On Santa's Lap

Willowkins was tall for an elf, which is just slightly below average for a human woman.

Despite the most common depictions of Christmas elves they are not terribly short. The men are, one and all, unremarkable. But the women? The women are extraordinarily gifted in the realms of the butt and bust. Rankin Bass actually uncovered this in their research, but found that the networks found that stop motion cleavage did not sell toys (though it did sell beer). As Rankin Bass were in fact in it for the kids and the money, and not ethnographers, they reinterpreted elves to something harmless and decidedly non sexual.

This does not trouble the elves terribly much. It does, however, provide a quite satisfying explanation as to why the only arctic explorers who ever return from the north pole are generally gayer than Paul Lynde at an antique shop. For you younger folks, that's gayer than a Fire Island Pride parade.

WIllowkins was part forest elf, a rare mix that commemorated Santa's Sleigh breaking down over the everglades and her mother being easily charmed by a pretty face and a sizable candy cane. It was why she was called Willowkins, and not Noel, Candy, Joy, or something else suitably Christmasy. While she was allowed to participate in elf games (Elves are not nearly as notorious a set of bastards as reindeer) she never quite felt like she fit in.

Some embrace the outsider label. Willowkins decidedly did not. She dedicated herself to all things Christmas, enrolling at the most prestigious elf college and finishing top of her class in an unheard of twenty three years. At barely one hundred and four she was the youngest graduate Merryhalls had ever seen.

On graduation she had her pick of firms. Logistics, Engineering, Design. They all wanted her. But the only job she had time for was the Big Man.

There is no higher honor in the world of Christmas elves, no greater achievement to be attained, than to be selected to be one of Santa's Helpers. There are never more than twelve, and vacancies come up once or twice a century.

She still remembered the terror of the panel interview, the eleven other helpers sitting in a circle around her, her on a spinny chair. And, deep in the back of the room cloaked equally in shadows and red jacket, sat the big man himself. A plate of cookies and a large glass of milk at the ready. He didn't speak. Did not ask one single question. He just watched and nodded. And, on one particular occasion, winked.

It had been the longest eight hours of her life. At the end they asked her to tell a joke. Exhausted, she told the one about the traveling snowman who sold candy canes to lonely elf wives. Not a joke to be told in polite company. Her brain tried to pull the words back, but it was too late. So she elfed on and finished it.

When she finished the joke there was silence for a moment. Then he released a deep and infectious laugh, one that rumbled across the room until it settled into her center. She laughed too, a combination of relief, excitement, and just a bit of nerves.

She got the job the next day.

The stories about Santa focus on all the wrong things, she thought. She'd grown up surrounded by Santa iconography. It was just part of living at the north pole. But it didn't convey the size of the man, or his presence. Santa towered over even the tallest elf, and while she could not bring herself to call him fat he certainly was round. He filled a room.

He also didn't talk much. The laugh was always there at the ready. A good natured wink was on deck. But the vast majority of his communication was through nods and smiles, interpreted by the longer tenured of his helpers and made into concrete plans. Plans for Christmas eve. Plans for today.

Today was the culmination of a year of hard work on Willowkins' part. Coordinating manufacturing, logistics, suppliers, and communications across not just the north pole, but the whole world. It was a staggering achievement. Or at least it would be, if it weren't for one last booger in the eggnog.

Somehow, despite the hundreds of spreadsheets, thousands of contractors, and millions of dollars spent, the sleigh was full. Beyond full. Even with an extremely clever use of pocket dimensions, false doors, and one extremely overloaded glovebox there still needed to be more presents in the sleigh. And the only place left to put them was on the bench seat. Towering up and strapped down, the mass of presents barely left room enough for Santa.There was certainly nowhere she could fit her prodigious bottom.

Willowkins felt tears well up. She lowered her eyebrows into a glare and waited for the tears to get the message. After a minute they reconsidered and carefully retreated back where they came from. Elves don't cry when things get rough. The usually sing, but Willowkins couldn't carry a tune in a bucket.

"Good Cheer Willowkins!" came a voice from beside the mass of presents. It was Mistletoe, the most senior of the helpers, and the third in charge at the entire north pole.

"Mistletoe. I'm so sorry. I don't know how this could have happened. I made my list and checked it twice. Then twice again. There should be space."

"Willowkins, you worry too much. It is Christmas Eve!"

"I know. But I so wanted to be at his side! To see the world on Christmas."

"Well don't be silly. Of course you'll go with Santa. Do you think this is the first time the sleigh has been full up? Why my first year it was twice as high. We had presents strapped to the reindeer. And you know how Blitzen gets."

"But how? The sleigh is so full."

"You'll do what I did. Sit on Santa's lap. The excess presents will be gone by Nepal, and then you can have the whole rest of the bench. If you want it, of course."

Willowkins blushed.

"I couldn't sit on Santa's lap. He has to steer the reindeer and see the sky. I'd just make it hard for him."

"Pish posh! You're barely there. I doubt he'll even notice you. And, on a night like this, he needs his helpers. Now let's get you in a flight suit. Takeoff is in ten minutes and he's depending on you."

Willowkins rushed to the locker room and pulled out the flight suit. It was a red dress with a green skirt, with fur ruffles on the hem and sleeves. A pointed cap and pompom completed the outfit. The sleigh itself was magic, and would keep her warm.

It was all put on in a rush, and it was only as Willowkins stepped on the runner of the sleigh that she realized she'd forgotten tights and underwear. She could have sworn she'd left them out, but it was too late now. Santa looked down at her expectantly, his hand reaching to her.

She grabbed his soft white glove and he pulled her up, effortlessly. He lifted her and carefully set her on his lap, then reached around her to grab the reins.

Willowkins froze. Figuratively. It was actually quite warm. But she was not sure what to do. She hadn't ever considered this a possibility.

There was an expectant hush. And then, with a practiced flick of the wrists, he pulled the reins. Cheers erupted. The reindeer moved forward in perfect synchronicity, hooves first hitting wood, before finding purchase on air. The sleigh lurched and scraped before the runners left the ground.

And then, quick as a wink, Willowkins was flying.

Her stomach followed, just a second behind. The acceleration pressed her back into the warm fuzziness of the big man, practically plastering her against him. She struggled to catch her breath, her hands reaching out to the front of the sleigh to steady herself, but it was just out of reach. Her feet dangled helplessly above the footwell. If Santa turned too fast she'd fall right out.

But it didn't seem he would. They climbed and climbed, the northern lights all around. It was quiet, far quieter than she expected. There was no rush of wind. The sleigh was pressurized with just a bit of magic, so it was peaceful here, nestled in Santa's arms.

Willowkins looked down and saw the frozen ice stretch out beneath her. They were sixty minutes from the first stop. Well, technically they were zero minutes from the first stop if measured by an outside observer, but thanks to math that she had triple checked they had sixty minutes of perceived time thanks to clever compression of a bespoke black hole and a sexy little equation from Einstein's unpublished papers.

It was the first time this year that Willowkins allowed herself to take a moment. This year had been all pushing and grinding and no real time for reflection. But, here and now, she was in the home stretch, flying through the air with the big guy.

She let her hands fall to her side, resting them on his thighs. She's never touched Santa before. She'd never really dared. The other helper's all received regular hugs, and she worried he'd think her cold. But he never initiated one. Never even tried. He was the perfect gentleman. Perfect in every way really.

She'd kept her hands to herself. She'd been afraid. Afraid he'd be disappointing. Or that she'd disappoint him. But now, with his arms on either side, her back to his chest and her bottom firmly planted in his lap, she couldn't imagine being disappointed. If anything it was better than she imagined.

And she'd imagined it quite a bit. Maybe she'd get caught under a stray piece of mistletoe. He'd brush her hair out of her face and lean in.

Or, after a long night of work she'd let her hair down. He'd see how stressed she was and rub her shoulders. Work his thumbs into her back. His breath warm against her neck.

He might spill a bit of cocoa on her blouse. She'd take it off, thoughtlessly. Feel his eyes on her. His hunger.

In her dreams he was patient and giving and very amenable to anything she might suggest.

She shuddered. She shouldn't be thinking about this here, in his lap. She shouldn't be running her hands up and down his thighs. She definitely should not be reaching her toes out to the wall of the sleigh and using them to rock her gently into his lap. This was unprofessional. This was not Christmasy. And he was taken.

Why'd she have to be in his lap. She turned her face to his jacket and took a deep breath. He smelled of cookies and peppermint. She squeezed her thighs together, then let them drift apart.

Sixty minutes on Santa's lap. She could do this. She just couldn't let him see that this excited her. It would just be another day at the office. Except that her rocking was causing the hem to hitch up. And she had no stockings. And she had no underwear.

She could stop rocking. That would solve the problem. She could. But she did not particularly want to.

She lifted her hands from his thighs and carefully smoothed out her skirt. This was innocent. He'd suspect nothing.

He flicked the reins again and she started. Her whole body tensed, then released. His arms brushed against her shoulders, pushing her down just a little.

It was torture, really. Here she was, nearly uncovered. The object of her desire was pressed against her, but completely unobtainable. She felt a warmth inside her and tried to tamp it down. This was going to be a long night. She couldn't afford to lose focus.

She rocked back again, then, on a whim, gently flexed her bottom. Nothing ostentatious. Barely noticeable really.

She about jumped when she felt something flex back.

It couldn't be. He's Santa. She wasn't anything special. Nothing he'd notice. It had to be her imagination. Like, sixty percent imagination. But she was nothing if not a scientific thinker, so she decided to repeat the experiment. Looking straight ahead, her hands on his thighs, she flexed her bottom again.

Something underneath her was summoned, and lurched against her, briefly lifting her, only to let her crash down.

What the fuck was that? It echoed her movements, but the force was overwhelming. It was like she was sitting on a rocket.

She stayed still. Very still. And listened to her body. She was sitting on Santa's lap. There was his left leg and his right leg and a steel pipe. Which was right in the center.

She didn't remember a steel bar on the bench seat. She felt sure she'd have noticed.

Trying to be subtle, she lifted her hand and then dropped it between her legs, onto the bar.

She pushed it down. It pushed itself back up. Weird. She traced it to the end, which was halfway between her hips and her knees. It seemed to be free floating.

She pushed it down again, only to feel it push back with a vengeance.

At that moment the comet that was Willowkins confusion crashed into the moon of the obvious.

What she was doing, right at that moment, was pushing down Santa's most amazing gift. And it was pushing right back at her. It was not so much nestled as wedged along her cleft. Santa was rock hard, and she'd been rocking on him.

She felt a blush that started at her forehead and raced across her chest before settling itself between her legs. Santa was hung. Santa was hard. And she was sitting right on it.

There is the sort of thinking you do with your head. Taxes and work and that sort of thing. Things that call on hundreds of years of pedagogical progress, which somehow all culminated in you being able to AutoSum a column in excel. This kind of thinking leads to skyscrapers, bridges, and six dollar cups of coffee.

Then there is the other sort of thinking. One that bypasses the frontal lobe. An amalgam of thousands of years of the spark of life inexorably pulling itself to this moment. A million nerves, all originating from one place screaming "Use me" so hard that it shouts over any small voice that might say "This is a bad idea". At this point it would drown out a whole chorus. This is the kind of thinking that leads to a thousand ships being launched. The kind of thinking that leads to a future for a species, if not a particularly good long term plan for one specific member of said species.

Willowkins was all about the other sort of thinking. She leaned back into the soft red coat and started working her hips back and forth with a frantic urgency. She was going to use Santa to get off, and any consequences would be for tomorrow. Her skirt bunched up to her waist, exposing her carefully trimmed bush (in the style of a very small Christmas tree, of course).

Her hand left his thigh and moved to hers. She didn't care if Santa thought her naughty. She was going to jingle her bell while rubbing on his yule log.

Her fingers, delicate and precise, blurred as they worked over her nub. She was babbling in the ancient tongue of the elves, a song of lust and longing that sounded like nothing more than the words "Fuck me", broken up by moans.

The hardness beneath thrilled her, and she felt herself leaking all over it, soaking it, turning everything slick. There was no friction anymore, just her, her pussy, and a thin layer of wet cloth.

She felt the big man breathe in, a breath so deep it ruffled her hair as it passed. And then, with a mighty exhalation, she felt him laugh.

"Ho Ho Ho!" he chortled.

And then Willowkins Evergreen Noel the elf got her present. The big hands let the reins fall, and reached down, down past her thighs to his own. With the twick of velcro rapidly divorcing Willowkins learned two things. The first is that Santa was wearing tear away pants. The second was that the north pole was both metaphorically and literally springing up between her thighs.

She hadn't come this far to not cum thus far. She lifted herself up and planted Santa firmly inside her. Or at least she tried. The head entered easily enough, but the combination of her relative inexperience, his absurd girth, and the casual inadequacy of gravity meant that she was sliding down him with all the speed associated with glaciers and old men in hats settled in the passing lane.

It wasn't that it was not satisfying. She had never felt so full. But the promise of all that cock, just waiting for her, unsheathed by so much as even a pussy lip, it all felt like such a waste.

Santa, who she now realized had seen her sleeping, awake, and probably half naked between the two, knew just what to do. He put his gloved hands on either side of her waist and pulled her down. She felt every inch as it rippled and stretched her, rubbing parts of her she never suspected she had. She felt her soft ass land on his warm thighs and knew he was as far inside her as he could get in this position.

She wanted it to last forever. But there was a schedule to keep. He raised and lowered her, using her as a fuck puppet. Her fingers resumed their dance, working the outside in concert with the work he was doing on the inside.

His breathing never hastened. He was in complete control. When she felt the wave begin she muttered something. He just laughed again. She spasmed, her legs straightening and then falling. And then Santa stuffed her stocking. She felt the impossibly large cock swell and then empty itself inside her, with such pressure and volume that it immediately escaped and streamed down her legs. Some of it landed on her fingers, and she idly licked it clean. It tasted like gingerbread.

The few lights of Kiribati were on the horizon. It was time to work. Willowkins lifted herself off the shaft, which had not dropped one tick on the Mohs hardness scale. It was beautiful.

She looked up at the big man, with his rosy cheeks and cheerful smile. He gave her a mischievous wink. She winked back.

She was Santa's helper now. She dropped to her knees in front of him and started to lick him clean. She'd have to get him soft before he could go down any chimneys.

It was going to be a Very Merry Christmas.