Waiting Up For Santa

Please forgive me now. This story was written for fun, in the spirit of fun. If it bothers you, please just write it off as not your thing, and don't just jump to the end to give it a bad vote because I defiled your image of Christmas.

But yes, I know, I'm getting coal in my stocking for the rest of my life.

~ ~ ~

It was dim and dark, with that inherent, musty smell of a half-basement bar. It was more of a cave than a pub, virtually sealed off from fresh air and light. Small, festive decorations were visible in random, unexpected spots, with a snip of fake plastic mistletoe here and a small, scuffed-up, stuffed Santa over there. Perhaps the greatest tribute to the season came from the assortment of low lamps and colorful neon beer signs on the walls that reflected in little twinkles in the glasses and bottles arrayed behind the bar, like some sort of alcoholic's dream of a Christmas tree.

Kristen watched nervously as the small group of young men moved over to the wall near her stool at the corner of the bar. She tried not to look, holding her gaze instead straight ahead, as if staring through the rows of liquor bottles before her, each filled with clear or amber or brown liquids that warm the body, sooth the nerves and cloud the mind. She immediately felt self-conscious about how awkward and cold her rigid, forward-looking posture must appear. She tried to relax her neck, back and shoulders as she looked down into her drink. Too quickly, by far, she picked it up, took a sip, and put it back down.

The liquor felt warm slipping down her throat but it didn't ease her too easily triggered nerves. She could feel her palms starting to sweat. Nothing had even happened yet and she already felt like she was fucking it up, sending all of the wrong signals.

Without looking she could sense them all checking her out. She arched her back, pushing her bosom forward to accent her figure, then immediately thought the provocation too obvious and slouched again, while feeling she'd done that wrong, too.

The short, pudgy one was cute. He had a constant, beaming, effervescent smile. There was no way he'd approach her. His type never did and Kristen didn't know what to do to tempt him to try, or to even let him know he had a good chance of success if he did.

She closed her eyes to take another, longer sip, trying to relax and calm her nerves.

"Your drink is almost empty. Can I buy you another?"

Kristen froze, barely glancing at the guy to her side. It was the tall one. He'd moved in fast. Of course it was the tall one. He was the only one of the group taller than she was. He was handsome, but with that too cool to smile air about him. It was sexy, but not what Kristen was looking for in a man. It would be better than nothing, though. She just had to keep from boring him or otherwise scaring him away.

She shook her head quickly no, still without looking at him, stared straight ahead, then immediately wondered why she'd just done the exact opposite of what she'd told herself she should do. She preferred the cute one, yes, but there was nothing wrong with this guy. And by talking to him, maybe she'd get to meet the short one. Why did she always freeze up like this?

"Are you waiting for friends?"

With an almost one eighth turn of her head she flashed him the beginning of a half smile that died as soon as it had been born. She shook her head no. Even looking sideways into her eyes she felt as if he could see right through her, into her soul. She felt like she was parading naked in front of all of them. Inside, she felt herself trembling, and she was sure that he could see it. She hoped he wasn't already silently laughing at her.

As quickly as she could she looked away to compose herself, staring away towards the far end of the bar. When she realized she'd pretty much turned her back to the guy, maybe the worst thing she could have done, she tried to nonchalantly turn back to stare straight ahead at the row of cold, lifeless liquor bottles. She took another quick sip of her drink, leaving the glass empty.

She was trembling in side. She had no idea what to do now.

The guy stood there for a long minute, as still as stone, seeming neither uncomfortable nor particularly motivated to do anything more. Maybe this one would have the patience, and the interest, to force her past all of her innate awkwardness. Maybe tonight, of all nights, on Christmas Eve, he was going to be a man who could see past her frightened, first mis-steps and stick with it long enough that she could show him the sort of person she was, deep down inside.

She tried to silently will him into saying something more, or offering a second time to buy her another drink so that he'd have an excuse to stay and keep trying. Maybe his friend would come over. She'd feel more comfortable with him. She might be able to do this, if they just tried harder. She'd calm down eventually, she was sure. They just had to bear with her.

And then he was gone, drifting away back towards the wall with his friends. He said something, with his back to her, and they all laughed together. The short, cute one glanced her way, not laughing at all with the rest. She thought she recognized something in his expression, a sort of distant, shared sorrow. Then the tall one moved between them and he was lost from sight.

Kristen started fumbling through her purse for some bills to leave on the bar. She quickly wiped the tiniest of tears from the corner of her eye. It was from stress, not disappointment, she told herself. It didn't matter. Tonight was a bad night to meet someone anyway. She had other plans, important plans. She had to get home.

That's what she told herself, but she knew deep down that was never going to meet anyone. She didn't know how to do it. She didn't know how anyone did it. Talking to people was so damned hard. She never should have left Mom and Dad and home.

She dropped the bills on the counter, tossed down the last few drops of liquor that had by now pooled into the bottom of the empty glass, then hurried towards the door and the cold with her back to the cluster of guys that no doubt laughed at her as they watched her leave alone, yet had no idea what sort of special woman they were missing.

* * *

At home Kristen half-sat, half-sprawled on the sofa beside a tree that was much too large to fit inside her small home. Her house was a simple, small, one story affair, with nothing more than a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. It was all that she could afford and really all that she needed. But the tree filled the room and made it almost feel as if one were living within a forest. Honestly, it was hard to figure out how a tree so large might even have been squeezed through any of the doors or windows to get it inside, or how its peak kept from punching through the low ceiling above it.

A visitor might look, squint, look again, rub his eyes, and look again, trying to make sense of exactly how a tree so large could fit into a space so tiny, yet clearly it had, so eventually there was nothing more to do but to accept it. A visitor would think just that, if she ever entertained any visitors.

Kristen languished on the couch, admiring her tree and waiting with what could certainly not be breathless anticipation, even if that was how she felt. Every Christmas for her, even as an adult, was spent feeling like a child, ever so eager and restless to see what presents and delights Christmas would bring, except that now that she was an adult her presents always came on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day. As the night came and went, it left her with a wistful and happy but deeply longing feeling come morning, because it was over and she had to wait another, long, lonely year to experience it again.

She lived her whole life for Christmas Eve these days. Every year, all year long, was just time idly passed waiting for Christmas to arrive so that she could spend time with her father. This was her third year away from home, and she didn't think she could survive a fourth.

She'd been so lonely since Mom had thrown her out of the house, not even being allowed back home for the holidays. Her only chance to see Dad was Christmas Eve. He always worked all night then, probably as much to get away from the nagging shrew as anything else. But he could afford to take a break and stop by to visit his daughter, and it was their one chance all year long to spend some meaningful time together.

Kristen stared into the fire, waiting for its flames to die down, leaving only the glowing embers of the logs behind, until those too would be snuffed out and no hint of its cheery, red warmth would remain but the blackened wood and pale gray ash the flames left behind. But fire or not, Santa's magic would allow him slip down her chimney and into her life. She smiled at the magical thought as she drifted into a pleasant but restless half-sleep, marred by her anticipation of the night to come.

* * *

Kris Kringle closed his eyes as his body floated, bounded and zoomed gently down the chimney, all at the same time. He'd done it many billions of times without ever getting entirely used to the feeling. The walls of the chimney pressed against him, crushing him as if he were wedged tightly in and could never be freed. The ridges of the bricks and mortar that made up the walls scratched and tugged at him as he fell.

Yet despite these sensations he slipped smoothly, continuously downward without hesitation or any hint of faltering. The descent took only a moment, yet lasted for untold minutes. He neither fell nor flew, scraped nor slipped, wafted nor whooshed. There were no words for how Santa went down a chimney. He just did.

To pass the endless, brief time he played games with himself, trying to test his memory to see if he could remember the exact layout of the home he was entering, all the way down to a recollection of the very ornaments used to decorate that particular family's tree and where each ornament had been placed last year. Sometimes he tried to guess how the ornaments might be rearranged this year, or what new sort of ornament a particular family might have added this time.

If he guessed right, he let himself take an extra bite of cookie and an extra swallow of milk from the plate and glass they left for him, as well as an extra swig from his flask.

None of that was necessary for this house. This was a special stop on his annual journey, a place to which he looked forward with unbounded delight every year. It wasn't actually the place itself that appealed to him but rather the lone, special, beloved occupant that held his interest and stirred something he'd long ago thought had died inside of him over the countless, monotonous, unending years of lists and presents and deliveries.

Dim amber and orange light below flickered, grew and brightened as he saw the fire at the bottom approaching and the square opening of the fireplace looming larger. The fire was low and soft beneath him, but still burning, not that that mattered to him. He clenched his eyes tightly shut, bothered not by the sight of the flames and mortar racing to meet him but instead by the queasy, nauseating sensation he always suffered as his body morphed, slipped and twisted in impossible ways so that, without breaking his spine or rupturing his intestines, he could be one moment falling but not falling down a straight, narrow chimney shaft and the next moment standing on his feet, clean and bright eyed with only the barest traces of soot on his bright red and white suit.

One minute he was falling, and then morphing, and then there he stood, in all of his Saint Nicholas glory, fat, round belly thrust ahead with a heavy bag of presents slung over his shoulder behind his back and a merry twinkle in his eye.

As soon as he felt solid floor beneath his feet, he unclenched his eyes to expose the magical happy twinkle in his black pupils. Normally it didn't matter, as there should never be anyone there to actually see him, but he knew that this time, in this house, she would be right there, wide awake and eagerly waiting for him.

His eyes opened to behold the most beautiful woman he had ever met. She was tall, much taller than he. The eyes that looked shyly and hesitantly back at him were glacier ice blue, just like his own, with a shy twinkle to complement the gregarious sparkle that he sported. Her hair was platinum blond, almost silver-white, pin-straight and so long that it fell down across her firm but not overlarge breasts, past their smoothly curving bottoms and further down, almost to her sexy little belly button.

The nipples were round, pinkish red and achingly erect. He could see them because the girl — woman — wore a very sheer, red baby doll trimmed with thin strips of shiny black leather and soft, fluffy, white fur, much like his own traditional suit. It made him smile that she'd found such an apropos outfit this year, for him.

His eyes traveled down the marvelous curves of her body, clearly and wantonly exposed to him within the diaphanous material. Her broad shoulders and V shaped torso narrowed to a delightfully dainty waist for a woman her size, and then spread to form the round, feminine swell of full, tempting hips, all perched on long, athletic legs made even more shapely and lengthy by the tall red heels upon which she balanced.

She stood, staring at him in silent, wide eyed anticipation, legs together, arms at her sides and back ram rod straight, like a soldier awaiting inspection, or a wind-up toy waiting to be set into animated motion.

"Well, well, little girl, what are you doing up so late on such an important evening?"

He said it with his deepest, sternest voice, even though he could still hear the unspoken "ho, ho, ho" behind it all. A stern, disciplinary tone of voice had never come naturally to him. He'd had to work at it, to develop it when he became a parent, and even then it took concerted effort. He was too out of practice. But that would change.

She didn't respond at first. She just held his gaze as he stood awkwardly staring back at her, waiting for a response and drinking in her beauty like a wino straining to resist gulping down the finest vintage he'd ever sampled. He waited patiently but eagerly until she finally spoke.

"Hello... Daddy."

* * *

Kristen held his eyes with hers. They each waited all year, every year, for this one, long night together. She worked in a meaningless job, selling toys at an upscale toy store downtown. With her knowledge and talents she could easily have taken the position of manager, or even set her sights higher, if she could just deal with people a little better, but it held no interest for her to even try.

She had what she always wanted right here, right now, before her.

Her hands slipped subtly across her thighs, feeling their smooth, sensuous skin with her finger tips as she shifted her weight provocatively to one foot, swinging her hip outward the other way. She held that pose, and her father's gaze, for one long moment before she sauntered forward, swinging her hips slowly and hypnotically from one side to the next as she advanced on him. She could see his breath quicken. She allowed herself a small, predatory smile before replacing it with the shy, breathless expression of half-parted lips and languorous, drunken eyes that she knew he found so irresistible, and that had worked for her once upon a time in sparking their long, sordid affair into life.

She advanced on him until they almost touched. Standing a bare inch apart her blue eyes stared down into his. She eased her mouth forward towards his forehead, where she planted one long, warm, lingering kiss. As she pulled back, the red stain of her lipstick remained there, a red mirror image of her lips branding him as if he now belonged to her — which he did, heart, body and soul.

His arms came forward then, snaking around her waist to pull her up against him. She felt his bulges, that of both his large stomach and his cock, pressing erotically against her.

"Give your father a proper kiss hello," he said to her, as he tipped his head back and moved his lips meaningfully towards hers.

His voice was commanding, having lost that merry edge that he sported so often. It was not a request. It was an order, from a stern father to an obedient daughter. Kristen felt her knees weaken at the sound of it. She trembled in his arms, as she always did. Her face and lips slipped down to his, like a puppet under his control, powerless to resist his charming demands. Her lips met her father's in an electric union of pent up longing, love and lust.

Santa's tongue came quickly out, forcing its way between her slightly parted lips. She'd invited him in, really, giving him that opening, but he took it so soon, so suddenly and boldly, that she felt wonderfully violated by his quick, lusty invasion. His arms no longer rested gently on her hips. Instead they swept up against her back and splayed flat as they pulled her form hard against his. She felt the round bulge of his fat belly pressing against her own. She felt her breasts squashing flat against his suit as his lips drank her in and consumed her.

She belonged to Daddy. Then and there, her father held and kissed and owned her, as he did this same night every year, as he'd done for the past two years, giving her an incomparable pleasure that no other man could ever hope to match.

Kristen was so bad that she wasn't even on the naughty list. She had a list all of her own, with only her name on it. No one else could ever be on that list with her. Daddy had a nice list, and a naughty list, and Kristen. He owned her, and she belonged to him, and she'd instantly do anything he told her to do, the more wicked, the better. Every thing she did with him and for him was bad, very, very bad, and it was also good, so very, very good.

* * *

Santa felt his daughter's lips pressing timidly against his own, as if she were afraid to move. No matter how many times they did this she was always so shy. She always took some coaxing, at first, to come out of her shell.

He pulled her firmly against him, reveling in the wonderful curves of her body against his. His lips worked tirelessly against hers. His mouth opened wide, forcing her to open her mouth further to match his. He sucked hard on her full, pouting lower lip, taking it between both of his. He traced it with his tongue, spurred on by the soft moan that he felt build and hum from deep within her throat.

He loved bringing his little girl such pleasure.

He took his cue from her growing sounds, driving his tongue between her lips again, searching for hers so that he could tangle and wrestle and dance with it, forcing her to change from passive to active lover. As he wished, as if he'd commanded it, her tongue came alive against his, bonding and binding incestuously with her father's.

Her own arms had been draped loosely on his shoulders, at first, but now they moved so that her fingers slipped upwards into his hair. It shot waves of pleasure through him to feel her gentle touch against his skin. Her hands soon lost their tender nature, instead grasping at his scalp, hungry to pull his lips more firmly against her own. For his part, he let his own meaty hands slip around to her front and upwards. He cupped her wonderfully young, firm, round breasts, one in each hand, and squeezed, gently at first but then more possessively and aggressively.

Kristen's beautiful tits belonged to Daddy.

Her moans became less subtle. Their kiss broke momentarily as her lips parted, her mouth drifted open into an erotic, perfect circle, and for her part active involvement in the kiss came to a sudden halt.