The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year free porn video

The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year By Katharine Sexkitten Growing up I never would have thought it possible, but all I could see now was too much Christmas. Lights, wreaths, tinsel, reindeer, stockings, baubles and trinkets. Everything. And the commercialization of it was overwhelming. Buy Buy Buy. As far as my eye could see. Ten months ago, I'd lost my dream job. Downsizing, they'd said. I had some savings, but they were disappearing fast after months of failing to land a new gig. So I took the only work I could find. A security guard, at a monstrously-huge shopping mall. The holiday season meant longer hours at the mall, and they needed extra staff, so I got some temporary shifts. One month of guaranteed income. My last scheduled shift would be on New Year's Eve. And while I don't have any degrees or certificates, my work experience alone made it feel like I was slumming it just to take this position. It was almost embarrassing. But it was fifteen bucks an hour, and the work was blindly easy, not to mention mind-numbingly boring. Being the junior guy, at twenty-two, put me below two nineteen year olds in the pecking order. We got the midnight to eight in the morning shift. Sure, it was well over three hundred stores, but corporations being corporations, they'd do anything to save a buck, so the entire facility was guarded by just three of us. My wing was about a third of the place, and housed one of the giant food fairs and one of the anchor stores, and about a dozen shoe stores, and just as many women's clothing stores. And scores of others. Oh, and one Victoria's Secret. And Santa's Workshop. You know, that ostentatious wonderland where the kiddie's line up for hours with their parents to sit on Santa's lap and get their picture taken. Most loved it. Some were petrified, and bawled their eyes out. It must be a tough job to be Santa's photographer, trying to make magic out of misery sometimes. Especially with the Santa's this mall hired. None of them had a costume that didn't look fifty years old, ragged and worn, and all of them wore the cheapest fake beards that didn't even stick to their skin and gaped and it all looked like amateur hour. The stores closed at nine p.m. Then the cleaners came in. They usually got done about eleven-thirty. We came on shift at midnight. For the next eight hours, all we did was walk up and down the wide aisles, or the turned-off escalators, and peer out the ground level doors once in a while. Without breaks. There wasn't any point in them. There was nothing to do. No food. No coffee. No anything. We weren't allowed to go outside. Period. Unless, our boss explained, the mall was on fire. I'd lied to my parents, and told them that I wasn't coming home for Christmas this year because I had to work. The lie was that they didn't know I'd been forced to change careers. I'd never told them the truth. Initially they were a little incredulous that someone in the Graphic Design world would have to work on December twenty-fifth, but I managed to convince them, without admitting to them I got laid off last February. I honestly didn't want them to think I was a failure. And now the big day was here. The stores were closed, for the one and only day of the year that they could spare. Such was the power of retail. The cleaners were gone. Even they got to enjoy the day with their loved ones. I watched the big clock tick over from one minute before to midnight, and then to one minute after. And it became officially Christmas. I stared at empty expanses. All the storefronts with their folding doors were closed, the lucky ones with some empty shelves, the others full and forlorn. All the fast food outlets in the court, the open areas above their counters shuttered and chained. Christmas. I used to love Christmas. The three of us had walkie-talkies, and we'd chat for a few minutes at the first part of the shift, but after that there really wasn't much to say, and things got quiet. I tried to understand the point of us even being there. If anything was to happen, it would start outside the mall, people trying to get in. We didn't have any tools or weapons to deal with marauding hordes of last-minute shoppers, or criminals intent on grand theft. We didn't even have cell phones. We were just window dressing. I'd never felt so sad. And depressed. I used to love Christmas. And perhaps the last and worst thing was the music. We couldn't turn it off. It was non-stop, uninterrupted by commercials. Crooners, strings, hillbilly warblers, choirs. All of it. All the traditional carols, and all the holiday favorites, which were, as far as I could figure, pop music meant to capitalize on the birth of Jesus. A couple of hours into this Christmas morning, when millions of children and adults alike were snuggled warmly in their beds, dreams of sugarplums dancing in their heads, I was wearing an ill-fitting uniform, consisting of itchy pants and a button-up shirt that felt like sandpaper, and a wind-breaker with the company's name in big bold yellow letters on the back. And a belt, with my walkie-talkie attached, next to my one and only defensive tool. A can of bear spray. They called it something else, fancy-sounding. But it was bear spray. Two hours in. The echo of my own footsteps off of the tile floors and high ceilings at first drowned it out, but as I got close to the monstrosity that was Santa's Workshop, I eventually understood that I could hear a human voice. Not the one spilling out the dozens of canned music speakers, I thought. Buble, or Crosby, or whoever. But, then again, I couldn't be sure. This was a deep, rich, baritone voice. Singing, and sometimes humming, along to "Blue Christmas". As I got closer, the voice became louder, until any doubt I had about it was gone. Definitely a real voice, a real person, in the mall. The locked mall. And I knew it was locked, because our first task of each shift was to check every doorway to the outside world. All of them were locked ten ways to Sunday, and chained. It was the only way to guarantee we were doing a credible job. I fumbled around on my belt and pulled out the can. I began to creep towards my left. I could slip under the fancy fencing and sidle down the length of the photographers shed, where they kept all their equipment. That way, I could instantly turn the corner and confront the intruder, whose singing made it quite clear to me that he was sitting on Santa's throne. Some drunk, or rubby-dub. Elvis was still singing about that "blue heartache starts hurting" bullshit when I got to the edge of the wall, and paused, steeling myself for the final assault. Then I heard the man's voice. Loud and clear. "Simon," he chuckled, "there's no need to sneak up on me like that." How did he know my name? He chuckled again, a deep, rolling kind of mirth. "Come round, Simon," he urged, "and let's visit!" Now his chuckle had more glee than mirth. HOW DID HE KNOW MY NAME? I chanced a peek around the corner. A sliver of my head passed that line, the one he could see, enough for my left eye to take a look. "There you are," he said, proud and paternal, and he leaned his head down and toward me, mimicking my odd angle, "come," he waved, "let's visit, Simon." Santa. But not a mall Santa. A real Santa. I mean, obviously not a real one, because, well, duh, he doesn't exist. But this guy was worlds apart from all the run-of-the-mill jolly old elves. He was tall. Probably six three, or four. And if I had to guess, I'd say he was over two hundred pounds, maybe two-fifty, but a way more in- shape body than I would have imagined. He had big broad shoulders, and what looked like muscular arms and a barrel chest. And yes, a belly. But not the standard big round beach ball that most people see or draw. There was a curve there, but it wasn't fat, or out-of-shape. He looked pumped, in a way. Santa looked like he spent a lot of time in a gym. Big long thick legs, and black boots. A red suit, of course, with brilliant vibrant bold color in the material. And his boots looked sharp and black and leathery and shiny and real, not like those ridiculous rubber things they give to our minimum-wage St. Nicks. And his suit had white trim everywhere, as glaring as snow in sunlight. And it fit his body, and showed the gentle curves of muscular thighs, and calves. But it was his face that was most amazing. The beard was real, and perfect in every way. Every little hair was trimmed and in place. And on the white side of grey, like someone in their later middle ages. His eyes were the colour of chai tea, and shone. It was like there was light behind him, inside him. His skin was tanned, and yet his cheeks had a rosy glow to them. His lips were full, and wide. His smile was infectious. "Simon," Santa said, "I'm so glad to finally meet you. Well, of course, I saw you sleeping many times, all those years, that angelic look on your face, and every year I got your note and your cookies and milk and carrots for the reindeer, which were very much appreciated, and I've always wanted to say 'thank you'. And now, look at you! Look at the person you've become!" My hour-long course on dealing with crackpots kicked in. "How did you get in here?" Santa smiled. "Down the chimney, of course!" His finger pointed up, and then worked its way down. I held the bear spray can towards him, and reached to grab my walkie- talkie, to signal the guys to come and help me. His eyes twinkled. "They won't hear you, Simon." I keyed the button and started the spiel we'd be taught. I noticed it didn't make the usual squawk. "Mayday, mayday, east wing, ground floor, mayday mayday. Respond please!" Then I looked at him, with my fiercest 'don't-mess-with-me' stare. Inside I was scared. I'm not a big guy. Barely five-eight, not quite a buck and a half, weight-wise. This guy was solid, and big. I'm an artist. I draw. I doodle. A few years back, some rich guy saw bits of my work at our high-school craft fair and hired me straight after graduation to work in his Design company. I figured all that graphic art shit was done on computers, and wondered why he wanted me. He said it was easier to train real artists to be computer nerds than it was to train computer nerds to be real artists. I moved from my parents' home to the big city, three hours away, to sketch and draw for a living. The first three years were pretty good. I worked lots, and met some nice people, and tried to be less of the loner that I normally am, and I managed to pay my bills and eat food and not end up in the gutter, which is what my mom was most worried about. Then all the lay-offs. Me and a hundred of my peers. Just more statistics. The radio was silent. I sent the same message again. It stayed silent. "Simon," he said, his voice soft and comforting, like a warm fluffy towel, "have you become so jaded that you don't believe in me anymore?" "How do you know my name?" I demanded. It wasn't printed on our clothes. That way the boss didn't have to get new clothes every new season. He chuckled. "I know everything about you, Simon. I'm Santa." "Bullshit," I spit out. His twinkling eyes faded for a microsecond. "Now, how do you know my name?" He smiled. And sighed. Then he chuckled again, in a genuine way. "When you were seven, you wrote me a letter. I have it right here," he pointed to the pile of papers beside him on the big chair, smiling at me even more. "You told me you'd been a very good boy that year. Then you wrote that you wished sometimes that you could have been a very good girl." I felt a jolt of tension, cold and steel-like, in my spine, right where it meets my brain, and I was flooded with mental images of that exact day, way back then, when I sat at the dining room table and my mom gave me some pencil crayons and some paper and told me to write my Christmas letter to the North Pole. "Do you remember that, Simon?" he asked, his tone inquisitive but gentle. I lied. I shook my head no. He smiled more. "When you were nine, you wrote to me and you asked for a Millennium Falcon model and a Malibu Barbie." He chuckled again, a velvety rumble from within him, but he wasn't teasing me, or ridiculing me. He wasn't passing judgement; he didn't think that was a bad thing to ask for. I hadn't thought of any of that in years. But he was right. I had asked for a Malibu Barbie. I thought she was cool. His smile turned to a grin. "It's nice to think of those days, isn't it Simon? When you were a child, carefree, and innocent, full of life, full of energy, full of goodness. When you are your most natural self? When you had no pretenses, no false bravado, no shame or cynicism drilled into you by society? At that age when all children are truthful, and real, to themselves. Remember?" I nodded. "You were such a beautiful child, Simon," he added, "so gentle, and full of artistic talent and kindness to everyone around you. And now," he smiled, "still so beautiful, and talented, and kind to people. You've grown up so well, Simon, and I know your parents and family are so proud of you, of who you are. And I'm proud too." His words washed over me and bathed me in a feeling of comfort. It was as if his voice alone could produce pleasure, could soothe anyone. Or anything. Then reality tried to kick back in. The arm holding the bear spray had begun to dip, and I brought it back to his face level. There is no such thing as Santa! "Again," I demanded, "how did you get in here, and how do you know my name?" I keyed the walkie-talkie again, and got a big zero in response. He wasn't offended at me; his gaze of warmth belied that. "I'm Santa." "Right. And I'm the Easter Bunny." He laughed, a big loud rollicking laugh. I'd tickled his funny bone. Then, in an instant, he became serious. His face peered at me, fixing me with a stare. Not a harsh one, or a threatening one, but one that pulled me in and made me pay attention. His voice became quieter. Deeper. Like honey. "When you were fourteen you asked me to bring you your real body, your girl body. You said you were tired of being a boy, you didn't like boy clothes, you didn't like the physical games that boys played." That serious jolt of tension spread from my brain stem through every nerve conduit inside me. Everywhere. My skin felt like someone had plugged me in to the same generator that powered the ten-thousand bulbs on the big fake tree in the mall atrium. He was right. I had written that. It was how I felt, at the time. But I didn't send it to him. I never showed it to a single soul. How did this guy know that? I'd more or less forgotten it, drummed it out of my head. Repressed it. Psychologically shoved it down, down, down. And then even further down. Buried it. It was a phase, a silly one, a childish one. I wasn't a child anymore. "When you were sixteen, you wrote me another long letter. You talked about how everything inside you felt different than everything outside of you. And that the one thing you wanted more than anything in the world was a beautiful dress..." Like a robot, as he said those last two words, I whispered them with him. The memory of it came flooding into me, a repressed moment in time suddenly brought back to life, the sights and sounds and smells of that night now vivid. More vivid than the present day. It was a Giorgio Armani Little Black Dress, in the finest silkiest stretchiest material, a plunging neckline, with padded shoulders, cut exquisitely on some movie star so her ample assets were brilliantly displayed. A dress designed to show off a great set of tits, and a round bubble butt. At the time, I thought it was the single sexiest thing I'd ever seen. Bar none. End of story. I wasn't an idiot, at sixteen. Obviously I could never actually wear it. Outdoors. In public. But the thought of being able to slip into it, in the privacy of my own place, made my heart sing. It made my heart smile. It made me elated, and unbelievably horny. I would get stiff just thinking about it. Even at sixteen, when my rational mind knew Santa didn't really exist, I was hedging my bets. Just in case he did. After all, what's the harm in asking? A few minutes of my time, writing. That's all. But then the memories crashed away, and a thought occurred to me. "Wait a minute," I said, "I remember all that now. You think you're so smart? Huh? The truth is, I never sent either of those letters. I ripped them up, I shredded them. So, whoever you are, the only thing you're proving is that you're a nutcase about to get arrested and go to jail." Once again, I radioed for my two fellow guards. They didn't answer. Again. Santa just smiled at me. A peaceful, knowing, caring kind of smile. "Simon," he said, concern and helpfulness in his tone, "don't forget the words in the classic song." Then he started grinning and singing, a lovely soft deep buttery croon. "He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake." He saw the awareness come to my face, and Santa started chuckling again. "You didn't send the letters, Simon," he laughed, "but you wrote them, and I read them. And you meant every word, didn't you?" I don't know why, but this man, who my conscious brain told me had to be a criminal or neer-do-well or street person, and who must have somehow busted into this insanely secure facility, was somehow getting to me. He was hitting me with things no one on earth could know. I mean, how the hell did he know? And besides, I reasoned, that was just a moment in my life, six long years ago, when I was obviously confused, and out of sorts. I'd gotten over all those feelings of emptiness, of the universe being off-kilter. Surely! It was a phase. I looked at him again, harder than ever. He just smiled at me, loving and caring and warm. "Simon," he said, standing up, his height now becoming truly apparent, "I have always kept a special eye on you, over all these years. I knew, from your letters, and from watching you over time that you were one of the most special people ever. I've always seen in you something lovely, something soft and precious, something gentle and understanding, someone burning with passion," he took a step towards me, his eyes practically blinding me with their twinkling joy, "and someone who just needed a chance to truly be who they were born to be." He took another couple of steps towards me, and I had to start looking up, such was our height difference. "And I know you've had a rough year, haven't you?" he asked, his concern for me palpable. I nodded my head. "So I decided to take a moment out of my journey tonight, and to come see you personally." His chuckle amped up a little bit, from a low thrum to a rapid burble. "And to bring your present!" His big right arm pointed to a stack of boxes off to the side, each one wrapped with richly-colored foil, the corners and edges perfect, the ribbons poufy and bursting, the various designs unlike any graphics I'd ever seen. "I had my best elves wrap them for you." I could see the top box clearly. It had a big white to/from card on it. It said: "To Simon, with so much love, from Santa." He looked at me, playfully. "Why don't you open them?" he asked. Once again, my conscious brain tried to wrestle its way back into the conversation. There were wrapped boxes everywhere on this set. It was supposed to resemble Madison Avenue's classic version of what Santa's Workshop should look like. There were long tables, with tiny tools strewn about. Simple toys, like dolls and models and fire engines, all in various states of building, and little chairs for all of the workers. So he was just pointing at props, I reasoned, grasping at straws to convince myself that no matter how much he knew about me, and how mysterious that was, that somehow some way I could still find a logical reason to support the idea that he was cuckoo. Insane. Eerily clever, but three or four donuts short of a dozen. "Those are props. Eleven months of the year we keep them in a storage room on level two of the underground parkade." Santa laughed, a big belly laugh, from a man with a modest belly. "Look at the paper, Simon," he gently urged, "and tell me if you see any other boxes here, or in this entire vast shopping mall, that have that kind of wrapping." I looked around. Not a one. He smiled even more at me. "Just open one, to start" he chuckled, "and you'll see. What could it hurt?" He sat back down on the big chair. I keyed the radio. It didn't make the normal noise. I looked at the stack of boxes. It couldn't be. Could it? My heart started beating faster. I realized I was fidgeting, back and forth, from one foot to the other, nervously. Santa nodded at me, in a conspiratorial way. His eyebrows flicked up and down playfully. He laughed, that famous rolling series of syllables, "HO HO HO!". They were real. Not like the boring rote mechanical words of the temporary red-suiters. This Santa's laugh was perfect. It filled you with joy, and wonderment. And love. I kept the bear spray pointed sort of towards him, and I took a step to my side and leaned down, picking up the top box in the pile. I backed off from him, and put my weapon back in my belt. The look he was showing me just made me feel peaceful and unthreatened. I didn't get any vibe that he was about to attack me, or jump me. The wrapping job was a small work of art. I almost hated to rip it up. But rip it up I did, and Santa and I watched the big disjointed wad of paper and ribbon hit the floor, by my feet. It was a longer box than wide, and only about three inches thick. I saw the label on the top of the box, and recognized it as one of the really high-end shops, down the other end of the mall. I found the front tab, and pulled it out, and slowly opened the lid. And there it was, wrapped in the finest tissue paper. The dress. Giorgio Armani. That's what the label said. I pulled the dress out, and let the box join the wrapping on the floor. I was stunned. Just stunned. Speechless and stunned. It was the same dress. The exact one I pined over, six years ago. And it brought back memories, all the thousands of moments in my life when I'd wished I was a girl, growing into a woman. I could never explain it all to myself, ever. I'd spent so much of my life confused. Why was I in a boy's body? I just never felt right. It didn't feel natural. It made me ashamed, deep down, growing up. And fearful. Worried that someone would find out, and all the derision and embarrassment that would surely follow. Losing the support and love of any friends I had, and my family. My mom and dad. And my older sister. Aunts, uncles, cousins. They'd all know. They'd all laugh, and hate me, and scorn me, and call me names. I couldn't bear the thought of it. It was the story of my childhood. The guilt of all those years took over, and I shuddered, standing there, holding the dress. My whole body ticked and lurched. The shame welled up inside me, starting out small and deep in my soul, and blasting out in every direction, until even my fingertips felt on fire. Burning shame. I was a boy, who spent most of his life wishing not for specific toys or experiences, but for the universe to shake itself back into rightness, and to let me wear the pretty clothes I loved. My eyes filled with tears, and a big fat drop rolled down both of my cheeks. I looked up at Santa. He had a tear running down both his cheeks too. "Simon," he whispered, "sometimes children wish for things that Santa can't give them, no matter how much he wants to. And that makes Santa so very sad. It always has. But now, now that you're an adult, I wanted to give you this beautiful dress, so you can see that you are loved for who you really are." We stared at each other, Santa and I. And cried. After a couple of minutes, he wiped his cheeks with his sleeves, and smiled again. Then he chuckled again "So," he said, "are you going to open the other parts of your present?" He pointed at the two other boxes. I didn't want to put the dress down. I didn't want to let go of it. All those years of wanting it, and now I had it in my hands. I could feel it, the softness, the silkiness, it was heady. Finally, after all this time, I had my wish. Let it go? Never! So I kept it in one hand, and picked up the second box, and somehow managed to unwrap it and open it. As the lid came up I could see inside, and I began crying again. Shoes. Women's shoes. They looked like the right size, that they'd fit my feet perfectly. And they were gorgeous. Sleek, and shiny. Black as coal. Pointed toes, leading to what must be four inch heels, and the sexiest buckle-up strap at the top, which would go just above my ankle bones. I looked up at him. I don't think I've ever seen a human being smile so big, or so bright. "Just like you wanted?" I couldn't help it. I sobbed out the word 'yes'. The emotion of it just overtook me. "There's more, Simon," he said, that familiar chuckle an undercurrent of everything he said out loud, every time he talked. "Open that last box, darling child." I carefully placed the shoes and the dress on top of an obvious prop box, and leaned down to immediately rip open the third part of my present. When the paper came off, I could see the words 'Victoria's Secret'. My heart started racing. He didn't, did he? I popped the lid, practically breaking it, and reached inside. As my fingers touched the material, I found myself getting instantly erect in my pants. Lace! And silk! In my hands were everything needed to complete the ensemble. One of their matching sets. Bra, panties, garter belt, and stockings. All black. Lace, here and there. All feminine, and delicious. All in my size. All of it. My heart was beating so fast that my breathing couldn't keep up. And then it happened. I felt it. Rising in me. Starting out as small as a speck of dust, and then growing and growing and growing and growing. Then it began racing inside me, out of control. And for one brief moment, I tried to control it. To make it stop. To say 'no', to deny it. The tears rolled down my cheeks again, as my efforts to rein it in failed. Then my body began shaking again, my pelvis wracking in uncontrollable lurches, in and out and back and forth and here and there. Then my breathing became moans, out loud, at the base of my soul, growing from within me until they had to escape out my mouth, loud and involuntary. I looked into his eyes as I shook and moaned. "Do you believe in me now?" he asked. The answer was immediate, and real. I nodded, up and down, my body continuing to jolt this way and that. A throaty laugh escaped him. "You can't go over the top, like you want to, unless you believe." I nodded my understanding, as the physical manifestation of a glow began emanating inside me, hot but not burning, like a budding supernova, all my muscles and tendons and organs jiggling and enflaming, and letting me know I was becoming a volcano of sorts, ready to burst out. Santa began singing, in that gorgeous deep voice. "So Cum, all ye faithful!" I did. It began. I erupted. Inside my body, and out through my rock- hard penis. Spray after spray after spray of ejaculate. It wouldn't stop. Again and again and again and again and again. And the sounds coming out of my mouth were completely foreign to me, and completely perfect. The sounds of unbounded ecstasy. Even as my underwear and pants became soaked with cum, and globs of it started dripping down my legs, I still kept pumping it out. Each pulse seemed to exhaust me and electrify me at the same time. I'd never orgasmed like this in my life. Never. And once I'd discovered masturbation, all those years ago, I'd done it a lot. A lot. It's all I've ever known. And never had I cum like this. I kept pumping into my pants, and Santa kept humming and smiling the most wonderful smile at me, proud and amazed and excited for me. His chuckles were loud too, each one in support of me, each one encouraging me to go further, go more. Go big. Finally, after too many lurches and spasms to count, and after my entire groin area felt wet and sticky, the last of my cumming came and went. My heart started righting itself, slowing down. My breathing took longer to come back to somewhere near normal, but eventually it did. I looked down. There was a dinner platter sized dark stain in my work pants. And I could see a liquidy whitish blob that had wormed its way down my leg, and had landed on the tongue of my shoe. I looked up. Santa's smile was never wider. I couldn't help it. I had to look. My eyes just went there. Maybe it was the way he was sitting. Or the tightness of his bright red suit. His legs were spread. As obvious as daylight, there on the inside of his left thigh was a bulge. A significant sized bulge. A long bulge. A really long and thick bulge. Santa's mirth never stopped. His eyes twinkled more and more. He looked like the cat that ate the canary. Happy was a weak word to describe his face, but it's the best I could come up with. He was very happy. "Simon," he said, his tone knowing and helpful, "there are public washrooms not too far away, over by the bookstore. Why don't you get out of those messy clothes and slip into your new ones?" I looked at him, not knowing what to say, except I felt a rising worry. I couldn't explain it, or understand it. He anticipated what I was thinking. "No, no, darling child," he intoned, "have no fear. Santa is not going anywhere. I'll be right here, waiting for you. I promise." Then he laughed again, that glorious loving glee in his voice. "Santa can't wait to see you as you really are." Then he reached into a pocket, and pulled out a tiny vial of something. "Simon," he giggled and chuckled, "when you've put the clothes on, sprinkle this on yourself, over top of your body. Please?" I reached for what he was holding. "It's a little bit of Santa's magic Christmas dust. You'll love what it does!" Like a zombie, I carried all the boxes to the washroom, a gigantic tiled area with mirrors everywhere. By the bookstore. I left my new clothes on a dry part of the mile-long counter, and moved down a few sinks. Running water and plenty of paper towels from the dispenser got me clean and dry. My work clothes were a mess, though. Even the tails of my shirt got cum on them, tucked into my pants as they were. My underwear was liquidy. My trousers would need laundering. The top of my socks were wet. The boss might have to buy new clothes for the guys next year. Once dry, I stood there naked and just gazed at Santa's gifts. For minutes on end. I'd just orgasmed, and yet I was once again erect, which stunned me. I'd never been that fast at recovery. I stood there and looked at this lingerie, and that dress, my mind playing for me a movie of sorts, a medley, a scattering of images from multiple scenes, different moments of my life, bundled together and zoomed in and out in microseconds. All of them the real images of when I adored women's clothes. Which was a life-long obsession. Santa was right, I did ask for this dress, six years ago. I always reasoned away the guilt of such silly feminine behavior by telling myself it was a phase I was going through, and that I'd outgrown it. I'd moved on. I tried to make it in the world as a single normal straight man; I tried to find a girlfriend and develop a relationship and finally have sex. I managed a few dates, but that was it. I was still a virgin. Now, I was completely naked, the bottoms of my feet getting cold from the industrial floor tiles. I was slightly hopping back and forth on the balls of my feet. Mesmerized by the clothes. And the idea of wearing them. And the idea of finally getting to be feminine. And then the monstrous idea of finally getting to show myself to another human being. A man. A big man. A big handsome man, muscular and tanned and with an amazing bulge. OH MY GOD, I SAID IT!! A man whose smile makes me melt inside. A man who seemed to want to see this new me. This real me. A man who, should I even think it, might want to...well...dare I even go there?...hold me, like a man holds a woman? Kiss me, like a man kisses a woman? Could it possibly happen that this man would want to give me the ultimate present, the one I've only dreamed about since as far back as I can remember, the one that goes farther and more out there than any other wish? Would a masculine mature man want to make love to me? To a person like me? A young man, dressed as his feminine self? The answers didn't matter, as it turned out. I slipped on the garter belt, and then gently rolled the stockings up my legs, fumbling a bit before finally hooking them up. Then the panties went shimmering up my legs, touching me in ways I'd never known before. The bra was harder to do, but I eventually figured it out. I gazed in the mirror, and in the image from the mirrors behind me. Front and back. Three sixty. I felt that slight glow inside again, like the volcano, getting ready to rumble. The vision I saw behind me was everything I'd ever yearned for, the one that I always assumed would never happen for real. Ever. But here I was. YES! YES! YES YES YES!!! My legs looked so sexy, the stockings clinging to my curves like the kindest whisper. My ass arced and glowed in the light, the panties curving in sexy bends, my back lithe and supple, the straps of my bra cutting my upper back into interesting geometric shapes. My hair, long at the back, because I haven't been able to afford a haircut in weeks. I looked like a photograph in a catalogue. Then the shoes started talking to me. 'Put us on. Wear us. You want to. You've always wanted to.' I swear I could hear them. I decided to follow their direction. And they fit like a glove. I had to hang on to the edge of the sink while putting them on, and both my ankles weebled and wobbled for a perilously long time, but eventually I got the hang of it, and I stood proud, my chest pointing out, my rear end pushed back, the back of my legs taut and curvy and sexy as hell. I got to enjoy that for a few moments, until I realized that the only way I could put the dress on, if I chose to go that far, would be to step into it. So I took the shoes off. And I stepped into the dress. I had to wriggle and bend a little bit, but it slipped and slid up my smooth skin and came to rest on my shoulders exactly how it should be. How it was meant to be, by a designer who knew how to create beauty for the beautiful. Then I slid back into the shoes. I stood up, and looked at myself again. In the mirrors. Front and back. And all I could see was me. Me. The way I'd always felt, deep down. The way I'd always hoped to look, deep down, in that part of me that I never shared with anyone else. The real part of me. The true part of me. Me. The little vial opened easily, and I held it above my head, closed my eyes, and sprinkled. I felt a rush go through my body, from the top of my head down to my toes, nestled as they were in the sexiest pair of women's heels I'd ever seen. When I opened my eyes, I had to stop myself from crying. Santa's magic Christmas dust had changed me. I had makeup on, perfectly applied, from my eyes to my cheeks to my lips, now big and rounded and as red as a fire engine. My fingernails had the same colour, on both hands. And there were earrings hanging down the side of my neck, large hoops, and a necklace dipping towards my cleavage, and bracelets on both wrists, and shiny rings on some of my fingers. Somehow I knew that my toenails were painted too. Such was the power of Santa. Who, I suddenly realized, was waiting for me. For me. The real me. I walked out of the public bathroom, leaving my stained clothes strewn on the counter. And this was not the same walk that I'd used my entire life. This walking was led by my groin, and my chest. This walking, in four inch heels, meant that I had to move my hips and pelvis differently. I had to coordinate their movements so as not to keel over. The sound of each heel hitting the tile floors of the mall were like rifle reports, shot after shot after shot, as I got closer to Santa's workshop. Any worries I had about him still being there were gone in an instant, when I heard his humming. It vibrated through me, and propelled me forward faster. I came around the corner. There he was. The biggest smile I've ever seen. Sitting on his throne, his legs lewdly splayed again, his bulge prominent and noteworthy; he was humming louder, and chuckling. All that noise stopped a moment later. Santa leapt to his feet, gracefully, and his tanned face flushed with even more color. His eyes narrowed a little bit, focussing on me. I just stood there, looking up at him, nervous about his response. Did I look as good as he'd hoped? Would the real me, this new version of me, would he find it attractive? Would he react the way a virile man would, seeing a feminine creature in front of him, silently begging for his approval? For long uncomfortable moments, there was no reaction from him. Then, when doubts about myself had just begun entering my brain, everything changed. Santa started smiling. Then Santa started chuckling again. Little bits of laughter, happy and joyous sounds. Then they ramped up. Then he started getting louder. And louder. Then, his voice boomed throughout the cavernous mall. HO HO HO HO HO!!! His joy covered me, coated me, with feelings I'd never had before. Pride. Ardor. Delicious femininity. Santa loved me! I stood straighter, and pushed my boobs out. I mean, of course, I didn't really have boobs. But the bra he'd given me was a push-up, and the perfect size for me, and took what chest flesh I did have and made them look like boobs. My nipples, I realized, were harder than steel in the bra cups. My little penis, I realized, was equally hard. In my sexy panties. That volcano-like feeling inside me was ratcheting up again. Santa spread his arms open, the universal sign of welcoming. Did he want me to hug him? I hoped so, but I couldn't be sure. At first. Then, about a millionth of a second later, I knew. On auto-pilot, I started closing the distance between us. His smile was larger, his laughter louder, and his arms grew wider. I could almost hear his thoughts. Come to me, my beautiful child. I walked right into his arms, right into his grip, right into his body. He was bigger than me, and taller than me, and his arms felt like gigantic snakes, like boa constrictors, as they closed around me, pulling me into him, enveloping me, accepting me, honoring me, justifying me. His rock hard chest moved up and down faster now, with his excitement building. My made up face nestled in the crook of his neck. His belly poked at me. And the bulge I'd seen earlier poked at me too. It felt like he had another arm, or something alive in his pants. My inner volcano started getting warmer, and more excited. His voice wafted down at me. "Merry Christmas, sweet child. It's so wonderful that you believe in me again." I nodded, into his neck. "I do, Santa," I whispered, sincerely. "I do believe in you." He moved his head, and I moved mine, because I knew he wanted me to look at him. To look up at him. Into his eyes, twinkling with the most honest vitality I'd ever known. "You're not alone anymore," he said, the words landing on me like truth. "I know your greatest desires, and I know you've never been able to find them. I've seen your sadness, your disappointment. You've never been able to realize your potential, or to realize the heights of joy you can achieve." He looked at me with more intensity. "Santa knows you are a virgin. And I know that this is your coming out." Just hearing him say the word made tears form in my eyes. "No, child," he whispered, his voice soothing and supporting, somehow knowing my discomfort, my silly pride hit, at my lack of sexuality. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about, sweetheart. You just haven't had the right opportunity yet. But now," he paused, "now that you believe in me again, like you did all those years ago, I can finally tell you your true name." "My true name?" He nodded. "Not the boy name you were given by your parents. Your true name." Then he paused. Then he smiled again. "Virginia." He roared out some new HO HO HO's. His body shook with delight, and glee, his motions reverberating through me. Then he squeezed me back into his arms again, harder than before. I'd never felt so warm. So loved. So totally at peace with myself. So lovely. So beautiful. So sexy. And all because I believed in him again. "Yes, Virginia," he boomed, "there really is a Santa Claus." We giggled together, hugging each other. I felt happier than I'd ever been. And then I felt his bulge get bigger, pressed up against me as it was. I was amazed that that was even possible. Moments later, not breaking our hug, I looked up at him. "What should I call you? Do you prefer Santa? Or Kris? Or...? I'm sorry, but Santa seems so, well, so child-like, and, well, I'm an adult now. I don't feel like a child anymore." He smiled, from ear to ear, and boomed out more laughter. "Well, my sexy Virginia," he replied, "you are definitely not a child anymore. In fact, you're one step away from being a fully-grown beautiful woman. But," he continued, "to answer your question, in some parts of the world I am Kris Kringle, you're right, so you can call me Kris, if you like. In other parts, I'm known as Father Christmas, so you could call me..." I interrupted him. "Daddy?" I asked excitedly. Santa roared with delight, his laughter booming out and echoing around the glass and tiles and wide-open spaces of the mall. "YES!" he bellowed. "Call me Daddy!" We hugged and hugged. For minutes on end. Then we grew silent, feeling each other breathe, feeling each other move. Finally, he moved his head again, and I moved mine. I looked up into his eyes. He looked down into mine. And I knew, more than I knew anything, what would happen next. I wanted it. I needed it. I yearned for it. My heart stopped, briefly, anticipating it. His big full lips, plump and quivering, descended onto mine. A kiss. And yet, more than that. As his mouth touched mine, I breathed out the heaviest sigh of my life. YES DADDY! We kissed. It was all-consuming. It was an affirmation. It was the holiest of holies. It was the start of my new life, my new existence. It was everything a kiss should be, multiplied by about a quadrillion billion trillion. I felt the world slip away, all the worries and dramas and fears and stresses. There was just this. Being held by this handsome man, in his arms, his passion for me obvious, his desire for me as plain as anything, his lips moving against mine, tasting me, teasing me, and tempting me. It was the greatest kiss of all time. When his tongue touched mine, our lips opening together, I moaned into his mouth. And he moaned into mine. My hands found themselves moving, caressing his body, through his suit. His hands did the same, touching me here there and everywhere, his warmth and lust fueling my volcano, the one inside, the roiling and bubbling growing and growing in my belly. He was stoking the fire that burned within me. Within us. Finally, after minute upon minute of the best kiss I'd ever known, or even knew could be possible, he pulled his head away, and then, much to my disappointment, pulled his arms away as well. He stepped back, one entire step. Then he smiled again, and giggled again. "And now, Virginia," he intoned, "you have one more present to open tonight." I looked around, to my left and right, but couldn't see any other packages wrapped with that special paper I'd seen on my previous gifts. His kiss had left me swooning. I looked at him, a little confusion on my face. "Which present, Daddy?" I asked, my voice soft and dainty. He spread his arms wide, as wide as he could. "Me." It took me a moment, but then I understood. I rushed, faster than the most impatient kid on Christmas morning. My hands, with my new painted fingernails, made quick work of his tunic. The buttons were large, and easily manipulated. His massive chest was suddenly exposed, and I bent my head and planted kisses everywhere I could see. His collar bones, his pecs, his arms, bare and muscular. His nipples, rosy red and covered in the softest finest forest of white hair. I made Santa moan out loud when I sucked on them. They were as sweet and delicious as any chocolate candy I'd ever found in my stocking. In between licking and slurping on his nipples, I would steal more kisses from his lips. He was humming, deep down in his chest. I recognized the melody. Have a holly jolly Christmas... For the first time in my life, I finally realized just how jolly Christmas could be. When my hands reached for his belt, Santa roared with laughter. When his pants fell to the floor, Santa roared again, even louder. Santa goes commando. His face showed pride, and joy, and glee, and indescribable pleasure. Mine did as well. As if I'd been doing it my entire life, I sank to my knees. I looked up at him, at those eyes, burning with lust. "Daddy," I giggled, "you've brought me the best present ever." Santa's smile became warmer, and his hands gently reached to stroke his fingers through my hair. "Not quite yet, sweet Virginia," he whispered, "but soon." And then he guided my mouth to his cock. My red lips parted, and I gladly sucked him inside me. His cock was huge, throbbing and pulsing and already coated at the head with the clearest sweetest liquid, which touched my taste buds and made me moan out the highest-pitched delight I'd ever imagined. It was sweet! Like Peppermint! I'd never been here, in my life, but it was as if I knew exactly what to do. What I wanted to do, for him, to show him how much I now believed in him, and how much his support and love had changed me, just in the last hour. I was no longer that lonely young man, searching for answers to the questions of my life. I was Virginia, the woman I was always meant to be. Sucking her man's cock. I sucked that cock as if my life depended on it. I tongued his head, I slathered his shaft with my saliva, I inhaled both his hefty balls and murmured my love for him around them, making them vibrate in my mouth and sending him on a wave of joy. His laughter and chuckling morphed into moans, delightful ones, gleeful ones. His voice was seriously sexy as he approached his orgasm. Which, I suddenly realized, was imminent. And which, I also realized, I wanted more than anything else in the world. His huge fingers entwined in my hair more and more. He wasn't pressuring me, or forcing me to do anything. He was simply showing me his passion through his touch. As I was slurping and bobbing on his huge erection, swallowing every little drop of that candy-cane tasting precum, burbling and spurting up out of his pee hole, I just increased the amount of my oral love for him, increased the sucking, and increased the tonguing. I ramped it all up. And for my efforts I was rewarded, with the greatest present I'd ever received to that point in my life. Santa moaned out my name, in between bellows of chuckling laughter, and his hands got more intense on my scalp, and I moved myself closer to him, taking as much of him as I could into my mouth and the entrance to my throat, everything contracting and expanding inside me, every muscle and ligament and my tongue all working together to milk him, to make him explode. Then he did. His moan was the loudest thing I've ever heard. I was sure the other security guards must have heard him, and would have come running. But I didn't care, because in a heartbeat my mouth was filled to the brim with his cream. His cum. It was sweet and salty and tasted like nothing I'd ever had before. It was intoxicating, and invigorating. And oh my god there was so much of it. I just began swallowing, all of it, every drop, every viscous tendril of his love. I took it into me, into my depths, into my soul. Santa just kept moaning, over and over again, in that big voice. Every moan brought another string of his love for me. Every string brought another gulp of delicious cum for me. Finally, when I thought he'd never stop spewing into my mouth, he did. I kept as much of a suction action on him as I could, my mind swirling with a thousand variations of the same thought: I'd just sucked a man's cock, and swallowed all his cum!!!! And I'd never felt more natural, more real, and more me than ever. It took a few minutes, but eventually I released Santa's cock from my oral grip. There was no more to swallow. I'd milked him dry. His eyes finally came open, and looked down at me. There was a fierceness to him now, an almost-feral quality to his face. His nostrils were wide open, like a championship racehorse just getting ready to bolt for the finish line. Those eyes, twinkling before, were practically burning alight now. He reached for me, and stood me up from my knees. My arms went around his head, and his arms went around me. His lips, full and plump and now quivering and moist, found mine. The greatest kiss of all time. I was sharing the remnants of his orgasm with him, our tongues dancing together. He was moaning again, his breath coming out of his nose against my cheeks, the blasts icy cold and smelling like nutmeg. Or cinnamon. And then my world became truly rocked. Throwing open his arms, he reached to the skies, and as if pulling magic out of thin air, suddenly I was being rained on by more of his Christmas dust. I felt it on my skin, settling and sinking into my pores. Then I felt myself moving, of my own volition. I was falling backwards, but not to the ground. I was turning, on the vertical axis, my whole body laying over, becoming horizontal, three feet off the ground. I was floating, at Santa's waist level. HO HO HO! He bellowed. Then my gorgeous lover let me go, dropped to his knees, and spread my legs wide. I felt my dress being gathered up, above my waist. I felt my panties being pulled to one side. Santa's tongue snaked out of him, and straight into me. Santa was eating me out. Getting me wet. I'd never experienced anything so other-worldly, anything so erotic. Santa's humming never stopped. I recognized the song. Have yourself a merry little Christmas. For minutes on end he worked on me, his tongue and lips never stopping. When, for a second, he would pull his tongue out my hole, the cool air of the mall would hit my wet skin, and cause sensations in me unlike any other. It was like I could feel myself opening, could feel myself anticipating something wonderful. Santa didn't let me wait long. A short time later, once I was good and ready, Santa stood up again. His head leaned back, and he gazed at the stars above us, through the glass of the mall's roof structure. Then he nodded, over and over again. It was like he was admitting something, or agreeing with something. Or convincing someone about something. It was like he was signalling something. Yes, this is what is going to happen. I moved my head, and looked at him. His body was pulsing with energy. His chest, his pecs, were rising and falling fast now, like a marathon runner, taking in as much oxygen with each breathe as he could. Santa's cock looked huge again. Even bigger than it looked just before I started sucking him, a few minutes earlier. This time, I had no doubt about where it was headed. Daddy Christmas laid his huge hands on my body, next to my hips, as I floated in mid-air, at his crotch level. All he had to do was gently pull me, towards him, I knew, and it would happen. It would finally happen. Not the way I'd tried to make it happen in my life, the last few years. The normal way. The right way. The way society expected. No, this was not like my self-administered failures. I wasn't about to try to make love to some woman, most likely badly. I wasn't about to lose my v-card in the traditional way, sputtering too soon and apologising like crazy and feeling like a total useless fool afterwards. As I moved towards him, guided by his hands, my legs spread, most certainly voluntarily; most surely as the truest sign of my willingness and wantonness, I waited for the contact. Skin on skin. The skin of his massive cockhead, on the skin of my body, the skin around my hole. Getting ready to penetrate me. And then, just as easily as putting on a glove, he slid me onto himself. All the way. In one massive go. I opened up, in a sudden and unexpected scale, in every direction, without so much as a 'how do you do', and he steered himself into my soul. He pushed his cock into me, all the way, slowly but steadily, like the finest and smoothest probe, until his massive candy cane was fully seated in me, pulsing as it was with his heartbeat. I could feel his pubic hair up against the soft delicate skin of my buttocks, my panties pulled to one side, my hole and the surrounding areas still glistening wet from his tongue. All the way. Santa was balls-deep in my pussy. He leaned over, and I wrapped my arms around his body again. I'd never imagined it could feel like this. I had nothing to compare it to, never having done it before, but one thing I was totally sure of. It was perfect. It was the most perfect moment of my life. Santa was inside me. Santa was filling me. Santa was connected to me in the most intimate way. We were joined, we were as one, we were as close as two human beings can ever be. And then he began kissing me again. His tongue entered my mouth again, taking me, making me his. I never wanted anything more in my life. I was floating, three feet off the ground, wearing the sexiest clothes I'd ever seen, and with a man in my arms. Kissing him, caressing him, tasting him. But more importantly, I was taking him. Into my body. Into the very core of my soul. SANTA WAS FUCKING ME!!!!!!!! He began to withdraw his huge cock from me, my inner channel feeling empty as he did. And then, just before the tip of his cock slipped out of me, his hips flexed, and he changed direction, and slid that beautiful cock into me once more. All the way. Slowly. Deliberately. Sensuously. Romantically. Purposefully. His kisses never stopped, the sweet minty smell of his breath and taste of his tongue filling my senses, as we floated on air, him on top of me, my legs wrapped around his massive body, trying to pull more of him inside me. He withdrew again, slowly. He filled me again, slowly. This same pattern went on for minute after minute after minute. My own little cock was as hard as it had ever been, trapped between his body and mine. The most delightful pressure happened every time he moved, and the feelings of rapture started my inner volcano going again, rumbling and roiling. Time became irrelevant. I know we carried on for a long period, more than just a few seconds. He slowly slid in and out of me for ten, twenty, thirty minutes. Then he decided to put some effort into it. All of a sudden, his lips left mine, and he roared up to the sky. "YES! I TOLD YOU!!!" Then he started fucking me. His in and out motions became faster, and harder. We weren't kissing anymore. He kept his face in front of mine, our eyes locked together. There was sweat on his forehead, building up. My breathing was starting to match his thrusts. Every time he bottomed out in me, my whole body would rock from his force, and my lungs would empty out in a huge "UNGH!" kind of sound. Then, when he withdrew, I would take in air, through my teeth, in large gulps. Then he'd pound me, and I'd exhale. Out he'd go, and in my breath would go. In he'd go, and out I'd go. He sped up again, and roared to the sky again. "I TOLD YOU!!!" I had to know. Between my gasps of air, I asked him who he was talking to. In between his mighty lungful's of air, which were huge, and matched the strokes of his fantastic cock inside me, he smiled. It was the biggest smile I've ever seen in my life. "Rudolph," he breathed out, "and the rest of them." I looked up, around his head, through the glass roof and to the stars. "I can't see them," I grunted out, between two moans, as his hips had circled a little bit and he was now touching something inside of me that made me want to shout. He looked me in the eyes, fiercely. "You have to believe in them to see them, Virginia." Then he started pounding me. Like a pneumatic drill, his cock began to steadily do its work. Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! Pound! Like a clock. He fucked me hard, and steady. He never lost his timing, or his energy. It struck me that he was so much older than me, that he'd been around for hundreds of years. For an old guy, he sure could fuck. POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND! POUND! My volcano started burbling more, getting louder and rougher. Santa's pace picked up. I was literally floating on air, with my new Daddy on top of me, his gloriously hard dripping cock fucking the living daylights out of me. I was babbling, when I could find energy to make noise that wasn't a grunt or a moan. "...I love you, Daddy...fuck me, Daddy...the best Christmas ever...make me cum, Daddy...the most wonderful time of the year..." So Daddy decided to take things to a whole new level. His pneumatic pounding became a thing of the past. Santa began pummelling me. His hips and groin moved faster, and faster still. WHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAMWHAM The sound of our bodies thudding together became louder than anything. Louder than everything. Our skin slapping, as he drove his cock into me and I moved my ass up every time to get more of him into me, became the greatest Christmas carol of all. slapslapslapslapSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP My volcano started erupting. I looked up, and through the glass of the atrium I saw nine deer-like faces staring down at me. One of them had the shiniest red nose. All of them were smiling. All of the reindeer were happy. Happy for Santa, I'm sure. And for me as well, I realized. Two of them started nuzzling each other, their eyes closed, that look upon their faces. My brain recognized their mood. They'd be making love soon too! Daddy Santa increased his tempo yet again, which brought me back to the ground. Well, three feet above it. Now he was assaulting me, with his cock. His body was a blur, moving faster than any human has ever moved before, increasing the pleasure I was giving him, my pussy flexing and grabbing onto his shaft, my insides pulling at him, wanting him inside me, now entirely comfortable with the forced expansion, now desperately trying to keep it all going. I WAS BEING MADE LOVE TO, LIKE I'D ALWAYS WANTED!!! The years of wishing, my life of wanting something I never thought I'd ever get, my entire existence of pining to be the feminine human I knew I secretly was, it all came to fruition, there, in Santa's Workshop, in my local mall. Santa fucked me for a long time. I lost most of my consciousness during it. I came all over myself three or four times, my volcano erupting and then cooling and then erupting and cooling. Santa just kept getting longer and stronger and kept fucking me harder and harder. But all good things must end, it's said. I was screaming out the word. "DADDY!!!!" He started babbling the same phrase over and over again. "Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus." Then he got louder. "HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS! HERE COMES SANTA CLAUS!" The last thing I remember is Santa shouting out my name, screaming the word 'Virginia' into the night, louder than a police siren. I erupted. The largest, most all-consuming volcanic eruption ever. And I blacked out. When I awoke, my eyes fixed on the huge clock in the mall. It said it was just after five in the morning. By my immediate calculation, Santa had made love to me for almost two hours. I was laying on my back, on the floor. My body felt tired, like I'd run a marathon. And I could feel a veritable lake of cum oozing out me, slipping out of my gaping hole. My now not-so virgin hole. Moving my finger between my legs, I coated one painted fingertip in the white gooey goodness, and brought it to my lips. Peppermint. I laughed out loud. "I love Christmas!" There was a note, on the floor, next to my head. My vision took a few seconds to focus on it. It was in handwriting that seemed foreign to me, and yet familiar too. Make every day like Christmas day The best day of the year Wear sexy clothes, you've lots of those And spread your feminine cheer When Christmas comes, inside your bum You'll hear angels cry out "Wow!" For glory is, in Santa's jizz You're a special woman now. The End.