Mrs. Claus’s Raw Hookup with Patrik: Reindeer Waiting, I Get Fucked Hard

Patrik’s cabin glows under northern lights. Snow crunches under my heels. Phone buzzes in my pocket—Santa’s pathetic texts: ‘Where are you, baby?’ Ignore. Reindeer snort in the distance: Tornade pawing ice, Danseur prancing shadows, Fringuant flexing antlers, Furie eyeing the stable door. Comète and Cupidon nuzzle, Tonnerre and Éclair huff cold air. They’re waiting for his fat ass. Not me. I’ve waited days on this app, pics of Patrik’s bulge making my pussy drip. No more screens. Time to feel it.

Heart hammers. Door swings open. Patrik towers, shirt tight over muscles, smirk wicked. Cologne hits—musky, woodsy, real after digital teases. ‘Anonyme,’ he growls, voice gravel. Grab his belt, yank him close. Lips crash. Tongue invades. No chit-chat. No drinks. Hand dives to his crotch—hard already, straining jeans. ‘Fuck the tour,’ I hiss. ‘Bed. Now.’ He laughs low, scoops me up. Legs wrap his waist. Phone vibrates again. Fuck Santa.

The Approach

Bedroom spins. He slams door. Throws me down on flannel sheets. Reindeer bells jingle faint outside—clac clac, like Santa’s warning slap. Patrik strips fast. Cock springs free, thick, veined, pre-cum beading. My thong’s soaked. Rip it off. Spread wide. ‘Been chatting shit, now pound this married pussy.’ Eyes lock. Hungry.

He dives in. No foreplay bullshit. Cockhead nudges clit—electric. Then slams balls-deep. Gasp rips out. Stretches me raw. Walls clench. Grunts fill air. His hips piston—brutal, relentless. Sweat slicks skin. Bedframe bangs wall. ‘Take it, slut,’ he snarls. ‘Santa’s tiny dick can’t fill you.’ Slap my ass—sting blooms heat. Arch back. Nails rake his chest. ‘Harder, fucker. Make me forget the elves.’ Thrusts deepen. G-spot hammered. Juices squelch loud. His balls slap my ass—wet smacks echo.

The Explosion

Flip me doggy. Face in pillow, his scent everywhere. Hand fists hair. Yanks head back. Pounds savage. Breasts swing, nipples scrape sheets. ‘Cum for me, Mrs. Claus.’ Dirty bastard knows. Phone buzzes on floor—Oh oh oh from Santa? Laugh chokes out. Orgasm builds. Coils tight. ‘Yes, fuck yes!’ Explode. Pussy spasms, milks him. He roars. Hot spurts flood me—pulse after pulse. Collapse. Panting. Bodies stick, slick.

Pull off slow. Cum drips thighs. Wipe with sheet. Dress quick—thong ruined, skirt hikes easy. Patrik sprawls, grinning spent. ‘Text me.’ Kiss cheek, taste salt. Door clicks shut. Snow bites face. Stride past stable. Reindeer stare—knowing eyes. Phone silent now. Back to wife mode. Anonyme vanishes. Just a wet memory.