A Gift for Greg

A Story Orgy Single

Hank Edwards

Startled Monkeys Media

Contents

Summary

1. A Gift for Greg

2. Stew Brannigan Rides Again

3. Stripper Claus

About the Author

Also by Hank Edwards

A Gift for Greg by Hank Edwards

Stew Brannigan Rides Again by Hank Edwards

Stripper Claus by Hank Edwards

Copyright © 2013 by Hank Edwards

Cover art by Startled Monkeys Media

All Rights Reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Published in the United States of America.

A Gift for Greg, Stew Brannigan Rides Again, and Stripper Claus are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are fictionalized. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Summary

Light your yuletide log and spike your eggnog, Hank Edwards has three Holiday themed flash fiction stories that will put some Christmas in your carols this season. Take a seat by the fire and read about unexpected reunions, cowboys getting back in the saddle... with each other, and a hot--and flexible--mall Santa!

1

A Gift for Greg

Thanks to Andrea Speed for her prompt suggestions: pizza delivery guy, abandoned house, and snowman

Fucking economy.

Greg Marwell pulled into the parking lot behind Sal's Pizzeria and twisted the key of his old Fiesta. The engine chugged, coughed, sputtered, chortled, and, finally, gasped before shutting off. Greg sighed and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. His breath plumed around his face as the cold settled into the car and wrapped chill arms around him.

"Marwell!"

The ragged, wet voice of Sal, the owner of Sal's Pizzeria, made Greg snap upright. He squinted through the frosted windshield to find the man waving him in the back door.

"Not even a minute to catch my breath," Greg grumbled. The car door squealed in protest as he shoved it open. With the empty insulated carrier dangling from one hand, he stomped into the back room of the pizza shop.

"Got another delivery," Sal said. He didn't look at Greg; his attention was on the pizza he was slicing.

"It's after one in the morning," Greg noted, trying not to whine. He hated whiners. Every member of his team back at General Motors had whined and moaned and carried on, even more than usual on the day they had all been walked out three years ago. But not Greg. He had been hopeful, optimistic, eager for a change.

And he was still waiting for that optimism to pay off. This job couldn't have been that life change he had been waiting for. Delivering pizzas for Sal's Pizzeria wasn't exactly a step up from his $90,000 a year job as an automotive engineer. But it had been close to home and he worked at night while he hit the interview trail during the day. So many interviews, more than 450 over the last three years, and only a handful of call backs. Always the same response: either he was over qualified, or he just didn't have the right skill set.

"Marwell?"

Greg blinked and looked up to find Sal standing right in front of him. The man held the pizza box in both hands and had raised his eyebrows. "You awake?"

"Barely," Greg muttered. He took the pizza, slid it into the insulated carrier, grabbed the printed order with the house address, and shoved out the back door of the building, Sal's sarcastic, "Oh, yeah, Merry Christmas," trailing behind him.

The Fiesta's engine was reluctant to turn over, but the spark finally caught and Greg let out a relieved breath. He didn't have the money for car repairs. Ramen noodles and day old bread were keeping him alive. That and any pizzas made with the wrong toppings.

As Greg navigated the icy, deserted city streets, the smell of the fresh pizza tempted him. His stomach rumbled and his mouth watered. Christmas Eve, well, technically, Christmas Day, and here he was hungry for pizza.

"Focus," he scolded himself. "You can have Ramen noodles and instant oatmeal when you get home."

He checked the address on the slip again and frowned. What road was this place on? He pulled over to the side of the road, coming to a stop beneath a swaying light up wreath bound to a street lamp. Flicking on the dome light, Greg squinted down at the address as he tried to think of where he could find the street to get to this house. Why couldn't he think of where this street was?

Then a mental wall tumbled down and a memory, blurred with age, floated to the surface of his mind. Windswept Lane, the street where Jerry Golling had lived back in high school. Jerry Golling, nerd hunk of his high school, and someone Greg had wanted badly during all four years. He had followed Jerry home on more than one occasion, keeping back a respectable distance to be able to watch his ass shift inside his corduroy pants as Jerry had lugged with him the text book for every one of his classes.

When Greg had heard Jerry had joined the debate team, he had signed up as well. And it had been amazing to sit and watch, breathless and hard, as Jerry stripped away the arguments of each opponent. Jerry's voice had been steady and confident in debate, so different from when Greg had managed those few times to greet him in the hallway and Jerry had stammered and stuttered and hurried off to his next class.

Jerry Golling. After all these years, Greg was going to be driving down Jerry Golling's street once again. And this time, he was delivering pizzas.

A cold, hard stone of shame dropped into the pit of his gut, and Greg rested his forehead against the steering wheel a moment. Well, nothing to do but drive on and see which house he was going to. He let out his breath, watched it plume before him, then eased away from the curb.

It didn't take long for him to find Windswept Lane. Somewhere in the back of his mind or subconscious, Greg may have kept this route mapped out to satisfy that young version of himself, the one that had never shared more than three sentences with Jerry Golling and, most likely, still yearned for him.

Snow crunched under the tires and a sudden gust of wind rocked his tiny car. Houses, dark and closed up tight, seemingly hunkered down against the frigid night, were more spaced out in this part of the city. Light up figures of snowmen, Santa, and reindeer decorated lawns and rooftops, painful reminders that this was Christmas morning and Greg would have no gifts of his own to open back home.

The address came up faster than Greg anticipated and he had to back up because he had missed the driveway. He sat a moment, his car idling in the driveway as he surveyed the house before him. Was this the same house where Jerry Golling had lived back in high school? What kind of fucked up coincidence would that be?

Greg started to notice more details about the house once his surprise at the address had worn off. Things like the dark windows lacking any window coverings, the paper taped in the window that looked like a foreclosure notice, and the mailbox stuffed full of circulars and junk mail.

"Fuck," Greg mumbled. "Pranked on Christmas Eve, of all nights. Twisted little fuckers."

Movement from the corner of his eye made Greg turn his head to look out the passenger side window. A snowman stood in the middle of the lawn, coal eyes, carrot nose, top hat, the whole cliché. That couldn't have been the movement he'd seen… could it?

"Time to head home," Greg muttered to himself. At least now he'd have a pizza to eat, though it would cost him some of his paycheck.

He had just shifted into Reverse when a shadowy figured stepped out from behind the snowman and waved to him. It was a man, tall and thin, his face mostly hidden in shadow, and the glow from a streetlight reflecting off the lenses of his glasses.

"Hey!" the man said. "Wait!"

Greg hesitated. He'd heard about pizza delivery guys being robbed, but had never had it happen to him. This was a pretty safe city, but still, people were desperate. Should he stay and talk to this guy? What if he had a gun? Greg only had about twenty dollars in small bills on him, but he might take his car and, shitty piece of junk that it was, he still needed it to get his job done.

He was too slow. The man circled the front of his car and approached Greg's door. Greg looked up at the man, wondered briefly if he had locked his doors after getting in, then gasped in surprise as recognition, embarrassment, and excitement all collided within him. He cranked down the window and said, "Jerry Golling? Is that you?"

Jerry Golling frowned down at him, his intense expression making Greg fidget in the car seat.

"Do I know you?" Jerry asked.

"From high school," Greg said, his cock a hard mast of longing even in the frigid air coming in the open car window. "Greg Marwell."

Jerry stood silent, his face hidden by shadow and unreadable.

"Debate team?" Greg offered, his voice more uncertain.

"I remember you," Jerry said quietly. "Very well. I'm just surprised is all."

Greg nodded, felt himself blush and looked away. "Yeah. I'm surprised, too."

"You brought my pizza?"

The blush deepened, heating Greg's face against the cold night air. "I did. Sorry. It's right here."

"Come inside," Jerry said and turned for the house. "You must be freezing."

Greg sat still a moment, considering. No one waited for him at home, no gifts, no special meal. What did he have to lose? He shut off the engine and got out of the car, carrying the pizza as he followed Jerry along the side of the house to a sliding door in the back. Inside, battery operated lanterns provided a warm glow and a propane heater vented out a back window provided heat. A futon covered with layers of quilts took up one corner.

"You squatting?" Greg asked, surprised.

Jerry turned and Greg saw his face clearly for the first time. He was still handsome, his rounded chin covered with dark stubble, hazel eyes behind plastic framed glasses, proud nose, and full lips. It was all Greg could do to keep from walking right up to Jerry and kissing him like he had fantasized doing for so many years.

"Yeah," Jerry admitted and dropped his gaze as he dug in his pockets to pull out wads of bills. "Got the house from Mom and Dad years ago. Lost my job a year and a half ago. Bank took the house last week."

"Merry fucking Christmas, huh?" Greg said.

"Pretty much." Jerry looked up at him. "I have nineteen eighty. Is that enough?"

It wasn't, but Greg nodded and handed over the pizza. "Perfect."

Jerry passed him the wad of bills, and a spark sizzled up Greg's arm when their fingers touched.

"You on your own tonight too?" Jerry asked.

"Yeah, just me."

"Want to stay for pizza?"

Greg nodded, and then said, "If you can spare it, sure. How about we split the cost?"

"Sounds great." Jerry smiled and Greg's pulse kicked up a notch as his cock took notice.

They sat on the futon and talked as they ate. The wind curled around the corners and eaves of the house, the cold kept mostly at bay by the propane heater. As they talked, Greg noticed they both relaxed, each of them settling back against the futon until their knees touched briefly. Greg's erection jerked at the contact, and when Jerry didn't pull away, he lost track of their conversation.

"You okay?" Jerry's question brought him back to focus on the moment and out of his fantasy of being in a sixty-nine with Jerry.

"What? Oh, yeah. Just… drifted a bit there. Sorry."

Jerry watched him in silence a moment, and then said, "I had a crush on you back in high school, you know."

Apprehension and excitement twisted inside Greg's belly as his cock thrummed with need.

"You did?"

"Yeah. You made me so nervous, I could never talk to you."

"Are you kidding me?" A nervous laugh escaped Greg's lips and he hoped it didn't sound as high-pitched to Jerry as it did to him. "I felt the same way."

Jerry's eyes widened. "No way."

"Yes way! I joined the debate team just because you did!"

"I wondered why you did that," Jerry said. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a sexy smirk. "You weren't very good at it."

Jerry suddenly widened his eyes and pressed his lips tight, mortified at what he had said. But Greg laughed, a genuine, feel-good, belly laugh, and slid sideways on the futon so he was lying down. Tears rolled down his temples from the force of his laughter and his body flooded with adrenaline and endorphins. How long had it been since he'd laughed like this?

Jerry leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder, looked down into Greg's watery eyes, and said, "I'm sorry, that was rude of me to say."

"It's okay," Greg reassured him. "It was just the truth. I sucked at it."

"But you tried, that's what mattered."

"Only to be close to you."

Jerry smiled and shook his head, looking away as he blushed. "I never knew that."

"Well, we've confessed now. And here we are, fifteen years later, on Christmas morning, with no one but ourselves to answer to." Greg reached up to put a hand on the back of Jerry's neck, turned him back to look in his eyes. "I say we deserve a little Christmas spirit, don't you?"

"Yeah, we do," Jerry said.

When he leaned down for a kiss, Greg felt a buzz travel down his spine to his balls. Jerry's lips were slick with pizza grease and softer, warmer than he had ever imagined. The kiss deepened, turned hungry, and in a moment Greg had pushed his tongue into Jerry's mouth.

It didn't take long for them to strip out of their clothes and, shivering despite the propane heater, slip beneath the quilts on the futon. Greg twined his legs with Jerry's, felt the hard, determined length of the man's erection press against his own, and reached down to take hold of both of them.

"Oh, yeah," Jerry said with a gasp. "It's been so long since someone's touched me like that."

"Me, too," Greg assured him, and gasped himself at the warm, trembling touch of Jerry's hand on his dick.

"I don't have a condom," Jerry admitted.

"It's okay," Greg said. "This is enough. For now." He slipped beneath the covers, kissing his way down the hair-covered length of Jerry's torso to his throbbing cock. It bucked against his tongue when he took it in his mouth, and he paused to savor the salty taste of it.

"I want to taste you, too," Jerry said, and Greg shifted position to stick his feet out from under the covers and line up his crotch with Jerry's face. Here was that sixty-nine position he had just been fantasizing about.

The wet heat of Jerry's mouth on his prick made Greg moan around the cock in his own. It wasn't going to take long, he was so close already. And it was Jerry Golling sucking his dick; Jerry Fucking Golling!

That seemed to be all it took to send him off the edge. A spark snapped deep in Greg's belly, hot and wild. He felt the rushing wave of his orgasm rising, and took his mouth off Jerry's cock long enough to grunt a warning. Jerry pulled back and stroked him fast and rough to a shuddering climax, turning his face into the spray of cum.

"So hot," Jerry whispered. "Feels so good on my face. Oh, yeah, I'm coming, too."

Greg took his mouth off Jerry and pumped his fist along the hard length as jets of cum splashed across his face. The smell of it, rank, sharp, and delicious, was trapped beneath the heavy quilts and filled his nose. When Jerry had finished, Greg leaned in to kiss the slick-sticky tip before turning and pushing his head out from under the covers.

They looked at each other, faces both cum-smeared, and then laughed before leaning in for a slow, sensual kiss.

"Merry Christmas, Jerry Golling," Greg said.

"Merry Christmas to you, Greg Marwell," Jerry replied. "I've got some wipes we can use to clean up." He paused, then asked in a quiet, shy voice, "Would you like to stay the night?"

Greg smiled and leaned in to kiss him again. "No debate about it."

2

Stew Brannigan Rides Again

Thanks to Dawn Roberto for her prompt suggestions: candy canes, a snowstorm, and a retired bull rider

Son of a bastard bitch whore slut, my hips hurt.

It was the same thought Stew Brannigan upon waking most mornings, but in the winter he put more grit behind it. He pushed to his feet and groaned a little at the sharp pangs that ricocheted through his pelvis. The linoleum floor of the trailer home was cold and he shivered as he hurried into the bathroom to pee, grateful for the toilet rug he'd picked up on the cheap at Harold's Groceries and Sundries the beginning of the month.

Going to be a snow storm tonight, Stew thought. Just like that sassy Latin singer says, hips don't lie.

He finished his business in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom to rustle through the closet for his slippers and some fleece pants. After donning both, he shuffled along the hallway, through the living room where the tiny, tabletop Christmas tree merrily blinked its multi-colored lights, and on into the small kitchen to start the coffee.

Sure enough, snow clouds lay stacked, dark and imposing, over the mountain peaks. Perfect timing, too, as everyone finished up their last minute purchases on Christmas Eve. He supposed he'd better make sure he had enough supplies to last a while. The Fork in the Road Trailer Estates was out at the ankle-end of town. If the snow was going to be as deep as his hips like the weatherman said, it might be until after the new year before those DPW yahoos were able to plow the road clear.

Been a long time since someone's plowed my road.

Stew smirked as he poured out a cup of dark, steaming coffee, spent a moment thinking about Jarrod Gammon, one time bull rider like Stew was himself, now a plow jockey for the city. Jarrod was one of the pretty ones, dark hair messy enough to look sexy, dark eyes, and broad shoulders. Stew had known the man a while now, hated him for a time, but now just liked to fantasize about what it would be like to fuck him.

Ah well, time enough for that later. Right now, he needed to get his show on the road. Those supplies weren't going to show up at his door just by wishing. He picked up his cup and shuffled back toward the bathroom. A few more sips of coffee made his eyes open a little wider, and, as he shrugged out of the fleece bathrobe his niece Hannah had given him for Christmas last year, he paused to assess himself in the full length mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

Not bad. He still managed to workout three days a week at that uppity fitness center near the library. The elliptical helped keep Stew's hips in tune, and the weights kept his chest broad and his biceps firm. If he overlooked the streaks of silver threaded through the hair in his mustache, chest hair, and at his temples, he might be able to pass for thirty-five.

Stew snorted at the mirror. Maybe forty-two. Oh, hell, he had to admit it. He looked like his age, fifty-four.

"Smart ass kid," he muttered to his reflection, and turned to start the shower.

Thirty minutes later, Stew was in his truck, wincing as he bumped over the last pothole on the narrow road that led from Fork in the Road Trailer Estates to state road 17. There was no traffic coming either way, never really was this far outside town, and he turned right, his hips grateful for the smooth feel of blacktop under his truck's tires.

Thrown by a bull at 6.8 seconds ten years ago, Stew still couldn't sit in one place for long. The bull had stomped on his right hip, broke it in five places, and forced him to hang up his Stetson for good. He'd had the best time in the circuit for six years after that, until Jarrod Gammon, that upstart kid from the North, had shown up and managed to hang on for 7.3 seconds.

Damn youngsters. Never respected their elders good and proper.

But Jarrod had been injured himself two years ago. Fell wrong off a bronco, separated his shoulder and ended up needing pins and a plate to hold him together. That had ended Jarrod's riding career as well, and, to Stew's surprise, the man had remained in town after the rodeo had moved on, getting a job with the DPW and settling himself in a studio apartment at the end of the main drag, a constant reminder of Stew's broken record.

Stew had seen Jarrod when he had been in town just a few weeks before, and, he had to admit, the kid still looked good. He'd kept the cocky swagger he'd brought into town with him, sure, but something in Jarrod's gaze had softened. Stew had seen Jarrod standing in the painting supplies aisle of the hardware store, examining two different paintbrushes as if they held within them the secrets of time, space, and life. Jarrod had glanced at Stew, looked away, then back again. He'd smiled then, a kind of sexy, smirky smile that had since that day starred in even more of Stew's jerk off fantasies. They hadn't said anything to each other, just a friendly smile and a nod as they went about their business, two old rodeo riders in passing.

Yet, damn, Jarrod had looked good. Those rugged good looks, dark, tousled hair, a lock of it hanging over his forehead just above those dark brown eyes. He hadn't shaved in a few days, either, and the dark of his beard made a nice contrast on his pale skin, drew attention to the soft, dark fur peeking out between the open V of his button down flannel shirt.

Oh yeah, Jarrod Gammon was one sexy bastard. But Stew wasn't sure what team Jarrod rode for. Either way, he didn't know if he wanted to have sex with the man who had kicked him off the top spot. Unless he got to mount Jarrod and fuck him senseless, drive hard and deep into the man, pound himself into that round, firm ass until he lost his load.

Yeah, that might be nice.

As he arrived into town, Stew glanced up automatically at the windows of Jarrod's studio apartment. Sometimes he saw lights on, and once he'd caught a glimpse of Jarrod standing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, staring down at the street below.

Today, Jarrod's windows were dark, and Stew tried to push aside the dirty thoughts crowding his mind. He tried not to think about how it would feel for Jarrod to wrap those full, pouty lips around his cock, roll his dark eyes up to watch Stew's face as he sucked him. Tried not to think about what Jarrod would taste like as Stew ran his tongue through the hair on his torso and down to the dark patch of pubic hair. He didn't want to keep thinking about touching Jarrod's skin, rolling the man's balls in the palm of his hand, slipping a finger down between Jarrod's legs to rub the soft grooves of his anus and push slowly into him.

Stew got the last parking spot left in Harold's Groceries and Sundries parking lot and shut off the engine. He gripped the steering wheel tight for a moment, thinking about such non-sexual things as the skanky oil rigger who lived in the trailer next door to him, and the sullen old woman who lived across the street in an effort to get his erection to wilt.

That did the trick, and Stew climbed out of the truck, wincing at the sharp pains that crisscrossed his hips like belts of barbed wire. Fucking bull. Fucking rodeo. Fucking younger version of himself who thought it would be a blast to be a real life rodeo cowboy. What the fuck had he been thinking? Oh yeah, he hadn't.

Harold's was packed with people stocking up ahead of the big storm and getting last minute items for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners. There were no buggies available, so Stew grabbed the second to last basket. Near the depleted meat counter, Stew nodded to the owner, Harold himself, who stood with his chubby arms crossed and resting on the swell of his belly, smiling from ear to ear as he watched the townsfolk clear out his inventory.

Enjoy the next four years of mortgage and car payments, Harold.

Stew was still smirking when he rounded the corner of the canned soup aisle and ran smack dab into none other than Jarrod Gammon. A flare of pain fireworked into life in his left hip as he twisted to avoid the brunt of the collision, and Jarrod flinched himself as he turned his shoulders.

"Sorry, there, Jarrod," Stew said. "Didn't see you."

"All good, Stew," Jarrod returned as he rolled his shoulder back. He'd lived in the south long enough to pick up a drawl and it coated each word with a sweet, sexy icing. "Caught you smirking before we crashed, though. Care to share?"

Stew grinned as he met Jarrod's dark eyes. "Maybe over a beer some time."

Jarrod grinned back, and Stew thought he saw something like interest spark deep inside Jarrod's gaze. Could he be imagining things, or was it a Christmas miracle come to life?

"I'll be sure to take you up on that some night." Jarrod nodded down to Stew's basket filled with canned goods. "I see you're restocking the bachelor pantry ahead of the storm."

"Yup. You look to be doing the same. Name brand though. Fancy."

"I like a certain ambiance when I open a can, "Jarrod replied, surprising a laugh out of Stew.

"You're pretty funny when you're not being pitched off a bronco," Stew said.

"Back at ya, when you're not being stomped on by a bull."

Ouch. Point, Jarrod Gammon.

"Well, Jarrod, it was good to catch up, but it's time for this old guy to go stand in line for twice as long as it'll take me to drive back home."

"How are things out at the Fork in the Road Trailer Estates?"

Stew shrugged. "Could be worse. There could actually be a fork in the road out there, and then the directions to get to my place would be twice as difficult."

Jarrod grinned. "You ready for the storm? It's going to get deep they say. Twelve inches, at least." Jarrod's eyes seemed to glow as he said it. "That's a lot of anything, don't you think?"

Stew regarded Jarrod a moment, took in the younger man's grin and the way his gaze had zeroed in on Stew's own. Deciding that it was Christmas Eve and he could claim he was drunk off an early celebratory six-pack if Jarrod reacted poorly, he said, "Nine inches tends to be my limit. But I've been known to be able to make ten work."

Sex filled the space between them, almost a third party to their conversation. The air grew thick with pheromones, just like he'd learned about in that animal husbandry class he'd taken at the community college.

"Think you'll get snowed in out there?" Jarrod asked, his voice lower now, his gaze much more serious.

"Yup." Stew nodded but couldn't pull his gaze from Jarrod's eyes. "Probably take all y'all a week at least to get the road plowed and work your way into the streets of Fork in the Road."

"Yup, probably. Couple of men could do a lot of plowing themselves during that time," Jarrod said.

Stew's cock roared to life, hungry, horny, and eager. "Yup. If they had a mind to."

"My mind's made up," Jarrod said. "It's been made up for years now, just didn't know how to ask."

"You know what number I'm at?"

"Sixty-four."

"I'll be expecting to hear your plow truck at the end of your shift," Stew heard himself say. "If you got the balls to show up." He started to walk away, then turned back. "And bring some of those name brand can goods you're so high and mighty about."

Jarrod let out a deep, booming laugh, and Stew caught himself smiling as he waded into the checkout lines at the register. As he stood there lost in thoughts both naughty and nice, he went through the motions of nodding and smiling and wishing those around him a Merry Christmas. Outside the plate glass windows of the grocery store, Stew saw the first battalion of snowflakes start to fall in the fading light of Christmas Eve, and found he didn't really care as much.

Back home, Stew picked up the clothes he'd left lying around, his cock throbbing and his mind conjuring up endless positions he wanted to explore with Jarrod Gammon.

If the man showed up, that was. Might be Jarrod would chicken out at the last minute. But just in case he didn't, Stew hauled the vacuum out of the folding door closet and ran it over the worn out, beaten down carpet in the living room, down the hall, and into his bedroom. He noticed that the sheets on the bed were a crumpled mess, and he stripped them off and stuffed them in the hamper in his closet. As he looked through the sheet sets he'd collected over the years, he found a set of red satin sheets and, with a grin, pulled them out of the back of the linen closet.

Finally might get a chance to use these.

After cleaning everything as best he could, Stew took a long shower. He ran the water heater out, and finally, shivering in the sudden blast of the cold spray, twisted the faucets off. His fleece robe, best gift he had received last year, mailed to his trailer from his niece Hannah in Gainesville, warmed him up and he padded into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, stopping in surprise at the sight of the blizzard outside the window.

"Good Lord, it's snowmaggedon," Stew whispered, and right on cue a blast of arctic wind rocked his trailer.

For the next few hours Stew watched Christmas specials on TV, paced, stared out at the heavy snowfall, and kept his hand away from his cock. If Jarrod didn't show up by midnight, Stew was going to ring in Christmas Day with a hearty wank and then slip into those red satin sheets alone. Again.

After eleven o'clock, just as he'd poured the burnt coffee down the sink, Stew heard the scrape of a plow on the road outside and the heavy rumble of a truck. He squinted through the kitchen window to watch a massive four wheel drive pick up truck fitted with a plow blade on the front pull up in front of his trailer. The engine cut out, the lights went dark, and the driver hopped down from the cab to trudge through the heavy snow to his door.

Good God, he actually showed up.

Stew's heart seemed to leap in his chest at the sound of the knock on his door. Was this really going to happen? Was he actually going to have a man here with him and not a porn DVD?

He hurried into the living room, paused to count to ten so it would look as if he wasn't waiting to pounce on the door, and then pulled it open.

Jarrod stood on the tiny wooden porch, snow collecting on the brim of his Stetson as it blew through the frigid night. The younger man sported a big smile and held a paper sack cradled in one arm. Stew's cock twitched at the deliciously dirty thoughts spiraling through his mind.

"Evening, Stew," Jarrod said, his drawl layering sex on each word. "Plowed my way out here at the end of my shift as promised. Thought I'd drop in with a bag of fancy canned goods to wish you a Merry Christmas."

Stew smiled at him. "You going to sing me a Christmas carol, Jarrod?"

Jarrod laughed. "I might need to warm up my throat before I tried something like that."

Dear sweet baby Jesus. Thank you for this gift I am about to receive.

Jarrod shifted his weight on the porch and squinted up at Stew through the snowflakes. "So, you gonna invite me in?"

"Well, Hell's bells, my manners have up and run off." Stew stepped back and waved his hand as he said, "Please come in."

Jarrod stepped up into the trailer and Stew took the bag from his hands. He set the bag on the coffee table and tried not to stare as Jarrod removed his jacket and Stetson, and then leaned against the corner of the wall to pull off his boots. The man was sexy brought to life, and a sudden rush of panic sent chills zipping along Stew's spine. How was he going to break this seriously hot cowboy? He'd been retired much too long.

"Nice tree," Jarrod said with a nod toward the small decoration.

"Got it last year on sale," Stew said then flinched. What the fuck was wrong was wrong with him?

They looked at each other across the room for a moment then Jarrod asked, "You nervous as I am?"

Stew smiled. "More."

"Good."

"Yeah."

Jarrod raised his eyebrows. "Got any beer?"

"Abso-fuckin-lutely."

Stew grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge. When he returned to the living room, he found that Jarrod had turned off all the lights except the small Christmas tree. Stew sat on the couch beside Jarrod and handed him a beer.

"Cheers," Jarrod said, and clinked their bottles together.

They drank, Stew chugging half of his beer at once, and when he turned to ask Jarrod how his shift plowing the city's roads had gone, the man stopped his words with a kiss.

It was better than Stew had fantasized about. Jarrod's lips were soft and warm, still wet from the beer, and his tongue pushed into Stew's mouth with an arrogant familiarity that made Stew even harder. The kiss was hungry and sloppy, mouths open, tongues wallowing together, hands squeezing and clutching each other through their jeans.

Finally, Jarrod pulled away and stood up. For a moment, Stew was afraid the man was going to storm out of the trailer, unable to finish what he'd started. But the heated look in Jarrod's eyes put his anxiety to rest, and Stew watched as Jarrod unbuttoned his flannel shirt.

"Get naked," Jarrod instructed. "I gotta be skin to skin with you now."

"I like the way you talk," Stew said, and stood up as well.

They stripped in the multi-colored blinking glow of the Christmas tree, and when both of them were nude, they stepped together for another hot, tongue heavy kiss. Jarrod's cock was big, mighty fucking big, and Stew thought the man might not have been lying back in the store when he'd made a joke about Stew handling twelve inches. Good God, what had Jarrod eaten when he'd been growing up? Had he been raised under high-tension power lines?

Stew pulled back to catch his breath and his gaze dropped to the faded scar that ringed Jarrod's left shoulder, souvenir of his bronco busting fall. He placed a gentle kiss on the scar, and Jarrod let out a quiet breath.

"Ain't a day goes by that it don't ache me some," he said, his voice soft and sad.

Stew nodded, took Jarrod's hand and placed it on his hip. "Same goes with me here."

Jarrod leaned in for another kiss and shifted his hand to take hold of Stew's cock.

"I'd like to ride this bronco," Jarrod said, giving Stew's dick a playful tug.

Stew took hold of Jarrod's monster prick, grabbed it with both hands side by side, and said, "This here is one mean bull just waiting to be broken."

Jarrod kissed him. "Ain't found a man yet who could ride him three times in one night." His eyebrows lifted and he grinned at Stew. "Think you might be able to break that record?"

"I aim to try," Stew said. "But first, I need to relax my muscles a bit." He gently pushed Jarrod to his knees before him, and closed his eyes when the man took him in his mouth.

Jarrod's soft, full lips held tight to Stew's shaft, sucking him slow at first, and then picking up speed until he had Stew right at the edge.

"Oh yeah, keep it up," Stew said with a growl. "Right there. Right there. God, I'm gonna come."

To Stew's surprise, Jarrod didn't back off. Instead, he took Stew's cock deeper into his throat, lips tight around the bucking shaft as Stew blew his load. When he had finished, Stew slipped his cock from between Jarrod's glistening, swollen lips and helped him to his feet to give him a long, soft kiss.

"That was fucking hot," Stew said.

"You taste good," Jarrod told him. "Better than I've imagined."

Stew blinked. "You've thought about us together?"

"Fuck yeah, lots of times." Jarrod stroked his huge cock and smirked at Stew. "You ready for round one?"

"Think I need to meet the beast first," Stew said, and sat on the couch—no kneeling for him with his sore hips—then reached out to pull Jarrod around in front of him. He stroked the long, thick length of him and ran his tongue root to tip before taking half of it in his mouth.

The taste of Jarrod spread across his tongue, a mix of sweat and body wash and the dry, salty taste of his skin, and Stew savored it. He sucked him hard and fast, managing to take most of him into his throat without gagging a few times. His cock was back up again, and he stroked himself as he sucked Jarrod, surprised when a few moments later the man stepped back and pulled his dick free.

"Got me close, there, Stew," Jarrod said. "But I've got a hankerin' for some bronco busting, if you're game."

"Been a long time," Stew said, "but I'm game."

Jarrod had condoms—extra large, naturally—and lube, and he slipped one on, slicked it up, and then bent Stew over the arm of the couch. He moved slowly, inching his fence post of a cock into Stew a little at a time.

The familiar burn of the initial entry made Stew wince, as did the ache in his hips, but with some back and forth and a bit more lube, Jarrod was soon seated completely inside him. Stew had never experienced the feeling of fullness, of being filled up by someone, like he did with Jarrod.

He sighed then flinched as Jarrod grabbed him by the hips and started to fuck him.

"Easy with the grip there," Stew warned.

Jarrod released him, reaching up to hold him by the shoulders instead. "Sorry."

"No worry," Stew said, and then gasped. "Oh, God, you're big."

Jarrod plowed into him, faster and faster, and soon he let out a heavy grunt. He rammed hard into Stew, his cock spearing even deeper as he came into the condom.

After they'd caught their breath, Jarrod slid out of him and smiled at Stew. "You took that pretty well, old man."

Stew narrowed his eyes at Jarrod. "Old man?" He pointed down the hall toward the bedroom. "Let's go. Round two starts now."

Jarrod's eyebrows went up. "Already?"

Stew raised his own eyebrows. "Unless you don't think you can be ready."

"Oh, I'm ready," Jarrod said and got to his feet, his cock already growing.

In the bedroom, Jarrod smiled at the sight of the red satin sheets. "Fancy."

"You ain't the only one can put on airs," Stew said.

He stretched out on his back across the red satin sheets, the slick material cold against his bare, sweaty skin. Jarrod stepped between his legs and lifted them up slowly. Stew's hips moaned and mumbled about the motion, but stayed mostly quiet, and he saw Jarrod flinch when he rested Stew's ankles on his shoulders.

"That okay?" Stew asked.

"Yeah," Jarrod replied with a nod. "Just don't bounce them too much, if you can help it."

"You're in command of the bouncing," Stew said. "Depends how hard you drive that tree trunk into me."

"Guess I'm going to be hurting then," Jarrod said with smirk. "Cause I plan to fuck you hard and deep."

Stew's cock jerked at the words and tone of Jarrod's voice, and pre-cum dribbled onto his belly. When Jarrod slid into him for the second time, Stew's well-used hole protested a bit louder than his hips. But Stew clenched his teeth and reached up to pinch Jarrod's nipples as the man pounded into him until, several minutes later, he pushed in deep once again and cried out as he shot his second load.

"That's fucking amazing," Stew gasped. His ass was sore and stretched out of proportion after Jarrod slipped free and grinned down at him.

"Sure you can do three times?" Jarrod asked as he peeled off the condom and dropped it in the trash.

Stew nodded, though he wasn't sure his asshole agreed.

"I think you need a bit of healing first," Jarrod said, and turned to leave the room.

Stew heard the crinkling sound of tearing plastic, and then Jarrod returned to the bedroom. In one hand he held a box of candy canes, in the other he carried the small plastic Christmas tree from the living room. He set the tree on top of the dresser and plugged it in, smiling at Stew in the blinking lights.

"We needed a little spirit of Christmas in here," Jarrod said.

Stew pointed to the candy canes. "You going to get me sugared up?"

"Not the way you think." Jarrod took a candy cane from the box and slipped it into his mouth, sucking on it seductively as he stared at Stew. When he had the candy cane slick with spit, Jarrod knelt between Stew's legs and slowly, steadily slid it into his ass.

"Oh, fuck," Stew said with a gasp. "Never had anyone do that to me before."

"Like it?"

Stew surprised himself with a nod. "Yeah. It feels good. Cooling."

"That's the peppermint," Jarrod explained. "Soothes the muscles." He reached into the box for another candy cane and, after sucking it first, slipped it in alongside the first one.

Stew closed his eyes and held his legs up, his hips quiet for now, as if intrigued by the candy canes. When Jarrod had six candy canes sliding in and out of Stew's well-used hole, he spit on them and stood up, his fingers holding the curved ends as he fucked Stew with them. Jarrod's cock was hard again, standing out from his groin like a long, heavy limb.

"I think I'm ready," Stew said.

"Yeah?" Jarrod pulled the candy canes out and, staring down at Stew, ran his tongue slowly up the length of them. He grabbed another condom and suited himself up.

Before Jarrod could get into position, Stew got up off the bed, the satin sheets slick beneath him. "Lay on your back," he instructed.

"Really?" Jarrod nodded to his hips. "Think you can manage?"

"Don't worry about me," Stew said with a grin, "you just worry about keeping that shoulder in place."

Jarrod smiled and shook his head before stretching out on his back. He lifted his cock off his belly and Stew got on his knees on the bed. He moved into position over Jarrod, and then lowered himself slowly, so slowly, onto the man's amazing dick. The peppermint had soothed his muscles, and Stew sighed as he carefully impaled himself a third time.

"Oh, yeah," Jarrod said through a sigh. "You're still so fucking tight. Even on this record breaking third time."

"Swollen is different from tight," Stew explained, and leaned down for a kiss. "Get ready to be ridden."

"Break me in, cowboy," Jarrod said.

Stew closed his eyes and thought back on the days when he rode bulls. He loosened his muscles and let himself believe he was back in that time, young again, flexible, and foolish enough to believe he could ride forever. He shifted and shimmied, bounced and bobbed, rose and fell on Jarrod's pillar of a cock.

As Stew bucked his hips, Jarrod's cock smacked his prostate, hard, and it pushed him over the edge. Without touching himself, Stew let out a grunt just before his cock jerked and sprayed cum up the length of Jarrod's torso.

"Oh, fuck yeah," Jarrod groaned. He put his hands on Stew's thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, and bucked up into him. "I'm coming. Fuck yeah, coming again."

Jarrod filled the condom inside Stew for the third time and Stew collapsed on top of him. He eased off Jarrod's softening length and rolled onto his back beside the man.

"Fucking awesome," Jarrod managed to say once he had caught his breath.

"Completely agree," Stew said, and then a yawn snuck up on him.

It was contagious, Jarrod yawned next, and Stew sat up to grab a cum towel from his nightstand drawer. He cleaned his cum off Jarrod's torso, tossed the towel aside, and then pulled the top sheet and blanket up over them. He pulled Jarrod into his arms and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Merry Christmas, Jarrod."

"Merry Christmas to you, Stew."

"I'm glad you finally plowed this section of road first," Stew said.

Jarrod smiled and kissed him. "I'm glad I finally plowed you."

"Smooth talker."

Stew pulled Jarrod a little closer. He smiled at the small, blinking tree on top of the dresser, and, as the sticky feel of peppermint dried in his ass, Stew slipped into sleep and dreamed he was young and full of fire, back riding bulls once again.

3

Stripper Claus

Thanks to Jambrea Gaff for her prompt suggestions: Mall Santa, fountain, and a stripper pole

Clay stepped out of the mall security office and adjusted his duty belt. If he was twenty years younger, and twenty pounds lighter, he knew he would look hot. He had muscle, he still worked out, but somewhere along the line his gut had gotten soft. Now, he just looked like a middle-aged guy prowling the mall on the lookout for rowdy teenagers, lost children, and shoplifters.

Merry fucking Christmas.

The smell of cigarette smoke made him turn his head. Millie, somewhere in her 70s and who worked the counter at Caroline's Cookies, stood leaning against the wall with a 40 ounce soda in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Her gray hair, done up in tight pin curls, was covered with a net, and her dark plastic framed glasses reflected back the fluorescent lighting.

"You know you're not allowed to smoke in here, Millie," Clay said.

"Yeah, yeah." She sighed, dropped the cigarette on the tile floor, and ground it out beneath her thick-soled shoe. "How's tricks, Clay? Nab any shoplifters today?"

"Not yet, my shift's just starting."

"So much merchandise," Millie said with a shake of her head. "So little time."

"How's the cookie business?"

"Crumbling," Millie said, and cackled a laugh before taking a long pull on the straw of her soda.

Clay grinned and shook his head. "I like you, Millie. Even though you smoke inside the mall."

"I like you, too, Clay. You're one of the fun ones. Hey, didja see that new Santa they got for the remainder of the season?"

"Harvey's gone?"

"DUI."

"Ouch."

Millie shrugged. "Happens. New guy's not as long in the tooth. Looks to be in better shape." She waggled her eyebrows and grinned.

Clay frowned. "Santa in shape? Where's the fun in that?"

She waved a hand at him. "Ah, he wears a padded stomach. I seen him putting it on while I happened to be walking past the men's employee locker room."

"You lurking around the door to the locker room again, Millie?"

She blinked innocently at him as she sipped her soda. "Like I said, I just happened to be walking past, that's all. Go check him out for yourself, he's down there right now."

"You trying to set me up, Millie?"

"No one should be alone on Christmas, Clay."

"You're a peach, you know that?" Clay said, feeling a warm glow of affection for Millie's thoughtfulness, even if he wasn't too sure how he felt about trying to score a date with Santa.

"Yeah, tell that to my boss." Millie snorted. "She's sixteen and thinks she knows everything."

"Haven't you heard?" Clay said as he turned toward the hallway leading to the mall and the mass of shoppers. "Kids that age do know everything. They just forget more and more each year."

"Be careful out there, Clay," Millie called after him, and he raised his hand in acknowledgement as he walked away.

The mall was packed. More packed than Clay could remember, and he had worked security there for twenty years. The economy was recovering, slowly, and people had a bit more spending money, which they all seemed to be intent on spending this holiday season. Shoppers were loaded down with bags and boxes. They pushed carts and strollers and held the hands of or carried screaming, tired children.

Again, Merry fucking Christmas.

Clay made a circuit of the entire mall. As he let his gaze wander over the shoppers, he noticed a number of DILFs, Dad's he'd definitely like to fuck. It was the weekend, so most of the hot daddies hadn't shaved. Stubble darkened their faces, and their gazes were intense, focused, as they shouldered paths through the throngs of people. Clay got hard watching the big, brawny daddies push through the crowd, and he stopped in a men's room to check on things. It was empty, surprisingly, so while he was there, he ducked into a stall and took a moment to adjust his package. He may be getting older, but he definitely still had logs on his fire. He stood in the stall, slowly stroking his cock and thinking about the daddies, imagined one of them in there with him, pushing Clay to his knees and telling him to suck it. Clay could almost taste the damp salty skin of the daddy's cock, feel the wide, plump head scrape along the roof of his mouth and bump the back of his throat, taste the delicious bitterness as a flood of cum coated his tongue and the daddy grunted quietly above him.

The speed of Clay's hand increased and he shifted his fantasy to think about… Who? Another anonymous daddy from the mall? A spray tanned porn actor? There was no one special in his life, hadn't been for a long time. The collection of porn DVDs could only do so much for so long, and each visit to the bar scene made him feel five years older than the last.

Just like that, the mood was gone. Clay blew out a frustrated breath as his stroke slowed, and then stopped altogether. Tucking himself back inside his pants, Clay left the stall and washed up. He looked at his reflection for a moment, taking in his brown, receding hairline, blue eyes, and square jaw. He looked good for his age, just a little… sad, maybe. Something was missing. Someone was missing.

A group of loud teenagers burst into the restroom, quieting immediately on seeing Clay at the sinks. After giving the one he deduced to be the group leader a stern, pointed look, Clay left the restroom, his mood definitely darker than it had been at the start of his shift.

Three hours of patrolling the mall allowed him to nab four shoplifters, prevent three near fistfights over the last sale item, and stop a group of kids from spraying ketchup and mustard on the floor of the Coney Island. Clay was tired and more than a little grumpy as he walked past a store called Stripper's Delight. It never failed to make him chuckle. The boom in popularity of stripper pole exercise classes had paved the way for a store dedicated to selling shoes, poles, outfits, and music for strippers. There were even poles set up in the back of the store for potential customers to try them out.

Clay stopped for a moment in the center of the mall where the four wings of stores came together. A fountain splashed and bubbled in the middle of the open court, and people sat around it at iron cafe tables. The long, long line of children and parents waiting to see Santa curled around the cafe tables like a massive, living wall, and Clay shook his head. Such a long wait, and the children would be exhausted and crabby by the time they got to Santa's lap. Merry Christmas, here's a photo, enjoy your day.

Right.

At that moment, above the noise of the crowd, the fountain, and the Christmas music piped in overhead, Clay heard "Ho, ho, ho." The voice was a deep, rich baritone, and the timbre sent shivers down his spine. The shivers gathered in a spot just behind his balls, and Clay's cock surged to life. This, then, was the hot Santa Millie had told him about. Well, he'd have to check Santa out.

Before he could spin a decent fantasy incorporating the red suit and some eggnog for lube, Clay was interrupted by a startled scream from Santa's Castle. He reacted on instinct, making his way quickly through the surging crowd toward the raised platform. The exit area was blocked by curious onlookers, and Clay wedged himself between them, painfully aware of the number of people holding up cell phones in hopes of capturing something dramatic, anything, on video and selling it to a network news channel.

Clay climbed the steps people normally used to leave Santa's Castle after visiting with the jolly old elf, and stepped onto the platform. He swept his gaze across the scene, taking in the details in seconds. Santa and several of his helper elves, really just high school age girls with fake ears and tights, knelt by a large woman who lay on her back, out cold. He knelt beside Santa, felt his knee knock against the man's and caught a flash of brilliant blue as Santa raised his eyes to look at him.

"Oh, good," Santa said. "We need an ambulance. She's passed out. Just went down hard when her daughter sat on my lap."

"She breathing?" Clay asked, and reached down to take the woman's wrist and feel for a pulse.

"Yeah, she is." Santa glanced over his shoulder to where a young girl sat crying on his big gold throne. "That's her daughter. I'm going back to talk with her, try to keep her calm."

Clay met Santa's gaze, felt something click even amidst the drama of the situation, and nodded. "Good idea. Thanks."

He used his radio to call for an ambulance, and by then the woman had started to come around. She looked up at them, startled and scared, and Clay put a hand on her shoulder to keep her lying still. "You've fainted, but you're okay."

"Cassie?" the woman asked, and looked around with a frantic expression.

"Your daughter's right over there with Santa, see?" Clay pointed and the woman lifted her head to see, then relaxed.

"I just felt dizzy, I don't know what happened to me," the woman said.

Clay glanced over at Santa, caught the man staring, and said, "I know what you mean."

Clay watched the ambulance attendants wheel the stretcher down the handicap ramp. The woman's daughter, Cassie, walked alongside, one hand gripping her mother's, the other holding tight to a doll Santa had given her for being so brave.

A robust "Ho, ho, ho," nabbed Clay's attention, and he turned to look over at Santa where he was welcoming a young boy onto his lap. There was conversation about what the boy wanted for Christmas, a photo was snapped, and the boy left with a candy cane and a bright smile. Santa met Clay's gaze a moment, winked, and then turned to greet his next visitor.

Reports needed to be written and the higher ups notified of the incident, so Clay had no time to hang around and flirt with Santa. With a nod to the wide-eyed teenage girl elf that stood by the exit, Clay made his way out of Santa's castle and through the crowds toward the security office.

He passed the glass-fronted counter of Caroline's Cookies and heard someone call to him. It was Millie, of course, her hairnet snug around the top of her gray-haired head, eyes wide behind the dark plastic frames of her glasses.

"What happened, Clay?" Millie asked.

"Someone just passed out is all," Clay replied. "Probably got too warm waiting to see Santa."

"Can't fault her for that," the other counter worker said, a woman a couple decades younger than Millie's early 70s. "That new Santa is one hot piece of beef."

Clay frowned. "You do know you're talking about Santa, right?"

The woman stared at him a moment before saying. "That's all fake hair and beard and padding. Have you seen him walking into work?" Clay shook his head and the woman and Millie exchanged a look as they fanned themselves.

Millie said, "Trust me, Clay, it would be worth the effort for you to get to work an hour early and, maybe, you know, hang out in the locker room a bit. Maybe have trouble with your belt or the gel insoles of your shoes or something."

A noisy family of six stepped up to the counter and Clay shook his head and turned away, lifting his hand in farewell. He had a report to write up, and then he could grab some lunch.

The next morning, Clay found he was wide-awake earlier than usual. Maybe the dreams of sinking his cock deep into Santa's tight, hot hole had something to do with it. He paid more attention than usual to his grooming, checking his hair in the mirror several times and changing his uniform pants twice, trying to find the pair that fit him the best.

When he arrived at work, the mall was busy already, and he leaned into the cold wind screaming across the open plain of the parking lot. Holiday season meant the employees parked in the furthest corners of the lot to allow more shoppers to park closer.

Merry fucking Christmas, be grateful that you're working.

He stepped into the employee men's locker room and paused. Someone was there already, taking a shower and singing a Christmas song. He had a deep, rich voice, and the scent of the body wash he was using sent a shiver through Clay.

Clay opened his locker and hung up his coat. He busied himself preparing for his shift, but stopped what he was doing when the water shut off. In a few minutes, a sexy, stocky furry hunk of man wearing only a white towel stepped around the corner of the lockers and stopped in surprise at the sight of him.

"Oh, sorry," the man said, a blush of embarrassment tinting his cheeks. "I didn't know anyone was here."

"No worries, you sounded good."

"Yeah? Well, thanks." The man moved past Clay, the damp scent of body wash wafting behind him.

As he went back to his work, Clay looked up now and then, checking out the short, dark hair on the man's head, the dark fur covering his torso, and the round curve of his ass beneath his towel. Clay stared into his locker a moment, trying to collect himself and keep his hard-on at bay. Not too successful on that front.

"My name's Kent Wales."

Clay looked up in surprise. He'd been so focused on ignoring the man he hadn't heard him approach. Kent wore a pair of tight fitting boxer briefs that outlined his cock and balls, the leg openings clinging to the furry trunks of his thighs.

"What?" Clay managed.

Kent smirked and extended his hand further. "Kent Wales." He gestured over his shoulder to a small pile of red velvet and white faux fur trim. "Otherwise known as Saint Nick, Santa Claus, or the jolly old elf."

Clay took Kent's hand and his cock throbbed at the damp touch of the man's skin. He tried not to think that earlier he had been jerking off with that same hand, tried also not to wonder if Kent had been doing the same.

"Clay Rawlings."

"Good work yesterday with that lady who fainted." Kent turned his back to return to his locker, and Clay's gaze dropped to the tight, round swell of his ass beneath the soft cotton briefs. "It's been a long time since someone's fainted in front of me. Not since my stripper days."

"Stripper days?" Clay's brain clicked back into gear. "Santa stripper? Kinky."

Kent smirked over his bare shoulder. "You have no idea."

Clay smirked back. "I think I do."

Kent held his gaze a long moment, his eyes a brilliant blue, and then his smirk widened to a grin and he said, "You here all day?"

"Yep."

"Meet me back here after the mall closes?"

"Secret Santa stuff?"

"Something like that."

Clay nodded and, reluctantly, turned away to finish getting ready for his shift. When he had nothing left to occupy him, he closed his locker and brushed past Kent on his way to the door. "Keep those elves in line."

"They are sarcastic little bitches," Kent said, and they both laughed.

After a long, distracted day patrolling, Clay was glad to follow the last lingering shopper to the main doors and lock them. He got on the radio and checked in with the other security guards, making sure all the doors were secure, and then each of them did a walk through of a wing of the mall, meeting in the center by the fountain to report all shoppers had left and stores were secured. Some employees were cleaning up stock and counting out the register receipts, safe behind metal gates. Soon they would scurry out the back entrances and trudge across the empty parking lots to the employee spots.

Clay volunteered to lock up everything and herded the other security guards to the door. He watched them walk out into the night, shoulders hunched against the wind, and then turned to hurry back to the employee locker room.

Someone was humming a Christmas song, and Clay grinned when he recognized it: "Santa Claus is Coming to Town." Indeed.

He straightened his shirt, reached down the front of his pants to adjust his already hardening cock, and then moved along the row of lockers to come to a surprised stop at the end. Kent had pulled out the padding that gave him a big belly, but still wore his Santa suit and beard. He was humming the song as he spun around a stripper pole, one of the expandable poles that could be taken along with him.

"Well, hello Santa Claus," Clay said.

Kent looked up and smiled beneath the white beard. "Well, hello Clay. Have you been a good little security guard this year?"

Clay smirked. "Nope."

Kent winked and his smile widened. "Good. Sit down on the end of that bench, Santa's got a present for you."

Clay sat on the bench between the lockers, his leg bouncing with impatient anticipation. He licked his dry lips and tried not to think too far ahead. He didn't want to miss a minute of Kent's "present."

Still humming the song, Kent slid around the stripper pole, changing his grip with ease. He hooked a leg around the pole and spun with one arm extended. When he came to a stop, he faced Clay and planted both booted feet to either side of the pole, and then pulled apart his red velvet jacket. It was held together with Velcro and sounded like material tearing. Clay's cock jumped at the sound and the sight that followed: Kent's strong torso, shining with sweat and covered in dark hair.

"Merry fuckin' Christmas," Clay whispered.

Kent smiled beneath his beard and shrugged out of the jacket before resuming his dance around the stripper pole. He continued to hum "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," and teased the back of his red velvet pants down an inch, then another, and then another. Clay caught glimpses of the pale flesh of Kent's ass cheeks, also graced with dark hair, and he had to reach down to adjust himself.

With his legs to either side of the pole, Kent extended a foot to Clay and nodded down to his boot. Clay gripped the sides of the boot, surprised to find it was real leather, and slid it off his foot. The white sock stayed inside the boot, leaving Kent with one bare foot. The man planted that foot on the floor and lifted his other leg for Clay to remove that boot as well. Clay set the boots on the floor and stared at the vision before him.

Still wearing the white beard, red hat with white trim, and red pants, Kent was a hot vision of Christmas spirit. Sweat gleamed beneath the hair on his chest, and as he spun around the pole, Kent slipped the top of his pants down a little bit at a time, revealing the waistband and straps of a red jockstrap underneath.

Clay nearly blew his wad right there.

Finally, with a flourish of arm movements and a high kick that sent the red pants flying over Clay's head, Kent gripped the stripper pole and upended himself. He wrapped his feet around the pole and slowly lowered himself to the floor, his arousal evident by the bulging cotton pouch of his jockstrap and the feral look in his blue eyes.

"Holy shit," Clay said in quiet awe when Kent ended his routine sitting on the floor with his legs around the base of the pole.

Kent got to his feet, breathing deep from his workout, and he walked up to stand right in front of Clay, wearing only the red hat, white beard, and red jockstrap.

"Santa's got a present for you, Clay." Kent reached down to grab his cock, barely restrained by the jock's pouch.

Clay couldn't wait. He was beyond impatient by now. He could smell the damp, rank scent of Kent's sweat and it pushed his excitement even higher. Leaning forward, Clay extended his tongue and ran it slowly up the sweat-slick, hairy surface of Kent's belly. Above him, Kent sucked in a quick breath and Clay felt the man's abs tremble.

He hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of the jock and pulled it out then down. Kent's cock, fully hard and slick with pre-come, bobbed in Clay's face and he opened his mouth to take it deep in his throat.

"Fuck yeah," Kent said and groaned as he put his hands on the back of Clay's head. Kent thrust his hips, his cock pushing and pulling between Clay's lips, the salty taste of Kent's sweat and pre-come filling his mouth as the man's prick skidded along his tongue.

With trembling fingers, Clay unbuttoned his own shirt and fumbled with the buckle of his duty belt. It clattered to the floor and he worked on his pants next, leaving them open and pulling his underwear down so the waistband sat under his balls. His cock swayed in the warm air of the changing room, pre-come dribbling down the shaft. Before Clay could take hold of himself, however, Kent leaned over to wrap his hand around the hot length of him.

Clay moaned around his mouthful of cock, and Kent mumbled something that sounded like, "Fuckin' hung, too? Fuck yeah."

That was all it took. Clay released Kent's cock and stood up, forcing Kent to stand as well. He pressed his mouth over Kent's and, as their tongues collided, struggled out of his uniform. Kent lost the jockstrap and hat, and Clay leaned back to finally pull away the white beard. They grabbed each other tight, sweat-slick bodies rubbing together, cocks grinding, mouths crushed together.

Finally, Kent pulled back and said in a hoarse whisper, "Fuck me." He moved to lean over the bench between the lockers, his strong arms supporting him up, his ass in the air. "Condom's in my pants pocket."

"Santa brings all the right gifts," Clay said and fished the packet out of the soft velvet pocket. It was lubricated, good thing, and as Clay rolled it over himself, he knelt behind Kent and pressed his mouth to the damp, hairy crack of the man's ass. Clay flicked his tongue over the tender folds and felt Kent shiver. He drilled his tongue between the ridges of muscle once, twice, a third time. By then he had the condom rolled on just right and stood up.

The tight, rounded mounds of Kent's furry ass waited before him, and Clay tipped his cock down toward the tight entrance. He was harder than he'd been in years, it wasn't going to take long for him to come, and from the size of the puddle of pre-come on the bench beneath Kent, he was just as close.

Clay eased into the hot depths. He felt Kent's muscles clutch and release around him. A groan started deep in his chest and rumbled up his throat to slip from between his lips.

"Oh, fuuuuucckk," Kent moaned. "Yeah, man."

Clay pulled back and pushed in again, and then his hips took over. Sweat ran down his body as he watched Kent's ass cheeks bounce beneath the onslaught of his fucking. He heard the wet, sticky slap of skin on skin contact, felt the tightening of Kent's muscles around his driving cock, squeezing and releasing in time with his thrusts.

"Oh, yeah, oh yeah," Kent said between grunts. "I'm coming. Santa's coming."

The deep, lustful tone of Kent's voice and the tight grip of his muscles was too much for Clay. He closed his eyes and pushed in deep, letting out a shout as he shot his load into the condom.

Spent and gasping, Clay leaned forward, laying along Kent's back and putting his arms around the man. He placed a gentle kiss on the knobs of Kent's spine as he slid out of him.

Kent straightened up and turned to smile dreamily at Clay before leaning in to give him a slow, deep kiss.

"That was fucking awesome," Kent said.

"You're fucking awesome," Clay returned. He reached down to tug Kent's softening cock. "You are one hot Santa fucker."

Kent smirked and reached down to give Clay's cock a playful tug. "You're the Santa fucker." He kissed him again. "Feel like another trip on Santa's sleigh? Maybe at your place?"

"Sounds good," Clay said. "But this time, I get to ride your Yuletide log."

Kent waggled his eyebrows. "Butch and versatile? Merry Christmas to me."

"Santa deserves a gift now and then, too," Clay said, and then nodded toward the stripper pole. "And definitely bring that with you."

THE END

About the Author

Hank Edwards is a curious mix of practical realist and feral dreamer. He is a fan of absurd comedy, cases in point, the sizzling and hilarious Charlie Heggensford Fluffers, Inc. Series, and Plus Ones, his rom-com, as well as mystery and suspense such as his Up to Trouble series. His love of chills and thrills prompted him to create the Venom Valley series as well as his humorous and spooky Critter Catchers series. No matter what genre he is dabbling in, however, Hank tries to keep things steamy and heartfelt. He was born and still lives in a northwest suburb of the Motor City, Detroit, Michigan, where he shares a home with his partner of over 20 years and their two cats, who hope you buy lots of his books so they can upgrade their kitty condo.

Stay in touch with Hank:

Twitter: @hanksbooks

Facebook: hankedwardsbooks

www.hankedwardsbooks.com

hankedwardsbooks@gmail.com

Also by Hank Edwards

Gay Romantic Paranormal:

Cowboys & Vampires - Venom Valley Book One

Stakes & Spurs - Venom Valley Book Two

Blood & Stone - Venom Valley Book Three

Terror by Moonlight – Critter Catchers Book One

Chasing the Chupacabra – Critter Catchers Book Two

Swamped by Fear - Critter Catchers Book Three

Wicked Reflection

Gay Romantic Comedies:

Fluffers, Inc. (Charlie Heggensford Stories Book One)

A Carnal Cruise (Charlie Heggensford Stories Book Two)

Vancouver Nights (Charlie Heggensford Stories Book Three)

Plus Ones

Gay Romantic Suspense/Mystery:

Holed Up: Up to Trouble Book One

Shacked Up: Up to Trouble Book Two

Roughed Up: Up to Trouble Book Three

Choked Up: Up to Trouble Book Four

Destiny's Bastard

Hired Muscle

Buried Secrets

Repossession is 9/10ths of the Law

Story Orgy Singles Gay Romance:

A Gift for Greg (A Story Orgy Single)

By the Book (A Story Orgy Single)

Cross Country Foreplay (A Story Orgy Single)

Mistletoe at Midnight (A Story Orgy Single)

The Cheapskate: Bad Boyfriends (A Story Orgy Single)

With This Ring (A Story Orgy Single)

Gay Erotic Short Story Collections:

A Very Dirty Dozen

Another Very Dirty Dozen

Salacious Singles Gay Erotic Short Stories:

Bear Market (A Salacious Single)

Convoy (A Salacious Single)

Double Down (A Salacious Single)

Exchange Rate (A Salacious Single)

Finding North (A Salacious Single)

Hotel Dick (A Salacious Single)

Kindred Spirits (A Salacious Single)

Sacked (A Salacious Single)

Stroking Midnight (A Salacious Single)

Vanity Loves Company (A Salacious Single)

Wet Lands (A Salacious Single)

Hank’s stories also appear in the following anthologies:

50's Mixed Tape Anthology - Totally Bound

Bear Lust: Hot and Hairy Fiction – Bear Bones Books

Bears of Winter - Bear Bones Books

Bears: Gay Erotic Stories – Cleis Press

Cowboys: Gay Erotic Stories – Cleis Press

Dirty Diner: Gay Erotica on the Menu – Bold Strokes Books

Hard Working Men: Gay Erotic Stories – Cleis Press

Hot Cops: Gay Erotic Stories – Cleis Press

On the Run: Tales of Gay Pursuit and Passion - Wilde City Press

Riding the Rails: Locomotive Lust and Carnal Cabooses – Bold Strokes Books

Straight Guys: Gay Erotic Fantasies – Cleis Press

Tales from the Den: Wild and Weird Stories for Bears – Bear Bones Books

Tented: Gay Erotic Tales from Under the Big Top – Lethe Press

Hank writes Young Adult Fantasy Gay Romance under the name R. G. Thomas:

Available from Harmony Ink Press:

The Midnight Gardener – The Town of Superstition Series Book One

The Well of Tears – The Town of Superstition Series Book Two

The Battle of Iron Gulch — The Town of Superstition Series Book Three