Ultimate Santa Claus Fantasy: Ho, Ho, Ho with a Sizzling Surprise

My head was still pounding from the monumental amount of booze I’d knocked back the night before. Groaning, I stumbled down the stairs from my bedroom. As I shuffled through the living room stark naked—my usual nightwear—to get to the kitchen, something caught my eye. There, perched smugly in my favourite armchair, was a figure dressed in red, complete with white beard and that tell-tale floppy hat.

Without a second glance, I growled, “Go home, Walter. I’m not in the mood today.”

To my utter shock, the older bloke with the jolly round belly didn’t reply in the voice of my occasional lover. No, this voice was deeper, older, and far too chipper for this ungodly hour.

“You’ve changed quite a bit, Chris, since I last saw you.”

I froze and looked at him properly this time. Bloody hell. Sitting in my living room was some random geezer dressed as Santa Claus, grinning at me like a cat with cream. Not surprising, really—given I was as naked as a peeled banana.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here, and who are you?” I growled, though I couldn’t muster much more than a half-hearted snarl. My energy reserves were lower than Santa’s sleigh without reindeer. Spotting a discarded men’s white shirt—no doubt left behind by Walter—I lunged for it and pulled it on in a rush.

Of course, Walter’s a wiry bloke, and my, let’s say, abundant assets weren’t exactly playing ball. The buttons refused to cooperate over my chest, so I had to hold the shirt closed to stop it from gaping wide open. Not that it helped much—through the sheer fabric, my curves were still teasingly visible, and my freshly shaved private parts were on full display for the cheeky perv who’d broken into my house. The nerve of him, lounging there in a Santa suit like he was auditioning for some naughty Christmas special.

Desperate for even a shred of modesty, I managed to fasten a couple of the lower buttons, enough to stop myself from being completely starkers.

“The most valuable thing in here is the telly or my eight-year-old laptop in the kitchen. So take what you want and sod off before I call the police.”

But the cheeky sod didn’t budge. Instead, he smiled and said, “I got your letter, Chris.”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, you’re committing to the bit, aren’t you?” I muttered. Then, I noticed the bulky red sack at his feet and glanced around. Oddly enough, everything seemed to be in its place. The telly, my new iPad, even my prized Cartier sunglasses collection—still untouched. My jewellery box was exactly as I’d left it.

Confused now, I turned back to the intruder. He didn’t seem like the usual opportunistic thief, but still…

As if reading my thoughts, the cheerful old codger rolled his eyes dramatically, tapped his rosy nose, and—poof—he vanished.

“I told you, I got your letter.”

I spun around, heart racing, and there he was, now lounging on the sofa across the room.

“Holy fuck!” I gasped.

“First things first,” he said, ignoring my expletive. “You used to leave out mince pies and sherry for me.”

“Fuck,” I muttered again, staring at him, now just a metre away. He looked… well, magical, like he’d stepped straight out of a Christmas card: twinkling eyes like he’d nicked stars from the night sky, a beard so white it could outshine freshly fallen snow, and a belly that wobbled when he laughed—if he laughed, which, judging by his expression, he was ready to do at my expense. His red suit was immaculate, the trim whiter than a well-bleached sheet, and the boots shone so bright you could probably see your reflection in them. Oh, and that smell—like cinnamon, fresh pine, and just a hint of brandy.

“Sherry and a pie,” I parroted back, confused, glancing around as though I didn’t bloody well know my cupboards were as bare as a reindeer stable in July. Unless Father Christmas fancied two-day-old pizza or the dusty bottle of brandy I’d dragged back from Greece last year, he was out of luck.

“Hmmm,” I mused aloud, “I’m making coffee. Fancy joining me for a cuppa?”

His thick white brows shot up in amusement, and he gave a hearty nod. “Truth be told, I’ve had my fill of milk and booze for one morning,” he said with a jolly chuckle, patting his round belly like it was the star attraction. “Coffee sounds smashing.”

I made my way to the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker and setting out a couple of mugs. Without turning to face my unexpected festive guest, I raised my voice just enough. “My letter? What, from when I was eight or nine? Can’t say I remember what I scribbled back then…”

“Oh no, Chris,” he interrupted, voice rich and knowing. “I’m talking about the one you wrote just a few days ago. Got it here somewhere.”

With two steaming mugs in hand, I headed back into the room, acutely aware of the way my big rounded boobs bounced under the sheer white shirt and how every step offered a peek of my smooth pussy. I quickened my pace, eager to put an end to this accidental peep show.

But as I neared him, a wicked little thought crept into my mind—there was something strangely arousing about it. I shook my head briskly, trying to banish such improper notions. After all, this was supposed to be Santa Claus, the magical hero of my childhood. Not some randy rogue crashing my Christmas morning.

“Actually, I don’t go by Chris anymore. It’s Christine, if you don’t mind.”

“Alright then, Christine. I’ve found your letter.”

The moment he says it, the memory smacks me square in the face. I remember exactly the circumstances under which that blasted thing was written. My best mate had her birthday a few nights ago, and in the swirl of booze and bad decisions, one of us—though I’ve a sinking feeling it was me—had the genius idea to not only write a letter to Santa but… No. I didn’t. Surely, I didn’t! My stomach twists with mortification.

“Here it is,” he declares, pulling out the offending paper. “Dear Santa, I know it must be freezing at the North Pole, but I wish for you to have a really big, thick cock…”

“Oh, no,” I gasp, my voice strangled with horror as my legs give way, and I all but collapse into the chair like a woman defeated. “Stop. Please.”

Santa lowers the letter, his twinkling eyes crinkling with delight. “Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckles, the sound rich and knowing, a merry mockery that makes me want to crawl under the rug.

And that cheeky smirk behind his beard? The old bugger’s thoroughly enjoying himself.

The bearded man, decked out head-to-toe in red, furrowed his brow ever so slightly and, in the kind of fatherly tone that could coax a confession out of a hardened sinner, gestured for me to sit on his lap. He patted his thighs with a gentle but expectant rhythm, like he had all the time in the world and knew exactly what he was doing.

I felt like a naughty little girl again, caught out for sneaking extra sweets or scribbling on the walls, terrified I’d blown my chances at getting the dolly or those desperately wanted jeans I’d begged for.

With a deep breath, I stood, my legs shaky as I shuffled closer. Hesitation prickled at me as I lowered myself onto his lap. Am I really just sitting on the lap of the real Santa Claus and practically shoving my big boobs in his face? If I can see my nipples clearly through the see-through fabric, he can see them too. And down below, my open shirt brazenly reveals my wetting pussy?

“So, Christine,” he murmured, his deep voice like warm brandy on a frosty night. “Have you been nice or naughty?”

I looked up at him, his merry eyes locking onto mine with the kind of twinkle that could only belong to Santa himself. He smelled of sugar cookies, pine needles, and winter’s chill—all heady and intoxicating.

Maybe it was the remnants of last night’s cocktails still buzzing in my veins, or maybe it was the tantalising pull of the moment, but I decided then and there to let go of nice altogether.

I was going to be very, very naughty.

“I’ve been misbehaving, Santa,” I growl in the magical father figure’s ear. “I can’t help but love giant dicks. Big, veiny, throbbing…”

“Christina, stop,” he admonished me, but I kept talking.

I get up, walk around him, and lay in his lap so that I have my naked breasts that have slipped out of my shirt in his crotch – maybe I helped a little – and my bulging naked ass ready to his right.

“I deserve to be punished and spanked,” I say. My voice quivers with anticipation and excitement. He doesn’t say anything. I don’t move. It takes a few seconds, no more, before his right hand moves. His big, cold palm gently strokes my buttocks, more like he’s feeling the terrain. Then he pulls his hand away and claps, his palm landing on my arse as he slaps me across it. And again. And again.

“Tell me how naughty you’ve been,” Santa says in his deep voice, adding his own “ho, ho, ho” laugh.

I won’t be goaded twice.

“I seduced my neighbor last week,” I say. “I knew his wife wasn’t home, so I rang the bell and asked him for some plain flour. He invited me in, telling me to look in their pantry, himself having no idea what flours were like or how to identify them. I spilled some of the plain flour on my shirt and so I took the shirt off in front of him.”

“Naughty, naughty Christine,” Santa Claus says, spanking my bare bottom again.

I hold on, my breasts still buried in his crotch, and I can feel something happening in that crotch. A bulge of some kind is starting to press into my right nipple.

I keep talking.

“I wet a hand towel I found in his bathroom and asked him to wash my tits of the flour. He looked surprised, but took the towel and began to wash my breasts. He started to rub them, and I grabbed his dick through the household pants.”

“You have been very, very naughty, Christine,” Santa Claus says in his fatherly voice. He slaps my ass again, harder this time. And I’m not sure if his hand slipped or if he did it on purpose, but this time he didn’t slap me across my arse cheek, but right across my butthole. His palm and fingers stopped there for a moment.

I kept on talking.

“I gave my boss a blow job last month,” I explained. The bulge in Santa Claus’s pants was now unmissable, and my wish for him to have a big, fat cock had come true. I only know for sure after I feel into his crotch and pull his hard, throbbing dick out of his pants. It was now rubbing against my naked breasts, which were still pressed against his lap.

I continued talking.

“I’m going to my mother’s for Christmas dinner tonight. Her new partner will be there. I have a plan to seduce him. I’ve bought a new dress for the occasion. If you pour water on it, it will become transparent. I’m not going to wear anything under the dress, and I plan to open the champagne and then pour it on myself in front of him. My mother will scold me. She’ll scream, she’ll yell, like she did when my father lived with us. And when she slams the door and leaves, saying she won’t come out of the bathroom while I’m in there, that’s when I plan to fuck her new partner. Just like I fucked the one she had before him.”

I’m gently rubbing Santa Claus’ hard cock with my breasts as I speak.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he says huskily.

At the same time, I straddle him so that when he wants to give me another good smack on my ass, the blow ends up on my wet, shaved pussy. I growl in pleasure, earning myself another, harder blow.

“Yes, Santa,” I say, rolling a little to the side. “I’m a very, very naughty girl.”

As soon as I finish saying that, I grab Santa’s giant cock and suck it all into my mouth. At the same time, I hear the jingle of bells, and then I clearly feel Santa shoving sleigh bells into my gaping, wet, eager cunt . The tinkling continues, it’s a little more subdued now, and it echoes from inside me as Santa Claus fucks me with the sleigh bells while I suck his cock.

It could have lasted at least half an hour, when Santa and I exchanged Christmas presents. I sucked his hard candy cane really heartily while his jingle bells played seek and find with my wet pussy. He must have decided that even naughty girls deserve love because he artfully guided me to a powerful climax. When his sweet Christmas snow ended up in my mouth too, but this time it was slick and hot, and to show my goodwill to get better, I obediently swallowed.

Soon I was shamefully buttoning up my white shirt as far as my curves would allow, and Santa Claus, too, once again looked like a good-natured fairy tale character, fully dressed in his red and white suit. He slings a large red sack over his shoulder, a sign that I have been so mischievous that perhaps I don’t even deserve a lump of coal.

Without a word, without saying goodbye, Santa grabbed his nose and poof, he was gone.

A giant bottle of champagne lay where he had stood only moments before. I smile. Time to get ready for my mother’s holiday dinner.

Ho, Ho, Ho! Make Sure Santa Knows You’re Nice… Or Extra Naughty – Drop a Donation!