Santa's Pet (3 page)

~ Brittney ~

Excuse me? Did I hear that power-suit lady correctly? Did she refer to Racy Lacy as a nice, sweet, and helpful elf? I can’t believe this. Of course, Ben screwed up, but why is she putting me down?

As for a refund? No way. Ragamuffin’s Rescue needs all the funds they can get to put on these adoption events. It might be only twenty dollars, but it’s taking food from the pets’ mouths.

I pick up the howling hound and dangle him in front of the girl’s face. “I’ll be glad to give you a refund, but how about a picture with Santa’s dog? He’s all the way from the North Pole. See how big his ears are?”

Ben’s dog smiles, letting his floppy tongue hang out, but his breath is stinky and the girl turns away, pinching her nose.

“Ewww … get that fleabag away from my daughter.” The iron skirt sneers and turns on Ben. “I’ll be filing a complaint. You roughhoused my little girl.”

“Ma’am, I’m truly sorry.” Ben blinks rapidly, rubbing his finger. “The bird bit my finger hard.”

“You’re not a real Santa Claus anyway.” She narrows her eyes and ogles his entire six-foot-plus height from head to toe. Grabbing the little girl who’s still blubbering, the woman stalks off.

Wow, talk about ruining Christmas for all the children still standing around. Ben hunches his head and shuffles back to the throne, bleating a half-hearted “ho, ho, ho.”

Several parents herd their shocked children away from the line with promises of candy canes and treats. Others are busily capturing the fiasco on video, no doubt to post on social media, hoping it goes viral.

“Wait, wait, don’t go away,” Sean Rodgers, the photographer, who also happens to work for me at ScrapCloud, waves at the departing crowd. “We still have Santa’s dog. It’ll make a great Christmas card.”

That does it. The athletic man odor and Santa’s basset hound’s doggy breath finishes the last of the holdouts still waiting.

Damn, I’m going to have to speak to Sean about deodorant. I hate hurting his feelings, but has he ever wondered why a tall, good-looking former college basketball player can’t get a date?

Oh, right, Sean’s still standing in front of me expecting a response, except I’m holding my breath, too. He glances at Ben, as if for reinforcement—not that I scented anything from Santa Ben other than a woodsy cologne and sporty aftershave.

“Britt, I’ve an idea,” Sean says, thankfully lowering his gangly wingspan. “Why don’t you sit on Santa’s lap and hold the dog? We might as well pretend you’re a happy customer. I need to post some sample pictures on my website, and Ben needs some Santa creds to show his grandpa.”

Oh, no. The last place I want to be is back on Ben Powers’ strong, hard, and very woody lap. He’s never thought about me all these years. Why should I care to save his job?

One look at poor Ben sitting on the throne all lonely and dejected, and my heart twinges, echoed by a second throb between my legs. Those broad shoulders, solid chest, and hulky thighs bulge from the Santa suit while the waist area is too loose and hangs over the rest of his well-endowed body.

Besides, the guy’s trying to help his grandfather. A star football player like him could be vacationing in the tropics instead of hanging out at a tree farm for charity.

Sean’s not waiting for an answer. He pushes me, along with the floppy fat basset hound, at Ben. “Sit across both his legs like this.”

I’m still holding the panting dog when Ben picks me up as if I weigh nothing and arranges me sideways across his legs, closer to his knees than crotch.

He’s silent and so am I. My heart’s beating way too fast, and even though this is only publicity for Sean Rodgers and Ragamuffin’s Rescue, the air sizzles between us, at least for me.

“Closer. Look like you like each other,” Sean says.

It’s not easy balancing the dog. How heavy is this sausage? He squirms and whines, not wanting Sean to touch his Santa hat, and I barely hang onto his front paws.

“Hold still,” Sean says, stepping back. He clicks the remote on his camera.

Uh oh, the dog wiggles lower and now his suit doesn’t cover his belly side. Sean clicks again grabbing a perfect shot of the male dog with his legs open.

Meanwhile, Ben sneaks his arm around me and moves me closer. “You’re slipping off my knees.”

Great. My ass hits his crotch and his Bamm-Bamm club twitches.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “He has a mind of his own.”

I ignore him, but the dog’s not holding still.

Sean marches toward us and grabs the dog, lifting him, and before I can protest, he drapes the slug over my shoulder. The dog pants all over my face. Ewwee.

I back away, but Ben’s hot breath is on my neck. A hot, slurping tongue bathes my cheeks right when Sean clicks the remote.

“Yuck,” I scream, pushing the hound’s saggy muzzle which is dripping with drool. “This isn’t working. No more pictures.”

“One more, let me get his attention.” Sean raises his arms and waves. “Here puppy, puppy.”

The odor grabs the basset hound’s attention all right. His ears flopping, he scrambles with his paws and back legs, trying to climb over me toward Ben.

Click. Click. Click.

Yikes, his hind leg is caught in my cleavage. No! Lacy’s too small elf tube slides off, and my bubble-boobs pop from the fur-trimmed suit.

I grab frantically for the dog, his skin, my tube dress, Santa’s jacket, anything, bending over to cover myself, but the rascally dog leaps from my lap and makes a run for it.

Ben’s hard abdominals shake with suppressed laughter as Sean keeps clicking the camera. I have no choice but to turn my chest into Ben and hold on, crushing my boobs against his white, shaggy beard, hoping for cover.

“Ben, pull my suit up, please,” I whisper. “I can’t let anyone see.”

“Sure, I’ve got your back.” He wraps his arms around me. “Don’t mind me. I’m not trying for a feel or anything. I’m going to hook my finger under the fur and ease it up.”

“Don’t tell me what you’re doing. Just don’t let anyone see anything.” I can’t help that my voice is so breathy.

Ben’s gloved hands are firm and ever so gentle. He slides his large fingers under the stretchy material and pulls up the back first, then moves under my breasts.

Laughter and exclamations pepper around us, as people point and children say, “Look, look. I see that elf’s boobies.”

“Please hurry. People are laughing.” I grab his beard to cover my chest, discovering his suit is unbuttoned underneath.

Don’t touch. Don’t, don’t, don’t touch
, I warn myself.

Ben’s being so respectful, but since I’m squished up against him, his hand cups each breast momentarily to push them back into the fur-lined tube.

Big, solid, strong hands. He’s done all too soon, but there’s no way my body’s going to forget the way he felt. Most guys I’ve dated were grabby and squeezed them like they were grip strengtheners. Which is why I stopped dating.

“Thanks.” I don’t dare look in Ben’s dark brown eyes. He’s breathing hard and so am I. His lips are somewhere underneath that fake beard covering his too sexy chest. As for his woody, let’s just say since handling my breasts, it’s ready to club me and drag me to its cave.

“Folks, get in line,” Sean announces, breaking the fog of lust swirling between me and Ben. “Twenty bucks for a photo with Santa and forty bucks gets you a shot at Reed Christmas Farm’s famous elf.”

Grrr … Does Sean remember he works for me?

~ Ben ~

“I need a break,” Ben said after Brittney removed herself from his lap. He wasn’t ready for any kid to sit on his stiffie. The last thing he needed was for a little girl or boy to report him to their parents.

His hands were still tingling from touching Brittney’s soft, warm skin. Her blush and her quick intake of breath showed she’d been as affected as he. Hard to believe she used to be that thin, flat-chested mouse of a girl with her nose in a book. The garish makeup hid her pretty features from him, but it also emphasized the lushness of her utterly ravishing lips. When she’d glared at him, the pout of her lower lip made him wish he had her alone, up against a wall, half-dressed ….

He shook off his fantasy. Removing the gloves from his sweaty palms, he rose from the throne. He needed to get his naughty parts in order before he was up to the task of playing Santa.

“No, no, don’t go.” Sean waved his arms, overpowering the fragrant garlands woven into the lattice behind the throne.

“She’s the forty dollar picture.” Ben yanked his jacket over the sagging Santa pants. Thank goodness it had enough room for a fake belly. Maybe he should have worn one and let it cover his misbehaving cock. “I need a bio break.”

Brittney must have known why he needed a bathroom break because she stepped forward and grabbed a kitten from the first child standing in line. “What a sweet little cat. Would you like to sit in my lap for a picture?”

“Sure! Can I touch your boobies like Santa did?” The little boy, who couldn’t have been older than six, said.

“Absolutely not,” his mother said. “I’m reporting this to the police.”

“Ah, Mom,” the boy whined.

“How about you?” Sean raised his arms, pointing to the next kid. Phew, that man sure knew how to disperse a crowd. The police ought to use him for riot control.

Ben turned away from the throne. He hated to leave Brittney in a lurch, but this wasn’t working out. He’d tried to be a good Santa, but he obviously wasn’t cut out for the job. Wasn’t there a requirement for a jiggly belly to cushion the kids?

Besides, how was he supposed to function after touching the most tantalizing set of potatas he’d ever felt?

“AAaakkk.” A giant flutter of wings beat overhead and talons yanked Ben’s Santa hat off his head.

“Hey, give that back.” Ben reached up and jumped, trying to snag the hat from the white cockatoo.

RRiiiipp! Buttons popped from the Santa suit and the entire front opened up, exposing his sweaty, naked chest.

He loosened the wide belt quickly and tucked as much of the jacket as he could into it.

Laughter tittered around him, but he wasn’t going to give anyone the satisfaction of a reaction. Nope. He’d go on his business and catch that bird if it was the last thing he did.

The cockatoo flew up toward the roof of the barn and dropped the Santa hat in the hayloft. He settled on a beam, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Aaahhh. Aaaah. Aaaah.”

“Aarroohhhwah,” Ben’s grandfather’s dog, Treat, crowed in accompaniment.

Traitor!

Ben didn’t dare turn around to see what Brittney was up to. Hopefully, she was busy taking pictures with babies whose thoughts about breasts were pure and innocent.

A wooden ladder leaned against the wall of the barn. Ben picked it up with one hand and slid it to the end of the loft. That bird had messed with the wrong Santa Claus.

He was halfway up the ladder when he realized his belt had come loose and the pants were slipping.

Bending slightly to pull them, he felt the ladder wobble. Cripes. His center of gravity was so high that he could topple over. Back home, he’d never helped his dad in the barn, always excusing himself for football practice. Now he was paying for it. He’d leaned the ladder at a bad angle.

He squeezed his thighs to keep the pants from falling, but how was he going to move up the ladder? Maybe he should come down before anyone noticed.

Sneaking a look at the direction of the Santa throne, he spied Brittney showing a girl how to hold a lop-eared bunny. Good. She hadn’t seen him with his Santa pants down, despite the gathering crowd of gawkers. Thank goodness for his wig and beard. People were asking each other who he was and assuming he was a guy from Rent-a-Santa.

“Aaaah!” the big bird shrieked, dive bombing him. It landed on his grandfather’s yak’s hair wig.

Giant wings flapped and feathers flew every which way. Ben raised his hand to remove the bird.

Ow! The demon bird bit him. Not only that, its talons were tangled in the wig and beard. Ben’s skin stretched where the beard was glued, and he was blinded by a barrage of white plumage.

He twisted and turned to dislodge the bird. Suddenly, his pants fell to his boots and he lost his balance. The ladder swayed and toppled backward. Shit. Shit, and triple shit.

Ben grabbed wildly for a handhold, but there was none. The ladder snapped to a stop, and he lost his footing. What happened? He hung onto a rung and whipped his head around.

The top of the ladder was caught on the top of a giant Christmas tree. Below him, people pointed, mouths wide open at his candy-cane striped boxers swinging in the wind.

For the briefest of seconds, Ben was suspended between the loft and the Christmas tree, with enough time for several cameras to flash, then swoosh, the giant tree collapsed, the ladder jerked, and Ben landed in a mess of popcorn garlands, silver tinsel, colored lights, and fragrant green branches.

When he opened his eyes, all he saw was the underside of the nasty bird, who sat on his grandfather’s expensive yak’s hair wig and beard, crowing and mocking him as he splatted him with a big blob of crap.

“You shitty bird.” Ben grabbed the large white bird. “I ought to wring your neck.”

Dangit. The bird’s feet were tangled in his wig and beard, and he screamed bloody murder while flapping his large wings in Ben’s face.

Sorry, Grandpa. Ben ripped the beard from his face. Yeeoch! That stung.

Around him, a crowd gathered.

“Why’s Santa being mean to that bird?” a little boy said.

“Oh, look, he’s in his underpants,” another child said. “I see his wee-wee.”

What? Oh, crap. Ben let go of the big bird who immediately flew off with the wig and beard. He felt for the Santa pants, but they were snagged by the broken Christmas tree, and he couldn’t pull them up.

Brittney ran up to him. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“Quick! Cover me while I untangle my pants.” He grabbed her and sat her on top of his crotch.

Uh oh. This wasn’t one of his brightest ideas, putting a barely dressed female elf on his lap. His cock, however, thought it was just fine and dandy.

“Take off your jacket and wrap it around your waist.” Brittney squirmed. “There are children around.”