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Making Santa's Naughty List Hop
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How did Mistletoe come to mean a kiss?
How did Mistletoe come to mean a kiss?
Although many sources say that kissing under the mistletoe is an English custom, there's another explanation for its origin. In Norse mythology there is a story of a loving, if overprotective, mother.
Frigga was mother to the Norse god Balder, the best loved of all the gods. Frigga was the goddess of love and beauty and she loved her son. To ensure no harm would come to him, she went through the world securing promises from everything that sprang from the four elements--fire, water, air, and earth--that they would not harm her beloved Balder.
Leave it to Loki, a mischievous spirit, to find the loophole. Mistletoe and an arrow made from its wood. To make the prank even nastier, he took the arrow to Hoder, Balder's brother, who was blind. Guiding Holder's hand, Loki directed the arrow at Balder's heart and Balder fell dead.
Frigga's tears became the mistletoe's white berries. In the version of the story with a happy ending, Balder is restored to life and Frigga is so grateful that she reverses the murderous reputation of Mistletoe, making it a symbol of love and promising to bestow a kiss upon anyone who passes under it.
So hang some mistletoe and pucker up!
Information gleaned from numerous online searches for mistletoe lore.
Now for a naughty excerpt from the Naughty List.
T’was a week before Christmas and Mrs. Claus conspires. Proposition Jack Frost to give Santa his greatest desire…
The deviant Dominant Jack Frost can be good…very good. But for being so good at being so bad, Santa keeps him on the naughty list. What would Jack do to get on the good list? Kidnap Santa? With the help of Mrs. Claus, Jack could force Santa’s submission and give him the one thing he’s always wanted—to be on the naughty list himself. Then Jack could show Santa just how very good he can be.
Jack tugged on the black buckle of Santa’s belt. “Come into my workshop—my toy shop. We’re going to play.”
Adrenaline like molten lava, blazed through Santa. Jack’s workshop wasn’t like the brightly lit jovial environment where Santa and his elves put in their fifteen-hour shifts. His gaze darted around the spacious room in the secluded log cabin. Instead of rustic comfort, Jack’s lair was a den of iniquity. Tools for torturous pleasures lined wooden shelves along the wall. Chairs, benches and machines were situated around the room. Santa swallowed hard, the collar biting into his neck. His heart pounded. He’d seen this room many times in his magic snow globe—when he was checking to see if Jack were being naughty or nice. Santa fought to keep from glancing to the far corner, the corner hidden in shadow.
Santa slowed his breathing, tried to keep from becoming aroused, but he knew what hid in the darkened corner—a padded bench. A BDSM bed. Iron girders built the frame. An iron canopy offered fasteners for wicked delights. Straps, belts and bindings. Cuffs, chains and torturous tools. Would Jack leave him bound to the bench, keep him immobile while Jack sucked his dick, or fucked him with the machine. No, Santa wouldn’t be victim of Jack’s deviant machinations. Santa didn’t want to want in the corner, locked to the table, his ass exposed and the fucking machine ramming into him. But he did.
In the center of the room, Jack positioned Santa. “Don’t do this,” Santa begged.
“You’ll have to be more specific Santa.” Jack secured the O-ring connecting Santa’s cuffed hands to a steel chain. The chain was mounted to the ceiling. Jack tugged the chain, sliding the steel links through a pulley until Santa’s arms rose over his head.
Santa’s arms stretched high, muscles bunch and ripped and his wrists were bound together. His fingers were already numb. He relaxed his fisted hands and tried to calmly reason with Jack. “I can’t be more specific. What is all this tomfoolery?” He uselessly tugged on the chain. He was Jack’s hostage.
Jack smoothed his palms over the bunched muscles of Santa’s arms, along his shoulders and onto his chest, toying with the silken hairs on his pectorals. “There is more than one way to have fun. We’re going to play with my toys.” Jack dropped to his knees on the floor. He secured the leather cuff around Santa’s left ankle to the steel hook in the flooring. “Spread your legs, Santa.” He did. The click of the lock on his right ankle heightened his anxiety. “Now that I know you’ve accepted my invitation to stay, I can help you get more comfortable.”
“But I didn’t accept.”
Jack tsked. “You haven’t put up much of a fight.” Jack pivoted and took a long pair of shears from the worktable.
“I can’t fight you, Jack.”
Jack smiled. “I know. That’s what makes your submission all the sweeter.” Jack slid the edge of the sheer under Santa’s T-shirt. His stomach quivered with the touch of cold steel. The first snip echoed through the room. “Mrs. Claus told me what you were hiding under all this finery. I want to…well, I was going to say I want to see for myself. But I’m going to do more than look. I’m going to touch for myself.” Jack snipped the shirt from waist to neck. Each quick cut sent rousing frissons skittering through Santa.
Jack slipped the fabric over the hard ridge of Santa’s shoulder, his fingertips scoring Santa’s flesh. Santa sucked in a breath. His exposed skin shivered in the cool cabin air. His nipples beaded and yet he was hot. Sweat trickled along his spine. “What are you going to do to me?” Would Jack detect the thrill beneath the concern?
“Ah, Santa, you should know it’s better not to tell.” He tapped Santa’s cheek. “Half the fun is in the surprise.” Jack had unbuckled Santa’s belt in the sleigh. Now he slowly slid the leather from the loops. He snapped the belt. Santa jerked at the crack of the leather. His cock swelled, hard and pulsing against his groin.
Santa was in a quandary. He could not lie nor could he partake of the naughty pleasure Jack promised. “I want to return to my workshop. Christmas is only a week away.”
“Hmm. That poses a problem.” Jack took the shears in hand and slipped the blades into the waistband of Santa’s trousers. Cutting the fabric along Santa’s thigh, Jack stripped him of the last of his clothing. “You have nothing to wear.”
Naked with Jack. Anchored to the floor by his ankles, arms stretched toward the ceiling, collar and cock. Santa was at Jack’s mercy and a plea for more was on the tip of his tongue. “No,” he mumbled. He shook his head and slowly closed his eyes. This secret desire would destroy all he cherished. His role in the world gone for a chance to be ravished. “No.”
Jack snapped the belt across Santa’s exposed buttocks.
“No!” he bellowed, arching away from the sting.
“I told you no one will hear your cries.” Jack pulled his arm back then unleashed another powerful blow. The belt snapped, smiting Santa high on the buttocks. Muscles tensed. The chains pulled taut. Santa nearly bit his tongue as a blistering heat bloomed beneath his skin.
“If you continue to say no—” Jack crisscrossed the strikes with another. “I’ll be forced to gag you.” Jack heaved a breath and lowered his arm. “You should have rosy cheeks.” Jack slowly circled Santa, his hungry gaze eating him up. “Now you do.”
Santa dropped his head forward, feeling the pinch of the collar on his neck. The chains attached to his wrists held him up. His muscles burned and they’d only just begun. “Please.”
“Please what?” Jack closed his fist around Santa’s shaft. His fingers were strong as they squeezed and stroked. Santa was used to Abby’s feminine touch and her sex kitten ways—all the time craving something more. Craving Jack. Abby had known, had realized that like her, he wished for something more. But unlike Abby, he’d never had his wish.
Lust unfurled in Santa, washing over him and making him ache to be naughty. Could he? What would happen if Santa found himself on the naughty list? He was Santa after all. Who would tell?
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