By Margo Perry  (margo707 AT rogers DOT com)
Copyright 2006 by Margo Perry, all rights reserved.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and a gentle wind had quilted a cover of downy snow over a treacherous sheet of ice. Santa’s D-Lux06 Sleigh skidded as it touched down, but managed to straighten itself out before making a safe and smooth landing. Pilot Elf let out a quiet sigh of relief as he brought the sleigh to a full stop.

“Pretty sloppy landing,” Santa chided, “and we’re behind schedule. Let’s get a move on! It’s past midnight and we have thousands of deliveries yet to make.”
Santa trampled snowflakes into unhappy clumps as he stomped around in tiny circles, waiting impatiently for his elves to do their work.

“…yet to make!” Happy Helper sneered, deliberately placing one single box slowly onto a dolly. “I get so sick of that man talking like he’s got a pickle up his ass.”
“Now, there’s no need for disrespect,” Chappy Chief Elf scolded. “He hasn’t been himself since Mrs. Claus passed. Give him a break.”

“Well, it’s been two years already,” Happy said. “That man needs a good . . . ”

“Enough!” Chappy interrupted. “Load the other box and make it snappy.

Chappy rolled the dolly out to Santa and consulted the order sheet. “1414 Lunsford Lane,” he read. The front door will be open and you’ll find the tree in the living room, first room on the left.”

“I should hope so,” Santa said, grabbing hold of the pushcart. “Those chimney drops were getting much too hazardous with people burning wood to save on the heating bills and forgetting to put up their warning flags. Not to mention my suit smelling like smoke, all tarnished with ashes and soot. And lugging those bundles around on my back like some goddamn peddler! I sure don’t miss the old days.”

Chappy watched him hustling down the slope toward the house and gasped as, halfway there, Santa slipped and fell, tumbling head over heels in the powdery wake of his runaway cart. Chappy charged after him, catching up just as Santa scrambled to his feet.

“You’re soaking wet. Please go back and change. I’ll make this delivery.” Chappy used both hands, frantically swiping gobs of snow from Santa’s snow-drenched coat and suit.

“I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t fuss,” Santa grumbled, waving him away. Chappy stacked the boxes back onto the cart and wheeled it the rest of the way to the front door. “Go on back to the sleigh,” Santa instructed. “I won’t be long.”

Santa opened the door quietly, stepped inside and removed his boots. The house was as quiet as a morgue. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The only signs of life were the soft ambient glow coming from the living room and the succulent smell of roast turkey mixed with newly baked sweets. The aroma teased his nostrils and he immediately felt hungry. Santa was a meat and potatoes man and he had never cottoned to those milk and cookie snacks people insisted on leaving for him. He recalled the Christmas Eve feasts Mrs. Claus had waiting for him when his work was done. This house reminded him of those times. “This is no time to waltz down memory lane,” he admonished himself. “Keep your mind on the job at hand.”

Gathering his boxes in his arms, Santa went down the hall and past a stairway leading up, he assumed, to the bedrooms. He then turned left into the living room where, sure enough, in the far corner stood the tree, tastefully decorated with handmade ornaments: orbs and boxes, animals and toys, balls and triangles and squares. Icicles shimmered from the green branches and the emanating scent of pine blended with all the other familiar and tantalizing Christmas smells. As he rested the boxes on the floor, Santa noticed that someone had hung five stockings by the chimney, just as his Mrs. Claus used to hang theirs with such loving care. The image made him miss his wife, his Mary. He could feel her presence in the room, as if she were there waiting for him, smiling, her full breasts resplendent under her cotton nightdress, eager to comfort him.

“What’s the point of taking off your boots if you’re going to leave on your coat and let it drip all over the carpet?” The questioning reprimand came out of the shadows, startling him. The voice spoke in a husky whisper that both unnerved and excited him. “My goodness, but you’re all wet. What happened to you? Give me that coat.”

Santa turned and froze. The figure in front of him was no Mary. This woman had no shame. Her lipstick, as fiery red as the thick mane of unruly curls that fell about her face, accentuated her already full, sensuously pouting lips. She stood before him barefoot, the skimpy little emerald green frou-frou she was wearing scarcely material enough to be considered a garment at all. The neckline plunged dangerously low, exposing an astounding expanse of breast flesh that overwhelmed Santa’s every sensibility and the skirt hardly covered the round cheeks of her ass. What a vulgar slut, he thought. But his growing, throbbing cock made a hypocritical fool out of him. He fought valiantly to wrest his eyes away from the endless flow of her cleavage and the rise and fall of her colossal tits, but they held him captive as surely as would the oscillations of a hypnotist’s charm.

The woman held out one hand invitingly, while cradling a large glass of red wine in the other. She remained silent, but her suggestive stare spoke volumes. When she finally spoke, her voice sounded even deeper and more threateningly seductive than before.

“Your coat?”

“As you can imagine, I’m on a tight schedule,” Santa said awkwardly, his voice sounding too loud and harsh in his own ears. She simply waited, hand outstretched, calmly sipping her wine as she watched Santa staring helplessly at her breasts. When he capitulated and began to struggle out of his coat, she smiled.

“Here, hold this,” she said, passing him her wine. She took his coat between two long manicured fingers and carried it aloft as though it were some vile and smelly thing.

Santa watched her go, curved ass bouncing, hips swaying. Her breasts taunted him, pendulating side to side with every step. When she finally disappeared from his sight, Santa’s shoulders drooped with relief. He could still feel Mary’s presence, but it was no longer beneficent. She was no longer smiling. Santa felt helpless, as if he’d been cast in a drama for which he hadn’t auditioned, from which he couldn’t escape. “I must get control of myself!” He placed the woman’s wine glass on the mantle and purposefully picked up his boxes. He carried them to the tree, holding them discreetly in front of the bourgeoning cock that was now tenting his pants most lewdly.

“Put these on while I dry your suit.” She was back, holding a pair of jogging pants and a terry cloth robe.

A dumbfounded Santa just stood and stared. She had changed into a long black diaphanous gown that clung to her like a second skin, right up to her chinny-chin-chin. His problem was that she looked even more alluring than before and he could feel his resolve melting like wax in the face of fire. He felt dizzy. Her breasts, a momentous monument to womanhood, jutted so far out in front of her that he wondered how she was managing to stand. And he could clearly see her lacy panties and bra. He could clearly see her breasts spilling out of their cups. Santa’s legs wobbled, as he felt his balls tighten and pre-cum ooze into his pants.

He finally found his voice. “I couldn’t possibly,” he said bravely. “I have miles to go before I sleep.”

“You’re the King of Clichés,” she proclaimed, “and you’ll be a sick king if you stay in those clothes one minute longer. Look, I’m only the nanny here. The children’s parents are away ‘til tomorrow on a family emergency and, I’m sure, have settled their brains for a long winter’s nap by now. The boys are finally nestled snug in their beds with sugarplums probably dancing in their heads and it took me two hours to get them down. I’m tired. All I want now is to relax and enjoy my drink. I don’t want to argue with a man who’d standing in the middle of the living room, shivering and sneezing, determined to catch pneumonia, so off you go.”

“I can’t! I have to …,” Santa terminated his own sentence with a second sneeze.

He could feel her spongy tits against his back as she herded him out of the room and across the hall, closing the bathroom door behind him.

Santa sat on the toilet seat, his head in his hands. His body betrayed him yet again as it gave way to a loud coughing fit. He was catching a cold. His forehead was hot, his nasal passages were filling up and he was feeling slightly nauseous. His body had become a battleground. Sickness fought with health, guilt fought with desire, responsibility battled a need for pleasure that left him panting. But a clear winner was in sight. He could still smell the woman’s heady perfume and beyond the bathroom door, her breasts were calling out to him like a siren’s song. He undressed quickly, pulled the jogging pants over his cum-stained shorts and slipped on the thick white robe. It felt soft and very, very warm.

“Isn’t that better?” She had morphed into mother cat, indulging her weak kitten. Santa turned over his suit without speaking. “Relax, I’ll be right back,” she purred, her voice all milk and honey.

Santa walked over to the tree, opened the boxes and began to arrange the gifts. The activity calmed him. “My clothes won’t take long to dry and then I’ll be on my way. I can handle this,” he told himself.

When she came back and touched Santa on his shoulder, the sensation radiated to his sensitive nipples and cock, all at the same time. He stood on rubbery legs and turned to face her, tugging his robe around himself. But his cock stood at attention like a proud soldier, refusing to be denied.

“Thanks, you’ve been most generous,” she said, gesturing to the gifts. “Oh my,” she added, gazing dreamily at Santa’s protruding cock, “you’d better come with me.”

Santa panicked. A cold sweat broke across his brow and he gulped with relief when he realized she was leading him, not toward the bedroom stairs, but toward the couch.

“This is for you”. The woman picked up a glass of amber liquid from the coffee table and passed it to Santa. “It’ll warm you up. By the way, I’m Nora.” She sat beside him and crossed her legs. Her gown separated to expose a shapely leg of generous proportions, designed more for love than sport. Santa gaped at her creamy thigh.

He crawled between them and, looking up at her giant tits, pried her legs open with gentle hands. He could smell her sweet honey pot as he caressed, licked and kissed his way upward. His rock hard cock was screaming for her hot wetness, but it would have to wait. Her pussy was crying out for attention.

“…and thank your Pilot Elf for landing so quietly. I was afraid that all that clatter on the lawn and prancing and pawing on the roof would wake the children and send them flying to the windows to see what was the matter!”

Santa had been so lost in his fantasies that he was shocked to realize that the woman had been chatting all the while. May I call you Nick?” he heard her ask.

“Yes, yes of course,” he enthused, hurling himself back to the present. He sipped his drink. The taste was smooth in his mouth and on his tongue. He swallowed and his throat stung with its pleasurable heat. His head felt light, giddy. “This is so good. I feel better already! What is it?”

“My special concoction,” Nora cooed. She turned to him and sat with her legs tucked under her. She leaned toward him, her breasts spilling over her crossed arms. The massive shelf of breasts drew his sight away from her sparkling green eyes back to them. They rose and fell, drawing him in like quicksand. “I heard about your wife. I’m so sorry. I know it’s been hard on you.”

Santa felt those cold facts wrap themselves around his head, his heart and his already shrinking cock. “I don’t want to talk about it. I really must go. My suit must be dry now.”

“How dare this woman even mention my wife?” He could feel Mary back in the room and was ashamed at how rabidly he was still attracted to this creature. “I won’t look at her. I’ll change and be on my way,” he told himself, struggling to his feet.

“Please stay and talk to me,” Nora whispered. “You need to talk.”

Nora stood facing him and took him in her arms. Cushiony flesh and abject loneliness, his lust, sorrow and her kindness, all blended and Santa’s resistance crumbled. Everything in him reached out to her. Santa was a man drowning in need and Nora was willing to save him.

“Talk about Mary. How did it happen?”

They both sat.

“Mary died two years ago on New Year’s Eve. We were partying, just the two of us, drinking wine, eating her favorite cheese and cherries when she choked on a pit while giggling at one of her own jokes. By the time I realized that she was in trouble and applied the Heimlich Maneuver, it was too late. I couldn’t stop laughing and, believe me, there was nothing funny about it. It was terrible!”

Nora pulled him back against her bosom. “You’ve been blaming yourself ever since. You’ve got to know that it wasn’t your fault,” she said.

“If only I had . . .”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she said again.

“There’s been no joy since then. Work is the only thing that takes my mind off things and I’m not really enjoying that.”

Santa had collapsed against the back of the couch and Nora was caressing his belly and absently tickling his thighs with her long smooth nails. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Released from his prison of silence, Santa began to talk again. Nora explored his body, seeing him as a blind man saw, until he ran out of words.

“You’ve suffered enough. Pleasure, you need pleasure,” Nora said.

She stood in front of him, her tits presenting themselves magnificently as she reached back to unzip herself. She posed for him, thrusting one hip provocatively to one side, thrusting her tits forward. She fondled her breasts through the material before slowly relieving herself of her gown. Santa groaned his appreciation and Nora licked her lips seductively. Stripped down to her bra and panties, she lifted one huge tit to her drooling mouth.

“Touch yourself for me, Nick. Please,” she begged.

Santa fondled and caressed, stroked and teased his grateful cock to madness as she discarded her bra and bent over, allowing her massive tits to swing free. “I’m going to come,” Santa gasped. “Allow me,” Nora said, dropping to her knees. Her very warm and wet mouth drew his cock in. She teased and taunted it with her lips, tongue and hands, until he begged for release. She would stop for long seconds and then start all over again. Santa felt sensations he’d never felt before. They piled on top of each other gaining in intensity. He begged her to stop. Told her he would kill her if she stopped. His cock was obscenely purple and distended when she slipped out of her panties and straddled him. All he could grunt was, ‘yes, yes, yes’ over and over again. He watched her bouncing tits, swaying tits, slapping against her torso, swinging side to side. He watched them and thrust against her, until he came and came and came.

They sat quietly for quite a while.

“I’ll never be able to complete my deliveries. How will I explain this?” Santa fretted.

Nora cuddled into his chest, her arms around him, like a trusting child. “You don’t have to explain yourself. You’re Santa. You make everyone else’s wishes come true, make your own come true. Wish for the time you need.”

Santa closed his eyes and wished. They heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime midnight.

You’re wonderful,” Nick said. “I feel brand new.”

She fetched his suit and he went off to the bathroom to change. He sang softly as he dressed,

Here comes Santa Claus!
Here comes Santa Claus!
Right down Santa Claus Lane.

When he came out, Nora walked him to the door. His eyes were twinkling and his mouth was stretched wide in a jolly grin, the old glow rouging his cheeks.

“Same time next year?” she asked.

“Maybe sooner,” he answered. “There’s magic in the air.”