4. Ivy
CHAPTER 4
Ivy
G et your stocking stuffed and your wallet fattened!
Holy crap! Being a cam guest means getting off and getting rich?
That’s a heck of a lot of zeros. Plus they’re giving the lucky elf they select all the tips from the stream. Those alone from tonight’s performance were more than I make in six months at the coffee shop. And I suspect for a marketing event like this, it’ll be a much bigger deal.
If I did it, next year would be different. I could finally level up, afford a real home, and adopt a pet of my own. With one extra-spicy experience under my belt, maybe I'd finally have the confidence to admit my crush on my favorite customers.
Is it possible they’d be into that? They already admitted they live together.
Look, there are nearly seven hundred people still lingering on the OnlySantas livestream, all of them fawning over these gorgeous men.
It’s not like they’re going to pick me anyway.
I click into the fields on the simple pop-up form. Name. Address. Doctor info. Medical release.
And a single paragraph-sized box to say why they should consider you.
This probably isn’t the time to try to be clever, but writing my application as if it were a letter to Santa seems appropriate.
If nothing else, it’s less horrifying than listing my credentials:
Zero experience in bed.
Never been on camera.
Afraid of talking to guys, never mind sleeping with them.
I imagine I’m the sort of woman who’s bold and daring. A temptress. Then I start to type.
Dear Sexy Santas,
I’ve been a naughty girl. Tonight, I watched your show and couldn’t help but put my hands down my pajamas. I’m asking for you to make my holiday wish come true, and let me be your elf for Christmas. I might not have the most experience of any of your applicants, but I’m a quick learner and very eager to sit on your laps.
Ivy
Before I can doubt my rash decision, I snap a photo of myself exactly as I am—lit by the glow of my laptop screen, wrecked from watching them rail each other while imagining myself in the mix. My shirt is unbuttoned, my hair in disarray, my cheeks and lips pink enough that it’s obvious what I’ve been doing. And in case it’s not, I slip one hand back into the waistband of my jammies right before I click the shutter button.
Without allowing myself time to chicken out, I attach the photo I took and click send.
As I lie huddled beneath the covers and my arousal recedes, my mind threatens to spin out over what I’ve done.
Until I remind myself, over and over, there were dozens—no hundreds —of people begging for the chance to be their little elf.
They’re never going to pick an unassuming newb like me.
Never.