by Anthology
And then there was the matter of that kiss last night. It had been incredible. Even better than the few fumbling smooches we’d shared on prom night. God, neither of us had known what the fuck we were doing back then. But now we were adults, and that kiss had been incredible—until she realized who I was and hauled off and slapped me. She was a strong little thing. My cheek still stung.
To my surprise, we weren’t that busy as the day went by. I guess a lot of parents had brought their kids right after Thanksgiving. So that was good. That meant that every once in awhile, Santa could close his eyes and catch a few zzzzz’s. But when I was awake, it also meant that I had a lot of time to watch Liv as she moved around the stage, tidying up. Or sat at the computer, e-mailing the pictures with an adorable little frown of concentration on her face.
At first, when she caught me looking at her, she’d glare at me. But after a while, she seemed to begin to see it as an opportunity to get back at me. That wasn’t good. There was nothing more dangerous than a beautiful woman who knew here own power over men.
She was completely professional, if there was such a thing as a professional elf, in front of the kids, but during the quiet times, she knew my eyes were on her. And she’d do things like stretch her arms over her head, ostentatiously to soothe her tired muscles, but it would make me practically salivate at the way her green dress would rise up on her thighs. Or once or twice she’d bend down, running her fingers up and down her red tights, as if she was smoothing them out. But then she’d always give herself away by peeking at me out of the corner of her eyes to see if I was watching.
She was trying to drive me crazy, and it was fucking working.
On Sunday, determined to fill the down time with something other than drooling over her, I brought one of my cameras in. Liv temporarily seemed to forget her anger as I set it up. “Is this what you used… over there?”
“One of several.”
She went back to the computer then, but she watched me as I finished setting it up and used some of my equipment to check the lighting on a couple of shots I planned on taking. That’s right, sweetheart, this time it’s your turn to watch. But too bad it was my camera she was watching, not me.
A small wave of kids came by, and when they were gone, I took some pictures. Candid shots of passing shoppers. The tree behind us. Even one of Liv at the computer, an elf intently staring at the screen. That gave me an idea.
“Why don’t we get some elf-action shots?”
She frowned up at me.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the one with all those stories about what elves do all day. Let’s take a shot or two like that. Like the one of the elves living in tree houses. Why don’t you stand off to the side of the tree and pretend you’re peering through its branches?”
“Why?”
“Why not? We’re not busy.”
She apparently had no argument for that. I set up the shot while Liz wove her way into the low branches of the Christmas tree from the side, making it appear that she was in the tree looking out. I took a dozen shots or so, and then we looked around for another elf-related activity.
We tried out a couple of different poses so I could get some pictures. I couldn’t tell for sure until I viewed the pictures on my computer, but she seemed to be pretty damn photogenic. I couldn’t wait to see them. The one we were shooting right now was adorable. She was on her back in Santa’s chair, her head resting on one armrest, and her feet propped up on the other. She had a phone in front of her and was concentrating on it intensely. Santa’s elf, taking a break. Goofing off. It was perfect.
The last one we did was of her on the floor opening presents like a little kid on Christmas morning. “No, that doesn’t look right. When you kneel like that, I only see a few inches of your red tights, and it looks like your legs just disappear into a red blur. Try putting your knees out to the side.”
She did so, and I looked through the camera. “That’s not right either. Elves aren’t supposed to look stiff and uptight. How about your legs straight out in front of you, like the way those grubby little kids sit when you’re telling them a story?”
She frowned. “I can’t sit like that, my dress is too short.”
I looked at her for a moment. Her spreading her legs in that little tunic dress was not a problem for me, but it probably wasn’t the look we were going for. “Put that big wrapped presents between your legs. Then you’ll be covered and you can pretend like you’re opening it.”
Liv thought about it for a moment, and the nodded. “Turn around for a minute,” she said after checking to make that no one else was nearby either. When she gave me the all clear, she had her legs spread wide with the white box with red ribbon between them. God, what I’d give to see her legs spread like that without the present and without the red tights. And preferably tied to the foot board of my bed.
I took a few shots from above as she pretend to open the package, and then knelt down at her level, getting in closer, zooming in on her face and the look of delight there. She was a good actress. And fucking beautiful.
For just a moment, I flashed back to that night six years ago. Prom night. And I remembered the way she looked as she smiled at me. Naked in bed. Wanting me. Before I fucked everything up. God, she’d been gorgeous, and now she was even more so.
“Santa?”
We both looked up. A woman was at the edge of the stage with an older boy, perhaps seven or eight years old. I glanced back in time to see Liv spring into action. She shoved the fake Christmas present out of the way before she got to her feet, but for just a second, I’d seen a glimpse of her white panties between her spread legs. I never thought that white panties under red tights could be hot, but apparently they could when they belonged to Liv. And somehow, that brief illicit glimpse plus my memories of her naked body at prom night made me hard. Instantly hard.
Shit. I wasn’t some fucking high school boy anymore who couldn’t control his urges. Back then, I’d get hard all the time when she was around, even though we were just friends. But I was a grown man now, with considerably more experience with women. Yet I was as hard as a fucking rock.
Which presented a big problem I didn’t think about until I was back in Santa’s chair, and the little boy was climbing the steps to the stage. “He can’t sit on my lap,” I hissed to Liv.
“Why not?” She looked surprised.
“Because if he does, he’s going to learn a lot more about Santa—and the birds and the bees—than he bargained for.”
“What do you me—?” She followed my gaze to the bulge in my idiotic red pants that was clearly visible even with the padding over my abdomen. She gulped, staring at the proof of my arousal for a little longer than necessary, which was flattering but not very helpful under the circumstances. I wondered if she was remembering seeing me naked that night, too?
At last, she stepped away to meet the child. Unfortunately, her efforts to redirect him didn’t go very well. “Santa’s really tired today. He’s had a lot of kids on his lap. Why don’t you just stand here next to him? You’re a big boy, you can stand.”
But that wasn’t good enough for the little snot. “I wanna sit on his lap and tell him what I want.” While I scowled at him, I willed my erection to go away, but it wasn’t in the mood to, not with Liv so close.
She tried again. “Santa can actually hear you better if you stand by his side like this. What’s the first thing on your list?”
But the little boy was determined. He moved around to my front and I put my hands out, intending to block him if he tried to sit. But then suddenly Liv was easing her body in between us, and it was she who settled on my lap, her ass pushed back against my hard length.
She jolted when she felt it behind her, but spoke in a fairly normal voice. “I haven’t been able to sit on Santa’s lap all day, and I have a Christmas list, too. So why don’t you tell him yours first, and then I’ll go next after you’re done?”
This was apparently a
greeable to the boy who launched into a long list of toys he liked. Liv squirmed a little on my lap, trying to position herself so that she wasn’t right up against my cock. “Not helping,” I whispered in her ear. A woman writhing around on my lap was not the way to make my erection subside. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
Liv was tense as the little guy droned on. She had both hands on the armrest, no doubt trying to keep some of her weight off of me. Off of my hard cock. That left me no place for my hands, so I reached around her waist, resting them on her thighs. She shifted again, inadvertently rubbing against me. Yep, definitely not helping.
At last the boy was done and Liv sprung to her feet. She took his picture in front of the tree while I tried to think about the boring social study lectures that our high school civics teacher had given. A minute or two of that was enough to get the blood rushing away from my engorged cock.
When we were alone together, Liv kept looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Say it,” I demanded. She was clearly gearing up to scold me.
But all she said was, “Santa’s supposed to be pure and good. And above all, asexual.”
I grinned at that. “Yeah, well, you had that when I was Todd-Santa. But Jackson-Santa is a man underneath all this padding. As I believe I just proved to you.”
She blushed but didn't back down. “What would you have done if I hadn’t… taken one for the team?”
I laughed uproariously at her phrasing and she blushed harder. “Is that what you called it? I prefer ‘throwing yourself on the sword.’”
Her lip twitched up in spite of herself. But that only lasted a few seconds before she was glaring at me again.
Perhaps I should have stuck with being Todd. She hadn’t forgiven Jackson in six years, and it didn’t seem likely she was going to start to now.
Chapter 7
Olivia
Who knew that being an elf could be such a depressing job? It was if the elf in question had a toxic boss. Or a drunk boss. Or both.
As it turns out, Jackson had been on his best behavior before when I didn’t know who he was. As “Todd,” he’d shown up on time, made polite small talk with the kids, and had smelled like aftershave, not liquor fumes. Jackson’s versions of Santa was a bit more like a common misspelling: Satan.
One evening, he showed up with a flask in a pocket of his bright red suit, and it was clearly not the first drink he’d had. I’d had to make up a story on the spot about how sometimes Santa needed quiet time so he could make plans about what route he’d take with his reindeer and sleigh on Christmas Eve. Not sure if the parents bought it, but the kids had been delighted.
Another time, I told one of my elf tales to a group of assembled children while Jackson snored gently in his chair. I figured I’d give him another five minutes and then wake him up—preferably with a bullhorn if I could find one.
But then one evening, he was unusually alert and attentive to the kids, joking with them, teasing them about their Christmas lists. When we hit a slow point, he looked up at me. “Let’s go out for drinks after this.”
“I can’t, I have to get home.”
He studied me from over his bushy white beard. “You asked me for drinks before.”
“I asked you for coffee.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Fewer alcohol fumes,” I said, waving my hand in front of my face though he didn’t appear as if he’d been drinking tonight.
“I wanted to go out with you,” he said. “I just couldn’t because I’d have to take off the beard and the wig and you’d recognize me. Plus I knew you wanted to go out with Todd, not Jackson.”
I shrugged. It was true. “Todd was a nice guy.”
“A nice guy with no balls,” Jackson said.
“A nice guy who was sober enough not to need a designated driver for his sleigh,” I countered, and he laughed.
“Come out with me tonight. Please.”
Damn, why did he have to look in my eyes right when he said “please?” This was the man who’d hurt me so much back in high school. We’d been best friends. Both of us smart but nerdy. Both of us outsiders. Senior year we’d been inseparable. And we always said that if neither of us found dates for senior prom, we’d go with each other.
As the end of the year approached, I found myself looking forward to going with him. Daydreaming about it. It was alarming because he’d always been just a friend. But in my head he was becoming something more.
The dance itself had been lovely. Neither of us knew what we were doing on the dance floor, but I was content to be in his arms during the slow numbers. And as he held me close and rested his cheek on the top of my head, it had seemed like he was pretty happy, too.
Until the party afterwards at Angie’s house. We’d had beer. We’d flirted. We’d kissed a time or two. And then more beer. And then he’d led me upstairs to a bedroom. And it had been wonderful and exciting and thrilling—until it wasn’t. Until we were both naked, and suddenly I was scared. Shy. Sure of my feelings for him, but unsure I was ready to do that.
I'd dressed in record time and then ran into the bathroom to splash water on my face. To think about what I really wanted. And in those few minutes, I knew what I wanted was him. I loved him. He was my best friend, and he was the one I wanted to be with. I wanted my first time to be with the man I loved. The man who was my best friend.
But when I emerged from the bathroom, the door to the bedroom was locked. Confused, I made my way downstairs, where some of the jocks there were joking about Jackson and Beatrice. And at first, it thought it was all talk. There’s no way he could be up there with her. Not after he’d just been going to do that with me. But a few minutes later he came down the stairs, and she followed close behind, the buttons of her shirt done up wrong.
And the guys had cheered and ribbed him good-naturedly. I kept waiting for him to deny it. To say that nothing had happened. But he didn’t. And when his eyes found mine, I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t want to see the look he usually gave me replaced with one of pity. And so I’d fled. And we didn’t speak again for six long years.
“I can’t go out with you tonight.” Or ever, I added mentally. But he looked ready to argue, so I gave him one of many reasons. “I’m dressed like a frickin’ elf. I don’t have any other clothes here.”
“Fair enough,” he said, and to my great surprise, he let the issue drop. But ten minutes later, when we had another lull, he excused himself and was gone for a quarter of an hour, during which time I had to make up more elf stories to entertain the children in the line that was forming.
It wasn’t until the end of our shift that I found out where he’d gone. He hung out, neatening up the stage area while I e-mailed the digital photos. When I was done, he handed me a bag. “For you,” he said.
Surprised, I looked inside. It was a dress. A somewhat slinky dress made of a metallic, golden fabric. “Why did you—”
“So we can go out for drinks.”
What? He’d bought this just so he could take me out? “Thank you, but… but I’m not sure I should. And also, I think you don’t really need anymore drinks.” Which was true in general though it didn’t seem like he’d any tonight.
“Then dinner. Please? For old time’s sake? We were friends for a really long time before things went downhill.”
He was right. We were. So maybe one dinner wouldn’t kill me. Maybe.
Jackson laughed as I told him about my second graders, like the one that ate glue, the one that had painted an unauthorized “mural” on the wall of my classroom, and the one who would eagerly do all forms of math except subtraction.
His responses made me laugh more than I had in a month. He seemed highly entertained, too. “You’re a really good story teller,” he said, taking a drink of wine. He’d ordered a bottle when we got to the table but that was nearly gone now, and I’d only had a half a glass.
“Thank you. It’s a job requirement for an elementary school teacher.”
“But you’re really good. In school, I knew you were a strong writer, but I didn’t know you had such a fantastic imagination.”
I flushed. Coming from a man at the top of his field, that was quite a compliment.
“Have you ever thought of writing a book?”
Now it was my turn to take a sip of wine. I definitely had thought about that, but I’d never told anyone of my literary ambitions. I tried to sidestep the question, but he drew me out. “I won’t laugh. Just tell me,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “Last year, I did think about maybe writing up my stories about being an elf. I had the whole book planned out. It was going to be called, “The Life and Times of an Everyday Elf.” And it was going to show how the elf spent the whole year training to be in Santa’s workshop.”
“So basically, it would be a collection of all the stories about elves you tell the kids now.”
“Yes,” I said. “That was the plan.”
“So what happened?” His eyes were focused on mine, and he was leaning forward. The only thing he did besides listen to me intently was to drink his glass of wine. And then order more after that.
“Nothing happened, it just sort of fizzled. I wrote up nearly a dozen little snippets about life as an elf, but then I looked into how much it would cost to hire an illustrator to create a picture book. But once I found out, I realized there was no way I could afford to hire someone to do the pictures. So that was the end of that.” It had been a big disappointment, but there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn’t like I could sell a collection of stories about elves to an adult audience who didn’t expect pictures.
The rest of the dinner was pleasant enough. Jackson was a good conversationalist. He told me a bit about his world travels, changing course any time his stories got too near the reality of war. I could tell that he’d seen some horrible things, though. The more he skirted around the subject, the more he drank.
