Dear Santa

My letters started coming when I could barely spell your name. You brought the train set with every car, the one I circled three times in the catalogue. Years later the wishes changed. I want you this Christmas. Your boots on my floor. Your velvet coat still warm from the sleigh as you strip it off, revealing that broad stomach and the thick white hair that trails down. The hat stays. The boots stay. Everything else hits the floor and so do my knees. I take you in my mouth slowly, tasting salt and heat, while you grunt above me, one gloved hand at the back of my neck. You taste like chimney smoke and peppermint. I work my throat around you until spit runs down your heavy balls, until my jaw burns and you sigh, the sound low and surprised. Later I bend over the arm of the sofa, legs open, and you sink inside with no warning. Leather gloves grip my hips as you fuck me steady, each thrust pushing a muffled sound from my chest. The tree lights flicker across your skin. When I come you’re still moving, riding me through it until the wet slap of skin fills the room. After, you rest your palm between my shoulder blades, breathing slow, while I stay pinned and trembling. I’m shaking, you’re still hard. The promise to be good is already broken, but I lie there anyway, waiting to see what Santa does with the rest of the night.