A thin string of lights hung over and around the bar. They winked green and red and white, and Wren smiled at them until he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was the only one in it and he picked up his drink."Me too," the bartender said, having moved to the end of the bar. He looked at his watch because his children were waiting for Santa Claus."Hi. Merry Christmas," a soft voice insinuated itself between Wren and his cup.He held it just off his lips, not certain he'd heard it until Wren turned his head."Hello," she said with a smile just for him.Wren blinked at her auburn hair, which was loose but falling all at once in a long train across her bare right shoulder. It seemed to curl upward between her full breasts and those, Wren was helpless to note, were wonderfully contained in a low cut dress of emerald green, a color that suited both the woman and the season perfectly."Merry Christmas," the bartender replied for both of them. "What can I bring you? Eggnog is on the house. Atkin grinned a false-toothed grin at him, though his mind raced too fast for him to properly comprehend the station. His foremost thought was of losing his job; it may well be an unprecedented case but he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to have his cock rubbed by a patient. He couldn't afford to lose this job, nor did he want to. Quickly his mind gave him a metaphorical skelp round the lug - why was he even thinking of the consequences when he should be busy being physically revolted by a woman more than fifteen years his grandmother's senior fondling his genitals? Literally no good reason for why he was not bringing to a halt this situation was forthcoming. Yet it continued. Indeed, horny old Mrs. Atkin was now fumbling with his zipper in an attempt to release his gradually hardening organ. Was he so hard-up that, even given the source, he was enjoying any sexual attention whatsoever? Was he so sex-deprived that he would allow this living relic to touch him in his most personal.
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