Santa’s Baby (Naughtier and Naughtier Book 3)

I’ve been feeling anything but jolly since I left the grotto earlier. I have always loved my Santa days, seeing the smiles on children’s faces as they tell me how excited they are for Christmas. It’s magical. My own little taste of how festive family life could be, and likely the closest I will come to it. I’ve resigned myself to that fact.

Or I thought I had.

That’s what is hurting today. An unfounded hope I never expected to be feeling.

I’m possessed by the memory of Tiffany’s shocked eyes as she entered the grotto. Her smile at dinner. The incredible pleasure at seeing the true woman underneath Creamgirl.

I want so much more from her now. So much more that it’s insanity at its finest. I’m having dreams I haven’t dared consider in years.

Imagining her playing kitty for another man last night churned me up in a way I haven’t felt in decades, and that chewed-up sensation came back with a vengeance as soon as my charity time was over earlier.

I battled it all the while I prepared myself for the founders evening, but it’s a fight I could not win. There is not a single hint of excitement at the prospect of using Harlot to her filthy extremes, and as my driver turns into Bryson’s driveway, the sensation ramps up so severely I feel sick to the stomach.

I’ve participated in founders’ scenes so many times that I should be able to run on autopilot. Harlot is nothing more to any of us than a plaything in a hood, making a fortune out of her session, and for most of it I could be standing on the sidelines, watching on as my fellow founders take their fill. I could focus my attention on the practicalities, like clamping her nipples and binding her in position. I could back away quietly, and remain on the outskirts, barely making my presence known.

The problem is, I don’t want to be there at all.

For the first time since I became one of the Agency founders, I don’t want to join in on a hardcore scene. The idea repulses me.

My hands are already sweaty when I say good evening to Len and walk on through to join my fellow stakeholders. They are jovial and happy, engaged in dirty chatter when I enter the dining hall. They already have whisky glasses in hand, knocking back vintage shots as they fine tune exactly what they’ll be doing to Harlot. Bryson has been obsessed with piss play for months, and he won’t shut up about it. He points us out in order of who will spray Harlot when and where like a movie director, and I’m lucky enough to be granted the first round in her asshole, but I don’t want to be spraying anything whatsoever near Harlot tonight.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

I nod along regardless, clinking my shot glass with a cheers as everyone ramps up their excitement, but I feel nauseous. Betrayal is never something I take lightly, especially not when it’s betrayal to my own soul.

That’s how it feels as I stand like a fraud amongst my fraternity.

And it’s all because of Tiffany.

The only woman I want to play with is the scarlet-haired treasure who burst into my world without warning, and turned it upside down.

Bryson fixes me in a stare amongst the cheers. “What’s with you again, Reuben? You’re back to being Scrooge.”

“Stock issues,” I tell him, regretting how defensive my voice sounds. “Unfortunately, Christmas isn’t about pleasure for me, it’s about business.”

I know Bry well enough to know he isn’t buying it. He’s trying to weigh me up, and a few of the others join him. A host of eyes examining me.

“Have you been in the grotto today?” he asks.

“Yes, of course.”

“Santa takes precedence over business concerns then, but sharing an evening with your fellow founders doesn’t?”

I don’t like the edge to his words, because regardless of Harlot, my priorities would be the same.

“My charity efforts do take precedence over business concerns, yes, as far as they can do. But getting my dick wet? No, Bry. That’s on the other side of the spectrum.”

Seb steps closer to Bryson. “Wouldn’t have imagined you saying that a few years ago.”

“Things change.”

People change, is what I mean.

“It’s a few hours with Harlot.” Seb shrugs. “I’m sure your stock issues can wait. Come on, man. Don’t spoil the party.”

“You’ll thank us later,” Bry tells me. “Once your cock is in Harlot’s ass your priorities will swing.”

He’s wrong.

I pull my phone from my pocket. “I’m waiting for an urgent email, actually. It should be arriving any time now. Either that, or a supplier phone call. Preferably the former, as the latter would be conveying much more serious news.”

“Right,” Bry says. “Well, we have another forty-five minutes until our hooded whore arrives, so hopefully you’ll have it sorted by then.”

“Yes, hopefully.”

I despise having to lie, even if the lie is a shallow, white one. It’s true that I do have stock issues – any mall chain is bound to have them at the busiest time of the year, but the fictious email or phone call is nothing but fabrication.

I try to talk myself into reason. Tiffany is an entertainer, and I am a client. There is no relationship, no due loyalty, no exclusivity. In fact, I know she will be in as extreme a circumstance as Harlot will in a few hours’ time. Creamgirl is attending an infamous proposal at a members club not all that dissimilar to ours – a friend of Bryson’s who enjoys the filthy scene with his own group of filth buddies. She won’t be hooded, but she may as well be.

He has a glory wall fixed up in one of the backrooms of his manor, and invites up to thirty guests at a time. He pays well for it, and we get a healthy cut of the proceeds. Tiffany will have a massive payout for her attendance later, and her reviews around the proposals have conveyed nothing but praise at her enthusiasm. She enjoys it. There is no good reason I should be so uneasy at the thought. So enraged at the prospect of other men treating her like a slut.

It’s a ridiculous outlook, because she is one.

I can’t wait for my next booking with her. For twenty-four hours straight, I’ll be the one she’ll be entertaining.

The week in the interim is going to feel like a lifetime.

I feel sweaty, even though Len has taken my coat. The room is stifling, despite the chill of December outside. Instead of accepting another whisky top up I take my phone back out and scroll through emails as the crowd watch me.

I sigh, and shove it back into my pocket.

“Still no news,” I say, and Bry looks at the clock.

“Thirty minutes left to go.”

Thirty minutes of hell.

I force myself to get in line and stop drawing attention, but I can’t keep composed. I take another look at my phone, scrolling through already opened emails as I pace up and down the room, cursing loud enough that the other guys can hear me.

“Jesus Christ, man,” Seb says. “Can you give it a rest now? You’re dampening my fucking hard-on.”

I force a smile. “Sorry. But needs must.”

“Fuck stock issues. My needs are to get on that dirty little bitch as soon as Len has trussed her up, and make the most of our playtime. So sort your shit out, will you?”

Seb has grown in arrogance since his last merger. It’s notched up to another division. He was lighthearted when I first met him, excited as his empire grew one step at a time, but he’s a different man entirely now. My eyes scan around the group, and it’s with startling realisation I realise how true that is of almost everyone.

The men I shared companionship, business rapport, and the creation of The Agency with aren’t the men in this room anymore. They are hardened and ruthless now. Often crass and always greedy.

Yet, I’m not.

I’d rather throw myself on my own sword than turn into a shallow, egotistical narcissist.

In fact, I want the very opposite. I want to put my Bentley in reverse and drive back to earlier days, when this place used to be fun.

Or even further. Back into the distant past before I banished my dreams.

“Give me a moment,” I tell them, and turn my back. I set up an alarm with the same tune as my ringtone for seven minutes’ time, then thrust my phone back into my pocket. I rejoin the group and raise my whisky glass. “Fine, I’m done with emails. If it’s urgent, they’ll call.”

Seb is smiling as he tops up my drink.

“Thank fuck for that, workaholic.”

I force a smirk. “Sorry, sexaholic. Wouldn’t want to impose on your boner.”

“You’ll thank me later.”

I’m used to keeping a mask up when it comes to conversing in business, so I use the same tactics through the next few minutes, joining in at every possible opportunity despite the thunder in my guts. I’ve managed to blend back into the crowd when my alarm sounds out.

“Goddamnit.” I shake my head in frustration as I take my phone out. “Sorry, guys. I have to take this.”

I swipe the alarm to silent and press the phone to my ear, pacing away into a corner.

“What? Four days? But that’s impossible. Fourteen stores are already out of stock, and twenty are at virtually zero. It needs to be sorted now. NOW. No. Not tomorrow. I need to speak to him now!”

My heart is thumping so hard I fear it could be palpitations. I know the entire room is staring at me.

“I’m not going to be accepting this, Margaret. Absolutely not. The terms have been in place since July. I’m calling him directly.”

My cheeks are burning when I hang up my call and step back over to the group. I’m scowling as I shake my head.

“Fucking idiots. Honestly. It’s a piss take. I’m not going to be standing for this bullshit a moment longer.”

I check the clock, and then I go for it.

“I’m going to have to bail, everyone. My apologies, but I have business to attend to. This has to take priority.”

“Get on it here,” Bryson says, and gestures to the room next door. “Join the party when you’re done.”

I get a wave of panic at the prospect, wanting to get the hell out of here and be gone.

“Yeah,” Seb says. “We’ll only be down the hall. Don’t miss out on the show for the sake of one bloody phone call.”

I can feel my escape closing up around me. The other guys are nodding, but I’m already stepping away.

“I’d love to, but it’s going to take a lot more than one bloody phone call. This might well be an all-nighter. It’s global.” So many hawk eyes are on mine, perplexed as I gesture to the exit. “Have a good time. I wish I could join you.”

Seb shakes his head, looking at me like I’m a madman.

“At least we know you’ll be joining us for Cream’s hungry butt in a few weeks. Wouldn’t want to miss out on that fun time, would you, Santa?”

A few of the men laugh at that, and I laugh along. “You’ve got me there, Seb. As if I could resist.” I do my very best to keep my composure. “Good evening, gentlemen. Give Harlot an extra spray on my behalf, won’t you.”

My breaths quicken beyond reason the very moment I close the door behind me. I stay in the hall, leaning back against the wall as I message my driver. I wipe the sweat from my brow, pacing on a mission for the front door, but stop in my tracks when the grand entrance appears.

There is the sweet Harlot, hooded and shaking as Len strips her bare. She looks so tiny in comparison to Tiffany. You could play a tune on her ribcage. And her hip bones are clearly visible as Len slides her panties down.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise as he sees me there, but doesn’t say a word. Neither of us do. I communicate as best I can by pointing to my phone and then to the door, mouthing I have to leave as I grab my coat from the rack.

Harlot flinches as I step up close to her, and my fears solidify to certainty. The idea of playing filthy games with such a willing participant does nothing for me whatsoever. I’m numb as I look at her naked body. Not a hint of animalistic lust in my veins.

I’m quiet as I open the door and mouth a bye, and then I’m out of there.

I need to go home. I need to get out of this place. I need to get away from the seedy den that used to satisfy every filthy craving I had.

It’s only a week until my booking with Tiffany, I remind myself – but my resolve crumbles.

I don’t bother waiting for my driver before I call up the Agency app. I click through to the calendar and call up Creamgirl’s profile.

So many bookings. One after the other. Client after client expecting the beautiful slut to arrive for their appointments, ready to serve. But I can’t take it.

It’s madness. I know it is. But I do it anyway.

I click postpone on every one of them due to personal circumstances, selecting random dates in the new year for fresh bookings.

There is one I can’t move, though. Not without scrutiny and a whole host of ramifications.

The founders’ gig.

I can’t change that without approval from at least three other members.

Fuck.

It won’t be Harlot standing hooded in Bryson’s hallway in two weeks’ time as Len undresses her, it will be Tiffany, and there is nothing I can do about that. My hands are tied.

But they aren’t entirely tied tonight.

We do need to be responsible advocates of the Agency after all. Entertainers are our primary assets, to be supported at all times.

I click on the address of the Glory Wall.

Just for reference…

And then I log in as User 5639.