Chris Sketch sank deeper into the overstuffed leather chair and wondered for neither the first nor the last time that night how the hell Renard managed to get invited to these things. Well, maybe a better question was why the hell he always let himself be talked into going with him. Tonight was even more bizarre than usual. When he’d grudgingly given in to Renard’s pleading--as they’d both known he would--he hadn’t expected a three hour drive to the nicest suburb of Roosevelt City. He was stranded now, three hours from home in the gigantic house of some swanky businessman whose name Chris didn’t even know, and Renard, as usual was nowhere in sight. 
        Chris sighed quietly and told himself it wasn’t all as bad as he liked to make it out to be, and that was mostly true. The food was good, there was an open bar, and the music that played was tasteful both in content and volume, and from his experience with Christmas music, either one was a miracle. Best of all, the host’s enormous house--mansion, he should call it a mansion, there was really no other word for it--overlooked a deep, sleepy valley through windows that formed the entire wall. Just now, a crescent moon was coming into view over the not-too-distant peaks, making the snow-blanketed vista glisten like silver. Chris closed his eyes for a moment, imagining what it must look like with the sunrise spilling in, turning the silver landscape golden and filling the house with the day’s first radiance. Affluence didn’t usually make him envious, but he’d love to wake up to that every morning.
        So, the evening wasn’t a complete waste, and the overstuffed leather chair was comfier by half than anything at home, so he settled deeper into it and settled his sketch pad on his lap, pulling his graphite pencil out of the spiral binding at the top. He always brought along some kind of supplies to these things. Occasionally, someone would notice his penchant for the artistic and ask for a sketch or a caricature, and for an hour or maybe two he would become a minor center of attention as others crowded around him and cooed over his sketch pad. Normally, he’d have some oilbars or colored pencils or some other form of color that his everchanging style was suddenly leaning toward, but today he’d only had the chance to grab the graphite. Looking out over the monochromatic valley of winter silver, he was satisfied, for once, with his lack.

        Ella laughed her best top-jiggling laugh at Mr. Thornton’s joke and watched as the older man’s eyes slid back down to her cleavage. Now that she was eighteen, her father insisted on her mingling during the parties. If she put on a generous display, it put his business partners in a generous mood, or so he often told her. So every month she put on a new dress, each seemingly lower cut than the last, and put on a good show for ‘Daddy’--calling him that was probably the worst part of the bargain, as far as she was concerned--just like she’d watched her mother do for the last several years.
        To pass the time, she’d made a game out of it, competing with her mother. After a few parties, it had been pretty clear which of ‘Daddy’’s business partners prefered young girls and which prefered busty ladies. Mr. Thornton was staunchly in the former category, and Ella guessed she was even a year or six too old for his liking.
        But, in return, her stepfather kept her in a steady supply of absolutely anything she asked for, especially expensive, risque dresses, and pretended to be blind while she helped herself to the champagne he served at every party. She smiled vapidly up at Mr. Thornton as he continued, his eyes straying from her breasts to the narrow slip of her waist. Sipping from her glass, she smiled as a champagne-flavored memory flitted through her head. She scanned the crowd out of habit, but needn’t have bothered. Luna hadn’t made another appearance at any of Ella’s stepfather’s functions, though her mother hadn’t missed a single one.
        Bored, she scanned through the other faces in the crowd, predatory for some young junior executive or perhaps even an eager engineer fresh out of college. Those were always fun--hapless and awkward, and even more so when finding themselves confronted by the CEO’s own barely-legal daughter. But so eager when she finally got their pants down! Sadly, all the faces tonight were familiar ones, and while she might let one of the younger MBA’s eat her out in the wine cellar out of desperation, the night was shaping up to have very little prospect for excitement.
        Ella extricated herself from Mr. Thornton’s monotone monologue with ease. Leaving a conversation at one of these things was easy; she just wandered off with a blank look in her eyes. No one thought she was intelligent enough for it to be considered rude, and no one was going to complain about the CEO’s eighteen year old daughter not standing on display for them long enough, either. She slipped through the crowd, carefully not making eye contact with any of her previous young conquests. They never gave up, always expecting her to laugh and make small talk. None of them seemed to understand that the real way to savor a dirty fuck in a coat closet was never to talk to each other again. She couldn’t fathom why so many of them expected to be friends afterward. 
        Ella moved away from the mingling crowd to stand by the back windows next to the towering 27-foot tall Christmas tree. She looked into one of the purple frosted glass balls to examining her face and the snow-covered valley below in the violet-sheened reflection. She scowled at herself. Carrying around that bored expression would only get her yelled at in the morning. She found it hard to care, though. It wasn’t her fault all of his business partners and employees were so fucking boring.
        She blinked, seeing a tiny motion in the purple-reflected scene in the ornament. She looked away from the bauble and leaned against the window to peek around its bulk, finding the figure she’d barely spied in the ball’s curve. There, hunched over a sketchpad in her stepfather’s smoking chair, tucked away in the privatest corner that could still be considered the ballroom, was someone new. And not just new, but young! And not just young, but an artist. Ella felt her boredom slip away and a predatory grin take its place. She made her way to the bar and exchanged her single glass of champagne for two of eggnog, then a sweet, slow kiss with the young woman playing bartender for two extra shots of rum in each glass.

        Chris was still sketching out the slope of the nearest hill just right when his concentration was broken.
        “You don’t have a drink,” came the sly voice a moment or two before its owner shifted into view.
        Chris stared up, dumbfounded. The teenage corgi made the rest of the party pale in comparison. Her fur shone, well-groomed and well-fluffed so that her lines seemed to blur like a faint halo, backlit as she was in front of the glowing Christmas tree. And where those lines snapped into crisp clarity there were curves that set his heart racing and his mind worrying about this state’s age of consent.
        “I, uh...” he stammered awkwardly, tearing his eyes away from her figure bound up so tightly in the white-trimmed holiday dress that he worried she might spill out of it. That was a deliberate effect, he realized dimly. She dressed that way to make him--to make anyone--stare and hope something would pop free. It was working like a charm.
        “Daddy likes everyone to have a drink in their hand,” she continued as if she didn’t notice the slack in his jaw and his wandering eyes. “He says if they don’t, then they’re only pretending to have a good time for his benefit. But you’re not even terribly good at pretending, are you? Here.” Chris found a chilled glass pressed into his hand, filled so close to the brim that he took an automatic sip. His mouth burned immediately with a heavily spiced rum that even the thick nog couldn’t soothe, but before he could sputter for a breath, the girl was tipping his glass for him, leaning forward so that her breasts were all he could see over the rim of the glass. Having no choice, he swallowed rather than letting the drink spill across his shirt and pad, and his throat only stopped burning when he’d had enough of the heavily spiked drink to numb the ache.
        As Chris coughed to clear his throat, his glass was replaced by a second one, and when he looked around, he couldn’t even see where the girl had slipped the empty off to. He didn’t spend long looking, though, because the girl lifted up his other hand--the one holding his pad--and slipped underneath it so that she was sitting on the arm of the chair, his hand and sketchpad resting on her hip. Chris felt a warmth growing in his belly that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
        “Don’t worry, though,” the girl said, continuing on smoothly. She controlled the conversation, if you could really call it that, without missing a beat. He, on the other hand, seemed to be doing nothing with the conversation’s beat but missing it. Chris shut his mouth to stop its stammering as the girl spoke.
        “You picked the perfect spot. Nicely secluded without quite hiding. Daddy won’t be wandering back here to catch you drinkless.” With that, she slid off the arm of the chair and into his lap. Chris yelped audibly as she sat on his erection, bending it under the curve of her rump awkwardly. Her responding giggle seemed full of...well, he wouldn’t quite call it malice, but it was rather chilling. She sat on him indecorously, legs draped out over the other arm of the chair, dress askew at angle that forced him not to look to find out how far beneath it he could see. “No one’ll wander back here to catch you at anything, I think,” she said in a low, sultry voice.
        She stared at him as if daring him to look. Panting shallowly, trying to ignore the pain in his groin and not stare at the girl in his lap, Chris heard nearby the soft shuffling of papers, and it took him a while to realize it was his forgotten sketch pad falling out of his fingers. He tried to resist the trap and was proud of his fortitude in keeping his eyes either on her face or out the window. As his wits slowly gathered, a thousand questions formed, belatedly, in his head. First and foremost, though, was who the fuck is this girl?
        Just as he managed to part his lips to finally ask the question, her expression turned a little more sinister, and she spoke before he could. “Drink,” she order imperiously, and, blushing, Chris found himself obeying instinctively. He could feel her entire body warm slightly as he followed her order, or was that his own body warming as the alcohol from the first drink spread out from his belly? He felt the corgi girl shift against him and he sighed through his nose as the kink she’d forced into his erect shaft eased. His relief was brief, though, as a moment later he felt nimble fingers unzipping his jeans. 
        “H-hey!” he stammered, spilling nog down his chin as the first coherent word since her appearance finally escaped his lips. Her withering glare silenced him quickly enough.
        “No, no, you don’t get to speak,” she said lowly, a threat in her voice that was utterly incongruous with her slight, unintimidating figure. “My stepfather always gets what he wants out of these parties. His partners always get what they want. If I want something, I’ve always had to take it.” Her fingers slipped into his jeans as she spoke, curling around his cock,  drawing it free in a grip that was far firmer than was necessary. Chris squeaked nervously in the back of his throat.
        “As long as you can keep quiet, we can both leave happy. If you can’t keep quiet... well, which one of us do you think ‘Daddy’ is going to blame?”
        Chris stared at her, almost more shocked by the venom in her voice when she spoke of her stepfather than by the fact that a dangerous and possibly underage girl had his cock out in the middle of a Christmas party. He licked his lips nervously and broke eye contact half a second later, cowed by her and much more deeply aroused by her assertiveness than he’d ever  be able to admit to himself. He buried his muzzle obediently in the overly strong eggnog as she shifted in his lap again. Over the curve of his glass, he watched the curve of her ass come into view, the hem of her dress pulled down tightly to her knees in the front to hide the fact that it was hiked up to her tail in the back. He spared a moment to wonder how effective the illusion would be if they were truly caught.
        That worry and any of the others that had been dancing around his head that night were forgotten a half breath later as he felt himself sink into the unknown girl’s slick passage. Unbidden, a groan escape his lips, but he was forced to bite it off sharply as her nails dug into his thigh hard enough to draw blood. A warning... possibly the only one he’d get. 
        Chris didn’t have time to think about the warm, slick embrace of her cunny or the slight snugness that hinted at both youth and experience. She moved down his shaft until he hilted inside her, and then she was bouncing quickly on his lap, one of her feet pressed against the window beside them, angling her body slightly to milk the most pleasure out of her short movements. Chris had no illusions now about what would be seen if someone found this little nook of the ballroom. The corgi’s dress might be keeping them decent--barely--but the motion was unmistakable and the tasteful volume of the Christmas music only barely covered the soft, wet sounds of their urgent rutting.
        The glass slipped out of Chris’s fingers but didn’t shatter, the heavy crystal bouncing on the floor and then rolling under the chair, only a mouthful or two of spiked eggnog spilling onto the floor around the ice cubes. Neither he nor the girl noticed. Chris’s hands were moving of their own volition to the young girl’s hips, and she made a soft sound of approval as he gripped her. She moved faster then, urging him to pull her down harder, so he did. They both gritted their teeth as their pace and intensity ramped up in the space of a few thrusts. There was no tenderness or romance in his grip or in her motions. Only the primal fulfilling of needs. There were no sweet coos or gasps, but instead quick wet sounds and the tightly held breath of two mates intent on only one goal.
        Chris felt the warmth building in his belly and testicles only a few minutes after giving in to his baser urges. He sped up and she matched him, their rhythm purposeful rather than the often awkward synchronization between two first-time lovers. His fingers moved up from her hips, splaying across her belly as he held onto her sides. It was harder to gauge his partner when he couldn’t see her face or hear her cries. His fingers lay across her belly, waiting for signs of her pleasure.
        She clenched just a few strokes later, her upper body thrusting forward over both of their legs, ass grinding down hard against his crotch and her fingers clutching the arm of the chair on one side and his bleeding thigh on the other. He felt her abs ripple under his fingers and a moment later he felt her tighten and spasm around him, her needy cunny squeezing and milking around his shaft as she came. The satisfaction of bringing her to peak was as arousing a moment as her first appearance had been, and it was enough to let him release the reins on his own pleasure. He heard her grunt softly as he slammed his hips upward, burying himself inside her as he released. He thumped his head back into the soft leather of the chair, every fiber of his will going toward making sure he didn’t groan with pleasure. He pumped her full of his spunk in six thick, hard jets and felt her muscles ripple and contract again, cumming again as the warmth of his seed poured into her body. It only occurred to him then that she’d ridden him bareback, and those greedy contractions of her orgasming pussy were in fact the muscles working to draw his seed into her womb. The realization was enough to stun him into shock, and he sat back hard, stopping all at once even as she spent several long moments gyrating in his lap, milking the rest of his seed out of him.
        Then she was standing, leaving him exposed and cold, his drooping cock drooling obscenely onto the front of his jeans. He hurried to stuff himself back into his pants. 
        Chris stared up at her in dismay, a hundred different protests or pleas leaping to his lips and dying before he could fully form them. He felt dirty, used, discarded, scared, and deeply, deeply satisfied.
        And the girl just grinned at him, glowing again as the tree lit her from behind, and also glowing from the satisfaction evident in her face and posture. She leaned down, barely-bound cleavage bouncing merrily before his face, and kissed him on the nose, the first real affection she’d shown to him the entire night.
        She pressed her lips right by his ear, and in a voice sultry with predation, threat, and pleasure, she whispered, “Merry Christmas.”