Warning: the folowing story depicts or suggests several perverted actions inflicted on respectable middle class ladies. The author has censured the most gruesome details, but one will find more than a hint of such things as spanking, lesbianism, analism and the abuse of house hold utensils. If you decide to read it anyway, the author will be very thankful for every kind of non moralistic comment.

SANTA (c) DPK 1999

People often think that being Santa Claus is just a lot of fun. Something to keep old pensioners happy. Now I admit that I enjoy my job, but I'm only happy when I've managed to finish it once again. I even confess that I've stage fright. Usually I don't sleep too well in november. Of course I'm not a regular Santa. I don't perform in shopping malls and I'd sooner die than cry "Ho ho ho ho!" My one and only mission is to make a great Santa performance at Dorrie's guesthouse. Just one performance each year. Sounds simple. But it isn't. It's skilled and very exacting labour. I'll show you.

When I arrive at Dorrie's in my big wreck of a Citroen DS I honk gaily. Not really necessary, because I'm there at the 25th of decembre at 4 in the afternoon every goddamned year. But it's tradition to honk and Dorrie's dears are fond of tradition. So I honk. The guesthouse is decorated abundantly: you could take a picture of the house and sell it as a christmas card. No problem.

The front door swings open. They've been waiting for me. Dorrie stands in front, splendidly decked out in voluptuous black, red and glitter. Her big, beaming face radiates welcome to me. Under my sweaty beard I'm grinning. I think of the special treat I've prepared for Dorrie. Behind her I see the flushed faces of several of Dorrie's inhabitants. The dears have been on their sherries and martini's since 12 or something in the afternoon. They'll be in the right mood.

I don't have to be elegant in my Santa role. I'm supposed to be old and stiff. So I waggle up the garden path, benevolently bowing my head to the excited crowd in the door opening. I'm a Bacardi Cola woman myself and I've had a few already. So I'm feeling fine. Well, a bit sweaty as I said, but that comes with the job. They don't make light weight Santa costumes and I'm not exactly light weight myself.

At last I'm seated in the place of honour inside Dorrie's candle lit living room. In a kind of semi circle an audience of six mature ladies gazes in rapture at my bearded face, lapping up every word I utter. They are looking lovely. Each one of them could easily figure as a symbol of the real Christmas spirit. Lots of red of course. Hair done in many complicated ways. Shoes, nails, lips, eyes, bosoms, wrists, ears, all details have been taken care of. There may be people who don't like mature ladies, but if one does, one cannot find a finer breed of this species than at Dorrie's. And I'm not only talking about their wonderful voluptuous exteriors. No, it's mainly a matter of the inside, as everyone should know. Superficially they may give the impression of a very decent bunch of retired ladies, pillars of virtue and good manners. But I know better than that. Look at the naughty glimmer in Deirdre Winscott's eyes. Watch how Priscilla Maryhead wriggles with her ample, velvet behind on that settee. Catch the giggles between Linda Down-St.John and Veronica Lambletter. Ok, let the fun start.

Have they all been good, clean girls this year? Oh yes, dear Santa! Well, well, well. Is that really true? Oh, absolutely, Santa! Are they really, really sure? Yes, yes, yes, Santa! (boring isn't it?) They know what Santa does with naughty little liars?

All right. And so on for a few minutes untill I fetch my huge red book. In their excitement most of the dears have jumped up, but now they lower themselves with frightened gasps and terrified eyes. This is the supreme moment of the year for every girl at Dorrie's. These seconds of delicious horror, heart quickening shame and crotch dampening tension. What foul things will the big red book tell about dear Linda? Which dirty secrets of Deirdre's? Will it have new and shocking revelations about Dorrie herself?

You bet it will! And I read it all in a loud and booming voice. I make it sound as if every single detail of it is a symptom of the lowest depths of subhuman degradation. (Sorry, but I wont give you the details. You may think that you're adult enough to read a sexy story, but I'm convinced that you would shudder in traumatic shock, if you knew what goes on in that house). (Of course it's all there for you on my site. Take a look with your extra cheap trial membership code!!) I'm not satisfied until even the last of them is writhing and crying in guilt and terror.

After that it's present time. Beatrice unwraps a lovely hairbrush. It's a big one with a broad wooden backside. There's even a set of instructions included. She tries to nonchalantly put them in her handbag, but her friends force her to read them aloud. Such strange instructions! Beatrice is told to place the leather footstool in front of Santa and to plave herself besides it. She must give the brush to Santa. She has to place her stomach on the footstool, supporting her bent body with hands on the floor. In this difficult position she reads on. Hips have to be raised, bottom stuck out. Santa will you please lift my skirt? Will you please spank my naughty, naughty bottom? It's a superb brush. The experienced spanker can vary her repertoire with tender taps, teasing slaps and cracking whacks. She can even use the very soft hairs to caress the reddened flesh, to cool the burning hills and fondle the moist valley. Santa knows Beatrice well. Within fife minutes she has yanked Beatrice's satin knickers down and started a mighty crescendo on the rolling curves. When the poor girl starts wailing a few well placed whacks in the shadowed crack suffice to produce an explosion of screams, shudders and shakings. Beatrice has never been a problem. She's every Santa's darling.

I work alphabetically, so we come to Deirdre. She blushes already, even before she has unwrapped her present. Perhaps it's because the packet is roughly carrot shaped. And the book had a story about her and a certain carrot. But I promised not to mention these stories. Anyway, Deirdre's broad, friendly face is flushed while she reveals a beautiful, smooth, red christmas candle. Before she can hide it the eager audience cries out, that something seems to be written on the candle. What does it say, Deirdre dear? Tell us, we're so curious! Slowly Deirdre reads the simple words: "Where shall I put it?" She shrugs her shoulders to the audience: silly message! But her friends know the answer to the riddle: "Up your ass! Up your ass!"

Can you imagine the joy of five nice, English ladies shouting at the top of their voices: "Up your ass!", over and over again? An innocent pleasure, I know. A bit softcore, but dammit, it's Christmas! And what's more: I can assure you that this shouting of dirty words does a whole lot of damage to the hygienic condition of several knickers in the room. Including mine. That is, if I would have had knickers underneath my heavy robes. I'll take it to the cleaners anyway. A bit of juice wont do any harm to Santa's robes.

From a pocket I grab my jar of lube. With a well greased index finger I order Deirdre in the right position. Dorrie lends a helping hand with the tight skirt and the fine, pink knickers. She's even eager to spread Deirdre's abundantly fleshed cheeks. The other ladies gather behind my throne to have a better view of the proceedings. We all have our spectacular memories of Deirdre and various objects inserted into her back entrance. Some people would call it a modern kind of dance. It's a special gyrating movement with sudden horizontal interludes and virtuoso jumps. Mountains of pale flesh seem to come alive with an obsessive energy. In the end the circular movement fluently transforms into a pumping one, no a bucking one or may be even a sucking one. The spectators cheer with indignant cries: "Oh horrible!", "I can see her bare fanny!", "Dirty, dirty girl!" and so on. But Deirdre merrily fucks herself to paradise. Well, that wasn't so hard. Still, I'm seriously sweating now. It's a bit unSantalike but I roll up my sleeves and cry out: "Next one is Dorrie! And pour me a fucking Bacardi, you lazy cunts!" Ah, that feels good!

Should I tell you about Dorrie's carpet beater? Perhaps I forgot to tell you that Dorrie has the most sensational ass of this neighbourhood. But knowing that, I suppose you can now think of a suitable combination of these two facts. Good, because I don't want to relive the very exhausting consequences. And I knew that I had survived only the easy half of the night. So Linda gets her set of wooden kitchen utensils. Priscilla was strangely excited about her pair of size 49 bedroom slippers. But in the end we all understood about them. Veronica always comes last. Of course I'm free to change the order of recipients. But Veronica is so good at ends in every imaginable meaning. We're all in love with her butt end. She doesn't have the roundest, biggest, whitest ass of all, but when one sees it in all it's bared ass glory one knows, that this is the bare bottomest butt of all butts. It's the crowning end product of centuries of English ladies' butt evolution. When you see it slowly revealed by teasingly lowered, sheer white knickers you want to gape and stare in admiration. But Veronica isn't good at being an object. Her bushy mound has been tormented by tropical monsoons and has changed into a steaming swamp. The dark little hole between these pale, quivering hills nervously contracts and elates. It demands all!

Well, that's all actually. I mean, after that the scene becomes a bit irregular. Usually we stop at his moment with the traditional part of the evening. Veronica really needs the participation of all present and it's hard to keep up appearances, when one tries to please someone like Veronica. I could tell you about it, but I won't. It's Christmas, remember!

Daan King