Mischief Under The Mistletoe Read online

  Mischief Under the Mistletoe

  Copyright © 2017 The Doll-Maker by Maren Smith

  Copyright © 2017 Abby’s Wish by Amelia Smarts

  Copyright © 2017 All Work and No Play by Gracie Malling

  Copyright © 2017 Rebecca the Red-Bottomed Reindeer by Sheri Lynn

  Copyright © 2017 A Naughty Little Christmas by Kelly Dawson

  Copyright © 2017 Marlie’s Christmas Keeper by Brandy Golden

  Copyright © 2017 The Chalet by Delia Grace

  Copyright © 2017 The Kink of the Magi by Jaye Elise

  Copyright © 2017 Santa Dom by Joelle Casteel

  Copyright © 2017 Christmas With A Little Twist by Shelly Douglas

  Copyright © 2017 Her Christmas Daddy by Molly Alvarado

  Copyright © 2017 Santa’s “Little” Helpers by Allysa Hart

  Copyright © 2017 A Naughty New Year by Kathryn R. Blake

  Copyright © 2017 His Christmas Baby by Katie Douglas

  The rights of the above named authors to be individually identified as the authors of their named work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Mischief Under the Mistletoe Copyright © 2017

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Allysa Hart at AllyCat’s Creations

  Copy/Line Editor: Katie Douglas

  This anthology is for adults.

  All acts described are fantasies between consenting adults.

  Thanks to everyone who assisted with advice, input, and virtual chocolate. You guys rock.

  CONTENTS

  The Doll-Maker by Maren Smith

  Abby’s Wish by Amelia Smarts

  All Work and No Play by Gracie Malling

  Rebecca the Red-Bottomed Reindeer by Sheri Lynn

  A Naughty Little Christmas by Kelly Dawson

  Marlie’s Christmas Keeper by Brandy Golden

  The Chalet by Delia Grace

  The Kink of the Magi by Jaye Elise

  Santa Dom by Joelle Casteel

  Christmas With a Little Twist by Shelly Douglas

  Her Christmas Daddy by Molly Alvarado

  Santa’s “Little” Helpers by Allysa Hart

  A Naughty New Year by Kathryn R. Blake

  His Christmas Baby by Katie Douglas

  THE DOLL-MAKER

  Maren Smith

  Special thanks go out to:

  Celeste Jones, for her mighty editing skills

  Georgy R and everyone at Amadiz-studio.com

  for kindly allowing me to use their

  fabulous ball-joint doll artwork

  to promo my story. If you have a moment,

  click over and take a look. The artwork

  is fantastic!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Her name was Ailsa, he decided. She was a doll. His doll. One of the best he’d yet sculpted, and this one, he’d already decided, he was keeping for himself.

  Not that Calder Allaway was the kind of man who collected dolls; relatively speaking, this was new to him. Kansas born and farm-boy raised, he’d studied accounting in college and worked a very prestigious job as a state auditor right up until his heart got broken. Broken hearts did terrible things to a man. Discovering he’d inherited the family cottage in Scotland two days after finding his wife in bed with a neighbor had, as his mother so often liked to tell folks, put a shit-ton of icing on the crazy cake.

  So now, here he was—living right on the shores of a Loch in Scotland, in a three-room cottage as old as the stones it was built from, and shaping a head out of clay at a two-hundred-year-old plank of a table. The student advisor who’d suggested he take up accounting in the first place would have been appalled at how he’d ‘wasted’ his ‘talent’, but there wasn’t a whole lot of need for accountants in Kinloch Hourn, a tiny community of twelve sprawling houses, a bed and breakfast that had once been the old laird’s manor house, a church that was little more than a crumbling ruin and a marketplace where the ten or so people who wintered over in this remote village placed their last orders at summer’s end and obtained six months’ worth of fare to get them through to spring. The rest of the residents, all twenty-three of them, went elsewhere once the tourists stopped coming.

  “It gets lonely here,” Moira Campbell liked to say in that heavy Scottish accent of hers. “Dinna ye think it gets lonely?”

  “I haven’t noticed,” Calder would reply, apparently in his heavy Kansas accent because, although it had been seven years, the residents here still delighted to hear him speak.

  “You cannae live like this the rest of yer life,” she’d say. “Mon was never meant to be a solitary beast.” She always stopped short of offering up one of her many granddaughters for a matchmaking date, however. She liked Calder, she never wasted a chance to assure him of it. But for all that she liked him and for all that he’d lived here seven years, or that his grandfather had been born in this very house, Calder was still an outsider. It didn’t help that he wasn’t particularly handsome. He was a big man in his late thirties, with big hands and a face that, frankly, could have used a little more attention from its original sculptor. And, of course, he ‘played’ with dolls. Man might not be made for the solitary life, but the implication was clear. If he wanted a woman, he should go back to Kansas to get one.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he told the head-shaped lump he cradled in his palm. “I only have eyes for you.”

  He hummed a few bars as he worked, but stopped again because he really didn’t know the words and of all the things he’d rather concentrate on, remembering old song lyrics didn’t make the list.

  He got up once to pull the window drapes open wider, letting in the bone-chilling cold from the snowy outside, but also letting in the brightness of daylight. Adding another couple of logs to the fire, he sat back down and picked up his homemade tools.

  “I only have eyes for you,” he murmured, once more bowing to the task of shaping Ailsa’s lips. They were full lips. Kissed by the barest hint of a smile, rather than pouty. He was fine in his details. Over the last seven years, he’d gotten to be rather good at this. So life-like; That was what the tourists liked to say when they came into his shop. Or rather, when they stepped up onto his front porch to look over the handful of dolls he had ready for sale. Sometimes they stopped to watch him work. Not everybody bought one, but it was a rare tourist season when he did not sell everything he’d made the previous winter and rarer still were the dolls that did not fetch their full eighty-pound price. His dolls were showpieces, meant to attract the eye from behind the protective glass of a display case or to crown the center of a fireplace mantel. They were meant to be memories. “Remember that trip to Loch Hourn when we saw that guy in that funny little house? He had the most amazing dolls.”

  “Wait until they see you, little Ailsa,” Calder mused, putting the final tiny dimple in the delicate chin beneath those perfect lips and turning his attention next to her eyes. “Windows to the soul.” At least that was what he’d been told. If these were Ailsa’s windows, he meant to give her a beautiful soul. The kind that would never cheat on the man she professed to love. No, they would be wide. Innocent. A brilliant color of blue, like the crisp and cloudless skies over knee-deep snowdrifts across the hills and moors.

  He loved the landscape out here. He loved the spring and summer, when waves of heather and purple thistles colored the grasslands, and he loved the winters. Even if it was a little lonely.<
br />
  “Not that I mind,” he assured Ailsa as she gazed up at him with those wide, pupil-less eyes. “Not when I have you to keep me company.”

  Thanks to the blunt end of his tool, her lips betrayed her enjoyment of their private conversation. And of course, it was private. His cabin sat in an isolated little nook on a barren point of the Loch, with his nearest winter neighbor two miles up the one-lane road that wound into the rolling mountain hills. If not for Ailsa, there was no one for miles to listen.

  Icing on the crazy cake, his mother’s disapproving voice echoed through his mind, but Calder was only talking to himself. So long as he wasn’t also answering, he saw no reason for concern.

  Ailsa smiled on as he carved her a pretty, little nose and framed it with cheeks that were girlishly round. A heart-shaped face that seemed to match her mouth better than those high cheekbones that seemed so fashionably lovely these days. Ailsa would be no Angelina Jolie, Sandra Bullock, or Julia Roberts. Rather, she would be fresh, carefree, innocent; the kind of woman he liked. The kind who would never break a man’s heart.

  He set the head aside, balancing it on an empty thread spool while he went to work on her body, sectioning out the clay and working it gently between his hands. He had all winter long and nothing to do but make his dolls. Sometimes it took him days to create just one. Today he felt so inspired, it seemed he worked only minutes before he was ready to wrap a torso around her neck-stem. He rolled out her arms, adding joints in her shoulders and elbows to make her poseable. He sculpted her shoulders, her hands. He gave her dainty fingers, and all the while he could see her in his mind, rolling out cookies in the kitchen, brushing her hair back from her face—pale, pale blonde hair. He could see it so clearly, more wavy than straight, but not enough to be curly. He could see her performing any one of a thousand mundane household chores before winding her way back through his small cottage of a house to slide her fingers over his shoulders—

  His shoulders itched to physically feel that touch.

  —and wrap her thin arms around him.

  “How’s it coming along?” she’d ask, but he was making her here so her accent would be deeply Scottish, and her voice high-pitched and feminine, and it would sound more like, ‘Hoo’s ee comin’ aloon?’

  To which, Calder would reply, “Almost finished, love. Five more minutes and I’ll put it up for the night.”

  And she’d rest her chin on his shoulder and her head against his, watching for a moment while he worked before giving him a kiss on the ear and a pat on the chest, and straightening up again. “I’ll set the table for supper.”

  He didn’t miss people, and once he’d got past the hurt of what his wife had done to his far too-trusting soul, he didn’t miss her either, but he did miss the little homey comforts of having someone else around. Someone to cook for, because it was lonely cooking for just himself. Someone who liked to keep things as tidy as he did, and who wouldn’t bother him too much while he was working, but maybe who liked to sing along with the radio once in a while. He missed not hearing another voice, sometimes for weeks on end. The radio helped with that, but it couldn’t hold a conversation. His radio in particular could barely hold a station. When the wind blew the wrong way across the Loch, it couldn’t even do that much and he’d spend the day listening to static.

  Fortunately, the wind wasn’t blowing wrong today. Christmas carols, both the traditional versions as well as new-age renditions, were coming in loud and clear.

  I like Christmas music.

  “I like it too,” Calder said, alternately smoothing and shaving and smoothing again as he carved delicate collarbones beneath her slender neck and rounded her shoulders. He gave her breasts definition, something he hadn’t bothered to do on any of his previous dolls. Because they were dolls, and in his mind the only thing worse than the kind of pervert who’d pull his artwork off the mantel to check how anatomically correct it might be beneath its clothing, was the pervert who made it anatomically correct in the first place.

  You’re going to sell me? An imagination was a terrible thing, especially when it made poor Ailsa’s voice in his head crack with worry.

  “Never,” he assured her. “You’re for me and me alone.”

  The icing on the crazy cake. He really was playing with dolls; his mom would be so... well, all right. She’d be horrified, but also Johnny-on-the-spot with an I-told-you-so.

  Ailsa giggled. I don’t mind if you play with me.

  To be thinking of playing at all while he was adding little button tips to the crown of each breast. He tsked. “Don’t distract me.”

  Play with me, she both pouted and smiled.

  “Don’t go tempting fire,” he warned with a smile. “You have no idea what my kind of play entails.”

  It had been seven years, but he still had a few of his old toys packed away in the bedroom rafters. A lovely cherry-wood paddle, eighteen inches long and much too big and wieldy for Ailsa’s tender little bottom. An old oak hairbrush, pale with dirty bristles, but which could still pack a sting that would make her dance and howl across his knee.

  Play with me, she sighed.

  “Interrupt me work again,” he told her, injecting his low southern drawl with as much Scots as he could muster, “and I’ll be taken ye to the woodshed for a good and proper skelping. Me Grand-da’s strop still hangs out there. It’ll dance ye a merry jig, and one ye’ll naw be likin’. Ye ken me noo?”

  She answered his threat with a giggling squeal, but her voice in his head fell silent. At least until he carved out her ribs. It tickles!

  “I’ll give you a tickle,” he warned, but he was smiling as he did it. He smoothed and carved, shaped and defined, and smiled as she laughed helplessly while her torso lost its unrealistic Barbie doll shape and took on the form of a woman. A real woman, with a real waist that he had no desire to over exaggerate, and real hips that curved the way a woman’s hips were supposed to. He turned her over in his hand, careful of her arms while he went to work upon her back.

  I like this, she whispered as he alternated between tools, shaping and smudging, shaving away the excess as he cut in shoulder blades. He gave her muscle definition and a spine that led from the base of her neck all the way down to the top of the buttocks he began to form. It’s like a massage.

  He said nothing, but he couldn’t stop thinking of how it would feel to run his bare hand down the length of her bare back. Caressing her skin to skin, with nothing to stand as a barrier between them.

  I like this, she moaned, the way a real woman would if ever he got one again beneath his hands. Her back to his chest, his hands rubbing her shoulders, caressing from hair to hips and back again, encouraging her with every pass to bend herself over. Head down, ass up.

  Arch your hips, baby, he would tell her. He could already see Ailsa looking back at him over her shoulder, not so much an innocent now as she was seductive. He could see her shifting her legs wider to offer for his approval all the parts of her that he hadn’t yet sculpted. He gave her hips a little more rounding, to make of them a proper handful. Something to grip and hold as he positioned himself behind her. He gave her a nice ass too, something capable of taking a good pounding and the occasional erotic smack.

  Her moans turned breathy, and the rise and fall of her perfect breasts quickened. Please...

  He rolled out her lower limbs, making them slender legs, the kind he couldn’t wait to spread, to scrape his fingernails up to see if she would arch and writhe, and to hear the subtle shift in her gasps as he reached between them to cup and hold, and own the folds growing moist against his palm.

  “Who owns this?” he’d demand of her, barely aware that he was saying it out loud now.

  You do, Ailsa sighed and he imagined how he’d squeeze her, deliberately catching her clit between his fingers. It would feel good to her, even as it didn’t. She’d beg for him to stop while her hips bucked for him to continue, giving him the perfect reason to give those sensitive folds a firm, disciplinary slap.r />
  “Since when do you get to tell me no?” he’d growl, the most erotic of jokes because of course she could tell him no. But only if she meant it, never because she wanted to take charge. At least not in the bedroom. More importantly, he wanted Ailsa to want to submit to him there.

  I do, she promised. I’ll never tell you no.

  Calder sculpted the folds of her pussy, imagining the heat of her flesh and the wetness pouring from her as he spanked her there again. Punishing and pleasuring her, driving her hips to arch further and further back, both cringing from and welcoming each of those last few slaps.

  The icing on the crazy cake for sure, because here he was, shaping and smoothing a pussy on a ten-inch clay doll while his heart pounded hard and his cock throbbed harder. His pulse was a heady thump in his belly and his temple. He could all but see the flood of pussy juice that would coat his fingers as he thrust them into her, spanking her with swift shallow slaps as he fucked her with two at a time.

  I’m a bad girl, she moaned, back arching. She gasped as he seized her hair in his other hand.

  “Only good girls get Daddy’s cock.”

  I’m a good girl, she corrected. I’m a good, good girl.

  Calder smirked, adding gentle slopes to the inner sides of her thighs. He made these limbs poseable too, because sometimes he’d want her on her knees and sometimes he’d want her on her back, with her legs so widely parted, bent so far up that her knees touched her chest and her ass came up off the mattress. In that way, if he wanted to pound her pussy, then he could, but if he chose to take her ass instead, then it would be easy enough to switch holes. He’d watch her face change while he did it.

  Oooh! Yes... yes... yes...

  Ailsa would have an expressive face too. She’d bite her finger, panting through that initial pinch of pressure as he eased himself inside her, slowly, to minimize the discomfort, but relentless too. Ailsa would have to learn, when he wanted her this way, he was going to get what he wanted.