Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92809 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
“And what do you want for Christmas, Tiffany?”
His stare is so deep and so firm, even with his stupid beard on. The natural energy floods in and crackles like static between us.
Maybe Mariah’s song wasn’t so far off the mark earlier.
I want Santa for Christmas. Real fucking bad. I want the man who has ravaged me so hard I could barely move afterwards. The high paying beast who has pushed me to the limits and then some. The only man to ever put my safe word on the tip of my tongue.
“I want… um…”
The brashness of Creamgirl has gone. I’m just Tiff here. The real Tiff.
The Tiff without walls of balls to keep me safe.
I’m still stumbling over my reply when a little girl’s screech comes from the queue outside. It’s a loud one, a pure wail, and knocks me back to reality with a thump.
I have to get out of here. Now. Before I say something really fucking stupid.
I get up from Santa’s lap and grab my photo on my way out with a thanks, happy Christmaaaaas!
And then I’m gone.
How I fight for air when I’m out the other side, a mess of ragged breaths as Ella and Eb step up to join me, both of them beaming. They’re oblivious to the state of me. Absolutely fucking oblivious.
“Amazing, isn’t he?” Ella says. “You were right, Tiff, he remembered me. Thanked me again for coming to his rescue last year.”
Eb sighs. “Damnit. I wish he was an active client. I’d love him to empty his sack for me, even if he is in a pillow suit. Those eyes…”
“What do you mean if he was an active client?” I ask.
“He signed up as a newbie last year,” Ella says. “He told me he might be using his client profile for bookings, but nah, nothing.” She shows me her phone. She’s already been looking back through her records. I scan her proposal booking as quickly as I can.
User 5639. Male. 48.
“User 5639 hasn’t made any bookings since that one with Ells,” Eb groans. “I just searched on the forums. Not one peep about him. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.”
But Santa isn’t User 5639… they’re wrong. He wasn’t a newbie client on our list last December… he must have been faking it.
I should know, I was already fucking him by then. I’ve fucked him so many times, I’d recognise his lap out of thousands… but as for his beautiful dark eyes, I’ve never seen them before.
I’ve never seen him at all.
I’ve always been a hooded whore taking absolute filth in his presence, and his actions sure weren’t out of charity.
“What is it?” Ella asks. “You alright, Tiff? You seem… weird?”
If only she knew – and I’m so tempted to blab it out to her… until I realise how blabbing about Santa really would be breaking the Agency code. I’d be in very deep shit without a paddle if I breached his level of confidentiality.
I get flashes of my bookings with him. So much filth. So much money. So much power.
Him and his limit pushing friends.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, putting my fake smile back on. “Like I said, I’ve got a pissing hangover, and my ass feels like I’ve been impaled by a battering ram. Cut me some slack, will you?”
Ebony laughs. “A battering ram, now that I’d like to see.”
“Actually, it was an enthusiastic three on one, but you get my gist.”
“Ouch,” she says, “That explains it, then.”
Ella doesn’t seem quite so convinced as Ebony, her eyes boring into me nearly as hard as Santa’s were. She obviously suspects something is up. But I can’t let her in on my secrets. It wouldn’t be fair. Not about babies, not about being lonely at night, and definitely, definitely not about Santa.
Because Santa isn’t just a charitable guy with a dormant client profile. He’s our fucking boss. One of the founders of the whole fucking Agency.
One blabbed wrong word from me and I’d be screwed – literally.
2
TIFFANY
I’m in a daze through the rest of the shopping trip. I let out a cringey ho ho ho whenever Eb cracks a steamy Santa comment, trying to blank out the memory of his eyes, and the I know that you know that I know realisation that burned between us – but it’s not easy. Neither of them will shut the fuck up about him. Ella doesn’t quit it with the amazing man of charity sighs, and Eb wants to empty his sack, and I have to bite my tongue so hard it hurts as we browse glittery cards and debate tinsel colours. I’m glad we don’t opt for lunchtime cocktails, because a Sex on the Beach never helps me keep my blabbermouth shut.
I’m aching to blurt out what a filthy, powerful bastard Santa really is. His kind of fantasies are off the charts. He’s not the kind of figure I would ever have expected to bump into in everyday life. Not a chance in hell. It’s never been on my radar that I would be sitting on one of The Agency stakeholder’s laps one day with my eyes open wide – let alone in a quaint shopping mall grotto. I want to spill the truth, just to get the WTAF off my chest, but I can’t. The owners of The Agency are shielded by confidentiality to the extreme, and hardcore entertainers like us are always hooded whenever we get bookings. If we get bookings. Most entertainers haven’t got a clue the founders even exist.