North Shore Santa Whore

The incessant ringing of his Blackberry pulled Dan from a restless slumber. Eyes still closed, warding off the bright light that filtered through the shades, he clumsily felt around the bedside table until his fingers closed around the device.

"What?" he managed to grumble, his mouth parched from last night's Christmas celebration.

"Dude, are you up? I've been trying to call you for ten minutes." Steve.

"What . . . what are you talking about?" He had to swallow hard, his throat was so dry.

"I'll be there in ten minutes, maybe fifteen."

Dan's eyes eased open and he rolled to his side, the phone still at his ear.

"I . . . uh." His eyes danced about the room. "What are uh . . . what are you talking about?" He coughed to clear his throat.

"What!?! What the fuck is your problem? We're supposed to go Christmas shopping today."

"Yeah," Dan acknowledged sheepishly after a moment, his voice hoarse. "I may have forgotten."

"Oh, come on, man! I need your help. You said you'd help me find something for Karen."

"I know, I know. I'll be ready when you get here."

Dan hit the 'end' button and took a moment to look around the room. He stretched his body across the disheveled bed and sighed.

"What the fuck happened . . ." he began before his eyes fell upon the Santa cap that lay, crumbled in a ball, in front of his closet door. In the background, his ears pricked as the shower was turned off.

In a moment, the events of the night before flooded back into his memory. He collapsed to his back, stretching.

"God, how I love Christmas parties," he muttered to himself with a satisfied smile

* * *

Dan kicked a bit of slush from his shoes and pulled the lobby door open. A gust of warm, dry air rushed past him as he stepped into the building and began climbing the stairs. The muffled sounds of music and commingled conversations bounded off the walls of the stairwell, growing stronger as he ascended.

He reached the third floor and took the twenty or so steps to the door to Steve's apartment. He knocked once and, without waiting for an answer, turned the knob and pushed the door open. The music and the voices became clear and assaulted his tender-from-the-cold ears. Dan stepped into the kitchen to find nine or ten people surrounding the island.

"Dan!" one of them announced upon seeing him enter.

"What's goin' on, Jerry?" He grabbed his friend's hand and pulled him into a hug. "Been a long time, my friend."

Dan greeted the rest of the guests huddled in the kitchen for this, Steve's third annual Christmas party, then excused himself to get a drink. On the way to the dining room, where Steve had set up the bar, he waved to another group of partygoers in the living room.

"Hey, Mr. Sheridan!" He paused briefly to shake the hand of one of his parents' friends. "Lemme get a drink and I'll come back and catch up with you."

Dan continued to the dining room and stepped up to the bar beside Mr. and Mrs. Moore. "Fancy seein' you guys here," he said from the corner of his mouth.

Scott Moore turned toward the voice and a broad smile creased his distinguished features. He grabbed Dan's hand and pumped it twice. "Well, you don't say. How you been, kid?"

"Pretty good, pretty good," he responded, turning to Marianne Moore and extending his hand. "It's great to see you, Mrs. Moore."

"You, too, Dan," she said, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek.

"So, where're your parents?" the older man asked.

"New York for the weekend. Christmas shopping, I think," Dan responded, reaching for a tumbler.

Mr. Moore took the drink from his wife and poured some of the fluid down his throat. "Well, we're all out in the living room. Dick and Susie Sheridan are there, too. Pour yourself a drink and come out and join us. We'd love to hear how life's treating you."

"I'll do that," Dan promised, grabbing a pair of tongs and filling his glass with ice. As the Moores walked from the room, he watched the sway of Marianne Moore's behind as she trailed her husband.

Before Dan could tear his gaze from the tight, khaki-covered buns, a new image appeared: that of Donna Morgan.

Atop open-toed heels click-clacking against the hardwood floor, she strode purposefully into the dining room and toward the bar -- and Dan.

Her lustrous blonde hair cascaded across her shoulders and down her back, a perfect set-off against the bright red silk blouse that was wrapped around her torso. A black wool skirt, ending just above the knee, completed the ensemble.

"Pervert," she muttered beneath her breath.

Dan poured a measure of Ketel One into the tumbler before responding to her taunt. "What was that for?" he asked, an amused expression on his clean-shaven face.

"That was for you being a pervert," Mrs. Morgan answered, pouring herself a glass of egg nog. "I saw you staring Marianne's ass. The drool was practically dripping from your chin."

Dan chuckled as he added tonic to the tumbler. "I only drool for you, Mrs. Morgan."

"Hmph."

"Yeah. Hmph. I've heard that sound from you before."

Donna Morgan glared at her son's best friend over the rim of her glass. Dan smirked back at her in response. "You know what I'm talking about, Mrs. Morgan."

"I don't know why I'm even standing here talking to you," she intoned, refilling her glass. She took a sip and turned on her heel, stomping from the dining room.

He smiled to himself as he squeezed a lime over his drink and then rejoined the party.

* * *

Coming up on 10:30, Dan, now well-lubed, rattled the two or three ice cubes that remained in his empty glass and moved from the kitchen into the dining room. Before he reached a freshly cracked bottle of vodka, Mrs. Morgan glided into the room through the wide entrance leading in from the living room, barely acknowledging his presence.

As she poured another glass of egg nog for herself, Dan approached the table-cum-bar and scooped a few cubes from an ice bucket. Elvis' 'Blue Christmas' played from the stereo in the living room.

"And how is your evening going, Mrs. Morgan?" he asked, not looking at her, his eyes measuring the vodka as it flowed into his glass.

"Very well, Dan. And yours?" Her voice was curt.

"Couldn't be better." With a hiss, Dan opened a bottle of tonic, pouring it over the ice and vodka, the cubes cracking. "Looks like you're riding solo tonight. Where's Mr. Morgan?"

"Stuck in Boston."

"How terrible. And on a weekend, no less. How'd that happen?"

"Snow. He was supposed to get in last night but Logan was closed."

"What a shame. A beautiful woman like you should not be without an escort."

"Yes. Well."

"Yes. Well," he mocked.

Mrs. Morgan was nonplussed. One arm crossed beneath her enormous breasts, the elbow of the other resting on it, she brought the egg nog to her full, shiny lips and rolled her eyes. But she made no move to extricate herself from this conversation.

"I see you've been tucking that egg nog away tonight. Sure hope you're not driving."

"Of course not," she responded, taking another swig of the creamy drink.

"Room at the Ritz again, Mrs. Morgan?"

Over the rim of her glass, bright blue eyes bore into him, the ever-present hatred of the young man shooting from them like bullets.

"So," Dan began, turning slightly and looking through the door into the living room, then into the kitchen. The party was still going strong, most of the guests congregating in one of the two rooms. "Picked out your prey for tonight?"

"Go fuck yourself, Dan," Mrs. Morgan responded, downing the rest of her egg nog and refilling her glass.

He tut-tutted her. "Such foul language from such a classy woman. I'm shocked."

"I've got more class in my right pinky finger than you have in your whole body, young man," she hissed at him, leaning into him so that no one heard their conversation.

Dan's cock stirred within his pants as a saline-packed breast squished against his muscular bicep, but he just smiled. "Yeah, and you have more plastic in your left breast than you could find on a porn set."

Her cheeks flushed at the insult. But then again, she knew it wasn't really an insult. It was, in a very twisted way, a compliment, at least in the context of the lust-hate relationship that had developed between her and her son's best friend.

"Asshole," she muttered, turning away and marching from the room.

"Happy hunting," Dan called to her receding form. His eyes locked on her tight little swaying bottom as she went.

* * *

Around one o'clock, he glanced at his watch and stood on somewhat wobbly legs to leave. As he made his way toward the bathroom, Steve caught him by the arm.

"Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Football. Why?"

"Well, I gotta get a Christmas gift for Karen and I have no idea what to get her. You're pretty good with that kinda thing. Can you give me a hand?"

"Sure; no problem. What time?"

"I dunno. Ten? Eleven?"

"Ten's good. I wanna be back for the Bears' game. Swing by and pick me up."

"Great. Thanks, dude." Steve walked back toward the party in the kitchen and Dan continued down the darkened hallway toward the bathroom to relieve himself. After he washed his hands, he pulled the door open to find Donna Morgan leaning against the wall opposite the door, Nat King Cole drifting down the hallway. Her arms were crossed beneath her jutting breasts, pushing them up and together. Her right ankle was crossed over the left.

Dan paused, then moved to bypass her on his way to the front door, but she gently placed her hand on his chest, delicate fingers splayed, the bright red polish on her nails infinitely deeper in the darkness of the unlit hallway. With her other hand she slipped a key card into the breast pocket of his shirt.

"What's that?" he asked, knowing the answer.

Mrs. Morgan paused and looked down the hallway, ensuring that no one was watching them. "The key to my hotel room. Room 1347," she whispered, patting his chest and tweaking one of his nipples. She took a step down the hallway, away from him, but paused and turned on her heel.

"Oh, and by the way, asshole?" she intoned in a stage whisper, a trim eyebrow arched elegantly over a piercing eye. "You're my prey for tonight."

Before she could move away, Dan caught her by the arm and pulled her close. "I don't think so," he hissed in her ear. "You want me, you know where I live. I'll probably be up for an hour." He then eased himself past the older woman, slipping the key card into the neck of her blouse.

Five minutes later, having said his goodbyes and it-was-great-to-see-yous, Dan carefully descended the stairs and hailed a cab at the curb. Unseen to his eyes was Mrs. Morgan's similarly quick exit from the party. Bundled in her mink, she too caught a cab, but this one took her to the Ritz-Carlton.

* * *

Upon arriving home, Dan cranked up the heat and shed the clothes he had worn to Steve's party in favor of a tee-shirt and a pair of gray sweat shorts. Lounging on the couch, he flipped through the channels until he reached ESPN, then waited for clips from the Heisman press conference from earlier that evening. Yawning, he glanced at the clock on the DVD player and considered watching the highlights from his bed.

But before the decision had been made, his telephone chirped twice, indicating a call from the security gate below. A smile spread across his face and he rose from the couch, peeking out one of the windows at the gate.

Her feet stomping in open toed heels, the big mink wrapped tightly around her heavenly body, Mrs. Morgan waited for him to answer the phone.

Dan hit "send."

"Hello?"

"It's me." Her breath vaporized in the near-freezing mid-December air. Snowflakes were beginning to fall and the sidewalk upon which she stood was fading to white.

"Hi, Mrs. Morgan," he said, his voice all innocence as he continued to stare down at her. "Where are you?"

She looked up and saw him in the window. "Let me in, goddammit," she pleaded, her middle finger extending from the sleeve of the pelt.

Dan hit the "star" button and saw Mrs. Morgan quickly push through the gate and then disappear into the building's lobby. Ninety seconds later, he heard a faint ding signaling the arrival of the elevator on his floor and padded across the living room to the door.

He paused a moment, then opened it. Mrs. Morgan strode down the hallway toward him. He knew the treasures that lay beneath, but the heavy, shiny coat made her formless. Only her calves were visible, and they rippled with each step she took in her heels, her red toenails gleaming in the bright light of the hallway.

She pulled a hand from one of the coat's pockets and a Santa cap followed. When she reached the threshold, she stopped and smiled, her pure white teeth sparkling against the glossy red of full, pouty lips. She pulled the red cap, trimmed with white faux fur, over her bright golden locks. The furry ball hung across a tanned cheekbone and she tilted her head, looking at the top of the doorframe.

"What, no mistletoe?"

"Do I need it?" Dan asked, stepping back to let her in.

"Not with me," she responded boldly, entering his condominium. Leaving her coat on, she stopped to look around and then turned back to him as he shut and bolted the door. "Very nice. I've never been in here, only dropped Steve off a few times."

"First time for everything. You wanna drink?"

Mrs. Morgan shook her head and the white ball of fur swung playfully back and forth over her eyes. "I think I had enough."

Dan motioned her to the seating in the living area.

"So, who's your decorator?"

"My mom," he informed her, flopping onto the couch, muting the television.

"Figures," she muttered, folding herself into a lounge chair, the coat still wrapped around her luscious body. "No Christmas decorations, though. Santa won't like that."

Dan laughed shortly. "Santa goes to my parents' house. Not here."

Mrs. Morgan smirked and gracefully pushed herself out of the chair and stepped between the couch and the coffee table. "That, young man, is where you are mistaken."

Stepping between his legs, Mrs. Morgan's slight fingers worked the top button of the heavy mink until it popped free, and then worked on the next button. As she undid the remaining buttons, her bright red nails and the obscene diamond ring on her left ring finger glittered in the faint light provided by the can lights in the ceiling. When the last button came undone, she shrugged the gleaming black coat from her shoulders and it slid to a big, furry puddle at her feet, accompanied by a barely audible gasp from Dan's throat.

Mrs. Morgan stood before him. Her small feet were still encased in the black Gucci slides so inappropriate for December in Chicago. His eyes traveled up and over her calves, taking in the taut flesh of her long, trim legs, the effort she put forth at the health club evident in the slight musculature of her bare thighs, her frequent forays to the family home on Captiva Island revealed by the bronzed flesh.

A bright red babydoll just barely concealed her surely bald vagina. The same white faux fur that adorned her Santa cap ringed the bottom hem of the lingerie, and also the deeply cut neckline, highlighting a healthy cleavage. The silk material bulged over her augmented breasts and her perpetually thickened nipples pushed at the fabric. A long strand of pearls draped around her neck and disappeared beneath the babydoll, where they were squeezed between her breasts.

"Oh, lord," Dan muttered, his eyes now locked on the bright red gloss that was smeared across her lush lips.

Those lips turned up in a wicked smile. Mrs. Morgan bent at the knees and turned slightly to her left, revealing a full white cottontail appended to the rear of the babydoll, just at the small of her back. The rear of the babydoll rode up, exposing a thong that matched its hue.

"The Lord can't help you now," she purred. "Merry Christmas."

Dan's cock thickened in his shorts and he leaned forward on the couch. His left hand almost trembling, he reached out and hooked two fingers in the leg of Mrs. Morgan's thong, right where her pubic hair would have been had she had any. Gently, so as to not tear the silk material, he pulled her toward him.

"And Merry Christmas to you, slut."

Mrs. Morgan allowed her lithe body to be pulled onto the young man's lap. She hooked her trim legs over his, straddling him, and ground her pelvic bone against his, feeling the heat of his cock through his shorts. Elegant fingers on his shoulders, she then leaned down and softly brushed her wet lips against his.

"And just how slutty are going to make me be tonight, young man?" she whispered, her hot breath caressing his lips, filling his now-dry mouth.

Beneath her, Dan shuddered as his hands slid up the cool flesh of her toned legs, encircling her pliant hips. An incomprehensible sound emanated from his throat and Mrs. Morgan slid her wet, pink tongue between his lips and into the hot cavern of his mouth, her tongue swirling around his with lustful abandon. Another unintelligible grunt.

"What's the matter, Dan?" she whispered again, squirming her body against his, her massive breasts flattening against his chest. "Cat got your tongue?"

Mrs. Morgan reached behind her and pushed the heels off her dainty feet and Dan didn't answer. He merely moaned into her mouth, his cock throbbing with the lustful sensation of her wet tongue assaulting his own.

Her manicured nails digging into his shoulders, Mrs. Morgan pushed herself up so that she stood on the couch, her small feet sinking into the leather cushions. Using two fingers of her left hand, she slid the crotch of the silk thong to the side, revealing her freshly waxed vagina, glistening in her own excitement.

"Or maybe the pussy's got your tongue." As the wicked words tumbled from her depraved lips, she placed her right hand on the back of Dan's head, her fingers grasping tightly at his close-cropped hair, her long nails digging into his scalp.

Dan was still non-responsive. Mrs. Morgan gently pulled his head toward her sodden vagina but stopped when the tip of his nose bumped up against her clitoris. She pulled his head first right then left, then right again and his nose played over the inflamed bud once, twice.

She pulled back on his hair and tilted his head back slightly. His eyes, clouded with lust -- a sinful lust for his best friend's mother -- floated up her taut belly. Above him, he could see her eyes, just barely visible over the bulge of her breasts, sparkling with amusement.

She raised an eyebrow and then roughly pulled his face into her crotch. His thick tongue slithered from between his lips and lapped at her silky labia, the syrupy fluid of her vagina collecting in the well of his mouth before he swallowed. He then flattened his tongue against her hardened clitoris.

"Oh, gawd," he heard her murmur above him.

Keeping pressure against her clit, Dan swirled his tongue over the slick protrusion and Mrs. Morgan's lithe legs trembled. She kicked her right leg over the back of the couch, her small foot barely touching the floor behind, and brutally pulled the back of his head against her squelching cunt, forcing him to twist his head around awkwardly.

"Eat it, pervert!" she hissed, pulling him tight against her sodden crotch, her massive tits bunched up in the cheap babydoll, threatening to spill over the inadequate cups. "That's right, eat it! Get your tongue in there!"

The veins in Dan's neck pulsed at the uncomfortable position and he twisted the rest of his body around, one hand snaking beneath her taut thigh to grab hold of her ass. He dipped his head slightly, sinking his hot tongue deep into the folds of her dripping cunt.

Satisfied that the young man wasn't going to turn his attention elsewhere, Mrs. Morgan leaned back slightly and braced one hand against the back rail of the couch, her overstuffed tits wobbling proudly beneath the slutty Mrs. Claus outfit.