Page 2 of He Sees You When You're Sleeping

My shirt is too wet to put on, so I close my jacket over my bra-clad breasts, the zipper straining, and head out. It’s eerily silent as I walk through the mall. There’s something exhilarating, but just as terrifying, knowing I’m alone except for the security guards making their rounds.

What if someone hid in a store, wanting to steal a few presents before Christmas, and they see me walking along the storefronts? What if they snatch me up and take me somewhere else? What if I wake up to find myself tied to a bed, completely at their mercy?

I shake myself. Something is truly fucking wrong with me. I know that, but I can’t do anything about it.

Fear is my favorite kink, the only thing to truly get me off. And it’s been a long fucking time since terror has sunk its claws inside me and allowed me to come. Instead, I’ve had to settle on reading about it, or watching it on some over-the-top porno.

Maybe one day I’ll find someone who can give me what I need without making me feel bad about it. They’ll kidnap me, bruise me, choke me—they’ll do all the things I dream about, and they’ll do it with a smile on their face.

I sigh. That’ll never happen, because men like that don’t exist. They might be into the degradation part, but that’s it. After they come, they’ll leave you to clean yourself off, and ice your own joints. When they’re done, they’re done. Aftercare? They’ve never heard of it. But hitting you across the face? Jamming things inside your pussy until the pain makes you squirt? They’re all over that.

Whatever. Robbie, the mall security guard and my occasional fuck buddy, brings me hot chocolate the morning after a fuck session, and that’s good enough. I guess.

Fake snow covers the tiled floor as I approach Santa’s Village, the animatronic reindeer asleep for the night. Their reins are attached to Santa’s sleigh, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Thankfully.

When he’s around, I go all stupid. I forget how to speak, how to think—hell, I forget my own name. He’s six-foot-six and built like a goddamn bear. The man has muscles on his muscles, and a little belly that makes all my dad-bod dreams come true.His tanned skin juxtaposes his fake white beard and red suit perfectly. He has rosy cheeks, but I’m not sure if it’s natural or from a layer of blush.

But it’s those eyes—they’re dark, almost black, and all knowing. All seeing. I feel him tracking me as I move through the village, his gaze boring into my back. And when I’m at his side, helping settle a kid on his massive thigh…

I shake myself. He has to be at least fifteen years older than me, and probably married, because a guy like that is never single. To top it all off, I don’t even know his real name. I’ve only ever known him as Santa, which I know is insane, but I’m almost positive it’s his real name. Maybe his parents just really loved Christmas, or maybe he legally changed it to really get into the mindset of the big guy during this time of year.

I don’t know, and truthfully, I don’t care. Because he’s one Christmas tree I’d love to climb, a face I’d love to ride, a sac I’d love to empty.

Okay, too far.

Way too far.

The plastic snow crunches under my curled elf shoes as I trudge up the few steps behind the stage. A few lights overhead spotlight the village in a white glow, the faint smell of minty candy canes and spicy cinnamon still perfuming the air.

Goosebumps ripple over my arms as I step fully behind the backdrop. I glance around, feeling eyes on me. Maybe Robbie is messing with me? He is a fucking weirdo, so if he was watching me, stalking me, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

But as I scan the empty mall center, there’s no one there. The lingering feeling of being watched still crawls over my body like a million ants, but I shake it off, chalking it up to my imagination. My bag is right where I left it, and I snatch it up, sling it over my shoulder, and spin around. The bottoms of my shoes have zero grip, and my foot slips out from under me.

A scream rips from my throat as I sail through the air, my arms flailing. I try to reach for something, anything, to stop the fall. But there’s nothing. There’s no one.

My ass lands on the hard ground, and tears prick my eyes as pain radiates up my tailbone. I shift, wincing at the sting. How hard do you have to fall to crack your tailbone? Because, whatever the answer is, I just did it. I know I did. I feel it. It’s cracked, and I’m going to end up in a full-body cast while I heal, and I won’t be able to use my vibrator—this is the worst day of my life.

It’s the worst.

Nothing else could top this day, because how am I supposed to call for an ambulance, ask them to take me to the hospital because I broke my ass, and silently lay there as doctors and nurses wrap me up like a fucking mummy?

“Are you alright?”

The deep, rumbling timbre of his voice catches me off guard, and I sniff back the emotions threatening to overtake me. I don’t know where he came from, but his familiar voice sends a wave of heat through me.

I see his boots first, black and shiny, with silver buckles. Then the white trim of his red pants. My eyes travel up the long length of his legs, lingering on the thigh muscles that could pop my head like a watermelon—honestly, I’d welcome death if he did that. His black belt is perfectly polished, and the buckle is just as silver and shiny as the ones on his boots.

His small belly hangs over it slightly, but I don’t care. I want to rest my head against it like a warm pillow. I force my gaze to keep moving up his body. Then there he is—Santa. Concern twists his features, his lips pressed tightly together as he folds his thick, tree trunk-like arms over his chest.

He stares down at me, and I know he’s waiting for a response, but nothing comes. Not a word. Not a breath. Not even a little squeak. Even the tears and emotions subside.

All that’s left are his eyes, serious and unnerving, staring at me like I’m the only thing in the entire world he cares about.

I run my tongue over my dry lips, wetting them, and his gaze drops to the movement. Under his black beard—yeah, he has a real beard under the fake Santa one he wears during his shift—his jaw tenses. His throat bobs with a thick swallow, then he extends his hand, reaching for me, and all I can do is stupidly stare at it like I’ve never seen the appendage before. But I have—I have two of them myself, but I can't move either of them.

I can’t think past the fact that Santa wants to touch me. That he wants to help me to my feet. That he cares.

About me.

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