The Man with the Bag

Author's Note: This story may not be duplicated or re-posted on another website or in any medium without the written consent of the author.

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I was making my rounds. Like I do every year.

The little guys who work for me had slipped me a lotta packets, so it had been a long haul. I was beat.

A few more stops ahead, was what I was thinking, and then I'm home free. After that, I could knock off and get back to my drinking.

I don't like to work much. It's why I'm in this line of work. Be my own boss. Hard work interferes with a man's simple pleasures. And I'm a man who likes his pleasures. But the work day, it gets me away from the old lady, and when you're home most days, that's a vacation right there.

I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and dragged my hat back on. Yeah, cold this time of year, but when you get moving this fast, the friction makes a lotta heat. Its -- well, it's complicated, and I'm not a physics guy. And that ain't the story I'm here to tell.

We came to a grinding halt on the top on an apartment building. Nice place. Nice building, nice part of town. But they all look the same after a while, when you've seen them all. And I've seen every goddamned one of them.

"Ok kids," I said to the team. "Almost done, stay put and the big guy'll be right back." I used to have a different ride, while back, but it threw a lotta shoes.

I hefted the sack. Damned thing gets heavier every year, seems like.

I took the stairs. I prefer that. No goddamned chimneys. That was the Missus' idea, but it never really worked for me.

I used to start at the top and work down, thinking it would be lighter work going up; but -- well, the sack...Oh, nevermind. Physics, dig? So I like to start at the ground and work up. Better stuff for last, and the people who need it more get it first. Little games a man plays at work to keep himself from going bugfuck.

Building like any building. People sleeping. Food smell, booze, ever-greens and mulling spice. Happiness, sadness, loneliness. Greed and generosity. Depression. Lust. The smells of the season. This is my work place.

The top floor was an easy one. Just a couple cribs occupied. The high-rent level.

I slipped the locks -- its' a little trick I have. Used to do it the hard way, but a man learns a few things when he's been on the job this long.

Nice digs. Tasteful. Fire burning -- gas, one of those fake deals. Fake tree in the corner. Not a lot real in here, I was guessing.

The list said it was a mister and missus. I had a couple things to drop off. Little packets. Not a lot, and all with the mister's name on 'em, which was a little strange.

Didn't smell a lotta joy in the room. No roast turkey, no pie. No evergreen. But there was something else in the air. Oh, yeah, a man gets to know that smell.

"You're late, big guy. I was starting to think you weren't coming."

The perfume was musky. A spicy sort of smell. Kinda smell puts young thoughts in an old man's head.

"You're up late, ma'am."

"Mmm, well, I had to wait up."

I chuckled to myself. Running the lines through my head, wondering which one she'd try.

"And I'm a little...lonely," she said it in a breathy way. Sounded like she practiced it. "He - my - uh..." She looked around, as if she were searching for the right word. Put one finger to her lips, trying to look thoughtful.

"My -- husband is away on business. And I was thinking, what we usually leave out, that's not good enough, not with my Christmas list."

"Oh, you wanted something special this year, did you?" I asked. Like I don't already know, lady.

It's my business to know things.

"Let's not talk about what I want yet, hmmm?" She had a nice voice, I decided, even if it was stagey. "Let's talk about what you want for a change," she said.

I just wanted to punch out and go home. It was late.

I went about my work. Made my drop. Couple things by the tree, couple things on the mantle.

She was in shadow, but my eyes are good in the dark. There were some candles in the room, the fire, the colored lights on the tree. I was liking what I was seeing. A lush little thing. Maybe a five footer, maybe a bit more, but the fur trim at the neck of her robe showed a too-perfect cleavage. Fake -- ah, yes, I thought, I know what she got a couple holidays back, but not my doing. A good look on her anyway. Some nice gams and some red, fur-trimmed mules that didn't look like they were much made for walking. She was reclining on a chaise deal that looked like it came from Bordellos-R-Us.

I turned her way, ready to bid her the usual holiday wishes, but she stood up and tottered on those shoes.

Yeah, I was liking what I saw. Skinny little waist, nice hips. But it was the red velvet robe that really got me. White trim. Not ermine, but a good fake. And a little hat to match on her blond curls, cocked just so. Nice touch, I thought.

"So, can we talk about what you want?" she asked me, and took a couple steps toward me.

"Well, I could really use a drink."

She pursed those sweet little lips of hers, red as her velvet, and cocked her head to one side. "Oh, I don't imagine you're talking about milk, hmm?"

I laughed my deep belly-laugh, more because I knew it's what she'd expect than because it was funny. I jerked a thumb at the liquor cabinet. She was working the whole thing pretty hard.

I try not to drink on the job. I need to keep careful track, and it's a long list I have to work with. But -- well, I told myself it was so I could look at her walking away. And you know, when I saw her walk away, it was a good choice.

When she bent a little to get a glass from a lower shelf, it became clear there wasn't much under that robe. I wanted her to bend like that again. She poured three fingers of something amber and brought it to me with her best all-hips walk. She held the drink in both hands.

She touched my hands as she handed it to me. Her soft milky fingers, slender and delicate, against my thick, ruddy digits. I liked the contrast. I liked the feeling. Sure, she was doing it on purpose, but it was working anyway.

It was cheap scotch. But I know one thing, and that's to how to accept a gift graciously. I tossed it back and put the tumbler on a side table, wiping my beard with the fur trim on my coat sleeve.

"So, m'am," I said, my voice roughened by the cheap booze, "I've got a nights' work to finish and my clock's running." I said it, but didn't make a move to leave.

She looked up at me, blue eyes twinkling. She reached up and stroked my beard. Oh, I love when they do that.

Man gets lonely living where I live. North, far, far north. It gets cold. Sometimes a man gets to thinking, I'm out of town on business, I'm here, what's the harm?

Oh, sure, I'm married. But the wife need not know.

I don't think I'd quite decided, but she started on my belt. I could have stopped her. I even thought about stopping her. But -- well, that perfume was nice.

She was good with the knot. I wondered about that. But those hands felt even better against my belly than they did on my hand. She stepped close.

"So, what do you want for Christmas?" she whispered.

I didn't feel like talking about it.

I stared at her for a moment, thought about what she was offering, and what she would be wanting. What they're always wanting. More, is what they always want.

But I decided I'd prefer to take what she offered, rather than let her give it. Give myself a little present, for a change.

I grabbed her head in one of my big hands and pulled her face to mine, kissing her hard. She wasn't expecting it; they don't. That whole jolly thing. Think they know me because of a few songs and some cartoon.

Her mouth closed, then started to open, but too slow. I dug my teeth into her lip, hard, and then pushed my tongue into her mouth when she tried to protest.

I kissed her like that -- hard, rough, forcing myself against her. I let her have a taste of me for a good long while. She struggled a little, just enough to make it interesting, but she wasn't serious about it. Not yet.

I let her go. Pushed her away. She stumbled, fell. Her ankle twisting in those ridiculous shoes.

"You hurt me!" she said.

"Not really, not yet I didn't," I said.

I figured I'd let her go then, leave her remembering what a real Christmas kiss was like. But I looked down at her, helpless, biting her own lower lip, that bum ankle in those shoes. And I looked at the red and white robe. And then there was a tear running down her cheek.

It was too much for me. I felt a stirring. My body reacting. And I when that happens, it's really not about what I should do, or what I intend to do. It's down to the basics. Wanting. Taking. It's not about the giving any more. Sometimes the holiday is about getting what you want. About giving myself what I really want.

I picked her up like she was a doll - compared to the bags I lug, she weighed nothing.

She gasped. "Oh my god, you're strong" she whispered.

"I may look like a fat man, baby, but it's all hard underneath" I said, and tossed her down onto that silly chaise.

She gasped - and then again, when I tore the belt from her robe.

I dropped to my knees beside the chaise and spread the robe open - she tried to stop me, but her pushing was kitten-weak. Pale, creamy skin, flushed now with embarrassment. This wasn't how she expected to play this.

Her tits were fake. It's not possible to fool me. But damn, well done. And they felt almost real when I took one in each hand and squeezed.

She gasped, then moaned, then she screamed when I pinched and twisted her nipples. They were kinda like fat gum drops in my fingers.

I went for her mouth again, pressing her body down with my own weight. She didn't fight at first. She'd been drinking, champagne, and then the cheap scotch. She tasted of greed and anger, loneliness and a tang of despair. That's a talent I've developed over the ages, I can read a kiss through and through. Hers was savory, and vaguely pleasant. She kissed like a woman who'd spent a lot of time kissing. She kissed like a woman who did things for gain as much as pleasure.

I forced my tongue deep into her mouth, then sucked hers into mine. I chewed at her lips. I could feel her nails digging into my sides. The nails were as fake as the tits, but still felt good as she tried to rake my skin.

I kissed her like that 'til she was near suffocation. I stole breath from her and didn't let her have more. I could feel fear in her body before I let go her mouth.

"Oh god," she was gasping. "Oh - oh!" I could smell the fear on her, under that spicy perfume. "Oh my god."

I put my hand to her breast again, then replaced it with my mouth. I sucked, then bit, and she screamed. That would leave a mark.

I stood. She could have tried. She could have jumped up, kicked off those shoes. Run, even with that bum ankle. But where could she have gone? She'd have found her phone didn't work. And who'd have listened, if she'd been able to make call? Who'd believe her story?

But I think she knew. I think she knew what was going to happen. Maybe she still thought this was her game, or maybe this was really what she wanted. But she stayed, transfixed, watching.

I shrugged out of my coat, but left my boots and trousers. I stretched, then un-did a button.

She gasped when she saw my cock. They usually do. One of the bigger gifts I have to give.

"Sit up." I said. She obeyed me.

She also obeyed when I told her to open her mouth.

She gagged on my first thrust. "You can do better than that," I spat at her, and thrust again.

She did do better. Much better. Maybe she thought this was the present she was going to give me. But she sucked like a pro, wet lips, tongue frantic, teeth held skillfully away. Even so, her molars dug. I like that feeling though.

I thought about letting her have it like this, but maybe later.

She licked my balls. She tried to get them in her mouth, and did a good job. She traced up and down my shaft, slurped and gulped. She tried to deep throat me, but that's not easily done.

"Enough!" I shouted, finally, finished with her mouth. I pushed her away, back onto the chaise.

Candy-cane striped panties. Excellent touch. Red and white. They tore with a quick jerk, and she started to scream; I stuffed them into her mouth and told her to shut up.

She was wet. Incredibly wet. I pinched her clit, and she tried to scream, and I laughed. She gasped when I slid one thick finger into her, then tried to scream again when I added a second one.

"Don't you even think of spitting those panties out," I said.

I pried her legs apart. She knew, now, and the fear in her eyes was real. She was shaking her head, gasping, mumbling "No's" around those candy-striped panties.

I climbed onto her chaise, the cheap furniture creaking with my weight. I leaned over her.

My cock slid up and down, playing with her, but also lubricating myself. I wasn't going in easy. I pressed it to her clit and looked into her eyes. She shook her head. "No, no," she mumbled around those panties.

She screamed when the head thrust in. Fear scream! Pain scream! Loud even with the gag. "Oh, it's going to get better," I said.

Her nails raked my belly. I laughed, harder and louder, my head thrown back. I began to thrust, short, shallow stabbing motions, loosening her, making her fit me. She screamed louder and tried to spit the panties out, so I cut off the breath in that tiny throat with my fingers.

"Shhh," I said.

Then I let her have it all. All the way in, deep, hard, feeling her clench. Her body trying to push me out, to keep me out, to protect itself.

She was oh-so-wet around me. Her body betraying her. I added my fingers to the mix to make sure she knew it, my thumb on her clit.

She was sobbing now, moaning with each thrust. Her fists beat against my belly, then one hand grabbing at my beard. But her moans were deep in her throat now, and I could feel it, knew she was going to come before she did. I let her cough out those panties, wanting her hear her scream.

Her first orgasm started with convulsions, contractions, deep inside. The screaming became a teeth-gritted moan, low then rising in volume and pitch, an animal noise, like I was tearing something out of her. No, she was screaming, denying it, denying the reality, the un-wanted, involuntary response.

Her body betrayed her, as if she had any control.

I let her breathing slow a little, let her think I might be done. Then I started again, more weight on her, digging in deeper, harder, faster. Hurting her.

The next orgasm was easier on her, after she'd given up resisting. She came screaming, moaning, then crying.

And then I got my fingers on back her clit and ordered her to come again. And again. Until she was begging, in pain and biting my shoulder.

"I can't! I cant! I can't! I can't! I - Ahhh..." as I wrenched another from her; tears were streaming down her face.

When I pulled out, she thought I was through with her. Until I rolled her over.

"You want something that isn't on the list, my dear?" I asked her. "This isn't on my list."

Still slick with her, I pushed my cock into that other, tender hole. I wasn't the first there, I was sure, but I was the biggest. Good thing the chaise was a deep burgundy, or we'd leave stains she'd never be able to deny.

She'd thought it hurt when I made her come. But this was a new scream. This was a scream that tore out of her as I tore in.

I might have taken time with her. Made her beg. Made her promise. But now, late, almost done with my work, I wanted to be done with her as well.

I pushed in, forced in, knowing it hurt her and liking it. Knowing she'd hate me as I came, knowing she'd be ruined for anyone else after. I fucked her hard, deep, and long.

I came inside her, fucking and coming like a piston, filling her, thrust after thrust. She was sobbing into the cushions, shuddering as she felt hot come fill her.

I pulled out, threw her to the floor, and came on her, her tits, her face, her hair.

Then I tucked myself back into my trousers and picked up my coat and hat.

"Here," I said, and tossed her robe to her.

I collected my bag.

She was sobbing. Pain or release or fear, I wasn't sure.

"Merry Christmas" I said.

"Wa -- Wait!" she said.

I turned. Said nothing.

"You got what you wanted, now what about..."

"You?" I asked. She nodded.

"What about what you want?"

She nodded again, wiped tears and come from her cheek with the back of her hand.

"You have to be a lot better next year, baby, if you want to make my list."

She stared at me.

"A lot better. Because -- well, I know," I said.

There's no fooling me. Like I said.

"Oh god."

"Look on the bright side - at least you got something for Christmas no one else has."

I poured her a scotch and handed it to her.

"Merry Christmas, and I'll see you next year."

I closed the door without looking back. Dames. They always think they can get a leg up 'cause they look so good and smell so sweet.

Up on the roof I pulled my flask out of my boot and took a drink. The good stuff, not the cheap scotch she had. Silver flask the little guys had made for me one year. Engraved, but the last three letters are mixed, "t-a-n" where it should be "n-t-a". The little pointy-eared bastards think that joke is pretty goddamned funny.

I agree with them, I must admit. Maybe not quite as funny as they think, though.

I whipped up the team and took off. Couple more stops and then home.

I could see her penthouse apartment lights still on. Her silhouette.

"Ho, Ho, fucking Ho," I said.