Santa, Sir

Duties

"My duties," I repeated, the words tasting strange.

"Yes. A submissive has duties. But a Dom also has responsibilities. To care for you, to protect you, to push your boundaries safely, to ensure your well-being. To provide the very structure you crave." His gaze was intense, unwavering. "I don't want to control you to break you, Katie. I want to control you to help you rebuild. To empower you through the release that consensual submission can offer."

I remembered the bone-deep weariness of my past months, the constant vigilance, the fear of making the wrong choice, the exhaustion of carrying the weight of my own broken life. The idea of letting someone else shoulder that burden, even for a limited, consensual time, was a shocking thought.

"It sounds… terrifying," I admitted, looking down at my fidgeting hands.

"And exhilarating," he added softly. "Because it's real. It's honest. It requires immense trust, not just in me, but in yourself. To know your own desires, to articulate your boundaries, to accept your needs." He paused. "Chad preyed on your fear. I offer you courage."

"Courage to do what?"

"To explore the deepest parts of yourself. To discover the power in your own surrender." He watched me, his gaze unblinking. "To reclaim your agency, ironically, by willingly giving it away, temporarily, in a space that is entirely yours to define."

My mind reeled. Chad had built a prison around me, subtle and insidious. Ronan was proposing a different kind of structure, one that, paradoxically, promised freedom. The freedom from having to decide. The freedom from having to be strong all the time. The freedom to be, within parameters I could help define.

"I… I need time to think," I finally managed, my voice hoarse.

"Of course." He pushed a small, discreetly folded piece of paper across the table. It was heavy stock, not a flimsy cafe napkin. "My number. Call me when you're ready to discuss it further. No pressure. No obligation. This is your choice, Katie. Always."

He rose, his movement fluid, powerful. He left a twenty-dollar bill on the table, more than enough for my latte and scone.

"Goodnight, Katie," he said, his voice back to its usual low rumble.

"Goodnight, Mr. Rourke."

He walked away, his broad back disappearing into the cafe's patrons. I watched him go, a strange mix of fear and fascination swirling within me.

I picked up the paper he'd left. His number. A direct line to the man who saw past my tired elf costume, past my sarcastic retorts, straight into the secret heart of me. The man who recognized my need for control and offered to take it, consensually, clearly, and safely.

Chad's abuse had stolen my choices. Ronan was offering to return them, wrapped in a contract of consensual dominance. It was a dizzying, terrifying, almost irresistible proposition. I took a shaky breath, the coffee scent suddenly too strong, the cafe lights too bright. My spine, which had felt like a rusty coat hanger all day, now felt both brittle and strangely electric. The game, it seemed, had only just begun. And I was staring at the rulebook.

The cafe napkin, now crinkled from my tight grip, sat on my kitchen counter like an unexploded ordnance. Ronan Rourke's number, stark and bold, stared up at me. Outside, the Christmas lights on the neighbors' houses twinkled, indifferent to the internal storm raging within my tiny apartment. The air was thick with the ghost of coffee and the phantom scent of leather and male musk.

My dream, brutal and beautiful, returned in sharp flashes: Ronan's eyes, dark with intent; the rasp of his beard; the surprising weight of his body pressing me down; the shattering culmination of his control. Was it a premonition? A subconscious yearning I hadn't known how to articulate? Or simply the twisted workings of a sleep-deprived mind, grappling with a man who felt like a walking, breathing paradox?

How could he want me? Me, Katie, the perpetually flustered elf, the survivor of Chad's financial and emotional wreckage, the woman whose greatest achievement lately was keeping her apartment plants alive? He was a force of nature, a controlled explosion of masculinity. I was… a dusty paperback.

I picked up the napkin, smoothing out the creases with trembling fingers. The elegant script of his name felt heavy, promising a world both terrifying and utterly compelling. "It's about shedding the layers of superficiality and expectation, and finding profound release in the surrender of choice." His words echoed, a dangerous siren song against the blaring klaxon of my past.

My phone felt heavy in my hand. Jessica. She always knew how to untangle my thoughts, even the knotted ones.

"Jess," I started, her familiar voice a lifeline. "I think I've either found my salvation or signed up for a human sacrifice."

A snort on the other end. "Katie, darling, it's 10 PM. Did you finally get a date with that cute barista from the Grindstone? And if so, what exactly did he ask you to sacrifice? His dignity, I hope."

"No barista. Worse. Better. It's Ronan Rourke." I took a deep breath, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Head Santa. Motorcycle king. Ex-ProDom."

Silence. Then, "He's what now?" Jessica's voice was a careful blend of disbelief and intrigue. "Ronan Rourke, the Santa? The one you called 'Bad Santa' because he micromanages the reindeer line?"

"The very same. And he propositioned me. For a contract."

"A contract," Jess repeated slowly, as if tasting the word. "Like, for a side gig? Elf consultant? Does he need someone to polish his sleigh bells?"

"No. Not for Santa. For… for BDSM." The word felt like a burp, awkward and alien coming from my lips.

Another beat of silence. "b**m? As in, whips and chains and… 'yes, master'?" Her voice, usually so sharp, sounded almost breathless. "Katie, please tell me you're making this up. You, who once broke out in hives after seeing a picture of a leather sofa." I did because of Chad.

"It's not just that, Jess. It's… a contract. Rules. Consent. Safewords. He talked about it like a… a therapeutic journey. A way to reclaim agency through willing surrender." I heard my own voice, echoing Ronan's precise language, and winced. "He even brought up Chad."

"Chad?" Jess's voice hardened instantly. "What about that manipulative, leeching excuse for a human being?"