The office Christmas party had officially moved from "mandatory fun" to "regrettable decisions" about three hours and five rounds of peppermint schnapps ago. We had migrated from the sterile breakroom to The Jingle Bell Rock, a dive bar that smelled entirely of stale beer and pine-scented floor cleaner.

The air was thick with heat, laughter, and the kind of reckless energy that only comes when a year’s worth of corporate suppression is released all at once. I was currently wedged into a circular booth, sandwiched between Greg from Accounting, who was wearing reindeer antlers that had gone lopsided, and Jessica, the Director of Marketing, who had loosened her power tie and was currently taking shots like a sailor.

"Mark!" Greg shouted, slapping my back hard enough to dislodge the breath from my lungs. "You’re up, buddy! You lost the bet!"

I blinked, the room swaying slightly. "What bet?"

"The sales figures bet! You said Q4 would be under. You were wrong. Pay up!"

The table erupted in cheers. A mix of guys in unbuttoned dress shirts and women with tinsel wrapped around their necks were all chanting my name.

"Karaoke! Karaoke! Karaoke!"

I tried to protest, waving a hand weakly. "Guys, no. I can't sing. I sound like a dying seal."

"Doesn't matter!" Jessica crowed, her eyes gleaming with a predatory amusement. She grabbed me by the lapels of my grey suit jacket and hauled me up. She was a tall woman, striking and intense, and right now she looked ready to throw me to the wolves. "Get up there, Marky-Mark. Give us a show."

Stumbling, I was shoved toward the small, sticky stage in the corner. The karaoke DJ, a guy who looked like he’d been living in this bar since 1985, didn't even ask me what I wanted. He just saw the rowdy group of corporate drunks pointing at me and grinned.

I grabbed the mic, the feedback whining sharply. "Uh, hey everyone," I mumbled, my voice deep and unenthusiastic. "I guess I’m... doing this."

I turned to leave, thinking I could just bail, but my feet felt heavy. Like, magnetically sealed to the floor heavy. I tried to lift my left shoe, but it wouldn't budge.

Then, the opening notes started.

Ba-doom, ba-doom, ba-doom...

It was a slow, sultry, plucking bassline. Iconic. Unmistakable.

"Santa Baby," someone shouted from the back. The crowd roared with laughter.

My face burned. I opened my mouth to tell the DJ to cut it, to switch it to Bon Jovi or literally anything else, but my vocal cords locked. I couldn't speak. I could only... wait.

The first lyric queued up on the monitor.

My body moved before I told it to. My right hand, holding the mic, flared out, pinky extended. My left hand drifted up to rest on my hip. But it wasn’t just a pose. It felt... natural.

"Santa baby, just slip a sable under the tree, for me..."

The voice that came out of the speakers wasn't my flat baritone. It was lighter. Breathier. It had a tremble in it, a sound like silk sliding over skin.

I stared at the crowd in horror, but they were cheering wilder than before. Greg was whistling.

Jessica was leaning forward, chin in her hand, watching intently.

"Been an awful good girl, Santa baby..."

I tried to stop, but my hips gave a violent, involuntary twitch. A shimmy. And as I shimmied, a weird heat exploded in my chest. It wasn’t the schnapps. It was a friction, a stretching sensation.

My grey suit jacket felt suddenly tight across the chest.

Exceptionally tight. I looked down, gasping between lyrics. Two distinct mounds were pushing against the starched white cotton of my dress shirt. They were swelling, soft and heavy, pushing the fabric until the buttons strained.

"So hurry down the chimney tonight..."

I sang it with a pout I didn't know I possessed. My lips felt weird—tingling, swelling, getting pillowy and soft. I ran my tongue over them and tasted strawberry gloss.

The guys at my table were hooting. "Work it, Mark!" someone yelled.

"It's Holly!" Jessica shouted back, her voice cutting through the noise. "Look at her go!"

Holly?

The name hit my brain like a sugar rush. It sounded sparkly. It sounded expensive.

I spun around during the instrumental break, and the centrifugal force did something impossible. My trousers—my boring, pleated corporate trousers—dissolved. They didn't fall off; they melted into a swirl of red velvet. The coarse fabric against my legs was replaced by the slide of sheer silk stockings.

I looked down at my legs. They weren't hairy and knobby anymore. They were smooth, creamy, and shapely, ending in ferocious red stilettos that made my calves pop.

"Santa baby, a '54 convertible too, light blue..."

My voice was climbing an octave, getting squeakier, ditzier. And god, I meant it. I really, really wanted that convertible. Why had I ever cared about quarterly reports? What I needed was a car that matched my eyes.

Speaking of eyes, the world was getting brighter. My vision sharpened, framed by sudden, heavy lashes that I fluttered instinctively. I felt a tickle on my neck. I reached up, expecting my short brown hair, but my fingers tangled in thick, cascading ringlets. Blonde. Platinum blonde. So soft, so bouncy.

I tossed my head, feeling the weight of the hair hit my bare shoulders. Bare?

I looked down again. The transformation was accelerating. My broad shoulders had melted away, narrowing into a petite, feminine frame. The suit was gone entirely. I was wearing a scandalous red velvet dress, trimmed in fluffy white fur that tickled my collarbone. It hugged my new waist—which was impossibly tiny—and flared out just enough to cover my new, generous hips.

And the cleavage. Oh, the cleavage. I was pushed up, displayed like a holiday feast. I giggled, the sound bubbling out of me like champagne.

"I'll wait up for you dear..."

I wasn't Mark anymore. Mark was boring. Mark worried about his 401k. I was Holly. Holly worried about whether diamonds or platinum looked better against her skin. (Answer: Both.)

I started to dance. Not the awkward shuffle Mark would have done. I strutted. I grabbed the mic stand and dragged it close, running my manicured red nails down the metal shaft, swaying my hips in a slow, hypnotic figure-eight.

The guys in the front row were slack-jawed. Greg looked like he was having a stroke, his eyes glued to the way the red velvet strained over my backside as I dipped low.

"Santa baby, I want a yacht and really that's not a lot..."

I pouted at the audience, giving a little shoulder shimmy that made the white fur bounce. I felt incredibly shallow, and it felt good. Why think about spreadsheets when you can think about yachts? My mind felt airy, empty of stress, filled instead with a bubbly, voracious desire for shiny things and attention.

I saw the IT guys staring. I winked at them, blowing a kiss. "Don't be shy, boys," I purred into the mic between verses, my voice pure sex and sugar. "Christmas comes but once a year."

The crowd went feral.

I was getting hotter, the steamy atmosphere of the bar clinging to my skin. I felt a bead of sweat roll down between my breasts, and I knew I looked delicious. I was the perfect pinup, the ornament everyone wanted to take home and unwrap.

"Santa honey, one little thing I really need... the deed... to a platinum mine..."

I dragged the word mine out, making it a low moan, dropping to my knees on the dirty stage. I didn't care about the grime. I crawled forward, shaking my blonde curls, looking up at my coworkers through thick, mascara-heavy lashes.

I spotted Jessica again. She wasn't laughing anymore. She was staring at me with a dark, hungry intensity. She bit her lip, her eyes dragging over my curves.

I locked eyes with her and smirked, a shallow, knowing expression. I knew I was hot. I knew I was the center of the universe right now.

"Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight..."

For the big finish, I stood up, spun around to give them a view of the zipper running down the back of my dress, and then looked back over my shoulder, blowing one final, massive kiss.

"Hurry down the chimney tonight," I whispered, breathless and high-pitched.

The song ended. The bar was silent for exactly one heartbeat, and then it exploded.

"HOLLY! HOLLY! HOLLY!"

I basked in it. I curtsied, holding the hem of my short dress out, knowing full well I was showing off a dangerous amount of thigh. I giggled, bringing my hand to my mouth.

"Oh, you boys are just too much!" I squeaked.

I handed the mic back to the stunned DJ, who was blushing furiously. "Thanks, sweetie," I cooed, tapping him on the nose.

I stepped off the stage, my hips swaying with a life of their own. I wasn't walking; I was sashaying. The click-clack of my heels was a power move.

I made my way back to the booth, but it was a gauntlet. Hands reached out to touch my arms, my waist.

"Mark? Is that... you?" Greg stammered as I approached, his face red.

I laughed, a twinkling, bell-like sound. I slid into the booth, not sitting normally, but sliding onto Greg's lap first before sliding off to squeeze between him and Jessica. "Mark who?" I teased, fluffing my hair. "I'm Holly, silly. Did you like the song?"

"I... uh... yeah," Greg gulped, staring openly at my chest.

I leaned forward, pressing my breasts together with my arms on the sticky table.

"You know, Santa was listening," I whispered conspiratorially to the group. "But I think I need a real lover to help me check my list."

I looked around the table, batting my eyelashes. I felt insatiable. I wanted drinks, I wanted compliments, and I wanted to be touched. The old me—the shy, awkward man—was gone, buried under layers of velvet, perfume, and bimbo entitlement.

"You look... incredible," one of the sales girls said, looking jealous.

"I know, right?" I preened, smoothing the fur on my dress. "This fabric is to die for. But I think I need a drink. Who's buying Holly a drink?"

Immediately, five hands shot up holding credit cards. I clapped my hands in delight. "Oh, I love generous men!"

But before I could order the most expensive cocktail on the menu (something pink and sweet, obviously), I felt an arm wrap around my waist. A strong, authoritative arm.

It was Jessica.

She pulled me flush against her side. She smelled like expensive perfume and whiskey. "I think," Jessica said, her voice low and raspy near my ear, "that Holly has had enough of the cheap stuff."

I shivered. The way she said my name—Holly—sent a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I looked up at her, my mouth falling open slightly in a perfect 'O'.

"Have I?" I breathed.

"Mmhmm." Jessica looked at the guys at the table, her expression territorial. "Show's over, boys. I'm taking the talent home."

"But—" Greg started.

"Zip it, Greg," Jessica commanded. She stood up, pulling me with her.

I stumbled a little on my heels, giggling feigned incompetence.

"Oh my, I'm just so tipsy! These heels are murder on a girl's calves."

"Don't worry," Jessica smirked. "You won't have to walk."

Without hesitation, she swept me up. One arm under my knees, one around my back. I let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, wrapping my arms around her neck and kicking my legs up.

"My hero!" I chirped, burying my face in her neck.

The bar erupted in whistles and catcalls as she carried me toward the exit. I soaked it all up. I waved to the crowd over Jessica's shoulder, my fingers wiggling.

"Bye bye!" I called out. "Merry Christmas!"

Jessica kicked the door open and carried me out into the cold winter air. The snow was falling, landing on my bare skin, but I didn't feel cold. I felt hot. I felt radiant.

She carried me toward a sleek black car waiting at the curb. Not a '54 convertible, but it would do.

"You were amazing up there," Jessica murmured, looking down at me. "Such a little tease."

I bit my lip, tracing the line of her jaw with a manicured finger. The shallow, greedy part of my brain was doing somersaults. Jessica was the boss. Jessica had money. Jessica was looking at me like she wanted to eat me alive.

"I wasn't teasing," I whispered, pressing my body closer to hers, feeling the soft velvet crush between us. "I just know what I want for Christmas."

Jessica raised an eyebrow, opening the car door and depositing me gently onto the leather seat. She leaned in, her face inches from mine, blocking out the snow and the streetlights.

"And what's that, Holly?"

I giggled, winding a blonde curl around my finger and looking up at her through my lashes with absolute, shameless adoration.

"Everything," I purred. "And I think you're just the girl to give it to me."

Jessica grinned, a wolfish, hungry smile. "It's going to be a very Merry Christmas, Holly."

As she shut the door and walked around to the driver's side, I snuggled into the leather, admiring my reflection in the rearview mirror. Mark was history. Holly was here to stay, and she was about to have a very, very good night.