Santa’s big helper

Author: LDG

I showed up for my first night of elf duty just as the chain holding back the screaming horde of kids from Santa’s Winter Wonderland was lifted. The mob of SC-worshippers quickly trampled the plastic Rudolph’s and Styrofoam Frosties in their headlong rush to throw themselves onto the plush velvet lap of Mr. Claus. And my somewhat tardy arrival didn’t go over well with less-than-jolly old Saint Nick.

   “Where the hell … heck have you been!?” Father Christmas yelled at me as another elf escorted a hyperactive three-year-old out of his mother’s arms and up and onto the Promised Land. “You should be here at least fifteen minutes before we open for business!”

   “Sorry,” I soothed the throned demigod, as I scratched my elfin headgear with my middle finger. “I guess you’ve never tried to spoon yourself into a costume three sizes too small.”

   He gave my stretched-tight holiday attire an appraising glance, his twinkling eyes lingering an inappropriately long time on my bountiful breasts, until the sucrose-charged kid with the inch-thick want list pulled his beard like it was Mommy’s chain. “You are a big girl, all right,” Santa said to me, ignoring the excited whisker-tugger, his voice hitting depths Barry White used to call home.

   I one-finger adjusted my green, felt cap and red feather for a second time, then turned my back on his hearty leer. The last thing I needed to go along with a polar Green Giant job was a randy Claus. After getting laid off from my regular job, breaking up with my girlfriend, and putting my cat, Senor Whiskas, to sleep, I’d only just recently begun to rebuild my shattered life by snagging a couple of part-time jobs and picking up Senor Whiskas, Jr. from a neighbor whose cat had littered. Xmas was only two weeks away, and I was determined to make it a white, as opposed to blue, Christmas.

   The gushing stream of babbling boys and girls dwindled down to a sticky trickle as the evening wore on, providing me an opportunity to get better acquainted with my fellow merry-makers. My elf-mate, Brandi Gilky, was a teenaged chain-smoker with a set of horse teeth wrapped up in the kind of braces I thought they’d outlawed with the iron mask. Her job was to lead the little lambs from parent to Pere Noel, but even that simple task proved difficult for the high school equivalency grad, as she was more often than not chatting up the packs of aimless boys who circled the decorated mall like hammerhead sharks circle a school of tuna. Or she was running off to the bathroom to do God’s knows what, or who, leaving me pulling double-duty as greeter and retriever – steering the chattering tykes in and out with a minimum of free candy and tears. Still, the girl had a cute butt and a pair of nipples that dimpled her vest in a most appealing manner, so she wasn’t all bad.

   Santa, on the other hand, wasn’t all good. He was a short little guy with a deep voice, blue eyes, and roving hands. He was sporting enough padding to fill a living room set, and when he wasn’t two-fisting coffee, he was patting my costumed epidermis like he worked airport security. The dolly-jolly old coot was constantly caressing my hand or arm, or squeezing my elbow, whenever I came to collect his toy-seeking cargo. I figured that either Mrs. Claus was an icicle, or that Santa wasn’t shy about stuffing his stocking whenever and wherever he could, because the sawed-off Christmas icon was as horny as a Salvation Army brass band.

   I didn’t mind his light-fingered, white-fingered pawing so much, but when the crowds really started to thin out, in prelude to mall-closing, he started blatantly groping me – patting my hip, rubbing my thigh, goosing me. Now, that was too much. “You and me are gonna have a little talk at ten o’clock,” I told the lecherous pole-dweller.

   “Just a talk?” he rumbled, his eyes gleaming as he fondled the oversized belt buckle that no doubt compensated for an undersized Yule log.

   I handed him a glare that would’ve frosted most men’s chestnuts, and finished out my shift in chilly silence. And when the candy-cane clock finally struck ten, and buttalicious Brandi with the braces re-chained the entrance to kiddy nirvana, I grabbed the crimson-clad lothario by the arm, pulled him onto his booties, and shoved him inside Santa’s snow-painted workshop.

   “Okay, bub,” I said, shaking the chunky little ho-meister like a suspicious Christmas present, “let’s get a few things straight. First of all, if you ever touch-“
   I shut up when he kissed me full on the lips.
   I gawked at the festive cherub like Daddy must’ve gawked when he caught Santa french-kissing Mommy. The guy was maybe five-foot-three, a hundred and ten pounds, while I’m almost six-feet-tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds. It wasn’t going to be a fair fight, but that was fine with me; he hadn’t treated me fair all night. “Okay, you asked for it,” I snarled, pulling back my fist.
   He held up his hands, started laughing. “Wait a minute, Joy! Don’t you recognize me?”
   “Yeah,” I responded, nodding, my big fist quivering like a bow-flexed arrow. “I recognize your type.”
   He chortled some more, then said in a voice gone from gong to bell, “It’s me, Joy! Sandra!” She pulled off her wig and beard.
   My arm dropped to my side and my eyes widened. I unscruffed her collar and gasped, “Sandra!?”
   “Yes, it’s me, you big lunk.” She peeled off her gloves and coat, and then quickly stripped away her boots, pants, and padding, and stood in front of me in nothing more constraining than a black bra and panties.

   Wow! She had unwrapped one hell of a Christmas present! My incredulous eyes flew up and down her hot body, landing briefly on her pussy and tits, while memories stirred in my head like a mouse on the night before the night before Christmas. Sandra and I had gone out a number of times two years previous, before she’d moved to another city, and during those dates I had discovered depths to my want, heights to my passion, and intensities of orgasm that I’d never thought existed before. And with those sugar-plum sweet visions dancing in my dizzy head, I eyed the sexy blonde babe and licked my dry lips with a wooden tongue. “You’re back in town?” I whispered.

   “What does it look like?” she replied, blushing under my heated stare. She plucked out some hair pins and ran her slender fingers through her long, silky tresses. “Things weren’t working out, so I quit my job and moved back here about a month ago. I just took this Santa gig to earn some extra money.” She grinned. “I’m quite the actress, don’t you think?” she said, in the bottom-of-the-monkey-barrel voice that had fooled all the kids, and yours truly.

   “I don’t wanna think,” I muttered, and grabbed the tiny honey in my arms and crushed my lips against hers.
   “Yes, Joy, yes,” she breathed into my mouth, her erect nipples pressing urgently into my soft breasts.

   We kissed long and hard and hungrily in the cramped, shadowed confines of Santa’s sweatshop, and then I parted her full-bodied lips with my slippery pink spear and we frenched each other. It had been much too long for both of us, and we savagely took up where we’d left off a couple of years ago, swirling our tongues together in a ferociously erotic ballet.

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