Christmas Stalking

Eileen adjusted the mirror on her desk again. A perfect view of the changing room through the door behind her desk—and quite a nice shot of a hunk in his undies.

Her friends had given her the fish eye when she said she was going to work for an entertainment placement agency and then were quickly deflated when she said it was purely a Santa's helper and kids' party clown sort of place, not a front for lap dances and strippers. But if they only knew. If they only knew, she thought, as the bell over the entry door tinkled and in walked two more hunks.

It was one of the perks of a low-paying job in a university town. Christmas break and young college men needing a temporary job—and the miracle of padding and makeup—all added up to a chance to meet—and ogle—young men. And Eileen had a particular taste for young, virile college men.

"Names?" she asked, putting on what she considered to be her "fetching" smile.

"Steve Barden, and this here's Keith. Keith Osborne."

He was giving her the once over and smiled broadly when he got down to where her blouse wasn't buttoned all the way up. She considered Pride and Joy—the left one was Pride and the right one Joy—to be among her best assets. When she saw the young ones approaching, she'd unbutton the top two, making sure there was plenty of cleavage to see. And an approach by an old codger—especially if he was being guided in by his wife—caused the buttons to close again.

"Santa or clowns?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm Santa, definitely Santa. I give good presents," Steve answered. Then he barked out a laugh that put Eileen somewhat off, even though he had great blond good looks and an athlete's body. "You think ya'll have enough padding for this bod to pass as Santa?"

"You look pretty padded already," Eileen responded, with a little laugh of her own. "Lots of trips through the cafeteria line?"

Steve reddened up, but she had just been pulling his leg; she knew the difference between muscle and fat—and this guy wasn't fat. Before Steve could retort, though, she pursed her lips sweetly and purred, "But it's very nice padding on you—and on Mr. Osborne here too."

Eileen wasn't looking at Steve. She was looking over at the thus-far-reticent Keith—a mysterious, dark, handsome thing with full, sensuous lips and hazel eyes. She saw the spark of interest in his eyes when she spoke her bantering come-on line. Just what she'd hoped to see.

But then she looked back at Steve. And she couldn't decide which she liked best. They both had their points—their very good points. She certainly would like to see their special points.

"And you want to apply for a Santa too, Mr. Osborne?" she whispered—searching for her Kathleen Turner voice.

"He'd make a better clown, of course," Steve said, interjecting his bark of a laugh before he went on, "but we're only looking for something over the Christmas period, so Santa it is for him too."

Ah, Eileen could certainly tell now which of the two was the assertive one. That helped her decide.

"Think you can get us some good gigs?" Steve asked, as he leaned down close. "We'd certainly appreciate that, and would be happy to show our appreciation."

"Well, you'd have to pass muster with Mr. Halpern first," Eileen answered. "Then we can see what we can do. Any sort of appreciation in mind?" She was cooing now, and Steve was working up to his notoriously successful pitch.

"Why yes, honeycakes. How about—?"

"Who's next, Eileen?" A man had appeared at the door behind her desk.

"These two gentlemen are here to apply as store Santas," Eileen said.

Steve managed to maneuver his hand to brush the side of Eileen's breast as he passed, and she lifted her head and smiled. But she wasn't looking at Steve; her eyes locked onto Keith's face, and she was pleased with his reaction to his friend's flirtation.

Eileen had the timing of these job interviews down pat, and she made sure the door to the changing room was open and her mirror was adjusted perfectly for a midsection shot backed by the three-way mirror in the dressing room. She gave a little gasp and her blood started to race for the brief moment when Steve was stripped down to his briefs to be outfitted with a Santa suit—and then Keith replaced him and was pulling his pants off.

Moments later, Eileen was humming and fanning herself with a file folder as she pulled up the assignment file in her computer and, without waiting for the approval sign from Mr. Halpern, entered Steve's name in for shifts at Dixon's and Keith's at Belk.

* * * *

He had no idea that being a department store Santa was so taxing. It wasn't just the snotty kids—well, yes, it was mostly the snotty kids. But it was also their demanding, pushy, and bitchy-voiced mothers.

He'd drawn the evening shift, and long after the little brats should be abed, the line was still snaking out of the toy department and into house wares. They were all yammering at him, and the flood lights were strong, and the popping light bulbs sent his head spinning. It didn't help that the padding was suffocating and the wispy white hair of the beard kept blowing up his nose and daring him to sneeze all over the squirmy urchins. Which, of course, would be a direct violation of the store Santa commandments.

With only fifteen minutes left to go until the store closed, some angel handed him a glass of something cold and wet, and he tossed it off without a care what it might be. It was enough that it was cold and wet.

He automatically opened his arms and steeled himself against the routine kick in the chin in anticipation of the next grimy toddler climbing into his lap—but he nearly fell face forward off his flimsy plywood throne as he was preparing to listen to the demands of one too many of the brats.

The camera floodlights blinked off and the overhead lights flickered as the disembodied, tinny voice trumpeting down from loudspeakers was telling the last-minute shoppers they needn't bother to try finding an open cash register any longer.

His first shift as Santa, mercifully was done.

He struggled off the throne, feeling disoriented and groggy, and stumbled down the three steps up to Santa's platform, took two steps toward the back of the store, and slowly collapsed into a heap behind the platform backdrop. He let out a sigh and a hiccup, and his wispy-whiskered chin sank into the red velvet padding on his chest. He instantly was in LaLaLand.

He slept through the last-minute bustle of the evening clerks hastily repositioning their displays. He slept through the cheery, echoing banter from one counter to the other of plans for the rest of the evening and lamenting that, despite being in the center of a department store, no one had done Christmas shopping yet. And he slept on as the overhead lights, one by one, clicked off and Santa's wonderland went dim—not dark, just dim, because the emergency lights still glowed and picked up the sparkle of the glitter in the mounds of fake snow defining the borders of Santa's kingdom.

He slept restlessly, on the edge of stupor from the Mickey that last drink had been laced with—until, through his restless dream of sinking into a vat of sticky-sweet white cotton candy trying to crawl up his nose, he heard the husky voice of an angel.

"Hello there, Santa. Been a long day in the workshop?"

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on the three luscious forms—no, just one form—that had materialized out of the dark and was crouching in front of him. An apparition in beige lace. And not very much of it, either. In his stupor, he couldn't quite discern where the beige of the lace panties and bra ended and the supple, curved, silky skin began. But it all spelled out angel to him at this moment.

"Wha . . . wha?" he mumbled in mesmerized semiadolescent eloquence, as he started to reach for this delicious confection, but couldn't quite carry through with the boldness of such a move.

"I think we're stuck here for the night. Well, at least until the cleaning crew arrive." The voice matched the curves and crevices floating before his straining eyes—low, husky, edged with honey.

"I was modeling lingerie and went into the wrong dressing room and got locked in, and the store was closed before I could get out."

She was being so rational. It all made perfect sense. Other than the part of her standing and wrapping her hands around his white-clouded head and pulling his face into her crotch, where he luxuriated in the thought that she must have made a stop at the perfume counter on her way to the front of the store.

She was wet and smelled heavenly, and he was alert enough to move his hands to her hips and pull the panties down all by himself—and then to lose himself with his tongue in her folds as she moaned a husky moan and pressed his face hard into her vee.

"You know what I want for Christmas, Santa?" she purred in a low, throaty voice.

And when he raised his eyes to gaze up into the face beyond the lovely, milky breasts she'd freed from her bra, she knelt down and took his lips with hers.

Now Santa was moaning deeply too, and while the angel moved his face down into her ample cleavage, she was unbuttoning his red-velvet trousers and moving her hand into folds and under padding and finding that he was ready for her. Her very own, young, virile, strongly erect Santa. Sometimes a girl's gotta get her own Christmas presents.

Holding his face into her cleavage with an arm wrapped around his neck, she positioned her thighs around the thick red velvet padding of his pelvis and lowered herself on his strong, jutting cock. He moaned deeply as she began to ride him and moved his mouth to an engorged nipple.

She was a greedy little angel and had a long list of presents she wanted from Santa.

Sometime later, as the mall concourse beyond the glass doors at the front of the store grew lighter from the dawn's kissing of the concourse skylights, the angel gently pushed Santa on his back and stretched along his side.

They kissed and smiled at each other, and Keith murmured, "I'm not really Santa, you know."

Eileen laughed her husky Kathleen Turner laugh and responded, "And I'm not really a lingerie model either."