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Chapter 2
Before the first rays of sun appeared through his bedroom window, Will awoke. A little groggy, but refreshed. It was only when he stirred, when his body moved, that he remembered the events that had transpired the night before. His bottom was very sore, both inside and out, and his jaw ached a little. He hopped out of bed with a feeling of alarm, and went immediately to the attached bathroom.
On went the light, and that was when Will realized he had forgotten to put on his pajamas, had even forgotten to put on underwear, before going to bed. How strange, he thought, how sloppy. He went before the large mirror above the vanity, his eyes straining to see in the harsh new light. When his eyes adjusted, he looked at his face. The same as usual. And so it was with the rest of him, at least the rest of his front side. He dreaded to turn, dreaded to see that state of his behind, spanked and paddled so thoroughly by Santa mere hours earlier.
Apart from the deep soreness, his bottom felt alright. The heat, the stinging feeling, were both gone, replaced by a pleasant coolness. Will turned his body so that his butt faced the mirror, but it was difficult to see anything. He twisted his upper torso, tried to make it so that he could see the reflection of his butt, but he couldn't get the full view. It was well that Angela had a small hand mirror on the counter, for otherwise Will would have worried the whole day. He picked it up, and raised it to face the larger mirror, and then he saw.
Relief washed through him. His butt was as white as an Easter lily, with none of the redness or bruising that he had expected. He was not accustomed to looking at his backside, but now that he could see it, he looked at it for a long time. He had a nice bottom. He'd never thought too much about it, but there it was, small, plump, and rounded. No wonder Santa has focused his attention on that part of him. No wonder Santa had preferred to play with it rather than his small penis.
A sudden, nagging suspicion rose up in Will's mind. This is too easy, he thought. There must be some mark of what had happened, some evidence. His anus. Yes, that was where it would show. Perhaps not a place where anyone else would look, but he needed to know for himself. It was a tricky operation, holding that little mirror steady and trying to spread his cheeks. He could only use one hand, pull one cheek to the side, and it was still difficult to see because of the shadow cast by his buttocks. Finally, he arched his hips backward so that his bottom was raised toward the mirror, and then he pulled the left cheek roughly to one side, and his hole became apparent in the reflection of the hand mirror.
Tiny. Not the gaping orifice of shame he had expected. Will had never seen his asshole before, and now the sight of it fascinated him. Just a little clenched knot, nothing more. It hardly seemed possible that it could have taken Santa's thick fingers. It hardly seemed possible that it could do much of anything at all. It looked so benign and innocent.
Will himself did not feel benign and innocent. He felt dirty. He felt ashamed for looking at himself that way. He set down the hand mirror, and turned back toward the large one, revealing a new surprise. He had an erection. A very firm, very pink and very small erection. That, too, seemed benign and innocent, he realized, to his embarrassment. He had tried to avoid looking at it for most of his life, had tried to avoid even thinking about it. But there it was, in all its dubious glory, sweet as sugar and eager as a beaver. And so very much a part of him. It was undeniable.
Psychologically, it was perhaps the most important part of him, for it seemed to define his life. His refusal to be naked in front of others stemmed from its small size, from his embarrassment of it. From his need to protect himself from cruelty regarding it. At school, never once had he stripped all the way down before or after physical education class. He always kept his underwear on and never once had he showered with the rest of the boys. In high school it was particularly bad because P.E. class had been one of his earliest in the day. He remembered being mortified by his own smell for the remainder of his classes, especially during the heat of late Spring . He'd acquired a nickname, back then, a very obvious one: Stinky. Stinky Billy.
Stinky did this, Stinky did that, Stinky Billy won't shower because he's such a little brat.
Yes, he must have seemed like a brat. He was not outgoing in school. He was aloof. But it was all a mask, all a desperate effort to hide his insecurities, hide his shame. Poor, lonely Billy. It was well that Malcolm had been there to protect him though all but two years of school. It was well that Malcolm's friends had accepted him as their friend, too, at least to a certain extent. Otherwise, he would have been utterly alone. Otherwise, there is no telling what he might have suffered from some of his classmates.
The erection would not subside. It glared at him, as if in recrimination. He had a strong desire to masturbate. A very strong desire. It was shameful. He couldn't do that to Angela, or Henry, or himself. He couldn't do that to Santa.
Oh, God, Santa. I promised to be a good boy, Billy thought. I promised Santa I wouldn't do it.
Santa would be very angry, Billy knew. Santa would make him pay until he was a good boy again. But thoughts of Santa did not make his erection go away. Thoughts of Santa made it stiffer.
The erection was definitely higher and harder than before. Despite its small size, it was trying to take control, as if some alien had sprouted from the middle of Will's body, an alien that had weakened his mind, and made it subservient to its own will.
The battle was over quickly. Will walked over to the shower and flipped it on. There was no need to strip, not this morning, so he stepped inside once the water warmed up. He wouldn't betray Angela and Henry, not really. He wouldn't disappoint Santa. Not if he did it a certain way.
It was the way he had first learned, years ago, when he was a teenager, a late blooming teenager, well into his fourteenth year. That is the year his erections first started. They frightened him at first. He couldn't get used to them, couldn't understand why they had started to appear. He avoided touching them, thinking they were just a phase, an odd, confusing phase, objectionable and dirty. And then one sunny Saturday morning, it had happened.
His morning shower. Will liked to take them often, for he was a cleanly boy, and there was just something so nice about the warm soap and water washing over him, carrying everything away and down the drain. On this particular day, the shower felt especially good, and he fell into a kind of trance for a while, just letting the warm jets beat over his slim, smooth body. He was still, not even soaping himself, but occasionally repositioning his body so that the jets could hit new places. They touched him everywhere, eventually reaching a very stiff part of his body, reaching the erection he didn't know he had.
He groaned and didn't move. The jets hurt a little, beating against the top of his tender young penis, but he absolutely could not move away from them. His upper body stretched backward and his hips thrust forward, so that the jets were focused on his erection. The pleasure, the pain, both increased. The steam rose around him, enveloping him, and the force of the jets seemed to grow stronger, blasting against his small, red boner, too stiff now to even bounce under the watery assault. It hit him suddenly, the explosion, and he shouted as his penis clenched up and then furiously pumped the very first spurts of semen ever from his young, pink little balls. The sensation was intense, as painful as it was pleasurable, that first time, but he could not move his feet, could not help his ejaculating penis escape from the needling jets.
It was over quickly, and it left Will drained and more confused than ever, for he'd had no idea what had happened to him, sheltered and innocent as he was. He only knew that it had felt good, but now that it was over, he never wanted to do it again. But of course he did do it again, many times, and he perfected his method so that it was even better for him. And he might have gone on doing it forever that way, had Malcolm not caught him.
He didn't know how. He didn't know why. There he was, laying back in the shower, his eyes closed, his legs spread in front of him, the stinging jets from the shower head beating down on his stiff little boner. By then, he loved the stinging sensation, and he had adjusted the shower head for maximum blast. The sensation in his hard, tight nut sack told him that he would soon have an orgasm. Will's delicate penis rose up to meet the jets, straining, straining upward, the exertion of the muscles, the unbearable stiffness taking his breath away until his penis strained upward just a tiny bit more, then started flexing up and down wildly in frenzied ejaculation.
Then he heard it. Just a tiny little noise, more like a feeling that something wasn't quite as it should be. Will opened his eyes. The shower door was open and Will's brother was staring down at him, staring right at his tiny hard penis and the pearly little mess that clung his tummy. Malcolm had seen it all.
"What the fuck?" Malcolm roared.
Will scrambled and tried desperately to cover himself, but he knew it was too late. Malcolm's eyes were as wide as his own, wide with shock and disgust. He bolted out quickly, leaving a trembling Will to dry himself off and dress as best he could. He felt very hot and very dizzy. He felt like the world was ending. On wobbly legs, he left the bathroom, left the house, and wandered the neighborhood in a state of confusion until his mother called him in to dinner.
"You're looking flushed, dear," his mother said, when she saw him.
When Will didn't respond, a look of concern came to her eyes.
"Are you alright?" she said.
Will nodded. Somehow he got to the table, where Malcolm waited. The older boy gave him a hard look, and Will's face flushed a brighter shade of scarlet. Will ate little and said still less during the meal, mindful of his brother's watchful eyes. Malcolm excused himself first. His appetite certainly had not been effected, but he ate quickly and said he wanted to go to bed early. Relief washed over Will when he was gone.
The relief did not last long, for when Will headed to his bedroom a little while later, Malcolm's voice called out to him as Will passed. Malcolm asked Will to come into his room, and Will immediately dreaded it. He wanted to forget everything. He was determined never to do what Malcolm had witnessed ever again, but he sure didn't want to talk about it. But he obeyed Malcolm, just as he always obeyed his parents. He swung the door to the bedroom open, and there was Malcolm on the bed. He was stark naked on his back, and stroking his thick erection. It was clutched tightly in one hand, and Malcolm was not being gentle. Will wanted to flee, wanted to die, but he watched. He could not move. The size of his brother's penis amazed him. It looked so large, so hard and somehow, so dangerous. Malcolm had a full bush, thick and brown, and there was plenty of hair on the drawn up orbs of his testicles, too.
The stroking was quick, rhythmic, and it wasn't long before Malcolm's body seized up, and gobs of semen, far more than Will had ever produced, began shooting from his hard cock. The scent hit Will immediately, even as he watched more seed spitting out. The big orbs were very tight to Malcolm's body, making it appear that his balls and his ejaculating penis were one entity, one machine, whose purpose was both supplying and delivering the gushing load of semen.
Malcolm released his cock and began wiping his load off of his chest, for it had shot far. When he was satisfied, he looked directly at Will.
"That is how you're supposed to do it," he said.
With that, he flopped over onto his belly, pulled his pillow under his head, and closed his eyes to sleep. Will left, his face red with humiliation and shame, and something else, too, something in his mind that he pushed down and away as fast and as desperately as he could.
Malcolm never mentioned either incident again. He didn't need to. From then onward, on the rare occasion when Will absolutely could not control himself, he masturbated the way Malcolm had shown him. He knew it was the right and normal way, and so that was how it must be done, even though it was far less pleasurable for him.
But Will, after all those years, was going to do it that way again. The thoughts of what had happened, of the humiliation of when Malcolm had discovered his secret, of when Malcolm had shown him the right way to masturbate, were for the first time in years forefront in Will's mind. His penis was not just stiff but leaking, a great rarity for him.
He stepped into the shower, and let the water and heat wash over his body. He stepped back, ambled around, until the jets of water were hitting his erection. Not nearly strong enough, he knew, so he adjusted the shower head for the most powerful jets possible. He needed them thin and stinging, but not so thin that they would disintegrate into mist before they hit the floor of the shower. He spent some time adjusting until he was satisfied, and then he concentrated on where the jets would land. It needed to be toward the middle of the shower floor, to where his crotch would be when he laid himself down. The shower was not particularly spacious-- apartment showers rarely were, he knew-- but he thought he could lay most of his body down flat in this one.
Will crouched down slowly, the water playing off of his body and rolling down his pale flesh in swirling streams, until he was able to ease himself onto his bottom. He scooted himself backward a little, until the shower spray was hitting it's target, then leaned back and relaxed. But it wouldn't do. He realized that right away, for Will's old method of self stimulation required great precision. He scooted himself just a tiny bit more, until three of the stinging little jets of water were hitting his little penis, one close to the small acorn shaped head and the glans, and two further down the small shaft. It was the one that hit the head that really mattered, though. The other two were just icing on the cake.
Leaning back again and spreading his legs, Will let all of the tension flow out of his body, until he felt nothing but the streams of water beating down on his erection. Pure bliss. The warm water, the soothing sound of it, the way it splattered off of him after touching down. It was a feeling Will would have liked to have lasted, but almost immediately he felt a tingling in the little dove's eggs that passed for his testicles. Despite the heat, they were pulled up close to his body, and clearly visible beneath the pink scrotum.
It took no longer than a few seconds for Will's penis to lurch upward the first time. His balls tightened up and his penis strained upward against the stinging jets of water, but it rose so high that the jet hitting his glans lost contact, and the little erection collapsed back against his body. But Will was determined. He just had to make it happen, for the middle of his body was alive with sensation, alive with need. He maneuvered himself into position again, so that the main jet was hitting well below the head of his penis. Again it lurched upward, and this time the jet held steady, beating against the tenderized glans, and holding the little clenched erection in suspended animation.
It was breathtaking, that feeling, almost unbearable. Will had no control. The jets of water had control. The jets of water would have their way. He gasped, begging them for release, but his penis remained locked in that strained, unnatural position, poised and ready. Will's balls were aching for release, stung by the jets of water as surely as was his penis. The young man's breathing was heavy, ragged. What was holding him back? Why were the jets being so cruel?
Suddenly, Will let go. Not of his body, but of his mind. The fat, red erection of Santa, angry and twitching, came into his mind's eye. His own little erection, frozen for so long in its helpless, clenched state, suddenly tightened even more. It gave a last little surge at the jets, creeping upward oh so slowly, and when it reached the place from which it could rise no higher, it seemed to quiver for a moment and then cocked back and sent a rope of semen flying backward, at Will. And just like that, the formerly frozen, clenched little organ began spurting wildly, flexing up and down, herky jerky, with a rapid series of emissions. Will could barely stifle his screams.
The little penis continued to pulse without issue for a long while after the main event was over, and Will rode out these welcome aftermaths. Eventually he rose, and began the business of removing the sticky and quite tenacious deposits from his upper body and pubic hair. When he was squeaky clean again, he exited the shower, toweled himself off, and started dressing for the day. A business suit, as usual, clean and wrinkle free, topped off by a smart tie.
He double checked his appearance in the mirror, but everything looked fine. Will was satisfied. He was more than satisfied. There was a fresh, pink glow to his creamy skin and his body, especially the middle of it, felt warm and tingly. He felt alive and ready to take on the day. He felt ready to rededicate his life to Henry and Angela, and to channel his energies into work. Santa seemed like a distant memory, all of a sudden, and Will vowed to keep it that way.
As he slipped on his dress shoes, Will noticed the outfit from the day before, lying crumpled on the carpet. He got up and collected the clothing, checking all the pockets before he hung everything over the hamper. He found his keys, a little dispenser of breath mints, and in the last pocket, he found a piece of paper. In long, scrawled letter, it bore the name of Santa, and it had a phone number just under that. A twinge of fear, of doubt, passed through Will's mind. He felt a little pang of guilt, and knew he would probably always feel somewhat guilty about what he'd done to Angela. But there was no changing the past. There was only the future, and Will intended to make up, in secret, for the dreadful mistake of the previous night.
He crumpled up the note, and was about to toss it into the garbage, but he checked himself. It wasn't a good idea to leave it somewhere Angela might find it. He knew he was probably being overly cautious, but decided that safe was better than sorry, so he pushed the note into his pocket instead, and left the bedroom. Angela was not awake yet, nor little Henry. The coast was clear for a clean exit. Will thanked God for such small mercies, and was off.
At ten that morning, Angela called to remind Will that he needed to pick Henry up at his mother's that afternoon. Will was usually not one to forget anything, but after his odd behavior and possible illness of the night before, she thought it would be a good idea to check in with him. It was concern that made her call, really, but he answered the phone in his most chipper tone, a tone that made Angela groan to herself at the best of times. That morning it was almost unbearable to her.
And, of course he remembered. How could she possibly have thought it could have been any other way? He was so on top of things, so attentive, so very, very structured in his way of thinking and his way of living. Will knew she took Friday afternoons off and left the child with his mother on that day every week. It had been going on for a long time, since Henry was born, just about, and Will never once raised an objection about it. On the contrary, he thought free time would do her some good.
Never once had the possibility that she might be doing something other than walking in parks, shopping or maybe catching a movie ever occurred to him, as far as she could tell. He was just too trusting, just too naive. Oh, she did do those things, of course, but she did more besides. She dressed the child haphazardly and left the apartment as quickly as Will had only hours earlier, with an even greater sense of relief.
Will's mother gave her a hug when Angela arrived, and then turned all of her attention toward little baby Henry, cooing, goo goo-ing and gaga-ing to her heart's content. Angela was out of there fast. She went shopping first, buying a few things she needed, and a few things for Henry, too. The minutes went by quickly, and it was soon time for Angela to be at her appointment.
For months she's been seeing Doctor Hartley. Will had no idea, nor did anyone else. It was just her and the Doctor, all by themselves, week after week, month after month. She had considered giving it up many times, but something kept her coming, perhaps a sense of guilt. As she stepped into Doctor Hartley's office from the waiting room, she saw what she always saw at these appointments-- a severe looking woman in business dress staring out at her with concern from behind her spacious desk. Severe she was indeed, with an almost military bearing about her, but her eyes were kind.
"How are you?" she asked. "How are things?"
"The same," Angela said. "Nothing changes."
The Doctor suggested new medication, a new course of treatment.
"It won't help," Angela said. "I don't think anything can help at this point."
The Doctor went on a spiel about postpartum depression. Angela, not for the first time, not by far, explained that she didn't think she had it.
"It's been going on for so long." she said.
"It often does," said the Doctor. "It can go on for years."
"None of the medications have made me feel better. Not even a little bit."
"It can take a long time to find the right one. You can't give up."
"I feel like just letting it all go," Angela said. "The thought of that is the only thing that makes me feel good."
"You still haven't talked about this to your husband?"
Angela guffawed.
"No," she said. "He wouldn't understand. He thinks everything is hunky dory. And I guess it is, for him."
"But if you just talked to him?"
"How can I? I can barely stand to look at him. I can barely stand to look at the baby."
"What happens when you do look at them? What happens when you look at the child?"
"I feel nothing," Angela said. "I feel like I'm on the outside looking in at a total stranger, but that stranger is me. I feel that way all the time."
For a moment, Doctor Henley was taken aback. There was a slightly shocked look in her eyes.
"I'm going to give you a prescription for a new medication. First, we'll wean you off of the old one, and then start on the new. I know it's difficult, but if you can be patient, I know we will find the right one. It's trial and error."
"Does it always take so long?" Angela asked, tears in her voice.
"No," the Doctor admitted. "But we're all different. It's just a matter of finding the medication that works with your body's chemistry."
Angela's tears went from her voice to her eyes, and finally spilled.
"Okay," she said, very softly. "I'll give it a try."
Will felt light as air through the morning. An early house showing was a great success, and he felt fairly certain that the clients involved, an older couple, would decide to make an offer on the house. Will was not one to assume anything, and he certainly wasn't one to jump the gun, but that morning he felt pretty confident. He felt on top of the world. His boss and coworkers noticed, for Will, who could be quite chatty when he was in the right mood, was unusually so that morning.
Katie Jones certainly noticed. A plump young woman with long blonde hair and large blue eyes, she listened to Will chatter on with a smile on her face. Will was telling her about the showing, then segued, somehow, into the latest on baby Henry. All the funny or cute things the child had done recently, his little attempts at words. Well, Katie had heard it before, but she didn't mind. She liked Will. She had once had a crush on Will, and she still kind of did, even though she respected that he was married.
Unhappily married, she thought, despite Will's valiant attempts to persuade her (and himself, it seemed) otherwise. Lately she had noticed a tension in him, a weight, as if things hadn't been going well. But Will seemed back to himself that morning, back to his easy, breezy, sweet self. Well, Katie couldn't help but smile. Will's eyes were sparkling with delight.
"His favorite," Will said, "is playing peekaboo. I'll leave the room and then pop my head in the doorway, and go: peekaboo! He loves it!"
"So sweet," Katie offered.
"And sometimes, I'll sneak up behind him when he's playing, then lean over him and go: peekaboo! He cracks up!"
"Just like his father," Katie said. "So, so sweet."
Will beamed. He blushed a little too, roses blooming on his plump, peaches and cream cheeks. Katie wanted to pinch them.
"The showing was so great!" Will said. "A really sweet couple, like my grandma and grandpa, when they were still here. They really liked the house, and I think they liked me, too."
"Everyone likes you!" Katie said.
"That isn't true!" Will said, but he was still smiling.
Katie was about to give Will yet another compliment, but their boss, Regina, swept into the room, and that was the end of their joy, for a while, anyway. But Will still felt great as he got back to work, and he still thought he was going to sell a house that day.
The minutes, the hours ticked by, and no offer was forthcoming. Will's good humor slowly slipped away, replaced by a certain nervousness, a certain agitation. He stared at the screen of his laptop and tried to focus, but his mind was vacant. His fingers fidgeted and tapped, and his legs began to open and close in rhythm to an unknown beat. Before he was even aware of it, a small erection began to sprout beneath Will's shorts. It rubbed against them each time Will moved his legs, growing harder and stronger, and finally, impossible to ignore.
Unbidden memories of Santa crashed into Will's mind, crowding out all else. He gasped aloud under their weight, and his erection twitched with need. He could barely stand it, could barely control the urge to touch himself. It was like he was there in Santa's room again, ready to take whatever Santa had to dish out, ready to allow Santa to do anything he wanted to him. The boy was paralyzed in this state, helpless, blankly staring at the computer screen but seeing nothing, feeling nothing but the throbs of his heart and the answering throbs of his stiff penis.
"Will?" Katie said.
She had been alerted by Will's gasps, alerted by his silence and the way his legs were moving. There was no response.
"Will!" she shouted.
The young man stiffened in his chair with a sharp intake of breath. His legs stopped moving.
"Are you alright?"
"Uh, I don't know," said Will.
He couldn't think of anything else to say. Katie moved closer, looked at Will's flushed face with concern.
"You don't look well," she said.
Suddenly, Will bolted out of his chair and ran to the bathroom. He was embarrassed and he really did feel sick. His stomach was roiling. He got down on his knees in front of the toilet, but nothing would come up. Nothing would relieve the queasy feeling in his belly.
He left soon afterwards, telling Katie, and then Regina, that he wasn't feeling well. Both women, in their turn, looked at him with mild surprise. It wasn't like Will to leave early under any circumstance.
Later that night, after young Henry had been collected, after Angela returned home and they'd had dinner, Will began to feel more like himself. The child had a calming effect on Will, and his wife's indifference didn't bother him, for once.
In bed by nine o'clock, Will was ready for a long, peaceful sleep, but it never came. His mind would not shut down and his body would not relax. His penis, previously so docile and obedient, also betrayed him. His erections ebbed and flowed through the night, like hot and cold flashes, but never left him alone for long. The urge to masturbate just about drove him mad.
Across town, Santa was having a much better time of it. Ensconced in a booth (no bar stools for Santa) at the one and only gay bar in town, and surrounded by a gaggle of amused young men, Santa was having a good old time. It was hot in that bar, but Santa was decked out in full red and white regalia even so, for he thought it might pay off. It usually did.
Santa was on his third beer and he was paying extra special attention to the more twinkish young men around him, searching with his eyes for slender blondes, zeroing in on every plump bottom. The music throbbed, punctuating the roar of chattering voices. One of the boys, not blonde but cute, ambled over to Santa and whispered into his ear. Santa smiled, patted his knee, and the boy plopped himself onto Santa's lap.
"And what would you like for Christmas this year, young man?" Santa said, loudly.
"You, big boy!" the boy said, in highly exaggerated growl of a voice.
The boy scooted himself backward and began to gyrate bis bottom over Santa's crotch.
It was all too much for Santa, all too campy. He gently pushed the boy off of him, and started searching the faces and the bottoms again. But no one in the room compared to the boy he'd had the night before, Billy. No one in the bar even came close to being as cute nor as sweetly innocent. Those blushing apple cheeks, the thick mane of golden curls, the small, plump little bottom and the tiny, tiny penis. Santa felt himself stiffening in memory, and with the stiffening came anger . Why had the boy not called him? He'd felt confident all through the day that Billy would want a repeat performance, but there was no message, nor had the boy shown up at the mall. Perhaps the boy was scared? Perhaps the boy had defiled himself by masturbating and was afraid to face Santa again? Perhaps the boy feared his punishment?
And well he should, thought Santa, darkly. And well he should.
Another boy approached Santa, this one blonde, but he was a pale and sickly looking imitation of Billy. Santa rudely waved him away, and returned to his thoughts. He felt certain that Billy had disobeyed him and needed another spanking, more severe than before, to help him get back in line. But Santa was powerless to help. Only Billy, all on his own, could decide to contact him and bring about another meeting. For Santa, this was absolutely infuriating.
Santa finished his beer and left in a huff, leaving several young watchers astonished and a few quite disappointed. When he arrived at his room, a bit later, Santa drank a few more beers in solitude and stewed about the boy that had gotten away, the boy that he felt certain needed his guidance more than ever.
By five o'clock in the morning, Will had had enough. He arose, more exhausted than when he'd lain down, and started what promised to be a long and unpleasant Saturday. Angela, as usual, was still asleep on the couch, and the baby was crying and fussing in its room, through the baby monitor. Will comforted the child, changed his diaper, and fed him, but baby Henry seemed to sense Will's unease. He wouldn't stop staring and he wouldn't stop fussing. There was nothing for it but patience, and Will had little of that to spare.
The morning dragged. Making breakfast, doing laundry, taking out the garbage, cleaning the apartment, all had never seemed so odious before. Beneath his exhaustion, tension and anxiety still lingered. It was a miserable combination. Will wished he could climb right back into bed and start again. It dawned on him, at around noon, that he should have called Malcolm and canceled their weekly meeting at the gym, but by then it was too late. Anyway, Will thought getting out of the house for a while might do him some good, even though he dreaded it.
As Angela had Fridays off for free time away from the family, so Will had Saturday afternoons off. And ever since he could remember, he'd spent at least part of that time at City Gym, with Malcolm. Sometimes they worked out, but usually they just played basketball, often with other friends. Usually it was Jimmy Engels and Larry Johnston who showed up, but other guys did too, sometimes. It was an on again and off again kind of thing, an open invitation to play for several of their friends, and it was always fun to see who might show up.
Will arrived in sweats, leaving his jacket behind in his car. He had a locker, as all members of City Gym did, but he never used it. He was uncomfortable even going into a locker room, let alone changing or showering in one. But Malcolm had no such qualms, and he only came out to greet Will in the gym when he was suited up, which meant basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Malcolm understood why Will wouldn't want to change in front of other guys, as he had once seen exactly what Will was so embarrassed about, but he still considered it to be a weakness on Will's part. In Malcolm's rather naive opinion, no one at the gym would care that Will was under endowed, and even if they did, no one would be looking at his junk in the first place. That wasn't something that real men did, according to Malcolm. Only homosexuals did that, and Malcolm didn't believe any of that sort came to City Gym. The local YMCA was filled with them, a veritable cesspool of cocksuckers, but not City Gym. Malcolm saw no need for Will to act like such a child. Every week when he found Will waiting for him outside the locker room reminded him of just how sensitive his little brother could be, and he didn't like it. But he pushed these uneasy feelings away and greeted his brother heartily, with a firm shake and a slap on the back.
"You ready to go?" Malcolm said.
"Yeah," Will said, halfheartedly.
Malcolm ignored his brother's humdrum tone and walked with him to the indoor basketball courts. It was noisy inside with echoing voices, and they saw that Jimmy and Larry were already playing one on one. Both were originally friends of Malcolm and later became friends with Will by extension, many years before. Larry they had known since high school, but Jimmy had been a friend for much longer, since Kindergarten. Jimmy's family lived only two blocks away from Malcolm and Will's family home, and they'd all practically grown up together.
Before a word of greeting could be spoken, Malcolm darted forward, stole the ball from Jimmy, and made a beeline for the basket, sinking the ball on his first try. Then he passed if back to Jimmy, and the game was on. All of the guys were roughly the same size, and all had roughly the same athletic talents, except for Will. He was a little shorter, a little less sure of himself, but over the years he'd learned to be a reasonable player, and he acquitted himself fairly well on the court. In half an hour's time, Malcolm and Will had three baskets to Larry and Jimmy's two.
Will was feeling better. It was like the tension of the past twenty four hours was shaking loose. Malcolm passed him the ball, and he dribbled and ran, stopping abruptly before shooting. It was a bank shot, and circled the rim before flying off and into Malcolm's arms. Malcolm shot and missed, too, but Will had already circled back and was waiting for Jimmy when he came dribbling down. Will planted his feet, and when Jimmy came at him, he tried to steal the ball, but failed, and then Jimmy ran right into him and knocked him onto his ass.
"Foul!" a deep, booming voice cried out.
It was not Malcolm, and it was not Larry nor Jimmy. The men looked towards the entrance to the basketball gym and saw what appeared to be a giant approaching them. The giant walked past Larry, walked past Malcolm and Jimmy, and stopped where Will lay sprawled on the floor. The giant extended his hand.
For a moment, Will didn't know what to do but stare. He tried to take the measure of the man, but it made him dizzy. He seemed very, very tall. Will didn't recognize him, but he took the man's large hand anyway and was soon effortlessly lifted to his feet, but the dizziness did not leave him.
"John!" said Larry. "What are you doing here?"
The man, who was apparently named John, turned away from Will and shook Larry's hand, and then Malcolm's. Then he turned to Jimmy.
"I told you I might come," he said. "Did you forget?"
"I did," Jimmy said. "How did you get in?"
"Bought a membership," said John, with a shrug.
"Just for a visit? I could have gotten you a one day pass."
"But you didn't," John said. "And who knows? I might be up here more often than you think in the future."
"You thinking of moving back to town?" Larry asked.
"Maybe," John said. "Mom and Dad aren't getting any younger, and neither am I."
All of this passed right by Will. He absorbed none of it but the name.
John, he thought, John. Where do I know that name from?
He looked at the tall man's face, and something stirred, but he could put his finger on it.
"They'd love to have you back here," Jimmy said.
"It's nothing definite," John said. "But I'm looking into it. In fact, I talked to Frank Passelli today, which is why I'm up here."
"Is Frank hiring?" Larry asked.
"He's always looking for contractors," John said.
"But your business?" said Larry. "Would you do both?"
"I haven't gotten that far," said John.
Someone tall, named John. Will wracked his brain. There was a light growing in the fogs of his mind, but Will couldn't quite reach it.
"And who is this?" John asked, of no one in particular. "Don't tell me it's little Billy?"
This broke though Will's fog and got his attention. The mention of the name Billy caused his cheeks to flush.
"It's Will, now," he said, flatly. "I sort of recognize you, I think, but I can't remember."
John stood next to Jimmy, and lowered his head a little.
"John!" Will said. "You're Jimmy's brother!"
"You got it! You were just a little kid the last time I saw you. Seven or eight."
"Yeah," Will said.
"So, are we gonna play ball or what?" Malcolm said.
"Let's do it," John said. "Me and Will versus you three bums. We'll even give you the ball first, to be fair."
Malcolm chuckled, grabbed the ball, and was off. He shot. He scored. Then the ball went to John, and all three of the men on the other team quickly got into guarding positions. John bounced the ball to Will, who was a long way off, but Will was ready. He dribbled quickly to the basket, and this time he made his shot. And so it went. John always passed to Will when he got the ball, and turned his attention to guarding, never going after a basket for himself, yet the two of them won the game handily.
They were all set to go again, but Will begged off. He was feeling a little lightheaded, and said he would rather sit out the next game. Instead, he watched. It was amazing to see John in action, because he took the lead with Malcolm as a partner rather than merely passing the ball, and he easily dunked it every time he went in to score.
He is tall, Will thought as he watched, tall and lean. But that wasn't exactly right, Will realized. He was lean enough, but the effect was exaggerated by John's great height. A better look showed a powerful body, in motion and out of it. John's waist was narrower than his broad shoulders and chest, but definitely not scrawny, and his long legs were well muscled, from what Will could see through the loose sweatpants. Will's eyes moved upward and color came to the boy's cheeks when he realized he was watching John and his body a little to closely.
It was Santa's fault, Will knew. And the fact that John had called him Billy. Will was certain he wasn't gay outside of his fetish for Santa, he just couldn't be. He averted his eyes. He got up to leave.
"Where are you going?" Malcolm called out.
"Home," Will shouted. "I have housework to do and stuff."
Will started to leave again, and then he heard that deep, booming voice once more, the voice of John.
"Wait a minute!" it said. "I want to talk to you."
John came bounding up to him as Will left the basketball gym.
"I hear you're in real estate," John said.
"Yeah," Will said.
He was looking up into John's face. A handsome face.
"I want to ask you if you'll do me a favor," John said.
"What?"
"Come on. We'll talk about it while we change out of our grubs."
Doom. He was doomed. Will walked by John's side, trying desperately to come up with an excuse to avoid going into the locker room. Nothing came to him, only the feeling of increasing unease, of increasing panic. He thought his heart might burst out of his chest when John went into the locker room, but Will followed. He felt incredibly helpless but it frightened him even more to think of telling John that he didn't use the locker room to change. The truth seemed suddenly dangerous.
The place was mostly empty. John found his locker, and sat down on the changing bench in front of it. Will did the same, close by.
It's not so bad, Will told himself, but his heart was beating madly. Worse than when he was with Santa.
"So," John said, as he pulled off his shirt, "my parents."
Will nodded. He was looking at the floor.
"They're getting older," John continued. "I'm thinking it might be about time for them to downsize."
Will gulped. His cheeks were very flushed.
"Is everything alright?" John asked.
Will nodded again, and with a great effort, he turned his eyes to John. Now, John was much taller than Will, and the younger man's eyes fell not on John's face, but on his chest. It bulged with taut muscles, as did his arms, and had a light feathering of hair that spread out across both breasts. Will turned his face upward, to John's.
"So I was thinking maybe in your spare time you could look for a place that might suit them better, you know, for their age," John said.
"Okay," Will said. "I will try."
John was unlacing his shoes. He kicked them off, and then went after the socks.
"Probably a condo would be best, two bedrooms, one story, no yard work," John continued. "And if it isn't on the first floor, an elevator is a must."
John peeled off his socks and sat upright again. Will's eyes wandered despite themselves. The hair on John's chest narrowed to a line that ran down to his rippling belly, and then spread out again around the belly button, only to taper to a thinner line again, a line that disappeared under the waistband of the John's sweatpants. Will forced his eyes down to the floor.
"Sound like something you can handle?" John asked.
"Yeah," Will muttered.
"Good!"
With that, John rose, and with a quick, deft movement, hooked his thumbs under his sweatpants and lowered them, until they went past the knees and fell the rest of the way down of their own accord, pooling at his feet. He stood wearing only loose boxer shorts in front of a mortified Will. Will's eyes, cast down at the floor for so long, couldn't help themselves, couldn't be controlled, despite Will's extreme discomfort. They took in the strong, hairy calves, glided over the long, muscular and even hairier thighs, following upward, ever upward, and then stopped in shock at the bottom of the shorts themselves, where a fat, rounded bell end protruded well below the hem of the left leg. It moved gently but heavily with each movement of the man's body.
"Don't say anything to them," John continued, oblivious of Will's attentions, "or to Jimmy. I want to surprise them, if I can find the right place."
A reply was way beyond Will at that point. No words even came into his head. He stared blankly at the large cock head. It seemed impossible. John's boxers were not short in length, not even close to being short, yet there it hung, peaking out from beneath them. Will's eyes moved from the emergent head and traversed the outlined length of the thick, long snake that had wended its way down John's boxer shorts.
"How can I get ahold of you?" John asked.
There was no reply, only silence. John looked more closely at Will and realized exactly where the younger man's eyes were fixed. Will seemed to be in a trance. John leaned forward, and gently pulled his shorts down a little to cover himself when he realized that he was hanging loose.
"Sorry about that," he said.
Will's eyes met John's and then the younger man's face blushed a deep scarlet. The color was already present in his cheeks, but spread rapidly to the rest of his face, even down to his neck.
"Are you alright?" John asked.
Will stood abruptly, wobbled a bit on unsteady feet, then righted himself.
"Oh God," Will said. "I'm sorry."
"Hey, buddy, it's alright," John said, in a gentle voice.
But it didn't help. Will backed away with both hands stretched out in front of him, as if was warding John off or trying to keep him at bay, even though the older man had not moved toward him at all. When Will felt he was far enough away, he turned and ran out of the room, too confused, too terrified to care about the abruptness, not to mention the rudeness, of his departure.
He burst out of the gym and only stopped to unlock his car, and that was when matters took a turn for the worse. As he snatched his keys from his pocket, Will realized that he had an erection, an extremely firm one. It stood straight in front of his body like a tiny iron mast, making a small but very obvious tent in his sweatpants. And if was obvious to him, it had almost certainly been obvious to John, too, because Will knew it must have been present in the locker room when he'd stood up.
Calamity. One of his worst fears, come to life. A cacophony of paralyzing voices screamed inside Will's head, voices that told him it was over. He wanted to die. He wanted to be gone forever, erased from life, erased from all memory. He knew that if he started his car he would kill himself. Maybe he would drive full speed off the nearest cliff or overpass, maybe he'd slam his car at full speed into the nearest building. He could see these things happening in his mind, could almost feel them happening. And then the thought of little Henry floated into his consciousness, and he stopped himself.
Inside the car, he covered his face with his hands and leaned into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, until the first sting of the horror and humiliation wore off a bit. It isn't really so bad, he tried to tell himself, but the fears inside his head raged against this false bravado. John won't tell, he thought, but the fears were certain that John would. There was just nothing for it. The sky had fallen and there was no way for him to crawl back out. John had seen him. John had knew everything.
Yet still he was aroused. He had lost his erection in the outpouring of grief, but he still felt warm down there, still felt tingly. It was galling. It was a yoke he just couldn't seem to throw off, no matter what he did. And the saddest part of all was that it was Christmas, a time he had always so deeply enjoyed. But even Christmas took on sinister tones, this year. Will now knew that he had a sexual fetish for Santa Claus, and probably always had, since the first time he'd nestled his little rear end into Santa's lap as a child. He'd been unconscious of this fact, but it seemed to him now that he'd been living in denial, that he'd been channeling his Christmas spirit into safer but less satisfying channels. Namely, into Angela's channel. He loved Angela, enjoyed sex with her, even, but he could no longer deny that this was a pale, pale substitute for what he'd experienced with Santa. Or even what he'd felt with John, only a few moments before.
NO! His mind rebelled against this last thought. John was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone could have done it to him, but it was all really about Santa, and Will's overpowering fetish for him. He couldn't get the thought of Santa out of his system, as desperately as he had tried. And Will was tired of fighting. He was tired of almost everything.
Will found his coat and rummaged desperately through its pockets until he found the note from Santa. He got out his phone, and with trembling fingers, punched in the numbers. He couldn't face a phone call, but a text message wasn't quite so scary. But what to write? Will's mind couldn't come up with anything acceptable. He didn't want to come across as desperate, as needy as he really was, but he didn't want to play coy, either.
I want to see you again, he wrote. If it's okay.
Will pushed the send button, relieved because things were now out of his hands. Relieved because control now rested with Santa. He didn't have to wait long for Santa's reply.