Santa Baby Box Set

A Little Something for Santa-4

Chris waited until the week of Christmas before he asked again about my silly Santa fetish. “Were you serious?” he wanted to know. “Anyone in a suit?” Something in the way he asked made me think that he planned on renting one of his cousin’s suits, and I wondered just what I’d do when he came through the door, clomping in big black boots like the jolly old elf himself. But it was the holidays, was it not? A charitable time of the year? Back in college, I’d hooked up with guys I didn’t even remember afterwards. What harm could a little fellatio between co-workers bring? It’d get Chris off with someone other than himself for once in his life and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t like it. I’m all about sucking d**k—for me, it’s better than intercourse. A f**k’s always over too quickly for my tastes but a good blowjob, done properly, really lingers. By the time I clocked in for my shift on Christmas Eve, I was decided—if Chris actually did rent a Santa suit and wore it to work, I’d suck him off. Chances were he’d wimp out, or come all over himself in his enthusiasm, and I wouldn’t have to do more than laugh, but I would play it by ear and see what happened. ‘Tis the season, right?

Chris showed up at work ten minutes late, flushed and breathing heavy but dressed in his usual T-shirt and jeans. I was so surprised, I almost asked where the suit was. I had been so sure he’d get one. But as he tied on his apron, he grinned at me. “Santa Claus is coming tonight,” he said. “Have you been a good boy, Patrick?”

I laughed, I knew it—he had the suit in his car then, and would find some excuse to go out later in his shift and change. “I can be better,” I promised.

The night dragged on. Every time the door opened, cold air sliced through the torpid warmth in the main room and chilled me behind the counter. As the clock counted down to midnight, the customers thinned and then disappeared altogether. I locked the cash register and leaned in the doorway between the front counter and the kitchen. “Merry f*****g Christmas,” I growled.

Chris whirled around, burger in hand, and licked his fingers as he glanced at the clock, then almost choked when he saw the time. “I gotta take out the trash,” he said, dropping the burger on the sandwich counter in his haste. The words sounded rehearsed, as if he had stood there turning them over in his head as an excuse to go outside and get into the suit. Sure enough, the trash bags were already tied and waiting at the back door. I made a move to help him, but he said, “No, I’ve got them. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

With a shrug, I grabbed a nearby rag and began wiping down the counter while I waited. A few minutes later, the front door opened, its bell eclipsed by the jingling of sleigh bells. I laughed out loud—damn, that was quick! Leaving the rag on the counter, I called out, “Coming!” In more ways than one, I wanted to add, almost as anxious as Chris probably was to get it on. I hurried out of the kitchen and stopped short when I saw…“Santa Claus!”

“Hello, Patrick.” The voice was deeper than Chris’s—once this role-play was over, I’d have to ask him how long he’d been practicing to make it sound so different—but he’d been right about his cousin’s costume skills. I looked him over twice and still wasn’t sure if it was really him under there. The red suit looked rumpled and well-worn, the fur that lined it more to keep the cold out than for appearances. A red Santa hat was pulled down tight over his ears. His beard, thick and white as snow, looked real. White gloves and black boots and the thickest black belt I’ve ever seen completed the image. Santa Claus, by God. Chris, my mind whispered, but the child inside me refused to listen. This was Santa. My d**k grew two sizes inside my pants, and I smoothed my apron down to hide the sudden erection.

With a merry laugh, Santa rubbed his gloved hands together and asked, “Might I trouble you for some coffee?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “Just something to take the chill off, that’s all I need. I was glad to see your Open sign, believe me. I don’t relish another stop at Wal-Mart tonight. Too many people, to be honest, and the coffee’s not all that great, either. Patrick?”

“This is so cool,” I sighed. My body went through the motions of pouring the coffee without much help from my brain—I couldn’t stop staring at Santa. Chris as Santa, I corrected, but the thought wouldn’t stay in place. As I brought the coffee out to him, Santa sat down at one of the tables and leaned back, eyes shut, savoring the quiet and stillness of the moment. I set the coffee down in front of him and stood there, unsure of what to do. My blood raced with sudden lust—it was the Santa suit, definitely, and the fact that going down on a childhood icon was so inherently wrong that I could’ve come just thinking about it. It was one thing to say yeah, I think Santa’s sexy, but it was another altogether to be standing here in front of him, my chances slipping away with each sip he took of his coffee. When he was finished the drink, then what? He took off the beard and became Chris again? I didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want the moment to end, but I stood like a little kid terrified in Santa’s presence now that it was finally my turn to tell him what I wanted.

Before I could think of anything to say or do, Santa opened his eyes and saw me still beside him. In a gravelly voice, he said, “It’s been quite a long time since you last sat on my knee.”

I almost creamed myself at the thought of snuggling into his lap. My voice sounded distant to my own ears when I replied, “I’ve grown up a bit since then.” But when he held out his hand, I took it and let him pull me down to sit.

His strong arm circled my waist. This close, it was impossible to look into his face, so I stared at the buttons on his coat instead, my fingers finding them among the fur as my hand trailed down Santa’s ample belly. When I reached his belt, I plucked at the buckle and tried to talk myself into going lower. I wanted to, God I wanted to, I wanted to go down on this man as if to thank him personally for all the gifts I’ve ever gotten over the years. I wanted to find the zipper on his bright red pants, ease it down to expose his thick c**k, and take him as far into my mouth as he could go. I wanted to taste him in the back of my throat, to feel him trickling into me, to have his large hands on me as I drank him in. As I stared at my hand on his belt, so close, so close, he whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, Patrick.”

Oh Jesus. The guilty look on my face made him laugh—not the affected ‘Ho, ho, ho’ of the mall Santas but a deep, belly-shaking chuckle that I felt in my bones. “You’re thinking that you’ve outgrown the holiday, isn’t that right?” Relieved, I tried to shake my head and nod at the same time, and my hand slipped to the bottom of his belt buckle. Closer now. The arm around my waist tightened. “You’re never too old for Christmas, Patrick. Remember that. The season of giving lives within you all year long.”

My hand slipped again, my fingers finding the outline of Santa’s d**k in his pillowy crotch. “I have a little present for you,” I told him. His eyes went wide and I smiled as the c**k in my hand moved beneath my touch. “A little thank you for all the things you’ve ever brought me. Like that bike, when I was twelve? And the Nintendo before that? All those G.I. Joes?” I watched him closely, the fear in his face relaxing as I stroked him through his pants. When he thrust into my hand, I knew I had him. I kissed his cheek—powdery and soft—makeup, I thought, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it. I wasn’t quite ready to give up this magical moment. Santa thrust against me again, hard and eager now, and I slid off his lap into the space between his knees.

I found his zipper, tugged it down, and the full length of his shaft swung into my face. Sticking out my tongue, I licked the tip of his c**k, tasting salt and sweat and a hint of pre-c*m. My hands encircled the base of his shaft and my thumbs rubbed maddening patterns through his pants into his soft balls. His c**k bobbed in front of me and I caught the tip between my lips, kissing the bulbous head as I sucked at the slit beneath it. My thumbs worked at Santa’s testicles, kneading them, loving them, as the legs on either side of me spread wider. My tongue traced down his d**k and back up the thick length, back to the tip, and once around the head before I took the plunge and took him in.

A white gloved hand fisted in my hair as I took Santa’s shaft as far into my mouth as it would go. I twirled my tongue around his hard c**k, worshipping it, sucking in a slow, steady rhythm that made Santa slide down further in his seat to push more of himself into me. His swollen tip rubbed against the roof of my mouth as I massaged his balls, the lower length of his d**k. My hands were slick with my own saliva now, the front of his pants damp, his back arched away from the chair as he thrust into me again and again. Each time my tongue found the trembling head of his c**k, he moaned softly above me, and his fingers dug into my scalp. In breathless gasps, he sang out a litany of “Patrick,” and “Oh, please,” and “Yes.”

When I let his d**k slip from between my lips, a slick glob of come and saliva dangled from the head for a moment, before spiraling away down his shaft. I rubbed it into his skin, watching it dissolve beneath my thumb. “Chris,” I whispered, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it.

The hand in my hair pressed my face to his crotch, insistent. “Patrick, please,” he sobbed, a crack in his voice that made him sound like an old man. Another gloved hand reached for his d**k but I pushed it away and he fell back against the chair, weak with desire. “Please.”

Slowly, I licked the tip of his d**k. My hands worked along his length, squeezing and kneading and playing, bringing him closer to orgasm. I concentrated on his cockhead, kissing it, nipping it with my lips, nuzzling it with my nose and cheeks and chin. My hand picked up the pace, earnest now, as I started to jerk him off. My other hand found its way to the front of my jeans, moving the apron aside to unzip them and lowering my briefs to let my own d**k unfurl, already weeping. I took Santa in my mouth again and sucked at him as I thrust into my own hand. We came together, my fingers wet and hot from my own juices as I swallowed his down. I didn’t release him until he went limp.

“Patrick,” he sighed. I wiped my hand on the underside of my apron and stood as I zipped my jeans up. Santa lay stretched in the chair before me, head lolling at an angle, arms limp at his sides. Hs large ass barely held onto the edge of the seat. For a long moment he sat there, unable to move, sprawled obscenely. Then he began to gather himself together, his motions slow, his gloved hands rubbing his d**k as he tucked it away. When he stood, he had to pick his pants out of the crack of his ass—that alone told me how much he enjoyed my little ‘thank you.’ He breathed my name again, his voice shaky with emotion. “You’ve been a very good boy indeed.”

Time to end this role-play. But as I reached for his hat, a clatter arose from the back storeroom. “Did you lock up when you took out the trash?” I asked.

Leaning heavily on the table, Santa frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Something’s back there.” I ducked around the front counter and into the back. Halfway across the kitchen, the storeroom door opened and another Santa stepped out with a shuffling gait that I recognized all too well. “Chris?” I asked, incredulous. He looked up—it was him, I saw through the fake beard easily enough. His Santa suit was stiff and new, creases still folded into the pants and sleeves. “Then who…”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Chris intoned. No deep voice, nothing but the guy I worked with in a rented costume. Clinging to the illusion, though, he turned around so I could see the full effect—the boots that squeaked when he moved, the wide expanse of red cloth that covered his ass. “You like?”

What I liked was the dude out in the dining room…“Who’s that out there?” I wanted to know. “I thought that was you.”

A look of horror crossed Chris’s face and he stood up on his toes, trying to see out of the pass-through window. A bell jingled as the front door opened. “Someone’s here? This late?”

“Santa Claus.” I stepped out behind the front counter and surveyed the suddenly empty dining room. The coffee cup sat on the table where he’d left it, and the taste of him still lingered in my mouth. “He was right here,” I said softly, as if trying to convince myself.

My lips pulled into a goofy grin that I tried to tamp down. It couldn’t…the guy didn’t exist, right? It was just a tale for children, wasn’t it? “Santa Claus,” I whispered—it couldn’t have been, no way, no how, but in my heart I knew it had. “Jesus, it was really him. It had to be.” Chris gave me a confused look and I tried to find the words to explain the magical feeling that began to bubble up inside of me. “The real Santa was here, right here, I swear it. He came in, and I thought it was you, and so I…”

I trailed off, unwilling to share the moment. I remembered kneeling between Santa’s legs, his d**k in my hands, its tender tip against my lips the second before I took it into my mouth. Lust curled through me at the memory. And he’d liked it, no? What did he tell me? You’ve been a very good boy indeed.

Santa only comes once a year. This year, it was because of me.

THE END