A Merry Christmas Night

“It’s gonna be a cold, cold Christmas
without you
Dreaming of us warm, warm lazy summer days
It's gonna be a long and lonely Christmas
without you
Missing you, my darling, in oh-so many ways,” Santa sang as he rode home, cold and with his head wet because he dropped his hat in a snowdrift.

This year, there was no crash. He remembered to feed the reindeer cinnamon before he flew off, and though the naughty part of the list was longer than the nice this year, he did get to help a lot of kids avoid a winter-cold.

This year, there was no ‘dropping in’ either. He delivered a present, a Christmas card and a fruitcake down the chimney to Mikey and his wife, since their joined friends – who visited Santa at his South pole vacation home during the summer – had their own families to spent the holidays with.

This year, Mrs. Santa didn’t come along. He stayed in the kitchen, cooking Christmas goods, while Santa flew off in his booming sled. Just a few seconds after liftoff, Santa had gazed back over his shoulder in hopes of seeing something unexpected, but Mrs. Santa hadn’t sneaked onboard this year.

And so, it was with great speed and haste that Santa rode home. He put the reins to the deer and sped through all the red, green and blue lights that adorned the white streets, houses and trees. He quickly sped up when a flock of crows were about to cross his path further ahead. He would not stop for anything.

He missed his little Mrs.

When he finally reached their winter home in the wonderful North pole, he could not get the sled parked fast enough. He almost considered leaving the reindeer tied to the sled over night, but decided against it when he remembered that it is Christmas, after all.

When all the reindeers have been put away with each their mountain of straw and gingerbread, he hurries into the house.

“Kick the snow off your shoes before you enter!” Mrs. Santa yells from the kitchen, and Santa quickly steps back, kick the doorstep twice with each shoe and then steps back inside. He doesn’t wanna get on Mrs. Santa’s bad side – not today, not ever. His ride around the world may have been lonely today, but when being on Mrs. Santa’s bad side, he feels ten times as lonely.

“You’re home early,” Mrs. Santa says as Santa pulls off his extra socks and stuffs them into his boots that are now standing on the absorbent mat. Santa looks up to see Mrs. Santa come out of the kitchen. His skimpy outfit is completely hidden by the apron he’s wearing.

“Soft presents are easier to deliver. Nothing can break,” Santa says hurriedly and a bit out of breath. Maybe he’d hurried more than he thought.

Or maybe it’s just the presence of Mrs. Santa that does that to him.

“Alright,” Mrs. Santa says, smiles and shrugs – all at once. Santa really does admire him.
“I could actually use your help in the kitchen, so why don’t you hang up your coat and come help me?” Mrs. Santa asks as he starts walking backwards towards the kitchen. Santa quickly nods as he starts fiddling with the belt buckle of his coat. It’s tricky, so he looks down just as Mrs. Santa disappears into the kitchen.

When he finally gets the buckle open, his coat off and his hat to dry near the hallway-fireplace, Santa finds his way to the kitchen. He folds up his sleeves on his way through the doorway, but he freezes when he lifts his gaze.

“Could you take the cinnamon from the top shelf? You used the last we had in the jar,” Mrs. Santa says innocently and points at the jar labeled 'cinnamon to his right.

But Santa barely listens. After all, Mrs. Santa has a very nice ass, and when he chooses to show that off by wearing nothing but the apron, Santa just has to stare.

Santa smirks and finally snaps out of his shock.

“Why don’t you reach for it yourself?” Santa asks seductively. He spots Mrs. Santa smile, even though his head is bowed over the pot in front of him.

“I’m not tall enough,” Mrs. Santa answers. Santa quickly crosses the space between them and wraps his arms around Mrs. Santa’s bare ones.

“Oh, but you are, dear Frankie,” Santa says into Mrs. Santa’s ear in a low, seductive voice.
“You just have to,” Santa sighs, exhaling a breath into Mrs. Santa’s awaiting ear, “stretch.”

Mrs. Santa shivers and drops the ladle into the pot.

“Shit,” he says and quickly fishes it back up before it sinks to the bottom. He hangs it on the edge of the pot, before he turns around to face Santa.
“What if I want to see you stretch?” Mrs. Santa wiggles with his eyebrows and Santa breaks down into giggles as well as a smirk. Mrs. Santa licks his lips, before he swiftly turns around and picks up the ladle again.

Santa pouts, but no one sees.

“Can I taste your cookies?” he asks Mrs. Santa innocently. He pulls out his big, puppy-dog eyes, and though Mrs. Santa doesn’t turn around, they seem to work.

“One,” Mrs. Santa says firmly, “and then you have to stretch and get the cinnamon for me.”

Santa giggles and goes to grab a, still hot, cookie from underneath the dishcloth, stuffs it in his mouth and then walks over to the counter where he crawls up, opens a cabinet and stretches. He makes sure to stretch so much that his shirt gets pulled out of his pants and let him show some skin.

“Mm,” he hears Mrs. Santa hum from behind him, and he quickly grabs the bag and jumps off the counter.
“Aw,” Mrs. Santa complains, and Santa laughs as he walks over to the empty jar and fills it up. He coughs a bit when he pours too much into it at once and it kinda flies up again, but he pretty much has it under control.

He tosses the empty bag away, before he turns back to stare at Mrs. Santa’s bare back.

“Can I taste your buns?” Santa asks innocently. Mrs. Santa glances over his shoulder.

“Sure.” Santa smiles wide, practically runs across the floor, drops to his knees and bites into Mrs. Santa’s left bun.
“Ow! Gerard!” Mrs. Santa squeals and Santa giggles.

“Your buns taste even better than your cookies.” Mrs. Santa rolls his eyes, but can’t help but smile widely because of the laughter he’s desperately holding back.
“I bet your walnuts taste even better.” Mrs. Santa’s laugh cannot be contained anymore, and he lets out a snort before he laughs loudly.

But every laughter in him stops, when suddenly he feels two hands on the front of his thighs and a warm, wet mouth wrap around his nuts.

He immediately moans and screams loudly and drops his ladle – not caring if it sinks to the bottom and ruins the klejner* or floats and saves Christmas.

Santa moans at the sound – something that makes Mrs. Santa dizzy, since all blood in his body suddenly rushes into his…candy cane.

“Fuck, Gee! You’re gonna make me cream on the cookies,” Mrs. Santa mumbles quickly as he places his hand on the front of his apron where Santa’s head in bulging out.

Santa suddenly pulls away and Mrs. Santa whines.

“I would eat them all, then,” Santa says from beneath the apron, and thought there’s a bit of a humorous tone in Santa’s voice, he means every word. And with that said, Santa wraps his lips around Mrs. Santa’s erect cock and sucks, licks and bobs the best he knows.

And of course, all he knows is knowledge gained from practice, and all that practice has come from Mrs. Santa, so when Santa sucks, licks and bobs the best he knows, Mrs. Santa is proud, pleased and incredibly premature.

“Gerard!” he screams as he creams on Santa’s tongue instead of Santa’s cookie. Santa can’t say he’s not disappointed, but the pleased, blissful look on Mrs. Santa’s face as Santa emerges from behind the apron is enough to make him forget about cream-cookies.

After just a few seconds of them gazing into each other’s eyes, Mrs. Santa drops to his knees – happy to get off his shaky legs – and dives in between Santa’s legs.

There is no need for foreplay. There never is, in situations like these. If one is the first to cum, the other one will only be a few seconds from being second.

And with a twist of wrist, a smack of a belt and a tug of a waistband, Santa is exposed to the heat of the kitchen as well as the heat of Mrs. Santa’s mouth.

And though Santa fears losing his sexual stamina street cred, he must admit that it only takes a flick of a certain tongue and two strokes of a certain hand before he cums, screaming, moaning and ho-ho-hoing his lungs out:

“SANTA IS CUMMIN!!!”