Bad Santa

(This story contains a lot of adult language and sexual content. If that offends you, I suggest you click the "Back" button NOW! Consider yourself warned.)

A/N: So, I was minding my own business one day, chatting with some friends, when one of them asked if I was going to do a Christmas OneShot. The first thought that lept into my head was "Only if it involves Randy as a bad, bad Santa." With that idea in mind, I knew there was only one person who could help me make Randy as bad as he possibly could be. So consider this your gift from Vera and the Queen. We love you guys, and we promise - you have not seen the last of our team work! Have a great holiday, and a truly debauched New Year. Oh, we don't own Randy, or Trish. Enjoy!

P.S. Italicized thoughts are from the song mentioned herein.

It's not that I hate Christmas or anything. Trust me, there are good things about the holiday. Lots of food. New toys. Chicks in tight red dresses. It has it's advantages.

But the older I get, the more I realize that every advantage has a downside. Lots of food means more time in the gym. New toys mean more shit I'll never have time to play with takin' up more space in my overcrowded apartment. And chicks in tight dresses are just another reminder that I will never be able to touch the beautiful breasts of random women again as long as I live. Not since Thanksgiving anyway.

There is plenty of time out of the ring around Christmas time, which is nice. But, of course, there's a ton of charity work to do in the downtime. I'm not gonna lie, there is nothing I hate more than dressing up like Santa Claus and visiting sick kids in the hospital. I know I'm supposed to say that I love giving back to my fans, that I understand how much it means to those brats that they're favorite WWE superstar shows up and gives them tee shirts and shit.

But let's cut the bull, okay? I like making a lot of money and having a lot of fame. I realize you wanna think I just play an asshole on television, but I really am one. I don't mind admitting that. I'm pretty selfish with my time and my cash. As for the kids in the hospital or whatever, ask 'em who they're favorite wrestler is. I guaran-damn-tee it ain't The Legend Killer. It's Batista, or probably Cena. Not me.

I know what you're thinking. Then why am I the one in this goddamned Santa costume, right? Why am I the one sweating my fine ass off and handing out presents to kids? Kids who, by the way, either have no idea who I am, or hate my guts from TV. Like the little girl who told me she hopes I burn in hell for killing Taker, just before she vomited on my shoe. Oh, but my favorite moment of the afternoon was when some fat-ass kid with horrible acne told me that his older brother thinks I'm a "penis wrinkle." Ho, ho, fuckin' ho.

The only so-called silver lining in this whole damned day is that it's now over. Or almost over. All that's left is to go home and spend some quality naked time with my girl. I love my career – don't get me wrong. But I got to see Trish long enough to propose to her in November, and then it was off in opposite directions. A few days alone with her should clear the bah humbug right out of me, I think.

I guess, if I was a normal guy, I would probably spew some bull shit about home being the only place anyone should really wanna be at Christmas. If I was a regular guy, I would tell you that the smells of home-baked Christmas cookies and roasting chestnuts take me back to a happy place, when I was a kid and Christmas was a big, happy family gathering.

But come on. You know I'm not gonna say that. Admit it - you wouldn't like me half as much if I did. You love that I could give a shit less about the sentimental crap that is holiday nostalgia. And you love that the only thing I anticipate when I unlock my front door is seeing my girl, Trish, in a little red number that matches this funky Satan suit I'm sporting. I'm sorry, did I say Satan? Nevermind, I'm not even takin' that back. Because I mean it - this thing is hell.

I have the jacket undone by the time the front door closes. So let me run this down for you - because I know you wanna picture it accurately. My hot body, no padding, in red velvet pants, a white tank top, and an open Santa jacket. And yes, I'm wearing the stupid hat. Why? Because I have hat head and I'd rather look like I have some holiday cheer than risk someone seeing me with smooshed hair. So I'm vain - it's not like you didn't know that already.

Almost the moment the door clicks into place, the driving, hypnotic beat of NIN's The Only Time fills the house. I'm drunk, and right now I'm so in love with you.

Ah, that can only mean one thing. My baby girl is horny as hell. See, she's an R&B girl by nature. She knows anything from Nine Inch Nails is my favorite fuck-track, so she only plays it when she really wants to go - hard. And, I gotta be honest, there's nothing I like more than Trish when she's ready to go.

I'm kicking my shoes off when she appears from the kitchen – dressed in little satin shorts and a velvet jacket like mine. Hers has white fur trim, too, and ties loosely between the most beautiful boobs I have ever seen in my life. And that's saying something. There is a candy cane between her full lips, which she sucks as she gives me her best bedroom eyes. And I don't wanna think too much about what we should or shouldn't do.

Her body sways with the music and she motions to the living room of my cramped apartment with a nod of her head. I lay my hands on heaven and the sun and the moon and the stars. And who am I to disagree? By the time I flop down on the couch, she is in the middle of the floor, one arm above her head while the other holds that damn candy cane. While the devil wants to fuck me in the back of his car. Shit – my baby makes porn stars look frumpy.

She is wearing red vinyl boots that cover her calves and knees. They make her 5'4" body seem six feet tall, but she moves on them like an expert. Nothing quite like the feel of something new. She bends at her knees and lowers herself to a crouched position before putting her hands on her knees and forcing them apart.

Maybe I'm all messed up. Maybe I'm all messed up. Maybe I'm all messed up in you.

Her creamy thighs are screaming at me to come over and rub them. But she snaps her legs closed and slowly rolls her body back to a standing position with a look that says she's not finished, and it would be in my best interest to stay seated until she is. This is the only time I really feel alive. This is the only time I really feel alive.

Walking slowly, one foot directly in front of the other, she makes her way to me, bending forward just enough for me to peer comfortably into that little jacket, as she pulls the candy cane out of her mouth. I swear, I just found everything I need. It clings to her breasts perfectly, and her nipples are already standing out, straining against the soft fabric. The sweat in your eyes, the blood in your veins, are listening to me.

She leans over me on the couch, slides the candy between my lips, and places her hands on either side of my head. Jesus, those perfect tits are right in my fucking face. I could literally lick them if I barely flicked my tongue right now. Well, I wanna wrap it up and swim it until I drown.

She looks at me with a "fuck me" gaze and I finally get my first touch. Running my hands over the backs of her thighs, I feel her shiver. She sucks the curved end of the candy cane into her mouth and our lips almost meet. My moral standing is lying down. But she pushes off the couch, swings her hair over her shoulder, and backs away – all while smirking at me. Trust me, I love the smirk. But I guess I have some holiday spirit after all, because I'd rather give the damn thing than receive it. Nothing quite like the feel of something new.

She returns to the middle of the floor, and continues her painful seduction, knowing that it's killing me – all of it. The music, the smell of the dinner she made, the faint hint of Chanel and Merlot that she left behind when she was nearly on me a second ago. Maybe I'm all messed up. Maybe I'm all messed up. Maybe I'm all messed up in you.

She puts one leg on the ottoman beside her and runs her hand down her thigh – drawing my attention down to the stripper boots again. This is the only time I really feel alive. I spit the candy cane onto the couch beside me. I don't want anything to obstruct the taste of Trish I know I'm gonna get soon.

Oh, she knew what she was doing wearing those boots, too. She knows exactly how to get me going. I could never make love to her in those boots – and she knows it. Tonight, she doesn't want to be the lovey-dovey future husband/wife duo who will spend their lives making love and tending to each other's emotional and spiritual needs. Tonight, those boots tell me she wants to fuck like strangers who know they'll never see each other again, who only have one shot at blowing each other's minds.

Tonight, she's not the woman who will bear my children and grow old at my side. Tonight, she's my slut, and she's willing to please. Again. And again. And again.

Lazily slumped on the couch, I watch her standing there as the music fades and wait to see what she has planned next. She stares back with those goddamned innocent eyes, biting her lip and acting like she didn't just put on a show that would make professional dancers blush.

I sit up straighter and extend my arm. "Come here." She doesn't hesitate. I grab her by her waist, pull her between my open legs, and I kiss her. Her tongue is hungry for mine as she's helping me to remove this ridiculous Satan outfit I have on. Sliding her shorts off was no problem. I'm untying her hot little Mrs. Santa jacket, but the strings are too damn difficult to remove so I just rip that motherfucker off.

I'll buy her a new one. I promise. Start a tab – I have a feeling I'm gonna rough up and break a lot of shit tonight.

I'm left in nothing but this ridiculous demon hat, but she bends low and whispers roughly, "The hat stays." I want to please and right about now, my hard dick is listening to whatever Trish has to say. And she's whispering for me to give her the fucking of her life.

"Keep the boots," I instruct in response. As if she was going to take them off anyway.

I love playing with her body, feeling all of her curves, knowing her spots, guessing what her new fetishes are. Trish doesn't care what I do to her as long as I don't give her any visible hickies. Of course, you wouldn't believe how many she has below her waist if she told you.

The apartment is small, the dining room and living room kind of blend together. She has the table set for a nice meal, whatever that is that smells so good in the kitchen. So, I shove everything off to the floor, all of her hard work and preparation, and the sounds of shattering dishes and glasses fill the room. But I doubt she gives a damn about that right now. I know I don't. Hell, add it to my bill – I'll buy some new ones later. I pick her up and lay her across the table and she spreads eagle for me.

I climb on top of the table and lay on top of her. I suck on her perfect breasts, knowing that they've been wanting me to kiss and suck them. Her nipples are erect and roll around my tongue as if they were tailor-made for me. I suck on one while my free hand is playing with the other. And Trish loves it as she's moaning a little and her body is twitching.

I switch to the other breast and roam my free hand down to her aching clit that is begging for some attention. I flick it between my fingers and Trish suddenly gasps at the feeling. She's moaning a little louder and she's grabbing my ears, since this stupid-ass hat is covering the hair she usually holds on to. I look down at her, watching her facial expressions change. She's making me harder by the second.

And I'm just getting started.

I slide down the table and pick up her legs so they're both on my shoulders and I dive in. You wouldn't believe how sweet she smells, how wonderful she tastes. A hundred times better than fucking cookies and chestnuts, that's for damn sure.

She arches her back off the dining room table as I continue to taste her. I could go down on her for hours on end, but I normally stop after she comes twice. She never tells me that she can't take it anymore, but the 'hurry up and fuck me, Randy,' is usually a pretty good indicator.

Soon after I begin to flick my tongue on her swollen clit, she starts to breathe a little heavy and her legs begin to shake. I know she's about to climax so I suck on her clit harder and lick faster, giving her what she wants. Let it never be said that Randy Orton is not generous – when I want to be.

She screams and pulls hard on my ears as she climaxes. It would probably hurt like a bitch, except I've got a mouthful of Trish Stratus – like you would notice the pain, either. I continue to lick her as her body arches off the table. She's glistening with a little sweat, she's breathing heavily, and her mouth is quivering. I climb back on top of her and look down at the beautiful sight. She opens her eyes to me and smiles. Make that "smirks." Again.

Ah, my girl is learning. She knows it's her turn to please me and she knows I can't fucking wait.

She motions me to get off the table and points at the wall, so I comply. She drops to her knees, and rests her hands on mine. I love how she wants to feel my cock inside her hot mouth. She kisses my inner thighs and sucks on my balls a little. She takes nice and long strokes with her tongue and then she stops. She looks up and smiles at me innocently.

She's teasing me. The bitch is teasing me! And she knows I love every fucking second of it.

She doesn't have to say a word as she begins to lick my cock again. She pumps it as she licks the head, knowing that's what I like. She looks up at me and gives me a wicked smile. I don't know if she wants approval or what, but I think she can tell I'll like just about anything she does right now.

I look at the top of her head as she begins to deep throat me. My God, this woman could write a book on how to give head. She should. It'll be a fucking best-seller. I grab what I can of her blonde hair and pull on it—hard enough to let her know that I mean business. I don't wanna hurt her too much, but I just can't seem to care about being gentle at the moment.

I moan and my body twists a little. The arrogant S.O.B. in me want to stay still and just take it but I'm getting the most incredible fucking blow job in history. And damnit…she's humming. She knows that adds that vibrating sensation and I'm about to come all over if she doesn't quit soon.

I immediately lift her up from her knees and pick her up. I turn around and put her against the wall with a little force. She wraps her legs around my waist and I slide my cock inside her tight core. I don't even let her adjust to my size as I start fucking her hard and fast, ironically in rhythm to Nine Inch Nails on the stereo.

Maybe it's the music. Maybe it's the feeling of those stilettos against my ass. Hell, maybe it's the holiday season. I don't know, but she wants a good fucking, and she's gonna get one, damnit

I hold her against the wall as I fuck her. She's so fucking hot and tight around my cock, it's driving me insane. I feel her hot breath skim my neck as she's trying to hold on my shoulders.

I whisper "How bad do you want it, baby?"

Usually she moans. Tonight, she screams, "So bad!"

I try not to drop her. Fuck, that scream is hot. Raising my voice a little, I growl, "You like my cock inside you, Trisha?" And now for the moaning. She can't speak anymore, and that's when I know I've found her spot.

I pump inside her faster, gripping her ass and feeling my balls slap against her flesh. She's screaming in my ear and I moan along with her. We're both feeling the passion and the heat but I've got more to give her. And I know she's got it in her – she can take it.

I'm still holding on to her as I make my way over to the couch and sit down. This woman does NOT need any further instruction. She starts riding me as she moves up and down. I marvel at how tight she feels once again as I'm pinching her nipples. She's looking at me, grabbing my face and staring into my eyes as she's driving her hips down onto my cock once again.

I grab her ass as I help her ride me. Her breasts are bouncing in my face and we never let go of each other's eyes. She wants it just as bad as I do and we're both giving it to each other. From the peripheral, I see the glint of the diamond I bought her. Her gaze tells me that it was the best gift I've ever bought anyone. The determination with which she rides me tells me that making her mine forever is the best decision I've ever made.

And the tightening of our bodies tells me that this round is almost over. Her back straightens, her head flops back, and her moans turn to spastic screams. I'm not sure what she's saying, and I'm damn sure she doesn't know either. To be honest, I'm mumblin' some shit I can't really interpret, too. I put my hand on her back and pull her close to me, our chests smashed together as she digs her knees into my sides and prepares herself for an earth-shattering, mind-numbing happy ending.

Sometimes, I'll be honest, I'm a little self-centered. This time, though, I am so focused on Trish, that I barely notice my own climax sneaking up on me. I'm watching her – she's so fucking gorgeous – and I forget, just for a second, that she's riding the fuck outta me. I forget until she spasms and orgasms, nearly driving me over the edge.

Without warning, she jumps off my lap. I want to tell her that one fucking time without a condom is not going to kill us, but she's between my knees and sucking my exploding cock before I can form a word. This time, it isn't to tease or arouse me. This time, she wants to drink every last drop I have to offer. And I guess I'll let her, since it's Christmas and all. See? I can be a nice guy. By the way, yes, I am smirking right now.

When she's done, Trish looks up at me from her place on the floor, but not with the innocent eyes. Oh, she knows better than to give me those now – her cover has been blown – along with a few other things. This time, her gaze is wicked, seductive, and sexy as fuckin' hell.

She wipes her bottom lip with her thumb and crawls up into my lap, pulling my arms around her like a sweater. Trust me, I know my girl looks good in everything. But you have no idea how perfect she looks draped in nothing but Legend Killer. Her hair is wild, her lips are swollen, and her breathing is heavy as she twists in my arms and smiles a welcoming smile.

"Hi," she says shyly. I just nod, too caught up in her flawless beauty to speak for a second. I know, that sounds fuckin' girlie, but have you seen Trish Stratus? Yeah, so imagine that times twenty and you'll know how I'm feelin' with her naked ass in my lap.

We just stare at each other, sharing little kisses and intimate touches occasionally. Sometimes a small detail about our day will sneak into the conversation. She tells me about Christmas shopping for her grandmother. I tell her I'm a "penis wrinkle." She laughs, of course, and I pretend to be offended.

I blow a lot of shit about being a bad ass. Fast cars and fast women are kind of my mantra, and my claim to fame, and I know that. I don't try to correct anyone who thinks it. In fact, I do my best to maintain the appearance of evil, to perpetuate the legend of Randy Orton, Lady Killer, as much as possible. But, in case you were wondering, it's not always the truth.

I mean, Trish and I have done shit like that before, and I know we'll do it again. But we don't do it all the time. She may be the only woman on earth with the perfect mix of strength and vulnerability, the only combination that could ever handle a guy like me. She knows when to stroke my ego, and when to pop it like a big balloon. She's the most amazing woman I have ever known.

Dammit – sorry about that. I got a little carried away with the sentimentality of the season, I guess. Maybe it was the scent of that oyster stuffing she made for dinner. That's a Christmas smell, right? Maybe I do have the spirit after all, huh?

Ah, fuck, who am I kidding? I don't smell anything but sex in the air as Trish starts to grind her ass against my dick again. I got a wet woman in my lap, and there is nothing, not even your curiosity, that means more to me right now. So, sorry kiddies, but story time's over.

Have a merry fucking Christmas.