Santa, Actually Read online

  Santa, Actually

  By Clare London

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2012 Clare London

  ISBN 9781935753742

  Cover Photo Credit: Charon | dreamstime.com, Stockbyte / Getty Images | gettyimages.com, Vladimir Wrangel | shutterstock.com

  Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  All Rights Reserved

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Santa, Actually

  By Clare London

  “What the hell is this meant to be?” Quinn Sentinel stood outside his director’s trailer with legs braced, hand on his hip, and a darkening expression on his evenly bronzed brow. It was the same pose he used for his publicity pictures on BoysBareAll.com where he’d just been voted “Best Arse in Adult Films UK” for the second year running. Today, he could have been the picture of an imperious general, or even a royal prince, if he’d been dressed in something more substantial than a brief, red satin thong and knee-length red leather motorcycle boots. With buckles. In his outstretched hand he waved a sheaf of papers, pinned together with an inadequate paperclip and covered in multi-coloured highlighter pen stripes. “Absolute drivel, from the title page onwards. Santa Claus is Cumming to Town? Puh-lease! Have you seen just how many movies are on the late-night stream with virtually the same title?”

  “It’s called free riding,” said Gerry Geraldo, the director. “We can benefit from brand association.” He held a green pen between his teeth, and a matching yellow one stained his fingers as he moved them swiftly over his original copy of the script. He was hunched on the steps of his trailer, sitting on a thick rug. He was dressed in worn jeans and a T-shirt with a washed-out WrinkleTheSheets Productions logo on it, but it was the day for filming outside, so he’d wisely added a thick fleece jacket and thick socks. He looked more like a sheep farmer than a movie mogul. Or even a mogul-in-waiting. “Even if it wasn’t intentional,” he added. “It’s a valid economic concept.”

  “It’s utter corn.”

  “It’s tradition,” Gerry said doggedly. “For God’s sake, don’t be such a diva. It’s Christmas. Films feature Santa Claus. There’s nothing sinister about it.”

  “Sinister?” Quinn thought about raising his voice but he was afraid to open his mouth too wide for fear of catching flu germs. “You don’t think it sinister that I’m to fuck Tomasz in a reindeer suit? You’ll have every pet lover in Europe picking up the phone—”

  “With the hand they’re not using to wank off,” Gerry snapped back. “I wish you had something else to occupy your time at lunch break. I’m trying to work to a deadline here, you know.”

  Quinn raised a carefully shaped eyebrow, having been told once by a fan how it accentuated the shine of his big blue eyes. “Well, I thought that was actually what I was here for,” he said, using his most deceptively smooth tone. “Join me for lunch, love, you said. Of course I appreciate you’re freezing your balls off in a costume no bigger than a couple of condom wrappers for the sake of my artistic vision, you said. Come to my trailer, where I have deliciously effective heating on this miserable day and make yourself comfortable. We’ll run through your stage directions.” Too late, Quinn realized his voice had risen. Judging from the straining satin at the front of his thong, something else had risen too. His libido always enjoyed a good argument.

  Gerry sighed and put the sheets of script down on the rug. “It’s the usual seasonal panic,” he said. “Last minute, rush production, just because some client offered to throw money at a Christmas special. You know how it is, Quinn. If we don’t finish shooting in the next week, it won’t be out in time, and we’ll all be back to posting pictures of our navels on YouTube. It isn’t easy to launch an independent studio at the best of times…”

  “Though I remain totally committed…” Quinn murmured, knowing this spiel by heart by now.

  “…to the need for artistic freedom,” Gerry finished, speaking blissfully over him.

  “Yeah, yeah. And if I don’t get to free this artistically in the next five minutes…” Quinn rubbed suggestively at his groin. He knew the shape underneath his fingers was impressively long and hungrily thick. One didn’t get to be the “Best Arse” without knowing the dimensions and capacity of one’s own equipment. He flashed one of his hottest gazes up at Gerry from underneath his long blond lashes. Gerry blinked hard. Quinn anticipated a win.

  “Just learn the script, Quinn, okay? It may not be up to your West End aspirations, and Great Ejaculations it ain’t, but our client likes comedy. His email said he likes irony, he likes pastiche—”

  “I like pastiche, too,” Quinn murmured, crouching down in front of Gerry’s lap with all the grace he could muster on a chilly autumn Tuesday in East Sussex, and with a surreptitious tug of the rug so he could kneel on the corner of it. “With a thick creamy sauce.”

  Gerry opened his mouth, probably to scoff, but he clamped it shut again as Quinn peeled open his fly, allowing Gerry’s cock to burst out into the cool air. Quinn leant forward, creasing the scattered papers underneath, and took the shaft in between his lips. Gerry whimpered, and his head fell back against the steps of the trailer. He started to groan in rhythm with Quinn’s very lively head movements.

  Quinn anticipated his win, and very soon.

  With a gasp, Gerry dragged up the last vestiges of his finely honed negotiation skills. “But you’ll do the film?”

  “Rather do you. But of course I will. I have a public to satisfy.” Quinn’s reply was muffled because he was reluctant to lose his grip on his lunchtime snack. “And you—and your dick—talked me into it.”

  “I—”

  Quinn tightened his lips and Gerry shut up. A dick really was best when it said nothing at all.

  * * * *

  “But what exactly is the plot?” asked Grady Stone, a puzzled expression on his face. “It’s just some old man planning on visiting the local neighbourhood, bringing gifts, with elves running around smiling at him. Is it an urban fantasy, one of those retrospective things that Gerry gets so wistful about? Or some kind of Public Service broadcast about the danger of strangers?”

  Jack Bradford rolled his eyes. After a day helping set up the production facilities, he and Grady were sitting on his bunk in their shared trailer, examining their copy of the new script. “Red suit, Grady. White beard. Soot on his nose. Ring any bells?”

  Grady’s eyes lit up, and he slid a hand up under Jack’s T-shirt. “Like that collar I got you? The one with the sleigh bells? I was hoping you’d want to try that again soon. I know you were nervous about the cats stalking around the trailer the last time, but I can get Pam the sandwich girl to keep them at ba
y.” He tilted his head, thoughtful. “Maybe not that black moggy from the pub that seems to follow me home every time we go down there. I think Gerry’s tempted to write her into the next script, but I told him we weren’t ever going to consider sex with animals, not even if you wore a costume.” He tilted his head back the other way. “Well, okay, maybe in that reindeer thing Tomasz has been cursing all week—”

  “Grady, please listen more carefully.” Jack was struggling to stay calm. His jeans felt too tight around the groin again. It often happened when Grady was around. Actually, it happened every day since he got together with Grady. Grady didn’t even really have to be talking about sex, however indirectly. Jack just looked at Grady, or thought about Grady, or remembered what they’d been doing the previous night and where…and the denim seemed to contract. Jack knew the only way to pacify his aching groin was to find the nearest, and hopefully comfortable, place to fuck. And soon. But there were other things at stake, just for the moment. “Try and get the context of the movie. It’s the night before Christmas. The chap is riding a sleigh. There’s milk and biscuits left out for him by the chimney.”

  “That’s just a prop. They’ve got a gas heater on set.”

  “Well, yes. I mean, I’m not sure about that, but the spirit’s the same.” Jack was starting to panic. Whatever his body wanted, he had to get Grady to read this script before morning, else they’d be late for shooting again, and Gerry had already docked them another day’s pay for that little incident in front of the camera crew with Grady astride the sound boom…

  “You mean it’s about Santa, on his Christmas Eve rounds?” Grady breathed against Jack’s ear. “Do you know how cute you are when you’re worried?”

  Too late, Jack felt the brush of Grady’s teasing smile on his skin. Dammit, he was still just that little bit too slow to catch Grady’s humour sometimes. Grady reached over him, the careless touch making Jack’s nipples stand to attention like small winter walnuts, and his lover stabbed a finger on the open page of the script.

  “Hey Jack, we’re in this scene, you know. By name.”

  “We’re the extras, like usual, just the elves in the workshop.”

  “Nah.” Grady shook his head emphatically, his tousled hair falling forward and nuzzling Jack’s cheek. As Jack’s groin throbbed at the teasing sensation, Grady leaned further over into his lap, and flicked over the pages. “And this one. Look.”

  “Want to touch, not look.” Jack’s voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears. He slid a hand down the back of Grady’s sweat pants, easing his fingers between the cheeks of Grady’s arse. The elastic waistband stretched easily—the fabric was used to this.

  “Actually,” Grady said, not giving Jack his usual, devoted attention, “we’re in almost all of them. That can’t be right. We never get any sort of a main role in a film, because—”

  “We can’t be trusted not to get distracted. Yes, I know.” Jack squashed himself up close to Grady’s body, stretched down with the hand inside Grady’s sweats, and wriggled as many fingers up into Grady as he could reach. He reached three before his own breathing got too shallow for comfort.

  “I don’t know if I want to be a star in this movie,” Grady said.

  Jack only had one ear on the conversation. His concentration was on pushing Grady’s sweats down his legs. Grady’s buttocks were white in the evening light and lightly furred. He never wore underwear, of course. Jack tugged the last inch of the waistband over Grady’s generous cock, and it bobbed back against Grady’s belly with a slippery slap. Grady was almost always aroused, too.

  “Who wrote this thing?” Grady asked.

  Jack didn’t give a pickled pint, as an elderly aunt of his used to say, but his politeness won out. “A ghost writer. The client himself, I reckon. Can we talk about it later?” He reached under Grady’s arms and flipped him backwards on to the bunk. Grady’s sweats were unceremoniously yanked off his ankles, and his legs spread apart. Jack had been reading up on self-assertiveness training and, as far as he was concerned, it was going damn well.

  Grady yelped when his toes slammed against the wall of the trailer. “We need a bigger bed, Jack.”

  “Put it in your letter to Santa.” Jack tried not to snap, but he was struggling with the zip of his own jeans with one hand, whilst trying to keep Grady’s thighs wide apart with the other. “Along with the pink wig and the full set of Transformers movies in HD.”

  “How’d you know that?” Grady gasped, grabbing at Jack’s hips to pull him closer. “I posted that letter up the chimney, for Santa’s eyes only!”

  “You’re the one told me the chimney’s a prop.” With a grunt, Jack pressed his cock against Grady’s entrance. They both paused, savouring the sensation. The bunk creaked in protest and the thin mattress sagged over the side of the base. “It’s only made of papier maché.”

  “Wha—?”

  “The chimney. Gerry had it brought in for the movie. The client supplied that as well, I think…Oh. Oh!”

  Words failed Jack as he sank into a tight, hot heaven. Grady chuckled; they both began to rock in rhythm. When Grady tried to reach under the bunk for the sleigh bells, Jack slapped his hand away, and they both fell off the bunk with a crash that shook the trailer. They both started laughing. Still lodged deep inside Grady, with Grady’s legs gripping his hips, Jack raised himself up off the floor and thrust with renewed enthusiasm.

  “O come all ye faithful!” Grady warbled, throwing his head back as he climaxed all over their combined bellies. Jack was trying to stop laughing, but the effort tipped him over the edge of his already tenuous control. Coughing, hiccupping, and giggling, he surrendered to a very satisfying, noisy climax of his own.

  “Did you hear the bells ring?” Grady murmured, with a (temporarily) sated sigh. “Must be Christmas on its way!”

  * * * *

  Quinn yawned loudly and widely. No aspect of civilised life should ever exist before eleven a.m., yet Gerry persisted in calling his pre-filming meetings at a much earlier hour. He’d even rolled Quinn out of bed to make sure they both made it in time.

  “Okay, so here’s the plot, guys.” Gerry stood firmly in front of his cast and crew, assembled in the chilly warehouse that was their set for Santa Claus is Cumming to Town. He glanced at Quinn, coloured, and looked away again.

  Quinn knew he looked immaculate as always—immaculately debauched, that was. He wore a long shirt, buttoned at only one spot, so that plenty of his sculpted torso was seen with every languid move he made. He’d made some concession to the occasion of a formal script conference, in that he’d thrown on a pair of casual, cropped trousers. But maybe the sheer mesh fabric had been a fashion mistake. After one look, Gerry looked pained, like he’d swallowed one of Pam’s sausage sandwiches too quickly to digest. Or else he was saving it for later down the front of his jeans: there was a definite and uncomfortable-looking bulge down there. Quinn smiled to himself.

  Tomasz Wrobel, Quinn’s co-star in so many of the Wrinkle The Sheets productions, had roared on to the set about an hour ago, waking everyone with the noise of his motorbike. He sauntered into the cast meeting in tight-fitting leathers, his latest denim-clad squeeze trotting devotedly behind him. Quinn glared at the new boy, a tall, white-blond twink with flawless skin. There’d been some negotiation between Gerry and Tomasz and, to Quinn’s irritation and—he insisted it was professional—fury, the young man would be featured in some of the scenes. Gerry was always on the lookout for willing—and cheap—new flesh, damn his mean streak.

  Jack and Grady tumbled out of their trailer and ran across the parking lot to the warehouse. Jack still had breakfast toast in his mouth and Grady was pushing something into the back pocket of his barely-fastened jeans that looked suspiciously like the latest sample of latex penis enhancer that had arrived in the post last week for their review. Quinn didn’t want to know where it might have been in those intervening days, though he assumed they’d all find out sooner or later. Thank God he and Tomasz
were in the cast. They were well established in the industry. But if Jack and Grady let the whole damn show down again because their entire lives were ruled by their dicks…

  Gerry started again, with a sigh. “Let’s set the scene. Santa has a crisis—thinks he needs more positive PR this year. His market share has been seriously threatened by Amazon. No one uses him for a wish list any more. He’s in trouble, and needs to re-establish himself with his adult clientele, so he’s on the lookout for a special gift. Something fresh, something marketable, something hot. This is just a short promo for the client, okay? Some fun with the elves, an X-rated update on the fat old man with the beard. Snow, sleighbells, reindeer, plenty of bling.”

  “So who is to play the part of Santa?” Tomasz leant over to Quinn to ask.

  “He’s just a presence, Wrobel,” Quinn snapped. “Not an actual character. Hell, man, didn’t you ever grow up?”

  A luscious white-blond head appeared at Tomasz’s shoulder and rested its chin there. The new man gazed at Quinn, amusement in his eyes. “Tomasz grew up all right.” He smirked. “Couple of times last night. Oh, and this morning on the back of the bike.”

  Tomasz flushed with pleasure, and his hand went back to squeeze at the blond’s arse.

  Quinn grimaced at Tomasz. “Give me strength. Your taste in boys continues both to disgust and bore me rigid.”

  Jack was passing the group on his way to get another cup of strong tea from Pam’s trolley. “Lust’s young dream?” he joked.

  “The Horny and the Lively, more like,” Gerry snapped. “God, I hate Christmas.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes again and adjusted his mesh trousers where the material had caught awkwardly on his right ball. God, but he agreed.

  * * * *

  Filming had started. Quinn stood at the side of the set, dressed in the buckled boots and red satin thong, tapping a supple riding crop on his palm.

  “Scene One!” Gerry called on set. “Take twelve!” The crew yawned; the sound man popped in a new stick of gum, and off it all went again. Gerry sighed and bit his lip.