An unOrthodox Christmas

"What? In court?" He just stared at her until she realized he didn't mean court. "Oh."

"Yeah." He patted her shoulder. "Showtime. You'll be great. Just don't let them notice what we're doing out here." Marty scampered off into the vast floodlit yard, moving fast toward the great creaking container cranes up above, gaunt in the December night. She closed her eyes, savoring these last moments of privacy, because when you worked in a Kystrov brothel you were never really alone.

Then she put on a smile, adjusted her tits, and strolled into the Customs Office. "Hello there, boys!" Marty had told her what to expect: the two most junior agents in town, unwillingly working the graveyard shift on Christmas Eve. One of them would probably be asleep, or maybe both of them. And the other? Well, that's why she was here. "Got any coffee for a cold, lost girl?"

Agent Hargis, on the camera desk, looked over at an empty chair from a computer game of Solitaire. He blinked at her. "Who are you?"

"I'm Santa's little elf," she winked, and as soon as she dropped her overcoat, he knew the score. Her outfit, from the more translucent part of the Secret Whispers catalog, was nothing but a few wisps of white mesh held together with red and green ribbons, nipples boring holes in the top under the December chill. She knew they could see everything. "I'm here to give you a Christmas present, compliments of your friendly cargo managers here at the Northside Cargo Terminal." She looked suspiciously at the other chair. "Where's your friend?"

"Agent Dhaliwal? He's sleeping in the break room."

She nodded, smiling, her mind working. "Can he get out of the building without passing through here?" When Hargis cocked his head, she explained quickly. "I was paid for two guys."

"Oh. N-no. If he wakes up, he'll have to come through here." Good, Lacey told herself; if that Dhaliwal guy got out, it would mean bad things for all three of them.

High heels clacking, she swayed around the counter and into the work area, striking a pose before Hargis. She'd already pegged him as an easy mark, mostly because he was wearing a wedding ring. "Wanna unwrap me, darlin'?" she asked him, eyelashes flickering.

"I, uh, shouldn't?" Agent Hargis could not believe what he was seeing. He'd never worked the night shift, but he had less than three years on the job and no kids, so he'd stepped in when the Christmas Eve shift had come up. There'd been rumors, though, of lights over by the United Macedonian Lines office, of trucks rolling in and out, of high-priced whiskies as gifts, of occasional visits by prostitutes far, far too expensive for the likes of him.

He'd never believed any of that. He'd always just figured the night shift guys liked to brag.

"No, you should. Tell me," Lacey whispered, slinking slowly toward him, catlike, her lips curved into a crafty smile, "do you want to have a very merry Chrismas?" He just stared, completely incapable of taking his eyes off her tits, but that was fine with her. Why else wear a see-through top, if not to let men see through it? "I kinda think you do. What's your name, sweetie?"

He opened his mouth twice before sound emerged. "Greg."

"Greg, honey, let me tell you: you've got the most beautiful eyes." This was a lie: they were nothing special. But she was a pro. She stood close enough now that he could smell her, and she'd had a busy evening; he'd be getting shampoo, deodorant, and plenty of perfume on her way out the door. She ignored the pain in her feet as she stood before his chair, back arched, her tits high and huge above him. "Does your wife ever tell you how wet your eyes make her?"

He just stared.

"Because I'll tell you, they're sure doing a number on me." She did not waver, voice strong, gaze direct, back straight as she bent down to take his nerveless hand off the arm of his government chair. "Do you want to feel what your eyes do to me, baby?" She didn't expect a reply, of course, the slackness in his arm answer enough as she drew his hand slowly, temptingly, toward her body. "Will you touch me, Greg? I want you to."

He took a deep breath. "Of... of course."

"Where do you want to touch me, stud?" She brought his arm to her hip, the motions practiced: she had a system. "Here?" It was so easy to move him around, the graze of his fingers warm on her chilly skin. "Maybe here?" She dragged his hand back, letting him feel the toned curve of her asscheek, taking an extra moment to giggle as she pressed his hands against her there. "Or maybe somewhere else?"

He gasped, nails digging into her flesh.

She bent lower, her breasts threatening the integrity of the flimsy top, her mouth on his ear. "I want you to touch me somewhere else, Greg." She let her lips linger on his earlobe, sucking gently. Outside, a truck rattled slowly past with its headlights sweeping through the night, a short woman out front as ground guide. Lacey felt a grim thrill when the agent didn't even look out the window. "I want you to see how wet your eyes have made me. Will you touch me there?" She moved back into his line of sight, letting him see her teeth trap her lower lip. "Please?"

And, like a bobblehead, Greg Hargis nodded.

So Lacey took hold of his wrist once more and then brought his hand around to her mound, spreading her legs as she did it. She was still staring into his eyes when she pushed her cunt onto his palm, eager and hot, gasping with theatrical rapture as she let go of his wrist.

Now it was up to him. She'd see how usefully his wife had trained him. Her eyes tracked the incoming trucks, a pair of empty flatbeds with the short, frisky ground guide striding boldly in front. Vaguely she wondered what grand Kystrov opera she had a role in here, what gross affront to the laws of her society she was enabling by drawing the government's attention elsewhere.

"Elsewhere," in this case, meaning her pussy.

He plunged his middle finger straight up her, barely wasting the time to shove her flimsy gusset aside. "That's it," she crooned in his ear, arching her back deeply to bring his face into the deep chasm of her cleavage. "Fingerfuck me, stud." He felt good in there, certainly good enough to get her nice and juiced. Though, to be fair, it had never taken Lacey long to get aroused; it was a major reason why she made her living with her snatch. It was easy money for her.

Her partner's response surprised and pleased her, an immediate charge passing through his body as soon as she started the dirty talk. She felt her feet almost leave the floor as he lifted her bodily off the ground for a second, driving his fingers inside her with amazing force. At the same time, his other hand came up to maul her tit, the one already smashing his face. She yelped, laughing breathlessly as she felt his power. "That's it Greg! Unwrap your present, baby." She ran wet lips from his ear over his cheek, to his lips, sucking his tongue into her mouth with a fervency she didn't need to fake.

He didn't have much technique with his hands, but he more than made up for it with enthusiasm. She loved it when men took pleasure in her body, the turn-on intense every time, and this guy was already treating her like a goddamn playground. His other hand was everywhere, on her tits, her ass; his lips, once she spat them out of her own mouth, moved down to her nipple with his teeth bared and sucked her through the lingerie. "Fuck," she squeaked, feeling the constriction of the clothes; she pulled herself away from him and stripped naked, her reflection in the plate-glass windows turning her on intensely, even more than the lump in his pants. "Get your clothes off, Greg," she commanded.

Not that he needed much convincing, she noted approvingly as she tossed her frilly things over the chair at the Solitaire computer. He practically tore his shirt getting the buttons undone. She simpered, trawling her finger through her snatch while he struggled to get his belt undone. "Wrapping paper's off, stud. Waiting on you," she laughed, staring around the room.

Next step: logistics.

She had to keep him from looking out that window, where she could already see the container crane busy at the far end of the pier. There were lights there, and people, and Greg Hargis had no need to know any of that was happening in his port. So he couldn't look out that way; bending over the main counter was out. So was straddling him where he sat, which never worked well: the cheap government chair would never take their weight, not once she started fucking him. The floor? Nah. Lacey had graduated from linoleum as a banging surface years before. There was a break room, but it was already in use.

Well, she reasoned, she'd always liked Solitaire.

She spun, her high heels still on and making her legs look amazing, and looked mockingly over her shoulder at him. "I'll just be over here waiting," she purred, swaying over as he shoved his pants down his thighs. His cock was still hidden by a pair of cheap cotton boxers, but she knew she'd get to know it soon enough. She bent over the other desk, legs together, knowing how her thighs would frame a swollen, gorgeous pussy now slick with her juices. "Whenever you're ready to stick it in, Greg," she sang.

Fuck, her feet hurt!

She heard his chair squeak and bent way over, resting her elbows on the table. Dhaliwal, whoever he was, had left the game half-done, so she frowned at the screen and began moving cards, schlepping them up toward the aces; she had just exposed a king over two other cards when Greg arrived. He cleared his throat. "I can't believe this."

"Believe it, baby." She knew she was the hottest-looking piece he'd seen in years. She'd never seen his wife, obviously, but she'd fucked scores of men just like him and she knew enough about Mrs Hargis: she'd be happy, jolly, probably a little overweight, and totally uninterested in sex. Lacey had no problem with such women; on the contrary, they kept her employed. Because she had what they didn't. "You can put it wherever you want, stud."

This was untrue, strictly speaking; she did not do anal. But she was gambling that Greg Hargis would be more interested in the proper hole. He didn't seem like he was into assplay.

She felt one hand on her butt, drifting over her solid flesh, and she smiled to herself. She worked hard on her ass. She knew men loved it. He was using his other hand to line up his meat, which began to poke at the slit between her swollen labia at exactly the moment she flipped over the last ace.

Score!

He slid in slowly, which she appreciated. She'd done two guys at Kurvy's earlier, and the second one had been both large and vigorous. Hargis was apparently interested in actually feeling her, though, because she certainly felt him. Every ridge and vein, from the flaring crown of his head to the soft whisper of his balls on her clit as he bottomed out, she felt every inch.

It felt pretty good, she was relieved to find. "Yeah," she sighed, closing her eyes. "You're so big." This was, strictly speaking, a lie. But it's what she always told her clients. "So fucking good." She glanced back. "How long you going to last in there, hon?"

"Oh my god!" Greg plainly had not had sex in months, at least. Years, perhaps. He stared down at where his cock disappeared into her body with a look of sheer amazement. "You're so hot."

"Fuck me, baby." She put a little catch in there at the end. "Fuck me good." Ah, she noticed, groaning as he thrust the first few times: the fucking four of diamonds could be moved to the ace pile. She snickered, her body moving automatically backward to give him good, solid contact. She prided herself on giving a good fuck Their thighs sounded like applause, going faster and faster. "Oh my gawd!" she shrieked at one point, drawing the last three cards from the discard pile.

"Jesus," he panted, and she could tell his teeth were gritted. He was jamming her for all he was worth, and doing a great job holding off his orgasm. She twisted around.

"That's so good, stud." She whined it, moaning theatrically, but by then she was clicking on the discard pile and realizing Greg's coworker had the game set so you couldn't go through the pile more than once. "Fuck!"

"I know!" he panted.

"Fuck!" she spat again, tapping uselessly at the mouse pad. Her feet screamed at her, so she sighed and turned back around. "Lay on the floor, baby. You can watch me ride you."

His eyes went wide, and Lacey felt a familiar pang of warmth for him. She liked her men to feel taken care of. She loved it when she knew they'd be thinking about her pussy as they lay on their deathbed, and Greg Hargis seemed like that kind of man. He swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing, and then pulled out of her with a hushed gasp. "Seriously?"

"Hell yes," she giggled. "You can see my tits bounce as I fuck you." Guys loved that shit, and as she straightened slowly (that lower back was hurting these days: she was no longer a nineteen-year-old hooker, after all), she turned around with that sway in her hips that, she knew, would draw his eye straight to the pussy someone was renting for him. She spread it for him. "Come on, sugar." It came out husky. "Lay down. I'll take good care of you."

His penis, she now saw, was fairly nice. Long enough to do its job, not terribly thick but nicely formed, with a slight upward bend. She wondered whether she'd have time to blow him, but then remembered all she had to do was tell him her name at the end. He'd probably come out to Kurvy and fuck her there. She reached out and clasped his shaft, feeling her own juices coating it, examining it with a professional eye.

He'd be okay for at least five more minutes, she thought. He'd lost his shirt, but his pants hadn't made it past his shoes. He lay down on the floor, probably not even noticing the cold discomfort of the dirty linoleum, and watched mesmerized as she kicked her shoes off and straddled him.

She reflected that getting rid of those shoes would probably count as tonight's orgasm. Fuck, her feet felt good now.

His cock trembled, completely hard, facing upward like a sundial over his broad belly. "Mine," she gloated, licking her lips as she reached out for it. "That dick belongs to me, honey. Want to fuck me some more?" His mouth opened and closed, but his throat would produce no sound as she lifted his shaft and hovered over him. "My name's Lacey," she told him hotly, "just so you know what to scream when you cum in me." His eyes widened when she sat on him, spearing herself neatly, then sank straight to his root, where his ungroomed pubes waited to tickle her.

"L-lacey," he gasped, but by then she was already starting her dancer's twisting motions over his eager body. She was at her best when she rode, and she loved the power of it. Tonight she decided to see if she could get off, after all, so she pressed carefully at the top of her slit as she swung her chest down to his, letting his dick put pressure behind her clit.

Ah! Yep. There it was.

"Grab my tits," she urged him in a throaty whisper, and she grunted when he obeyed, mauling them like before. She swung against him, thinking only of her clit and what she could do to bring herself to her own climax, grinding up and down along his cock while he did his best to hang on and not blow his load. She thought that was considerate of him. They ground and writhed and sweated, snarling teeth-gritted into each others' faces until she started to notice him getting there, that hard grimace men got sometimes when they got close.

So she sped up, digging insistently at her clit, still hoping she wouldn't have to fake it again when, quite unexpectedly, it arrived like an explosion behind her belly. "Oh. Holy shit!" she spluttered, her vagina in spasm in the instant before he clamped a hand on her ass, digging in, and arched his butt high off the ground. Her orgasm shot swiftly out along her arms and legs, leaving her hands and feet numb with pink fire as Greg groaned a long, theatrical sigh and shot his muck far up inside her.

They'd need a mop, she thought vaguely, both of them grinning as the last of his load flew up out of him. The floor beneath them was a totaled mess of sweat, and she knew it would soon be joined by whatever of his spooge she could shake out of her hole. But not yet. No, for now she kept herself wrapped around his shaking dick, both of them still glowing post-orgasmically, smiling.

Until she heard a scuffing foot on the floor behind her.

"Hey. Uh, sorry to interrupt," Agent Dhaliwal said slowly, his eyes glued to Lacey's slowly moving ass, "but why is the crane fired up?" Lacey's mind went on high alert, the memory of Marty's words rolling through. Just don't let them notice what we're doing out here... She rose off Greg's penis with an instinctive corkscrew motion and stood naked in front of the other man.

"You want Greg's sloppy seconds? Or you want me to suck you dry?" She made a show of checking the clock. "I'm only here for ten more minutes, so decide quick. You can go play with the cranes some other time." Eyes bright, she sauntered toward him, leaving in her wake a man spent and panting. She was a goddess, irresistible. "Unless you'd rather head out there now..."

He wouldn't rather, as it turned out, and the pianos made their way out of the stack with no problems.

* * *

"Here you go." The envelope was fat, heavy with bills, Jen glancing curiously at Lacey just outside the NCT gate. "Do I know you?"

"I work at Kurvy's," Lacey shrugged. Her feet, crammed unwillingly back into her shoes, were screaming again. Behind them the Customs office sat, quiet now and dim, the two agents inside with aching and overworked dicks. A security guard stared at them without much interest. "Can you give me a ride back over there?"

"It's out of my way, honey, and this is a fucking flatbed truck full of cheap pianos and expensive fentanyl. So, no." She shrugged. "Call a cab or something."

"Yeah." For an instant, Lacey wondered whether this bitch was a genuine Kystrov. The real ones, the actual Macedonian ones, were a lot classier than the knockoffs. "Sure. Nice seeing you."

"Bullshit," Jen snapped, an ice glint in her eye, "it's not nice seeing anyone or anything. You didn't see shit. You just fucked a couple of dudes. Understand?"

Lacey raised one eyebrow. "I think so."

"Good." Jen nodded and brushed her hair back. Because this was the Family's oldest graft, and she'd be damned if she'd let some tart draw the wrong kind of attention. Even if she was a useful tart.

* * *

Part Three: Rock 'n' Roll

* * *

Grundle was not prepared for what came cruising into the parking lot on Christmas Eve.

To be fair, he wasn't prepared for anything to come cruising into the parking lot on Christmas Eve.

The lot was buried among the buildings of the old Pitson Institute of Science, the oldest part of what was now Pitson-South Bay State, and it was pretty rare for anyone to come there at any time. It was even rarer when the entire campus lay in dark, brooding shadow, the windows of the WPIS studio shining bravely into the chilly night like a lighthouse on a silent shore. The dorms, four parking lots away, twinkled here and there with Christmas lights left on when the students went back home for the holidays, little glimmery stars in the far darkness, as Grundle watched the night pass and counted down to 6 am.

Nothing at all had happened, until that car had come knifing into the lot.

He stared, silhouetted in the window, as a figure sprang out of the drivers' seat. The car was old, a muscle car: if Grundle was smarter about such things, he'd have recognized it as a '66 Mustang coupe ablaze in a blue metal-flake shroud, glittering under Grundle's window light. The driver stood a moment, staring straight up at him, a slight person in what looked like a pantsuit. Short hair, razor-blade face under the buzzing streetlights.