To The Christmas Party We Shall Go

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.

Instead, I apologized for having doubted her. There were two compelling reasons for my apparent back peddling. I discovered that I could not simply dump Katy; and we had two precocious teenagers to consider.

I'm no lawyer, but I also was aware that I had fired off my mouth prematurely. Unforgivable that was if you do what I do for a living. If this incredible rupture in our lives were to go to the ultimate, I still needed facts that would meet the rules of evidence.

I confess, moreover, that I was hoping against hope that I was wrong. Divorcing Katy would effectively end my life. At the end of the lunch and with her cogent and compelling reconstruction of the facts, I was perfectly willing to patch the crack in our paradise and await further developments.

As one of the operating vice presidents of Trinity Grapelance Penross Group, LLC, I am carrying an administrative mountain. Fortunately, my profitable ordeal of exquisite anxieties entered the down phase last week when our first deep pocketed guests began arriving.

Anyone who has shared responsibility for opening a citadel of supreme luxury and promiscuous plenitude called a resort hotel will understand. My wife and children, however, continued to demand their pound of flesh for my perceived and confessed failures on the home front during the two-year project.

There was no denying it. I was frequently exhausted when I had a day off; and days off were few and far between. At home my cell vibrated incessantly, my laptop was ever present and my brief case always bulged. There were times when I thought about Harry Mann, my contemporary in the next office. One morning, Harry stood up from his desk, gasped and fell dead on his office floor. It was a stroke. He was my age, only 44.

Harry's death got my attention. I added a day to my gym time and began running two miles in the early morning instead of one. More fish for lunch became an order of the day.

Having paid a king's ransom of half a million dollars and seven years of my life for engineer and merchandising degrees, I was expecting accolades instead of hisses. This project would provide my claim to fame. Success here would yield a veritable fortune for years to come.

Of course, there would be a quid pro quo. Grapelance Penrose would want miracles performed as required and 60-hour weeks for the rest of my life. But Katy and the kids would have just about anything they wanted.

For two months after the scare of Tankersley's video, there was nothing of concern on the corridor cams. That's not to say, however, that I was resting easily. Fairfax's printing company was a national concern. Combined with his publishing business, demands on Katy's time as their primary lawyer were to be expected.

Meeting space was at a premium in all businesses; and one of the declared purposes for the leasing the pied-a-terre was to ease the administrative pressure. Numerous legitimate business meetings, all of them requiring Katy's presence as counsel, were scheduled for Fairfax's personal suite. I was hard pressed to complain since our business plan for the building had anticipated this and included rooms with conference tables in each suite.

Then came the Christmas party. How many times have I heard that as a preamble to "and we were divorced nine months later."?

All of the ballrooms at all of our hotels had been booked for the holiday season. Fairfax had reserved the huge dinner-dance pavilion on the mezzanine of the building where he leased the suite.

Fairfax Company had scheduled its party the Saturday night of my company's affair. My company's party, a combination dinner dance and honor award celebration, would keep me busy during the festivities; and Katy had tactfully inquired if I expected her to attend. Of course I expected her to support me at an important company event; but I instinctively calmed my irritation and permitted her to make a case justifying her going to the Fairfax party instead.

"After all, they are my best clients," she said forcefully but reasonably, "and I know people there, and I'm not all that comfortable just sitting with the dull wives of your friends while you officiate."

Now I was beginning to think I had been mistaken about Katy's intelligence. Just four months had passed since I had made my declaration about her and Fairfax. As I recalled, I declared my animosity toward Fairfax and stated rather crudely what I would do if she betrayed me.

Here she was quite openly playing me. It was so blatant that I had begun suspecting it might be some weird desire to create a conflict upon which to base a divorce. But why take the trouble? She could confess her infidelity; and my response would be to file for divorce; but she would pay the lawyer's bills and court fees.

"Do what you think best," I said without conviction but with a thin smile.

"I do want to maintain good faith with Fairfax," she said. "They are a third of the income of my law practice, and I would never be given this level of confidence and authority at another company."

"Do you want a divorce, Katy?" I asked suddenly.

As I had intended, my question surprised her. I hoped that she was off guard; but Katy reacted indignantly and gradually progressed to a convincing display of being aggrieved.

"I am not having sex with Fairfax," she said finally in a voice that was too calm, almost flat. Katy was not a gifted actress,

What could I read into her reasoning?

What was she really after? Perhaps I would never know.

"I do not want a divorce," she said resolutely. "I am not doing anything that would justify your suing me for divorce."

"What are you doing Katy?" I asked, following her lead.

"I'm going to bed," she said diffidently and left the room.

I slept in the guest room that night.

Next morning I left the house without resuming the conversation about the Fairfax Company's Christmas Party.

I called Fairfax's office as I drove and was told I could reach him at his apartment. I was pleased. There would be no witnesses, though he might have installed his own cams.

One of the perks as a VP entails having someone to park your car. Ernie, the doorman, didn't resent doing that for me. I had helped Ernie qualify for parole from prison on a burglary conviction by giving him a job.

"Is Mr. Fairfax in his apartment?" I asked Ernie.

"He hasn't come down and asked for his car," Ernie responded. "Want me to go up and tell him you want to see him?"

"I'll have a chat with him this time," I said and involuntarily smirked. "You may confer with him later. I'll let you know."

I smiled. Ernie smiled. I liked Ernie. He was dependable, always at work on time and enjoyed his job.

Life goes on. Until next Christmas, Sine Die.