What Happened with the Elf Behind Santa’s Workshop

The air in the little Christmas set always smelled of the same things: plastic pine, stale candy, and the sweat that kept gathering under my red velvet. It was nearly five in the afternoon, and Saturday had turned into a tide of strollers, hurried parents, and kids with their lists pressed to their chests.

I, the Mr. Claus of that mall, sank a little deeper into my false-fur throne. The foam-padded suit was suffocating me despite the fan hidden behind the cardboard castle. I had spent five hours smiling, nodding, and repeating the same little chant of good wishes. My knees creaked in silence every time some hyperactive brat threw themselves at me.

—Of course, champ! A wooden train, you say? Ho, ho, ho! —the “ho, ho, ho” rumbled in my chest, but the cheer was pure performance. Inside, I only felt the prickling of exhaustion and a pressure that kept building without stopping.

At my side, the elf who helped me—her name was Marina, though her badge said “Jingle”—was trying to calm a little girl who was crying because her brother had stepped on her sequined shoe. In the background, the endless loop of carols had stopped being music and become a constant hum lodged between my temples.

At last a break came. A family finished their turn, and Marina leaned toward me, eyes wide, while fiddling with a badly printed discount coupon.

—Mr. Claus —she whispered, voice tight—, I think we’ve got a lull. Are you all right?

My Santa act evaporated the moment she let her guard down. I straightened and felt immediate relief at not having to force that benevolent curve into my back.

—Marina —I said, and my voice was mine again: a tired baritone, very far from the playful tone I used with the children—. I’m fine, but my bladder and, frankly, my dignity are in critical condition. I need a truce. Could you announce something? Anything, a magical workshop adjustment, whatever it takes to buy me ten minutes of peace.

She nodded, grasping the seriousness of the matter, and moved to the intercom with a look of contained panic. I stood up. The weight of the costume made me wobble.

—Ten minutes, Jingle. And don’t let anyone else in with a dog dressed as a reindeer —I muttered, and slipped behind the screen that supposedly hid the entrance to the “Secret Workshop.”

The service door, a trapdoor disguised behind a set of prop nougat towers, led downstairs. Staff only. I opened it carefully and was met by the stale air of the maintenance corridor. I moved with the forced slowness of a man stuffed into a suit three sizes too big and on an urgent biological mission. Getting through that passage without being recognized was an art in itself: hunched over, with my street coat hood up and my beard held in place by magnetic clips that let me swing it down to my chest when I wasn’t using it.

I took the first steps down, panting. My white beard had twisted to the left and my legs were beginning to tremble. I wasn’t thinking about gifts or reindeer logistics; I was thinking only about the cold marble of the restroom sink and blessed privacy.

Marina appeared behind me at the top of the stairs.

—Do you need help, Mr. Claus? —she asked, still in character.

—The magic is temporarily broken, Jingle —I replied, smoothing my beard with a slow gesture—. I need assistance with the descent.

She looked at me, confused, but the professionalism of her elf job kept her from questioning my eccentricities.

—Assistance going down?

I took a deep breath. I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper, because explaining the real reason for my clumsiness required maintaining at least a minimum of illusion.

—Marina, listen carefully. This suit —I tapped my fake belly— is a masterpiece of deception, but it lacks the ergonomics necessary for walking like a human being. Think of it as a badly designed truck. If I move too fast or turn without support, my center of gravity goes to hell. Right now, going down these little stairs is like piloting a blimp over a minefield.

I leaned slightly toward her, almost paternal.

—I need you to come with me. I can’t risk tripping and ending up in a roll. Stand on my right, right here, where my arm won’t get in your way.

I held out my gloved hand and she took it without hesitation. Hers was small and, surprisingly, steady.

—If I start leaning forward or to the left, squeeze hard. I don’t care if we look like an old man and his niece walking down a hill. I just want to reach the floor without a workplace incident report. Understood?

—Understood, Mr. Claus. I’ll be your counterweight —she said very seriously—. Trust me, I’ll guide you.

—Excellent, Jingle. On three: one… two… and ho, ho, ho, out of here.

With her hand locked in mine and a gentle pressure upward and outward, I started down. Every millimeter was calculated. The suit pulled at me, but she functioned like an unexpected anchor, letting me negotiate the edge of each step without falling into either ridicule or a broken bone.

***

I shoved the employees’ restroom door open with my shoulder and managed to get inside. The place was large, smelled of cheap cleaner and damp, and the only light came from a fluorescent tube flickering over the mirror. I shut the door with a screech and leaned against it, wheezing. The pressure in my bladder was unbearable, a sharp pain that stole my breath.

—Damn it —I growled through clenched teeth.

My hands, gloved and clumsy because of the thickness of the costume, fought with the fake leather belt. It was an absurd buckle, decorated with a plastic reindeer, and my fingers couldn’t find the mechanism.

Open up already.

I yanked at the waistband of the red pants, but the elastic was too strong. Panic was starting to mix with desperation. I felt the first real trembling in my legs, the sign that my muscles were about to give out.

The door flew open. It was Marina.

—Is everything okay? You look awful —she asked, frowning, her elf tiara glittering under the light.

—I’m about to piss myself —I hissed, my face twisted by effort and embarrassment—. I can’t get this damn costume off.

She didn’t hesitate for a second. She came in, closed the door behind her, and threw the bolt with a dry click.

—Relax, I’ll fix it.

Her hands, small and nimble, moved with an efficiency mine didn’t have. She unfastened the belt with a snap and found the fly. She pulled it down. The red padded fabric fell to my knees and revealed my white cotton briefs, already taut with urgency.

Marina didn’t stop. She hooked her fingers in the elastic and, with a quick motion, pulled them down too. A twenty-two-year-old girl, dressed as an elf, with pointed ears and makeup that made her eyes look bigger, was kneeling beside me, pulling my cock out into the open.

And then it happened. As if the fright, the embarrassment, and the closeness of her body had flipped a switch, I felt a surge of blood race through me. What had a moment before been limp and only worried about needing to pee began to throb and harden. It grew with insulting speed, gaining weight and size in the palm of her hand, until it stood rigid and brushed her cheek with the tip. It was an enormous erection, obvious, brutal evidence of my total lack of control in that situation. She kept her eyes fixed on my swollen cock, with an expression halfway between surprise and fascination.

After the first instant, a smile spread across her lips. It wasn’t mockery: it was complicity, a wicked acceptance of the absurdity of the moment. She fixed her eyes on mine and, in a voice that sounded like a silky, commanding whisper, said:

—I’ll take the lead. Don’t get your gloves dirty, Santa.

Her small hands, still holding my cock, took control with a delicacy that both froze and burned me. She turned me slightly and aimed me with almost surgical precision toward the bowl. I felt the first stream start, and the relief was so overwhelming I nearly folded in half. But I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

While the liquid hit the water with a sound that seemed to come from far away, all my awareness concentrated on the point of contact. Her touch was warm and soft, as soft as the velvet of her costume. I felt the curve of her fingers wrapping around my cock, her thumb resting just below the glans, on that exquisitely sensitive spot. Each pulse transferred into her palm. It wasn’t just help; it was a caress. The warmth of her skin seeped through mine, a current climbing my whole spine. The physical relief of emptying myself mingled with an excitement so intense it raised gooseflesh under my wool. The contrast between the humility of the act and the intimacy of her hand was overwhelming. That beautiful girl didn’t pull away, she smiled while holding my cock, and that lit me up in a way I had never felt before.

When the last tremor ceased and silence took over the restroom, Marina still didn’t move. With one hand still firm on my cock, she reached the other toward the dispenser and tore off a strip of paper with practiced ease.

—Jingle at your service —she whispered, and her smile turned frankly wicked—. Let me clean you, dear Santa.

As she spoke, her free hand came down. I felt her fingers on my balls, a light exploratory caress at first. Then she began to massage my scrotum with a precision that took my breath away, rolling my balls between her fingertips in a rhythmic, circular motion, weighing them as if measuring how much semen they promised. With her other hand she wiped the tip with the paper, pressing the glans through the tissue in a gesture so intimate it nearly made me groan.

What was already hard reached a level of rigidity I hadn’t felt since I was thirty. My cock stood out thick and veined, throbbing more and more strongly in her hand. A girl barely in her twenties, dressed as an elf, was kneeling in front of me, her mouth inches from my cock, smiling as if she had found the best Christmas present.

—Mr. Santa —she murmured, voice thick with promise—, like this the girls won’t be able to sit on your lap. We elves are here to serve you.

And she kept her word. Her smile softened into an expression of pure concentration and desire. She leaned down slowly, and I felt the heat of her breath on the glans. It was an initial contact so nearly ethereal it made me shiver, a damp warmth that raised goosebumps on every inch of skin. Then she stuck out her tongue, flat and pink, and licked the tip with the unhurried care of someone savoring a candy. Saliva mixed with the first drop of fluid beading at the tip, and she gathered it with her tongue as if she didn’t want to miss a single detail.

—You’re so hard, Santa —she whispered against the glans, and I felt her words vibrating in the hot flesh—. Looks like you’ve been holding out for a long time.

Without waiting for an answer, she opened her mouth and swallowed the head of my cock. The entry was slow, unbelievably slow. The edge of her lips stretched to welcome the glans, and I felt the warm, wet pressure of her mouth closing around it. Her tongue, agile, moved to receive me, tracing a circle, exploring the ridge of the corona, slipping under the frenulum with precise touches that made me groan. The sensation was so sharp my knee shook and I had to brace myself harder against the wall.

Then she started going down. Her head advanced and my cock slid deeper and deeper into her. I could feel the roof of her mouth arching around me, her lips sealing firmly around the shaft, creating a ring of perfect pressure that sucked me greedily. Her hand at the base moved in sync, guiding me deeper, while the other kept kneading my balls with soft, steady persistence.

The scene was surreal: the tiara gleaming under the fluorescent light, her long lashes dark against her cheeks as she lowered her head to swallow my cock. She reached the back of her throat and made me gasp. She paused for an instant, breathing through her nose, adjusting to having all of me inside her before withdrawing with the same slowness. Her tongue slid along my cock as she came off, leaving a trail of saliva shining in the light.

—God, you’re amazing at this, Jingle… —I gasped, unable to believe what I was seeing—. Don’t stop, keep going, please.

She smiled with my cock in her mouth, and the simple movement of her lips stretching around the shaft sent an electric jolt through me. She pulled my cock out with an obscene pop and looked up at me, lips shining and eyes half-lidded.

—Shut up and let me suck you properly, Santa. I’m going to leave you gleaming.

She took me back in, this time without pauses, setting a hypnotic rhythm. Every time she went down she took me a little deeper, fighting her own reflex, and the muffled sound—a wet, guttural “glup” that slipped out when the glans hit the back—was the most erotic thing I had ever heard in my life. When she came back up, her cheek caved inward from the suction she was using on me, and I could see the outline of my cock marked against the smooth skin of her face.

Her tongue was a whirlwind. She wasn’t content just to be there: she circled the glans, pressed on spots I didn’t even know existed. Sometimes she flattened it wide, rubbing the whole length of the cock as she went up and down, soaking me with saliva. Other times she turned it into a firm point, massaging the main vein with short strokes that made me see stars. She would take my cock all the way out, lick my balls one by one, carefully taking them into her mouth, and then swallow me whole again in one go. The combination of wet suction, overwhelming heat, and the almost acrobatic precision of her tongue was a total sensory overload.

Her left hand never left the area, but now she gripped harder, forming a firm ring with thumb and forefinger right at the base, pulling gently downward every time her mouth reached deepest, raising the tension to nearly unbearable levels. Her other hand moved to my abdomen and her nails scratched the skin over the costume, a blend of pain and pleasure that only intensified everything.

I looked down at her: rosy cheeks hollowed by suction, eyes closed in concentration, giving herself completely to the task of sucking. A thin thread of saliva escaped from the corner of her mouth and ran down her chin, dripping in fat drops onto the green neckline of the elf costume, a raw and beautiful testament to her effort. My cock disappeared again and again between those painted lips, shining with saliva, and I began moving my hips without realizing it, thrusting into her mouth with little jolts she took as if she had been begging for them for hours.

—Marina, fuck… —I growled, gripping the edge of the sink so I wouldn’t fall—. You’re sucking me like a goddess.

She doubled her effort. She sped up, bobbing her head at a pace that made me lose all sense of the restroom, the shopping center, the damn costume. The suction became so intense that every time she pulled back it was a little torture, a hollow ache that only filled when I sank back into her throat. My balls, already taut from her massage, started drawing tight against my body, warning me what was coming.

—Wow… —I gasped, feeling it becoming too intense—. Jingle, I’m going to cum… now!

Without hesitation, she pulled my cock out of her mouth with a wet pop, tilted her grip slightly, and aimed the glans directly at the bowl, all while pumping me with her hand in a firm, fast motion, sticky with her saliva.

—Let it go, Mr. Claus. Cum all over, and I’ll make sure nothing goes to waste —she promised, leaning so close to the tip that I felt her breath striking the glans with every pump.

With a deep tremor that started in my balls and raced up to the nape of my neck, I let go. The first jet shot out, white and thick, and she guided it with precision into the porcelain, never stopping her hand. The second came longer, with more force, and I felt my cock convulse in her fist as it emptied. Marina didn’t ease up for a single instant: she kept squeezing and sliding, drawing out every drop, eyes fixed on the stream as if she were mentally measuring how much semen she had pulled from me. When the spasm ended, she didn’t let go right away: with slow, expert motions she massaged me from base to tip, milking out the last remains of my load, making sure nothing was left inside. It was meticulous, almost ritual, and it wrung one last groan from me when her thumb brushed the hypersensitive glans.

When the last trace finally vanished, she leaned in and gave the tip a wet kiss, like a signature, before withdrawing her hand, wiping it on the lining of the costume without looking, and giving me a broad, professional smile.

—Mr. Santa Claus —she said, voice clear and satisfied—, have I served you well?

I could only nod, still not understanding what had happened. Jingle, with renewed professionalism, tucked my cock back into my briefs, now soft and satisfied, pulled my red pants up, and fastened that damn belt as if she had just finished dressing a child. Then we went back upstairs and I endured two and a half more hours of torture, greeting children happy to speak to Santa while I smiled, thinking only of Marina’s mouth closed around my cock in that restroom.

***

When the day was over, alone at last, Marina confessed one of her fantasies to me. She liked playing with costumes in private, fucking dressed as characters, feeling like someone else while she got fucked. Her boyfriend didn’t enjoy it. And, out of nowhere, she thanked me for all the presents Santa had brought her as a little girl. Then she asked me something that left me speechless:

—Can you take the costume home with you?