I can normally keep controlled, but mistletoe urges my cock and triggers my urges. It keeps witches away, mistletoe does. They can smell it. Nobody else can smell it, but I can—witches and perverts, and I’m no witch. 

Mistletoe berries are pearly pearl drops, at least the good kinds are, the ones that look like someone jacked off onto a bush. The red or green berries look like that too by the time I’m done. It scratches, but it scratches good when I have a fistful. 

Sometimes I’m lucky enough to hear someone say, “Ew, what’s that?” before I move on. I get hard again when I hear them. I get hard again when I see someone kiss under my holiday gifts. 

I blended with the partygoers: corporate types with expensive suits or lavish dresses. My suit coat was cut long, longer than was fashionable. It wasn’t as if I could wear a trench coat to such a swank affair. It fit well, and nobody noticed until later until, shall I say, things were pointed out. Its satin lining was already stained by the dribbles from my straining cock. 

The crowded ballroom was decorated with sparkling garland, snowman figurines, and evergreens, with green and red paper chains, strings of lights, and artificial snow. 

And mistletoe. Cum-drop mistletoe. Fortune drove my gaze toward a woman wearing a silky, Christmas-green shell. She was on a step stool, hanging a sprig. She cupped it in her hand and inhaled before suspending it. When she reached up, I saw her unfettered bust bobble beneath her top, and her nipples grew three sizes. 

I made a mental note to seek her out. She merited a one-on-one exhibition.

Mingling merrymakers had settled into their cliques. Bevies of ladies were there, and there, and there, and I mapped my course for maximum exposure with minimal gentlemen. Every fucking man there wanted to do what I was about to do, but they didn’t have the balls. That’s why they’d try to stop me, but my cock was hard to block. 

Santa and Mrs. Claus were in the back, in the middle. I wanted to do her last, which meant I’d have to make it across the room and back again. Ladies were there, and there… 

I started with a gaggle of younger women in the corner who had imbibed their fair share of sparkling adult beverages. “Excuse me,” I said, handing one of them my champagne flute. Then I opened my jacket to unveil my skin flute. “Merry Christmas,” I said with a wiggle. 

Their eyes went wide, and their mouths went, “OH!” That’s what I wanted. That's what I had come for and would cum for, and I stored their expressions in my spank bank. They giggled their appreciation and one of them clapped. There was no time for a bow—the cock clock was tick-tocking. These women weren’t about to call security, but somebody else would, and soon. 

Dammit! That's when I remembered that I was going to tie a bow on it! 

I dashed to another group and showed them my yuletide greeting. “Happy Holidays!” They acted shocked, but they stared more than the others did. The old biddies probably hadn’t seen a decent cock since Nixon. 

Flash!-six-seven-eight, I danced my balls across the room. I misstepped, and some guy caught me in a bear hug from behind. “Yeah, big boy, hold me closer!” I shouted, and his grip weakened—homophobia for the escape! I flashed and flapped him special. “Booga-booga-booga!” 

Then from across the room, I heard such a clatter, a smatter of laughter and hoots. The Mistletoe Girl had lifted her top and was shaking her hooters. 

“Hey!” I shouted. 

“Hey!” she shouted back. 

“Hey!” shouted Security. They sounded angry.  

One of the exits was right behind the North Pole couple, so I flew in that direction to give Santa’s gal a private viewing of my candy cane before I had to retreat. Mistletoe Girl was jogging there too, and we flashed the couple as a couple. 

She had nice tits. “Nice,” I said. 

“You too,” she said. 

“Hey!” shouted Santa’s rapidly approaching Secret Service. They sounded angrier. 

Mistletoe Girl and I bolted out the exit and down the stairwell. “You should have tied a bow on it,” she huffed as we ran toward the parking lot. I flashed a few onlookers, and so did she before we reached our respective cars. 

Our eyes locked, and I slowly opened my coat. She slowly lifted her top. I had never before beheld such pretty titties, and I fountained the ground with my mistletoe seed. 

“Men,” she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. “New Year’s?” 

I nodded and named the city. She nodded and named the event. 

Bold. 

“The mistletoe. Can you smell it?” 

“Yes,” she answered with a knowing smile. “Pervert.”