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SANTA’S COOKIE     {Burnt_Feathers}     (MF,  toys,  pett,  oral)

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Santa’s Cookie
by Burnt Feathers ©



Retail can be a bitch.  The final week, handling Christmas
shoppers had been especially fatiguing.  Only three days before
the holiday Mrs. Frizzelli told me that my services would not be
required in the New Year.  Finally, Wesley,  my boyfriend,
developed enough conscience to admit he was dating someone else.


The upshot was that I faced the holidays with neither a boyfriend
for Christmas, nor any future plans for the new year.

With my Christmas wrecked, I bypassed my squalid cracker box flat
with its single wreath hanging in the window as a sop to the
season.

Instead, I decided to spend a night in my brother’s luxurious
apartment.  I always keep an eye on the place when Jake is out of
town.  He and bachelorette fifty-seven were spending the holiday
in Cancun.

I battled for the usual bus to my apartment,  tossed a few
necessities inside a battered suitcase and left my depressing
abode.

My luxury holiday vacation started with a crosstown taxi instead
of the usual hassle with connecting bus rides.   It was worth the
price.  At least the doorman was more impressed with a visitor
who arrived by taxi than my usual entrance, hopping out at the
bus stop.

He must not have recognized me.  He was almost civil.

As soon as I  entered Jake’s apartment I was pleasantly soothed.
Its usual quiet air of luxury was intact.  Housekeeping had not
allowed any seasonal rush to impair their normal meticulous work.  
Nor had Jake had allowed sentiment to override his decorator’s
elegant style with any seasonal desecrations.

As the door closed behind me, I was enfolded in a cocoon of
hushed silence.

This was Jake’s heritage as the boy.  Not only had he attended
college, but a prestigious college.   Being the girl, I was
deemed more than adequately educated by the end of high school.

No wonder Jake was employed with a prestigious position and a
six-figure pay cheque, while I scuttled from one dead-end job to
another.

“Too much quiet,” I told myself, determined not to waste
Christmas Eve brooding over life’s injustices.

I picked up the remote and switched on the hi-fi.  I immediately
heard Madonna singing, “Santa Baby” over a local FM station.

“Okay, I get it!”  I declared to no one in particular.  “Jeez!  I
hate dramatic irony!”

I switched the hi-fi over to CD and was rewarded with elegant
tinkling from a posh jazz piano.   Knowing Jake, this was one of
his seductive background soundtracks.   His CD player is usually
programmed to weave this sort of urbane atmosphere for hours,
while Jake endeavoured to relax his latest victim’s  opposition
to promiscuity.

I poured myself a triple using Jake’s best eighteen-year-old
scotch, then wandered into his bathroom.

The bathroom in my brother’s apartment is a religious experience.  
With half the scotch smouldering in my belly I abandoned myself
to the pagan benediction of progressive plumbing.

An hour later, both looking and feeling like a half-boiled
lobster, I emerged from that steamy cloister, naked of all save
the single suitcase clutched in my hand.  Rummaging around in its
depths I could find nothing which would not clash with Jake’s
elegant decor.

I did, however, come up with one surprising item.   It was a
twelve-inch ripple-surfaced plastic dildo.

Half joking, half serous, I had purchased it, then hid it away
inside this suitcase for fear someone may chance to find it.

Certainly my friends and I were all completely liberated.  Our
conversations often ran thick with the mention of dildos,
handcuffs and body piecings, but only in fun.  No one actually
had any.  At least, none that I knew about.

Except for me, I had bought this a year ago.  Following the
purchase, I had first hidden, then forgotten it completely.  My
forgettery was so efficient that for a moment I could not imagine
how such a thing had crawled inside my very own suitcase.

The luxurious bathroom, the elegant apartment, the subtle
atmospheric music playing in the background, my complete nudity
due to a lack of appropriate wearing apparel, and the presence of
an unused twelve-inch ripple-surfaced plastic dildo in my hand,
conspired against my usual prudery.  I succumbed to the sybaritic
sensation of strolling through Jake’s stylish dwelling altogether
in the all-together.

Street lights from the city below dappled light and shadows
throughout the murky rooms, its opulence suddenly seductive to my
senses.  I poured another tall scotch into the short glass,
dipped a finger, and tasted smoky liquid, only five years my
junior.

Acclimatized to the background music that was not quite my usual
taste, I turned the volume up from a faint tinkling water
fountain to an angry torrential waterfall.

Taking a draught of scotch, I circled back to Jake’s oversized
black leather couch.

Sprawling full length upon the seductive surface, I placed my
drink upon the chrome and glass coffee table, and returned my
concentration to the black plastic object in my hand.

It felt cool, hard, and alien against my stomach, as I tried to
acclimatise my thoughts to switching on the device.  When I did,
it oscillated so vehemently in my hand that I immediately turned
it off.  Finding the control, I adjusted it to half its previous
setting.

Once more I switched on the plastic phallus.  It purred
contentedly.

I adjusted the dildo until the purring became inaudible and I
could feel no sensation against my fingers.  Steeling my nerves,
I finally applied the dildo where such devices are wont to be
applied.

There I encountered a difficulty.

Pressing the device to the apex of my loins did little to unlock
any vast supply of natural lubricants, which the literature about
these matters insist upon describing.  Neither did rubbing it
between the lips of my labia send unquenchable sensations of
sensuality flowing along my nerves.

The experience felt most like trying on a pair of shoes which are
much too tight,  except that I was witnessing the event from the
shoe’s point of  view.

Finally, I wedged it in.  Really!  It felt as if it had actually
required wedging.

Slowly working it about, I managed to press the phallus deeper
inside me.  I could not say the experience was erotic, neither
was it particularly unpleasant.  Had I paused to consider the
matter, I should have described it as a difficult chore which I
needed to perform.

Nothing provokes an obstinate response from me more surely than
opposition.

At some point while this was going on, I vaguely recall a light
briefly flashing across the ceiling.  I ignored it then, since
that occurs frequently in my apartment.  Only later, putting
together the pieces, did I realize that the light could not have
come from any automobile’s  headlights.  Unlike my closet, Jake’s
apartment is on the nineteenth floor.

Once I had buried nearly half of the black ripple-surfaced
plastic dildo within me, I paused for a gulp of scotch to pluck
up my nerves.

I turned the dial, and for a moment its buzzing set up
excruciatingly chaotic emotions within.  Then it stopped, dead.

“Damn!”  I cried aloud, as I twiddled with the adjustment.  It
responded with a scant few wobbles, then surrendered to inertia.

“After all the bother of jamming you inside, are you telling me
that you’re out of batteries?” I demanded of the dildo.

For over a year it had held the same batteries within its useless
plastic innards.

With one hand I smote my forehead in disbelief, then the other
joined its companion, holding my head to keep it from spinning.

I shut my eyes, although it was almost too dark to see the
useless battery-powered – unpowered – plastic dildo still lodged
between my loins like some metaphorically atrophied dick of an
impotent technology god.

Many can get fucked over because of new technology,  only a scant
few get fucked through possession of inoperable fucking
technology.

Eyes shut, I tried to imagine where in Jake’s damn elegant
apartment he kept his batteries, assuming that Jake owned any
equipment powered by so plebeian a power source.

I decided that wandering about Jakes apartment looking for
possibly nonexistent batteries would undoubtedly sour my mood.

I sighed in frustration and tried to relax.

I felt the dildo turn slowly.

“What the. . . .”

A large, warm hand at my breast pressed me back into the leather
upholstery.  Meanwhile, the fleeting touch of a phantom wrist
against my inner thigh penetrated the enveloping three ounces of
scotch.

The dildo slowly moved, alerting my retail-honed intellect that I
was not alone.

“Easy Cookie,” a rich baritone voice murmured from above.  “Lay
back and think of England?”

“What?”

“Too cosmopolitan?”

“I don’t . . . cut that out!”  I slapped at his hand, just as he
executed a deft, twisting, in and out manoeuver.

Neither my shocked gasp, nor the shameless way I spread my
thighs, further rasing my pelvis, helped convince him that I was
at all serious.  If anything, he was more encouraged, so that his
thumb began tweaking at my nipple he held captive in his other
hand.

With one hand I grasped his wrist.  I tried to drag it from where
he held my breast, pinioning me to the leather couch.  With my
other hand I tried to bat the fingers from where they were
simulating the motions of the dildo.

Weakly, I mounted an effort to oppose him.

“Relax, Cookie,” he urged, then chuckling, added, “just pretend
I’m the battery that let you down.”

“Take your hand off my breast.”

“If I do that you’ll slip off the couch and out of my reach,” he
suggested, “won’t you?”

“Of course!”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I shall leave my hands exactly where
they are, for the time being.”

In truth, I didn’t mind.  The sensation his hand upon my breast
evoked was nearly as debilitating as the way he teased me with my
dildo.  At least the hand on my breast was not such an unusual
experience.  In fact, it was quite soothing.

For several long moments we continued as begun.  He, to create
unimaginable sensations with a minimum of strokes and
manipulations.  I, to flounder in opposition, while becoming ever
more content to realize that my opposition was floundering.

A muffling cloud of desire enveloped my body.  Gratefully, I sank
into it.

The music faded, and I realized that my possessor had abandoned
me for my brother’s audio equipment.

“We shall be more comfortable this way,” he informed me, placing
an empty glass and the bottle of scotch on the coffee table.

He was a large man.  Over six feet tall, although the thickness
of his body made him appear smaller.

With one hand he reached behind my knees and raised them, rolling
me onto my back.  He then seated himself on the couch, pausing to
spread a thick towel across his lap.  Next, he lowered my legs,
and I unrolled, my bottom laying defencelessly across his
towel-covered lap.

His one hand immediately returned to diddling me with my dildo.
His other hand reached out to pour a quantity of scotch into his
empty glass.  He shot me an enquiring look, then splashed a bit
more into my nearly empty second.

“Sorry about the towel, Cookie,” he apologised, “but this is the
wrong time of year to wander about with a wet lap.”

I glanced down, then blushed seeing how soggy my bush had become.

“Do you prefer your anaesthetic before or after the operation?”

“What?” I was completely lost.

“Do you want that scotch now or later?” he interpreted.

It was too dark to see the leer which I knew had formed upon his
face, but I could just see his eyebrows waggling suggestively.

“You seem remarkably confident there’ll be something to have your
scotch ‘after,’” I informed him, trying to suppress some of his
boundless self-confidence.

“No?  Really!” he sounded shocked.  “Surely we have that already
establish!  I can do pretty much what I want with you, can’t I?”

That smug bastard chose that very moment to shuffle the
rib-surfaced dildo in and out, while rolling the pad of his thumb
across my clit, caught betwixt the two movements.

That smug bastard was totally correct, damn him!

“Be-besides, how c-can I drink lying down?”

Slipping a hand behind my shoulder, he raised me to a sitting
position as easily as if I were a rag doll.   Taking my glass
from the coffee table, he pressed it to my lips.

I made a big production out of gulping and swallowing a vast
quantity of scotch, although in truth, I barely tasted it. 
Whatever he planned to do to me, I fully intended to still be
‘there’ when he did it.

Considering his sceptical scowl, I doubt he was fooled.  In any
case, I felt better for the implied insult.

“Who are you?” I asked conversationally, although I doubted he
would tell me.

“Doesn’t the time and place give you an idea,” he returned
obscurely.

“I think you’re a burglar,” I informed the man.  I had the
pleasure of feeling his hand clutch in surprise upon my embedded
dildo.

“I look like a burglar?”

“Not at first” I replied.  “Later, I realized that you would look
suspicious,  got up like a cat burglar.  Dressed as you are,
nobody would question your right to be here.”

“Okay, Cookie.  Turnabout is fair play,” he replied.  “May I say,
dressed as you are, no one will question my decision to use you
as I intend, either.”

“What do you intend doing to me?”

“I thought you were a bright little cookie,” he replied, adding,
“Cookie.”

He raised me to an upright position again, although I had not
requested another drink.

I was about to inform him of his error, when his lips make
contact with mine.  Pressure from his hand pressed my lips
against his, but it was my own idea to slacken my jaw, and my
tongue to welcome his.

Our lips pressed together, both tongues circling.  As we each
explored the other my nether muscles tightened, clutching at the
deeply penetrating dildo.

My sphincter tightened, clenching uncomfortably.  Even with lips
pressed to his, I was  aware of an almost painful cramping in my
belly.  I tried to draw back to tell him of my discomfort, but he
would not release me.

Inexorably, his hand at the juncture of my loins aggravated my
body’s clutching grasp upon the dildo.

With a jolt of gratification the agitated muscles erupted in
release, only to build into another release, and  another, and
another. . . .

Still pinioned against his chest, lips joined, tongue commingled,
he held me, as great paroxysms shuddered through my body, and I
came onto his hand.

I remember cries of exaltation, I remember tears of joy, and I
remember tenderness.

Next, I remember waking up.

“Amongst the living again, are we?”

“Whu. . . .”

For a moment I was disoriented.  I was no longer on the couch.

From its hardness, I was undoubtedly lying on the coffee table. 
My legs were spread, but the dildo was gone.  Jake’s gas
fireplace had been lit, casting a cheerful light about the room
and across the ceiling.

“Milk and cookie time,” my captor told me.

His comment made no sense to me, but that was not unusual.

Each hand held a breast.  A thumb circled and stroked one nipple,
while his lips clamped about its companion.  His tongue flicked
across the nipple’s peak one time, dragged slowly over it
another.  Sometimes the hard, sharp edges of his teeth caught and
held it in a painless grip.  All the while, his hand kneaded and
moulded my breast upward toward his mouth.

Continuing for many minutes, my eyes grew heavy and my breath
fluttered in my throat.

“Although I must confess enjoying that,” he informed me, “we now
arrive at what fate has written for you.”

“What?”  I was not actually frightened, but I truly was curious.

He moved to the end of the coffee table.  Grasping my legs behind
the knees, he raised and parted them, while lowering his head.

“Now, it’s time to eat the cookie,” he said, his warm breath
flowing provocatively along my spread lower lips.  Almost as an
afterthought her added, “Cookie.”

He gently blew along the sensitized surface of my engorged lips,
and I began to feel a familiar sensation of flowing wetness.

It is quite unfair that he had such a physical advantage over me.
 He was already far stronger, yet every time he touched me, I
became  weaker.  At least, that is how it seemed.

With his lips upon me, I hardly had the strength to move.  Even
then, it was only to spread myself wider.

His tongue was soft ploughing the slick furrow between my nether
lips,  rough gilding across my sensitive clitoris, firm flicking
at that sensitive button, and long when measuring its extent to
probe within my vagina.  His tongue was a most versatile organ.

As lips suctioned, teeth nibbled, and tongue explored, Jake’s
luxurious apartment contracted to the size of my possessor’s
mouth pressed to my most intimate secrets.

And then, suddenly, there was no secret!

I was crying my pleasure as if to wake the city.  Again, I came.
This time, his mouth accepted my joyous release.

With tenacity I held on to my consciousness.  I refused to miss a
single second of those sensations!  When his lip finally left me,
I sank again into oblivion.

It was only momentarily.  I felt myself being lifted.  When I
opened my eyes, he was carrying me toward Jake’s bedroom.

Entering, I noticed that the bed covers had been thrown back and
two large suitcases stood beside the bed.

“What is this?” I inquired huskily.

“What does it look like?” he countered.

“Are you some sort of guest?”

“You have already declared me to be a cat burglar,” he reminded
me.  “If I am to go openly into this apartment wearing a good
suit, what is more fitting than I carry the swag out in matching
suitcases?”

I was aware that he was mocking me, but was too satiated to
object.

Gently, he lowered me to the bed, then pulled the covers about,
and tucked me in.  In a moment, he was gone.  One glance at the
suitcases left behind reassured me that he would return.   I
drifted off again.

I awoke fully, as the bed tilted.

“Who’s that?”

“Much to late to ask such a question now,” he replied.

At the sound of his voice, I relaxed.  There seemed nothing he
could do to me with which I would not cooperate.

He drew me against him and kissed me.  He was most experienced at
kissing.  It was nearly a minute before I realized we were both
naked beneath the covers.

That caused a flutter in the pit of my stomach, because there
could be no mistaking what would happen next.

Still, I did not draw away.  Indeed, I needed to hold myself
back, for fear I might seem too eager.

I had little need to worry.  He held me against his hard, sinuous
body, and allowed me to do only that which he desired.

It might have been rape, except I was far too eager.

There were no surprises, I had been to bed with a man before. 
The difference was in quality and quantity, not in kind.

He was a large, hard muscled man, who liked to be in control. 
All I need be, was a small, soft bodied woman who enjoyed
surrender.  While he was the man, I was happy – no, determined –
to do the surrendering.

There was rather more of him than I would have chosen.  His body
was more heavily muscled than I should expect I would find
acceptable.  I had seen that he was nearly twice my age – which
would never give me comfort.

Even as I clung to him, urging him to thrust deeper within me, I
knew that I would probably never see him again.

He was a mystery, a welcome Christmas present, but he could never
be mine.  I would have him for just this one night.  Which must
act as the excuse for how we managed to couple three times before
sleep fully claimed us.

I awoke to an ashen sky outside the window, and no street sounds
from below.  I was alone in the bed, but a swift glance assured
me that his suitcases still sat upon the floor.

I had awoken with a medium-sized need to pee.  I scrambled to the
bathroom, worried brcause I could not hear him anywhere in the
apartment.

I intended to go in search of him.

After what had already occurred the night before, I can see no
reason for a sudden case of shyness, but that is what sent me to
the bedroom for a robe.

Of course, when I entered, so did he.  He was dressed in another,
even more elegant suit, crisp linen, bold power tie, and shiny
black shoes.

I stood naked before him, with bleary eyes, frowsy hair, and the
sound of the toilet flushing in the background to add a hint of
mystery.

“Oh, hullo!”  I croaked.

“Morning, Cookie!” he replied cheerfully.  “Brought you some
fresh OJ.  When I woke up this morning, I was down three quarts.”

He poured a glass from the pitcher and handed it to me.  I
immediately drained the glass, set it down, and wiped my mouth
with the back of my hand – I was going for a “look.”

“Thanks!”

He set down the pitcher beside my discarded glass, then looked at
me with a serious expression.

“I have to go, Cookie,” he began.

“Yes, I know,” I replied.  “You gotta make your getaway, right?”

“You have never understood what I am,” he inquired, “have you,
Cookie?”

“You never denied what I supposed you were, either,” I countered.

“True,” he replied.  “I was having too much fun.  Now, take my
word for it.  I am not a burglar.”

“My history is,” I began, “when a man tells me to take his word
for something, it invariably is a lie.”

“That bad, Cookie?”

“Nearly.”

“Well, in that case, I won’t tell you anything,” he replied. 
“Just come here and kiss me good bye.”

I did.

As we kissed, his hands roamed down my back, over my hips, to cup
my cheeks, and draw me up,  tighter to him.

Perhaps he only intended to protect his suit.  Because of his
height, he either needed to give me a boost, or allow a nude
woman to shinny up his Armani.

When we finally released, he picked up his suitcases.

“So long, Cookie.  Merry Christmas.”

“Wait!  You don’t even know my name,” I protested.

“Yes I do,” he declared.  “I checked for Id in your purse, the
first time you took your eyes off me.  Go on, check.  I took
nothing else, honest!” he chuckled.

He put down his suitcase, and returned to me.  For a moment, I
thought he was going to kiss me again, but he only whispered my
name in my ear.

He put his proprietary hands upon my body, pushed and bullied me
back into bed, tucking me in like I was three years old.

“You probably have a wife and five kids somewhere,” I accused.

“Probably,” he agreed pleasantly.  “You certainly need your
sleep.  I grant you a certain picturesque splendour, but –  oh,
Cookie, your temper!”

He pressed a satisfying, and rather arousing kiss onto my lips.

“Don’t forget about me entirely,” he instructed huskily.

He then turned and exited with his suitcases.

Hearing the bolt slide back, and the door open, I called out to
him.

“Aren’t you, at least, going to tell me your name?”

“No,” he replied smugly.  “Maybe you won’t be so eager to climb
into the sack with a complete stranger, if this encounter haunts
you until I can return.”

“Jerk!”  I countered, as the door closed, and the key turned in
the lock.



* * *          * * *          * * *



“Kenton Styles owns the business.  He found out he couldn’t get a
nonstop flight over Christmas from L. A. to London.  I invited
him to use my place since I’d be vacationing with Petra,” Jake
advised me. “ I should have mentioned it to you. Sorry.”

“No problem,” I replied, then added, over-enthusiastically, “Do
you really know your boss?  Was his wife here, too?  You’re lucky
you have such a cool apartment!”

“Styles is a good guy, as bosses go.  They say he worked his way
through college as a bouncer.  It may even be true.  But, he must
be forty-something.  Too old to hang with my crowd, and no wife,
either.  At least, not anymore.

“Don’t worry, kid,  you’ll catch a break soon.  Then you can
afford a nice place, too.  I was too rushed to get you any
Christmas gift before I left, what say I offered to pay three
months rent, as your Christmas present?”

“I’d say, ‘Thank you!’”

“Oh, by the way, you didn’t leave any Christmas stuff behind when
you were here, did you?”

“No, why?”

“When he called to thank me for the use of the apartment, Styles
mentioned something about an unwrapped Christmas cookie.”

“What?” I squeaked.

“There was some more,” Jake pondered.  “Something about my
Christmas”

“Christmas decorations?  You don’t have Christmas decorations.”

“I know,” Jack agreed.  “At the time, I thought he was kidding me
about the lack.

“Wait a minute!  I remember.”

I held my breath.

“Do you know any Christmas traditions about cookies – cookies
lying by the fireplace?”

“You mean,” I suggested, ears burning, “like gingerbread men?”

“I don’t see how,” Jake sighed.  “In any case, it had nothing to
do with business.  I can always ask Styles when he returns.”

“Returns!” I squeaked again.  “You said he’d gone to London.”

“Only until February.  Then he ‘ll be back.  I’m bound to run
into him sometime.”


Kenton Styles returned in February.  He was just in time for
Valentines Day, but that’s another story.





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  Comments are appreciated, contact: Burnt.Feathers@gmail.com

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Santa's_Cookie