Great Christmas Tree Buy

Gino stood inside the door of my neat Arts and Crafts bungalow on the established and quiet North Morrison Street and looked around as I lit the place up. I was glad now that I had taken the time to put the tree up and decorate it. I also looked at the bearskin rug laid out in front of the fireplace with new appreciation. A flick of a switch turned on soft vocals Christmas music too. I had other music that could be brought up at the flick of another switch. The TV above the fireplace was loaded, as well, but I wouldn’t turn that on yet—or ever, if this didn’t work out. He still could and run when he realized this was going to become more intense if he stayed.

The setting was perfect. I only now was appreciating how much effort I’d taken to set this Saturday up.

I went over and lit the fire in the fireplace. “Make yourself comfortable,” I said. “I’ll go get us a couple of beers.”

“Can’t drink beer,” Gino said. “The DUI.” He didn’t really have to remind me of that. He was standing there, by the door, looking all of the nearly nineteen that he was. A cute, sexy little guy, with dark, Italian looks, and a body to die for with a guy like me. If I hadn’t already paid and fucked him, I wouldn’t have thought he was attainable.

I liked them young, small, with smooth, supple skin, flexible, yielding, and with enough awe of the act and older, controlling and demanding men to make me feel like I was deflowering the young guy each and every time. Gino had all of that in spades, plus he had the experience to give a first-rate blow job. And he had come for me, and I don’t mean just in shooting his load. He had sought me out. I hadn’t had to make the effort to cut a young guy from the herd and seduce him. There was phenomenal risk in covering a young, skittish guy whose response could be unpredictable, but Gino had taken some of that risk away. He’d come looking for it.

And he wanted to be barebacked. Can’t have a better Christmas present than that.

“You’re illegal to be here with me and to do what we have done and are about to do again,” I said. “You took my money, which makes what you’re doing prostitution. That’s illegal in the jurisdiction of Kokomo. We’re both on the wrong side of the law here. So, beer or wine, or something harder?”

“Something hard?” he said and giggled, showing that he was still a teenager in many ways.

“I’ll get us a couple of beers,” I said. He said nothing, so I went to the kitchen. When I returned, he was naked and reclining on his back into the corner of the sofa facing the fire, with the lit-up Christmas tree in view beside the fireplace.

And he was looking oh so fine.

I walked over and put the cans of beer on the coffee table in front of the couch. “Well, this is disappointing,” I said.

“You find me disappointing? You don’t like my body? I’m too short and skinny for you—not all muscle and big dick, like you are?”

“No, I find you perfect for my tastes. And you have a very nice dick,” I said, which made the little guy smile. And he was perfect. He fit my fetish perfectly. He was stretched out there on the sofa, leaning into the corner, legs parted, and hand slow stroking himself. His pelvis was rolled up and I could see his hole, rosy and puckered, still dilated from the last time I’d been inside him. Ready for me—more than ready because I didn’t have to make the effort to ream him to my specifications now before fucking him real good—and I hardly could wait. I was about as erect as I could get, my shaft pushing to free itself from my sweatpants.

“What I’m saying is that I hoped I’d get to unwrap my Christmas present myself.”

“You think of me as your Christmas present?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I answered. That obviously pleased him as well.

“You’re my Christmas present too. Can I watch you unwrap yourself?”

“Sure,” I said and peeled off my clothes, such as they’d been, and stood there, by the sofa, throbbing erection in hand, the bulb pointed at him. “So, what do you think of Santa?” I asked.

“You’re not Santa, you’re a fuckin’ god,” he said, stretching out his fine little body in the corner of the sofa and nearly purring. “You’re Mr. America. You’re Mr. Universe. Shit, your muscles have muscles.”

“I have a muscle for you. You want this god fucking you?”

“Shit, yes,” he answered in a breathy voice. “Fuck me again. Fuck me from Christmas into the New Year. Screw the hell out of me.”

So, I did. I came down on top of him and between his spread legs. I fondled and licked and kissed him all over, moving on his body as he, moaning and panting, moved against mine. Once again, he wanted a lip lock, but I didn’t give it to him. This wasn’t a romance. This was a ravishment. He wanted to see this as romantic, lovemaking, but this was fucking. Me fucking him. He was a whore I had paid for.

I was all about worshipping his body and celebrating mine, gliding my hands on his curves and in his crevices, but this wasn’t lovemaking. This was fucking. This was finger fucking him until he was begging for the cock, not giving him that until I’d taken his cock in my mouth and drained him dry. And not until I’d opened him more tonguing his sweet rosebud of a hole.

This was my five-hundred-dollar Christmas present to myself and I wanted to savor it.

And then this was about raw fucking—me covering him and using the little whore for my pleasure—not for his; for mine.

I picked up one remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV above the fireplace to a looped fuck scene from a new Web site that featured older muscled studs ravishing small, young guys. Another remote changed the music from Christmas background vocals to the strong, insistent beat of the background music to some favorite porn scenes of mine. This was all happening faster than I had anticipated, but, what the hell, it was exciting and exhilarating—just like barebacking him was. Merry Christmas to me.

Then I fucked him. I covered him in the corner of the sofa, lying on top of him, between his legs. I grasped his wrists in my hands, forcing his arms over his head. He gasped and yelped as I entered him, strongly, insistently, deeply.

“Shit, fuck,” he exclaimed. “Not so fast, you’re hurting me. Fuck. Shit! Yes, YESSS, fuck me, FUCK ME. FUCKME! Screw me to the floor!”

I almost immediately established a pumping rhythm that matched the beat of the background music and the rhythm of the fuck on the screen above the fireplace, which Gino turned his head toward and watched, as I buried my face in his throat and hummed as I worked.

This was a job for me now. Bring him to the ceremony. Lay him on the altar. Slay him with my cock. Sacrifice his youth and innocence to my need. Teach him all of it—to take it all.

I let loose of Gino’s wrists and he moved his hands to my shoulder blades and dug his fingernails in, now reduced to whimpering, “Yes, yes, yes.” He hooked his knees on my hips and bucked with me, taking me deep in his soft, spongy inner core. We were fucking, one coordinated fucking machine, at one with the beat of the music and the rhythm of the fuck on the TV screen and the giving and taking spirt of the lit Christmas tree and fireplace.

“Shit, you’re so fuckin’ big,” he moaned.

Why, yes, yes, I was.

He jerked and called out in passion, “Shit! Fuck! You’re in so deep!” as I grasped him closely, pulled back, almost exiting him, and then thrusting hard and deep—“Fuck!”—and then again—“Shit!”—and again “FUCK!”—making him jerk and lurch and cry out with each slaying thrust.

We came almost together, holding, both concentrating on the release of the warm cum, and moved into a period of calming our breaths and the beat of our hearts, I picked him up and moved him to the bearskin rug. There, I put him on all fours, his head turned toward the fireplace to watch it, dreamily with his mouth open in a perpetual gasp, as I crouched over him, memories of my first time with a muscular man on this same rug flowing into my brain; mounted him; penetrated him; and fucked him again. He was beyond all verbal response now, lying docilely in my embrace, panting low and taking it and taking it and taking it. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money, but I was getting my money’s worth.

I was, as he had wanted, a muscular, older fucking god for him. And he was all I wanted in a fetish for compliant eighteen-year-old, sweet young guys. To do it bareback, with each of us enjoying the sensation of me ejaculating again and again inside him, was an extra Christmas present for us both. There was no tomorrow to think about. It was all today, now. A Christmas present for each other that neither would ever forget.

This time we did come together, me deep inside him, him from the hand I’d snaked under his belly and grasped and stroked his cock with. I’d topped him off with cum, which was burbling out of his hole and dripping down his inner thighs. Afterward, he collapsed under me and I came down with him, rolling to the side and holding him close, each of us looking into the fire and up to the Christmas tree. We couldn’t see the TV screen from here, but we could tell, from the sounds, that the muscle man and seeming teenager were still having a good time. Once again, our hands roamed over each other, the man enjoying the supple, resilient skin of the young guy and the young guy enjoying the hard curves of the man’s muscles and tracing my tattooing with his fingers.

“When do you have to be home?” I murmured in his ear. “When do your parents get back from Indianapolis today?” I knew the answer to that. He wouldn’t have come home with me for just an hour on the sofa. He clearly wanted more. He wanted it all. I was just the man to give it to him.

“My parents don’t come home until tomorrow night,” he answered.

“Good,” I said. I rose from the bearskin rug and picked him up in my arms. Tossing him over my shoulder like booty in a battle win, which he was, I walked him to the door of the master bedroom. I flicked on the light to the room and soft background music came on. “I put clean sheets on the bed,” I said That probably meant nothing to Gino, but it did to me. This was almost a ritual, a celebration of worship for me—a pagan ceremony just as Christmas was in its origins. This was the point at which I took late teen youths and turned them into wholly submissive men, just as I myself had been trained to everything a cock demanded on that bearskin rug at eighteen.

Gino was the sacrificial virgin—an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old near virgin each time. He hadn’t been fucked before like he was going to be fucked now on the altar of my bed. I could almost guarantee that he hadn’t been taken before as I was going to take him now. Now we were going to get serious. He was going to more than earn his fee.

We never drank the beers. The cans sat, getting warm, on the living room coffee table, the Christmas tree lights still blinking on and off, the background music and porn film continuing on their loops, as the sounds of total taking; passionate screams; snaps of the flogger and struggles against the restraints; the screwing in of the dildoes and the pop of the tear drops on the chain; the thrusting, thrusting, thrusting of my shaft, the conquering victory, and the yielding, gurgling surrender, again and again, emitted from the bedroom area through the night.

It was a trial for Gino, as it had been for me at eighteen when a big-cocked man took me and taught me everything. But, albeit he left the next morning sore and temporarily thoroughly cowed, Gino left smiling and purring and thanking me for the experiences acquired and for a Christmas present he’d never forget—just as I never forgot my first time on the bearskin rug. That visit to Lowes for an on-sale Christmas tree had made my Christmas.

-FINI-