The mall lights were too bright, the Christmas music too loud, the air thick with cinnamon and desperation. I’d been on the throne for six straight hours, thighs numb under the padded suit, beard itching like hell. Every exhausted mother who leaned over me smelled like vanilla perfume and barely-contained chaos.
“God, Santa, that pole of yours looks dangerous,” one whispered, brushing her breast against my arm while her toddler screamed.“Bet you’ve got a candy cane in those pants that never melts,” laughed another, fingers lingering on my velvet knee.I smiled through the beard, voice hoarse from forced jolliness, cock twitching traitorously at every filthy innuendo. By the time the elf waved me for break, I was half-hard and aching, trapped in layers of red felt.
Staff bathroom. Empty, thank fuck. I shoved the door with my shoulder, bells jingling like a joke. The costume was a prison: belt, suspenders, padded belly, all of it had to come down at once. I yanked it to mid-thigh, stepped up to the urinal, and sighed as the stream finally started.
Cold air. Stress. Months without touch. My dick had retreated into itself (just a soft pink button hiding beneath a thick hood of foreskin, barely visible). I stared at the wall, willing it to finish, when the door banged open again.
Heavy footsteps. Cologne (something dark, expensive). He stopped at the urinal right beside me. No divider high enough to hide the way he angled his body, the way he looked.
Six-two, maybe six-three. Shoulders stretching a charcoal Henley. Dark stubble, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicked down and stayed there.
He didn’t speak at first. Just let the silence stretch until it vibrated.
Then, low and rough: “Santa… where’s your cock?”
My breath caught. I tried for a laugh; it came out shaky. “He’s… shy. Freezing his little balls off.”
He hummed (a sound that went straight to my gut). Then he turned, dropped to his knees on the dirty tile like it was the most natural thing in the world, and looked up at me through thick lashes.
“Let me warm him up for you.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His hands (big, calloused, warm) slid up my bare thighs, pushing the velvet lower. Thumbs brushed the crease where leg meets groin, and my whole body jerked.
He started gentle: one slow lick from my balls to the hidden tip, tongue flat and wet. Another. Then he nosed under the foreskin, swirling around the sensitive head until it flushed dark and started to push out on its own. I felt myself swell against his mouth (thin, eager, four inches of desperate need sliding free of its hood).
He groaned like he’d been starving for it. Took me to the root in one slick motion and sucked (hard, relentless, cheeks hollowing). The suction was obscene; I could hear it over the hum of the hand-dryer. His tongue pressed flat under my shaft, flicking the frenulum on every upstroke. One of his hands cupped my balls, rolling them gently, the other braced against my hip, thumb tracing the V-line like he owned it.
I lasted maybe forty-five seconds. My hips snapped forward; a broken “fuck—Santa’s—” tore out of me as I came in thick pulses straight down his throat. He swallowed every drop, throat working around me, milking me until I sagged against the cold porcelain, knees shaking.
He pulled off slow, lips shiny, and licked me clean with deliberate strokes. Then he stood (towering over me again), tucked that smug grin away, and murmured, “Thank you, Santa,” like he’d just been handed a gift.
He was gone before I could breathe.
I fixed the costume with trembling fingers, cock still twitching against my thigh, oversensitive and wet. Splashed water on my face. The mirror showed a flushed, wrecked Santa with smeared makeup and dilated eyes.
Back on the throne, the line had grown. And there he was (front row, arm around a beautiful brunette in a red coat, two kids bouncing excitedly). His eyes met mine the second I sat down. That same filthy smile curled his mouth. He leaned down, whispered something in his wife’s ear. She laughed, glanced at me, bit her lip.
He lifted his little girl onto my lap first. As I settled her, his hand brushed my thigh (just for a second), fingers pressing right where his mouth had been minutes ago.
“Say thank you to Santa, sweetheart,” he said, voice perfectly innocent.
His eyes, though (Christ, his eyes) promised he wasn’t done with me yet.
“Ho ho ho,” I managed, voice cracking.
He winked.
Merry fucking Christmas.
“God, Santa, that pole of yours looks dangerous,” one whispered, brushing her breast against my arm while her toddler screamed.“Bet you’ve got a candy cane in those pants that never melts,” laughed another, fingers lingering on my velvet knee.I smiled through the beard, voice hoarse from forced jolliness, cock twitching traitorously at every filthy innuendo. By the time the elf waved me for break, I was half-hard and aching, trapped in layers of red felt.
Staff bathroom. Empty, thank fuck. I shoved the door with my shoulder, bells jingling like a joke. The costume was a prison: belt, suspenders, padded belly, all of it had to come down at once. I yanked it to mid-thigh, stepped up to the urinal, and sighed as the stream finally started.
Cold air. Stress. Months without touch. My dick had retreated into itself (just a soft pink button hiding beneath a thick hood of foreskin, barely visible). I stared at the wall, willing it to finish, when the door banged open again.
Heavy footsteps. Cologne (something dark, expensive). He stopped at the urinal right beside me. No divider high enough to hide the way he angled his body, the way he looked.
Six-two, maybe six-three. Shoulders stretching a charcoal Henley. Dark stubble, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicked down and stayed there.
He didn’t speak at first. Just let the silence stretch until it vibrated.
Then, low and rough: “Santa… where’s your cock?”
My breath caught. I tried for a laugh; it came out shaky. “He’s… shy. Freezing his little balls off.”
He hummed (a sound that went straight to my gut). Then he turned, dropped to his knees on the dirty tile like it was the most natural thing in the world, and looked up at me through thick lashes.
“Let me warm him up for you.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. His hands (big, calloused, warm) slid up my bare thighs, pushing the velvet lower. Thumbs brushed the crease where leg meets groin, and my whole body jerked.
He started gentle: one slow lick from my balls to the hidden tip, tongue flat and wet. Another. Then he nosed under the foreskin, swirling around the sensitive head until it flushed dark and started to push out on its own. I felt myself swell against his mouth (thin, eager, four inches of desperate need sliding free of its hood).
He groaned like he’d been starving for it. Took me to the root in one slick motion and sucked (hard, relentless, cheeks hollowing). The suction was obscene; I could hear it over the hum of the hand-dryer. His tongue pressed flat under my shaft, flicking the frenulum on every upstroke. One of his hands cupped my balls, rolling them gently, the other braced against my hip, thumb tracing the V-line like he owned it.
I lasted maybe forty-five seconds. My hips snapped forward; a broken “fuck—Santa’s—” tore out of me as I came in thick pulses straight down his throat. He swallowed every drop, throat working around me, milking me until I sagged against the cold porcelain, knees shaking.
He pulled off slow, lips shiny, and licked me clean with deliberate strokes. Then he stood (towering over me again), tucked that smug grin away, and murmured, “Thank you, Santa,” like he’d just been handed a gift.
He was gone before I could breathe.
I fixed the costume with trembling fingers, cock still twitching against my thigh, oversensitive and wet. Splashed water on my face. The mirror showed a flushed, wrecked Santa with smeared makeup and dilated eyes.
Back on the throne, the line had grown. And there he was (front row, arm around a beautiful brunette in a red coat, two kids bouncing excitedly). His eyes met mine the second I sat down. That same filthy smile curled his mouth. He leaned down, whispered something in his wife’s ear. She laughed, glanced at me, bit her lip.
He lifted his little girl onto my lap first. As I settled her, his hand brushed my thigh (just for a second), fingers pressing right where his mouth had been minutes ago.
“Say thank you to Santa, sweetheart,” he said, voice perfectly innocent.
His eyes, though (Christ, his eyes) promised he wasn’t done with me yet.
“Ho ho ho,” I managed, voice cracking.
He winked.
Merry fucking Christmas.
