Christmas Comes Again

by

Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Fiction, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Masturbation, .

Desc: Erotic Sex Story: A man thinks back to the best Christmas he ever had, locked in a department store with two girls

Christmas is back, I smile benignly on my family as they open their presents; people make the same fatuous comments about the grandchildren liking the boxes better than the toys, the turkey is dry and overcooked (my daughter really can't cook); someone says "well, no white Christmas this year" and we sink into a semi-drunken stupor watching stupid films about Santa Claus and snowmen coming to life, and elves and crap. And I smile through it all. Once a year I allow myself to remember my best Christmas ever.

I was at university, final year, staying up to 'study' (party). But I needed money so I applied to the local department store and found myself the new Father Christmas. The old one – he'd done it for several years – was ideal; old, rotund, hairy; he also had a heart attack and keeled over dead in front of the kids in the first week. Not good for kids to see Santa die in your store!

The shop didn't want to risk that again so they took me on with plenty of padding and false beard. Luckily I have a deep voice so "Ho Ho Ho" was acceptable. This was before police checks and stuff, kids could sit on my knee and I'd smile and mumble in an old-person kind of way and everybody was happy and one of my elves would give them a present from the girl dustbin or the boy dustbin. You didn't need a degree for this, you needed patience, a change of clothing (for the inevitable accidents that mummy's little darling had). And you needed elves. Clare and Sarah, twins with luscious auburn hair, lithe, quite boyish figures – elves don't have large busts and hips do they? – and artificial pointy ears. They had the kind of elf uniform a dirty old dad would wish on a girl elf. Short green tunic that barely covered their perfectly rounded bottoms, green tights and green high heels. Have you ever seen an elf in a fairy story in high heels? No, still, I wasn't complaining. I wondered if working with these two was too much for the other Santa. They took it in turns, one would go up to the next child and bend over for a brief chat (the kids would tell an elf what they wanted when they sometimes got tongue tied with me) flashing a copious amount of thigh and more sometimes. I played a game to see if I could tell what colour knickers they had on under the tights – oddly there was no requirement to wear green – mostly they were white, sometimes other colours. Once Clare confided that she'd worn black but they showed up too much so she'd taken them off. Was I imagining it or could I see the faint pink tint of naked buttock under the green tights? The other elf would supply me with a present for the child on my knee or standing by me.

We worked well together, the three of us, 10 to 6 every day, long days with 45 minutes for lunch and an occasional comfort break (even Santa has to pee – actually knowing his age he probably has to pee all the time! I know I do now).

The fathers (mostly only at weekends) would often try and position themselves to get a better view – nonchalantly moving round to 'get a better picture' of their little cherub – but the old man in red on his chair could see quite clearly that their eyeline was pointing at a girl's arse rather than their child's head. The mothers were more varied, some barely noticed, some clearly disapproved of the girls attire. Oddly only one mother told her child not to sit on my lap – a more innocent time you see. And there was really nothing to worry about, I'm not into children like that, never was. Sorry, starting to ramble. I do at my age you know.

Clare and Sarah were also students – as I say, they were identical twins, Clare was studying theoretical physics and Sarah was studying English Literature. Me? Biology. At lunchtime we'd sit in a corner of the canteen reading, one reading about the latest string theory, Sarah was reading Madame Bovary – for pleasure!, and I was struggling to be interested in the Selfish Gene – boring, boring, boring. Anyway we probably seemed a bit elite-ist and standoff-ish. We didn't talk to the other staff. They all had to clock in and out. We were on such short contracts that we just turned up. As long as we were available from 10 until 6 and no parents complained about anything we were left to run our little temporary grotto ourselves. It was hard work – okay not in the deep sea fishing or mining type of hard work but still it was hard smiling for 7 hours 15 minutes a day – but fun. The girls made it more fun for me. While I wasn't an out-and-out science geek, I wasn't what you'd call a ladies man. Score upto then was 3 one night stands, and one (chaste) long term girlfriend – a Baptist with a figure to die for and, sadly, very high principles. It didn't last more than 6 months. Sorry, rambling again.

Christmas Eve the shop was due to shut at 4, by 3 the shoppers were thinning out and by half past many of the counters were surreptitiously clearing up. Only our little grotto had a queue of the last few tired parents and children. "Will you remember where I live tonight?","Don't you need some sleep before tonight", some of the brighter children asked. Waffle, waffle, ho ho ho. At 4 there were still 4 children in the queue; call us soft, we couldn't let them down. So it was 4:15 when 'Santa had left the building' was put up for the final time that year. By that time there was a danger of being drowned in the flood tide of employees heading for the doors.

We went up to the changing room. In past years this had been the male and female toilets, but last year a girl had gone in as an elf was disrobing, apparently it took some explanation to clarify why an elf's ears were removable. This year a small storage room had been made over for us to switch out of and into day clothes. The girls let me go in first so I waited when I came out. It was 5 before we headed for the doors.

Locked! Bugger! Back up the stairs, across the bridge to the loading bays and the old staff entrance. That was locked too! We tried 3 other exits before realising that the lack of a clocking-in card meant that nobody had noticed we hadn't left the shop. We were stuck.

I rang the security man from an office. He was one of the few people with one of these new carryable phones (so he could be contacted anywhere). Down the corridor a phone twittered. The bloody man had left it in his office – he wasn't going to be disturbed at Christmas! Clare then tried the Personnel Officer's home number (this was before we all just became human resources – though at that moment we felt like the rubbish that was waiting to be put out), no answer. Found out later she had been tippling with every department that day. Everybody had a glass of sweet sherry (yuck!) or red wine, the company turned a blind eye and the customers didn't mind a rosy glow on the employees' cheeks on Christmas Eve. But Miss Bickerstaffe had been sharing the Christmas cheer with every department through the day, drove half way home, left the road to explore a ditch with her car and would spend Christmas in a cell waiting to be charged with drunk driving. This was the last year the store allowed drink on the premises, but they did keep her on which was more supportive that most companies nowadays. What? Oh, yes, the story.

I rang 999 – emergency – "we are stuck in a shop". "I'm sorry, which service? Fire, Police or Ambulance". "We are locked in". "Have you been drinking sir?" "No, ... well a little, but that's not the point" "This is for emergencies sir, if you call again I'll have you arrested, now be a good boy, hang up and enjoy Christmas without being a nuisance"

So that was it. This was Friday, the shop wasn't due to reopen until Monday – again, more innocent times when Boxing Day was a day off, not a chance to fleece customers with pretend sales. Actually Boxing Day must have been Monday because I don't think you can have Boxing Day on a Sunday ... but I digress.

The canteen fridge was well-stocked with turkey sandwiches, I switched the coffee machine on (Clare : "Won't we get into trouble if we switch on the equipment? We might break it" Me : "Alternative is to drink toilet water for 3 days" Clare : "Fair enough") We carried food from the canteen, bedding from the bedroom department, lamps from the Camping and a TV from the Electrical Dept down to our grotto. Not sure why, we felt somehow more at home there.

.... There is more of this story ...

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