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Chapter 4
Sore. So, so sore. Will, on his belly in bed, couldn't escape the pain, even in sleep. The mere pressure of sheets and blanket on his inflamed little bottom caused him to stir and shift, which only made the problem worse. Yet the young man wasn't anywhere near consciousness, despite his body's involuntary reactions to the irritation. His mind was far away, ensnared in a terrible dream.
In the dream, he clung desperately to a thick rope, a rope which seemed to hang from the sky. It swung in a cirular motion above a body of water, a pond. At first it was fun, going round and round, feeling the wind in his hair, watching the water change as it reflected different parts of the clouds and sky, but then the rope started to go faster. It might still have seemed fun, if that was all, but the rope also started to rise, as if it was being pulled upward, into the heavens. Will knew then that he had to jump, had to escape from the force that was reeling him upward like a fish on a line. The trouble was that there were rocks rising from the water, big, flat dry ones, and lots of them. Will was terrified to let go, terrified that he wouldn't time it right and would crash hard against the rocks below instead of falling into the safety of the water between them.
The rope rose into the sky faster, twenty, thirty, forty feet, so high that it was inconceivable that Will would survive the fall even if he manged to hit the water. But above was only blackness, dead, ominous blackness, obliterating everything. Will had to jump. He had to let go. He knew it was his only chance. Yet he was paralyzed, even as the swinging rope scaled the sky. At fifty feet up, Will knew it was his very last chance. He waited until the rope swung over the biggest rock, figuring that the momentum of the swinging rope would send him past it and carry him to the safety of the water. He forced himself to release the rope, and came plummeting down from the sky at blinding speed, yet he still knew where the rocks were and he knew he was going to crash face first into a big one. He saw the crash in his mind before it happened, saw his face splatting and his neck snapping, and then it was back to real time in the dream, back to falling. He screamed in the dream and he screamed in real life. On impact, the dream went black, and Will's mind snapped into consciousness.
He was covered with sweat, and his heart was pounding. The rapid thud rang in his ears, and his body was smoldering with heat. Will threw back the blanket, threw back the sheets, and let the colder air of the room play over his body. He was naked again, quite out of normal habit for him, but the flesh of his little bottom had screamed when he'd tried to pull on pajamas before going to bed, so he'd done without them. The sweat that covered him soon turned cold, and Will began to shiver, but he didn't move. He felt listless, and couldn't quite summon the energy to rise from his bed to clean himself off. Or maybe it was courage that he needed, because his body was still sore all over, and movement only brought pain.
Will's butt stung with fierce fire, his anus felt bruised, but oddly it was the ache in his balls that was the worst. Small as those balls were, they felt heavy, like they were weighted down with hurt. Santa had been very rough with those little balls the evening before, but Will never imagined that the pain would last so long, nor that it would spread to the pit of his stomach. What had Santa done to him?
The thought of Santa reignited something inside of Will. Despite his soreness and discomfort, he was getting turned on. Still on his belly, he moved one of his arms down to the side of his body, and then moved his hand to his butt. When contact was made, he winced, but he was determined to explore what Santa had done to him, so he did not withdraw his hand after the initial shock. He spread out his fingers and moved them gently over his flesh. The area was still hot, the only place on his skin that hadn't settled into a clammy chill. His fingertips ran lightly over his buttocks, and Will was able to detect thin little areas where the skin felt slightly raised. Those areas were particularly sensitive, but the gentle touches seemed to soothe them. Will wondered if applying a moisturizing lotion would help lessen the pain, but decided that it would probably just make things worse.
As Will considered these things, his mind seemingly occupied, his fingers wandered, as if they had minds of their own. He was startled back into the moment by the feeling of his index finger pressing against his anus. A deep, deep soreness arose from the puffy little gateway. Soreness, but not sharp pain. Will touched it all over, then quickly withdrew his hand and brought it up to his mouth to wet his finger with saliva. The finger was back in no time flat, circling, pressing, massaging the tender orifice. It seemed to relax under his ministrations. The finger surged forward, pushing into him, and the muscles clamped around it tightly. Will gasped as the muscles strained against the intruder, groaned as his little penis sprung into action. He raised his hips so he could finger and stroke himself at the same time, his need overcoming the rising pain in his testicles.
Plunge and stoke, plunge and stroke, two, three, four times, synchronized perfectly, and in another two or three of those precise movements Will would have cum hard, but there was a knock at the door. The young man collapsed, flipped onto his back with an internal howl of pain, and pulled the covers over himself.
"Come in," he said, breathlessly.
Angela came into the room, looked at him for a moment. There was nothing in her eyes to give a clue as to her feelings. Nothing in her manner, either.
"I thought I heard someone screaming," she said.
"It was me," Will said. "I had a nightmare."
"I was worried," she said.
"Did I wake Henry?"
"No," she said. "Miraculously, Henry slept through it."
Will gave a mirthless chuckle, and so did Angela.
"Are you mad at me?" Will asked.
"No," Angela said.
"Should we talk about it now?"
"No," Angela said. "Not yet. But I think it is time for some changes, don't you?"
Will's eyes bulged, and he started crying.
"I don't want to lose you!" he said.
"We'll discuss it when it's time," Angela said. "Now try to get some sleep, okay?"
"I didn't mean to hurt you!"
"I know that."
She bent over a bit and touched Will's hair, tenderly. Then she left the room and closed the door behind her.
All through the rest of the night Will lay there in bed. He couldn't sleep and he couldn't form a cohesive train of thought. Nothing that entered his brain would stick, no matter how hard he tried. All he could do was stare out into the darkness of the room and try to ward off the nagging fears, vague but huge, that assailed him. But they would not leave him alone.
At eight, he finally pulled himself out of bed. He showered (oh how the jets stung his battered rear) and then dressed himself very carefully. Angela was waiting for him in the living room.
"I've fed Henry," she said.
She had also changed him and dressed him, but she had not dressed herself. Not for church, anyway. She wore an old pink robe and slippers, and that was all.
"We are going to be late," Will said. "I'll watch Henry while you dress. But hurry!"
"I'm not going," Angela said.
It wasn't unusual for Angela to skip Sunday service, but Will was alarmed. He sensed something wasn't right.
"Please?" he pleaded.
"You'll be fine without me," she said.
Will checked to see that that Henry was ready to go, gathered the things that he might need into a carrying bag, and then took the child into his arms and left.
It was no quaint old church that Will walked into a half an hour later. It was a mega church, practically a warehouse, devoid of charm but absolutely packed with people. Will made his way to the area where his family always sat, and noted that his parents were in attendance, just as always. His mother, wearing a baby blue dress, neat and pressed, seemed to be scanning the room. When she saw Will and the baby, a look of satisfaction came to her pale blue eyes, and a dainty smile spread over her fine, delicate features. She waved politely to Will and then frantically at baby Henry, who took no notice. Will came to the row where they were seated and jostled past a few people to join his parents. His father nodded at him in a reserved manner, but his mother couldn't stop fussing over the baby.
"Where's Angela?" she whispered.
"She's not feeling well," Will said. "Where's Malcolm and Therese?"
His mother rolled her eyes.
"They're not feeling well, either," she said. "At least that is what Therese said. But you know your brother."
Will did indeed know his brother, and he knew what his mother meant. Malcolm didn't like going to church, and always looked a little grumpy when he did attend. But with three young children, two of whom were now walking, Malcolm, and by extension, Therese, had a good excuse for not showing up. Will's mother disapproved, but she disapproved of a lot of things about Malcolm. Even though Will felt put out by Angela's absence, he was happy that at least he had made the effort to represent their family.
The service began. Will played his part, watching carefully, listening attentively, and nodding his head thoughtfully in prayer when the moment called for it. His eyes closed tight during these moments, and his heart opened to the Lord. He was thankful. He was hopeful. He prayed that the Lord would protect his family and lead them safely out of this period of turbulence. Will had faith that the blessings in his life would continue, but the unfinished business with Angela weighed on him.
Please, oh Lord, forgive me for my terrible sins. Please give me the courage to be truthful with Angela. Please, please let her know how much I love her and how much I need her to forgive me.
Mrs. Goodsen watched her son pray, and it touched her heart. He looked angelic, with his mop of curly golden hair, bowed for the Lord, his dimpled, rosy cheeks, and the obvious sincerity with which he prayed. She had never seen much of herself in Malcolm, her older son, who was dark and rugged like his father. But in Will she saw herself clearly. His hair, his face, his eyes were very much like her own, and so was his gentle manner. He'd always been so sweet, so loving, and really, so innocent. Even now, with a wife and precious son, he seemed innocent to her, but more than that, he seemed perfect. How unlike Malcolm he was!
She attempted to rein in unchristian thoughts about her older son, but failed. Malcolm was just so ordinary, such a typical man, with his gruffness, his competitiveness, and sometimes, even his rudeness. He'd married a woman who matched him in those qualities, and the result was, inevitably, wild, unmannered children. Of course she loved them, and Malcolm too, but it wasn't the same. It was like God had sent Malcolm for her husband, and Will, who had always needed her so much more, for herself.
Her gaze shifted from Will to little Henry, and in him she saw a mirror image of Will as a young child. She hoped, she prayed Henry would grow up to be just like his father. The little boy slept all through the service, having fallen asleep directly when the preacher started talking, as he usually did. Mrs. Goodsen felt doubly blessed that day, to be with Will and Henry, and her eyes often strayed to one or the other during the service. She spared not the tiniest thought for Angela.
When the service was ended, Will felt like a weight had been lifted from him. He smiled at his mother as they left the church, regarded his father silently, shaking his hand once they'd made it outside, to where people were congregating and socializing. Mrs. Goodsen made cooing noises at Henry, who neglected to wake up for them, and then wondered where they were going for breakfast. It was something they did every Sunday after church, something that Will usually looked forward to, but not that Sunday. That Sunday Will was eager to get home and make things right with his wife. He felt fortified, as if the Lord was with him and would guide him through the difficult task of coming clean with Angela. He was therefore quite surprised when he arrived back at the apartment to find her gone.
In a bar downtown, Angela sipped her mimosa and waited. She wasn't sure if it had been a good idea to call Dr. Hartley, wasn't sure that the doctor would actually show up even though she agreed to do so over the phone. It didn't matter, really. Angela had wanted someone to talk to and Dr. Hartley was the only person that came to mind. She was used to keeping things inside, especially since she'd agreed to marry Will and agreed to move to his hometown. But the things stirring inside of her were now difficult to contain.
There were only a few other customers at the bar. A sad man at a table in the corner, drinking by himself. An older couple a few seats down from her at the counter, drinking to forget what must have been rough lives, for both looked careworn and downtrodden. A woman maybe her age with a younger man, both loud and apparently intoxicated, the woman heavily made up, the man with tattoos on his neck. An older lady with dangly earrings sipping what looked to be a martini, at another table. How she envied them. How she envied their freedom. The cost was evident in their hardened faces, but the reward? The reward seemed magnificent.
She waited a long time for Dr. Hartley, waited even after she knew the doctor wasn't going to come. She ordered another mimosa, sipped it, watched the people absently while she thought over what she might do, what plans she might make. If only it wasn't Christmas. Christmas complicated everything. Obligations hung over her mind like thunder clouds, lashing out at her thoughts of freedom. She felt like she was stuck, like she couldn't act until the holiday season was over, and so she resolved to ride them out. For Will's sake and for Henry's sake. She tossed back the last of her mimosa, slapped down a tip, and left feeling worse than when she arrived.
At home, Will was waiting. His eyes were large and pleading, and he looked terribly sweet in his white button down shirt from church. It was difficult to lie to him, but she did. She told him everything was going to be alright and asked him to not spoil the holidays by bringing up unpleasantness. His face lit up and the pleading eyes gleamed with relieved gratitude. She even told him she loved him, which was only sort of true, because she had recently come to realize that she loved him the way that she loved Henry and not the way a wife was supposed to love her husband.
Sleep came gently to Will that night. It dragged him into its loving embrace and held him there until he woke nine hours later. He felt safe again, assured of his future. It was only when he hopped in the shower and felt the sting of the jets of water on his tender bottom that he remembered Santa, but he pushed the thought aside and buried it. There would be no more of that sort of thing in his life, he told himself. Everything was back to normal and he was going to make damn sure it stayed that way.
Work was a breeze the next day. The season seemed to have finally caught up with folks, and it was slow at the office. Several of Will's co-workers had the day off, but Katie was there, and so was his boss, Regina. Will took the opportunity to finish paper work, since there was little else to do. His only real distraction was the Christmas music, emanating lightly but clearly from Katie's cubicle. It agitated Will, especially when 'Santa Claus Is Coming to Town" came on. He didn't want to be reminded of Santa, but it was impossible to ignore him when he was everywhere.
In Christmas carols, on the radio on the ride to work, in store windows, Santa was there. Katie even had a Santa hat resting precariously on the corner of her computer screen. There really was no escape from Santa at Christmas. And it was okay. Will battled the thoughts that entered his mind with each reminder, his resolve challenged but unbroken. He might have made it through the day with ease if it hadn't been for the phone call.
It happened toward the end of his shift. Just his phone ringing, nothing special or unusual about that, especially in a real estate office. Will didn't recognize the number, but that, too, wasn't unusual, given his business. When he answered, he expected some new potential client, someone perhaps interested in one of the properties he had listed. Instead he got a deep, rich voice that he recognized instantly. The voice belonged to John.
"Will?" he said. "You there?"
"Yeah," Will said.
He could think of nothing else to say.
"You're not an easy guy to get ahold of," John said. "I was worried about you after you ran out on me the other day. You okay?"
Will said nothing. Color was coming to his face, and fast. Heat was spreading, too. He was back in the locker room, back with John in the locker room, back on Saturday only a couple of days before, when he had stared at the bell end of John's penis peeping out from the bottom of the man's boxer shorts. When, he was now certain, John had seen the small tent in his sweatpants that must have formed as he was staring at the outline of John's long member. How could he have forgotten that? In his concern for his marriage, he had pushed the episode with John to the back of his mind, but now it came roaring back. He remembered it so clearly now. Every painful detail.
He was certain that John was innocent of any wrongdoing, certain that the shame lay entirely with himself and his sick mind. It was actually quite decent of John to have called him, to be letting him know in an indirect manner that everything was good between them. He wondered if it meant that John would hold his tongue about what happened. He believed it did. John seemed like a nice man.
"Will?"
"Yeah, sorry," Will said.
"You okay?"
"Yeah. I just wasn't feeling well Saturday. I hope you don't think I'm a freak."
"Not at all," John said. "I'm just concerned."
"No worries," Will said, in the lightest tone he could manage.
"So, yeah, man," John said. "I wanted to talk some more about you looking for a place for my folks. You still remember the details we discussed?"
"No," Will said, truthfully. "I wasn't myself."
"You got time now to go over it again?" John said.
"Not really," Will said, untruthfully this time. "You could email it to me."
"What's your address?"
Will gave it to him. He exchanged a few forced pleasantries with John, and said goodbye. But John didn't hang up.
"You sure you're okay?" he said.
"I'm okay," Will said. "Merry Christmas."
He clicked off abruptly, but John was still with him in his mind. The picture of that long penis poking out from the bottom of those long shorts was engraved in his mind. His face and neck were flushed, his hard penis tingled with need and his balls ached. All from a phone call.
Will struggled with his arousal, struggled with the implications of his attraction to a man that was not Santa. His mind, responding to his body's intense excitement, could no longer deny it. When he had stared at John in his shorts in the locker room that day he wanted more than anything on earth to kneel before the tall man, to touch and stroke what he imagined was a very large penis, and to love it with his whole body, starting with his mouth.
His hand slipped to his crotch and he was rubbing himself feverishly through his pants. If he had been alone, he almost certainly would have masturbated, Santa or no Santa, because his self control had suddenly eluded him.
It was a flash decision to send a text to Santa, a flash decision to agree to meet him at his rented room at six fifteen that night. When Will arrived there an hour and a half later he didn't hesitate. This time, he walked straight into the old house, marched up the stairs, and knocked firmly at the door. Santa, pleased that the boy had finally shown some courage, ushered him into the room.
Will stripped immediately upon entering, and he took everything off, with no hesitation over his underwear, as in times past. His little boner was hard as ever as he stood before Santa, who was resplendent in his scarlet and white suit, black boots and all.
"And how is Billy today?" Santa said.
But Billy hadn't appeared. It was still Will, and he was horny as fuck. He strode right up to Santa, lifted his long coat up a bit, and groped the man's crotch.
"Now wait a minute, young man!" Santa said. "You are here to obey, not to do as you please."
"Sorry." Will said, but his tone was unconvincing.
"That was very naughty!" Santa said.
Will said nothing.
"What else have you been doing that's naughty?" Santa insisted. "Have you refrained from masturbating, as I ordered?"
"I didn't cum, if that's what you mean."
Santa's eyes narrowed. He did not like the boy's attitude. He did not like it at all.
"Is that what I asked?" Santa said, in a flinty voice.
"No, Sir," Will said.
"Well? Did you masturbate or not?"
"I did on Sunday, but I didn't cum," Will said. "I was interrupted before I could."
"I see," Santa said. "What else?"
"I rubbed myself through my pants a couple of hours ago."
"Did you have an orgasm that time?"
"No."
"What stopped you?"
"I decided to text you instead," said Will.
Santa was glowering at the young man.
"You don't seem to be very sorry about either time," Santa said.
Will took a breath. His bravado was deserting him, especially when he looked into Santa's angry eyes, but his arousal remained unchanged.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I felt guilty about it but I don't seem to be able to control myself."
"Why is that, boy?"
"I don't know. Part of it is because when I think of you I get turned on. Part of it is probably stress. I'm not sure what else. Maybe because it's all so new and I am still learning."
Santa's anger had been growing, and now it spilled over into rage.
"That's no excuse!" he said. "You know how wrong it is. You know that I do not like it. Yet you do it anyway!"
"I regret it," Will said. "I know I'm a bad boy, Santa. I tried so hard though. I really want to please you."
"Well, you haven't."
"I know."
"And what is to be done about it?"
"I deserve a very hard spanking, Sir. I've been a really bad boy."
"Yes, you have!" said Santa. "Now bend the fuck over while I get the paddle."
Will, who was slipping inside himself and edging his way toward becoming Billy again, obeyed. His little ass was covered in ugly reddish purple lines, which were just then starting to fade into bruises. Some were shaped like the circles in the paddle Santa had used before, some were shaped like lashes, from where the edge of that paddle had torn into the young man's behind. The boy's ass looked like it had sat on a hot barbecue in several positions, with little rhyme or reason to the grill marks lefy behind.
When Santa returned, he saw these things and admired his handiwork. He'd been rougher than he intended on the boy's pert little rear end, but he had no regrets, especially not after the boy's misbehavior and the poor attitude he'd brought with him. Santa held a paddle in his hand, one that Billy's fanny had yet to meet. It was made of black rubber, and was quite stiff when not in motion, but dangerously flexible when it was. He waved it in front of him a few times, testing it, and then brought it down hard on Billy's bottom, where it exploded with a deep, hollow sounding thud that sent the boy howling.
"That was one, Billy," Santa said. "How many more do you deserve?"
It took a while for Billy to find his voice, so intense was the pain, and the shock derived from it.
"Just one more, Sir" Billy pleaded through his tears. "I'll be a good boy!"
Santa only chuckled. He brought the paddle down harder the next time, literally knocking the snot out of the sobbing boy.
"Please, Sir!" Billy begged, but Santa was unmoved.
In fact Santa was tenting out his red flannel pants something fierce. The paddle sang like the wind as it cut through the air before it hit its mark again, this time with a sharp, resounding crack. Billy stood. Billy rubbed his buttocks with both hands. Billy begged for forgiveness. And Santa was still unmoved. In fact, he was angry.
"Bend over now, boy!" he roared.
Billy complied out of shock more than anything else. Santa's fury frightened him a great deal.
The paddle was raised again, then made that swooshing noise as it ripped through the air and ripped into Billy's bottom again. The boy took a couple of steps forward but he didn't dare to straighten his body. He remained bent over, his fiery butt cheeks as vulnerable as ever. Santa pulled back the paddle, then brought it down again, satisfied with the yelp that escaped the boy's mouth, satisfied with his trembling legs, which shifted back and forth in a vain, involuntary reaction that did nothing to relieve the searing, searing pain.
"Stay still, boy," Santa warned.
He hadn't kept track of the blows, and didn't really care anyway. The paddling was over when he said it was over, and not before then. He pulled the paddle back again, then sent it sailing at top speed until it crasheed into Billy's screaming flesh again. He pulled it back quickly, brought it down again, and then settled into a fast, brutal assault on the caterwauling boy's mortified flesh. Only when the screams stopped, when the trembling and shifting ceased, was Santa satisfied that Billy had finally submitted. He laid one last tremendous blow onto Billy's butt then tossed the paddle aside. The boy sobbed softly, but the room was otherwise remarkably silent after all the clatter that had gone on before.
"Billy?" Santa said.
"Yes, Sir?" Billy said, softly, through his tears.
"Do you understand why I had to do that?"
"Yes, Sir. I was a bad boy and needed discipline."
"That's right, Billy. But I am concerned about you. What will happen when Santa has to return to the North Pole? Will you be able to control yourself? Will you be a good boy?"
"Yes, Sir," Billy said. "I feel terrible about what I did to you and I promise to behave myself after this. I want to be a good boy."
"Excellent, Billy!" Santa said. "You have struggled, but I think you can do it this time. Do you know which rule is most important."
"Yes, Sir. I'm not allowed to masturbate, ever."
"Or even touch yourself in a sexual way, Billy."
"Yes, Sir. I will do it this time. I swear."
"Good boy!"
"I have a tiny, tiny penis, Sir, and I will always be a boy. Good boys obey, and that is what I want to be."
"I want you remember this when you struggle, Billy. Remember the pain you feel now whenever you are tempted to masturbate."
"Yes, Sir," Billy said. "I will!"
"Good boy! I'm proud of you, Billy."
"Can I stand up, Sir?"
"Yes, Billy," Santa said. "You may stand."
"Thank you, Sir."
Santa didn't respond. He walked to his nightstand and took out a packet, then fiddled with it for a while. Finally, after quite a bit of struggle, Santa extracted a little blue pill, the last in the sample packet he'd gotten from his doctor, unbeknownst to his wife, who might've wondered what he planned to do with it. It was dear to him and he had saved it for a long time, waiting for just the right occasion. That Monday, he knew the right occasion was upon him.
Santa popped the pill into his mouth, swallowed it down, then took a few gulps of bottled water as a chaser. He turned his attention back to Billy, who remained standing in the same spot.
"Let me have a look at that butt, Billy," Santa said.
It looked pretty bad, all striped in purple and scarlet, the flesh standing out angrily where the paddle's deadly edge had struck. But the skin was unbroken, and the flesh looked like it would heal unscathed, eventually. Santa moved in closer and put a hand on each cheek of Billy's rear end. The boy winced, then shivered, but he didn't attempt to move away, even when Santa started to feel up that poor little butt in earnest. Santa's fat pole was still at full mast and he thrust it against Billy's cheeks, the soft, furry fabric sending ripples down the boy's back as it rubbed against him. The bright red material matched parts of Billy's bottom perfectly.
"Sir, I have a question," Billy said.
"Yes, boy?"
"My balls hurt. Bad."
"And?"
"When will it go away?"
"You think they still hurt from me squeezing them a bit the other day?"
"Isn't that it?" Billy said.
"Do they feel heavy, and hurt more when you move?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You got blue balls, boy," Santa said. "It's because you were denied an orgasm the other night when I fucked you. And getting interrupted again, when you were caught masturbating, only made it worse."
"That's weird."
"It happens to all guys," Santa said. "And there's only one way to fix it."
Billy wanted to know how, but Santa would say no more. Billy's penis, which had wilted under the brutal paddle's assault, was very hard again, thanks to Santa's gentler attentions to his buttocks, but his balls still felt uncomfortably heavy and tense.
"Please, Sir," Billy said. "How do I fix it? It's really bothering me."
Santa chuckled.
"You got to shoot a load to make it go away," he said.
"But I'm not allowed," Billy whined.
"You sure aren't, Billy. But you may be able to earn some relief."
"How?" Billy said, eagerly.
"How else, boy? By obeying. Get on your knees and open your mouth."
Billy dropped down fast and his mouth was open wide before his knees touched the ground, which was a good thing, because Santa forced his cock inside of it in one relentless push the moment the boy's head was steady. Billy didn't gag. He really wanted to please, and he wanted to taste Santa's cum again very badly.
The pink cock pushed in and out of Billy's mouth and throat at a slow but steady pace, only lingering at the soft and delicious place at the back of the boy's mouth for a few extra moments between thrusts. Billy's little boner was leaking, and somehow, this made his balls feel especially sore. He let Santa do the work, was in fact putty in the big man's hands, but he used his tongue to toe curling effect on Santa's stiff shaft and sensitive cock head. The older man was grunting before long. And then, quite suddenly, he stopped and withdrew, for the Viagra had hit him, and hit him hard. His cock was itching to be inside boy's tight, velvety anus again.
"Up, Billy," Santa said, with some urgency. "Bend over and spread your legs a bit."
There was no question that the boy would obey. He did so eagerly, and Santa caught a quick glance of his tiny, glistening erection as the boy rose, then watched him get into position like a good one. With his thick poker bobbing in front of him, Santa made his way to the dresser again, this time retrieving a new tube of lubricant, and then returning with his fingers already coated with the stuff. He spread Billy's cheeks apart and admired the little pink rose between them, small but a little puffy now after it's trial run at hilting Santa's fat pole a couple of days before.
The first finger went in roughly, for Santa was in no mood to wait. Though tight, the dainty little hole was no match for the force of Santa's insistent finger, and the flesh parted under this initial assault. Santa jabbed in, pulled out, jabbed in, twisted, then added a second finger. This time there was resistance, but Santa jabbed anyway, demanding deep entry, pulling out and shoving back in with great determination until Billy's asshole gave up the ghost and accepted the thick duo of fingers.
Beneath him, Santa could hear Billy grunting as he worked the boy's channel open, but he felt no tremor of orgasm clenching around his fingers. Perhaps, he thought, the blue balls were holding Billy back, for it had taken very little stimulation of his prostate to bring Billy's little boner to eruption on a past occasion. Santa didn't really care. He finger fucked the boy roughly, twisting the fingers on occasion, until he could wait no longer.
A huge glob of lube was squeezed into Santa's hand, and this he slapped into the crevice between Billy's cheeks. Santa rose up, unbuttoned, and cast his scarlet trousers down, until they and his drawers were pooled around his feet. One of Santa's hands came down to grip Billy's hip, pulling the boy closer to him, and then his mighty buttocks, as white as ivory, clenched forward and he plunged his fat cock into the boy's depths.
Moaning commenced immediately, and the stretched hole trembled around the thick intruder, but there was no let up. As soon as Santa's cock bottomed out, be pulled back and thrust it firmly back inside. There was no steady build up, no time for poor Billy to adjust. Within moments Santa was fucking the boy's struggling hole hard and fast, the great globes of his ass powering his hips and cock forward and up deep inside.
Gradually, Billy's legs came closer together. He was shorter than Santa, and though Santa's legs were spread wider and his knees were bent a little to make deep penetration possible, the force of the enthusiastic thrusts drove Billy's body inevitably upward so that this his legs were soon straight to the ground and of little use. The boy was lifted upward each time Santa pounded up into him, Santa's iron grip on his hip kept him from falling over. At times, he was literally held in place by Santa's fat cock.
"You like that, boy?" Santa said, gruffly.
"Yes, Sir!" Billy chirped.
There was pain for sure, that soreness, that feeling of being stretched to to point of breaking, but Billy loved the sensations happening inside his ass. There was something warm and tingly down there, and there was something about being filled up that sent his mind into ecstasy. If only his balls didn't ache so. They seemed to grow heavier and more sore by the moment. But, as before, sore balls seemed to be the price he had to pay for being with Santa. His stiff penis felt great, but there was no tell-tale twinge in his little testicles to signal he was approaching orgasm. Which was maybe a blessing in disguise. Billy sensed that it might not feel so great to have an orgasm with his balls feeling the way they did.
As if reading his thoughts, Santa paused for a moment, with his cock still firmly lodged up Billy's butt. He was hot, so he ripped off his hat and wig, and cast them aside, shortly followed by his fake beard. Then he reached for his lube, squeezed some into his free hand, and resumed pile driving the boy. He hunched down a little, keeping the rhythm fiercely steady, and his wet hand reached under Billy and found his tiny erection. Billy gasped in surprise, but the grip was stong and Santa's big, rough hand began to stroke the delicate penis in time with the pounding thrusts.
It didn't feel good for Billy. In fact, it hurt. On the rare occasion that Billy pleasured himself, he did so gently, as if in deference to the boyish size of his own organ. But Santa had no such qualms. His tight grip, complete with calloused palms, began to masturbate the groaning boy at a frenetic pace. Between the big, slamming pole pounding his pussy and the insidious hand, Billy was in quite a quandary, for it was mind blowing to him that the cock in his hole felt better than the hand on his penis.
His balls were taking the worst of it. Santa made no effort to touch them, yet as his hand worked over the small penis, those balls were pushed back and pulled forward quite a bit. They really, really ached. Ached something terrible, and the feeling was growing worse, fast. The relentless hand, though, paid no mind, but went about its business in a determined, unpitying fashion. Soon, Billy's little stones felt like boulders, and the pain was close to unbearable. Only then did it hit him.
Not in the balls, no, not that special twinge. The feeling started directly in the tenderized head of his little boner. It became very, very sensitive, and it felt incredibly slick, a warm, wet slickness that had nothing to do with the lubricant, for it was his own seed, his own pre-emissions, though he didn't know it. And those emissions, as many a man has come to know, are the best lubricant on earth. His balls tightened painfully, and the sensitivity increased to an impossible level. Billy began to struggle away from the insistent hand, and only succeeded in impaling himself further on Santa's driving cock, for Santa's grip, both on his hip and on his poor little penis, was like iron.
The boy continued to struggle, quite in vain, up until the last moment. The feelings grew yet stronger, his balls felt ever heavier, and his penis became so stiff that Santa's stroking hand felt like sandpaper against his flesh. Then, suddenly, everything down there seized. His hole clamped tightly around Santa's thrusting cock, strangling it, forbidding it to exit. His balls, drawn painfully into his body, way up inside like ovaries, felt frozen, suspended in seizure, and his erection clenched tight and staying that way. The only thing that moved was Santa's hand, wrapped around him tighter than ever, and stroking furiously.
A strange, piercing cry burst out of the boy's lungs. His balls, still painfully tight, his penis, still painfully stiff, locked into a long, excruciating convulsion, forcing the contents of Billy's testicles up into the resisting urethra, still clenched, the channel constricted and unyielding but powerless to stop the forced emission, which came out in one, long, thin, painful stream that shot fiercely onto the carpet below. The boy's cry hadn't stopped throughout this ordeal, and when Santa's cruel hand failed to cease its activity on Billy's poor, suffering boner, he shrieked again. A couple of moments later, Billy's body reacted. His balls, as if suddenly realizing that they were in the throes of orgasm, started pumping, and Billy's penis started flexing and spitting out the few stray pellets of sperm that got left behind.
As soon as Billy's body began to relax again, Santa resumed fucking him. A few moments after that, Santa's hand found Billy's penis again and resumed stroking it. The feeling was almost unbearable. Billy's penis was outrageously sensitive, but Santa paid no mind to the boy's struggles to escape. He knew exactly what he was doing, and what he was doing, he felt, was exactly what Billy needed at that moment. Several minutes went by before Billy settled down and allowed his poor penis to submit to Santa's torturous hand without complaint. Several minutes more went by before Billy felt that old twinge, the normal twinge, in his balls again.
"Sir!" Billy said. "If you don't stop, I'm going to--"
"Quiet, boy."
The hand was moving fast again, and so was Santa's cock up Billy's hole. They both seemed to be working together towards one purpose. Billy felt his balls tighten, pleasantly this time, and then moments later his penis filled to its stiffest and ejaculated wildly under Santa's stoking grip. It was an odd feeling, that, being stroked so vigorously while cumming. Billy, for himself, always stopped stroking when he reached orgasm, although his hand always remained wrapped firmly around his penis when it happened. But Santa was in control, and Santa continued to stroke Billy's tiny ejaculating penis, and all Billy could do was shout out, in pain and in ecstasy both. Even when his ejaculation was finished and Santa had wrung the last drops from him, the older man's hand continued to stroke him.
This time was worse than the first, much worse. Billy's penis was terribly, awfully sensitive, and each stroke from Santa seemed like an assault. He squirmed. He tried to shift his hips away from his tormentor. He even tried to lunge forward and break free. All to no avail. It wasn't that Billy wanted to do these things and displease Santa, it was simply that his body could not tolerate the stimulation, and reacted involuntarily to try to escape it. Billy might have been surprised that Santa knew these things. He might have been surprised to know that his struggles turned Santa on. He might even have been surprised to know that Santa was struggling himself, struggling valiantly against blowing his own load into Billy's ass. Because Santa was enjoying himself far too much to let it end just yet.
It took far longer for Billy to settle down and accept the hand stroking his penis after the second orgasm, almost ten minutes, in fact. When it happened, Billy sighed in relief and his body willingly accepted all of Santa's attentions. Another twenty minutes of pounding and stroking went by before Billy felt the twinge, yet again. But this time he did not want to cum. The fear of having his sensitive penis stroked afterward was more powerful than any desire Billy had to ejaculate again. Anyway, two ejaculations in succession was all he had ever managed before in his life, and he had no experience of having it happen three times in a row. That prospect alone scared him. But he really had no choice.
Moments after he realized his complete powerlessness over his orgasms, Billy shot again. It was a sudden orgasm, strangely intense, and not what he would have called pleasurable. The dominant feeling, in fact, was irritation. His penis was not being pleasured to orgasm but manipulated to it, an odd state of things, but it was that powerlessness and the thought that he was pleasing Santa that made it worthwhile, if only on the mental plane. The physical aspect did nothing for him at all. The hand mercifully stopped moving, and indeed released him altogether.
"That's three, boy," Santa grunted. "You must like it."
"Yes, Sir!" Billy dutifully responded, even though it was a lie.
"Good boy!"
Santa took a momentary break to pull off his furry red coat. He was far too heated for it and he was happy to toss it aside. When Santa resumed fucking Billy, he didn't look much like Santa at all. No red hat, no red coat and pants, no big black belt. He fucked the boy hard for a while, digging up deep into the loosened passage, going inside further than ever before. To Billy, it felt great, just focusing on the feeling of Santa's cock working inside of him. His hole was growing a little tired, a little sore, but he was still enjoying the sensations down there. Santa had been fucking him for nearly an hour, with no signs of letting up. Billy allowed his neck to relax, allowed his head to nod. He had no fear that Santa was going to let go of him as long as his fat cock was still hard and inside. He had no fear that Santa would let him fall.
After a few minutes, Santa's hand found Billy's penis again. It was still very stiff, despite the ordeal it had faced. Santa stroked as firmly, as relentlessly, as ever before, and drove his cock into the boy's ass with undiminished fervor. Billy wished his penis would just go limp. But he knew there was little chance of that happening while Santa still rode him. He didn't expect the twinge to strike again. He didn't expect his balls to tighten up a few moments later, and definitely didn't expect to be cumming a fourth time in one hour. The feeling was not strong. The convulsions were weak, as if his balls were doing all the work and his penis wasn't interested in joining in. Billy didn't feel any slickness after the contractions, and he doubted than much, if anything, had come out that time.
"That's number four," Santa clucked, still riding away.
This time, he continued to stoke Billy directly after the boy's orgasm. Even though it had been a weak one, the tenderness, the extreme sensitivity of Billy's penis returned, and once again he struggled helplessly against Santa's hand. For another twenty minutes, Santa plowed him, and no twinge came to his balls. He was relieved they'd finally given up. If only his cock would do the same, and just go soft, Santa might be inclined to turn his attention elsewhere. But it went on and on, the driving cock, the stroking hand. After a while, Billy began to feel like he was being milked, like a cow.
Santa was breathing heavily now, but his pace, his ferocity seemed unaffected. Billy wondered if the man would fuck him all night. The thought did not excite him. As hard as he tried, he couldn't help but let worry creep in. He would have to come up with excuses for Angela, again, and God only knew how he would do it after her forgiving him once already. My God, what am I doing? Billy's bottom continued to take Santa's fat cock while Will attempted to wrestle control from Billy.
Thankfully, Santa's speed began to increase, and Billy recognized the sounds of his huffing and puffing as being similar to when Santa was close to orgasm the last time they had gotten together. He concentrated. He still badly wanted to bring Santa off, badly wanted to take the man's seed into his ass. He tried to clamp down with his muscles down there, tried desperately to to tighten them for Santa.
"That's good, boy," Santa said. "I'm fixing to drop a huge load up your butt in a minute or two, but there's something I want from you, first."
"What, Santa?"
"I want you to cum for me. One more time. I want you to get it out of your system."
"I don't think I can," Billy said, in a whiny voice.
"Sure you can! Think of my big dick in your face. Or think of someone else, someone you've always wanted to fuck you, maybe."
The only someone that came to Billy's mind was the obvious one, and that someone was John. He had, after all, seen the man's penis, or part of it, only recently. He pictured it in his mind, pictured how gigantic it would be hard. That was a cock, Billy imagined, that could split him apart. And the man it was attached to was handsome. Handsome, and obviously very strong, very powerful. Billy imagined John being angry with him. He imagined John bending him over, imagined John tearing his pants and underpants right off of his body in one easy motion. He imagined John's huge, foot long cock being rammed up his ass, then rammed without mercy, without pity, until Billy blew his pathetic little load onto the floor and John blew a tremendous load up his colon.
The twinge came. The twinge came strong. Santa's hand was brutal on his flesh, but John was still more brutal in Billy's imagination. He imagined John wasn't done with him after one fuck. He imagined the man picking him up like a rag doll and throwing him onto a huge bed covered in animal skins, mounting him hard like Billy was an animal in heat, fucking him long and deep for hours, and making his little penis cum again and again, involuntarily, until John seeded him once more.
Billy cried out as his tired balls tightened again, tightened painfully. He was doing it for Santa, only for Santa, and never mind his twisted fantasies about John. He feared the rising pain in his groin. His penis was deeply tired, deeply sore. He felt it stiffen into unbearable tightness, felt it seizing again under Santa's relentless caress. The orgasm, when it finally came, was completely dry. Billy could somehow feel it, somehow sense the complete emptiness of his balls. Only a few weak, painful convulsions, with no issue at all. Billy's balls and Billy's penis were well and truly spent.
"You did it!" Santa crowed. "Good boy! Very good boy!"
The man released Billy's abused little penis. His hand took hold of Billy's hips and he pulled Billy's butt even tighter to his crotch. The power of the thrusts increased, as did the speed, and Billy's tired out hole could do nothing but submit. He clamped his muscles down hard on Santa's root and rode out the final storm, ready to receive what he knew must be coming, ready to receive his reward.
Santa blasted it deep, deep into the boy's ass, a load more powerful than any he'd had in recent years. He kept his fat pole firmly lodged up the boy's butt as he ejected wave after wave of semen, too many waves to count, and then let himself soften inside the obviously exhausted boy. When he finally slipped out, a gout of semen shot from the boy's uncorked behind, confirming that it had indeed been a mighty load.
"Wow," Santa said, in a breathless manner, which was quite unlike his usual tone.
"May I stand, Sir?" Billy asked.
"Yes, Billy."
When he rose, when he turned to look at Santa, Billy was surprised. Without his beard and hat, without his wig and red suit, Santa was just an ordinary man. He had thinning gray hair and a face that didn't stand out in any was as being distinctive. He looked like any number of older men Billy had encountered in his daily life.
"That was fantastic," Santa said.
"Thank you, Sir," Billy said, trying not to stare. "May I get dressed?"
"Of course," Santa said. "I can't believe you got off five times. Incredible!"
"It was all because of you," Billy said.
"I doubt that!" Santa said. "I think it's because you really, really like getting fucked."
Billy blushed a bit but didn't answer.
"How did you get your pussy to tighten up again at the end?" Santa said. "That really drove me nuts."
"I just clamped down on you. I thought that would feel good."
"It sure did. I'm amazed at how talented you are, especially that pussy."
Billy didn't know what to say, but his exhausted penis gave a little twitch. He liked the praise and he had to admit that he liked his butt hole being called a pussy. It was so dirty and so humiliating.
When he was dressed, Billy was anxious to go, and asked Santa if he could.
"Hold on a minute," Santa said. "I want to talk to you first."
"Okay."
"I want you to know that I really enjoyed our time together," Santa said. "You really made this trip special for me."
"Thanks."
"But you know I have to leave on Thursday, don't you?"
"Do you really have to?"
"Yes, boy," Santa said. "I have a wife and children, not to mention grand children, waiting for me on Christmas Eve. And I live a long way off from here."
Despite his anxiousness to leave, a little tear spilled down Billy's cheek, or was it Will's? For the moment, neither persona seemed dominant.
"Don't be sad," Santa said. "I am much too old for you for the long term. And at my age, I'm too set in my ways to change. But I'm worried for you."
"I'll be okay," Billy said.
"I'm not so sure," Santa said. "I think you could be easily hurt."
"But I'm married, too," Billy said. "I doubt I will ever do anything like this again."
"Oh, I think you will, Billy. I think we both know you will."
Billy broke eye contact and turned his head away.
"I don't want to be gay," Billy said.
"But you are, Billy. You're not only gay, but the most submissive boy I've ever encountered. And I've encountered lots of 'em."
"Really?"
"Oh yeah. You did everything I told you to, and seemed to like it. Some of it was pretty harsh."
"Yeah."
"But you took it like a champ."
"I wanted to please you," Billy said.
"The only thing you failed to do was to obey me when I told you not to jerk off. But that needed more encouragement than I could give."
"I really wanted to obey that," Billy said. "But it was hard and I'm not that strong. You telling me not to masturbate turned me on so much that I just had to do it."
"That's why you need a Master, boy."
"A Master?"
"A dominant man who will take control of you and guide you and mold you into the best you can be for him."
"I feel so confused when I'm not with you," Billy said. "My wife wouldn't understand any of this. What can I do? I have a son. I have a family that also wouldn't understand. I can have a happy life if only I can control this part of myself. I mean, I did it for years and years, so why can't I just go back to that?"
"Maybe you can," Santa said. "And maybe you'll be comfortable. But would you ever be happy?"
"What am I going to do?" Will said.
"You're going to be careful, and not put yourself into the hands of a guy like me until you know what you're about," said Santa. "Then, if you're smart, you'll find yourself a man worthy of you."
"Why are you being so nice?" Will said.
"Let's say the Christmas spirit has moved me. Or maybe it's because that was the best fuck of my life. I don't really know. All I know is that I want you to be happy."
"It was a pretty good fuck," Will said.
They both laughed.
"You're a natural, boy," Santa said.
Will couldn't think of anything to say. Silence settled into the room for a while.
"I'll miss you," Will eventually said.
"Me too, boy."
With that, Santa rose. He took Will or Billy or whoever he was at the moment into his arms, and said goodbye.
"Take care," Santa said. "Promise me you'll be good to yourself."
"I will."
Billy's eyes were full of tears as he walked out, full of tears as he descended the stairs and went out the door, into the consuming darkness.