Page 14 of Santa's Baby

“It’s called being a desperate slag with a big wet cunt, and just wait until next time. It’ll beg for a whole lot more from me then.”

He pulls his fingers free, wipes them on my ass, and can’t resist grabbing my pussy lips again.

“Fuck, that was good,” he says.

I moan when he tugs.

“Dirty bitch.”

I hear him buckle himself back up, but I don’t move, just stay bent over like the slut I am while his cum dribbles out of my pussy.

The bottles on the floor do another jangle as he walks away and leaves me there, dishevelled and used up between two dumpsters. I don’t move for a while, enjoying the flooding power of the aftermath, with a heady smile on my face as my body comes down.

It really is fucking cold now, and my teeth start to chatter as my adrenaline depletes. My nipples are like frozen bullets and my tits are prickling as I shove them back in my dress.

I scramble around the floor for my clutch, grabbing my phone and calling my usual cab number. They are only ever a few minutes away, given I’m such a regular client.

“Belgravia, please,” I say. “From Club Revelier. Tottenham.”

I use my phone torch to get out of here in my heels. It’s a shit show, with used up wrappers, and battered boxes and broken bottles everywhere. And fuck knows where my ruined panties are. Maybe he took them as a trophy. Damn, I’m glad he didn’tdrop me to my knees. I’d have likely ended up with far more than a grazed cheek from some brickwork. I brace myself on one of the dumpsters, clenching my pussy to test the aftermath, and fuck it hurts. I take a steadying breath and step back into the street, which is still practically empty since everyone is still clubbing.

The cab lights appear in three minutes, tops, and I hop on in with athanks. My phone is already in my hand, so I get right to typing out myD&Smessage to Josh. But if I’d have waited, just a few more seconds – if I’d have held off on the D&S until my cab was down the street, I might have got more of a glimpse of the man standing at the entrance of the club, directly under the Club Reveliersign.

Santa.

There is no wine glass in his hand. Not this time.

My fucking God, was he outside? Was he watching? Did he hear my filthy begging and the way I took it like a piece of meat who needed a pounding?

Suddenly I’m shaking as the nerves eat me alive out of nowhere. I feel so intimidated, so dirty and exposed as I twist in the cab seat to stare back at him.

Vulnerable.

I feel vulnerable.

Exposed, naked, used, debased and so fucking vulnerable.

Another cab pulls up and Santa glances my way before he gets in.

My heart is fucking pounding as the cab pulls away, but no, he’s not telling his cabbie tofollow that cab. The cab does a U turn and heads in the opposite direction.

Shit.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

4

TIFFANY

Central Parade shopping centre, Santa, I type into Google.

The search results come up with some events days, and a mention of Santa’s Grotto in a recent news article, but nothing about Santa himself. I scroll down the feed, mention after mention, until finally, there he is.

Santa – minus the Santa outfit – is in one of the pictures, with his gorgeous dark eyes and his side parted silver fox hair. He’s standing behind one of those big, printed charity cheques, donating a chunk of money to a kids’ support centre in Dagenham. £40,000.

My stomach lurches like a motherfucker as I click the link to see more. I have to blink three times, zooming in on the photo. He’s way more gorgeous than the strobe lights did justice. In a suit, in daylight, he’s off the fucking charts.

Santa isReuben Sinclair, owner of Central Parade and twenty-three other shopping centres around the country.