Blake Hart
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Jingle Balls – Part 9
🕑 Added 2025-12-20 16:00:08 +0000 UTCEveryone in this story is 18+
The door creaked open sometime deep in the night, cold air slipping in with Tate’s silhouette. Snowflakes melted on his shoulders as he shrugged off the trench coat, letting it pool on the floor. The candy-cane skirt was rumpled now, thigh-highs twisted from whatever he’d been doing at Braden’s, but he moved straight to my bed like he belonged there.
He didn’t ask. Just slid a hand under the covers, fingers wrapping warm and sure around my girthy cock, stroking slow and lazy. My hips lifted into his grip on instinct, breath catching at how easy it felt, skin dragging over skin in long, unhurried pulls that coaxed fresh pre to the tip.
He climbed on top, knees settling on either side of my waist, skirt brushing my thighs as he leaned down. His palms spread over my chest, tracing every ridge of muscle with this quiet awe that made my skin burn. “Still the beast,” he whispered, thumbs circling my nipples until they peaked hard under his touch. His ass settled lower, warm and bare under the skirt, nudging against my tip—wet from pre, sliding along his crack with the tiniest pressure.
One small push and he’d take me in, heat swallowing every inch.
I surged up to meet him—
And jolted awake gasping, sheets twisted around my legs, dick straining against my boxers so hard the waistband had slipped down and the head was rubbing raw against the fabric with every breath. The room was empty, bed across from mine still made up perfect, no sign he’d come back yet.
What a fucked-up nightmare.
Disappointment hit low and stupid in my gut. I shoved it down fast—stupid brain mixing leftover horniness with whatever bullshit was floating around in there. I rolled onto my side, trying to will the traitor down, but it only throbbed harder, leaking fresh against my stomach like it was laughing at me.
I looked at the morning light gleaming through the window, then the door actually did open quiet.
Tate slipped in, hair damp from snow or shower or whatever, cheeks flushed, that loose satisfied walk that screamed I-just-got-fucked energy. He didn’t look at me right away, just peeled off the trench coat and hung it up, skirt and stockings gone, back in loose sweats and a soft tee like nothing had happened.
I watched him, throat tight, wanting to ask where he’d been all night, if Braden had— No. Not my business. I didn’t care.
He finally glanced over, caught me staring, and gave this small, distant smile. “Morning.”
I cleared my throat, tried for casual. “So… I didn’t really get to beat off last night. I mean—we could do the jerk thing again. Separate beds, obviously. Whatever.”
The words hung there, sounding lamer out loud than in my head.
Tate tilted his head, expression mild. “Nah. I’m good.” He reached into his nightstand drawer, pulled out the lube bottle, and tossed it underhand onto my bed. It landed with a soft thud against my thigh. “But you do you. I’m hitting the shower. See you at breakfast later. Also, remember we’re going skating today.”
He turned, walked out, door clicking shut behind him.
I sat up slow, stared at the bottle like it had insulted my mother, then down at my dick—standing furious, head shiny with pre, veins angry from the dream and the rejection and everything else. The ultimate traitor, selling me out every damn time.
I smacked it hard, open palm right across the head, hoping it would wok again.
It didn’t go down.
It just throbbed harder, redder, leaking another fat drop like it was daring me to try again.
“FUCK!”
I looked towards the door opening.
Tate stood there wide-eyed, towel forgotten in his hand, staring at me sitting up in bed with my dick in one hand and the other raised like I was about to hit it again.
“Okay,” he said slowly, grabbing a towel off the rack. “That just happened. I… just needed this.”
He backed out, door closing soft.
I dropped back onto the pillow, dick still raging, face on fire.
Now I looked like the biggest psycho in this entire fucking Christmas asylum!
◆◆◆
Later that day, the rink was packed with families and screaming kids, Christmas music blasting tinny over the speakers, colored lights strung overhead like a cheap disco. Snow still fell lazy outside the open sides of the indoor arena, drifting in and melting on the boards. Aunt Lisa had declared it “mandatory holiday bonding,” so here we were—Mom and Lisa wobbling around the edge like newborn deer, clutching the wall and cackling every time one of them almost ate ice.
I laced up my hockey skates fast, the familiar bite of the blades grounding me after the morning’s disaster. Tate took forever on the bench next to me, bending over slow to tie his figure skates—white, sleek, the kind with the toe picks that screamed he knew exactly what he was doing. When he finally stood, the reason for the delay hit me full force.
The tricot he’d poured himself into was criminal. Black with red and white candy-stripe panels down the sides, clinging to every line of his torso like it had been painted on, stretching tight across his chest and tapering down to hips that looked carved. The fabric dipped low in the back, flashing the twin dimples above his ass every time he moved. Below that, black leggings disappeared into the skates, outlining thighs and the unmistakable swell between them so clearly it should’ve come with a warning label. Illegal in at least three states, easy.
I looked away fast, adjusted my own loose hockey jersey and track pants like armor, and hit the ice first. Cold air slapped my face, blades biting clean. I carved a few sharp turns, feeling the familiar burn in my calves—hockey drills back home had kept me solid on skates. This was my territory. No weird head games, just speed and power.
Tate glided out a minute later, effortless, arms loose at his sides. He circled me once, slow and showy, then kicked into a tight spin that ended with a little hop and perfect stop, ice spraying in a neat fan. Smug bastard had clearly done figure lessons or some shit.
“Show-off,” I called, pushing off hard and blowing past him in a straight-line sprint that carved deep grooves.
He laughed—light, unbothered—and matched my speed without breaking a sweat, pulling up beside me like it was nothing. We lapped the rink a few times, trading places, cutting each other off just enough to make it a game. Every time our paths crossed, shoulders bumped, blades scraped close, the chill air whipping between us.
Then Tate “slipped”—ankle buckling dramatic on a turn, body pitching forward like he was going down hard. Instinct took over; I twisted fast, arm shooting out to catch him around the waist, hauling him upright against my chest. His back hit my front solid, ass pressing right into my groin for a heartbeat, warm even through layers—before he straightened.
I shoved him off lightly, pulse racing. “Watch your feet, princess.”
“Thanks for the save,” he said, voice low, breath warm on my neck. “My hero.”
“Just my insane cat-like senses kicking in at the last second.” I tried to convince no one.
He just grinned and pushed off again, faster this time, daring me to follow.
The rivalry kicked up without either of us saying it. We started weaving through the slower skaters, trading tricks—me with sharp hockey stops that sprayed ice in his face, him answering with spins and little jumps that landed perfect every time. Kids cleared out of our way, sensing the energy shift. Even the moms stopped clinging to the wall to watch, phones out, filming and cheering like we were Olympians.
It turned into something stupid and fun—an improvised routine neither of us planned. I’d charge straight at him full speed; he’d wait till the last second, pivot graceful, and I’d skid around him in a tight arc. He’d skate backward in front of me, hands on my shoulders steering, then break away into a spin I’d circle like a shark. We synced up weirdly easy, blades flashing, breath fogging between us.
The crowd thinned around the edges, giving us space. Music switched to some upbeat pop remix of a Christmas song, and Tate grabbed my hands sudden—fingers lacing tight—and pulled me into a faster lap, building speed. Before I could think, he nodded once, sharp.
I knew what he wanted.
I dropped low, gripped him around the thighs—fabric of the tricot smooth and warm under my palms and lifted. He went up easy, light as hell, one leg kicking out straight while the other hooked around my shoulder in a perfect layback position, skirt flaring red and white like a flag. I spun us once, twice, arms burning but steady, the rink blurring around us.
The moms screamed. Phones flashed. Kids whooped.
I lowered him slow, meant to set him clean on the ice.
Physics had other plans.
His balance wobbled at the last second—maybe on purpose, maybe not and instead of feet first, he came down crotch-first, the tight bulge in that tricot tumbling straight into my face. Fabric stretched thin over heat, the bulge touching against my cheek for one frozen heartbeat before he caught himself, hands on my shoulders, and slid the rest of the way down laughing breathless.
I staggered back a step, face on fire, blades scraping loud. The bulge had been right there—warm, heavy, impossible to ignore.
Tate landed graceful, cheeks flushed deeper now, eyes dancing. “Whoops. Seems your cat senses failed you this time.”
The rink erupted—applause, whistles, Aunt Lisa yelling “Encore!” while Mom filmed vertical like it was going viral tomorrow. Kids clapped like we’d just won gold.
I forced a laugh, shoved his chest playful to cover the way my blood was roaring south. “You did that on purpose, you little shit.”
He just winked, spun away backward, arms wide like he was bowing to the crowd.
I chased after him, heart pounding harder than the lift ever made it, telling myself the heat in my face was just from the cold and the spin. Totally.
The moms skated over wobbly, gushing about “beautiful cousin bonding” and “you boys should go pro together.” Tate let them fuss over him, dimples flashing, while I hung back pretending to adjust my laces.
Under the jersey my dick pressed thick against my thigh, fully awake again, remembering exactly how that tricot had felt against my skin.
I told it to shut the fuck up.
◆◆◆
The house finally went dark, moms clattering upstairs after too much eggnog and one last round of holiday karaoke that had Aunt Lisa belting “Last Christmas” off-key enough to scare the neighbors’ dogs. I lingered in the living room pretending to watch whatever bowl game rerun was on, volume low, lights from the tree flickering red and green across the screen. My body felt wired, skin too tight, the same heavy ache from before Christmas Eve crawling back in low and relentless, balls drawn up tight like they’d been saving inventory for days.
I lasted another twenty minutes before giving up and heading upstairs. The hallway was quiet, door to our room cracked open.
Tate was already in bed, propped against the headboard scrolling his phone, sheet pulled loose to his waist. He glanced up when I came in, expression neutral, like the rink show this afternoon had never happened.
I shut the door harder than necessary, stripped to boxers, and paced the six feet between our beds twice before the words ripped out of me.
“Look, I could use a hand. Just… you know. Like before.”
He set the phone down slow, one brow lifting, that familiar smirk curling lazy. “A handje? What’s in it for me?”
I blinked, heat crawling up my neck. “What do you mean? You get to jerk me off?”
He laughed low, the sound curling straight into my gut. “Yeah, I might be gay, cous, but I don’t exactly get off on giving straight boys charity strokes.”
My jaw worked, no good comeback ready. The ache throbbed harder, fabric of my boxers already tenting obvious. “Fine. You can… suck it again.”
Tate’s eyes sparkled, amused. “Oh, I feel honored. But that was your Christmas present. It’s not Christmas anymore.” He leaned forward a little, sheet slipping lower. “I want to get fucked.”
The words landed like a slap. “Are you fucking crazy?”
He shrugged, unbothered. “Yeah, I know. We’re cousins. You’re not gay. I got the memo.” Then he nodded toward my crotch, where the swell strained thicker against the cotton. “But did little Brad get the memo?”
I glanced down—betrayed again, the head pushing past the waistband, a wet spot blooming dark. “That’s… beside the point. Not happening. Ever.”
Tate just smiled wider. “Okay. Your call.”
Tate threw the sheet aside in one lazy flick, the fabric clinging to his skin as he rose from the bed. He stood there a heartbeat, letting the glow paint every inch of him—shoulders rolling slow as he gripped the hem of his tee and dragged it upward, cotton catching on the lean swell of his pecs before peeling free over his head. Blonde strands fell messy across his forehead. The shirt dropped forgotten. Then his fingers hooked the waistband of his sweats, shoving them down in a single push that bared narrow hips, the smooth curve of his ass, and the heavy sway of his swollen hardness, already thick and curved upward against his thigh as the pants pooled at his ankles. He stepped out casual, kicked them aside, body fully bare now—skin flushed warm from the day, faint red marks from the rink’s cold still lingering on his collarbones, abs cut sharp enough to cast tiny shadows in the crimson light.
His cock hung heavy between his legs, skin velvet-smooth over rigid heat, the head flared wide and glossy. Below, his sack drew up tight, full and rounded, shifting with every breath. The air thickened instant—coconut lotion from earlier, now layered with something cleaner, lighter, almost sweet underneath the warmth of his skin. Not the heavy, locker-room bite I knew from guys after practice, nothing sharp or earthy like that. Not girly either—no floral overload or perfume cloud. Just… different. Clean skin warmed by blood rushing close to the surface, faint vanilla from whatever body cream he used.
He didn’t flex or pose, just stood there naked like it cost him nothing, like stripping bare six feet from my bed was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“What are you doing?” The words scraped out rough, cracked at the edges.
He lifted his arms overhead in a slow stretch that pulled everything smooth—ribs flaring, back arching just enough to make the twin dimples above his ass deepen, hardness lifting heavier as blood rushed south, head brushing his lower stomach and leaving a faint wet streak. “Going to bed,” he said, voice low and even. “But I gotta take care of some stuff first. If the show bothers you, head downstairs. Probably something on ESPN to watch.”
He dropped back onto his mattress with loose, feline grace—legs falling wide, knees bent outward, one foot planted flat so the smooth cleft of his ass parted slightly against the sheets. His hand slid down his stomach slow, fingers spreading over the faint trail of hair before wrapping firm around his dick. The first pull dragged skin upward in one glide, foreskin peeling back to bare the swollen crown fully, bead stretching into a thin strand before snapping against his thumb.
His other hand drifted lower, palm cupping the weight of his balls first—rolling the rounded swell gentle, tugging downward so the skin pulled taut—then sliding back farther. Fingers traced the warm seam behind, brushing the soft skin there before settling over the tight ring of muscle. He circled once, twice, pressure light at first, then firmer, the pad of one finger pressing in slow until the ring yielded and the digit sank inside to the first knuckle. His hips rolled subtle upward, chasing the intrusion, hardness jumping in his grip as the inner heat clenched around the finger.
The room filled with soft, wet sounds—skin sliding over skin with every upward twist of his fist, the faint catch of breath every time his finger pushed deeper, knuckle by knuckle, until the whole length disappeared inside and his inner walls gripped visible around it. He added a second finger beside the first, easing them in together with a slow twist that made his thighs tense and spread wider, the smooth cheeks of his ass flexing as he bore down to take them.
I meant to move. Door right there. One step and I could’ve been gone.
Instead my feet rooted to the carpet, eyes locked, every nerve firing raw. My own soldier surged upright against my stomach, waistband shoved down from the strain, crown rubbing raw against cotton with every thud of my pulse, fresh strands of pre dripping thick down the underside, pooling warm at the base.
He picked up rhythm gradual—fist tightening, pace quickening into steady, twisting pulls that made his hardness swell darker, the flared head blooming deeper red, veins standing sharp along the underside. His fingers thrust deeper now, spreading wide inside before curling forward, searching. His back arched off the bed a fraction, thighs trembling wider, breath hitching sharp through parted lips every time he nailed the spot that made his hips snap upward into his own grip, sac pulled high and full.
The urgency built fast—fist flying faster now, wet slaps echoing soft in the quiet room, fingers plunging in counter-rhythm, knuckles glistening as they emerged before driving back in. His abs clenched hard, stomach dipping deep with every breath, skin shining faint with fresh sweat that caught the red light like gloss. Thighs spread impossibly wider, foot digging into the mattress for leverage, whole body tight—cock head straining rigid in his grip.
Then he broke—back bowing high off the bed, a sharp exhale punching out as thick surges erupted in heavy, forceful arcs, splattering across his chest and stomach in endless waves. The first burst reached clear to his collarbone, next ones striping down in pearly strands that pooled in the ridges of his abs, dripped slow over the sides onto the sheets, one wild shot even hitting the headboard with a soft patter. The volume was a lot—strand after strand pumping out in heavy surges until his torso gleamed messy under the glow, skin streaked and shining.
He rode it out with a few last lazy strokes, thumb sweeping over the oversensitive head to draw out the final weak spurts until his hand came away strung with sticky threads. Then he sagged back flat, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and sated, lips curved in this small, private smile.
I stood frozen, knees weak, soldier jutting furious into the air, every throb begging for friction, for anything. One stroke and I’d have exploded harder than he just did, painted the whole damn room.
But I didn’t touch. Couldn’t let him see me break.
Tate reached blind for the tissues, wiped himself down unhurried—slow drags through the cooling mess on his chest, fingers smearing it almost like on purpose before cleaning properly. He balled the wad, tossed it toward the trash, missed, didn’t care. Then he rolled away from me, sheet pulled up just enough to cover his hips.
“Night, cous.”
His breathing evened out in what felt like minutes—deep, steady, gone.
I dropped onto my own bed like my legs had given out, hand diving desperate under the waistband. Skin burned hypersensitive, pre everywhere, fist pumping angry and fast. I tried everything—Maddie bent over the frat couch, old videos of her on her knees, random sorority girls from parties—anything straight and safe.
Nothing. The swell softened in my grip, shrank useless no matter how rough I stroked.
I punched the mattress hard enough to rattle the frame, rolled over facing the wall, and stared into the dark.
Comments
Kris
Also I think there is a typo towards the end. I think meant shoulder and wrote soldier.
Kris
Why do I feel like Tate's been planning this the whole time.
Devin
Yea, Brad is attracted to his cousin alright, but if he admits that, that makes him gay. If he plays with his cousin, that would make him gay. Getting a blow job from someone, they’re giving it to you. If you fuck someone, you’re doing it to them. Brad can’t be gay. He’s a big, muscle hunk that fucks woman regularly. This is just a side trip. He can’t be gay! He can’t even be bi! Hell, he can’t even just be fluid! But there is no doubt to his attraction to Tate. And Tate knows what he wants. He’s attracted to his hunky cousin and doesn’t care if his cousin fucks him. He likes his body, face and especially his big dick. Poor Brad, he looses his hard-on when he’s not focused on Tate. So, it’s a waiting game.
