Jingle Balls – Part 10

Everyone in this story is 18+

I woke up staring at the ceiling, Tate’s candy-cane lights still glowing their annoying red stripes across the room like they’d been mocking me for the last week straight. My balls felt like overfilled water balloons—heavy, tender, aching deep with every shift of my legs under the sheet. Honestly, the last few days had been a blur. A blue-balled, mind-fucking blur.

Maddie hadn’t sent a single text. Not one emoji, not even a read receipt on the thirsty mirror pics I’d fired off. Radio silence. Whatever, she was probably sulking about the post-Thanksgiving turkey-puke ban, but the second I walked through the frat door tomorrow she’d be all over me. No girl could resist this scruff, these arms, this everything. Five minutes tops and she’d be on her back, legs wrapped around my waist, begging for what she’d been missing.

Tate, though—that little shit had kept his embargo locked tight. Every time I even hinted at relief, he’d just smirk and hit me with the same line: “Fuck or nothing.” Then he’d vanish to Braden’s for the night or put on one of those private cam shows right across the room—legs spread, fingers working himself open, finishing with a mess that made my mouth go dry and my fella strain useless against my thigh. He got his whenever he wanted. Me? Nothing. Not a single stroke from another hand, not even a pity tug. I’d held the line out of pure stubbornness. I wasn’t gay. Period. This was just frustration piled on frustration, a dry spell in a house full of landmines. One more day and I was free—back to campus, back to pussy, back to normal.

I rolled onto my side, sheet tenting obvious over the morning swell that refused to quit.

Tate stirred across the room, stretching big under his blanket, arms overhead, back arching so the sheet slipped down to his hips. Blonde hair stuck up wild, eyes still half-closed as he yawned.

“Mornin’,” I muttered, voice rough from sleep.

“Mornin’, cous.” He scratched his stomach lazy, sheet dipping lower. “Can’t believe it’s New Year’s Eve already. Time flies.”

“Yeah,” I said, sitting up and swinging my legs off the bed like I didn’t have a flagpole situation going on. “Can’t wait to get back home tomorrow.”

He rolled onto his side facing me, head propped on one hand, that familiar smirk creeping in. “Aw, won’t you miss me?”

I snorted, grabbed yesterday’s sweats off the floor and yanked them on, adjusting myself rough so the waistband sat right. “You’re not as bad as you were when we were kids, I’ll give you that. But you’re one horny little shit. Are you gonna jerk off again?”

“Thanks, I guess.” He laughed soft, sat up fully, sheet pooling in his lap. “Nah, not jerking off right now. Figure I’ll wait till next year. Makes it more special.” He winked, stretching again so his lean torso pulled tight, skin catching the red light in smooth lines.

We both cracked up—me because the guy was an actual psycho, him because he knew it.

“How about you?” he asked, tilting his head. “Haven’t seen you beat one out in days. Turning monk or something?”

“Very funny.” I stood, flexed my arms overhead just to remind myself who still owned the room. “Saving it for Maddie. Gonna wreck her tomorrow night, finally. Edging makes everything better, y’know.”

“Yeah, true,” he said, nodding like he actually agreed. “But I can’t edge more than a day or two tops or my balls would legit burst.”

I barked a laugh despite myself—short, surprised, real. The guy was a gay-gremlin, a total little shit, but… kinda cool in his own twisted way. At least he owned it.

“One more day,” I told myself out loud, grabbing a shirt. “Just one more day.”

Tate flopped back against his pillow, arms behind his head, watching me with that lazy half-smile.

Outside, snow crunched under tires in the driveway—Aunt Lisa already revving up for whatever chaotic New Year’s plans she had brewing. Fireworks, champagne, mandatory family photos at midnight. One last gauntlet.

I could survive this.

◆◆◆

The day blurred into one long, champagne-fueled fever dream. Aunt Lisa had turned the house into a full-on New Year’s rave—gold balloons everywhere, glitter cannons primed by the front door, a playlist blasting classics and new songs. Mom and Lisa had been sipping since brunch, nine straight days of holiday “cheer” turning them into absolute legends of chaos. By dinner they were already half-gone, faces flushed, laughing too loud at their own jokes while they passed around the turkey leftovers like it was Thanksgiving round two, minus Maddie.

We crammed around the dining table—platters of cold cuts, cranberry sauce turned into shots somehow, more bottles popping every five minutes. Tate sat across from me, looking good as always in a loose black sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, flashing collarbone every time he reached for the champagne. I kept topping off his glass just to watch the bubbles cling to his lips before he licked them away. He’d catch me staring and wink, like he knew exactly what that little tongue flick was doing to my bloodstream.

The moms dominated the conversation—ratchet as hell at this point, trading stories about their wild college days that got progressively filthier with every refill. Aunt Lisa demonstrated her old sorority dance moves right there at the table, hips popping side to side while Mom hyped her up with finger whistles. Tate and I just sat there cracking up, trading side-eyes every time Lisa almost knocked over the gravy boat with an enthusiastic twerk.

After dinner the real party kicked off. Living room lights dimmed to just the tree glow and those tacky gold string lights Lisa had strung everywhere. The playlist shifted hard—WAP dropped and the moms lost their absolute minds. Lisa grabbed Mom’s hands and they started full-on twerking in front of the fireplace, asses bouncing in perfect sync, cackling like hyenas while the lyrics blasted about wet-ass everything. Tate leaned over, champagne breath warm against my ear.

“I gave Braden a strip tease to this song once,” he whispered, voice low and filthy. “Kid almost blew right there on the spot, no hands.”

I choked on my sip. “Dude. TMI.”

He pulled back just enough to grin, eyes sparkling. “That’s literally one of the least fucked-up things I’ve said all week.”

“True that,” I admitted, and we both cracked up, the fizz and the absurdity hitting just right.

We clinked glasses, both buzzing hard now, the room spinning soft at the edges. My phone buzzed then—Snap notification from one of the frat bros. I opened it casual, expecting some drunk group pic from whatever party they were at.

Wrong.

The video loaded: balcony overlooking city lights, New Year’s crowd noise in the background. Mark—fucking Mark—had Maddie bent over the railing, dress hiked up, pounding into her from behind hard enough the camera shook. Her face twisted in that way I knew too well, mouth open, fake tits bouncing with every thrust. Caption: “Figured you wanted to know. Sorry, bro.”

The room tilted. Champagne turned sour in my stomach. Ego cratered—sharp, sudden, like a punch I didn’t see coming. All the delusions from this morning—Maddie waiting, begging—shattered. She’d been playing me the whole time. Maddie hadn’t been sulking. She’d been getting railed by that smug fuck the whole break while I sat here blue-balled and confused.

Tate noticed instant, leaned in closer. The moms were still going, now trying to teach each other some TikTok dance and failing spectacular, collapsing in giggles on the rug.

“You okay?” he asked quiet, real concern cutting through the noise.

I shoved the phone face-down on the coffee table harder than I meant to. The moms were still twerking, oblivious, now trying to teach each other the renegade or whatever TikTok dance they’d seen. I swallowed the rest of my champagne in one burn.

“Maddie’s getting fucked but that shit,” I said, flat.

Tate didn’t laugh. Didn’t say “told you so” even though he easily could’ve. Just studied my face for a second, then topped off both our glasses without asking.

“She’s an idiot,” he said, simple. You’re literally the hottest guy most people will ever stand in the same room with. Built like a goddamn statue, face that could sell cologne, dick that should have its own fan club. And you’re actually funny when you’re not busy pretending girls puking on turkeys is wife material.”

I huffed a laugh despite everything. “Keep going.”

He smirked, but it was gentler than usual. “You deserve someone who doesn’t ghost you for almost two weeks then turns up getting dicked down by that ugly fuck of all people. You’re miles out of her league, Brad.”

The moms chose that moment to collapse onto the couch in a heap, declaring undying love for each other and how proud they were of “their beautiful boys.” Lisa reached over and squeezed Tate’s cheek, slurring about what a perfect young man he was, then turned to me with teary eyes and said I was her favorite nephew even if I did grunt more than talk. We let them ramble until their words slurred into snores, tangled under the same blanket like a pair of passed-out flamingos.

Tate stood first, stretched big. “Come on. Living room TV. We’re not letting this night die with them.”

I followed him in, both of us grabbing fresh bottles on the way. We crashed onto the massive sectional, tree lights painting gold across his face, fireworks already popping distant outside the big windows. He flicked through channels until he landed on some countdown pre-show in Times Square, volume low.

We kept drinking. Kept talking shit—Maddie’s fake tits, her Temu collabs, the way she’d called out Mark’s name that night. Tate roasted her mercilessly but somehow made me laugh harder with every jab, like he was popping all the poison out one burn at a time. For the first time all week it felt easy. No games. Just two dudes getting drunk and bonding over mutual trash-talk.

The clock ticked closer to midnight. Tate scrolled his phone, landed on WAP again, and hit play with this evil little grin.

He stood up slow, started moving—nothing serious at first, just playful hips swaying to the beat, sweater riding up to flash that strip of skin above his waistband. Hands dragging slow up his torso, thumbs hooking the hem and lifting just enough to tease abs before dropping it again.

I watched, champagne buzzing warm in my veins, the room soft and gold around us.

“So,” I said, voice rougher than I meant, “the routine. The one you did for Braden? Show me.”

He froze mid-move, eyebrows shooting up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged, trying for casual even though my heart was hammering. “Just for fun.”

Tate’s grin went sharp, delighted. “Brb.”

He vanished upstairs. I sat there alone, pulse thudding in my ears, dick already half-interested just from the preview. Fireworks cracked louder outside, distant cheers filtering through the windows.

Minutes dragged. Then footsteps on the stairs—slow, deliberate.

He stepped into the glow of the tree lights and I forgot how to breathe.

Candy-cane skirt barely skimming the tops of his thighs. Sheer white thigh-highs with those little red bows hugging smooth muscle. Cropped top clinging tight, hem riding high enough to flash the dipped curve of his waist. No panties. Nothing underneath. Every shift of his hips made the pleats flutter, flashing bare skin beneath like a promise and a threat.

“Shit,” I rasped.

Tate just smirked, hit play on his phone again—WAP blasting low and filthy through the living room speakers.

Then he moved.

It wasn’t dancing. It was weaponized seduction—slow at first, hips rolling deep to the bass, hands dragging up his own thighs and under the skirt, lifting the hem just enough to flash everything before letting it drop. He spun slow, back to me, bent forward until the skirt rode up completely—smooth cheeks parting, tight heat on full display, thigh-highs stretching as he widened his stance. Fingers traced down his own crack, spreading himself open for half a heartbeat before straightening with this wicked glance over his shoulder.

He dropped low, ass popping out in perfect circles, skirt flipping up with every bounce. Turned to face me again, top peeled off in one smooth pull and tossed aside—lean torso gleaming under the lights, nipples peaked hard from the cool air. Hands cupped his chest, thumbs flicking the buds before sliding lower, under the waistband of the skirt, wrapping around his own hardness and stroking slow and visible through the fabric.

Every move targeted. Every roll of his hips aimed right at me. He crawled forward across the carpet like a cat, knees spreading wide, skirt riding higher until nothing was hidden—hand working himself in long, twisting pulls that made pre drip thick down his fingers and onto the rug.

My sweats were soaked through, length straining furious against the fabric, head rubbing raw with every throb, balls drawn up so tight I was already teetering on the edge just from watching.

He reached the couch, climbed up slow—knees planting on either side of my thighs until he straddled my lap, skirt flared around us, bare ass settling heavy and warm right on the ridge of my trapped length. Heat bled through the thin layers between us as he rolled down hard, grinding slow circles that dragged his crack along every inch of me.

His mouth brushed my ear, breath champagne-sweet and filthy.

“Fuck me, cous.”

Tate didn’t stop at the whisper. He ground down harder, hips circling slow and filthy, skirt bunched up around his waist now, bare skin dragging direct over the soaked front of my sweats. Every roll pressed his ass cheeks apart against the ridge of my soldier, heat radiating through the thin fabric, his own swollen length rubbing alongside mine—skin on cotton, wet and insistent. The bells on his thigh-highs jingled soft with each twist, a mocking little soundtrack to the way he worked me like he was trying to exorcise every last shred of resistance from my body.

My hands gripped his hips tighter, fingers digging into smooth flesh, pulling him down harder without meaning to. The room spun faint from champagne and the bass still thumping low, moms snoring oblivious on the next couch over.

I leaned in, lips brushing his ear, voice wrecked and barely air. “We can’t. Not here. They could wake up any second.”

He slowed but didn’t stop, one last deep grind that dragged his cleft along my full length, tip nudging right against his hole for a teasing heartbeat. Then he pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, grin sharp in the TV glow.

“Meet me in the shed. Five minutes.” He stood smooth, skirt falling back into place but doing nothing to hide the jut of his hardness tenting the pleats. “If you’re not there… that’s your call.”

He padded upstairs barefoot, bells jingling faint all the way up.

I sat there frozen, soldier throbbing angry against my stomach, balls drawn up so tight they ached deep, leaking steady through the fabric in a mess that cooled fast against skin. Maddie’s snap looped in my head—her getting railed on that balcony, face twisted in pleasure I thought was mine. Fuck her. Fuck waiting. Fuck pretending anymore.

Guy or not, cousin or not—I was getting laid tonight. Balls screaming, body on fire, one week of denial snapping like a rubber band pulled too far.

◆◆◆

I waited the longest five minutes of my life, heart hammering loud enough I swore the moms would hear. Then I slipped out the back door quiet, cold air slapping my face, snow crunching under my sneakers as I crossed the yard to the shed. Fireworks popped distant somewhere in the neighborhood, early testers lighting the sky faint.

Inside smelled like pine boards and old lawn mower gas, moonlight slicing through the small window. I paced the narrow space between tool benches, my cock straining upright in my sweats, tip rubbing raw against the waistband with every step.

Door creaked open. Tate slipped in, shutting it soft behind him, lube bottle dangling from one hand, grin wide and knowing under the dim bulb

I didn’t wait, no more waiting. Grabbed him by the waist, spun him around, bent him over the workbench rough. Hands shoved the skirt up to his hips, baring that smooth ass—cheeks parting easy, and there it was: the jeweled plug winking red in the light, base nestled snug between them.

“Fuck,” I hissed, fingers hooking the base, twisting slow before pulling steady. It popped free with a wet sound, his hole clenching empty for a second, pink and ready, glistening faint from whatever he’d worked in earlier.

He pushed back against me, ass grinding air. “Do it.”

I shoved my sweats down just enough, the pre cum soaked erection springing free thick and veined, head flared from days of nothing. Lube cold from his hand as he passed it back—I lubed the myself quick, fist flying messy over the length as I mixed the lube with my own juices, then pressed the tip against him. Tate moaned like a whore in heat.

One push and I sank in—Tate moaned more, walls gripping completely snug and soft around every ridge, pulling me deeper like they’d been waiting for this exact fit. Tighter than anything I’d felt before, dragging along the underside with every thrust forward until my hips met his ass flush, balls slapping soft against his as he panted.

I pulled back and drove in again, harder, pace turning frantic fast—skin slapping loud in the small space, his body rocking forward with every slam, workbench creaking under us. The grip was completely insane, squeezing from base to tip on every drag out, fluttering wild when I buried deep.

First fireworks cracked outside—real ones now, booming bright through the window, lighting the shed in flashes of red and gold that painted his back striped as he arched into it.

I got this strange urge, I flipped Tate around sudden, hands under his thighs lifting easy—he wrapped legs around my waist, skirt flipped up between us, thigh-highs sliding silk against my sides. Face to face now, eyes locked in the bursts of light, I drove back in deep—one hard thrust that buried me to the root again.

“Happy New Year, cous,” I rasped, crashing my mouth against his—lips parting instant, tongues tangling messy, tasting champagne and heat and something sharper.

He laughed into the kiss, breathless, then gasped sharp as I started railing for real—hips snapping brutal, my Spartan soldier plunging fast and deep, hitting that spot inside that made his whole body jolt every time. The tightness gripped different from anything else—not like pussy, not like anything familiar—just pure, gripping heat that milked me relentless, walls fluttering wild around the length with every slam, I had no idea how I hadn’t cum yet.

He wasn’t a guy in that moment. Wasn’t my cousin. Just this Christmas nymph wrapped around me, skirt bunched ridiculous at his waist, his own dick trapped leaking between our firm abs, balls slapping mine with every thrust downward. Body lithe and eager, taking everything I gave and pushing back for more, nails digging into my shoulders through the shirt.

Tate’s legs clamped tighter around my waist, heels digging sharp into my back as I pounded deeper, hips slamming brutal and relentless. The shed rattled with every thrust, tools clattering on shelves, moonlight strobing wild through the window with each fireworks burst outside. His skirt stayed bunched ridiculous between us, thigh-highs sliding silk against my sides, bells jingling frantic like a filthy holiday chime.

He threw his head back, throat bared in the flashing light, and those high, needy sounds spilled out—soft, breathy little cries that climbed sharper every time I buried full, walls gripping fierce around my length, squeezing from root to tip like they wanted to own every inch. Each gasp hit me low, made my balls pull up aching, the pressure turning knife-sharp.

I gripped his ass harder, fingers sinking deep into smooth flesh, spreading him wide so I could hit new angles—short, grinding jabs that dragged the head over that spot inside until his whole body jerked, those girly sounds breaking faster, desperate and sweet.

The edge rushed up savage—days of denial stacked high and crashing down. My erection throbbed angry inside him, veins dragging along deep heat, every pull back fighting the grip, every slam forward burying deeper in fire.

Fireworks peaked outside—booms shaking the shed walls, sky exploding white and gold and red—as Tate’s back bowed sharp, thighs clamping vise-tight, those cries turning broken and wild.

He locked eyes with me, lips parted, breath hitching ragged, and started singing—voice wrecked and breathy, right against my mouth, timing the filthy words to every thrust:

“Jingle balls… jingle balls… cousin’s gonna blow… All the way… what the hell… fill me head to toe… Oh what fun… it is to cum… on New Year’s Eve… hey!”

The last “hey” cracked high as his body seized—cock surging against my stomach, tip flaring wide—and then he erupted, thick surges blasting hot between us in heavy, endless waves. The first hit splashed high across my chest and neck, next ones striping down my jaw and lips in warm, messy streaks, some catching my cheek as I drove deeper. Didn’t care. Just railed harder through it, feeling his walls spasm wild around me, milking every inch.

The buildup exploded—the jingle balls contracting brutal, emptying everything in forceful floods that felt endless. Surge after surge pumped deep inside him, filling him so full I felt the warmth around the base on every thrust back in. My hips jerked erratic, body shaking as the pleasure ripped through sharper than anything before—no quick finish, no drunk hookup. This dragged on forever, wave after wave dragged up from the core until my legs went numb and I sagged against him, still buried full, twitching with the last weak floods.

We stayed locked like that—chests heaving, skin sticky and streaked between us, shed smelling like sweat and sex and cold pine air. Fireworks faded slow outside, distant cheers echoing faint from neighbors.

Tate laughed breathless against my neck, legs still wrapped loose around me. I pulled back just enough to look at him—hair wild, lips swollen, skirt ruined and twisted, face flushed deep.

“Happy New Year, cous,” he whispered, voice wrecked and satisfied.

I huffed a laugh, forehead dropping to his. “Yeah. Happy fucking New Year.”

My Santa’s soldier gave one last salute inside him, spent but still half-hard, like it knew there could be a second round.