Stocking Filler

“It’ll be brilliant. A real laugh,” he’d said and I had to agree with
him, though I had my reservations. My husband, God bless him, was
going to go the full Monty this Christmas and dress up as Santa.

“You know the boys are old enough – and savvy enough – to stay awake
to try to catch him this year. But as long I’m disguised in the full
regalia when the little buggers leap out of the wardrobe, the
Christmas mystique’ll be preserved to the hilt. You can’t say that’s
not a great idea.”

It happened that a colleague of James had a Father Christmas outfit he
was prepared to lend out. His own kids had grown out of Santa. James
assured me that this was not only *an* outfit but *the* outfit, an
extremely high class job with stage quality whiskers and real red
velvet.

So why wasn’t I brimming with enthusiasm? Well, it was my husband’s
happy and ever-present knack of ballsing up simple domestic tasks –
fixing the shower attachment so the only thing that got wet was the
ceiling, managing to weld his toecaps together… Little things like
that.

“OK, sweetheart. You know how soppy I am about Christmas and the kids.
It’s a great idea. Very thoughtful. But no trying to come down the
chimney. Don’t forget the work we had done when they put in the new
boiler!”

With many promises of seemly conduct, my chirpy robin redbreast of a
husband set off for the office on Christmas Eve, promising to knock my
socks off with a superb bit of costuming at the witching hour.

Well, I had plans of my own, but they’d have to wait. Wait while I
wrapped stocking fillers, baked gingerbread, peeled vegetables for
tomorrow’s feast, entertained small boys and hid dozens of packages.
We live in a big old house, but it’s amazing how soon you run out of
hiding places….

Seven o’clock came; supper time for the boys, and my beloved
staggering home at last after battling his way through commuter hell:
white, tired and carrying a large parcel. It’s been a long year for
both of us. He collapsed with a stiff drink, the Christmas TV guide
and a marker pen.

Two small boys to bath, to read to and tuck in. I gaze at them fresh
out of the bath: perfect limbs, chubby feet, silky blonde hair,
sparkling eyes. They look unfeasibly angelic. “Now be sure to get to
sleep straight away. You know Father Christmas won’t come if you’re
awake.”

“Yes, mummy!” comes the chorus. Far too perky for children due for
imminent sleep. Ah well, this year we have a secret weapon. Or two….
I smile to myself.

Oh, well, onward and upward. Mummies don’t stop. A happy, tiring
evening for me – icing the Christmas cake to look like snow and
arranging the traditional porcelain Santa on top, baking a few last
minute mince pies, ironing tiny best clothes for the morning (bringing
as it would the witness of the grandparents’ relentless video
cameras…) James slumps in front of the box, soaking in my quiet
domestic bustle. He likes housework. Could watch it for hours…

James is looking forward to watching a late thriller. I lie to him. I
have some final preparations before midnight mass, I say. If you do
the stocking delivery when your movie finishes I’ll see you in the
living room around 1am… I give him a little wink. He grins back.
We’re already planning a little celebration of our own but I want to
conceal the time I’ll need for my secret additional preparations for
this erotic appointment….

@—}—}—–

But I’m not going to church. At midnight I slip upstairs through the
shadows and into the upstairs bathroom with a couple of
expensive-looking bags. I light candles in the wall sconces, run
myself a long warm bath and produce my present from myself from the
first carrier. I’ve bought myself a complete set of Chanel 19
products, and lollop glorious scented oil into the water with a lavish
hand. I pile my hair on my head and slide down into the milky water.
Half an hour of luxurious drifting. Lying in the perfumed steam I
stroke my pussy lips, squeeze my breasts, flick my nipple tips…

Sensing myself drift into drowsy sexual reverie, I pull myself
together and clamber out, relishing enjoying the warm but bracing
snowdrift of our best towels. I’ve got things to do, and I’m too tired
to relax. If I’m going to be ready to surprise James I must at least
keep awake! Weaken once and I’ll be out like a light ’til morning…

Gleaming in the candlelight, I smooth body lotion up my legs and body,
paying special attention to my breasts and thighs. None between my
legs, though – strong perfume and pussy don’t mix – not unless you
fancy hopping about on one leg for ten minutes.

Sitting on the loo with my feet on the edge of the sink I paint my
toenails scarlet. While they dry I stick false ones in the same shade
on my fingertips. Used to be I had lovely hands but nowadays, with my
lifestyle, elegant nails have become something I have to buy.

Now for make up. The whole works. James doesn’t go for the natural
look. “Slap it on, girl!” he always urges. “Let glamor be our
watchword.” I smile to myself, because James has no idea of my secret.
He’s expecting passion, yes, but he’s expecting the housewife with her
tousled allure – not a full-on temptress under the tree.

Dusky eye-shadow, lashings of mascara, glitter highlights on the
browbone, eyeliner to provide that Bambi look. A startled fawn for my
big buck. Lastly the lips. I outline them carefully with crimson,
filling in with a brighter red and polishing off with gloss. A mouth
as red and shiny as holly berries. A cock-sucking mouth. I’ll stripe
him like a candy cane. Poor bugger won’t know what’s hit him.

Now for the second bag. I open it and peek in, relishing the
monogrammed tissue paper. This was a very expensive treat. The bag is
extremely light. Silk *is* light, after all. And when I slip the items
one by one from the bag I am certain James will be only too pleased to
find the bill on our credit card statement.

Scarlet garterbelt, split crotch panties, tiny lace bra and a gauzy
wrap. Obvious, yes, but saved from sleaze by the sheer quality and cut
of the garments. Besides which, they don’t make flimsy bras in my size
at the cheaper end of the market. At least that’s my excuse.

I’ve bought stockings too, sheer black with a proper seam at the back.
Fantasy stockings. I already have the shoes. Tiny red peeptoes with a
four inch spike heel. Of course I can’t actually walk in the damn
things – but then I didn’t buy them for that!

As I put on my new lingerie I study myself in the mirror. Leaning
forward to settle my heavy breasts properly in the cups I grin at my
reflection. I’m not the slim girl James married. Time, my own good
cooking and pregnancy have seen to that. But I’m deliciously feminine.
My breasts aren’t as high as they were, but – my, my – *aren’t* they
full now! As for my nipples, they’re outrageous – jutting, dark and
assertive. My wider hips are compensated for by the still- narrow
waist and my legs, long and elegant. Certainly my husband’s
demonstrations of affection haven’t lessened over the years. He likes
to use silly Victorian expressions – “demonstrations of affection”. He
likes to tease me about how I can still get him hard with just a look.

Straightening up, I adjust my stockings one last time, slip the robe
over my shoulders and loosen my hair. The thick dark waves fall down
my back. I’ve tweaked a couple of white hairs out of my hairline
during the past year, but otherwise I still look pretty good. I know
James will think so, anyway.

I gaze at myself questioningly – at the finished effect. I think I
look gorgeous. Not as gorgeous as I did ten years ago, but still
gorgeous. I know James will show his appreciation with immense and
varied dedication….. But I wonder to myself if he’d really desire me
as much if he didn’t love me so deeply. Just how attractive am I these
days? James sees me with the eyes of love, and I see myself through
his eyes. But what would a stranger think? Would he see an overweight
middle aged woman? Past her best?

Morbid thoughts. Christmas is a time for morbid thoughts – that’s why
the suicides, the family break-ups, the traditional ghost stories.
Literally, I shake off my doubts. As I toss my head my long hair
shines and ripples under the candlelight.

I love James, he loves me. We have two precious little ones sleeping
down the landing. At least in theory they’re sleeping. I won’t check,
though. If they’re not asleep my appearance will trigger a whole new
round of requests for drinks, stories or teddy-retrieval. But we have
love in this house, and I shouldn’t doubt it. “Don’t be silly, girl,”
I order silently.

It’s 12.45 now, and James will be up to do the stockings soon. Yes, I
can hear his tread on the stairs, there’s one that creaks. I blow out
the candles. Now he tiptoes past the bathroom door and I can hear him
creeping along the corridor towards the boys’ rooms. He must be round
the corner by now. Santa Claus is coming to town.

Sneaking the door open silently, with my slut-wife shoes clutched in
one hand, I slip out of the bathroom and am down the stairs like a
scarlet ghost before James can spot me. I’ll be waiting in the living
room for him. I grin to myself at the thought of his face when he sees
me. He loves me dressed up.

I creep into the living room. Deserted, as I hoped. There are no logs
in our huge stone fireplace. There never are, these days, thanks to
clean air regulations, but the gas fire is beautifully warm. Turning
out all the other lights, but leaving the tree ones to sparkle
multicoloured on my flesh, I skip over to the hearth and lie down in
front of the fire. We’ve got a couple of diehard old sheepskins
inherited from my parents. The fleece is still thick and soft. A
couple of cushions off the sofa make a comfy couch and, slipping on my
slut shoes, I snuggle down in Christmassy expectation.

I’m all ready to surprise my own darling Santa on his return from a
successful mission. The dark corners of the big high-ceilinged room
are hung with evergreens, and the scent of tree and leaf fill the air
with aromatics. It’s so quiet…. So warm, so quiet – so blissfully
peaceful. The only sounds are the whisper of the fire and the faintest
patter of needles falling off the Christmas tree….

@—}—}—–

Blinking, I gaze at Santa. I must’ve dropped off. Hardly surprising:
all that peeling and baking would wear out an Olympic athlete, not to
mention wrapping two dozen stocking fillers…. Still, he’s here now.
And it is a good costume. In fact it’s a bloody good costume.
Admittedly the light’s poor, but his own mother wouldn’t recognise
him. James is Father Christmas to the life.

I stretch and sit up, smiling. “Happy Christmas, darling. What did
Daddy say when he caught Mummy kissing Santa?” OK, it’s corny, but
then I’m corny.

I recline on the rug again, stretching like a cat to flaunt the
opening in my panties. “Come here and try a taste of this,” I invite.

“Not bloody likely. Look what it’s done to your knickers!”

It’s James’s joke, but it’s not James’s voice. It’s richer, fruitier,
a touch of an accent. He’s playing a game. He’s going to stay in
character. I always feel awkward playing a part, but I’ll give it a
go.

“Have you got a present for a good little girl, Santa?” I breathe, all
Marilyn Monroe.

“Sure have, sweetie,” he replies. “Come here and have a feel in my
pockets.”

Clambering to my feet, I sashay over to him (can’t not sway in these
shoes) and wrap my arms around his waist. Not very far round, though.
James must be wearing padding. OK, he’s no longer slim (my cooking
again, I’m afraid) but he’s quite a bit slimmer than this. It really
is a very good costume. The velvet is thick and luxurious. I slip a
hand into his pocket as Santa leans down to kiss me. Our lips meet as
I sink into his dear embrace.

“HOLY SHIT! WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

I’m electric with panic. This isn’t James. No way is it James. For one
thing there’s a difference between the perfectly honed kiss that comes
from ten years of practice with the same person and the velvety
expertise of a great kisser you never met before. For another there is
no pocket in Santa’s suit. It just goes straight through to warm naked
flesh – and there’s a lot more flesh there than James has ever
possessed. Loads.

In a split second I’ve realized I’m cuddling a strange man dressed as
Father Christmas. A strange, very fat man dressed as Father Christmas.
Where is James? Are the kids OK? Are they alive! What the fuck’s going
on?

With a small shriek I pull away, staring in horror at the stranger
under my Christmas tree.

He smiles at me like sunshine, his big brown eyes crinkling
gloriously, his broad grin nearly hidden under his snowy moustache and
beard, his white prawn eyebrows dancing. His smile is as sweet as a
child’s kiss, his eyes as full of fun as a baby’s laughter. He has a
lot of James about him – but he isn’t James. On the other hand, surely
this is no psychopath? Though aren’t the worst ones supposed to laugh
innocently as they fillet you?

The stranger is having a weird effect on me. This old man’s whole
being floods merriment and sexual energy into the room, into my flesh.
Half-fearful, half-delighted, I stand staring at him, tingling with
excitement.

“Happy Christmas, honey!” he carols, and chuckles. And as he chuckles
I hear the distant sound of jingling bells. “You’ve been such a good
girl all year I thought I’d give us both a special treat.”

I am trying to remain stern. I am trying to remain worried. But such
is the power of his merriment, the vibrancy of his shining eyes, that
I feel myself soften. Soften and warm…. Warm? Bollocks. I’m getting
hot.

Mentally pulling my adult authority around me – not easy in a flame
silk negligee – I square up to the intruder.

“And who the hell are you? I warn you, my husband’s upstairs, and
we’ve got a top of the range security system. The police will be here
in a couple of minutes.”

“I’m Santa Claus, sweet stuff,” the old man replies. “As imperceptible
to both husbands and security systems as pixy dust. Your babies are
snug abed complete with the best stockings they’ve ever seen. And I’m
here to bring tidings of comfort and joy, among other things…” His
infectious, joyful grin contains an edge of mischief. “But you modern
girls are such sceptics. Tell you what….” and he vanishes.

For a moment I stand, baffled, in an empty living room. Then I hear
scrabbling and thuds behind me and, as I spin round, down our chimney
pours an avalanche of chubby scarlet trimmed with black boots and
white fur. Santa Claus springs to his feet in our empty grate (where’s
the gas fire gone?) and, dusting himself off, comes springing out onto
the rug. Behind him a huge log fire manifests in the fireplace,
already in full blaze, crackling and filling the air with the scent of
apple wood. The smile is even broader now, and the twinkling of his
eyes puts the Christmas lights to shame.

“Santa Claus at your service, ma’am!” he chuckles. “Or Father
Christmas if you prefer. Some of my ladyfriends like the Father C bit
– gives it that naughty incestuous edge!” and, roaring with merriment,
he holds out his hands.

I will not go to him though. Even if he is Father Christmas. And he is
Father Christmas, I’m sure of that. For one thing, where did that all
too real fire come from? For two, even the most skilful of burglars
couldn’t slip down our chimney. Not since we had it bricked up last
summer. This is magic.

But magic or no, I am no adultress. At least, not in the flesh. Dreams
don’t count. Not even that one about 12 Axel Roses and a double decker
bus. This big jolly stranger may be Father Christmas – he might be the
man in the moon for all I care. Makes no difference, what matters is
that he isn’t James. Because I am married to James – and I plan to
stay that way. I stand firm.

“Ah, but it doesn’t count, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

“What doesn’t count?” I stare, nonplussed.

“Goodness, angel!” he twinkles his eyebrows at me.

“Frankly, for a writer, you don’t have a lot of imagination,” Santa
teases. “Surely you should have worked out for yourself that I’d have
to be able to read minds. How else could I fulfill the dreams of
millions of little hearts? And surely you realize that this isn’t
happening in real time? Or perhaps you have a logical explanation as
to how I visit to so many precious children in one enchanted night?
Let alone the refreshments I get through!” And he gives another fat
chuckle. I know that voice, somehow, but I can’t place it.

I stand there with my mouth open. But I am an arm’s length away from
him, still uncertain.

“My darling Christmas angel, I am Santa Claus – he of a million
smoking chimneys. And hot sex with Santa Claus can’t possibly count as
real time infidelity. After all, you never worried about being had up
for sacrilege, did you?”

I can feel myself blushing from my thighs up. All those wicked priest
fantasies and me not even a Catholic. Even James doesn’t know about
those. It’s all too shamefully true. I’m having to repress a
hysterical desire to giggle. It would make novel graffiti, anyway:
‘Father Christmas is a telepath!’

“Come here, you scarlet woman,” he urges. “No, I’m not trying to
seduce you, silly creature. I just want you to see something. A little
surprise I laid on for you. I know you’ll like it!”

“Come to the window,” he coaxes. “I’ve got something to show you.”

In a dream I float towards the curtains. My negligee flutters in the
draught, but somehow I’m still toasty warm. Santa Claus waves a large
hand and the curtains are open. The scene before me makes me gasp with
pleasure. I feel like a child.

Anyone could set up the sleigh. At least anyone motivated enough to
seduce me – and people have gone to extremes in the past. And the
reindeer wouldn’t be impossible. Difficult, but not impossible.

What convinces me, what carries me right over the edge, is the
snow….

This, after all, is the Home Counties – nearly London. Four inches
provides a year to remember…. Snow, that is. But as far as the eye
can see my familiar landscape is covered in a thick, sparkling Disney
coating. It’s more than white. It’s more than snow. It’s pluperfect
Technicolor dazzle. Artistic icicles hang from every conceivable
horizontal. Scatters of luminous sparkle hang in the air. My Christmas
dream. Santa Claus is humming “Walking in our Winter Wonderland” as I
turn and slip into his arms….

@—}—}—–

It’s ages since I was this close to a fat man. And even he (naming no
names) wasn’t as fat as this. It’s ever so cosy. Santa and I are
snuggling on the hearth rug. We’re doing some good old-fashioned
Christmas necking. It’s ages since I did this, too. Mouths – faces –
in the dark, connecting – flexing, pouting. Lips parting, rippling,
quivering… I run the tip of my tongue along the inside of his top
lip, he tickles my palate with his… The beard’s fun, too. I’m not
used to beards. His moustache must be getting a bit damp though. Good
thing it’s real…. Play havoc with stage whiskers, I’ll bet.

We speak in tongues, sometimes playful, sometimes hot – demanding. He
floods my mouth with warm saliva, pumping his narrowed rigid tongue
tip in and out in tiny imitation of our imminent fuck. Obvious. But
sexy….. I like obvious but sexy. My body is filled with the pleasure
of his nearness. Jolly bugger sends out waves of festivity – or
something…..

I’m so enjoying just this kissing. James and I kiss, but not for
hours. And it seems like hours, though I suppose time has been
suspended. Of course, it’s an additional kick that each time we part –
for breath, to gaze into each other’s eyes – the darkness between is
hung with starry colored glitter, for all the world like cartoon magic
dust.

But I’m beginning to speculate about what ‘next’ will be like.
Because next is going to be soon…. My breathing is chaotic. Santa’s
is deep and even. But not crisp. He’s not rushing the pace. I’m so
liquid, so lustful – it looks like I’m going to have to….

New styles for new people. Santa’s too fat for what James and I
usually do. I’ll have to go on top. Putting a hand on each shoulder I
push him gently back. Lying on his belly, head by his heart, I push a
hand into each of his pockets. Warm, soft hairy flesh inside. I’m
moving my hands down and together, though my scope for manoeuvre is
limited.

“Holy fuck, Santa! What’s that?” Stupid question. It feels a lot like
the biggest cock I ever felt in my life. I can’t get hold of it
properly. Each hand can only just reach his shaft, huge and pulsing
against my fingertips. I slide off him, sitting up, skidding to
unbuckle that big silver buckle, wild with excitement. Strange to say,
he’s not laughing. Just a big, slow grin and those brown eyes full of
glee…

Wrench the black belt undone, unbutton those thick velvet trousers….
I’m unwrapping Santa. Both hands diving in, like a kid in a lucky dip.
He grunts as he raises his mighty buttocks off the rug so I can pull
his trousers off. Must’ve wriggled out of those boots while we were
snogging. I wouldn’t have noticed if the house had burned down.

It’s the biggest, most velvety, hardest gorgeous great dick I ever saw
in all my wild life. “Oh, Father Christmas!” I breathe. “What a lovely
surprise!”

“I call him Rudolph,” Santa Class says modestly, and giggles.

I’m one of nature’s cock worshippers, so I can’t help but suck it.
Can’t get the whole head in my mouth – impressive if frustrating – so
confine myself to licking it, gripping it, hefting his huge balls in
my hand. Dipping my head I tongue the little dripping mouth, running
my tongue-tip round the underside of the head, rasping the rough
underside with the very edge of my bottom teeth.

I twist down between his thighs, running my tongue up his taut
scrotum. Peppermint. Warm furry candy. “And visions of sugar plums
danced in my head,” whispers Santa.

It’s a miracle. A weird, sexy miracle. I’m not rushing. After all, we
have all the time in the world. I keep drawing back slightly to admire
the sheer size of his beautiful cock. He’s circumcized. That’s a
novelty, too. “I didn’t know they went in for circumcision in the
frozen north,” I remark vaguely. Silly thing to say, really. It’s not
as if I know a lot about anything to do with the frozen north. “Don’t
tell me Father Christmas is Jewish!” I giggle.

Then I get it, the full “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Every fold bounces with mirth.
His cock bounces and swoops. His eyes crinkle and tears roll down his
cheeks. I’m laughing too, though what at I’m not sure. All I know is a
sense of total happiness. I cuddle and giggle. We rock and nestle
until gradually the great rollicking chuckles subside.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he grins at me.

“Honey, I’m American. And heavily influenced by Hollywood. Surely
you’ve noticed the cartoon peripherals. Love ’em myself!” And he
gestures to demonstrate the luminous spangles that follow his finger
tips. “Pixy dust. Constant source of pleasure. And the elves. Reduced
the workload – and the isolation. Oh yes, I’m largely American in my
current manifestation. Invented by Coca-Cola. Thought a lady of your
education would have all that at her fingertips.”

Now he mentions it, I do remember something about it. “Oh yes, the red
outfit and all that,” I say. “But aren’t you our English Father
Christmas – and Saint Nicholas too?”

I feel him change. Just a little. There’s still an immense warmth
emanating from him but now it is perhaps a fraction less cosy, a
fraction more untamed.

“Yes and no, darling…” At last I recognise the accent. He sounds
exactly like James Stewart. It figures. Oh, yes, it figures.

“I’m a Coca-Cola figurehead, and your own Father Christmas, and I’m
Saint Nick who gave gold to poor girls to save them from prostitution.
Nothing I hate more than commercialized sex. Sex needs freedom like
wild swans need freedom. Sex is sacred to Santa Claus… Because
though I may be a dozens myths in one it helps to remember my first
incarnation.”

“And what was that?” I ask, chastened.

“The ancient green-coated wizard of the North who flew by night. The
man of power. The life bringer. I’m a pagan. And I can be very pagan
indeed…”

He grips me in his huge velvet-covered arms and the world turns over.
Suddenly weightless, I am high over him as he lifts me up across his
belly and lowers me onto his cock head. I gasp and cry out as the
smooth rounded heat stretches my cunt. His hands are on my shoulders,
gently but inexorably bearing me down on what feels an impossibly
large hard-on. An image of Egyptian priestesses riding the great stone
phalluses by the Nile flicks across my mind’s eye. It may feel
impossible but it also feels incredible. I’m going to fuck this cock
if it’s the last thing I do. Doesn’t seem likely to be the last thing
I do, though. In fact as he forces me down and I urge myself to open
to its mighty breadth it seems as if this is the first of a million
things I might do. All things are possible. I am flushed with power,
with dark green shoots of vitality.

Oh yes, give me your cock! Gimme it all!” I beg. Either I am slighter
or he has grown. He seems seven feet tall as he gazes up between my
braced thighs. Riding his broad belly stretches me like riding a
horse, and his huge, hot cock pillar feels like a tree within me – a
python, twisting and growing, hot and flowering.

Flexing my thighs and calves, digging in with my heels, I jam myself
down on him with a fury. I feel impossibly full, but the stretching is
making me come. God, it’s making me come…

The muscles deep in my cunt ripple sideways across his
shaft, stretching, gripping, appreciating his godhead. My breath is
deep and quiet as moonlight, my cries are far away. My back arches,
the muscles in my belly ripple and shift. I can feel my hot juice all
over his balls and under my arse. I have reached a stage where orgasms
pump cumjuice out of me like water, where my breasts harden and my
nipples ache with arousal.

Which he has noticed, and with one bound they are free. Very slick,
the way he pushes both hands quickly up close to my ribcage from
beneath, toppling my swollen gleaming breasts out of my bra cups in
one deft motion. My nipples rage out in front, big crimson raspberries
of excitement. He has both in one hand, while a sideways thumb slips
down to press against my soaking mound where the root of my twanging
clitoris is sealed against his cock and belly.

His palm and fingers are clenching, jerking, hard yet just right, on
my nipples. I feel the rush down to my clit, where his thumb exerts a
pressure that is making me buck and scream.

Just when I thought I couldn’t come any harder I am avalanching
sensation. My cunt beats like a heart, holds him in a death grip. Heat
consumes us, my eyes are screwed up, I pant like a dog. I am possessed
as orgasm shakes me over and over again.

In a moment of white-heat clarity my face unravels and our eyes meet.
His are now as green as glass, as wild as wolves, as loving as a
mother’s heart. He grips my hips and arches up as I ram myself down
with all my tenacity. I feel his cock in my head now, I feel my
pleasure in my bones.

I shove my own hands under my breasts, jutting them out more. “I’ve
got the whole length now. It’s right up there. Every last fuckin’
inch. Now you can really give it me. Go on, give it me!”

His size doesn’t hinder his movements. He has me safe and tight
against his huge chest and flips us over in an instant. I am flat on
my back with my ankles round his ears. I’m right, he has got bigger,
though he’ll not crush me. His beard flows over my breasts, gentle on
my hot skin. Vaguely I notice he still has half his clothes on. So do
I. Not that it’s any handicap….

And then he takes all his weight – and mine – off the floor and rocks
us both deeper together. There is no strain, just an easy opening of
my liquid pelvis wider than I dreamed possible. How can so much go so
deep – feel so immensely good?

He starts to tup me, hard and deep. All my force and skill flies
up to join him. His strokes are controlled but growing steadily more
assertive, more insistent. I love that moment when the control goes.
It has to be my favorite moment in the world. And it’s coming, it’s
coming….

“Yes! Fuck, yes. Oh yes! Please, oh please! All the way.
All the way…” I am urging him to give way, and he is teetering on
the precipice and he is lunging that long, smooth, incredible stroke
that breaks control and his cock slides into me faster and faster
until, in the most beautiful, exquisite way, the force takes on a life
of its own and slams to a beat that pumps repetitively, unmistakably,
savagely…. Christmas is coming…. Oh yes, Christmas is coming.

I lose myself in that endless drenching moment but I swear that in
that fleeting mystery his red velvet shoulder turned to green….

@—}—}—–

We are wrapped in each other’s arms. My eyes are closed, happy tears
on my face. Say what you like about muscles and so forth, fat men are
so deliciously cuddly. So warm. My heart is full of candlelight. I
feel newborn. I have never felt so marvellous. I could do anything.
At least I could probably do anything in a little while, after we’ve
had this nice cuddle…..

“I’ve got to go, sweet,” he whispers tenderly and kisses my forehead.
Regret and love breathe in his words. “So many stockings and
pillowcases to fill, so many dreams to fulfill… So many snacks to
consume…” The giggle is returning to his voice.

“Of course you do.” I am returning to my own self too. No small child
shall be deprived for my wild Christmas Eve. I cannot ask him to stay.
But I am not sure what to say…. How to part.

The fire he created is embers now. He stands and is immaculately
dressed in a second. Yet another plus point of magic I think, with
some amusement. A handy trick. Very handy. Specially on school
mornings. Ah well, we mortals must accept our limitations…. I am
still half-sprawled on the hearth rug, drowned in sex, stockings
askew. Heaven only knows what my make-up looks like now. But then, who
cares?

He smiles down at me, wrapping me in loving kindness. “Happy
Christmas, my good girl,” he grins. “Though precisely whether you’re
naughty or nice is quite beyond me!”

Laughing he steps into the fireplace. The fire roars up around him and
glossy green leaves surround his wild, joyful face. “Happy Christmas!”
he roars, huge, radiant and suddenly majestic.

“Why, you’re the Green Man, too!” I cry.

“Knew it would come back to you eventually!” he thunders, his
triangular grin splitting his beard. And the laughter grows and the
flames blosssom and he is gone…. Just a ripple of laughter and a
distant jingling.

@—}—}—–

“Wake up, sweetheart. The kids’ll be up in a minute!” I am being
jiggled.

“Where.. What?”

I am on the hearthrug. My body tells me it’s early morning. James is
rocking me gently, his face creased with affection and sleep.

I grab my senses round me urgently. What’s happening? Who’s here?
What’ve I done?

We are cuddled together in front of the gas fire. It’s so warm and
stuffy we must’ve been here all night. My Christmas lingerie is
rumpled, sweaty, stained. My hair is damp. A creased Santa Claus suit,
including beard, lies in a pile under the tree. James is naked, his
sweet self.

So we gather up all the evidence and creep up to our chilly bedroom to
set all to rights before the excited squeaks of children make the dawn
chorus of our Christmas morning. Once decent in Daddy-type jimjams,
James sneaks down to make us both coffee.

Grabbing the necesary bits I whisk silently into the bathroom and turn
on the shower. I’ve got to move fast to remove my smeared make-up and
swap my sexy rags for a cheery floor-length tartan nightdress. Want to
be in bed like something out of Little House on the Prairie when the
kids rush through to show off their surprises.

But first I catch my own eye in the mirror and give myself a long slow
appraising look. Dear, sweet Father Christmas. Pagan sex god maybe,
but also kindly old gentleman. He’s given me an out, a little unspoken
message. “You don’t need to feel guilty. After all, t’was but a
dream.”

Was it fuck! He can set the scene all he likes but he’s forgotten to
remove the fairy dust that permeates the silk of my wrap and still
sparkles on my breasts. He’s also forgotten that good old joke, which
I now know to be plain – and sticky – fact. “Christmas comes but once
a year. But when he does he fills your stockings!”

It’ll have to be a *very* long hot shower. Grinning, I start my
day….