Dani and the Christmas Dildo

"I know, right?" We hadn't really discussed this, but this wasn't my first time watching Steffi work. She slid right into the Good Cop role. "He's a nice guy though, Ellie."

"Oh, I know he's a nice guy." I grabbed his chin hard, my fingers gripping cruelly, and tipped his face up to mine. I laid my lips over his, spreading my legs to straddle his unresisting lap, and pushed my tongue harshly past his teeth. He tasted like mouthwash. I swished myself around in there, my other hand clamped tightly to his hardening dick, and came away with a trail of saliva. "Maybe I'm not in the mood for a nice guy. You?"

Steffi came sauntering over. "What do you say, Carl?" She stopped beside him with her pussy pushed against his shoulder, her fingers resting lightly on the back of his neck. She was daring him to reach up under her skirt. "Feel like being bad?"

I flung his face away and moved to bookend Carl, now facing my coworker across his body. He was looking up, his cheek reddened by my hand, and what he saw was a pair of gorgeous, confident, capable women, not just invading his personal space but crushing it. He swallowed, his penis firming nicely. "I can be bad," he suggested.

"I don't believe you," I snapped, grinning like the Grim Reaper. "I feel like slapping you again..."

"No! No, thanks, Ellie." There it was, shining in his eyes, that thing that always got me going: this guy was in awe of me. Absolute, total awe. Already he'd have jumped out the window if I'd suggested it might be a good idea. I frowned.

"What, then?" Steffi was running her fingers through his thick, wavy hipster hair, pulling his unresisting head against her breasts. "Want us to suck your cock, Carl? Is that what you want?"

"Tell us, bitch," I grated, making my low voice a thing of menace. "Tell us to suck your cock."

His mouth was open wide. He was ready to worship us. "Suck my cock."

I smacked him again, but not as hard as I had the first time. "Louder."

"Suck my cock!"

"Look at Madame Stephanie too, motherfucker. If you leave her out, that'll offend me, and I'll hit you again."

His head snapped over to Steffi, who was now using his head to stroke her chest gently. "Suck my cock!"

"Yes sir," she replied with quiet, confident assurance, and she trailed her fingers down his chest as she squatted alongside his leg. "Should my friend Ellie join me down here?" she purred, and I started rolling my thumb along his neck.

"Yes." We said nothing until he got the idea. He turned to me. "Get your ass down on that floor and start sucking my cock, bitch."

"Yes sir," I replied with a smirk, taking to my knees beside Steffi. She was already working when I got down there, using her magical crimson lips to put the finishing touches onto what was fast becoming a fine, tight hard-on. He had particularly nice balls, I noticed as I bent his leg outward to get my face under there, and then there it was: the smell and taste of a man's junk, and that never ever failed to get me excited.

Steffi noticed; I saw her eyes slide curiously my way, her mouth slurping sideways on Carl's shaft, as I went off on his balls and the forward edge of his asshole. She rose up, nibbling on his head in order to give me more room to get in there, and I've got no idea what came over me; one minute I was just being a good friend, helping Steff out with a patient, and the next I was trying to eat the poor man's genitals.

"Whoa," I heard him grunt, his hips moving dimly under my care, but I wasn't having any of his pleasure. I confess I got a bit forceful when I shouldered Steffi out of the way and rose up, straight in front of the dazed and bearded Carl, my tongue leading the way up to his neck. I didn't wait once I got to his mouth, squealing as I drove my tongue into it with far less force and contempt than I had before; this was a smothering kiss, passionate and smoldering, and I knew he felt it when his hands came up to cup my breasts.

Nuh-uh, buddy.

I stood quickly and brushed at my skirt; we were in business casual. "Tell you what, Ty," I winked, straightening my fake glasses. "How's about you and Steffi switch spots. She can take a breather on the chair, and you can kneel in front of her with your face between her legs. Now how's that sound?"

He regarded me dully, then looked down at Steffi; she replied by blowing him a kiss and nibbling at his balls. He swallowed. "I want to eat you out, Steffi," he blurted, and I tsked as I let him sample my mouth again. When I came away, a trail of saliva followed me like a suspension bridge.

"Try again, Ty," I said with a smile, and I let my finger slither across his belly, just above his pubic hair. Carl blinked and looked down at snaky, dark-eyed Steffi, and he found his balls.

"I'm going to fucking demolish that cunt, Steffi!" he spat, and she was grinning as she replaced him in the chair, her eyes wide in mock surprise. He dove right in there, and even though I could tell, as I lay on the floor beneath Steffi's chair with my mouth open, teabagging his balls, even though I could tell it was bad head, he was able to generate some enthusiasm. And that goes a long way with us.

But not as far as money goes. And he generated that, too.

* * *

Brad sent a car for me, to take me to the gallery. This made me feel like a princess, even though it was only one of his buddies in a Prius. "Hop in, Marie!" he said, using my professional name. He was a nice enough guy, clean, a bit thick in the middle for a man still in his twenties. Hipsters always disappointed me. As I always did, subconsciously, I checked him out to see if I'd fucked him. That happened sometimes, and it was always less awkward than you'd think, but I tried to keep my worlds separate.

"Hi!" I cultivated the image of a personable artist, savvy enough but not overly ambitious, with just a few eccentricities. "What do they call you, honey?" Marie was a young woman who used a lot of endearments.

"I'm Taylor." He smiled affably enough, but he smelled like cologne. Nope.

"Isn't that a girl's name?" I asked, and then I shrugged and looked pointedly out the window as he drove me up toward Seaborne. We were silent until we hit Shore Road.

"That's mean," he said, low and sullen. "I didn't pick it, after all."

I reached across the console and rested my hand briefly on his thigh, the vibe reassuring rather than seductive. "Sweetie, that's no excuse. I don't like the name my parents gave me, either." Well, that wasn't true; I liked Daniella just fine, but the problem was it was already known around here for other things. "What's your middle name?"

"Clarence," he said bitterly. And I? I had nothing at all to say to that.

So we drove to the gallery in relative silence. He hadn't said a word, in picking me up, about my costume; I though that was odd. It was quite a costume. In fairness, I had a long coat over most of it, but the winged elf-shoes should have gotten a question or a comment out of him.

Whatever. He probably just didn't notice things like that, being either gay or married. I wondered whether he and Brad were fucking; I'd gotten that vibe from Brad, though in fairness he'd done a pretty competent job on me at work, back when we'd met. Vaginal, not anal. But maybe he was bi. "Thanks for the ride, Clarence," I called whimsically over my shoulder as I slid out of the little car. "I appreciate it. I'd offer you gas money, but aren't these things supposedly, like, pennies to fill up?"

"No." He glared at me. "No, they're not."

"Oh. Okay!" I slapped the door closed and stepped out into chilly December, the art gallery looking like a 1940s storefront across High Street. He'd dropped me off on the wrong side of the road, the little shit, but then I didn't suppose I'd treated him well. Karma.

Puddles, puddles everywhere, and I cursed myself for not wearing real shoes; I even had a pair in my messenger bag, along with a nice shirt and a pair of capris. You never could be too careful, and having me appear at my own reception dressed like an elf was exactly the sort of publicity stunt Brad Lawrence would get turned on by.

We'd met when he'd paid me for sex, but I couldn't hold that against him; his wife was an absolute frigid bitch. But apart from the $150 he'd tipped me, he'd also gotten into my work; he'd given me this exhibition, he'd lined up donors and buyers and reviewers and all manner of other ass-kissers, and he'd quite unexpectedly made me a regionally famous artist. For what that was worth.

If I'd have known he was going to do all that for me, I'd reflected a million times, I'd have been far more enthusiastic while fucking him. But you just never know.

He met me at the doorway, and I was very relieved to see my happy fans and admirers (odd to think about, really), all dressed in some variation of Christmas Tacky, many in flat-out costumes. Brad had a loud, chunky sweater on, showing reindeer engaged in doggy sex. "I see you got the memo," he observed, nodding down at my shoes. I took his kiss on my cheek with Marie's usual warmth and grace.

"Wait 'til you see the rest," I murmured. He smiled quickly; he was not an unattractive guy, but he wasn't my type. And neither of us were ones to shit where we were eating, anyway; certainly he'd never asked to get back into my pants again. "I make a mean-looking elf."

"I'm sure." He offered me his arm, and we pranced into the place. As always, I was a little jarred to see my pieces in this setting; to me, the proper place for my work would always be in my shop. But in my shop, nobody would see them. And they wouldn't sell. "Lindsey will take your coat," he muttered, and I had to stifle a laugh; Lindsey was his wife. I knew she had no clue he'd fucked me, but it had to gall her to serve as a coat-check girl. The woman had a law degree. She smiled wordlessly, soullessly, looking with greedy eyes as I unveiled my costume. I imagine she was neither surprised nor pleased by Brad's reaction.

"Wowza," he said, and I agreed; I'd had about the same thought when I'd seen myself in the mirror.

"Cute," Lindsey frowned.

The leotard was, by the standards of my day job, restrained and conservative. By the standards of whatever art community Seaborne possessed, though, it was probably slightly much, and I'd known that when I put it on. Still, I'd been careful in the interests of common decency to select underwear that I was pretty sure wouldn't show my genitals. My art can be provocative, but I wasn't sure it needed a side order of cameltoe.

The leotard was the dark green of a fir tree, fringed with lace the bright red of a holly berry. I was keeping it less-slutty up top, letting the tight cut of the costume give my titties all the showcasing they needed without resorting to anything as tacky as a low-cut neckline. The thing was tight enough, my breasts still firm enough, that everyone would be able to tell I wasn't wearing a bra; hell, you're only young once. Might as well take advantage.

Besides, the bodice was lined.

Red pantyhose went blazing down my legs, ending in those ridiculous shoes. I pulled a green elf hat with a red feather out of my bag to complete the ensemble, even though it hid my dark auburn hair; I've been told that's my best feature, but come on. The gallery was full of my best features already; nobody needed to salivate over my hair when they were so busy, hopefully, buying my bronzes.

"I'm glad you like it," I winked to both of them. "Bradley? You've got people for me to meet?" I extended my arm for him to take, right there, right the fuck there in front of his ice-bitch wife, and it felt great. "Nice seeing you, Lindsey," I purred. She made no answer, but I wasn't expecting one anyway.

"This is going to be fuckin' great," Brad enthused, and I could hear the brittle cocaine vitality in his voice. "You're going to be a star."

"Thanks," I replied shyly, and then it began: a long, crushing wave of air-kisses, limp beta-male handshakes, and false smiles while everyone told me how great my work was, usually with some variation of, "and at such a young age, too!" I lapped it up along with the crab Rangoons. I'd never thought my work was very good; I just enjoyed doing it, and having these rich muckety-mucks tell me what a genius I was felt like a scam.

An hour passed, a sweaty one during which I was glad I'd worn so little; I caught just three men staring at my ass, which only meant I'd missed a bunch more. "Okay, Ellie," Brad bubbled eventually. "Ready for that interview?" He looked at me, perplexed, for my arm had gone stiff in his hand.

"It's Marie in here, you fucking dumbass," I hissed, and he looked crestfallen.

"Of course! Marie; I'm an idiot." He steered me toward a side room, his apologies continuous and profuse, and I'll confess I brooded; it was a good look into how he remembered me, which in turn suggested how he thought of me. He needed to be thinking of me as an artist. "Can I get you something to drink?"

I'd been sipping at the same glass of champagne the whole time, but now I wondered why. He'd rattled me. "Something strong, Brad. I dunno. Rum and Coke?" I plucked it out of thin air, remembering that my sister liked them; what the fuck did I know? I was only twenty. "With, uh, lime."

"Ah! Cuba libre!" he called, and I just stared after him as he disappeared, wondering what that meant. What the fuck? Too much coke, no doubt, and not the canned kind. I'd need to watch carefully to make sure he wasn't stealing my money, or just not bothering to get me coverage in places that mattered, like LA and New York. Thank God I knew a lot of good lawyers. Well, "knew," in a manner of speaking. I'd have to ask Dr diSpuglia to recommend me a good one if I decided to let Brad represent me. Then I'd comp the lawyer a couple of sex acts, and win-win.

I sat down in the soft chair Brad had equipped the room with, something from the better side of Ikea, while I waited for my interview.

Before my erstwhile agent could return with my drink, though, a tall man appeared at the door. I was taken at once, my finger stilling where it had been playing with my hair. He was a hipster, sure, but not the worst kind: he lacked a neckbeard, for one thing, and his carefully disheveled hair wasn't feathered. He was a skinny one, too. He poked his head in with a tentative smile. "Ms Lynne?" he ventured, though of course there was no way it could be anyone else. "I'm Kevin. I'm here to interview you?"

Fuck. He appeared to be one of those people that ended each sentence with a question mark? Like, annoyingly? I narrowed my eyes; he was attractive, so I was prepared to forgive that quirk? Maybe? Marie smiled and gestured at the other chair, slung low with a table in between no bigger than a djembe. "Come join me, hon. I'm Marie." I raised a languid hand. "Brad should be here in a couple seconds."

He came in with a smile that was, well, pretty sweet actually. He didn't appear to look at my boobs, either; he was a pro or gay, then. I'd figure it out soon enough. "Kevin Caslen," he told me, with a very acceptable handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Same." I let my eyes drift toward the door, thirsty. "What magazine are you working for, Kev?"

He showed no surprise I'd given him a nickname already; it was the kind of thing people expected from Marie. I wondered how old he was; older than me, certainly, but that's hardly saying anything. "This week? I lose track." His chuckle was easy, self-deprecating. Ah, and there it was: the quick breastward peek. Two more, and I'd know he was hetero. "I actually plan on selling to a couple of mags, but the one that sent me here is out of Phoenix, I think."

I felt my plucked eyebrows rise. "I didn't know they'd heard of me there."

"Of course." He was breaking out his phone, thumbing a recording app. "You're becoming quite the cool new thing in art. Ever since Reymond wrote that one review, hell, the internet has been buzzing about you." I nodded graciously.

"I was pleased he saw so many different and original themes in my work," I said easily, and then I congratulated myself since I'd never heard of Reymond, or his review. "Sometimes, it's only through what others perceive that I get a really deep understanding of what I've created." What the fuck? I dunno; I figured it sounded suitably artsy. "That's been my experience, anyway." I'd have to ask Brad for a copy of the review.

"Let's start there." My, Kevin Caslen, what lovely blue eyes you've got. "Your experience. How long have you been doing bronzes?"

And so it went, through a reasonably snappy discussion of my work and me. Kev seemed pretty well-versed in metallurgy, which was nice since I was entirely self-taught. Brad came in with my drink after the third question, and without taking so much as a sip I sent him right back out for another one.

It was midway through, when he'd asked me about the mixed-media stuff I'd thrown together late one night as filler for the show ("shows a real mastery of form and substance, with an understated elegance that challenges the viewer to form their own opinions," as Kev put it), that the photographer came in. He was a freelancer, a local dude I'd seen once at someone else's show at someone else's gallery. He was short and vaguely slovenly, though in a way that suggested he had a lot on his mind. Longish, curly hair, dark eyes, and a fucking pocketwatch. I dismissed him once I saw that. Stocky build, but not yet fat; he looked like he was about twenty-six. His glasses seemed inappropriate in a photographer, though that might have been unfair. He said very little.

"Just sit there and be yourself," he insisted calmly. "I'll let you know if I need anything." And I, three drinks in, proceeded to ignore him.

The evening wore on, I became more buzzed, and my answers became less coherent as a result. I could tell I was making less sense even while I was speaking, but I was powerless to stop myself, and my new friend Kev didn't seem to mind. The photographer left after maybe fifteen minutes, informing me quietly that his name was Jake, that he did weddings, and that he'd be by at some point to take some action shots of me in the shop. I might have even given him a date and time; Brad probably even wrote it down, in between trips to get me more frosty beverages.

Who could keep track?

The interview was very cordial, touching on the exhibition, the sudden appearance of fame and, possibly, fortune, the excitement of owning my own shop, the custom knives I made, the sound arts education I'd gotten in the East Adams public schools.

At length I reminded myself that it was late, that I had the pre-lunch shift at the tattoo parlor tomorrow, that I'd be going straight over to Southside Chiropractic after that, and that common sense therefore demanded I get home at some point before midnight.

When I brought it up, Kev seemed concerned that I didn't have a ride. "Was Brad going to get you home?" he asked. I shrugged; Brad had gone AWOL at some point, probably fucking some boy in his office. I remember putting a hand on Kev's arm, leaning in, very carefully enunciating every word.

"This is my first time doing an exhibition, honey. I don't know how these things work."

He'd frowned, toyed with his phone, and then nodded to himself. And that's how I found myself pulled off the side of the road about three miles from my shop, leaning comically far out of the passenger door of Kevin Caslen's Jeep, dry-heaving into the ditch after getting the first blast of warm, appetizer-y vomit onto my cute elf costume.

Heavens. I hoped, really really hoped, that I hadn't gotten Kevin's car all pukey. He'd been very nice with the interview, and he was even nicer now as he leaned way, way across the front seat, holding my hair out of the way like the two of us were girlfriends after prom. "I'm sorry, sweetie; I'm so sorry," I babbled as I finished, tears and snot all over my face, and he shushed me, told me everything was fine, not to worry, and he was still telling me that as he got me into bed, undressed but unshowered, to pass out into a crushing sleep.