Holidaze
You know how exhausted you feel after going out to your work holiday party on a Monday night? Now do it two, three nights a week for five, six weeks in a row — with Happy Endings.
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I’m calling this one Holidaze, because it’s that time of year again, already.
Holiday parties.
For me and my girls, even now at my advanced-for-this-work age, holidays mean holiday parties. You know how exhausted you feel after going out on a Monday night with all your coworkers? Now do it two, three nights a week for five, six weeks in a row.
And add on the requisite Happy Endings almost every time, so long as your client doesn’t party themselves out of it.
Not complaining, it’s a lucrative time of year that makes it worthwhile. And January will probably be dead.
But until then …
Next week, before the Christian world shuts us all down, I’ll work every night, even Wednesday night. Someone will need a date to that Christmas Eve party.
So far this season, I’ve worked 7 holiday parties with 6 more booked this week and next week. Plus another, I’m sure. Someone will need a date to that Christmas Eve party.
This year, like most years, it started on the Saturday before the U.S. Thanksgiving.
But this year, J hired me to be his +1 to an “Adultsgiving” party – think “Friendsgiving,” except replace all the single 20-somethings with single or swinging 50- and 60-somethings – plus 30-something me and a couple of my girlfriends.
It was a potluck. J brought this disgusting-sounding but delicious-tasting oyster stuffing. Breaded oysters baked with heavy cream and pulverized roasted chipotle peppers. Damn, it was good.
I brought my famous spicy cranberry relish. Whole cranberries cooked down with prosecco, lime juice, chopped lime pulp – and pulverized roasted chipotle peppers.
Why yes, we did co-ordinate. Thanks for asking. The invitation said only “make it spicy.” So we did.
The host couple – two doms I recognized from being around – made a spicy mole roast turkey. A couldn’t-look-more-straight-laced, buttoned up white couple made stuffing laced with gingery “spicy” bouillon.
Did you know that spicy herbs equal spicy times? The active ingredients in hot peppers don’t just warm up your tongue and throat, they release endorphins, making play time hot time. Spicy time.
The pumpkin pie was seasoned with cinnamon and cumin (rhymes with human, not come-in). When our hostesses offered whipped cream, J perked up.
“Herb Alpert,” he said, and all the boomers in the room hooted like they knew what he meant.
You don’t? Look it up. He had a photo of the album cover saved to his photos on his phone, and he showed it to me. J told me later this was a famous album cover that got all the boyos in his high school hard just talking about it.
“What the hell,” I said, and shrugged off my top, walked over to Dom1.
I didn’t have to say anything. She didn’t smile, and Dom2 got hold of my wrists, held them firmly behind my back while Dom1 lathered whipped cream out of her KitchenAid bowl and onto my girls, mounds and mounds of whipped cream building up a décolletage I can only dream about. Honestly, I’m ok with my little naturals, but all that whipped cream worked me up to 36 DDs, and it looked good!
“Good girl,” Dom1 said, and rubbed the rubber spatula down my nose, across my lips, paused to let me lick, slowly. That big heavy cream tasted good, too.
Now the party was on. While Dom2 held my wrists, the straight-looking couple came up to me. She kissed me first, then plunged her face into my creamy set. He watched, and waited. He was waiting for Dom1, and when she said, “taste her,” he practically leapt in to join his wife, lapping at the cream like a puppy. Every time he tried to kiss wifey, Dom1 would reach in and redirect him back to my cream piles.
I realized everyone was gathered around. A guy nearby tugged off his leather pants, and Dom1 slathered whipped cream all over his cock and ass, up in him, and all around, a big fluffy white diaper of whipped cream. “Go to it, boys and girls,” Dom2 said, and a guy started gobbling at his front while a woman appeared and tried to felch the cream out of his ass.
I searched around for J, but couldn’t see him. Just then, I heard him say, “Can I take her wrists, Madam? Can I hold her while you eat her?”
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