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 {ASSM } SANTA’S COOKIE {Burnt_Feathers} (MF, toys, pett, oral)
  
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Santa’s Cookie 
by Burnt Feathers (C)



Life can be a bitch.  The final week, handling Christmas shoppers had been especially fatiguing.  Only three days before the holiday Mrs. Frizzelli from Personnel told me that my services would not be required in the New Year.  

My boyfriend, Wesley, finally developed enough backbone to confess that 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 all my Christmas hopes 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.  Right now, he and bachelorette fifty-seven were spending the holidays 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.  The taxi was worth the price.  At least the doorman did not give me the usual fish eye that I  always received when I had hopped out of the bus at the nearby 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 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 stereo 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 smoldering in my belly, I abandoned myself to the pagan benediction of truly decadent plumbing.

An hour later, 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 might chance to find it.

Certainly my friends and I were all completely liberated.  Our conversations often ran thick with the mention of G-spots, dildos, and how to have the proper kind of orgasm, but only in fun.  No one actually had done anything about it.  At least, not that I knew about.

Except for me, I had bought this a year ago.  Following the purchase, I had first hidden, then completely forgotten about it.  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.

I took a few fngers of scotch and circled back to Jake’s over-sized black leather couch.

Carefully, I placed my drink upon Jake’s chrome and glass coffee table, sprawled full length upon the seductive surface, 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 insists upon describing.  Neither did rubbing it between the lips of my labia send unquenchable sensations of sensuality flowing along my nerves.

The experience felt more 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 such occurrences 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 was located 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 — underpowered — plastic dildo still lodged between my loins like some metaphorically atrophied dick of an impotent technology god.

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 Jake’s 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 maneuver.

Neither my shocked gasp, nor the shameless way I spread my thighs, further raising my pelvis, helped convince him that I was at all serious. If anything, he was more encouraged, so that his thumb began tweaking  the nipple of the breast 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 at the fingers that 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 alien 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 shorter.

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 apologized, “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 anesthetic 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 seeming to gulp and swallow 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 skeptical scowl, I doubt that 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 made 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 finally 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 usual.

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 molded 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 he added, “Cookie.”

He gently blew along the sensitized surface of my engorged labia, 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 exploit 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 too 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 be the one who surrenders.

There was rather more of him than I would have chosen.  His body was more heavily muscled than I would expect or 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 be our excuse for how we managed to couple three more 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 awoke with a medium-sized need to pee.  I scrambled to the bathroom, worried because 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 attack 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, frowzy 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 theme.

“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 rump, 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 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 decorations”

“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.” Jake exclaimed. 

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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