Licking Santas Problem

Santa's eyelids slid closed, ever so slowly, as his breathing deepened and slowed. He'd been going over his list for hours, as was his morning habit, and the words had begun to dance in front of his thick eyeglasses, moving just ahead of his vision until he gave in to his desire to sleep. He allowed his body to sink back into the rich leather of his easy chair, then, and dozed for perhaps ten minutes.

The sudden jangling of the phone in the other room jolted him awake, the noise like a thunderbolt in his head. "Whaaaa..." he managed, before the second ring began, and he was able to discern what the noise meant. It stopped, halfway through that ring.

Listening intently, he heard Magnus, one of his house-elves, speak softly into the receiver. "Kringle residence," came the clipped whisper. Then, "Oh, yes ma'am. He's here, but I don't think Schieble is." A pause, then, "Just a minute. I'll check."

Santa heard the sound of footsteps approaching his office, and straightened himself in his chair, pulling his list from where it had dropped into his lap. Magnus's voice: "Sir? Your wife is on the phone from the island, if you're available."

Santa cleared his throat. "I've got it," he said, picking up the cordless from the top of his desk. "The indomitable Mrs. Claus, then," he muttered, then waited until Magnus hung the receiver up. He clicked TALK and said, "Yes, dear. Are you out of money yet?"

It was a joke between them. Money was unlimited; time was the major constraint in the Kringle house. And yet, he thought, she still finds time to take her group of hand-picked Naughties to the island for an intensive "recalibration," as she liked to call it. No matter; whatever makes her happy.

It was almost as if she was reading his thoughts. "Kristopher?" She adressed him by his proper German name. Her voice was high, the way she always talked when she was on the cell phone. "Were you saying something?" she yelled. She seemed to think that, the farther away from him she was, the more she had to scream into the phone.

"Only hello, dear," he said, chuckling, his big belly shaking like a bowl full of jello. "How are you making out with this bunch? Getting a tan while you work, are you?"

She was not amused. "Kris," she said, "I need you to find Schieble for me. Is he about?"

"I don't think so, dear. He's been gone since this morning." Schieble was his wife's most trusted elf, and the only one who had access to her office when she was gone. Even her husband wasn't allowed in there, and that was fine with him. She kept files on all the Naughties there, and he had his hands full with the Nices. They'd decided long ago to divide their projects, and he much preferred dealing with the good ones. Let her deal with the stingy and the disbelievers and those who wouldn't share! He had no patience with those.

"Kris? Are you listening to me? Kristopher?"

He was suddenly aware that she'd been talking. "I'm sorry dear," he said. "What did you want Schieble for, anyway?"

She sighed. "I need a file. I left it, I think, on my desk. Can you get Schieble to fetch it for me when he gets back, and fly it down here?"

"Sure, dear," he answered dutifully. "As soon as he gets back. What's the name on the file?"

"It's Owens," she said, not entirely sure she should bother him with this chore, but having no other choice. "Female. Tori is the first name."

Santa wrote down the name on a blank piece of scratch paper. His handwriting was barely legible even to himself, but he thought he could decipher it well enough to give to Schieble. "Tori Owens, then," he muttered. "I've got it. Is she with you, Mrs. K?"

The voice at the other end sounded resigned. "I'm afraid not," she said. "I couldn't locate her in time to have her picked up. I'm hoping Schieble can bring her here. She may already be too old to recalibrate, and it's getting awfully close to Christmas, too."

"Oh, don't I know that," her husband agreed with a sigh of his own. The longest night was barely over a month away, and he still had thousands of names to go through, and presents to assign. "Still," he added hopefully, "there's no one too far gone for you, my dear. You'll find her, and she'll be just fine by Christmas. Just try and finish this group up before we get into the worst of the rush, okay?"

She promised she would, and hung up, leaving him holding a dead receiver. He clicked STOP and set the phone on the desk with a renewed sense of urgency. Gosh, Christmas seems to come faster every year, he thought. Just as he picked up his list, though, the phone rang again. He picked it up before anyone else could get to it.

"Ho ho ho!" he began. "Kringle househol..."

Schieble's frantic voice stopped him in mid-greeting. "Boss," he said, "I'm in a little trouble here."

Santa's hand clenched the phone tightly. "What is it?" he asked, already wondering what else he might have to deal with. This list won't finish itself, he thought pointedly.

Schieble words came tumbling out, all in a rush. "Aw, jeeze, it's just unbelievable! I'm in Alabama. I came down here to check on the toy train division, and I got pulled over for speeding. Speeding! Can you believe that?"

Santa relaxed slightly, but his bushy eyebrows knitted themselves together as he thought about the ramifications of what Schieble had told him. "Speeding? In the sleigh?" Surely he wouldn't...

"No, no, of course not!" Schieble sounded impatient. "I borrowed Ganfel's new Boxster, and the law down here doesn't seem to respect that it's a sports car. They got me doing 93 in a 40." The last sentence was delivered in a lower register, and Santa could almost see the elf looking at the floor as he spoke. He didn't think he'd have to counsel the elf when he got back. Schieble knew just what he'd done, and he'd be extra cautious from now on. Santa knew this, and put anything else from his mind.

"Don't worry," he said, comfortingly. "I'll call our legal folks about it. Just sit tight, and we'll have you out in a twinkle." Santa began to hang up, then remembered his wife's request.

"Uh, we do have one problem," he said. "Mrs. Kringle wanted a file, and for you to pick up a Naughtie for her. I guess that's going to be difficult to accomplish at the moment."

Schieble hesitated but a moment, then said, "The combo to her office door is 12-25-09. Don't tell the Mrs. I gave it to you, okay? I'm in enough hot water as it is. Maybe Magnus can pick up the kid for you."

Santa assured him he'd take care of it, and reassured the elf that Mrs. Kringle need not hear about this at all, provided they got him back home before she got wind of the whole thing. Then he hung up and walked down the hall to her office.

The combination took him three tries, but on the third he was able to get in. He slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind him. He felt oddly like he was breaking into someone's private sanctum, which in a way he was. The house was quiet, though, and it would only take him a moment to retrieve the file she needed, if it was still on the desktop, as she remembered.

It was. He leaned over the desk and glanced at the name, flipped the folder open to make sure it held the papers she wanted, and was surprised to see that this wasn't a child at all, but one of the older Naughties. She looked naughtie indeed, if the picture paper-clipped to the inside cover was any indication. He peered at it through his thick spectacles, sorry for the smudges that covered the lenses. The photo showed her on a boat, in profile. Squinting, he became aware that she was pulling her bikini top aside to flash a man on a passing boat. Santa quickly closed the folder, but the image had burned itself into his retina, and even when he closed his eyes he saw the girl there, full breast and nipple exposed.

"Oh, my," he muttered, closing his eyes again and verifying that the image was still there. "Oh, my my my, indeed." He pulled his hand away from the folder and then touched it again with one finger, tentatively, as if it might burn him. He knew he had a promise to keep, but now he had conflicted feelings about it. What if the other elves see me carrying this around? he asked himself. What, then? He pulled his wife's chair back and settled into it, resolving not to move until he found a solution. Perhaps he could call Magnus to him and give him the folder directly. That way he wouldn't have to carry it outside this room.

No. I'm not even supposed to be in here! He didn't want to get Schieble into any more trouble than he was already in. Damn that elf!, he thought, then checked himself. His mind was racing in a hundred different directions. I've only just touched that folder, and already I'm cursing my own workers. He slouched even farther back in the chair, as if to distance himself from the desktop.

Still, he noticed that his hand rested on the file, and he felt the pull of it on his thoughts. Go ahead, it seemed to say. Another little peek won't hurt. Santa shook his head as if to clear his thoughts, and was aware that his hand had pulled the folder open once more. The picture seemed to shine with an unnatural glow in the semi-darkness of the room. This time he leaned in to study it more closely.

She was, indeed, a grown woman. You couldn't see much of her face, as the photo was cropped along the top of her chin. She was a brunette, he saw, deeply tanned. The hand that pulled the suit aside was just low enough to show the fullness of her breast, and the fact that it was tanned just as darkly as her arm. The nipple...

Santa quickly flipped the page over, telling himself that he didn't need to look at that anymore, but his eyes were already scanning the file for more pictures. There were none; just a lot of statistics on the young woman. A LOT of statistics! Santa felt himself being drawn in. Everything he read led to his reading more.

This Tori Owens has been a bad girl! he thought, if the file was any indication. The volume of damning statistics intrigued him, and he found himself wondering how old she was. Half a dozen pages later, he found his answer: 29 years old. The pages listed a number of her transgressions in chronological order, but he had the feeling they were only the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. She seemed to work at being bad!

Leaning forward over the desk, Santa kept going back to the picture, as if trying to reconcile that this pretty young woman was indeed whom the pages beyond referred to. Each notation led to another glance at the picture, until he realized he didn't have to look anymore to see her. The view of that erect nipple tantalized him, and he found himself wanting to see more of her face. He was also becoming painfully aware of a swelling beneath his robe. He laid the folder down and leaned back, and was surprised to see the thick shaft of his penis protruding prominently out from between the folds. Wow, it's been a long, long time since this has happened, he thought, feeling an unexplainable sense of ... pride?

"Well, then, mustn't let you get out," he muttered, pulling the material of his robe back across his member. The sensation of the heavy flocking touching his skin sent a shiver through his body, though, and he pulled the robe back open almost immediately. His cock strained toward the edge of the desk, its one eye seeming almost to search for the picture there. "Ahhh," he breathed, then chuckled softly. "You like this, then. Don't you, old sport?" He tch tch'ed himself, but stared delightedly, almost as if his cock were some separate entity with a will of its own. As if in answer, it pulsed, slapping its swollen head against the edge of the desk as the blood throbbed through it. Santa's fingers surrounded it, and it throbbed again in his hand. Memories...

Glancing around, the jolly old Elf-master convinced himself that he was alone, and tightened his grip slightly. His fingertips revelled in the throbbing flow of his blood. It felt strong here at the base, and as he slid his fingers toward the head it seemed to follow them, causing his cock to jump as his fingertip contacted the sensitive end. Oh, yes! Again, he stroked himself, and again. Then, his eyes tightly clenched, he imagined the the woman moving on the page; turning to smile at him, revealing her face. Those teeth so white, those lips so inviting, he thought wildly.

Soon he was experiencing a sensation not felt in a long, long time, and he knew that, as wrong as this might be, he couldn't stop it now. His first two fingers were already moist from the pre-cum flowing from his over-sensitive tip, the lubrication aiding and inviting further motion. Faster and faster, his left hand travelled the length of his cock, bottom to top and back again. It seemed to grow thicker with every stroke. His right hand moved to cup his balls, which were twitching with the sudden need to expel their burden, and as his fingers felt them swell and contract, he imagined the lips of the girl closing over the end of his rigid member.

That did it. With a mighty groan, he let fly with a collosal burst of long-held semen. It arced across the desk, and he opened his eyes just in time to see it splatter at the edge of his wife's desk lamp, leaving a white contrail across the page like a jet marking the sky with its path. There was no time for regret, though. His second gushing emission splatted loudly on top of the girl's picture, just as he was catching his breath. "Oh, hell and broomfeathers!" he had time to mutter, but then another pulse was flowing out over his forefinger and dripping down the digits of his left hand. And still he stroked, now timing his movements to his eruptions, in order to get the most out of this illicit pleasure.

After the last throbbing emission was milked from the end, Santa pulled his sticky hand away from his trembling cock with a loud sigh. "Now I've done it," he said to the room, his eyes surveying the damage to the papers before him. To his hesitant amusement, however, he noticed that the girl's breast was now floating beneath a dime-sized pool of his own semen. He couldn't help but smile as he muttered rhetorically, "Haven't lost my aim, now, have I?"

The next ten minutes were spent trying to repair the damage to the contents of Mrs. Kringle's desktop, and cleaning himself up with her tissues. The second task was a lot more successful than the first, he was ashamed to admit. The picture was unrepairable; his discharge was apparently toxic enough to smear the colors and lines of the photo until they were almost unrecognizable. Damn shame, that, he thought, still smiling despite his chagrin over the mess he'd made. He shut the folder after wiping it dry and slid it under his robe, where his misbehaving cock still twitched in the afterthroes of its recent pleasure. Then he stole from the room, and back to his own office.

"Magnus, see that I'm not disturbed," he said into the phone when his assistant picked up at his end. "I'm going to take a little nap." Instead, he spent the next hour going over the details of Ms. Owens' life and wondering how he was going to undo the damage to the file he was supposed to be delivering to his wife. At last he hit on a solution. "I'll confront this girl myself," he said aloud. Maybe I can affect a change in her that will make further recalibration unnecessary. Even thinking it, he knew that wasn't the only reason for his decision. He couldn't deny a desire to see her face; the fact that it was partially hidden intrigued him no end. Mrs. Kringle's imagizer, unless it was password-protected, should work the same as his, except for the fact that it was programmed with the names of the Naughties. There was only one way to know.

He sent all the elves home early that evening, telling Magnus that he needed a little 'quiet time' to consider a child that had been vexing his thoughts. Though his assistant considered this to be unnecessary and time-consuming, he was used to his boss's idiosyncracies, and was glad to get an evening off before the rush really began. Besides, Santa was in an unusually good mood, and that was rare in this season.

The imagizer worked off the same combination as her office door, and Southern California was easy enough to zoom in on, once he was in. He entered her name and watched as the screen blurred with the images it passed on the way to her location. Suddenly, there was an audible change, and he was aware of the quiet of being in a darkened apartment. There were a few seconds of calibration, and Santa realized he could smell the sea nearby. Then the image focused, and he was looking at two sleeping forms in a bed. The man was half-covered by a sheet. She was not.

Her tanned body contrasted with the pale yellow sheets, and Santa drew in a breath without conscious thought. He was disappointed that he still couldn't see her face, as her hair covered all but that chin that he was so familiar with, but his eyes didn't linger there for long in any case. Instead, they travelled down the length of her body, taking in each angle and curve and feasting on the way her skin shone in the moonlight. She looked right out of a painting by Manet or Degas, except that those models didn't have the tan or the finely toned body of this one.

"My, my," he muttered, letting his gaze pan down her torso. If she would only shift in her sleep, he thought!

As if in answer, she rolled from her left side onto her stomach, gripping her pillow with her hands above her head and rolling her hips slightly as her sex made contact with the fitted sheet below her. It was an unconscious movement, made all the more sensuous by the way the dimples at the base of her spine deepened and then relaxed. Her breasts flattened against the bed, appearing under each arm as a quarter-moon of untanned skin. Santa's eyes scanned her body.There was the tiniest of pale V's at the top of her ass-crack, where her thong bikini blocked the sun's rays, but the rest of her body, save for the bottoms of her feet, looked like oiled mahogany in the moonlight.

Santa felt his cock growing and stiffening, and with a shrug of his old shoulders, he shucked the top half of his robe onto the floor behind him. With one hand on the controls of the imagizer and the other softly cradling his throbbing erection, he watched, waiting for her to move again. When, after ten minutes, she still slumbered peacefully, he copied down her address from the file and re-dressed, this time in light slacks and a t-shirt, loafers and no socks. After all, it is California, he reasoned. After a last long look at the screen, he shut the imagizer down and headed for the sleigh.

The trip to her apartment took but seconds, but Santa knew he couldn't confront her in the middle of the night with her husband there, so he found a cab and literally 'charmed' the driver into driving him around, eventually finding his way into the outskirts of Los Angeles. This proved to be distressing, as there was no shortage of drama on the streets and alleyways of that town, much of it shocking. He remembered visits to children in the vicinities of Los Angeles and New York in years past, and shivered. It wasn't from the cold.

At dawn, he was back at Tori's place, waiting to catch her alone. Her husband's got to go to work sometime, he thought impatiently, knowing he was still hours early. He paced the street out front and walked the beach behind their place, and by the time her husband left in mid-morning, he was perspiring and short of breath. He'd completely missed his car pulling out of the parking lot, but the sight of the young woman on the balcony overlooking the beach brought him to sudden attention, in more ways than one. She wore a robe which was loosely tied, but was open enough to afford him a generous glimpse of cleavage and of smooth tanned belly. The wooden railing obscured most details from the waist down, but he glimpsed the space between her thighs as the breeze fluttered the robe teasingly. He realized she was looking directly at him, and wondered if she could discern the erection now tenting his slacks.