"The Frankenstein Family Silent Night,Filthy Night

The last hour of the drive was the worst part, because it was the longest part, and because Damon was driving.

Hazel sat in the passenger seat of the SUV with her coat half on, her blouse open to the navel, her skirt pushed up to her hips, and one hand buried in her cunt under the thigh of her jeans. The heater blasted. Snow came sideways through the windshield in fat, lazy flakes, and the mountain road wound down through pines so dark they looked like a closing throat. She was wet. She had been wet since the second hour, a slow obscene tide that crept along her inner thigh every time the truck hit a rut, and she had stopped pretending it was anything other than what it was: a countdown.

“Recite the protocol,” she said, without looking up from her own hand.

“—and the secondary tripwire array is redundant with the primary, so if anything crosses the north line at night, the east line catches it, and the flare canister is pre-armed to—”

“Louder, Daddy.”

“—the flare canister is pre-armed to detonate on contact, and the perimeter lights are strobed to blind anything that doesn’t have night vision.” Damon’s jaw worked. His knuckles were white on the wheel. “Hazel. We are forty minutes from the cabin.”

“Which means,” she said, and her fingers worked a slow circle, “that in forty minutes the road gets buried, and then every cock in this truck is mine for the whole holiday. So. Recite. And finish.”

He finished. He always finished, because she had learned, somewhere around the third year of this family, that Damon Frankenstein could be made to do anything if you framed it as a system with a failure state. “—and if the generator fails, the backup generator is fueled, and the wood stove is the tertiary heat source, and the cabin is defensible from every angle.”

“Good boy,” she said, and came on her own hand with a long, ragged cry that she let ring out over the engine noise, her hips stuttering against the seatbelt, her toes curling in her boots. A thin line of clear fluid ran down her thigh and vanished into the seat. She didn’t wipe it. “That’s one. I’m keeping count tonight, by the way. Everyone’s going to hear me count.”

In the back seat, Michelle laughed — a low, fanged sound — and said, “She’s been like this since the parking lot. She’s been riding her own hand since we crossed the state line, Damon. She’s dripping on the upholstery.”

“I can see that,” Damon said flatly.

“Can you?” Winslow’s voice came from somewhere behind her, deep and amused, and then his arm was around her waist, pulling her sideways, and his mouth was at the wet patch on her thigh, and he was licking the orgasm off her skin with his eyes closed like a man tasting something he’d waited all year for. “Mm. Salty. She’s been at it a while.”

“Three hours,” Hazel told him, and his tongue went deeper, and she arched off the seat with a groan, and the truck swerved, and Damon muttered a swear that was almost a prayer.

“I have a perimeter to wire,” he said. “I have a generator to check. And my daughter is using the passenger seat like a brothel.”

“Your daughter,” Michelle said, “is the reason the brothel exists.”

The cabin appeared out of the snow like a rumor. A-frame, black timber, floor-to-ceiling glass on the south face, a stone chimney throwing a column of smoke into the falling white. The deck with the hot tub. The single road behind them, already softening at the edges where the first real snow was laying down. And in the driveway, Reginald, standing in the snow in his butler’s coat, hands clasped, utterly motionless, watching the truck come in with the serene patience of a man who had been standing in that spot for a century and intended to stand in it for another.

“The festive emergency cage is in the basement,” Reginald said, as Damon killed the engine. “I have also prepared the second cage, and the chains, and the lube. The wood stove is lit. The generator is fueled. And the Christmas tree is in the main room, though it is not yet decorated.”

“Not yet,” Hazel repeated, and her eyes went bright.

“Hazel,” Damon said. “We have four hours of daylight. There is luggage to unpack, a perimeter to wire, and a blizzard that is going to bury the road by morning.”

“Then we unpack later,” she said, and was already out of the truck, her coat still on, her jeans already sliding toward her ankles. “Because nobody unpacks until somebody has fucked me in the entryway. That’s the christening. The cabin gets christened. That’s how it works.”

“That is not how anything works,” Damon said.

“Watch.”

She bent over the largest suitcase in the entryway, coat still on, jeans around her ankles, ass up in the air, and she said, “Butler. Come and christen the house.”

Reginald’s hands unclasped. That was the whole ceremony — the unclasping — and then he was behind her, and his coat was off, and the apron was gone, and the Christmas miracle was in his hand, twelve inches of cold, blue-veined, utterly erect undead cock, already slicked with lube from the sheath he kept it in, because of course he kept it in a sheath, because of course he had thought of everything.

“The Christmas miracle,” Hazel breathed, and turned her head, and her eyes found Michelle, who was already there, already crouched at the front of her, fingers spread, thumbs hooked into the wet fold of her cunt. “And Mama. Thank everyone for bringing me on vacation.”

“Thank us properly,” Michelle said, and worked two fingers in, and Hazel’s whole body snapped taut, a scream tearing out of her throat into the stone entryway, into the chimney smoke, into the falling snow beyond the glass. “For the family. For the holiday. For the cock.”

“Thank you,” Hazel gasped, and Reginald was inside her — not her cunt, her ass, the miracle sliding up her tight, prepped, screaming hole one cold inch at a time, her thighs shaking, her fingers clawing into the suitcase lid, Michelle’s fingers still circling her clit at the front, front and back, the butler cock and the vampire fingers, and she was dripping, soaking through the last of her jeans, her whole back arched, her hair falling forward in a dark curtain.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she hissed, through her teeth, as he bottomed out and held her there, twelve inches deep, her ass stretched wide and glistening, her cunt clamping around Michelle’s fingers. “Thank you for bringing me here, thank you for the cage, thank you for the miracle, thank you—”

“You may stop thanking,” Reginald said, with perfect butler composure, and began to move, slow and deep and obscene, each stroke a full inch of her stretched hole, each withdrawal dragging a thread of lube and something else from her, “when you have finished.”

She finished. She finished on the suitcase, bent over the luggage of her own vacation, coat still on, ass stretched around the butler cock, Michelle’s fingers still working her clit, and she came with a long, broken, laughing cry, her inner muscles clamping around both of them, her cunt spasming, her ass clenching around the miracle, and the stone floor of the entryway took the whole ugly, glorious sound of it.

“One,” she announced, to no one, to everyone, to the cabin, when it was over, still bent over, still leaking, Reginald still inside her, dripping down her inner thigh. “That was the warm-up. One.”

Damon, from the doorway, where he had been standing with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched and his cock — she could see it, straining against his trousers, rock-hard and furious — said, “The house tour.”

“The fuck tour,” Hazel corrected, and Reginald withdrew with a wet, obscene sound, and she turned, still bent, still dripping, and said, “Show me the kitchen, Daddy. I want creampie on the counter before the tree is up.”

The kitchen was granite and black steel and a wall of windows onto the pines, and Damon had barely finished saying “the counter is load-bearing” when he had her against it, her skirt gone, her jeans gone, her ass up on the counter’s edge, and he was in her — cunt first, because he was Damon, because he started where the system started — and she was already talking over him, already narrating, already counting the seconds until he turned her around.

“That’s the cunt,” she said, as he drove into her, slow and deep, his forehead against her shoulder, his hands fisted in her hair. “That’s the cunt, and the cunt is fine, and the cunt is getting its creampie, and then—”

“Then,” Damon said, through his teeth, and turned her.

And then. He turned her, and she was facing the window, facing the pines, facing the darkening snow, and he lined up, and she spread her own ass cheeks with her own hands — she always did that, she always helped, she was obsessed — and he pushed into her stretched hole, and she took him, cunt creampie still leaking out of her front, his seed running down her belly while he filled her back, front and back, the counter taking her weight, the window taking her reflection, her whole body a wet, trembling, obscene thing.

“There,” she said, and her voice broke on the word, and she was already riding him, already working her own ass around him, slow and filthy, her cunt still leaking his first load down her thighs while he filled her ass, and she said, “Stack them, Daddy. Stack the creampies. I want to be full in front and full in back and leaking from both holes when the tree is up.”

“Hazel,” Damon said, and his hands were shaking on her hips, and his cock was buried to the hilt in her stretched, clamping hole, and she could feel him — could feel the whole obscene length of him, the head of him pressing against the tight, hot wall of her — and she said, “Come in me. Come in my ass. I want to feel it. I want to hold it. I want to hold every drop of it until you say I can leak.”

He came. He came with a ragged, broken sound against her hip, and he came deep, a hot, thick, endless load into her stretched hole, and she held it, her inner muscles clamping around the head of his cock, her cunt still leaking the first creampie down her front, her whole body a vessel, a container, a Christmas ornament of herself, and she said, softly, obscenely, “Two. That was two. And you can feel that one, Daddy. You can feel me holding it.”

He could. She watched his face in the window reflection — white-knuckled, wrecked, furious, hard again — and she said, “Good. Now the tree.”

The tree was in the main room, seven feet of dark pine, not yet decorated, and the house tour became what it was always going to be: a fuck tour, room by room, hole by hole, every surface a christening. The loft got a gangbang against the railing — Michelle and Winslow and Reginald, three cocks, her ass stretched and clamping, her cunt a shared thing, her screams echoing down the stairs while Damon wired the stairwell with Christmas lights and muttered about accelerants. The bathroom got a creampie against the mirror, Reginald’s miracle in her cunt this time, her reflection dripping, her forehead against the glass, her nails scoring the tile.

And then the tree.

“Under the tree,” she said, and was on her knees in front of Winslow, who had been standing in the corner with his arms crossed and his jaw working and his wolf-cock straining against his trousers like a thing that had been waiting all year, and she pulled his fly open with her teeth, and he was enormous, thick and blue-veined and already leaking, and she took him into her mouth without a word, and he growled — a low, feral, possessive sound that vibrated in her throat — and she swallowed him to the root, and her eyes went up to his over the length of him, and she said, “Merry Christmas, Daddy-Wolf.”

“Hazel—”

“I said Merry Christmas.” She worked him deeper, her throat opening, her hands fisted in his hair, and she could feel Damon behind them, hanging ornaments, muttering — “the load-bearing wall is behind the tree, the accelerant is in the basement, the perimeter is—” — and she said, over the top of Winslow’s cock, “Let him talk. Let him talk about load-bearing walls while his sister-in-law is deepthroat-riding the wolf. That’s the family dynamic now, Daddy. That’s the Christmas dynamic.”

She edged him with her throat. She pulled back to the last inch, held him there, watched his eyes go dark and feral, and then swallowed him again to the root, and he came in her throat with a snarling, broken growl, and she took every drop, her cheeks hollowing, her eyes streaming, her throat working him off, and when it was over she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said, “Three. That was three. And the wolf can decorate the top of the tree, because he’s earned the star.”

Winslow, dripping, wrecked, still half-hard, took the star from the box and climbed the ladder, and Damon, still muttering about accelerants, hung the last ornament, and the tree came up half-lit, and the cabin was warm, and the snow was coming down harder, and Hazel stood in the center of the main room, naked, dripping, full in front and full in back, her cunt leaking, her ass stretched and glistening, and she said, “Right. Fireplace. Night one. And everyone’s going to hear me count.”

The fireplace was stone and black and roaring, and the floor in front of it was bare, and by midnight the whole family was on it — Damon, Michelle, Winslow, Reginald, and Hazel in the center, naked, collared, a big red bow at her navel, and the collar said NAUGHTY in clean white letters, and she was counting.

“Four,” she said, as Damon’s cock buried in her cunt and she came against his shoulder, her back arched, her thighs clamping, her whole body a shudder. “Five,” she said, as Michelle’s fingers worked her clit and she came again, quieter, raggeder, her head thrown back, her hair falling forward. “Six,,” she said, as Winslow took her ass, slow and deep, her stretched hole clamping around him, her cunt still leaking, her whole body a wet, trembling thing, and she came with a long, broken cry into the firelight. “Seven,” she said, as Reginald’s miracle slid into her cunt, cold and obscene, and she came around it, her inner muscles spasming, her ass still stretched from the wolf, her cunt a shared, dripping thing. “Eight,,” she said, and was already laughing, already breathless, already wetter, and she said, “Eight, and I’m not done, and nobody’s done, and the storm’s coming, and the road’s getting buried, and every cock in this cabin is mine until the snow stops, so come here—”

They came to her. They always came to her. Damon, Michelle, Winslow, Reginald, one after another, into her cunt, into her ass, around her clit, over her throat, and she counted them all — nine, ten, eleven, twelve — her voice ragged and broken and bright, her body a vessel, a container, a Christmas ornament of herself, dripping and leaking and full, the firelight on her skin, the snow coming down harder beyond the glass, the cabin warm and obscene and theirs.

“Twelve,” she said, at last, and slumped against the stone, stuffed, leaking, wearing nothing but the big red bow and the Naughty collar, her cunt a mess of stacked creampies, her ass stretched and glistening, her whole body a wet, trembling, ruined thing. “Twelve orgasms, night one. And the storm’s coming, and the road’s getting buried, and I want to be fucked awake on Christmas morning.”

The radio, in the kitchen, crackled to life on its own — Damon had left it on, muttering about weather patterns — and the voice was flat and official and wrong: “Historic blizzard warning, in effect through the twenty-fourth. Road closures expected by morning. Single access road to the upper valley will be impassable. Residents advised to—”

“Impassable,” Damon repeated, and was already moving, already pulling Christmas lights and tripwires from the basement crate, already wiring the perimeter with the focused, furious precision of a man who had just found a failure state in his system. “The north line. The east line. The flare canister is pre-armed.”

“Light the perimeter after you finish in me,” Hazel said, and was already on her knees in front of him, already pulling his trousers down, already taking his cock into her mouth, and he was rock-hard, already leaking, already wrecked before she’d even started, and she said, over the top of him, “You can wire the perimeter while you’re inside me, Daddy. You can wire the perimeter while you’re coming in my ass. That’s how this works now. That’s the Christmas dynamic.”

He wired the perimeter. He wired the north line, and the east line, and the flare canister, and he did it with her ass stretched around his cock, her cunt leaking, her whole body a wet, trembling thing, and she rode him while he worked, slow and filthy, her inner muscles clamping around him, her cunt a shared, dripping thing, and she said, softly, obscenely, “Thirteen. That was thirteen. And the perimeter’s mostly done, and the storm’s coming, and the road’s getting buried, and every cock in this cabin is mine until the snow stops.”

The snow came down harder. The road behind them softened, then vanished, then was gone — a white smear, then nothing, then a wall of falling white that swallowed the whole valley, and the cabin was warm, and the tree was lit, and the perimeter was wired, and the generator was humming, and the whole family was on the floor in front of the fireplace, naked, dripping, full, and Hazel was in the center of them, stuffed and leaking and collared, and she was counting.

And beyond the glass, beyond the pines, beyond the falling snow, something watched from the tree line. Something old. Something that had been waiting in these woods for a very long time, and that had just heard, through the stone and the glass and the howling white, a woman counting orgasms into the dark.

Hazel, half-asleep, still dripping, still full, still wet, whispered into the firelight, into the dark, into the coming storm:

“Fuck me awake on Christmas morning.”

The snow fell harder. The tree line held its breath. And somewhere in the deep woods, something old turned its face toward the cabin, and listened.