I had gone to bed last night marveling at the change that had come over Todd. He and I had suddenly become like newlyweds. I wondered if my appeal was actually read by Santa. If so, could my wish have actually been honored?
I have been observing major changes in myself over such a short time. And this has caused more than a new spark in our marriage bed. Beds and couches were now on fire. Hell, I seemed to be on fire, and sex had developed into a hot urgency that was explosive. I wondered if that was what had been needed to rekindle our relationship. If so, then I was the one who had to change, and Todd was responding very sensuously to the new me.
I went to sleep last night wondering if the rekindling of passion had been accomplished. Yet, I awoke in a very different state of mind. I awakened with a startle as if I had been dropped upon the mattress. My eyelids were heavy, and it seemed as if I was unable to open them. I literally pried one lid open with my finger. The clock showed 7:00 a.m., and a faint light was visible through the open blinds. Dawn had broken, and the sun would soon be up.
Suddenly, an odd suggestion came to mind: "Wish it, dream it, do it." And then my mind was flooded with the recollection of a dream and Santa's invitation. Now, it was flowing across my mind like a 3D movie.
In my dream, I walked to our mailbox and was surprised to find an envelope with a return address that simply read: Santa, North Pole. There was a brief note inside. "Received your letter. Wish manifestation in process. Meet me in Santa's Village at the Gingerbread House."
"How odd," I thought. I remembered a Santa's Village in the Santa Cruz Mountains, but it was torn down decades ago.
Yet, in an instant, I was at the village. The details of the elves' little retail stores, workshops and cottages were more lifelike than I remembered from my childhood memories of a visit so long ago. Ahead of me was a large figure in a Santa's outfit waving at me. He was standing in the candy cane doorway of the most exotic gingerbread house I had ever seen.
When I got close enough to see his face, I was shocked to discover that he looked just like Angie's father when she and I were young. I had known Angie since childhood and always thought her father was like Santa. Would I have remembered the resemblance if Angie had not convinced me to become a ghostwriter for her telephone sex script?
Her father had a dimpled smile, a twinkle in his eyes, and a generous nature that reminded me of Santa. "Yes, that must be where I developed my secret fantasy of Santa having a passionate relationship with Mrs. Santa," I thought.
The only differences were the cascading white curls that merged with the full white mustache and long beard, all below a red velvet hat. Its fur-lined brim brought out his rosy cheeks, full lips, and twinkling eyes behind a pair of metal spectacles. Otherwise, he was the exact likeness of Angie's father.
Santa's bowing and sweeping gesture invited me into the gingerbread house. No words were used, and there was no movement to his lips except for variations of that enticing smile. I scanned the small dwelling, which consisted solely of a red brick fireplace with a small flame dancing above golden embers, two forest-green cushioned chairs with matching ottomans, and a red velvet sofa. I assumed that the absence of a kitchen was because the exterior offered plenty to eat.
Santa motioned for me to sit in one of the chairs that faced the fireplace. It was difficult for me to take my eyes from his face because of the resemblance to Angie's father. In fact, the entire scene was perplexing, because he seemed to be in greater pristine 3D than real life. But then I realized that I had only seen Santa's helpers.
I felt like a very shy young girl around him. Maybe, I was more than timid, because I felt like there was a fist down my throat, and my belly had tightened as my heart began to thump in my chest. And then I almost got panicky when a thought crossed my mind that maybe I was going to be chastised for my naughty thoughts about Mr. and Mrs. Santa.
"Hey, hey," came a very gentle voice. "You are moving towards a panic attack, and this is only a dream. In fact, it is your dream, and I am just a visitor." Santa had found his voice, and not a minute too soon.
His voice had an indescribable soothing yet invigorating tone; a blend of crooning with chuckling at a mid-tenor pitch range. It was not at all like that deep "Ho ho ho," that I'd heard in the movies. No, it contained a blend of two qualities: seductiveness and kindly assurance. My mood changed immediately into a state of relaxed curiosity that put me on the cusp of a giggle.
"I am experiencing such extreme emotions in a mere instant of time," I thought with a smile as I lowered myself into the chair. Santa sat down in the chair next to me, and I studied his profile as he gazed into the fire. Yet, it was as if I was in a dimension of slow motion, and I began to fidget, which meant I was becoming impatient.
"Antsy are you?" observed Santa.
"Who begins?" I wondered silently. "Begins what?" asked Santa. "Begins this dream," I replied. "But you are in the dream already; your dream." he explained.
"Well, if that is the case, I would like you to tell me the reason you invited me here," I stated a bit more assuredly than I felt. "How is it he makes me feel like a shy young maiden in the presence of an accomplished older man?" I wondered.
"Ah, yes," answer Santa. "It is the shy young maiden that I would like to first address." And, before my thoughts formed the question, Santa added, "Of course I can hear your mind, and I can feel your emotions as well."
I sat back against the chair and stared into the fire. "It is just a dream," I reminded myself. I thought about all the courage I drew upon to deliver my letter of appeal to Santa's helper. "Dispel this cloud of reluctance and voice your desires," came an encouraging voice so silent yet strong and audible in my mind.
And suddenly I was in a dream within a dream. Mrs. Santa was lying naked upon a bed in her bedroom. Her body was youthful. Her shoulders, the curve of her back, buttocks, thighs, and calves were as smooth as sculpted white marble. Her head was turned to the right with her left cheekbone resting upon her right wrist.
I was standing on her bed holding a small push broom with a narrow row of three-inch long bristles. I then proceeded to sweep up and down the supple skin of her body, but she barely awoke. Mrs. Santa opened her eyes momentarily, she but did not recognize my presence and drifted back off to sleep.
A chuckling throat clearing "Ah hem" brought my attention back to Santa. His twinkling eyes and broad smile revealed that he can also see into my dreams. "What does it mean to you if everything in the dream is you?" he asked.
I decided to acknowledge the first idea that came to mind. "Something in me is like a sleeping maiden whose protective coverings have been removed, and the finishing sweep has been completed. I am the one doing the refashioning, yet I do not recognize that in myself?"
"Since you identified Mrs. Santa in your dream, maybe she is the one with the broom, and she is brushing away your inhibitions and setting you free for pleasure," added Santa to my extreme surprise. "And it is not unlike her to send forth such a vision to sweep us into action. So, allow me to begin," offered Santa.
"I have loved you for as long as I can remember," cooed Santa.
The sudden transition surprised me, but that is what happens in dreams. So, I decided to pretend that all inhibitions were cast away. I guided my mind to focus momentarily on the restrictive and tense feelings of inhibition as I inhaled deeply. Then, I imagined the sensations bring released out into the air as I breathed out. Amazingly, the heaviness of bashful reticence was replaced with a lightness of self-abandonment.
"The soul loves to engage such lively feelings. Wish it; dream it; do it," murmured Santa half under his breath as he stood up and then reached for my hands. I stood up, and then he placed my right hand upon his arm before turning me to face the red velvet lounge couch. I attempted to hide my amazement that I was now wearing a white satin lingerie gown. If I did not know better, I would say it was bridal lingerie.
My breasts were pushed upwards by shear white lace cups. The cups were fastened in the front by three pearl buttons and looped buttonholes. One thin lace strap was over my right shoulder while the other strap rested just above my left elbow.
The floor length gown fell in folds around my ankles. Above, it overlapped my belly to be held just below my left breast by one pearl button. That allowed the gown to open at my waist when I walked. A small satin triangle attached to narrow lacy elastic served as a thong that offered my genitals minimal coverage.
I discovered that I was walking in five-inch red satin fetish pumps with ankle straps. The top of my head was no longer at Santa's chin level but at the bridge of his nose. He guided me to the red velvet chaise lounge. It had a slanting back and a high arched base that rested on four wooden legs. Two large candy cane striped pillows rested against the back.
Santa removed my hand from the crook of his arm and lifted both of my hands to lower me to the lounge. Then, he slowly removed each white glove before bending down upon one knee. He placed my left heel upon his right knee and unbuckled the strap. He cupped the heel in a manner that enabled him to stroke my instep with his fingers as he removed the pump. He smoothly shifted his knees to place my right foot upon his left knee to repeat the process. It is said that every part of the body is represented on the bottoms of the feet. The sensations caused me to shudder with delight.
