The Christmas party Martin Kane, martin_s_kane@yahoo.co.uk Fancy dress, violent retribution, cleavage, vol-au-vents & photocopiers... --- Author's note: First the standard blub on copyright, which is mine. I'd be flattered if anyone wanted to use this tale elsewhere, but please seek permission before copying, altering, posting etc. Secondly, I invite anyone to send their comments, suggestions, thoughts or suspicions should they care to. Needless to say this story is purely a fiction and all characters merely the products of an overwrought imagination I'll abstain from the adult content warning, if you've got this far, you're certain to know what kind of thing to expect anyway. --- That year in the office, they had decided top make the Christmas party fancy dress. A few were unenthusiastic, only going along to the annual event reluctantly, but most got into the spirit of it. The boardroom and adjoining conference rooms had all been decorated festively; buffet food was laid out on the huge boardroom tables with bottles of wine and beer filling one corner. No one even seemed to mind using the paper cups supplied. The technician had played around with the PA system and pop music was blasting through speakers that weren’t designed for musical quality. A highwayman leaned over to his college, Robin Hood. "Jesus," he gasped, genuinely awed, "who’s Cleopatra?" Robin Hood turned in the direction indicated by the highwayman’s fixated stare, just in time to see a chasm of cleavage as the queen of Egypt swept majestically past him. "Did you see the tits on that?" "You could hardly miss them," Robin Hood remarked. "Who is she?" "I think she works in contracts." "No way! That’s... Fuck me! I see her every day. I had no idea she was so stacked. She’s normally so mousy and quiet." Robin Hood just shrugged. He had to admit, he too had never given the girl much thought. Until now. "What I wouldn’t give to be the asp!" Both men clicked their beer bottles together in a toast and regarded the party. Cleopatra was dressed in robes fit for a queen. She had a gold collar-piece that delicately kissed her throat, a tiny jewel glittering in the centre. The wrap-around was indeed designed to flatter the well endowed, her breasts standing forth bold and prominent. She was tanned, a regular session on a sunbed simulating the requisite tawny cast. Eye make-up of solid black triangles gave her a startling and austere countenance. Jet black hair, in the form of a perfect and neat wig completed the image. She strode with a confidence and manner that perfectly befit the regal dress. In one corner of the room, a group of pirates shuffled and milled about. Each appeared as uncomfortable and embarrassed as each of their colleges. It had been one bright spark who suggested that they all go as pirates, a band of cut-throat accountants together. Now it simply looked as though they all lacked imagination and originality, each having unwittingly used the same, eye-patch, cutlass, cap & earring kit. Only one stood out, having not only chosen blue and white stripes instead of the conventional green and white, but also having gone the extra mile and strapped a wooden sawn-off broom- handle to his knee and was attempting to retain his balance. Cleopatra approached one of the pirates, the pegged leg. His eyes recognised her, dropped in surprise to the expansive display of her breasts and quickly returned to her face, all in the time it took her to reach him and smile a slightly taken aback hello. "Hi," she cooed, choosing to dismiss his lechery, "I like the suit. Though you should have gone the extra mile, actually hack that leg off." The pirate giggled. It was an awkward and embarrassed sound, pitched too high. He appeared to realise the fact and cut it off. He tried to make casual conversation instead. "You look very nice," he offered. "It’s a nice costume." He gestured down to her plush, flowing robes. It was meant to be an off-hand remark - a careless gesture. Unfortunately, his hand motioned directly to her obvious and expansive bosom. He realised this, again just a little too late, retracting his hand too quickly. The following silence ached. "Thanks," she offered, trying to put him at his ease. She knew him well enough to know how easily he got embarrassed, how quiet he was at work. "It’s Cleopatra," she added helpfully. "Yes," he agreed, still awkward. "Queen of Egypt, right? Queen of denial." He only muttered it so unfortunately she didn’t catch the witticism. It didn’t occur to him to repeat himself. "She was bitten on the breast by a poison asp," she offered. "Well it certainly had a large enough target," he countered. He tried to make the joke confident and amiable, to portray himself as cool and assured. Instead, he stuttered a little, blushed a lot and realised just a little too late, that he was once again staring directly into that deep, enticing chasm. His eyes flicked upwards as he blushed even more deeply. "I just meant..." he murmured but trailed out. She broke the silence quickly: "so whose idea was it to all come as pirates?" "Oh, right," he said, grateful for the bale-out, "someone just mentioned it as a suggestion and we sort of went along. Kind of a group decision I suppose." "Right," she said, nodding enthusiastically. Silence began to ebb again. The pirate adjusted his eye-patch, sweat making it uncomfortable. When he peeled it away from the flesh, a small welled pool was released to trickle down his cheek. "Excuse me," he muttered, wiping his face. Cleopatra smiled, "sure," she agreed, feeling embarrassed on his behalf as he lent forward, trying to make the patch comfortable again. He had began muttering something about the decor but in his current position, everything he said was illegible anyway. The pirate trailed off. He tried to think of something to say to this women, sensing the uncomfortable air beginning to grow. He only realised that he was staring at her breasts again because the sight was cut away from his vision by her smooth arms. She pointedly folded her arms, warding his gaze off. It wasn’t a pissed-off gesture, more a formal one. Even so, it made his blush a dozen times worse. "Sorry," he murmured with a sheepish grin. "I didn’t mean to... erm... offend." "They can be hypnotic," she agreed nonchalantly. Silence again threatened, until the pirate cut through it with a series of nervous ticks and gestures towards the drinks table. "I’m just gonna get myself a drink, a beer or something. While I’m over there, can I get you anything?" "I’m fine thanks," she assured him. "Great," he enthused. "Well great to see you, I’ll catch you later then." And he disappeared, quickly and clumsily. Cleopatra smiled to herself, at once pitying and empathising with him. Dracula wandered up to her and leaned to mutter into her ear, "what did you do to that poor boy? He couldn’t get away any quicker if he had a fourth leg." "I think I embarrassed him," she admitted. "He’s sweet." "That would be why he couldn’t prise his eyes from your tits?" His eye-shadowed eyes dropped blatantly to the mass of flesh that was her chest. "Not that anyone could blame the poor man." "It’s rude to stare," she told him with a self-righteous tut. Dracula smiled, revealing the lengths he’d gone to for his costume, two sharp little incisors. "And there are those that would say that you gave up the right to modesty when you chose to get dressed - if you can call it that - in the manner that you did." She raised an eyebrow to him, infinitely more scolding than anything that she could have said to him. "But I wouldn’t be in their number, of course," he capitulated with a wicked grin. Cleopatra couldn’t hold her pose and the stern expression dissolved into a girlish giggle. "But seriously babe," he told her gesturing to her chest, "you are seriously showing. I’ve never seen you take your jacket off at work for fear that someone might notice that you’re female." She shrugged. "I was just feeling a little extrovert I suppose," she admitted. "I saw the costume and thought to myself that it would be so cool to wear it and just fearlessly stand out," she giggled again at the unwitting pun. "Well you’ve got more guts than me," he told her, his admiration for her confidence genuine. "Actually I never dreamed I’d have the guts to wear it though. It took some serious cajoling from my friend." "Oh yeah right," Dracula said, "you have a guest coming, is she here?" Cleopatra went quiet suddenly, never any good at lying. "Oh, no. She couldn’t make it in the end. I don’t have any friends coming actually." "Right," he nodded. Firestar made her entrance as discreetly as a Lycra clad bodybuilder possibly could. A few jaws dropped, a few eyes bulged, a few heads turned to follow. She made no obvious sign that she was aware of this scrutiny, she was well used to shocking people just by the obvious power of her body. Yellow Lycra clung to her magnificent body like a second skin, complementing and accentuating a muscularity that could have come only from years in a gym, training with some serious weights. Even unpumped and unflexed, she knew her build was obvious in the stretch material but she had an extrovert streak and besides, she was proud of her physique and like to get reactions from people, even if it wasn’t always complementary. Red leather boots clung as high as her calves, red leather gloves halfway up her forearms. She’d dyed her hair a bold, firey red, and wore a facemask that covered her eyes, forehead and down past her cheekbones. She guessed that no one would recognise who she was. Of all the superheroines, she couldn’t think of one who was more obscure, but she didn’t care, Firestar was her favourite since she was a kid. Besides, the real character didn’t have a body-built physique, so accuracy was off there too. But then, most of the women she had aspired to in comic books as a child didn’t have serious muscles either, it was an injustice that had always infuriated her. And as for accuracy, her first priority for a costume was its benefit as a disguise. That was after all, why she was here. The highwayman stood, surveying his surroundings. The security camera watched all, taking in and amassing this visual feast. Not to mention the fantastic view to be had from looking down from upon high. He finished his beer in a decisive swig and went looking for Father Christmas. Cleopatra was chatting up some smarmy Dracula but he’d let that be for the moment, he was currently on a mission of a more permanent recollective image than the mind’s eye. He found Father Christmas, buried in the combined false white beard and real grey, greasy one beneath. He thrust his arms up in a drunken sway. "Stand and deliver," he crooned with a husky laugh. The highwayman laughed with good humour and began some traditional small talk. "...Well now you come to mention the fact, there’s one gift I’d be interested in," he eventually wheeled into the conversation. "Oh yes?" Father Christmas said, sounding a little more sober than he’d previously let on. He could see this coming. "Just curious about the videotapes, the close circuit TV that runs through the building. I just thought it’d be a laugh to edit a kind of rehash of the party moments. You know the sort of thing, most embarrassing moments, who dances with who." "That kind of thing," Father Christmas agreed, nodding. His eyes unconsciously shot to the end of the room where Cleopatra was leaning in intimately, close conversation with Dracula. She threw back her head and laughed, openly and without self-consciousness. The fact that her sizable breasts were thrust so violently forward that it was a wonder they stayed within the costume didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. He glanced up and noted with approval that the security camera was above her and only a little to one side. The sight it captured must be fantastic. "So what do you think?" the highwayman asked him. Father Christmas shook himself from his lustful revelry, his duel beard actually wet from drool. "Sorry, they’re all switched off." "What?" "All the cameras," Father Christmas reiterated, "are all switched off. No one’s gonna break in while we’re all here. No point in leaving them on to record. All they’re gonna catch on a night like this is drunken dancing and some twat trying to photocopy their arse." "Right," the highwayman sighed, defeated. "I’ll catch you later," Father Christmas murmured, pulling up his camera. He’d just noticed a French maid trying to discreetly adjust her stocking. He snapped off a few shots, grinning beneath his double beard. By the time he was done the highwayman had wandered off. He smiled to himself, patting the key in his pocket - the key to the coms room where all the video recorders, hooked up to every camera in the place, were housed. The highwayman had also noticed the French maid. She straightened her frilly skirt as he approached and smiled hello. "I couldn’t help notice that you were standing under the mistletoe," he crooned in what he considered his Steve McQueen voice. She glanced up, saw that it was true, and appeared to swear to herself. She smiled politely and turned her cheek. The highwayman laughed and thrust his own cheek at her, obviously. The French maid laughed, a little too politely, and lent to kiss his proffered cheek. He twisted his head at the last minute and slammed his lips against hers, a smacking blow. She gasped and pulled back at his sudden intrusion, then stormed off in a huff. "And a happy new year," he muttered after her. He glanced up at the mistletoe, wondering how would be the best way to attach it to his belt. He noticed the mass of bodies moving on the self-dedicated space that had become dance-floor. His friend, Robin Hood was clutching Red Riding Hood in a lively but still significantly touchy-gropey style dance. The highwayman stepped boldly up, cutting between them with a firm hand. "May I?" he asked, taking the girl’s hand regardless. Robin Hood looked reticent but Red Riding Hood was pissed. Despite this, she made no further complaint once her partner wandered off, leaving her with the highwayman. His hands slipped about her immediately began delving too far. Fingers slipped low, testing both her pliability and passivity. His body pressed too intimately against her, at once relishing her breasts and imposing his erection upon her. She froze, freaked and then fumed. A stream of abuse rolled off him like water off a duck’s back. He shrugged and wandered away, oblivious to her shock and anger. Utterly incredulous at his behaviour, Red Riding Hood regained her composure and strode away. "Thanks for nothing," Robin Hood hissed when the highwayman rejoined him. "Now she’ll blame me." He merely shrugged at his friend. "She’s too stuck up anyway. Bitch." Then they both caught sight of Firestar, voluptuous muscles rolling beneath a skin of Lycra. "Holy-fucking-Christ," the highwayman sighed, utterly awe-stuck. "What the fuck?!" "Now she doesn’t work here," Robin Hood decided confidentially. "A body like that I would certainly remember." "I take back everything I said about women’s lib, if that’s the kind of result they can produce then I’m all for it." "You’re into that she-woman?" Robin Hood asked, a little taken aback. He secretly admired the kind of physique that comes only from such tremendous will and discipline, respect where it’s due, but was surprised his friend was into such a woman. "Can you imagine fucking the bitch? Christ, man, a body that fit, I bet she’s a fucking animal in the sack." They watched her walk towards the far tables, watched the muscles working beneath her skin, both lost in a world of their own. Firestar made her way to the drinks table, helping herself to a paper cup of dry white. She sipped delicately and began sampling the different coloured vol-au-vents. One discreet space away, another woman randomly selected a sandwich and consumed it rather than loading her paper plate. Firestar raised her drink to cover her mouth as she said: "The highwayman I take it." "However did you guess?" Cleopatra remarked wryly. "Oh, I’m good at this," Firestar assured her. "Are these prawn?" Cleopatra graciously accepted a fill of wine, one polite stranger to another, then half turned from her muscular friend. "What do you think?" she asked, masking her mouth with the cup. "I think they’re definitely prawn," she decided, and swallowed another before taking a plate and beginning to load it up. She met Cleopatra’s eyes long enough to take in her expression. Firestar winked at her. "Nice tits," she crooned. "Seriously." "Seriously? Not problem at all, in fact, I’m going to enjoy it. Talking of which, I’m going to enjoy the party too. And you should do the same." Cleopatra smiled, a secretive, lustful little grin of knowing intent. "I intend to," she giggled. Firestar smiled. "That guy you were chatting to, the Count, is he the one you’re into?" "What him?" Cleopatra repeated, as if shocked be the idea. "No! God, no. He’s just a friend, you know?" Firestar smiled to herself and consumed another vol-au-vent. "Good." Cleopatra smiled slyly. "Why, are you into him?" "He has potential?" she admitted. Her friend laughed knowingly. "Help yourself," she offered. "Though I should just warn you that he’s not into one night stands." Firestar gave a cynical laugh at this. "Honey, all men are into one night stands, it’s built into them." "Whatever." "And anyway," Firestar said suddenly, "neither am I!" Cleopatra just raised her eyebrows at this. "I just happen to have had a few relationships that haven’t lasted longer than one night, for whatever reason. And I believe in trying something completely before committing to it fully." Cleopatra snorted laughter, having to put her drink down or risk spilling it. "Whatever," she repeated. "Have fun." "Oh, I will," she assured, "I certainly will." They ended the discreet conversation as the highwayman was walking directly towards them. Could he have known he was the object of their scrutiny? Could their cloak and dagger skills be so inept? Cleopatra backed carefully off (though staying within convenient earshot) as the highwayman reached Firestar and smiled his most assured greeting. "You’re not from the company, are you?" he asked. "No," she agreed. "Because I would certainly remember you if I’d seen you before." "Really," she asked, trying to remain sincere and trying desperately not to meet Cleopatra’s amused gaze, knowing that if she did she would erupt into a fit of giggles. "I’m that distinctive?" "Oh sure," he told her. "I’ve just got to ask you, do you work out?" Firestar couldn’t resist. She raised her arm a little to sip her wine, as if oblivious to the flexing and swelling of her mighty biceps that this motion caused. "A little," she admitted, dropping the pose and the cup. The highwayman’s jaw gaped. He’d seen she was fit, and possessed obvious and toned muscles. But to see it close, he realised that it wasn’t just the cut of the suit exaggerating and flattering, she was actually far more built and pumped than he’d suspected. Firestar stretched her back thoughtfully, jutting her breasts, complimented by sharp little nipples. Even thought the Lycra, the rippling washboard of her stomach was blatant. His jaw dropped even further. "Hypnotic, aren’t they?" she remarked. "Oh yeah," he agreed, finally prising his eyes off her. "Who are you?" he managed, his brain still not quite back down to Earth. "I’m a superheroine," she told him, watching as his eyes dropped back to her physique, utterly regardless of her, or anything she said. "I bet you are," he muttered, more to himself than to her. He stared blatantly at her body, her breasts cupped so tightly by the complementary material, the nipples jutting determinedly out at him. She sighed and shook her head, incredulous at the way he seemed to totally disregard her feelings at being ogled so callously. Cleopatra was right, of that, there was no doubt. "I’ve gotta go," she told him. And turned around. She wandered off, biting down a salacious grin. Fun indeed. This was gonna be... The highwayman peeled his eyes away from her chiselled buttocks sauntering away to see that Cleopatra was only a breath away. He turned and switched his grin back on. "Hi..." Torpedo breasts turned to face him as Cleopatra reluctantly acknowledged him. "Hi," she greeted, now regretting hanging around. His eyes surveyed her, as ever, making her feel like an exhibit. "I like the outfit," he remarked enthusiastically. "It really emphasises your eyes." He drew the remark out, letting all implications be blatant. She raised her eyebrow in a biting arch, her voice droll. "Yeah? It highlights my tits well too." The highwayman balked a little at her overt delivery but tried not to let it show. "Cleopatra, wasn’t she bitten on the breasts by a snake?" "I don’t know, was she?" Wherever he was going with it, he lost his track there and then. Cleopatra took the opportunity to make a fixed departure and left him standing there alone. Firestar reached Dracula. She smiled and offered him her plate. "Vol-au-vent?" "Yes they are," agreed Dracula with a grin, graciously accepting one. "Thank you." She smiled winningly. "I’m afraid they don’t do blood, you’ll just have to make do with dead animal." He shook his head in pseudo awe. "You should have been a sales-man, you have such a convincing persona." "Love the suit, how did you pick it, you’re not in the legal department are you?" He laughed. "I’m afraid not, I was just attracted to the hair and makeup." "If Dracula can’t see his reflection in the mirror then..." "How the hell does he get that perfect parting?" he finished for her. They both laughed. It was an old joke but that didn’t matter - it was a shared moment all the same. "Don’t take this the wrong way or anything," he said, "but who the hell are you?" She look horrified, as though he’d just discredited everything she’s ever believed in. "You really don’t know your superheroines, do you," she scolded. "Lycra-girl," he offered with a shrug. She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t contain her humour, grinning at him. "If the truth be told, I only picked this due to an extrovert streak," she told him. "If you train as heavy as I do, you want to take every opportunity to show the fact off." "Really," he asked, feigning surprise, "do you work out then?" She grinned, reaching her arm behind her neck to innocently scratch. Her biceps muscle exploded, swelling at the motion. Dracula’s attempts to retain his cool shot out there and then. "Oh fuck me!" he gasped. "Jesus. You’ve got some serious muscles." "Yeah," she admitted. "You noticed that, huh?" He pulled his eyes from her arms to meet her amused eyes. His stunned expression tuned into one of smooth, impressed approval. The later into the evening the party stretched, the drunker the revellers became, what with free alcohol having the tendency to incite such a state. Most of the pirates had left by this point, a Stormtrooper had come close to passing out through heat exhaustion, and the party tapes were just beginning their third recycle. Father Christmas caught a slow, intimate kiss between an elf and a nun, both of whom were married. It was an action that both would doubtless regret come the morning but for now, they were lost within the moment. The highwayman finished another beer. Robin Hood was busy slow dancing with Red Riding Hood. He sighed to himself and looked about. Cleopatra was happily chatting to a caveman, apparently getting on like a house on fire. She suddenly caught him staring at her and turned her back on him huffily, swinging her substantial breasts out of sight. He sighed again. Firestar was also on the dance floor, getting touchy-feely with Dracula. The highwayman was unaware of the surreptitious glances she occasionally shot him, keeping a track of his actions. He headed to the bathroom, all that beer building a pressure against his bladder. And it was there, dick in hand, that he had his great idea. He shook himself dry and instead of heading back to the party, went up a level to the large, open-plan office. The base beat was all that could be heard through the floor, a dull thud, muffled by the building. He glanced about, making sure he was alone. The security camera watched and saw all, as ever, but he knew the video was disabled. He lifted the photocopier lid and unzipped. Leaning forward, he carefully lay his dick on the glass, shuddering at the cold. He positioned his balls, making them neatly symmetrical. He had to stretch, thrusting his hips hard against the copier base to get the best result. He tugged at the end of his dick, trying to make it appear as long as possible. Then he had an idea, and tapped the enlargement button. He was so engrossed with what he was doing that he didn’t hear anyone coming up behind him, wasn’t even aware of the fact until he felt her body press up against his back. Her breasts confirmed that it was a woman, her muscles confirmed whom. "What?" he stammered, not knowing what else to say. "Hi," she cooed in his ear, pressing herself up against him hard. And he could feel her body. His shoulder-blades were blessed by her breasts crushing up against them like two mounds of hot, clay. Along his spine he could feel her belly like a slab of hard, flat slate. Her hips pressed against his arse, pinning him to the copier. Her thighs lay against his own, swallowing them with their extensive mass. Her shins against his calves, her feet touching the outside of his. He could feel the heat of her body, so hard against his own. Every breath she took ripped her muscles against him, letting him feel their awesome power, their size and strength. Her hands stroked their way down his arms until she had him by the wrists. He could feel the thickness of her biceps as they pressed against his triceps. He could feel the hardness of every muscle, feel them flex with each individual motion, tensing and relaxing. Then her grip tightened, her fingers biting deep into the flesh, revealing just a hint of the kind of strength she was capable of. Firestar slid her head forward, stroking her face against his cheek until her lips almost reached his. The highwayman shuddered again, and this time it wasn’t from the cold. She glanced down over his shoulder, watching his dick throb in time to his quickening pulse, beginning to rise to the occasion. She squeezed his wrists unbearably tight. It felt as though his bones were grinding together, that they would snap and his hands would be torn right off. His erection immediately fell as he gasped out in pain, struggling to pull his arms free. Firestar easily held him fast, keeping her grip hard but stopping short of actually crushing him. She held him there, kissing him a quick peck on the cheek. Then she raised her arms, pulling his too, up until they touched hands high above their heads. He only realised what she was planning when she caught both his wrists in one mighty hand and reached her other to grasp hold of the photocopier lid. He began struggling in earnest then, pulling his arms and trying to slide out of her grip. She was far too strong for him however, her hold about his wrists in no danger of slipping, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to get away from her but her hips pressed against him hard, keeping him tight against the copier base. She pressed him in so tightly that he shuddered from the pain of it, feeling as though his pelvis would be pulverised between the rock and the hard place. She kissed him again... then slammed the lid. It was a sound unlike any she had ever heard, the soft, wet, crush immediately drowned by the heavy slam. Her victim however, was silent. His body was convulsing, though still held in place by her grip about his wrists (not to mention his tackle pinned within the closed copier). It was as though the pain was so intense, he could not let it out in a single scream. Though his body was shrieking, his mouth wide, his face screwed into an agonised expression, nothing came out of his lungs except for a crushed hiss. His body was shuddering still as she lifted the copier and grimaced at the bloody halo about his ruined genitals, growing in a circle like paint poured onto snow. "Oh shit," she muttered into his ear, "that must really hurt, huh?" Her hand supporting him from on high suddenly drew him down and backwards. She brought her knee up in a perfectly timed blow. With the precision of a machine, she aimed her knee away from the spine, not wanting to paralyse him. Instead it caught him to one side, blasting though to his kidney. He fell down when she released him, no strength left, he was more than defeated and she had barely begun. She wondered absently just how much damage she was expected to perform, the request wasn’t very specific. It was already permanent and even potentially fatal. That last blow may well have caused internal injury. Then she shrugged and kicked him in the chest, shattering ribs and turning his already agonised breathing into a ragged gasp. She placed the sole of one leather boot carefully on his face. He was too defeated to offer any resistance whatsoever, if indeed he was still aware of anything other than physical agony. A quick, controlled flex of muscles and she crushed his nose, splattering blood over his face. Then she placed the stiletto heel on the open palm of his hand. A pause for dramatic emphasis, and then she displaced her weight, driving the spike right though. She raised her leg to draw the boot out of his flesh but it gripped, the whole arm lifted with the heel, absurdly like a puppet. She braced his wrist with the other foot and ripped herself free She cleaned the blood off of her boots them, wanting to return to the party once she had finished here. She regarded her victim - a sorry sight indeed. Firestar stopped suddenly. Someone was coming. She glanced about - there was no place to escape to in time. She had to act quickly. The highwayman was groaning, still trying to escape. He’d managed to roll onto his stomach and was trying to crawl. Unfortunately, his arms and legs weren’t strong enough to get him onto all fours. She stuck out, kicking him in the temple to knock him out clean. Then she pushed with her foot, rolling him around and under a desk, just as a flowing cape billowed around the corner. "I was wondering if you had gotten lost," Dracula said. Firestar just looked sheepishly at him. If she was going to look guilty, then she may as well use it as an alibi. "No, not lost," she murmured, "I’m just here." "What are you up to?" "Well," she shrugged, "you know the old tradition with office parties and photocopiers...?" He grinned and approached. "Couldn’t resist huh? OK, let’s see what you’ve got." "It’s busted," she said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t want to check it out. If he lifted the lid and saw the gruesome mess, the game would be up. Dracula just smiled. "Well, there is another copier, in my office upstairs." "Oh yes?" she asked coyly. "Really?" "And that has the benefit of privacy." He pointed out the camera. "Our technician told everyone that the videos are switched off but that’s bullshit. He just wants people to drop their guard. He’ll take the tapes home in the hope that there’s a few good shots to perv over." Firestar smiled, trying not to giggle. "Really?" she said again. She offered him her arm. "Well, we best go upstairs then." As they left, Firestar glanced back at the desk the highwayman was beneath, at the camera that was watching everything. She blew it a kiss and they exited. When they got to Dracula’s office they didn’t go near the photocopier. Firestar grasped him by his suit lapels and threw him onto the leather sofa he had for visitors. She threw her arms out, flexing her biceps. She squeezed the muscles in turn, making them bulge and dance. "You haven’t taken your eyes off me all night," she remarked. "You’ve been staring at my arms like most guys have been staring at Cleopatra’s tits." He shrugged, trying to retain his cool, though obviously distracted and awed by the posing display. "You know, most men are repelled by muscular women." "I’m not most men." She smiled. "No you’re not... however..." She leapt on top of him, sitting astride his lap. He felt her powerful thighs flex and relax on top of his own, her Lycra crotch a mere inch from his own straining member. Firestar leant forward, pressing their faces together. Her head touched his, the only thing separating their flesh was her mask. Then she kissed him - sweetly and sincerely. Tenderness turned to passion in the time it takes heat to rile into need, and before his erection could reach the point of being painful due to its restriction, she clawed her fingers and tore the clothes from his body. She was wild, committing this act with a desperate fury, actually grabbing each item of clothing and tearing it free from his flesh. She began with his suit, taking one side from the collar and tearing a long strip down, pulling one sleeve off with it. Dracula realised the damage she was doing to a suit that wasn’t his, the hire-shop wanted it back tomorrow, and actually tried to stop her, grasping her wrists. She pulled free without a second’s thought and pinned his arms, pressing them down to his sides. Then she continued, tearing the remainder of the jacket into two and casting the even rags aside. Then she attacked the shirt, shredding it in much the same way. Dracula just sat and watched, awed and aroused beyond belief. The sight of her hunger, her passion, not to mention the muscles working with the effort this violence required, fuelled his own lust to burning point. He reached out to cup her bulging muscles as she worked, feeling and stroking. And when he was bare-chested, she pounced upon him, kissing, licking and biting. She covered his flesh in exquisite red weals of passion. She reached his crotch, ripped his trousers free from his flesh with the same violent excess. His hard-on sprung triumphantly free and she wrapped her mouth about it hungrily. Dracula, naked now, costume free except for the two incisors, threw back his head, gasping with the intensity of sensation. Such was his revelry, he didn’t even notice the pain when, biting down, he sent two trickles of his own blood to run either side of his chin. Afterwards, Firestar sat back, watching him attempt to regain composure as she wiped her mouth. He noticed his blood and she offered him the cloth for his wound. He noticed the baroque frills and realised it was all that was left of his shirt. When he looked back towards her she was on him again, covering him with her fevered kisses. He leant himself back, twisting around to lie properly on the sofa. She sat astride him and his hands reached up to ply at her Lycra clad flesh. As though noticing this inequity suddenly, his fingers curled beneath her belt to peel the material way from her flat belly. His hands disappeared inside that second skin, touching those amazing muscle properly for the first time. She rippled her stomach as his fingers touched the ridged abs. Then up, noting the beginning her ribcage, further to the solid mounds of her breasts and hard nipples. She obliged finally, raising her arms, and peeling the top away, the Lycra crackling with static as it left her skin. Dracula stopped his exploration a few moments to simply stare, take in the awesome sight of her amazing body, naked and glimmering with the slight sheen of sweat. Then he was touching her again. She eased her body up to finish undressing and when she eased back down, she sat instead on his chest, knees hard in his armpits, her crotch moments away from his lips. Her fingers probed his face, tenderly and curiously. They brushed his nose and cheeks, his eyes and forehead. They penetrated his mouth and pried open his jaw, grasping his tongue and tapping his teeth. Then her hands were embedded him his hair. She arched her supple body forward and her cunt was in his face and he knew what to do then. His tongue began its work delicately enough but was soon at a frenzy, hungrily delving and swallowing. She bucked and twitched, arched and sobbed. She writhed like a thing possessed, wailed like a demon and came like a shot of morphine to the spine. She fell back gasping happily. Their eyes met over the landscape of two sweating bodies and she grinned happily at him. She could see that he was hard again, his erection a tower between them. She still had her mask on. When he reached to remove it she instead grasped his wrists again and pushed him back down, climbing astride once more. Sitting on him, she flexed her muscles again, showing off for the sake of his pleasure and also the thrill of feeling them bulge, well pumped from their sexual workout. But now the real workout was about to begin. She slid down and finally impaled herself on him, slowly and reverently. They both shuddered at the ultra slow sensation, longing and intense sensitivity making them both ache with the pleasure of it. She did most of the work, her athleticism well suited to intense aerobics. And he knew he could never keep the pace himself. She was tireless and merciless, draining him and grinding without pause or pity. He groaned and cried and gasped and screamed - she moaned and sobbed and sighed and howled. She bit him and scratched him, she tore and ground into him. She was tender and hard, painful and vicious. She was nasty and violent, brutal and mighty. She beat him and broke him, squeezed him and crushed him. She rode him and rocked him, sucked him and sailed him. And as the high reached each ever escalating peak, each rocking thrust taking him further and further until he just knew he couldn't take it any longer, until he knew his head would burst, his stomach would collapse, his balls would be sucked inwards and up out his dick like marbles through a drinking straw and she still wouldn’t stop. And when he knew his body would give, that she would snap him in two and not even notice, such was her intensity and fury, that his dick would be ripped right off and chewed up by her insatiable cunt, then the eternal crescendo reached what had to be the pinnacle. His lungs opened and he howled, his body taut and rigid, muscles spasming and bucking so hard anyone weaker would have been thrown off of him. Orgasm so intense his vision not only blurred but turned bright white - and then, after that, all he knew was blackness. Firestar’s scream joined Dracula’s as her body arced, timed to perfection to climax with him. And afterwards she drifted back down to lay on top of him, gradually descending with her orgasm, letting the heat fade off in waves, his dick still hard and real inside her, right to the hilt. After eternal moments of happy, breathless, recovery, and she believed herself actually once more capable of speech, she motioned her face towards him, wanting a grateful girl, thank you kiss. It was then she noticed that he’d passed out. She kissed him anyway and reluctantly slipped off of him. When Dracula came around, he was shivering with cold and still wet. His clothes were in tatters and shreds about him. He tried to stand but his body merely quivered and collapsed. He decided to maybe sleep where he was for now, he wasn’t up to much else after all. Before he drifted off he noticed that she had used the photocopier before she left, stapled to his notice board. It was a life-sized mosaic of her own body, easily recognised. Black and white A4 sheets comprised all the notable body-parts. Chest, naked with her breasts crushed down against the glass, diamond nipples staring at him; a slatted washboard; two thick thighs, too large for the paper; arched calves; flexed and bulging biceps; neat forearms. But for the head, not a copy, but the facemask itself, plush velvet cruelly stapled. A message attached, her phone number. "Merry Christmas Drac. Call me. Love, Firestar." Merry Christmas? He smiled. It certainly would be.