Father Christmas

She was very charmingly built, in fact. But Santa suddenly realized that he was not in the mood for sympathy, and felt surprisingly uninterested right then in being 'comforted'. Tina ducked around the cocktail waitress and straightened. Santa was nowhere to be seen. After a minute's frustrated search, his presence faded from her mind.

Under the stars, Santa walked slowly back up the beach toward his hotel, shoes in his hands and toes reveling in the sand, still warm from the summer sun. He was not sure why he had made his escape. Tina had been a beautiful woman, and the gleam in her eye had promised naughtiness of the nicest variety.

And truth be told, if whatever magic was sending comfort and succor his way (it was not his own magic, of that he was sure by now), continued to do so, Santa was actually looking forward to enjoying it to the full.

But for tonight, he was moody, which was both unfamiliar and yet reasonable.

In the morning, Santa pulled on his Christmas-tree-green swim trunks with the white waistband and leg stripes, added a red-framed pair of sunglasses, and went to the beach. He swam in the sea, his powerful strokes taking him far enough out to get whistled by the lifeguard who did not want him to get as far out as where the speedboats ran up and down the beach.

No boat would have struck Santa, but he moved back in toward shore, as he did not want to worry or distract the guard.

In the afternoon, he rented a jet ski and had a marvelous time. He finally understood why an ambitious good little boy or girl would ask for one. He made a note to do this again in the future. They were not as fun as snowmobiles, but they were close. He considered giving it another try on this vacation.

When his time was up, Santa wandered up off the beach to the hotel's open-air bar, located midway between the pool and the dune line, for a drink and some light dinner. He idly wondered how he would react this night if someone shapely showed up to comfort him again. He felt a bit more open to the concept, he admitted to himself...

He was on his second cocktail. Santa liked Hemingway Daiquiris because it amused him the way they made people think he reminded them of Ernest Hemingway, instead of himself. Feeling relaxed and unaccustomedly happy, he looked around at his fellow vacationers. That is when he saw her across the bar.

Samantha was extremely tall and fit, though scrumptiously curvy in the right places, with elegantly auburn hair curling in waves around her perfectly symmetrical, open, and honest face. She was the oldest gorgeous woman to cross his path yet, in her early thirties, and it seemed to Santa that it would be too much effort to remember her last present from him, which was odd because memories were the easiest thing in the world for Santa.

What mattered far more was that she was looking at him with a dreamily speculative expression on her face--not determined or pitying, just sweet, and very interested. It felt like a nice change.

He apparently allowed his own face to display interest in turn, and the moment Samantha recognized that he was looking back, and had caught her looking in the first place, she blushed and looked down and away. Santa just continued to study her. Fresh from the beach herself, she still wore only her bright red bikini, which seemed a marvelous choice in Santa's book, even if from where he sat, he could only see her from the waist up.

She stole a glance back his way and saw he was still looking at her. She blushed again but held his gaze, and smiled tentatively. Santa raised his glass to her, and she raised her own stem of white wine in reply. They smiled slowly at each other.

Well, if she was not going to beeline straight for Santa, he felt he could be induced to go talk to her instead. He rose from his stool and purposefully made his way around to the woman. Her eyes widened as she realized he was approaching her, but she didn't flee, though she looked a bit like she wanted to.

She was different. In so many ways. Perhaps whatever magic was at work wanted him to work this time, to show his appreciation.

"Hello," Santa said as he arrived beside her.

Samantha blushed again. "I'm afraid you caught me looking. I'm sorry."

"Ho ho ho, if that needs an apology, then let our looks cancel each other out," Santa chuckled in his rich voice, pitched to be clear to her, but mere background noise to others around the increasingly busy little bar.

"Oh! Um. Uh, would you like a seat?" Samantha said, rallying swiftly, and gesturing to the stool next to her. "I'm Samantha," she said, extending her hand in a businesslike fashion.

"Thank you, Samantha," Santa said, taking her offered hand firmly, along with the offered seat. He didn't introduce himself. She knew who he was, of course.

Santa was suddenly unsure of himself. He was realizing that it had been five centuries since he had last approached a woman for the first time, and he had not been a dab hand at the process back then. Mrs. Claus had rescued him from a life of awkward first meetings.

And now she was gone, protecting him no longer, and leaving him with a need for his atrophied, never very good to begin with, skill with women.

Still, even when he was younger, and was simply Chris Cringle, Esq., lawyer in the Court of Star Chamber, in service to His Most Serene Majesty, Henry, Eighth of That Name, a smile had usually been a successful start.

His smile broadened as he perceived that Samantha liked the smile, and then it deepened as he perceived that she was unable to completely hold his gaze. Her eyes kept escaping his to take in his broad shoulders and muscular chest most comprehensively. Santa had not worn a shirt all day and had not donned one now. His smile grew even happier as he realized this gave him the excuse to let his eyes wander similarly.

Samantha's richly tanned legs, long and elegant, were crossed demurely as she sat. The rest of her was similarly tanned... and just wonderfully shaped. Her little red bikini, with white strings holding it together, was perhaps more demure than many to be found on Miami Beach, but was heart-reavingly sexy, given what it contained. Her tummy was not visibly muscular, but was smooth and, even when seated, flat as a board. Her breasts were rich, full, and in not much apparent need of support from the bikini. The cool ocean breeze had the most enchanting little bumps making their presence known beneath the fabric of her top.

Her face... Santa found it fortunate that it was so beautiful, or his eyes would have embarrassed him even so, from lingering too long below her long elegant throat. But as riveting as her body was, he found he needed to also appreciate the rich curl of her lips and linger on the dark pools of her deep blue eyes.

Almost simultaneously, both realized that they were at a loss for words. They each looked alarmed for a moment, but then each realized that the other had the same problem. Their synchronized laughter burst forth, and they instantly were at ease with each other.

It was suddenly no effort to talk to each other. Though both of them avoided the subject of the other, they conversed easily. First, about the cocktail she was unfamiliar with that Santa bought for each of them, then about the light dinner they found themselves 'eating next to each other.' They spoke of their towering hotel, and of the tiny neighboring hotels in the Art Deco District.

Then they talked about the second drink... then the third. The liquor did not affect Santa of course, other than to make him a tiny bit more jolly, which was not hard in Samantha's company, especially in that bikini, which really was a most magnificent showcase. But the alcohol did affect Samantha.

She found herself leaning forward, laughing at Santa's joke, and to her surprise, her hand was resting on his bare tree trunk of a thigh. The alcohol haze lifted a tiny bit, and she straightened up. "I... I think that I have had just a bit too much. I had best be off to bed before I do something I don't want to... or don't want to yet," she added in a mutter. Santa was happy to suspect that he was meant to hear that last addition.

"Rest is a good thing," he only said agreeably. "Do you suppose we might run into each other tomorrow?"

Samantha laughed. "Only if you intend to be on the beach in the morning!" she said merrily, rising unsteadily but safely to her feet and gesturing to the far side of the dunes in front of the hotel.

Santa considered offering to make sure she made it to her room, but he sensed that while she might indeed accept his offer, she would likely regret doing so. He could not imagine wanting to do anything this woman would regret.

"Ho ho ho! I'm glad we have similar plans then," Santa chuckled, resolving suddenly to hit the beach in the morning, instead of sleeping in. Santa never slept in at the North Pole, but he did enjoy it when on vacation. Not tomorrow, though...

Samantha waved goodbye airily and gently swayed off toward the elevators. Apparently, she was going to the beach in the morning after all, she mused.

Neither wanted to risk arriving on the beach so late that the other gave up on them, and independently made their way down to the beach at about ten am. This was long before most every other part of the late-night-partying Miami crowd had even begun to shake off their hangovers, so it was not hard to run into each other, as they each approached from opposite ends of the hotel's stretch of beach.

Santa had worn his shorter-length red suit that morning, with a green and white floral Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over it. He had a favorite Australian Christmas on the Beach towel slung over his shoulder. Samantha wore a rather wonderfully naughty one-piece bathing suit, in a pale purple and pink that probably showed much more of her stunning form than even the stringy bikini from the day before. Santa immediately perceived that he might have to pay attention to not paying too much attention this morning, or he would have a situation in his bathing trunks.

They swiftly found an open patch of white sand, well above any threat of the approaching high tide, and spread out their towels.

"So, Samantha," Santa said as they settled down on their respective spots, "How do you spend your beach mornings? Swimming? Reading? Or simply glistening in the blazing sun?"

"Reading and glistening, thank you," Samantha laughed easily in reply, brandishing her book.

"Dale Carnegie?" Santa exclaimed in genuine surprise. He was not accustomed to being surprised much. "He was always such a good little... a good read, I mean."

"There is a reason this is a classic," Samantha shrugged. She had read the book twice before and had enjoyed great professional success from its knowledge. She felt her career was stagnating a bit and wanted another goose for its progress.

Santa only nodded. He had never seen much need for How to Win Friends and Influence People around the North Pole. The elves pretty much lived the lessons anyway, and Santa was... Santa. But he knew it was full of wisdom. Samantha showed intelligence. He lay down himself, face down to keep his eyes from roaming too eagerly over Samantha's barely clad form, and to hide any reactions from thinking too much about her lying there beside him. And he was definitely going to be thinking about her.

He idly wished he could ask her to lotion his back, but while this woman was clearly attracted to him, she was not the sort of pell-mell adventuress he had been encountering. He had time and found he was happy to spend it with her, however things worked out.

Samantha kept track of how long he lay there, and prompted him to turn a time or two, lest he get a sunburn. Santa could not burn, but he appreciated her care. Their idle conversation was more languid than the prior night's, but just as easy and enjoyable.

"I'm hungry," Samantha announced as she finished her chapter, and the sun was blazing right overhead. "Let me buy us lunch," she added, moving to gather up her towel.

"Oh, no, Samantha," Santa said swiftly. "Allow me to..."

"Knock it off, mister," she snorted. "Three rounds of drinks and dinner last night? I think I can swing a couple of burgers over there," she said, indicating a beachfront grille.

The wafting scent of expertly cooked ground beef reached Santa's twitching nose and his hunger added to his agreeability. They walked through the soft sand, which had not yet become uncomfortably hot, toward the grille.

They ate the overly juicy, delicious burgers, dancing around from time to time, to avoid dripping on themselves. They laughed. They compared notes on which places in New York had the best hot dogs.

Suddenly, Samantha stopped, the bite or two left of her burger held in her hand to the side. She pensively bit her fingernail and stared at Santa unreadably.

"Is something the matter, Samantha?" Santa rumbled softly.

"Just... Nothing..." Samantha said, cutting herself off. Then she went on in a rush. "I'm thinking again about what I was thinking about last night, toward the end there..."

"Oh ho ho," Santa said softly. He found that he wanted this woman very, very much by now. Enough that he felt he could push just a tiny bit. The tiniest bit, even though what he really wanted was to bolt forward. "That which you are thinking about doing later?" he asked slyly.

Her gaze shot to his, warningly for a moment, then instantly changing to warmth. She blushed. "I... I'm thinking more about what I want to do right now, and how far I should let myself go."

Before Santa could figure out how to respond to that marvelous set of indirect words, Samantha, turned on the balls of her feet and started walking back toward the hotel. She looked over her shoulder inquiringly.

Santa was at her side in an instant, walking with her easily, but nervous inside. "I take it..." It was him hesitating now. "I suppose that what you are thinking about doing is not best done down on the crowded beach?" he tried.

"The beach is wonderful," Samantha laughed awkwardly.

"My suite has a beautiful view of the beach... if that helps," Santa said, more awkwardly than any words he had spoken in centuries.

Samantha stopped and looked at him seriously. Then she smiled again, shyly. "A view of the beach would be... enchanting."

Two adult (one of them insanely adult) people made unseemly haste to the elevators. Inside, Santa pressed the top floor, 20.

"You are in a penthouse?" Samantha exclaimed, almost alarmed.

"I... yes," Santa said, his shoulders almost slumping.

"I've always wanted to see a genuine resort penthouse. Closest I've seen was a top-floor room in Las Vegas when I was twenty-seven," Samantha said, in a tone of voice that said it was a complicated, but fond memory.

The elevator dinged and the door opened on the twentieth floor.

"Here's your chance," Santa said, taking a breath as he swept his hand down the hall.

As he let them into his suite, which was actually slightly larger than his whole cottage at the North Pole, Santa watched Samantha carefully, trepidatiously.

Samantha stepped in and slowly spun 'round, taking in the immense suite, and the balcony outside, overlooking the beach. Then she turned to Santa.

"I have a confession," she said softly. "I don't care about the beach. Or the view. I... Oh, heck, you are so sexy."

With that, Samantha threw her arms around Santa's neck and pulled him to her lips. She was so tall, with the way she stood on tiptoe, Santa barely had to bend at all. It was an unfamiliar sensation. He instinctively drew her into his arms, almost crushing her against him as their lips met and they shared... everything.

Their eyes did not slip closed, but went wide, meeting in joyful accord as they kissed, lips, then tongues, questing against one another. Santa found himself sliding his hand to her backside uninvited, and she only crooned happily as he clenched his fingers upon the utter perfection of her lean, curvily muscular rear.

After an eternity of seconds of this embrace, Samantha pulled her face back and looked feverishly around. Her face set, and she tugged at Santa's huge shoulders. He stumbled obligingly, twisting as she pushed. Then, her ankle hooked his, and she pushed, tripping him backward to fall heavily into the soft chair in the sitting area.

He looked at her in genuine surprise. It had been ages since someone had caught him off guard, other than a few of the elves that he had an ongoing practical joke war with. Samantha just grinned wildly and sank instantly to the floor between his splayed legs.

"This is one thing that I am definitely going to go ahead and do," Samantha said to herself, but staring at him. Then she bent and tore at the drawstring of his swim trunks. They were the sort with a fly, and she tore open the velcro closure. "Oh... wow," she murmured as she lifted his more than fully excited member from its prison.

In a flash, she bent and sucked it into her mouth. Santa gasped in surprise, and utter, utter happiness, as she sank down upon him.

"Hold still," Samantha told him, letting him free of her mouth momentarily, then sucking him back in again.

"That will be... ho ho hard," Santa gasped, as this incredible woman did things to him he had not experienced in years and years. Samantha knew what she was doing, and was doing it at a breakneck pace. She clearly had no interest in making this last long. While Santa certainly did want it to last for a long time, possibly forever, Samantha was having none of that.

Her hand pumped him gently, yet brooking no delay, and her lips, tongue, and soon her throat, caressed his length with dire intent. Santa knew how to make the experience last, how to hold back. But such skilled determination and the commitment to bringing things to a head so fast was an effort that he was not used to. It had nearly a century since Mrs. Claus had last felt the need to just simply overwhelm him.

"Samantha, I.... Ohhhhh," Santa groaned, as he lost the battle to her. Samantha glucked softly as Santa's arousal reached a tremendous conclusion, and he filled her mouth and throat with the result, head spinning in an ecstatic explosion of sensation.

Santa sagged in the chair, which really was a little too small for his frame, head whirling from the exquisite, overwhelming experience. "Oh, Samantha," he gasped.

Samantha sucked greedily on him a little more, before she pulled off and twisted to sit on the floor, her head resting gently against his thigh. "That was... crazy," she sighed happily. "But I think I'm hallucinating. You tasted like peppermint!"

"Ho ho ho! I've heard that before," Santa gasped happily.

Samantha suddenly snapped. Genuinely angry, though not furious, she spun back to her knees between his legs and shoved his chest hard, actually rocking him back into his chair.

"Enough with the Santa Claus schtick!" she almost shouted. "Everything about you is wonderful, but then you keep up this ridiculous game. The clothes... the beard... the... the ho ho ho-ing! I'm not one of those women with a Santa fetish, for crying out loud! You don't need to do that. I... because... you are... you!"

Santa stared at her in wonder. In shock. "You really don't know who I am, do you?" he asked, almost thunderstruck.

Samantha's irritation vanished in the blink of an eye. "No, I don't! Oh dear! Am I supposed to? I'm so embarrassed! Are you... You aren't an actor. I love movies. I'd know if you were ever in them. Are you a model? Some international fashion guy? I'm sorry, that's not my thing," she babbled in almost mortified apology.

Santa did not know how to respond. He was not upset. In fact, he was the opposite. Samantha, this practically perfect woman, who seemed certainly to be as attracted to him as he was to her, was attracted to him as... some guy. She had no idea who he was. No idea of the recent tragedy that had happened in his life. She wanted Santa... not Santa Claus.