"Santa's Little Helper"
By Jenesi Ash © 1999

"This will be the last time." Cerise promised herself.
"One more, and I'll stop for good."


Cerise sat in her car, listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing "Silent Night" on the radio. Dusk was approaching, and the outdoor lights glittered in the sunset as her silver Lexus idled in the mall parking lot, facing the decorated storefront.
Garlands were draped in lush, dark green swags over the entrance, secured with giant silver bows, and spangled with tiny white lights that flickered like lightning bugs among the piney boughs. Customers hurried in and out, bumping each other with overflowing shopping bags. But none of this interested Cerise.


Her eyes zeroed in on the man standing by the double glass doors.
She watched as he pounded his black-booted feet on the gray pavement, warding off the bitter cold. He rang a brass bell as passers-by dropped coins into his red metal bucket, and he chuckled genially at something a toddler said in passing, his belly shaking under the velvet red suit like the bowlful of jelly it was supposed to be. Cerise's pulse quickened. She had to have him.


This Santa looked like the real thing.
His snowy white hair had a natural-looking gloss, curling against the thick collar of his suit.
The full, well-trimmed beard looked soft and thick, cascading down the front of his jacket.
But most important, this Santa didn't have padding on under his red plush suit. After studying countless Saint Nicks, Cerise considered herself an expert on such matters. This man had the chubby cheeks and stubby, wide hands that promised a gratifyingly genuine Father Christmas. His arms and legs were rounded, his shoulders a little curved. His solid tummy bulged slightly, enticingly, over his large black leather belt.


Cerise sighed.
He was "perfect." But would he be interested?
She checked her appearance in the rear-view mirror and wrinkled her nose.
Her dark red hair was styled in a soft, conservative pageboy. Her face wasn't pretty or in any way dramatic. Just Midwestern, nondescript. She was neither glamorously voluptuous nor fashionably, super-model thin. She pouted in the mirror, but still she looked like the perfect corporate wife she was.
Cerise didn't draw undue attention, always dressing fashionably but appropriately. She wasn't overtly sexy or desirable, which suited her ambitious husband just fine, since it meant no complications with oversexed colleagues or bitchy trophy wives.
That kind of thing could break a guy's rise to the top.


Cerise knew she couldn't rely on her looks to get the attention of the jolly old elf.
She had to be brazen.
Sometimes her bold moves had surprised the unsuspecting Santas, but other times they were pleased. A few times they'd been horrified.
A scarlet blush flashed over Cerise's cheeks as she remembered the last one.
She cringed.
It had hurt„it had„to have her blatant proposition met with such wintry-cold disgust.
He'd made her feel like a pervert.


Cerise was ashamed of her secret Santa fetish, of course. It wasn't as if she could make it public. Santa would never grace the walls of sorority dorm rooms except from Thanksgiving to New Year's, and then only on the front of greeting cards tacked to bulletin boards. No one ever said, "I want to jump Santa's bones."


How many times had she been forced to listen to her friends drooling over Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt?
Cerise never understood the fascination for these Hollywood celebrities.
Tom and Brad were too skinny, too wimpy for her taste.
She wanted to sink into a man and sculpt his flesh with her hands. She wanted someone to cover and surround her, shroud her with his body heat.
If she never had to hear again, in great detail, what various women of her acquaintance would like to do to famous men, she would be happy.
Cerise found the young ones so bland.
"Give me someone older.
Experienced. None of these Leonardo DiCaprios." she mused, blanching at the thought of the teen heartthrob's barely postpubescent face. Yuck.


Some of the older "society" women rhapsodized about Sean Connery; Cerise could almost understand that.
Sean was looking pretty good in "The Hunt for Red October." And if he gained some weightƒbetter yet, if Brando grew a beardƒohhh, baby! Heat flashed through Cerise's body as she imagined the older, heavier Brando unshaven. Did any other woman share her feelings?
Most people clucked their tongues about how fat he'd gotten, as if they wished he would remain the same age and size he'd been in the ï50s. Cerise found the current model infinitely more appealing.
Was she the only one who did?
Maybe she was.
Maybe she was the only woman who was attracted to older, heavier men.
What would those women who wet their pants over Brad Pitt say if Cerise described her Santa Claus fantasies? She knew„which was why she never did.


They would think she was a freak.


Maybe she was the only woman on the planet who had a Santa Claus fetish, who considered Santa the sexiest man alive.
Did any other women fantasize about Burl Ives in a red velour suit?
Cerise was probably the only person on earth who had ever masturbated while watching "Miracle on 34th Street."


Cerise had tried to control her desires.
She didn't want to be different, especially this way.
It was so taboo.
She'd tried to dissect her obsession, having one-night stands with older men, dating men with white or blond beards.
She'd seduced overweight men and flirted with guys wearing red coats.
She practically stalked men who combined these characteristics.
Yet every one of these men left her wanting.
It was just never quite as good, never as fulfilling, if the guy wasn't wearing a Santa suit.


Cerise vividly remembered her first sexual encounter with a Santa Claus. It was three years ago at her husband's company Christmas party, and whoever had planned the party had hired someone who looked and acted like Santa straight out of Clement Clark Moore. She'd ogled him, but that St. Nick hadn't paid any special attention to her„until the party was in full swing.


Then, while nearly everyone else was drunk and Cerise's husband was in his office fucking his former-lingerie-model secretary, Santa cornered her next to the drinking fountains. The hall was empty and shadowy, but Cerise could hear the party in the next room as Santa meshed his body with hers, pressing her against the corporate-mauve wallpaper.


The encounter had been brief, primitive.
Cerise loved it. It felt so wicked to fuck one of the world's most beloved children's characters.
A part of her wanted to be discovered, to get caught, even by her husband, while she was tangled in Santa's red velveteen trousers.


Ever since then, she'd been desperate to repeat the experience, to recapture the wild excitement.
Cerise trolled the shopping malls: Finding the right Santa was almost a part-time job. After disappointing encounters with several college-age Santas, Cerise came to realize that the man had to be the perfect replica of the Christmas icon. Otherwise it wouldn't be the same.


What if there were washboard abs under a pillow inside that coat?
What a travesty!
But no, this man at the mall certainly "looked" like Santa Claus. Cerise wanted to approach him. But what if he laughed? What if he said no?
Worse, what if he sneered and called her a pervert?


Cerise bit her lip, undecided.
She didn't think she could suffer another self-righteous Santa.
Even if this wasthe last time.
Then Santa started singing "Frosty the Snowman." His jowls, almost concealed by the lustrous beard, quavered slightly. Cerise's body tightened. She had to have him.
Immediately.


She turned off the engine and dropped the keys into her black leather handbag, gathered a few coins from the console, and closed the driver's door with a determined click. Shivering from the cold, she pulled her long black fur coat tighter around her body. The frigid wind swirled underneath; she was naked beneath the mink. All she wore were a pair of black suede Maud Frizons, a gleaming pearl necklace, and matching earrings.


Cerise hoped Santa would find her desirable. It would make things so much easier. She approached him with what she trusted was a casual, confident stroll, watching his round face and smiled when she caught his eye.
The jingling of his bell faltered, and he smiled.
His cheeks and nose were rosy from the cold. She ached to touch the lush white beard.
His blue eyes twinkled, giving her the confidence to continue.


"Hi," she said as the coins drifted from her sweaty palm into the bucket.


Santa nodded. "Happy holidays," he replied, his gruff voice sending goosebumps down her arms. He cocked his head and flashed her a smile. "Have you been naughty or nice, young lady?"


Cerise froze, her questioning eyes searching Santa's face. Was he flirting with her? Or was it just wishful thinking? She coughed, clearing her throat. "Oh, I've been very, very good, Santaƒ."
She hesitated, and then went on, "But I want so much to be naughty." Cerise's heart beat heavily against her ribs. Would he continue? Or back away?


Santa's eyes brightened, the blue sparkling like jeweled glass ornaments.
"How would you like to be Santa's naughty little helper?" He brushed his black-gloved hands over the front of his red velvet pants.
"I've got a present with your name on it. Do you want to play with it?"


White-hot fire flashed through her body.
Her pussy swelled.
She pressed her thighs together, her body pulsing with anticipation.
"Yes," she replied, dragging the single word out of her mouth.
She couldn't think of anything clever to say.
Her mind was going wild.
She couldn't concentrate.


Santa jerked his head toward the thick rows of evergreens that leaned up against the shopping center's concrete wall. "Meet me behind those Christmas trees.
I need to put the money bucket away before I take my break."


Cerise could only nod.
She turned and walked briskly to the trees, not even looking around before stepping behind the curtain of pine needles. The rough walls snagged at her fur, but Cerise didn't care.
Her shoes scuffed the brown pine needles on the ground.
Setting down her purse, she inspected her surroundings.
There was almost enough room for two people, but it was going to be a snug fit.


The freezing breeze softly whistled through the fragrant trees. Cerise inhaled the evergreen scent as the dark grew denser. Then Santa appeared, his bulky figure rustling through the greenery. He moved in front of her, placing his hands on either side of her head.
Cerise looked into his eyes, unable to believe her luck. This Santa didn't seem to find her strange. He didn't question her interest, he merely matched her lust, an acceptance that freed her from all sense of inhibition.


She flipped open her fur coat. Her pink nipples puckered as they came into contact with the biting cold. Santa smiled wickedly and lowered his snowy white head.
Cerise swallowed hard when he clamped his warm mouth on one nipple; it melted like candy. He pinched its twin, his black woolen glove rough and scratchy. She leaned her head back against the wall and crammed her hands into his white hair, nails scraping slightly over the bald spot as his cap fell onto the frozen ground.


Santa sucked and chewed her nipples as if they were Christmas candy.
His cottony-soft beard brushed against her superheated skin as Cerise moaned and spread her shaking legs.
She wanted to be totally open and vulnerable to him.
To Santa.


His squeezing fingers left her breasts and sought her wet mound. He grabbed her cunt, his abrasive glove tangling with her pubic hair, making her even wetter. Her pelvis bucked, and she rubbed harder against his hand, already close to orgasm.
It was much too soon.
If this was going to be her last time, Cerise wanted it to last as long as possible. Most of all, she wanted Santa's cock inside her when she came.


"I want to suck you," she pleaded, her voice trembling.


Santa placed his hands on her hips.
His breathing was labored and she could smell the scent of her musk. "Unwrap your present, then," he ordered, his eyes shining.


Cerise lowered herself, dead pine needles prickling her bare knees.
She enjoyed Santa's playfulness. It made it seem less an obsession than a pastime„something you might even see in a kinky version of "Martha Stewart Living."
Giddy, Cerise imagined herself in a tasteful little photo spread as Santa's very special little helper, maybe in a little green elf-skirt that barely covered her ass. The fantasy was tantalizing.


Cerise pulled down his elastic waistband, crushing the red velvet with her fists. Santa wore bright-red long johns that emphasized the roll of fat at his hips.
She wanted to squeeze and mold Santa's malleable body, but she knew she'd come for sure if she did, so she forced herself to shift her attention from Santa's beautiful pudginess and concentrate on his pulsating cock.
Placing her cold lips on the tip of his still-thickening penis, she lapped at the pre-cum that appeared.
Santa let out a guttural groan and surged into her moist mouth. He clamped his hands on her hair and started thrusting, moaning as the slick heat of her mouth tingled his skin.


His tempo increased as Cerise sucked harder. She fondled his balls with her hands, teasing.
He was big, filling her mouth almost to the point of discomfort. But it wasn't her mouth that she really wanted filled.
She pulled her head away.
"Fuck me now, Santa."


Santa grabbed her by the armpits and pulled her up. He pushed her against the wall, her naked body cushioned by her fur coat. She widened her legs, and he slid between, cock poised to enter.
Then he slammed into her cunt, and they both had to muffle their cries.


Santa's gloved hands ran over her naked legs, and then cupped her ass. Cerise arched into him and surrounded his wide girth with her legs. She squeezed her knees into his sides, as Santa hammered into her.

Cerise's orgasm started to gather, quickly gaining power.
Her breasts rubbed against the velvety richness of Santa's coat as his wide belt buckle dug into her tender stomach.
The fur trim of his jacket tormented the backs of her thighs as she wrapped them around his waist.
Threads of desire pulled at all points of her body, gathering in her cunt. Her swollen clit tightened as Santa jerked with his orgasm.
His body spasmed violently, mashing Cerise into the building.


She opened her mouth to scream but no sound came. Her body convulsed and she gasped for air.
She went limp, shuddering sporadically from the aftershocks.


She leaned against the wall, Santa's weight pressed against her warm and cuddly. Cerise felt at peace, completely fulfilled from the wild mating.
The last Santa had been the best. He was the only one who'd been playful, who'd thought she was fun rather than a freak.
This was definitely the perfect time to stop.


"My break is over," Santa murmured against her neck, rubbing his face against her warm pearl necklace.
He pushed himself away from her.
"I've been waiting for you all season. Started thinking you were a myth.
Definitely worth the wait," he said with a wink, sliding out of her.


Cerise frowned, puzzled.
"You were waiting for me? I don't understand."


"All of us Santas are from the same company.
Kind of like Central Casting. We talk.
The guys who've met you all brag about their adventures with ïSanta's Horny Helper'."


"Santa's Horny Helper?" Cerise pulled her fur coat closed, her sensitive skin still craving his body heat.


Santa shrugged.
"Campy, I know, but we didn't have your name. We just know about the pearls and fur. And that you fuck Santas."


Cerise blushed from her toes to her forehead. "And you guys don't think that's weird?"


"Nothing weird about being selective," Santa said as he wiggled up his pants.
"Could be worse."


Cerise smiled.
She liked Santa's attitude.
Selective.
It gave the impression that she was in control. Maybe she was.


"My friend who does the downtown shopping area near Saks is dying to meet you, if you're ever there this December."


"I'll keep that in mind," Cerise said, picking up her purse.
No need to tell him that this was her last time.


"And I'm here three to seven in the evenings."


"That's good to know. I hope you have a merry Christmas."


"I already did, lady. Merry Christmas to you."


Cerise stepped away from their hiding place and quickly walked to her Lexus.
She jumped inside and turned the heat on high, fiddling with the radio until "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" came pouring from the speakers.


She grinned and checked the time.
The stores would close in a couple of hours, and she really needed to do some Christmas shopping. Her mother had been hinting about that Coach wallet she'd seen downtown. Wasn't the Coach store near Saks?


No!
Her mind screamed to a stop.
This was her last time. But she did need to find something for her mother.
And that Santa was looking forward to meeting her. Maybe she should just say hello, she thought, putting the car into gear.
Perhaps a little peck on the cheek. It didn't seem right, somehow, for Santa not to get what he wanted for Christmas.