Excessica Anthology BOX SET Winter (8 page)

I nudged him and teased, “I bet you can really fill out a Santa suit.”

The bell above the outside door tinkled as a late customer wandered in.
Chris glanced out the pass-through window and lowered his voice. “You really
have the hots for Santa?” he asked.

“Shyeah,” I replied. “I think he’s damn sexy for an old guy. Hell, I’d
blow him.” I started for the front counter, but turned back at the kitchen doorway.
“I’d blow most anyone in a Santa suit, to be honest. That’s something to think
about.”

As I went to wait on the customer, I knew Chris’s mind wasn’t on anything
else.

*
* * *

Chris waited until the week of Christmas before he asked again about my
silly Santa fetish. “Were you serious?” he wanted to know. “Anyone in a suit?”
Something in the way he asked made me think that he planned on renting one of
his cousin’s suits, and I wondered just what I’d do when he came through the
door, clomping in big black boots like the jolly old elf himself. But it
was
the holidays, was it not? A charitable time of the year? Back in college, I’d
hooked up with guys I didn’t even remember afterwards. What harm could a little
fellatio between co-workers bring? It’d get Chris off with someone other than
himself for once in his life and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t like it. I’m
all about sucking dick—for me, it’s better than intercourse. A fuck’s
always over too quickly for my tastes but a good blowjob, done properly, really
lingers. By the time I clocked in for my shift on Christmas Eve, I was
decided—if Chris actually
did
rent a Santa suit and
wore it to work, I’d suck him off. Chances were he’d wimp out, or come all over
himself in his enthusiasm, and I wouldn’t have to do more than laugh, but I
would play it by ear and see what happened. ‘Tis the season, right?

Chris showed up at work ten minutes late, flushed and breathing heavy but
dressed in his usual T-shirt and jeans. I was so surprised, I almost asked where
the suit was. I had been so
sure
he’d get one. But as he tied on his
apron, he grinned at me. “Santa Claus is coming tonight,” he said. “Have you
been a good boy, Patrick?”

I laughed, I
knew
it—he had the suit in his car then, and
would find some excuse to go out later in his shift and change. “I can be
better,” I promised.

The night dragged on. Every time the door opened, cold air sliced through
the torpid warmth in the main room and chilled me behind the counter. As the
clock counted down to midnight, the customers thinned and then disappeared
altogether. I locked the cash register and leaned in the doorway between the
front counter and the kitchen. “Merry fucking Christmas,” I growled.

Chris whirled around, burger in hand, and licked his fingers as he glanced
at the clock, then almost choked when he saw the time. “I gotta take out the
trash,” he said, dropping the burger on the sandwich counter in his haste. The
words sounded rehearsed, as if he had stood there turning them over in his head
as an excuse to go outside and get into the suit. Sure enough, the trash bags
were already tied and waiting at the back door. I made a move to help him, but
he said, “No, I’ve got them. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

With a shrug, I grabbed a nearby rag and began wiping down the counter
while I waited. A few minutes later, the front door opened, its bell eclipsed
by the jingling of sleigh bells. I laughed out loud—damn, that was quick!
Leaving the rag on the counter, I called out, “Coming!”
In more ways than
one
, I wanted to add, almost as anxious as Chris probably was to get it on.
I hurried out of the kitchen and stopped short when I saw… “Santa Claus!”

“Hello, Patrick.” The voice was deeper than Chris’s—once this
role-play was over, I’d have to ask him how long he’d been practicing to make
it sound so different—but he’d been right about his cousin’s costume
skills. I looked him over twice and still wasn’t sure if it was really him
under there. The red suit looked rumpled and well-worn, the fur that lined it more
to keep the cold out than for appearances. A red Santa hat was pulled down
tight over his ears. His beard, thick and white as snow, looked real. White
gloves and black boots and the thickest black belt I’ve ever seen completed the
image. Santa Claus, by God.
Chris
, my mind whispered, but the child
inside me refused to listen. This was Santa. My dick grew two sizes inside my
pants, and I smoothed my apron down to hide the sudden erection.

With a merry laugh, Santa rubbed his gloved hands together and asked,
“Might I trouble you for some coffee?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “Just
something to take the chill off, that’s all I need. I was glad to see your
Open
sign, believe me. I don’t relish another stop at Wal-Mart tonight. Too many
people, to be honest, and the coffee’s not all that great, either. Patrick?”

“This is so cool,” I sighed. My body went through the motions of pouring
the coffee without much help from my brain—I couldn’t stop staring at
Santa.
Chris as Santa
, I corrected, but the thought wouldn’t stay in
place. As I brought the coffee out to him, Santa sat down at one of the tables
and leaned back, eyes shut, savoring the quiet and stillness of the moment. I
set the coffee down in front of him and stood there, unsure of what to do. My
blood raced with sudden lust—it was the Santa suit, definitely, and the
fact that going down on a childhood icon was so inherently
wrong
that I
could’ve come just
thinking
about it. It was one thing to say yeah, I
think Santa’s sexy, but it was another altogether to be standing here in front
of him, my chances slipping away with each sip he took of his coffee. When he
was finished the drink, then what? He took off the beard and became Chris
again? I didn’t want that to happen, didn’t want the moment to end, but I stood
like a little kid terrified in Santa’s presence now that it was finally my turn
to tell him what I wanted.

Before I could think of anything to say or do, Santa opened his eyes and
saw me still beside him. In a gravelly voice, he said, “It’s been quite a long
time since you last sat on my knee.”

I almost creamed myself at the thought of snuggling into his lap. My
voice sounded distant to my own ears when I replied, “I’ve grown up a bit since
then.” But when he held out his hand, I took it and let him pull me down to
sit.

His strong arm circled my waist. This close, it was impossible to look
into his face, so I stared at the buttons on his coat instead, my fingers finding
them among the fur as my hand trailed down Santa’s ample belly. When I reached
his belt, I plucked at the buckle and tried to talk myself into going lower. I
wanted to,
God
I wanted to, I wanted to go down on this man as if to
thank him personally for all the gifts I’ve ever gotten over the years. I
wanted to find the zipper on his bright red pants, ease it down to expose his
thick cock, and take him as far into my mouth as he could go. I wanted to taste
him in the back of my throat, to feel him trickling into me, to have his large
hands on me as I drank him in. As I stared at my hand on his belt, so close, so
close
, he whispered, “I know what you’re thinking, Patrick.”

Oh Jesus
. The guilty look on my face made him laugh—not the
affected ‘Ho, ho, ho’ of the mall Santas but a deep, belly-shaking chuckle that
I felt in my bones. “You’re thinking that you’ve outgrown the holiday, isn’t
that right?” Relieved, I tried to shake my head and nod at the same time, and
my hand slipped to the bottom of his belt buckle. Closer now. The arm around my
waist tightened. “You’re never too old for Christmas, Patrick. Remember that.
The season of giving lives within you all year long.”

My hand slipped again, my fingers finding the outline of Santa’s dick in
his pillowy crotch. “I have a little present for you,” I told him. His eyes
went wide and I smiled as the cock in my hand moved beneath my touch. “A little
thank you for all the things you’ve ever brought me. Like that bike, when I was
twelve? And the Nintendo before that? All those G.I. Joes?” I watched him
closely, the fear in his face relaxing as I stroked him through his pants. When
he thrust into my hand, I knew I had him. I kissed his cheek—powdery and
soft—
makeup
, I thought, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to
believe it. I wasn’t quite ready to give up this magical moment. Santa thrust
against me again, hard and eager now, and I slid off his lap into the space
between his knees.

I found his zipper, tugged it down, and the full length of his shaft
swung into my face. Sticking out my tongue, I licked the tip of his cock,
tasting salt and sweat and a hint of pre-cum. My hands encircled the base of
his shaft and my thumbs rubbed maddening patterns through his pants into his
soft balls. His cock bobbed in front of me and I caught the tip between my
lips, kissing the bulbous head as I sucked at the slit beneath it. My thumbs
worked at Santa’s testicles, kneading them, loving them, as the legs on either
side of me spread wider. My tongue traced down his dick and back up the thick
length, back to the tip, and once around the head before I took the plunge and
took him in.

A white gloved hand fisted in my hair as I took Santa’s shaft as far into
my mouth as it would go. I twirled my tongue around his hard cock, worshipping
it, sucking in a slow, steady rhythm that made Santa slide down further in his
seat to push more of himself into me. His swollen tip rubbed against the roof
of my mouth as I massaged his balls, the lower length of his dick. My hands
were slick with my own saliva now, the front of his pants damp, his back arched
away from the chair as he thrust into me again and again. Each time my tongue
found the trembling head of his cock, he moaned softly above me, and his
fingers dug into my scalp. In breathless gasps, he sang out a litany of
“Patrick,” and “Oh, please,” and “
Yes
.”

When I let his dick slip from between my lips, a slick glob of come and saliva
dangled from the head for a moment, before spiraling away down his shaft. I
rubbed it into his skin, watching it dissolve beneath my thumb. “Chris,” I
whispered, but I couldn’t,
wouldn’t
, believe it.

The hand in my hair pressed my face to his crotch, insistent. “Patrick,
please,” he sobbed, a crack in his voice that made him sound like an old man.
Another gloved hand reached for his dick but I pushed it away and he fell back
against the chair, weak with desire. “Please.”

Slowly, I licked the tip of his dick. My hands worked along his length,
squeezing and kneading and playing, bringing him closer to orgasm. I concentrated
on his cockhead, kissing it, nipping it with my lips, nuzzling it with my nose
and cheeks and chin. My hand picked up the pace, earnest now, as I started to
jerk him off. My other hand found its way to the front of my jeans, moving the
apron aside to unzip them and lowering my briefs to let my own dick unfurl,
already weeping. I took Santa in my mouth again and sucked at him as I thrust
into my own hand. We came together, my fingers wet and hot from my own juices
as I swallowed his down. I didn’t release him until he went limp.

“Patrick,” he sighed. I wiped my hand on the underside of my apron and stood
as I zipped my jeans up. Santa lay stretched in the chair before me, head
lolling at an angle, arms limp at his sides. Hs large ass barely held onto the
edge of the seat. For a long moment he sat there, unable to move, sprawled
obscenely. Then he began to gather himself together, his motions slow, his
gloved hands rubbing his dick as he tucked it away. When he stood, he had to
pick his pants out of the crack of his ass—that alone told me how much he
enjoyed my little ‘thank you.’ He breathed my name again, his voice shaky with
emotion. “You’ve been a
very
good boy indeed.”

Time to end this role-play. But as I reached for his hat, a clatter arose
from the back storeroom. “Did you lock up when you took out the trash?” I
asked.

Leaning heavily on the table, Santa frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Something’s back there.” I ducked around the front counter and into the
back. Halfway across the kitchen, the storeroom door opened and another Santa
stepped out with a shuffling gait that I recognized all too well. “Chris?” I
asked, incredulous. He looked up—it
was
him, I saw
through the fake beard easily enough. His Santa suit was stiff and new, creases
still folded into the pants and sleeves. “Then who …”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Chris intoned. No deep voice, nothing but the guy I worked
with in a rented costume. Clinging to the illusion, though, he turned around so
I could see the full effect—the boots that squeaked when he moved, the
wide expanse of red cloth that covered his ass. “You like?”

What I
liked
was the dude out in the dining room… “Who’s that out
there?” I wanted to know. “I thought that was you.”

A look of horror crossed Chris’s face and he stood up on his toes, trying
to see out of the pass-through window. A bell jingled as the front door opened.
“Someone’s here? This late?”

“Santa Claus.” I stepped out behind the front counter and surveyed the
suddenly empty dining room. The coffee cup sat on the table where he’d left it,
and the taste of him still lingered in my mouth. “He was right here,” I said
softly, as if trying to convince myself.

My lips pulled into a goofy grin that I tried to tamp down. It couldn’t…
the guy didn’t exist, right? It was just a tale for children, wasn’t it? “Santa
Claus,” I whispered—it couldn’t have been, no way, no
how
, but in
my heart I knew it had. “Jesus, it was really him. It
had
to be.” Chris
gave me a confused look and I tried to find the words to explain the magical
feeling that began to bubble up inside of me. “The real Santa was here,
right
here, I swear it. He came in, and I thought it was you, and so I…”