Page 11 of Erotic Temptations 1
Pineflame’s left eyebrow arched so high I worried it might separate from his face altogether.
The pillow now creaked under my belt, determined to migrate south toward my knees. I tried to adjust it discreetly, but the elastic snagged my thermal shirt, and I nearly punched myself in the gut.
“It’s almost noon.” Pineflame checked his phone, then glanced down at me like I was the most inauthentic Santa to grace the plastic chair. “The children are ready.”
I peeked at the line, which had grown exponentially. Most of the kids were at least my size, if not larger. One boy in a puffer jacket looked like he could dislocate several bones if he sat on my knee. Another was busy squishing his whole face into the glass barrier between himself and a display of Christmas ornaments. I was so underqualified for this.
Through the crowd, I spotted my worst nightmare. Benny and Cameron, my best friends, window shopping. My heart nearly quit. If they saw me like this... I tried to shrink back, to hide, but I was literally the guest of honor with a front row seat.
Then, to my horror, Pineflame marched me over to the chair. The “throne” was clearly designed for regular-sized men, like Bryce, and mall elves who clearly stood taller than Santa.
My feet barely touched the floor, even with the pillow. I tried not to look like a toddler on their first day at preschool.
The smaller kids were probably having the worst cognitive dissonance of their short little lives.
Pineflame waved the first mom and kid over. The mom gave me an expression somewhere between confusion and questioning if she’d eaten one too many pot brownies. She handed me her toddler like it was a sack of groceries, then took a photo so fast I worried the flash might blind us both. The toddler immediately tried to wriggle free.
I held the child as far from my body as possible, both to prevent beard contamination and I had no clue what to do with him. And why were his hands so sticky when he lifted them and uncurled his fingers? I was waiting for him to start shooting webs.
“Say hi to Santa!” the mom said in a hopeful tone. A thick line of drool slid from his mouth, followed by a lip quiver, then it let out a sound that would terrify any local wildlife. My eardrums should’ve shattered from that sonic boom.
The mom pulled him from my hands, scowling at me like I’d been the one to push his detonation button.
“We’re off to a great start,” I muttered, staring at the puddle of drool on my leg the boy had left behind as a parting gift. I had no idea what to do with it. Did I give it to the next kid or the petri-dish suit?
I had no frame of reference for sticky, drooling babies with lungs that could level a building.
“Try to be festive,” Pineflame said between pressed lips, adjusting the photo backdrop, which consisted mostly of printouts of snowflakes and something that might have once been a reindeer if you squinted hard enough.
“Bring me a mojito and some sugar cookies and I’ll be so festive you’ll have to peel me off the Christmas tree,” I hissed back. I was doing the best I could under circumstances I never signed up for. I really was trying. But for some reason, the moment I showed up to the disaster, this oversized elf took one look at me and decided I wasn’t worth common decency.
For the next forty minutes, I endured an onslaught. Every two minutes, a new parent appeared, either holding a squirming child or dragging along a kid who looked like they’d rather be at the dentist. Some sat silently, eyeing me like they knew something was off and determined to figure it out.
I dared them to figure out two plus two.
Others asked questions. A lot of them. But I stuck to my guns and refused to disclose the exact coordinates to the workshop. Even when I was bribed with smashed cookies and shiny quarters, I didn’t fold.
One four-year-old had even tried to go big with a button she divulged was really a “gabillion butts.” I told her to keep her gazillion bucks. That button seemed just a little too sketchy.
A boy with businesslike hair and a jacket worth more than my car sized me up.
“Why is Santa so small?” he said, nose wrinkled.
I stared straight ahead. “Santa’s been doing Keto. It’s working.”
The kid didn’t laugh, but his dad snorted, so I counted it as a win.
Between customers, Pineflame kept correcting my posture, my hand location, the way I handed out the discount coupons, and the mechanics of the “Santa laugh.” At one point, they even demonstrated. “Like this. Ho, ho, ho.”
I gave it a shot. “Ho. Ho. Ho.” It came out like I was identifying skanks in a club.
Their eyes narrowed. “Try to smile.”
I did, but the beard was now mixing with sweat and the faint powder of a thousand Cheez-Its. My upper lip started to itch.
At kid number twelve, the pillow under my shirt completely collapsed. For the rest of the hour, Santa’s stomach slowly deflated. Two kids commented on it. One suggested I might have a tapeworm.
The mall itself was a disaster zone. In the distance, I watched a group of teenagers practice TikTok dances in front of the Sunglass Hut. The scent of cinnamon rolls wafted over everything, including a child who sneezed directly onto my glove. Christmas music played on loop, but the speaker above our station was apparently broken, so it skipped every third noteof “Jingle Bell Rock.” I learned the new version to impress my friends.