Santa, Actually

Santa, Actually
Midpoint

Santa, Actually

By Clare London

Published by

JMS Books LLC

at Smashwords

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jms-books.com

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Copyright 2012 Clare London

ISBN 9781935753742

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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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All Rights Reserved

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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

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