Blake Hart
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Jingle Balls – Part 11 - Finale
🕑 Added 2025-12-29 21:00:04 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
I woke up slow, head thick from champagne and whatever the hell had happened after the shed. Sunlight sliced through the blinds in harsh stripes, hitting my eyes like a hangover hammer. The room smelled like sleep and sex and that faint vanilla warmth that always clung to Tate’s skin. My body felt heavy, spent in the best way—muscles loose, balls finally quiet for once.
How the fuck did I even get back to bed? Flashes hit me piecemeal: stumbling through snow, Tate’s hand in mine pulling me inside quiet, moms still passed out on the couch. We’d shoved the two beds together sometime after, sheets tangled, bodies crashing down without a word. Didn’t care then. Didn’t care now.
Tate was wrapped around me like a blanket—leg thrown over my thigh, arm draped across my chest, head tucked under my chin, blonde hair tickling my neck. His breathing deep and even, skin warm against mine, skirt gone somewhere on the floor, thigh-highs still on but twisted from the night. I felt my crotch stirring instant, thickening against his hip, morning wood turning urgent fast just from the press of him.
I didn’t fight it anymore. Didn’t want to.
My hand slid down his back slow, tracing the dip of his spine, fingers brushing the curve where his ass started. He shifted in sleep, pressing closer, that soft cleft nudging my thigh. The touch woke him gradual—eyes fluttering open, hazy and dark, lips curving sleepy when he saw me watching.
“Morning again,” he whispered, voice rough from last night’s cries.
I didn’t answer with words. Just rolled him onto his back gentle, sheets falling away, and slid down the bed. He blinked surprised, breath catching as I settled between his thighs, hands spreading them wider. His own morning hardon lay heavy against his stomach already, hardening even more under my stare, head glossy and flared from the first touch of cool air.
I leaned in amateur but starving—lips wrapping the tip messy, tongue flattening broad along the underside, tasting salt and leftover heat from hours ago. No finesse, just hunger: mouth sinking deeper sloppy, spit trailing down the sides as I bobbed eager, cheeks hollowing awkward but trying, hand wrapping the base to stroke what I couldn’t take yet. He filled my mouth thick and warm, veins dragging over my tongue with every pull back, pre fresh and sharp on my taste buds.
Tate’s hips lifted subtle, fingers threading my hair not guiding, just holding, those breathy sounds starting up again—high and needy, thighs tensing under my palms.
I pulled off gasping, spit stringing from my lips to his head, and dove back in messier—tongue swirling the slit, sucking hard enough to make him buck, hand pumping fast and wet while my other cupped his balls, rolling the full weight gentle.
He tugged my hair light, voice cracking desperate. “Brad—fuck—need you inside again. Please.”
I looked up, lips swollen and shiny, smirk pulling slow. “Who’s begging now?”
“Shut up,” he laughed breathless, legs spreading wider, knees pulling back to his chest like an invitation.
I crawled up, my own hardon jutting thick and ready, tip nudging his hole still loose, crusty and warm from last night. Pushed in slow this time—missionary, face to face, eyes locked as the heat swallowed me inch by inch, walls gripping different in daylight. He took me easy, hips tilting up to meet, breath hitching sharp when I went balls deep inside him.
The bed creaked loud from the first thrust—didn’t care if the moms heard, didn’t care about anything but the drag and grip and the way his body arched under me. I started slow, grinding deep circles that made his thighs quake, then picked up—hips snapping steady, skin slapping skin, headboard knocking the wall in rhythm.
Leaned down, mouth finding his ankle—kissing the inside, tongue tracing the bone, teeth grazing light while I drove in harder. Then his mouth—lips crashing messy, tongues tangling wet, tasting myself on him from earlier. Pulled out sudden, slid down fast, took him back in my mouth eager—sucking hard, spit everywhere, hand twisting the base—before crawling up and plunging back inside, deeper angle now, hitting spots that made his eyes roll.
He sounded like pure filth—those slutty, broken cries spilling constant, high and shameless, legs wrapped my waist pulling me closer, nails raking my back. The grip inside fluttered wild with every slam, ass lifting off the mattress to meet me halfway.
Pressure built different this morning—slower burn, deeper pull, balls drawing up heavy again like they’d magically refilled by elves overnight. I played with Tate’s wet cock between us, sliding wet against my stomach, head bumping my abs with every thrust.
He locked eyes again, grin wicked through the haze, and started the verse—voice breathy and wrecked, timing it perfect to my hips:
“Jingle balls… jingle balls… cousin’s deep inside… Ring in new… year with goo… best fuck of my life… Oh what fun… to take that cum… on New Year’s Day… hey!”
The last word cracked high as he broke—his dick surging against my stomach, tip flaring wide, thick surges blasting hot between us in heavy waves. The first splashed high across my chest, next ones striping my neck and jaw in warm streaks, some hitting my cheek as I pounded through it. His inner walls clamped brutal around me, milking every inch.
That dragged me over.
The orgasm hit endless—balls emptying in forceful floods that pumped deep inside him, filling him full again until warmth leaked around the base with every thrust. Wave after wave ripped up from the root, body shaking hard, pleasure dragging on brutal and sharp until my arms gave and I collapsed over him, still buried deep, twitching with the last floods.
We lay tangled, breathing ragged, skin sticky and streaked, bed a wreck of sheets and sweat. Sunlight warmed the room now, snow melting soft off the roof outside.
Tate laughed quiet against my shoulder, fingers tracing lazy down my back.
“Best wake-up ever,” he whispered.
I huffed agreement, lips brushing his neck. Didn’t need words.
◆◆◆
The house finally stirred around noon, sunlight pouring harsh through the windows like it was judging everybody. Aunt Lisa shuffled in first, robe hanging open, hair a bird’s nest, squinting against the light like a vampire. Mom followed, groaning dramatic about her head, both of them piecing together fragments of last night—fireworks, too much champagne, passing out mid-cheer. They didn’t mention any suspicious noises. Either they’d slept through everything or the holiday magic had granted us one last miracle.
Tate and I played it cool over coffee and leftover pie—him in loose sweats that hung low on his hips. The moms hugged us both sloppy and sentimental, Aunt Lisa pressing extra pie on me for the flight, Mom tearing up about how nice it was to see us “getting along so well.” We nodded, smiled, let them have their moment.
Before we left, the moms vanished for a moment. Tate grabbed my hand quick, tugged me under the mistletoe still hanging in the hallway doorway—cheesy plastic berries and all. I didn’t hesitate. Pulled him in close, mouth finding his easy, kiss turning hungry fast. He jumped up sudden, legs wrapping my waist, arms looping my neck, body pressing flush as our tongues tangled slow and deep. I held him up easy, hands under his ass squeezing firm, feeling him harden against my stomach through the thin fabric while the kiss dragged on, breath mixing warm and tasting like coffee and last night.
We broke apart breathless when Aunt Lisa’s laugh echoed from the kitchen. He slid down slow, feet hitting the floor, grin wide and wicked.
“Safe flight, cous,” he whispered, fingers brushing my jaw one last time.
“Yeah. You too.” I adjusted myself obvious in my jeans, smirked. “Behave till I get back.”
He just winked.
◆◆◆
Mom and I hit the road an hour later—hugs, promises to visit sooner, Aunt Lisa waving from the porch like a queen. The drive to the airport blurred quiet, snow melting off the roads, radio playing some soft oldies station Mom loved. I stared out the window mostly, replaying flashes: shed walls shaking, Tate’s legs around my neck, the way he’d looked lit up by fireworks when I filled him.
At the gate, I boarded early, found my seat by the window, phone finally connecting to Wi-Fi. First thing: opened Maddie’s chat.
Typed: Happy new year. Hope you and Mark have a good one.
Thumb hovered over “cunt.” Let it sit a second, feeling the old anger flare weak and tired. Then deleted it. Sent it without “cunt.” Didn’t even sting anymore. I really didn’t give a shit.
Closed that thread forever.
I Opened the airline app instead. Searched flights. Booked it without thinking twice. Confirmation pinged.
Then I pulled up Tate’s chat. Attached the ticket screenshot.
Cant wait. Bring the costume.
Hit send.
Phone buzzed almost instant.
Tate: I’ll be there cous 💎
Then a Snap notification.
Opened it: mirror shot from behind—Tate bent slight over his bed, skirt flipped up, cheeks spread just enough to show the jeweled plug nestled deep, red gem winking under the candy-cane lights. Caption: “Already packed and ready 🎄😘”
I stared at it longer than I should’ve, trusted soldier stirring thick against my thigh even in the middle of a crowded plane.
Closed the app, leaned back, and grinned out the window as we taxied.
New year, new rules.
And I was already counting down the days.
--- --- ---
Thank you for reading along on this crazy little Christmas Story! I hope you all found some joy, horniness, frustration and laughter from it <3
Comments
Blake
Yeah, its seems you guys want that. And, I'm happy to oblige:)
Shannon1493
I feel like we need more to this, maybe an episode or two their nextt meet up and would be hilarious to see how Maddie reacts
Blake
Yeah, that tracks. I wrote this entire story over a few days in early December, so I was in a strong headspace with a clear sense of the tone. I wanted to capture Brad’s chaotic pivot. I hope you liked it :)
Jules
It also was an interesting departure from your typical writing style. It was crass in a fascinating way. Intentional use of verbs crashing together and disjointed sentences made it seem more urgent and raw. Maybe the right term is “stream of consciousness”
