Please enjoy this new story. It is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. All characters are adults, eighteen or older, and unusually horny.
This submission is for the 2021 750 word challenge.
Taylor VanCannon.
*****
I lay on the chaise lounge, nude, soaking up the Florida sunshine.
"What do you think?" Donny asked, massaging my thigh.
"For a swingers resort, it's kinda dead" I said, as I yawned, and rubbed my hand over his washboard abs.
"Must be the cool weather," he mumbled. The thermometer had barely reached sixty and there was a definite chill in the air, but nowhere near the sub-zero weather we left behind in Minnesota. Exhausted from the long flight, we both dozed off.
A loud clatter snapped me out of my slumber. I rubbed my eyes as Santa Claus came into focus. He brushed black dust off his red suit and cussed at the giant bag he'd dropped. Upon closer inspection, he looked a little off. He sported a bushy silver-grey goatee with a big handlebar mustache, but was skinny as a rail. "Santa?" I asked, timidly.
He glared at me, then glanced at his long scroll. "Not exactly, Santa's my older brother... he handles the nice list. I'm Blackie... as in the black sheep of the family."
"Oh," I said, pointing to his bag of coal, "then you must handle the naughty list?"
"Indeed, and I detest these fucking last-minute changes... goddamn elves can't make up their minds. Let's see, you're Lilly, right?"
His obsidian eyes pierced my soul. I nodded and opened my legs just enough to give him a peek at my cornrowed pubes, fashioned into the shape of a Christmas tree with sparkling red and green beads. "Did I make the naughty list?" I cupped my ample breasts for good measure.
"Sweetie," he said, glancing down at my decorated pussy, "you're in limbo... off the nice list, but," he said, showing me the scroll, "see this giant fucking asterisk next to your name?"
"Oh my," I said, furrowing my brow, "looks like I have some work to do?"
"Indeed," he said, unfurling his inordinately long tongue and slicking back his eyebrows with its tip. He held out two fingers, like a conductor, and spread my legs wide while he levitated me off the lounge. "I see you've got the Christmas spirit."
"My husband's handiwork," I said, grinning from ear to ear, "do you like it?"
"I do." He curled his fingers and drew me tight against his face.
"Ouch!" I exclaimed, "your beard's like a Fuller brush."
