Santa Bear

I never bought into popular conceptions of Santa. How could a lard of a man hold eight reindeer steady by the reigns in the face of an Arctic gale? No. Santa is as hard as the rails of his sleigh.

Perhaps these misperceptions protect us from the thought of a stranger wandering around our homes at night. Alone again on Christmas Eve I found the idea intriguing. I was putting out the cookies and milk with cards from the kids when all the spiked eggnog inspired me. “Don't forget your naughty girl, Santa,” I wrote on a note sealed with lipstick.

Later that night I woke up with a sense of intrusion. Thick leather bands held my wrists together. My arms were thrust behind me and left to dangle from the bedpost. I glimpsed a bear of a man before everything went dark and I felt my breath against the velvety material he pulled over my head.

He ripped off my pajama pants like he was in a hurry, but proceeded like he had all the time in the world. My pussy melted at the curl of his tongue. The hair on his face felt like fine strands of silk. He moved his huge forearms under my Christmas flannel, popping off every button, and squeezed my tits until my nipples turned Rudolph red. “Fuck me, Santa,” I said impatiently. He raised my ankles high and came inside me with the full thrust of the North Pole. In between breaths I could hear the snores of my husband—someone was missing mommy getting banged by Santa Claus.

I wondered if Santa knew I liked it—but never got it—rough. Or did he treat all the naughty girls like misfit toys in his workshop? If he had fucked anyone else that night, he came just the same. He made a joyful noise and filled me with cheer. I was still catching my breath when he freed me from his belt and swiped his hat off my head. He slipped away before I could even blow him a kiss.

I woke up to the sound of distant laugher. If it had just been a dream, something didn’t feel right. I reached down between my legs and what did I find? Why, a chocolate chip and a few crumbs he had left behind.