Chapter 4: Nicholas meets his wife's plaything and his new toy, setting the stage for a twisted holiday game.
The great sleigh, still humming with residual starlight, settled into its berth with a sigh of crystalline snow. Nicholas swung down, his boots crunching on the frost-rimed cobbles, the familiar ache of a global night’s journey settled deep in his bones. The Workshop was quiet, the elves asleep after their post-flight celebrations. Only the eternal aurora shifted overhead, painting the compound in silent, ghostly greens.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to the family quarters, expecting the usual: a snoring hearth, a covered plate of cookies, the silent, sleeping bulk of the house. Instead, firelight and voices spilled into the hall.
“—and then he said the rein was just fine, but I could see the leather was cracked clean through!” A young man’s laugh, nervous but genuine, echoed.
Clara’s richer, amused chuckle followed. “And you fixed it right under his nose, didn’t you?”
Nicholas paused in the doorway, his sack dropped softly to the floor. The parlor was a scene of domestic warmth that felt alien. Clara sat in her high-backed armchair, a half-knit scarf in her lap. Elias, the stable hand, perched on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward as he spoke. And in the corner, nestled in a smaller chair, was the girl. Mimi. Her eyes were wide, taking in the room, her hands folded tightly in her lap.
All three looked up as he entered.
“Nicholas!” Clara’s smile was a masterpiece of warmth, her eyes holding a glint of something harder, like flint under snow. “You’re home earlier than we expected. Come in, come in, you’ll let the cold in.”
“Just finishing the last of the time zones over the Pacific,” he boomed, the Santa voice donned like a cloak. He shrugged off his greatcoat, hanging it by the fire where it steamed. “And what’s this? A welcoming committee?”
“This is Elias,” Clara said, gesturing with her knitting needle. “Our new stable hand. And his sister, Mimi. She’s joined the seamstress cadre. They’ve been keeping me company.”
Elias stood quickly, nearly knocking over a small side table. “Sir. Mr. Claus. It’s an honor.” He was tall, taller than Nicholas had perceived through the globe, with that shaggy blonde hair and a nervous deference that didn’t quite hide the strength in his frame.
“Elias,” Nicholas said, taking his hand in a firm grip, holding it a moment too long. He saw the boy’s eyes flicker, a faint blush on his neck. You fucked my wife in this very house, Nicholas thought, his smile unwavering. You spilled yourself inside her.
“And this is Mimi,” Clara’s voice cut through his thoughts. The petite young woman uncurled herself from the chair. She was even smaller up close, delicate as a bird. Her eyes, a warm brown, met his for a fleeting second before darting away.
“Sir,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
“Mimi,” Nicholas said, his tone softening into its most avuncular register. “Welcome to the Pole. I trust your quarters are comfortable?” He let his gaze travel over her, a casual, paternal sweep that took in the modest cut of her dress, the slender column of her throat. He knew what lay beneath. The memory of the red and white stockings, of her fingers circling her own wetness, flashed behind his eyes.
“Oh, yes, sir. Very. Thank you.” She was blushing furiously now.
“They’re wonderful additions, Nicholas,” Clara said, her needles clicking again, a steady, metronomic sound. “Elias has a way with the reindeer that even Donner approves of. And Mimi’s stitches are so fine, so delicate. She repaired that old rocking horse in the nursery. You’d never know it was broken.”
“Splendid,” Nicholas said, lowering himself into his throne-like chair opposite Clara. The leather groaned. He felt a strange power in the room, a current flowing in triangles between them all. He knew secrets. He had watched them all.
“We were just talking about the post-Christmas lull,” Clara continued, her voice smooth as eggnog. “The calm before we start planning for next year. Elias was saying how quiet the stables become.”
Elias nodded, reclaiming his seat. “Yes, ma’am. Mostly just maintenance and exercise.”
“And the seamstresses,” Clara mused, her eyes lifting from her knitting to land on Nicholas. “They finish the urgent repairs, and then there’s a period with very little to do. Such a waste of talent.” She let the words hang. The fire popped. “In fact, it gave me an idea. Nicholas, you’re always complaining about the state of your private records. The ledgers from the last century are crumbling. The ink is fading. It’s a historian’s nightmare.”
Nicholas felt a slow, cold thrill uncoil in his stomach. He knew what was coming.
“I was thinking,” Clara said, her smile sweet and sharp, “that Mimi, with her delicate hands and patient eye, would be perfect to assist you. A special project. Preserving the legacy. She could work in your office, under your direct supervision, of course.”
The room went utterly still. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the faint, relentless click-click-click of Clara’s needles.
Mimi’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and confused pride. “M-me, Mrs. Claus? But I… I’m just a seamstress. I don’t know anything about old ledgers.”
“Nonsense,” Clara waved a dismissive hand. “It’s meticulous work. Preservation. It’s not so different from restoring a precious garment. And Nicholas can guide you.” She finally looked directly at her husband. “Can’t you, dear? It would be such a help. And it would keep the poor girl from being idle. We can’t have idle hands at the Pole, can we?”
Her gaze was a challenge, a dare. You watch me through your glass, it said. Now here is something to watch up close.
Elias shifted uncomfortably, sensing a subtext he couldn’t decipher. “If Mimi’s willing, it sounds like a great opportunity,” he offered haltingly.
Nicholas leaned back, steepling his fingers over his broad belly. He let his eyes travel from Clara’s triumphant face to Mimi’s flustered one. He saw the pulse fluttering in the girl’s neck, the way her small breasts rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. He remembered the globe’ view, the stripe of red on pale thigh.
“I think it’s a capital idea,” he said, his voice a rich, warm rumble. “A perfect use of our resources. Mimi, if you’re agreeable, you can start tomorrow morning. After breakfast. My office can be a bit… cluttered. We’ll have to work closely.”
Mimi swallowed, nodding mutely. The blush had spread down to her chest, disappearing into the neckline of her dress.
“Excellent,” Clara said, her project complete. She set her knitting aside. “Well, I’m sure you two are tired. Thank you for the company.”
It was a clear dismissal. Elias stood, pulling his sister gently up by the elbow. “Thank you, Mr. Claus, Mrs. Claus. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Elias,” Nicholas said, his eyes lingering on the boy. “Goodnight, Mimi. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The siblings left, the door clicking shut behind them. The silence they left in their wake was deafening, filled only with the settling fire.
Nicholas and Clara sat, facing each other across the Persian rug. The benevolent masks dissolved.
“That was neatly done,” Nicholas said, his voice no longer boomy, but flat and quiet.
“I have my moments,” Clara replied, picking up her knitting once more, examining a stitch. “She’s a sweet thing. Very… attentive.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“As have you.” She looked up then, and her eyes were like chips of Arctic ice. “The globe’s been active. I can feel it when you look. Like a draft.”
He didn’t deny it. “You gave me quite a show.”
“I gave you what you wanted,” she corrected. “What you’ve always wanted but were too jolly to take. I’m just making the naughty list a little more… tangible.”
He stood, walking to the fire, his shadow colossal on the wall. “And the boy? Is he tangible?”
“He’s satisfying.” The word was crude, deliberate. “He’s strong. He’s eager. He doesn’t think about toy quotas or elf union disputes when he’s inside me. He just is.”
Nicholas felt a spike of raw jealousy, hot and surprising. It was quickly smothered by a darker, more complex hunger. “And now you give me the girl.”
“A diversion. A project. Call it what you like.” Clara stood, smoothing her dress. “You watch. I act. It’s the balance of things, Nicholas. You have your magic. I have mine.” She walked to the doorway, pausing. “Don’t break her. She’s not as sturdy as she looks. And her brother is… protective.”
Then she was gone, leaving him alone with the fire and the echoing, unspoken agreement.
The next morning, after a breakfast of silent, loaded glances over the sugared pancakes, Nicholas retreated to his office. He did not touch the snowglobe. He prepared the space. He cleared a small, sturdy table by the window, arranging a stack of the oldest, most fragile ledgers—volumes of coal allocations and good-behavior stars from the 1800s. He positioned a comfortable chair opposite his own.
At precisely nine, a soft, hesitant knock.
“Come.”
Mimi slipped in, closing the door softly behind her. She wore a simple grey dress, her hair neatly tucked behind her ears. She carried a small sewing kit, as if it were a talisman. The scent of lavender and nervous sweat came with her.
“Sir. I’m here.”
“Mimi. Please, sit.” He gestured to the chair. “We’ll start slowly. This volume here,” he said, sliding a giant leather-bound book toward her, “details the gift distributions for London during the Blitz. The ink is iron gall. It’s eating through the paper. Your task is to carefully transcribe each entry—name, address, gift—onto these fresh sheets. With the finest pen. No errors.”
She approached, her eyes wide at the ancient book. She sat, perching on the edge of the chair. “I’ll be very careful.”
“I know you will.” He settled into his own chair, rolling it closer to the table than was strictly necessary. Their knees were almost touching under the table. He could see the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose.
For an hour, they worked in silence broken only by the scratch of her pen and the rustle of pages. He pretended to review a production schematic, but his attention was entirely on her. The way her tiny tongue peeked out in concentration. The slight shake in her hand as she formed a perfect ‘S’. The way her dress tightened across her back as she leaned forward.
“You’re doing excellent work,” he said, his voice low.
She jumped slightly, a small blot of ink appearing on the fresh paper. “Oh! I’m sorry.” She looked devastated.
“It’s nothing,” he soothed, reaching out. His large, weathered hand covered her small, cold one on the table. He used his thumb to smear the ink blot, his skin rough against her knuckles. “See? Gone. A minor ghost.”
She froze. Her breath hitched. She didn’t pull away.
He didn’t either. He applied the faintest pressure. “You have such skilled hands, Mimi. Clara was right.”
“Th-thank you, sir.”
“Nicholas,” he murmured. “When we’re in here, working so closely… you can call me Nicholas.”
Her eyes, wide and terrified and fascinated, lifted to his. He saw the memory of the snowglobe in them, the instinctive knowledge that he had seen her most private self. She was caught. Between her brother’s shame, her employer’s wife’s machinations, and the overwhelming, jovial power of the man now holding her hand.
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to flee. The scent of her, lavender and clean cotton, filled his senses. His other hand came up, cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking the soft skin just below her lip.
“You’re a very beautiful girl,” he whispered, and then he closed the distance.
The kiss was not paternal. It was deep, hungry, claiming. He tasted the mint of her toothpaste and the underlying sweetness of fear. She made a small, muffled sound against his mouth, her body rigid. Then, a tremor went through her, and she softened. Her lips parted. A surrender.
He pulled back, his breath coming faster. Her lips were slick, her pupils blown.
“The door is locked,” he said, matter-of-factly. He stood, his chair scraping. He walked to the main door and turned the heavy brass key with a definitive clunk. Then he returned, standing over her.
“Stand up, Mimi.”
She obeyed, trembling, her knees visibly shaking.
“Look at me.”
She did, her chin quivering.
He reached for the first button of her grey dress. His fingers, so adept at tying intricate knots on presents, made quick work of it. One. Two. Three. The fabric fell open, revealing a simple white cotton shift. He pushed the dress from her shoulders. It pooled at her feet.
“Step out of it.”
She stepped free, standing before him in just the shift and her stockings. They were plain white today. Practical.
“Lift your shift,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble.
Tears welled in her eyes, but a strange, hypnotic obedience held her. She gathered the hem of the thin cotton and slowly drew it up, over her knees, past her thighs, revealing the red and white striped stockings he remembered. She pulled it higher, over her small, pale belly, over the modest swell of her breasts, and finally over her head, letting it drop to the floor.
She stood naked except for the stockings and her practical shoes. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to hide her pert, pink-tipped breasts.
“None of that,” he said, gently pulling her arms down to her sides. “Let me see you.” He drank in the sight: the narrow hips, the dark, neat triangle of hair between her thighs, the shocking, festive stripes on her legs. “You wore them. For me.”
She shook her head, a denial with no conviction. “I… I didn’t know…”
“But you hoped,” he finished for her. He cupped one small breast, his thumb rasping over the nipple, feeling it pebble instantly. She gasped. “You hoped someone would see. That someone would appreciate such a pretty, secret thing.”
He bent his head, taking the other nipple into his mouth. He sucked, hard, his tongue lashing the taut peak. She cried out, her hands flying to his shoulders, not to push away, but to hold on.
“Please…” she whimpered, the word meaning everything and nothing.
He guided her backward until her legs hit the edge of the heavy oak desk. Ledgers and parchment scattered to the floor with a crash. “Bend over,” he growled. “Hold onto the other side.”
She turned, her back a pale, graceful curve, and leaned forward, gripping the far edge of the desk. The position arched her back, presenting the round, slight globes of her ass, the damp seam of her sex peeking between her thighs. The red and white stripes framed it all, a depraved holiday decoration.
Nicholas unfastened his trousers, freeing his aching cock. He was already slick at the tip. He stepped close, the rough wool of his suit brushing the back of her thighs. He ran the head of his cock through her folds, gathering her wetness. She was soaked. Terrified, aroused, complicit.
“Such a good girl,” he muttered, and then he pushed into her.
She was tight, impossibly tight, a silken, clutching heat that made him see stars. He groaned, a sound from the depths of his belly. She screamed, a short, sharp sound muffled by the wood beneath her cheek.
“Shhh,” he soothed, sinking deeper, feeling her body stretch to accommodate him. “Shhh, Mimi. Just take it. Take your Nicholas.”
He began to move, slow, deep, punishing thrusts that shook the desk and the girl upon it. Each drive buried him to the hilt in her constricting warmth. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, sure to leave bruises. The slap of his flesh against hers, the creak of the desk, her ragged, sobbing breaths filled the silent office.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, picking up the pace. “You like being my special project. My little secret.”
She couldn’t answer. Her body answered for her, clenching around him in spasms that felt like tiny, desperate kisses. He looked down at the joining of them, at his thick, ruddy shaft disappearing into her smaller, paler
Her body answered for her, clenching around him in spasms that felt like tiny, desperate kisses. He looked down at the joining of them, at his thick, ruddy shaft disappearing into her smaller, paler body. The sight, the tight, wet heat, was too much. He needed more. He needed control.
“Enough of this,” he grunted, pulling out of her abruptly.
She whimpered at the sudden emptiness, her knuckles white on the desk edge. Before she could comprehend the loss, his hands were under her arms. He hauled her upright, then turned her to face him. Her face was streaked with tears and sweat, her expression dazed.
In one fluid motion, he lifted her clear off the ground.
Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her arms clinging to his broad shoulders for purchase. He supported her entire weight with ease, one massive arm banded across her lower back, the other hand guiding his cock back to her entrance. He slammed her down onto him, impaling her in mid-air.
“Oh, god!” she shrieked, the sound torn from her.
He began to move her on him, lifting and dropping her slight frame, using her body like a sheath. Her toes, still in their sensible shoes, brushed the rug, but she couldn’t find footing. She was utterly suspended, speared on his length, her own weight driving him deeper with every downward plunge.
“Fuck,” Nicholas hissed, his face buried in her neck. He could feel every ridge of her inside, gripping him like a perfect, warm fist. The new angle was devastating. He fucked up into her as he pulled her down, a relentless piston.
She was so small. His hands almost met around her back. He felt her stomach, tight and flat, and looked down. There, a distinct, obscene bulge pushed out with every inward thrust. The outline of his cock distended her. He watched, mesmerized, as his own shape moved inside her.
“Look,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Look what you’re taking, you perfect little thing.”
Mimi’s head lolled back, then she forced herself to look down. Her eyes widened in shock at the visible protrusion in her own abdomen. A fresh sob hitched in her throat, mixed with a guttural moan. “It’s… I can see you… you’re so deep, Nicholas, you’re in so deep!”
“You’re taking every fucking inch,” he growled, increasing his pace. Her breasts jounced against his red tunic. “My sweet little helper. My good girl. Is this what you wanted? When you played with your cunt in your room, was this what you dreamed of?”
“Yes!” she cried, the admission breaking free. “Yes!”
The confession undid him. His rhythm fractured into frantic, deep slams. He held her tightly, crushing her to him as his orgasm ripped through his core. He came with a roar, pumping his release deep into her clutching heat, pulse after hot pulse flooding her.
He kept moving through it, milking himself, until he was spent. He held her there, still impaled, both of them panting. Slowly, he loosened his grip, letting her legs slide down until her feet finally touched the floor.
She swayed, her legs unable to hold her. A thick stream of white cum immediately leaked from her used pussy, dripping down her inner thigh and onto the polished wood floor between them. She stared at the puddle, then up at him, her expression shattered and awed.