Santa Claus gently twisted his wrists right and down, expertly guiding the reindeer train pulling his sleigh out of the cloud cover and towards a large house a few miles outside Raufarhöfn on the northwest coast of Iceland.

This was the last visit on his epic annual journey and had been for a number of years. The route had expanded and lengthened over time to cope with the demand that followed population growth and his now almost ubiquitous fame. He increasingly had to time things almost to the second, starting early and racing westwards to stay ahead of the rising sun. It was getting harder each year.

His approach to the roof was a little clumsy, the girls were understandably tired, and he eased them alongside the apex of the roof so he could step out safely. The house was the home of the widow Jónsdóttir, she’d lived alone for some time. There were two presents in the bag, both Smile Maker whisperer vibrators in different colours. The widow must have her adult daughter staying he thought wryly as he carried the elf-wrapped boxes carefully along the coving towards the chimney.

It was a chimney he knew well, having been to this house every year for generations. The house was an old manor, and the flues led to a huge fireplace in either the living room or the front fall. No need for Santa dust to help him squeeze through a narrow gap or log burner, so he swung his legs over the left hand stack and dropped, bracing himself for the imminent landing.

He knew something was wrong as soon as his feet his feet hit the ground: he was wedged in and couldn’t move. He cursed under his breath, and reached for the Santa dust, but it was in his side pocket, sandwiched tightly between his hip and the wall. Then, to his horror, he heard a voice.

 “Well, Frieda, what have we here?” cackled an older woman, evidently the widow Jónsdóttir.

 “It seems we have a gentleman caller, mother,” came a sing-song reply.

Santa broke out in a cold sweat. Not only was he trapped, but he’d been seen. What on earth was he going to do? To his further alarm, he felt a hand undoing the drawstring of his bright red trousers, which were summarily pulled down to his ankles.

“Goodness me! Who’d have thought that Saint Nick would be commando,” gasped the second voice, “or that he’d be so…big?”

“My my, what a beautiful package Santa has delivered, Frieda. It would be a shame to let such an opportunity go to waste,” came the reply.

Santa wanted to call out, to cry for help, but he was frozen – and blind, he couldn’t see a thing – and then he felt warm hands running up the insides of his thighs, hands which subsequently cupped and fondled his balls.

“They are so heavy, Frieda, imagine how much cum there must be in there,” chuckled the widow. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve tasted a man’s cum.”

Saint Nick felt the tip of his cock being enveloped in a warm mouth, pushing the foreskin back while his cojones continued to be gently cajoled. In spite of the incongruence of the situation, he and his penis were clearly delighted and it was stiffening rapidly under the widow’s ministrations. He bit his lip and moaned slightly as the patently talented woman took more of his now burgeoning cock into her mouth and started working it expertly.

With a warm and willing mouth over the end of his penis accompanied by a firm double grip around the shaft, the helpless Santa was scandalised but aroused in equal measure. All he could hear was the almost gulping sound of the woman sucking him, and the sensations this was sending through his body were making his legs tremble.

“Let me help things along, mother, the sun is rising soon and we don’t want our guest to be discovered,” said Frieda, and Santa felt nails scratching the front of his thighs before another mouth enfolded one of his testicles.

This was all too much and tipped the hapless Nick over the edge. With his head thrown back and an almost animalistic wail emanating from what felt like the depths of his soul, he experienced that familiar white flash in his head, followed in quick succession by the thick pulsing of his cock and balls as he expelled his seed into the widow’s mouth.

Part way through her mouth disengaged and the second one almost instantly replaced it, so not a drop was wasted, and as the throbs weakened hand massaged his length to ensure every globule was milked. 

After a minute, while Santa recovered his breath and the women both savoured and swallowed his spunk, the widow spoke out to her daughter. “Pull that lever on the edge of the fireplace, Frieda, we can’t keep him here for long, as tempting as it may be.”

There was a clunk, and immediately the chimney stack widened. Without even pulling his trousers up, Santa reached into his pocket and scattered some dust, transporting him back onto the roof, where he quickly made himself decent before leaping into the sleigh and urging his reindeer to carry him home at full speed.

In the room below, nestled in the ash between two large footprints, the boxes lay waiting to be opened later that day.