Men I’ve Loved Fucking

The Other MILFs — Santa

He sees you when you’re sleeping.

Tori confesses selected highlights of her extensive sexual history to her (former) therapist. This is the final part of a 26 part episodic series; each chapter is a stand-alone story. You can find them all here…

“So, Tori, what confession do you have for me this week?”

I’m a little uncomfortable with that question. “Erm… I’m calling him Santa.”

“I see. Another man whose name you never learned.”

“I know his name, Quentin. The thing is, so do you, so I’ll stick with a pseudonym. Do you remember John?”

Doctor Bonner nods. “He introduced you to dogging. You said you learned a lot from him.”

“I did. He was kinky as fuck, and he knew loads of even kinkier people. Two or three times a year, some rich guy throws a Pervert’s Party. It’s like a kink convention: he books an entire hotel for a long weekend, and sells hundreds of tickets.”

“You spent a weekend being fucked?”

“Often, but not this time. It was mostly a social thing. They always start with a fancy dress ball, and this one was in December so the theme was Corrupted Christmas.”

I hadn’t realised quite what these events were like, so I’d chosen an evil-Santa look. I had a red, knee-length skirt, a red and white top, a Santa hat, and a big axe I borrowed from a cosplaying friend. John didn’t think the skirt was sexy enough, so at the last minute I changed into leather trousers instead.

John hadn’t told me what his costume was, so I was excited to watch him get ready. But he just put a dressing gown over his suit, and an old-fashioned night cap on his head. I questioned whether that was corrupted, or Christmassy.

He grinned, and took a squeezy bottle of white liquid from his suitcase. “Methyl cellulose. Used in the porn industry.”

He squirted some over his dressing gown. “I’m Ebenezer Spooge.”

If I hadn’t been so nervous I would have groaned at that awful joke. Me not reacting is maybe how John picked up on my mood.

He reassured me the weekend wouldn’t all be kinky sex, that I might see plenty but most people were there to socialise. The only thing he warned me about was respecting privacy: if I recognised anyone I shouldn’t acknowledge that, and I shouldn’t mention their names outside the event.

That was advice I made use of fairly quickly. We were in the lift, going down to the function room on the ground floor. The car was nearly full, and when the doors opened on three a familiar voice said, “Oh, for goodness sake! I’ll never fit.”

A morning TV presenter — I won’t even say her first name or you’ll know who she is — was waiting to get into the lift. This was a few years ago, so she must have been in her mid-fifties, and she was wearing nothing but a white micro-skirt, silver pasties on her sagging boobs, and an LED halo.

She looked at me and said, “Can you do me a wee favour, love?”

She turned round, and I noticed two things: eventually, the wings painted on her back, but immediately, the two-foot tinsel tree sticking out of her ass.

She bent over, and said, “If you could pull it out, that would be brilliant.”

So I did; gingerly, but I did. Once the tree was out I saw the tip had been cut off and a butt plug fastened in its place. I also saw an asshole I never expected to see at all, let alone see gaping.

She turned, took the tree from me, and said, “Thanks, love. I’ll hold on to this until I find someone who wants to pop it back in.”

Then she squeezed her way into the lift. I had to stand behind her for three more floors while she held the tree up like a spear, her butt plug bobbing inches from my face.

By the time we made it into the function room, I was feeling anxious, overawed, and inadequate. It didn’t help that John went to the bar, leaving me standing next to a super cute girl wearing nothing but three strips of tinsel. She looked like a porn star; I had a suspicion she was, and that I’d seen her being bukkaked.

The place got crowded quickly. Lots of bad Santas and slutty angels came in, and even one Rudolph the Red Dicked Reindeer. John had been right, though: most people were socialising. But a few were getting busy. The party had hardly started and I could already see two guys getting blowjobs, a woman being spit-roasted across a table, and a prominent backbench MP being caned by Krampus. The party was obviously going to become bedlam later, which was doing nothing for my confidence.

Then he came in. I recognised him even with a false beard and a false belly. I knew his eyes, because they’d stared at me from my bedroom wall when I was a teenager. My parents bought me his debut album for my thirteenth birthday, and it was the best present ever. I had a huge crush on him. I still do, a bit.

He stood in the doorway, scanned the room, then made a beeline for the young porn star.

Except he didn’t. He stopped in front of me, looked me in the eye, and said, “You’re beautiful.”

I was taken aback, partly by the fact he had no trousers on but mostly because I was certain he couldn’t be talking to me. I glanced at the genuinely beautiful porn star standing beside me, and shook my head.

He said, “It’s true! And I love your costume.”

I found my voice. “Thanks. I’m Serial Killer Santa. It’s awkward lugging a huge chopper around, though.”

He nodded. “Tell me about it. But those trousers are fucking fabulous! So tight. How hard is it to get into them?”

I was nervous, that’s my only excuse. I laughed, and said, “It’s easy. Just buy me enough drinks.”

He winked. “Maybe I’ll do that.”

Fortunately John rescued me from my embarrassment by appearing out of the crowd armed with two whiskies.

I said, “My boyfriend’s already got me a drink, thanks.”

Trouserless Santa turned, saw John, and said, “Johnny-boy, you dirty fucker! Is this beauty with you?”

I said, “You two know each other?”

John grinned. “Yeah, we were in the same troop back in the day. Last time I was here we ended up side by side on aptly-named twin beds, sharing a couple of those wanna-be models you follow on Instagram. We still don’t know who had which.”

Trouserless Santa laughed. “I think we both had both, Johnny. I’ll swear they changed places when they came back from the fucking bathroom.”

The two of them smiled at that shared memory, and I tried to steer the conversation to a safer subject. “So, what’s your costume?”

Trouserless Santa lifted his jacket to reveal he wasn’t wearing pants either. “I’m Creepy motherfucking Santa.”

I tried not to look. I failed, but I did try. “Right. You’re creepy because you’re a flasher.”

“No, I’m Creepy Mother Fucking Santa. After I’ve dropped off the kiddies’ presents, I creep into their mum’s bedroom and fuck her while she’s sleeping.”

But not with a huge chopper: my brief glimpse had told me his cock was nothing special… except that it was his. A man I’d crushed on since before I’d ever seen a cock had just called me beautiful, flashed me, and accidentally tapped into a dark fantasy of mine.

I downed my drink, turned to John, and asked for the room key. “I want to drop off my axe, it’s too heavy to carry around all night. And I’m sweating in these trousers, so I’ll shower and change. And, um, I might have a nap before I come back down, so I’m refreshed and ready for anything. I’ll leave the door unlocked in case you need to come in, that way you won’t have to wake me up. Because I’ll be sleeping. Naked.”

I didn’t wait to see if Creepy Motherfucker reacted. I practically ran to our room, stripped, showered, and lay back on the bed, knees up and legs spread.

I thought better of that position almost immediately: it was too slutty, not mumsy at all. So I slipped under the duvet and lay on my side, with my knee raised to give Santa access.

I lay anxiously for a few minutes, suddenly concerned that Santa didn’t know my limits. I was offering myself to him as a living sex doll, which was an exciting fantasy but a potentially terrifying reality. I was on the point of chickening out when I heard the door open and someone creep in. I risked opening my eyes, just a crack, to check it was Santa.

It wasn’t, it was Ebenezer Spooge.

John brought a finger to his lips — shush! — tilted his head with one hand on his face — sleep! — then tiptoed to the corner of the room. He meant to watch while Santa fucked his woman, which added a whole new dimension to the fantasy and pulled it out of the scary zone: John knew my safeword, and what I didn’t like. I trusted him to step in if I needed him.

I shut my eyes and tried to breathe slow and steady. I heard more soft footsteps, then felt a hand slip under the duvet and brush my foot. I’d mentally steeled myself when I heard him approach, but it still took all my willpower not to jump or freeze, but just to lie limp and unmoving.

The hand slid up my calf, and then my thigh, before squeezing my buttock. I managed to keep my breathing measured, even when a finger slid between my legs to stroke my slit.

For all my anticipation, I wasn’t wet. If Santa had tried to penetrate me then, my pretence of sleeping would have ended in distinctly non-mumsy cursing. Fortunately, his hand continued upwards, caressing my back before ducking under my arm to briefly grope my breast.

Santa must have been kneeling, because I heard him shuffling up from the foot of the bed, then felt something wet brush my lips. I didn’t need to peek, the musky smell told me exactly what it was. He cupped my chin, easing my mouth open. I felt the head of his cock, slick with pre-cum, push between my lips and onto my tongue.

I hadn’t known what a blowjob was when I’d first mooned over this man’s picture, but as an adult I’d occasionally fantasised about sucking his cock. The cock that was now in my mouth. The cock I couldn’t suck, because I was supposed to be asleep. All I could do was lie still and let him fuck my face, hoping he wouldn’t try to fuck my throat as well. If I was awake I’d gladly have let him, but my mouth was dry and pre-cum wasn’t going to be enough lubricant.

He thrust a few times, his cock hitting the back of my throat, testing my well-trained gag reflex, but I think he sensed he couldn’t go further.

He pulled out, and I felt his beard brush my face as he whispered, “Santa’s got a big present for Mummy.”

He slowly peeled back the duvet to leave me naked and exposed. I felt the mattress move as he climbed onto the bed, then his false belly was resting on my back and his cock was pressing threateningly between my buttocks.

I heard a cough from the corner of the room. I don’t know what passed between Motherfucking Santa and Ebenezer Spooge, but cock and belly both lifted away, and the knee moved back down the bed. I thought John had found some way to urgently signal Lube! but then I felt a beard tickling my thighs, and I guessed what sign language he’d actually used.

Santa’s tongue delved between my lips, probing my cunt, swirling and withdrawing. I was getting wet, but that was mostly his saliva. I would have preferred he paid attention to my clit, but maybe my thigh was in his way. I was kind of grateful really, because his amateur efforts were frustrating me and if he’d so much as touched my clit at that point I would have abandoned sleep and started grinding on his face.

Despite my best efforts, I stiffened when his tongue withdrew to be replaced by his cock prodding at my entrance. John coughed again, and the prodding stopped. I hoped he’d signalled for lube this time, but Santa sighed dramatically and I heard the familiar sounds of a condom being taken from a packet and opened.

The prodding cock returned, and I braced myself for entry.

His face fucking had shown me he was a shower not a grower, and his erection wasn’t much bigger than the flaccid tiddler he’d flashed in the function room. That helped, and so did his spit and the lube on the condom, but I still let out a low unf! as he thrust into me. He stroked my back and whispered, “Shhh. It’s only a bad dream. Relax and let Santa come down your chimney.”

So I relaxed. It got better: he didn’t hammer away at me, he had this slow, steady rhythm that my cunt responded to with its own lube. But just when I thought I might start to get into it, he grunted, his cock pulsed inside me, and he pulled out.

His beard tickled my leg again as he planted a kiss on my bum. He whispered, “Merry Christmas,” then I heard him creep away.

“I’ve still got the condom he used. I found it in the bin afterwards. I keep it in my knicker drawer. Is that sad?”

Doctor Bonner shrugs. “It’s natural to want a souvenir from what was obviously an important, um, encounter for you. Your choice of keepsake is unusual, but they were unusual circumstances. I do have to ask, though: you’ve said these confessions are about men you’ve loved fucking, but did you even enjoy being with this man?”

“Not really, but it was him. There were so many hot women at that party, and he wanted me. He told me I was beautiful, and he fucked me. So it’s a good memory of bad sex.”

“And was that the extent of your adventures that weekend?”

“Hell no! I went back to bedlam on Saturday night. Sunday was quieter, for me at least, because I was sore all over.”

“I see. I wonder what would be appropriate penance for such shameful behaviour?”

He already knows the answer, because I make the same penance every week. The only thing that changes is which hole he uses.