Father Christmas

Then she leaned backward, not quite letting him go. "But wow, Santa. You are not what I expected!" She bit her lip, still keeping a good grip on his biceps.

"Ho ho ho! Sorry to disappoint you," Santa said easily. He hadn't intended to let himself be caught again, but if it was going to happen, then... wow. Wendy slid once more into his embrace, radiating, yet somehow also clearly needing, comfort herself.

His eyes roved around the beautifully, if slightly antiseptically, decorated cabin. There was no rough and tumble to these decorations. His eyes bumped across a picture prominently, lovingly displayed of two children, a toddler, and a small boy, and a plain but clearly loving father.

Wendy was a mother? A wife!?!? No! This was wrong! Santa almost panicked, he opened his all-seeing mind to learn what in the world could have placed this woman in his arms... and met with a terrible tide of grief, uglier than even his own.

A car accident.

In Wendy, he sensed still painful loss only partially leavened by the passage of three years, a knowledge of what a first Christmas was like after losing someone you love, and a desire to help.

And a rising horniness on her part far beyond what this woman had expected or hoped for. Santa clearly came in a package that exceeded Wendy's imagination.

Santa crushed Wendy in his embrace, comforting her as she sought to comfort him. "And I am sorry for your loss as well, Wendy," his voice rumbled. "But... 'we'?" he asked, puzzled by the pronoun. The children from the picture had been in the car as well.

"Any woman who wants to make you feel happy again, to lighten your grief," Wendy said, then she lifted her head and kissed him. Their mouths melded, and after a soft beginning, their tongues were soon caressing each other. Wendy tugged his jacket off over his broad shoulders, then pulled up on his sweater. With it off, Santa plucked at the narrow strap of her nightgown, sliding it off her left shoulder, and she let it slide free. The right followed, and the delicate garment cascaded down her luxurious body to the floor. She was meticulously shaven, and he knew that it was freshly done... in the hope that St. Nicholas soon would be there.

As Santa worked his tight spider-silk top off over his head, and Wendy's hands leapt to his snow pants, Santa reflected that he had been given some mighty gifts this evening, but he had given very little in return. And no one on Earth knew better than he that it was better to give than to receive.

He had time, he was still a little ahead of schedule, in fact. And he was less tired than he usually felt at this point in The Ride. He and Wendy would comfort each other fully. He had the time.

With Santa's form fully naked now in front of her, Wendy wonderingly ran her hands over the darkly-haired muscles of his chest, along his bristling arms, and lower to rest on his washboard abdominals. Santa in turn let his hands seek out her generous, lush breasts, lifting them gently, feeling their glorious weight.

Then they were embracing once more, until Santa lifted her lightly in arms that easily wrestled whole jet skis out of his bag surprisingly often, and carried her back to the huge, softly clothed bed on the platform. He lay her upon it, and leaned over her, kissing first her lips, then those tantalizing brown nipples that eagerly rose to meet his mouth.

Wendy pulled him over atop her, and she thrilled as his weight rested gently upon her. His member brushed lightly between her legs and encountered the heat and moisture of a desire that would brook no further delay.

For a woman of only 30, three years without surely felt even longer than eight did to Santa.

He curled his hands up under her shoulders and pressed himself against her opening. Her lips parted for him welcomingly, and he slid himself inside a woman for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

"Oh, Santa..." Wendy sighed, still reaching out to comfort him through the rising of her own arousal.

Santa pulsed in and out as he delved deeper into her firm, welcoming, but resistant depths, his own body shivering with the sheer erotic sensation, as he nestled deeply inside her.

Wendy buried her face in his shoulder as he began to thrust in earnest, and then she muttered, "I knew how much you needed someone like me, Santa. But I didn't know how much I needed someone like you."

There was no one like Santa, but he took her meaning. Then he took her.

His long, elegantly curved penis drove into her, probing her depths and caressing her nerves in a way that left them both rapidly panting with exertion and desire for more. A crashing orgasm ripped through Wendy's body, and she writhed beneath Santa. He slowed his movements and kissed her gently as she shivered beneath him, her body tensing and relaxing in rapid ripples.

But when she finally relaxed enough to kiss him back, he resumed his efforts, even more strongly now, and with even longer strokes, and soon Wendy was again moaning beneath him with renewed erotic energy.

She bit his shoulder. Not hard, but involuntarily as he drove into her. The slight pain made Santa laugh, and in his joy, his body found its release. He drove the hardest yet, and felt himself empty inside her, Wendy screaming in her own answering joy, body rippling beneath him once again.

Santa was empty and yet fulfilled, and he rolled off of her, lest he crush her in his momentarily unavoidable collapse. Wendy panted beside him for a moment, then rose up on her elbow with a smile. She leaned down and kissed his nipple softly, then went up to kiss his mouth again, almost chastely.

They smiled at each other.

Then Wendy popped up briskly.

"You have to get dressed," she said, her naked body drawing his eyes as she danced off toward the kitchen area of the A-frame. "I know I am not your last stop of the night. There are lots of little girls and boys to the west of here!" She turned briefly with a wink that made Santa worry that there might be more big girls too. "I made you a Thermos full of hot chocolate," she went on, grabbing said item from the counter and turning back.

Santa was already dressed.

Wendy pressed the insulated flask into his hands. "Merry Christmas," she said softly. "I'm here to cheer you up any time..."

She was sweet. And she was unbelievably hot, still standing there naked before Santa. And her heart would heal. Santa thought that process had already begun before she decided to reach out to him.

His loss was more intractable, though not so horrific. He kissed her gently, and told her, "Merry Christmas, my dear!"

Then he turned, his gaze wandering across the churned-up snow outside the huge windows across the deck outside, and he stepped into the outdoors.

The reindeer were all grinning at him. Reindeer cannot grin, but it became apparent to Santa that that magical flying reindeer could. He gave them a baleful glance. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder at all the hoofprints in the snow on the deck. "Ho ho no you didn't," he growled. "Let the girl have her privacy!"

Prancer, Comet, and Cupid all looked convincingly ashamed. The rest... not so much.

Santa laughed and leapt into the sleigh. He caroled out his reindeer's names and they were away, into the night, off to the west coast of North America, where he managed to dodge four young beauteous blondes in California alone, and then a deeply caring single mother of four in Vancouver.

Alaska went in a flash, and Hawaii even faster, then the team drove north, back to Santa's workshop. Santa basked in the warmth of the evening and the special experiences, still unsure how so many women knew of his situation. New things about Santa often percolated out to the rest of the world, but seldom so fast. He let the sleigh fly, without playing anymore with time. Good as he felt, he was exhausted. The Ride was a lot of work.

He had needed the presents those wonderful, good girls had given him, that much he knew. It had been good to accept them. But he knew he needed more. Not more of that, perhaps. But then Santa laughed softly to himself in realization: more of that next year would be just fine by him as well.

Still, they were sweeping through the pass back into the valley in minutes. The reindeer were impossibly fast on their own, even without Santa's help. He hoped he could land, shake a few well-deserving hands, and slip off to bed before those gossips in front of his sleigh could start to wag their tongues.

Even Santa forgets little things sometimes. Like the fact that the reindeer all have coms with home base, just like he did...

Every elf in the village always greeted him when the sleigh touched down, but they usually did not have such grins on their faces when they did. Tottsie stepped forward with his plate of cookies as usual, but this year, instead of her usual festively sprinkled sugar cookies in the shapes of ornaments, or her backup cinnamon star biscuits, Santa was presented with a plate with three shapely gingerbread women...

He glared back over his shoulder at the reindeer. Dasher just whuffled conceitedly and trotted off with the others to the stables for warm grain and a well-deserved rubdown.

Oh, well... The gingerbread was delicious.

*

Santa usually took two vacations a year, one in February and one in August. Individual elves took their own vacations at staggered but seemingly random intervals, and where they went had always been beyond even Santa's ken, along with where they came from in the first place.

The prior year, for obvious reasons, he had gone nowhere but his cottage in February, and had begged off in August on the basis of the chronic way they were behind. In late January this year, a deputation of senior elves, including Tottsie herself, cornered Santa in his cottage one evening and let him know in no uncertain terms that they were not letting him stick around this year with no R&R. Tottsie's presence let Santa know they were being very serious, and he agreed reluctantly.

For why would he want to go on vacation without Mrs. Claus?

But he did know the elves were right. Santa worked twelve or more hours, every day of the week, year-round. He needed a week off here and there to drink Mai Tais on the beach.

Or, as was his wont in February many years, drink hot buttered rum after a day skiing in Colorado or France. This year, he went to Aspen.

He cut a dashing figure on the slopes each day in his form-fitting red one-piece ski outfit, with white pin-stripes down the sides that made his towering form seem even taller. Santa had been skiing since the sport had been invented, and he floated over the slopes like a dancer or slid through the moguls like a New Yorker in a hurry amongst a crowd.

It snowed every night he was in Aspen, of course. Around dusk, a steady, beautiful snowfall began, filling the air with motes of white, and the tourists' and residents' faces with smiles. By dawn, it was gone, leaving the days sunny and bright, with a fresh four to six inches of powder on the slopes.

Santa smiled at the chatter in the coffee shop as he stood in line for his double-sized hot chocolate. He always knew the best place anywhere to get hot chocolate.

"We never get this much snow this time of year," a lovely young woman said to the short but handsome blonde man in line ahead of her. He looked like he belonged on a surfboard more than the snowboard Santa sensed he had parked outside.

"Oh yeah, like, I know," the blonde drawled. California. Santa had not needed any magic to know that...

Over at a table, a little girl sat with her mother, staring at Santa, wide-eyed. She knew. The best ones always did. What had he brought her on Christmas Eve this last time? Oh yes, American Girl Doll. And because Annabeth was such a good girl, he had brought her an extra outfit as well.

He let her see him looking back at her. He smiled, and lay his finger alongside the length of his nose, giving her a conspiratorial wink. She giggled.

"What is so funny, Betty?" her mother asked quietly. The coffee shop was crowded with early risers, eager for first tracks when the lifts opened, but Santa could hear the two of them easily, of course.

"That's Santa Claus in line for coffee, Mommy," the little girl giggled. "See?"

The mother, whose name was also Annabeth, and who had been a very good girl in her own day, looked over at him. Santa carefully did not look her way. Annabeth the (somewhat) elder laughed and ruffled her daughter's hair. "That's funny, Betty," she said softly. "But that can't be Santa, you know. Just look at him."

"I am, Mommy! That's Santa!"

"He's much too tall, darling. And despite all that silver hair, and that beard..." the mother's voice trailed off speculatively for a moment. "He's much too young to be Santa."

Santa felt both Annabeths watching him as stepped up and ordered his cocoa. The cashier gave him a mega-watt smile, quite unlike she had given anyone else in line that morning, though it wasn't because she thought he was Santa Claus.

"Look," the mother said, as if laying down an Ace of trumps. Santa loved Bridge and loved it when people thought that way. "Look, Betty, he can't be Santa. Where is his belly like a bowl full of jelly?"

Santa rolled his eyes. Clement Clarke Moore had almost gotten some coal in his stocking, despite being a grown man, when he had written that line. But Mrs. Claus had always loved teasing him over it.

"All girls, big and little, could only wish Santa looked like that," Annabeth the elder said speculatively.

Annabeth the younger giggled. "You think Santa's hot, mommy!"

"He's not Santa," the mother denied. She did not deny thinking that he was hot...

The silver hairs on the back of Santa's neck rose for a moment as he felt the mother's attraction, and her speculation on possibilities, but then he relaxed. There was no husband in the picture, though he did find that he was a bit disappointed in Annabeth the elder.

Her divorce had been as much her fault as Charles's. Santa would have expected more of such a good little girl when she grew up. Charles? Not so much. That kid had only made the Nice List one year. But Santa sighed at the whole misery. The real mistake had been their marriage in the first place, but then there would be no good little Annabeth now, would there?

Meanwhile, Santa had to deal with the mother's eyes, firmly fastened on the way his form-fitting ski suit pulled across his backside, as he waited for his hot chocolate.

He was used to the occasional little boy or girl like Annabeth recognizing him when he was out in the world. It made him happy that the magic of Christmas was flowing everywhere, the whole year round. But he was not used to the looks he was getting from young women like the cashier, or gorgeous mature women like Annabeth the elder. They were looking at Santa, not 'Santa'. And Annabeth the elder was gorgeous...

Santa needed to get back out in the cold and do some skiing.

Somehow, he was first off the lift that morning, and with a hearty, "Ho ho ho!" he was away down the wide-open slope he chose, his brand new, elven-crafted skis carving through the fresh, untouched powder.

Santa had not been to Aspen in decades, and while the mountain felt comfortable and familiar, the town felt new. He wandered its streets in the evening and had a Veal Marsala to die for at a little restaurant. The elves could not be beat with anything they made that was sweet, but Santa never let them know that he always looked forward to dinner on vacation. A dish like this Marsala, made by a really good human chef? He devoured it and wished in anguish that he could share a bite with Mrs. Claus.

The days in Aspen were just the vacation Santa needed to rest and recharge. In the night, there lurked pain, an emotion Santa was unfamiliar with, and was not enjoying. He slept little, even when on vacation, as he needed it little, but that left him with evenings to fill. He definitely did not want to go to his hotel and sit alone in his room.

Santa did like a drink or two, though. He never got drunk, of course, but he could at least get a little merry if he let himself.

Ah! He perceived a small bar several blocks away that embraced the winter season in their cocktails, and he strode off in that direction. Snowfall's Edge was a little basement bar, located underneath a huge ski shop that was closed at this point in the evening. The bar was busy and successful, but somehow there was a wonderful seat open at the bar for Santa as he entered.

The hot mulled wine and rum cocktail he ordered was delicious. It was served in a ceramic coffee mug shaped like the head of a portly Santa Claus, and Santa smiled drolly as he lifted it to his lips to take a first sip.

Cliff the bartender, whose appearance in the Nice column had been... sporadic as a little boy, grinned as Santa lifted the mug to his bearded lips. "Dude, that mug was made for you," he chuckled.

"Ho. Ho. Ho..." Santa drawled back with a sly smile. Cliff wandered off, shaking his head.

Oh, this drink was really very good. If he had another, Santa might just try the straight mulled wine, though. The rum didn't add much, in his rather experienced opinion.

"Oh, Santa, I am so sorry to see you here all alone," a soft voice whispered in his ear, as a delicately-formed woman slid into the barstool mysteriously vacant beside Santa. He turned and took her in. Mary, aged 28, was definitely a good girl when she was younger, though Santa had had to give her a good checking twice when she was five, after the incident with Gary Parker's dog.

And Mary most definitely knew he was Santa, just like the women from last Christmas Eve.

"Hello, Mary," Santa said. "Thank you."

Mary looked surprised that she was not surprised that Santa knew her name. Of course Santa knew her name. But she looked more than pleased that he used it. "I am so sorry about Mrs. Claus," Mary said, placing her hand compassionately on Santa's strong, sweater-clad forearm. "But I worry that you are sitting here, drinking all alone. Can I keep you company?"

Santa did not need company. Santa was a walking font of joy. But Santa found Mary very attractive, in a delicate sort of way, and he knew exactly what sort of company she had in mind. It seemed a little wrong to him, and he wasn't sure why. His innate sense told him that spending time with Mary would certainly not be naughty... well, it would be very naughty indeed, but not wrongly so...

"I'd love to talk," Santa said with a soft smile.

And he found that he did. Mary was actually a delightful woman to talk to. She was obsessed with Christmas, but then she was talking to Santa Claus, after all. And Santa of course loved everything about Christmas.

"I don't understand how you pay the elves," Mary asked, brow suddenly furrowed. "I mean how many are there? And where do you get the money?"

"Ho ho ho," Santa chuckled. "I don't pay them. I don't have any money myself, and I have no use for it. And what use for money do the elves have either?"

"Oh, I mean, I guess not paying them with 'money' money," Mary said quickly. "But how do you compensate them for their work? What do they get out of it?"

"Joy," Santa said simply. "At least, I think that is it. I don't really even know where they come from, you know. About 500 years ago, as I was finding it had to keep up with my toy-making, even though Christmas had already become my entire life, Fizzbit just showed up on a Tuesday, as if he'd always been there, and took over making balls and dolls."

Mary's eyes sparkled at the tale. She leaned in, listening. Her breasts were not large, but they sloped the front of her white sweater enchantingly.

"The next year, Boppin and Topsy showed up, right after the new year," Santa shrugged. "More come, whenever I need more help. They never ask for anything, other than my care and leadership, and a ho ho whole lot of fun. They have very good lives, and they take care of me too."