Page 1 of Subbing For Santa

Chapter one

The Game

Agatha

Holyshit.Whatisthis? Who is this from? Is this some kind of joke? The insatiable part of me hopes that this isn’t a joke, the dominance alone setting my blood on fire under my skin. I can’t deny how excited it makes me, but I have no idea who this invitation is from. No idea who I’ll be subbing for.

What if it’s a serial killer?

I’m not sure a serial killer would give this sort of warning, but you never know. There are a lot of fucked up people out there in the world. It could be part of their sick plan.

Still, I clutch onto the red and white card and read over the information again, hoping I missed something. That another clue will magically appear about who it is that slipped this under my door.

I have no idea how long it was lying on my floor. I paid the front entrance no attention when I got up earlier this morning and went through my daily routine of yoga and meditation before eating breakfast. I even made it through lunch without paying my front door any notice. It was by chance, when I was ordering a Christmas gift for myself online, that I went to the entrance to rummage through my purse for my credit card. And there it was, lying face up with my name written in black ink.

Agatha Fiera.

This person obviously knows me to have used my name, so I must know him or her. I just need to figure out who exactly it is.

Opening the front door to my Hamptons lake house rental, I poke my head out. My eyes travel up the gravel driveway that disappears around a bend, surrounded by thick Australian bushland. I never heard a car pull in, so whoever delivered it must have been on foot. There’s no stamp on the envelope either, so it wasn’t delivered by a postie.

Glancing in the other direction, my eyes fall to the jetty, jutting out from the bank into Redfield Lake. The little tinny at the end of the jetty is still tied up. Nothing looks disturbed down there either.

A slither of fear travels up my spine, and I step back inside, slamming and locking the door before moving back into the living area.

It’s so quiet and peaceful here. There are neighbouring houses, but they are divided by thick scrub, giving the sense of isolation. It’s why I chose to hide away here. I was too exposed in Fox Pines. Too many old clients or party acquaintances that could potentially throw me to the wolves. I figured ‘out of sight, out of mind’ was the best option after the scandal at Vixen’s Lodge hit the news. If my name ever came up, hopefully I’d be harder to find.

I’m lucky that one of my good friends is a cop. He was also an attendee at the Vixen’s Lodge Sex Parties, so in a way, he has more to lose than me. Just his attendance would destroy his career, but he never indulged the way most of the attendees did, and I’m ashamed I was also one of those people. The indulgence was called Kitten, and I often forgot how young she was because we became close and are still friends to this day. But in the eyes of the law, Kitten was a minor, so what we did, even if it was as simple as turning a blind eye, is considered a crime against a minor.

Even though I moved here to lie low, I’ve done a shitty job at maintaining my cover. Maybe I can blame my loneliness for human interaction, or maybe I can blame the depraved hunger burning inside me. Either way, I lasted a week here by the lake before I got antsy and decided to hold my own exclusive sex parties. As stupid and reckless as that is, it’s what’s helped keep me from drowning in a pool of emptiness.

I’ve considered that maybe I’ve got an addiction issue with how much I hunger for sex. Although, maybe it really is just loneliness. I never seem to let people get close to me. I’m so terrified they will break down my walls, discover my truths, and run screaming in the other direction.

Rejection is hard. So is disappointment. The best way to avoid them is to not expect anything from anyone. Don’t wish for a relationship when it’s only just sex, and in return, my heart can avoid getting hurt.

Do I wish I could have more with someone?

Hell yes! Every. Fucking. Day!

But, I learnt a long time ago that you can’t trust anyone completely, so I’m better off keeping a distance. My secrets will remain locked tight that way.

Shaking myself out of my head, I do a walkthrough of my rental, glancing out the windows to double check that there are no lurkers nearby, but all is quiet. I’m more likely to come across a koala or wombat before running into another person out here.

Back in my living room, I fall back onto the couch and stare at the red and white card. Christmas is only a week away. A time of year I hate because of the loneliness. Maybe this game with a stranger is exactly what I need to keep my mind and body occupied this Christmas. Which is why I find myself putting the card on the coffee table and making my way out my front door to see what’s in my mailbox.

As I step out into the hot setting sun, I glance around, checking to see if anyone is nearby. I’m completely aware that this invitation could be a trap. Either to lead me to my death, or to somehow expose me and lead me to jail. I should care more, yet as the stones crunch under my slides loudly in the silence, I realise I don’t care. Maybe owning up to what I did at Vixen’s Lodge is a better option at this point. After all, what sort of life am I living by hiding away? If I must be alone, I think I’d rather do it in jail, or six feet under.

With my mood flat, I walk slowly up the driveway, rounding the bend to see the old beat-up milk tin mailbox up on the side of the road which in no way matches the pretty beach style Hamptons house that sits by the water.

Reaching the road, I look both ways, noting the other mailboxes in each direction. If it weren’t for them sitting beside each driveway, I’d never know there were other people out here. There are, though. Especially this week, as Christmas nears and the Aussie summer gets warmer, the houses hiding amongst the bushland of Redfield Lake are coming to life.

Sighing, I turn to the mailbox, remembering the instructions on the invitation. If I take the package inside the mailbox, it means I’m accepting the terms of being Santa’s submissive.

The thought makes me smirk. I could be playing sub for a big burly white bearded accountant for all I know, yet here I am, still willing to play.

Why?

Because I’m lonely and not particularly picky at this point.

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