4 comments/ 33830 views/ 10 favorites The Bitch Wench's Christmas Eve By: Lascivo I hated them. Both. Jolly Old St. Nicholas should love all children, but these two deserved a special place in hell. I doubt that you would have disagreed with me. But I am getting ahead of myself. First, the back story: For the past 11 years, I have worked as a professional Santa. People always assume that I "fell into the job" because I naturally look the part. Not so. Yes, I do have a long, four-inch meticulously trimmed white beard, but--deep secret--my beard is not truly white. I am probably one of the few people in the world who dyes his hair white in order to look 20 years older. Catch me in the off-season and my hair and beard are predominately black with sparse gray streaks. I'm not fat, either. (In fact, most Santa's are average-sized.) The suits that we wear have lots of padding. Skinny Santa's just seem wrong, right? In reality, I'm (arguably) mildly chubby, and flat out content with it. I let the young kids work out at the gym. I've paid my dues and now simply enjoy life, which means plenty of beer and fried food. When you get to be my age (53, if you need to know), you've already seen the passing of several friends or acquaintances who kept their bodies in pristine condition. So why bother? Let it all grow, I say. Now, how did I became a Santa? MONEY. I once met a man in a bar in Houston who seemed familiar to me in all respects except for a long, brown beard. Myself then clean-shaven, I asked him why he wore such a long beard in the sweltering Texas summer heat. He told me that he worked as a Santa from Thanksgiving to Christmas for a major department store. Because he looked "authentic," he earned ten times the pay of an average, dress-up Santa. Authentic-looking Santa's, he said, were a premium, because few men wanted to wear long beards, especially in the warmer parts of the country. The man said he worked as an independent contractor, hiring himself out to the store willing to pay the most each year. As money matters were a large concern for me at the time, I asked him how much he had made the last year. I nearly gagged at his answer. $24,000. I was incredulous. We've all met fibbing blusterers at bars before. Though he had seemed a trustworthy fellow, I more or less told him that he must be full of shit. Clearly insulted, he swore that he was telling the God-honest truth. He explained that Santa is a huge draw to major department stores. Parents who bring their children into the stores to see Santa usually purchase several items before they leave. In effect, Santa works as an advertisement. The more authentic-looking the Santa, the better the word of mouth, and therefore the more visitors and the more money made. Every parents wants their child's picture taken with the "Real Santa." According to the man, television advertisements for major stores cost hundreds of thousands of dollars during the season. So, he argued, wasn't $24,000 for an authentic-looking Santa really a fair price? I must say his reasoning was rather convincing. (Sure, I was drinking. But I have lived to see his fanciful words become reality.) Intrigued, I peppered him with questions. He explained how and when he dyed his hair. Most importantly, he emphasized, a big-time Santa has to have a high-quality suit. He had his own professionally made, using old Coca-Cola ads as a guideline. Santa suits bought at stores were generally made from cheap fabrics. An impressive suit and a long white beard were the keys, he said. Generally, he made appointments during the early summer with department store managers, offering his services. He brought his suit with him so that they could see his appearance. In the early days, he solicited offers. Now that he was established, stores contacted him. The man was extremely generous with the information and tips offered. He worked in the Houston area. From our earlier conversation, he knew that I lived in Dallas. Apparently, he didn't perceive me as a threat. In fact, he seemed downright delighted that someone might be interested in following his career path. That same week I began to grow a beard. I reasoned that by October I might have a solid two-to-three inches. (Beard growth has never been a problem for me--I always joke that I have four times the testosterone of an average man.) I told my wife of my plans. Always supportive, she began to research Santa suits online. I wouldn't call her a seamstress, but she does know how to work a sewing machine. I put her to the task. We were both surprised at the cost of premium red velvet, but I remembered what my Santa bar friend had said about the importance of the suit. It took several months to acquire the materials and stitch the costume together, but by the end of September, I could stand before the mirror and look most impressive. We had added quite a bit of padding in the front. It was amusing to see myself as a fat man for the first time. All looked great except for the beard--still black. A bit impatient, I decided that week to visit a hair stylist. The attending woman was a bit surprised that I wanted to go white, but when I told her of my intentions, she smiled warmly. Thirty minutes later I looked into the mirror and saw a much older man with a well-trimmed beard of white. She gave me a "home-remedy" box to keep my beard white at the roots. (I was dismayed to learn that I would have to give it near daily attention.) That night we put it all together. Red velvet suit with white fluff. Long-tipped cap. White beard. Round spectacles. Black gloves. Thigh-high books. Thick belt with gold buckle. With a longer beard, I would have been the Santa from the old-time Coca-Cola ads. I was only 42 at the time, but I had enough wrinkles and facial weathering to look old enough. For once, premature aging benefited me. It was time to visit with some local department stores. I had started late in the process. All the major stores that I contacted already had their holiday season Santa's under contract. One general manager, however, was rather helpful. He gave me the name and number of a Santa placement service. His store used the company in emergency situations (such as when their scheduled Santa became ill). The next day, I interviewed with John Wilbur, the President of Rent an Entertainer! The company offered trained clowns, magicians, Santa's, etc., for corporate or personal entertainment year round. I took my suit to the interview and, I must say, rather impressed Mr. Wilbur. Usually his company provided their employees with costumes, but he remarked that my "independent costuming" would be a notable upgrade. He offered to hire me for the season, which included two weeks of "Santa School." Once trained, I would be hired out to various companies, most of which were smallish businesses who used Santa as a lure to bring in customers. The pay? Not great. We had a great visit, but my disappointment over the financial offering must have been visible. "Hey, I'm sorry I can't offer you more," he said. "You certainly look the part. Do know this, however. There is money to be made in the Santa game. You do a good job and learn a lot your first time through.... Well, things can change rather quickly." I understood his implied point: You don't get the good money until you're good. I took the offer, which allowed me to continue with my full-time job. (I wasn't ready to risk it all on a first-time venture.) So what else do I tell you? I'm obviously not here to write a "How To Become a Big-Time Santa" essay. The next 10 years in 100 words or less? I learned a lot. I practiced a lot. I experienced a lot. I made positive impressions. People asked for me. Some contacted me privately. I went out on my own. I got hired at a major department store. I looked the part. I became the part. People came to see me. Companies wanted me. Now I get the big money. I choose where I work and how much I get. Short enough? And that brings me to the present: The end of another holiday season. I should have been happy this year. Terribly happy. I just made $35,000 for only five weeks of work. I was the major draw at Dallas's largest and most visited department store. I had 7,000 square feet set aside for my kingdom, where I sat on my throne, awaiting throngs of visitors there to see me and only me. I relished and sincerely enjoyed the attention. Pictures of me can now be found on thousands of local refrigerators and in tens of thousands of Christmas cards. I was once again (and still will be) a master at my craft, working almost effortlessly. Life couldn't have been better. Correction: Life should not be better. But it certainly could have been. Sad truth: I was miserable. Absolutely miserable. Until the tail end. Winter Wonderland, starring yours truly, was set off on the second floor in the furniture section. I must admit that it was an ideal location. The department had a recessed showroom, broken into five display rooms. Off holiday, the rooms are arranged to showcase sales merchandise in mock dining rooms, living rooms, etc. But for this holiday season, each room was transformed into a festive wonderland scene. There were only two entrances, one each for the first and last room. To access the other rooms, visitors had to follow a winding path through the others. To control traffic during the holiday season, guests could only move in one direction. The setup also allowed us to shut the doors and keep visitors out until we were ready for them. This year, the opening chamber featured Anima-tronic Elves making toys. Visitors then meandered their way through other festive-themed rooms: Reindeer playing games, kids making snowmen, and Elves packing Santa's sleigh. As guests entered the final room, their eyes were drawn immediately to the huge fireplace. Nestled beside would be me, Santa, sitting in a huge, king-like velvet chair before a gigantic Christmas tree. This year, the fireplace had been specially designed for surprise entrances. The gate stood about three-and-a-half feet high. The width: Perhaps five feet. Several fake logs were pushed up against the back. The inside was painted black, which helped disguise the fact that the inside of the chimney was enormous. Unseen inside, a ladder rose on the back side, beginning just above the entrance's height. A medium-sized person would be able to climb up the interior. About six feet up (or almost ten feet from the ground) a ledge appeared. Using the handrails, a person could pull themselves up and find themselves on a small platform. A down staircase put you behind Christmas tree next to where Santa sat. The idea? From time to time, as Santa visited with youngsters, there would be a rattling in the chimney. With a sudden thud and a puff of black smoke, a dirtied Elf would appear with a bag of goodies for Santa to give to his young visitors. It truly was an exciting event for the children. The Elf would usually hang down from the ladder, such that only his (or her) legs would be visible. With dramatic flair, the Elf would wiggle his legs, yelling, "Oh, no! I'm stuck! Wait! Uh-oh! Look out below!" before crashing down into the fireplace. Wow! You should have seen the ways kids face lit up every time. The whole production, from start to finish, was fantastic. The store put a lot of money into Winter Wonderland, and it showed. If I had children, I would have returned again and again. There couldn't have been a better Santa setup. I was well paid, working in a brilliant, creative environment, and--of course--the star of the show. People came to see me. This should have been my finest year. But two people nearly ruined it all for me. But "people" seems too kind of a word. Two brats seems more like it. Brad and Shayna. The teenage wunder-jerks. There were eight others who worked Winter Wonderland. Most were teenagers who didn't mind wearing the silly Elven costumes and making pennies on the dollar. They were seasonal hires, brought in to help manage lines and fill in as needed. Brad and Shayna were the regulars, meaning full-time employees. There were tweeners: Still technically teenagers but high school graduates. I tend to be a rather easy-going person, who accepts people for who they are, and rarely gets upset. But these two.... Well, I quickly developed an intense dislike for both of them. Why they hadn't gone off to college for the fall semster, I didn't know. They certainly weren't trying to work their way up the store ladder. Lazy. Arrogant. Selfish. They were the type of people who mocked customers behind their backs. But since they were full-time, they were there all the time. It was rare that I worked when I didn't have them to contend with. My job? Sit in the big velvet chair and entertain the children. Chat the kids up. Ask if they had been good boys and girls. Listen to their wish list. Hand them a piece of candy. And send them on their way. I may sound succinct and business-like, but I truly enjoy the work. Every child is different. Some cry. Some hesitate. Some jump right on you. I never tire of the different personalities. It's fun to win over the despondent ones and exciting to banter with aggressive. Of course, I did not mention the money-maker (and actually the only part I don't like): The picture. (How many of you have your picture taken 300 times a day, knowing that each time it becomes a keepsake for someone? Talk about pressure to smile just right!) And this brings me to Brad and Shayna. Brad took the obligatory "Photo with Santa" while Shayna served as his assistant. But to call Brad a photographer would be too complimentary. The machine setup required him only to press a button. Seriously. The camera did the rest. Brad would then call the parents over, show them the photo, and offer them a series of packages, which they could purchase now or later (but of course with a nice discount for those who chose "now"). Shayna? She assisted as necessary, getting the kids to look in the right direction or jumping up and down to distract a crying baby. But at predetermined times Shayna would disappear behind the Christmas tree, wait for the current visitors to leave, and then climb the hidden staircase. There she would wait at the top with a bag full of goodies. As I chatted up the new visitors, a sudden rustling would be heard in the chimney. In her high-pitched, nasally voice, Shayna might yell: "I'm stuck! Somebody help me! Oh, wait! Here I come! Look out below!" A large red velvet bag would then drop into the chimney entrance, followed by two dangling Elven legs, featuring red curly pointed shoes. "Whoooaaaaa!" Shayna would yell, dropping atop the red velvet bag. Her grand entrance always thrilled the kids. I must admit that Shayna had talent. She was wonderful with the children. She had bright yellow hair (dyed, of course), high cheekbones, a pointy little nose, and bright blue eyes. She had an intense vitality about her such that she always seemed to be vibrating with energy. Body? Thin as a rail, which gave her a childlike appearance in the baggy Elven costume. The total impression: An irresistibly cute kid, perfect for the role she played. Too bad she was a bitch. Before the public eye, Shayna presented herself with a winning aplomb. Kids adored her (probably because she looked and acted like a child herself). Parents thought her cute. Older boys dreamed of a kiss. But when the audience turned its back, Shayna showed her true colors. And, unfortunately, I got to see it from both sides. As individuals, Shayna and Brad were terribly cruel. As a tandem, they were downright malicious. They were dating and--based on their behavior--a match well made. It's a fact that we all take a bad picture every now and then. Well, Brad, the "photographer," could easily copy any picture he desired. So, if he saw a particularly awful picture, instead of deleting it after the customer left, he stashed a digital print in a secret file. The toddler with the finger up her nose. The Down's Syndrome child with his drooling mouth agape. The cross-eyed infant. The fat housewife who thought it would be fun to sit on Santa's lap. Brad would call Shayna over: "Hey, look at this!" They would then smirk and laugh, tacking on insensitive jokes. I knew about the file because they even had the audacity to show the pictures to me. "Hey, Santa! Remember that girl with the huge birthmark on her face? Look at this. Disgusting, huh? Pity the mom who has to pretend her daughter's beautiful." Have I described Brad? I'd rather not. Let's just say he fits the frat boy asshole stereotype. And, unfortunately for the rest of us, he has enough looks and charisma that good people are way too friendly with him. He comes across as the well-meaning, good-natured sort, but the moment you leave he'll offer comments like these: "Did you see the ass on that woman? Man, she should never leave the house. That ass is so big I bet she could bounce across the room on it." Or, "Poor little girl. With god-awful ugly parents like those, she's destined to be a dog herself. I should give her a gun so she can shoot herself now." Or, "Did you see that mother digging me? I bet if I would have pulled my cock out she would have dropped to her knees and blew me right here." Or, "I thought all babies were cute? That one was freaky. You see its deformed head? What's up with that? Mom must have been drinking during the pregnancy." Or, "Did you see how fat that woman was? I pity the man who has to go home and have sex with her. I bet he has to move a lot of flesh out of the way just to find the hole!" He was a disrespectful jerk. There was no real humor in his comments. They were flat out demeaning. But Shayna just ate it up, laughing uncontrollably at most of Brad's remarks. And she would often join in the fun. "Brad, did you see that woman wearing a black shirt with navy blue slacks? Talk about a fashion nightmare. She better be colorblind." Or, "That little girl in the princess costume might actually look cuter as a frog." Or, "You see that dad checking me out? Yuck! I bet he looks like an ape naked." What made these comments worse was that I saw them interacting with these people. Here are the kind of things the people heard: "Oh, what a beautiful baby!" "Hey, sweetie. You are such a perfect little princess!" "Oh, I hope I'm fortunate enough to have a cute little baby like this one someday!" "I love your outfit! Where did you get it?" You see, they treated people with such warmth and kindness in person but then--the moment the customers stepped away--out come the knives for a brutal cutting. Brad was especially crafty at this. He often made small talk while placing picture orders. So many housewives thought they had an enjoyable conversation with a nice young man only to be skewered by him the moment after they left the room. You simply can't trust people like that. I could only imagine what they said about me when I wasn't present. But then, the things that they did say were bad enough: "Geez, Santa. Didn't you look in a mirror this morning?" "Eat one too many cupcakes last night, Santa?" "You going to try to smile a little more today, Santa?" "Must be a drag being old, huh, Santa?" "Ready to get peed on today, Santa?" "Why do you always make the babies cry, Santa?" It was simply a constant steam of cutting, biting, sarcastic remarks. Mostly Brad, but sometimes Shayna as well. They almost never looked at me when they spoke this way. Rather, they looked at each other, smirking, while one delivered the zinger. But it gets even worse: I had to endure their constant sexual innuendos. They seemed to relish hinting to me that they were young, good-looking, and sexually active. "It's not easy to going up and down that chimney," Shayna complained one day. "It's a tight fit in there!" The Bitch Wench's Christmas Eve "Hey, I bet I'd have no problem moving up and down your tight little chimney," Brad retorted. And Shayna--to show how pathetic she was--just giggled uncontrollably. More examples? Shayna to Brad, after a man with bulging arm muscles passed through: "Hey, Brad. His arms were almost as thick as your cock last night." Brad to Shayna, after he arrived 20 minutes late one Sunday morning: "I'm sorry. Shayna exhausted me so much last night that I overslept. I think I had to answer the bell, what, five times?" Shayna to Brad: "My nipples still hurt from all that sucking Brad. Can you be more gentle tonight?" And Brad responds: "Well, I have a brush burn on my groin from your horseback riding. So I think we're even." Brad to Shayna: "I think I need to burn a little energy off after work today, Shayna." He then reached behind and grabbed her butt. "I'm not so sure you have enough energy to satisfy me, Brad," Shayna respond, lowering a finger to lightly trace the outline of his cock. Winter Wonderland, of course, was a fantasy world for children and kids at heart. It was not a place for adult fare. But they were very careful. I was the only person who ever saw or heard them act in the manner above. But that was because they wanted me to see it. I knew that they did it on purpose to rile me. And it worked. I do have an average sex life, but my wife is now 54 years old. I find my mind drifting during sex. Her body can't always hold my attention. (There's a reason, of course, for Viagra and other such pills.) Two good-looking, oversexed teenagers--who aggressively shared their private life--didn't exactly make me feel better about myself in this regards. It was bad enough as it was, but they made it worse. Perhaps seeing my pain, they occasionally directed their sexual commentary at me. "Hey, Santa. Your look a little uptight today. What's the matter? Ms. Claus not give you any nookie last night?" Brad couldn't contain his devilish smile when he said this. Once, after an extremely elderly man pass through, Shayna noted, "You see how shriveled that old guy was Brad? I bet his wrinkly old cock can't even get up anymore." Then, glancing over at me. "Oh! I need to watch my mouth." Once, Brad, pretending one day to be interested in me, remarked, "So, Santa, tell me: I live for sex. But is it true that when you get older sex can kill you? Stop year heart? Man, that would be worse than death to get so old that you can't do it anymore." Once, Shayna, musing one evening after closing, reflected, "It must suck to be Santa. I mean, you can't have sex, right? Who wants to have sex with Santa? Maybe you get a candy cane from him, but I can't imagine Santa balling anyone. No wonder he has no children." And so this is what I endured day after day. We always seemed to work together. If they weren't mocking customers behind their back, they were mocking me. Or, they taunted me with their sexual innuendos. Every damned day. Winter Wonderland became a burning hell. I did make several attempts to improve the situation. I talked to them about appropriate behavior. I made it clear that I didn't appreciate their commentary. I talked about respecting our customers. But it only made matters worse, of course. Because they didn't care. They took more pride and enjoyment in their obnoxious behavior than anything else. Disgruntled, for the first time in my career, I tried to use my power as Santa. I arranged a visit with Fred Merkle, the department store manager. I knew Fred from previous years. He was always pleased with my work and greeted me warmly. A short, heavy-set man with short-cropped hair, Fred's cheeks were always bright red. I often joked with him that he would make a fine Santa if he would just allow himself to grow a long beard. "What can I do for you, Santa?" he asked pleasantly. "Well," I explained. "I must say that you have a fine operation running here. A most impressive Winter Wonderland. The kids absolutely love it, and I'm honored to be a part of it. However, most evenings I close with two teenagers, Brad and Shayna. Honestly? They're pretty rotten. Especially the boy. They put on a good show for the customers, but I find them rude and mocking. I don't appreciate their snide comments. They are extremely immature, and I would rather not work with them. I was wondering if perhaps they could be reassigned?" I did not dare suggest that they be fired. I'm not that kind of person, even with those I don't like. Fred leaned back and looked at me thoughtfully. After a considerable moment of silence, he uttered: "She's a bitch wench. That girl, Shayna. Honestly, I dislike her as well. And I agree that Brad's worse. They've worked here since last January. Came in just after you left last season. They've been in several other departments. Kids' wear and house wares, I think. In fact, I think I've had this same conversation several times before." My hopes raised. "But, I'm afraid they have to stay put. Here's something you don't know: Shayna is Shayna Easterly, daughter of Simon Easterly, who just happens to be a part-owner of this store, not to mention several others in the region. He pays our bills. I think Mr. Easterly knows what kind of person Shayna is, but that's our problem to deal with. Shayna and Brad wanted to work in Winter Wonderland, so that's where I was 'asked' to put them. I assume that you know that Brad's her boyfriend. It would be very unpleasant for me to have to explain to Mr. Easterly why I removed his daughter from the place she wants to work. Now, if she wasn't doing her job, or if she mistreated a customer.... You see, I need something more. You say she's rude, tough to work with. I just need more. Do you have more?" He asked the question, but from his demeanor I could see he wanted the answer to be "no." I understood the situation exactly. "No," I said. "But if there is a matter of concern, I will visit with you about it." "Thanks," he said. "Do know that I understand. Tough it out. Maybe she'll finally go to college next year and we won't have to deal with her and Brad anymore." We exchanged a few other pleasantries--I truly liked the man--before I left, disappointed. And so I had to deal with them for the duration. But all things do end. As I focused my attention on my visitors and ignored the bratty teens I had to work with, time ticked away. Basically, I stopped speaking to Brad and Shayna, making myself all business. They continued to poke me with their jests, but I never responded, choosing only to absorb. I thought they might tire of their sport, but I was wrong. It seemed to only encourage them. And so I slouched towards Christmas Eve, the last work day. Usually, I looked forward to this day not because it would be my last, but because of the pure excitement and energy of my visitors. They would tell me what they would want tomorrow, and I would tell them of my schedule that night. The immediacy of the event added much excitement. But this year I was just glad it was over. I was mentally exhausted. For those of you who have had to go to work day in and day out knowing that you were going to spend time with people that you don't like...well, those people can identify with exactly what I'm saying. I just wanted it to be over. My thoughts kept turning to next year and a new start. I can't remember having ever looked past Christmas Eve before. But it was a busy day. The lines were longer. The kids were chattier. And I fell into a peaceful rhythm, barely noticing my teen tormentors. When it all ended, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. It had been a good day. We had all been so busy that the usual negativity's hadn't surfaced. After the last visitor exited, Brad and Shayna went to shut and lock the doors. I stepped into the small office area, which was directly behind the camera and sales counter. I pulled a soda out of the fridge and took a seat. Another year done. I always get nostalgic on the last day. It's not easy loving a job that employs only five weeks out of a year. "Hey, Santa!" Brad surprised me from the doorway. "You mind if I head out a little early? I finished my checkout, and I'll put the money in the safe on the way out. Got some big plans tonight and want to get to them, if you know what I mean." "Going to church with the family?" I retorted, not actually believing that such a hateful kid could even step foot in a church. "Oh, yeah. I'll be worshiping at the altar, man!" "Gotcha. Go ahead, and Merry Christmas." Honestly, I was simply glad to be rid of him. There was little to do but walk the rooms, clear the area, and lockup. This was it. Tear down would begin Tuesday, the day after Christmas. But I wouldn't be a part of that. I could care less about Brad, and I wouldn't lift a finger for him, but the thought that I might have some time to walk through Wonderland one last time and enjoy it all by myself was somewhat appealing. "You're boss, dude!" And away Brad went. No goodbye, not that it mattered. I packed the few things I kept there on hand into my briefcase. Generally, I left my suit in a locker there, but--since it was the last night--I decided to keep it on. My car was on the bottom floor of the store garage, and I had a discreet entryway. I had no worries about surprising some child on Christmas Eve. I did notice that Sam, who worked as Santa on some weekday mornings, had left his suit on the hook. A bit odd for him. Usually he locked it up. I left the room and re-entered Santa's house. The overhead lights were out, but the tree lights were still on. I loved the effect. It was all fake, but in the soft tree light, the room had a magical feel. There is something truly beautiful about the holidays. I soaked in the atmosphere one last time. It had been a rough season, at times, but the beauty of this moment made that seem suddenly distant. My moment of peace was broken by a sudden rustling in the chimney. Startled, I almost cried out in surprise. Someone was in the chimney. I froze. "Oh, Santa!" A high-pitched girl's voice. More rustling. And then: Dangling in the fireplace, two green Elven boots with curled pointy toes. Attached were two naked legs, visible to just above the knee. It was Shayna! She must have been hanging down from the ladder hidden inside the chimney. It occurred to me that she had no idea that I was here. Brad should be here to help her close. Only Brad. I smiled, enjoying the view, thinking of her soon-to-be surprise and embarrassment. "Santa!" she called playfully, wiggling her legs frantically. The moment seemed surreal. Santa's red velvet throne, the soft glow of the Christmas lights, the huge fireplace, the naked legs.... And then, she dropped down inside the chimney, still standing. My mouth fell agape. Shayna's tight, naked butt faced me. She was bottomless save for her Elven boots. Though her hips were not wide, her lower body still showed the rounding of an hour-glass female form. But what struck me most were her butt cheeks. I have never seen fleshy muscle so tight. The cheeks rounded out towards me, brilliantly toned. There was no lower curve, no overhang. The muscles simply rounded down and merged--perfectly--with her upper thighs. A deep crevice ran between her checks, created by the sharply rising and rounding flesh. It was the butt of dreams--especially for an older man used to seeing the collapsed tissues of aged women. I had never sensed that Shayna had such a nice body. She had seemed so thin and unappealing in her baggy Elven costume. "Uh-oh! Help me! Please! Santa, are you there?" It was Shayna, but there was no trouble. Her voice was playful. I realized that she was calling for Brad. She and Brad always closed together. She expected him to be here. So this is what they did! Sex games. Only Brad wasn't here. There was only me. I smirked to myself. If Shayna knew that I was the one watching.... I delighted myself with how delicious her surprise would be. I began to form the words in my mind, practicing the revelation. It's not Brad, Shayna. But Santa does love your tight little ass. The words almost reached my lips, but I couldn't reveal myself now. Things could get better, I thought. "Santa! I'm stuck in the chimney! I need your help!" Her high-pitched voice trembled with mock fright. She waved her tight little ass back and forth, her skin stretched so hard that it barely creased as she moved. "Oh, Santa! I'll do anything if you help me get out of this dirty old chimney!" With those words, she moved backwards (towards me) a step or two and partially bent over. She wasn't truly spread eagle, but her legs were apart enough to give a glimpse of her shielded delights. The protruding folds of her clitoris told me that she was ready for and wanted action. I couldn't resist any longer. With having formed any plans, I instinctively stepped forward. I was, though, extremely conscious that this episode would end the moment she sensed who I was. Still dressed in my Santa suit, I felt that I had an advantage. Shayna seemed to expect that Brad would go and put the Santa suit on. (It vaguely occurred to me that Shayna had probably placed Sam's Santa suit in the office area, where she expected Brad to be working at this moment.) With my gloved hands, she would not know that those hands placed on her belonged to someone else, a much older man. My thoughts grew lustier. At first, I planned to only enjoy the sights. Now, I considered touching...and perhaps more. I took three hard steps towards her, making sure that my boots firmly hit the ground. "Santa! Is that you! I'm so glad that you've come to help me!" On those words, I reached out with my gloved hand and placed it on her lower back. I also extended one booted foot to the chimney entrance. I wanted her to be able to glimpse the costume. "Ooooh! Santa!" she cooed. "Your gloves are so cold!" Smirking to myself, I lifted my hand and extended one finger. I placed it in the uppermost groove of her butt, maintaining a firm touch. She tensed immediately. "Santa!" she said with feigned surprise and in a pleased tone. Here I need to say that I really stopped thinking clearly. My mind danced with naughty possibilities. My excitement building, I began to slowly lower my finger, tracing the groove of her butt. Honestly? Though the plastic glove fit me tightly, I felt nothing. There was no physical sensations at all. But my eyes were feasting on this unblemished teenage flesh. The pure thrill! The sheer naughtiness! Santa had a major hard-on. To add to the fun, Shayna slightly rolled her hips, tightening her butt cheeks, putting pressure on my finger. Enjoying the firm touch, I wiggled my finger. As I continued following the line, my finger dipped suddenly in, and I realized I realized that I had reached her asshole. The mere thought! This irritating bitch who made my evenings miserable, who relished mocking and ridiculing me--now I stood here with my finger on her ass--and she was loving it! "Oh, Santa! You are so naughty!" she huffed. I would like to tell you that she said this in a sultry, sexy voice, but--honestly--it was in that annoying, nasally monotone. And she was a terrible actress.... But who cares! I didn't. I considered simply ramming my finger up her ass as far as it could go, but I was forming other plans. A few more presses and I dropped my finger down to the crème de la crème: Her heaving pussy. I could not feel her wetness through the glove; however, as my finger began to slide more easily, with little resistance, I knew she was ready. I repositioned myself to get a better view. Protruding folds intermixed with brown hairs. (Ah, the natural color revealed!) She was fully aroused by the game. Gently, I slid my finger up and down and around her clitoris, only lightly touching the outer lips. I wanted to excite her as much as possible. This did come across to me as ironic. I hated this bitch, but here I was taking the time to maximize her pleasure. Shayna had grown quiet, with heavy breathing. She began push her hips back against me, trying to force my finger into her. Gads! If only she knew! I resisted her advances and continued my light external touching. "Oooooh! Deeper, Santa!" she begged, or more accurately grunted. With quickness, I removed my touch altogether, looking on wickedly. She again inched her legs (and butt) towards me. Smiling, I placed my right hand on the small of her back and extended only the middle finger of my left hand. Without touching her body, I positioned that finger at the point of entry and...wham! With the full force of my left hand, I shoved the finger into her pussy. Full penetration was instantaneous. She jumped forward with the force. Without hesitation, I began to push in and out as fast as I could. She showed her pleasure by pushing back into me. And so it went: As I pushed in, she pushed out. As I came back, she went forward. The force of our impact echoed in the chimney. I kept my eyes, of course, on that delectable little rear. As the plastic-gloved finger penetrated again and again, a wet squishy sound filled the room. It sounded uncomfortable. It may have felt uncomfortable, as well. "Santa," she heaved, with difficulty. "I want to feel you. I want your naked cock." I had no qualms, no qualms at all about taking her incognito. I felt the pressure in my loins. As much as I despised her, I wanted that body. She was young, but experienced. I lightly reflected on legal ramifications, but I never heard of a charge of rape when a person asked for sex. Besides, she wanted Santa--she said so--and that's who I was. It also occurred to me that this was the daughter of my employer. But I had never met the man- and never would. Besides, if he wouldn't hire me next year, someone else would. You might be surprised how little this mattered to me. I did have a real concern: What if my touch differed from Brad's? I had no idea what women felt. If there were different sizes, then I guess there would be different feelings. What if she felt that I was different and turned to face her fucker? I didn't have time to think of the possibilities. "Now, Santa! I need you know!" She shook her little butt up and down excitedly. It was so tight that the flesh barely moved. With minor difficulty, I unhooked my belt, unbuttoned my pants, and dropped them to my knees (my Santa pants had no zipper). My cock was thick and full--like the old days. I hadn't felt so strong in years. Though I still enjoyed sex, I admit that my wife's aged body rarely excited me to the maximum. But tonight! With my hands still gloved, I grasped her right hip with one hand and positioned my cock at the entrance of her pussy with the other. With an admitted gulp, I entered her. How to describe? Tight! I had to push with unexpected force. Having made love only to my wife for the past decade, I can't say that I ever remember having to emit such energy only to enter an aroused pussy. Shayna grunted hard as I did so. The engulfing warmth of her vagina sent immediate tingles up through my body. I realized, hopelessly, that this was going to be quick. "Brad! I've never felt you so big!" It was the first time that she broke character. My pulse quickened but my resolve was untouched. With heaving force I thrust forward, and then followed suit again, and again. "Brad?" She spoke again. This time her voice uncertain. I tightened the grasp of my hands on her hips and continued. "Brad!?" Her doubt was clear. I sensed her trying to move forward, but I held her tightly in position. I listened intently as I pounded away. I could hear only heavy breaths. Then...she pushed back, into me. Not in an attempt to escape, but to engage more deeply. I pushed back with a harder thrust, sincerely trying to knock her through the chimney. In seconds we established a powerful rhythm. As I moved back, she moved forward. When I came forward, she moved back. Sounds of slapping flesh permeated the room. The Bitch Wench's Christmas Eve Her doubts had quieted my excitement, but now I felt the full force dynamic sensations of unadulterated sex. As the tingling sensations built, I did nothing to soften them. Shayna's breathing told me that her sensations were peeking as well. As my passions heated up, my thoughts raged. I wanted to pull her out of the chimney, rip off her Elven shirt, and watch her little titties bounce as I continued fucking her. But I dared not. The thought, though, threw me over the edge. I felt the moment come. I stayed inside her as long as I could. The first spasm hit just before the tip of my shaft exited her. I immediately grabbed my cock with my left hand and positioned it such that the coming sperm landed on the top of her butt. As I watched, I was amazed at the length and volume of the ejaculation. I felt young again! Sperm soon covered her backside. A large wad of which began to slide down between her cheeks. But I didn't want to be done. I repositioned myself and entered her once again. Oh, the warmth! I moved in and out slowly, searching for her pleasure spots. I did not know if she had climaxed. I have always wanted my ladies to have as much enjoyment as myself. I felt her hips twist excitedly as I took a northwest angle. (Do other men have an internal compass with which to base directions during sex? Perhaps I'm the only one.) I took the same angle again and again, at different speeds. Her breathing intensified, and then--she froze. A pleasing grunt game from inside the chimney. I felt my own cock spasm emptily inside her. With regret, now fully aware of time, I pulled out quickly. "Oh, Santa!" she shrieked with pleasure. "Get me a towel!" But there was no time for niceties. With both hands, I pulled up my pants as I quickly walked towards the exit. I couldn't be seen. I feared her reaction to the truth. There was no time to buckle my belt. Holding my pants with one hand, I undid the lock with the other. As I opened the door, I heard her voice. "Santa?" Her voice inquired pleasantly. The sound was crystal clear. She was no longer in the chimney. I moved through the open door and quickened my pace, letting it shut behind me. She had seen me leave. Though she would have only seen the backside of a person dressed in a Santa suit, she would have known it was not Brad. He was thin and wiry. I was thick and full. Even Shayna would be able to figure it out. Who else could have been there? I felt foolish. What, exactly, had I been thinking? I exited the building without seeing any other employees. I turned the ignition of my car and fired out of the parking lot. I saw no one watching. For days afterward I waited in fear. I knew that I had taken things too far. Shayna had to know. I had left my briefcase just outside the office door after all. But no calls came. Christmas came and went. Winter Wonderland was taken down. The bank received my last payment draft. Slowly, I relaxed. I did find myself thinking of Shayna often. No longer was she the bitch wench in my thoughts. Now, I saw her softly. The twinkle in her eye. The smile on her lips. The tight little butt wiggling in the chimney. I only vaguely remembered that I had once disliked her. I even wished that I could go back to work as it was. I wondered what she thought of the episode. Finally, come New Year's Day, I got around to opening the stacked up Christmas letters. One had no return address. The card was simple, a smiling cartoon Elf on the outside, dressed for the season, with the words, "I hope...." I opened it. On the inside, the sentence finished as "...you have an Effin' Elfin' Christmas!" I smiled. On the bottom were these words, written in a scrawl: Dear Santa, I enjoyed so much working with you this year. I wish that it didn't have to end. Sorry about Brad. He can be such a jerk. I do hope that I get to work with you again next year. I found your briefcase and left it with Mr. Merkle. I think you are the biggest and best Santa of them all! Love, Shayna