Chapter 8: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 7

User 5639. Male. 47

I stumbled across you, and you took me by surprise.

I have things I need to explore, and I know you’ll be just the girl for the job. Show me you as your natural self, please, however you choose to present yourself.

Come prepared, with no preconceptions, and be willing to live up to your profile.

Duration: 10 hours

Proposal fee: £10

It’s a ridiculous proposal, and I should never have sent it. Approaching an entertainer for a personal one-on-one booking is against our code of conduct, beyond reprehensible, and an affront to the group of founders who set up the Agency along with me. My stakeholder status should never be worth risking, and neither should the respect of my associates. All of us are high class businessmen with reputations to uphold. We all just happen to like filthy sex – and the revenue that comes along as a result.

We are not running a seedy brothel at the Agency, we’re running and maintaining a large network of extreme professionals. We treat both our clients and entertainers with respect, diligence, confidentiality and safety – which are some of my key values in life. Yet, here I am, jeopardising my position with a fake user profile.

Having Creamgirl sitting on my lap with her face on display changed everything for me.

From that moment on she was no longer just Creamgirl – a nameless, faceless entertainer. She was Tiffany.

And she sent me insane.

I could have offered a huge amount of cash for her services, but I didn’t. Still, she chose to accept it. One pound an hour for unlimited access to her repertoire is beyond rationale. The girl has clearly bought in to my insanity. She must be going as crazy as I am.

She’s travelling a long way out of London to meet me here in Evesham. I booked the bridal suite here at this spa resort for our one impulsive evening, and it’s a beauty with its antique four poster bed. I pace around, admiring the period features that are truly fit for a princess.

I get a notification five minutes ahead of schedule. Arrived.

Tiffany – Creamgirl – is downstairs in the lobby.

I check my tie in the mirror, straightening it just so. I’m wearing one of my finest suits. A traditional number from Savile Row. A dusty blue tweed that works with both my hair and eyes, complemented by the royal blue tie I’ve chosen. I smooth down my lapels, and I’m set to go.

I descend the main staircase, my mind still cycling through the options of how she could have interpreted my words. Her natural self, I asked for, and as I step into the lobby and catch sight of her, my question is answered.

Creamgirl has come as Tiffany. The gorgeous creature who sat on my lap in Santa’s chair.

There is no way on this planet I’m going to be getting my head together tonight.

She’s wearing big boots and torn jeans, with fishnets visible underneath, swamped in a hoodie against the chill with her scarlet hair a cascade down her back. Her expression as she registers me is one of fixation and horror, both at once. She stares me up and down with wide eyes, her fake lashes giving her the appearance of a porcelain doll. I love the contouring on her cheeks as her mouth opens. I adore her bright red lip gloss and the way it looks so inviting.

“Hi,” she says, but I ignore the casual and go straight in for a kiss on each of her cheeks, clasping her hands in mine.

“Welcome. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

She laughs at that and looks down at herself. “Yeah, right. When you said come as me, I thought you meant literally. I didn’t expect you’d be bringing me to swanky town.”

“Where else would I bring you?”

“I dunno. Just somewhere more…”

I smirk at her, because I can’t help it. Her smile is already infectious.

“Basic?”

“Yeah, basic. After the alleyway thing, you know.”

“I’m sure they have an area where they keep the waste, if you prefer? At least let’s have dinner first though, shall we?”

She kicks out a leg so I can see her chunky boot. “Yeah, these are going to be right at home in this place.”

I stare at her, and she doesn’t shy away from my gaze. “Are you a self-conscious girl?”

She rolls her pretty eyes at me. “Hardly. I was thinking more about you. I don’t give a toss what I wear in a restaurant.”

“Neither do I.”

“Seriously? You look like you’ve stepped straight out of some suit porn monthly magazine, and I look like I’ve just popped out to grab a meal deal.”

I step to her side and offer her my arm. “I think we are very well suited, actually.”

She holds back a laugh as a couple walk past and give us a side eye.

“Jeez, Mr Sinclair. I must look like I’m your rebel daughter.”

My turn to laugh. “I like that analogy.”

The flash of a vixen comes to life in her eyes as we start the route to the restaurant.

“Yeah, so do I. I love myself a bit of daddy kink.”

The restaurant is relatively quiet when we get there, just a few tables taken. I would usually be scanning the room for signs of opulence and inspiration for my own restaurants, but I have no interest whatsoever this evening.

The waiter is a gracious enough chap, pulling out Tiffany’s chair when we get to our table. I watch him as he watches her, clocking his curiosity. She’s a striking creature, even wrapped up in a hoodie. She emanates a buzz that can’t be ignored.

“Champagne?” I ask, and she nods.

“Yes, please. I never say no to some fizz.”

“De Chante, please,” I tell the waiter, and he trots off to the bar for the bottle of their finest.

“You could have said we were coming somewhere posh and eating out.” Tiffany’s eyes are cheeky. “Your proposal was the vaguest one I’ve ever had. I took it at face value, though. Thought you’d want the Tiff from the grotto.”

I put my elbows on the table. “I want you. As you. Whether that is the girl from the grotto or not.”

I get another flash of the vixen eye. “Yeah, well, I have a lot of different flavours. You can sample them later, if you like.”

“For one pound a go?” I pause. “Why did you accept?”

She shrugs. “Dunno. Thought it would be fun.”

I know she’s playing casual, just like she’s dressed casual, but I don’t want the outer shell. I want the girl inside the hoodie. Her brains, her beauty, her sexuality, her spice and soul. A taster just hasn’t been enough.

“Drop the facade,” I say, and lean in closer. “Why did you accept the proposal, Tiffany?”

The waiter returns before she has a chance to answer. He pops the cork and fills our glasses, and Tiffany gives a little whoop and raises hers in a cheers. She takes a sip as the waiter leaves, and smacks her lips.

“Nice?” I ask.

“Hell yeah. I usually neck the bottle like it’s a spurting dick, but since it’s De Chante, I’ll take it more steady.”

I chuckle. “You’re deflecting,” I say. “Why did you accept the proposal?”

It’s a standoff, her eyes on mine. Mine don’t waver and neither do hers. She’s reading me as I’m reading her, both of us unconsciously probing. I feel the sparks. The static of electric attraction that defies all reason.

“Because I wanted to,” she says, “just like I want to do this.”

She downs her drink in one.

Cheeky little minx.

“Cheers,” I say and clink her empty glass, and then I pour her a fresh one.

“Why did you send me the proposal?” she asks me, her big and so beautiful green eyes reeling me in.

“Because I wanted to,” I say, and then I down my De Chante as well.

A sudden loud rumble has Tiffany clasping a hand to her mouth.

“Shit, sorry,” she says, “fizz on an empty stomach. I should have known better.”

I love that she has me chuckling again. I love that her cheeks are burning up.

And I love that my cock is rock hard at the sight of her…

“We best get you fed, then.” I hand her a menu.

“What is it?” I ask when she sighs.

“This starter,” she says, “Listen to this…” she reads from the menu, “Creamy garlic portobello mushrooms in olive oil and thyme with crispy bacon bits and a slice of garlic sourdough. Garlic mushrooms is my absolute favourite and that sounds delicious.”

“But?”

She sighs again. “A girl should never eat garlic before or during a proposal. It can be a turnoff should any… kissing occur.”

I lean in a little, keeping my voice low. “Let me tell you, Tiffany, anything you enjoy devouring would be a turn on for me.”

I like that she’s speechless at first.

I like the grin that follows.

So does my cock.

“You for real?” she asks. “You wouldn’t give a toss about garlic breath?”

“Yes, I’m being truthful. Enjoy your starter. You’ll taste divine regardless.”

She sits back and fans her face with the menu.

“Posh garlic mushrooms it is, then. Just hope you don’t regret it later. At least I know you’re not a vampire.”

She goes for the posh garlic mushrooms, while I go for mussels. She goes for lasagne and chips, while I go for fillet steak. She goes for a triple chocolate sundae, while I go for a cheese board. And we laugh and chat all the while.

We talk about everything from reality TV to the intricacies of cosmology. From tarot cards, to the logistics of running ten shopping arcades, to how long she’s had her favourite boots – it all flows seamlessly. Effortlessly. I get sucked in by her flirty giggle as her walls begin to come down, fixated on her big, beautiful tits when she declares how warm she is and pulls her hoodie off over her head to reveal a cami top. I can see the straps of her red lace bra. Layers. So many layers. And I want to see them all. I want to know them all.

And I want to get to the bottom of the well. To the naked Tiffany, in soul as well as body.

I’ve seen glimpses, even though she was hooded through every experience. I’ve heard the vulnerability in her naked cries, without needing her face as a reference. I’ve felt her blissful release, often in the most extreme of circumstances. The glorious creature that’s now wiping a finger around the inside of her sundae bowl was at the top of my click list when it came to my booking choice at our founders’ gatherings. Every. Single. Time.

She sucks her chocolatey finger into her mouth and I’m transfixed. Two bottles of champagne down, and the glow is alive – palpable.

“Where next?” she asks.

I sit back in my seat. “That depends on you. Bridal suite or the kitchen trash dump, or anywhere in between.”

She tips her head from side to side.

“Hmm, tough choice. Bridal suite first.”

“First?”

“Yeah. We’ll save the trash dump for another time.”

I dab my mouth with a napkin, then call over the waiter, instructing him to add the tab to my room. Tiffany grabs her hoodie from the back of her chair, and I take her hand, leading her proudly through the anonymity of nowhere. Choosing Evesham was a blessing, far away from London’s prying eyes.

“Bridal suite, eh?” she says as we climb the stairs together. “I’m a spoilt girl.”

“See if you’re still saying that if we do end up in the trash dump.”

“If or when?”

She tugs my hand back, stopping me in my tracks as she leans against the wall. I don’t need her to pull me in, I’m already on her, my face above hers as I pull her arms up above her head.

“Why are you really here, Reuben?” she asks me. “This is fucking crazy.”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “And yes, it is. I’d get crucified for breaking the code of conduct.”

“And so would I.”

“So, why are you really here?” I ask her, and she squirms against me, rubbing the crotch of her jeans against my thigh.

“I don’t know, either.”

“How about we go and find out?”

It would be so easy to kiss her here and now. To rip her cami top off and tear down her jeans without giving a shit for passing guests. But I pull myself together. One more flight of stairs and the top suite is waiting. I get us up there as quickly as I can.

“Gosh, posh mushrooms and now a posh suite. Can’t wait to see this,” she says as I put the key in the lock and let us in.

“This is incredible,” she says as she does a spin, taking in the antique decor, but I’m not looking at the surroundings, I’m looking at her. The way she moves, the way she grins, the way her stunning red hair flies around her.

I hang up my jacket and lower my tone.

“Strip off that next layer and get on the bed.”

Tiffany, the stunning Creamgirl, is unabashed, her stare strong as she pulls off her cami top without a care. She doesn’t break the stare as she kicks off her boots and pushes her jeans down, and there it is. The layer underneath. A lacy balconette bra that raises her gorgeous tits like trophies, and a suspender belt that leads to her fishnets, finished up with a tiny thong that does barely anything to cover her bare pussy.

I’ve seen her naked so many times I’ve lost count, but the energy here now is such a stark contrast it’s barely comprehendible. My cock is raging for her.

“Get on the bed,” I repeat, and she backs over to it, her eyes still on mine.

“How do you want me?”

“However you want to be.”

She lies on her back in the middle of the bed and hitches her knees up. Her thighs fall open as she watches me walk across the room. My fucking God, the sight of her pussy. Her lips are already swollen, the clean-shaven mound of hers on show like she’s a piece of Renaissance art.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice has a slight tremble. She knows what I’m capable of.

“Are you scared?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

I break the news to her.

“Nothing.”