Twas the Night

She should have helped him out of the suit, but he needed the sleep, and he looked so cute. He was her own personal Santa.

"You know how much I love you, don't you Santa?" she asked.

Her voice was feather soft, afraid that she might disturb his much needed sleep. When he didn't move, she lowered her head to his chest.

"I've always been too naughty," she said. "Much too naughty."

She grimaced, knowing that it both wasn't quite true, and it was in horrible ways. She wasn't naughty with men. No man had given her any pleasure in over a year, outside of the sliver of over excitement that she occasionally felt giving lap dances.

She didn't meet any men that deserved the chance. She didn't meet any that attracted her. It wasn't that she didn't have needs. Some nights, like tonight, she felt like she was going to explode. A woman had needs, strong needs. She had strong needs.

But she was naughty. She was taking a night class, spending an unmentioned share of her hard earned money on tuition, when she knew they couldn't afford it. But she felt that she couldn't afford not to. By flunking out, she'd failed him. Everything they didn't have now, everything about their current situation, was because he gave, and she took, and she'd failed.

There was only one way to make that right. She had to finish her schooling. She had to get to a place where she could save him.

She allowed herself another glass of brandy, to slow her thoughts. When she'd downed the last drop, she rested her head on her father's chest, and tried to fall asleep. She started to cry softly instead, salty tears falling on the bright red suit of a Santa that had nothing left to give.

* * *

Dahlia felt the rich, fat man's cock beneath his pants. She usually tried to be coy about touching a man there, in front of everyone. It was supposed to be a lap dance. You could go really, really far, but if it was too blatant, a vice cop could snag you. He couldn't do much, really just harass you, but it was better to be careful.

But this guy's cock felt good. It was bigger and harder than most. She nuzzled her face into his broad, fat chest. He was soft, in a way, but hard, too. There were muscles under the fat, huge muscles built to carry the rest of his huge bulk. She pressed her tits against him, knowing that men loved that, but this time she liked it, too. Sparks fired in her nipples with the contact.

He smelled good, too. He didn't wear any stinky cologne. Instead he smelled naturally musky, like a long day's stale, well earned sweat, and simple, cheap deodorant soap from his last bath. He smelled familiar. He smelled like her dad.

With a start, Dahlia opened her eyes to see her father's bright red Santa suit pressed against her face. Without flinching, she realized that she really was holding her hand against the bulge beneath his thick suit pants. It was hard and unyielding, and yes, somewhat bigger than most.

He snored softly. She wanted to jerk her hand away, but she was afraid of alerting him.

And a part of her didn't want to take her hand away. She lingered there, unmoving. Her own nipples were erect, a remnant of the erotic dream, but they felt good now, too, pressing into her father's familiar, over large form.

Men hit on Dahlia every day. Young guys, old guys. Young, good looking, smart guys at school hit on her, but they all wanted to get into her pants. There was no future there. She couldn't bring them home, not here. And when they found out who and what she was, they'd fuck her good, then move on.

Old, fat, rich guys hit on her at the club. She didn't mind that they were fat. Dad was fat, and he was gorgeous. When she looked at him, she could see him the way he was when she was younger. She knew how much muscle there was under all that padding. She knew how tall and powerful and perfect he once seemed to her. He still was, in her eyes.

So she could see past the fat in the rich men at the club, too, but she could also see the vacuous lust. They asked her out, invited her to dinner, made her feel wanted for more than just a lap dance. But it was all a game. It was all a lie. All they wanted was more than a lap dance, and once they had it, they'd be back to their wives, and she'd be back to the club, feeling used.

So Dahlia didn't have any men. She hadn't for close to two years now. They didn't deserve her, and even if they did, she couldn't waste the time. She had other things to do. She had to take care of her father. She had to pay for school She had to get through school.

She had to get them out of this mess. She had to. It was her fault, and now it was her responsibility.

But she also had needs. She could feel them now, in a way she hadn't felt in months. Sometimes, she could barely contain herself. Like now.

His cock was so hard against her hand. She allowed herself a simple, sinful movement, moving her hand gently up the ridge of his cock, then back down. It aimed almost straight upwards within his pants, towards his navel, while pressed flat against his belly and tucked beneath the thick felt of the suit. She let two fingers straddle its girth, realizing that it was thick as well as long. She traced it's length again, up and down. His breathing quickened as she did so. She panicked, and stopped, but left her hand in place.

She knew he had needs, too. She knew he hadn't had a woman in many, many years. Once, she'd tried to get one of the girls at the club to give him a freebie, but it hadn't worked out. She wouldn't have been able to explain it to him. She'd realized that she couldn't risk him ever knowing that she'd taken to working at the club.

He'd be heartbroken if he knew how low she'd allowed herself to stoop.

The poor old man had needs, and no outlets. No woman was ever going to let him touch them, certainly not as beautiful a woman as the man deserved. He thought his daughter was so beautiful, and he tortured himself by stealing puritan peeks at the curves of her young body. He gazed into her face with a subdued and hidden longing in the moments before he primly kissed her.

She was the only woman he thought he could have, not in body, not even in fantasy, but at least in vision and admiration.

He deserved more, she thought. She set to stroking his cock again. She inhaled his sent. She watched his face. She pressed her nipples against his torso, feeling that sensual, pleasing charge run through them once again.

She made up her mind. He deserved more, and she was the only woman that could give it to him. He deserved it, and she wanted it, too. She'd considered it before, a girl's private fantasy, but never really, not seriously, not before now. But she admitted it to herself.

She wanted it, and he deserved it. If he would have her, he could. And she'd make him want her. He needed her, and he had to admit it to himself, and to her.

* * *

Al lay perfectly still, panicked, not knowing what to do. He couldn't tell if she was asleep or not. Probably not. If not, he was sure she thought that he was asleep. He tried not to tense, but he tried not to move, either.

Her hand moved along his cock again. It strained uncomfortably within his pants. It was caught, almost painfully, in his underwear, so he ached to adjust it, but had to endure the discomfort. Her finger tips reached the sensitive head of his penis. He could barely feel her through the thick fabric of the suit, but her touch was exquisite.

Part of him ached to push up into her, to increase the pressure, and he scolded himself for thinking it. She was his daughter, his sweet, perfect daughter. She needed a real man, a worthwhile man, or any man but him.

Her stroke moved back down his cock, as her breasts again pressed into him. They felt so firm, not flabby and soft like her mother's had been. He felt her legs part then, as one slipped in between his, and the other fell to the other side of his right thigh. He felt the warmth of her as she pressed her sex against him.

She began a rhythm, rocking herself gently against his thigh, in time with her hand, stroking his cock. Her body undulated, first pressing her crotch against him, then her belly, then her hand against his cock, then her breasts into his side, then her face against his chest. He imagined her kissing his bright red suit at the end, before the next undulation began.

She moved smoothly, sensuously, and irresistibly, patient and calm, but unrelenting.

He tried to think. He tried to find a way to stop her. He wanted to cough, or to pretend to slowly awaken. But he didn't want to embarrass her.

And, he was ashamed to admit, he didn't want her to stop. If she needed a man, even if only for slow, quiet, masturbation, then he wanted to be there for her.

* * *

She knew he was awake. His snoring had stopped. His breathing had slowed, then caught, then quickened. He was stiff beneath her now, noticeably immobile, frozen in place as she did whatever she chose.

At first she was afraid he would stop her, but she continued. She ramped it up. She let herself pant softly with excitement. She felt herself getting wet and warm. She pressed her pussy against his leg, hoping he would feel it, too.

He wouldn't stop her. He hadn't so far. She grew bolder. She didn't know if it was rational, or just her needs and desires taking over, but she gained courage.

He'd already undone the buckle of the uncomfortable belt himself, before falling asleep. Smoothly, expertly, quickly, her hand loosened the thick, shiny black belt just a little more. In a blink that hand coasted up his round, expansive stomach, then back down, inside his pants, over the fabric of his boxers.

Now there was nothing but a thin layer of soft cotton between her warm hand and the hard, hot feel of her father's cock.

She felt him tense further. She didn't give him a chance to respond, and once he hesitated, she knew the moment had passed. It was too late for him to call her on it.

She moved her hand down the length of his shaft, to just tickle his large balls with her own long fingernails. She let the tips of her nails trace a path back up the length of his cock, then let her palm cup and press it on the way back down.

In the fog of her mind, she realized that she'd begun pressing herself against his thigh more firmly, too. She was very wet now. Her cotton pajama bottoms were drenched. She had no panties beneath them. Her pussy was alive with sensations. It tingled, and burned, and sparked.

It ached.

* * *

"I want to give you a present, Santa," she whispered into his chest.

He barely heard it. The sound was soft, high pitched and nervous. Her voice squeaked and trembled like a little girl's. This wasn't easy for her, Al realized. She was scared, but not too scared to continue.

He didn't know what to do. He could help her, by stopping her. He could jerk up, then just apologize, to set her at ease, to make it seem like his fault, and then he could go out into the cold for a walk.

Or he could lay here, and let her do what she needed to do. He could let her fill her needs, and apologize later, or refuse her apology and take the blame himself. He could let her finish, and try as hard as he could not to enjoy it himself, not to come himself. Afterward, he'd dismiss it, and tell her it was no big deal, that he didn't mind, but she shouldn't do it again.

He lay there. Her hand felt like magic moving up and down his cock. He'd forgotten, completely forgotten, what a woman's hand felt like. He honestly thought, no, he knew, that he'd never feel this again.

But he was, and it was fantastic.

Her crotch pressed against his leg, now hot, and even damp in the spot she'd been incessantly pressing against. She held her sex against him, then began to slide up, along his thigh. She moaned softly as she did it, clearly enjoying the sensation. Up and up she moved, while her breasts slid up along him, with hard nipples raking across him, as her face moved up to rest under his neck.

Her nose pushed the fake beard aside. With an embarrassed jolt he realized that he was still wearing it, and the dumb hat, too. He'd been so exhausted, and so quickly overcome by the brandy, that he'd done nothing to remove the silly, cumbersome suit.

She planted a delicate, lingering kiss on his neck. Her breath and lips were warm, and soft, and electrifying.

Her mouth traced a path up his neck to his ear.

Her voice hadn't lost all of it's tremble. She was still afraid, but more in control, more determined.

"You deserve a special present, Santa," she said, as her hand slipped up above the waistband of his boxers, then underneath.

His daughter's soft, hot hand held the naked flesh of her fathers stiff, raging cock.

* * *

She held her father's cock in her hand. She was holding her father's hard cock in her fucking hand.

She'd never had the nerve to do anything like this during a lap dance, even though the other girls urged her to, telling her how much better the tips would be if she could do it discretely.

Now she did it, but not with just any cock. This wasn't just any lap dance. This was her father. This was her father's cock.

She called him Santa to mask who he was, to pretend this wasn't what it seemed, but it was. The thought never left her mind. She held Daddy's hard, magnificent cock in her hand.

There were only two men in the entire world that she trusted. She wouldn't let another man touch her, because she didn't come anywhere close to trusting any other man. The ones she had let in had broken that trust as quickly as they could.

She smiled wryly. There were only two men in the world that she trusted like this. Only two. Santa, and Daddy. And she was going to fuck both of them.

She held his cock gently at first, then gripped it firmly. She curled her fingers around the shaft, as her thumb wandered gently over the head. She let the nails of her fingers dig into it, not painfully, not hard. She could never, ever hurt him. She did it just enough to heighten the sensation for him.

"Am I on the naughty list, or the nice list, Santa?" she asked.

Her voice had finally lost its childish tremble. She kept it light, almost childlike, but the fear was gone. As soon as she'd finally felt the flesh of her father's cock, her mind was set. She was going through with this, totally and completely, and she wouldn't take no for an answer. She'd do whatever she wanted, not for herself, but for him.

"If I give you a present, Santa, will you give one to me? Will that put me on the nice list?"

He grunted in response, incoherently, hesitantly. He was too embarrassed to speak. She smiled. It was cute. He was never at a loss for words with her. No matter how bad things got, he was always cool and in control around her. Down and depressed, maybe, yes, but never at a loss for words, never surrendering control.

"We both deserve a present, Santa. But first you have to tell me which list I'm on, Naughty or Nice?"

She squeezed his cock hard then, letting her nails dig further in, and returned to humping his leg, but with more passion, or less restraint. He moaned in response.

"Naughty or Nice, Santa?"

"Nice," he said.

His answer was soft, subdued and gruff.

She squeezed his cock harder, letting the nails dig in.

"Naughty or Nice?"

"Naughty."

His voice was stronger, but still uncertain.

"Can I have my present now?" she asked.

He didn't answer, and she didn't wait long to give him a chance. She slipped over his lap to straddle both of his legs. The cotton pajama bottoms were made for men, so they had a fly that closed with three snaps. It only took one quick motion to pop them open. Before he could react, she lowered herself onto his cock, taking her father in one quick, eager, unstoppable descent.

* * *

The heat of her enveloped him like the wondrous fires of hell. She burned his cock, scalding it with her own wet juices. Her pussy was tight, squeezing him, embracing him as tightly as her arms clung to his bulky frame.

She held herself there, with his cock inside her, as she gyrated frenetically, moving left and right, twisting, trying to touch every part of her insides with his cock without letting a single inch of him free.

She moaned and squealed delightfully, not softly, but rather far too loudly. If they hadn't been in an abandoned building, he would have been mortified. Everyone in the building would have heard her.

She screamed as she moved. She pushed herself upright on his lap, driving her crotch more deeply onto his shaft, while throwing her head about in a frenzy. He looked up at her. Her eyes were closed. Her beautiful black face was covered with an expression somewhere between pain and rapture. He'd never seen a woman react like that to his cock. He'd never even dared to imagine it.

She was his sweet little girl, he thought, then pushed the knowledge from his mind. It was too painful. She was Dahlia, just Dahlia, the beautiful, exotic, sensuous woman that wanted and needed him as a man, and he had to be a man for her.

For now, his courage was limited. He watched, staying still, half enduring, half enjoying the sight and feel of the beautiful black woman riding his raging, hungry cock.

* * *

He felt magnificent inside her. She'd never imagined it could feel this good. She didn't remember it ever feeling this good, this perfect, this right.

She moved on him ceaselessly. He'd move for her soon, too, she was sure. He would. He had to. She had to make him want to.

"Fuck, Santa. Fuck you feel good. Fuck you're nice. Fuck."

She hadn't intended to be so vulgar. She never had been before. She didn't know what had come over her, what was coming over her. She didn't know, but she liked it. She smiled widely. She never remembered smiling during sex, but she smiled now.

She laughed as she snatched his red hat. He looked up in shock, probably having forgotten that he still had it on. She settled it onto her head with a giggle, then closed her eyes to moan some more as the feel of his cock lured her attentions back away from the hat.

"Ooh, Santa. Ooh," she cooed, rocking on her father's cock, while running her fingers over the course, warm felt of his Santa jacket. She grabbed bunches of the furry trim in her hands, using it to pull herself down towards him.

With her face just inches from his, eyes clenched shut to hide herself from his reaction, she gyrated slowly on his cock. She put her lips right up to his, just short, and breathed warm, panting breaths into his mouth.

"Fuck me, Santa," she whispered.

He remained utterly still beneath her efforts.

"Fuck me, damn it, fuck me," she said more harshly. Her hands found his. She brought them to her, pulling them onto her hips. Once there, his broad, meaty hands strongly gripped her waist and her hips. She could feel the heat of them through the fabric. She moved her ass forward and back, rubbing herself against his groin with his cock inside of her.

"Fuck me, Santa," she screamed as loudly as she could. "Fucking fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!"

He half heartedly did as he was hold. His grip was strong. His hands felt huge and powerful, holding her round hips down against his. He used his power to move her on him, to shift her forward and back on his cock. He held her in an inescapable vice, locked down onto his cock.

She moved quickly on him now, as a storm of orgasms took her unawares. She'd rarely come with a man inside of her, and certainly never so quickly. She came now, in a seething, mindless storm of sensations.

* * *

He held her firm, round, wonderful ass in his hands, holding her down on him as she bucked and twisted almost uncontrollably. It was like trying to wrestle a lion. If he hadn't been so large and strong, she might have thrown herself free.