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Platinum Haze

Platinum Haze

A vinyl record chirps out the chocolaty smooth baritone of Nat King Cole and his 1960 album, The Magic of Christmas, as we’re processed, lifting the precinct’s normally dingy atmosphere to something almost magical.

Thing is though, the steel cuffs around my wrists aren’t at all about that magical, ‘Deck the Hall,’ cheer. They prefer sucker punches of ball-busting reality and the sphincter tightening nature of repeated threats to phone my ma.

And yet, that dichotomous mood of steel cuffs and chocolate baritone has nothing on the disturbingly surreal nature of the Wes Anderson-style scene currently taking place.

In the corner, boots propped up on a cluttered desk, reclines a detective in full Jolly Saint Nick attire. His rotund belly jiggles uncontrollably with rippling waves of laughter, causing him to choke on the gingersnaps he’s been wolfing down with burnt coffee.

Off to the side, in a cramped holding cell, I recognize the Larson twins in matching, skintight elf costumes, evidently picked up for public intoxication while working ‘Santa’s Workshop’ at The Village. Again. Their latest arrest doesn’t faze them though. They’ve been serving as backup vocals to the smoky voice in the chair next to mine.

Speaking of.


You. You. You.

Giggles pour from your shiny pink mouth faster than the bottle of grey goose we downed together until your cheeks are Rudolph-red, tears spring from your too green eyes, and cute little snorts sound from your delicate nose. You’ve been singing your slurred take on the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas,’ since our arrival.

“Fiiiiive-fiiiinger-priiiints!” you crow as Detective Vo taps away at her computer. Her left eye twitches and she keeps eyeballing the duct tape next to the stapler.

“Fo-uu-rr cuh-uhffed-hands, three messy cuuuums, two-oooh jealous eyes…”

You draw that line out as long as drunkenly possible while waggling your eyebrows suggestively at the detective, causing her to flush. Then you cut off abruptly, arms raised like a conductor, poised to drop your final line like a stocking full of sexualized napalm.

The twin’s faces, however, are rapturous and Saint Nick is about to spit up his coffee for the twelfth time tonight.

Your arms suddenly drop and the Larson’s settle in, harmonizing and thumping the bars as your ode comes to a close.


That surreal mood I mentioned? Gone. Shattered into chaos as Detective Saint Nick’s belly ripples so hard from laughter his chair’s legs snap, cookie crumbs and coffee spraying everywhere.

The Larsons fall to the floor with spastic giggle fits.

All while Detective Vo calmly gets up from her desk, walks over to the water cooler, rips the jug out of the machine, and calmly trudges back over, trailing water behind her.

She comes to a stop behind you and lets loose an ear-piercing shriek followed by a,” Shut the fuck up already!” before dumping what’s left of the jug over your head.



“Convinced?” Ashton finishes with a smug flourish.

Good question. No fucking clue. I know motorcycles. Gear boxes. Crank shafts. A well-kept muffler purring a song of raw power as you rev the engine.

A Porsche?


So I sit quietly, cursing my stepfather for foisting this job on me because he got stuck late at the office again.

‘You’ll appreciate it when you see the look at your mom’s face,’ he’d texted.

Right. Sure. Not. She’ll be all over him in yet another nauseating display of sexual affection I’m glad I don’t have to deal with during semester.

“It’s nice.” And it is. But I can’t tell the difference between the Macan and the Cayenne for shit.

“Nice?” Ashton mutters before descending into yet another spiel about the technical merits and functionality of both. I tune him out. I’ve better things to think about. Like the meaning behind Melody Drake flashing me her tits at that party.

“Having problems closing, Ash?” a smoky voice I’ve not heard in years calls out.

“We’re just going over the finer details. You can’t rush a sale of German art, love.”

“I'm sure,” the familiar voice sighs. “But I’ll take it from here. Boss needs you. Now.”

Ashton squeezes my shoulder before sliding out. “We’ll get you squared away. Be right back.”

A wave of peppermint slaps me as a platinum blonde beauty eases across supple leather.

“You owe me one. Color combinations were next,” says Portia Nash. “You’d be here another hour.”

“You?” I fumble out.

Portia turns, flashing an electric smile that fueled at least a hundred awkward wet dreams my freshman year of high school.

“Pete, I’m taking him out for another spin. Back in a bit,” she yells out the window.

“Don’t be late! Close in thirty. And be careful, girl! Snow’s coming!”

“Don’t worry your cute little beard. We’ll be fine.” She turns back around and pats my leg. “Right, Elliot?”

I nod dumbly.


The Porsche smolders with the soft timbre of Eartha Kitt and the raspy seduction of Portia singing along to Kitt’s ‘Santa Baby.’ Their duet leaves me a rattled mess, speechless since leaving the dealership, at least until a stray thought leaks past my lips.

“Portia Nash, working for Porsche, and singing in a Porsche. Marketing gold. Yearbook was actually right for a change.”

“Excuse me?” Portia turns, arches an elegant eyebrow.


Mouth tightening, her green eyes narrow, and I burn a slow death of dreadful, punning hell. Next thing I know, she’s bursting into high-pitched giggles, rattling me further.

“Perk up, buttercup,” she chortles. “I’ve heard all the puns.”


“Relax, Elliot! We’re old friends just catching up.”



“We haven’t been…”

Portia frowns. “Oh… right. That’s why I stole you from Ash.”

“Thought you were just saving me from a loopy Ash-hole.”

Her eyes roll, but lips curve. “Mm. Partly. But… ever have a memory from years and years ago suddenly slap you like a bag of dicks?”

My choked laugh presses her on.

“Seriously! I scrooged you when we were kids, El. Then in high school…” She looks innocent for a second. Guilty even. Not the look I’d associate with someone who loved fast cars, dangerously short skirts, and the entire football team if you believed rumors.

“Ghost of future’s past can be a wicked whore,” she sighs, nibbling on a peppermint stick. “Tackle you outta nowhere. Buuut.”



“Fuckin’ A,” Portia moans as she washes down a puff of weed with a pull from a bottle of grey goose. “I’ve been Jonesing for this all day.”

She passes them over.

“Puff, puff, puff!” she teases, waggling her eyebrows.

I do. And inhale way too much.

“Popped your Mary Jane cherry, huh?” she giggles. “I’m honored.”

I tip the bottle back and drink heavily to quell my coughing fit.

“Shouldn’t we…” I trail off, wiping my mouth.

Outside a giant Christmas tree flickers. It’s silver light has the snowflakes shimmering.

Portia sighs, burrowing into her seat. “You worry too much. Don’t you ever stop thinking and just live?”

“When your mother can literally threaten you with jail time… you fear not thinking.”

Predatory hunger lights up in those too green eyes, paralyzing me like a hypnotist’s pendulum. She spills out of her seat toward me in a slow crawl, grey sweater dress riding high on her svelte figure.

“I’m so gonna fuck that fear out of you.”


I hold on for dear life, and her magnificent ass, as the most startlingly erotic moment of my life burns sensations deep into my skin.

There isn’t anything romantic or cloying about that first kiss. She just mounts me like a motorcycle and shoves her tongue into my mouth in a show of untamed lust. And her mixed flavor of peppermint, weed, and vodka revs me from zero to little man of steel in a nanosecond.


She has me popping off like a bottle-rocket inside her lush mouth eighty-three seconds into a corkscrewing, balls draining blowjob.

My dick sizzles from the orgasm. My face sizzles from embarrassment.

Portia just sizzles. She flashes the collected cream, her ruby red tongue swirling it around before swallowing, smacking her lips as if tasting fine wine.

Then she crawls back up my lap, planting her sweaty, super-heated crotch over my flagging little man.

“Relax,” she whispers, nibbling my ear. “I’ll have little Elliot at full-mast again soon enough. In the meantime…”


Her body quakes, platinum furred pussy drooling warm, freshly minted goo around a thick peppermint stick as the last spank rains down on her perky globes. Mind hazy, I sweep my tongue through that minty goo and flutter over her crinkled north star before pulling the candy out with my teeth.


Weak from orgasmic bliss, she struggles shifting her hips over my renewed erection. But she’s not to be deterred. She grabs my pulsing meat with a slender hand, takes aim, and drops.

“Fuuuuuuck,” I grunt, crushing her to me.

Her skintight pussy is a roiling furnace of velvety heat.

“Now. Fuck. My. Ass,” she whimpers into the crook of my neck.

“Mm?” I answer, savoring the sweet salty sweat between her bell-shaped tits.

“My ass. Fill my dirty, slutty ass too.” She rolls her hips, suckles my ear. “Consider it a… platinum rewards package. Fuck it. FUCK IT!”

I look up into her wild green eyes--grin wolfishly at her terrible pun.

While she tongues filthy fantasies into my ear, I can’t help but realize I’m a kid in a candy store with free reign of the place.

Best damn believe I’m gonna overdose.


“Is this what you want?” I ask, running a cum slick digit back and forth over her crinkled star.

Neeeeed it,”she begs

“Better idea.” I fumble around for the bottle of grey goose.


A keening cry of pain and pleasure rips through the car when the slim neck of the bottle pushes into her ass until I pull her into another sloppy kiss.

Thoughts spiraling to inky abyss, I upend the bottle, splashing the last few drops of Vodka into her anal cavity.

She tightens and I swear I feel her heart beat through her buttery walls.


“Bastard,” she rasps when I start to move, high on the sensation of having both holes plugged. I bury my face in her damp hair and lose myself in a platinum haze of pleasure.


By round three the Porsche, and Portia, have gone supernova. The windows are fogged and the heated leather seats squeak loudly as we rut like rabbits.

Her squelching, messy cunt is a rioting torrent of need, creaming my thick erection with her arousal and my second load of the night.

I’m so enamored I don’t notice the knocking, don’t notice anything until icy wind cuts through the steamy haze of sex.

There’s an audible gasp, followed by unmistakably familiar Vietnamese obscenities.

“Really? You want us out there, detective?” Portia whines, clenching tightly. “It’s cold. Why don’t you come in? It’s… orgasmic.”

“Stop!” I plead.

“Why? She clearly needs relief.”

“No, I!”

“You’re so fucked,” Detective Vo hisses as I grunt, unloading into Portia’s fiery box.



“You’ve dug my grave,” I groan.

You nudge my arm. “Have I?”

Detective Vo eyes us, you specifically. She turns quickly around, but I swear her cheeks were ruddy and her eyes screamed longing.

“Wanna know how her pink little pussy tastes?” you whisper.

Brain. Overheats. “You-she-how-what…”

“It’s Christmas Eve. I’m still in the wish granting spirit and a stress-relieving marathon fuck is number one on her naughty list.”

I glance over at ma’s protégé. “That’s fifty shades of fucked up.”

“Nah… fifty shades of wickedly yummy.” You nibble my ear and the twins sigh. “Maybe I’ll even convince her to release these lovely elves to join us. Doesn’t that sound so… deliciously criminal?”

My dick rising with dark agreement, the Larsons singsong, “We’ll jingle his bells.” 

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright ©2017 James Stark. All Rights Reserved. Under the provisions of the DMCA, this story may not be copied, reproduced or linked in any manner, without the express written permission of the author.

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