What Do You Do When Your Girlfriend Turns Out To Be The Serial Mall Santa Fucker?

Obviously, this particular problem isn't going to happen to most people. However, Wally Mammoth, one of my assistants, isn't like most people. Wally tends to get into situations no sane individual gets himself into. And this situation is no different.

Believe it or not, with my work and consequently, my assistants' work, it isn't all that easy to find people with strong enough character or fortitude to agree to be in a relationship with us. Usually, we have no choice but to be a little discreet about what we do. In some cases downright dishonest, I'm afraid. For Wally, he thought he finally found a girl who was willing to accept what he does for a living. It wasn't until much later we learned why.

For those of you not from around here, during the last Christmas season, and now again during this Christmas season, there's been a terrible rash of sex crimes sweeping through the New England area. The inconceivable part is it's been happening sometimes in broad daylight, out in the open, right in front of everyone's eyes, at the local shopping malls.

Apparently, a woman, who looks much younger than one would suspect, has been posing as a young girl and going to malls and getting in line to see Santa. According to reports, the woman will wear a long winter jacket and once she's permitted to climb on Santa's lap, the woman, while exhibiting a tremendous amount of skill and flexibility, proceeds to fuck Santa.

Now, one would think the best thing for Santa to do in this situation is to call someone over or merely remove the woman. However, this isn't very easy. And remember, there are tons of parents and kids around. So, for the most part, in order to cause the least amount of a scene, the Santas have been instructed to, well, quite simply, follow the woman's lead, and fuck her to completion.

At which time, again, according to reports, the woman will disengage quite discretely, and nobody will be the wiser. The only thing that might draw attention is how long it takes for the attack to be completed. On average, it's about five minutes. During which time, parents will tend to get impatient and start to question what the delay is, and at that point, they might realize that Santa is being attacked. Still, even in this rare occasion, even if they're quite sure Santa is indeed being fucked, a parent is unlikely to say or do anything about it, for fear their child might not get a chance to sit on Santa's lap and hence causing their child to have a wicked hissy fit the rest of the night. Although, in this instance, the parent will insist that Santa put one of those red Christmas blankets over his lap before their child sits down on Santa's recently fucked lap.

To those among my team, which included Wally Mammoth, Tommy Two-Times Johnson, Connie Cryer, and myself, Dr. Mosely Untreu, the Serial Mall Santa Fucker story has become something of an obsession. Whenever there's a new news report about yet another attack, it's considered must-see TV. Perhaps it's the fact that the woman in question is a little bit like us, as people who study and sometimes execute sexual experiments. Regardless, the matter intrigued us to no end.

Recently, we had started coming up with various ways to perhaps put our fingerprints on the situation. One time, Wally suggested we go to the malls and try to catch the girl in action, ourselves. But there's only four of us and about twenty malls in the area. Another time, Tommy suggested we should pose as Santas. This idea especially appealed to me, but then I thought about all the other Santa stuff I would have to do, like dealing with a million kids and listening to all their greedy droning about what they want for Christmas, and that sounded like torture.

On one occasion, when all mentioned were present in my home office, save for Tommy Johnson, and in his stead we were joined by Lisa, Wally's new girlfriend, and watching the TV to learn about the newest attack, anxious to maybe hear some new clue we hadn't yet heard before, a deplorable theory hatched in my mind.

Lisa, who didn't seem at all interested in the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, was looking around my office and asked, "Dr. Untreu?"

"Please, call me Dr. Mosely," I said.

"All right," Lisa said. "Why don't you have a tree up?"

"Apart from the fact that this is a place of business, and I must remain neutral as far as religion and whatnot," I said. "There's also the matter where I've never had a single solitary inclination to decorate for the holidays. Now, my wife, Millie, on the other hand, she is our resident Christmas fanatic. She's presently constructing a massive tree in our living room."

"Really? I would love to see it!" Lisa exclaimed, very childlike.

"Forgive her," Wally said. "Your wife's not the only Christmas fanatic around here."

"Sure," I said. "Connie can take you to see it."

When the girls were gone, I looked at Wally, wondering if he had any inkling that his girlfriend might very well be the woman we're in question. After all, she was very small. With long brown hair and very big brown eyes. Overall, very child-like. And apparently she was ga-ga for Christmas. Still, I wasn't about to broach the subject just yet.

The very next day, there was another attack. This time in a mall north of Boston. As soon as I heard about it, my phone rang. It was Wally. We talked about some unrelated matters for a short while. Then I asked, "So, was Lisa with you last night?"

"Yes," Wally said, a little defensive.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes," Wally said, a bit more defensive.

"Okay, well there goes that theory."

"What, you thought she was the Serial Mall Santa Fucker?" Wally asked, barely able to deliver the entire sentence before bursting out in laughter.

"Well. Yes. But I was wrong."

"Fuck," Wally said, sounding suddenly serious, and a bit shocked.

"What?"

"I just realized. She went out Christmas shopping with her sister."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But I know they really went. I mean, her sister came by to pick her up around 7 pm and dropped her off around 9 pm."

"According to the news," I said. "The attack took place at 8 pm."

"Yeah, but what would she do with her sister?"

"What does her sister look like?"

"Young. But not as young looking as Lisa."

"Maybe her sister's in on it. Maybe she posed as Lisa's mother."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"No. It's not fucking ridiculous at all. I gotta go," Wally said and abruptly hung up.

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What Do You Do When The Girl In The Skimpy Santa's Helper Costume Keeps Giving You Attitude?

Recently, while one of my assistants, Tommy Two-Times Johnson, was trying to crack the case of the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, it was I, for a change, who had to lend him some assistance. For those of you who might be curious about the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, and for those of you who might want a slightly better understanding of the situation at hand, I encourage you to find the tome, "What Do You Do When Your Girlfriend Turns Out To Be The Serial Mall Santa Fucker," which directly precedes and then coincides with this particular tome.

Here's the crux of the situation. For those of you not from around here, the New England area had been having a terrible time with a rash of sex crimes. During last Christmas, and now, again, during this Christmas, a woman, posing as a teenage girl in a long winter coat, has been going around to the malls and fucking the mall Santas. To Tommy Two-Times's credit, who was posing as a mall Santa at the time, it appeared he might have finally caught the culprit. And now it was Tommy who was gonna dispense a little justice of his own. Tommy Two-Times style. By tapping that Santa-fucking pussy from now 'til Christmas.

The way I saw it, in order for Tommy to dispense his brand of punishment, the way he saw fit, he was gonna need some time. So, his enemy was anything that got in the way of that, which were things like, the mall itself, which was approaching closing time, the remaining last minute parents and kids waiting in line to see Santa, and Tommy's lone co-worker, a very cantankerous girl dressed in a skimpy Santa's helper costume.

Now, there wasn't much I could do about the mall closing. Or the parents and kids waiting in line. But I could help out with this pesky girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. Especially since she had been so rude to me earlier in the evening. When all I wanted was to have a quick word with Tommy, she intercepted me, insisting I wait in line like everyone else, which added 20 minutes to this supposedly quick meeting at the mall.

Ya see, when Tommy called me to come to the mall, I had no idea what he was up to. And so, when my wife, Millie, who loves Christmas, asked me if she could come to the mall with me so she could get some Christmas shopping done, I acquiesced and brought her along. Upon arrival at the mall, my wife and I went our separate ways so I could do what I had to do and she could do what she had to do. So, naturally, I only had so much time to spare. And that's part of the reason why this girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume, who made me very late to reconnect with my wife, got me so particularly upset.

So, as soon as I was finished talking to Tommy, the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume shooed me away.

"Next," the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume proclaimed loudly and coldly. "Next!" she repeated more sternly.

I retreated out of the little wintry scene and over to the pretzel vendor. And just when I was about to take off, that's when I realized, to my shock and surprise, the next person in line was indeed, who I suspected to be the Serial Mall Santa Fucker all along. At this point, she was already on Tommy's lap, with her long, loose winter coat, shielding the world around them, while she proceeded to fuck her next mall Santa victim. Unbeknownst to her, this mall Santa was no ordinary mall Santa. This mall Santa was Tommy Two-Times and she was in for a long ride.

After almost 10 minutes, parents and kids alike started wondering what the delay was all about. Some even left. Then the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume turned to address the issue. I suddenly slid in front of her.

"Miss?" I asked.

"You again. What do you want?" she asked, preoccupied and annoyed.

"I'm with mall security. I'm gonna need you to come with me."

"What? Why?" The girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume's attitude started to crumble as signs of concern and fear reared their ugly heads.

"Trust me. It'll be better if you don't ask questions. Let's go."

As we walked away, the girl apologized to everyone who had been waiting and said she'd be back as soon as she can.

Luckily, I had a vague recollection of the administration area at this particular mall. And so I led the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume that way. And due to a bit more luck, I found an empty office there.

"Have a seat," I said, waving my hand at a couple chairs in front of a desk.

"Am I in trouble?" she asked as she sat down.

"That depends," I said, crossing my arms as I leaned back against the desk.

"On what?"

Then the door opened. My heart nearly leapt out of my chest. That is, until I saw that it was my wife, Millie.

"I thought that was you," Millie said. "What are you doing?"

I gestured discreetly for Millie to shush. Then I glanced back at the girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. "There's the other one," I said, sounding pissed. "You have a seat, too," I said to Millie.

"Okay," Millie said, a little freaked out, but a little turned on. I could tell.

Unlike my second and third wives, Millie wasn't at all threatened by my work. In fact, she was somewhat turned on by it. From time to time, I would even share what happened with a particular client or situation, where I, or one of my assistants, might have to fuck somebody, all in the name of psychological research, you know, in an effort to find the greater good in one situation or another. And the whole time I was telling her, I would be certain Millie would be put off, or possibly upset, like one of my prior wives would be. Not at all. Millie was quite a rare treasure that way. Plus, she was drop dead gorgeous, with dark features, short and shapely with a massive bosom. All of that and she was only in her early twenties. About 30 years my junior. So, yeah, I was also lucky in that respect.

So, back to this girl in the skimpy Santa's helper costume. "Now, as a representative of mall security," I started. "It's been brought to my attention that some of the employees in this mall are dressing way too provocatively. Just because the mall is rampant with high school hoochies, it doesn't mean our mall employees should dress like high school hoochies."

Millie smiled. It seemed somewhat apparent Millie was more than a little excited to be drafted into whatever was happening. 

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What Do You Do When A Job Applicant Lists Fellatio As One Of Her Additional Job Skills?

Recently, I've been toying with a little hypothesis of mine. Something to combat, what I feel, is a growing epidemics in today's business world. And that is sluggish productivity. My theory is simple, but I would need an assistant to, well, assist me in conducting the experiment. And that's where Connie Cryer came in.

Once my wife, Jennifer, and I moved to New England, my practice really started to pick up. I was building a substantial practice and there was no looking back. Then I was approached to teach some classes at the local university. I decided to give it a go. I guess I was feeling pretty indestructible. This is when I first started utilizing the help of assistants. My assistants would help me research, compile data, conduct experiments, review clients, and whatever else was needed to continue in my psychological endeavors.

So, on that fateful day, when I was in my home office, easing back and reading through the applicants, there was one in particular who caught my eye. Her name was Connie Cryer.

For the most part, her credentials were pretty standard. She was a grad student at the university. She had done some work in the field. But frankly, it was her resume which particularly caught my eye.

Really, it was quite serendipitous. Right there, listed among her additional job skills was, of all things, fellatio!

After an extended game of phone tag, I was finally able to get Connie on the phone. To my delight, she sounded very well-spoken and appeared to know her stuff. I scheduled an interview for the very next day.

The next day, Connie arrived on time and dressed exquisitely. She wore a very respectable business suit and short skirt, with a white blouse that opened up low but not too low, revealing just enough cleavage to hold ones attention, which I thought highlighted her willingness to slut it up, while exercising just enough discretion. When she first arrived, I have to say, I was a little alarmed by her height, which couldn't have been more than 5 feet, which she attempted to combat by wearing very high heels. Her long dirty blond hair was corralled neatly and her makeup was very slight, very professional. I especially made note of her piercing blue eyes, which seemed to suspend me where I sat.

Connie's demeanor couldn't have been more pleasant. Her attitude reflected that of a very receptive, eager to learn person. To my delight, she was already quite a fan of mine. She was prepared to recite my history in the field of psychology, including my landmark discoveries and published essays on interpersonal relationships and intimacy. I was surprised when she mentioned a seminar I spoke at, when I first arrived in New England, and how she hoped to one day meet me, and if she's lucky, work with me. Sure, it could all be bullshit in order to get her foot in the door, but I was willing to accept her words on faith they were genuine. Cleavage can sometimes have that affect on a person.

"All right, well," I said as the interview was coming to a close. "Let me say, Miss Cryer, you strike me as a very impressive person, let alone candidate for this position. In fact, I'm tempted to forgo my other interviews and offer you the position outright."

"Go ahead. I won't mind." Connie smiled with a quick wink.

I smiled, seriously thinking about it. Especially since there were no other candidates I was considering. "Well. There's the matter of due process. And due diligence. As you start out in this field, especially with me, you will learn that I like to be thorough, and try to cover all our bases."

"Of course." Connie nodded, projecting disappointment.

"Oh, but be of good cheer. You've done extremely well for yourself. And I wouldn't be surprised if I'm calling you late this very day and offering you the position."

Connie lit up and then shot to her feet to shake my hand. "Thank you so much, Dr. Untreu!"

"Thank you, Miss Cryer."

And so, that's exactly what I did. After I shot a round of golf. I made the call and offered Connie the position, to which she accepted immediately, sounding as if she might be jumping for joy.

"Miss Cryer, there is one condition I failed to menion," I added.

"Yes. Anything!" she said, still sounding ecstatic.

"You must be available to start tomorrow. I have a hypothesis I've been anxious to start working on and I simply cannot wait any longer."

"Absolutely, Doctor! Whatever you say. Whatever you want. I will be there."

I choked a bit. "Splendid," I struggled to say.

The next morning couldn't come quick enough. I was thinking about my hypothesis the entire night. The logistics. And if it could even be done. I would know soon enough.

Connie arrived at 8 on the dot. My wife, to my disappointment, hadn't quite left yet. From what I understood, she would be going on a shopping trip to the Lakes Region with her niece, Kimberly, who had been living with us for some time now. Last minute, Kimberly got called into work at the veterinarian clinic. However, there was still a good chance my wife would be going anyway.

Regardless, I told my wife I would be busy working in my office all day and I wasn't to be disturbed. My wife, who might have already been starting to grow tired of me and my work, didn't say much about my request. However, I was pretty sure she'd honor it, either way.

Then I returned to my office, where I had asked Connie to wait.

Connie was wearing a more informal outfit than the day before. A similar blouse and long skirt and boots. Her long, wavy, dirty blond hair was down this time. She was sitting by the window where I had set up two chairs, overlooking the garden outside. I found it to be a peaceful place for my sessions. I sat opposite her.

"Hello, Connie," I said.

"Hello, Dr. Untreu," she said.

"You look very lovely."

"Thank you."

"By the way. I usually have my clients call me Dr. Mosely. I just like the way it sounds better."

"Absolutely. Dr. Mosely."

"Splendid." I opened up my folder. "Now, for my little hypothesis..."

Connie sat up, eager to hear about it.

"The problem is sluggishness. In the work place. Our task is to figure out what we can do to help increase productivity. And so, here's my hypothesis."

Connie listened intently.

"As you know, my specialty is in the arena of intimacy. So, my solution, naturally, is going to be related somehow to intimacy."

Connie nodded.

"And in this situation, what could possibly be added to the equation to remedy all this sluggishness. A little something to inspire workers to press on, and keep working?"

"I'm not sure."

"Think about it. What does a man desire?"

"Women?"

"Certainly. More specifically?"

"Women's breasts?"

"No. It's something that women do. Something to breathe life into an otherwise deflated man."

"I couldn't say."

"Of course you could say."

Connie thought about it. She considered her thoughts. Then, while still looking askance, "A blowjob?"

"Bravo! Give the lady a prize!"

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What Do You Do When Your Pastor's Wife Is Constantly Complaining About The Lack Of Anal In Her Life?

My wife, Jennifer, who is a devout Christian, has always been a pillar of morality in my life. And that can be a valuable resource at times. I myself, I've never been very religious. However, when we first started dating, it became readily apparent if I intended on continuing the relationship, I would be expected to attend church. After my first wife, Naomi, who was practically a liberal, feminist, closet-lesbian, anarchist, Wiccan, I was probably feeling the need to compensate in the other direction, to a more straight-lace, conservative, WASPy woman. Hence Jennifer, my second wife.

Early on in our marriage, prior to venturing out to the east coast, we decided to attend an average-sized, about 400-500 people or so, Pentecostal church, in a remote town in Northern California. The church appeared, for all intent and purposes, to be very conservative. Although the women weren't made to wear dresses or skirts, they all did all the same. And although the women weren't made to keep their hair long, they all did all the same. For the most part, everyone dressed very conservatively, nothing too flashy. Not a lot of makeup. Not a lot of frills. Only a few women in the church failed to get the memo concerning these church-wide, self-imposed restrictions, my wife among them, and surprisingly enough the Pastor's wife also, Sister Rebekah, who I always felt I shared a certain affinity with.

As much as I tried to "surrender" myself to this church and its ways, it just seemed futile after a while. Sure, I had my moments of weakness, when the church and all its churchiness seemed to lull my sometimes sleepy mind into believing this whole rigmarole was authentic. But in the end, my mind would always wake up just in time to talk some sense into me. After all, the whole thing, especially when you approached it critically, seemed a little far-fetched.

Still, for Jennifer's sake, I continued to attend church with her. I had to at least try to please her in this way. It was obviously very important to her. I mean, it's not like she, all those years ago, when we first started dating, she didn't present herself as this sort of woman. It was quite plain. I couldn't blame her for my own idiotic need to give her the impression I would be fine going to church with her. Forever. And ever.

On the bright side, as a psychiatrist, just starting a practice in Northern California, the church provided an abundance of potential clients. It seemed that amidst all this oppressive conservativism, there were several folks who were just itching to get out, away from the church. Even if, all they needed was to leave the church, there was no way the thought was going to occur to them on their own. And for the most part, I didn't feel like telling them. Probably, because down deep inside, I knew that they knew it, too. And I was waiting for them to figure it out for themselves. In the mean time, their want and desire to leave the church manifested itself in other ways like alcoholism, wife-beating, stealing, fighting, bigotry, adultery, etc..

In the case of Sister Rebekah, the Pastor's wife, things were a little different.

I met Rebekah the first day we attended the church, when the pastor and her stood by the exit to bid farewell to all the folks attending the church.

Rebekah was somewhat tall and very beautiful. By far, she was the flashiest attendee in the church, wearing flashier clothes and a bit more makeup than any of the other women in the church. In addition, her dresses seemed to show slightly more chest and leg than any of the other women in the church. But she was the pastor's wife. And for the most part, this made her above reproach. Except of course for the members of the church who struggled with gossiping, which was basically 90% of the church.

Through the years, attending the church, and seeing these folks at various church functions, Rebekah always seemed to take a shine to me. And at times, she showed surprising candor. This always threw me for a loops, since everyone in the church, apart from those I saw in the office, seemed profoundly fake or delusional or both.

At one particular event, I believe it was a church picnic, I noticed Rebekah standing alone, by the brush along the lake. As bored as I was, I decided I'd approach her. After all, I had always thought we shared a certain affinity toward each other, as two, seemingly lonesome honest people stuck in a sea of the opposite.

So, I started, "Hello there."

"Oh, hello, Brother Mosely," she said, noticeably glad to see me.

"What might you be thinking about?" I asked.

"What does every man or woman or child apparently think about?" Then she discreetly gestured at something out on the lake and smiled back at me.

I followed her eyes and saw a teenage couple, out deep, with their arms around each other. I peered a second, and smiled, realizing they weren't just embracing but were actually fucking. Their intermittent looks of strain and pleasure were the giveaway.

"So sweet and so innocent," Rebekah said, marveling at the teenagers.

I smiled and looked a little closer at Rebekah.

"What?" she asked.

"Sweet and innocent?" I asked.

"That's Brother Scoll's son, Peter, and Brother Tanner's daughter, Willa. They're a sweet couple. They've been going steady all summer. I think it's cute."

"Rebekah?"

"Yes, Brother Mosely?"

"Forgive my French, Rebekah, but Brother Scoll's son and Brother Tanner's daughter are fucking right in front of you. In front of all of us. I don't know if I'd call it sweet and innocent, but I'd call it bold."

Rebekah peered out at them, watching for a moment. As she watched, at a certain point, she raised a hand to her chest in shock. "Brother Mosely, you're right. What should we do?"

I waved it off. "Do? Nothing. They're teenagers. That's what teenagers do. Fuck like bunnies."

"Brother Mosely, your language."

"Sorry. It just seemed like the appropriate terminology to describe this type of sex."

"Premarital sex?"

"No, fucking. Look at them, Rebekah. They're fucking."

Rebekah watched them for a while longer. This time biting her lips a little and clenching her fist tight. That's when another congregation member joined us. Rebekah didn't say a word about it.

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