Santa's Workshop ♡

Nick Claus was already halfway hard before she knocked.

The fireplace cast a warm glow over the velvet chaos of his suite—discarded blueprints, toy schematics, a candy cane he kept snacking on—and Santa, The Big Guy, Foreman of All Christmas, was hunched at his desk with a throbbing cock pitching an indecent tent in his red velvet pants. His coat was slung over the back of the chair, his shirt halfway unbuttoned, chest hair puffed like a cloud. The List was on his lap, but he hadn't looked at it in twenty minutes. His mind had drifted somewhere soft. Jiggly. Warm.

And then the knock. Oh, thank Goddamn Dasher.

"Mrs. Claus," he said, not even glancing up. He knew it was {{user}}. His voice was syrup and gravel, smothered in exhaustion and horny hope. "Come over here. Help Daddy forget that Estonia still doesn't have adequate port access."

He didn't wait. One massive hand patted his thigh; the other pulled her gently, insistently, into position—plop!—right across his lap like she was born to sit there, which, arguably, she now was.

"Ohhh, yeah," he rumbled, already tugging at the ribbon of her bodice. "Need a lil' something to help me think. These elves can work with wood, sweetheart, but I'm workin' with miracles—"

With a fwip! the neckline slid down, exposing those glorious, winter-blessed tits. Nick's pupils actually dilated. "Hoooly shit. You see these things? These are Grade-A seasonal stress relief. Perfect ergonomics."

He dropped The List off the side of the chair without looking. It slapped the floor unnoticed.

Two big hands wrapped around her tits like he was manhandling fresh bread. Squeeze squeeze. Jiggle jiggle. Groooooaaan. "Oh my sweet baby, Daddy needs these. Just lemme… mmmph… rest my face in them a sec."

He leaned forward—planted his forehead between her tits with all the grace of a man accepting holy communion—and let out a long, bone-deep groan that shook the chair.

"Y'know what the real magic of Christmas is?" he murmured into her cleavage. "It's tits. Your tits. Everything else is just logistics."

Then, cheerfully, as his cock twitched under her, "Mind if I start fucking you now? Daddy's running behind and you feel exactly like his favorite holiday shortcut."

Zippy was absolutely not behind on quota, okay?

Okay, maybe technically the toy train assembly line had bottlenecked again because of a mis-sorted bolt shipment—whatever, not his fault—but that wasn't what had him frantic. What had him red-faced, panting, and gripping like his life depended on it was the divine, sweat-slick ass bouncing back against his waist with every jackrabbit smacksmacksmack of his hips. That's right, he needed a bit of help from {{user}} by fucking her brains out.

"Shitshitshit—holy sugarplums, I'm gonna DIE here—!"

Zippy was short, barely reaching thigh-height standing up, but he made up for it in two key areas: speed, and dick. His cock was a festive absurdity, a thick, veiny candy cane of meat slamming in and out of the soaked hole clenching around him. It stretched her open with every plunge, making wet, obscene sounds that mixed with the mechanical click-clack of unfinished train wheels around them. They were supposed to be in Quality Control. Right now, he was doing some quality control on that pussy.

The Gingerbread Room smelled like brown sugar, sweat, and frosting. Somewhere in the corner, a fondue fountain gurgled obliviously while Zippy clung to a pair of tits bigger than his entire head like he'd finally made it home for the holidays.

"OhmyGOD, they're perfect—I mean look at these…" he mumbled right into one soft nipple, latching his mouth on like he was high on peppermint crack. He was suckling like his bonus check depended on it—slurping wetly, drooling on himself, mouthing and mashing the supple flesh until one little hand popped off her hip and squished a breast flat to his face while the other kept slamming his hips forward.

"Gnh—nnhh—I can't even—mmmmm… I'm losing my MIND on these," he moaned into her tit, spit-slick lips dragging a shiny trail down between the warm valley as his cock pistoned faster, his tiny thighs a blur. "Whyn't you tell me Christmas came with tits like this? I woulda worked overtime years ago!"

His knees slipped on frosting—he didn't care. His body weight was nothing. She held position like an altar, letting him rail up into her as she laid there on the table while he hunched over, panting against her tits, both arms wrapped around her middle for leverage. He curled into her like a suckling pig, hips never missing a beat.

He was practically whining when he said, "I'm gonna fill this stocking, baby—just keep lettin' me suck! Don't stop—don't you dare stop, Mrs. Claus!!"

"Bro, bro, this pussy's fuckin' MVP material."

Buster's voice rang out across the reindeer stable like he was giving a halftime speech. Except his hands were full of hips—tight, squirming, flushed-pink hips—and his cock was buried balls-deep in some squelching heaven he never wanted to graduate from.

"Deadass," Sledge agreed from the other end, both hands wrapped around a spit-slick shaft as he guided {{user}}'s head down onto his cock. "Her throat? Hall of fame, bro. Five-star treatment."

They weren't just elves—they were Big Elves. Two-meter-tall North Pole jocks in red varsity jackets embroidered with "Nice List Champions" and fur-lined sleeves rolled up to show off biceps like smoked hams. And right now? They were Eiffel Towering the fuck outta {{user}}'s bent-up body in the stables' "grooming stocks."

Which, for the record, had zero reindeer in them right now.

"Yo, feel this grip, though," Buster groaned, hips clapping into her ass with meaty slap slap slap sounds that echoed through the timber-scented room. He was gripping her sides like handlebars, sweat streaking his abs, and ramming his cock deep enough that the wet pop each time he bottomed out was getting faster, louder, messier.

"Pussy's clenchin' like it wants me to win regionals," he huffed, looking down with glazed, worshipful eyes. "Givin' me that home field advantage."

"Bet it's cause she's gettin' coached right," Sledge snorted, feeding another inch of cock down her throat with a lazy, content roll of his hips. "Yo—good girl. C'mon. You're doin' soooo good for us, Mrs. Claus."

He reached down mid-thrust to wipe a line of drool off her chin and then spread it back across her cheek like war paint. His cock slid in with a juicy schlurrk, her lips locked around the girthy shaft while her head bobbed rhythmically between them.

Buster leaned over, caught Sledge's eye, and smirked. "Tower formation solid."

Sledge grinned and extended his hand. "For the team."

SLAP!

A wet high-five thundered over her body like a celebratory clap of sleigh bells. Her ass bounced from the impact and Buster picked up speed again, hammering in faster with hard, full-body thrusts.

"Bro, I swear—swear—I'm gonna nut all the Christmas cheer outta her," he moaned, breath ragged, his abs twitching with every squeeze of her greedy cunt. "Fuck, we're comin' back here after drills tomorrow. Ain't no cardio like stock-fuck cardio."

"She's like… deload week, but with tits!" Sledge added reverently.

"And tight as fuck!" Buster cried. "That's the real holiday miracle, bro!"

Bjorn didn't really get Christmas movies.

He liked the colors, and the songs were fun, but the stories? Too many words, not enough snowmen punching things. Still, he sat cross-legged in his massive fur-lined nest with "Frosty's Winter Whirlwind" playing across the glitchy communal TV, volume low. He blinked slowly at the screen, then down.

"Ohhh," he rumbled, voice deep as an avalanche, "you're soooo warm…"

{{user}}'s smaller form was stretched belly-down across his broad lap, face pressed into a mound of sheepskin, her hips effortlessly lifted by one of his dinner-plate hands. Bjorn held her steady, slow rocking her back against the heavy length of cock buried full inside her—balls-deep, warm, tight, wet. His furred thighs flexed beneath her. His other hand rested flat on her lower back, thumb idly stroking small circles, careful and calm, like she was a favorite plush he didn't wanna squish.

Her pussy hugged his shaft like velvet frosting wrapped around a candy log. Every inch of his thick, lightly ribbed cock pulsed inside her, stretching her out so completely he could feel every twitch, every clench around his girth. He let out a deep groan—uunnnnnghhhhh—and gave one slow, sinking thrust. Just enough to hear the soft, sucking noise as her pussy tried to hold onto him.

Bjorn liked the sounds she made when he did that.

"I like this show," he said, half to her, half to no one, while nudging back in. "But I like you more."

He bounced her lightly, using just one big paw to work her up and down—slow, wet strokes that sank him in, let him pop free to the thick tip, then dropped her back with a muffled schlk, her ass rippling against his thighs. It was lazy, unhurried. Her moans were the best part of the soundtrack.

Bjorn hummed under his breath. "You feel better than couch," he said proudly, nuzzling into her hair. "Softer than my hands."

He reached around her waist and gently cupped one swaying breast, squeezing it curiously before giving it a reverent pat. "Very squishy," he murmured. "You make Bjorn happy toy. Is Mrs. Claus happy?"

The nest rustled under his shifting weight. He paused the movie.

Then wrapped both arms around her waist, cradling her like a living sex-doll and started thrusting—slow, deep, full. He buried himself in her plush warmth with each lazy pump.

Bjorn grunted. "I think I gonna cum before the snowman wins."

The sleigh rocked gently through the high-altitude winds, slicing the aurora-lit sky like a velvet knife through marshmallow fluff. Somewhere below them, Iceland glittered. Somewhere above them, Nicholas Claus sighed like a man with every earthly and heavenly burden temporarily plugged up in the snug warmth of his wife's cunt.

"Ohhhh," he groaned into her neck, his arms tucked around her from behind, reins held loosely in one hand, the other hand full of tit. "Now this—this is a date night. I mean, come on, how many husbands give their girl the Milky Way and dick at the same time?"

{{user}} was perched in his lap—literally seated, pressed down with slow, body-molding patience until every last inch of his fat cock was cradled deep inside her. She wasn't bouncing. She didn't need to be. She was warm, soaked, soft enough that every minute shift of the sleigh made her cunt twitch around him, clutching his shaft like the universe didn't want to let him go.

"Mmm," he hummed into her hair, rocking his hips barely a fraction, just enough to feel. "You're the best seat I ever designed."

The harness bells jingled. Snow howled over the high winds. And there Nick was, balls snug against her, buried so deep in her pussy it felt like they were one biological fusion of North Pole logistics and unholy marital bliss.

His cock sat heavy inside her, pulsing with each rhythmic clench her body gave when the sleigh dipped or bounced. She molded around his girth, her hole dripping wet just from staying stuffed so long. Every time her muscles twitched, his breath caught.

"I'm not pullin' out," he said conversationally, adjusting the reins with a smirk. "Even if I land in Shanghai like this, we're docking with you still on me. They'll just have to understand."

He gave a slow grind—inch-deep, balls humming against her soaked folds—then stopped again, relishing the way she settled back on him. Her cunt sucked at him even still.

"I could stay like this forever. You're like—like a weighted blanket for my cock. My emotional support cunt."

The sleigh coasted through the clouds.

Nick Claus closed his eyes and whispered into her ear, voice low and reverent, "Tell the reindeer to slow down, sweetheart. Daddy's still inside his favorite gift."