“Jingle bells! Jingle bells! Jingle all the way!” The five-year-old boy belted the song out loudly, his enthusiasm making up for his inability to carry a tune. It didn’t matter to the approaching elf, though. After hearing the carol for the bazillionth time not even a hyper kindergartner could make it more annoying.

“Listen up guys,” Miranda said, her curly-toed shoes jingling as she walked up and down the queue of impatient children.  “The line’s pretty long and Santa’s going to see all of you. Promise. But we need to be good boys and girls, OK! So while everyone waits their turn how about we play a fun Christmas game!”

Her tone held more enthusiasm than she felt. She hated her job. Having to work a part time job to make ends meet was bad enough. But one that had her dressing in this stupid costume and entertaining a bunch of spoiled children at the ritziest mall in town? This was hell. Were it not for the ten bucks an hour – which she desperately needed – she’d be home with her cat and her sketch pad.

“My mom says Santa’s not even real!” called out a tubby child who looked to be about eight. “The only reason I’m here is because my grandma gets a picture of me sitting on Santa’s lap every year.”

The little boy who had been singing carols turned to him, his eyes wide with shock.

“He is too real!” he cried.

“Of course he is,” the five-year-old’s mother said, glaring at the mother of the disbelieving child.

“We don’t believe in lying to Grayson,” the mother of the overweight boy said, her fleshy face smug.

Miranda rolled her eyes. Great, misbehaving kids and misbehaving parents? Could this day get any worse?

“Well, our Santa is real,” Miranda said, feeling sorry for the smaller boy who now had tears in his eyes. “Santa is only real to those who believe in him. So kids and parents who don’t may still end up with presents, but they don’t get any Christmas magic.”

She looked at Grayson and his mother. “And that’s just too bad for them.”

The little by and his mother smiled, but the heavyset mom pursed her lips in anger and pulled her son from out of the line.

“That was uncalled for, you…elf,” she hissed. “We’ll be taking our business to another mall with a better Santa.”

She stormed past, but not before stopping Tom, the department manager.

“You really need to chose your holiday help better,” she said. “That young woman is extremely rude!”

Then she stormed off, ignoring her son who was now loudly protesting, for while he’d not been keen on Santa he had been keen on getting the free candy cane that the Covington Mall Santa handed out to each child who graced his lap.

“Ms. Simms, what was that all about?” The manager turned to her, his face already weary with holiday exhaustion even though Christmas was still two weeks away.

Miranda looked at the mother of the five-year-old, hoping that she would defend her. But she was engaged in conversation with another mom about what they were wearing to their company Christmas parties.

“Sorry, Mr. Edge,” Miranda said, her bells jingling as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. “It seems that the parents and the kids are getting impatient. The kids were arguing about whether there was a Santa Claus and when I assured that little boy over there that he was…”

The manager rolled his eyes as he interrupted her.

“That’s where you made your mistake,” he said. “Instead of getting involved, just start the games and distract everybody. We don’t need people leaving in a huff and going over to Southgate Mall. OK?”

“Sure, sorry Mr. Edge,” Miranda said.

“Two weeks,” he said. “That’s all that’s left of this gig. So put up with it, keep the line moving and if you can’t handle that then let me know and I’ll find someone who can. Got it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Really, I’m sorry.”

He patted her on the arm. “Good girl,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know it’s tough dealing with these kids. Half of them could use a good spanking.”

Edge then laughed as he walked away.

“They’re not the only ones,” Miranda silently thought. “So could I.”

Yes indeed, a good spanking would be the perfect remedy for the tension she’d been feeling since she got this job. Unfortunately, between two jobs, work school and conflicting schedules she and Martin barely had time for a passing kiss on the stairwell, let alone some time in the bedroom for a stress-relieving maintenance spanking.

It had been a year and a half since she met Martin in the art supply store on Randall Street. They’d been reaching for the last canvas when their hands – and eyes – met. Martin was tall and broad – a big guy who was big without being fat.  Just how Miranda liked them.

“I think this is mine,” she said, giving the canvas a tug. But he didn’t let go. Instead he kept his grip and smiled.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Whatever happened to ladies first?” she asked.

He’d laughed. “Wow. That’s something you don’t hear every day,” he’d said. “What happened to the age of feminism.”

Miranda had grinned. “I’m not a feminist.”

“Really?” Martin had asked, raising his eyebrows. “You’d better watch out. Someone might hear you and revoke your PMS rights.”

“It’s not a joke,” she said with a shrug, even as she continued to hold on to the canvas.

“Damn,” he said. “I’m disappointed. Because I was going to offer to wrestle you for this canvas.”

She looked him up and down. “I think you’d win.”

“I know I would,” he said, and Miranda felt a thrill go through her. A blush rushed to her cheeks. He noticed and laughed softly, making her blush even harder.

“Well, since we’ve established my physical superiority in the canvas wars why don’t you say we settle this another way. You? Me? Dinner?”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“You’re awfully bold,” she said. “How do you know I’m even single?”

“I found a five dollar bill on the subway,” he said. “That makes it my lucky day.”

He paused, his smile disarming. “So…?”

“So you’re lucky again, I guess. I’m single.”

“Good,” he said. “The dinner and the canvas are both on me then.”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t..”

“I’m not giving you a choice. Come on.”

So Martin had paid for the canvas and then had taken her to the little Tai place down the street. Miranda never forgot how impressed she’d been when he’d opened the door for her, pulled her chair out. She wasn’t used to guys being so chivalrous.

They’d learned a lot about each other over that first dinner, enough to agree to a second date. Miranda had learned that Martin came from a big Midwestern farming family and that his parents had struggled with his choice to go to art school until they realized that it had not compromised his old-fashioned values. Now he taught art classes at the community college and - like her - supplemented his income with part time work. The term “starving artist” had been coined for a reason.

She had expressed admiration for his strong family background, telling how she envied the kind of structure he’d grown up with.

“I was raised by my mom, and she wasn’t much more than a kid when she had me. We kind of grew up together. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but I can remember how when my friends told me how lucky I was to have such a lax mother thinking how surprised they’d be if they knew I was jealous that they had someone who cared enough to ground them.”

Martin had nodded.

“Yeah, people underestimate the value of discipline. I have a theory that folks who are denied structure and guidelines as a kid grow up craving it, especially women as sexist as that may sound. For all the talk of equality, I’d be willing to bet you that a lot of women would like nothing more than to find a strong man who would turn the over his knee.”

Miranda had dropped her fork at the statement, for it was as if he’d been speaking directly to her heart. That was exactly what she’d wanted, but she’d never voiced it to anyone.

“Well, maybe,” she said as she retrieved her fork. “But that’s probably not a very healthy desire.”

“To the contrary,” he’d said. “I think it’s a lot healthier for a gal to admit she needs a good tanning than it is to let all her pent up anger turn her into a bitch.”

“And if she doesn’t know that’s what she wants…?” Miranda asked, looking down at her plate.

“Then it’s his job to take the initiative,” he’d said.

That night, in her bed, she’d replayed the conversation over and over in her head, marveling at how Martin had spoken of spanking with such ease. It was a topic that had consumed her – emotionally and physically – since she could remember. As a schoolgirl she’d fantasized about being spanked by friends’ parents, teachers, people she saw on television. She’d not been ashamed of it until she realized in adolescent how the need was linked to the strong sexual feelings she got when she fantasized about being in the clutches of some strong authority figure.

The older she got, the more she tamped these feelings down, knowing that her submissive were contrary to society’s ideal for the strong, independent woman. In art school she was surrounded by creative, liberal women and tried her best to become like them. But deep down she knew she never would; her fantasies of some strong dominant man sweeping her off her feet and pulling her over his lap persisted. The only thing that kept her feet on the ground was the knowledge that the men she dreamed of didn’t exist anymore.

Martin had proved her wrong and she thought of nothing but him until he called on her  again. He was even more cordial on the second date, and protective too. When a drunken man approached her when they went dancing after dinner, Martin stood between him and Miranda, a hand possessively on her shoulder as he warned the man away. He made her feel all the things she’d been afraid to let herself feel – cherished, submissive, ladylike.

After that they were inseparable and after six months decided to move in together. Martin was dominant in bed, and Miranda reveled in that, too. But as dominant as he was in and out of the bedroom, he made no move to spank her even when she was snappy.

Miranda began to wonder if he’d been kidding during their first conversation and decided that even if he had been, that was all right. He was still better than any boyfriend she had ever had.

Then, just when she’d put the thought of being spanked out of her mind Miranda found herself over Martin’s knee.

It had happened one evening when she’d decided to walk back from her art class rather than calling to have him pick her up. It was a warm night in September, and the class hadn’t gone well for her. A project she’d liked had been the subject of a lukewarm critique by her peers and Miranda wasn’t in the mood to discuss her disappointment with anyone. So even though she was under strict orders to call Martin when she got out of class she ignored them, turned her phone off and began the sulky walk home.

She arrived to find him gone and didn’t think anything of it. The empty loft just gave her more time alone with Pixie, who greeted her at the door with a trilling meow of welcome. But she got to chance to continue her pity party with the cat. No sooner had she dropped her bag than Martin burst in the door, his expression angry.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked peevishly.

“I’ve been out looking for you for an hour,” he said. “I went by the school and they told me you’d left. Where’ve you been?”

“I walked home,” she said.

“Against my wishes? And without calling me?”

“I needed my alone time,” she said. “I had a bad day.”

“It’s about to get worse,” he said. “You know the rule, Miranda. You don’t walk home through that part of town, and if we’re apart you keep you phone switched on.”

He pulled her to the couch and although Miranda knew what was going to happen she still couldn’t get her mind around the fact that she was really, finally going to get spanked.

Had she subconsciously provoked him? She had no time to consider that as he took a seat on the couch and pulled her over his lap. And Miranda realized then that all the time she’d spent imagining and fantasizing about spankings had not prepared her for the real thing.

Martin took his task seriously, working Miranda’s blue jeans down and over her hips until they rested at a bundle at the middle of her thighs. The panties followed, eliciting a gasp of panic.

“No, Martin!” she protested when she realized that her first spanking was not going to be some romantic warm-up through layers of denim. This was going to be on the bare, and judging by her boyfriend’s irate expression it was going to be hard.

“Don’t ‘No Martin’ me,” he said. “You’ve all but been begging for a spanking since we moved in together. If you want the line drawn that badly then I guess I’d better go ahead and draw it.”

His large hand descended then on her bare skin and Miranda cried out at the pain, kicking her legs as if that would alleviate the burn. But he gave her no time to recover before his large hand fell again and again and again on her helpless skin.

Miranda tried in vain to cover herself, and when her hand came to rest briefly on her skin she found it hot to the touch. But still Martin wasn’t satisfied, even though she was sobbing copiously now. He continued to spank, his hand slapping one bouncing buttock and then another until her litany of apologies and promises to reform became an unintelligible bawl.

When it was over, her bottom was covered in burnished hand prints that left her so sore she was sure if she touched her skin it would burst like a cherry-red balloon. Miranda was pathetic as she sniffled in the corner. But after she came to him and apologized, they had the best, sweetest sex ever. He’d been right; a spanking was just what she needed.

Over the next months he’d refined his technique based on her needs and his desire for order. There was the occasional punishment spanking, but there was also the “maintenance” spanking designed to relieve tension before it came to a head.

At first it was difficult for Miranda to ask for these spankings, but she soon realized that if she didn’t then she ran the risk of getting the much more painful “real thing.” Maintenance spankings hurt just enough to give her a good tension-draining cry, as opposed to the punishment spankings which left her sore for a couple of days.

Lately she’d been more tense than ever, and this job wasn’t helping. As the line edged closer to Santa and she entertained the kids with a guessing game as one by one the little ones took their place on St. Nick’s lap.

“I’m red and white and sweet,” she was saying as a couple of kids began to fidget and cry. “What am I?”

“You’re Rudolph,” a little girl offered

“Nuh-uh,” her brother said. “Rudolph’s not sweet.”

“Sure he is,” Miranda said. “But this is sweeter. And you find this in your stocking. It’s yummy.”

“A penguin?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, not a penguin.”

“A candy cane!” someone called.

“That’s right. A candy cane.” She reached into her pouch and pulled one out, smiling as she walked over to hand it to the little boy who’d given her the right answer. But as she held it out to him, his mother snatched it away and handed it back.

“Do you mind?” she asked indignantly. “No everyone lets their kids eat junk.”

“Excuse me,” she said. “I thought with it being Christmas and this mall being known for giving out candy canes that…” She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

She turned away before the woman could say anything. The line was moving too slowly. Looking up she saw Santa with a little girl on his lap. She was giving her Christmas list, her little feet swinging back and forth as she ticked down the inventory of items that she wanted.

“A Zhu Zhu hamster. An American Girl doll. A…”

Miranda walked over. This was taking too long.

“Santa, hurry it up, will you?” she asked.

He peered at her over the top of his half-glasses.

“Excuse me?”

“There are a lot of kids waiting. Just hurry it up.”

Off to the side, the little girl’s parents scowled and started to grumble.

“Ignore the elf,” he said to them. “She’s just grumpy. Sometimes they get that way.”

Miranda frowned. Great. Now she was getting grief from Santa, too.

“I’m not saying you can’t get the list, but these kids go on forever. Just hurry it along…”

“Don’t rush my daughter.” The father stepped up. “We were in line for an hour!”

“I’m not rushing her. I’m just…”

“Is there a problem?” Tom Edge, the department manager came back over.

“No,” said Santa, winking at the girls’ parents. “Everything’s fine.”

Miranda held her breath. For a moment she was sure that the girls’ parents were going to say something, but a wink from Santa had magical powers. She stepped away and they returned to watching their princess give her list.

And so it went for two hours until her shift ended. Santa was still taking wishes from the last child when Miranda’s fellow elf, Veronica, walked over.

“Geesh I’ll be glad when this is over,” she said.

“Me too,” she said.

“Want a lift home or are you going to hang out.”

“No, I don’t want to see the inside of this department for another minute. A lift home sounds great.”

Miranda could hardly wait to get in the door. She was exhausted and could still hear Alvin and the Chipmunks in her ears even though the only sound in the apartment was the clank, clank of the radiator. Her feet were sore. Elf shoes had no support and she collapsed on the couch, only half-heartedly petting Pixie when she jumped up demanding attention.

She sniffed dejectedly, hating how wound up she felt.

Then the door opened.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”

The mall Santa stood in the doorway, glowering at her.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you were a very naughty elf. You were. And you’ve been a naughty elf – the naughtiest elf ever – all week. And you know what happens to naughty elves?”

“No,” she said.

“So you’re a lying elf now, too?” Santa walked in and strode over to the couch, looking down at Miranda.

She said nothing.

“A sullen elf. This is just getting worse and worse.”

He sat down and pulled her across his lap, tugging her up against the soft fake belly under his red suit. The plush fake fur of his pants felt soft against her stomach and she flinched as she felt him pull up the tunic she wore over her green leggings. The leggings hugged her bottom like a second skin. Santa’s hand came to rest on her firm bottom.

“Santa knows who’s been naught and nice. And he knows just how to keep his elves in line.”

Santa began to spank her then. Miranda bit her lip, emitting little pained “oomphs” for as long as she could until the discomfort built from a sting to a fire and the tears came. They’d been backed up for so long and now surged through a dam of broken emotions as the sting built in her bottom which she imagined was becoming as read as her elf shoes.

“OW! OW! OW!” she cried, the bells of her shoes jingling as she kicked her feet. “It hurts! Stop! It hurts!”

“Are you going to be good? Are you going to ask for what you need from Santa instead of acting out!”

“Yes!” she cried. “Yes! I’m sorry. I will! I will!”

He leveled five more hard smacks to the under  curve of her bum, driving her forward with each blow. Miranda was crying in earnest when he pulled her up into his lap but even though her bottom burned terribly she was feeling better than she had all week.

Sitting up, she wriggled on Santa’s lap as she pulled off the glasses and pulled down the beard.

“I love you, Martin,” she said.

He kissed her deeply.

“I love you, too, sweetie. And once this holiday is over and I start my new job at the college then we won’t have to spend our holidays dressing up like this for extra money.”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “I thought working together would be fun.”

He laughed. “Well, it does have its advantages. It helps when I know just how naughty you’ve been.”

Martin reached underneath her and squeezed her bottom. “Takes the guesswork out of what I should give you.’

She laughed.

“Careful, I might be naughty on purpose.”

“Really?” he asked. “Do that and I’ll put switches in your stocking.”

With tears still in her eyes, she hugged him, knowing that he wasn’t kidding. That’s what made Martin the greatest gift she’d ever gotten in her life.