The Night Before Christmas...

Author's Note

:

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Working on Christmas Eve was bad; working a double on Christmas Eve pretty much sucked. The steakhouse where Carmen bussed tables rotated the holiday shifts, and everybody worked at least one of the four major ones (Thanksgiving Day, Christmas Eve, New Years Eve, and Valentine's Day); in fact, this was the only holiday Carmen had pulled this year.

The one big advantage to working Christmas Eve is that staffing was slim; there was never enough wait staff, so Carmen got to serve and bus, which meant she drew a significantly larger proportion of tips. That almost made up for the fact that three of the people that were supposed to work the second shift called in "sick." Luckily, they planned to shut the doors at 7:00 PM, which would ensure that they would be empty by 8:30 PM.

Of course, this was also the first time that Carmen had been designated M.O.D. – Manager of the Day – which meant that she was the last one who could leave. Normally, the manager never would have let someone who normally busses be in charge, but the alternative was dragging his lazy ass in on Christmas Eve to close, and he had rationalized that there was probably not going to be a whole lot of business anyway. Besides, there had been a lot of grumbling lately about the fact that none of the Spanish speaking staff had any responsibility, so this was an opportunity for the restaurant to show how "enlightened" it was.

By the time Carmen prepared the bank bag and tossed it in the safe, it was 9:30 PM. Exhausted, she dropped into the chair behind the manager's desk, kicked off her shoes, and stretched her aching legs out across the top of the desk. She sighed; Hector was probably already well on his way to being sauced. She'd heard that it might even sleet – the closest they'd get to a white Christmas – so the walk home from the bus stop would be just miserable. Merry Fucking Christmas.

She hadn't realized that she'd drifted off until the sound of a heavy thud out in the main dining area startled her awake. She rose, disoriented, and crept over to the door that opened out onto the dining room. Peering out into what she hoped was a deserted room, she took a quick inventory. Everything looked like it was where it belonged, so she pushed the door open wider and stepped out, glancing from side to side. Nothing out of the ordinary presented itself.

She realized that she'd been holding her breath and let it out. Something had probably blown against the wall outside, or maybe a chair shifted; whatever it was, it looked like she'd gotten worked up unnecessarily. She walked deeper into the room, her confidence increasing with each step. By the time she'd reached the center of the room, she was convinced that she'd overreacted.

The chuckle came from directly behind her, deep, rich, enveloping. In another setting, she would have been totally taken by it, but all alone in the restaurant it made her blood run cold. Its owner close enough to warm her ear with his breath, and her body went rigid with fear.

"Who the fuck's there?" she asked quietly, straining to keep the telltale tremor of fear out of her voice. When she was nervous or excited her accent became more pronounced.

"Such language!" the voice admonished, chuckling again. "I guess won't have any trouble at all telling who's naughty and who's nice." He placed a hand on her shoulder and her heart dropped out of her chest and into her stomach.

"Do something!" her mind screamed. "Don't be a victim!"

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and swung her balled fist back as hard as she could manage. Without waiting to complete her swing she catapulted forward, diving under the nearest table and scrambling upright on the other side.

Dumbfounded, she observed that the space where she'd just been standing was empty, but further back - a good ten feet or so back - stood a very large (hell, fat) old white guy dressed like Santa. And the fucker was smiling and wagging a finger at her!

"One sure way to end up with a stocking full of coal is to whack ol' Santa in the nuts."

Fucking great, she thought. I'm trapped in here with a goddamn crazy.

"Look Mr., I don't want any trouble…"

"Santa," he corrected politely.

"Sure…Santa," she agreed, backing away slowly. Her mind was racing; if she screamed, no one would probably hear her, but if she could get to the phone on the back wall...

"So if you're Santa, where are your elves?" she asked, trying to keep him distracted.

The man giggled. "Elves never leave the workshop, silly. Everybody knows that!"

Carmen smiled, humoring him. "Sure – never leave the North…oh!"

Her back struck the wall. Whipping around, she reached for the telephone on the wall and grabbed the receiver. Her face went pale; the line was dead. She turned and looked at the man, her horror apparent. The gaze he returned was filled with joy and merriment.

"Come, come now, don't fret so. Why don't you just come over here and tell me what you want for Christmas?" he asked congenially.

"If I believed in Santa, I'd ask him for a gun so that I could blow a hole in any creepy motherfucker that cornered me after work," she spat.

For the first time his eyes lost some of the laughter. "'If' Carmen? Have I hurt you that bad?"

Carmen's bravado wavered. How the hell did this nutjob know her name?

"Oh, I know quite a bit about you," he answered, as if reading her mind. "I've known you most of your life; ever since you were a little girl."

She snorted. "Man, Santa Claus didn't come to my neighborhood."

"Sweetie, Santa Claus comes to all neighborhoods. That is, until the little children stop believing."

Carmen was past being scared; now she was just mad. Who the fuck was this sloppy assed old man, coming in here to preach about a fucking myth?

"Yeah? So if you're really Santa, what did I ask you for when I was five?"

"A pony," he answered without pausing.

"Lucky guess. What five year old girl doesn't want a pony? That doesn't prove anything."

He nodded his head. "But do all five year old girls ask for a brown pony that they can name Carmelita, and also ask for a house with a yard so that the pony doesn't have to walk up stairs?"

Her jaw dropped open.

"And if I remember correctly, didn't you tell your friend Melinda last year that you wished that Santa would fly by your place and drop off one of those machines that you could straddle and fuck until you burned out the engine."

Her eyes widened. How the fuck did he know these things?

Santa took the chairs down off of a nearby table and sat in one. "Come on over honey," he said, patting his leg. "Come tell Santa what you want."

Still thunderstruck, she found her feet moving toward him even while her brain was screaming at her to run away. Her rational mind was telling her that there was no such thing as Santa Claus, and that this guy was some fruitcake who was going to really fuck her up. But another part of her couldn't help believing, and that was the part that was controlling her feet.

She settled onto the stranger's lap, both legs draped over the same side. "That's a good girl," he encouraged, patting her back. "Now tell Santa what you want."

His hand was large and comforting; she could feel warmth radiate through her blouse. The patting turned to gentle rubbing, and his hand moved along the entire expanse of her back. She arched her back absently, trying to increase the pressure. It was getting hard to concentrate. She closed her eyes and let her head droop forward. The rhythm was distracting, so much so that she had no idea when his other hand had begun rubbing her leg. By the time she became aware of it, it was tracing a slow, lazy pattern along her inner thigh. It would start at her knee and travel up for a bit, then reverse direction. Each time it left her knee she found herself holding her breath, wondering how far up it would go. The first time his fingers brushed her labia, she trembled.

"There, there dear," he soothed, using the hand on her back to pull her toward his chest, pressing her face into his neck. The hand between her legs returned to her knee, squeezed it slightly, and then massaged its way all the way back to her crotch. A thick finger pressed hard against the thin nylon of her panties, forcing her lips apart before stopping less than half an inch inside. Roughly it moved along the gap, teasing her sensitive inner folds. She opened her mouth and sucked on his neck, moaning softly. When he finally removed his hand from between her legs and she shivered.

"Sit up," he commanded, and she did. He placed two fingers on her lips and applied pressure until they slid into her mouth. Her tongue danced over them, lapping at the salty musky taste. She'd tasted herself once before - after a boyfriend had gone down on her for hours - because she'd wanted to know what had kept him down there so long. That time, she thought she tasted pungent and unpleasant; now, she was sucking on the two meaty fingers as hard as she could, trying to get every drop.

"No need to check my list twice," Santa teased, thrusting his fingers in and out of Carmen's mouth. The hand on her back had moved lower, and was now gently teasing her ass near the top of her crack. She was squirming, her panties soaked, despite the fact that she was being teased by fictional character.

He took his fingers out of her mouth and pulled her to her feet. "What say Santa gets to do a little unwrapping of his own?" he asked jovially.

As big as his hands were, they moved as nimbly as a piano player, coaxing her buttons loose and pushing her blouse off her shoulders in a blink of an eye. He managed to get her cotton twill skirt down around her ankles even faster, then leaned back and eyed her admiringly.

Her raven black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating high cheekbones and almond shaped brown eyes. Her skin, golden and smooth, glistened with her arousal, and her large, chocolate brown nipples showed prominently through her cheap white bra.

Her small, rounded hips and apple shaped ass were clad in a frayed pair of green panties adorned with a red bow. He reached out and grabbed her waistband, pulling it up until the swollen lips of her pussy spilled over the elastic bands that clung to her thighs. As he continued to lift she raised up on her toes, trying to prevent the satiny material from rubbing against her engorged clit. Eventually she couldn't rise any farther and he made contact. Her mouth dropped open, her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees. When she was able to raise her head she was startled to see that Santa had stripped, all except his red fur hat, small square cut frameless spectacles, and black patent leather boots. His long white beard blanketed his chest and brushed his belly, and his legs, like two small tree trunks, were splayed, his cock hanging thickly between them.

She crawled forward on her hands and knees until she was at his feet. With one small hand she encircled his shaft, raising it to her lips. Her dark red tongue darted out, tickling his pinkish head before attacking his piss slit. Santa grunted and slid forward slightly, allowing his large, heavy sac to drop over the edge. Sucking the entire head in up to the ridge, Carmen reached up with her free hand and grabbed Santa's balls, squeezing firmly as she ran her teeth over his cockhead. He groaned and placed a hand on either side of her head to hold her still as he worked more of his cock into her mouth.

When he'd gotten a good rhythm going she pulled back and let his cock pop free. The head was now purple and throbbing, the shaft still slick with her saliva. Standing, she unfastened her bra and freed her tortured nipples. Then she climbed up on his lap, her knees pressing painfully into his quads, and offered a nipple to him. He took it in his mouth greedily, using his teeth much as she had on his cock just moments before. She squealed, pressing against him as he bit and sucked first one nipple, then the other.

While Carmen was concentrating on the intense sensations assaulting her breasts, Santa reached up and pulled her panties to one side. Deftly he positioned the head of his cock against her pussy lips, and with one strong stroke pushed it in. The shock and intensity of the motion caused Carmen to lose her balance, and her legs shot out, straddling either side of Santa's legs. The tops of his thighs slammed hard against her ass cheeks as his cock rammed home. She gasped and squeezed her eyes tight as her body adjusted to the unintended savageness of the action.

While she sat there he tenderly teased her sore and tender nipples with his tongue, his thick beard tickling her as he alternated between them. Involuntarily, her pussy began to squeeze him, making him harder, and her thighs started to contract, working her slowly up and down his shaft. He grabbed her hips and helped her along, increasing the range of motion, until she was sliding noisily up and down his cock, the wet sounds of their sexplay mixing with his heavy breathing and her guttural moans.

When her sounds made it clear that she was close to orgasm he lifted her all the way off and stood, carrying her over to the table. He flipped her on her stomach, with her hips hanging over the end, and entered her from behind. She felt crushed under his weight but in this position he was able to drive his cock impossibly deep – so deep in fact that when the first tremors of her orgasm gripped her it felt like his cock was lodged in her stomach. Her nipples, puffy and tender from all the attention, hardened like diamonds, scraping across the faux wood table and sending spikes of pain/pleasure through her all the way down to her groin. Santa was really pounding her now, his cock stretching and pumping her neglected pussy as his own orgasm approached. A meaty hand pressed into the small of her back, pinning her, as the first gooey jet broke loose, splashing deep, setting off another explosion of her own. He was growling now, the warm velvet walls of her pussy gripping the hypersensitive head of his cock, milking him dry. With a final, massive shudder he collapsed on top of her, blocking out the light, preventing her from drawing a deep breath. She lost consciousness.

When she came to, she was still sitting behind the desk with her feet up, fully clothed. She looked at the clock on the wall – it now read 9:40. She shook her head to clear it; had all that been a dream? She swung her legs down, stood up...

…And almost collapsed. She felt like her legs had been pulled apart by two trucks. Just standing still made her wince, and her whole body, from her neck to her toes, throbbed. She was amazed that just ten minutes of dreaming could have such an intense effect on her body.

Carefully, she slid her shoes back on, trying to move as little as possible in the process, grabbed her coat, and locked up. Out front she was surprised to see a sleek black German sports car over by the entrance to the parking lot. Shrugging, she pulled her coat tight and tried to brace herself against the wind and the rain and walked toward the bus stop.

Once she was closer, she could see that there was a big red ribbon running the length of the car, like on a corny game show. Also, there was a tag fluttering from one of the wipers. Curious, she bent over and examined it.

"Merry Christmas Carmen," it read. "The way I see it, the interest on pony for nineteen years works out to be about 328 horsepower."

And it was signed, "Santa."

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Disclaimer

:

This story is a work fiction. None of the characters or events herein are based on real people, either living or dead.

It was produced for the entertainment of ADULTS ONLY, and contains descriptions of explicit sex. If you are not an adult, or if reading stories of a sexual nature upsets you, do not read any further!

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No animals were harmed in the manufacture of this product.