Bad-Bad-Naughty-Bad Santa: A True Lesbian Sex Story
by Giselle Renarde
She was fully dressed in the time it took me to wrestle a red thong up my thighs. My knees weren’t happy—they’d spent too much time being ground into the industrial carpet which, after a while, starts to feel like the scrubby side of a dish sponge. They’re probably made of the same plastic, industrial carpet and dish sponges.
I don’t usually wear thongs, but this one is special because she gave it to me. It’s red. And black. It’s red and black leopard print, to be exact, with red lace at the sides. It’s an odd combination—floral lace and leopard print—but I don’t love it for its looks.
I love it because it’s part of a set, the rest of which doesn’t belong to me. She bought herself the bra and the bikini panties. She’s got more body to keep in place—that’s how she sees it. So this “set,” such as it is, consists of a 38D bra, XL bikini panties, and an extra-small thong. That’s us: Santa and her little elf.
Actually, there’s one more element which, at this time of year, probably explains why I wore the thong to meet her: each piece in the set has at its centre a little red ribbon with a gold-toned ornament. It reminds me of something you’d see on a Christmas tree.
Have I told you how much my girlfriend loves Christmas? I can’t even deal with her house in December. It’s like a jungle of ornaments. It makes me claustrophobic. You’re constantly stepping over trees and figurines and nativities and angels. Lord Almighty, the cherub-cheeked life-sized dolls! Try fucking your girlfriend with a carolers watching. I dare you.
It’s too much.
Which is why I keep showing up at her place of employment, pretending I’m only there to help with whichever unpaid project she’s taken on this week. It’s always something. She’s oddly generous with her time, for someone who has so little to give.
And I weasel my way in by lending a hand… lending two hands… and a mouth…
Case in point: yesterday, the day of the leopard print underwear, we’d probably had six orgasms between us by the time I struggled back into my thong. Everyone else had gone home. Still, it’s risky to fuck at work. Anybody could walk in at any moment. I tell myself I’m not excited by such things, but if that were the case I’d probably just beg her to come home with me, or follow her back to the Christmas Village she calls a house.
Risk ups the ante. It’s not that I want to get caught, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to either, but that possibility doesn’t exist in any other space we access… aside from outdoors. She entertains fantasies of sex in the wilderness, but it reminds me too much of fucking my Grade Twelve English teacher in the car. Been there, done that.
“Do you want more?” she asked, which surprised me since we’d had MORE twice already.
As it happens, there’s a huge mirror right beside the chair she was sitting in, so when I fell into her lap I could see our reflection. And because she’s big and I’m small, and because I’d fallen into her lap with one arm around her shoulder, the scene shining back at me was a picture postcard of a bad, bad girl and a naughty, bad Santa.
And, for the first time in my life, I got the kink.
So I asked, “Can you see me when I’m sleeping? Do you know when I’m awake?”
She laughed, but she didn’t answer before walking her fingers under the tight elastic waist of the thong she’d bought me.
I whispered in her ear, “Have I been a good little girl, Santa?”
Her breath hitched when I asked that question. I think she’d been fighting the scene, but that hooked her. She said, “You’ve been a very good girl all year long.”
“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I want for Christmas, Santa?”
“I don’t care what you want for Christmas,” she whispered, with her mouth pressed right up against my ear. “You’ll take what I give you.”
“God, you’re wet,” she said, like my arousal caused her actual physical pain. “I just can’t get enough.”
“Are you sure you should be touching me like this, Santa?” Now that we’d entered the scene, I wouldn’t let up. “I think you’re a bad Santa. I think you’re a bad, bad, naughty, bad Santa.”
“You love it,” she said as she traced my admittedly excessive juices across my clit. “And I love your pussy.”
She bit my earlobe, tugged on it, before saying, “I love your pussy because it’s such a tight little pussy, such a wet little pussy, such a sweet little pussy. Your pussy always wants more. It’s always ready for more.”
The way she held me in that moment was less like a child on Santa’s knee and more the way a little girl wrangles a writhing kitten. Not that I was trying to escape her clutches. Only, I was so overstimulated my body fought against itself. I wrapped both arms around her shoulders as she madly scoured my clit. I was a pulpy, raw mess down there. Every nerve ending exploded like the fireworks we watched over Niagara Falls two Christmases ago.
“Bad Santa,” I whispered, as we listened to voices in the hall. They couldn’t get in without a key. Still… if they had a key, they could get it.
“You think you’re naughty?” she asked me. “I think you’re nice.”
“No,” I assured her, opening my legs a little wider to prove my point. “No, I’m Naughty, Santa. I’m a naughty bad girl.”
“Whose naughty bad girl?”
“Your naughty bad girl!”
My fingers dug into her skin while my toes walked the plank. I couldn’t escape the wild overstimulation, not because she’d trapped me in her lap, but because I was clinging to her shoulders all the while. Even when I couldn’t take any more, when my thighs snapped shut around her hand, I hugged her tightly around the neck. I remained in her lap.
“Had enough?” she asked, though she hadn’t stopped tickling my clit.
That’s an impossible question. I can never answer it.
But she pulled her hand from the thong she’d bought me and kissed me while I rested in her lap and her kisses were like candy, so good.
And when we were done, I looked at us in the mirror—this nearly-naked elf in the lap of a fully-clothed full-figured feline—and I couldn’t resist saying, “Thank you, Santa.”
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