Chapter 4: The Prize Claimed
The hotel bar felt like a warm, humming throat, all low light and whispered promises. Jane leaned against the dartboard surround, the green felt cool through her fishnets, and sipped her gin while the three younger men loitered nearby. A fourth, bolder one with close-cropped hair and restless eyes, finally took the bait.
“That outfit should be illegal,” he said, his gaze sliding from the sheen of her corset to the curve of her hip. “Seriously, how are you even real?”
Jane laughed, low and throaty, arching her back just a fraction. “Forty’s just a number, darling. It’s all about maintenance.” She turned slowly, giving them the full view. “And good bones.”
“Fucking incredible bones,” another lad breathed, his pint forgotten. “The arse on you. I’d never get tired of looking at that.”
“Wouldn’t just be looking, though, would you?” Jane purred, running a finger around the rim of her glass. She met each of their stares, one by one. “Bet you’ve all got theories. Go on, then. Tell me what you’d do.”
The floodgates opened then, a raw, graphic chorus of exactly where they’d put their hands, their mouths, their cocks. They marvelled at the swell of her tits spilling from the red velvet, the generous shake of her ass as she pretended to adjust a stocking. Each filthy compliment was a key turning in a lock deep inside her, and she fed them more with a tilted head and bitten lip. “You say the sweetest things,” she sighed, her voice dripping with faux innocence. “All that talk must be making you thirsty.”
It was the one called Liam who produced the darts, his knuckles white around the barrels. “Treble twenty wins the mystery prize, right? Your words.”
“My words,” Jane confirmed, her smile widening.
But the prize remained unclaimed. Darts clattered against the wire, skidded into the single one, or missed the board entirely as their focus fractured between the target and her. Jane watched them fail, over and over, the sharp thrill of their desire warping their coordination. She could feel Mark’s gaze like a physical weight from his shadowed booth, a silent, furious audience of one, and it only made her wetter.
Her own patience, however, was a thin, fraying thread. The ache between her legs had evolved from a low thrum to a demanding pulse, and the chorus of their lust wasn’t enough to sate it anymore. She needed action. Consequence.
“Boys, boys,” she finally said, her voice cutting through their frustrated groans. She pushed off from the wall and strode to the oche, plucking the darts from the board herself. “We could be here all night, and I have a prior engagement with a very large bed.”
She let the silence hang, watching their faces fall. Then she shrugged, a deliberate, rolling motion that made her chest heave. “Tell you what. It’s Christmas. Call it a draw. The five of you can share the prize.”
Their confusion was palpable, a thick cloud of hope and uncertainty. “Share it?” the bold one asked.
“Mmhmm. All for one, and all that.” Jane leaned in, the scent of her perfume—jasmine and spice—washing over them. “But I can’t very well give it to you here, can I? The barman’s a prude.”
“You’ll have to come with me to get it. My room.” She let the words hang in the gin-scented air, watching their eyes widen. “But you have to be good. You do exactly what I say, when I say it.”
A collective, hungry silence met her declaration. Then the grinning and the nodding began, a frantic, boyish eagerness that made her stomach flip.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, tracing a finger down Liam’s arm. “You’ll all get a taste.”
She turned then, without waiting for consensus, the click of her heels on the hardwood a deliberate cadence. She felt them fall in behind her, a warm, breathing pack, as she moved through the hushed bar. Past the fireplace where couples murmured, past the lonely businessman in his booth whose jaw was tight enough to crack. She didn’t look at Mark. She didn’t need to. His furious, wanting stare was a brand on the back of her neck.
The blast of cold air in the opulent lobby was a shock, raising goosebumps on her exposed thighs. She instantly pulled two of them closer, slipping her arms around their waists, letting her hands slide low. “Keep me warm, boys.”
Her mouth found Liam’s first, a hard, open kiss that was all tongue and no pretense. She pulled away and immediately dragged another one down to her level, tasting beer and astonishment. She said nothing, just moved, a silent conductor of their lust.
Their hands began almost shyly, resting on her hips, her lower back. Then bolder, palming the curve of her ass through the velvet, sliding up her corseted ribs. She arched into the touches, a soft hum of approval in her throat, but caught a wandering wrist drifting too high.
“Ah-ah,” she chided gently, bringing his hand back to her hip. “The real prize is upstairs. You want the wrapping paper, or the present?”
“Fucking hell, you’re a total slut,” one breathed into her ear, his voice thick with awe. “Aren’t you? Walking through here like this.”
“Perfect little whore,” another agreed, his grip on her tightening.
Each filthy name was a strike of lightning down her spine, pooling heat low in her belly. She laughed, breathless, and kissed the speaker hard. “You have no idea,” she gasped against his mouth.
The elevator doors closed, sealing them in a mirrored, humming box. The groping became a frantic, concerted exploration—hands on her stockings, squeezing her breasts, tugging at the lace edging her corset. She let them, head thrown back, panting, her reflection a riot of dark hair and red velvet and greedy male hands.
“Just wait,” she managed, pushing one hand away from the zipper he was fumbling with. “Nearly there. Do you want to get us stopped by security?”
The walk down the plush, silent corridor was a desperate, fumbling ballet. She was kissed against the wall, her thigh hitched up around a hip, the coarse weave of the wallpaper scraping her shoulder. She melted into it for three seconds, five, then pushed him off with a firm hand.
“Key card,” she demanded, her voice ragged.
She fumbled it out, the plastic slippery in her sweaty hand. The light blinked green. She shoved the door open, stumbling back into the lavish room she’d left hours before, the fireplace now embers, the champagne flute still on the bedside table.
She turned in the doorway, blocking their frantic entry, chest heaving. Her elf costume was disheveled, her lips swollen. She looked at their flushed, desperate faces, one by one.
“Welcome to Christmas,” she said, and stepped aside.
The five men stumbled into the room after her, a wave of cold air and restless energy. The door clicked shut, sealing them in the fire-warmed silence, and the dynamic shifted instantly. Jane leaned back against it, the cool wood pressing through her velvet costume, and regarded them.
Their hungry stares bounced from the king-sized bed to the champagne flute to her. They were a fidgeting line of anticipation, shoulders tight, hands flexing.
“Okay, listen up,” she said, her voice clear and low, cutting through the quiet. “We’re going to play by my rules. Everyone gets what they need tonight. No arguments, no rough stuff you haven’t asked for.” She pushed off from the door and walked slowly towards the bed, feeling their eyes track her like spotlights. “I want this as much as you do. Probably more. But I’m running the show.”
She stopped at the foot of the bed and turned, letting them see the truth of it in her face, in the dark flush on her chest. “So first, I want a proper look. All of you, stand right here. In a row.”
There was a muffled laugh, a shuffle of boots on the plush carpet as they complied, lining up shoulder-to-shoulder like a rather ragtag firing squad. She let her gaze travel the length of them, from their nervous grins down to their jeans and back up. The power of it was a live wire in her blood.
Without breaking eye contact with the bold one—Liam—she sank back onto the mattress. The velvet duvet was cool and slippery. She reclined onto her elbows, then lay fully back, her dark hair fanning out. She brought her hands up to her own breasts, still confined in the tight red elf-top, and sighed as her palms pressed against the aching swell.
“Three years,” she said, her fingers tracing circles over the stiff fabric. “Three bloody years I worked in Santa’s workshop. A good little elf.” She cupped herself, squeezing gently, and saw five sets of eyes lock onto the motion. “No fun. No touch. Just toy-making and silence.” She arched her back, pushing her chest up into her own hands. “But this naughty elf got let out early for very, very good behavior. And now I am so absolutely gagging for it.”
A low groan came from the row. One of them, a lanky guy with ginger stubble, adjusted himself roughly through his trousers.
“So,” Jane continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to see what you’ve brought me. What you’re offering.” She pointed a red-tipped finger at the man on the far left, not Liam. “You. Start. Trousers off. Come here.”
He blinked, then a wide, disbelieving grin split his face. His hands went to his belt buckle with frantic haste. The sound of the zip was obscenely loud. He stepped out of his jeans, kicked them aside, and stood before her in just a grey t-shirt and patterned boxers, his erection tenting the fabric.
“Closer,” Jane instructed, sitting up slightly.
He took two shuffling steps forward, right to the edge of the bed. She reached out, hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and peeled them down slowly. His cock sprang free, thick and already leaking. A gasp hitched in her throat—a real one, of pure appreciation.
“Oh, look at you,” she murmured, her words warm against his skin. She wrapped her fingers around the base, feeling the heat, the jump of a pulse. Her other hand cradled his balls, weighing them. “So hard already. So eager for me. That’s a beautiful, fat cock.”
She looked up at his stunned, reddening face and smiled. “If I kiss it,” she whispered, leaning in, “that means it’s approved.” She held his gaze for a second longer, then lowered her head and pressed her lips softly to the slick head. She tasted salt and pre-come. “Approved.”
As she released him, her own hand slid down between her legs, over the velvet of her skirt. She rubbed the aching seam of herself through the fabric, a slow, obvious circle, and shuddered. “Next.”
The ritual continued. The second man, all nervous energy, practically tripped out of his chinos. His was longer, leaner, and she praised its elegant length, her tongue touching the tip before she sent him back to the line with a dazed look. Her own breathing grew ragged; her rubbing hand grew more insistent, the velvet growing damp.
The third was the ginger one, surprisingly heavy and full in her hand. “So much to work with,” she sighed, nuzzling the shaft before bestowing the kiss. Her hips were lifting off the bed now, grinding against her own palm in small, frantic motions.
Liam went fourth, his confidence returning as he shoved his jeans down. He was bigger than the others, impressively so, and a competitive smirk played on his lips as she examined him. “You’ve been showing this off your whole life, haven’t you?” she teased, her stroking turning firm and deliberate. Her approval kiss was longer, open-mouthed, and he groaned loudly.
The last one was shy, his erection curve modest but rock-solid. “Perfect,” she assured him, her voice cracking with her own need as she fondled him. “Just perfect.” She kissed him sweetly, then fell back onto the pillows.
Five men stood before her, trousers pooled at their ankles, cocks standing at attention in the firelight. The air was thick with the scent of arousal, of clean sweat and crisp cotton from their discarded shirts. Jane’s hand was a frantic blur under her skirt now, her thighs trembling.
Her hand stilled, gripping the damp velvet of her skirt. She sat up slowly, her hair falling around her shoulders, and looked at their waiting, rigid forms. Her heart hammered against the boning of her corset.
“Alright,” she said, her voice husky but firm. “Next rule. This,” she plucked at the red velvet of her elf dress, “stays on. The stockings, the corset, all of it. It’s part of the prize.”
A confused murmur rippled through them. Liam’s confident smirk faltered. “How’s that supposed to work, then?”
Jane grinned, a flash of white in the dim room. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. You can still access every bit of me you need.” She stood up from the bed, her legs a bit unsteady, and turned her back to them. “But first, you’ve got a job to do. I’m not nearly ready.”
She climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under her knees. She crawled to the center, the velvet skirt riding up, then knelt, folding her body forward until her face was buried deep in the cool pillows. She arched her spine, pushing her ass up into the air, a rounded, deliberate offering framed by the garter straps and sheer black stockings.
“This,” she said, her voice muffled then clear as she turned her head to the side. “You need to get me ready. Warm me up. Use your hands.” She took a shaky breath, the position making her feel profoundly, deliciously exposed. “My cunt. My clit. My ass. Everywhere. Don’t be shy.”
For a second, there was only the crackle of the fireplace and the sound of their breathing. Then movement.
The bed depressed around her. Hands, hesitant at first, touched the backs of her stockings, her trembling thighs. A calloused thumb stroked the underside of her ass cheek. Then bolder, slipping between her thighs from behind, finding the soaked heat of her through the velvet.
“Jesus, she’s drenched,” someone whispered, awed.
“Lift the skirt,” Jane commanded into the pillow, and eager hands gathered the red velvet up and over her back, baring her completely from the waist down except for the stockings and garters.
The first direct touch was a blunt finger dragging slowly up her entire slit. She cried out, a sharp, grateful sound, and pushed back against it. That broke the last of their hesitation.
Suddenly, it was everywhere. A thumb, rough and perfect, circled her clit. Two fingers from another hand slid into her cunt, curling, stretching. Another hand, slick with her own wetness, smoothed over the tight furl of her ass, pressing, teasing.
“Fuck, feel that,” one of them grunted, his fingers working inside her.
“So fucking tight,” another breathed, his focus on the intricate, maddening circles around her clit.
A fifth hand joined, fingers exploring the slippery space between her cunt and her ass, smearing moisture, testing her limits. She was surrounded, supplanted, a creature composed only of sensation. Five pairs of hands, ten fingers, mapping her, claiming separate territories of her flesh. It was an invasion, a celebration, a meticulous unraveling.
She sobbed into the pillow, her fingers clutching the duvet. The pleasure wasn’t linear; it was a storm of conflicting points of focus—the deep plunge, the shallow rub, the insistent pressure at her back door. Her hips rocked helplessly, trying to fuck all the hands at once.
“More,” she begged, the word ripped from her. “Yes, like that. Don’t stop.”
The ginger one, working her ass, leaned close. His breath was hot on her skin. “You love this, don’t you? Being used like this.”
She couldn’t form words, only a broken, high-pitched moan that was all the answer he needed. The sound seemed to spur them on, their movements becoming less coordinated, more frantic, a jostling, eager competition to be the one who broke her.
Jane’s world dissolved into a white-hot point between her legs, fed by a chorus of grasping, slippery hands. The ache of three lonely years dissolved under the sheer, overwhelming mathematics of five.
The bed became a landscape of murmurs and wet sounds, a tangle of urgent whispers against her skin. "God, your taste—" one mumbled into her thigh, the words vibrating through her flesh as his tongue worked. Another tried to speak, his lips busy at the crease of her ass, but it came out as a choked, pleased grunt against her.
Jane moaned, a long, unraveling sound, but lifted her head from the pillow. "Ah, ah—I need you to stop talking with your mouths," she panted, her voice frayed but strangely commanding. She pushed up onto her elbows, dislodging them slightly. Their faces were flushed, lips glistening. "I’m sorry, boys, truly. But I can’t let you use your cocks yet. Not all at once."
She rolled onto her side, facing them, her costume absurdly disheveled and breathtaking. "If I let you all go now, you’ll blow in five seconds flat, and where’s the fun in that?" She reached out and squeezed Liam’s thigh, her fingers digging into firm muscle. "I need a rotation. A constant supply. You understand? I plan to be here a while."
A low, collective groan of frustration and agreement filled the room. They were pupils in her unforgiving school of pleasure.
"Right," Jane said, businesslike despite her nakedness from the waist down. She pointed to the shy one, his modest, curved cock still rigid. "You. Come up here. Sit against the headboard."
He scrambled to comply, his back thudding against the upholstered wood. Jane crawled up the bed with a feline slowness that made them all watch, breath held. She positioned herself between his spread legs, her head level with his groin.
"Inspection round two," she announced, her tone light, almost playful. "Just to be thorough."
She didn’t take him in her mouth immediately. Instead, she nuzzled the inside of his thigh, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of his skin overlaid with musk. She kissed the base of his shaft, then trailed her lips slowly upward, a feather-light touch that made his entire body shudder. Her tongue flicked out, tasting the bead of moisture at his tip, and she hummed in approval.
"You’re doing so well," she whispered, the words hot against his skin. Then she took his balls, heavy and tight, into her mouth, one at a time, sucking gently, rolling them with her tongue. He cried out, a sharp, broken sound, and his hands flew to her hair but didn’t dare pull.
Finally, she took the head of his cock between her lips, sucking softly, her eyes closed in concentration. She worked him with a tender, maddening slowness, her hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t take. It was an act of worship, of detailed cataloging, and it drove the watching men to a fever pitch.
After a minute, she released him with a soft pop. He was trembling. She patted his thigh and turned to the others, her lips slick.
"Okay," Jane sighed, a genuine, wanton smile spreading across her face. She lay back in the center of the bed, her hair a dark riot on the pillows, and spread her legs. The firelight caught the slick evidence of their earlier attention. "I think it’s time. One of these beautiful cocks needs to be inside me. Who wants the job?"
The ginger one, who had been so focused on her ass, didn’t hesitate. "Me. Let me."
He was on her before the words fully left his mouth, his body settling between her thighs with a grateful groan. She guided him with one sure hand, not at her entrance, but holding him steady, making him pause. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and unblinking.
"Slow," she instructed, her voice a husky thread. "I want to feel every inch. Make it last."
He nodded, jaw clenched, and began to push forward. The breach was exquisite, a profound, stretching fullness that made her gasp. He was as substantial as he’d felt in her hand, and her body, already so thoroughly prepared, accepted him with a deep, trembling sigh. He sank into her, and her head fell back, a string of soft, punched-out "oh, oh, ohs" escaping her as he filled her completely.
"That’s it," she breathed, her hands coming up to claw at his shoulders. "That’s exactly what I needed."