Bad Santas

Two men in red velvet and white fur stand before you, beards trimmed like polished brass, bellies wide and solid under fitted coats. Their gloved hands rest on hips so the silver buckles catch the light. One runs a rough palm down the other’s chest, slow enough for the leather to creak, then slides lower until the bulge in tight satin pants shifts under his touch. Both watch you with the calm of predators who already know they’re getting what they want. “Closer,” the taller one says, voice low and rough. “We can tell if you’ve been bad.” The other licks his bottom lip, the motion deliberate. “Or good,” he adds, words rolling across the word like caramel. Their bodies press together just enough to let you see the rise and fall of muscle underneath costume. One belt unbuckles with a soft clink. A gloved hand curls around a hard, uncut cock, strokes once, twice, slick pre-cum smearing across red velvet. The air thickens with musk, sweat, pine needles. You can smell the brimstone sting of bourbon on their breath. Neither moves to open their coats. They wait. Eyes locked. Invitation set. Ready to decide your verdict the moment you step within reach.