Santa, Actually

Santa, Actually

By Clare London

Published by

JMS Books LLC

at Smashwords

Visit

jms-books.com

for more information.

ISBN 9781935753742

For more titles by Clare London at Smashwords visit

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* * * *

Cover Photo Credit:

Charon

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Stockbyte / Getty Images

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Vladimir Wrangel

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Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design:

Written Ink Designs

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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,

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

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

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

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