Santa’s Baby (Naughtier and Naughtier Book 3)

I prop myself up on my elbows, staring at the gorgeous suited man.

“Nothing? Are you fucking serious?” I laugh, but he doesn’t laugh back.

“Deadly.”

“Why?”

He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he picks up a travel case from the corner of the bedroom and takes out a selection of toys, laying them beside me one by one. Vibrators and dildos in a whole host of sizes, from neat little bullets, to huge towers of plastic with fist sized heads. Butt plugs, and beads – some on loose threads, like shimmering marbles, and others in a hard, thick row.

“Why?” I ask again. “Why won’t you be playing with me? We could have so much fun.”

“I’ve no doubt about that, but as I said, I want to see you, Tiffany. I want to see how you play with yourself, when you don’t have the rules of a proposal to live up to.”

I’m normally adept at reading clients, but with him it seems a whole other ballgame. I don’t get it. I’m still trying to figure him out as he pulls up a chair from the dresser and takes a seat at the side of the bed.

“Is this a voyeurism kink? Want to see how far I can push myself for you?”

“No. Not at all. I want to see how far you enjoy pushing yourself, and exactly how you do it.”

I grin. “Don’t you worry about that, Santa. I’m a very naughty girl. I can push myself a long fucking way.”

“I’m well aware of that. I’ve been privy to it many times.”

“So why not get dirty, then? We can do whatever you want. Anything.”

He stares me right in the eyes, looking almost angry. It gives me fucking tingles, go figure.

“Because this isn’t about me and it isn’t about Creamgirl. It’s about the girl underneath.”

The girl underneath. That makes me shuffle. Nervous.

“I am Creamgirl. It’s not an act. I love everything I do. It’s not just for the cash.”

“I’m sure it isn’t, and I’m sure you do. But you aren’t Creamgirl, you are Tiffany, and it’s Tiffany I want in this room with me tonight.”

I can’t remember the last time I’ve fucked around with someone using my real name. I’ve not ventured into the real world outside of proposals for years. But this is a proposal. Kind of. Technically.

Or is it?

The lines are blurry, and I feel like I’m wobbling, the safety of anonymity sailing away into the distance.

“So, what do you want me to do?” I ask.

Reuben leans forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees.

“Whatever you want to do. Those toys are all for you. Enjoy the ones you want to, and ignore the ones you don’t.”

“Cool.” I go on instinct and choose a girthy dildo. Mid-range. I pick it up and run my tongue up the shaft as I giggle.

My giggle sounds empty in the room, because Reuben’s expression stays deadpan.

“Drop the act now, please. No Creamgirl, just Tiffany.”

I sense the first crack in my Creamgirl armour. Like he’s tapped the eggshell on the side of a metal bowl. I look at him and he looks back, and I know there’s going to be no movement on his stance tonight. That much I can read.

He wants Tiffany.

Me.

It feels like he’s jabbing fingers into my gooey stomach.

I take a deep breath.

“Fine, ok. If that’s what you want.”

“What you want, remember? What I want is what you want.”

I drop the dildo to my side and shift around on the bed, getting comfortable. I relax and let my thighs loll open like I would at home, with no concern for posing. My heart is racing a helluva lot faster than it would ever be if I was just getting myself off to my own dirty tune, though. Giving him Tiffany and not Creamgirl is harder than he might think. Harder than I have ever considered.

Do I like it?

I don’t fucking know.

But I’m willing to find out for him. I’ll try my best.

The four poster has an impressive fabric ceiling. A dark red tapestry, highlighted by twists of gold. I’ve never been a mindfulness kind of girl, but Josh used to go on about meditation all the time when he was in his yoga ball phase, so I try to summon up the technique. I follow the golden threads with my eyes and take deep breaths. In and out. I try to forget Reuben Sinclair is in the room with me, and slide my hand down between my legs like I do at home. Just breathe, and play. Breathe, and play.

I’m used to being horny 24/7, and being with Reuben through dinner has already soaked my panties, so my pussy doesn’t let me down. My clit is sparking to the touch as soon as my fingers land.

I rub myself more gently when I’m playing alone than I usually do with clients, using nothing more than teasing flicks as a warmup. I tease myself for ages when I’m dancing my own dance, building myself up to a massive spurt since it’s normally a one off before bedtime, so I do the same here. Reuben will have to butt in and gee things up if he gets bored and regrets the assignment. Until then, I’ll give him what he asked for.

He wants to see what I usually do, fine. I wouldn’t be doing it trussed up in lacy lingerie.

I don’t look at him as I unclip my bra and toss it aside. My heart starts thumping again as I battle out of my stockings and suspender belt without any kind of flirty performance to go along with it. They go flying off the bed too, and I push my panties down my legs, kicking them off.

Finesse will have to go fuck itself.

Being naked isn’t an issue for me in the slightest. I spend a load of my time in sweet FA while I’m with clients, but not usually from scratch without any banter or filth to go along with it.

I always enjoy giving a butt shimmy and crushing my big tits together while I blow a kiss with a mwah. But this is nothing like that. Every roll and curve feels under a different kind of spotlight with Reuben’s eyes on me.

Practicalities come into play that wouldn’t with other people involved. I need decent access to my pussy to play with toys on my own.

I arrange the pillows behind me like I would in bed at home, so I’m on an incline and able to get past my tubby tits and belly. I can’t see my pussy unless it’s in a mirror – since I’ve hardly got the flexibility of a gymnast, and I don’t have the neck of a giraffe. They’re standard fat girl issues that make no difference to me, but they feel kinda weird when they’re exposed to someone watching.

More specifically, with Reuben watching.

I have to turn my mind off from my filthy, gorgeous boss yet again, so I focus back on the golden threads, my fingers only just grazing a path between my pussy lips. It feels like fucking for ever before I’m relaxed enough for this to pass off as natural, but when I do finally cross the barrier it’s nicer than I’d have figured. I let out a breath, with a smile.

When I get myself off, I always have fantasies. A stream of things I’ve done, or things I’ve got planned ahead in the calendar. Dirty scenes I relive or I crave. And this time there is only one thing I’d be thinking about at home if I was doing this.

Reuben Sinclair, and what the fuck he could do to me if he wanted to.

So, I think about Reuben while trying to ignore him. What a fucking paradox. I circle my clit and think of all the fucked-up things he’s done to me while I was hooded and unaware of what a salt and pepper stunner he was.

My fingers speed up of their own accord, and I grab for the dildo, trying not to look his way. I rub the head up and down my slit, closing my eyes as I deny my throbbing clit the rhythm of my fingers. I replace it with frustrating long sweeps of the dildo head instead.

I love this part – almost begging myself to let myself come. I always pretend it’s with someone else, and sometimes I even whisper it out loud. Please. A little bit faster. Just there. But I never give in to my own wishes if I’m truly trying to work myself up. I can come from clit play in about thirty seconds flat, but when I’m really playing, it’s a whole other story.

I moan as I push the cock head inside the first inch, having to hitch myself up for the angle. I always picture myself as younger when I do this – more inexperienced – but I haven’t really twigged that until now. Weird. I always imagine it’s a dick that’s ploughing me, not a dildo, and fuck myself like it’s my very first time, inch by inch as I whimper.

I’m whimpering now. Push, push, pushing until it’s all the way in.

I don’t pull it out and use a thrust method. That’s for when I’m with clients. It’s not that I don’t love it, because I do, but in my own time I have a few different measures. I make big circles with the end of the dick, so it ramps up the pressure inside me, and when I start squirming – building up to a peak – I always pull the toy out with a groan.

That’s what I do now, holding true to my own game.

I sink into the fantasy of it being a guy’s cock. Reuben’s. I pretend I’m disappointed as he pulls it out of me. I rub it up and down my slit, teasing my clit with every stroke, but I don’t break the rhythm and give my clit what it needs. I fight myself by bucking against it, frog legged as I crave more. Just there, please. Just there. But my imaginary lover denies me, and plunges his cock straight back inside.

Fuck yes, being sunk into never loses its thrill.

Over and over it goes. Cycle after cycle after cycle.

I get more frantic with my thrusting, whispering curses as I tug at my nipples, but I don’t break my own tease of a rhythm. I keep on going.

When I’m at home and playing like this, I put towels under me. I gush so fucking bad.

When I finally meet Reuben’s eyes, my heaving breaths have nothing to do with nerves, they are all about the waves of pleasure.

He’s smiling at me.

“That’s a good girl, Tiffany.”

Tiffany.

I love the way he says it.

“I’m so wet,” I tell him. “So fucking wet.”

“I know. I can hear.”

I give myself some more slit strokes and opt for a thicker dildo. Something dry and raw that will take some pushing to get it in. There’s a big flesh coloured one popping with veins lying right beside me, so I go for it. Perfect. It’s not so good at slit stroking, but it feels really fucking good when I start inching it into my pussy.

There is never anything fake about how much I love being stretched. Or how much I love people making me take it.

“Come closer, please,” I say to Reuben. “You don’t have to touch… just… watch…”

He gets up from his seat and moves to the foot of the bed, sitting down between my legs. Such a personal view.

I don’t change technique, but it takes a more dramatic turn. I deny myself until I’m cursing – begging an imaginary person for more of their dick when it’s out, and thanking them when it’s plunged back inside.

I’ve got a very vivid imagination.

I go crazy for clit orgasms, but deep vaginal is a whole other league, and these ones – where I’ve built myself up for fucking ages – are so off the scale I go crazy.

Reuben seems to read my mind as my hand goes patting around the selection of dildos for the next in line.

“This one,” he says, and hands over one hell of a thumper, with a fist-like head.

I nod. Smiling.Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“You’re in the splash zone,” I tell him, “I squirt real bad when I come like this. You should maybe get some towels.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t do fucking anything as I force the bastard toy inside my pussy and ride the waves of my efforts. My needs are off the charts, desperate as I work that fat fist in hard circles, buried all the way in. I’m moaning for me and nobody else as the sensations take hold.

In my mind I hear the voices of clients over the years, telling me what a dirty slutty whore I am, with a juicy wet fucking pussy, goading me on as I fucking take it. But it’s all in my head. There is nobody but me fucking myself with this plastic fist, and I don’t hold back when I come.

I grunt and grit my teeth, pushing out against the toy as I crest, but I hold it in position, fighting my own cunt with it, until I set it free.

The gush is a good one, sending waves right through my convulsing body as my pussy releases. I strum my clit and slam that fucker back in again as soon as I’m able, lost to everything in the world but how it feels.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Another squirt, and I’m in heaven. A fresh strum of my clit and I have ringing in my ears. I’m bucking against my fingers like a slutty bronco bitch.

And then it’s done.

I’m a panting, heaving wreck. Sweaty and sticky, and lying on soaking wet sheets. And there is Reuben Sinclair, seeing me at my most private. Exposed and sloppy in the aftermath, without any attempt at girly flirting or banter.

I get a horrible squirm in my guts, as though I’ll have disappointed him somehow, and it makes me scared. Terrified. But no, Reuben smiles.

“That was absolutely beautiful, Tiffany,” he says, but the squirm doesn’t go away, it turns into butterflies. And they dig deep.

“Thanks. I’ll clean up a bit.” I go to move my fat butt into the bathroom to grab a towel, but he puts a hand on my knee.

The touch is like electric as he shakes his head.

“Don’t even think about moving, stay right where you are,” he tells me. “It’s time to do it all over again.”