Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
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   {ASSM } SANTA'S COOKIE {Burnt_Feathers} (MF, toys, pett, oral)

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   Santa's Cookie by Burnt Feathers (C)



   Life can be a bitch.  The final week, handling Christmas shoppers had
been especially fatiguing.  Only three days before the holiday Mrs. 
Frizzelli from Personnel told me that my services would not be required in
the New Year.

   My boyfriend, Wesley, finally developed enough backbone to confess that
he was dating someone else.

   The upshot was that I faced the holidays with neither a boyfriend for
Christmas, nor any future plans for the new year.

   With all my Christmas hopes wrecked, I bypassed my squalid cracker box
flat with its single wreath hanging in the window as a sop to the season.
Instead, I decided to spend a night in my brother's luxurious apartment.

   I always keep an eye on the place when Jake is out of town.  Right now,
he and bachelorette fifty-seven were spending the holidays in Cancun.

   I battled for the usual bus to my apartment, tossed a few necessities
inside a battered suitcase and left my depressing abode.

   My luxury holiday vacation started with a crosstown taxi instead of the
usual hassle with connecting bus rides.  The taxi was worth the price.  At
least the doorman did not give me the usual fish eye that I always received
when I had hopped out of the bus at the nearby bus stop.

   He must not have recognized me.  He was almost civil.

   As soon as I entered Jake's apartment I was pleasantly soothed.  Its
usual quiet air of luxury was intact.  Housekeeping had not allowed any
seasonal rush to impair their normal meticulous work.  Nor had Jake allowed
sentiment to override his decorator's elegant style with any seasonal
desecrations.

   As the door closed behind me, I was enfolded in a cocoon of hushed
silence.

   This was Jake's heritage as the boy.  Not only had he attended college,
but a prestigious college.  Being the girl, I was deemed more than
adequately educated by the end of high school.

   No wonder Jake was employed with a prestigious position and a six-figure
pay cheque, while I scuttled from one dead-end job to another.

   "Too much quiet," I told myself, determined not to waste Christmas Eve
brooding over life's injustices.

   I picked up the remote and switched on the hi-fi.  I immediately heard
Madonna singing, "Santa Baby" over a local FM station.

   "Okay, I get it!" I declared to no one in particular.  "Jeez!  I hate
dramatic irony!"

   I switched the stereo over to CD and was rewarded with elegant tinkling
from a posh jazz piano.  Knowing Jake, this was one of his seductive
background soundtracks.  His CD player is usually programmed to weave this
sort of urbane atmosphere for hours, while Jake endeavoured to relax his
latest victim's opposition to promiscuity.

   I poured myself a triple using Jake's best eighteen-year-old scotch,
then wandered into his bathroom.

   The bathroom in my brother's apartment is a religious experience.  With
half the scotch smoldering in my belly, I abandoned myself to the pagan
benediction of truly decadent plumbing.

   An hour later, looking and feeling like a half-boiled lobster, I emerged
from that steamy cloister, naked of all save the single suitcase clutched
in my hand.  Rummaging around in its depths, I could find nothing which
would not clash with Jake's elegant decor.

   I did, however, come up with one surprising item.  It was a twelve-inch
ripple-surfaced plastic dildo.

   Half joking, half serous, I had purchased it, then hid it away inside
this suitcase for fear someone might chance to find it.

   Certainly my friends and I were all completely liberated.  Our
conversations often ran thick with the mention of G-spots, dildos, and how
to have the proper kind of orgasm, but only in fun.  No one actually had
done anything about it.  At least, not that I knew about.

   Except for me, I had bought this a year ago.  Following the purchase, I
had first hidden, then completely forgotten about it.  My forgettery was so
efficient that, for a moment, I could not imagine how such a thing had
crawled inside my very own suitcase.

   The luxurious bathroom, the elegant apartment, the subtle atmospheric
music playing in the background, my complete nudity due to a lack of
appropriate wearing apparel, and the presence of an unused twelve-inch
ripple-surfaced plastic dildo in my hand, conspired against my usual
prudery.  I succumbed to the sybaritic sensation of strolling through
Jake's stylish dwelling altogether in the all-together.

   Street lights from the city below dappled light and shadows throughout
the murky rooms, its opulence suddenly seductive to my senses.  I poured
another tall scotch into the short glass, dipped a finger, and tasted smoky
liquid, only five years my junior.

   Acclimatized to the background music that was not quite my usual taste,
I turned the volume up from a faint tinkling water fountain to an angry
torrential waterfall.

   I took a few fngers of scotch and circled back to Jake's over-sized
black leather couch.

   Carefully, I placed my drink upon Jake's chrome and glass coffee table,
sprawled full length upon the seductive surface, and returned my
concentration to the black plastic object in my hand.

   It felt cool, hard, and alien against my stomach, as I tried to
acclimatise my thoughts to switching on the device.  When I did, it
oscillated so vehemently in my hand that I immediately turned it off. 
Finding the control, I adjusted it to half its previous setting.  Once more
I switched on the plastic phallus.  It purred contentedly.

   I adjusted the dildo until the purring became inaudible and I could feel
no sensation against my fingers.  Steeling my nerves, I finally applied the
dildo where such devices are wont to be applied.

   There I encountered a difficulty.

   Pressing the device to the apex of my loins did little to unlock any
vast supply of natural lubricants, which the literature about these matters
insists upon describing.  Neither did rubbing it between the lips of my
labia send unquenchable sensations of sensuality flowing along my nerves.

   The experience felt more like trying on a pair of shoes which are much
too tight, except that I was witnessing the event from the shoe's point of
view.

   Finally, I wedged it in.  Really!  It felt as if it had actually
required wedging.

   Slowly working it about, I managed to press the phallus deeper inside
me. I could not say the experience was erotic, neither was it particularly
unpleasant.

   Had I paused to consider the matter, I should have described it as a
difficult chore which I needed to perform.  Nothing provokes an obstinate
response from me more surely than opposition.

   At some point while this was going on, I vaguely recall a light briefly
flashing across the ceiling.  I ignored it then, since such occurrences
frequently in my apartment.  Only later, putting together the pieces, did I
realize that the light could not have come from any automobile's
headlights. Unlike my closet, Jake's apartment was located on the
nineteenth floor.

   Once I had buried nearly half of the black ripple-surfaced plastic dildo
within me, I paused for a gulp of scotch to pluck up my nerves.

   I turned the dial, and for a moment its buzzing set up excruciatingly
chaotic emotions within.  Then it stopped, dead.

   "Damn!" I cried aloud, as I twiddled with the adjustment.  It responded
with a scant few wobbles, then surrendered to inertia.

   "After all the bother of jamming you inside, are you telling me that
you're out of batteries?" I demanded of the dildo.

   For over a year it had held the same batteries within its useless
plastic innards.

   With one hand I smote my forehead in disbelief, then the other joined
its companion, holding my head to keep it from spinning.

   I shut my eyes, although it was almost too dark to see the useless
battery-powered -- underpowered -- plastic dildo still lodged between my
loins like some metaphorically atrophied dick of an impotent technology
god.

   Eyes shut, I tried to imagine where in Jake's damn elegant apartment he
kept his batteries, assuming that Jake owned any equipment powered by so
plebeian a power source.  I decided that wandering about Jake's apartment
looking for possibly nonexistent batteries would undoubtedly sour my mood.

   I sighed in frustration and tried to relax.

   I felt the dildo turn slowly.

   "What the. . . ."

   A large, warm hand at my breast pressed me back into the leather
upholstery.  Meanwhile, the fleeting touch of a phantom wrist against my
inner thigh penetrated the enveloping three ounces of scotch.

   The dildo slowly moved, alerting my retail-honed intellect that I was
not alone.

   "Easy Cookie," a rich baritone voice murmured from above.  "Lay back and
think of England?"

   "What?"

   "Too cosmopolitan?"

   "I don't . . .  cut that out!" I slapped at his hand, just as he
executed a deft, twisting, in and out maneuver.

   Neither my shocked gasp, nor the shameless way I spread my thighs,
further raising my pelvis, helped convince him that I was at all serious.
If anything, he was more encouraged, so that his thumb began tweaking the
nipple of the breast he held captive in his other hand.

   With one hand I grasped his wrist.  I tried to drag it from where he
held my breast, pinioning me to the leather couch.  With my other hand I
tried to bat at the fingers that were simulating the motions of the dildo.

   Weakly, I mounted an effort to oppose him.

   "Relax, Cookie," he urged, then chuckling, added, "just pretend I'm the
battery that let you down."

   "Take your hand off my breast."

   "If I do that you'll slip off the couch and out of my reach," he
suggested, "won't you?"

   "Of course!"

   "Then, if you don't mind, I shall leave my hands exactly where they are,
for the time being."

   In truth, I didn't mind.  The sensation his hand upon my breast evoked
was nearly as debilitating as the way he teased me with my dildo.  At least
the hand on my breast was not such an alien experience.  In fact, it was
quite soothing.

   For several long moments we continued as begun.  He, to create
unimaginable sensations with a minimum of strokes and manipulations.  I, to
flounder in opposition, while becoming ever more content to realize that my
opposition was floundering.

   A muffling cloud of desire enveloped my body.  Gratefully, I sank into
it.

   The music faded, and I realized that my possessor had abandoned me for
my brother's audio equipment.

   "We shall be more comfortable this way," he informed me, placing an
empty glass and the bottle of scotch on the coffee table.

   He was a large man.  Over six feet tall, although the thickness of his
body made him appear shorter.

   With one hand he reached behind my knees and raised them, rolling me
onto my back.  He then seated himself on the couch, pausing to spread a
thick towel across his lap.  Next, he lowered my legs, and I unrolled, my
bottom laying defencelessly across his towel-covered lap.

   His one hand immediately returned to diddling me with my dildo.  His
other hand reached out to pour a quantity of scotch into his empty glass.
He shot me an enquiring look, then splashed a bit more into my nearly empty
second.

   "Sorry about the towel, Cookie," he apologized, "but this is the wrong
time of year to wander about with a wet lap."

   I glanced down, then blushed seeing how soggy my bush had become.

   "Do you prefer your anesthetic before or after the operation?"

   "What?" I was completely lost.

   "Do you want that scotch now or later?" he interpreted.

   It was too dark to see the leer which I knew had formed upon his face,
but I could just see his eyebrows waggling suggestively.

   "You seem remarkably confident there'll be something to have your scotch
`after, `" I informed him, trying to suppress some of his boundless
self-confidence.

   "No?  Really!" he sounded shocked.  "Surely we have that already
establish!  I can do pretty much what I want with you, can't I?"

   That smug bastard chose that very moment to shuffle the rib-surfaced
dildo in and out, while rolling the pad of his thumb across my clit, caught
betwixt the two movements.

   That smug bastard was totally correct, damn him!

   "Be-besides, how c-can I drink lying down?"

   Slipping a hand behind my shoulder, he raised me to a sitting position
as easily as if I were a rag doll.  Taking my glass from the coffee table,
he pressed it to my lips.

   I made a big production out of seeming to gulp and swallow a vast
quantity of scotch, although in truth, I barely tasted it.  Whatever he
planned to do to me, I fully intended to still be `there' when he did it.

   Considering his skeptical scowl, I doubt that he was fooled.  In any
case, I felt better for the implied insult.

   "Who are you?" I asked conversationally, although I doubted he would
tell me.

   "Doesn't the time and place give you an idea?" he returned obscurely.

   "I think you're a burglar," I informed the man.  I had the pleasure of
feeling his hand clutch in surprise upon my embedded dildo.

   "I look like a burglar?"

   "Not at first" I replied.  "Later, I realized that you would look
suspicious, got up like a cat burglar.  Dressed as you are, nobody would
question your right to be here."

   "Okay, Cookie.  Turnabout is fair play," he replied.  "May I say,
dressed as you are, no one will question my decision to use you as I
intend, either."

   "What do you intend doing to me?"

   "I thought you were a bright little cookie," he replied, adding,
"Cookie."

   He raised me to an upright position again, although I had not requested
another drink.

   I was about to inform him of his error, when his lips made contact with
mine.  Pressure from his hand pressed my lips against his, but it was my
own idea to slacken my jaw, and my tongue to welcome his.

   Our lips pressed together, both tongues circling.  As we each explored
the other, my nether muscles tightened, clutching at the deeply penetrating
dildo.

   My sphincter tightened, clenching uncomfortably.  Even with lips pressed
to his, I was aware of an almost painful cramping in my belly.  I tried to
draw back to tell him of my discomfort, but he would not release me.

   Inexorably, his hand at the juncture of my loins aggravated my body's
clutching grasp upon the dildo.

   With a jolt of gratification the agitated muscles erupted in release,
only to build into another release, and another, and finally another. . . .

   Still pinioned against his chest, lips joined, tongue commingled, he
held me, as great paroxysms shuddered through my body, and I came onto his
hand.

   I remember cries of exaltation, I remember tears of joy, and I remember
tenderness.

   Next, I remember waking up.

   "Amongst the living again, are we?"

   "Whu. . . ."

   For a moment I was disoriented.  I was no longer on the couch.

   From its hardness, I was undoubtedly lying on the coffee table.  My legs
were spread, but the dildo was gone.  Jake's gas fireplace had been lit,
casting a cheerful light about the room and across the ceiling.

   "Milk and cookie time," my captor told me.

   His comment made no sense to me, but that was usual.

   Each hand held a breast.  A thumb circled and stroked one nipple, while
his lips clamped about its companion.  His tongue flicked across the
nipple's peak one time, dragged slowly over it another.  Sometimes the
hard, sharp edges of his teeth caught and held it in a painless grip.  All
the while, his hand kneaded and molded my breast upward toward his mouth.

   Continuing for many minutes, my eyes grew heavy and my breath fluttered
in my throat.

   "Although I must confess enjoying that," he informed me, "we now arrive
at what fate has written for you."

   "What?" I was not actually frightened, but I truly was curious.

   He moved to the end of the coffee table.  Grasping my legs behind the
knees, he raised and parted them, while lowering his head.

   "Now, it's time to eat the cookie," he said, his warm breath flowing
provocatively along my spread lower lips.  Almost as an afterthought he
added, "Cookie."

   He gently blew along the sensitized surface of my engorged labia, and I
began to feel a familiar sensation of flowing wetness.

   It is quite unfair that he had such a physical advantage over me.  He
was already far stronger, yet every time he touched me, I became weaker. 
At least, that is how it seemed.

   With his lips upon me, I hardly had the strength to move.  Even then, it
was only to spread myself wider.

   His tongue was soft ploughing the slick furrow between my nether lips,
rough gilding across my sensitive clitoris, firm flicking at that sensitive
button, and long when measuring its extent to probe within my vagina.  His
tongue was a most versatile organ.

   As lips suctioned, teeth nibbled, and tongue explored, Jake's luxurious
apartment contracted to the size of my possessor's mouth pressed to exploit
my most intimate secrets.

   And then, suddenly, there was no secret!

   I was crying my pleasure as if to wake the city.  Again, I came.  This
time, his mouth accepted my joyous release.

   With tenacity I held on to my consciousness.  I refused to miss a single
second of those sensations!  When his lip finally left me, I sank again
into oblivion.

   It was only momentarily.  I felt myself being lifted.  When I opened my
eyes, he was carrying me toward Jake's bedroom.

   Entering, I noticed that the bed covers had been thrown back and two
large suitcases stood beside the bed.

   "What is this?" I inquired huskily.

   "What does it look like?" he countered.

   "Are you some sort of guest?"

   "You have already declared me to be a cat burglar," he reminded me.  "If
I am to go openly into this apartment wearing a good suit, what is more
fitting than I carry the swag out in matching suitcases?"

   I was aware that he was mocking me, but was too satiated to object.

   Gently, he lowered me to the bed, then pulled the covers about, and
tucked me in.  In a moment, he was gone.  One glance at the suitcases left
behind reassured me that he would return.  I drifted off again.

   I awoke fully, as the bed tilted.

   "Who's that?"

   "Much too late to ask such a question now," he replied.

   At the sound of his voice, I relaxed.  There seemed nothing he could do
to me with which I would not cooperate.

   He drew me against him and kissed me.  He was most experienced at
kissing.  It was nearly a minute before I realized we were both naked
beneath the covers.

   That caused a flutter in the pit of my stomach, because there could be
no mistaking what would happen next.

   Still, I did not draw away.  Indeed, I needed to hold myself back, for
fear I might seem too eager.

   I had little need to worry.  He held me against his hard, sinuous body,
and allowed me to do only that which he desired.

   It might have been rape, except I was far too eager.

   There were no surprises.  I had been to bed with a man before.  The
difference was in quality and quantity, not in kind.

   He was a large, hard muscled man, who liked to be in control.  All I
need be, was a small, soft bodied woman who enjoyed surrender.  While he
was the man, I was happy -- no, determined -- to be the one who surrenders.

   There was rather more of him than I would have chosen.  His body was
more heavily muscled than I would expect or find acceptable.  I had seen
that he was nearly twice my age -- which would never give me comfort.

   Even as I clung to him, urging him to thrust deeper within me, I knew
that I would probably never see him again.

   He was a mystery, a welcome Christmas present, but he could never be
mine.  I would have him for just this one night.  Which must be our excuse
for how we managed to couple three more times before sleep fully claimed
us.

   I awoke to an ashen sky outside the window, and no street sounds from
below.  I was alone in the bed, but a swift glance assured me that his
suitcases still sat upon the floor.

   I awoke with a medium-sized need to pee.  I scrambled to the bathroom,
worried because I could not hear him anywhere in the apartment.

   I intended to go in search of him.

   After what had already occurred the night before, I can see no reason
for a sudden attack of shyness, but that is what sent me to the bedroom for
a robe.

   Of course, when I entered, so did he.  He was dressed in another, even
more elegant suit, crisp linen, bold power tie, and shiny black shoes.

   I stood naked before him, with bleary eyes, frowzy hair, and the sound
of the toilet flushing in the background to add a hint of mystery.

   "Oh, hullo!" I croaked.

   "Morning, Cookie!" he replied cheerfully.  "Brought you some fresh OJ.
When I woke up this morning, I was down three quarts."

   He poured a glass from the pitcher and handed it to me.  I immediately
drained the glass, set it down, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand
-- I was going for a theme.

   "Thanks!"

   He set down the pitcher beside my discarded glass, then looked at me
with a serious expression.

   "I have to go, Cookie," he began.

   "Yes, I know," I replied.  "You gotta make your getaway, right?"

   "You have never understood what I am," he inquired, "have you, Cookie?"

   "You never denied what I supposed you were, either," I countered.

   "True," he replied.  "I was having too much fun.  Now, take my word for
it.  I am not a burglar."

   "My history is," I began, "when a man tells me to take his word for
something, it invariably is a lie."

   "That bad, Cookie?"

   "Nearly."

   "Well, in that case, I won't tell you anything," he replied.  "Just come
here and kiss me good bye."

   I did.

   As we kissed, his hands roamed down my back, over my hips, to cup my
rump, and draw me up, tighter to him.

   Perhaps he only intended to protect his suit.  Because of his height, he
either needed to give me a boost, or allow a nude woman to shinny up his
Armani.

   When we finally released, he picked up his suitcases.

   "So long, Cookie.  Merry Christmas."

   "Wait!  You don't even know my name," I protested.

   "Yes I do," he declared.  "I checked for ID in your purse, the first
time you took your eyes off me.  Go on, check.  I took nothing else,
honest!" he chuckled.

   He put down his suitcase, and returned to me.  For a moment, I thought
he was going to kiss me again, but he only whispered my name in my ear.

   He put his proprietary hands upon my body, pushed and bullied me back
into bed, tucking me in like I was three years old.

   "You probably have a wife and five kids somewhere," I accused.

   "Probably," he agreed pleasantly.  "You certainly need your sleep.  I
grant you a certain picturesque splendour, but -- oh, Cookie, your temper!"

   He pressed a satisfying, and rather arousing kiss onto my lips.

   "Don't forget about me entirely," he instructed huskily.

   He then turned and exited with his suitcases.

   Hearing the bolt slide back, and the door open, I called out to him.

   "Aren't you, at least, going to tell me your name?"

   "No," he replied smugly.  "Maybe you won't be so eager to climb into the
sack with a complete stranger, if this encounter haunts you until I can
return."

   "Jerk!" I countered, as the door closed, and the key turned in the lock.



   * * * * * * * * *



   "Kenton Styles owns the business.  He found out he couldn't get a
nonstop flight over Christmas from L.  A.  to London.  I invited him to use
my place since I'd be vacationing with Petra," Jake advised me.  " I should
have mentioned it to you.  Sorry."

   "No problem," I replied, then added, over-enthusiastically, "Do you
really know your boss?  Was his wife here, too?  You're lucky you have such
a cool apartment!"

   "Styles is a good guy, as bosses go.  They say he worked his way through
college as a bouncer.  It may even be true.  But, he must be
forty-something.  Too old to hang with my crowd, and no wife, either.  At
least, not anymore.

   "Don't worry, kid, you'll catch a break soon.  Then you can afford a
nice place, too.  I was too rushed to get you any Christmas gift before I
left, what say I pay three months rent, as your Christmas present?"

   "I'd say, `Thank you!'"

   "Oh, by the way, you didn't leave any Christmas stuff behind when you
were here, did you?"

   "No, why?"

   "When he called to thank me for the use of the apartment, Styles
mentioned something about an unwrapped Christmas cookie."

   "What?" I squeaked.

   "There was some more," Jake pondered.  "Something about my Christmas
decorations"

   "Christmas decorations?  You don't have Christmas decorations."

   "I know," Jack agreed.  "At the time, I thought he was kidding me about
the lack.

   "Wait a minute!  I remember." Jake exclaimed.

   I held my breath.

   "Do you know any Christmas traditions about cookies -- cookies lying by
the fireplace?"

   "You mean," I suggested, ears burning, "like gingerbread men?"

   "I don't see how," Jake sighed.  "In any case, it had nothing to do with
business.  I can always ask Styles when he returns."

   "Returns!" I squeaked again.  "You said he'd gone to London."

   "Only until February.  Then he `ll be back.  I'm bound to run into him
sometime."

   Kenton Styles returned in February.  He was just in time for Valentines
Day, but that's another story.



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