Little Jimmy Lomas, six years old and a sweet as he could be, sucked the top of his red crayon.
Writing to Santa Claus was harder than he thought. He knew what toys he wanted Father Christmas to bring. Mummy had told him to write down a list. Later they would burn it on the open fire in the living room and it would go up the chimney. Then, at midnight Santa would come down that very chimney.
How did you spell “astronaut”? He would have to ask mummy. Just then the door opened and his older half-brother Lucas slouched in.
“What are you doing?” he sneered. “What’s this carrot and glass of milk?”
“It’s for Rudolph the reindeer and Santa,” Jimmy grinned. “You have to leave them or you don’t get any presents.”
Lucas snatched the paper from Jimmy’s hand. “Writing to Santa Claus. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?”
Jimmy looked puzzled. Of course, there was a Santa Claus; he brought you presents. But only if you were a good boy. And, there was Rudolph and elves.
“It’s all made up, you moron,” Lucas sneered.
Jimmy’s eyes moistened. Tears trickled down his dimpled cheeks. “There is!! There is!”
Lucas smirked, “It’s my dad; he’s the one who gives you your presents.”
“Not true! Not true!” Jimmy fled from the room. “Mummy! Mummy!”
Lucas Lomas, twenty years old and as bitter as Kentucky sour mash. He hated Christmas. He hated his dad for divorcing and getting married again to a much younger woman. He hated his mother for throwing him out of her home days after he turned eighteen. He hated the way his copper-coloured hair curled and couldn’t be combed. His face was square and his nose too big. No girl would look at him twice.
He hated the sweaty room he lived in. He hated his job at the supermarket. He hated being forced to spend Christmas with his “family.”
His dad barged into the room, his face purple with fury. “What did you have to go and do that for? What’s Jimmy ever done to you?”
Lucas snarled, “Father Christmas. What a load of crap. There are at least five Santas in the High Street. How do you explain that to him?”
“I hope you’re not going to be like this all over Christmas?”
“Don’t worry, I’m going out with my mates.”
“Where you going?”
“None of your business.”
“Well don’t come back pissed and wake the house.”
“Don’t worry, and I promise not to disturb Santa and his reindeer.” He slumped on the couch and grabbed the television remote. “Fuck me, Morecambe and Wise again. They died before I was even born.”
“Ah! Christmas. Don’t you just love it,” his father reached to the sideboard and unscrewed the lid from the Eat Me Dates.
“Oh, I’m out of here.”
Two hours later Lucas and his pals were leaning against the bar of the Shaggy Dormouse, the place-to-be-seen when you were twenty and the-place-to-avoid at twenty-three. He slurped on his snakebite. The place was steaming and so were most of the customers, packed in cheek by jowl, an ocean of pasty-pale faces, except for the ones flushed deep pink with alcohol. There was no space to move, it was too loud to hear friends speak. It was people having fun on Christmas Eve.
After six pints at the Dormouse, Lucas and four pals bounced through the High Street. It might be Christmas Eve but they were dressed only in jeans and tee-shirts, the typical attire of the macho male.
“Shit. I need a piss,” Lucas hopped from one foot to another. “Over here,” he ran towards a doorway.
“You can’t. That’s someone’s flat.”
“Fuck that!” Lucas unzipped his jeans and a steaming stream of urine soaked the doorway.
“Let’s go to The Cock and do over some queers.”
“Nah, not tonight, The Beaver’s open. C’mon.”
It was nearly two in the morning. The walk home hadn’t done much to sober him up. Lucas tried once, he tried twice and only on the third attempt, and after closing one eye to gauge his distance, he poked the key into the slot and opened the door. A blast of icy cold air ripped his bare arms.
“What the …?”
It seemed to come from the living room. Lucas stood almost literally frozen. A pink radiance seeped from the room, the glow dazzled him. Suddenly sober, he edged closer to the light, shielding his eyes. He heard the sound. Rustling activity. Someone was in the room. A burglar.
“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips. The rustling continued. Cautiously, attempting bravery he didn’t truly feel, Lucas inched further to the door.
The room glowed pink, like the cheapest club dancefloor. Lucas peered through hooded eyelids. A shadowy figure was under the Christmas tree, holding a tiny spacesuit.
“He’s thieving our presents,” Lucas thought. He said aloud, “Stop that, leave them alone.”
Lucas’s eyes burned, all he saw were blurs.
“Ho-ho-ho, young man,” the figure raised what looked like an empty glass in his hand in salute. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Santa Claus.”
“Dad is that you? Stop pissing about.”
“Now, now Lucas, m’boy, watch your language. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”
Lucas paused. This wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t a burglar either. Not dressed in a Santa suit.
“Stop p…” he corrected himself just in time, “… playing around, who are you?”
“You know who I am Lucas. I am Santa Claus. And, you know why I am here. I give out presents to the nice children; but what do I do to the naughty ones, Lucas.”
The twenty-year-old gaped. How did this odd man know his name?
“Well, Lucas, what happens to the naughty boys?”
“I haven’t been naughty, Santa,” Lucas felt his cheeks flush. How absurd he felt, who was this weirdo?
“Come Lucas, I know you went to the toilet in the doorway of poor Mrs. Hetherington. Think how she’ll feel on Christmas morning when she has to clear up your mess.”
Lucas’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t get words to form.
“I know what you said to Jimmy today,” Santa screwed up his face with distain, “That I don’t exist. Well we’ll see about that.”
Santa stretched his arms and glared at the shivering figure before him. “So, Lucas, what does Santa do to naughty boys?”
“Wrong answer, Lucas,” Santa stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lucas turned to run. His legs wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the spot; unable to move.
“Not so fast, buster. We have unfinished business.”
Lucas’s heart pounded, he could only stand and watch. First, Santa picked up a small wooden chair and carefully placed in under the Christmas tree. “Ho-ho-ho,” he hummed to himself. Then, he turned to face the quivering young man. “Look at this Lucas,” he snapped his fingers and a heavy wooden clothes brush appeared in his gloved hand. “Look what Santa’s brought for you Lucas.”
Lucas stared transfixed. What had he just witnessed?
Santa sat on the small chair, spread his legs a little and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. “Lucas, I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants and come and bend across Santa’s knee.”
“Tut-tut,” Santa shook his head, “You haven’t quite understood, have you?” Santa gave an exaggerated blink and he sat back in his chair.
Lucas tried to fight it; he couldn’t. It was like an out-of-body experience. His hands reached for his own belt buckle. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over his movements. In seconds the belt was loosened and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Santa tapped the clothes brush into the palm of his left hand; watching. Waiting.
With the jeans at his feet, Lucas pinched the waistband of his Boxer shorts and with a deft flick of the wrist, he sent them south to join his jeans. The merest flicker of a smile was hidden by Santa’s untidy whiskers. It was not often he got to see such a package. Santa would never understand why Lucas couldn’t get himself a girl.
“Come, bend across my knee, Lucas,” Santa’s instruction was gentle. He knew it would be obeyed. When he thought about it later, and for the many times he would recall this night for the rest of his life, Lucas would never be able to explain what happened next. Meekly, he shuffled across the floor. He stood a foot or so to Santa’s left, staring down at the legs clad in bright red trousers. Then, and Lucas was almost certain of this, then of his own accord, he lowered himself forward. The palms of his hands rested on the carpet, his legs bent at the knees and the toecaps of his trainers hovered an inch above the ground. The smooth red material of Santa’s trousers felt warm against Lucas’s naked skin.
In the moments before the heavy wooden brush fell for the first time, Lucas’s conscience clicked in. “I deserve this. It is what I have always needed,” it told him.
Santa’s smooth gloved hand took hold of the tail of Lucas’s tee-shirt and moved it away from the target area. Then, he gently caressed first the right cheek and then the left. The young man’s bottom was fleshy. It had a lot of bounce. If Lucas didn’t change his lifestyle and cut down on the booze and hamburgers, he would soon run to fat.
Lucas stared down at the carpet, waiting patiently. His breathing was even, his heartbeat steady. He was calm.
But not for long. The first smack caught him in the centre of the left cheek; the brush sank into the fleshiest part of the buttock. Santa was satisfied with the deep pink outline the brush left behind. He was delighted with the eleven more he crashed into Lucas’s backside; all more or less on the same spot. Rat-a-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the room. Then, without a pause, Santa walloped a dozen into the right cheek.
The first stinging smack made Lucas’s mouth open, but no sound came out until the third one. It was a choked cry. By the time the brush bounced off his bum for the sixth time, he was squirming and wriggling. By a dozen his bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue.
The stinging, burning agony was kept alive by each whack from the heavy wooden brush. His bottom was blood-red and swollen, but Santa slammed the brush into his buttocks again and again and again. Lucas’s sobs became yelps and soon they were full-throated yells as he twisted and turned his body as if he was trying to swim off Santa’s lap.
It felt like hours to Lucas, but it was only minutes. Not one part of his buttocks and the back of his thighs was left unmarked. Santa spanked on and on. Lucas had an arse that cried out to be spanked and Santa never shirked his duty.
Father Christmas had seen many spanked bottoms in the hundreds of years he had been in the job, but nothing quite matched Lucas Lomas’s rear end. The mass of scarlet flesh was outstanding. It was like he was wearing a pair of red cycling shorts. Lucas lay slumped across Santa’s lap – literally a beaten man.
Santa raised his right hand to his mouth and with his teeth he loosened each finger until he was able to remove his woollen glove. Gently, he patted Lucas’s burning bum. Then, softly Santa made circular motions with his palm across both mounds. The flesh was hot to the touch. Lucas wheezed, Santa’s hand felt smooth against his roaring rear.
He was still face down and couldn’t see the broad grin splitting Santa’s face. “Well Lucas,” he beamed, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus now?”
“Oh yes, Santa,” Lucas gasped. “”Yes, I do.”
Picture credit: Alan Paul
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second