Page 8 of Santa's Dark Secret

I want everything to be perfect.

Scrap that. Ineedit to be perfect.

Ahh shit. Who am I kidding? This is truly insane.

Maybe I’ve made this whole thing up in my head. Maybe Mom was right to send me to a therapist as a kid. Do I really believe that I threw a penny into a fountain and all of a sudden, Santa’s filthy son is going to come down my chimney and fuck me until I scream?

Yes. Yes, indeed. I do believe it. Though it leaves me with so many questions.

First off, I don’t have a chimney anymore. After Dad died, our old family home was sold, and I moved into a little apartment to be closer to work. However, I do have a fire escape, so I assume he could sneak in through there. But also, if this is actually going to happen, I’ve never been more thankful that my neighbors have gone away for the holidays. The last thing I need is for Greg, Allison, and their three kids to hear my world get rocked by a fictional man . . . or maybe he isn’t fictional. I really don’t know at this point. Either way, if and when he comes, I’ll be ready.

Second issue on my agenda. What if this guy really isn’t who I think he is? Sure, he must be somewhat of a good man if he comes to fulfill my Christmas wish every year and leaves me a charm for my bracelet. But what if it’s not actually Santa’s son who’s been coming all these years? What if it’s actually Santa and I just asked him to come down my throat?

Holy shit. What have I done?

Nerves pound through my chest and settle deep in my gut. Am I about to be thoroughly fucked by Santa Claus? What is Mrs. Claus going to think about that? Shit. If that’s the case, I hope he’s been working out. I don’t want to give the old man a heart attack. But also, I hope he’s trimmed his beard for the occasion. I want to be left shaking and exhausted, not left with a beard rash on my pussy and the new title of being an adulterous whore.

Well, I suppose that would make Santa Claus the adulterous whore, right? Not me. Though, it would explain why he’s always so jolly. I would be too if I had women all around the world getting me off.

Oh God. Why am I now picturing Santa getting his dick sucked?

Damn it. I wonder if my old therapist’s number is somewhere buried in all of Mom’s old things.

I really hope this goes the way I want it to because not being thoroughly fucked is out of the question. I just need to get it,him, out of my system once and for all, and then I’m sure I’ll wake up in the morning ready to move on with my life.

I’ll be able to forget about my mystery Christmas Eve visitor, find myself a billionaire who isn’t going to cheat on me with my best friend, and finally settle down. Perhaps buy a home and start a family, have a few kids who I won’t call crazy if they happen to see Santa Claus. Maybe even add a dog to the equation. Sounds absolutely blissful to me.

With the tree finally finished, I take a few steps back to look at it from a distance, and as the lights twinkle in the darkness, the nostalgia hits me like a tidal wave.

For a moment, my chest aches with memories of the past. Having a mother to harp on my choice of dress. A father to wrap his arms around me and tell me how proud he is of me. A boyfriend to bring Chinese food over and help decorate the apartment, and to wake up next to him on Christmas morning. A best friend to show up to dinner with a bottle of good wine and a million hilarious stories to lighten the awkward conversation.

I suppose this year will be different. While everyone else’s families are coming together for the holidays, I’ll just be here all alone.

I’ve never been so alone in all my life.

Heartbreak infects me, and I do what I can to shake it off. This is my first Christmas alone, and I’m terrified of the swarm of emotions that will come tomorrow. Perhaps Carolina will let me crash her family Christmas this year. Though if my filthy wishes come true overnight, I’m hoping that getting out of bed and actually walking around will be almost impossible.

Grabbing the almost-empty box of decorations, I pull out the long garland and figure out where the hell to put it before placing a few figurines up on my shelf and hanging a few extra lights.

Once my small home looks positively Christmassy, I make my way into the kitchen and pull out a few cookies and a glass of milk before presenting them nicely on the counter. I find myself staring at them for a moment. This is exactly what I used to do as a kid. I haven’t done it in a while because this was all for Santa. Only tonight, it’s not Santa I’m expecting.

Will my knight in shining Christmas decorations be down with the whole milk-and-cookies thing? Or is a man who’s potentially capable of fucking me into oblivion in need of something a little more exciting? I’m going to go with option B. He wants the good shit.

Grabbing the glass of milk, I pour it straight down the sink, cringing at the wastage, but let’s be real. If I were to drink that whole glass of milk, I’d spend the night in the bathroom instead of on my back. After quickly washing the glass, I put it back in the cupboard before switching it out for a shot glass.

I’m a chick drinker and never really advanced from the late teen sweet drinks like Smirnoff or moscato. I can tolerate a cheap wine if it’s free, but apart from that, if it doesn’t taste like a watermelon and a passionfruit made passionate sex on top of a pile of liquid sugar, I don’t want it. However, after Dad passed, I raided his alcohol cabinet and took anything that looked expensive, and I suppose tonight, it’s finally going to pay off.

Reaching up into my cupboard, I wrap my fingers around the neck of a bourbon bottle before hesitating and reaching for the whiskey instead. Striding back to the counter, I fill the shot glass, and instead of putting the whiskey back in the cupboard, I leave it out, not sure about how many hits he might want to take. But I’m capping him at four. I won’t tolerate him getting whiskey dick tonight, not when I’ve been needing this so badly.

Certain that I have everything prepared, I double-check that the deadbolt on the door is locked before checking the fewwindows around my apartment. I rarely open them, but I still find myself checking them every single night.

With everything as it should be, I turn my attention to my bedroom, and nerves instantly flood me, but I swallow them down, determined to see this through. It’s not just what I intend to do with him that makes me nervous, but the fact I’m actually going to meet the man who’s plagued my mind for so many years. Questions I’ve had all my life will finally be answered, and I can’t wait.

My life has been such a clusterfuck lately that I deserve this, even if it’s level ten messed up.

Striding into my bedroom, I find the red lingerie set chilling on my bed and a wide grin stretches across my face. It’s perfect. When I saw it in the store yesterday, I couldn’t resist picking it up. Even if my mystery man doesn’t show up, it’s a purchase I’ll cherish for years to come.

I don’t hesitate peeling off my clothes and picking up the lingerie, starting with the bralette and setting it into place before reaching behind me and fixing the clasp at my back. I can’t help but stare in the mirror, watching as the outfit slowly comes together.

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