk of my blouse. I was suddenly sure that he could see the outline of the recorder nestled into my cleavage.

“Very grave complaints, Mr. Claus,” I continued sternly. “Crimes punishable by up to 30 years imprisonment.”

He laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

This was definitely not proceeding as I had planned. It was time for me to unequivocally get the upper hand.

“If you refuse to take me seriously, sir…” I began in my most rehearsed, most threatening tone.

With startling speed for such a large man, he unfolded himself from his throne and came to his feet. In surprise and what I refused to acknowledge as alarm, I stumbled backwards.

His big hands caught my shoulders, steadying me, then jerking me up against his burly chest. “How long since you been fucked, baby?” he said, and my cheeks flamed with color. “Not naughty for a long, long time, huh honey?”

I strained away from him. I cringed, repelled to feel him bulging against my tummy. The disgusting pipe smoke was going to get in my hair, too.

“Let me go! This instant!” To my dismay, my voice came out high, girlish.

“I don’t think so, cutie pie,” he chuckled. “I think you’re gonna sit down on Santa’s lap like a good girl, and tell him all the things you want.” He paused, his dimples deepened, his tongue flickered out aside his pipe stem again. “What you really want, baby. And don’t try to lie. You can’t lie to Santa. Santa knows.”

He lifted me up like a bundle of toys and I squeaked in fright.

This part was definitely going to be edited from my miniseries!

He settled into his chair, holding me as I squirmed in his lap, trying to escape.

“A lively little thing, aren’t you?” he laughed. “I bet you like it up the ass.”

I shrieked and pummeled him with my fists.

“Let me go!” I cried.

“Do you spit or swallow?” he asked.

I kicked at him.

This was not going well. Not well at all. And yet… wow, what a lawsuit this was going to make! And it was all being carefully recorded. Lawyers would be lining up to take my case. I’d be rich! I’d be famous as the woman who sued Santa.

“Owwww!” I wailed as his big fingers caught my nipple. His other hand was in my hair, twisting painfully, holding me still, ruining the carefully tight bun of my hair.

Surreally, he still puffed at his pipe, smoke haloing his snow white hair. “And what do you want for Christmas, little girl?” he chuckled. “I’m sure Santa’s got a special toy just for you!”

His hand left my breast. I was so worried that he’d find that I was wearing a wire! Setting his smoldering pipe aside, he bent over me.

“Give Santa a little kiss, baby doll,” he coaxed.

I tried to fight. I tried to keep my lips shut tight against him, but he just laughed. His fist twisted cruelly in my hair and tears sprung to my eyes.

“Give Santa your mouth, honey,” he cajoled, blue eyes twinkling with inexorable good cheer.

With a sob, I opened to him, his tongue invading my mouth, his taste all pipe smoke and pine.

I’d never been kissed like this. So hard, so brutal, with such pervasive glee behind the cruelty.

“You taste so good, baby,” he whispered against my bruised lips. “So sweet, so scared, and still so defiant.”

His hands shook out the honey-colored curls, scattering my hair down upon my shoulders.

“My pretty little girl,” he said, and then I gasped as he took hold of my blouse and ripped it wide open.

“Pretty little titties!” he laughed. “Pretty little high-tech recorder!”

I began to shake in fear and in anger. Here went my fame and fortune. Now I was going to be raped for freaking nothing. So unfair!

“We can keep the tape going, cookie, if that’s what you want,” he chortled. “A little audio memento? A little keepsake?”

I nearly swooned with relief. Yes, I saw the recording was still going, as he set it beside his pipe.

“Now show me your tits,” he ordered.

“No! No!” I cried out carefully, ever mindful of my future court case. “This is rape!”

“And what says Merry Christmas more than rape, young lady?” he chuckled, and yanked my tiny bra away from my breasts.

I struggled. My shoes flew from my stocking feet. Through the flurry of the tussle, I could hear his laughter, feel his hilarity shake through his big body, jiggle his belly, seem to further swell the hard jut of his cock. His hand pushed up under my skirt, caught my ass in a painful grip and I screamed.

“Scream, baby, scream more,” he urged, fingers digging into the soft crack of my bottom.

He bent over my breasts, his beard falling upon my belly. He dragged his teeth over my nipples. One side, and then the other. I couldn’t pull away from him. I knew what he was going to do and wailed in fear.

“Sweet little girl titties,” he murmured, and then his mouth found me.

He sucked at my nipples, he sucked with his rough, wind-chapped lips, and caught me with his teeth, biting, nipping at me.

I was begging. I was suddenly bathed in a sweat of fear. All at once, every thought of, celebrity, fortune, and those 15 fun minutes of fame, fled from my mind.

“Please Santa, please…” I pleaded, hardly recognizing my own voice.

“I like that,” he breathed, his mouth wet, his blue eyes glittering. ‘Beg me, sweetheart. Beg Santa some more.”

He lowered his head to my breasts again, his beard rough against my tender flesh, his teeth biting, his mouth sucking at me as I writhed and sobbed in his lap.

His hand tightened on my bottom, he raised his head from my ravaged breasts and seized my skirt by the fragile waistband. The sound of the fabric tearing ripped through the fire-heated room.

“That’s my girl!” he chuckled. Candy Cane colored garters held up my stockings. The wispy silk of my thong was peppermint red.

I flailed at him in a renewal of panic. I felt so small, so defenseless, held nearly naked in Santa’s big lap. The big fingers of his hand insinuated themselves deeper between my bottom cheeks.

“No! No!” I cried, whipping my head around. I sunk my teeth deep into his hard bicep.

He grunted in pain and jerked his arm from my mouth. “Baby likes to bite?” he growled. “It’s very naughty to bite Santa.”

He lifted me like a doll; I found myself sprawled over his broad lap, my bottom barely covered by my thong panties, the vast tent of his penis thrusting up beside my face as he held me face down.

“Do you know what happens to bad girls, honey? Bad girls that make Santa angry?” he asked. I shuddered, my breath hitching in my throat. “Answer me. Always answer Santa when he asks you a question.”

His hand slid up under my hair, to the vulnerable nape of my neck. He tightened his hold, making me gasp and shake harder. “Answer me!” he said.

“I…I… I don’t know,” I stuttered.

“Coal,” he said. “Stockings full of coal. That’s what you’ve always heard, right honey?” He laughed darkly. “What you haven’t probably heard, is how Santa breaks those bad little girls in so hard that they don’t sit down for weeks.”

I began to sob in earnest. Tears flooded my face, wetting the thin thermal material beneath my cheeks.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” he sighed in pleasure, pulling my face up by my hair to further enjoy my tears. He touched my face, rolled a thick finger in that damp salinity, and then brought it to his lips to taste.

“Now are you gonna be naughty or nice for Santa, honey?” he whispered.

I could barely speak. “Nice,” I gasped. “Please Santa, I’m going to be nice!”

“That’s what I thought,” he nodded. His hand settled on my bottom again, kneading the rounded flesh there. I clenched against him, instinctively flinched away.

“Bad girl!” he roared, scaring me into a scream. His hand slapped my ass. And again, and again and my shrieks filled the hot room. “When Santa wants your ass, you give Santa your ass!”

I was frantic with terror and the pain of his big hard hand punishing me. I was incoherently begging, pleading, promising to do anything, anything, anything at all as long as he’d stop spanking me.

At some point this satisfied him and he stopped, leaving me a shivering tearful wreck upon his lap.

“Are you gonna be Santa’s good little girl?” he said and beyond speech, I nodded, nodded my head clumsily. “Get down on your knees then, baby. Down on your knees for Santa.”

I slid obediently down, kneeling on the rug before his spread legs. He seized me by the hair, crushed my face against the hard projection of his cock. The long johns were damp with the seep of pre come. I could smell the rough male musk of him.

He rubbed my cheeks against him, grunting his pleasure at my small cries of distress. Then he flung me away from him, so hard that I tumbled backwards upon the floor.

Rising from the throne, he stripped himself of his thermals. My eyes widened in horror and fear. His chest was wide, massive, thick with twisted white hairs. Arms, legs, as brawny and weathered as the branches of old trees. Wide, bulky shoulders, intermittently swathed in obscenely curling hair. Tattoos curled round his huge arms. Upon one, the jagged ring of barbed wire was interjected by the small mark, small seep of blood from my bite.

His belly, the hard big belly of a man satisfied with his life, happy with his vice, darkly, deeply cheerful, rounded out his body. Beneath it thrust the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life.

I gasped, and he chuckled.

Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no, I thought in a terrified litany, but abruptly aware that my nipples were swollen, the crotch of my panties suddenly soaked.

His balls hung massive, white-haired and heavy beneath the jut of his cock. He was thick. It was the thickness that was more fearsome than the length. The head of his cock was flushed dark and round as a plum, shiny with the leak of his come.

“Got your stocking stuffer right here, sweetie pie,” he laughed uproariously. “Get back over here and take a little taste.”

Too scared to refuse, I crawled over to him, let him pull me between his legs as he sank back onto his chair.

“Take it,” he grunted. “Take Santa’s cock in your mouth…”

Carefully, I opened my mouth around the huge head. I tentatively touched my tongue to the wet pre come of him. Sugar cookies, I marveled. Santa’s come tastes like sugar cookies.

“Deeper. Deeper!” he ordered, and I complied, taking the hot weight of his cock further in my mouth.

I sucked, I licked, trying desperately to recall some kind of technique. I was desperate to make him come, end this nightmare without further ordeal. The thought of that cock thrust up into me elsewhere was terrifying.

“You call that a blowjob?” he rumbled. His big hands caught my face. He shoved himself deep into my mouth, down into my throat.

I fought, I tried to struggle, but he was so strong, his hands holding me easily as I choked and moaned in my throat, tears spurting from my eyes.

Finally, near suffocation, I stopped fighting, sagged on my knees, gave myself up as he fucked my mouth. And I don’t know when I became aware that I was throbbing between my legs. A slow hot throb that made me feel wet, swollen, made me arch my hips in little bucks towards him as I knelt there in front of him, his cock deep into my mouth.

He was talking to me, talking so dirty. “You’re on your knees for Santa, darlin. Santa’s fucking your little girl mouth like it’ll never be fucked again. You’re gonna swallow Santa’s come, baby. Santa’s gonna come all over your face, down your throat, in your pretty blonde hair…”

And I wanted it, wanted it as I’d never wanted it before. Wanted it when in truth I’d never wanted it before. Some guy spurting his semen into your mouth? Oh gross. No thank you!

I pressed my thighs together, feeling the slick wetness that was spreading down my legs. I was distantly appalled at myself, realizing to my confusion that I wanted this big hairy old man to do whatever he wanted to me. Use me any way he chose. Shove that hard scary cock down my throat or into my pussy or up my untried ass.

Anything. Everything. I suddenly wanted it.

He was panting, pushing deeper into my throat, and his cock had swollen tighter, bigger, thick with blood and lust.

“That’s my good girl…” he grunted, fingers digging hurtfully into my face. “That’s Santa’s good little girl…”

And he came, a hard long spurt into my throat, and fresh tears jumped from my eyes as I choked. With a gratified roar, he pulled his cock from my mouth and shot more come into my face.

Hot, thick, tasting, smelling, like some organically compounded cookie, it flowed profusely down my cheeks. He spurted again, wetting my tangled curls. I was moaning, weak on my knees, blind with his come, feeling both utterly defiled and sheerly wanton.

Beyond will, I let him pull me to my feet, tuck me into the huge upholstered chair, wipe my face with the tattered remains of my blouse.

“Sweet baby,” he whispered, stroking back my hair. His mouth latched onto my throat, sucking, licking me, bruising me. I whined against the pain, but arched against him. His thick fingers caught my nipples, pulling, rolling them, hurting me, hurting me, making me even wetter.

“Show me your little pussy, honey,” he urged, his hands spreading my thighs. “Show ol Santa your pussy, baby…”

He opened me, tearing my panties away as though they were spider web, parting me for his gaze, trailing a big finger through my heavy wetness, making me gasp and thrust against his hand.

“Some little girl wants to come,” he teased. “Some little girl is all wet for Santa.” His finger found my clit, flicked me there hard, making me cry out. “Beg Santa, baby. Beg Santa to make you come.”

“Please, please!” I moaned. The words burst from me. “Make me come for you, please, Santa, please, please!”

He chuckled, slid a finger through my wet, nudged at the entrance to my pussy. Helpless, I cried out, pushed my hips against his touch. “I’m gonna finger fuck you, darlin. Get you all hot and ready for me.”

His words heated me as much as his touch. I groaned as he slid a finger deep inside me, worked it slowly in and out. I found myself clinging to him, my hands clutching his arms, his shoulders, the snowy fall of his beard. “Gimme your mouth, sweetheart,” he whispered, and I did, kissing him, kissing him, welcoming the thrust of his tongue as I did his finger, letting him draw my tongue into the warmth of his own mouth, shaking helplessly as he brought me closer and closer.

“Come for me baby, come for me,” he ordered, his breath upon my face, his finger deep inside me, thumb on my clit, demanding, demanding, demanding that I come now, come for him, come just for him.

“Santa! Santa! Oh Santa!” I cried, body jerking, wetness spurting from my convulsing pussy, rush after rush flowing through me.

I lay collapsed damply upon the throne, barely able to catch my breath, my heart a good small thunder in my breast. I heard him chuckle as he pulled his finger out of me, wiped his hand upon my thigh. “That’s my good little girl,” he said. “That’s Santa’s good little helper.”

I was barely aware that he moved, lifted me slightly, lay me belly down over the wide, vast expanse of the chair arm.

“Santa…” I murmured languidly.

“Shhhh baby,” he replied.

It felt so nice, his big rough hands upon my skin, rubbing, soothing my back. Even when his hands dropped down lower, caressing the sweat at the small of my back, moving down further to cup the bare cheeks of my bottom.

His beard tickled my butt and thighs as he bent down to me. I squirmed a little, and his hands took my bottom firmly, his arms moved to spread my thighs wider, and his face pushed down between my spread cheeks.

I squeaked in surprise, distress, and his hands tightened warningly on flesh still stinging from his earlier spanks.

Oh! I bit my lip against the shame of the pleasure as the warm wet of his tongue laved along the channel of my bottom. Again, again, so slow, so heated, so wet, and I did not know if I was writhing away or towards this obscene thing he was doing to me.

Closer, closer, and I was barely aware that I was moaning, bent over, rocking against the big arm of the chair, and then his mouth fastened upon me there, where I had never imagined any man would want to be, and his tongue was pushing against me, working into me wetly, insistently, and it was his hands holding me against the shudders that consumed me, the taboo of pleasure that had me incoherent with want.

“Good girl, good girl,” he murmured, kissing back up my ass cheek. When his finger followed where his tongue had just been, I only shivered weakly and yielded to him.

He was going to do whatever he wanted to me. Have me any way he chose. I knew I could do nothing to stop him. Everything seemed surreal. The fire-warmed air, the dim incessancy of the carols, the lewd red glow of the tiny lights. Santa’s going to fuck my ass, I thought hazily, even as I raised my butt higher in the air for the invasion of his finger.

“Santa, Santa…” I moaned. In trepidation, in pain, in need. I felt his cock against the inside of my thigh. My ass was full with his wide finger. “Fuck me, Santa. Please fuck me…”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick with lust, “you’re gonna get fucked by Santa, honey.”

The swollen head of his cock parted the lips of my pussy, spreading me open. He pushed further inside and I gasped. Fear made sudden inroads against passion and I strained away. No vanilla frat boy sex had prepared me for this!

“No!” I protested. ‘Oh no!”

He pulled his finger roughly from my ass and this hurt even worse than his cock shoving barely inside me. I tried to lunge away from him and he caught me around the hips, yanked me back, impaling me even further on his cock.

He smacked me on the ass. “Like it rough, don’t you? Just like I figured.”

He pushed me face down onto the chair arm, hauled my ass up high with his hard hands. Slapped me again as I wailed into the upholstery.

“Let Santa in, cutie, let Santa into your little pussy.”

I shrieked as he thrust deeper, pulled almost completely out and then shoved in again, and again, opening me up for him, using my own wet to ease his way deeper and deeper.

“Tight,” he groaned. “Just how Santa likes it.”

He was fucking me. His hands holding me spread wide open, exposed, so vulnerable in the red lights’ glow. I felt his balls slapping against me as he worked his full way into me. My hands gripped the chair, nails digging into the plush of it, but wasn’t I getting wetter?

He was talking to me, talking so filthy. “My baby girl has such a tight pink pussy! All wet and hot for Santa. Santa’s gonna fuck you til you scream, honey pie. Santa’s gonna fill you up with come.”

He grabbed me by the hair, pulled me up in an arch. Holding his cock shoved deep in me, he reached for my tits, his big rough hand mauling my peaked nipples, pinching, pulling, sending waves of pain and perverse lust through my body.

He chuckled as I cried out, as my pussy contracted at each hard tug to my nipples. Leaving my ravaged breasts, his hand slid down over my soft belly, to my sparsely curling pubic hair. I screamed as he fisted his hand there, tugged at me, the reached down and cupped my pussy in his palm. I flailed at the chair, trying to pull away, but he held me tighter, his hand knotted in my hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me back while he shoved his cock in deeper.

“Please Santa!” I wailed. “It hurts-it-hurts-it-hurts…”

“Take it,” he rumbled. “Take it, baby.”

Rubbing me, his wide palm slick, soaked, my clit swollen and almost unbearably sensitive, his cock filling me, stretching me open, shoved full up into me, and I could barely move as he held me, used me, made me shudder and beg and convulse around the huge invasion of his cock as he brought me closer and closer to orgasm.

I screamed as I came, completely out of any control but his. Screamed as his hand tightened over my clit, as he whispered dirty things into my ear, as his old strong teeth battened on my shoulder, and my pussy quaked and spasmed, spurting warm girl juice onto his heavy balls.

Limp, shuddering, damp with sweat, soaked to the thigh, he let me collapse down onto the chair arm, still kneeling behind me, cock pushed up hard into me.

I was moaning, my body still convulsing in little helpless jerk, tightening my pussy to feel his obdurate bulk lodged firmly up in me.

“Santa,” I whimpered. “Oh Santa, oh…”

“Who’s my good little girl?” he said, his voice rich with mirth and satisfaction.

“Me, Santa,” I answered, sagging helpless beneath him. “Anything, Santa, anything you want…”

“That’s right,” he agreed in jolly good humor. I felt his hands tug me up higher over the chair and I was limp and utterly compliant. He pushed my thighs open wider with his knees and I cried out weakly as he began to slowly pump himself in and out of my swollen, heated pussy.

I felt him moving, reaching, it seemed, and then his fingers trailing through the hot damp crevice of my ass. I squirmed slightly as his thick finger began to circle me there, using my own wetness to gain access. Then he pulled his finger out of me, bent over me, above me, and raised me up by my hair.

I was confused. Nothing seemed real. He was nudging at my mouth with something. Peppermint, my mind remarked, wonderingly.

“What? What?” I murmured, and he pushed a thick rounded stick in my mouth.

“Candy,” he chuckled, twirling it deeper into my mouth. “All little girls love candy.”

It was an oversized candy cane, sticky and sweet. I sucked on it; it stretched my mouth open. I licked with my tongue. He leisurely dragged his cock in and out of my wet pussy and the scent of peppermint suffused the room.

Then he pulled the candy cane away, pushed me back down on my belly and rose up over my prone back again.

Even in my dazed state, I knew what he held pressed against my ass. “Oh no!” I protested. I tried to scoot away. He held me down, increased the pressure against me. “It’s too big! Oh Santa, please! No!” I pleaded.

“Don’t fight, baby. Don’t clench,” he coaxed. “Let Santa in. Relax, sweetie pie. Relax…”

I was whimpering and fresh sweat filmed my body.

“Open your little ass for Santa, honey. Take the candy cane.”

I felt the massive cane push finally past that first tight entrance. In tandem, Santa pushed his cock deeper into my pussy. I was panting. Discomfort, fear, shame… wasn’t there something horribly, darkly, wantonly exciting about this too?

I was raising my ass for him, welcoming all incursion, feeling yet more impossible wetness flow from my pussy. I clung to the chair, buried my face into the soft fabric, even bit at the pillow to stifle or to enhance my hoarse, heated cries.

I was helpless. It was all out of my control. I was powerless against his will. And I loved it.

I reveled in it.

Hotter, wetter, more debauched than I’d ever imagined myself capable of being. Groaning, whimpering, breathless with lust, I was begging him, urging him, imploring him to do it all to me. I was using language I’d never known I had, entreating him to fuck me harder, fuck me more, make it hurt, more and more and more...

I must have passed out during an agonized, wrenching orgasm. That’s the only thing I can figure, but maybe it was the Big Guy using some of that old, wild Christmas magick on me.

I woke up in my arctic glider, stretched out in the back seat, parked in the deserted Xmas Division parking lot. My torn peppermint red panties jauntily adorned the rearview mirror. I groaned as I sat up. Everything hurt, ached, seemed covered with dried stickiness. A pervasive scent filled the vehicle.

I sat there, holding my aching head. My hair stood out in wild dried spikes. “Sugar cookies,” I whimpered unhappily.

I became aware that I was dressed in a kind of elf outfit. An elf suit taken to distressingly sleazy extremes. Santa was nothing if not a Big Guy with a big sense of humor.

I shifted, rose up, got ready to climb into the front seat where I could see my keys awaiting me on the console. My screech of pain reverberated through the glider, followed immediately by a string of profanity that was in no way approved as Correct Division-Speak. Gravity and my sudden movement cause me to gush with horrid cookie-scented come from both orifices.

I swore even more when I couldn’t, for the life of me, recall events leading up to him coming in my ass.

“Fucking-fuck-fuckity-fucking-Saint-Nick!” I gritted. Oh, I was sore! Defiled, degraded, despoiled, ruined, corrupted… My mind ran short on synonyms.

Raped! Raped by that fucking Santa Claus.

My tape! In a panic, I rolled over the seat, crying out in pain, leaking more come, desperate to find that recorder.

Ahhhh… I sagged in relief. Here it was. Tape still within it. Tied up in a red and white striped ribbon, little candy cane stickers adorning the high-tech plastic casing. (Bastard and his bastardly humor!)

I hit reverse, randomly hit play. Cried out in dismay.

Fuck me Santa! Oh fuck my ass Santa! Fuck me so hard, oh Santa, make me hurt, come in me, come in me, Santa…

Now that wasn’t going to work! Not at all!

Unless… I could edit?

Knowing him though, that jolly old elf had his own copy.

Fucker.

I started up the glider. Shifted in my seat. (Oh my sore ass!) Sighed. Turned towards home.

21 more shopping days til Christmas, the radio advised me with frantic good cheer, then segued into some old song apparently ignorant of Rudolph’s actual ending.

I damned myself, but was helpless against wondering: Did sodomy with Santa constitute naughty or nice?

And what would be in my stocking this Seasonally Appropriate morning?

It started to snow again. I sang along with the next carol.

Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…