Date: Mon, 13 Dec 2021 17:04:24 +0000
From: Jesse Lawson <jessuplawson@protonmail.com>
Subject: Saint Nick - Part 2

Part 2

A work of fiction by Jesse Lawson

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The snow blew quietly and covered Saint Nick's tracks as he strode down
the sidewalk and out of sight. His free hand swung wide while his other
grasped his sack of toys and treats. His gait grew longer and his steps
lighter. He bounded and bounced, each step leaving a shallower footprint
in the deepening snow than the last. His pace increased, approaching a
jog. And then, suddenly, his foot didn't meet the ground but hovered a
hair above it as he strode up a step into the night air, jumping from one
unseen support to the other. Up and up, Saint Nick went across the sky
alone with his sack on his shoulder.

Out of Daniel's neighborhood and out of his town, Nick leapt in a
seemingly random path. And just as suddenly as he'd ascended, he
stopped, frozen aloft in a snowy wind which blew against his big red
beard. His boots shone bright against the dark sky, and he opened his
coat. Two lists sat tucked in the left breast of his coat, and he pulled
the glowing one from its pocket and unfurled its length. Its coil
unraveled for miles down to the ground, fluttering helplessly in the
wind. And deep in its text a name glowed brightly: "Timothy. Age
thirteen and three quarters. Not nice at all." He released the list
which curled on itself in two blinks and floated back to its pocket.

"Let's set this boy right," Nick thought to himself. "It's his last
year on this list, so tonight's the night."

Step by step be descended from the clouds and with a hefty crunch of snow
landed in a row of homes in a little town outside a city. He lifted his
nose to the wind, gave it a wiggle, and inhaled deeply. With a
determination he hadn't had with his last stop, he stomped through the
snow a few blocks to a house with a star on its chimney and looked in the
window at Timothy, lying on the sofa by the tree. The boy glared at it
like a friend who'd betrayed him, and Saint Nick knew what he had to do.

In a wisp and a shudder, Saint Nick evaporated in ice and materialized
directly between Timothy's eyes and the tree. The boy choked on a scream
as he fell off the sofa and scooted on his back away from Saint Nick who
stepped to the boy, bent, and lifted him up, light as a feather, and
placed him on his feet.

In not more than a whisper, Saint Nick questioned the boy.

"Why have you been telling your little sister that there's no Santa?"

Timothy was speechless. Breathless. Paralyzed.

"Can't you see that there is?"

"This isn't Santa," thought Timothy. "He looks like a lumberjack in a
velvet suit."

"Santa doesn't deal with these matters, young man. I'm Saint Nick, and
we need to work this out."

Timothy reeled. His mind froze as rigidly as his lips. This man had read
his mind!

"Of course, I did! I'm Saint Nick!"

They gazed at each other.

Nick stood there, big and strong. As sweet and gentle as he'd been with
Daniel, he was determined to be stern with Timothy whose name appeared on
a different list. He crossed his arms which strained against their velvet
sleeve restraints and looked deep in Timothy's face.

Without opening his mouth, he said clearly in Timothy's mind's ear:
"How can you think Santa is real on one hand and tell your sister he
isn't on the other?"

"Because," Timothy thought, "Santa disappointed me so much last
year."

"How so?" asked Nick audibly, incredulous. He'd never known Santa to
disappoint.

In a voice smaller than himself, Timothy confessed, "I only asked to
stay at my school with my friends last Christmas, but we ended up here.
And I had to start all over. All I wanted was for things to stay the
same. And they didn't. And I didn't want my sister to get trapped in
wishes that wouldn't come true."

"I see," said Saint Nick, his expression softening. "But that's not
for Santa to fix. He can make you a toy and bring you some joy, but he
can't keep you from moving."

"Why not?"

"Because that's how he tells what list you belong on. When you face a
challenge, it's how you respond that determines what you're made of --
naughty or nice, good or bad. And how did you respond?"

Timothy paused, for he knew he'd been naughty. He hadn't made friends
because he hadn't been kind. He hadn't found reasons to smile or to
laugh. He hadn't written his friends from his old school, and he'd let
himself be miserable.

"That's what I thought," said Saint Nick.

"So why are you here?" asked Timothy.

"Well, the lists that I keep are always the messiest. Santa's got the
lists that don't change -- the kids who are certainly naughty or
undeniably nice. But my lists change moment to moment. I'm in change of
the Boys Who Are Both, and I give them a closer look to see how they
do."

"So I'm not nice?"

"You are. But you're also naughty."

"And what do I need to do to be counted as nice?"

"Let's start with a hug. That's always the place to start."

Timothy timidly opened his arms and leaned forward into Saint Nick. He
rested his head at the base of his chest and let his arms fall to the
small of Saint Nick's back. Nick tussled the boy's hair and wraps his
arms around his head. He wiggled his nose and inhaled deeply. He could
smell the relief in Timothy's scent. He could smell the worries melting
away. He needed a hug more than he'd known, and Timothy smiled with his
face buried in Santa's coat.

Saint Nick knew what Timothy needed, so he released him.

"You need Christmas spirit all year long. If I could hug you all year, I
would. I can't, but there's something I can do."

"What is it, Saint Nick?"

"I'm going to fill you with Christmas cheer now and you'll carry it
with you all year long. It will help you have courage and joy."

Saint Nick turned the boy around and placed him on his knees on the sofa.
He gently pushed him down so his elbows rested on he back. He pulled down
his pajama bottoms and looked eagerly at his pale little ass. He parted
his cheeks and rubbed his gloved finger over the Timothy's pucker which
winced from the chill.

"Now when a boy's mostly good, it's easy to fill him with Christmas
cheer. But since you've been naughty, I'll have a harder time," Saint
Nick warned.

Timothy was old enough to know what Saint Nick was doing, and he figured
it might be a tough task. He closed his eyes, turned his head to his arm,
and bit down on his little bicep. He could feel the heat coming from
Saint Nick's stick as he unlatched his pants' buckles and pulled out
his monster, still warm and moist from Daniel's young throat.

"I'll do what I can to make this easy, but my magic works best when
your name's on the good list."

Nick lined up his rod and spat on it twice. He rubbed in the globs with
his fat peppermint head and held the boy's neck as he parted his pucker.
Timothy grimaced and whined as Saint Nick's stick poked in past his
ring.

"I'm sorry it hurt, but you should have been nice," Nick said flatly.
He pushed in the boy without sweetness or song, knowing this deed would
make the boy good.

When in to the hilt, he paused to let Timothy catch his breath and looked
down at his monster buried deep in the stretched teen hole. He grabbed
the boy's shoulders pulled him in close, ramming in deeper to bury his
cheer.

"Now tell me you'll do right tonight and all nights, and I'll fill you
with cheer and you'll be good all year."

"I'll be nice. I promise," Timothy said out of breath.

And Saint Nick began. At first it was slow and deep in the boy's ass. It
stretched tight over Nick's stick and felt like delight. In and out of
the tiny young teen, and every so often a soft muffled scream. Timothy
bit down hard on his upper arm and felt Nick's big hammer banging away.
His own little cock grew in his pajamas while Nick grabbed glovefuls of
his milky young cheeks.

"Even though this feels good, it's never a delight to punish such a
pretty boy on Christmas eve night."

Saint Nick shut his eyes so he didn't have to see poor Timothy writhing,
his body so wee.

He slammed and he smacked and he pulled the boy in. Big Nick thoroughly
fuck him, a giant among men.

After what seemed like hours, Nick's treasure sacks tingled. He picked
up his pace as his bells began to jingle. He felt the magic growing
inside, a treat for this boy whose worth he couldn't deny.

And in the light of the Christmas tree, Nick bred the boy deep, saying,
"Good boy, Timothy."

He pulled out his stick which smacked as it fell, and the room will with
magic and a cinnamon smell. Both knew that magic was here. The goodness
of Christmas had filled the boy with cheer.

Just as Nick bucked himself up, Timothy turned to say, "Thanks, Saint
Nick, and good luck."

Nick patted his head and saw that he'd came, his pajama bottom sporting
a wet little stain.

With his work here done and much more to do, Saint Nick parted ways and
shot up the flue.

Timothy watched as under the tree new presents appeared and smiled with
good spirits as headed to bed, his tiny teen pussy full of good cheer.