Sandrine and the Pagan God

Sandrine pleases a primitive version of St. Nick.

3D-cover-sandrine

This is a fun story I wrote for the Smutwriters “Christmas Smut” Anthology. (Like it sounds, the book is an anthology of erotica stories about Christmas.)

I really wanted to write a story entitled, “I Saw Mommy Submitting to Santa Claus,” a riff off the famous old holiday song. The problem, of course, was how to make jolly old St. Nick into a sexy guy. I ‘pantsed’ the story (meaning, I wrote it without having a plan) and eventually remembered a crucial truth about all men: Santa Claus wasn’t always an old dude.

Yes, there was a time, in pagan pre-history, when the Santa Claus precursor was a young Macedonian hottie. (At least, that’s how my story goes…)

In my story, I added some mythology about how the Romany (gypsies!) have a special connection to this early-Santa. He’s a satyr figure who bestows wealth on the families he visits… so long as the families share their hotwife / farmer’s daughter / college coed with him. Yes, so long as early-Santa gets his rocks off every winter solstice, his families prosper.

This year, Sandrine’s mother transfers responsibility to her daughter, and for Sandrine, everything finally clicks into place. The family wealth, the weird time she saw Momma submitting to Santa Claus as a young girl. She’s ready to take her role in the family ritual.

It’s short and quick — 3,000 words of hot pagan lovin’.

3D-cover-sandrineStrong cheekbones. Wide-set green Macedonian eyes. Thick curly hair. A man balanced on the edge of Asia Minor, from a race of warriors. He had the thin polish of civilization, Persian and Greek both, and it seemed to hold something in check that was just as unkempt and intriguing as his hair.

Sun-bronzed face. Thick lips.

Lips drawing nearer…

His mouth touched the tip of my breast. I gasped.

“Shanti,” he breathed on my nipple.

His hand on the back of my neck was powerful but gentle. He let my head fall back and my body followed. I opened like a book before him.

He leaned over me and nibbled at first, but boys are boys. Soon he buried his face in my cleavage, soaking up my warmth.

I took a liberty, touched him in return. He didn’t object. Though I was a human woman and he was…something else, he bent to the gentle pressure of my hand.

I slid my hand up his side and ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled like a spice market. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He was powerful but I moved him effortlessly.

This was what Mother had wanted to know: Had I had sex, and did I know men?

Yes, I knew men. This creature reacted like a man. He was a man. Whether it’s a sweaty high school boy in a Honda Element, or a demigod in a candle-lit room, men respond the same. His lips on my body were demanding, but he acquiesced wherever my hands went. He wanted to bend me and be bent. His need pulsed like campfire heat.

He was almost too beautiful to behold. I half-closed my eyes.

His lips finally met mine.

Fire.

I temporarily forgot to learn about him, but he learned me, and that helped me learn myself. I will never forget the ‘me’ he found: Taut stomach; lean, powerful thighs; an invitation of an ass. My breasts, which I’d always considered ungainly, were pure luxury in how they shifted across my torso.

I held his face to mine in case he tried to get away. His tongue brushed mine—flavors of tamarind and anise. I was already on fire, but now he caught fire too and slipped his hand between my legs. I had no thought in my mind. I opened to him and his fingers curled in my wetness. I groaned into his mouth.

The rough linen of his toga sparkled against my hyper-sensitive breasts. It was too much, so I pushed it off his shoulder and brought us skin to skin. I snaked my other hand between his thighs. His manhood filled my palm, hot and solid.

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