Chapter 4 The Midnight Guest
The Midnight Guest
The smell of cedar fills my lungs as I lather my skin, placing myself underneath the hot stream.
I stand here longer than I need to, allowing the water to beat against the back of my neck.
I close my eyes and pretend that it can wash off decades of noise.
Then the heat dies, and I kill the faucet and step into the cold air that bites into my skin, settling deep in my bones.
The mirror is foggy, causing my reflection to blur into a faceless and merciful being. I drag my towel across my buzzed waves, before wrapping another towel around my waist and moving towards the living room.
The temperature feels like Antarctica out here, the wind howling as it drifts inside.
SLAM !
SLAM!
The sound has me freezing in place, the hair on my body rises, and I bring my arms to hug my body—a weak attempt to shield myself from the cold. I follow the coldness to the wide open front door.
My eyes go wide as snow pushes through the opening in pale drifts, a white tongue licking the wooden floor.
For a moment, I just watch, waiting for the logic to catch up.
Maybe I didn’t lock it, and the wind caught it.
My nipple erects from the crisp air, and my body becomes rigid as I move closer and look out the door.
No footprints are left in the snow.
Nothing that gives off an intruder, which means I confirm that I didn’t lock the door right, and the wind must have snapped it open.
Yes! That’s exactly what happened. Happy with my conclusion, I close the door behind me and lock it, only to notice a small path of snow, but that too could have been the wind.
“Get it together, Porter,” I say gently, slapping my face. “Too much bourbon and too little sleep.”
The smell of the crisp night air lingers even after I seal it away. Walking back to the kitchen, I pour myself two fingers of bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down my throat. Beside my laptop , my phone once again goes off, and I ignore it as I refill my drink.
Emily:
Sector B drivers reporting whiteout. They want to stop early.
I take a swallow, grimacing with the heat that hits my chest. My fingers work to type.
Me:
Tell them Santa Claus wouldn’t stop because of the weather, and neither will we.
The message sends, and dots appear only to vanish again. When finally another buzz comes in before I take my final sip.
Shane:
Too busy to give me any attention, Mr. Scrooge?
I scoff at the name. Scrooge. So desperate for my attention, he would try to insult me just to get a reaction.
I give him none, but can’t help the tsk that escapes my lips as I suck in my teeth, my eyes indulging in the video of Shane stuffing a candy cane inside his tight hole.
My pressed lips curl into a smirk as I watch him fuck himself with what I’m sure is a butt plug in the shape of a candy cane, or at least I hope it’s not a real one.
Still, I don’t reply, despite the blood that again rushes straight into my neglected cock.
I place the phone face down and pour myself another drink when another buzz alerts me.
Fucking shit !
Emily:
We’re out of packing tape and running on fumes.
Me:
A warehouse running out of something so basic, fire whoever is in charge of keeping stock.
I hit send and then add.
Me:
Santa’s elves didn’t quit. Find a solution.
My eyes drift towards the window. Outside, the wind continues to roar, and dusts of snow dance through the air.
Inside, the fire snaps and crackles, the sound doing little to bring me a sense of peace or any warmth.
Stepping away from the counter, I walk towards the only room in the cabin.
The walls are adorned in rustic wallpaper, wooden flooring, and a large king size bed that sits in the middle.
Out of my unpacked suitcase, I pull out a pair of grey sweats and slip them on, not bothering with boxers. I like freeballing while I sleep.
On my way back towards the living room, I check the thermostat.
Pleased with the temperature of the bedroom, I head back to work.
My laptop pings again and again, and a sigh escapes my lips as I look at the late-night spreadsheets, the numbers finally marching upward like an army of toy soldiers that refuse to die.
Wonderful.
Hard work pays off..
The instant gratification is a reminder that working, even at the expense of others, does indeed pay off.
Pleased with the numbers, I decide to take a minute to rest my eyes.
Sauntering towards the couch, I plop myself down and reach for the television remote.
The screen fills the silence with static as I turn it on.
Channel to channel—there’s nothing but snow and Christmas movies that I hate, but play anyway.
My phone buzzes again, but I don’t look this time.
Instead, I look at the flames, watching as they lick the logs in small, deliberate tongues.
My eyes feel dry, and there’s a persistent ache in my temples.
Another gust of wind rattles the chimney, causing the flames to dance wildly, stuttering before dying down slowly.
My body sinks further into the small green couch, my head tilts back, and the memory foam hugs my form. My eyes grow heavy, and just for a moment, I allow them to close.
Music threads through the unfamiliar room, the sound of Christmas carols is muffled by the wall and distance. The smell of pine polish, sweat, and new plastic fills my lungs. Then an applause, followed by the sound that still haunts every waking moment of my life.
“I’m Harmony, your buddy. Do you want to play?” The mechanical bear squeaks, the brown fur shiny and life-like. My eyes drift to the man sitting in front of me, dark green eyes studying the bear before finding mine.
Neno.
“We did it,” he whispers, his voice smooth as honey. Neno’s finger hooks into the loop of my pants, and he tugs me closer. My body offers no resistance to his pull. “You did this,” I reply honestly as his hand moves over my length. “No, we did this, and we will do so much more.”
The heat of his hand engulfs my skin, causing my cock to strain, desperate for attention, for anything.
But before I can start to beg for anything more, he pulls my cock free from my pants.
We shouldn’t, not here, where we can get caught; however, I don’t stop him.
Not even as he drops to his knees. Instead, my fingers burrow themselves into his soft onyx curls.
I’m too selfish, and right now, too needy for his juicy lips.
“Do you want to fuck my mouth, Mr. Scrooge?” he croons as his warm tongue licks my weeping slit.
I hate when he calls me Scrooge. I’m a workaholic, but my work ethic has helped us get this far.
Sure, he did the programming for the bear—a built-in friend that teaches kids how to socialize—but I funded all of this to fulfill my parents’ dreams to expand.
To create a legacy they can be proud of, even beyond the grave.
I don’t want kids, so I have to make sure our name lives on.
“Shut up and suck it, Neno. You know you want to.”
My free hand caresses his golden skin. The dark tone of my cock complements the pink of his lips and the golden hue of his flesh.
Before I can say another word, his mouth envelops my needy length, my balls drawing tight from the contact alone.
But just like that, the dream vanishes, turning into a nightmare as my girlfriend, Marlo, steps out from her hiding place.
The flash of her phone illuminates the dimly lit space.
Just like I planned it.
Success will come, but only for me. I gave out my heart for stock and a dream.
“I knew it,” she taunts. “You’re fucking cheating.”
The words slam into me, reverberating through my soul.
I put on the best show for her to see. For a moment, I avoid looking over at him as he scatters back.
But I can feel his gaze on me, and guilt wraps around my heart like vines full of thorns, pricking and tightening their grip, making it painful to breathe.
Fumbling as I tuck myself in. “It’s his idea. I’m sorry.”
Marlo flashes me a pearly smile, her eyes glaring daggers at the back of Neno’s head. “Then get rid of him.” Her words final, ringing inside my head,
DING! DING! DONG!
The melody unites with the rhythm inside my chest, and my stomach churns as I look at my girlfriend—the daughter of the highest paying investors—doing the dirty work for me.
Finally, I look down at Neno, who looks so scared it fucking hurts.
But appearance is everything. My hands come together to form an applause, causing Neno’s eyes to go so wide I can see the white.
“De-De.” He can’t even form my name. I should stop what’s about to happen, but I don’t.
My pulse quickens, blood rushing rapidly through my ears as my lungs constrict.
I force in a breath, steadying the shake in my nerves.
I knew Marlo was right, I’m gay; however, that’s not the real issue here.
It’s my drive to success that has me stepping away from him, watching him flinch.
His tears rolls down his gorgeous face. You would think seeing the man I consider my best friend and the love of my life in shambles would be enough for me to stop what's about to happen.
But as my mouth opens, the ground rips open and I fall through.
Jolting out of my sleep, my body lunges before coming to a quick halt. Icy fingers trace the outline of my jaw. I try to speak, but I can’t. My mouth is open, a spacer holds it open, forming an ‘o’. The air thickens, and the scent of peppermint crowds my overworked lungs.
Saliva pools inside my mouth, causing me to gag, as a hand props my head up just enough for the drool to slip from the corner of my mouth and down my chin.
Brown eyes clash with evergreen, and the warmth inside me grows heavy, pressing and fucking claiming.
For a moment, pleasure takes over my panic, or maybe they become the same thing.
My heartbeat fills my head until it’s the only thing I can hear.
“Ho, ho, ho… Devon Porter,” Neno sing songs. His lips spread into a devilish grin before he leans in closer, his tongue licking up the same trail of drool, before pulling away again. An angelic ghost framed in a red Santa suit with a white beard to complete the look.
“Looks like you made the naughty list,” he whispers, and my eyes snap closed, because there’s no way. It can’t be. But his finger dips inside my mouth, and it seizes up my throat.
“Wake up, Toy King. I want to play.”
The fire blazes wild and bright behind him, framing him in red light. A Santa Claus from hell. I thrash, but my wrists won’t move, and something tight cuts me every time I try.
Santa from hell hums a carol under his breath —low and off-key, stopping just in time to say.
“Merry Christmas, Devon.”