Chapter 11
A white gloved hand fisted in my hair as I took Santa’s shaft as far into my mouth as it would go. I twirled my tongue around his hard cock, worshipping it, sucking in a slow, steady rhythm that made Santa slide down further in his seat to push more of himself into me. His swollen tip rubbed against the roof of my mouth as I massaged his balls, the lower length of his dick. My hands were slick with my own saliva now, the front of his pants damp, his back arched away from the chair as he thrust into me again and again. Each time my tongue found the trembling head of his cock, he moaned softly above me, and his fingers dug into my scalp. In breathless gasps, he sang out a litany of “Patrick,” and “Oh, please,” and “Yes.”
When I let his dick slip from between my lips, a slick glob of come and saliva dangled from the head for a moment, before spiraling away down his shaft. I rubbed it into his skin, watching it dissolve beneath my thumb. “Chris,” I whispered, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe it.
The hand in my hair pressed my face to his crotch, insistent. “Patrick, please,” he sobbed, a crack in his voice that made him sound like an old man. Another gloved hand reached for his dick but I pushed it away and he fell back against the chair, weak with desire. “Please.”
Slowly, I licked the tip of his dick. My hands worked along his length, squeezing and kneading and playing, bringing him closer to orgasm. I concentrated on his cockhead, kissing it, nipping it with my lips, nuzzling it with my nose and cheeks and chin. My hand picked up the pace, earnest now, as I started to jerk him off. My other hand found its way to the front of my jeans, moving the apron aside to unzip them and lowering my briefs to let my own dick unfurl, already weeping. I took Santa in my mouth again and sucked at him as I thrust into my own hand. We came together, my fingers wet and hot from my own juices as I swallowed his down. I didn’t release him until he went limp
“Patrick,” he sighed. I wiped my hand on the underside of my apron and stood as I zipped my jeans up. Santa lay stretched in the chair before me, head lolling at an angle, arms limp at his sides. Hs large ass barely held onto the edge of the seat. For a long moment he sat there, unable to move, sprawled obscenely. Then he began to gather himself together, his motions slow, his gloved hands rubbing his dick as he tucked it away. When he stood, he had to pick his pants out of the crack of his ass—that alone told me how much he enjoyed my little ‘thank you.’ He breathed my name again, his voice shaky with emotion. “You’ve been a verygood boy indeed.”
Time to end this role-play. But as I reached for his hat, a clatter arose from the back storeroom. “Did you lock up when you took out the trash?” I asked.
Leaning heavily on the table, Santa frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Something’s back there.” I ducked around the front counter and into the back. Halfway across the kitchen, the storeroom door opened and another Santa stepped out with a shuffling gait that I recognized all too well. “Chris?” I asked, incredulous. He looked up—it washim, I saw through the fake beard easily enough. His Santa suit was stiff and new, creases still folded into the pants and sleeves. “Then who …”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Chris intoned. No deep voice, nothing but the guy I worked with in a rented costume. Clinging to the illusion, though, he turned around so I could see the full effect—the boots that squeaked when he moved, the wide expanse of red cloth that covered his ass. “You like?”
What I likedwas the dude out in the dining room… “Who’s that out there?” I wanted to know. “I thought that was you.”
A look of horror crossed Chris’s face and he stood up on his toes, trying to see out of the pass-through window. A bell jingled as the front door opened. “Someone’s here? This late?”
“Santa Claus.” I stepped out behind the front counter and surveyed the suddenly empty dining room. The coffee cup sat on the table where he’d left it, and the taste of him still lingered in my mouth. “He was right here,” I said softly, as if trying to convince myself.
My lips pulled into a goofy grin that I tried to tamp down. It couldn’t… the guy didn’t exist, right? It was just a tale for children, wasn’t it? “Santa Claus,” I whispered—it couldn’t have been, no way, no how, but in my heart I knew it had. “Jesus, it was really him. It hadto be.” Chris gave me a confused look and I tried to find the words to explain the magical feeling that began to bubble up inside of me. “The real Santa was here, righthere, I swear it. He came in, and I thought it was you, and so I…”
I trailed off, unwilling to share the moment. I remembered kneeling between Santa’s legs, his dick in my hands, its tender tip against my lips the second before I took it into my mouth. Lust curled through me at the memory. And he’d liked it, no? What did he tell me? You’ve been a very good boy indeed.