Page 4 of Santa's Dark Secret
I wonder if . . . hmmm.
Maybe I need to ask for something a little . . .morefrom my mystery Christmas Eve visitor. I already know he’s willing to return, but just how far can I push this?
And with that, I close my eyes and toss the little penny into the freezing fountain. “This Christmas, I wish to be dicked down so hard that my knees will shake for weeks after. I wish to be thrown around, flipped over like a pancake, and railed within an inch of my life. I wish to be dragged down my bed only to feel a warm mouth close over my clit and scream as he works me with his skilled tongue.”
“Oh, don’t forget making him come apart in your mouth,” Carolina suggests, her shivers shaking us both.
“Oh yeah. That too,” I say through chattering teeth. “But most of all, I wish to come alive, to feel things I’ve never felt before, and to be screwed so good that nothing will ever compare.”
2
NICK
Ahh, Christmas Eve, the busiest night of the year. For me, at least.
Believe it or not, but I am the big asshole in the red suit. Some may know me as jolly old Saint Nick or Father Christmas, but I’m more commonly known as Santa Claus.
There’s a catch, though. I’m not exactly the Santa Claus you’re thinking of.
You know the guy you see plastered across the malls every December? The one with the jolly Christmas spirit, rosy cheeks, and the beard? Yeah, that’s not me. That’s my father, Nick Sr.
He was the one that encompassed the whole Christmas spirit. He gets all hot and bothered for sleigh rides and Christmas carols, and for the better part of fifty years, he was the greatest Santa Claus to grace the planet. But unfortunately for me, as much as he’d like to think he’s invincible, he’s not, and only a few short years ago came the dreaded time to retire.
Fuck, he was a cranky bastard leading up to that, but now that he’s dedicated his existence to being a thorn in my side, the old man has regained his jolly spirit.
When Dad retired, he handed the literal reins to me, and honestly, I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking. I haven’t got a Christmassy bone in my body, but I get it. It’s a family tradition, and I’ve known since I was a child that I would one day fill his shoes as the world’s next Santa Claus. But fuck, they’re big shoes to fill.
The job has been passed down from father to son for countless generations. It was only a matter of time before the title of Santa Claus was thrust upon me, but I had hoped for more time.
I won’t lie, it’s a lot of responsibility, and while I’m the type to thrive under pressure, there are over two billion kids on the planet who are counting on me to make their Christmas wishes come true. I can’t afford to fuck up.
Only problem is, fucking up is one of my favorite things to do.
No pressure, huh?
I’m not exactly a traditional Santa Claus, and it’s something my father has worried about since the day I was born. I don’t encompass all that holiday cheer that comes so naturally to all the Santas before me.
Quite frankly, I’m the complete opposite. I’m the dark horse of the family. I’m an asshole, and I don’t give a shit who knows it. On top of that, I may have a slight sickness . . . a fascination of sorts, one I’ve worked my ass off to keep concealed.
This job has had one hell of a learning curve, but for as long as I can remember, my old man has been training me, taking me along every Christmas Eve to see what would one day be my responsibility.
As a kid, I loved going with him to see the world outside of the North Pole and to see the joy that this job actually brings. It’s one thing just knowing about it, but seeing it in action gave me awhole new appreciation for what we were doing. Though, I’d be lying if I didn’t say there were particular perks of the job. Perks that have seen me almost cross the line a million times over. Perks that have more than challenged my self-control.
You see, I may or may not have a slight obsession—a sick, twisted need.
When I was eight years old, the world I’d seen through rose-colored glasses shifted in a big way, and suddenly my purpose of becoming Santa Claus took a back seat, and my sick obsession began to develop.
Mila Morgan.
She was barely six the first time I saw her, but there was something about the innocence in her eyes that drew me in. It was the first time my father had taken me to do the Christmas Eve rounds, and for whatever reason, she was standing right there in the middle of the living room.
I couldn’t understand it. She was supposed to be asleep, and for whatever reason, it didn’t register that the child inside the home wasn’t tucked securely into her bed. None the wiser, we took the journey down the chimney, and when I appeared in the living room to see Mila gaping at me, I instantly became fascinated.
Who was this child, and why the hell could she see me?
I didn’t say a word as my father did what he does best and delivered her gift right under the tree as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on, and yet, I couldn’t tear my eyes off her. It was the first time I’d seen another human outside of the North Pole, and the warmth in her shell-shocked stare completely captured me.
That very moment kickstarted the next twenty years of obsession. Sure, it started as an innocent crush, but in recent years, it’s morphed into something a little more . . . sinister. To put it bluntly, I want to fuck this woman. I want to take her formy own and taste her night after night. There’s an animalistic need now, a ferocious hunger to have what I’ve always wanted.
