Page 7 of Santa's Pretty Helper

The man in the video hauls the woman to her feet, backs her against a wall and starts fucking her. She moans loudly, and I do to as I up the intensity of my toy. My back arches and my nipples tingle as I imagine it’s Gabe fucking me like that, whispering dirty words in my ear as he pounds into me. I struggle to fully imagine what it would feel like to have a cock inside me, but god, I want to know. I want to know so badly.

And let’s be honest. Not just any cock. Gabe’s cock.

The man buries his face in the woman’s neck as he fucks her, and I imagine Gabe’s lips on my neck, his teeth grazing my ear as he moves in and out of me. I imagine the solid weight of his body surrounding me, pinning me to the wall. Claiming me and owning me.

God, yes. The thought of being owned by Gabe sends a jolt of lightning right to my clit, and I’m close. So, so close. I can feel the pressure building, the tension coiling in my belly. My visionblurs and even though I’m still watching the video, I’m not, really. My mind is full of images of me and Gabe. It’s his body, his hands, his mouth, his cock. It’s his voice, whispering in my ear, telling me I’m beautiful, telling me I’m perfect.

The orgasm hits me hard, my body convulsing, my breath catching in my throat. I ride the wave, the pleasure intense, the fantasy vivid. It’s Gabe, always Gabe.

I would literally sell my soul to give him everything—my body, my virginity, my heart.

I turn the toy off and flop back in the bed. The video’s still playing, but I’m not really watching anymore. I’m floating on a wave of post-orgasm bliss. I lie there for several moments, my body sated, my mind still racing. I know I can’t keep doing this. This fantasy world I’ve built for myself isn’t healthy or realistic. I should let go of this ridiculous crush and date someone who might actually be interested in me.

But I don’t know how to stop.

I don’t know how to want anyone except Gabe.

Four

Gabe

The air outside is cold, with low, gray clouds threatening a dusting of November snow. Wind whips through the trees, and the branches of the maple outside my window tap on the pane softly. Signs of Christmas are starting to appear everywhere—Christmas trees and decorations and lights and music. I’m not normally a big Christmas fan because I spend the entire season working my ass off, but now that I’ve been fired, it’ll be different this year. I’ll actually have time to get into the Christmas spirit.

Because I’ve made a decision. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking it over since getting fired from Haute Maison last week.

I’m going to save up my money with the end goal of opening my own restaurant. No more toxic asshole bosses, no more getting told how to run my kitchen.

And luckily, I still have a source of income while I’m not working in a restaurant. It’s something I’ve done off and on for years. I haven’t done it much lately, but I can ramp up my efforts, maybe find a few new places to stream and post. It’s not like I don’t have time now.

The biggest problem will be keeping how I’m saving up and keeping myself afloat a secret.

There isn’t a single person in my life who knows what I do on the side. Who knows that I’m a cam performer with an OnlyFans full of photos and videos. I put samples of my work on some of the free sites, directing people to the paid subscription ones for full access to my content. I perform live online on different platforms, like CamSoda, Chaturbate, and others. It’s nice, easy money with the potential to make more if I dedicate myself to it. And given that I’m stroking myself daily to thoughts of Bella anyway, I might as well get paid for it.

I started performing almost fifteen years ago when a friend gave me the idea of doing it to make some quick money to pay down my culinary school loans. Not only was the money decent, but I found that I genuinely liked it. I get off on the idea of people watching me, getting off to me. The majority of my subscribers and fans are dudes, which doesn’t bother me. It says I’m straight in my profile, and I’ve never had an issue with anyone being disrespectful or inappropriate.

Now that I have more time, I’ll step up how often I’m performing, maybe look for some fresh platforms.

I have a show scheduled for this afternoon on one of the major platforms. I’ve already showered and groomed and set up my room, getting the lighting exactly right, making sure my wireless keyboard is charged. On this site, I provide a menu of options with tip amounts attached. For one coin, I’ll remove an item of clothing until I’m naked. For three coins, I’ll say something filthy. For five coins, I’ll flex my cock and cup my balls. For ten coins, you can open a private chat with me. For fifteen coins, I’ll stroke my cock for a minute. For thirty coins, I’ll play with my precum. For fifty coins, I’ll stroke my cock for five minutes straight. For three hundred coins, I’ll come. For a thousand coins, I’ll play with that come. People are also welcometo suggest activities, and if I’m into it, I’ll let them know the price.

Sometimes I add or subtract things, depending on what kind of mood I’m in. I have one site where subscribers pay to watch me cook naked. Sometimes I’ll stroke myself with a Fleshlight, or fuck a realistic silicone pussy.

That one’s especially helpful on days when I just can’t get Bella out of my head.

I settle into my chair, the soft leather cool through my thin sweatpants. I click a few buttons, check my lighting one more time, and then click the button to go live and start my show. I’ve done this literally hundreds, maybe thousands of times, but there’s always a thrill, a rush of adrenaline that courses through me when I start a show. I’m in control here. I set the pace, the tone, the limits.

“Afternoon,” I say, pitching my voice low and winking at the camera. I lean back, letting my half-hard cock—still covered by my thin sweats—into view. Tips are already rolling in, pinging softly in the background. I glance at my menu again, and I smirk. I’m here to perform, to give them a show, and I always deliver.

“Shirt off,” I read aloud, acknowledging the tip that’s just come in. I reach behind my head and yank my t-shirt off in one smooth motion. I toss it aside, revealing my chest. I might be almost forty, but between working in the kitchen and hitting the gym regularly, I look good.

Has Bella ever noticed?

The tips keep coming, and I keep performing. I slide my thin sweats down my legs, leaving me in nothing but black boxer briefs. I rub my hand over the bulge growing there, teasing, tantalizing.

“Someone wants to hear something filthy,” I murmur, reading the tip note. I lean in closer to the microphone, dropping my voice to a husky growl. “I want to fuck you slow and deep,little one. Want to feel you clench around my big cock as you beg me for more.” I try to keep my dirty talk gender neutral so that everyone can enjoy it. But neutral or not, in my mind, I’m talking to Bella. It’s her I want to fuck slow, her I want to feel clench around me, her I want to beg me for more. It’s her face I see as I slip my hand into my boxers and grip my cock, stroking slowly.

I groan, leaning back, my eyes closed as I picture her. Her blond curls spread out on my pillow, her green eyes bright with lust, her lips parted as she moans my name. It’s her. It’s always her.

More tips come in, so I pull out my cock, drizzle a little lube on, and then stroke myself a few times.

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