by Cattus Politterarum

Rupert could hear the elf skulking outside his office door. It did nothing to improve his temper, which was foul.

“Don’t skulk outside my office door!” he barked. “Come in.”

The elf did so, ducking their head as they passed the threshold. “Sorry, Mr. Knecht, sir, sorry,” they murmured.

Rupert glared at them irritably.  “Rimplesticks, is it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Rimplesticks was tall, taller even than Rupert, and thin, thinner even than Rupert. They were so improbably narrow  that half a dozen of them could stand side-by-side in the doorway. Like all the elves, they were clad in the ridiculous outfit Cringle had designed: a short-sleeved red tunic over red and white striped shirt and leggings, with red gloves and boots with curled toes. It was supposed to look jolly. The elf did not look jolly. Their ageless, sexless, slate gray faced was creased with anxiety.  “Sorry,” they said again. The extended a sheaf of papers to Rupert. “Seventy-eight more, sir.”

Rupert couldn’t help it; he bared his teeth as he took them. The elf quailed. Rupert knew how fearsome he looked, with his dark greenish skin, long curved horns, tufted ears, and snaggly teeth. The sharply tailored, black three-piece suit he wore did nothing to make him seem less terrifying. He struggled for control as he looked at the top sheet.

“Enrique Martinez,” he read. “Broke troth ninety-four times.” He stabbed a yellow nail at one of the lines further down on the page. “What was this one, then?”

Rimplesticks leaned forward to peer where Rupert indicated. “He swore he’d do his homework.” A note of triumph crept into their voice. “And then he didn’t.”

Rupert reached deep in his gnarled heart for his last wisps of patience. “Why?” he asked levelly.

The elf’s shoulders hunched. “He was distracted because he was bullied,” they whispered. Then they brightened. “By Liam Johnson, which is addressed separately, further down.”

Rupert scowled.

Rimplesticks produced a red pen from one of their tunic’s pockets, and, in a flash, whisked the paper from Rupert’s desk, made a quick correction, and returned it to the top of the stack. “Broke troth 93 times, Mr. Knecht sir, sorry. Still quite naughty, sir, sorry.”

Rupert jabbed his finger at another line. “And this one?”

The elf’s ears drooped. “You won’t like that one either, sir,” they admitted. They took the page for another eye-blink edit.

Rupert sighed. The elves were the only ones who could be trusted to make naughty-nice assessments without it being terribly creepy. But they weren’t human, and tended to apply elf ethics and morals, which were very contractual and lacked nuance.

Then Rimplesticks brightened again. “Sir, if I may sir.” They riffled through the high stack of papers already on Rupert’s desk, extracting several of them.

Rupert’s yellow eyes found the elf’s black ones. “And why are you pulling those?” he demanded.

Rimplesticks looked downward. “They no longer believe,” they said heavily.

Rupert could no longer control himself. “Get out,” he roared. His fury rustled the papers and rattled the pens in the little pen jar on his desk. “Out, out, out, get out!”

*

Cringle didn’t particularly like what Rupert represented, so Rupert’s office was at the far side of the North Pole complex from his boss’s. He strode down the ice-hewn tunnels as rapidly as his long legs could carry him; even so, it took the better part of an hour. But his ire didn’t cool and his resolve didn’t waver.

Cringle’s secretary, a plump little elf named Wumpleshins, leapt up from their desk as Rupert barreled into the outer office.  “Sorry, Mr. Knecht, sir, sorry!”  They waved their arms wildly as they planted themself in his path. “He’s in a meeting Mr. Knecht, sir, sorry!”

Rupert curled his lips back from his teeth and growled low in his throat.

“—but you can go right in!” Wumpleshins added, and scurried away without a backward glance.

Cringle was not in a meeting, unless it was perhaps a meeting with the Sugar Plum Fairy, in Dreamland. A negotiation of snores, perhaps: his exhalations were rattling the papers on the broad desk. They even wavered the candles in the sconces bracketing the towering bookcase. Cringle’s black-booted feet were crossed on his blotter. His head lolled in his sleek, fancy chair. The legendary belly rose and fell slowly with his breath. He might have been drooling; the dense white beard made it impossible to tell.

As he had for some decades, Rupert felt a strange stirring in his nethers at the sight of the man, and, as always, he pushed it down.

“Cringle!” Rupert bellowed.

The old man’s eyes opened. “Eh? Ho! What? Rupert!”

“I quit!”

“You what? Quit?” Cringle’s eyes widened in alarm as he began to process Rupert’s proclamation. “You can’t quit! Who will punish the naughty children?”

“What good does punishing them do?” Rupert sighed. “At best they grow up with a kink for flogging, or being flogged.” Rupert noticed how Cringle’s eyes widened sharply when he said that. “At worst, I teach them that violence is an effective tool, and perpetuate cycles of abuse and cruelty.”

“You’ve changed, old friend.”

“I’ve been reading a lot, old enemy.”

“You used to love your work.”

Rupert cast his mind back. He had. For decades, he’d enjoyed slipping into naughty children’s nightmares to thrash them, and for centuries before that, he’d done it for real. He’d thrilled when the ever-observant elves recounted how young faces crumpled and burst into tears at the sight of coal-filled stockings. “I did,” he confessed. “And wasn’t that a problem in itself?”

“Perhaps.” Cringle slid his feet off the desk and leaned forward to reach for his pipe, tobacco, and the incongruous modern lighter he favored. “Perhaps. But naughtiness must still be corrected.”

Rupert smiled slyly, showing all those sharp teeth. “Really?” he said skeptically. “Even yours?”

“Ho!” Cringle’s startled huff sent a perfect little smoke ring floating up toward the ceiling. “I’m not naughty!”

“Viewed through the right lens, everyone is,” Rupert assured him. “Many consider that pipe of yours a vice. But I have far more ammunition than that for you.” Rupert planted his long, hairy fingers on the desk to loom over Cringle. “You’re an oath-breaker.”

“What?” Cringle scooted his chair back on its squeaky casters. “Ho! Rupert! I never!”

A mocking tone crept into Rupert’s voice. “What is it that you do again?”

“Deliver toys on Christmas to all the good little boys and girls.” After a moment he added, “And the boths, the neithers, the in-betweens.”

“Really,” Rupert said again. “All of them? The children starving in the Congo, Afghanistan, Yemen? Orphans in the Ukraine, Gaza?”

Cringle looked away. “I—I can not let myself be proven to exist. For with proof there is no belief—”

“—and without belief you are nothing,” Rupert finished. “So, you can only give extra toys to the good little children who were going to get some anyway.”

“It—it still brings joy,” Cringle protested.

“Of which I eradicate an equal measure. What use are we, old man? Either of us.” Cringle looked like he was on the verge of tears. and Rupert realized, abruptly, that he didn’t like seeing that at all. He wanted to see Cringle uncomfortable—very much so, in fact—but not in genuine distress. He smiled an entirely different sort of smile. “But oath-breaking is hardly the most interesting way you’ve been naughty.”

At those words, Cringle visibly relaxed. A thick, gray eyebrow arched. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The elves don’t monitor you.”

“Of course not!” Cringle harrumphed. “Nor you. We both believe in ourselves, I presume, but we’re neither of us children, nor have we ever been.”

“But,” Rupert went on, “like your toymakers, the reindeer wranglers, all the staff of your operation—except me—your accountants are also elves. With all the ruthless attention to detail they are known for. Shall we discuss your Internet streaming bill, Cringle?”

Cringle tamped out his pipe and set it carefully in its carved wood rack. His blue eyes met Rupert’s yellow ones. “Go on.”

Rupert showed his teeth again. “What film would you say you’ve jerked it to the most, old man?”

There was a long pause before Cringle answered. “I like that movie with Lauren Graham,” he confessed. “At the beginning, where she says ‘fuck me, Santa, fuck me, Santa,’ I like that scene a lot.”

“Bad Santa,” Rupert smiled cruelly. “From 2003. Directed by Terry Zwigoff. You’ve watched that scene nearly 800 times, or almost once a week, for twenty years. Did you know that fucker later signed a petition in support of Polanski? You kept whacking to it anyway, didn’t you? So naughty. What punishment do you deserve, do you think?”

Cringle cast his eyes downward. “I should be spanked,” he mumbled. He looked up again. “But not 800 times, please?”

Rupert laughed shortly. “No, I don’t think I have the patience for that. How many, then, Cringle?”

“Eight?”

“If it’s only eight, I’ll have to make them good ones.”

“So be it.”

“Unbuckle that belt,” Rupert ordered. “Pull your trousers down, old man. And those ridiculous stockings, my God. Bend over the desk. Spread your legs a little more. That’s it.” Rupert moved into position behind Cringle. He fondled his swelling erection through his slacks as his approving eyes swept over Cringle’s pallid globes. He delivered a light swat to Cringle’s left cheek with just his fingertips, making it shake like a bowl full of jelly. “Count.”

“One,” Cringle said.

Rupert smacked Cringle’s other cheek harder as his fingerprints began to bloom pinkly on the first.

“Two,” Cringle squirmed a little, but his voice was still steady.

“Stay still,” Rupert said sharply. “Or I’ll add to the count.” He went back to the left, letting Cringle feel the meat of his fingers this time.

“T-three!”

Rupert shoved his left hand down the front of the pants, seizing his hard length. His right descended onto Cringle’s buttock.”

“F-four,” Cringle panted, then, “Five! Six!” as Rupert delivered a quick back-to-back.

Rupert squeezed his shaft as he let Cringle’s anticipation build for some seconds. His next blow was the hardest yet.

“Seven,” Cringle moaned.

Rupert waited even longer before landing a final stinging hit.

“Eight!”

Cringle shook so violently that his red cap fell off his head. After a few moments he started to straighten up, but Rupert pushed him back down firmly.

“Bad Santa is hardly the whole of your Internet bill, my dear enemy. Is it?”

Cringle shook his head mutely.

“Shall we talk about How The Grinch Gaped Christmas? And How Cindy Lou Saved Christmas for Her Step Brother?”

“I haven’t watched those 800 times,” Cringle protested.

“Not yet,” Rupert said with a chuckle. “But you’ve watched those more than once a week since you found them. And they are much, much naughtier.”

“The belt,” Cringle gasped. “I deserve the belt for the porn.”

Rupert stopped masturbating to draw the wide black belt from the white-trimmed red trousers puddled around Cringle’s knees. “I agree.” He ran the belt through his fingers, letting Cringle hear the clank of the buckle. He started slowly again, with his hand just a few inches from the end of the tongue.

“One,” Cringle said obediently.

Rupert let another few inches of the belt slide through his fingers. This time he could hear it hiss through the air before it landed. The crack echoed from the walls.

“Two!”

Cringle’s ass wasn’t quite red all over yet, there were still white patches where his cheeks met his thighs and his lower back, and to the sides of his ass. Rupert annihilated them all, mercilessly, letting Cringle feel a little more of the belt each time.

“Three! Four! F-five! Six!”

Rupert paused again. He was breathing heavily himself, and not from the exertion. He gave Cringle almost all of the belt for two final strokes.

“Seven! Eight!”

I’ll lay you straight, Rupert thought, nonsensically.

Rupert let Cringle wheeze against the desk for more than a minute, but when he tried to rise Rupert shoved him down again. “There’s also the matter of all those charges to Tinder and Grindr,” he said. “Not to mention all those extra sleigh trips to Earth.”

Cringle’s shoulders slumped.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Rupert continued. “You keep it in your pants for over 1700 years, and then the millennium turns, and you go buck wild.”

Cringle looked over his shoulder up at him. “It’s not belief, exactly, but it changed me, having people fantasize about me. You must have felt it too, dear Rupert, since 1966 or so.”

Rupert drew in a shocked breath. “I’m not Theodor Geisel’s creation!”

“Ho. No,” Cringle allowed. “But Geisel’s creation is you, at least a little bit.”

Rupert’s eyes flashed angrily, but he couldn’t honestly deny it. “I haven’t taken thirty-seven trips to Earth in the last year alone to find women and men with kinks for fucking me,” he snapped. “You have. And what do you deserve?”

Cringle licked his plump red lips. “Your sticks, Rupert.” He sighed. “I deserve your sticks.”

“Yes,” Rupert said triumphantly. He held up his hand, and they materialized in it, a half dozen, braided together, knobby and rough, with smaller branches at the end.

“Don’t hold back,” Cringle begged. “Give it to me, Rupert! Give it to me hard.”

Rupert liked hearing Cringle admit what he wanted. He liked it a lot. He pushed against Cringle’s ass, letting the man feel the heft of his erection. He couldn’t remember ever being harder. He brought the sticks down on the crest of Cringle’s ass, again and again.

“One,” Cringle gasped. “Two. Three! Four!”

Rupert paused to pull Cringle’s cheeks wide. He only meant to tease Cringle’s hole, but found the backdoor wide open, already slick with lube. Cringle’s pucker eagerly welcomed two of Rupert’s slender digits.

“Oh, fuck, Rupert, fuck! Five! Six!”

Rupert frigged Cringle’s ass vigorously long enough that he thought Cringle might think the punishment was ended.

“Seven!” Cringle yelped, because it wasn’t. “Holy fuck, Rupert, eight!”

Rupert’s strong arms flipped Cringle over, and slid him back so his entire ass was on the desk. “You took your punishment well, dear enemy,” he said approvingly. “Now you may have a reward. Or perhaps, the reward will be mine.”

Rupert retracted his fangs, making a hot, wet, cavern of his mouth. He bent down to engulf Cringle’s turgid shaft with it. Cringle’s cock was by no means small, but Rupert’s mouth was literally magical. He could swallow his ex-boss’s entire shaft and balls, and slide his sinuous tongue underneath and up to tease Cringle’s asshole with its forked tips.

So he did.

Cringle’s ass tasted of peppermint. Rupert twirled his tongue tips together and drove into Cringle’s back door, and the minty tingle spread over his taste buds. Since his mouth was fully occupied, Rupert used thought-speech: What the fuck, Cringle. Do you crap candy canes?

I’m a magical being, Cringle replied the same way. I don’t crap at all.

Why do you even have an asshole then?

“Because I love to shove things in it,” Cringle gasped aloud. “I get off so hard when I play with my ass!”

Do tell! Rupert chortled mentally. So naughty! What do you fuck yourself with, Cringle?

“My fingers,” Cringle moaned. “Candy canes. Peeled ginger root.”

Figging! Rupert exclaimed delightedly. My, my. You are full of surprises, old frenemy. And only by yourself?

Cringle moaned and grabbed onto Rupert’s horns. Cringle fucked Rupert’s mouth, and Rupert matched him stroke for stroke with his tongue. “N-no,” Cringle blurted. “I love to get fucked by men and women. Big, fat, strap-ons. Huge throbbing cocks!”

And is that all? Rupert teased.

“Your tongue,” Cringle yelped. “Your tongue, Rupert, it’s like nothing I’ve ever—” At this last, Cringle was unable to restrain himself. HIs jizz erupted, thick and sweet, like a hot icing drizzle.

Rupert gulped it all down hungrily, Then he straightened. “My turn now,” he announced. He was keenly aware of Cringle watching as shrugged out of his jacket, and folded it onto the chair Cringle kept for visitors. He unbuttoned his vest slowly, his eyes locked with Cringle’s, and likewise arranged it on the chair. His shirt followed, and his undershirt. Rupert unbuckled his belt and pulled it through the straps. He held it up with a smirk, without quite knowing why.

Cringle reached out for it wordlessly, and Rupert handed it to him. Cringle set the belt down beside himself. He grabbed the lapels of his red coat with his big hands and ripped it open, sending black buttons flying around his office. He made short work of his undershirt as well. He kicked off his boots and shook his trousers and stockings from his legs. His nipples were hard, proud peaks in the expanse of white hair. He began slapping them with the end of Rupert’s belt.

Rupert resumed his strip show. He knelt to untie his shoes, and tucked them neatly under the chair.

“Tease,” Cringle accused.

Rupert shook his head. “Patience is a virtue.” He let a half-smile slip. “Thus, impatience is naughty.” He unzipped his slacks, slowly slid them down his slim hips, and stepped out of them. He folded them tidily before pushing down his shorts.

Cringle’s mouth dropped open. “Fucking hell.”

“Huge and throbbing enough, old man?”

Cringle nodded toward the shelf. “There’s lube,” he said.

Rupert pumped some into his hands, then pumped himself until his giant shaft and purplish swollen knob were glistening. The weight of Cringle’s gaze felt as good as his fingers. Finally, he moved into position.

“Is this supposed to be punishment, or reward?” Cringle joked.

“Yes,” Rupert said, and he pushed himself in. He’d perhaps been more accurate than he’d known: Cringle’s hot peppermint cavern tingled his sensitive flesh, and his ring gripped him almost painfully.

“Fuck, you’re big,” Cringle said gleefully. “Fuck me, Rupert, fuck me hard!”

Rupert did. He raised Cringle’s feet up to his shoulders as he pounded his asshole.

Cringle’s own cock swelled rapidly into a second erection. He wrapped Rupert’s belt around his dick, squeezing himself with the leather. 

Rupert thought it was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. He fucked harder and faster as he watched, breathing raggedly.

Cringle came first. His spunk arced impossibly high, and Cringle stuck out his wide tongue to catch the first spurt. He aimed the second up at Rupert, and it spattered hot against the roof of his open mouth. Cringle claimed the third blast at himself again, and shared the fourth with Rupert.

The candy taste of Cringle’s spooge sent Rupert over the edge again. He stiffened as he unleashed his own torrent deep in Cringle’s ass. He came so hard he nearly blacked out. He collapsed across the broad, white-haired chest. Cringle kissed him roughly, his come swirling around both their tongues.

When Rupert found his way fully back into his own body, Cringle was sitting up, bearing Rupert along with him. Cringle lifted Rupert with surprising ease, and set him on his knees in the big squeaky chair, his head hanging over the back. “My turn, again.” Cringle squirted lube onto his fingers and plunged three of them into Rupert’s ass.

Rupert bucked back, taking  Cringle’s fingers even deeper, but after a few strokes he withdrew them. Rupert nearly whined in disappointment, but a moment later he felt something bigger, smoother, knocking at his back door. Cringle’s cock was still hard.

“How–?” Rupert started to ask.

Cringle’s thrust cut him off. “Magic,” he said simply.

“Fuck,” Rupert hollered. “Fuck!”

Cringle treated it like an instruction, and didn’t shirk the duty in the slightest. He fucked into Rupert with the merciless vigor Rupert had shown him. “Who’s naughty now?”

“Don’t know,” Rupert groaned. “Don’t care!”

Rupert had fantasized about being fucked like this, fucked by Cringle, but the reality far outstripped his imaginings. Cringle pulled almost out of him with every stroke, so the huge flared head stretched his tight opening. It hurt, but it felt good, too. And it felt even better when Cringle sank balls-deep, making him so full, and so proud of how much cock he could take. Rupert wasn’t even hard—he hadn’t pushed the limits of his nature the way Cringle had, and needed a mortal’s time to recover—but somehow he was close to coming anyway.

Cringle was certainly close to coming now. His pounding got more frenetic, his prodigious belly pressing hard into Rupert’s back. Rupert reached back to find Cringle’s hands, and guided them up to wrap around his horns. Cringle chuffed like a freight train as he hammered Rupert, his breath hot, wet, and delicious on the back of Rupert’s neck.

And then Cringle came, spurting over and over in Rupert’s passage. Rupert was suffused with a limb-trembling joy. Not an orgasm, exactly, but deep and primal, thrilling in a wild, strange way.

Cringle couldn’t hold himself up. He slipped out of Rupert and slid to the floor, bumping his head on the edge of the desk on the way down. “Ho, ho,” he laughed softly. “Ho, ho, ho.”

After a minute Rupert turned around and seated himself chest-to-chest in the big man’s lap, his legs curled around Cringle’s waist. He grabbed the shaggy white locks and kissed him soundly. His heart was not expanding in his chest. What a ridiculous notion.

“Why haven’t we done that before?” Cringle asked when they finally pulled apart.

Rupert rolled his eyes. “Because you were my boss, before.”

Cringle snorted. “Humans have only worried about that for a very little time indeed, my friend. But I’ve known you for nearly a millennium.”

Rupert shrugged. “It hasn’t been forever I’ve wanted this, perhaps not even a century.” He smiled broadly, showing all his fangs. “But I have wanted it a very great deal indeed.”

“Ho, oh yes, my friend. ‘Samesies,’ as the humans say.”

Rupert kissed Cringle again. “And you’re asking the wrong question, old man.”

A white eyebrow arched.

“Not ‘why haven’t we done it before?’ but ‘how often can we do it now?'” Rupert said.

Cringle smiled merrily, and Rupert felt the big cock swelling underneath him. “Why, we can do it as often as you like.”

“Prove it,” Rupert challenged.

So he did.

 

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