Christmas parties were never like this!
Pretty Kay Stone was enjoying the hallucinatory psychotic thrills produced by Fairfax's special party elixir, Absinthe, the Emerald Green Monster. Fairfax, a true man of the hour, knew how to party.
Artemisia absinthium and other toxic herbs had floated Katy's psyche on the edge chaos.
As six Santa's helpers with shaggy black beards loaded her into the gift wrapped box, she masturbated furiously. Her oozing indefatigable sex organ, though frayed and swollen, continued to generate waves of pure ecstasy.
Fairfax's Emerald Green Monster always gave her uncreated narcotized delights. Toying with her well used naked body, she flirted with the six Santa's helpers as they tied bright ribbon around her neck, wrists and ankles.
Where was Fairfax, she wondered as one of the black beards held her party glass for her as she sipped more the green demon. She dreamed that she saw her lover hanging from the ceiling by his thumbs.
Fairfax's cries, created by his brilliantly conceived exquisite torture, made her laugh joyously. But the silly pixie in my wife's fusioning brain was demanding that her mavelous lover be there in the gift box with her.
When they stuffed her into a chartreuse gift wrapped box and nailed the lid shut, she giggled and squirmed. Each of the behemoth elves knocked on the lid of the box three times for luck.
Then they pushed the pretty MILF into the Parcel Baja Service truck. They never knew her destination, though someone told them she would arrive in time for Christmas Day gift giving.
Breaking up Fairfax's Christmas party was never my intent. It was too perfected as a holiday celebration. Almost every 40 year-old MILF in Texas must be in attendance; and I was pleased that they continued to dance riotously and sip the Green Devil drink oblivious of my contribution to their revelry.
It was such a joyful Christmas party, too. Barton Fairfax most certainly was Beelzebub's gift to the 21st Century MILF culture. No! Don't get the wrong idea. I am neither religious nor philosophical. I'm just a post modernist engineer and merchandizer.
I particularly thought wearing the green Vagina Hat was a clever touch. I'm almost convinced that my Katy Stone contributed that bit of artistry.
Gang banging with green Absinthe flavored lube and drinking Absinthe laced Mexican pulque most certainly deserved an accolade or two. There's nothing like living life to the edge.
So fortunate for my efficient crew that the Absinthe was from wormwood, the original 19th Century recipe. Wormwood's little chemical devils make the best "Green Elixir Monsters."
"Changing everything in the Christian culture" was the mantra of The 21st Century's leaders of The Conquest by Mass Migration. Until this Christmas, I had not thought much about it. We engineers must keep focused on building faster and bigger jets, bridges that hold more than a golf cart and glass courthouses, you know.
Was I defending Christian culture in my ingenious gesture to the 21st Century? It's an interesting question. I'll need to give it some thought. I'm an engineer, you know.
*****
All nonsensical cultural commentary must find legs. In the Literotica trade, I think they call background.
Well, here's the rest of the story. It all started with...
*****
Unwarranted doubts about Barton Fairfax? Unfounded accusations of my wife's probable infidelity? Well, you be the judge!
Corridor cams at the building where Fairfax leases personal space provided damning images. It's an apartment for town use, what the French and English call a pied-a-terre, special accommodation located in a large city that is a considerable distance away from the individual's legal domicile.
Old happenstance struck again. Poor old betrayed spouse who couldn't possibly "find out" not only "found out" but also got perfect video of hand on butt.
As fate would have it, Grapelance Penrose Group owned the building where Barton Fairfax took persons he wished to entertain. Included in his lease was comprehensive security. Managers of the security systems, all reputable IT engineers, reported to me.
One Tank Tankersley maintained the cams in Fairfax's building. Tank audited the audio and video recordings made by the state of the art cams. Usually he only scanned and spot checked to make certain the cams recorded properly; but, again as fate would have it, his scan paused at the right moment for me and the wrong moment for Katy and Fairfax.
In that video, Fairfax, Katy and another woman had strolled along the corridor with Fairfax's hands on the butts of both women under their miniskirts. Fool proof time and date recording had caught the action at 1:30 p.m. the Friday before I confronted Katy.
No! I have not ignored the word "probable." It was undeniable, however, that the video of Fairfax rubbing Katy's naked ass was condemning. Once I could cite more than a hand on the butt and some slobbery kisses, I wouldn't pause and ask for the opinion of others. "Probably" I will simply kick ass and go to jail for five years. Makes sense, does it? The hell it does. But you'll get ten to one that's exactly what I'll do.
It isn't as if she had not had an icy cold warning.
"Barton Fairfax is going to screw up your life but good, if he hasn't already," I had raged spontaneously one morning a month earlier before I left for work. "I've had all of Fairfax I'm going to take."
"What are you talking about?" my wife spluttered, spraying coffee onto the table. "Me and Barton? Have you gone mad?"
Coffee dripped off the edge of the table onto her lap. It was a hiss mixed with a squeal as she kicked her chair back and examined the stains on her skirt. Before she could vent her head of steam, I struck again,
"Is that one of your daughter's miniskirts?" I asked caustically. "Or is it the fashion now for 40 year-old lawyers to flash their butts?"
"How dare you!" she hissed. Her face, having flushed pink initially , now paled; but her features were twisted, literally screwed until her mouth and jaw were distorted.
"I would ask if you're wearing panties," I persisted. "But I'm afraid I wouldn't like the answer."
Having strode out of the kitchen before she could blast off, I was poised at work awaiting her counter argument or even divorce papers. Instead, Katy had called before 9 o'clock to ask softly if we could meet for lunch to discuss my concerns.
Never marry a good lawyer. During the prolonged lunch, my wife dissected her history as the lawyer on retainer by Fairfax's printing and publishing company. So perfectly did she reconstruct the facts and reconstrue the fictions that I almost applauded.