Santa’s Coming!
by Graham Murray
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright© 2011, Graham Murray
Published by Living Books USA
Cover design by author
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author or publisher.
This book is purely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons whether living or deceased, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Santa’s Coming
The gilded sleigh glided to a halt on the roof amidst a flurry of snow, a cacophony of tinkling of bells and the skidding of hooves. Eight magnificent reindeer, their eyes wild, snorted and pawed the rooftop, accompanied by a muffled plop plop as several of the animals discarded steaming piles of unnecessary weight.
Santa Claus stepped down from the sleigh, rubbed his hands together and glanced around the neighbourhood rooftops. The land was black, dotted with only the yellow squares of light from house windows and the rainbow sparkling of Christmas trees.
He attached a nosebag to each skittish reindeer and then selected a few presents from the large green sack in the back of the sleigh. Placing them in a smaller bag which he slung over his shoulder, he ambled towards the chimney stack, his black boots crunching in the crisp layer of snow that covered the landscape.
“Fuck me, it’s brass monkeys out here . . .” he muttered. “I hate Yorkshire!” He reached into his pocket for the bottle, removed the cork and took a long draft of the amber liquid. “Ahh . . . much better!” he cried. “God bless the Scots.” He hiccupped. “And the Irish.”
Harmony Wilkins lay on the sofa in the living room with her legs outstretched. She wore only a skimpy chemise, which had been intended as a surprise for Brian when he came home. She had seen to it that he wouldn’t even have to fumble with her knickers and a bra strap. All he had to do was lift up the flimsy material and dive in.
Brian never arrived. He’d called from the Limp Cock pub at ten o’ clock, sounding completely rat-arsed, and said that he’d be staying for the ‘great Christmas piss-up’ and she should come over. She wanted to come, but not in the way Brian had in mind. She wanted some good hard cock really bad!
Harmony was furious. She’d spent the evening all alone with the promise of some uninhibited hot sex when Brian got home. And now this? She could have been out with her friends and might have even managed to pull a hot young stud at the Frilly Lips girls’ club she frequented. She’d sat goggle-eyed through a few reruns of reruns of Eastenders, had watched some stupid comedian in a yellow tank top trying to be funny and drank a few glasses of best Chardonnay from Tescos. Now she was angry, tired and hornier than ever.