An unOrthodox Christmas

* * *

Her jaw didn't ache, but that was only because the adrenaline was flowing hard, harder than it ever had during her countless nights on the pole; harder than it had that first night she'd kissed a guy, or that first time she'd fucked, or when she'd found out she'd gotten into college. She felt euphoric, hunched now over the straining penis of a man with soulful eyes and a firm, even grip on the back of her skull; she felt like a goddess.

For the first time in her life, she was the woman everyone wanted.

It wasn't just her jaw; her knees, too, were going to be sore tomorrow, but she didn't care. She knelt anyway, sandwiched between the denim legs of the man with soulful eyes, feeling the solid presence of Nelson just behind her. She'd been enjoying herself, flitting around the room with her mouth ready for whoever wanted her, but it's true that she'd wondered how long it would all last; then, though, Victoria had stuck her head into the room and announced that two of the men could now go on into the back, so she'd known the end was in sight.

The brothel was like a restaurant: there tended to be rushes. Lulls.

So she'd made good eye contact with this last man, one she'd unzipped and fondled but not yet sucked, and she'd pranced over in her soaked thong with her nipples out and hard and she'd leaned over him, her hand circling his erection. It pulsed strong and ready in her hand. "Where should I start, stud? Cock or balls?"

He'd seen her work by that time, and clearly he'd been paying attention. "You seem to like balls." His voice had done things to her, complicated things, the kind of deep male voice designed to make panties drop. "So do what you do best, honey."

"Okay." She liked this guy. She liked him a lot, and once she got her nose into his crotch she liked him even more. He smelled like a man should. "What's your name, baby?"

"I'm Austin." He spread his thighs and leaned back, his eyes glinting. She liked his air of confidence, the aggressive vibe she got from him. She badly wanted to fuck him. "What should I call you?"

"Anything you want." It came out a little more breathless than intended, but tonight's little adventure already had her on the edge of an orgasm. There was no way she'd slink back to the ignominy of the pole after this. "My name's Bethany."

"I'll call you 'little whore.' So. Suck my balls, little whore." She trembled at that, at his sense of possession, both of himself and of her, and she leaned in with her tired lips already parted to wrap around his sack. She loved this, her mind whirling like it was on cocaine, her tongue stabbing between his testicles with a sense of passion she'd not given any of these other waiting men. She stared up at him past the ridged surface of his shaft, meeting his eyes as her tongue separated his balls and her lips closed around the leathered, hairy flesh she found there.

Bliss.

She sucked once, strongly, and that's when Austin decided to go ahead and play with her nipple, his other hand cupping her face for a moment before sliding around to the back of her head. His fingers on her nipples made her gasp, his balls lurching in her mouth, and all of a sudden the only thing she wanted in the entire world was to please this man. To give him her body. To make him cum. The force of that desire overwhelmed her, a totally unexpected craving in her mind.

How easily she could become addicted to this...

Her lips didn't move off his skin as she jostled his nuts and then let them dangle out of her mouth, shining with her spit, gliding up his cock. She'd lost the last of her lipstick many minutes ago, and now as her mouth closed over the smooth, velvet missile of his head and then inched downward, she felt her body sing.

His fingers pinching her nipple scratched an itch she didn't even know she'd had.

Dimly she heard voices behind her, raucous ones, a jumble: Victoria herding the men, and the men wanting their whores, and a few of them asking about Bethany, and Nelson growling at everybody, and all of it rose to a crescendo of sound as she held Austin's gaze, sucking hard, her tongue lashing the precum from his tip as his fingers clutched her hair...

"Beth!" It was a harsh whisper in her ear, Victoria sounding like this was the hardest she'd ever worked. "Take this guy back to Room Six and fuck the shit out of him. Adrienne will take over here."

Beth rolled her eyes back, staring at her boss with a look of shock, hope and surprise. Could Adrienne, down on Reception, even suck? "Mmm?" The sound traveled out of her mouth, down Austin's cock, and to the back of her head where he squeezed her. He was enjoying her.

"You heard me. This is your golden chance. Give him his money's worth, babe." Victoria patted her butt and then melted away into the swirl of people in the waiting room.

Bethany gave Austin one last, loving lick, then rose off him. "Wanna fuck me?" she asked simply. His nod was a rush of joy to her soul, and she rose to her feet with the sexy, nymph-like grace she always tried to show on the pole. She grinned down at him, feral, then turned to shout at the rest of the room.

"Okay, everyone!" she announced happily, "I guess I'm off to Room Six. I'll leave the rest of you in Adrienne's capable hands and mouth." The receptionist, newly arrived upstairs, looked around in confusion. But that was okay; Nelson would keep her safe, and the whores in the rooms were clearing out anyway. The waiting room would soon be empty again. "Thank y'all for waiting. And you?" She winked at the man whose dick had wound up in her mouth. "I guess you've found your Mrs Claus. Let's smash!"

Adrienne had no idea what she was in for. But that's what Christmas was all about: surprises.

* * *

Part Two: Drugs

* * *

The sharpest minds in the country do not become customs agents. Which was why smuggling had always been so easy.

It was the Family's oldest graft, a simple procedure that had made them millions over the years since Old Papa had returned from the sea after the global cataclysm of the Second World War and decided to let that cataclysm make him some money. He knew ships, and where to hide things. He knew ports, and how to sneak into them. In those days, smuggling was all about bribing the right agents and knowing how big all the crates were.

But then? Containerization. Cameras. Security. Massive, sprawling ports that doubled as impromptu warehouses, with anonymous containers of every color and destination scattered about, needing computer scanners and big semi trailers. Technology had changed the game, but it had also made the agents dumber. Old Papa had had to cope with tough, mean Irish sons of bitches who roamed the docks at night with revolvers.

Today's customs agents had a hard time navigating their way out of the office with all the camera screens.

Christmas had always been an awkward time to smuggle. The upside was potentially huge: skeleton crews everywhere, cold nights that drained camera batteries, the crews staying in their sheds watching Miracle on 34th Street or whatever. But there were risks, too: you could never be sure your shipment would arrive on the 25th, for example. Then, with fewer people in the port, the ones there doing the smuggling tended to stand out.

But the Family usually arranged its biggest shipments for 24-31 December, assuming they'd score on about 60% of their shipments. That would generate massive profits; anything else was the gravy on top.

After Old Papa had retired, the smuggling had been taken over by his second son Andreas. He'd done fine until Junior had decided his brother needed to be put in his place, and after a small civil war Andreas had found his smuggling portfolio taken away. No biggie: he'd simply gone into prostitution and drugs, but these days Junior-Junior had recruited Marty O'Reilly to run the big container port on the Northside.

For all his Old Sod name, Marty was as Kystrov as they came, almost. His dad had been executed for embezzlement just before Old Papa had passed away; the hit had been Junior's first big housecleaning, and everyone had agreed it was necessary. People had liked Patrick O'Reilly, but he'd had his hand in the cookie jar for years. Still and all, he'd married one of Old Papa's granddaughters (and a legitimate one, not one of the BBB crew), and that meant his son Marty was as Family as any of the rest of the cousins.

Marty sat on Christmas Eve with his feet resting on top of a space heater, watching porn on his phone while he waited to be told his trucks were on the way. Late-night transport of containers was a little unusual, but not very. Except on Christmas Eve, when he knew he and his drivers would have no trouble from anyone at all, unless the Customs guys decided to actually perform their jobs.

He cast a doubtful eye up at the clock, trying to figure out whether he had time to nut one out before the trucks were supposed to get here: the chick in the porno was a fucking goddess. So he'd just gotten his coveralls unzipped when a flare of headlights swept into the windows of his little office. "Shit."

They were early.

The coveralls were old and ratty, and the jammed zipper was still barely above his boxers when the door flew open. He glared up at once: he was fucking Marty O'Reilly, and nobody came into his office without knocking, but he relaxed at once with a broad smile. "Well. Fuck me, if it isn't Cousin Jenny."

"It's just Jen these days." She nudged the door closed with her butt, standing there in an orange vest and a hard hat. Marty hadn't even known she had her CDL. She pursed her lips as she looked at his zipper, then checked his phone screen. "Marty. Jesus. You're in here yanking it?"

"What?" He spread defensive hands. "Truck's not due for another half-hour, Jen. You're early." He cocked his head, frowning. "Why are you early? Hell, why are you here?"

"It gets better, motherfucker," she purred, "so you better zip up. My mom is coming with the other truck."

He gaped up at her. "Why would your mom want to come anywhere near here?" He hoped his voice didn't waver. Jen's mom was the most sadistically lethal person in the Family, probably. Everyone was afraid of her. The rumor was that when the call came down to pull the trigger on Marty's own father, it had been Kitty that had done the job. "Is it okay to tell you I don't want her here?"

"Nobody wants my mother there." She was studying his phone. "This porn is hot."

Marty grimaced as he got his zipper free. She'd know. Jen Silber came from one of the branches of the family nobody really talked about, for Old Papa Kystrov had not been a believer in keeping his sperm out of circulation. The Silbers had gotten their start with a beauty queen he was said to have fucked around 1955 or so, and his granddaughter Kitty and great-granddaughter Jen seemed to have gotten the beauty queen's genes.

In spades. They were both knockouts.

But they were both deadly, too. Marty wasn't really into the bloody side of the Family business, but by all accounts the Silbers more than made up for the squeamishness of guys like him. "Of course it's hot," he sighed, unhooking his clipboard. "That's why I had my zipper down."

"Yeah," she nodded vaguely, but then she tossed his phone on his desk and took off her hard hat. "Here's the deal, Marty. We're both coming, and going. Mom's got a big shipment coming in, fentanyl hidden in knockoff Steinways."

"Like, the pianos?"

"Yes. Like, the pianos." She yawned. "We got the alert yesterday, so the container should be unloaded by now."

"Got a control number?" She read a long code off a post-it note while Marty flicked his eyes down the papers on the clipboard. "That's not the same code your people gave me the other day."

"Is it a problem?" Jen asked quietly. Her voice was never reassuring. It sometimes chilled her cousins to think of all the people whose last sound had been that voice of hers. He shrugged.

"It's fine. Your pianos are kind of buried over in Stack Number Four, but it's not an issue." He hesitated. "That's the only reason you and your mom are down here tonight?"

She shrugged, studying her fingernails. "How much do you want to know, Marty?"

He hesitated. This was bad. "Enough to decide what to do about the customs inspectors. They're dumb and lazy, but they're not imaginary. If there's a scent, I'll need to throw them off it."

"Yeah." She sighed. "My truck's got a container for export. Refrigerated." She used finger quotes on the last word, which Marty didn't understand. "Seafood, mostly, headed for Europe."

"Okay." He reached for another clipboard. "You got a bill of lading?"

"Of course I've got a bill of lading, cousin." That cold voice again, stilling his heart. "Am I a fucking moron?"

He summoned up his courage. She was dangerous, sure, but this was his port. He was the guy the Family had put in charge here. "Relax. I've got to make sure all the ducks are lined up here. If this cargo of yours is hot, I'm responsible for getting it out to sea." He paused and studied her. "What's in the container, Jenny?"

She shrugged, as if it didn't really matter. "There's a US Attorney that got shot up in New England last week. Did you read about it?" He nodded. "Yeah. Well, that was us. Our guy needs to get out of this hemisphere for awhile, a year or so."

"No shit." Marty sighed and glanced around Jen at the hulking container on her truck. "You didn't bring a crew?"

"I was supposed to come with Horny Alex and Frank Junior Mint, but they're busy tonight." She shrugged. "Alex said something came up. Probably a penis, if the past is any indication."

Marty scowled. "So your platen ubiec? Your killer? He's traveling in a load of seafood?"

She smiled faintly. "He can cross the Atlantic with all-you-can-eat lobster." He rolled his eyes. This triggerman would hardly be the first person the Family had smuggled over the oceans. They had containers made to keep people alive for a few weeks. 'Refrigerated,' indeed.

"He's going to Marseille?" Marty rolled his chair up to his desk, in business mode.

"Is that in France? The Mediterranean?" She tossed a thick envelope on his desk. "It's all in there. Inventories, seals, all that shit."

"And my cut," he muttered.

"Yes, darling Marty," she wheedled, "that's in there too." Trafficking people was expensive, and everybody paid. Even if they were Family. "Can I unload?"

"Sure." He was tapping her lading code into the computer. "Did you bring a hoist guy? It's Christmas Eve; nobody's here to do that."

She shrugged. "Fuck no."

"Then I'll have to do it," he smiled, picking up his gloves. "That's extra."

"My mom's bringing her wallet." She plunked her hardhat back on. "Where do I back in?"

Straight onto my dick, he thought, but of course he couldn't say it. "Just follow the signs out there. It's just you?"

"Just me. Mom's got the rest of the crew. For the pianos."

"Okay." He yawned. "Let's do this shit, then."

* * *

Whoever the triggerman was, he'd had a lurching ride off the back of Jen's flatbed. Marty set him down as gently as he could in the dark, on the priority pad with the other refrigerated stuff. He'd need a customs certificate, but he'd forged plenty of those. After that, it was just a matter of getting the thing aboard without the Customs guys popping their annoying heads out of the office.

He had a plan for that, too.

A glance at the diagram showed him where Kitty Silber's pianos were, and he quickly scheduled a container crane sequence that could get those loaded while he slipped the triggerman and his lobster onto the outbound ship. He figured he could do it all in about twenty-three minutes, maybe more. Certainly less than thirty. "When's your mom due?" he asked his cousin.

"Half an hour?" She checked her phone. "She's on her own schedule, you know."

"Okay." Marty yawned. "The container crane sometimes wakes up the Customs guys, drags them outside even on Christmas Eve. If they're feeling dickish and see a couple of female drivers here, they might ask to inspect. And that's risky. So the key is to distract them for half an hour, get them to stay in the office."

"Just shoot the motherfuckers," she shrugged. She gave every indication of being serious.

"No need." He picked up his phone and called another cousin. "You know Andrei Deuce, right?"

"He's our cousin, fuckwit. Of course I do."

"He and Dina are going to provide my distraction." The phone rang once, twice. Three times. He sat up and smiled when they picked up. "Hey! Need some bitches, dude. Northside Cargo Terminal. Sto poskoro." He listened and blinked several times. "Just one? Man, three would be better. Two would work." A pause. "Seriously? That's all you've got?" He frowned, Jen listening with transparent curiosity. "Fuck. Okay. I mean, she better be good. She'll need to handle two guys."

"I can jump in. This sounds fun," Jen grinned. Marty waved her to silence, then signed off with Cousin Andrei. "Is this sex? I can do that."

"Yes, it is sex, and no, you can't jump in." Marty hesitated. "First, your mom probably would not appreciate me pimping you out to a low-level customs inspector. And second, you're... well." He smiled. "I don't want either of these guys killed. Even though disposal would be easy, there'd be payoffs and shit."

"You don't trust me not to murder one of them?" She pouted. "I'm hurt, Marty. I'm capable of restraint, you know."

"Your mother pulls up and sees you on your knees swallowing some government dick? She's the one who'll make the corpse." Marty shook his head. "Nope. Not on my watch. That's trouble I don't need."

"You're such a bitch," she sighed, but she didn't mean it. She got a text. "Her ETA is just past midnight."

"Okay. The kurva will be here in twenty, so that should work. I'll meet her at the gate. We'll send her in ten minutes before your mom arrives; can you have her give us a warning?"

"Sigurno."

"Great. Now then. You'll need to ground-guide your mom's trucks to Stack Four. Come on. I'll show you where to go."

"It's cold. Can't I just stay here and be warm while you masturbate?"

"Shut up. No. This is the time to make money, not the time to be warm." Marty hopped to his feet. Besides, he'd be done forging the documents and shutting down the container cranes by two in the morning. Still plenty of time to whack one out after the Silber drugs were safely off-site.

* * *

Lacey wasn't in the mood. "I'm telling you," she groused as she was led over toward the Customs shack, "my feet hurt."

"Not a problem." She thought this Marty seemed nicer than the other Kystrovs she'd been dealing with during her brief time in their world, but his voice was as menacing as any. "You'll be on your knees mostly. And remember, I'm paying you in addition to what you've made over at Andrei and Dina's." He saw the light of greed kindle in her eyes. "That's a sweet haul for you. But here's the thing," he added, stopping her just outside the office. Lacey shivered, but then that wasn't surprising: she was hardly wearing anything under her overcoat, and her hair was still damp after a hasty shower at the brothel. "Neither one of those two Customs guys can leave this office for at least the next hour."

"Yeah. No shit. You told me so when I got here." It had been a confusing night for Lacey, to be fair to her, but Marty thought she needed to quit her bitching. "What happens if one of them gets out?"

"He gets killed and dumped in the harbor," he shrugged, "and maybe the other one too, depending on the circumstances. Then I'll probably have to get shot or stabbed somewhere non-lethal, in order to cover my involvement. That's a lot of bother. And you'll take the blame for every bit of it."