Naughty and Nice: An XXXmas Story in Three Parts

Read Part One of this story here.

The club itself is half-lit by delicate fairy lights, and Yvonne “ I see when I’ve made my way through the doors, and past the curtain that separates the social area from the play space “ is sitting, wide-legged, on what is usually the foot-worship chair.  Her silvery buzz cut is covered by the requisite crimson stocking cap, and her red, sheepskin-trimmed jacket is hanging open, revealing her heavy breasts and leather chest harness.  Circling to stand before her, the tent in her leather pants is obvious even at a distance.

Or, to put it another way, Santa Claus is waiting for me on his enormous throne, filling my entire world, ready for me to climb into his lap prove what a good girl I can be.

“Hello, Princess, says Santa, leveling her grey eyes at me.  My seven-year-old self fills up with terror at the thought that he might know about the things I make Barbie do to Skipper and, worse, might even know about the tickly feeling I get when I do it.

Yvonne, of course, knows all about what I used to do with my dolls, has in fact done scenes as my Daddy “ walking in on me and punishing me for playing such filthy games.  I have every hope that The Skipping Rope Incident, and my complete lack of reform, will come up today.

“Hi, Santa, I squeak, hanging back a little and fidgeting.  “Are\’are you mad at me, Santa?

“No, Princess, I’m not mad, Santa says, gently.  “Come and sit on Santa’s lap.  We need to have a talk.

“Okay, Santa, I whisper, and approach to climb into his lap.

The dildo “ which I’m fairly sure, from the size, is the thick, red double-dil that I’ve met before in the guise of a “very special lollipop from “Dr. Tickles “ makes it awkward to climb up, and my skirt is long enough that bringing my naked ass accidentally-on-purpose into contact with her leather-clad thigh is difficult to accomplish but, with a little squirming and wriggling, it’s done and I’m curled up in Santa’s arms, feet swinging, just barely, off the ground.  Yvonne holds me easily, one arm around my shoulders, the other hand resting on my knee, her thumb only just under the hem of my skirt.

“Now, she says, hugging me close.  “Why did you think I’d be mad at you, Princess?

I think fast.

“H-Holly, the Christmas Nymph said I was on your naughty list, Santa.

“Oh, I see, Santa says, sternly.  “I’ll have to have a word with that elf, scaring a little girl like that.

I sniffle, without entirely meaning to.  I can smell Yvonne’s cologne, a subtle mix of wood and spice that has its own effect on my libido even as it evokes winter forests and Christmas cookies in the current context.

“I’m not mad at you, Princess, Santa continues, “But¦ I have seen a few things that¦ concern me.

“I don’t wanna be a bad girl, Santa, I tell Yvonne, fervently.  “I wanna be good, like you want me to.

“I know, Princess, Santa assures me.  “Can you think of why I might be concerned, though?

I consider my options, the scenes we’ve done over the past year that might get me on a hypothetical naughty list, the thoughts of which make me squirm with remembered pleasure.

“Sometimes I touch myself in the bath, I offer, remembering the scene we did at Yvonne’s house, Daddy telling me to wash my cunt over and over, while I shuddered in the hot water, holding on until she finally allowed me to come.

Santa nods, sagely.

“That does concern me a little bit, Princess.  Is there anything else?

I consider adding the things I’ve done to innocent teddy bears in the privacy of my own camera phone, and blush, deciding to save those for later.  Maybe Santa will force a confession.

“S-sometimes I get a funny feeling in my tummy, I answer.  “When I play with the girls at school.

“What kind of a funny feeling? Santa asks.

I squirm in Yvonne’s lap, letting my thigh rub against the dildo in her trousers, letting my skirt bunch up just a little.

“It’s a tickly feeling.  Like I have to pee, but I don’t.

Santa asks me how I play with the other girls, to give me such a funny feeling and I drag out all my sordid stories:  The bathroom-stall three-way I had with an out-of-town friend and her lover; lying, strapped to the bed, mouth open and yearning, as my then-girlfriend jacked off above me but wouldn’t let me taste; getting off with an exhibitionist fuck-buddy, grinding against each other and trying to keep quiet in a public park “ All true, but I change the details, talking about rubbing up against other girls during a game of Sardines, looking up a friend’s skirt “accidentally while she was on the monkey bars, getting rough-and-tumble at recess time.  I squirm in Yvonne’s lap, panting a little as I make my confessions, and feeling the squelch as I shift, my pussy wet and slick against her leathers.  I can feel her breathing hard and, leaning into her embrace, eyes downcast as murmur all my naughty activities, I can see her nipples hardening.  Yvonne’s hand creeps under my skirt, between my knees and, slowly she trails her fingertips my inner thigh, making me shiver, deliciously.

“Santa? I gasp, already wanting badly to be fucked, and wanting to move the scene along.  “I feel funny.

“You do? Yvonne says, her fingers teasing and tickling along my thigh.

“In my tummy, like I told you.

“Oh, dear, says Santa.  “We can’t have that.  Maybe if we play a game, you’ll feel better.

Finally!

I nod my head, enthusiastically.

“Okay, Santa, I chirp.  “I like playing games!

Santa suggests that we pretend that I’m riding one of his reindeer, and I shift in her lap, straddling her thighs, my legs spread wide and bracing my arms against her knees.  I press my ass against her dildo.

“Like this, Santa?

I hear the metal-on-metal slide of a zipper being drawn down.

“Very good, Princess, Yvonne congratulates me.  “Just lean forward a little bit.

I let my toes touch the ground just long enough for her to position the dildo.  She sets her hands on my hips, and eases me back, thrusting her silicone cock into my hungry cunt.

“Oh, Santa, I groan, making a very adult noise as the head of it slams against my g-spot.  I squirm in her lap, grinding against her, wanting to beg Yvonne to fuck me like the slut I am, and knowing that’s not an option.

“If you’re a very good rider, she adds, conspiratorially, “I’ll make sure you get back on the Nice List.

I gasp, all hope and eagerness.

“I’ll show you, Santa! I promise.  “I’ll be the best rider you ever saw!

“Good girl, Princess, Yvonne says, working her hips.  “Show me what a good rider you are.

She pushes her cock into me, her hips making the familiar circling motion that, I know from experience, she can keep up for hours if she has to.  Every subtle thrust brings the head of her cock into contact with my g-spot, and it isn’t long before I’m whimpering at her every move.  When she sneaks one hand under my skirt and between my thighs, it’s all I can do not to break character.

“Oh, Santa! I gasp, fighting to hold onto my Little Girl self as Yvonne begins to tease my swollen clit.  “Yes, Santa!  Make me your good, good girl!

Her slippery fingers flutter across my clit, making me shudder, and I revel in the torturous pleasure of it, whimpering, head flung back and mouth open, panting, as she teases me with expert fingers.

Soon, I feel my stomach start to flutter and tense, the early warning signs that my orgasm is building.  I know Yvonne.  No matter what role she’s playing, her favourite game is Tease and Deny.

I brace my hands against Santa’s knees so that I can rock my hips in time with hers, not knowing how long she’ll hold me between the twin torments of her cock and her hand, and not caring.

“Please, Santa, I beg, already breathless.  “Tell me I’m a good girl!

“You’re doing fine, Princess, Santa says.  “But you’ll have to work a little harder if you really want to make it on the Nice List.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Santa beckoning.  In my peripheral vision, I think I see a flash of green.

Has she been watching this whole time?  I wonder, just before it occurs to me that, maybe, Leila’s been planned into the scene from the get-go.  She had warned me to be ready to use my mouth¦

Clive Dixon

An English teacher in a former life, Clive Dixon now works as a psychotherapist. When not listening to his clients talk about their sex lives, he writes erotic and other fiction. His stories have also appeared in Clean Sheets and Penthouse Variations.

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