Mrs. Santa's Little Helper

It is often asked what Mrs Claus gets up to while the big man in the red suit is speeding across the sky in his sleigh, delivering gifts to the children of the world...a few years ago, I had the privilege of discovering the answer to that question.

With the world population rapidly expanding towards eight billion, the traditional elvish labour force had become vastly overworked, and the boss had taken the decision to hire increasing numbers of human employers. At this point, I'd been working for Claus and Sons Ltd. for about five years, being appointed as manager of the distribution arm of the giant North Pole complex. My department had the unenviable task of ensuring that the several billion toys manufactured by the company each year were distributed accurately through two hundred countries; a task carried out in conjunction with the operations division.

While it is true that Santa himself still delivers several consignments of gifts in person - each year, he assumes responsibility for one of the 'drop zones' - the sheer size of the task facing us each December means that, far from relying on a single sleigh, Claus and Sons now operates veritable Air Force. With over 800,000 tonnes of toys to distribute, the traditional method of transportation would require the services of several million reindeer; instead, we now make use of several hundred high-tech transport aircraft, and rival the USAF in terms of budget and manpower.

Naturally, I assumed that this was going to be a Christmas like any other: the boys in Operations were busy co-ordination the deployment of the squadrons to their rendezvous points, while the Engineering crews had all signed off for some precious down-time. In a few hours, we would see the return of the first wave of transports - which, as always, was being led by Santa himself - and the mechanics wanted to be in top form when they tackled the task of 'mothballing' the aircraft for another year.

For those of us in Distributions, our role in the night's activities were long over. However, someone had to take care of paperwork; and that someone, unsurprisingly, was me.

Sitting alone in my office in Sector One, North Pole, I gazed out over the frozen arctic tundra, desperately trying to summon up the willpower to tackle the mound of forms which had landed in my in-tray. Don't misunderstand me - I loved working for the Clauses - but the sheer boredom of filling out all of these forms every Christmas Eve, slaving away in an empty office for hours on end, was virtually inescapable. Had there been even one other person in the building, it wouldn't have been so bad, but as far as I could tell, I was totally alone. On the plus side, I could blast out some Christmas songs on the radio without fear of disturbing anyone.

With the first strains of 'Stop the Cavalry,' pouring out of the speakers, I grabbed the first batch of forms from the stack, and gave a heavy sigh as I started to fill in the necessary details regarding the aircraft payloads and deployment plans. Soon, I became totally engrossed in the seemingly endless stream of papers, allowing myself to work on effective autopilot as each background song segued into the next on a seamless playlist. Even Cliff Richard's 'Mistletoe and Wine,' - a song which normally set my teeth on edge - barely caused a pause in my steady pace, and after a couple of hours, the pile in my out-tray finally seemed by far the larger of the two.

As I heard Johnny Mathis beginning to croon forth with 'When a Child is Born,' the need for a break finally filtered through to my cramped limbs. Throwing down my pen and pushing back my chair, I heaved myself wearily to my feet and, with a rather stiff gait, stalked out to the water cooler in the corridor. The rest of the building appeared entirely deserted: there was no sound other than the gurgling of the cooler, and the only light came from the green security sensors in the ceiling. As a result, the pale white walls of the corridor were tinted with a slightly eerie glow, and I found myself humming along to my office radio, half expecting to find someone creeping up behind me.

Suddenly, the almost oppressive silent was broken by approaching footsteps, snapping me out of my nervous reverie and sending me hurrying back to my office. I turned the volume down a fraction and returned to my work, attempting to look as busy as possible, and a few minutes later, was surprised to hear a slightly muffled knock at the door. There, bundled up in a heavy red parka with a high collar and hood, traces of snow still visible on her black leather boots, was none other than Mrs. Claus. As she pulled off her thick, fur-lined mittens and struggled with the buttons on her coat, I struggled to my feet and hurried across the room, setting the heating to maximum.

"Excellent. You're still here." Mrs. Claus panted, hanging her coat on the hook behind the office door. "I was worried that you would have been on your way home by now." She flashed me a smile, settling down into one of the leather armchairs next to the electric heater and stretching her body out in the manner of a cat. As I drained the cup of water that I had brought back from the cooler, I sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, watching the artificial flames flicker in the gathering darkness, the light reflecting in Mrs. Claus' ice-blue eyes and her long, silver-grey hair.

Although in her early sixties, my boss's wife was certainly by no means ready to give in to the lure of retirement as far as the company was concerned. She was what many might call an 'Amazonian' woman: almost six feet tall, with long arms and legs and a powerful physique, her full curves and ample frame concealing muscles like steel ropes. For years, Mrs. Claus had taken an interest in the details of the firm's operations, frequently working alongside the engineers in the shipyard or lifting and shifting with the crews on the loading docks. Indeed, had this been England rather than the North Pole, you might have expected her to have been a veteran of the rugby field or the hockey pitch.

Given that it was Christmas Eve, I wasn't at all surprised to see that she had chosen to wear a suitably festive jumper - a thick woollen affair in deep crimson, emblazoned with a stylised sleigh, reindeer and santa silhouette picked out in white. It was obvious that she had just come over from the hanger bay, because the jolly design only partially distracted attention away from the fact that it was stretched over the top half of a scarlet and green boiler suit, this having a number of large oil stains visible on the legs from where she had carelessly wiped her hands.

However, even such utilitarian work attire could not disguise her beautiful figure, and I could feel myself blushing as I gazed across at Mrs. Claus, her face appearing to glow in the artificial firelight. She had clearly spotted what was going on, because her expression softened suddenly, small 'laughter lines' appearing at the corners of her eyes. "Why so nervous?" She asked in a low voice. "We're outside of working hours now. Besides, you know that it's just us here; everyone else is either out on deployment, in mission control, or in bed." Another smile, more soothing this time, spread across her face. "Why not take a break from all that paperwork?"

Unsure of what exactly to make of that statement, I fidgeted in my chair, absent-mindedly scratching behind my right ear. "Maybe you're right Ma'am," I sighed wearily. "I suppose that the rest of those forms could wait until the morning."

Mrs. Claus fixed me with a steady, almost penetrating gaze. Then she spoke again, her voice half stern, half sympathetic; "I know that you're dedicated to the success of our firm, but honestly, you do push yourself too hard. Just for tonight, put the brakes on, and allow yourself a little breathing space." I found myself nodding automatically: after all, why disagree with the CEO on the subject of stopping work?

A few minutes later, we had relocated to the small canteen at the end of the corridor. I was busily whisking up a batch of steaming hot cocoa while Mrs. Claus raided the cupboards, locating the Accounts Department's secret stash of giant chocolate chip cookies. Having suitably loaded up with goodies, we seated ourselves either side of one of the flimsy aluminium tables, nursing warm mugs between our cold hands, each waiting for the other to be the first to dive into the pile of delicious treats that Mrs. Claus had set down between us. As before, the only sounds were the dull hum of the heating system and my distant office radio.

Just as I raised my mug to my lips and took in a deep draught of the creamy liquid, the sweet warmth spreading out over my tongue and down my throat, I became aware of something moving under the table; something which was, very slowly and deliberately, creeping up my leg. 'A mouse!' I thought, panicking slightly, struggling to keep composed and not spray hot cocoa in the direction of Mrs. Claus, who seemed totally unaware that anything was amiss. As I felt the mouse - or whatever it was - move over my knee and along my thigh towards my crotch, I slowly lowered my mug, withdrew one hand as nonchalantly as possible, and with lightning speed, made a grab for whatever had just danced across my lap.

That was when Mrs. Claus finally lost her composure, attempting to both scream and laugh simultaneously. Not only that, but she slid forwards off her chair, sending her half-full mug flying through the air in a high arc and smashing against the far wall. I had screamed too, but more out of shock and surprise than anything else. As you might have guessed, it wasn't a mouse that I had yanked out from under the table; it was a naked foot with five wiggling toes at one end and the rest of my boss's wife's strong, shapely leg at other.

For a few seconds, I stared dumbly at the foot, before a hearty cry of "let me go you idiot!" brought me back to my senses. I could still hear her quaking with laughter on the other side of the table, even though she had utterly disappeared from view. Leaping up, I hurried around to the other side of the table and helped Mrs. Claus back into her chair, babbling my apologies as if terrified of being sacked the next day, totally oblivious to the fact that she was grinning from ear to ear and revelling in my confusion.

"It doesn't take much to get you flustered then?" she chuckled, her broad shoulders and large bosom shaking vigorously as I grew ever more red in the face. "And there was I thinking that you were just a gawky office boy..."

Blushing scarlet, I forced myself to smile as Mrs. Claus once more held my gaze with those ice-blue eyes, which were now flashing mischievously in the dimly-lit canteen. Without a word, she reached out and took one of my still-shaking hands in hers, her fingers gently rubbing my palm and the back of my wrist. Slowly, I allowed myself to relax, following like a lamb while being led back down the corridor, past the open door of my office, and into the inner sanctum of the big man himself. A huge mahogany desk dominated the centre of the room, with a wing-backed leather chair behind it.

With slow, deliberate steps, Mrs. Claus crossed over to the desk and vaulted effortlessly onto it, her agility once again belying her sixty-four years and suggesting a veteran sportswoman rather than the wife of the world's most famous toymaker. Now she was facing me, her long powerful legs dangling over the edge of the desk as she lent back in a nonchalant posture, supporting herself on the palms of her hands. Slowly, a glazed look came over her face, and a slight toss of her head indicated that I should join her. My earlier nerves were now beginning to return, and it was with some hesitation that I moved to stand in front of my host, who seemed to me to exude the hypnotic grace and beauty of a python.

Certainly, her swaying body, silent movements and languid expression were all highly suggestive of a snake, and I had the distinct feeling that I was being sized up for lunch. Suddenly, one of Mrs. Claus' ice-blue eyes opened a fraction and fixed on me, her full, red lips parting as she ran her tongue slowly over them, contemplating what was to be done next. Another slight nod of the head, and I heard a single word, deep and seductive; "kneel." Though I had spoken to my boss' wife many times, this tone was new to me: it was rich, thick, and syrupy, and as if on auto-pilot, I sank to my knees before her, head bowed as if to a queen.

"Very good," she purred, the heavy, velvety tones sending a shiver along my spine. "I can see that I was wise to have chosen you to keep me company tonight." One of Mrs. Claus' naked feet was swinging in front of my face, and I felt her hook her toes under my chin, forcing me to raise my head so that I was once more looking into her eyes. "It's nice to see that you are so 'compliant,' but you really needn't be so shy. After all, I assume that you would like to find out what you're getting for Christmas?" A wicked grin flashed across her face as she rubbed her foot playfully against my cheek, the touch of the smooth skin of her instep causing me to gasp.

I kept my eyes locked on hers, but remained confused as to what she might mean. "Rather slow on the uptake, aren't we?" I heard her ask in a a slightly sarcastic tone, causing me to once more flush scarlet. "Perhaps if I put it another way, you might understand what I mean." Her foot slipped away from my face and I watched entranced as she slid forward off the desk, stretching herself to her full height so that she towered above me like a female Colossus. Her hands resting on her broad hips, Mrs. Claus stared down at me with those flashing eyes, the crimson sweater stretched taut over her full bosom as it swelled with her deep breathing.

"Put simply," she said slowly, the syrupy tones returning to her voice, "your Christmas present is the chance to spend the rest of the night serving me." My jaw dropped open, causing her to give another fleeting smile. "After all," she mused, "you spend 364 days of the year as one of my husband's 'little' helpers; I think that it's only fair that for one night, I get the opportunity to take advantage of your numerous talents." Without taking her eyes off me, she slowly tugged off the tight sweater, and I let out a moan as her large breasts jiggled and bounced within the confines of the boiler suit, my hands flexing instinctively.

Soon, the sweater had been hurled across the room, and Mrs. Claus had managed to struggle out of her cumbersome work gear; now, she stood before me in nothing but a full-cup bra and 'granny panties.' The satin fabric was a rich plum colour, reminiscent a heavy red wine: although clearly 'functional,' the ensemble was highly arousing, and I prayed that my host had not yet noticed the rather large bulge that was forming in the front of my trousers. The tension was heightened by the gleam of sweat on her creamy-white skin, and a sudden image flashed across my mind; one in which Mrs. Claus' powerful thighs were clamped around my head...

Once again, I had drifted into my own little world, and it was a small cough that finally snapped me back to reality. "I see that we understand each other," she continued, running her tongue over her lips once more for emphasis. "I hope that you can stay as focused on me as you do on your paperwork." Slowly, she bent down so that her heavy breasts swayed tantalisingly above my head, still nestled inside the soft fabric of the bra cups.

I felt her long fingers stroking my hair and snaking into my beard, gentle pressure indicating that I was to get to my feet. As I rose, my eyes drifted up over Mrs. Claus's Amazonian body, taking in every inch as if viewing a priceless Renaissance statue. Unfortunately, this also emphasised the considerable difference in our heights: at almost six feet tall, my boss's wife towered over me by a good seven inches, and this meant that I was currently pretty much on eye-level with the satin-clad expanse of her bosom.

Although I was on my feet, my host seemed no longer interested in maintaining eye-contact with me: indeed, she seemed content to let me to drink in the sight of her her heaving breasts, and my eyes were now riveted to the shadowy depths of her cleavage. Furthermore, I could clearly see the outline of her turgid nipples, and had I been Superman, I think that my gaze would very well have burned holes in the fabric of the bra-cups. Indeed, so hypnotic was the rhythmic rise and fall that I failed to pay attention to anything that was going on; that is until I felt a strong grip on my bulging crotch and a hand caressing my chest.

The response was immediate. My cock, of course, had already swollen painfully in the confines of my tight suit-pants, but the touch of her hand was enough to bring it to full hardness. I gasped in surprise as Mrs. Claus gave a rather appreciative squeeze, fondling my shaft through the taught material, and heard that deep purr emerging once again from her throat. Teasingly, she grazed her other hand across my nipples before setting to work unbuttoning my shirt, leaning forward to plant a series of soft kisses on my brow as she slid the garment off of my body.

"Very nice." She growled approvingly, sending a blush to my cheeks and a surge of blood to my throbbing cock. "I can see that we're going to have a lot of fun tonight." As the fingers of her free hand raked up my spine, my mind spun with images of what this might mean, but before I had time to focus on any particular scenario, Mrs. Claus seized the back of my head and pulled me sharply forward, burying my face in her ample bosom. The sudden sensation of being half-pillowed, half-smothered in soft, warm breast-flesh made my whole body shiver with excitement, and I began to push eagerly against her hand.

However, I could tell that she was just getting started: those strong fingers had subtly relaxed their grip, and were slowly beginning to massage in time with my thrusts. "My goodness!" I heard her gasp in feigned surprise, "it seems that I've gone and picked up a young man who's on my husband's 'naughty list.' If that's true, then perhaps I shouldn't be letting him play with all of these lovely toys?" Nuzzled as I was between her jiggling mounds, I could only give a soft whimper of protest as the hand was withdrawn from my aching crotch. "Yes..." she mused. "Only good boys get presents from Santa. Naughty boys need to 'earn' their gifts..."

As if to drive home the point, Mrs. Claus delivered a short, sharp smack to my left buttock, causing me to wince in shock and burrow even deeper into the softness of her bosom. "I can tell how much you like it in there my dear," she growled, landing a second blow squarely on my right butt-cheek and grasping it firmly. "But I'm afraid that you won't be unwrapping any more presents until you prove to me that you're a good boy." With one final slap, I was released from the semi-headlock and forced back down onto my knees; on impulse, my hands reached for my belt-buckle, but a sharp tut from Mrs. Claus froze me like a reindeer in the headlights of a motorcar.

"Oh no you don't!" The rich, velvet tones had returned to her voice. "You just leave your big boy where he is for the time being. Besides, I like how snug my little helper's pants are; that bulge looks very tasty..." It sounded as if she was savouring every word, rolling them round in her mouth before allowing them to drip like honey from her lips. She towered above me in the same Amazon pose as before, her crotch only inches from my face: not only that, but there was a distinct damp patch on the front panel of her plum-coloured 'granny panties', and I could clearly smell the heady fragrance of her juices.

"Now then," she whispered deliberately, "it's about time that you got down to business." One hand was once again resting on the back of my head, the other slowly hooking under the waistband of the expansive underpants as Mrs. Claus eased the garment down over her smooth thighs, exposing her moist pussy to my eager eyes. I let out another desperate moan at the sight of the charcoal-coloured bush between my boss's wife's legs, the dark pubic hair flecked with silver-grey; my tongue lolling out as my jaw dropped in surprise, saliva filling my mouth as if I had been presented with a thick-cut steak.