Santa, Actually

Santa, Actually

By Clare London

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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

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 bay.” 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.

Quinn knew Gerry was chanting his stress management mantra to himself. He often did that when he and Quinn were in bed together. Quinn didn’t mind at all—it was a useful flag to let him know when he was using just enough kink. Or too much.

“Here we see Santa’s helpers,” came the seductive voiceover (actually Pam the sandwich girl), “looking after his reindeer.”

Quinn sneered at Tomasz. “Your cue, Adam Antler.”

“Fuck off about the antlers.” Tomasz glared back. He was dressed in brief brown leather shorts, with bondage straps of the same hide across his back and torso, and thigh-high black boots. That wasn’t so bad, of course, he’d worn much worse in his career, but he’d complained bitterly to Gerry about the antler headdress.

“It’s for the sake of your art,” Quinn snapped. “Bend over and let me give the reindeer a bone, honey.” Quinn knew he was enjoying this, way too much, but Tomasz was a joy to taunt. Quinn pulled his dick free of the thong, rolled on a condom with a few proficient strokes, then rubbed lube into his palm for Tomasz’s arse. He slid his fingers up under the leg of Tomasz’s shorts, to tease out the best camera angles for their foreplay. Tomasz Wrobel was one of the finer specimens in the business nowadays, and if he could keep his mind off that bimbo he brought with him, Quinn reckoned they could really put on a show for the viewers. He tapped his crop on Tomasz’s left buttock, testing the reaction of the firm flesh.

“Sing a carol!” Gerry said in his best ‘Director’ voice. “Just a few lines. We’ll dub over the rest.”

Quinn rolled his eyes at Tomasz, and his co-star grinned back, for once in agreement with him.

“What is it we should sing?” he murmured to Quinn. “I Saw Three Dicks?”

“You wish.” Quinn sniggered. He hummed a few bars of something that sounded like a 70s glam rock hit, then flipped his cock at Tomasz’s ass, deliberating on his best move. He was hugely aroused. No one ever dared ask him what went through his mind to get him so ready, so swiftly. But he’d never disappointed the cameras, never failed to perform at his best. If he were given the chance, that was…

“Hey!” he called urgently. “Where are you going?”

The camera had swung smoothly away from the erotic tableau of Rudolph and his greedy groom, and seemed to be more interested in Santa’s sleigh, albeit it was really only a pile of orange crates and some hastily pinned painted cardboard. There was an embarrassingly large quantity of sleigh bells tacked up along the plywood blades.

“Here we see some of Santa’s special helpers, mucking out the stables,” droned the soundtrack.

“Making out, I think that is,” Tomasz hissed, turning to watch.

Tomasz’s new man was playing some kind of coachman. He was sitting on the makeshift bench at the front of the sleigh, holding the reins that were due to be attached to Tomasz’s harness. There was a sudden disturbance in the sleigh behind him, and he turned to stare at what appeared to be a pair of romping elves.

While the cameras had been on the other actors, Jack and Grady had tumbled down into the makeshift sleigh and were hidden behind the painted façade. They’d taken advantage of the situation as they always did: their clothes were already open in various places, ready for action. Jack hitched his cute little green tunic up around his waist, and Grady dropped to his green-tighted knees. Jack waved a hand at the blond driver, with nothing more than a gasp, gesturing him to move over. He then stood up, supporting his back against the bench, and grasped at the thick curly hair of his lover. Grady bobbed between Jack’s outstretched knees, panting with some kind of desperation. The loud sucking noises could be clearly heard over the faux-Phil Spector backing soundtrack.

The blond let the reins fall from his hands, his mouth still open in surprise. He stared at the enthusiastic fornicating behind him with fascination. The others watched with something more like resignation—it wasn’t like they didn’t get this kind of show on a regular basis.

“Never done it on a sleigh,” Jack grunted. No one knew if that were an apology or a boast. As Grady’s blowjob got more aggressive, the cardboard panel of the sleigh bowed outwards with the pressure, and the row of sleigh bells rattled happily all along the sides. Grady’s eyes were shining with delight at the sound.

Quinn sighed and stroked himself soothingly. Grady started to moan around Jack’s cock, and they all knew what that meant: Jack’s climax was imminent. No one bothered saying anything or attempting to get in on the scene. Better to let the couple run their course, then pick up where the filming left off. Coming between Jack and Grady just wasn’t an option. Beside Quinn, Tomasz took the time to adjust the edge of his reindeer antlers which were digging into his ear. Santa’s coachman just continued to stare at the activity in the sleigh. Maybe his breathing grew just a little more shallow; maybe his own green shorts grew just a little tighter around the lap.

Jack groaned loudly, shuddering into Grady’s mouth, and one of his elven ears slipped a little on his left side. Grady coughed and laughed, his eyes sparkling with excitement, and then the two of them sagged down behind the painted sleigh panels again.

And still the cameras rolled.

“Boss?” Quinn asked Gerry. “You want us to—?”

“Cut,” Gerry said to the cameraman. “That’s good.”

Quinn frowned. “But the script…”

Gerry ignored him. He made a small notation against the margin of his copy. “That’s all I need. Updated instructions from the client. This scene’s a wrap.”

All Quinn could do was stare as Gerry instructed the crew to move on to the next scene.

* * * *

“Scene Two!” Gerry called.

“Here we see the elves,” droned the soundtrack voice, “on the rooftops in the soft, white snow, preparing for Santa’s journey down the chimneys of the city.”

Quinn bent with all the grace he could muster over the papier maché chimney, completely naked now except for his leather boots. A painted backdrop of tower blocks and church steeples wobbled behind him, giving the illusion that he was standing on the roof. Or trying to give the illusion: the artwork had been rather hurried. His buttocks had been oiled by an over-eager assistant from wardrobe, and he cast his very best, lascivious look back over his shoulder. In all honesty, no one was looking at the backdrop, and he knew it. He licked his lips as if hungry, and dropped a hand to his groin. He stroked himself back to fullness, nudging his cock back under his balls and up between his legs for the best shot.

Had there been a shot.

“Hey!” he called. But the cameras had moved yet again and were no longer concentrating on him. He looked angrily over to Tomasz, but his co-star was also no longer in view. Tomasz and his amour were both in shorts and antlers now, tethered rather fractiously to an artificial tree, and finding amusement only in nuzzling at each other. Tomasz’s eyes were closed and he was playing happily with his boyfriend’s pert nipple. Quinn glared at the blond and the blond gazed back, his eyes slightly glazed, sweat glistening on his chest. Something familiar flickered in his eyes.

Quinn stood up and brushed imaginary soot off his muscled thighs.

* * * *

Across on the studio ‘lawn’, there was a ‘snowball’ fight in progress. At a sign from Gerry, the cameras turned eagerly towards it.

Grady and Jack had tidied themselves back into their costumes after the scene in the sleigh, but it hadn’t been long before they had been distracted—again. While Quinn was preparing himself on the ‘roof’, Grady had picked up a handful of the glimmering white flakes and shoved it down the back of Jack’s green felt collar. Jack yelped and grabbed out for his revenge.

Now they were chasing after each other, slipping around on the white floor covering. Grady dodged but not very convincingly, and Jack caught him. They bumped against each other, laughing, and Jack snatched a kiss. Grady returned it with plenty of tongue and noisy, hungry sounds. He pushed Jack against the trunk of a balsa wood pine tree.

Jack could hear himself panting, loudly. He reckoned the Ronettes were having difficulty being heard over his whimpers. But he was savouring Grady’s fingers reaching down his elven pants, Grady’s wet breath on his neck. He groaned as Grady grasped his swelling erection.

“Now!” Grady muttered, half-laughing, half-moaning. “Here! I’ve never done it in snow before.”

Jack looked around wildly for somewhere they could snatch some quick privacy. It wasn’t likely, was it? Their sense of occasion was never very good at the best of times. The camera crew were focussed on them; Pam, clutching her sandwich tray, was staring at them; Gerry glared at them from behind his clipboard. Privacy just wasn’t an option. But then, missing a chance for Grady to fuck him wasn’t one either. “It’s just fake snow, Grady…a polyester blanket…artificial flakes on top.”

“All the better,” Grady panted, starting to tug down Jack’s spandex tights. “Winter Wonderland without the wet arse.”

“I’ll show you wet arse,” Jack growled and dragged Grady bodily around the back of the ‘tree’. He pushed Grady down on his bum on the ground, then dropped to his knees beside him. As Grady gasped for breath, Jack kissed him firmly.

“I can hear church bells!” Grady sighed.

“That’s aural and oral ecstasy,” Jack joked, rather daringly for him. “And it’s only a tape.” He peeled back the fabric of Grady’s elf shorts as quickly but as carefully as he could. Then he went down on Grady, drawing in as much of the swollen, eager cock as possible.

“Suckin’ around the Christmas Tree…” Grady warbled.

Jack mumbled appreciation, licking reverently at the tip of Grady’s dick.

“Enough!” Grady pushed Jack back off him, and fisted his own cock for a few harder strokes. “Looking for your hips, not lips on this baby. Fast!”

With a grin, Jack ripped his spandex down and off one foot, lowered his briefs, then sat astride Grady’s lap. Yanking up his tunic again—who made these things? Didn’t they know they needed to be easily removed at a moment’s notice?—he started to lower himself down onto Grady’s waiting shaft.

“Oh, Holy Tight!” Grady groaned, though not as tunefully as before.

Behind them, Jack heard Pam give a small, strangled murmur of shock. He was sure she must have seen more than a few adult movies in her day, but he couldn’t worry about her embarrassment right now. His libido was—sadly, but as always—oblivious to anything but Grady.

* * * *

Quinn stepped up behind Gerry, with only the slightest squeak from his oiled buttocks. “Boss…” he began.

Gerry held a finger to his lips for silence. Then he waved the camera around to catch every movement from Jack and Grady.

Quinn frowned and moved to the perimeter of the set. Still stark naked, he found another balsa wood pine tree to lean against, and soon Tomasz and his twink joined him. For a while they just watched the scene unfolding and listened to Jack’s moans and Grady’s panting. Quinn reached out a hand and brushed lightly at the young blond’s chest. Tomasz didn’t complain—or at least, not about sharing.

“So who is to be the main feature of this movie?” he said. “Am I strapped into this outfit of ridicule for no purpose except Yuletide atmosphere?” He started to wriggle out of the aggravating shorts. The blond bent down to help him, and Quinn’s hand brushed at the pert young arse. He didn’t miss the clench of eager buttocks that answered his touch. He looked over at the action happening on the other side of the set, and wrinkled his nose in distaste at the two young men currently steaming up the camera lens.

“I don’t know what the hell’s going on, I must admit. You know they’re wearing those matching designer briefs? That’s so clichéd. Mind you, I suppose we should be grateful they’re wearing anything at all.”

The blond had turned back to face Quinn, ice-blue eyes fixed on his mouth. And moving southwards. “Quinn Sentinel. I’ve seen all your films,” he breathed, excitedly. “You were a superb Ernst Blow-well in Oh! Oh!! Seven!!!. I watched it…” He blushed. “Well, many times. When Tomasz said you’d be here as well, I was thrilled. Never thought I’d get to see you close up, like this.” He blushed even more. “It’s an honour, you know.”

“I know,” Quinn agreed. “So…while those elves are occupying this particular grotto with their unique brand of Wan-king Wenceslas, we’d better think of some other way to keep ourselves warm, eh?”

Tomasz turned to grin at him. “At last you are talking some sense, Sentinel. The Twelve Plays of Christmas, eh?”

Quinn leered back, his hand absently stroking at his groin. “The five golden rings are particularly tempting.” He sighed theatrically, making sure his breath caressed the blond’s neck, lifting the edges of his fine hair. The twink looked from one naked man to another, and his eyes glittered with what Quinn recognised—after many years of relevant experience—as hopeful anticipation.

“Nuttin’ for Christmas?” Quinn’s fanboy said softly. He slid his right palm under Quinn’s shaved balls, and his left palm under Tomasz’s.

The two actors sucked in a happy breath. The three of them moved together more closely, and possessive hands started to wander.

The only person left watching Jack and Grady, and listening to their sobs and groans from the base of the ‘tree’ was Gerry. Quinn wished him the best with that, not least with consoling the props assistant who was probably hiding behind the structure and holding it firm against the hammering from Jack and Grady’s bodies. And yet a quick glance in Gerry’s direction showed the director with a large grin on his face.

Quinn was both amused and bemused. He’d have to work out what was happening on set today, and why the script had been abandoned like last night’s fish and chips wrapper.

The twink moaned softly, his fingers kneading Quinn’s balls.

But later, Quinn thought.

* * * *

“Scene Three!” Gerry had that edge to his voice that came with the end of a too-long day. At the base of one of the much-battered trees, Jack and Grady were tied against the trunk with yards of red satin ribbon. And nothing else. A couple of strategically placed bows hid their privates, but from the look in their eyes, that wasn’t going to last for long.

“Here we see his elves, delivering presents…” came the saccharin-sweet voice in the background.

“Gonna throttle that girl,” snapped Quinn. “With her own damned tinsel.”

Jack was startled—the voice had come from way above his head. Looking up, he saw Quinn sitting on a makeshift platform at the top of the tree. It had been hastily decorated as a Christmas tree, with baubles and tinsel and some rather tired-looking lights. The props department had attached broom handles up the side of the trunk to resemble branches, then covered them with green paper foliage. Quinn’s platform was rather precariously balanced on two of these poles, about ten feet above the ground, and he’d been perched there as the angel at the top of the tree. Now he shifted a set of golden wings attached to the back of his bondage harness and winced. He stretched a long, muscled leg out in front of him, wriggling his toes probably to prevent cramps.

Someone sighed deeply. Jack peered around the tree trunk and saw the blond, young man on the other side. He was sitting among some huge boxes that had been wrapped as presents. He was dressed in a fur loincloth and something approximating a Rudolph the Reindeer hood, complete with detachable false red nose. He didn’t seem bothered by the daft costume. All he did was gaze greedily up at Quinn’s limb, just out of his reach.

“Cameras,” Gerry announced, and the equipment began to slide across the studio floor. “Roll!”

One of the presents on the floor burst open and a nearly-nude Tomasz sprang up. “And So Dickin’ Christmas!” he carolled. “And a Bangin’ New Year!” His erection bounced happily in a too-small thong, decorated with a large sprig of velvet holly.

The blond twisted his head around sharply to look at Tomasz, and his eyes grew wider. At the top of the tree, Quinn groaned. “What’s the point?” he muttered, loud enough that Jack could hear it. “I’m going to get myself a better agent after this debacle.”

Beside Jack, Grady wriggled with discomfort. At least, Jack had assumed his lover was suffering the same feelings, but from the naked hunger in Grady’s eyes when he looked at the be-ribboned Jack, he wasn’t so sure. Grady shifted closer to Jack, his bare bum making a scritching sound on the plastic flooring. He nudged against the tree trunk and set off the tinkling and glittering of various ornaments.

Jack sighed. “You’ve got some kind of fetish for bells, haven’t you?”

“Some kinda fetish for you,” Grady hissed. “Look, let’s escape! We could just slip out of these things, no one would notice, they’re all distracted by Tomasz’s chestnuts roasting by an open fire.”

Jack had already started tugging the end of the ribbon on his left arm between his teeth. Needless to say, no one had used any decent knots, though that was to his advantage now. A plastic icicle fell from the tree behind him, and a gold orb swung dangerously close to a winking tree light, as his urgent movements made the platform rattle up above. He didn’t think the cameras had left Tomasz yet, who was in the middle of a strange, gyrating dance routine that Jack didn’t think had any roots in authentic Eastern European culture, and looked more like Tomasz had got the seam of his thong twisted. Nor did Jack think he or Grady had any lines in this scene. Grady was meant to have read the script again last night, but had preferred to try out a penis enhancer sample, resulting in neither of them spending any time or attention on the next day’s filming. Anyway, now was the time to make their move.

“I’m keen to be a Little Rimmer Boy,” Grady whispered in his ear.

Jack flushed, banishing any thoughts he’d had of sneaking back to the trailer and finishing his gay romance book. “Well, I’ve never done it up a tree,” he mused. He twisted his legs and kicked himself out of a particularly awkward knot. Free at last!

Grady licked his lips in anticipation.

“Be my guest,” came a sardonic sneer from the platform above their heads. “If you think I’m sitting here much longer, waiting to see if Santa Geraldo thinks I’m naughty or nice, you’re much mistaken!” Quinn swung his legs over his perch and, swinging from a couple of the poles on the way down, dropped to the floor beside them. With a testy but elegant shrug, he shed his ill-fitting wings.

Grady needed no second bidding. He hopped up to a foothold on the trunk and started climbing up to the platform, one branch-pole by one. Jack followed closely, ignoring the stream of red ribbon trailing in his wake, the only souvenir of their ‘costume’. The sight of Grady’s wobbling bare buttocks ahead of him was motivation indeed.

Quinn stared up at them until Jack lost sight of him behind a sheaf of paper leaves. Quinn’s infamous lips were pursed tightly. Jack also thought he caught a glimpse of the camera rolling across in their direction, but he couldn’t be sure.

There was heavy breathing and a thumping sound ahead of him, and then Grady’s face peeked out from between two lumps of foliage. Jack had told the props department at the time of creation that you couldn’t mix horse-chestnut leaves and oak leaves, and particularly not on a Norwegian spruce, but of course no one had listened to him. And what did it matter right now? Grady was on his hands and knees, scrambling across the platform so that Jack could wriggle on to it behind him. They were so close that they were spooned. Jack thought it the most perfect position in the world. Grady spread his legs and, without a second’s hesitation, and knowing his beloved was always prepared, Jack slid in his cock.

“Oh, Santa Baby!” Grady crooned. His body shuddered under Jack’s, their movements in tandem. Jack thought the smile of joy on his face was probably permanently etched.

“Very good,” Grady groaned. “Just that little harder, Jack. Oh. Oh, yes!”

“And no vertigo at all,” Jack panted proudly, thrusting slowly but deeply. He started to speed up. “What does the script say now, Grady?”

Grady made a dismissive hrmph that may have been from sexual delight or something to do with the fact he hated mixing work with play. Or anything with play, really. “Can’t read it now,” he grunted. “Too…busy…right now!”

Jack snickered and increased his pace. Grady whimpered. The tree rattled furiously and several gold hoops and a wooden rocking horse spun off their branches, clattering onto the ground beneath the tree. Jack thought he heard the cameraman give a yelp of pain, but that could only have happened if he was too near the tree and had caught one in the eye. Which he shouldn’t have been, if he was filming Tomasz—if he was following the script.

Grady yelled and cursed. “Oh, shit, yes, Jack!! Hard, those Horny Angels Sing!” The tree lights on the branch below them jolted, winked once more, then abandoned all hope and shut off.

Jack laughed loudly and rather boldly for him. As he let go his own climax, he felt a shudder through the whole tree, and the tinkle of what must have been every decoration below them. In the distance, he thought he heard the coffee cups on Pam’s trolley rattle, too.

Bells certainly rang for him!

* * * *

Jack took a few more moments to gather his breath before he thought of peeking his head out from the top of the tree to see if anyone was left on set.

Everyone was—and they were all looking up at him. The cameraman wiped sweat from his brow. The sound man seemed to remember he had gum in his wide open mouth and started up his chewing again.

“What’s up?” Jack said. Grady wriggled along the platform to crouch by his side.

With a beaming smile of satisfaction, Gerry marked off the final sentence on his multi-coloured copy of the script. “Cut!” he called.

A round of applause rippled around the crew. Pam handed Gerry his mobile phone. He held it to his ear. “Yes. Of course. Very successful. Yes, everything you wanted.” He nodded happily, then ended the call and peered up at Jack and Grady. “He loves it! The client’s seen the rushes so far, and he’s thrilled. This last scene will be the bloody icing on the Christmas cake!”

“Huh?” Grady pushed his unruly hair back behind his ear. Jack gave him a hopefully reassuring smile. Grady’s cheeks were rather flushed—all four of them.

“What are you talking about?” Jack called down. He felt rather exposed, with everyone staring and grinning. He’d never wanted a major role in these movies. He’d always been happy just to have a job where he could earn enough to get by, live with a bunch of friends, and get to enjoy Grady at all hours of the day and night without anyone batting an eye. Actually, where it was positively encouraged, even if their fun was usually way beyond the Director’s Cut. “Who’s the client?”

Quinn had slipped on a brief towelling robe, and now he sidled up next to Gerry. He looked down at the script in Gerry’s hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, peering at the handwritten note and signature scrawled at the bottom of the last page. “S. Claus?”

Tomasz looked over as well. “It is a joke?”

“It bay reedy be Santa Claud!” the twink said. His voice had grown rather nasal after keeping the reindeer nose on for too long.

“Please,” Quinn said with a tone of utmost contempt. “Putting aside the appalling tropes and scurrilous prose of that script, what on earth could Santa himself ask for as a Christmas gift? The man surely has access to everything.”

“Except his own, personal movie of two young men he’s crushing on.” Gerry smirked, and Jack realised with a sinking heart that he was smirking at him. “Making out…having that uninhibited, noisy sex you two do so well…lots of noise, Christmas cheer, red ribbons. The whole Christmas thing! What more could a guy want to curl up in front of the fire with, after he’s spent his whole holiday season looking after snotty minors, eating too many biscuits, and getting stuck in chimneys?”

“You said it wasn’t real,” Grady said to Jack, weakly. He looked totally confused. “The chimney, that is.”

Jack patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. He was sure it was just a joke. It had to be, didn’t it? He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of Santa popping a DVD of them in his player and settling down with a beer, some nachos with cheese, and a towel.

Grady still looked dazed. He rubbed aimlessly at his nipples, making them spring to attention again.

Jack stared at Grady’s chest, fascinated by the little brown nubs. His cock twitched tiredly, yet happily, in between his legs. “If that’s the case,” he said carefully, “I think there were parts of that performance that need further work.”

“What did you say?” Gerry called up, frowning. “We’ve got post-production work to do!”

Jack ran his finger lovingly over Grady’s bottom lip. “Not yet.”

“Another take?” Grady said, his eyes shining at Jack. “Your turn to bottom?” He bounced back on his heels, shaking the platform again, and setting up a sympathetic wobbling in his groin.

Jack smiled. That was one of his dearest views. Movie star, be damned!

Grady crawled over to him, pushed Jack down on to his back, and started kissing his way up the goose bumps of excitement on Jack’s belly. One of the bells on the nearest branch gave a half-hearted chime.

“Thanks, Santa!” they both said in unison.

* * * *

Tomasz stood at the back of the set, looking forlorn, with his reindeer antlers under his arm like some headless ghost of Christmas past. The sprig of holly on his thong looked like it had seen better days, too.

Quinn stepped up beside him. “We’ve still got twelve rimmers rimming to do,” he murmured, sliding a hand under Tomasz’s right buttock.

“You doh…” said the blond hesitantly. They both swung around to stare down at him, sitting on the floor at their feet. He flushed. He’d put the red nose back on, maybe in the hope of a further scene for him. “Dose aren’t de real words, you doh.”

Quinn’s gaze was patronising: Tomasz snickered. They looked back at each other and rolled their eyes simultaneously.

“Look, Sentinel,” Tomasz said, companionably. “I will pass over to you the phone number of my agent. It is my pleasure. Or perhaps we should think again as we once did, of setting up the movie company of our own.”

Quinn nodded. “Let’s do lunch and talk this whole thing over.” He linked his arm into Tomasz’s and leaned in for a wet, off-duty kiss.

The blond pouted, and they turned their attention back to him. They stood either side of him, and Quinn gently teased at the ridiculous, detachable red nose. He turned to smile at Tomasz, who winked back. Then he leaned back down and lifted up the blond’s head to the level of his hips. “So…Rudolph,” he mused. “What script do we have for you?”

“Then all the reindeer loved him,” Tomasz began, with a smirk on his face.

“And they shouted out with glee…” Quinn quoted.

“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer,” Tomasz continued, wriggling a finger into the blond’s opening mouth.

Quinn’s laugh was full of the rediscovered joys of Christmas. “You’ll ‘go down’ in history!” And he tugged the blond’s head into the warm nest of his groin.

THE END

ABOUT CLARE LONDON

Clare took the pen name London from the city where she lives, loves, and writes. A lone, brave female in a frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home, she juggles her writing with the weekly wash, waiting for the far distant day when she can afford to give up her day job as an accountant. She’s written in many genres and across many settings, with novels and short stories published both online and in print. She says she likes variety in her writing while friends say she’s just fickle, but as long as both theories spawn good fiction, she’s happy. Most of her work features male/male romance and drama with a healthy serving of physical passion, as she enjoys both reading and writing about strong, sympathetic and sexy characters.

Clare currently has several novels sulking at that tricky chapter 3 stage and plenty of other projects in mind…she just has to find out where she left them in that frenetic, testosterone-fuelled family home.

Find details of her publications and plenty of free fiction at clarelondon.co.uk, including an invitation to her mailing list. Visit her today and say hello!

ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC

Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while stories