The incessant ringing of his iPhone pulled Dan from a restless slumber. Eyes still closed, warding off the 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 all morning.” 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, and the events of the night before flooded back into his memory. He collapsed to his back, stretching again.

“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 condo. He 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 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. “Let me 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 spread along 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 are your parents?” the older man asked.

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

Mr. Moore took his drink from his wife and poured some of the brown liquid 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 butt, a flash of blonde hair caught his attention, coming his way. 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 clung provocatively to her chest. A black wool skirt, ending just above the knee, completed the ensemble.

“Pervert,” she muttered under 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 finger or two of bourbon. “I saw you staring at Marianne’s ass. You have no shame. Seriously.”

Dan chuckled as he added a splash of soda to the tumbler. “Shame is for pussies, 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 joined the party.

As the time neared 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. As he reached for the bottle of vodka, Mrs. Morgan glided into the room through the wide entrance leading in from the living room, barely acknowledging his presence. She poured another glass of bourbon for herself, and Dan scooped a few cubes from an ice bucket. Elvis’ ‘Blue Christmas’ played from the speakers 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, her tone clipped.

“Couldn’t be better.” With a hiss, Dan opened a bottle of soda, 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 drink 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 sucking down that bourbon tonight. Sure hope you’re not driving.”

“Of course not,” she responded, taking another swig.

“Room at the Ritz again?”

Over the rim of her glass, her 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, a few up on the roof deck smoking pot. “Picked out your prey for tonight?”

“Fuck off,” Mrs. Morgan responded, downing the rest of her bourbon 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, kid,” she hissed at him, leaning into him so that no one heard their conversation.

Dan’s cock stirred within his pants as a bloated breast squished against his bicep, but he just smiled. “Yeah, and you have more plastic in those absurd tits than you could find on a porn set.”

Her cheeks flushed at the insult. But then again, she knew it wasn’t 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 them.

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

“Happy hunting,” Dan called to her receding form. His eyes locked on her tight swaying butt 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?”

“A whole lotta nuthin’. 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 home 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 dim 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. She took a step down the hallway, away from him, but paused and turned on her heel.

“Oh, and by the way?” she intoned in a stage whisper, a trim eyebrow arched 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.” 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 found his Uber at the curb. Unseen to his eyes was Mrs. Morgan’s similarly quick exit from the party. Bundled in her mink, she too slipped into a car, 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 the 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 his phone for the time and considered watching the highlights from the comfort of his bed.

But before the decision had been made, his landline 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, Mrs. Morgan waited for him to answer.

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 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.

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 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 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 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 with a laugh, flopping onto the couch, and 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 smiled. “Santa goes to my parents’ house. Not here.”

Mrs. Morgan bit her lower lip gently, then gracefully pushed herself out of the chair and stepped between the couch and the coffee table, standing above her son’s best friend. “That’s where you are mistaken.” Her voice had dropped an octave or two, taken on a smokey tone.

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, drawing a barely audible gasp from Dan’s throat.

Mrs. Morgan stood before him. Her small feet were still strapped into 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 baby doll just barely concealed her bald pussy. The same white faux fur that adorned her Santa cap ringed the bottom hem of the lingerie, and also the deeply cut neckline, highlighting the woman’s oversized breasts. The silk material bulged over the implants 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 nestled between her breasts.

“Oh, lord,” Dan muttered, his eyes now locked on the bright red gloss that was smeared across her plump 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 lingerie rode up, exposing a matching thong.

“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 pussy down on his lap, feeling the heat of his cock through his shorts. Slender 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?” she whispered, her hot breath caressing his lips.

Beneath her, Dan shuddered as his hands slid up the cool flesh of her toned legs, encircling her pliant hips. An incoherent sound emanated from his throat and Mrs. Morgan slid her wet, pink tongue between his lips and into 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 gusset of the thong to the side, revealing her freshly waxed pussy, glistening with her wetness.

“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 pussy but stopped when the tip of his nose nudged against her clitoris. She pulled his head first right then left, then right again and his nose played over the inflamed nub 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. His tongue slithered from between his lips and lapped at her slick labia, the syrupy fluid of her pussy collecting on his tongue before he swallowed. He then flattened his tongue against her swollen clitoris.

“Oh, God,” he heard her murmur above him.

Keeping pressure against her clit, Dan swirled his tongue over the swollen nub 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 pulled at the back of his head, forcing his mouth hard against her squelching cunt.

“Eat!” she hissed, slender fingers still in the boy’s hair, her massive tits bunched up in the cheap babydoll, threatening to spill over the inadequate cups. “Get that fucking tongue in my cunt!”

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 that dripping pussy.

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.

She shifted her weight a little and Dan’s free hand slipped between her damp thighs. He lifted his head and swiped his tongue over her swollen clit as one finger, then another, pushed through her slick labia.

“Gooood booooy,” she cooed, luxuriating in the dual sensations of her cunt walls being stretched and his smooth tongue easing itself over her inflamed clit.

As a third finger slithered into her depths, Dan abruptly sucked the thick bud between his teeth and held it there, his tongue roughly flicking it back and forth.

Mrs. Morgan, balanced precariously as she was on the back of the couch, nearly fell.

“Oh, fuck,” she moaned hotly, her body tensing as Dan eased a fourth finger into her cunt. “Nnnnnghnnn!!!!”

The arm that was bracing her buckled and the older woman fell back along the back of the couch, her hands grasping her heaving chest, her long, slender fingers tweaking her aching nipples through the cheap fabric.

Dan continued the harsh assault on the unfaithful woman’s tender clit while he flexed the four fingers buried in her convulsing cunt. He jammed his face against her bare mound, his teeth nibbling at the base of her clit while his tongue beat against the fattened nub.

“Aaaggghhhh,” she wailed, long, manicured nails clawing at the babydoll, trying to free her fat nipples from the thin material.

Dan let his wrist drop, forcing his fingers down, stretching her labia wide, while his fingers spread deep in her sodden hole, the soft walls of her cunt yielding to the pressure.

Mrs. Morgan’s lithe body convulsed once then tensed. “Uuuuugggggghhhhh!!!!!” she moaned. Her cunt walls spasmed around his fingers as a massive orgasm washed over her forty-seven-year-old body. She bucked her hips into his face, crushing his nose against her distended clit, bringing tears to his eyes.

Her luscious body quivered and shook as Dan eased the pressure on her clit and her fingers relaxed, releasing their grip on the faux fur neckline of the babydoll.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, leaning to her left so that she rolled back to the couch. Catching her breath, Mrs. Morgan scooted her ass into the corner of the couch and spread her legs slightly, a manicured finger drifting down between her legs to soothe her pulsing clit.

Dan too sat back on the couch and wiped Mrs. Morgan’s cunt juice from his face with the back of his hand. He then pulled his shirt over his head and lifted his ass from the cushion, sliding his shorts down over his muscular thighs. “My turn, Mrs. Morgan.”

“Yeah, right,” she whispered, pushing herself off the couch.

Dan’s face clouded over in confusion as he watched the degenerate woman perch herself atop his coffee table. She leaned toward him and pushed him back into the couch, lifting her dainty feet to either side of his knees, right on the edge of the couch.

“Just sit back and relax,” she ordered.

She leaned back, bracing herself with her right arm, and gathered the baby doll up around her waist with her free hand. The thong still pulled to the side, her bald cunt shone in the faint light of the room, her abused labia now loosened and red and puffy. Gently, she eased the thong back in place. She laughed softly at his expression.

“What? You want some of this?” she teased him, three manicured fingers slightly tapping her clit through the thong.

Dan’s voice caught so he simply nodded his head.

“Oh yeah? Well, what are you going to do to get it?”

His brow furrowed.

“You don’t think I just give this up for free, do you?” she taunted.

A bemused expression crossed his face and he swallowed. “Uh, yeah, that’s exactly...”.

Before Dan could finish his sentence, Mrs. Morgan leaned forward and slapped him lightly on the cheek. She pointed a manicured finger in his face scoldingly. “Not for free. I always get something.”

“Uh ... well ... what do you want?”

Satisfied, Mrs. Morgan leaned back again. “Grab the bottle from my purse,” she ordered him, her fingers tracing circles over her taut stomach, easing toward her bulging breasts. Dan leaned over, felt around inside the big bag, and pulled a bottle of KY from it. He showed it to her.

“I wanna see you stroke it,” she announced. “Stroke it for me.”

Dan was nonplussed. “I don’t wanna stroke it. I want you to stroke it.”