The Christmas Gift

Andrew Lehman lay in bed, awake yet not fully aware of his surroundings. Slowly, he opened his eyes and sat up. The room was dark except for faint moon glow from the window. The house was quiet. What had awakened him?

He got out of bed and slipped his feet into house shoes. He shivered. The room was cold. Colder than when he'd gone to bed, what --? Two hours ago. The clock on his night table read 1:18.

He padded through the window. The sky was crystal clear. The quarter moon shone brightly silver. Down the street, a street lamp tried to rival the moon. The ground below his second floor window had a light dusting of snow. A shadow moved across the ground. Andrew looked up and saw a big owl wing across the sky. Langham Creek and a hiking trail were less than a mile away and there was a lot of wildlife there. Sometimes, you'd even see a deer. In the sky there were no signs of any sleigh or reindeer although it was time for Santa Claus to be making his rounds.

He decided he was thirsty. He grabbed a robe against the chill and headed out of the room. In the hall there was sufficient light to read the heating system's thermostat. It was on it's usual setting. So why the cold?

Andrew headed down the stairs. Before he was halfway down the steps, he could see the warm multicolored glow of the Christmas tree lights. Did he see a shadow move? Maybe Harley, the family tabby, was nosing around the living room. Andrew went on down a few more steps.

Then stopped. Someone was sitting in his late father's recliner.

His heart was in his throat. He reversed course and went all the way to the top of the stairs. There was definitely someone in the house and he didn't know who it was. He thought about waking his mother. She kept a pistol beside her bed. He'd feel better if she was with him. But Andrew thought better of getting her. He was 18. He played varsity football. He could deal with anybody who was downstairs and he didn't need a gun or his mother for morale.

Instead, he slipped back into his room and grabbed a baseball bat. He crept silently back to the stairs. Placing his feet carefully so as not make any noise, he descended. He reached the bottom. The occupied chair was turned away from him, facing the tree. He could clearly see the top of someone's head. There were no discernible details; only the shape was visible. Round. A basketball? Was he getting his shorts in a knot over a basketball? How had someone gained access to the living room anyway? And there was Harley, sleeping peacefully in front of the tree. The cat was famously skittish around visitors. If somebody had sneaked in to the Lehman house, why was the cat sleeping just a few feet from the intruder.

Whatever, he'd deal with it. Andrew raised the bat as if her were facing a fastballer. He came up behind the chair. Stepped quickly to his left and prepared to swing the bat.

"Ach! Andrew. Isn't it a little early for spring training?"

The teen stared. In the chair was a man who looked just like Santa Clause. He was mostly bald with just a ruff of snow white hair over his ears and around the back of his head. He face was so fat, his eyes were almost hidden. He had a nubbin of a nose barely large enough to support his rimless glasses. The man sported a full beard, as white as his hair.

For some reason, Andrew didn't think that beard was a fake.

The man stood. He was fat. And again, that extra heft wasn't fake. He was also short, much shorter than the teen's six foot one. He wore a red suit trimmed in white. He wore a black belt and boots. Boots with a little unmelted snow on them.

"What the fuck's going on here?"

"Tush, tush," the man chided. "Watch your language. Don't you know who I am?"

"You look like fucking Santa Claus."

"Exactemente, mon jeune fils! Except, between you and I, I prefer Kris Kringle. You may call me Kris."

"I don't fucking believe this."

"Again the potty mouth. Oh, but you will believe. What time is it?"

Andrew looked over at the entertainment center. The DVD player said it was 1:18. Wasn't that --?

"And what do you think this is?" Kris picked up a red cloth sack. It was fully as big as he, round, bulging, yet he lifted it as if it were feather light. He tossed it without effort to Andrew. Andrew dropped the bat to catch the bag. When it hit his hands, it rocked him backwards. Almost knocked him on his can. The bag must weigh a couple hundred pounds!

"Weakling," muttered the man, who went over, effortlessly picked up the sack, and put it back beside the recliner.

"Are you really Santa?"

"You think I carry a driver's license for ID? Look sit down. I want to talk to you. And you don't need that bat. Dumkopft!"

Kris sat in the recliner. He reached in his jacket, pulled out a long stemmed clay pipe and a well worn leather tobacco pouch. He began to careful fill the pipe.

"What d'you smoke?" Andrew asked as he sat on the edge of the couch. Just for reassurance, he checked again the clock. The numbers hadn't changed.

"Oy vey! Tobacco. Of course."

"Mom doesn't allow smoking inside."

"I think she'll make an exception in my case. This pouch was a gift from Christian IV." He saw the bewildered look on the teen's face. "Don't they teach history any more? King of Denmark. Well, properly, King of Denmark-Norway 1588 to 1648. Nice guy. Made for lots of reforms. Too much fighting though. The Swedes. The Germans. Then the German Catholics. Ach! Too much fighting. But a nice man for all that. Um hum, good king." Kris nodded his head.

He tucked away the pouch. Then he held the bowl of the pipe in both hands. After a few seconds, the tobacco started to smoke. He raised the stem to his mouth and began to puff happily. Sometimes he puffed so fast the bowl began to glow red hot. The room quickly filled with the aroma of the burning tobacco. There was an oddity about the smoke, however: although Kris tended to blow the smoke straight up, away from himself, the smoke tended to curl back around him. Sometimes the smoke around his head was so thick, he would put aside his pipe, inhale the smoke from the air, and breathe out until the streams were dissipated. Then he would take up the clay pipe again.

"So, we talk, yes?"

"Uh, Kris, listen. What's with this time thing?"

"Ach! How else do you think I get all the deliveries done? Wherever I am, time, it's stopped. Something about the speed of light or relativity or something. I don't understand it, myself. But it works."

"And do you really have a sleigh and reindeer?"

"What? You believe everything you read in comic books or see on cable? But enough questions. We have to talk."

"OK, so talk."

"I don't like what I'm hearing about you."

"Like what?"

Kris leaned forward slightly and set aside his pipe. His fat face became stern. "Like school, for one thing."

"Listen. I do OK."

"OK is good enough for a young man with your brains? And that chemistry teacher, Mr. Holden. He thinks you do OK?"

"Hey, that fire in the chem lab, that was an accident." Andrew didn't look happy at the mention of that subject.

"And now you want to lie to me? And what about that girl? Heather Williams? And what you did in the darkroom after the Photography Club meeting. Gott in himmel! That was bad, it was."

"OK, maybe she's not the best girl on campus, but guys need to get a little sometime to , uh, you know, take the edge off."

Kris huffed. "Me, you tell that? Do you know how long I've been married to Mrs. Claus? Huh? Can you tell me that? Your mother, if she knew about that girl, it would break her heart."

"Yeah, well, I stopped, didn't I?"

"And you go to your mother and say, 'But mom, I quit hitting my baby brother.'"

"I never hit Jake!"

"The idea's the same. You should never start with a girl like that Heather... And look, why don't you help your mother more? You know it's been hard since your father died."

"Yeah, I know. Well, I'm going to get a job after the first of the year and ---"

"The job, that's not the solution. Money, that's not the problem. What's the problem is not helping around the house. Helping with Jake. He looks up to you. And what do you do? You burn down the chemistry lab. Madre di dios!"

"It wasn't," Andrew mumbled, "that big a fire."

"Now we have excuses?" In anger, Kris snatched up his pipe and puffed like an old steam locomotive.

"OK, I know I can do better."

"And stop smoking that shit."

"I don't smoke much and just with friends."

"Again, we have excuses." The man grew calmer. "Answer me this: Are you proud of yourself?"

"I get by."

"Then the answer you give me is 'No'. Listen to what I'm telling you. Jake, he's lost his father. Now you're the man of the house. He's twelve. He watches you. Watches everything you do. Do you want him to see a bupkis?"

"A what?"

"A bupkis ... Get the meaning from its context." Kris shook his head. Sometimes he wondered what the younger generation was coming to. Kris stood. Turned to face the teen

"You know, normally I reward good behavior. That old stuff about naughty and nice is really how things work. But you, you're such a schmoe, I sorta feel sorry for you. Your mom and little brother deserve better. It's not for their fault you're such a loser. So for them, I'm gonna bend the rules. We'll see how you do. Just remember, this is a one time deal. You straighten up and fly right. Be the man your mom needs, the man your brother needs. Understand? Next year, you're good or no more from me."

Andrew said, "I guess so.'

"OK, hand me my bag."

Bracing himself and grunting with effort, the teen managed to lift the bulging bag. Kris Kringle took it from him and slung the presents over his shoulder. He put his pipe, still smoking. inside his jacket. For the first time he seemed to notice the cat. He bent down and scratched Harley between the ears. Awaking, the cat lifted his head. Kris rubbed him there. Absentmindedly, he said mixing his languages, "El gaito negro, beau chatte."

There came a gust of wind that rattled the windows, making Andrew jump. His glance went to the windows. When he looked back at Harley, the man in red was gone.

Andrew sat heavily on the sofa. He thought he heard the echo of a distant laugh.

"Hoh-hoh-Hoh!"

* *

Marilyn came down the stairs, wearing a floor length fleece robe and slippers against the cold. She saw her son sitting on the sofa.

"Honey?" she said. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh, hi, mom. No, everything's OK."

She had a concerned look on her face as she sat beside him. "I thought I heard voices."

"Oh, that. I was talking to Harley." Andrew gestured at the cat who still slept, curled up, in front of the fireplace. The feline, hearing it's name, opened one eye, raised it's tail in confirmation of the lie, and returned to it's dozing.

"Um, hum. And why did you build the fire?"

"I thought it would be nice when you and Jake woke up."

"Darling, it's barely 2:00. Jake won't be up for another three and a half hours."

"Well, uh, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It's a lovely fire. And it does seem cold in here." She moved a few inches closer to her son. Their shoulders touched. "I hope the heat's not going out."

"It may just be the thermostat's stuck."

"You're probably right." Marilyn rested her head on her son's shoulder. She gave a little sigh of contentment and was quiet. She went to sleep. Andrew just sat there, enjoying the closeness of his mother.

Andrew listened to the crackle of the fire and the soft breathing of his mother. He tilted his head back and was soon asleep himself. It was a deep, dreamless sleep that didn't last long. He came out of his slumbers and opened his eyes to the flickering firelight. He almost sat up in shock when he realized his mother no longer rested against his shoulder. In her sleep, she had shifted and she now lay across the couch. Her right cheek rested on Andrew's thigh. Her left hand lay gently on his upper leg. And, in her sleep, Marilyn was rubbing her left hand up and down his leg.

He wondered if he could get up without waking her. He didn't think he could, so he just sat there. He began hoping his mother would wake up and get off him. He didn't want to think about her hand. He didn't want to think about her head nearly in his lap. And of course, the more he tried to not think about his predicament, the more he thought about it.

Marilyn was having the most incredible dream. It was their twentieth wedding anniversary. They'd had an evening of dinner and dancing at the local country club. Craig had hired a limousine and chauffeur so they wouldn't have to worry about driving home after the celebration. During the drive home, they made out like horny teenagers and, well, like horny a teenager, she had decided to reward her wonderful husband. She leaned across him and unzipped the trousers of his tuxedo. She pulled out his cock and licked it to hardness. As he pulled down the strap of her evening gown and played with her bare breast, she sucked him deep. It was the wettest blowjob she'd ever given and he didn't last long. Not that she was worried. She knew Craig was going to be good for several more erections before the night was over...

Andrew had made up his mind that if he were going to get up, he'd better do it now. When his mother shifted again, though, all thought of movement disappeared. Her hand left his leg and went inside his robe. Went inside his shorts. Found his semi-stiff prick and brought it out. His mother turned her head and sucked his cock into her mouth.

Andrew moaned. This was un-fucking believable. The teen carefully brushed his mother's hair from her face. Her eyes were shut as if she were asleep. He wanted it to stop, it felt much to good, but more strongly he wanted his mom to keep going. And his mother did exactly that. She worked her mouth around his cock, up and down it, all over it. Her mouth, besides the insistent sucking sounds, produced little mews of delight.

As intimated by Kris, the teen had gotten a few blowjobs. They were nothing like this, though. Even Heather Williams, who had a reputation as giving a great knob job, couldn't compare with his mom. Heather used her mouth, that was true, but she was like a little old lady who drove to church on Sunday and Emerson Fitipaldi. His mother used her mouth like a NASCAR champion used the throttle and steering .

"Uh, mom..." He knew his balls were about to erupt. He had to warn her. Even Heather didn't swallow. But how did he tell his mother that he was about to cum. There weren't any words. So he put his hands around her head and gently lifted.

"Nuh uh," she protested with her mouth full of cock. Her free hand massaged his scrotum. She had his cock all the way down her throat. Used her tongue, used her lips.

"Mom, please!" He tugged harder.

"Nuhn!"

OK, if she wants it -- Andrew held her in place. Frantically, he jerked his hips upward. His cock pulsed in his mother's throat. Once, twice, three times. He felt her shudder and then her desperate efforts to swallow his load. The pulses continued. Andrew put his head back and squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure. He stayed like that till his cock was done. The teen opened his eyes and looked at his mother. He fully expected her to release his deflated cock lift her head, and give him a shamed look. Mothers just didn't act this way in the real world.

Andrew then realized that this world wasn't real, though. The visit from Kris Kringle was proof of that. So maybe this was a new reality.

Marilyn didn't raise her head as her son expected. She kept her face in his crotch. She even kept his cock in her mouth despite its automatic effort to retract. In fact, the woman kept pressure on her son's prick. She sucked softly but without letting up. And like any other ed blooded teenaged male, his cock responded. After five minutes of her ministrations, Marilyn had her son hard again.

Only then did she lift her head. She looked at Andrew with lust misted eyes. She kissed him. Her tongue searched his mouth. Her hands felt inside his robe, rubbed his chest.

Andrew rose from the sofa, holding her easily in his arms. (He thought briefly of how Kris had toted his bag of gifts without any effort at all.) She put her arms around his neck and kissed him some more. He carried her over to the rug that lay in front of the fire. He knelt, carefully placing his mother in the middle of that rug. It was thick and snow white. All the time, they kept their lips pressed together. She kept her arms around him, too, pulling him atop her. Guided his hand inside her fleece robe, placed his hand on the roundness of a breast.

His mind numb with shock, the teen nevertheless did what his mother wanted. He fondled her boob and was gratified to feel the response in her nipple. He'd gotten tit before (and last fall he'd almost gotten inside Amber Nichols' pants on a neighborhood hayride and in his memory, he'd actually succeeded, although she'd stopped him before he reached the crotch of her panties), but those were girlish tits, narrow and small. Now he had a breast that filled his hand, had heft to it. His mother's knocker gave when he gently squeezed and then sprang back into shape. And it was warm. Warm? Hell, it radiated heat.

Marilyn shifted slightly beneath her son. Suddenly, he found himself lying between her thighs. Her eyes, still heavy lidded, told him what she wanted. It was time to act.

He untied her robe and spread it open. His mother wore a thin satin and lace gown underneath the thick fleece -- So much for being cold. The gown was lavender and the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. Or maybe it was the woman within that gown. It accentuated rather than hid her sensuous shape. High firm breasts with prominent nipples poking against the fabric, narrow waist, hips that were wide but all the sexier for that. Her exposed skin was ivory.

The gown had spaghetti straps tied in small bows. He tugged the bows open, pulled the gown away to expose her boobs. Andrew kissed from her lips to her throat and worked his way down to one of her nipples. It was dark brown and stiff as he tongued it. His mother trembled beneath him. Her hands opened his own robe and snaked under his shirt. Pushed his shirt up so she could rub him. Then reached down past her hips, raised the hem of her gown. Marilyn wore no panties.

He never thought his mother would shave, but was glad she did. Her cunt was fully exposed to him, the outer labia that folded open to expose her inner lips and the pink wetness inside, the hard acorn of her clit. It was his first pussy. Andrew felt an uncontrollable urge to taste it. He dipped his head, relinquishing her nipple and began the brief journey down his mother's body.

She stopped him before he'd made a few inches of progress. She pulled Andrew back to her breast. Then she felt for his cock. It was harder than ever. She steered it to her pussy and let the flared head touch her cunt lips. Without any effort on Andrew's part, he slid inside his mother. One moment, his cock was cantilevered into open space, the next he was balls deep in the warmest, wettest place he ever imagined. That easily he lost his cherry. Became a man. Became a motherfucker.

He moved his hips and found the perfect pace as his mother lifted and dropped her hips in ideal rhythm with her son. It was an effortless fuck. He took his time, enjoying the sensations of his first fuck unless something inside Andrew's brain told him to increase the pace and strength of his thrusts so that their bodies slammed together and each collision shook his mother, made her knockers quiver like Jell-O, drove the breath out of her lungs. Then some instinct made him slow, giving his mom time to catch up with him and also time for him to recover from the brink of orgasm.

As the coupling continued, Andrew became aware that his mother's lips were moving, although the words were silent. He managed to hold an ear close to her lips and was able to discern her words. She was begging him to cum, to make her cum, and yet to let the fuck go on without end.