Socialite Stella Quest never once made Santa’s nice list; not that she tried too hard. She found being naughty much more fun. So much fun that after her most recent Christmas Day escapade of debauchery, her daddy carted her onto his private jet with one hastily packed bag and a one way ticket to Germany for two weeks of self reflection and meditation at what she thought would be a luxurious mountain ski retreat. Which is why, twenty six hours after being shuffled on her Gulfstream, one chauffeured Phantom ride and one horse-drawn carriage later, she was horrified to find herself at a sad, dreary German cottage settled in several inches of snow.
At the cabin, she noticed a lonely silence. Looking outside, she could see snow balancing on the corners of the small, frosty windows. Beyond the windows, the forest trees stretched out dense and thick, creating an impenetrable blanket of stillness. And though the outside of the cabin was expansive, the small studio didn’t offer much. Besides the kitchen and the bed, there was a pink Danish mid-century chair and a bookshelf.
She walked over to the bookshelf and laid a finger on the top shelf before reading the authors. Marx. Kant. Descartes. Locke. She stifled a groan. What a boring book collection. Walking over to her suitcase, she snapped it open and dug around for the bottle of vintage French champagne. When she found what she was looking for, she opened the bottle and slipped into her silk chemise. Not bothering to pour the drink into a flute, she raised a toast to the roof. She looked at the snow falling outside. She would be stuck inside for the next two weeks, all alone. There was no adventure here. Resigning herself to misery, she downed the bottle of champagne, curled up next to the fireplace, and fell asleep.
She awoke to a rustling outside the door. The room, now frigid and still, had lost its welcoming glow. The quiet chime of bells could be heard underneath the din of breaking snow—someone was outside. Stella’s heart beat loudly, but she could hear heavy, paced footsteps. The person paused in front of the door and suddenly three loud booms broke the silence. Stella held her breath, her body shivering on the cold tile. On the fourth bang, the door swung open. It swung open so fiercely that a flurry of snowflakes shoved their way in and littered the front entry. A large silhouette blocked the entry.
“I know you’re in here, Stella Quest,” the intruder said, taking a step inside the cottage. The fire next to Stella magically reignited.
“Who the fuck are you?” Stella said.
He let out a throaty laugh as he walked into the light. In a dark and deep voice he said, “I’m Father Christmas and you’ve been on my naughty list. It’s time for your redemption.”
Stella just stared. He didn’t look like any personification of Santa she had ever seen. He wore black lace-up industrial boots that were held up by bare calves, and red, velvet Bundhosen with leather suspenders. Underneath his suede trachten jacket, he had a denim button up with several shiny gold buttons. His beard was peppered with gray and cropped short, while the thick gray hair on his head had been combed back in a side pompadour. His cheeks were rosy and his eyes bright green. He donned a hat with a bell at the end. A riding crop had been stuffed into his back pocket.
“Tonight you belong to me. And I’m going to make you be very, very good.”
Stella’s mouth dropped open. Though she’d always been naughty, a small part of her wondered what it would be like to actually be good. And now that Santa was offering her salvation, she didn’t want to disappoint him. A heady smell of pine and burnt wood began to fill the room and her fear melted into curiosity. Plus, after spending one day at the cabin, she’d been bored. This seemed like an adventure. She stood up and dropped her wool blanket.
Watching her, Father Christmas took off his jacket and placed it on the floor. He rolled up his sleeves to reveal two forearm tattoos. “Naughty” on his left arm and “nice” on his right. He pulled out the riding crop from his back pocket and beckoned her.
“The only rule is, you must call me Father,” he said before he slipped the leather keeper under her shoulder straps. With a sudden flick, the keeper unbound her straps and her chemise dropped to the floor.
He circled her slowly and observed naked body. Her supple skin glowed from her two-week old Saint Tropez tan. When he stopped in front of her, she could see the chiseled features of his arms and body.
“This is for every year you’ve been naughty.” He raised the crop.
It landed squarely on her nipple, causing her heavy tits to sway against her body. She tried to say, “Yes, Father,” but her voice caught. He raised the crop and swatted again. She let out a staggered moan as her nipples tightened. Father watched her reaction and then pulled up a chair and sat on it, legs askew. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrists and swung her over his knees, her ass up high. As she struggled, she felt his cock harden in response to her fight. The velvet from his pants rubbed on her smooth thighs and friction caused her skin to tingle. She bit the inside of her mouth wanting more, but as she tried to reach her own pleasure, he grabbed her braided hair and reined her body still. He raised his spare hand high and brought it down a few inches above her ass, not quite touching it, but close enough to where she could feel the force. Like a magical marionette, when his hand would raise, so would her ass, and when he brought his arm down, her ass would fall, thrusting against his cock in an attempt to evade the sharp dominance he delivered. The valley between her thighs stroked his cock, rising and falling with each attempted assault. The anticipation was too much. Wetness dripped between her legs and onto him, creating a warm, sticky pool in his lap.
