Granted, it’s most likely not the title for a festive tale you’d expect. But as I flick through another new Christmas story book, I can’t help but exacerbate at the portly graphical representation of Mrs Claus. Of me.
Seemingly, these storytellers all ignore the fact that if Mr Claus is the master of making dreams come true, surely, he’d self-indulge? Wouldn’t you if you could get whatever treat that tickles your fancy?
Or does everyone mistakenly think he is an innocent old man? Yes, he’s got a magical touch, in more ways than one, but let’s be frank, he’s still a red-blooded male and we know how they’re all hard-wired.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got the sultry curves and dangerous contours that he wants and craves. An hourglass figure that has him drooling. God knows he loves gripping hold of me and spanking my cute ass as he ploughs me deeply from behind.
Thankfully last Yule time, he got me Sven to help me keep in shape. My Scandinavian, personal fitness instructor. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed specimen and hunk of the highest order. Sven’s given me a vigorous workout time after time to ensure these hot curves are maintained in tip-top condition. Much as Mr Claus is good, and trust me, he is good, a few extra years on me and his focus on the build up to the big night, he can’t always give me the attention I want. Until then I had never realised how a gym provides so many possibilities with all that equipment to be bent over, straddled and even bound to. Add in the mirrors, plus hot and perspiring bodies – yummy! Needless to say, I’ve spent many hours in the gym and equally Sven in me!
And before those with a moral high ground take offence, know that this arrangement works both ways. For when he is on his travels, of course he indulges with some who have slipped onto the naughty list. It’s a long night and with a tipple of brandy in his belly I’d never deny him some play. Though I must say, some of you ladies have been so troublesome it’s as though you are purposefully looking to be punished by big Saint Nic!
Of course, what’s projected in festive tales isn’t all wrong. I ensure I gave him a good feed before he sets out. Though as the cookies were packed away for the journey and the reindeer warmed up, I ground my freshly shaved cunt against his mouth, enjoying his eager tongue sinking deep into me. A little treat to set him on his way and something for him to know what is all his for his return (we give Sven January off). Plus, he adores the way my juices matt into that long white beard. Says he can smell my scent hours into his big night. The horny old devil.
It is tradition that we mark his departure with a parting ceremony of thanks to the efforts of the elves who have toiled for months in preparation. It also signals a night of wildness the likes that should never be written down. The one night where the workers are allowed to let go, and let go they do.
To mark the occasion, I’ve a new outfit. Deep red as is required. Snug enough to accentuate, plunging enough to reveal and short enough to barely cover. Knee-high black boots and fishnet stockings compliment the sultry look.
And it obviously had the desired effect as we finally step out onto the balcony a little later than scheduled. My knees sore and my lips glossed in his hot spunk that he eagerly pumped down the back of my throat moments earlier as I sucked his delicious cock dry. There’s something wonderfully naughty being on my knees with his red trousers crumpled around his big boots. And you know what they say about big feet, ladies!
Though it makes it somewhat questionable who’s been feeding who before his trip! But fuck it has me so wet, as my juices leak into my black lace, which is even more tormenting with the sudden chill of the night air.
As Mr Claus gives his farewell speech to those below, eagerly awaiting his every word, my eyes dance to Sven. Barely hiding my purr as I imagine all the ways he’s going to fuck me senseless. For I can’t sleep whilst Mr Claus is on his job, can I now?
My thoughts break as it comes to my part of this ritual. Thankfully the combination of being turned on deliciously and the chill in the air, has my nipples like bullets, peeking prominently through my tight-fitting top. You could no doubt hang any assortment of festive baubles upon them. Thoughts of playful elves fingering to make them jangle.
I step forward to howls and yelps, whistles and screams. They get so excited, bless them.
“Ready my dear?” comes the soft growl of my man. I smile, losing myself in his eyes for the merest of moments, before stealing a steamy farewell kiss.
“Ready,” I answer, resting my hand on his red coated chest.
His gravelly tone begins the countdown. “Three... two...”
My heart pounds ferociously. A heady mix of anticipation and excitement as I take centre stage.
“One!”
And with that I pull on my top, revealing my breasts, nipples taut and tight to the massed crowd below.
“Ho, fucking ho!” cries the big man, his gloved hand firmly gripping my ass tightly to a cottony of noise as all below go insanely wild.
And with that he is gone. The jangle of the reindeers’ bells as he goes upon his night. The fabled Mrs Claus flash, the time-honoured tradition to signal the start of the night of goodwill to men and sinful debauchery in the North Pole.
Merry Christmas to all!
