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1066 Words
“I must have died and gone to heaven. This has to be a dream.”
That was the only thought Edward could hold while this beautiful little thing stood in front of him holding her Santa top up so he could stare at the most perfect red panties he’d ever seen in his life. Not a picture. Not a memory from under the stairs. Right here. Close enough to smell. The triangle sat high on her hips like it had been cut just for that body, rich red fabric catching the cheap lamp and going shiny. A few dark, fine curls had slipped out the sides. His eyes crawled every stitch, every lace edge, then dropped and stuck on the darker, wetter red at the bottom point—where she’d already soaked through. That tiny crotch was glossy. Her squish had darkened the fabric and made it cling to the split of her p***y.
She held the pose long enough for him to memorize it, then let the top fall. The smile she gave him was filthy and sweet at the same time.
“Oh my god, Sandra. Your panties are incredible.”
“Thanks. I like knowing you like them, Edward.”
“I do. I really do. They look… f**k. They look great.”
“Do they look wet?”
“Yeah. More than a little.”
“They feel wet. And I think they’re getting wetter.” She giggled, squeezed her thighs together like she could feel it spreading, then bit her lip. “Can I ask you another question?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Are you getting it?” Her voice went shy for half a second, then dropped to a whisper that went straight to his c**k. “Are you hard, Edward?”
“Oh yeah.” Saying it made the ache worse. “And it’s killing me. My d**k is bent the wrong way and it’s leaking.”
He reached down to fix himself. The pillow he’d been using was still mashed between them, in the way of everything.
“Oh, I’m sorry. That must be awful. It’s okay if you need to do something to get comfortable.” She shifted her stance, one foot sliding out. The movement dragged the wet crotch of her panties tight across her c**t and she made a small, helpless sound she didn’t try to hide.
“I really can’t with this pillow.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure.”
Sandra stepped in close. Her t**s pushed into the pillow against his belly while her hands went for the wide black plastic Santa belt. She looked up at him and didn’t blink.
“Do you think I’m naughty?”
She yanked the belt free before he could answer. The leather hissed through the loops.
“Yes. Sandra is Santa’s naughty little helper. The worst one.”
She smiled like that was a compliment and started on the buttons hidden under the white fur trim. As she pulled the coat open, Edward’s hand found her breast through the top. He rubbed, squeezed, hunted for the n****e he already knew was hard.
“Oooh. Santa’s feeling my titty. Find my naughty n****e, darling. It’s been waiting.”
Thin bra underneath, almost nothing, but her n****e was a tight little point. He pinched it through the layers and rolled it.
“Mmmm. Santa. That feels nice. Harder.”
He pulled it firmer. She tugged at the pillow. He helped, yanking his pants out so the cushion could drop. His pants hit the floor. His other hand filled with her other breast. In the background some old Christmas track was looping let it snow, let it snow.
Sandra sang under her breath, wrecked and smiling, “Let it grow, let it grow…”
She could see his c**k now. Trapped. Bent down inside his briefs, the fat swollen head shoved out the leg hole, dark and shiny. A thin bead of precum had already run down his hairy thigh and another was welling at the slit.
“My, my, Santa. That’s a big north pole. And look—a melting icicle dripping off it. Mmm. I want that.”
She licked her lips slow, like she was already tasting it.
“You’re a naughty little girl. Naughty girls get sticks for Christmas.”
His hands kept working her t**s, rolling those n*****s until they hurt in the good way, circling, tugging.
“Naughty girls get pricks, Santa. Not sticks. Long hard dripping pricks.” Her panties were a mess. She could feel how wet the crotch was, how it stuck to her lips when she moved. “My naughty p***y is soaked. It’s ruining these pretty red panties.”
“I love a naughty wet p***y. I want those panties dripping.”
He could picture that darker red spot getting bigger, spreading. She wouldn’t look away from his c**k. Hungry. Locked on.
“Want a candy cane, little girl?”
“Oh yes. Please. I want to lick it.”
He took her wrist and put her hand on him, right over the stretched cotton.
“Oh baby. You’re so hard. You’re leaking on me.”
Her palm opened and tried to cover him. Even through the briefs he felt huge, hot, pulsing against her skin. She squeezed and a fresh bead of precum pushed out the slit onto her fingers. “I want to suck your c**k. I want it in my mouth.”
He let go of her wrist. She didn’t let go of him. She started stroking him through the underwear on her own, moaning almost constantly, mouth wet, tongue touching her teeth like she could already feel the weight of him on it. She wanted it out. She wanted to see the whole thick thing, the vein, the wet head.
His hand settled on her shoulder and pressed down. She went easy. Knees hit the floor. Face level with that trapped c**k. She kept stroking him through the fabric, the head still peeking out the leg hole, still drooling, a string of precum stretching toward her lips.
“Oh baby. Give it to me. Give me your candy cane to lick. Take it out. I want to taste that melt.”
It was time to unwrap her present. And she was already on her knees, mouth open, waiting for it.
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