Complete short story: DEPARTMENT STORE DOMINA!
…AND HOW SHE PUNISHED HER SANTA CLAUS!
A special holiday gift to my readers…and equally readable anytime of the year!
For those of you who don’t have a Kindle or a Kindle app on your computer, and who may be curious about my femdom erotica ebooks which I sell online, here is a story that was first published in Leg Action magazine. In my “Irv O. Neil Erotic Library” in ebooks, I am publishing both brand-new stories such as Learning to be Cruel, Toes Are For Sucking, and She Made a Cuckold on Black Friday–as well as the best earlier stories from my archives in collections such as Spell of Dominance.
This tale was originally published in 1997 under the title “The Pain Claus,” a title I didn’t pick and which I didn’t care for; so I’ve tweaked the title and the story just a little, and added a brand new illustration of my cruel heroine, Ms. Frances Filston. Remember, this story is fictional, and any resemblances to real people, places or events is purely coincidental! Which doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen if the right kinky people got into the appropriate situation!!
Ye ole porn scribe Uncle Irv
DEPARTMENT STORE DOMINA
by Irv O. Neil
SANTA CLAUS WAS FUCKING UP. Filston’s Department Store in Manhattan had a strict code of behavior for the three Santas they hired each Christmas season, and Jack Zlotz, the afternoon Santa, was breaking one rule after the other. Most important, when Santas were on break, they were not supposed to wander around the store in their costumes. Jack had already done this three times, and gotten three warnings. First, he’d wandered up to the men’s department to check out a tie sale. That got him his first, but mild, chewing out from Personnel. A few days later he strolled into the lingerie department where, as he later sarcastically explained, he was “shopping for a pair of panties for one of his female elves.” The only thing that saved him that time from being fired was his popularity with the kids who waited on line for as long as two hours to see him. Santas operate by word-of-mouth as much as new movies do, and when young mothers and fathers saw how especially charming the noon-to-six Santa was, and how much children enjoyed meeting him, they told their friends to check out Filston’s in the p.m.
After the lingerie episode, Jack told Personnel he would stick to the regulations, but it was only a matter of time before he notched another black mark, this time by taking a stroll through the perfume department and trying to pick up a salesgirl. The ridiculous sight of a white-bearded, red-outfitted, portly Santa trying to put the make on a gorgeous and slinky Elizabeth Arden retailer was so against the Filston code of conduct that Personnel warned Jack that if he screwed up one more time, he would be brought to the attention of the infamous Frances Filston, the owner and CEO of the store. And that was not a fate to be jeered at, apparently.
But Jack couldn’t help himself, and the last straw was the episode with the college girls. This got him sent upstairs to Frances. As he went through the administrative corridors, past secretaries and vice presidents and mail room guys and all the rest of the office staff, he told himself that no matter what those ripe young tarts from Metropolitan University uptown had said, he was definitely innocent in this particular instance. Wasn’t he?
He had to wait for ninety minutes outside her office, and there wasn’t even a magazine or newspaper to read. Ms. Filston’s secretary was a beautiful but stern young black woman who, once she told Jack to sit down and wait, did not once acknowledge him again. The evening Santa was called in on an emergency basis to fill in for Jack during the time he was upstairs with Frances.
Finally the door opened, and Frances Filston stood before him. “You may come in, Santa Claus.” She said this so severely that the absurdity of the way she addressed him was completely negated. He wasn’t really Santa Claus, after all! She stood in the doorway and he was forced to sidle past her, which was difficult because of all the padding in his costume. When he brushed against her, which was inevitable, she gave him an angry shove that propelled him into the room so quickly that he fell to his knees on the Oriental rug–a rug so large and sumptuous that it seemed to stretch back into infinity before it reached her antique oak desk in front of the massive picture window overlooking Fifth Avenue.
Ms. Filston closed the door. Jack tried to get up, muttering something under his breath about not taking this treatment from anybody, but she put her gloved hand on his shoulder and said, “Stay put.” Then she stood before him, feet planted slightly apart, her arms crossed over her substantial chest.
“What are you ogling, Santa Claus?”
There was a lot to ogle. Frances Filston was about thirty-five years old, with black hair in a short but feminine cut. She was firm-jawed, blue-eyed, with a straight but slightly long nose that gave her a patrician air. Her mouth was painted with deep red lipstick, and when her lips parted momentarily as she looked down at him with raised eyebrow, he could see the almost incandescent whiteness of her teeth. She was dressed in a lavender silk blouse with decolletage that showed off her powerful cleavage; the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up to the middle of her forearms, as if she were about to get down to some physical task, and on her hands were snug and short black leather gloves that ended at the wrist. She wore form-fitting pink pants with a zipper on the side and knee-high black leather boots with chunky four-inch heels.
Over his white beard, Jack looked up at her with the big, sad, puppy-dog eyes that had once gotten him cast as a forlorn artichoke in a television commercial. “I’m ogling nothing, Ms. Filston.”
“Don’t tell me nothing. You’re getting fresh with me exactly as you were with those poor college girls. They were just trying to have innocent holiday fun, but you had to get aggressive with them, you pervert.”
Jack sputtered, no longer able to hold in his frustration at being falsely pegged a perv: “They were sitting down on my lap, one after the other, in the tightest leggings you can imagine, and as far as just ‘telling me their Christmas wishes,’ they were squirming their bottoms like dive-bar lapdancers!”
“With the result that–” Frances Filston suddenly reached into her cleavage and extracted a small slip of paper, “you got what you rudely announced was a ‘boner.’ This is the report from Miranda Fraser, the college girl who lodged the complaint with Customer Service.”
Even as he launched into his soliloquy, Jack realized the ridiculousness of pleading his case on his knees in front of this woman, whose severity obviously tolerated no defiance. But he couldn’t stop himself: “As I recall, that redhead Fraser ground her buttocks on my lap while telling me how much she wanted to find a realistic ten-inch dildo under her tree Christmas morning! When my body responded in a normal fashion to this provocative statement, she said, ‘And what does Santa call this thing I feel underneath me?‘ I simply said, ‘Boner.‘ She was an adult, Ms. Filston! She knew what she was doing.”
Frances inserted the small paper back into the shadow of her cleavage. “That’s irrelevant. You offended her. She lodged a complaint. I can’t tolerate behavior like this in a Filston Santa.”
“So fire me!”
“No, you’re staying. You’re much too valuable to our Christmas season. You’ve been drawing record crowds. I’ll bet you never enjoyed success like this as an actor.”
So she’d read his Filston application and knew his job history! And it was true: Jack was a Brooklyn-born thespian who struggled along doing extra work, small roles in movies and TV shows, and the occasional voiceover. He took jobs like department store Santa Claus whenever acting work got slow, which it frequently did. Naturally, he brought his performing skills, ingratiating voice, and sense of humor to the gig.
“Yes, you’re staying put,” Frances said, walking away from him at last, and toward her desk. She moved behind the desk and to a large Christmas display and came out with a rattan candy cane, painted red and white. Then she walked back toward Jack with a slow, measured gait.
“You’re going to continue here at Filston’s right through Christmas Eve, but you’re going to be much better behaved. I don’t want to see anymore disgraceful reports from traumatized coeds. And if you so much as ogle too long the bottom of a young mother as she’s taking her child off your lap–”
Towering above him, a foreboding column of feminine power, she lifted the candy cane and rested it on his shoulder, as if she were going to knight him; then she moved it behind his neck and used the cane to urge his face toward the floor. “I’m going to teach you respect.” The strength in her arm was amazing as she got his head all the way down, his eyes level with the smooth leather of her boots. “You’re going to learn to kiss the floor our female customers walk on.” And she stepped back, leaving a sudden void where her boots had just been. “You can start by kissing the carpet right here.”
“I think I’d rather quit–”
WHOOOSSSHHH–WHACK! Faster than an eye-blink, the rattan candy cane rose and fell and stung his ass through the Santa costume. The least padded part of it was his seat, and he felt a burning slice of heat as Frances raised a welt through the material. He tried to stifle the little cry that shot out of his mouth, but it ended up sounding like a strangled whisper.
“Kiss the carpet, Santa Claus. Like you mean it.”
Was this a legal way to treat employees? Jack thought. Still he pressed his lips to the patterned rug. He did have to pay his rent and have enough money to buy Christmas presents himself, after all. He could feel Frances above him, observing. It was as if her eyes sent out heat as strikingly as that cane in her hand, except this heat went right into his soul. He began to feel odd. There was something–well, not bad, even pleasant–about kissing the carpet she had just walked on. He felt like a naughty boy doing some kind of kinky penance. Now why was that pleasant? And why was it giving him a boner?
“I’d like to have you kiss the floor under Miranda Fraser’s boots, clotted with dirty snow after a day of shopping. That would certainly give you a valuable lesson. But this will have to do in its stead. She’s long gone back to campus.”
Jack kept kissing the floor, afraid of feeling that cane again. But his nervousness affected the enthusiasm of his performance, and suddenly he felt the slash of her discipline again. Groaning, he fell from his crouching position into a heap on the carpet, his red-clad legs writhing as if he were trying to exorcise the pain from his ass.
But Frances would have none of that. She lifted him with one hand by the black shiny belt at his mid-section, back into a crouching position. Then she reached under his Santa tunic and undid his trousers and pulled them down so that his cheeks were bared. Despite his pain, he had a wobbly red hard-on that got caught on the fly of his boxer shorts as she pulled them down, causing her momentary difficulty.
“Just can’t stop getting those ‘boners,‘ hmm, Santa?” she said, grasping it in her black-gloved hand and squeezing. “I should milk you now like the fat cow you are, but I don’t want to dirty my rug.” She let go of his prick and instead flicked it three times with her thumb and forefinger. “Even hard, it’s puny!” She stood up and placed the tip of the candy cane on his rear.
“You have to take this, Santa, you have no choice. If you left this office, I’d get sexual harassment charges filed before you walked out of the store. And believe me, you would be the one smeared, not Filston’s. You’re the pervert, not this establishment. I can just imagine the tabloid headline: SANTA’S BIG BONER! Although in your case the boner’s not so big.”
Jack reached up to rub his welted bottom, but she caned it once more before his fingers could touch it, making him bite the carpet in agony at this third powerful stroke. “And your erection is proof of your guilt. Only a total deviant would get aroused by treatment like this. So let’s proceed with your lessons in respect and humility. Kiss my boots.”
Only a total deviant…was that what he was? Certainly, like many men, he was aroused by the currently fashionable idea of strong, commanding women. He had heard about Frances Filston and how tough she could be, taking disciplinary matters into her own hands when employees were too recalcitrant for Personnel to handle. Was his unruly behavior as a Santa a covert way to earn himself an erotic encounter with this powerful woman’s wrath? As a disciple of introspective Method Acting, Jack couldn’t help but wonder about his personal motives.
He pressed his lips to her right boot. It felt hard and unyielding. At first it seemed nonsensical to kiss it, but as he continued it began to seem more meaningful; maybe even profound. He couldn’t see her face, just the black leather toes and arches and heels and ankles; yet in the black blankness of these boots, in the darkness of their blackness which seemed to swallow up his eyesight in an inky abyss, he felt as if he could see right into Frances’s soul. It was dark inside, no doubt; very dark. But at the same time, it seemed as if he were staring at a reflection of his own dark center, his own hidden, denied feelings; feelings of failure as an actor, reduced to being only a Filston Santa after all his hard work, auditions, acting classes, hopes, resumes and networking and yearly fantasizing while watching the Oscars. Maybe this was where he truly belonged: on the floor kissing a woman’s boots, apologizing to the more successful world for wasting its time, for being an aspirant to glory ill-equipped with only an ego but not the talent for the main chance.
“Why are you dawdling down there?!” Frances snapped. “What are you thinking of?” WHOOOSH!! WHACK!!
Jack groaned and slid back to the floor. “I’m sorry, so sorry!” he cried, hugging her boots, “sorry I’ve been bad, sorry I’ve used the word ‘boner,’ sorry–”
“You’re whimpering is pathetic and your boot-kissing is weak! I see I’m going to have to concentrate on just solid discipline.” She pulled him to his feet by the scruff of his Santa costume, and he was still moaning and trying to rub his ass as she led him to the other side of the office. He almost tripped on his Santa pants, which puddled at his ankles, and if he hadn’t been blubbering so much, he certainly would have noticed the two handcuffs hanging over the mantle of the fireplace…would have noticed them before she lifted his wrists and snapped him securely into the bonds, facing the fireplace itself.
“What are you doing, Ms. Filston?”
“”And you still have that disgusting pervert boner. Well, no discipline will be effective until we get rid of it!”
The fireplace–thankfully–was not in use, but there was a cold draught coming down the flue that chilled his naked thighs, balls, and prick. Yet he wasn’t losing his erection. The cold, bleak air was actually an aphrodisiac to him as he continued to exult in the erotic possibilities of his new, worm-like persona…if a new persona it was. Maybe he’d always been a worm. Maybe that’s why nobody had ever really taken him seriously as a thespian.
Frances grasped his boner. “Yes, Santa, first we get rid of this, and then I cane you thoroughly.” She stroked his cock with a slowly building rhythm that was remarkably intuitive; she seemed to know exactly when to speed up, catching onto his mounting arousal. How many…how many slavish employees had she jerked off to know so well what to do? He glanced down to see her short black gloves grasping his reddish meat, then he looked up at her stern face, with the clear blue eyes that pierced him like mental needles, seeing right into him, understanding him, knowing him; putting him in his place. Her hand moved back and forth. “The point is, Santa Claus, discipline should not be fun; it should be punishment. I know you agree.”
Did he? He didn’t know that he did. But all he could think about at this moment (nothing else, not even five minutes into the future, mattered) was this powerful executive female stroking him off, paying him attention in a way no woman had in a long time; yes, maybe he’d wanted this to happen, and that’s why he was such a goof-off during this job; unconsciously begging for detention with the mean boss. Frances’s red-lipsticked mouth was a hard slash over her strong jaw, and her eyelids were feminine yet reptilian, too, as they lowered like hoods over her blue irises as she looked down at her handiwork, the stroking of–of a fuck-up’s cock. Yes, he was a fuck-up, and she had his number, she was going to make him squirt off because that was the only way you could get a fuck-up to listen, to pay attention, to receive his discipline in a way that would maybe improve his performance; a fuck-up had to be drained of all distracting semen so that he could maybe, just maybe, be transformed from a major fuck-up into a lesser fuck-up, for example from a snide and lecherous department store Santa into a respectful one, who’d let college girls tease him with their bottoms and their flirty talk and would take it all in a spirit of equanimity, like a proper Filston Santa should; or was that like a pathetic wimp should? Was a proper Filston Santa a wimp? Taking shit from the customers with a ho-ho-ho? But there he went again! Being a wise-ass! Yes, he needed discipline! And as Frances Filston’s fingers pumped his cock, he could see the candy cane, leaning against an elegant Morris chair only a few feet away–the not-so-sweet candy cane that would teach him his lesson properly only a few minutes hence!
“Uhh–uhh–AHHHHH!!” he cried, squirting his seed into the chilly void of the lifeless fireplace. Oh, it felt so good, so good to be wrung dry by her!–and afterward, he wept real tears of relief. Eventually, Frances let go of his prick, crossed her arms over her cleavage, and observed him stonily; his body weight sagging so that the handcuffs bit into his wrists. When he finally calmed down, he no longer felt the dank air of the fireplace as an aphrodisiac. Suddenly it was the intimation of a real dungeon.
“Now,” Frances Filston said, looking momentarily at his still gooey cock, then uncrossing her arms and striding toward the Morris chair. She picked up the candy cane and whipped the rattan symbol of holiday sweetness through the air several times as she pivoted on her heels. She settled her gaze on Jack as his eyes widened in fear. “Now we get down to business!”
© 1997 Irv O. Neil. Originally published in Leg Action, Holiday 1997 issue.
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