Sam Murphy splashed cold water on his face, not caring that it was dripping down to the fake white beard hanging around his neck. He didn’t have long, he knew, but the heavy suit was so damn hot, he was sweating like a pig. Just another hour, he told himself as he opened the big red suit and pulled out his small toolbox, careful hidden in the custom pocket.
He pulled back the curtains of the bathroom window, and examined the window. He unlocked it, and opened it, looking out. There was a bush beneath the window, but it wouldn’t be difficult to get back in later. Satisfied, he pried off the security alarm on the window and carefully rewired it so it wouldn’t go off when the window was opened once the security system was turned back on. A few minutes later, Santa emerged once more from the bathroom.
“Ho ho ho. Santa had a little too much milk and cookies,” he said jovially at a guest waiting for the restroom. The man smiled and gave him a “Merry Christmas” before Santa returned to the living room, taking a seat in the big armchair by the tree.
It was nearly eleven, and most of the guests who had brought small children had already gone home, so he was looking forward to just sitting around for the last hour until he got his paycheck. And then he’d come back later and get his real payout for this shitty job.
“Hey, Santa.”
It was the hosts’ daughter. She stumbled a little as she wandered into the living room, the glass of coke that probably had a little extra Christmas spirit in it sloshed and spilled a bit. The short blonde couldn’t have been able to legally drink, taking advantage of her parents’ distraction and the readily accessible booze to have a little fun at the party that was catering to both a much older and much younger demographic.
“Merry Christmas—” shit, he couldn’t remember her name. Mallory, Marjory, Mandy, something with an M. “Little girl.”
That turned out to be a very award choice of words, and he felt that much more uncomfortable as she climbed up onto his lap. Her inappropriately short lavender dress rode up as she wiggled up his thigh, flashing just a peak of her black underwear.
“I’ve been a naughty girl,” she whispered, her words slurring slightly. He could smell rum on her breath.
“Well, that’s, hmmm—” he stammered. It had suddenly gotten ten degrees hotter under his stuffy suit, and he was trying hard not to think too hard about the scantily clad, drunk, young, very young, girl sitting on his lap.
“Does that mean I’m getting switches for Christmas?”
What was with this girl? Come on, Sammy, don’t pop a chub, he told himself. “Now now, I wouldn’t say that,” he stuttered.
Sam gasped as his crotch was suddenly very wet and cold. “Oops,” she said. Whether it was an actual drunken accident or she had purposefully spilled her drink in his lap, she took full advantage of the situation, and he felt her hands through the wet fabric, grabbing at his dick.
“Don’t— you really shouldn’t— oh!”
“Melanie!” a woman screamed out.
He had time for a moment to register that he’d been right, her name did start with an M, before the gravity of the situation he’d found himself in set in.
The girl stood up suddenly, tripping and falling, grabbing beard and ripping it off as she tumbled to the floor. He reacted, getting up as well, and leaving him looking down at the daughter of his employers, very clearly staring at her panties, her dress having ridden up even more in her fall. His rum and coke soaked pants did little to hide his erection.
It was a small wonder he hadn’t been arrested by the time they’d thrown him out, without getting paid, and the girl’s father had punched him, giving him a black eye. He staggered down the street towards his car, holding a handful of snow against the side of his face. And then, to cap off his shitty night, his boss called.
“What the hell, Sam?”
Sam held the phone away from his ear as his boss ranted and screamed. It was no good explaining. His boss was in on their little side job, but now the job was off, as well as now he had to fire Sam.
“Well fuck it,” he said, ending the call and jamming his phone back in his pocket. “Santa is gonna punish a certain naughty little bitch.”
He already had everything he needed in his van. The house was already primed for a break in. He considered changing, but thought better of it. No, Santa would visit this house personally tonight. He sat in his van, the heat drying his pants as he waited… and plotted.
With a sack over his shoulder, he crept back to the house, a shadow against the freshly falling snow and faint glow of white Christmas lights. This particular Santa crawled through a window with practiced ease rather than coming in through the chimney, but the result was the same. Sam dusted himself off in the bathroom, silently shutting the window behind him. The house was quiet, the party long over and the hosts in a deep sleep as the intruder tip toed through their house, making his way upstairs. A light shown under a door at the end of the hall, and Santa sidled up to it, pressing his ear to the door and listening. Silence. He used a small mirror to look under the door, tilting it until her got the lay of the room.
And then a smile spread across his face under his fake beard.
He gently turned the doorknob; the door silently gliding open as he slowly pushed it open and slipped inside, shutting the door behind him. The lock made a dull click as he turned it, but the noise was not enough to wake the girl on the bed.
She hadn’t even gotten undressed, passing out on top of the sheets still in her slinky purple number from the party. One of her legs was falling off the bed, and for the second time that night he was treated to a view of her panties.
He rubbed his gloved hands together before setting his sack of goodies down by the door. She was very likely dead to the world, but he was going to make sure she was wide-awake, and he was prepared for that.
Her arm flopped back onto the mattress as he carefully picked it up and dropped it. Melanie didn’t stir. “You’ve been a very naughty girl,” he whispered as he grabbed her arm again and pulled it behind her back.
He’d pulled a handful of zip ties out of his pocket and selected one. He imagined the ratcheting noise, deafening in the relative silence, and then put them back in his pocket. He’d done enough breaking and entering into occupied homes to know that in a huge place like this, the noise wouldn’t alert her parents across the house in the master bedroom, it probably wouldn’t even wake her, but why risk it, when he was sure there was plenty of quieter options on hand.
The girl’s room was clean, but as he opened the closet, he figured that she was a slob who’d thrown all the clothes normally on her floor into her closet to have her room immaculate for her parents’ party. A quick search and he came up with two pairs of pantyhose, a white tank top, a sock, and a pair of panties. Satisfied, he went to work.
This wasn’t Melanie’s first experience with alcohol, but the lack of supervision had lead the 19 year old to go a little overboard, a family friend’s offer to taste their homemade eggnog because “what harm could a little eggnog do?” had lead to her coming back for seconds, and when no one questioned that, she had a little more, and soon she was just mixing drinks at the bar. It was her parents’ house, their party, no one was going to say anything. She didn’t even remember her run in with the Santa at the party, her recollection starting with her mom yelling at her and her dad telling her to go to bed and sleep it off, and that’s about where her recollection of the night’s events ended. Something about the impending hangover being punishment enough had been sprinkled in there, and as she was shaken awake, she was inclined to agree.
She moaned, refusing to open her eyes as she tried to roll back over. She tried to reach for her covers and pull them over herself, but her arms wouldn’t budge. They were trapped behind her, and she tried again to no avail to move them or roll into a better position.
“Lemme sleep,” she moaned, squirming slightly still. She opened her eyes as her alcohol addled brain finally registered the pressure on her wrists keeping her from bring her hands up. “Mom, what’s—” her eyes widened as she saw not her mother waking her up, but Santa Claus looming over her. “Whammmph!”
Santa’s white-gloved hand pressed down hard over her mouth, and he leaned in close, his beard tickling her chest. “Shhhhhh. You told me that you’ve been a very bad girl this year, Melanie,” Santa said. “I checked my list. I checked it twice. And you’ve been very naughty indeed. And do you know what happens to naughty girls?” Santa asked.
“Hmmm?” she asked into the muffling hand.
“They get punished!” he sneered, pressing his forehead against hers.
She screamed into his hand. He had his other hand ready, removing the hand over her mouth and quickly cramming her own panties into her mouth, followed by her dirty sock for good measure, stifling her scream as she gagged as the undergarments were forced into her throat. She fought her gag reflex, choking and retching as Santa twisted up her shirt and pulled it between her teeth, knotting it off tightly behind her head.
“Much better,” he said, caressing the gagged girl’s cheek as she sobbed and screamed again, the gag doing a good job of keeping her quiet. “We wouldn’t want mommy and daddy interrupting, now would we?”
She screamed, shaking her head, her adrenaline pushing away the haze from the alcohol left in her system. She thrashed and struggles, but her wrists and ankles were tightly bound with her hosiery, and she flopped uselessly on her bed.
Sam let her thrash. She wasn’t going anywhere, and she was only succeeding in making her short dress ride up further as she wormed across her bed.
“There’s nowhere to run, brat,” he said, grabbing her and dragging her to the edge of the bed. “Santa Claus is coming, in you.”
She looked back as he positioned her over the side of the bed, his hands grabbing the waistband of her thin panties, her dress having ridden up all the way to her waist. She cried into her gag but there was nothing she could do as he pulled her panties down to her knees.
“I forgot my switches,” he said as he smacked her exposed her ass. She bucked and thrashed, trying to wriggle away, but he grabbed her hips, holding her in place. “I’m just gonna have to make do.”
There was nothing she could do as he undid his belt, dropping his red felt pants. Her panicked brain didn’t recall her previous encounter with the Santa her parents’ had hired for their party. She was forced to entertain the idea that this was the real Santa Claus, a mythical being she’d stopped believing in close to a decade ago, who’d come and found her and declared her to be naughty. What had she done? All things considered, she thought she was a pretty good person, nothing that would really land her on Santa’s naughty list, and certainly not to deserve what was coming.
She slammed her face into her disheveled sheets, as if she could somehow hide from what was about to happen. Her head shot up and she bleated into her gag as she felt Santa penetrate her.
“You’re a very naughty girl,” Santa told her, driving deep into her. “You’re a fucking little slut!”
She shook her head. She wasn’t, she really wasn’t, having had awkward sex only twice in life, once with her a guy in high school she’d dated for a whole week before she’d given him her virginity and then he’d promptly dumped her, and once early in college with a guy at a party, where she’d also been quite drunk. Compared to the previous two, Santa was much bigger, confident and sure of himself as he rammed his thick cock deep into her over and over.
“Ho ho ho,” he said, speeding up his rhythm as he raped her. Her brain needed a way to escape her current reality, and unfortunately it picked this moment to recall her actions earlier in the evening, her encounter with the Santa her parents had hired. She recalled coming in and sitting on his lap, drunk, and finding his dick through his pants as she sat on his lap and grinded herself against his thigh. Oh god, she had been a slut. She’d thought she was being confident, fueled by the alcohol she was freely imbibing. She blubbered into her gag as she vowed to never drink again, but Santa wasn’t listening, grabbing her by her hair as he plowed her, slamming her into her bed.
“He sees you when you sleeping,” he panted, the words taking on terrifying new meaning as she screamed into the stifling gag.
“He knows if you’ve been good or bad.” She’d been bad. Maybe not on a general scale, but she’d been bad at the worst possible moment, and it was coming back to bite her.
“So be good.” He was getting louder, blaming into her harder as he approached climax. She screamed into her clothes gagging her that she would be good.
“For goodness… sake!” he cried out as he came inside her.
She buried her face into the sheets again, crying and blowing snot all over the covers as she tried to breath. She lay panting as Santa pulled out of her, unable to move.
He stood up, wiping himself off on her sheets, looking down at her. He’d fucked the fight right out of her. The desire to rape the stupid bitch that had cost him his job and his livelihood again clashed with the burgeoning reality of what he’d done. Even if his DNA wasn’t slowly spreading all over the sheets, the girl would know what had happened to her, and be able to put two and two together to figure out who he was. The icy fingers of panic began to creep around him, but he steeled himself against them, going into reactionary mode. This wasn’t a situation he couldn’t get out of.
“Santa’s not done with you yet.”
Her eyes widened and she screamed again into her gag as she felt him grab her. She kicked and thrashed, trying to get away from him, but his intent wasn’t to rape her again. He pulled her sheets free and wrapped them around her struggling form. Everything went dark and she was smothered in a bundle of fine silken sheets, and with a thump she was pulled off her bed onto her floor. The girl tried to wriggle free, but soon Santa was stuffing her along with her bedding into his big sack.
She had to stop trying to scream for help and just focus on breathing through the tangled mass of cloth surrounding her when she felt gravity shift as she was listed up and swung bodily over Santa’s shoulder. She tried to kick and thrash, but she was too tangled and tightly bound, smothered in the constrictive sack.
Santa tip toed down the stairs as the sack over his shoulder wiggled and shook, the light from the Christmas tree casting long shadows of the man in the red suit as he made his way through the living room and to the bathroom. He threw his great big sack through the window first, and it landed with a “mmmph!” in the freshly fallen slow before he climbed out after it, and like a shadow he dashed across the snow, out into the night.
“Merry Christmas!” Santa called quietly after him as he ran for his van. “And to all a good night!”
The contents of his sack did not think it was a very merry Christmas at all, and she was having anything but a goodnight, but there was nothing she could do about it as she was spirited away.