Page 30 of Santa's Baby
No fucking way.
This User number has been emblazoned into my memory since Ella first mentioned it in the mall.
User 5639. Male. 47.
Santa.
My orgasm heartrate pales in comparison to this one. My fingers are so jittery they can barely click the screen.
7
REUBEN
User 5639. Male. 47
I stumbled across you, and you took me by surprise.
I have things I need to explore, and I know you’ll be just the girl for the job. Show me you as your natural self, please, however you choose to present yourself.
Come prepared, with no preconceptions, and be willing to live up to your profile.
Duration: 10 hours
Proposal fee: £10
It’s a ridiculous proposal, and I should never have sent it. Approaching an entertainer for a personal one-on-one booking is against our code of conduct, beyond reprehensible, and an affront to the group of founders who set up the Agency along with me. My stakeholder status should never be worth risking, and neither should the respect of my associates. All of us are high class businessmen with reputations to uphold. We all just happen to like filthy sex – and the revenue that comes along as a result.
We are not running a seedy brothel at the Agency, we’re running and maintaining a large network of extreme professionals. We treat both our clients and entertainers with respect, diligence, confidentiality and safety – which are some of my key values in life. Yet, here I am, jeopardising my position with a fake user profile.
Having Creamgirl sitting on my lap with her face on display changed everything for me.
From that moment on she was no longer just Creamgirl – a nameless, faceless entertainer. She was Tiffany.
And she sent me insane.
I could have offered a huge amount of cash for her services, but I didn’t. Still, she chose to accept it. One pound an hour for unlimited access to her repertoire is beyond rationale. The girl has clearly bought in to my insanity. She must be going as crazy as I am.
She’s travelling a long way out of London to meet me here in Evesham. I booked the bridal suite here at this spa resort for our one impulsive evening, and it’s a beauty with its antique four poster bed. I pace around, admiring the period features that are truly fit for a princess.
I get a notification five minutes ahead of schedule.Arrived.
Tiffany – Creamgirl – is downstairs in the lobby.
I check my tie in the mirror, straightening it just so. I’m wearing one of my finest suits. A traditional number from Savile Row. A dusty blue tweed that works with both my hair and eyes, complemented by the royal blue tie I’ve chosen. I smooth down my lapels, and I’m set to go.
I descend the main staircase, my mind still cycling through the options of how she could have interpreted my words. Her natural self, I asked for, and as I step into the lobby and catch sight of her, my question is answered.
Creamgirl has come as Tiffany. The gorgeous creature who sat on my lap in Santa’s chair.
There is no way on this planet I’m going to be getting my head together tonight.
She’s wearing big boots and torn jeans, with fishnets visible underneath, swamped in a hoodie against the chill with her scarlet hair a cascade down her back. Her expression as she registers me is one of fixation and horror, both at once. She stares me up and down with wide eyes, her fake lashes giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll. I love the contouring on her cheeks as her mouth opens. I adore her bright red lip gloss and the way it looks so inviting.
“Hi,” she says, but I ignore the casual and go straight in for a kiss on each of her cheeks, clasping her hands in mine.
“Welcome. It’s a pleasure to see you.”
She laughs at that and looks down at herself. “Yeah, right. When you said come asme, I thought you meant literally. I didn’t expect you’d be bringing me to swanky town.”