Chapter 3

There was a button for the prescribed rest "stop" on the dashboard. What it did was put the reindeer into an irregularly shaped holding pattern out over the Atlantic, south of the common airline routes.

To get to the sleeper, they had to climb over the bag of presents, which had exactly the same shape and bulk as when they had started, despite being relieved of millions of gifts. There was a trap door on the back deck of the sleigh which opened into the sleeper.

The sleeper had been designed for Santa who, while being the largest elf at the North Pole, was still only five feet ten. Bob wedged his six foot frame into the bed, but he couldn't straighten his knees.

Gwyneth stood on the floor beside the bed, looking at him and frowning.

"Try pushing with your feet," she said.

He did.

"It's solid," he said.

"Try pushing and imagining that you're Santa and have magical powers," she said.

"I'm not Santa," he said.

"You are tonight," she shot back. "Close your eyes."

He did, and felt her face come close to his. Her breath washed over his right ear like a soft, tropical breeze.

"You're Santa," she said softly. "You can change the shape of your sleigh." Her lips came even closer to his ear. "Pushhhhh," she whispered.

He felt two things. First, his knees straightened, his feet pushing the sides of the sleeper outwards as if they were made of tissue paper.

The other thing he felt was his penis leap to full erection.

"Do all human men do that?" she asked.

He opened his eyes. Her face was no longer close to his. Her head was tilted, and her green eyes examined him.

"Do what?"

"Get an erection that easily."

"Oh," he said, automatically reaching to squeeze his iron-hard cock through the soft material of his pants. "I guess so," he said. "Maybe not that quickly."

"I see," she said.

"It's probably just that natural affliction you mentioned," he said. He realized where his hand was and took it away from his pants.

"Attraction," corrected Gwyneth.

"I said attraction," said Bob.

"No you didn't. You said affliction."

"I admit I am afflicted by your beauty," he said. "I'm sorry if it offends you."

Her hands came up, fidgeting.

"That's the problem," she said.

"Problem? What problem?" he asked.

"When they told us about that natural attraction that human males have to elven women ... they didn't mention that the elven woman would feel it too."

"You're not attracted to me," he said. "You've been yelling at me all night."

Her fidgeting fingers went to the hem of her shirt and pulled it upwards.

"Apparently, that's what I do when I know I shouldn't be attracted to a human male, but am anyway."

The shirt reached the place where the lower swells of her breasts became visible. Bob was helpless to avert his eyes. Instead, he rolled toward the elf slightly, his eyes widening in anticipation.

"You're going to need to make that bed wider," she said, softly.

Then the shirt cleared her breasts, covering her head briefly before coming off, which let her golden locks drop to frame her almond-shaped eyes again. She took a deep breath, which made her breasts seem to move toward him as they rose.

It turned out those nipples were dark green.

It's understandable that Bob's recollection of the next few hours was less than crystal clear. A lot had happened to him, after all. Enough had happened, in fact, not to mention the nature of those happenings, that one might even expect Bob to suffer from some kind of PTSD. Of course it wasn't post. Not yet. It was ongoing. Perhaps his memory of that first time was more like combat fatigue. But then they've decided that combat fatigue was PTSD before anybody knew it was PTSD.

In any case, Bob didn't remember much clearly when it was "over."

He did remember staring at those forest green nipples, perched on breasts that looked entirely too large to be on an elf. He remembered the smile on her face, and her laughter as she saw his reaction to her partial nudity. He remembered wondering where that gruff, demanding elf girl had gone, or at least how she had transformed herself into a teasing, laughing, delightfully naked sprite.

He remembered that the almost transparent wisps of pubic hair on her mound were light green.

He remembered that it was her fingers that plucked at the fastenings of his Santa suit, and bared his body to her eyes.

He remembered her saying, "Oooooo. Tattoos!"

And then her warm, soft form was writhing on top of him, and sweet lips were nibbling at his, and her tongue tasted vaguely like peppermint.

And he remembered the heat that suddenly surrounded his rampant manhood, and her chirp of joy as she sat up, impaled on him and shook her hair back off her face so those green eyes could look down at him with very frank approval.

But the rest of it was a blur, very much like the blur that had filled his hand the first time he reached into Santa's pack and pulled out a handful of presents.

Then he was very, very tired, and his eyelids felt like they weighed a pound each, and he drifted off to sleep with a warm female body draped over his.

"Get up!" Someone was poking him with a stick.

He opened his eyes and saw it was Gwyneth. She was fully dressed again. It wasn't a stick. It was just her finger. She used it again.

"Get up! Time's a wastin'. We have to get back on the job."

"I don't want to," he said, feeling uncharacteristically lethargic. Usually, once he was awake, he was standing and getting dressed within ten seconds or so. "Come back to bed," he said.

"That was a mistake," she said sternly. "It shouldn't have happened. We will not discuss it. Get up and get dressed. You have presents to deliver. If you're not out there in the next minute or so, I'm going to make the next delivery myself. That could quite possibly cause the natural order of things to fracture, and the Earth cease to exist."

She climbed up and out of the trap door.

It took him two minutes to get the unfamiliar clothing back on, but when he got to the front seat she was just sitting there, waiting. As soon as he was seated, she reached for the button.

"I thought you said you were going to do it," he said.

"I chickened out," she said.

"Why? There's nothing to it. It's easy."

"Easy for you," she said. "Santa has special powers."

"I'm not Santa," he said. "I'm just Bob."

"You're not just anything," she said, almost under her breath. "Get going. We're here."

He didn't argue with her. He reached into the bag and stepped out onto the roof. He was back almost instantly.

This time his own finger beat her to the button.

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The Bob Claus

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