Page 24 of Subbing For Santa

He can see me through cameras I can’t seem to find. He knows intimate details about me, yet I know nothing about him. And now, I know for certain he has access to this house.

Am I safe? Is he really someone I can trust?

These are the things I stew over well into the early morning hours, and I struggle to determine how exactly I feel about it. Clearly, he knows I’m a sexual person, and if he’s been watching me all this time, he would know my toys are a nightly routine for me. It’s almost like a bedtime ritual which helps me to relax and have a better night’s sleep.

Giving myself some self-pleasure is the only thing I can think of to turn my anxious feelings off and try to find some peace, so sleep will come. So without access to my toys, I use my fingers. It takes me a little longer than my vibrating toys would, but the buildup means I get an intense orgasm that leaves me both satisfied, yet hungry for more.

So, I do it again. Three times, all before 3am, which is when I receive a text from Santa.

Santa

Touch yourself again, and there will be consequences you don’t like.

Fucker!

“Cock block!” I yell in my dark empty house, my voice bouncing off my bedroom walls. My sour face only lasts a minute though, because his simple message reminds me that even though I can’t see him, I’m not alone. He’s always watching.

I relax, sinking into my mattress with a small grin at that knowledge, and that’s how I finally fall asleep.

Once the sun is up a few hours later, and I’ve dragged myself out of bed, I go about my normal routine. On Saturdays, I do groceries, so I do that, checking the phone Santa gave me every fifteen minutes as I eagerly wait for him to contact me.

When back at home, I try to meditate and do yoga, only to fail in the concentration department, and shift my attention to my cleaning chores, ignoring the fact that I check the phone every ten minutes.

The day is long and drags as I wait for him to make contact, and I’m about to get changed into a nice dress and hit up O’Connor’s or the Red Room strip club to find myself something or someone to do, when I get a message around 9pm.

Santa

Go to your bedroom, take your clothes off and put the blindfold mask on.

Then sit on your bed and wait for me.

Don’t move off the bed, no matter how long you have to wait.

My brows shoot up as I read over his message again.

A blindfold mask?

Leaping up off the couch, I dash to my room to find a mask on my bed. How the hell did that get there? I think over the last time I came into my bedroom, which was probably about an hour ago, and note that there wasn’t anything I can recall on the bed then.

Has Santa been in here? And if he has, when? I didn’t hear anything.

And what does he mean bywait for him? Is he going to call?

Anticipation has me moving instead of bothering to ask myself more questions I have no idea the answer to, and I strip out of my clothes, tossing them in the corner of the bedroom before going to the toilet to empty my bladder. Since he said I can’t move off the bed no matter how long I have to wait, I get the feeling he’s testing me, so there’s no way I’m going in unprepared.

Once done, I dash through the house stark naked and grab a water bottle from the fridge before returning to my room. I toss the bottle on the bed and pick up the mask, slipping it down over my face, plunging me into darkness.

I’m not a fan of darkness, but it feels different with my eyes closed, so I keep them shut as I blindly feel in front of me, patting the blanket on my bed to help find my way. I crawl up on the mattress, my hand knocking into the cold bottle of water as I get myself comfy. I sit cross-legged in what I assume is the centre of the bed, and I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

At first, I try to count the minutes, but then my thoughts stray, and I completely lose track of where I’m at. If I had to guess, I’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes when my ears pick up a noise somewhere in my house.

Footsteps.

My heart thrashes wildly, knowing he’s actually in my house. It’s unnerving really, knowing he can get in here, which just raises more damn questions. And perhaps some red flags I’m not willing to acknowledge.

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