I ’ve been fucking bored out of my mind all day...until now, that is. I run Dreamers, a premiere shop on the Upper Eastside that specializes in making dreams and fantasies a reality. Christmas is our busiest season. A lot of that is because there are a ton of lonely, bored women during Christmas. Case in point, one Ms. Keni Preston. A bored ex-housewife whose biggest wish for Christmas this year? To be seduced and romanced by Santa .

Now, don’t get it twisted. I don’t sell sex. I sell the fantasy. Ms. Preston paid to be picked up by Santa in Central Park, taken home and fed a romantic dinner in a penthouse suite and cuddled all night. No sex involved. Now I know what you’re thinking, but cuddling is not sex. There are even these people who proclaim themselves professional cuddlers .

People I hire for this shit are extensively vetted, thoroughly interviewed, and paid handsomely for their help. I only hire the best of the best, except for Brian Flannigan. He called in sick this morning, leaving me short one fucking Santa. I have a small staff, all of which are booked solid. It was either cancel Ms. Preston’s fantasy at the last minute, or fill in myself. Fuck, I hate doing this shit, and I never do it, to be honest. I should have canceled. It would have been the professional thing to do, but one look at this hot piece of ass has me thanking myself for not pulling out at the last minute .

I snort at that though. There won’t be any pulling out at the last minute where it concerns her .

In the spirit of Christmas—and the hope of never getting a bad fucking review on Yelp or some other asinine site, I stepped in, and I’m damn glad I did—now . I hadn’t met Keni previously because my receptionist does all the booking. I have to say, however, if I had known what she looked like beforehand, I would have totally taken this job out from under Brian. She’s a stone cold fox. Legs that fucking go on for miles, tits the size of cantaloupes and so fucking perfect they reach out and beg you to hold them. The black dress she’s wearing is professional and severe, but it’s sexy and shows just enough cleavage that you want to grab each side of the V-neck collar and rip it away from her body. And fuck. That damn red hair she has on her head is like a fucking crown of beauty. Makes me wonder if the curtains match the carpet .

She’s got all those locks bound up in a damn bun, but you can tell it’s long and wavy. Shit is bronze, and auburn and other colors I can’t begin to name. It’s like she’s got the fucking sun trapped inside of it .

Perfection .

I expected her to give in to me right away, but she must like the game we’re playing. I can dig it. I always did like a woman with an imagination. So when she starts squirming I decide to go with my instinct. Usually women wound as tight as this one have a bit of a freaky side to them. I swat the side of her thigh hard, and keep pressure on her leg .

“Keep still,” I order her, making my voice deep, commanding. If she wants to play this game then she needs to know I’m in charge. And because she paid for the Santa fantasy, I add, “Or Santa will put you on the naughty list .”

“Are you deranged?” she asks, pretending to be outraged. She can’t hide the tremble in her body, however. She can’t hide the way she shivers from the contact, or the way her calves tighten under my hand, or even the way her ass and hips curl into the air toward me. And she really can’t hide those fucking nipples, which push against her dress .

“Santa has to punish naughty girls.” I grin and stand, taking the cigarette out of my mouth and crushing it under my boot. “What’s your name, honey?” I ask, ignoring the fact I already know—after all, I’m playing a role here .

“Holl—Holly,” she whispers, clearly flustered. It surprises me that she doesn’t give me her real name. But I like that she’s sticking to the fantasy and apparently the Christmas theme, using the name Holly. She fits the description on the ticket, red hair, green eyes, wearing black fuck-me heels, and carrying a briefcase. I dismiss the thought that maybe, just fucking maybe I got the wrong girl. She likes to play and I’m definitely in the mood to play— with her .

“Holly, I think it’s time I show you exactly what Santa does with bad little girls .”

“I… You do?” she asks, her eyes opening wide and getting round, showing off the green beauties that a man could get lost in .

“I do indeed,” I tell her, letting my hand move farther up her leg. Her body tenses, her hand going half-heartedly to stop me, but when I push under her dress, going high on her thigh, she doesn’t protest .

“What does… What does Santa do?” she asks in a whisper-soft tone and I send up a thanks to the powers that be that Brian called in sick .

“Santa makes them wet.” I grin, letting my finger graze against the silky fabric of her pantyhose. I really want to tear the fuckers away so I can touch her panties—ones I know are nice and soaked. I bet she’s all primed for me. But even though her hose are keeping me away from what I really want, I can feel how damp they are. Her face turns pink and I know exactly how my touch is affecting her. I know her dirty little secret now. She’s definitely into her fantasy and she’s ready for more. I’m going to take her back to the penthouse I reserved and I’m definitely thinking I’ll give Holly more than she paid for. It goes against every rule my company has, but Holly is making me forget about all of that. She’s even making me feel generous .

She’s got my cock harder than fucking steel .

If little Holly here plays her cards right, this Santa might just decorate her pretty little body for Christmas …

With my cum .