Chapter 12: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 11

The butler takes my coat when I reach Bryson’s house. A huge stately manor on the north side of the city.

“Good evening, Mr Sinclair.”

“Reuben, please,” I tell him for the five hundredth time. “How are you doing, Len?”

“Not too bad. Looking forward to Christmas. We’re going to Gill’s place for dinner. The kids are coming down from York.”

I’ve known Len for years now. He’s been working for Bryson for over a decade, and during that time I’ve been privy to his major life events, even just in passing. He’s from a large family, originally from up north. He’s still got a great twang of an accent, and a genuine joy for life.

Nobody would think he was the man responsible for leading hooded whores into the games room and setting them up for sessions of utter filth. But that is the case for most of us in this building. It brings out a side of our coins most people would never comprehend.

“How is Georgie doing?” I ask. “Is he recovering?”

Len grins. “He’s desperate to get back to football practice, little tyke. He’s speeding around on crutches like a wizard. Got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow to see how his knee is.”

I’ve only seen pictures of Len’s family, but Georgie always jumps out at me. He’s the kind of child I like, full of life and energy, with silly faces for the camera. Such a character. I’m happy for Len that he’s going to have such a wonderful gathering over the holidays. Since Jeanette left me, my Christmas Days have been somewhat muted. Lonely, many would say.

I’ve always marked it as a useful day for introspection and gratitude around my charity work, but there has been an ache over the past few years.

“The group are already set up in the dining hall,” Len says. “Everyone is here bar Mr Carson. His flight’s been delayed.”

“Thanks, Len.”

At least I’m not the latest attendee. I always like to be punctual, but on grotto days it’s difficult. I hate having to close the line while kids are still keen for the queue.

I walk through Bryson’s large stone hall to join the others. The founders are an eclectic crew, but we all have two things in common.

Money, and a penchant for hardcore filth.

I have both in abundance, but still, I’m one of the lower branches on this tree. Some of these men have corporations that span across the globe, and political associations worth billions.

The chatter is still in the realms of casual conversation as I walk in and take my seat at the table. Samuel is gloating about a merger with a major rival, where he’s ‘raked it in’ and come out on top.

“How are you doing, Santa?” he asks me.

“I’m doing well, thank you.”

“Should have worn your silly hat and your fat suit.”

The others laugh along at the image of me in my costume. They always do, because they simply don’t get why a man like me would pour so much time into festive activities for charity. I very much doubt any of them would so much as consider dressing up and sitting in a grotto all day to make children smile – unless it was for a PR stunt, with a crowd of paparazzi buzzing around.

Even then though, the paparazzi can be dangerous.

When we founded the Agency almost twelve years ago, its primary aim was a safe space for us away from the spotlight, where we could all seek our thrills without the risk of being outed. Nowadays the Agency is a multi-million business venture, with each of us taking a cut from every proposal. Officially, it’s an organisation in the PR arena. Our faceless persona draws no attention, unless you have reason to know.

We all meet here at Bryson’s for quarterly business reviews, and we conduct the occasional social, but more often than not when we cross paths now, it’s for one reason only. A proposal with one of our entertainers.

We test out the ‘hardcorers’, to see if they live up to their profiles, taking it in turns to choose the entertainer and set the scene. Fair trade and all that, since none of us are allowed to use the platform for personal use. It’s a code of conduct that we have been adhering to from the very beginning. Anonymity at all costs. Hence why our entertainers are always hooded when they play with us – from the moment they leave for the appointment until the moment they are dropped back at their door.

“Who is it going to be for you next?” Wesley asks me, and my gut twists. It’s my turn to call the shots in a few weeks’ time.

“Hmm, let me guess.” Seb rubs his chin. “Creamgirl by any chance? What’s the point in even asking him, Wes? He’s practically besotted.”

If only he knew.

They all laugh, and I’d normally laugh along with them. It’s been Creamgirl every time for me for the last three years straight. Francis pretends to grab hold of a chubby ass with a take it, slut, but tonight his humour grates at me.

I know he’s imagining ramming his dick into Tiffany’s beautiful ass, and so are the others. They have plenty of memories to call upon. They know her screams and whimpers, and the way she curses when she’s on the edge. They know how her cunt feels, and how her ass stretches, and how her bobbing tits look when she’s bouncing.

They’ve seen her hung, and hurt, and bleeding. They’ve lashed her, and tested her to her limits, and put her through filth to the extreme.

But they haven’t seen her face. Not once. Not like I have. They haven’t seen her eyes light up as she smiles, or the glow of her cheeks as she’s laughing. The few cheeky pictures on her profile could never do her justice. Not in a million years.

“I’ve got the calendar up,” Wesley says. “She’s rammed full of proposals until Christmas, but I’ll get Orla to shift them around. Two weeks Monday?”

I swallow before I nod, trying to keep a cool head. I know exactly what proposals Tiffany has coming up in her calendar, and I have cursed at the thought of her attending any single one of them. I’d hoped that having some one-on-one proposal time with her would cement the relationship into the realms of casual, but I was delusional. It’s only made it worse.

Ten times worse, in fact.

I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night after she left.

At least booking Creamgirl in for my next session here will shunt back a lot of her other proposals. Entertainers always need some recovery time after they’ve been to Bryson’s, and we always arrange that for them behind the scenes. We exploit the ‘naughty lists’ on their profiles to the absolute extreme.

“Excellent,” I say. “I’ll draw up some ideas.”

“Make sure it includes piss play, yes?” Bryson asks. “I’ll be saving my bladder for that big beauty.”

“Ditto,” Seb says. “And first dibs on her wholesome cunt for me.”

“First dibs on her fat ass,” Paul laughs.

The grating of their laughter only gets worse. My smile feels paper thin.

“I’ll be getting first dibs on everything, remember? It’s my proposal, after all.”

“Alright, alright,” Bryson says. “You get first dibs on anything, but piss play is going to be in there, yes?”

“Sure, yes. I’ll be certain to include piss play.”

“And tit punching.” Paul jabs the air. “I want to bash her black and blue.”

My palms feel sweaty as I notch up my smile. Group meetings used to be so much fun in the early days. We’d be coming up with ideas for hours on end, concocting filthy scenarios that suited us all. What used to be a simple sharing of a whore through an evening edged further to the extreme, little by little. Now it’s almost a competition. Who can we push the hardest? Who can take the most? Which of us can come up with the most hard-hitting proposal of the year?

I’m relieved when the attention turns away from Tiffany and how Paul wants to punch her tits. If it went on much longer, I’d want to be punching him.

We have another proposal lined up before then, in just two days’ time. Seb has chosen Harlot, and tells us how he wants to bind her on all fours for twelve hours straight, while we all take turns in her asshole. Cocks, then fists. He wants to use the electric wand to shock her pussy into spasming, and clamp her nipples with pincers so hard she’ll bleed. It won’t be the first time.

Harlot enjoys filth, I’ve no doubt of that, but she’s come close to tapping out on the last two occasions, and Seb seems on a mission to goad her further.

He’s revelling in spilling the details of his proposal, banning us all from shooting our loads for at least 24 hours prior, in order to get the most out of her, but for once the idea makes me anything but horny. The thought of fucking Harlot’s ass while she’s being electric shocked makes me feel nauseous, in fact. And it’s not because of Harlot.

It’s because of Tiffany.

“What’s up with you, Reuben?” Bryson asks me, out of nowhere.

I straighten up in my seat. “Nothing, why?”

“You look like Scrooge, not Santa Claus. Did someone take a dump in the grotto?”

Bryson thinks he’s fucking funny. Sad thing is, I used to think so, too.

“Shipment delays are causing some strife,” I lie. “Over six of my malls are running low on premium items. It’s a nightmare.”

“I feel your pain,” Seb picks up. “One of our couriers has been an absolute pain in the ass this week. We’ve had a five percent increase on refund requests.”

The guys around the table wince, because we’re talking big figures here, and I sweep in on the opportunity like a hawk.

“It’s ridiculous, truly. I just don’t have enough hours in the day.” I pause. “You know, I might not even be able to make it to the Harlot gig. I might be too busy shifting suppliers.”

You could hear a pin drop. They all stare at me in shock.

“Miss out on Harlot?” Bryson finally says. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m well aware of what I’d be missing, Bry,” I reply. “But these may well be extenuating circumstances. Business does always come first.”

“Yes, it does. But I’m certain if you can make time for playing Santa, you can make time for ploughing Harlot’s ass.” He laughs. “Lighten up, Scrooge boy. Harlot will cheer you up a little bit, if nothing else. Seb might even give you first dibs as a founder favour.”

“Shut up, Bry,” Seb says. “I’m not handing out a founder favour when it comes to this one.”

Their laughter is back, but mine is empty. I feel nothing as I look around the faces of the men who I would call my friends. I’m betraying them as well as scathing their manner. A Judas amongst them, drinking wine.

The code of conduct was set up around this table. I remember it well.

We’re all in this together, or not at all. The damned drink with the damned, always.

We could never levy accusations, or use power plays with each other if we are all committing the same ‘sins’. That’s why we are forbidden to have personal interactions with our entertainers. The power of association is too wealthy to be gambled with.

Everyone is still laughing when Bryson’s eyes land hard on mine. He knows me better than anyone else here, since it was him who brought me into the circle. He can probably smell my unease.

“Extenuating circumstances only, remember?” he says and I hold up my sweaty palms.

“Yes, of course. Extenuating circumstances only.” My fake smile feels like a crime. “Shipping delays or not, I’ll do my very best to be here.” I hold up my glass of wine. “Cheers to Harlot, I can hardly wait.”

I hang around for as long as I can stomach it, trying my best to join in with the conversation as we discuss Agency figures, but my heart is pounding all the way through. There’s an impending sense of doom that won’t go away. Part of me wants to confess my sins and face the disciplinary standoff head on, rather than carry the thorns of guilt. But I can’t do it.

It would mean never seeing Tiffany again.

But that’s only one of the thoughts that’s going to see me sleepless, tossing and turning for nights on end. The thought of Tiffany here, being used for other men’s pleasure, is sitting like a lead brick in my stomach, and the thought of taking pleasure from another woman does nothing for me at all.

I survey the crowd around the table in horror, masked behind a paper thin veil, because I know the road ahead has hazard warning lights flashing all over it. There’s way too much at stake to pull crazy road stunts in this fraternity and come out unscathed.

This is absolute madness, and it should stop, for both Tiffany’s sake as well as mine.

If I could pull over on the hard shoulder, I would do, but I’m already too intoxicated at the wheel to entertain the thought.

It’s almost midnight by the time my driver arrives and Len hands me back my coat at the front door. The others are still chatting away now that Carson’s arrived. They only just opened another vintage bottle of scotch.

“Goodnight, Mr Sinclair,” he says, and I slap him on the shoulder.

“It’s Reuben, remember? And pass on my love to Georgie. I hope his appointment goes well.”

“I’ll let you know on Tuesday.”

Shit. Of course. Tuesday.

I’m supposed to be fucking Harlot’s ass in 48 hours’ time.

“Night, Len,” I say, and step out into the relief of the cold December air, enjoying a moment of the chill before my driver opens the car door for me.

As we drive away, I know there is no way I’ll be able to handle it. I don’t want to fuck Harlot, no matter how entertaining an entertainer she can be. There is only one woman I’m interested in, and I stalk her calendar yet again through my founder login.

I don’t know what the point is, seeing as I already know what her plans are.

Tomorrow evening she’ll be playing kitty for one of her regular clients.

I’ve read every single one of the reviews he’s left for her and read every single one of their proposals. So much for having a stalker fantasy, I’m becoming one in real life, and have been from the moment she walked into the grotto.

I could postpone or cancel her booking at the click of a button, and my finger hovers, tempted. I don’t want her to be kitty for an old man with a pet play kink, and would happily compensate her the £12000 she’ll get from the experience ten times over.

But I have no right to make that decision.

Tiffany can be kitty all she wants to. The choice is hers to make, not mine.

“Doing anything special for Christmas, Mr Sinclair?” my driver asks.

Tiffany’s cheeky smile comes immediately to mind.

“Nothing planned as yet,” I tell him.

But that’s a lie.

I’ve subjected Creamgirl to every kink and filthy fetish there is – apart from one thing.

Having our entertainers hooded for the founders has one drawback. There is no access to their mouth.

“If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Sinclair, but with the amazing work that you do, Santa deserves his own special time.”

Yes, a special time, kissing that gorgeous mouth. Tasting her. Sinking my cock down her throat. My cock swells just thinking about it.

“I’m sure something will come up,” I tell him.