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Chapter 1
A week to go until Christmas. A week to go, Angela was thinking. Not easy, caring for a three month old baby, not easy, the making of lists, gathering the right food for the recipes she would cook, buying the right gifts for the people she and her husband would see this year on the special day, even if the packages were delivered to her door. Thank the Lord they weren't hosting anything, but even preparing for a visit to Will's family on Christmas day was enough to exhaust her this year. Anything more than caring for the baby, and he was no easy baby, seemed like too much. Angela felt overwhelmed.
Five o'clock rolled around, then six, six thirty. Finally, at close to seven, Will, Angela's husband, came home. She felt a stab of resentment. He was full of energy, despite his long day, and his hazel green eyes seemed to twinkle as he put away his coat and took the child into his arms. They cooed at each other for a while, Will and his tiny son, and then the child yawned and fell right to sleep, something that never happened for her, Angela. It was infuriating how easy it was for Will with the baby, infuriating that she had to stay home and listen to it cry while he was off at work, among comparatively stimulating adults.
He was a real estate agent, and winter was supposed to be a slow time. But it wasn't this winter. Not by a long shot. The local housing market was positively booming. Home values, and therefore home prices, had been on the ascent for some time due to increased migration to their small city. It seemed everyone wanted to live there. Sellers were selling, and buyers were buying. Will Goodsen, despite his young age of twenty four, was doing very well for himself. He'd moved up fast. It was hard, sometimes tedious work, but it paid off. Angela knew all of this. Angela was grateful, even, but she couldn't help but resent him just a little. She felt he had it easy.
The baby was laid down in his crib, and then Will turned his attention to his wife. Without a word, he pulled her into a long hug.
"You look tired," he said.
Angela pulled away from the hug. That she looked tired was not something she wanted to hear from him, even if it was true.
"Yes, I am tired," she said. "It's not easy with the baby, on top of getting ready for the holidays."
"I know," he said, with a hangdog look. "Do you need a nap?"
A nap sounded good to her, but she felt a spike of anxiety at the thought.
"I have too much to do," she said.
"Can I help?" he said.
"Well--"
"Seriously, I'll do anything you need. I know how hard you've been working."
"The presents need to be wrapped, but you wouldn't know which present goes to which person."
She looked dejected. He went to the kitchen and returned with a sticky pad.
"So let's go through them real quick, and label them."
"But do you actually know how to wrap presents?" she asked.
"I'll give it my best shot!" he said.
So they labeled the presents, brought out the tape and wrapping paper, and Angela took her nap. She wasn't sure she'd actually sleep, but once she was settled into bed, she drifted off very quickly.
Time passed. Baby Henry fussed some, but it didn't wake up Angela. Will fed him, rocked him, and laid him down again. By the time Angela rose, at ten thirty, the presents were wrapped. More than wrapped, they were perfect, and Will had even made little tags for each gift identifying who it was for and who it was from.
Angela was impressed, but not surprised. Will had always been resourceful, and he was very neat and tidy. Almost excessively tidy, but it worked for her as well, because she liked things clean and orderly as much as he did. She smiled at the neat and tidy presents, and then she smiled at Will.
"Thanks, honey," she said. "That really helped."
Will was now smiling at her, too, but she didn't like the look in his eyes. It was an intense look, and a look that bespoke of a certain neediness. Will was horny. That look always meant Will was horny, and she just wasn't. Not since the baby was born, three month before. So when he moved closer and tried to draw her into his arms, she put a stop to it.
"I'm just not ready," she said. "I'm sorry."
The young man known as Will gulped, and he looked almost crazed with desperation. But he gave up immediately, without question, without argument. Will respected women. Will was devoted and faithful to Angela, and had been ever since they had met at college. He wanted her to feel comfortable again with him, wanted her to want him as much as he wanted her, and he was certain that they'd get back to being that way in time. But waiting sure wasn't easy. Especially around Christmas.
Christmas, Christmas. Angela was thinking about Christmas, specifically about the strange effect the holiday season seemed to have on Will. Every year, just about at the start of December, Will began to change. It was a subtle change to most who knew him, not especially noticeable. But for Angela, it was different. For Angela, the holiday season was filled with sex. She hadn't really put two and two together early in their relationship, but in the past couple of years Angela had realized that sudden spikes in Will's sex drive always coincided with the holiday season.
At other times of the year, their sex life wasn't all that exciting. They'd started off at maybe two or three times a week in their early days together, and gradually spiraled downward in frequency, until they rarely made love more than once every two weeks. But come Christmas, boy did things change. Will wanted it every night, and he was inclined to add variety to their routine, always with a Christmas theme. Peppermint scented lubricant, Santa hats, holiday underwear, tinsel. As long as it related to Christmas, Will was likely to bring it home and mix it up with the sexual festivities. He also enjoyed giving her oral pleasure during the holidays, something for which he usually showed no interest.
So Angela knew Will was struggling. She was very well aware of the tension, the longing looks that emanated from him in recent weeks. And if she had thought he might go astray, thought he might cheat on her, she might have acquiesced to his needs to keep him satisfied and focused on home. But she entertained no such notions of possible infidelity from him. He was shy around other women, although he hid it well at his job. He was also exceptionally devoted to her, almost clingy. Part of this originated, she was sure, from his conservative upbringing. Part of it was probably the example set by his own, long married mother and father, she thought. But a larger part of it was just his personality. He was genuinely sweet, genuinely caring, and she felt that him cheating would hurt him more than it would hurt her herself. She felt certain he would never betray her, and certain that his mild mannered nature would prevail over any wayward instinct.
For a couple of hours, they watched TV. Will wanted to snuggle, but Angela knew where he hoped that would lead, and she kept him at bay. He went to bed alone, and she dozed off on the couch, cuddled up in a fuzzy blanket. The child slept through most of the night, and so did Angela. Sweet, blessed relief.
When she awoke, it was five thirty in the morning. Will was in the kitchen, making scrambled eggs and toast. He had already fed the baby, who was in his little baby seat, watching his father intently. It made a sweet picture, the two of them, and for a moment the sight of them, their silence, touched her heart. Then baby Henry saw her, and started wailing. It was difficult for her not to take it personally. She knew that the baby was only reacting that way because he knew Will would soon have to leave them for another work day, but it still hurt.
Will turned off the stove and went to the baby. He made silly, exaggerated faces at the child, and it was soon pacified. The eggs were delicious, the toast had just the right amount of butter, just the right amount of crunch. He always got things just right, Angela thought, with a touch of anger. Everything was always so perfect, in his world. He looked at her with that hangdog expression, the one she hated, and asked if there was anything he could do to make her day easier.
"I'll be just fine!" she snapped.
He retreated to the bedroom, slipped off his pajamas, and hopped into the shower. Will liked long showers. He liked to be very, very clean. Afterward, he mopped the steam from the bathroom mirror and studied his face. He didn't really need to shave. His thin, frail little whiskers grew in slowly, and he could go several days without his stubble being noticeable to anyone besides himself. But he shaved anyway. It didn't feel as if his routine was complete without his shave.
Afterward, he turned his attention to his hair. It was a dark blonde color and already it was breaking out in curls and waves at the top, even though it had only been a couple of weeks since he'd gotten it cut. Will frowned at himself for a moment, made a mental note to make an appointment to get it cut again, soon. It wouldn't do to look scruffy at work. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
In the bedroom, Will slipped a fresh pair of undies and a sparkling white T-shirt onto his lean body, then slipped on a pair of dark dress socks. His pants came next, tailored for a perfect fit, the belt with its shiny buckle, the baby blue dress shirt, tucked in without so much at as the slightest wrinkle. He struggled with his tie, struggled to make the knot perfect, struggled to make the tie itself fall cleanly down over the buttons of the shirt. He pulled on the coat of his suit, went in and kissed baby Henry and his wife, and then he was off to another day of work. There were already several messages on his iPhone.
Work was busy for the first few hours of the day, but the activity died down in the afternoon. Will took the opportunity to visit the mall, for he had not yet bought his wife a Christmas present. But he was leery. He was well aware of the effect the Christmas madness at the mall might have on him, so he chose to enter through one of the department stores rather than the main entrance by the food court, where the biggest holiday display was located. Even so, the decorations got to him--the lights and shiny ornaments, the evergreen boughs and red ribbons. Will felt warm and fuzzy at once, and a little light headed. He made his way to the jewelry counter. This high end store sold quality jewelry, unlike the jewelry stores in the mall proper, and this was where Will chose to buy Angela's gift. He chose a very nice and very expensive Movado watch. Cost was no object, not this year. Not after Angela had given birth to baby Henry, not after her tender and constant care of him.
The watch was boxed and gift wrapped. The watch was put into a nice bag for carrying. A satisfied young Will headed for the exit, relieved that there was no need to go into the mall itself. But suddenly his stomach growled. Or at least he thought it had growled, and why not, when he hadn't eaten since breakfast? Maybe I'll just grab something at the food court, Will thought. But then he thought he'd better not, for reasons of his own, reasons he didn't care to ponder too deeply. And then his stomach really did growl, and Will decided it must be obeyed.
Into the mall he slipped, a mall festooned with decorations. Great swags of ribbons and tinseled garlands, huge ornaments dangling everywhere. It got more festive, more colorful as Will walked, reaching a crescendo at the food court, with its even larger ornaments, its huge festoons of monstrous boughs of fake evergreens, the glittering tinsel in every color, metallic and catching each glimmer of light, and the great banks of poinsettias. The room had fast food counters all along its walls, but an area in its center was cordoned off by red velvet rope. Lines of children and their parents blocked the view, but Will knew Santa presided in the very heart of the room.
His heart stopped for a moment, then clunked forward heavily in desperate, irregular beats. Hunger evaporated. Will wanted to turn around and leave, leave just as fast as he had come, but the decorations, the sound of the carols and Christmas bells, and the hum of so many excited voices seemed to mesmerize him. He walked towards the center, toward the heart, and when he finally caught sight of Santa, in his huge green velvet chair, he almost fainted. His heart caught again, his face flushed, and his penis sprang swiftly into full erection.
Though he felt nearly incapacitated, Will edged in closer to get a better look at Santa. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it was wrong. But he could no longer help himself.
Santa didn't disappoint. Santa was perfect. The snowy, flowing beard, the scarlet hat and suit, all trimmed in pristine white. The thick, shiny black belt with its huge buckle, the rotund form, the sparkling spectacles and the shiny, shiny black boots. Oh, God, the boots. Will swooned. He couldn't take his eyes off of Santa. For nearly an hour he stood there, as if his feet had grown roots, and stared. His erection never flagged. Not even a little bit.
Work was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. Will descended into a lust filled haze, as if drugged, as if under some enchanter's spell. Consciousness, real consciousness, found him again only when he became aware that Santa was returning his gaze. A stern look seemed to emanate from beneath Santa's glasses. Will's heart jumped into his throat, and he felt a stab of panic flow through his senses, but he still couldn't move. It was like Santa's eyes were pinning him to the spot where he stood, pinning him down hard.
The little girl on Santa's lap stirred, and suddenly the gaze was broken. Will fled. He ran fast, but he didn't get far. A wave of nausea overwhelmed him, and he turned into the nearest Men's room. He bolted into one of the stalls, bolted the door behind him, and knelt in front of the toilet, waiting to vomit. He was sweaty and feverish, and went back and forth from feeling too cold to feeling much too hot, but his stomach eventually settled. When he felt the danger of throwing up had passed, Will stood, rearranged himself, and exited the stall. He was safe. He had nearly fallen into temptation, but everything was going to be okay now. He splashed some water from the sink onto his face, dried it as best he could, and turned to leave. And at that very moment Santa walked into the bathroom.
"Ho Ho Ho!" said Santa, in a booming voice.
Will trembled. His face passed from cold to hot and red in an instant. He couldn't find his words.
Undeterred, Santa went on.
"And what is your name, young man?" he asked.
Will tried to speak, but only soft little peeps escaped his mouth.
"Well, young man?" Santa said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
Little squeaks, that's all, little squeaks. Will's mouth was very dry. Finally, with much effort, he squeaked, "I'm Billy!"
Why had he said that? No one had called him Billy for over twelve years. Why did he tell Santa he was Billy? His thoughts were racing and scattered. His heart beat madly, and his penis was became very, very stiff again.
"And have you been naughty or nice this year, young Billy?" Santa said.
"Naughty!" Billy said.
He wasn't in control of his mouth. The word burst out before he'd had time to think.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Billy!" Santa said. "Just how naughty have you been?"
"Very naughty, Santa!" Billy squeaked. "I'm a bad boy!"
"You don't look like a bad boy," Santa said. "You look like a little angel."
It was true. The boy's lean jaw, his plump, flushed cheeks and curly head of golden hair gave off the distinct impression of a cherub, and all of the innocence associated with such beings.
"Everyone says that!" Billy said. "But I'm naughty!"
"I see," Santa said. "Perhaps you need some help being a good boy, Billy. Would you like Santa's help?"
"Yes," Billy squeaked. He gulped down hard.
"Very well," Santa said.
He looked at his watch.
"My shift ends at 6 o'clock this evening, Billy," Santa said. "I expect you to be here at that time."
"Where?" Billy said. "Where exactly?"
"Right by the front doors to the food court," Santa said.
"Okay."
"Don't disappoint me, young man," Santa warned.
Billy cast his eyes downward. He felt a great jumble of emotions and feelings coursing through his mind and body.
"I won't," he said.
Santa smiled. He exited the restroom, leaving behind a very confused and very flustered young man, who now called himself Billy. It never crossed little Billy's mind, not even for a second, that Santa hadn't actually used the restroom. It never crossed his little mind that he'd been watched and followed.
A blur. Work was a blur, the rest of that afternoon. Will couldn't concentrate. Even when he had to show a house, he couldn't do it right. He got his lines wrong, he forgot to mention some amenities, he couldn't answer questions in the smooth, quick way that he normally did. But thankfully there was little else to do at work after the showing, or at least little else that couldn't be put off until later. Will sat at his desk and looked in front of him, but saw nothing at all. Nothing registered. His face was blank.
But inside, oh, inside, nothing was blank there. His mind, his body were as tense and taught as a tuning fork, ready to snap. When he thought of Santa a wave of intense arousal washed over him, but the fear, the guilt followed quickly. How could he even think of meeting Santa, with innocent baby Henry and sweet, unsuspecting Angela waiting for him at home? The thought appalled his mild, decent nature. Yet the other thoughts would not leave, and his penis just would not relax.
He wasn't sure that he knew what Santa wanted, not really. He suspected a lot of things, but then his mind would scold him for sending it into the gutter. Perhaps he had it all wrong? Perhaps Santa just wanted to help in an innocent, Christian way? Will wasn't sure. He wasn't sure of much of anything that afternoon. But when five o'clock rolled around and he could easily have gone home, Will didn't do that. He drove directly to the mall and sat in his car for nearly an hour, a conflicted mass of doubt and desire.
As six o'clock rapidly approached, Billy panicked. He just couldn't seem to act, one way or the other. He couldn't bring himself to drive home. The thought left him cold and full of disappointment. But he found that he couldn't get out of his car either, couldn't take those few steps to the doors of the food court. He was too scared. He was full of fear of what might happen, full of fear of the unknown. In his frustration, he hunched over, lowering his contorted face into his open hands, and rested them on the steering wheel. He sobbed, and tears that had been gathering for a long time, gathering for a lifetime, really, began to spill.
It seemed to go on for a long time, the crying. Moisture seeped between his fingers, seeped onto the wheel. The everyday sounds of cars coming and going seemed dark and ominous, and a turning ignition gave him the jitters. He might have sat there like that, hunched over with misery and self-pity, for hours had it not been for the soft tap tap tapping that brought him back, like the hooves of reindeer playing over a freshly tiled roof.
He wiped his eyes with the cuffs of his coat, sat upright, and there was Santa, right outside his window, tall, stout, resplendent in his white beard and scarlet suit. Santa motioned for Billy to lower his window, and Billy did so after starting up his car. Billy's nerves were still out of control, but Santa's presence seemed to bring a little focus to his befuddled mind.
"Thought you weren't going to make it, Billy," Santa said, in a slightly stern voice.
"I'm sorry," Billy whimpered. "I just couldn't get out of the car."
"That's okay," Santa said. "Do you still want Santa to help you to be a good boy?"
"Yes," Billy said, oh so softly.
"Good," Santa said. "Unlock your door and let me hop in."
After Santa had settled himself into Billy's passenger seat, the younger man asked him where they were going.
"First you are going to drive me to my car," Santa said. "Then you will follow me to my place."
"But where is it?" Billy said.
"Oh, not far, young man, not far. Santa stays in a rooming house when he visits children in the city before Christmas."
"Is it private?" Billy said, in almost a whisper.
"Private enough!" Santa said. "Now let's get going."
Billy dutifully drove Santa to his car, an old, rusting clunker that Billy couldn't imagine driving. He followed Santa's car closely, but apprehension closed in on him. He didn't like the neighborhood they were approaching. It was old and a little run down, full of large Victorian houses in various states of disrepair. Santa pulled to the side of the street in front of one of these, a big white one whose fading paint was evident even in the darkness. Billy didn't like the look of it, though he had sold similar houses in the area. But he pulled in behind Santa, and let his car engine idle.
Santa got out of the clunker and ambled over to Billy's car, motioning for him to roll down his window again. Billy did so somewhat reluctantly.
"Ready, Billy?" Santa said.
"I'm not sure," Billy whimpered. "I'm scared."
"Nothing to be scared about when you're with Santa, Billy. Now come along."
Billy felt he had no choice but to obey. He felt that there was no turning back. Santa was in charge now. So he locked his car and followed Santa into the house, up onto a large, curving staircase that landed on the second floor, and finally through the door that led to Santa's rented room.
It was sparsely furnished. A double bed, made up untidily, a big overstuffed chair that looked like it might've belonged to Archie Bunker, and a few small stands and tables made up the entire picture. Billy followed Santa inside, then stood there wondering what to do next.
"Now Billy," Santa said, "you say you've been a naughty boy this year. Would you care to elaborate?"
Billy squirmed and trembled. He didn't know what to say. He felt extremely nervous and extremely embarrassed.
"How have you been naughty, Billy?" Santa said.
His voice was stern. He stared down at Billy, for Santa was a few inches taller than Billy's five foot nine. His clear blue eyes, so full of twinkling warmth earlier, now looked hard and cold.
"I-- "
"Yes?" Santa encouraged.
"I have naughty thoughts," Billy said.
"Sexual thoughts?"
"Yes."
"And what do you do with those thoughts, young man?" Santa said.
"Nothing!" Billy squeaked. "I swear!"
"Is that the truth?" Santa said, in his deepest, sternest voice.
Billy suddenly burst into tears.
"No," he whined. "I masturbated! Only a few times! I didn't mean to!"
"I see," Santa said.
"I'm sorry."
"Does your wife know about this?" Santa said.
Billy started.
"How did you know I have a wife?" he exclaimed.
"Santa knows these things."
"But--"
"Now calm down, Billy. Your wife is not the issue. I merely asked if you performed these acts without her knowledge."
"I had to!" Billy said. "We haven't had sex in so long!"
"No," Santa said while shaking his head. "You didn't have to. You yourself know you should not have done these things, Billy. Otherwise you wouldn't have confessed to them."
Billy hung his head. He knew Santa was right.
"A younger boy doing such things can sometimes be excused. But an older boy with a wife? No, Billy, that cannot be excused, and I think you know it. You have been very, very naughty."
"I know," Billy said.
"And what were the naughty thoughts you were having while you did these things to yourself, Billy? While you masturbated?"
Billy said nothing. His voice was stuck in his dry, dry throat. Santa gave him the sternest look possible, and demanded an answer.
"It was you!" Billy said. "I was thinking of you when I did it!"
Santa wasn't surprised, but he wasn't about to let Billy know it.
"Really, young man! You not only do dishonor to yourself and to your wife, but to me also? You have been a very naughty boy indeed."
"I know," Billy whimpered. "I'm sorry!"
"Sorry doesn't cut it, Billy!"
"I know."
"And what is to be done about these acts, young man? What can I do to help you be a good boy?"
Billy fell silent again. His young body was quaking pitifully.
"I'm waiting for your answer, young man," Santa said.
"I deserve to be punished," Billy squeaked.
"Yes, I think so too. And what shall your punishment be?"
"A spanking. I deserve a spanking."
"You most certainly do," Santa said. "And there is no time like the present."
Billy's body continued to tremble. He couldn't think of anything else to say. He didn't think there was anything else to say, at least not for him.
"You will strip off your clothes immediately, young man!"
A little screech escaped Billy's lips.
"Everything? Even my undies?"
"You may leave your undies on for now. Everything else must come off. Don't dally around! Do it!"
Santa's tone was deep and commanding, and Billy was too afraid not to obey. Off came the shiny new shoes, the dark dress socks. He rose, unhitched his belt and slid it off with his pants, exposing lean but shapely calves and thighs. They appeared completely naked except when Billy moved and the light only glinted off a few thin, golden hairs at his calves. The jacket came next, the tie and the shirt, and then Billy stood shivering and nearly nude in front of a fully clothed Santa.
His body was indeed lean but covered with fine, taut muscles, especially at his rippling belly. Santa approved. The boy had an obvious erection. It strained against the pristine whiteness of his tight, tight briefs, pointing up but only slightly out. It did not appear to be large. Santa very much approved. Such a tiny waist on the boy, Santa noticed. The shoulders were not especially wide, but seemed so in comparison to the waist. The breasts looked firm but defined, with small, pink nipples, nicely pointed. There seemed to be not a single hair on his upper body, besides the little wisps at his armpits. Oh, how Santa approved.
Santa made no effort to undress. He enjoyed having the shivering boy naked before him, enjoyed watching his little muscles quiver and twitch. Billy was better than he'd first imagined, truly an angel, a cherub, a Hyacinthus and a Ganymede, a boy who could easily inflame the passions of the gods with his meek, modest demeanor and youthful beauty. The boy needed correction, to be sure, but he seemed to be as sweet and open as he appeared. Santa felt grateful that such boys existed, and grateful that such boys needed guidance from men like him. He appreciated these things, relished them in the boy for just a few moments as his arousal and his desire grew, but he knew that soon his aggro would rise to meet them.
He tore his gaze away, went and pulled something from his suitcase, and set it on the small table next to the overstuffed chair, then he set himself down on it, near the edge, so his legs were mostly off of it, and called to Billy, who still shivered with downcast eyes.
"Come, Billy," Santa said.
The boy moved closer, but not close enough.
"Come, Billy!" Santa thundered.
A wet spot had formed where the tip of Billy's penis met the fabric of his underwear. Santa looked at it for a moment, then pulled the boy forward, and arranged him over his knees. The buttocks, facing upwards, appeared small but plump and well-rounded beneath the tight fabric. Santa couldn't wait to get his hands on them.
Meaty hands they were, big and meaty, covered in veins and a light smattering of hair, on the backs. Santa raised the right one high above Billy's butt. Yet he hesitated. Was he making a mistake? The boy really did seem sweet and innocent. Was changing him, probably irrevocably, really the right thing to do? Beneath him, Billy squirmed on his lap. Gently, and oh so very subtly, oh so very stealthily, he thrust his undie clad erection against Santa's furry red pants.
The hand came down, hard. Billy yelped, but the hand was raised again, even higher, before crashing down against Billy's bottom with a muffled thud. Santa's momentary doubts had evaporated instantly, and now he was outraged. The big hand came down again and again on the boy's firm butt, and Billy could only squeal. Oh, how it stung, but it was bearable, just bearable, Billy thought. But Santa's meaty hand began to ache a little, and Billy's tender young bottom was about to meet something far more punishing.
Santa pushed the boy's briefs down in the back. They would have come off completely had the boy's stiff erection not prevented them from sliding down in front. The tight, firm little butt was already a nice shade of pink, but it was soon to change in color, for Santa lifted the thing he'd placed on the side table earlier, and Billy felt the first crack of the paddle against his naked skin.
He screeched. He couldn't see the paddle, but he knew something had changed. It was a black paddle, about twelve inches long and three inches wide, and it was made of hard, polished wood. It had a sturdy handle. Santa smacked it down against Billy's butt again, and then he set into a rhythm. Hard smacks, endless cracks, the paddle beat down against Billy's fanny at a furious pace, and it was a matter of seconds before the boy's butt matched the flaming scarlet of Santa's suit. Billy screamed until his voice went out, and still the paddle rained down, the beat, the pace growing ever more frantic.
Santa's face was red, too, red with with anger. How dare the little shit rub himself against his leg, like some unruly little lap dog? Santa brought the paddle down again and again, the redness, the heat rising around him, emanating from those small buttocks. The boy struggled and squirmed, struggled and squirmed again, until finally he knew for certain that it was useless, that he was totally, completely under Santa's control. And when that happened, he finally let go and took the medicine Santa was so roughly delivering, without a whimper.
There was peace in letting go, peace in not resisting. Billy, resigned to his fate, allowed Santa's power and control to overwhelm him. His mind, so focused on the pain before, suddenly went blank. No scene from his life flashed into his consciousness, no faces or places or things from the past. Not even Angela, not even baby Henry. No haze or fuzziness pervaded his mind, either, no fear or elation, just nothing but blank, empty space that was strangely but very certainly comforting, almost soothing.
Only very gradually did he come out of this strange state of mind. He felt heat at his bottom, slowly rising, and then the swats against his flesh. They seemed slow and rhythmic now, not disturbing in the least, but rather, a comfort in themselves, another kind of comfort. The rhythm steadily increased, the heat grew stronger at a faster pace, spreading all over his battered bottom, and then beyond, into his limbs and torso, and finally down to his plump little testicles and his ever stiff penis. The swats continued now, a little sharper, a little faster, and the heat seemed to refocus, away from his limbs and back into his bottom, but the heat remained, and indeed continued to grow stronger, in his genitals.
The heat in those special places became feverish, the swats reached a brutal crescendo, until it seemed that the swats weren't swats at all, but one great, battering vibration. Billy's inflamed buttocks suddenly clenched, and his penis grew as stiff as it had ever been. Now the paddle was like a whip, lashing, tearing into his burning bottom, his straining penis, the heat, the unbearable tightness suddenly boiling over. Young Billy gave a sharp, strangled cry as his penis stiffened that tiny, impossible bit more, and then it began spitting its seed into his clean white briefs, the paddle still lashing against his backside, each stroke seeming to prompt a hard, fresh new jet of semen.
The beating at Billy's buttocks came to a sudden end, and the throbbing of his penis stopped too, as quickly, as forcefully, as it had started. Billy felt spent, well and truly spent. He wondered what happened next. He wondered if Santa's anger had burned itself out or if it had only just been getting going, perhaps egged on anew by Billy's unexpected ejaculation. Did Santa know? Could he hide it from him, and perhaps get away with some tiny sliver of dignity?
"Did you make a mess, Billy?" Santa said.
Of course Santa knew, Billy thought. Santa knew everything. In his exhaustion, Billy no longer felt afraid. He felt he'd been through the worst, and survived. His confidence had grown, but he still felt respect for Santa. In fact, he felt gratitude.
"Yes," Billy said, in a child's voice. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be hasty now, Billy. Did you thrust against Santa? Did you masturbate?"
"No," Billy said. "It just got really hot and then it happened. Kind of spontaneous. I couldn't help it. For real this time."
"That is understandable. Most boys have trouble controlling their penises. Sometimes, when a boy is excited, it just happens."
"You're not mad?"
"Oh, no, Billy. You've been a good boy. Masturbating is very naughty, but you didn't do that, did you?"
"No," Billy said. "I guess not."
"Good boy! Now why don't you get up and slip off those messy undies?"
Billy didn't like that idea one bit. He rose, but looked at Santa with uncertainty. He pulled the back of his undies up, instead of pulling the front of them down.
"Do I have to?" he whined.
"Yes, Billy," Santa growled.
Billy hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of his undies, but still he hesitated. Despite the sticky, uncomfortable mess his penis found itself in, Billy much preferred to keep them on.
"It's embarrassing!" Billy said. "Only Angela has seen my like that!"
"Are you arguing with Santa?" came the stern reply.
"I don't want to argue!" Billy screeched. "I just can't!"
"Do it now!" Santa roared. "Or this paddle is going to find your butt again right quick. And it won't be so gentle this next time."
A miserable, scared Billy finally relented under the pressure. He pulled the waistband out a bit so it wouldn't catch on his erection, then started pulling his undies down.
"All the way, Billy. No cheating."
Billy bent down and pulled the undies off. When he rose up again, his hands came down and blocked Santa's view of Billy's young genitalia. Now, the genitalia was far from Santa's favorite part of a young man, but Santa wanted to see. He wanted to know what Billy was hiding.
"Move your hands away, Billy!"
"Please!" Billy cried.
The voice was pathetic, and a tear was trickling down one of Billy's smooth cheeks. His body was quaking in fear.
"Now!" Santa commanded.
Slowly, the hands fell away. Santa had correctly surmised that Billy was not well hung when he'd seen him poking up in his briefs earlier in their time together, but he would never have guessed the boy's penis was that small. It stood straight up, nearly parallel with Billy's lean body, separated from it by a mere inch, but it barely cleared the boy's small, tidy bush of golden hair.
Four inches? Santa thought not. Three and a half inches was being generous. And it was no thicker than a wine cork. No wonder Billy was embarrassed, Santa thought. No wonder the boy had fought against being exposed. Yet to Santa, Billy's penis was lovely. It was perfectly proportioned, for one thing, and of such a pretty, delicate shape. And such a lovely shade of blush pink, like cream with a generous dash of strawberry syrup mixed. His small, plump testicles, held closely to his body, were a slightly deeper shade. They were like strawberries themselves, the small kind one finds in clearings in the woods. Santa imagined that if one of those beautiful Greek statues of youths had been sculpted with an erection, the result would look something like Billy in his current state.
Billy stood shivering, staring at the floor. Both cheeks were now wet with tears. For once in his life, Santa hardly knew what to say. It seemed a shame that Billy would abhor such a pretty part of his body.
"Billy, you're lovely," Santa said. "Like a Greek statue. Just beautiful."
It wasn't what Billy expected to hear. He expected ridicule. He expected cruelty. He didn't expect to be told he was beautiful. And he didn't know what to think of it.
Long had he known he was under endowed. Although he hadn't looked at pornography in years, because he felt it was wrong to do so for a married man, Billy wasn't quite so scrupulous in the past. He knew what a good sized penis looked like, and he knew he didn't have one. When he was a boy, he once saw his older brother, Marshall, wildly masturbating, on top of his bed, and not concealed by sheets or blankets. Just a quick glance at Marshall's erection told him everything he needed to know. For though Marshall's penis was average in size, it was positively huge compared to Billy's. Billy, in that moment, had been devastated. And now, under Santa's appraising eyes, he felt just like that teenage boy who had discovered Marshall in his glory, all those years before.
"Billy, are you okay?" Santa said.
"My penis is small," Billy said.
"Yes it is, Billy," Santa said. "It's beautiful."
"It's tiny."
"It's perfect for a boy like you."
Billy had no answer for this. He continued staring at the ground.
"Come here, Billy," Santa said. "Back over my knees."
Billy trembled, but he obeyed. He felt broken. He draped himself over Santa's lap again, and was amazed by how nice Santa's fuzzy red pants felt against his stiff little erection. He didn't dare to move. He knew Santa wouldn't like him rubbing himself, even if it was by accident. Santa caressed Billy's bottom and back, and was soon giving the boy something of a massage, kneading all the muscles he could reach.
Billy began to relax when he realized Santa wasn't going to spank him again. He was feeling a little better. Santa reached to the table for something, and Billy heard a weird squirting noise. Soon, something liquid was being spread all over his back and hiney, and it stung his bottom at first, but once the cold feeling turned warm, it felt nice. The massage lasted for a long time, but Billy was okay. Santa was in control, and he seemed to know what he was doing.
In the midst of this pleasure, one of Santa's fingers touched Billy's tiny, clenched anus. Billy shuddered. He wasn't sure what he thought of it, but the finger soon retreated. Santa massaged the back of Billy's neck gently, then the shoulders with much more force. Down he went, massaging all the way, easing young Billy's tension. He was careful with Billy's buttocks. They were still red and hot, and Santa just caressed them for a long time, working his hands ever closer to the crevice it the center of them. His finger again strayed to Billy's anus, eliciting a little gasp from the boy. Santa pulled away, but not for long. His finger, coated in lotion, soon went back to its target.
Pressure began to build. It was uncomfortable for Billy, that finger pressed so firmly against his most tender place. He gave a little cry when it slipped inside, for it felt fiery and huge. But in reality, the finger barely entered, not much further than the length of the nail. Billy squirmed as it pressed harder, deeper.
"Just relax now, Billy," Santa said, in a kind voice. "I won't hurt you."
The boy became still. The finger pressed onward. Santa had gotten it inside to the middle joint before Billy started to fuss again. Santa withdrew it, and caressed Billy's lovely little bottom for a while, before trying again. This time, the finger went in nearly to the knuckle on the first penetration. Billy gasped. Santa pressed his advantage, and the insistent finger fought its way home. Santa kept it there, firmly embedded, and rode out Billy's squirms.
When the boy relaxed again, Santa began to move the finger in and out, but very gently, very slowly. It was a fat finger, so Santa wasn't surprised that Billy had trouble taking it into his tight little hole. But the boy seemed okay. He had stopped squirming, stopped struggling, but he still gasped every time the finger slid inside. Beneath him, Billy's small young penis was tense and stiff against the fuzz of Santa's pants.
The pace picked up, and Billy's gasps became louder and more frequent. The finger grew less gentle, more insistent. Santa began pressing down against Billy's tender insides instead of just thrusting his finger in and out, and Santa knew exactly where to press.
"Oh, God." Billy gurgled.
He was drooling, both his penis and his mouth. The finger was wild now, punching in and out, roughly grazing Billy's secret spot, a spot he had never known existed. Billy's penis was so stiff that it hurt. It felt like it was in a pressure cooker and that it might burst out of its skin at any second. His balls felt like heated stones and they were very, very tight against his body. Billy felt like he was on the precipice of something unspeakable.
Suddenly, the feeling grew even more intense, for Santa had added a second sausage finger, and both of them were driving into Billy's anus with a roughness that took the boy's breath away. They pistoned in and out, and when Santa got his rhythm going, he again made sure that they both scraped hard against Billy's innocent little prostate with each plunge. And that was it. That was all she wrote. Three or four of these precise insertions, and Billy popped his cork, harder than ever before.
The boy shrieked. His tiny erection was spitting so hard that it was painful. Santa's fat fingers were mauling the boy's prostate as he ejaculated, fighting against the powerful anal contractions that wanted to exclude them. Instead, those contractions pulsed wildly around Santa's fingers. Billy's penis tensed again and again, spitting all the fresh contents of his small young testicles onto Santa's fuzzy lap. It was the longest, most intense orgasm of Billy's life.
Slowly, inevitably, the contractions ceased. Santa swooshed his fingers over Billy's inflamed prostate a few more times, eliciting grunts and soft aftermaths from Billy's penis, but when it was over, it was over. Santa pulled his fingers out of Billy's rear end and wiped them on a Kleenex. The boy was still breathing heavily on his lap.
"You made a mess again, Billy, didn't you?" Santa said.
"Yes," Billy panted. "I didn't mean to."
"Oh, no, Billy," Santa said. "You had no control over that, did you?"
"No, Santa."
"But your mess needs to be cleaned up. Right?"
"Yes, Santa."
"And do you know how to clean it, Billy? The right way?"
Billy had an idea. He eased himself off of Santa's lap, and knelt before him.
"Go ahead, Billy," Santa said.
Billy leaned forward. His load sat in a neat little gooey puddle on Santa's right leg, on the furry red material of Santa's pants. Billy eyed it for a while. After all he'd been through, the humiliation still felt fresh.
"I'm waiting, " Santa warned.
Billy leaned in closer. The smell, acrid and earthy, assailed his senses. He stuck the tip of his tongue out and lowered it into the sticky deposit. He pulled his tongue back, taking in the first bit of stain. The taste was less acrid, but still earthy, the sweet earthiness of rich, fruity soil. His tongue retreated back into his mouth, and Billy swallowed, taking down his saliva and some of his seed with it. He stuck out his tongue again, a little further this time, lowered it onto the fertile slick. More of his ejaculate coated his tongue this time, but Billy dutifully swallowed it down.
Mop, swallow, mop, swallow, Billy felt lost in his own tender ministrations, lost in the fuzzy heat of Santa's lap. The world seemed far, far away. Billy licked and licked, mopped and mopped, careful to not wet Santa's pants more than necessary. He became aware of a slight jiggling from Santa's body, but he was too focused on cleaning to wonder what it might be. Santa's strong, meaty hand at the back of Billy's head was all the encouragement the boy needed. And after a few long minutes, no one would ever have known that Santa's pants had once harbored Billy's sticky little deposit.
"Good boy," Santa said, when it was clear that Billy had finished.
Santa eased the pressure of his hand a little. Billy raised his head a bit, and found himself faced with Santa's fat, emergent cock, only inches away from his eyes. It looked red and angry. For a moment young Billy was shocked, but once that had passed, he became curious. Never before had he seen a hard cock up close. Never before had he imagined one so large. It was thick and long, and stood straight up like a rocket. The head was huge, like a juicy sugar plum, and the thick shaft matched the head in girth. A faint odor, warm and musky, filled Billy's nostrils.
"Go ahead and touch it, Billy," Santa said.
A shaky, tentative hand rose from Billy's side. He was in a deep place, where fear struggled to reach him, but it was there, lurking at the edges of his consciousness. Yes, he wanted to touch it, but it was a momentous decision. To touch it would be to admit that he wanted to touch it, that he was an active and willing participant in what had gone on since he'd met Santa, a participant in something that went beyond mere guidance. To touch it meant giving in to desires he'd long kept buried and hidden, even from himself. But those desires were hidden no longer, and they were urging young Billy to traverse those final inches, urging him to grab hold of the prize.
Santa gently stroked Billy's hair. The boy's shaking hand moved slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until the fingers touched Santa's flesh, touched Santa's big pole. Santa grunted. With delicate movements, the small hand wrapped around him, grasping his thick, engorged penis.
"Good boy," Santa encouraged.
For Billy, it was almost a surreal experience. The sturdy erection in his hand was hot and throbbing, powerful and huge. Yet the skin, the casing, was so soft, almost velvety, especially around the shaft. He moved his hand gently, allowing his fingertips to touch everywhere, from the heated ripe sugar plum to where the shaft disappeared into the slit in Santa's fuzzy pants. He wished he could see Santa's balls and feel them, too.
"That's very nice, Billy" Santa said. "It's okay to stroke it if you want."
The erection seemed to grow thicker under Billy's soft grasp as the boy obeyed. The movements were gentle, exploratory, but they were obviously doing the trick for Santa, whose penis continued to grow. Soon, the older man was grunting in rhythm with the caresses, especially in those moments when Billy brushed against the shiny, engorged head of the organ. The rich fragrance that emanated from Santa's crotch seemed to rise up and envelope young Billy's mind.
"Go ahead and kiss it," Santa urged.
Billy didn't hesitate, not this time. His soft, pouty lips brushed against Santa's raging flesh. Billy kissed Santa's pole all over, light little kisses up and down the shaft. When Billy's lips met the plum head, Santa groaned. His firm hand, which had never left the back of Billy's head, became firmer, guiding the boy's head and mouth so they were poised directly above his erection.
"Open up, kid," Santa growled. "Open that mouth."
Billy hardly had time to do so before Santa pushed him down. The fat head brushed past Billy's lips and soared roughly into Billy's mouth, a mouth that was no longer dry, but watering. There was a salty taste to Santa's penis. Billy savored it for a few seconds with his lips wrapped tightly around the organ, but Santa's hand soon increased the pressure, and a couple of more inches slipped inside. Billy didn't try to move, didn't try to do anything. He was surprised he could still breathe with several inches of stiff flesh in his mouth.
"Move your head up and down, Billy," Santa said. "You know what to do."
Words meant little to Billy in that moment. They barely registered. He had Santa's penis inside of him, inside of his mouth. What more was there? He suckled it tenderly for a long time, and it felt good to Santa. But eventually it wasn't enough. Santa's hand, not the one at the back of Billy's head but the free one, slipped down under the boy's chin. He pushed Billy's head down on his cock, then pulled Billy back off. Not all the way off, not far enough so that he would slide out of that lovely mouth, but so that a considerable number of inches were involved in each penetration. He pushed the head down over him, pulled it back off, in, out, over and over again, forcing a nice little rhythm, even if it was a bit toothy. After a while something must have registered in the boy's mind, because he started bobbing up and down on Santa's erection all on his own, and Santa's guiding hands became unnecessary.
It was a slower rhythm, the one Billy set for himself in sucking Santa's cock, but it was to the older man's liking. Something had evened out, and the little stings of the boy's teeth grew less and less frequent. Up and down, up and down, the beautiful boy's head bobbed, taking more inside each time, until the head of Santa's penis found its way into the tight, gooey place at the back of the boy's throat. Billy was keenly focused, as if there was nothing else in the world but his mouth and Santa's penis. Conscious thought was far away, replaced by some mindless instinct that had long lain dormant in Billy's heart.
Heat built steadily with Billy's rhythm. His cheeks were hot and flushed, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. His neck, his head, his mouth moved with an increasingly sensual rhythm. His lips slid easily over Santa's cock. His tongue, stationary before, suddenly came alive, and its textured wetness danced with growing urgency over Santa's stiffness.
The tension rose at a steady pace, and Billy was urging it on. It was like he was struggling up the last few yards of a tall mountain, exhausted, out of breath, but utterly determined to earn that high, that finality of accomplishment. His body seemed to be running all on its own, without input from his brain. His mouth was moving over Santa at a frantic pace, and his tongue was focused on the fat head of Santa's cock, swabbing roughly against it every chance it got, desperately coaxing an impending reward.
"Shit," Santa hissed, though gritted teeth.
A sudden, powerful jolt passed through his body, and then he stiffened. He'd wanted to make it last as long as possible, but the boy had learned fast, and it was just too good. Santa's hands went quickly to the sides of Billy's head and seized his ears, holding the curly head firmly in place as he fired a massive load directly into the boy's mouth. Billy's mouth was wrapped snugly around the base of Santa's shaft, and he could feel Santa pulsating inside of him, could feel the large tube of the man's urethra clenching and expelling against his lower lip. Santa's cock was deep inside, but not so deep that Billy couldn't taste the rich offering. It was tangy and a little bitter, and Billy's taste buds got the full dose.
Billy had no choice but to take every drop. He kept thinking it was over, but then Santa's body would give a light tremble, and more seed would ooze from the big cock, to join the copious amount already present in Billy's mouth. His mouth was positively full of the stuff, and he found it a little alarming.
Finally, Santa eased Billy off of his cock, but his sharp eyes watched the boy closely. He might have laughed. The boy's cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk's, and he was clearly struggling not to swallow what was in his mouth.
"That won't do, Billy," Santa said.
Billy's eyes widened, but nothing else changed.
"Swallow it, Billy," Santa said, in a warning voice.
Billy tried, but his mouth and his throat didn't seem to want to work. His jaw suddenly felt very sore. He stared at Santa with pleading eyes, like those of a puppy that wants to be let outside.
"Now!" Santa shouted.
A loud, involuntary gulp followed, and Billy finally took it down. He took it all down. Santa's angry eyes softened in an instant.
"Good boy," he said. "Did you get it all?"
"Yes."
"Excellent!"
"Are we done?" Billy asked.
"Yes, we're done," Santa said. "You've been a very good boy this evening. You have pleased Santa very much."
"Thank you," Billy mumbled.
Already his head was filling up with anxiety. A dozen conflicting voices clashed inside. He felt guilty and weak, and most of all, ashamed.
"Can I get dressed?"
"Yes, Billy," Santa said. "And when you are dressed, you may go. I hope you will remember the lessons I have taught you."
"I will," Billy said.
Billy rose. Santa rose after him, his soft but still large organ flopping in front of him until he tucked it away. As Billy dressed, Santa scribbled a note, and then pressed it into Billy's hand.
"Keep this, boy," Santa said. "You never know when you might need it."
The boy finished dressing, and hurried away. Santa plopped himself down on the big chair again, and he was snoring heavily by the time Billy reached his car.
As he drove, Billy wondered what he would do next. A quick glance at his car's clock sent him into a panic. It was nearly eight o'clock. Well past a reasonable time for Billy to be arriving at home. What would he tell Angela? A thousand different excuses rushed through his mind, and all were dismissed. Angela would never believe a single one of them, he knew. Angela would know he'd done something wrong, something terribly wrong. She always knew. She could read him like a book.
When he finally got home, it was like the walls were closing in on him. Billy unlocked the front door and entered the apartment with a sense of impending doom. She was waiting for him, and so was baby Henry. She looked angry.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
Then she looked at him closely, and knew that something was wrong, just as Billy knew she would. His face was flushed. His clothes were disheveled. He looked to be in pain.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked. "Are you sick?"
And just like that, Billy had the excuse he needed.
"I think I'm coming down with something," Billy said.
Angela recoiled. Angela took several steps backward.
"You're not giving it to me and Henry," she said.
Billy tried to say something, but she cut him off.
"Go directly to bed. I'll check on you in the morning."
Like he always did, Billy obeyed. He stripped off his clothes with great care, for his bottom was still hot, and it felt like the sting from a thousand wasps when his slacks slid across his buttocks, on their way to the floor. With a momentary sense of shock, he realized he'd left his dirty undies at Santa's place. But it didn't matter. Nothing really mattered at that moment but his exhaustion. Billy slid into bed naked, a great rarity for him, and passed into deep, mercifully dreamless sleep.