Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999 05:46:54 -0800 (PST)
From: Willie Hewes <williehewes@yahoo.com>
Subject: On Santa's Lap

Not the usual blah about graphic descriptions and
legal ages and so on; as far as I'm concerned Anyone
can read this story PROVIDED they understand and agree
that sexual relations between a minor and an adult
will damage the minor's mental health, self-esteem
and/or the ability to maintain succesful relationships
in the future.
(It can also damage the
reputation/career/life/marriage/etc of the non-minor
involved)
This is the voice of experience speaking, I'm serious
you guys, behave.

For questions and reactions: WillieHewes@yahoo.com
For more X-mas smut: www.geocities.com/willie_hewes

Merry Christmas.

Copyright 1999, Willie Hewes, 1200 words

On Santa's Lap

For as long as I can remember, Santa Claus has visited us at Boxing Day. At the
end of the season, when all children have their presents, he comes to our place
to rest and gather strength for his long journey to the North Pole. Of course he
always met with the greatest respect and hospitality. Mama would make him her
finest goulash, and we all gathered round to hear him tell stories about the
past year, even though sometimes he told the same story twice.

     But this year would be different. Mama had left us in August; she took the
car. And my father didn't want to sit around on Boxing Day "doing nothing" while
his family gathered elsewhere in the country. Maybe he had forgotten about
Santa, or maybe he just didn't care. I don't know. I told him I wanted to stay
at home by myself, rather than having to talk to all those cheek-pinching aunts
and uncles that I never saw more than once a year. I was old enough to take care
of myself, I told him. And so, he left the evening of Christmas Day, and I got
out a cookbook, to try and find out how to make goulash. The next day, I had
already given up my attempts when there was a knock on the door.

     I never knew where he parked his sled, but he always came to our doorstep
on foot, and so he did this year.
     "Hello Santa," I greeted.
     "Hello son. Home all alone today?" He came in and brushed the snow from his
shoulders. I helped him take off his boots, and invited him further in.
     "I tried to make goulash for you Santa, but it didn't really work out."
     "No need to apologise, my boy. I heard all about the sad story." He stroked
my hair. "I'm really sorry about your mom."
     "But I don't really have anything to offer you for dinner," I said, really
feeling a bit sorry. No goulash this Boxing Day. The world was really changing.
     "Oh, don't worry about that son. We can always order a pizza if we get
really hungry."
     "Pizza!?"
     "Yes, why not?" he asked, and sat down in my father's armchair. "Even I
can't live on milk and cookies, you know."
     "Yes, but... Pizza!" I shook my head. Santa Claus took his hat off and
sighed.
     "No tradition ever lasts forever, son. Of all the years I've done this job,
it's never ever been the same for even two years. Something always changes."
     "I can still come and sit on your lap though, can't I, Santa?"

     I had grown quite a lot this year, and you might say I was getting too big
to sit on anyone's lap. Santa Claus didn't mind, though. I put one arm around
his shoulders and he held his hand on my back.
    "How old are you this year, Santa?" I asked, as I did every year.
    "Today, I am approximately two million years and three months." he smiled. I
traced my hand through his soft, snowy-white beard.
     "And were there many naughty children this year?"
     "Oh yes! A very great many. But even more, there were naughty parents this
year."
     "Naughty parents?" I asked surprised.
     "Yes, to make sure their dear children will not be disappointed at
Christmas morning, they tell them that I don't really exist, and buy the
presents themselves."
     "Really?" I asked dreamily. I rested my head on his shoulder. He hugged me
closer with one hand, and rested the other on my knee. I still trailed my hand
through his beard.
     "It's so soft, your beard. Like the fur of rabbits."
     "Is it my imagination, boy, or are you growing a beard of your own
nowadays?"
     I smiled, although he couldn't see that. "Yeah, but I shave it," I
answered. He raised his hand to feel my chin, and his thumb seemed to linger on
my lips for a moment.
     "My my," he mumbled, "Richy Peterson is shaving already..."
     "Time flies when you're Santa Claus," I laughed. I lifted my head to look
at him. "What did you get this Christmas, Santa?" I was surprised at how young
he looked. Under his white beard and hair, there was a soft, supple skin and two
remarkably vivid clear-blue eyes.
     "Christmas is a time of giving for me, son," he said hesitantly. "And it is
a holiday especially for children. And old man like me doesn't need any
presents."
     "But I still got presents this year," I said, "and I'm not a little child
anymore." I pressed my young body against him, and looked deeply into his eyes.
     "No," he said breathlessly, "You've become quite a young man." Before I had
time to think about it, my hands snaked under his beard to undo the buttons of
his coat.

     "Can I give you a Christmas present, Santa?" He didn't say anything, but
the hand on my knee moved a little further up. I nuzzled into the soft hairs of
his beard, until I found his lips and they opened for a short kiss. My hands
snaked under his shirt and explored his smooth chest. I bent over to whisper in
his ear.
     "Can I show you what they taught me at school?" Under a thin layer of fat,
his body was remarkably hard and sturdy. I undid the buckle of his belt, and let
myself slide from his lap.
     "Oh no, son, you really don't have to..." he protested softly. But he
didn't stop me from opening his trousers and taking his soft penis and balls
out. Because it was still limp, I could take it in my mouth completely. I rolled
it around on my tongue and sucked it gently, rubbing my own crotch against his
leg.
      "I'm afraid it's too long ago," he said, but at the same time, I could
feel his penis grow and harden in my mouth. It was soon too large to keep it
there completely, and now I sucked only at the tip, while my hands slid up and
down the wet shaft. His pubic hair was white, and as soft as his beard. I kissed
it, licked his balls for a moment, and then slowly worked my way back up to the
bright-red tip. The old man sighed contentedly. He used his large hands to move
my head up and down his fully erect member.

     I could tell that he was close to coming, and I put one hand between my
legs to rub myself to an orgasm. Just as I shot my load into my boxers, I could
feel his member grow even bigger inside my mouth, and then his cum spilled over
my tongue. It was rich and creamy as milk, and so much some of it ran down the
shaft in a large drop. I drank it down eagerly and sucked and licked at the
'till I was sure there was nothing more. I pulled his underwear back and climbed
onto his lap again. This time he hugged me close with both his arms, without any
inhibitions. His hair touched my cheek.

     "You've become quite a naughty young man, Richy," he whispered.
     "Does that mean I won't get a present next year?" I asked. He eased his
grip so he could look at me.
     "Don't you worry about that," he said, a smile twinkling in his eyes.
"You'll get all the presents you want. Will I?"
     "Oh, yes, Santa. Anything you want."