“Who are you? And what are you doing here?” Even though she knew the first answer, she still asked it because it was as though her mind had already conjured him up.His voice was loud and demanding when he spoke. “I thought the red suit and white beard was a dead giveaway,” he said sarcastically. Damn girls were sometime more stupid than he remembered. Hot, tight pussies are what attracted him. And they would do anything for Santa. He took advantage of that and them.“If you’re Santa Claus, I’m the Queen of England!” She looked at him. Yes, he was wearing a red suit, the collar lined with white fur, a thick leather belt around his middle and black boots. He wasn’t fat and jolly though; his body muscular, his waist trim, his arms thick with muscles. His beard was white, as was his hair, but it was neatly trimmed as though he had just trimmed in minutes ago. And it wasn’t long, no more than an inch. And the black belt looked more like a belt you would spank and errant c***d with, not hold. He was disoriented, but grabbed the ruler out of fear and held it along the top of my cock. “9 and 1 quarter inches.” He read mechanically. “Now measure yours.” I said coldly. He complied, digging the ruler into his skin, apparently still trying to add at least something with the pathetic tad-bit. “1 Inch.” He whimpered. “Pathetic.” I observed. “Rachel. Fluff me, now.” Rachel came forward to my snapping fingers, and preceded to cock-worship me. She spent three minutes on the glans alone, cradling my shaft in her hands, she nibbled and licked and kissed all along the crown. As I began to harden, her tongue slipped out to moisten every inch as I expanded, even the spot between my cock and my balls, a considerable stretch of hanging sack. She looked at Ricky the whole time, a look of supreme vengeance mixed with lust on her face. Soon my cock was a glistening weapon, casting its awesome shadow up Ricky’s chest, obscuring his face from the light as he sat on the bed before.
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