Page 2 of Milking Santa

He’s a tall hunk of a man. Maybe six and a half feet, and his broad shoulders tell me he could easily sweep me up in his arms if he wanted to. He’s got a thick beard, which reminds me a bit of my brothers, but it’s not surprising. Being a mountain man in Linesworth isn’t uncommon, but few wear the look anywhere near as well as Baker does.

He’s been a delight and a despair for me. The few times I’ve caught a glimpse of him when delivering his milk, I’ve had to avert my eyes, not wanting him to see how much just looking at him makes me blush. I saw him in the grocery store once, and I was outright hiding from him, not knowing what to do if I ran into him without the ready-made excuse that I needed to hurry along my route.

Even though he’s always the last stop for me.

I’m a bit inexperienced with boys. I graduated high school about a year ago, and all throughout my time there, my brothers scared everyone off of me, afraid of any boy trying to take advantage of me. Not like a lot of high school boys ever did it for me anyway. Immature jerks with patchy beards were never my thing, never gave me the feeling that looking at Baker gives me.

Cookie Lane is the road Baker lives on, which always gives me a smile. If God is trying to give me a sign, there can’t be a more blatant one. I roll up the driveway, stopping in front of his garage. I glance toward his door, hoping to get an eyeful of him. There’s part of me that goes a little wild. Wanting him to be the rough and assertive type who sees me and is overcome with lust. One that would grab me, and drag me into his home, and let his animal instincts take over.

Yes, I may be a virgin, but it doesn't mean I am naive, and it doesn’t mean that I can’t have particularly dirty fantasies.

As I step out of the truck, I realize the snow is coming down a lot harder than it was when I started my route. Hard enough there’s cause for concern. I don’t fret over it too much, because this is the last delivery of the day before I head home and I can change into a thick sweater with a mug of hot cocoa, extra marshmallows.

I hoist up the crate full of bottles, and start toward the door. One thing we do differently on Christmas Eve is deliver a little extra for the days to come, so all these loads I’ve been carrying are a bit heavier than usual. Every step is exceptionally cumbersome, but I keep myself steady as I make my way up his porch stairs, and to his door.

Just as I reach the top of the stairs, the door swings open and collides with the crate I’m carrying. I stagger backwards, losing my balance. I stumble off the porch, I lose hold of the crate in a panic, and I feel myself falling backward, my vision full of white before I hit the ground, and then it’s full of black.

Out of breath, dizzy, my eyes open briefly as I see Baker rush out of his home, and then my eyes close again and I see nothing else.



I’ve never been much of a milk drinker.

I imagine most single adults aren’t. If I need it to cook, I usually grab a small bottle. A half quart at most.

When I learned Cookie Crumble is a milkmaid for her family’s dairy, though? I suddenly developed more of a taste for the white stuff, even if it’s only for cereal and in my coffee.

I stand inside my home, looking out as her truck pulls up in my driveway, as it has countless times before.

When I first moved to Linesworth, I saw her around town here and there. She was just this hot young thing that I saw about the quaint village I now called home.

But she is more than a hot young thing.

She is everything.

Thick, wide hips, and a perfect set of tits. I never had a thing for skinny girls, instead needing a girl with some meat in my life. Whether she’s for me beyond that? That’s what I have to figure out.

Ordering milk is just a way to see her as I build up the courage to finally ask her out.

It’s not that I’m particularly cowardly when it comes to women. I’m normally very confident in that department, but Cookie has a few things that make me hesitate. One, of course, is her beauty. It takes a lot of that to intimidate me, and damn if she doesn’t manage it. Two? I feel like I’m twice her age. I’m not certain, but she’s either nineteen or twenty, and I’m on the bad side of thirty.

Tags: Frankie Love Erotic
Articles you may like