Go On Boy, Good Old Santa

Cindy, a precocious eighteen year old in her twelfth grade at high school, smiled sweetly at her mother and assured her that she would not stay out late. Clare, her best friend, also had school in the morning, so they would not leave it too late leaving the city centre. They would watch the movie, grab a McDonald's and catch the bus home before the riff-raff, drinking themselves silly in the bars and clubs, spilled onto the streets and caused their usual mayhem. Christmas had never prevented them from disrupting the annual Christian festival before, and nobody expected them to make an exception this, or any other year. As a precaution, however, the two girls had arranged to travel home together and for Cindy to sleep over at Clare's, as she lived nearest to the town centre.

Kissing her father on his temple and playfully dislodging his spectacles, she asked him what his intended sermon would be about, when he preached to his flock on Christmas morning. The Reverend, never short of inspiration, assured her that he would think of something and, like her mother, told his youngest daughter to enjoy her evening.

Pausing at the front door, Cindy looked back fondly at the scene of domestic bliss. Her mother in the kitchen, surrounded by jars of sweetmeats, pickles, baking flour and a host of other ingredients, busily preparing for the family's traditional Christmas celebration. Her father, standing precariously on a pair of rickety old steps, putting the finishing touches to the tree that he and Cindy had spent the afternoon decorating.

"Oh, do be careful Daddy," Cindy said, concerned for her father's safety.

"I will Kitten," he replied, taking his pipe out of his mouth, "You go and enjoy yourself my darling."

"I will," she assured him. "I love you Daddy."

"I love you too, Kitten," the Reverend replied.

"I love you too, Pussy-cat," her mother called from the kitchen.

Turning the corner at the end of the street, Cindy checked that she had everything needed for her evening; perfume, lipstick, condoms, spare undies, and reached into her purse for her cigarettes and cell-phone. Tossing her hair and blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth, she tapped her foot in time with the ring tone as she waited, holding the instrument close to her ear, for the sound of her friend's voice.

"Hi Clare, it's me," Cindy said, "Yes, no problem, the silly old fools fell for it again...Yes, see you at school tomorrow...Thanks, I owe you one."

Jumping into the ancient Chevrolet almost as soon as it stopped, she hardly had time to kiss her boyfriend before he floored the accelerator, eager to get to the deserted parking lot, opposite the theme park, that had become their regular haunt for canoodling.

Having been thrown from one side of the car to the other by his erratic driving, the elaborate subterfuge with Clare seemed pointless as Cindy was in no mood for sex, or anything else, when they arrived.

Puffing on a joint held in one hand and swigging from a can of Budweizer held in the other, Cindy sat impassively, drawing pictures in the condensation on the windows, as her boyfriend, his hand on her breast, enjoyed himself. Showing little emotion, she allowed the abuse of her person to continue, but derived no pleasure from something that had already become a dull, uninspiring and adolescently clumsy routine.

Bored, Cindy looked across the road, searching for inspiration and adventure.

"Let's sneak into the theme park," She said, her eyes sparkling and full of mischief, her face alive with excitement.

"No, let's stay here," said her boyfriend, his hand venturing beneath her hem, was adventure enough for him.

Seen through a tiny port hole she had made in the condensation, the park seemed to draw her like a magnet, enticing her, but not altogether against her will, towards the deserted venue of fun. Staring at the neon sign outside one of the buildings, Cindy, as if mesmerised, opened the car door and stepped out into the chill, damp, evening air, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on 'Santa's Grotto'.

"Well, I'll go on my own then," she said and, straightening her underwear with wiggle, walked across the road towards the wire fence surrounding the theme park.

Dressed in a white angora cardigan with three quarter length sleeves, worn over a pale blue gingham dress of modest length, and white ankle length socks with sensible shoes, Cindy looked a picture of innocence and resembled, perhaps, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz. An image that, whilst pleasing her mother, did not reflect her true, wayward nature and desire for adventure that had earned her a reputation among her contemporaries, of which her mother, if she knew, would be appalled.

Entering through a gap in the wire at the far extremity of the security CCTV's range, Cindy made her way to Santa's Grotto. Pushing open the door and blinking as the florescent lights flickered automatically into life, she pushed her sleeves above her elbows and beheld a wondrous sight of Christmas, complete with imitation snow and every conceivable character of Christmas imaginable. Slowly entering the building, closing the door silently behind her, Cindy tiptoed inside, leaving her foot prints behind in the 'snow'.

Gazing open mouthed, her eyes opened wider as she took in the wondrous images of Christmas; every theme, every character, every myth and every story that she could remember from her childhood was represented amid giant coloured baubles, huge cardboard snowflakes and pointed polystyrene icicles.

A tear dropped onto her cheek as she thought wistfully of the hours she spent, sitting at her grandmother's knee, listening earnestly to the old lady as she recounted fascinating tales of Christmas past. Closing her eyes, Cindy could hear the venerable octogenarian's melodic voice...and the sound of her bronchial cough, as she chain-smoked foul smelling French Gauloises cigarettes.

Wiping the tear on the hem of her dress, and negligently showing her knickers, she looked around for the source of the wolf-whistle that had suddenly pierced the stillness, braking the silence and interrupting her reminiscences.

A small figure, wearing a crumpled top hat, slouched against a tinsel bedecked lamp post and drew lazily on a cheroot, blowing tiny circles of smoke in the air.

"Hi, Babe" the dwarf said, "Fancy a fuck?"

"Shhh," said Cindy, "You are a naughty child and should not use that word."

"I'm not a child," replied the dwarf indignantly, "I'm just little."

Cindy raised her head loftily and looked down at him snootily, "Well," she said, "I don't think little people should have such big ideas."

"I've got a big Willie," he said, as if it were something that she wanted to know.

Cindy, at first a little shocked by his candour, recovered her composure and, laughing cruelly, chided him, "You are too little to have a big Willie."

"Well, you just wait and see," the dwarf responded, and turned his back on her.

His shoulders hunched, his arms moving vigorously, his hands thrust deep inside his little, leather lederhosen, the dwarf furiously fondled himself.

"There! "He announced proudly, turning to face her.

"But it's still little," Cindy sniggered.

"Well, it's hard," The dwarf replied, trying to salvage some dignity.

"Yes," Cindy conceded, "But it's so small."

The dwarf looked down dejectedly at his tiny tool.

"It's big enough," he said petulantly.

"Look," Cindy said, placing her hand next to him, "It's smaller than my little finger." "Only by the tip of your finger nail," complained the dwarf, feeling cheated that, because of her long, manicured nails, she had an unfair advantage!

"OK", said Cindy, intrigued by the thought of having sex with a dwarf, "Let's not waste it."

But the dwarf, trying to make himself bigger, continued to stroke himself and shot his bolt!

"Huh!" Cindy said in disgust and, glaring at him contemptuously, proceeded further into the grotto.

The dwarf, blaming Cindy for his failure, chanted as he danced and skipped away, "Dick teaser, dick teaser, you'll never have sex if you're a dick teaser..."

Cindy shrugged, amused by the little fellow's dirty ditty, and moved on.

Christmas! Cindy had fond memories of Christmas. School plays, Carol concerts, Pantomimes and long hours spent at the Shopping Mall, stealing from department stores and market stalls. Gran on the Sherry, brother Tim on the run, and her parents kissing under the mistletoe. Mum kissing the postman, milkman, paper boy and Mr. Burns from next door. Dad kissing all of mum's friends, the Avon lady, Gran's health visitor, Mrs. Burns from next door, and anyone else who came to the house!

Yes, Cindy loved Christmas with all its daft traditions. The holly and the ivy, mistletoe and Christmas trees. Yuletide carols sung by a choir, and children roasting on an open fire. People dressed up like Eskimos, and Jack Frost nibbling at her nose... her ears, her neck, her toes and anywhere else that she would let him!

Yes, Cindy loved Christmas, and believed in showing love and goodwill to all men; well, all men over the age of consent that is!

Looking about in awed amazement at a myriad of lights, baubles, tinsel and Christmas figures of every kind, Cindy heard the faint sound of bells jingling, and noticed seven little chipmunks standing shoulder to shoulder in a chorus line, swaying rhythmically in time with the music and singing in their squeaky little voices. Bending at the waist, straining to hear them, she lowered herself nearer and heard. "Jingle bells, jingle bells... Cindy makes our fingers smell..."

Cindy gasped and stood upright, her hand covering her mouth, shocked that such cute, fury little creatures could say such a horrible thing.

"You're horrid, "she scolded them. "And I will have nothing more to do with you!"

Tossing her blonde hair haughtily, she continued on her way, following the twists and turns that led her deeper into the grotto.

Rounding a bend, she stopped suddenly, a small herd of reindeer, grazing in the snow, blocking her path.

The leader, one Rudolph, hornier than the others, reared up on his hind legs, exposing his impressive phallus.

"You must be joking," said Cindy, "You're not putting that thing in me!"

"Donner und Blitzen," swore Rudolph as Cindy scurried past him.

Feeling insecure, realising that she was the Christmas gift at the top of everyone's list, Cindy felt relieved to find herself in a chamber among her own gender. Admiring the beautiful fairies in their beautiful little dresses, she failed to notice the queen of the fairies flicking some fairy dust off her magic wand.

"Oh!" Cindy gasped, feeling her groin contract as the sparkling dust touched her below her waist.

"Oh!" She said, as the queen fairy flicked her magic wand again.

"Oh, oh, oh," she kept saying, and jumped each time the other fairies flicked their wands, the magic dust touching her and penetrating through her dress, saturating her underwear and bringing her to an exquisite climax, the like of which she had never felt before. "Ohhhhhh" She moaned, her eyes almost disappearing into their sockets.

Unable to endure further pleasure, Cindy staggered, breathlessly, out of the chamber and into a corridor, following signs that read 'To Santa'. She knew all about sitting on Santa's knee and Santa's little 'surprises,' having fallen, only last year, for his tricks and skulduggery. Milk and cookies, her mother had said, but Mr. Mendelssohn, when he played Santa, insisted that things were done differently in his native Bavaria. That was, of course, until the police took him away.

Hearing the sound of flutes and fiddles, Cindy made her way towards the source of the sound.

Small Irishmen, no bigger than the dwarf, played instruments while their friends performed the River Dance and other jigs, their little, spindly legs spinning and flaying in all directions.

The leader, the one in the biggest hat and holding a large, wooden club, opened wide his dirty raincoat, and exposed himself.

"Top of the morning to ya," he said, "I'm Fynbargh the Flasher, the lecherous leprechaun, and how do ya like my sheleighly."

"Hmm, is that what you call it," said Cindy, unimpressed, but it was, she had to concede, bigger than the dwarf's.

"Allow me to introduce my friends," the leprechaun said, bowing with a flourish and indicating the wee fellow to his left. "This is Cornelius Cunnilingus, and to my right, Horatio Fellatio."

The two little men removed their hats, revealing their shock of bright, red hair and, poking out their long, lecherous tongues, lasciviously licked and sucked their Christmas candy.

Cindy, shaking her head and waving goodbye, wagged her little finger in a mocking gesture at Fynbargh who, losing his Irish temper, whacked both his companions over their heads with his sheleighly, although they had done nothing to offend him!

Cindy had, by then, realised that she was in no ordinary Christmas Grotto, and proceeded cautiously, studying each figure carefully before approaching it. The polar bears, in their winter fur, did not move, the cute little bunny rabbits remained where they stood, and Cindy began to believe that she had passed through the weird, surreal section of the grotto. Until, that is, the tinsel grew tiny tentacles and entwined itself around her, teasing and tormenting her tiny titties and creeping, surreptitiously, but not at all maliciously, although, one could say somewhat indecently, beneath her pretty, pale blue, gingham dress.

Trying to force her way through the tangle of tactile tinsel, Cindy eventually allowed herself to succumb to pleasures delivered by the decadent decorations, until, echoing through the tunnels and caverns of the grotto, she heard the thunderous voice of Santa. A loud, deep voice that resonated around the walls of the various chambers and filled Cindy with trepidation.

"Ho, Ho, Ho," It boomed. "Ho, Ho, Ho."

The tinsel relinquished its hold on her, allowing her to descend from the dizzy heights of pleasure to which she had ascended and, having regained her composure, Cindy, fanning her flushed face furiously with her hands, continued her trek through the imitation snow, following the signs 'To Santa.'

A trio of tiny elves appeared, smiling lecherously, the little bells atop their little pointed hats tingling excitedly as Cindy, resigned to pleasuring everyone, lifted her dress, showed her knickers, and allowed each one to nuzzle her with their little pointed noses.

She had, by now, been aroused by dwarfs, elves, leprechauns, fairies and tinsel and felt in dire need of satisfaction, and even considered returning to the impressive Rudolph. The sound of Santa's joviality, however, persuaded her to continue and see what Christmas present the benevolent Old Yuletide Gentleman had in his sack for her.

A harlequin, resplendent in chequered costume danced towards her, prancing and pirouetting and peering over her shoulder. Posing before her, one hand on his hip, he limply waved the other. "Oow," he said, turning his head coyly and fluttering his eyelids, "Are there any boyth with you," He lisped.

"No, there isn't," Cindy replied.

"Oow," said the harlequin, hovering on one foot as he looked into the tunnel from whence she had come, "I only like boyth."

"Thorry, there ith only me," apologised Cindy, unintentionally imitating his lisp.

The harlequin, annoyed that Cindy was a girl, waved her impatiently away and resumed practising his pirouettes, promenades and port de bras.

Enticed by the smell of fresh baking, Cindy followed her nose, sniffing the air until she came to Claude's Christmas Kitchen.

"Bonne soiree manquez pas," said Claude, "Good evening miss."

"That's better," said Cindy, "I was crap at Spanish."

"Mon Dieu" said the chef, "Je suis Francais."

"Sorry," said Cindy, "I wasn't much good at Italian either."

"I am French," protested Claude, "I am the finest chef in...in..."

"Here," interjected Cindy, trying to be helpful.

His toque-blanche, his tall hat, grew taller as his exasperation with her ignorance of his beloved language increased.

"I'm sure you are a very good cook," she said, trying to appease him.

"Cook! Cook!" he exasperated, his cheeks reddening and puffing alarmingly, his waxed moustache twitching uncontrollably; the power of speech apparently, in danger of deserting him.

Breathing deeply, raising himself theatrically to his full height, just below Cindy's shoulder, Claude proudly announced, "I... am a Chef!"

"OK. Chief," Cindy replied cheerfully, "What's cooking."

Claude threw his hands in the air. "Petite sotte," he said, shaking his head in dismay, "Silly girl!"

"I'm not a silly girl," Cindy said emphatically and, with tears in her eyes, began to whimper, "And I think you're a... you're a....horrid fat Frenchman!"

Claude, an incurable romantique, and possessing a typical French fondness for fornications of the flesh, felt ashamed that he had upset her, and offered her the choice of his culinary creations.

"Would you like to try my mince pies?"

"Non," Cindy replied.

"A piece of Christmas cake?"

"Non!"

"Then how about my Yule log," said Claude, but Cindy, seeing his hand twitching beneath his apron, declined that as well.

"You're as bad as Rudolph!" she accused Claude.

"Moi?" Said Claude, pointing to himself, an expression of injured innocence on his face.

Leaving the kitchen and the amorous creator of Christmas cuisine, she followed the signs to the apparent safety of Santa's inner sanctum, where Santa's little helpers crowded excitedly around her. Cindy, assuming that they, like all the others, had sinister intentions, rapidly removed her knickers, resigned to the fact that she would not get out of the gruesome grotto without being screwed.

The little green people, skipping and dancing, and singing and laughing, sniffed her undies and passed them around, intoxicating themselves with the scent of her womanly bits. High on sex and touching her mischievously, they ushered her inside a glistening ice cave, to where the great man languished upon a large leather chase longue, drinking a dram of Drambiue, his favourite liqueur, and smoking a huge Havana cigar.

Hiding his glass under his white, wispy whiskers, and popping the cigar under the hat of a hapless helper, Santa furiously waved a copy of Playboy Magazine to dispel the smoke, and leered lecherously at Cindy.

Shuffling upright on his couch, making room for her on his knee, Santa asked what he could give her for Christmas.

"My bloody knickers," she said, smiling sweetly, "My arse is freezing!"

"Certainly, My Dear," said Santa, telling a helper to take the things off his head and return them to her.

"Are you sitting comfortably," he asked, patting her knee, his fingers, like Ipsy Wispy Spider, creeping under the hem of her dress.

"No," Cindy replied."There's something sticking in my bum!"

"My big belt buckle," Santa said dismissively, "Don't worry about it."

"It's a bit low for a belt buckle, isn't it," Cindy frowned.

"I'm wearing hipsters." Santa replied and, like Claude, looked as innocent as he could.

"Mmm," said Cindy, suspiciously.

Santa smiled benignly at the girl on his lap and peered at her over his wire-framed spectacles.

"Have you been good," he asked.

"Well," Cindy replied, " I haven't been bad. My boyfriends have never complained and I know the dwarf by the door wanted to give me one, and I'm sure Rudolph fancied me rotten!"

Santa shifted uncomfortably, his 'buckle' pressing harder against Cindy's bottom.

"Are you sure that's your belt."

"Yes, yes," said Santa, "Don't worry about it."

"What are going to give me for Christmas," Cindy asked innocently.

Santa raised he bushy eyebrows, surely that was a rhetorical question, he thought.