Emily:
Sector B drivers reporting whiteout. They want to stop early.
I take a swallow, grimacing with the heat that hits my chest. My fingers work to type.
Me:
Tell them Santa Claus wouldn’t stop because of the weather, and neither will we.
The message sends, and dots appear only to vanish again. When finally another buzz comes in before I take my final sip.
Shane:
Too busy to give me any attention, Mr. Scrooge?
I scoff at the name. Scrooge. So desperate for my attention, he would try to insult me just to get a reaction. I give him none, but can’t help thetskthatescapes my lips as I suck in my teeth, my eyes indulging in the video of Shane stuffing a candy cane inside his tight hole. My pressed lips curl into a smirk as I watch him fuck himself with what I’m sure is a butt plug in the shape of a candy cane, or at least I hope it’s not a real one. Still, I don’t reply, despite the blood that again rushes straight into my neglected cock. I place the phone face down and pour myself another drink when another buzz alerts me.
Fucking shit !
Emily:
We’re out of packing tape and running on fumes.
Me:
A warehouse running out of something so basic, fire whoever is in charge of keeping stock.
I hit send and then add.
Me:
Santa’s elves didn’t quit. Find a solution.
My eyes drift towards the window. Outside, the wind continues to roar, and dusts of snow dance through the air. Inside, the fire snaps and crackles, the sound doing little to bring me a sense of peace or any warmth. Stepping away from the counter, I walk towards the only room in the cabin. The walls areadorned in rustic wallpaper, wooden flooring, and a large king size bed that sits in the middle. Out of my unpacked suitcase, I pull out a pair of grey sweats and slip them on, not bothering with boxers. I like freeballing while I sleep.
On my way back towards the living room, I check the thermostat. Pleased with the temperature of the bedroom, I head back to work. My laptop pings again and again, and a sigh escapes my lips as I look at the late-night spreadsheets, the numbers finally marching upward like an army of toy soldiers that refuse to die.
Wonderful.
Hard work pays off..
The instant gratification is a reminder that working, even at the expense of others, does indeed pay off. Pleased with the numbers, I decide to take a minute to rest my eyes. Sauntering towards the couch, I plop myself down and reach for the television remote. The screen fills the silence with static as I turn it on. Channel to channel—there’s nothing but snow and Christmas movies that I hate, but play anyway.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look this time. Instead, I look at the flames, watching as they lick the logs in small, deliberate tongues. My eyes feel dry, and there’s a persistent ache in my temples. Another gust of wind rattles the chimney, causing the flames to dance wildly, stuttering before dying down slowly.
My body sinks further into the small green couch, my head tilts back, and the memory foam hugs my form. My eyes grow heavy, and just for a moment, I allow them to close.
Music threads through the unfamiliar room, the sound of Christmas carols is muffled by the wall and distance. The smell of pine polish, sweat, and new plastic fills my lungs. Then an applause, followed by the sound that still haunts every waking moment of my life.
“I’m Harmony, your buddy. Do you want to play?” The mechanical bear squeaks, the brown fur shiny and life-like. My eyes drift to the man sitting in front of me, dark green eyes studying the bear before finding mine.
Neno.
“We did it,” he whispers, his voice smooth as honey. Neno’s finger hooks into the loop of my pants, and he tugs me closer. My body offers no resistance to his pull. “You did this,” I reply honestly as his hand moves over my length. “No, we did this, and we will do so much more.”
The heat of his hand engulfs my skin, causing my cock to strain, desperate for attention, for anything. But before I can start to beg for anything more, he pulls my cock free from my pants. We shouldn’t, not here, where we can get caught; however, I don’t stop him. Not even as he drops to his knees. Instead, my fingers burrow themselves into his soft onyx curls. I’m too selfish, and right now, too needy for his juicy lips.
“Do you want to fuck my mouth, Mr. Scrooge?” he croons as his warm tongue licks my weeping slit. I hate when he calls me Scrooge. I’m a workaholic, but my work ethic has helped us get this far. Sure, he did the programming for the bear—a built-in friend that teaches kids how to socialize—but I funded all of this to fulfill my parents’ dreams to expand. To create a legacy they can be proud of, even beyond the grave. I don’t want kids, so I have to make sure our name lives on.
