So far, he’s been everything he’s reputed to be and then some.
In all of my daydreams, I’ve imagined being his good boy. I’ve pictured myself submitting flawlessly, earning praises that not only warm my soul, but bring me to new heights of desire and need.
But now that I’ve got him in front of me, I’m bratting.
Me. Goody-two-shoes Miles Jeffries. Bratting.
ForDmitri. For the man I want to hear nothing but praise from.
What the fuck is going on with me?
I want him to enjoy this. Selfishly, I want him to enjoy it so damn much that maybe we might do it again at the club, or at my place, or at his. Without the cheesy costumes. Without the cameras. Without the fucking director. Just us. Just Daddy and Boy. Alone.
So why am I pushing boundaries? Why am I testing him?
It’s gotta be the cameras.
I am ‘yes, and’ing my way through a porn scene.
This isnotthe big break I’m going to write home to Mom about.
But, if I stop and think about it, there’s something extra exciting about doing this. While I’ve never thought badly of anyone who works in the adult film industry, it’s never been something I would have said I wanted to do. But now that I’m here…
Yeah.
This ishot.
Not just Dmitri, even though he is extremely hot.
But just being on a porn set. Having fully-dressed people watching me —watchingus— as things get hot and heavy. Knowing that those same people are going to see so much more. Knowing thatother peopleare going to watch this on their phones or laptops or, hell, even their TVs. They’re going to see me wearing this silly onesie, whimpering and admitting to almost coming in my pants withinsecondsof being ordered around and…oh, God.
My balls are tight again, that tell-tale tingle making me squirm on the spot.
Do I…do I have a humiliation kink?
I was all revved up earlier when I was embarrassed in front of Dmitri, but I put that down to it beingDmitri. But now…
Fuck.
The thought of embarrassing myself in front of the people in this studio, or the hundreds —maybethousands— of people who pay to watch the finished video…
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I need to stop thinking about it, or I am actually going to blow my load, and I haven’t even blown Santa yet!
Okay, so that is going to the top of the list of sentences I never thought I’d say. Or think.
“Santa doesn’t reward naughty boys,” Dmitri practically growls the words at me, and it takes me a long moment to remember that I just playfully offered to be naughty.
My cock throbs, and I don’t know if that’s in warning or desperation at this point.
Still, instead of behaving —of bowing my head and being a good, pliant little sub— I jut my chin higher. “I made it onto that list for a reason…and you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like that, would you, Santa?”
Surprise, arousal, and then determination flit across his handsome features before he grabs my bicep and shoves metowards the large bed in the middle of the room. I’m vaguely aware of his boots and pants being toed off and left behind with his belt as he crosses the space in two long-legged strides.
He sits on the edge of the mattress facing our audience, those bare, tattooed legs spread wide, his delicious dick jutting up proudly, and then he pats his thigh. “Over my lap, Miles.”
Oh fuck.
