Santa's Pet

by Rachelle Ayala

  “I’ll pay you later.” I brush by him and bend over to speak to the first child in line, a girl holding a large, fluffy bird.

  “Is it true? Are you Santa’s Pet?” the girl asks.

  “Santa’s not getting a pet this year. He’s been a very bad boy,” I spout off as I march away from the throne.

  A collective gasp follows me as the parents mutter to reassure their children Santa’s real and very, very nice.

  ~ Ben ~

  Why’d I lie and tell her I never gave her a thought?

  The truth was, Ben had never forgotten that smart little blonde who never joined in any of the games he and his brothers played. She was always on the sidelines with her nose in a book, but every so often, she’d catch his eye, and then shyly go back to her books. She was the good girl while her sister got into trouble. She wore jeans and sweats and hid behind her long, corn silk hair. Never in a million years would Ben have imagined Brittney dressed like a Santa’s elf stripper. But then, a lot could happen to a sweet little slip of a girl like Brittney Reed—puberty for one, and the wrong type of attention from douchebags.

  He shouldn’t have made that remark, but truthfully, he thought she was flirting with him and wanted that kind of attention. How was he to know she’d take it as an insult and huff off in a tiff? He looked for Brittney, but she was on the other side of the barn, showing a floppy eared dog to a shy little boy.

  Meanwhile, as substitute Santa, Ben should be focused on the little girl in his lap. She rattled on and on with factoids about cockatoos and all the reasons why she wanted one, but he could do no more than nod and hum. He had absolutely no idea what she expected him to do with the big white bird she was holding.

  He was definitely flunking Santa 101. Served him right for misleading Brittney and then gawking at her big doozies. He ought to slap himself. What he did was degrading, and that comment was even douchier. And here he thought of himself as a nice guy.

  “Lookie, look,” the girl, who appeared to be seven or eight, shrilled in his ear. “He knows how to say ‘Hello.’”

  “Hello, hello,” the cockatoo insisted, bobbing its fluffy white crest. Its eyes dilated and shrunk like a cartoon heartbeat. “Hellooo!!!”

  “You better say ‘hello’ back,” the girl said. “Or he’ll get mad.”

  “Are you sure you want an angry bird?” Ben asked, in all seriousness.

  The bird eyed him and chuckled.

  “Oh, he’s laughing at you. He thinks you’re funny. Stick out your finger and say ‘Step up.’” The girl passed the bird toward him.

  Instead of stepping up, the bird, who had a large and hard nut-cracking beak, leaned forward and touched the tip of its beak on Ben’s finger.

  “Don’t worry,” the girl reassured. “He’s using his beak as a third foot. Trying to get a hold before stepping up. Say it.”

  “It?” Ben joked with the kid, who put on a cute little pout. “Fine, step up.”

  Instead of moving, the bird opened its mouth and gently grabbed onto Ben’s index finger. Ben held his breath. Was it going to bite? Should he move his finger? But then, everyone would think he was a wuss. Imagine that. Santa, afraid of a mere bird.

  The cockatoo eyed him, its eyes like creepy, sinister targets dilated as it applied slightly more pressure on Ben’s finger.

  Ben held still. He wasn’t going to react and give the bird any satisfaction. He was used to pain, could tolerate a heck of a lot of it, on and off the football field.

  “Heh, heh, heh,” the cockatoo chuckled, its evil eye directly staring at Ben. The hard black beak bit down slowly, increasing the pressure.

  Ow. This was starting to hurt, even through his grandpa’s Santa gloves. The bird’s beak was serrated. Ben held still and ignored the bird, looking away.

  “Heh, heh, heayeah.” The large bird’s chuckle took on a maniacal twist right before it chomped down. Hard.

  “Yeoww!” Ben jerked his finger and stood so quickly, both girl and bird toppled from his lap.

  “Waaahhh!” the girl yelped as she landed on her behind. Her pretty Christmas dress flipped up, but fortunately she was wearing candy-cane tights.

  The bird squawked loudly and took off in a fright. Its large wings slapped Ben’s face, and it buzzed a baby on his way up, then turned, panicking, and dive bombed a stroller. White feathers fluttered everywhere, and the people in line ran for cover from the crazy, screaming bird.

  Volunteers lost hold of their animals, and parents reached to cover their children. A stampede of dogs and cats thundered toward the barn door, scampering to daylight and freedom.

  Beside him, Treat howled and barked, cheering them on, “Woof, woof, aaaroohhhooo, waaahoooorrrooo! Woof, woof, ahhhwooo.”

  The girl’s mother picked her up, comforting her, then turned on Ben. “What kind of Santa are you? Scaring my daughter like this?”

  “I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m a substitute.”

  “Substitute or not, you’re responsible. What’s your name?” she demanded.

  “Buh-Ben Powers. The bird bit me and …”

  “Do me a favor, Ben Powers,” the stern looking woman said. “Take responsibility and stop making excuses for the mess you made.”

  She swept her hand at the pandemonium. Volunteers were running circles trying to herd the loose pets. A goat was nibbling on a stroller canopy, and a gaggle of geese waddled around honking and hissing at toddlers. Parents grabbed their kids and beat a hasty retreat out the barn door.

  “What happened here?” Brittney rushed toward them. “I leave you for one minute and all hell breaks loose?”

  “Your Santa Claus dumped my little girl on the floor.” The woman, who wore a business suit, pulled off her horn-rimmed glasses and glared at them. “I’m filing a complaint with the Reeds.”

  “That would be my parents,” Brittney said, holding out her hand. “I’m Brittney Reed. How may I help you?”

  The high-powered skirt pursed her lips as she took in Brittney’s skimpy outfit, which really was nothing more than a fur-trimmed tube with a wide belt around the waist. “Is this supposed to be a child-friendly event or a burlesque show?”

  Brittney’s jaw slammed to the floor, and she crossed her arms, which only served to deepen her cleavage.

  “Hey, folks,” the tall, gawky photographer cut in. “Are we going to get a picture with another pet? How about with Santa’s dog?”

  “Waahh,” the little girl cried, screwing her knuckles into her eye sockets. “I want Big Blizzard the cockatoo.”

  “I demand a refund,” the girl’s mother yelled. “This is the most unprofessional pet rescue event ever. Whatever happened to that wonderful Santa from last year and his sweet, helpful elf?”

  Chapter Four

  ~ Brittney ~

  Excuse me? Did I hear that power-suit lady correctly? Did she refer to Racy Lacy as a nice, sweet, and helpful elf? I can’t believe this. Of course, Ben screwed up, but why is she putting me down?

  As for a refund? No way. Ragamuffin’s Rescue needs all the funds they can get to put on these adoption events. It might be only twenty dollars, but it’s taking food from the pets’ mouths.

  I pick up the howling hound and dangle him in front of the girl’s face. “I’ll be glad to give you a refund, but how about a picture with Santa’s dog? He’s all the way from the North Pole. See how big his ears are?”

  Ben’s dog smiles, letting his floppy tongue hang out, but his breath is stinky and the girl turns away, pinching her nose.

  “Ewww … get that fleabag away from my daughter.” The iron skirt sneers and turns on Ben. “I’ll be filing a complaint. You roughhoused my little girl.”

  “Ma’am, I’m truly sorry.” Ben blinks rapidly, rubbing his finger. “The bird bit my finger hard.”

  “You’re not a real Santa Claus anyway.” She narrows her eyes and ogles his entire six-foot-plus height from head to toe. Grabbing the little girl who’s still blubbering, the woman stalks off.

  Wow
, talk about ruining Christmas for all the children still standing around. Ben hunches his head and shuffles back to the throne, bleating a half-hearted “ho, ho, ho.”

  Several parents herd their shocked children away from the line with promises of candy canes and treats. Others are busily capturing the fiasco on video, no doubt to post on social media, hoping it goes viral.

  “Wait, wait, don’t go away,” Sean Rodgers, the photographer, who also happens to work for me at ScrapCloud, waves at the departing crowd. “We still have Santa’s dog. It’ll make a great Christmas card.”

  That does it. The athletic man odor and Santa’s basset hound’s doggy breath finishes the last of the holdouts still waiting.

  Damn, I’m going to have to speak to Sean about deodorant. I hate hurting his feelings, but has he ever wondered why a tall, good-looking former college basketball player can’t get a date?

  Oh, right, Sean’s still standing in front of me expecting a response, except I’m holding my breath, too. He glances at Ben, as if for reinforcement—not that I scented anything from Santa Ben other than a woodsy cologne and sporty aftershave.

  “Britt, I’ve an idea,” Sean says, thankfully lowering his gangly wingspan. “Why don’t you sit on Santa’s lap and hold the dog? We might as well pretend you’re a happy customer. I need to post some sample pictures on my website, and Ben needs some Santa creds to show his grandpa.”

  Oh, no. The last place I want to be is back on Ben Powers’ strong, hard, and very woody lap. He’s never thought about me all these years. Why should I care to save his job?

  One look at poor Ben sitting on the throne all lonely and dejected, and my heart twinges, echoed by a second throb between my legs. Those broad shoulders, solid chest, and hulky thighs bulge from the Santa suit while the waist area is too loose and hangs over the rest of his well-endowed body.

  Besides, the guy’s trying to help his grandfather. A star football player like him could be vacationing in the tropics instead of hanging out at a tree farm for charity.

  Sean’s not waiting for an answer. He pushes me, along with the floppy fat basset hound, at Ben. “Sit across both his legs like this.”

  I’m still holding the panting dog when Ben picks me up as if I weigh nothing and arranges me sideways across his legs, closer to his knees than crotch.

  He’s silent and so am I. My heart’s beating way too fast, and even though this is only publicity for Sean Rodgers and Ragamuffin’s Rescue, the air sizzles between us, at least for me.

  “Closer. Look like you like each other,” Sean says.

  It’s not easy balancing the dog. How heavy is this sausage? He squirms and whines, not wanting Sean to touch his Santa hat, and I barely hang onto his front paws.

  “Hold still,” Sean says, stepping back. He clicks the remote on his camera.

  Uh oh, the dog wiggles lower and now his suit doesn’t cover his belly side. Sean clicks again grabbing a perfect shot of the male dog with his legs open.

  Meanwhile, Ben sneaks his arm around me and moves me closer. “You’re slipping off my knees.”

  Great. My ass hits his crotch and his Bamm-Bamm club twitches.

  “Sorry,” he mutters. “He has a mind of his own.”

  I ignore him, but the dog’s not holding still.

  Sean marches toward us and grabs the dog, lifting him, and before I can protest, he drapes the slug over my shoulder. The dog pants all over my face. Ewwee.

  I back away, but Ben’s hot breath is on my neck. A hot, slurping tongue bathes my cheeks right when Sean clicks the remote.

  “Yuck,” I scream, pushing the hound’s saggy muzzle which is dripping with drool. “This isn’t working. No more pictures.”

  “One more, let me get his attention.” Sean raises his arms and waves. “Here puppy, puppy.”

  The odor grabs the basset hound’s attention all right. His ears flopping, he scrambles with his paws and back legs, trying to climb over me toward Ben.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Yikes, his hind leg is caught in my cleavage. No! Lacy’s too small elf tube slides off, and my bubble-boobs pop from the fur-trimmed suit.

  I grab frantically for the dog, his skin, my tube dress, Santa’s jacket, anything, bending over to cover myself, but the rascally dog leaps from my lap and makes a run for it.

  Ben’s hard abdominals shake with suppressed laughter as Sean keeps clicking the camera. I have no choice but to turn my chest into Ben and hold on, crushing my boobs against his white, shaggy beard, hoping for cover.

  “Ben, pull my suit up, please,” I whisper. “I can’t let anyone see.”

  “Sure, I’ve got your back.” He wraps his arms around me. “Don’t mind me. I’m not trying for a feel or anything. I’m going to hook my finger under the fur and ease it up.”

  “Don’t tell me what you’re doing. Just don’t let anyone see anything.” I can’t help that my voice is so breathy.

  Ben’s gloved hands are firm and ever so gentle. He slides his large fingers under the stretchy material and pulls up the back first, then moves under my breasts.

  Laughter and exclamations pepper around us, as people point and children say, “Look, look. I see that elf’s boobies.”

  “Please hurry. People are laughing.” I grab his beard to cover my chest, discovering his suit is unbuttoned underneath.

  Don’t touch. Don’t, don’t, don’t touch, I warn myself.

  Ben’s being so respectful, but since I’m squished up against him, his hand cups each breast momentarily to push them back into the fur-lined tube.

  Big, solid, strong hands. He’s done all too soon, but there’s no way my body’s going to forget the way he felt. Most guys I’ve dated were grabby and squeezed them like they were grip strengtheners. Which is why I stopped dating.

  “Thanks.” I don’t dare look in Ben’s dark brown eyes. He’s breathing hard and so am I. His lips are somewhere underneath that fake beard covering his too sexy chest. As for his woody, let’s just say since handling my breasts, it’s ready to club me and drag me to its cave.

  “Folks, get in line,” Sean announces, breaking the fog of lust swirling between me and Ben. “Twenty bucks for a photo with Santa and forty bucks gets you a shot at Reed Christmas Farm’s famous elf.”

  Grrr … Does Sean remember he works for me?

  ~ Ben ~

  “I need a break,” Ben said after Brittney removed herself from his lap. He wasn’t ready for any kid to sit on his stiffie. The last thing he needed was for a little girl or boy to report him to their parents.

  His hands were still tingling from touching Brittney’s soft, warm skin. Her blush and her quick intake of breath showed she’d been as affected as he. Hard to believe she used to be that thin, flat-chested mouse of a girl with her nose in a book. The garish makeup hid her pretty features from him, but it also emphasized the lushness of her utterly ravishing lips. When she’d glared at him, the pout of her lower lip made him wish he had her alone, up against a wall, half-dressed ….

  He shook off his fantasy. Removing the gloves from his sweaty palms, he rose from the throne. He needed to get his naughty parts in order before he was up to the task of playing Santa.

  “No, no, don’t go.” Sean waved his arms, overpowering the fragrant garlands woven into the lattice behind the throne.

  “She’s the forty dollar picture.” Ben yanked his jacket over the sagging Santa pants. Thank goodness it had enough room for a fake belly. Maybe he should have worn one and let it cover his misbehaving cock. “I need a bio break.”

  Brittney must have known why he needed a bathroom break because she stepped forward and grabbed a kitten from the first child standing in line. “What a sweet little cat. Would you like to sit in my lap for a picture?”

  “Sure! Can I touch your boobies like Santa did?” The little boy, who couldn’t have been older than six, said.

  “Absolutely not,” his mother said. “I’m reporting this to the police.”

  “Ah, Mom,
” the boy whined.

  “How about you?” Sean raised his arms, pointing to the next kid. Phew, that man sure knew how to disperse a crowd. The police ought to use him for riot control.

  Ben turned away from the throne. He hated to leave Brittney in a lurch, but this wasn’t working out. He’d tried to be a good Santa, but he obviously wasn’t cut out for the job. Wasn’t there a requirement for a jiggly belly to cushion the kids?

  Besides, how was he supposed to function after touching the most tantalizing set of potatas he’d ever felt?

  “AAaakkk.” A giant flutter of wings beat overhead and talons yanked Ben’s Santa hat off his head.

  “Hey, give that back.” Ben reached up and jumped, trying to snag the hat from the white cockatoo.

  RRiiiipp! Buttons popped from the Santa suit and the entire front opened up, exposing his sweaty, naked chest.

  He loosened the wide belt quickly and tucked as much of the jacket as he could into it.

  Laughter tittered around him, but he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction. Nope. He’d go on his business and catch that bird if it was the last thing he did.

  The cockatoo flew up toward the roof of the barn and dropped the Santa hat in the hayloft. He settled on a beam, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Aaahhh. Aaaah. Aaaah.”

  “Aarroohhhwah,” Ben’s grandfather’s dog, Treat, crowed in accompaniment.

  Traitor!

  Ben didn’t dare turn around to see what Brittney was up to. Hopefully, she was busy taking pictures with babies whose thoughts about breasts were pure and innocent.

  A wooden ladder leaned against the wall of the barn. Ben picked it up with one hand and slid it to the end of the loft. That bird had messed with the wrong Santa Claus.

  He was halfway up the ladder when he realized his belt had come loose and the pants were slipping.

  Bending slightly to pull them, he felt the ladder wobble. Cripes. His center of gravity was so high that he could topple over. Back home, he’d never helped his dad in the barn, always excusing himself for football practice. Now he was paying for it. He’d leaned the ladder at a bad angle.

  He squeezed his thighs to keep the pants from falling, but how was he going to move up the ladder? Maybe he should come down before anyone noticed.