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Have You Been a Good Girl This Year?

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I remember the day my parents confirmed that Santa Claus wasn’t real. I was seven years old and like a lot of kids, cried my eyes out with full, flowing tears of heartbreak, though not for the reason you’d probably expect.

 

My obsession stemmed from the warning that Santa was always watching, whether I was sleeping or awake, in order to form a judgment about my overall behavior by the time Christmas rolled around. According to all the storybooks, carols, and ominous words of my parents and their friends, there was nothing casual about this man’s interest in my actions. He was making two physical lists and checking them twice. Being a good girl would earn me a spot on the ‘nice’ one. Otherwise, I’d be deemed ‘naughty’. 

 

In the house where I was raised, being ‘naughty’ or ‘bad’ earned you a spanking—hard, bare bottom, over my mom or dad’s knee for what felt like an eternity. This was no trifling matter and sometimes even happened right in front of my friends or whoever else happened to be around, which was the most embarrassing fate imaginable. Nothing was bigger than that. Just the word ‘spanking’ would get my heart racing and my cheeks blushing pinker than little round bubblegum balloons. So when I heard that Santa would be watching my behavior and consequences would follow, one terrifying image consistently came to mind. That massive bearded man would instantaneously appear all the way from the North Pole to pull my underwear down and swat me over his colossal knee. 

 

I remember prodding my mom for more details out of sheer terror, anxious for clarification on the matter.

 

“W-what… what does Santa do to the naughty kids on the list? Just leave coal instead of presents? Is that all?”

 

She’d shrugged with an air of nonchalance, thumbing through a catalogue. “Who knows? Could be anything...”

 

Could be anything…

 

That one comment was enough to send my mind spiraling for years to come.

 

That all may sound silly, but the idea frightened the hell out me because Santa was a stranger. I simply couldn’t imagine anyone but Mom or Dad doing such a thing to my bare little behind. How could everyone around me speak well of this twisted man, with his clomping black boots and fuzzy red suit? Through my fear and confusion, a deep-seated sense of fascination gradually grew. 

 

What would it be like to get spanked by Santa?

 

Despite my fierce paranoia on the occasions when I misbehaved, Santa never showed and because of that, I got skeptical and began committing secret acts of disobedience. I’d stay up way past my bedtime alone in my room, rip pages out of my parents’ books when they weren’t around, or tiptoe to the kitchen to sneak candy in the middle of the night, eagerly looking around. Once or twice I got caught and spanked by my parents, but never by Santa. When I finally learned it had all been an elaborate lie, I felt cheated. Betrayed. I’d gotten invested in being held accountable by that jolly old bastard.

 

As crazy as it makes me feel to say it, that fantasy has stayed solidly lodged in my imagination all the way through to adulthood, morphing in detail as the years have passed. I get older, but Santa stays the same age, always benevolent but firm while he smacks my snow-white cheeks redder than Rudolph’s nose in front of the Christmas tree, wholly against my will while I kick and cry. As winter arrives each year, the thought becomes increasingly distracting, particularly after Thanksgiving when everything changes in celebration of the season. The songs on the radio… the lights and decorations… the movies on TV. But the sight of the man himself—THAT is the biggest trigger, with his wide frame and huge, gloved hands. It all sends me drifting into daydreams of that larger-than-life legend smacking my sore rear-end over and over while I beg him to stop.

 

“You’ve been a very naughty girl this year, Cara…”

 

No one knows this about me. Not ex-boyfriends or lovers, not friends. No one. I’ve never dared tell a soul due to how ridiculous it all is. And the thought of acting out the fantasy? Pfft… hopeless. Who in their right mind on god’s green earth would agree to spank me in a Santa suit without making it all into a big joke? Even if they said yes, they’d probably laugh the whole time and it would ruin the experience. It’s not funny to me. It’s the most serious and forbidden fantasy I have.

 

I’m now 31 and the longer this goes on, the more deeply the need to address it pierces into the base of my gut. I knew it’d get bad this month at the mall where I work when the staff started hanging decorations and setting up the throne… his throne… where he sits day in and day out for a month, inviting long lines of kids to step up one by one and sit pretty on his lap, sharing their list of wants.

 

He’s down there right now, in fact, and the tables have turned since I was a child. Now I’m watching him. Leaning over the railing of the second floor with my arms crossed in front of me, I look down upon him while "Sleigh Ride" blares from the mall speakers. He’s all suited up, naturally, and festive as ever in front of his little red house surrounded by elves in curly-tipped shoes. His laugh booms through the center court and down the halls from time to time, boisterous and jubilant. 

 

“HO HO HO HO HO!”

 

“Hey Cara, you off break yet?”

 

I blink and shake off my stupor, turning to face my coworker Rick as he hangs out the door of The Book Barn.

 

“Yeah. Sorry. My break’s up. I’ll be in in a sec.”

 

“Well, you think you could take over for me on register two? We’ve got a long line but my shift’s up. I’ve gotta go pick up my kids.”

 

I nod and move to head back to work, but pause to turn and take another look at the man with the big sack. The driver of the sleigh who whips the reindeer. The only one in this small city who can give me what I truly want for Christmas.

 

Walking into the store, I hear the next song begin to trickle through the speakers, resounding between my ears.

 

You better watch out, better not cry, better not pout, I’m telling you why…

 

Shivers whirl up my spine. Clenching my chattering teeth, I make up my mind. If I don’t talk to him now while he’s here, I’ll have to wait another year to potentially get this out of me. I can’t push this down any longer. It’s all-consuming and getting worse.

 

My second break rolls around a few hours later and I hop lickety-split down the escalator, hoping my boss and coworkers can’t see where I’m headed. Evening has set in and the line is shorter now, curving around the candy-cane fence toward the little red house in the center of the mall. I take my place at the end, anxiously rising up and down on my toes, praying 15 minutes will give me enough time to tell Saint Nicholas what I need him to hear. I’m sick with nervousness, rubbing my clammy palms together. I’m 31 years old. This is insane. There are other women in line who seem to be around my age or a bit younger, but none of them are alone. They twitter and giggle in small groups, ready to take selfies on Santa’s lap to share with the world.

 

Finally, I make it to the front, swallowing the lump caught in my throat while he finishes chatting with the kid on his lap. I’m gonna be late back to my shift and my boss is gonna be pissed, but I have to do this.

 

He calls to me.

 

“Ho ho ho! Come on up, little lady. Come have a seat on Santa’s lap.”

 

Fuck. Here goes nothing.

 

Inhaling sharply, I shuffle up the stairs to the platform where he sits on his mighty throne with its golden frame and plush red padding, timid as I approach.

 

“Come on, dear, come on, don’t be shy!”

 

“Are…” I clear my throat and glance around as my voice cracks. “Are you sure it’s okay? I’m a bit heavier than all these kids.”

 

The eyes of everyone waiting in line burn tiny holes into the back of my head, but Santa is kind and accommodating.

 

“Nonsense! You’re no bigger than one of my elves. Still a little girl at heart, I’m sure.”

 

He gives a wink, smiling wide with glistening teeth, patting his knee. Shaking, I walk up and take a seat, feeling my bottom press into the hard, thick muscles of his thigh as I adjust my position. Fire whirls through my belly, singeing my insides while I avoid eye contact. I can’t look at him directly. I know I have to, but I can’t.

 

“Ho ho, my dear,” he chuckles warmly. “You really are shy, aren’t you? What’s your name, young lady?”

 

He’s young. Well, not young young, but middle aged. Early 40s, maybe. I can tell by the full, low timbre of his voice and start to wonder what’s really there, hidden beneath the beard and the padded red suit.

 

“It’s Cara,” I manage to say, sucking in my bottom lip and digging in with my two front teeth.

 

“Cara,” he confirms, nodding slightly. “And have you been a good girl this year?”

 

My gaze flicks upward to meet his and time stops as the question washes over me. The tinkling clink of "Jingle Bells" fades into the background and I zero in, lost in the fixed crystalline blue of his eyes. Bright like the frigid turquoise waters peeking through the cracks at the North Pole, haloed at the edges with vivid strings of green, like ribbons of aurora lacing through the night sky, sparkling with stardust. Blue that cools the flames licking at my core, filling me with soft, mellifluous steam. Jaw slightly agape, I stare, mesmerized.

 

His eyebrows rise and he holds eye contact, awaiting my answer, lowering his voice. “Well? Have you been behaving yourself, Cara?” His voice takes on a tinge of a threat. “Be honest.”

 

Slowly, I waggle my head from side to side. “No,” I whisper.

 

A crease crinkles between his brows. “No?” he asks, tone rising. My gaze falls upon his lips as they murmur, fluid and smooth. “And why’s that?”

 

“Because… I…” My heartbeat booms in my ears and I try to hide the quickening pace of my breath. “I’ve been thinking about things that I shouldn’t.”

 

“Ahh… okay,” he whispers in return. “I see. Well, we’ll just have to see what’s waiting for you on Christmas morning then. What is it you want this year?”

 

Lightly panting, I swallow, feeling sweat beading in my armpits. Pins and needles rush over my skin in waves, making me tingle all over. “I’m not sure I should tell you,” I breathe, shaking my head.

 

“Come now, don’t be silly. You’re here, aren’t you? You waited in line like everyone else. Tell me.” A curious grin stretches across his lips. “What do you want for Christmas, Cara?”

 

From outside of my body, I feel myself lean forward, heart pounding, electrified. What if he laughs? What if he calls me crazy? What if he thinks I’m a fucking creep and tells me to leave? I raise my right hand to the side of my mouth and as he turns his head to hear, the words leave my lips.

 

“I want you to give me a spanking.”

 

Through a pregnant pause, our torsos slowly lean away from each other until he tilts his head downward, narrowing his gaze to catch eye contact once more. 

 

“My…” Brow arched, he grins, betraying his interest. “You have been a naughty girl this year.”

 

Relieved to have said it and incredulous I’ve done so, I loosen up a bit and a giggle comes pouring freely out of me. Shoving it back inside with my hand over my mouth, I nod sheepishly. I know, Santa. I know.

 

His voice lowers again, barely audible. “You work here, don’t you?”

 

My eyes widen and he glances in the direction of The Book Barn. 

 

“I’ve seen you,” he says with a nod upward. “Watching me.”

 

My gaze drops along with my hand and I blush with the heat of shame. 

 

“Yes… I sell books upstairs.”

 

“What time do you finish selling books upstairs, Cara?”

 

My eyes snap back to his. Oh my god… is he…?

 

“... When the mall closes. Usually around ten.”

 

“Well I’ll tell you what,” he says, leaning in again. “Why don’t you wait in the back lot after your shift’s over, near Flipper’s Burgers? Then perhaps we can have a discussion about what you can expect to receive in your stocking.”

 

I die in that moment and am reborn the next. “O-okay…” Nodding, beaming sunshine from my center in golden ripples, I take in the fact that he meant it. He didn’t even laugh. “Okay. Yes. I will.”

 

“Okay, then.” Straightening up, he gives two soft pats to the right cheek of my bottom, signaling me to rise from his lap. “Take care, Cara.”

 

Nodding, I back away, down the steps and past the wide pairs of eyes that just watched that whole thing go down. “Okay. Thank you, Santa.”

 

Turning, buzzing, I make a beeline toward the escalator, alight in every fiber of my being.

 

~*~

 

My boss was so pissed, he told me to stay late tidying up the back room to make up for the time I spent drooling over Mr. Claus. He chewed me out good and I should’ve been upset, but thoughts of my impending fate had me charged with excitement. Don’t worry, I wanted to tell him as he chastised my tardiness, hands on his hips, I’ll get what’s coming to me.

 

By the time I make it out to the parking lot and stop to wait in front of Flipper’s, nearly every car is gone. Icy wind whirls under the skirt of my red sweater dress and I bounce a bit, pressing my thighs tightly together and clenching my hands into fists. There’s no one. Not for as far as the eye can see. Maybe I missed him. Shit.

 

Off to my left, a trio of security guards walks out another exit, laughing and slapping one another on the back, eager to get to the bar and tie one on. Just when I start to think about giving up, the nearest door clicks open and he’s there, leaning out to beckon me in. 

 

“Come on, Cara!” he whispers, jolly as ever and a bit mischievous. “Come on in. Can’t have you catching cold.”

 

Nervous, I totter over and walk back into the mall as he holds the door open for me. He follows and I look around down the dark, empty hallways. Maybe this was a bad idea.

 

“Are you sure we’re gonna be okay? Like, what about the cameras and stuff? I don’t want the cops to come or anything.”

 

“Don’t you worry about a thing, dear. Santa’s got it all taken care of. One of my elves works in security.”

 

“Ah,” I sigh, smiling. “Got a man on the inside, eh? Smart.”

 

He lays a finger aside of his nose and gives a wink, making me blush. Our little secret. Mine and Santa’s.

 

The anxiousness in my stomach grows to the point of nauseousness, just like it used to when I knew I had a spanking coming as a kid. But something keeps pulling me forward… the knowledge that I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. I can’t turn back now. Not when I’m this close.

 

“How was work, Cara?” he asks, sensing my jitters.

 

“Okay. My boss got kind of mad. I was late getting back to my shift after we talked earlier.”

 

“I see,” he says, nodding, gravely serious. “Well, you always have had a knack for getting into trouble, young lady.”

 

“How do you know that, Santa?” I say, giggling. 

 

He gives a hearty chuckle. “Because, my dear! I’m Kris Kringle. I’m always watching, remember. And by the way, please call me Father Christmas.”

 

Enchanted, I nod. “Yes, Father Christmas.”

 

We round the bend at the end of the hallway and the mall’s center court comes into view. The big tree and Santa’s little house are still lit up, glowing in the darkness. The sight reminds me of how my living room always looked at night during the holidays, where I’d imagine Santa pulling me over his knee.

 

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. 

 

“Nothing like a little Christmas cheer, is there?”

 

He leads me to the door of the little red house and pulls it open, inviting me inside. It’s a small space packed with tables topped with gift-wrapping stuff, where staff members prepare packages for customers.

 

“One of my workshops for my elves, you know. I do apologize about the mess.”

 

“I don’t mind, Father Christmas,” I say, leaning back against the edge of a workbench, feeling its frayed splinters dig into my palms as Santa grabs a nearby chair and takes a seat.

 

“Now,” he says, “it seems we have something to discuss, Cara. Tell me, what’s been on your mind?”

 

I stare down at my shiny black Mary Janes in silence, trying to find the right words to explain this whole thing. As I collect my thoughts, my shame rises to a boiling point. It’s just too silly. Too stupid and weird.

 

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy,” I whisper as I look up again, eyes welling with tears.

 

He searches my expression, serious and sympathetic, then reaches out. “Come now, my dear. There there. You’re all right.” 

 

I take his hand and follow his lead as he sits me on his right knee like he did earlier and starts rubbing my back. 

 

“You know,” he tells me, “there are people out there who might think an old man living with flying reindeer and elves at the North Pole would be ‘crazy’ too, but I don’t waste time concerning myself with such things and you shouldn’t either, Cara. Santa’s seen and heard a lot of interesting things over the years. I’m sure whatever you’ve been thinking about is perfectly natural, as long as it makes sense to you.”

 

Moved by his reassurance, I smile and wipe my eyes, nodding a bit. “Thank you. I, um… well… it’s a really long story.”

 

Throwing caution to the wind, I tell him everything. The vision of him spanking me that was wired into my brain from a young age… the intrusive thoughts, especially at Christmas… my secret misbehavior and confusion when he didn’t appear and hold me accountable. The absolute heartbreak and betrayal I felt when my parents finally admitted he wasn’t real, along with the realization that this thing I’d dreamed about so many times could never actually happen. How foolish and childish it all makes me feel. Why can’t I just be normal like everyone else?

 

He listens carefully, nodding along, at times serious and smiling warmly through other moments of the story. Tears roll down my cheeks as I finish and he reaches up to wipe them away.

 

“Well,” he says, “that doesn’t sound crazy to me, dear. And you know what else?”

 

“What?” I ask, sniffling.

 

He whispers with a smirk. “Santa already knew all this.”

 

My cheeks burn and I huff, blinking. “What do you mean?”

 

“I told you earlier and you know it well, deep down inside: I’ve always been watching. You think all those stories about Santa from around the world are lies just because your parents stopped believing? Ho ho, no. Goodness, no. Father Christmas has been paying attention, tallying each and every time you misbehaved, young lady. All those secret trips to the kitchen at night. All those times you stayed up past your bedtime. I’m well aware, Cara.”

 

I wipe another tear away and shake my head. “Nuh-uh…”

 

“Oh yes. It’s my job. I was just waiting for you to get all that naughtiness out of your system before we had this little chat. You have to want to be a good girl to fix your behavior. But now that you’re here, ready to take responsibility, we can set things straight and put this all behind us. Would you like that?”

 

My breath quickens and I nod, trying to swallow down my panic as he pats my bottom over my dress.

 

“It’s time for your spanking now, Cara. You’re going to bend over my knee and take your punishment like a good girl. This has all gone on long enough.”

 

In spite of everything I just told him and all the years of desperately wishing for this moment, I want to run now that it’s here. I want to hide and pretend none of what I said is true. I haven’t felt this way in decades. This is too scary. I shouldn’t be here.

 

“I… I…”

 

He starts pulling me from where I sit on his right knee downward to bend me over his left thigh. “Come on, dear. That’s enough. Be a good girl.”

 

Through my hesitance, he positions me to his liking and slowly pulls the skirt of my dress up to my hips, revealing my white satin panties with the little blue snowflakes. I stare at the wooden floor, panting as his broad gloved hand rubs my pillowy curves, giving a few light squeezes. Finally, his palm leaves my butt and I shut my eyes, bracing for the impact.

 

WHAP

 

A firm swat lands on my right cheek, followed promptly by another on the left.

 

WHAP

 

He continues moving back and forth at a steady pace, harder than I’d been expecting. He spanks a bit like my dad, smacking a resolute sting right into my sit spots on either side, over and over and over, intent on conveying an unmistakable message. Within a minute, clipped whines begin escaping my lips no matter how hard I try to keep them inside.

 

“Ouch! Ow…”

 

His left hand holds me in place, immovable at my waist in spite of my squirming. I forgot how much this hurts.

 

“This is for all those years of misbehavior, Cara. All those times you upset your parents on purpose. What happens to naughty little girls, young lady?”

 

“They get spankings, Sir,” I grit.

 

He pauses. “Ah! What did I tell you earlier?”

 

Blushing, I hide my face. “Father Christmas.”

 

“Good girl.”

 

His left hand bunches up the top of my panties, pulling them snugly into my crack, exposing the bottoms of my cheeks. The material between my legs hugs my pussy and I feel the dampness there, suddenly concerned he might be able to see it. There’s no time to ruminate on my fear, however. His hand rises and comes down on my teeming bare skin with a swift SMACK.

 

“Oh! Ooof…” 

 

Several swats at a time land on the same spot before he moves to another part of my bottom, covering its surface with hot, smarting pain. My whining intensifies and I press the toes of my Mary Janes into the floor, clenching my cheeks, but he just spanks harder as time goes on.

 

“We have a lot to make up for here tonight, Cara.”

 

He then stops and I feel two fingers hook into the waistline of my panties, beginning to slide them down over the peaks of my cheeks. This always happens in my fantasies about him and I was half expecting it, but the moment is utterly humiliating. My breath hitches and I look up, reaching back to stop him.

 

“No! No, please! Please don’t pull them down!”

 

“Now, Cara” he chides, voice lowering as he pauses. “You know very well that spankings happen on bare bottoms when little girls are bad. You lie still over my knee and take your punishment or we’ll grab the lash I use on the reindeer and give you a whipping.” 

 

He points across the room and my eyes follow, landing on a black leather horse whip leaning in the corner. Fear grips my heart and I begin to cry in earnest.

 

“Am I being clear?”

 

“Yes, Father Christmas,” I cry with tears rolling down my cheeks as I acquiesce, letting go of my hold on my panties. 

 

He slides them down inch by inch, all the way down to my knees. Staring at the floor once more, mortified in my state of exposure, I watch my tears pool on the hardwood. He takes a moment to remove his white gloves, setting them aside on the workbench, one atop the other, and returns his hands to my sore buns, rubbing, pinching, patting gently… even pulling my cheeks apart to peek between them. I burn under his close gaze, never having felt quite so vulnerable. Thirty-one years old but here I am, draped over this massive man’s thigh, being disciplined like a tiny child.

 

“What I know about you, Cara, is that you’re really quite a good girl. You belong on the ‘nice’ list,” he says softly. “You just like to push. You want to push further and further to see where the boundaries truly end, and you need a good, hard spanking sometimes to keep you from getting too far off track. Isn’t that right?”

 

A sob slips out and I nod quickly, squeezing my eyes shut, grabbing at his pant leg for support. He leans down and takes my hand in his, interlacing our fingers in a clasp.

 

“I’ve got you, girl,” he whispers, raising his right hand and beginning anew.

 

The pain is sharp. Hard and methodical, he swats every inch, knocking the wind from my lungs over and over. It all starts to feel very far away… the clap of his palm… the sound of my cries. Minutes pass without reprieve and before I know it, I’m kicking and bawling, but this massive man, he’s unperturbed. The smacking continues, sending my thick cheeks jiggling, and I can’t help but fight as he holds me down effortlessly.

 

“I’m sorry, Father Christmas! I’m sorry! Please! Please don’t spank me anymore!!” 

 

SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK…

 

He kicks up the pace, apparently chuffed to hear me apologize and wail unrestrained. 

 

“That is the sound,” he says, calm and collected over my blubbering, “of a very well-spanked girl.”

 

Another ten swats or so and he stops, patting the crown of each buttock, signaling me to rise.

 

“Over to the workbench,” he commands. “I told you you’d be whipped if you didn’t hold still, and I’m a man of my word. Go.”

 

I stand, incredulous, and shake my head in a plea for mercy, remembering the blistering pain of the belt from those rare times when I behaved especially atrociously. I’ve never been whipped, but I’m sure it must feel similar, and fear has me frozen in place.

 

He rises and takes hold of my forearm, guiding me over the workbench with my panties around my ankles. The skirt of my dress falls down again on the way over, shielding my bottom once more. He settles me in place with my torso pressed against the flat length of the wood, then gives a couple hard swats over the cashmere.

 

“Stay right there just like that, and pull your dress back up,” he says quietly.

 

I do as he asks, shaking as I slide the skirt back up to my waist, then rub my hands over my swollen fanny. He takes up the whip and swishes it through the air a few times, testing his swing before taking his place behind me. I move my hands out of the way and cross them in front of my face, laying my forehead in the space between where I can hide and cry. His booted foot wedges between my Mary Janes to urge my legs wider.

 

“Open your legs, Cara. Wider.” I follow his lead an inch at a time as he coos gentle praise. “That’s a good girl. You’re going to hold still until the job is done. Understood?”

 

Face soaked in tears, I nod. “Yes. I-I’m s-sorry.”

 

Swish… CRACK!

 

The lash lands, slicing across my skin, causing me to shriek. Another stroke promptly follows. 

 

Swish… CRACK!

 

It sears across the expanse of my upper thighs and my legs shake, quivering in my need to stay still despite the cruel, wretched sting. 

 

Swish… CRACK!

 

“OWWWW, PLEASE!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE STOP!!!”

 

I cry so hard I can barely breathe, gasping between sobs in the way I always dreamed Santa would show up and make me do. Held securely between the walls of the void of my pain, I let it all go—the shame, worry, and isolation I’ve been dragging behind me my whole life. The nibbling that always eats away at me ceases and I’m suddenly floating like a cloud through warm, clear skies. Free. I’m free for the first time, shedding everything that’s kept me shackled inside myself.

 

Covering the entire stretch of my lower back with his left hand, he presses down as his right arm rises, set to deliver the final blows. The lash comes down hard in rapid strokes, set to the pace of his admonishment.

 

“I (CRACK) expect (CRACK) next (CRACK) year (CRACK) you (CRACK) will (CRACK) be (CRACK) far (CRACK) FAR (CRACK) better (CRACK) behaved (CRACK) or (CRACK) you’ll (CRACK) be (CRACK) spanked (CRACK) and (CRACK) whipped (CRACK) again. (CRACK) IS (CRACK) THAT (CRACK) CLEAR?” (CRACK)

 

“YES! YES! I WILL! I WILL!!!! I’LL BE A GOOD GIRL!!! I PROMISE!!!!”

 

It’s all I’ve ever hoped for. A cleansing tide washing over my soul, smoothing the jagged edges into curvaceous, sparkling sea glass. It’s perfect.

 

Santa places the whip beside me on the workbench and gingerly cups his palm over my right cheek, caressing and feeling the heat there before moving left to repeat on the other side. I cry and welcome it, letting him touch. Letting him see all the naked little parts of me, including the ones I always lock away in hopes of keeping them invisible. With his meaty thumb and forefinger, he slowly pinches chunks of my aching, punished skin, assessing whether he’s spanked me thoroughly enough. I squeak and gasp, feeling trickles of arousal sliding down my inner thighs, warm and slick.

 

“Come here, Cara,” he whispers. “Come here…”

 

He picks me up, panties still stretching across the space between my ankles, and carries me outside the little house to his padded throne, embracing me on his lap under the chromatic twinkle of the lights. Sobbing into the crushed velvet of his suit, clutching it in my fist and burying my face in his chest, I cry for as long I can while he holds me, stroking my bottom, giving little pats while he shushes me softly, cushioning my descent back to earth.

 

“Shhh… good girl… that’s a good girl… I trust the lesson’s been learned…”

 

When the echo of my cries fades and dies down, he takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face upward as I sniffle, catching my gaze in those diamond pools of blue, kind and warm as he studies my state. The reality of this whole thing begins to settle around me and I teeter on the precipice of feeling stupid all over again, but he smiles and shakes his head, shushing once more.

 

“Shh, Cara. It’s okay. It really is. Don’t worry.”

 

Cracking, easing into another round of tears, I squeeze him tightly while he pets my hair. “Thank you.”

 

~*~

 

I think about it every day that follows, floating through the mall on cloud nine, light as a feather despite the ache in my tush, drifting through my busy holiday shifts without a care in the world. 

 

We’d parted ways without much ceremony after he’d pulled up my panties and walked me to my car, seeing me off after a tight embrace, a few more swats to my bum, and a warning to be good.

 

“I will, Father Christmas.”

 

Sometimes we catch each other’s eye while I’m walking through the center court on my break. He glances my way and we smile, but I dare not interrupt again after the gift he’s given me. A bittersweet twinge of sadness grows as the big day arrives, however, and I cry alone in my apartment on Christmas morning, knowing he’ll be gone when I go back to work. I fear I’ll never see him again, but maybe that’s okay.

 

January 2nd, I’m on the morning shift, skimming through a copy of a new bestseller at the counter of The Book Barn. The store’s empty, as expected, and I sip my venti vanilla latte at my leisure, mind calm and still.

 

“Excuse me,”

 

The sound startles me and I look up, then freeze, abruptly tingling from head to toe. A tall, athletic-looking man with broad shoulders and a clean shave stands before me smiling, lips plush and smooth. Leaning forward, he rests his forearms on the counter.

 

“Hi.”

 

His eyes swirl blue blizzards around me, glittering like frost, but I don’t shiver.

 

“Hi.”

 

Grinning, he takes in my expression, glancing from one eye to the other, to my parted lips and back again. Then, clearing his throat, he stands erect.

 

“I was wondering if you could help me. I’m looking for a very specific book and I can’t find it anywhere.”

 

“... S-sure. Yeah.” My fingers glide toward the keyboard of the computer as my brain gets its bearings. “Um, w-what’s the title?”

 

The Legend of Schmutzli,” he says with a smirk.

 

“Can you spell that last part?”

 

He does and I type it in, but come up short on results.

 

“We don’t have it here. Sorry.”

 

“Can you order it for me?”

 

“I could, of course. It’ll probably be cheaper and faster if you order it online, though.”

 

“I want to order it from you,” he murmurs, reaching out to take hold of the pen and notepad next to the keyboard, large hands hovering precariously close to my own. He writes down his number and address as I watch in a daze, spellbound. He also leaves a first name: Kris.

 

“Maybe you could call me when it arrives. I’d really appreciate that.”

 

“Okay,” I whisper, nodding. “Sure. I can do that. Of course.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

The moment he rounds the bend of the doorway to leave the store, I look up the book online and read its description.

 

Schmutzli, the sinister alter ego of Samichlaus, the Swiss version of Saint Nicholas, first appeared in 17th century lore as his sinister sidekick. On December 6, Samichlaus would make his way through town with toys and treats for the good little boys and girls who had behaved all year round. Schmutzli, however, dressed in a long black woodcutter’s robe, accompanied Samichlaus as the enforcer of punishment, carrying a whip or broom of twigs to spank the naughty children…  

 

Choking on my latte, I feel my eyes grow to the size of silver dollars and spend the rest of the day reading everything I can find about Switzerland’s terrifying Christmas disciplinarian.

 

While the book is being shipped to the store for Kris, I download it on my tablet and read the whole thing in two days. Then I read it again. It relieves me to think I might not be so weird, connecting Santa’s watchful eye to the fright in my belly and the sore state of my seat. Others have spoken of holiday spankings… written stories about them… for centuries.

 

The hard copy arrives but I can’t bring myself to call him. I’d just stumble over my words like a dork, I know it. Though it’s highly inappropriate and unprofessional, I make my way to the address he left with the book under my arm and knock on the door, feeling my hands get clammy all over again.

 

He opens it and a smile lights up his face.

 

“Hey there, Book Barn.”

 

Cara,” I say, grinning back.

 

“Cara,” he repeats in that full, low timbre, nodding with a chuckle.

 

“I, um, have your book. So I brought it here. I’m sorry if that’s weird. I don’t want to bother you or anything.”

 

“You couldn’t if you tried,” he says, reaching out to take it as I hand it over.

 

“Okay… cool.”

 

There’s really nothing left to say and I nibble at the inside of my cheek, awkward as hell despite what we’ve shared. Say goodbye, Cara. Turn around and go home. You’re gonna freak this guy out.

 

“Uh… well… thanks for your business. Take care.”

 

I turn and start to walk away, not daring to turn back as the lump rises in my throat. It’s fine. It was what it needed to be. Accept it.

 

“Hey. Cara.”

 

I freeze and turn to face him, praying he won’t notice the glassy sheen welling in my eyes.

 

“Have youuuu… read this book before?”

 

“Um… no.”

 

“Do you want to? Might be up your alley.” He grins anew and raises his eyebrows. “Just a hunch.”

 

Is he…?

 

“Ah,” I say. “Could be. I guess I’ll look it up when I get home, if you recommend it.”

 

“Why don’t you come in?” he asks, motioning inside. “I just made hot cocoa. I’d be very happy to read it to you, if you’d like. No pressure, of course.”

 

Cement hardens around my feet, trapping me in place while I waver through emotions like an idiot. I should say something… do something… anything.

 

He leans against the doorframe, patient as he awaits my response, smiling softly.

 

“It’s okay, Cara,” he whispers. “Really.”

 

Somehow, I dig up the courage to smile back and teeter forward, one foot in front of the other, bashful as I approach. He backs up, allowing me inside, and closes the door behind us. My eyes scan his entryway and settle on an open closet. Inside hangs the crushed velvet suit, accompanied by the whip with its handle leaning upright in the corner, black lash coiling in a spiral at the floor.

 

“Happy New Year,” he coos into the shell of my ear, placing a hand at the small of my back to guide me inside.

 

Happy New Year, indeed.

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