Santa, Sir

TheWorkshop

I am not usually so bold, but when you have nothing to lose, there’s a freedom about it. I am at rock bottom. I can’t fall much further than being a damn elf. Bah humbug! I look at Ronan and raise an eyebrow as I await his response.

His laughter fills the room, dark and delicious. “Oh, Katie. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into.” He stands, holding out his hand to me. “Come. Let me show you my true workshop.” He leads me through the mall, past the cheerful holiday decorations, to a door marked "Staff Only". He swipes a keycard and ushers me inside.

The room is dimly lit, filled with shadows and strange shapes. He closes the door behind me, the lock clicking into place with a sound that makes my heart race. “Welcome to my real workshop, little elf.” He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “Now, let's see how much mischief you're really capable of.” His hands catch my wrists, pulling me against him.

“I'm going to unwrap you like the present you are.” He kisses me, hard and demanding, his tongue invading my mouth. “And then I'm going to play with my new toy, until you're begging me to stop.” His teeth graze my lower lip. “If I let you.”

I chew on my lip. I am wondering why I am both curious yet want to run. I wanted something bad, and I am looking right at him. “Do your worst, Bad Santa.”

His eyes glitter with wicked intent. “Oh, I intend to.” He releases my wrists, only to grab my hand and pull me towards a large, ominous-looking chair. “Sit.” He waits until I’m seated, then he leans over me, his hands on the arms of the chair, caging me in. “You've been a very naughty girl, Katie.” His voice is low, hypnotic. “Lying on your application, sneaking glances at me when you thought I wasn't looking.” His lips brush my jaw, trailing fire down to my neck. “Time for your punishment.” His teeth sink into the sensitive skin where my neck meets my shoulder, hard enough to bruise. He sucks hard, marking me as his. “That's just a taste, little elf.” His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt up. “By the time I'm done with you, you'll be screaming my name.” He finds the edge of my panties, his fingers teasing my dampening core. “And you'll be begging for more.”

“I didn't lie, exactly. I just said I had lots of experience when I really don't. I am restarting my life from scratch after my ex. I might as well be a virgin at this point. He was very vanilla if we ever did anything. I have no clue what half of this stuff is.”

He pauses, his fingers stilling against me. “A kink virgin?” He pulls back slightly, looking down at me with an unreadable expression. “Well then.” His voice is softer, almost gentle. “We'll have to break you in properly then, won't we?”

He sinks to his knees before me, his hands pushing my thighs apart. He leans in, his breath hot against my most intimate flesh. “Don't worry, little elf.” His tongue flicks out, a teasing caress that makes me gasp. “I'll be gentle.” He laughs darkly, the sound vibrating against me. “At first.”

His mouth closes over my c**t, his tongue swirling and licking, his teeth grazing sensitive nerves.

He worships me with his mouth, his hands holding me open, exposed, utterly at his mercy.

He sucks hard, his tongue f*****g into me, again and again, until I am writhing, panting, begging wordlessly for release. Just as I am about to shatter, he pulls back. He stands, wiping my juices from his chin with a smirk. “Not yet, little one.”

He reaches down, unzipping his pants, freeing his hard, thick length. He strokes himself slowly, teasingly. “I want to feel you come apart around me when I take your kink virginity.” He steps closer, one hand fisting in my hair, pulling my head back, arching my throat. He positions himself at my entrance, his c**k’s head nudging against me. His dark eyes bore into mine. “This might hurt, especially if he were a Tiny Tim.” He slams into my p***y in one brutal thrust, bottoming out, filling me.

I cry out, my nails digging into his arms, the pain sharp and shocking. He holds himself there, letting me adjust, his breath hot against my ear. His voice is a dark whisper. “That's it, little elf. Take all of me.” He pulls back, then slams into me again. He sets a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deep, his fingers tightening in my hair. His other hand slides between my legs, his thumb finding my c**t, rubbing mercilessly. “c*m for me, Katie.” He growls against my neck.

“c*m all over my c**k like a good girl.”

As I was about to cry out, I woke up. That is definitely how my first day won’t go, but it is one hell of a way to wake up.

My phone felt heavy, slick with the sweat of my palm. My dream lingered, a phantom pressure against my skin, the echo of a growl in my ears. Sunlight already bled through the cheap blinds, mocking the dark tendrils still coiling in my gut. I thumbed the contact, a single tap sending the call.

“Jess,” I said.

"Morning, sunshine. You sound like a banshee swallowed a foghorn." Jess's voice, a welcome, grounding presence, cut through the dream's haze.

"Worse. I just woke up from… this dream. About Santa." My voice came out raspy.

"Santa? Like, the guy with the big belly and 'ho-ho-ho'?" Jess's tone shifted, curiosity piqued.

"Not exactly. More like 'Bad Santa' meets… well, I don't even know what that was. My new boss, Jess. The one from the mall." I squeezed my eyes shut. "He was… doing things. Unspeakable things. And I was… I was into it."

A beat of silence stretched. "Into it, how?" Jess prodded, her voice soft now, careful.

"He called me his little elf. He kissed me, and his hands… he said he wanted to 'unwrap me like a present'. He… Jess, he was on his knees. My panties. It was so real, I swear." The words spilled out, raw and a little frantic. "I don't know if I want to scrub my brain or replay it."

"That's… quite a welcome to the North Pole." Jess chuckled, a low sound. "Sounds like your subconscious found a way to process a lot of suppressed… everything."

"Suppressed what? Chad was about as exciting as wallpaper paste. This was… a whole new universe. I'm confused, and I'm also…" I trailed off, the heat rising in my cheeks.

"Aroused?" Jess finished for her, the word a gentle probe. "Maybe this isn't about being bad, Katie. Maybe this is about feeling something powerful again. Something that isn't Chad's pathetic control."

"Wait, how do you even know what he looks like? I thought the Head Santa was some mysterious managerial guy they just trot out of the executive suite when the cameras are rolling," Jess asked.

I stared at my phone, genuinely baffled by her lack of local knowledge. Did she live under a rock? "Mysterious? Jess, are you kidding me? We’re talking about Ronan Rourke." I continued. "The Head Santa is Ronan Rourke," I clarified, shaking my head slowly. "He’s not some suit they found in accounting who decided to wear red velvet once a year. He owns Rourke Customs."

"Oh! That Rourke. The bike guy? The one with the shop that looks like a fortress made of chrome and bad intentions?"

"Precisely," I confirmed, taking a necessary gulp of the bitter coffee. "The massive, ridiculously famous motorcycle shop on the industrial estate. The one with the blacked-out windows and the constant lineup of bikes that cost more than my entire college tuition. Every greasy, leather-clad biker in the state knows that name."

I had to stop myself from launching into a full biographical lecture. I’d seen the man around town more than once, always looking like he was moments away from starting a brawl or riding off into the sunset on a ridiculously powerful machine.

"He was on the cover of that Gearhead magazine last year, remember? The one about custom builds?" I switched to a video call. I mimed holding up a massive glossy magazine. "He was practically dripping oil and menace in that photo shoot. He’s huge, he’s got that thousand-yard stare that makes you feel like you just interrupted a murder, and he generally looks like he’s about to break something expensive just for the satisfaction of it." I leaned in, dropping my voice to a whisper of pure, unadulterated curiosity. "Honestly, the fact that that man puts on a velvet suit and plays Santa—complete with the ridiculous white trim and those highly polished boots—is the most confusing, mind-bending thing I've ever witnessed. It’s like casting a professional heavyweight boxer as a delicate fairy princess. It just doesn't compute." I giggle. “You know, like the Rock in Tooth Fairy.”

Jess’s eyes were wide now, the mystery of the intimidating Santa completely solved—and replaced with a far stranger reality. "Wait. So the guy who yelled at the elf coordinator for stocking the wrong brand of almond eggnog… is a custom motorcycle builder?"

"The one and only," I confirmed, setting my mug of hot cocoa down with a decisive clink. "And that, my friend, is how I know exactly what our Head Santa looks like, beard or no beard. You don’t forget a face like Ronan Rourke’s. Especially when it’s staring out at you from the magazine rack while you’re buying bread."