SANTA WITH A K
by
Cari Silverwood
A very perverted Christmas tale
"The elves needed therapy after reading this. One is hiding under a pile of toys and I can't get him out." ~ Real Santa Claus ~
"The Xmas tree strap-on featured is on my must-buy list." ~ Mr. C. Gray
"Way too much naughty. Had to scrub my eyes, mouth, and nether regions, with ginger." Sister Prudence White, the Nunnery
“The flagellation scenes were exquisite.” Marquis de Sade
“Whoahhhhh.” Anonymous Elf
"My egg nog will never be safe to drink again." Mrs. Claus
This book contains adult language and situations only suitable for adult readers.
* * *
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CONTENTS
SANTA WITH A K
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About Cari Silverwood
Copyright
Chapter 1
Robert was rambling again. They should stay together because… She didn’t really want a man to do that; it was just fantasy. She was a bitch and would never get a man. Etcetera. Though she’d tuned out mostly, had been looking around this bar instead of suffering his haranguing, finally Florence decided enough was enough.
Where did she get this asshole anyway?
“You know what, Robert?” She swiveled on the bar stool, pointed her pinky at him, using the hand carrying her cocktail glass. Then she waited.
Maybe he thought she was going to agree with him or something, because he stopped talking.
She took a few seconds to raise his hopes – cruising her gaze up him from crotch level to that fine square jaw of his and those piercing blue eyes. Robert had an impeccable taste in suits, fashion, food, and was a partner with a law firm, and still he was a dick. Limp dick, to clarify.
“I agree. I have erotic fantasies that are not anything like a normal person should have. And yes, they are kinky. However, I’m not normal. I’m better than that. I get what I want, Robert.”
His eyes narrowed, and he scooped up the cell phone he’d dropped on the bar. He wasn’t stupid, and knew she was on a roll.
“I would never have agreed to a date that first time if I’d known you were such a limp-ass dick.” Oh boy, even she knew that was nasty. Why had she said that? Thinking it was one thing, but actually saying it?
“You, Florence, are a bitch. Good luck with finding that man. The homicidal maniac list at the police station should work for you.” He handed something to the bar tender and shook his head, as if she’d disappointed him.
“Fare thee well, Robert.” She grinned and waved at his departing ass, despite that smudge of guilt on her soul. Face it, she was feeling sorry for herself.
Top job at a real estate firm, raking in half a mill a year, and she could not find a real dominant man to fuck her. They were all barely fit for under her shoe. When you had erotic fantasies of being tied up and cropped, missionary sex was the equivalent of a retirement home party.
“A scotch on the rocks this time.”
The bartender nodded to her. She should move on, find a less disreputable place. Or go home and drink on this wonderful Christmas Eve in peace and quiet.
Boring.
Where were all the Christmas decorations in here?
The bartender handed her a scotch. Then another when that was done. After the third was before her, she decided it was about her time to go. Everyone in here was too old, too paired up, or too zzzz looking.
Florence downed another swallow, checked the glass, and swirled the ice cubes and the last measure of the golden liquid. Loud voices came from outside the entrance and grew louder still. She rocked the heel of her shoe on the stool’s framework at the bottom. A bunch of suits surged in, rowdy in a boyish way. Or manly? Hmm.
A few had promise, but she currently had more alcohol than blood inside her, and her warning system said no way. Reset the boyfriend status after this, but not with these. A couple even looked dangerously sexy, which spiked her interest, had her sitting straighter, and keeping her legs tightly together under the black dress. Not for modesty, more for putting pressure down there in intimate places.
Early stubble and that slightly Italian darkness of skin, the rough structure of the face, the wave in his hair and roguish eye. Mmm. The trio walked up to the bar and Mister Dark and Dangerous even sent her a look.
With his back to her, he slid into the next-door stool.
Listening in on their conversation said they were moving on soon too – just deciding where to go next.
Having tossed back the dregs in her glass, she was two seconds from leaving when they broke into raucous laughter.
“You are not going to?” one of them barked, laughing again. “A letter to Santa?”
“They say whatever you write down and put your autograph on, in this bar, comes true.” A hand was raised and pointed at a painted sign above the bar.
“Seriously?” The tallest one asked – scraggly-haired in a chic way. Even he had a mortgage on handsome and rugged. Did all of them gym and own genetics to die for?
She crooked back her head to see this sign.
It hung there, teetering on a bit of golden string, a long narrow sign in Christmas green with hard-to-read red letters, and ratty tinsel. It looked as if it made it up there once a year, on Christmas Eve, before being tossed in a back closet for another year.
Any letter to Santa written here, and signed, is guaranteed.
Her real-estate-cultivated, lawyer-like sense told her that wording was so poor it meant nothing. Guaranteed to what? Give you herpes?
But the men next to her were whooping and writing something down, ripping pages out of a notepad.
“What do we do with them?” Mister D and D sang out to the bartender.
The bartender arrived with a humoring smile, held out his hand. “You give them to me. We put them up there.”
A bunch of Santa letters were tacked to a board behind the bar. From where she sat, she could only read a few words but most of the requests looked as inspired as Robert.
A million bucks. A condo in Jamaica. A yacht and a porn actress wife who can suck the balls off a donkey.
Why not do it?
Florence tapped the shoulder of her favorite mister in a suit. “Can one of you boys lend me a page from your notepad?”
His grin was as slow as the swivel of his stool, and it dawned on her that he was a possible candidate for her bed. “Sure. What do you want Santa to give you?”
She hesitated, almost said it. “An elf who can cook.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” But he slid a page to her, along with a black-and-gold pen, dodging the wet circles from drinks. He wore gloves, black ones. Those were kind-of kinky.
If only she knew his sexual inclinations. He probably liked girls who wore aprons and did missionary too.
You’re drunk as a fucking skunk, she reminded herself. Rein it in.
Last chance. She scribbled down her dirtiest fantasy.
Dear Santa,
I want a dominant man who will tie me up, screw me, and punish me until I’m good.
Having handed it to the bartender, she saluted her guy, gave him the
pen, and walked as steadily as she could for the door. Just in case he was a serial killer, or make that three serial killers. She should catch an Uber and begone hence.
Poof. Like a fairy fluttering on little wings for her tinselly house.
“I read that. I can give you what you want.” Gravelly, ohmigod-deep voice. Enough gravel to pave her grandma’s driveway.
She almost halted, jarred by the words, down to the bone and her wanton pussy. Another overconfident man. “I doubt it.”
No, she informed herself as she buttoned her coat. Cold outside, despite the lack of snow. Even if he was genuine, still no. A smidgen of fear stirred.
Keep walking. For once her bravado had failed her.
Chapter 2
Her bed was soft as fresh marshmallow, and she sank deep as she levered herself onto her elbow. The sheets smelled faintly of pine trees and recent rain. It reminded her of her last holiday in the mountains. Florence rubbed her eyes, one then the other, trying to clear the sleep. Her vision was like a shaken snow globe – white glittery patches floated down, obscuring the room.
Fuck. She sat up, gulped. Even with her obstructed view she could tell this was not her room. Had she gone home with someone last night?
She looked down and verified that she still wore her little black dress with the mesh yoke neck. Her Cartier watch was on her wrist. Handbag? Nowhere in sight.
Who had she gone home with? She’d been so drunk she’d forgotten the whole night, but…her clothes were on, her panties too. Must’ve been one scintillating partner.
Quietly, she slipped from the bed, her bare feet landing with a thump due to the unexpected height.
If her eyes didn’t clear, she needed a doctor. Wait. This was Christmas Day.
Sing out a hello or stay quiet?
The curtain on the window was drawn. Padding across the timber floor, she headed for it. The room was sparsely furnished. A bed, a chest at the foot of the bed, a mirror on the ceiling. She paused to lean back and look more closely. Kinky. Or the guy was a narcissist.
A door opened and shut behind her, and shod feet thudded on the floor.
Hand at her throat, she turned, and a man spoke.
“You will clean the kitchen floor while I am away. Scrub it with a bucket of soap and water. If not done well, I will punish you. Do not go outside.”
Cold washed down her body, peaking her nipples, making goose bumps rise on her arms, and cooling her fingers.
He was tall. That much she could tell past the white raining from ceiling to floor.
Black boots, dark pants, bared hairy chest – she had to tilt her neck to sight his face – and a light brown beard. Striking green irises. Her private tinsel snowstorm was clearing. She blinked.
A fucking axe rested across his shoulders. An axe! And casually held there, as if he were off to chop a few trees down for the fireplace.
What had she plunged herself into? Even she was too dumbfounded and frightened to bite back with an acerbic comment. Not even a care to tell me your name would leave her lips.
He stomped away and left the bedroom door open, then thumped across another room, opened and slammed a door.
Silence. Except for her poor heart.
“Fuck. A psycho.” Had he given her a drug and dragged her here last night? Being drugged might explain her eyes. She had to get out of here.
No handbag in sight, and if she stopped to search, he might return.
Lacking the courage to venture out of the bedroom, she ran to the curtained window and swept back the curtain. Snow and ice had piled up outside against the glazed glass. Though the air seemed clear, there was a white forest outside. Pine trees, pristine snow, and between the tree trunks two men patrolled past.
They were dressed as soldiers. Their red uniforms, with gold braid and epaulets on the shoulders, stood out against the white forest. Black pants, tall black hats, black boots, and they carried rifles, or were they rifles? She leaned into the freezing glass, up on her toes, trying to see the soldiers before they vanished into the icy air. Ancient muskets?
Her vision had cleared, so that was one less worry. That left only a crazy woodcutter, a cabin in the snow which she could never have reached overnight without hopping on a plane, and armed soldiers.
The soldiers looked like the ones Buckingham palace employed. Beefeaters. One Christmas, her brother had been given a set of toy soldiers to hang off the tree.
Deer scampered past, sinking into the snow and leaving it ruffled.
This was so very bizarre, as if she were trapped in a re-enactment of Christmas where the ornaments had run wild.
Was this a dream?
A detail had disturbed her – one glimpsed face had been nothing like that of a painted wooden soldier. He wore the scarred features of a man who’d endured hardship and had come out intact, if damaged.
This felt too real for her to believe it a dream. She did the pinch test on her nipple through the dress and squeaked at the pain.
She must go. Where was her coat?
The window wouldn’t open. It was frozen shut or locked. Panting, panicking, she did a fast search of the bedroom and found nothing of use, then ran through the door into what seemed the kitchen the mad woodcutter had spoken of. A bucket of water sat in the middle of the stone floor with a scrubbing brush beside it. A single door seemed to lead to the outside, and the windows either side verified that. More snowy forest was out there.
Unlocked? She tried the golden door handle and it turned. The metal was icy cold despite the room’s warmth.
He’d said not to go outside.
Florence backed away. This was almost too easy, and she had no warm clothes.
A heavy fur coat, big enough for a bear, and boots sat to the left of the door. All were too large for her.
She had no idea as to where she was. She might freeze. What if there was a garage with a car?
She opened the double doors, carefully, trying not to make noise. The hinges were quiet as ninja mice. What was in the room froze her in place.
In the left far corner was a cage with a curved top. It was big enough to hold a human.
Ropes coiled on hooks on the walls.
Whips and leather harnesses were arranged beside the rope coils, and she really could not tell if they were for horses or humans.
The leather masks, bits, and gags, however, those were human sized for certain. The hooks dangling from ceiling chains just plain freaked her out.
Her eyes kept tracking despite her horror. The wall to the right was lined with cupboards. A padded bench sat in the middle and to her left was a sofa and crackling fireplace that must back onto the one in the kitchen.
No car. No electrical devices. No phones. No TV. No power outlets at all.
Anywhere in this house. No overhead lights either.
Fuck.
Though the kitchen did have a wood-fired oven big enough to roast a sheep, or something bigger. A heavy iron spit had crossed the fireplace.
She should not be here. Not here, at all.
Chilled, she backed and ran for the front door, grabbed the boots and put them on, as well as the bear hide coat that dragged at her heels and smothered her. She pulled up the hood, then opened the door, and ran out into the snow, aiming to follow whatever tracks the woodcutter had left.
They must lead somewhere.
Being many sizes too big, the boots made her fall, but she weaved through the trees, still following those boot marks, and praying it wouldn’t snow and hide them.
Where had he gone? She needed to find a road. Already her hands were prickling, needle-cold, and hurting. Stupid to have run out here, and stupid not to.
She tripped for the fourth time and ended up face-first in a deep drift of snow. Shadows fell over her.
Someone large of hand, grabbed the back of the coat, flipping the hood from her head as he hauled her upright.
“Ho, ho, ho, what have we here?”
“Knock it off, Harry. It’s the girl. Of c
ourse.”
“Just teasing her. You know what fun we can have now. My balls are aching just imagining.”
“Hey!” Of all the words she’d chosen hey. Florence tried to wriggle from the man’s grip, but he easily turned her around. “You cannot do anything. I’m here without my consent!”
They towered over her and seemed twice as broad as her. Steam floated from their mouths as they chuckled, and from the collars of their coats. The woodcutter had outweighed her and been taller than her too – as if this were a land of giants.
“But you did consent, you know this. Think. You cannot lie here, girl. Not while in His territory.”
“I’m not girl! I have a name.” Though she wasn’t telling them what it was. She plucked at his gloved hand, clawed at it. Already the cold air had invaded the partly open coat.
“Be still. He gives us license to do whatever we want if you disobey him, until he returns tonight. So long as we don’t fuck you.”
The brazenness of that…
“This is our lucky day, Master Harry. I knew I wanted a girl for Christmas, and this one signed herself over to Him now, didn’t you, dear?” He chucked her under the chin with a gloved finger. “Answer me.”
Who was Him?
The note at the bar. They meant the note.
“Say it.” His fingers gripped her jaw, shook her there, lightly but with firmness.
The voice that came from her mouth seemed not hers as it was too timid, too scared, and too otherworldly. As if she were possessed for that instant.
“I want a dominant man who will tie me up, screw me, and punish me until I’m good.”
It’s a dream.
A scary erotic dream.
“Yes. That’s it.” The scarred soldier she’d noticed before was the other one, not Harry, and he gave his musket to his partner, then took her by the arm. “Come, let’s get you out of the cold.”
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