#oak barn garage

[sgtpeppersofab]

Traditional Garage - Large

a sizable, upscale detached three-car garage workshop

[cloudsofbluesmoke]

Garage Large Large traditional detached three-car garage workshop idea for a garage

[elodiegendreau]

Garage - Traditional Garage

Large elegant detached three-car garage workshop photo

[chloesomeone]

Traditional Garage - Garage Large elegant detached three-car garage workshop photo

[thisisacommentary]

Traditional Garage - Garage Inspiration for a large timeless detached three-car garage workshop remodel

[krrjuus]

Expansive - Garage

Workshop in the garage - large, detached garage idea

[celebritieswithno-teeth]

Garage Wiltshire Massive, elegant, detached garage with a workshop image

[rogerlilyrp]

Hampshire Large Garage Ideas for a substantial, traditional, detached, three-car carport renovation

[chinxe]

Hampshire Large Garage Example of a large classic detached four-car carport design

[yourperfectlittleanarchist]

Expansive - Garage Workshop in the garage - large, detached garage idea

[stripesandpeonies]

Garage - Traditional Garage Large, conventional, detached two-car carport design

[ibs-gateway]

Hampshire Large Garage Ideas for a substantial, traditional, detached, three-car carport renovation

[blerb-f1]

"Lost" - Charles Leclerc x fem!reader

Charles celebrates too hard and gets lost. More news at 6

Find more on my masterlist!

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“Sir?”

“Sir!”

“Wah?”

Charles awoke as he felt his shoulder getting ruffled, eyes dry and hurting. His throat was dry.

“Sir, please get up. This train is finished cleaning, you have to leave”

‘Train?’, he wondered in confusion. Hadn't he just been celebrating his win in Monaco? He took a look at the person shaking him. She was a train attendant, pretty looking he might add. Her uniform was not flattering the least. A light blue t-shirt with a dark blue vest thrown over it. Her accent was german. He attempted to get out of his seat but stumbled, bad leg control.

She supported his shoulder. 

“Where am I?”

“Far off from any kind of civilisation you'd normally travel to, based on that watch on your arm” the attended reported. “The middle of nowhere, in Germany.”

Charles held his head. “I don't remember getting on this train at all.”

She looked at him with a lifted eyebrow. “Well, you had all the necessary tickets for your journey. Must have gotten them from somewhere.”

Together they walked outside of the train. The train station was small, one white painted building. Only two tracks, lot's off trees.

“Have you got anywhere to go to?”

Charles looked at her, thinking. Fumbling around his pocket resulted in nothing, his phone and wallet were gone. Shit.

“Apparently not. Let's just get going. You can stay the night with me, I've got space.”

“Can't I just take this train back to where I'm from?” Charles asked her in desperation.

“Good Joke, truly. This train runs every two hours during the day. And then you'd have to take more trains, none of which usually run in the night as well. Also, I've had a long day of work. I'm really, really beat up.”

Charles sighed. ‘What did I just get myself into? The people saying to not mix uppers and downers were right…’

She led him to her Car, a little silver Hyundai. Throwing her backpack in and settling into the driver's seat, she sighed in relief. “Finally done.”

“Done?”

“I've got the weekend off. Your arrival kinda ruined it but we gotta take the things as they come. I'm Y/N L/N. You?”

“Charles Leclerc”

“That sounds French”

“Monegasque”

“What? I don't know that word”

“I'm from Monaco!”

She looked at him in surprise.  “Now you're pulling my leg. You got here from MONACO? You must have taken like 10+ trains!”

“Urgs, not so loud. My head hurts”

“God.” She groaned as she inserted the car key, starting the little engine. “Move your hand”

“Huh?”

“Either you move your hand or you loosen the handbrake. I can't get it with you spreading over there”

Charles quickly lifted his arms in the air. “Isn't it Electric?”

She just looked at him exasperated. “Do I look like I'm shitting money? I can't afford a car that new. Unless you'd wanna pay one Mr. Money Bag over there.”

“Oi, that's rude”

“You're from Monaco, don't y'all bath in money and champagne? Now, let's just get going.”

The car ride was silent with Charles looking out of the windows. This really was the countryside. Trees, fields, cows and horses. Lots of half-timbered houses.

After half an hour of journey, with them passing over roads he'd never even classify as those, considering the many holes and breaks they finally reached a large property. A large half timbered house with a similar looking barn and a long building houses garages presented itself to him. She parked the Hyundai in one of the Garages, the smaller one to be exact, and stepped outside.

Charles followed her as she unlocked the front door, revealing a house with small-ish rooms with low height walls painted weight. The most color each room spotted was oak- all the furniture and floor were oak. He had never been in a house like this before.

“Stair up, the left room is the bathroom. Soap's there, go shower. I'll put clean clothes and towels in front of the door for you.”

“Shower?” 

“Sorry …Charlie. You stink. Long journey and all”

“Ah, I'm so sorry! I'll go shower immediately!”

Charles stepped into the bathroom, throwing his clothes on the ground. The second they left his body he noticed the less than stellar stench of sweat, alcohol and weed stuck on them. The water hitting his skin felt heavenly, scrubbing off layers of grime and dirt he never thought could amass so quickly. The water was different, as well. It didn't smell of chlorine as much, more like iron instead. Nonetheless, only after the shower did he realize what a stinky guy he had become. The clothes laid in front of the door were oversized on him. Some red, used polo shirt and cargo pants with frayed edges awaited him. Downstairs in the Kitchen, Y/N had changed into casual wear, foot already served on the table. Charles settled into the chair, staring at the provided meal. “What, you’re not hungry?” she asked him, tauntingly. “I don’t know how to eat this” he had to state.

“Look”, she said. The table was covered in two plates, each having a solid kind of bun laid on it and a pot with sausages swimming around. She took her knife, cutting a slit into the Bun. “Take the Brötchen-”, she then grabbed a fork and fished out a sausage, putting it into the ‘Brötchen’, “then put the sausage in there. "That's it.”

“Nothing else?” Charles asked, pretty confused.

“Yeah, simple meal you know. "Nothing fancy.”

“Hm.”

They ate silently, with Charles being confused at how hard that Brötchen was. He slept in the living room that night. The house didn’t have blinds but there were no street lights to keep him awake. Instead pure silence, something he never encountered anywhere. It was almost blissful - until the sun woke him up at 6AM and the birds were singing really loudly. He heard a loud mechanical noise and a cupboard clinking, then Y/N appeared in the doorway, offering a mug. “Coffee.”

The cup of coffee was hot, very nice.

“We’ll go to the electronics store to get you a phone, so that you can get your stuff in order. I can’t get you onto a plane without documents.”

“Aight.”

“Are we there soon?”

“Sorry mate, nothing’s close by.”

Driving to the electronic store took over half an hour and as they finally arrived, no grand palace was awaiting him. It was a dinky old little store, the bottom floor housing washing machines, fridges and vacuums. The upstairs was mostly TVs and DVDs, the phones tucked into the corner. Charles approached the few iPhones they had there, playing around with them.

“Dude, pick something cheaper”

"Why?" I’d just buy something that lasts.”

Y/N looked at him in annoyance. “I don’t know when you’ll be able to pay me back. That stupid phone is like a third of my monthly income. I can’t afford that.”

“A third?”, he asked in shock.

“Yeah, train attendants don’t earn much. Tickets want to be cheap right? Also…” she added. “We gotta get you a limited plan. Since you don’t have an ID, I have to be the owner. We should get a monthly one so that i can cancel it later.”

He simply agreed, settling on one heck of a cheap phone.

“Finally.” he sighed, installing his social media apps and creating a new WhatsApp profile. Contact to the outside world could be established.

“I need to call my team.”

“Please do, i bet they’re worried sick”

Charles leaned against the door as Y/N settled inside, as he heard the familiar call beep. Then, a voice he hadn’t heard in a while returned from the speaker.

“Who’s there?”, asked his friend, Andrea Ferrari.

“It’s me, Charles!”

"Charles?!" Where the fuck have you been ? We were so worried about you!”

“So fun story, i apparently took multiple trains and am now somewhere randomly in Germany. And I lost my wallet along with my phone.”

“Somewhere in Germany and no identification… Can you rent a car?”

“No, since I obviously have no ID, right?”

"Ah, shit. How’d you get a phone?”

“A train attendant took me in and bought it, but she can’t really afford more than that.”

Andrea seemed to think for a moment. “What if we send her money and she drives you back?”

“That sounds like a moronic, stupid journey…”

Shortly afterwards, Y/N made large eyes as insane amounts of cash appeared on her bank account. She didn’t believe that Charles actually was rich, especially not that he was an F1 Driver. For Ferrari as well! The Michael Schumacher Ferrari! She was quick to convince however, as a paid vacation like that sounded like a nice idea. They headed to the car dealership which also rented cars.

“Hyundai, again?” Charles complained.

Y/N just stared at him. “I know a guy there, the only spot where they won’t scam you.”

She had picked a car that looked quite similar to hers, just a bit longer with more horsepower. “I don’t like driving big cars. Want some power for the Autobahn though.” Charles whined in Response:” Can’t I drive? Pretty please? I haven't driven a car in a while~”

“Do you currently have a physical license?”

“No”

“Then shut up. I'd lose my license if we were to get caught. My car takes me to work, no options without”

He wanted to pout in response but that had quickly become not an option. The drive was sheer madness. Y/N was running on hopes and energy drinks, pushing the little car to its limit. Charles was gripping every piece of interieur he physically could as she drove at max speed for every stretch she could. Google had estimated the journey to take 13 hours, she shaved off 2 of them. He made a note of never saying that women were the calmer drivers. Blasting loud techno music that turned into a monotonous drone combined with the engine screaming as German countryside flew past him, only interrupted by gas station breaks.

Sweet, sweet silence they proved to be. A heaven of calm, shoved tightly between what most likely was an out-of-body experience.

Then, silence, white doves and heavenly goodness stopped: the return of techno. Y/N throwing the Car around Italy’s shit roads, ignoring all laws of traffic ever created. One goal in Mind: Maranello.

With the crack of dawn and the first worker’s arriving to open the doors, they saw something they had never seen in their long career. A crazed car coming to a full stop, brakes glowing hot directly in front of them. Passenger side flung open and their golden treasure stepping out. Il Predestino had returned, he had risen from the dead. 

And was vomiting against a tree.

“Aren’t you F1 Drivers supposed to be tough or something?”

Charles tiredly leaned against said tree, face free of blood. “We’re tough but not tough like that. I can survive a long ass GP but not 11 hours of insanity”

The crazed driver laughed, her whole body shaking. She approached him, forcefully shaking his hand. “It was nice to get to know you, big boy. I want to go to sleep now, hit me up if you want to visit Germany again.” Y/N shoved a slip of paper between his tightly pressed fingers and walked off as an employee showed her the way. She was to stay somewhere close by as some NDAstuff needed to be handled now.

On the other side, more people were approaching. Charles' friends, the team and the media. Maybe Germany was actually a nice spot to vacation in. Without all the circus going on here. When was the winter break again?

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I pinky promise that i WILL continue this since i wrote it for my friend acexf1 over on YouTube. It's more set-up than anything rn. My other stuff is also getting continuations now!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Thanks to Ingek73 for sending this beautiful and unusual 2008 farmhouse in the Netherlands. It has 4 floors, 4bds, 2ba, 3.5ba, €1.589m / $1.735M. It is described as "an authentic country house with American allure."

This home is loaded with very high end finishes. An open entrance foyer has a lovely chandelier with a lampshade and a slate floor.

A lovely living room with a modern fireplace is cozier under a mezzanine. Isn't the fireplace unusual?

View of the living room from the mezzanine.

Next to the living room and double barn doors to the kitchen is a dining room.

What a great cabinet that takes up the entire wall.

The spacious kitchen has modern oak cabinetry.

Check out the stone sink.

And, look at the smart home system panel.

Beautiful tiles in one of the powder rooms.

The mezzanine is large and you can see the stairs going up to the other levels.

Desk handily tucked in by this staircase.

Large bedroom with an interesting beamed ceiling.

This is actually a tanning room.

One of the spacious full baths.

This bedroom at the top of the silo is fantastic, isn't it? Look at the lighting effects.

Lovely family room with a fireplace is completely accessible to the pool as well as having a great view of it.

Stairs to the lower level has an oar as a railing.

The stairs come down to this chic family room.

How classy is this glass doored sauna?

Unique shower room. Look at the bucket.

The wine cellar is a take on an ancient European cellar.

The patio and pool behind the house.

The barn is so cute. It could really be a flex space.

The barn has plenty of room for equipment.

Look at the garage. Very classy.

Cute vintage farm equipment decorates the property.

One of 2 ponds on the property.

[praxcrown5]

Carstober Prompt 21: Crash

Trigger warning: harassment, attempted suicide

Excerpt from my fanfic. Year is 1937, and Doc's mom, Annette, isn't dealing with life very well.

Annette left home quietly, not even bothering to close the garage door. 

Sam was still asleep after their most recent siring attempt; the act taking a lot more out of him than usual…which was surprising since she was, once again, leaving his side with an empty plasma condenser. 

Ahhh yes, her husband: the largest, strongest truck this side of the Mississippi.  He could carry loads all across the country, but he could never seem to drive one home.

She snarled at her own, bitter wit and coasted to the end of the driveway. 

It was late in the evening, and the moon was just starting to crest the pines.  Despite it being fall, there was a wintery chill in the air.

She took a deep breath, letting the cool air cycle through her TR system.

What now…?  She thought, sadly.  She had already tried talking Sam around to visiting the clinic and, when that didn’t work, bringing up the topic to her in-laws.

After that…the harassment got worse.  Most of the Longhauler women wouldn’t talk to her.  The men were more sympathetic…mostly on account of her being a damn-good mechanic—you didn’t want to offend the person changing out your piston belts, after all.  But, even so, they only made small talk. Her mother-in-law had become especially cruel, gossiping about Annette to anyone who’d listen, slapping Annette with snide, degrading comments when they were alone, introducing Annette at parties and social gatherings as her “barren” daughter-in-law. 

Despite all of this, Annette had tried her best to remain positive.  She forced herself to get up every morning…with no partner to snuggle against, sang to herself at dinner to beat back the oppressive silence of their empty home, cleaned and tended the garden to keep herself busy when she wasn’t working and did her best to smile and give her clients the best automotive care possible…despite hearing them call her things like “gold-digger” behind her boot. 

She’d been maintaining, thanks mostly to her father and brothers.  Her father, especially, did everything that he could to make her feel loved and appreciated…but, ultimately, he couldn’t solve her problems.  He couldn’t make Sam get his siring cable repaired.  He couldn’t stop Claire from spreading gossip to the rest of the townsfolk.  At the end of the day, the best he could do was lean against her and tell her that it would get better. 

Somehow.

Someday.

Tears started pooling in the corner of her eyes.  She had been clinging to this notion, whispering it to herself like a personal mantra whenever doubt began to rear its ugly head. 

It’ll get better.  It’ll get better.  Someday, It’ll get better...

Will it, though?

Annette gritted her teeth and started her engine to try to banish the thought from her mind…but it clung to her like cheap grease.  Will things actually get better? 

Her fuel pump squeezed painfully, fearfully and she gunned her engine, kicking up gravel and dust as she turned out onto the road, heading south, flicking on her headlights only as an afterthought.

Annette and Sam lived in a large, converted barn about fifteen minutes from town.  As she sped down the old logging road, the terrain grew more rugged, with tall black pine and oak replacing the smaller saplings from the reclaimed Dawson Woods.  The road began to switchback, ducking around steep exposures of sedimentary rock, but always gaining in elevation.

She was driving more recklessly than she probably should have been…but she couldn’t help it.

For years she had successfully managed use the “it’ll get better” mantra as a wall to block out any thoughts that might argue otherwise.  Working long hours at the shop and taking on extra work from the clinic helped to reinforce it. 

And up until tonight, the integrity of said wall had never been undermined.

Annette reached the top of a prominent, east-west trending hill that the locals called Oracle ridge and paused to catch her breath.

You’re not sure…are you?

Annette closed her eyes, fighting back tears.

Sam was only home for a week this time, so Annette wasn’t expecting much, surely not another siring attempt.  But…he offered…because he knew that having a child meant the world to his wife, and he was willing to keep trying in the hopes that they’d somehow be successful.  It was the first time in their two years of marriage that he’d done something like that, made an effort to show her that he cared, a rare expression of vulnerability when he had always been forced to be “strong” and “fearless.” She eagerly accepted his offer, and as they made love, the hope that she saw in his eyes and the compassion that she felt in his touch rejuvenated her, made her think that there was still a chance.  That the planets and the stars would align just for them and they could have their happy ending. 

And then she waited. Hours and hours of waiting with giddy anticipation, faithfully hoping for a factory notification.

She was going to be a mother! It was going to happen this time!

But…it didn’t. 

And, for the first time in her life, the voices on the other side of the wall began to make themselves known, hissing and spitting at her through a spiderweb of newly formed cracks.

Wiper fluid was leaking freely down her fenders and her breath came in ragged sobs. 

It’s not going to get better.

Annette shook her front end, trying to dislodge the thought.

It’s NOT going to get better.

Her eyes shot open and she revved her engine.  It will!  It HAS to! 

Sam won’t go to the doctor.  His parents won’t force him to go because they believe that you and your father are lying to them.  So, logically, every future siring attempt will fail…and your life will always be just miserable as it is at present.  It’s an exercise in futility if there ever was one.

No… No it’s not… Annette’s throat constricted

It’s hopeless.

Annette froze. 

Hopeless.

The wall shattered.  All the rogue thoughts that she’d tried to keep bottled up broke free and surged through her brain with the force of a tidal wave. 

If nothing is going to change, what’s the point in trying?  In caring?  You care so much about other people…but they don’t seem to care much for you, do they?

Panicking, Annette gunned her engine and tore down the ridge.  Her model wasn’t particularly fast on account of its weight, but the steep slope combined with her Cadillac standard V8 made sure that when she hit the first switchback, her tires had to really scrabble for traction.  She cleared the curve, but just barely. 

You’re pathetic.  A waste of metal desperately clinging to false hopes and yearning for a life that you’ll never have.

The ghostly outlines of trees blurred in her peripheral vision.  Another switchback ahead, not as sharp as the first one, but even so she could feel the literal edge of the road under her rear tires, the loose scree falling away to tumble down into the river below.  

Really, is running all you can do? 

Her eyes narrowed.  Another switchback.  Another close call, though this one came with a jolt of pain and a loud snap as she clipped a rock with her left back tire.  The snap must have been her coil spring, because from that moment onward, her body seemed to list to that side and she’d bottom out on every dip and rise in the road. 

A Sudden dip.  Something large and sharp caught her undercarriage and tore the metal; the pain made her eyes water, but rather than slow down, she gunned it harder.  Red line.  Her engine was straining under the stress, and she was starting to feel nauseous as the hot metal began to effect nearby systems.

Annette, you’re a coward.  You always have been.  You could have stood up to your in-laws, but instead you kept your chassis low.  You’re pathetic.  So pathetic, that your family just stood by in silence while you suffered.

No!  My father stood up for me!

Your father stood up for the Glenrunner name.  Not you.

Annette counter steered the last curve, almost skidding into the river, but her flattening left rear tire helped keep her on the road.  There was another sharp pain, this time further up into the axle; she could feel hydraulic fluid running down the inside of the tire.

She was on a straightaway, now, heading for Timing-Belt Bridge. There was a sharp turn on the other side, the sort of turn you had to make at less than twenty miles per hour, otherwise you’d end up hitting a wall of limestone.

Time seemed to slow as a deadly realization sunk its claws into her brain.

By the time her tires tore into the concrete of the bridge, she had reached sixty miles per hour.  Even with her left rear tire about to give out, she would still be doing sixty as she hit the curve on the other side. 

No. More. Pain.

Her engine screamed.  Her vision was blacking out and she was starting to taste oil and other vital fluids in her mouth… 

And then…the lights.  Right in front of her.  Head-on.

Instinct kicked in.  She slammed on her brakes, but her momentum kept her going forward.

[idolatrybarbie]

pairing: santa!francisco "frankie" morales x fem!reader

word count & rating: 2.4k words | explicit - minors dni

summary: more santa frankie porn anyone?

tags: santa kink???, free use, spreader bar, creampie, come eating, facefucking, throatpie, anal sex, degradation, cum, pet names (honey, little girl, sweet girl, baby), praise, CUM AGAIN GUYS LIKE IDK WHAT HAPPENED HERE.

notes: i have had too much alcohol to edit this so take it as is. this is the part where i tell you i am actually gonna go on hiatus now, no posting from me. merry christmas, and to all a good night!!!!!

The spreader bar has your legs cramping, pulled tight against your body as your knees touch your bare chest. You’re wet, dripping and aching as you wait for him to get back. During the visit this morning, Santa saw to it that your pussy was put to good use, cumming inside you twice before he lapped at what dripped out. He’d left you with a swat on your thigh, promises of turning you into a toaster strudel later on something for you to hang onto.

It’s been hours since then, his cum still leaking from your used hole as you lay spread on this dark oak work bench. By your count, it’s been about a month and a half since the incident at the mall. True to his words, once the holiday season had wrapped, Santa whisked you away from the harsh reality of your real life back to the magical wonderland of Christmasville. Here, you have nothing to worry about—except, of course, swallowing Mr. Claus’ snowy load. Despite your efforts, you have yet to convince him that you’re a good girl.  Luckily you’ve still got most of the year to get him to change his mind.

You can hear the soft metal thud of the unlatched security bar falling from its place within the metal frame. Before being turned into an elf’s workshop-slash-playroom, this had been a stable for Dasher, Dancer, and the rest of the fleet. Now, it was where you stayed, getting very little sleep between the raucous orgasms that Santa Claus brought you with the smooth glide of his sugary cane. Your favourite activity was sucking his cock, Santa’s cum settling on your tongue with a slow-rolling sweetness to it.

When the barn doors swing open, he’s there, eyes waiting to take you in.

“You been a good girl while I was gone?” he asks.

“Yes, Mr. Claus,” you say softly.

“Hmm. I don’t know about that, little girl.”

“Please, Santa. I’m a good girl, I promise. I don’t know how I can prove it to you.” The fine links of metal that connect the leather cuffs that bind you to the bar between your legs rattle when you huff.

“In what world do good little girls talk back?” Fra—Santa asks.

He stalks over to your body with pounding steps. Santa rounds the table towards the end closer to your head rather than your pussy. He hauls you to the edge of the work table, your head jutting out from the edge of the surface. Immediately, he begins unbuttoning the front of his striped long johns. Whipping out his stunningly long cock, he rubs the swollen head across the seam of your lips. Sticking your tongue out, you lap at the sugary precum beading at the very tip of him. He pulls it away and smacks the length of himself against your cheek.

“Gotta teach you a lesson about politeness then, huh?”

Santa digs the thumb of his right hand into the crook of your jaw, forcing your mouth open. As soon as your lips part, he’s shoving his cock inside. He blocks your airway with his dick, sliding all the way to the back of your throat. A short thatch of hair tickles your nose.

“That’s right, little girl. Nice and quiet, huh? That’s how I like you.”

He runs the rough pads of his fingers over the skin of your throat, poking it with a firm press to touch himself. The action has you gagging, breaths stuttering as they come out of your nose.a

“Swallow,” Santa instructs you. You do as your told, swallowing around his cock as he rests inside your throat. “Bet you like it when I keep my sleigh in the garage like this. Nestled deep inside of you while you keep my cock warm. S’all you need to do, honey. No need to get all fussy, alright?” he asks.

You try your best to nod, telling him you understand. Still, he isn’t convinced.

“See, you’re hearing me but I don’t think you quite get it. Gotta really—” He withdraws from your mouth the slightest bit, only to slam back in with force from his hips. You choke again. “—communicate the point. Drive it home.”

He sets a punishing pace fucking your face, using your mouth for all it’s worth. Every time your throat bobs with a swallow, he squeezes your neck. The diminished airflow keeps you hazy, lightheaded as your vision swims. The sight and smell of him taking you like this has you wetter than the Atlantic Ocean, slick dripping from you down the seam of your ass.

“My little baby think’s she knows what’s best, huh? Only I get to determine when you’ve been a good girl. I know you think you are, but trust—fuck—trust me. Santa knows.”

Those words have you moaning around him, drool gathering on your lips and at the corners of your mouth.

“Gonna give you a little treat, alright? See how you like it.”

With another few thrusts, he’s spilling his silky load down your throat. Santa grunts roughly as each stripe paints your gullet. When he’s finished, he gives your cheek a gentle slap.

“Good job, honey,” he says as he slips out of you.

Hauling air into your lungs, your throat feels clogged. Cheekily, you blow him a bubble with the remnants left in your mouth. This earns you a rare-sought smile as he pops it, sticking his thumb in your mouth to suck. You lave your tongue over the ridges of it slowly, watching as Santa tucks his balls and cock into his fleece pants once again.

“You’re learning,” he whispers. From down here, it almost sounds endearing.

Santa uses the leverage on your head to push you back onto the table fully, the back of your skull resting against the warm table. Then he moves to the other end of your body, unlocking the small locks along the cuffs to release your hands and feet. Instinctively, you curl into yourself, nursing the spasming pain in your muscles.

You’re shocked when Santa engulfs your body in his arms, picking you up from the table in a cradling position.

“How does a nice hot bath sound?” he asks.

“Good, Santa. I’d like that,” you say. “Please and thank you.”

“Aw, honey. Bein’ a good little whore teaching you some manners, is it?”

He carries you from the shed-workshop, shielding your body from the Christmasville cold with the fluffy fabric of his coat sleeve.

“That’s a fuckin’ good girl,” Santa groans. You’re on his knees for him, panting against the table as you crane your neck to get a look at him. His eyes are trained to your rear, watching as he feeds his cock past the tight rim of your ass.

Your pussy flutters at the alluring sight, Mr. Claus purely enraptured as you take him into your body. He settles in your hole, pausing to savour the restricting warmth around his already spent cock. He’s been out here for a while, fucking your throat to train you out of that pesky gagging habit. Then he’d moved onto your pussy, giving it some well-deserved attention (his words) and wringing two orgasms from you.

“You’ve got a cute little cookie,” he says. “But nothing can beat the feel of this tight ass, honey.”

“Please, Mr. Claus. I need it,” you whisper.

“You’ll get it, little girl. Gonna be leaking pure Christmas Claus from all of your sweet fuckholes in no time.”

When he moves, he starts off slow, the glide aided by a generous helping of your slick, his cum, and some sort of sparkling lubricant.

“Snowman tears, honey. This shit will keep you slicker than egg nog.”

Each slow thrust has you moaning softly, the new sensation of fullness almost too much for your brain to process. You can’t think straight—not that you do much of that too often anymore anyway. Santa keeps a solid grip on your hips as he spears you, moans growing louder with each slide in and out of your asshole.

“Anyone ever had a piece of this brownie back here, little girl?”

“N-no, Mr. Claus. Just you.”

“That’s very nice to hear,” Santa says. “Ho ho, baby. This might just be enough to get you off that naughty list.”

Another thrust has you muttering a curse.

“Or not,” he says. “Sometimes I think you wanna stay there, honey.”

God, yes. Absolutely. If being bad gets you all of this? You’ll stay naughty forever.

Santa picks up speed, hand slithering down your side to find your clit. He takes advantage of your soaking folds, swiping a finger between them before returning it to your swollen nub. He pinches and pulls at it for a moment, more painful than pleasurable, before swirling around it with his index in time with every thrust.

Your forehead wrinkles as you draw your brows together, focusing on the candied coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your low belly. Squeezing your ass around him earns you a drawn out moan and a harsh slap on your left cheek.

“Fuckin’ little whore, aren’t you baby? Born for this, eh? Shit, this hot little ass is gonna be full of me.”

“Please Santa. Mr. Claus, I need it.”

“How bad do you need me, little girl? How bad d’you need your Santa?” he asks.

Your Santa. Like Mrs. Claus isn’t his wife, like the world doesn’t turn on his holiday dial. If he’s yours right now, there’s no way you’ll ever get to keep him.

“So bad, Santa. I need it so, so bad. Need to take it. Feel it drip out of me.”

You gasp with a particularly harsh thrust, teeth set on the edge of your lip. He flops over your back, chest meeting your spine as he turns you into a festive twinkie. When he’s done emptying himself inside you, Santa pulls his cock out of you in one go. You can feel it dribble past your fucked out sphincter, leaving dots of icing at the edges of your pussy.

He runs a soothing hand down your spine, moving around the work table to take your face into his hands.

“Santa’s little girl,” he coos. You aren’t sure if he’s talking to you or not. When he slips two fingers past your lips, you forget about it instantly.

He takes them away just as quickly, returning to your ass as Santa gathers his cum that’s spilled out of you and presses it back into your hole. Over-sensitivity rocks your body in waves, each gentle push of him of him cramming cum back inside giving you shivers.

You lay on the floor, thick blankets beneath you as you look up. Santa holds himself over you, inside of you, panting into the crux of your neck. You can still feel him pulsing, thick cock stretching you open as he grits his teeth through his orgasm. When he’s finished, he carefully pulls away from you to lay on his back beside you.

“You’re a good girl, honey,” he says. You can feel his cum start to leak back out of you.

“You think so?” you ask.

“I know so,” Santa says. “Don’t play coy. You know it too.”

You roll onto your side, hips parallel with the floor. Holding your head up with your arm, your eyes find his. “Then why am I still here?”

It’s been months. By now, it must be nearing the warmer months of the year in places unlike Christmasville—which stays bitterly cold all year long. If he knows that you’re good, if you’ve earned a spot on the nice list…why has he kept you?

“I’ve grown a little fond of you, I guess.” You give him a curious look. “Lonely out here for an old man.”

He doesn’t look that old, but you don’t comment on it. Instead, you say, “It gets lonely back home for me too.”

“I can’t imagine how that’s true,” Santa says.

You stretch your legs, toes bending as his sticky spend smears between your thighs. “I don’t know how to explain it. Kind of like a resounding emptiness. Everyone’s moving a little too fast to catch them in time. Here, it’s…slower. You’ve got a moment to appreciate the little things.”

The soft line of his jaw, the white-grey beard that he keeps trimmed shorter now than when you first met. The way his eyes roll back when you twirl your tongue in tricks around his cock, or the smile he gives you when a particular moan of yours spurs him on further. Not yours, not yours, not yours. Mr. Claus is not the present he promised you. He is a man and myth covered in red tape—do not touch. Even though that’s literally all the two of you ever do.

Santa Claus lets out a deep yawn, pulling at the white whiskers of his mustache above his lip. He’s only clothed from the waist up, his plush coat unbuttoned as it hangs loose by his hips.

He blinks a few times, eyes finding yours. “Come here, little girl.”

Santa motions you closer to him. You scoot across the soft fabric—had he said it was polar bear pelt?—and let him envelope you with his arms.

Your relationship has evolved much beyond the simple terms of Santa and his little toy. The sex is gentler, and he shows up more often now. Sometimes in the middle of the night, when you’re half asleep and drowsy. Your encounters don’t always start with sex now, either. Cuddling, gentle caresses to the skin of your throat and clavicle.  He always holds you as he does now, a sense of dread crawling through your gut as you anticipate when Santa will take his leave.

You don’t love Santa Claus. That thought alone is insane. But then again, none of this makes a lot of sense in the first place. Sure, he’s married. Sure, he is the most prolific gift-giver of contemporary western culture, a holly jolly icon for children and corporations everywhere. He is already everyone else’s. Does that mean he can’t be yours, too?

Santa presses a kiss to your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. His cum is still seeping out of you, his cock wet and spent against the back of your thigh. These aren’t things to think about right now. Another time.