Some Kink in My Christmas Stocking by Gwen Campbell

Heat Rating: Shadowfire

Content Warning: Graphic sexual scenes between two men and woman (male/female/male).

So they're not real priests. Who said confession couldn't be hot as hell anyway?

"You want me to do what?"

"It's just a harmless practical joke. You used to be good at talking dirty."

I put my mocha down with more force than necessary. Froth sloshes over the rim and fills the saucer. Leaning back in my chair, I feel my brow go up as I look across the bistro table at my old college roommate. Anna hasn't changed much in six years. She's still leggy and pretty. The artful streaks in her dark blonde hair bring out the blue in her eyes.

She's also hung onto her penchant for practical jokes.

"Meg," she says to me in that voice that's half appeasement, half lure. "Remember how much fun we had in college? Bet you haven't laughed that hard in years." She snorts and it sounds undignified. That hasn't changed either. "This'll be even better than the lipstick and jock strap gag." Her coifed eyebrows bob up and down, like they're trying to mime me into remembering.

As if I could forget and I know I'm already halfway seduced when I grin. The lipstick and jock strap gag has become legend at McGill University. Whenever some sports-fellowship jerk treated one of our girlfriends like dirt, either Anna or I would pick the guy up and treat him to a little payback. We got the assignment because everybody said we were the most outgoing.

Picking the guys up wasn't difficult. We're both easy on the eyes and athletes view sports groupies as an entitlement. The difficult part was holding them off long enough to pull off the gag without getting tackled.

Some story about remembering an overdue assignment or a tutorial session usually got us out of their room, especially if we cozied up to the guy during the day. Before we'd leave though, we'd pretend to be all doe eyed and into the sports scene. So much so that we'd be more than willing to get a little kinky later on and to prove it, we'd rummage around in their underwear drawer.

Sounds revolting I know but guys are sluts and, at that age, stupid as hell. Their dicks would be trying to punch through their Levi's as they watched me pull out a tube of raging red lipstick, lube up my mouth with it, then plant a big impression of a kiss on a pair of their tighty whities. Clean underwear, of course. Even I had some standards.

The gag was one of our girlfriends was a chemistry major and knew about this plant-based dye from South America. It was used by all the cosmetic companies, but in its raw, undiluted form, if it came in contact with skin, the red stain was damn near permanent. No big deal if you get it on your mouth, especially if you put it on over an existing base coat of lipstick to keep it from absorbing into your skin. A big deal if some guy gets himself all worked up and slips on those shorts...which they inevitably did, on their own, without prompting from us.

Rumor had it six weeks was the longest it took for one guy to scrub the red stain off his cock. The average was four. We heard stories about guys being sent to the team doctor, again and again, being tested for continually more obscure diseases. Try explaining that one to your girlfriend. Or the rest of the team who're distancing themselves like you're a leper.

There was no harm in it though. We got around to letting it slip that it was dye, non-toxic and without side effects. You just had to shed enough skin cells to get rid of the color.

Women high-fived us in the hallways. Guys started treating our friends with respect. I liked that part best.

"So...are you up for another gag?" Anna asks and her eyes are sparkling. "Two of the actors in the film I'm working on, they got me good during pre-production. I've finally come up with a practical joke that's so terrific, it'll be an epic classic. But I need your help."

"Why me?"

"They don't know you. You don't work in the industry and you're my hottest-looking friend."

I give her a dubious scowl." "What did they do to you?"

"It was clever, I'll give them that." Anna answers with a nod. "They arranged for me to go to this meet ‘n greet with an investor. The whole thing was a setup. It was actually a staged hot-tub scene with a bi-sexual friend of theirs who liked having his feet rubbed with oil." Anna shudders delicately then ruins the effect by grinning.

I take a sip of my coffee. It's getting cold but the act buys me time to think. "No," I finally say with deliberate emphasis. I set my cup down and look her straight in the eye. "I'm respectable now. I've got a responsible job. Pranks are in my past."

"Did I mention who's starring in this film I'm working on?" Anna asks casually. Her comment comes out of the blue. For that reason alone, I know her coup de grâce is coming and I steel myself. "Brent Steward. You remember him, don't you? Sure you do." She smiles and waves dismissively as my jaw drops. "He had that television series that only lasted half a season because of the writers' strike. That hospital drama, ‘Emergency Wing'. You asked me and everybody we know to e-mail the network and demand they bring the show back."

I close my mouth slowly. From the look in her eye, she knows she has me hooked.

"The other star is Marshall Park. He doesn't have the big name that Brent does but he's a little taller and actually better looking." Anna flips her hair back and I want to smack her for looking so smug. I recognize Marshall's name. He's hot as hell and has shoulders that go all the way out to—

"So are you in?" Anna interrupts my musing.

"Yes." I look up, get our waiter's attention and order a fresh round of coffees. "You win. I'm intrigued. I'll help because I'd do just about anything to meet Brent Steward. Gawd. Does that make me a deranged stalker?"

"It makes you normal." Still grinning, Anna puts her elbows on the table and leans toward me. "Here's what we're going to do..."