Chapter 6: St. Nick's Surprise
The grand hall that evening was a spectacle of forced cheer. A long table groaned under platters of roast goose, glazed vegetables, and pies that steamed when cut. Elves of high station chattered, their voices a bright, metallic buzz against the vaulted ceiling. Clara sat at the far end, opposite Nicholas, a gulf of polished oak and crystal between them.
She watched him. He was holding court, his booming laugh echoing, a piece of pie already smudged on his white cuff. He was recounting a tale about a misfiring toy locomotive to a captivated audience. His eyes sparkled with genuine warmth, but it was a warmth diffused over the entire room, never focusing, never landing on her. She took a slow sip of wine, the taste sour on her tongue.
Her body still hummed with the memory of the stable. The pleasant soreness, the secret slickness between her thighs that had lingered through her bath. She had caught Elias’s eye briefly when he’d come in to tend the fire—a flash of blue, a nearly imperceptible nod—before he melted back into the shadows. It was a coal she carried inside her, glowing against the chill of her marriage.
Across the table, Nicholas finally finished his story and leaned back, patting his broad belly. His gaze swept the room and, for a fleeting second, caught hers. He winked. A generic, jovial gesture. Then his attention was pulled away by the head toymaker, asking about sleigh specifications. Clara’s knife squeaked against her plate.
Later, the noise and light became unbearable. She excused herself quietly, no one really marking her departure. She walked not toward her chambers, but through the winding corridors toward the beating heart of the Pole: the workshop. At this hour, it was mostly deserted, a cathedral of silent industry. Half-assembled dolls stared with blank eyes. Toy soldiers lay in ranks. The air smelled of sawdust, solder, and ozone.
She moved through the aisles, her footsteps muffled by wood shavings. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for. Proof, perhaps. A sign of what held him so completely away from her.
Then she heard it. A soft, rhythmic sound from his private annex, the glass-walled office that overlooked the main floor. Not the sound of work. A gasp. Muffled, feminine.
Clara’s blood went still. She moved like a ghost, using the giant silhouettes of packing machines for cover, until she had a clear view through the glass.
Nicholas’s broad back filled her vision. He was standing, his red coat discarded over his great chair. And before him, bent over his massive workbench, was the girl. Mimi. The new seamstress, Elias’s sister. She was tiny, a sparrow next to his bear-like frame. Her small hands were splayed on the wood, clutching a piece of crimson velvet—his torn coat sleeve, a needle still dangling from a thread.
Nicholas’s hands, those famous hands that lifted millions of gifts, were on her hips. His grip was not gentle. It was possessive, urgent.
“You’ve been so helpful, my dear,” Clara heard his rumble, though the glass muffled it. “Mending my things. Such clever fingers.”
Mimi trembled. A quick, bird-like motion. “S-sir, I was just finishing…”
“Shhh.” One of his hands slid from her hip, around, dipping between her legs from behind. The girl jolted, a sharp cry escaping her. “So eager. So wet already. Is it the cold? Or is it this?”
He rubbed her through her simple woolen dress. Mimi’s head dropped, her short brown hair obscuring her face. A sob hitched in her throat, but she didn’t pull away.
Clara watched, frozen. This wasn’t the frantic, mutual hunger of the stable. This was something else. A taking.
With a rough grunt, Nicholas used his free hand to hike the back of Mimi’s dress up, bunching it around her waist. She wore plain cotton smalls. He didn’t bother removing them, just yanked them down to her knees with a brutal tug. The pale, small moons of her ass were exposed, the dark seam between them. She was trembling violently now.
“Please,” Mimi whispered, the word barely audible.
“Please what, little one?” Nicholas unfastened his own trousers. His erection, thick and ruddy, sprang free. He pressed the head against her, not at her core, but lower, against the tight, forbidden pucker of her asshole. “You want to please your Santa, don’t you?”
“I… I’ve never…”
“Then this is my gift to you.” He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself. The spit wasn’t enough. He spat again, worked it, then pressed again.
He pushed.
Mimi screamed. A short, sharp sound of pure shock and pain that was cut off as she buried her face in the velvet of his coat. Her whole body went rigid, her knuckles white on the bench.
Nicholas groaned, a deep, satisfied sound from the pit of his stomach. He leaned over her, covering her completely, and began to move. It was a slow, relentless invasion, a stretching and forcing that made Clara’s own body clench in sympathetic agony. She could see the brutal tension in Mimi’s spine, the way her feet lifted onto their toes as he sank deeper.
“There,” he panted, his voice gravelly with effort. “There it is. So tight. A perfect little fuckhole.”
He started to thrust. Short, shallow jabs at first, then longer, deeper strokes. The workbench shuddered with each impact. Tools rattled. Mimi’s cries were muffled, desperate little sounds swallowed by the fabric. Her hands scrabbled for purchase.
He fucked her ass with a steady, piston-like rhythm. One of his big hands snaked around her front, diving under her dress to find her small breast, pinching the nipple cruelly. The other hand gripped the back of her neck, holding her down.
“Take it,” he grunted. “Take your Santa’s cock. You’ll dream of this. You’ll feel it for days.”
His pace increased, becoming frantic. The slapping of his flesh against hers, the creak of the bench, his guttural groans—they filled the silent workshop. Mimi had gone quiet, limp, her body accepting the brutal rhythm as a form of surrender.
With a final, shuddering roar, Nicholas slammed into her, his body locking. Clara could see the pulse in his temple. He held there, grinding deep, spilling inside her.
He held there, grinding deep, spilling inside her. His weight pressed her flatter against the polished wood, her cheek mashed into the velvet of his coat. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths fogging the cold glass.
Then, with a wet, sucking sound, he pulled his softening cock from her ass. Mimi flinched, a fresh tear tracing a path through the sweat on her temple. Nicholas looked down at the mess he’d made, at the glistening evidence of his violation smeared across her and the bench.
He rubbed the head of his cock through the slickness, now mixing with her own arousal from her pussy. She was soaked there, a fact that made him chuckle, a low, knowing rumble. “Look at that,” he muttered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “All that pain and this pretty little cunt is dripping for me.”
“We… we shouldn’t,” Mimi whispered, the words hollow, automatic. She made a feeble attempt to straighten up, but his hand on the small of her back pressed her down again. “You’re married, sir.”
“And you’re a good girl who finishes what she starts,” he said, not unkindly, but with absolute authority. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad tip nudging against her swollen folds. “Aren’t you?”
She didn’t answer. She just closed her eyes and let out a shuddering sigh, her body going pliant. She did nothing to stop him. The initial, brutal stretch was gone, replaced by a different, fuller pressure. He pushed into her pussy in one long, smooth stroke, and her mouth fell open in a silent gasp.
“Fuck, that’s it,” Nicholas groaned, his hands gripping her narrow hips hard enough to bruise. “That’s the spot. So much warmer. Tighter than I remember.”
He began to fuck her in earnest, no longer the slow, punishing conquest of before, but a deep, rolling rhythm of pure possession. Each thrust drove the workbench forward with a sharp screech. A tray of delicate silver tools rattled dangerously near the edge, teetering with every impact of his hips against her ass.
“Oh god,” Mimi choked out, her previous pain forgotten, transformed into a sharp, bright pleasure. Her fingers clawed at the wood. “You’re so deep. It’s so deep.”
“Love this small pussy,” Nicholas panted, his pace becoming brutal, erratic. He watched her face, twisted in ecstasy, reflected in the dark workshop window. “Love watching you take it. See what you needed? See what you’ve been missing?”
He hammered into her, the force making her whole petite body jolt. A small, polished hammer finally slid from the bench and clattered to the floor, the sound loud in the room. Mimi didn’t notice. She was mewling now, high and desperate, her back arching to meet his drives.
“I love it,” she moaned, the confession ripped from her. “I love it, I love it, fuck me, please!”
Clara watched from the shadows, her own breath caught in her throat. The scene was no longer one of brutal taking, but of mutual, hungry consumption. Mimi’s enjoyment was undeniable, her earlier protests utterly abandoned. This was what her husband’s attention looked like. This was the focus he could never give her.
Nicholas’s rhythm fractured, his thrusts becoming short, savage jerks. With a final, guttural roar, he emptied himself into her a second time, his big body shuddering as he collapsed over her, pinning her to the bench.
In the sudden, heavy silence, Clara turned. The coal of secret warmth Elias had lit in her now burned with a different, fiercer heat. She walked away, the sounds of their heavy breathing fading behind her, her own path forward crystallizing in the cold, dark hallway.