Jingle Balls – Part 8

Everyone in this story is 18+

The back seat felt smaller than the trunk, darker, warmer from our breath already fogging the windows in thick swirls. Snow muffled everything outside, turning the world into white silence while inside it was just the rustle of robes, the creak of leather, and my heart hammering so loud I swore he could hear it.

Tate shifted closer, knee sliding between mine, hand still on my thigh but higher now, fingers tracing the edge where robe met skin. His eyes locked on mine in the dim glow from the dashboard clock, that same half-smile playing on his lips like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day I walked in on him with Braden.

“Tell me what you want,” he said, voice low, thumb brushing the tie of my robe loose. “Say it.”

I swallowed, throat dry, hips already shifting toward his touch without permission. Five days—six now—of buildup roared in my ears, balls so heavy they dragged with every breath. The cold leather stuck to my calves, snowflakes melting on the window beside my head, but all I felt was heat.

He leaned in, breath warm against my jaw. “Come on, cous. You’ve been leaking all day. Just say it.”

His fingers finally slipped under the robe, wrapping around my length through the thin fabric of my boxers, squeezing once, slow and testing. Pre had already soaked through, making the slide easy, obscene. My hips jerked up into his grip on instinct.

“Fuck,” I hissed, head falling back against the seat. “Tate—”

“Say it.”

I hated how fast the words came. “Touch me. Please. Just—do something.”

He tugged the waistband down, freed me into the cold air, and the shock of it made me buck. His hand closed around bare skin, fist slick with spit he’d gathered quick from his own mouth, pumping once, twice, twisting at the head until strings of pre stretched between his fingers and my thigh.

The pace was messy, urgent, spit dripping down over my balls as he worked me with both hands now—one stroking fast, the other cupping low, rolling my sack in warm fingers, pressing just hard enough to make my vision spark. Leather creaked under us, windows completely fogged, snow piling soft against the glass.

I was already there, spine bowing, breath ragged against the roof of the car.

He stopped.

Just—stopped. Hand frozen mid-stroke, thumb pressed under the head, holding me right on the brink.

“No—no, don’t—” I choked, hips chasing his fist, desperate.

He leaned down, breath ghosting over the tip, tongue flicking out once, quick and wet, tasting the pre beading there. “Want my mouth?”

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

His throat opened around my purple-ish cock, wet heat swallowing every inch until his nose pressed into my stomach. The suction was instant, brutal, tongue flattening along the underside, cheeks hollowing as he pulled back slow and dove again.

Then he stopped again, the little shit.

“Want to fuck me?”

The question hit like a slap. My brain blanked, every nerve screaming yes, consequences a million miles away. At this point if Grandma had shuffled out here in her nightgown and offered, I’d have at least considered it for half a second just to end the ache.

“Yeah,” I rasped, voice wrecked. “I wanna fuck you.”

He smiled against my skin, took me deep in one slide, then the bobbing started, coupled with the relentless massage of my pent-up nuts. It was only a question of time.

It lasted less than a minute—maybe thirty seconds of pure, blinding overload.

My hands buried themselves in his hair on pure instinct, fingers twisting tight as my hips drove up sharp and uncontrollable, once, twice, chasing that wet heat wrapped around every throbbing inch. The pressure that had been building for days—bruising, relentless, a constant low throb behind my balls—snapped like a dam breaking all at once.

The first surge ripped through me so hard my back arched off the leather seat, a heavy sound tearing out of my chest as thick, endless jets erupted straight down his throat in heavy, forceful bursts. Each one felt like it was dragged up from the root, my balls contracting hard, emptying everything they’d hoarded in hot, relentless waves that left me shaking. He took it all without pulling back, throat working around me, swallowing in steady pulls that dragged out every last spasm until my vision blurred at the edges and my legs went numb.

Sweat cooled fast on my skin in the trapped air of the car, leather clinging sticky to my back and thighs. My chest heaved like I’d sprinted miles, breath ragged against the fogged window, the taste of snow and pine faint through the cracked door mixing with the salt-heavy scent of what I’d just unloaded.

He eased off slow, tongue sweeping the oversensitive head one last time, drawing out a final weak spurt that left me twitching. I sagged against the seat, heavy and empty in a way that felt almost violent after days of being so painfully full.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by our breathing and the soft patter of snow on the roof.

Tate sat back, wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, and gave me that same lazy, satisfied smile he’d been wearing all week—like he’d just unwrapped the exact present he wanted.

I yanked my robe closed, face burning hotter than the load I’d just lost, and stared hard at the dashboard like it had answers.

“Whatever,” I muttered, voice rough. “Needed that out of my system.”

He laughed soft, breath still warm against my thigh. “Sure, cous.”

Tate sat back fully, robe hanging open, and the dashboard glow caught him just right—lips swollen and shiny, a faint sheen on his chin where some of it had escaped his mouth, streaks drying sticky on his neck and the collar of his robe like I’d marked him without meaning to. He looked like a wrecked whore, hair messed from my hands, eyes lazy and bright, like he’d just won something big, but I knew it was me who had won.

I stared for half a second too long, then snapped out of it and fumbled for the glove box. Found a pack of wet wipes Aunt Lisa kept for “emergencies,” (this counted as one) and yanked out a handful. The leather seat under me was damp in spots, windows fogged solid, the air thick with that heavy smell. I wiped myself down fast, rough passes over my stomach and thighs, trying to erase the evidence while Tate did the same, slow and unhurried, dragging a wipe across his chin and neck like he was savoring it.

“Explosive,” he said, voice husky, tossing the used wipe into a little trash bag. “Seat’s gonna need detailing.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, but my face burned hotter as I scrubbed at a streak on the door handle. No way was I letting the moms find this tomorrow.

We climbed out into the cold, snow crunching under Crocs, the night air slapping sense back into me one freezing gust at a time. The shock of it cleared my head just enough for the regret to rush in full force.

What I said earlier, no fucking way I was fucking a cousin. That was messed up on every level. Especially a dude. Like, ew—give me a nice warm pussy any day, soft and wet and familiar. Maddie’s face flashed in my mind, her tits, the way she used to ride me until we both couldn’t breathe. I still hadn’t heard from her, not a single text since Thanksgiving. I needed to call her tomorrow, get back to normal life, remind myself what I actually wanted.

This house was driving me insane, turning me into someone I didn’t recognize.

Back upstairs, he ducked into the bathroom to “wash up.” Water ran. I stripped the robe, crawled under my covers still sticky and spent, and stared at the ceiling like I’d just won some moral victory.

Fuck Tate and his games. That was a one-time thing. Stress relief. Done.

I was back on top.

Tomorrow I’d be the same old Brad—straight, untouchable, totally over whatever the hell that was.

Sleep hit fast, smug and certain.

◆◆◆

Sunlight stabbed through the blinds like it was personally invited, painting red and green stripes across the ceiling from those stupid candy-cane lights Tate rarely turned off. I woke up first for once, eyes snapping open on their own, body buzzing with this weird, triumphant energy—like I'd just crushed a championship game and the crowd was still chanting my name.

In my head, this epic classical track started playing, that one with the flutes and the birds chirping, the sunrise vibe from every old Looney Tunes cartoon where Bugs Bunny yawns and stretches as the farm wakes up. You know, that "good morning, world" banger. ‘Morning Wood’ by Edward somebody—Vivaldi? Beethoven? Whatevs, the point is it was blasting in my brain like a victory anthem, horns swelling, everything bright and fresh and mine.

And speaking of morning wood—yeah, the trusty soldier was standing at attention, thick and heavy under the sheets like always. But this time it felt normal. Reliable. Like a bro saluting the day instead of some desperate traitor begging to rail my own cousin or whatever freak-show bullshit had been going on the last week. Nah, this was standard frat-god issue: wake up hard, think about Maddie's tits or some sorority girl's ass, handle business quick if needed, move on with life. No drama and no weird detours.

I flexed my pecs under the duvet, felt that satisfying bounce, and smirked at the ceiling. Last night? Ancient history. Stress relief in a foggy car, nothing more. Biology won, I got mine, system flushed. Tate probably thought he'd mind-fucked me or some shit, but joke's on him—I was clearer than ever. Straight as an arrow. Back in control. This house couldn't touch me anymore.

I stretched big, arms overhead, abs tightening, the kind of stretch that makes you feel ten feet tall and unbreakable. The sheet slipped down to my waist, cool air hitting skin, and damn if it didn't feel good. World-conqueror vibes. Today was Christmas, presents downstairs, Mom's cinnamon rolls probably already in the oven, beers hidden in the garage fridge for later. Normal holiday shit. No more edging torture, no more smug little—

Tate stirred on his bed six feet away, blonde hair a wild mess against the pillow, one arm flopping out from under his blanket. He blinked slow, eyes focusing on me, that sleepy half-smile already creeping in like he knew something I didn't.

"Morning, cous," he said, voice rough and low, stretching the words out lazy. His blanket shifted as he rolled toward me, the outline under it shifting too—yeah, he had his own situation going on, but whatever, dudes wake up like that.

I threw him a cocky grin, sat up flexing without even trying, and swung my legs off the bed. "Yeah, morning. Slept like a champ."

He watched me stand, robe forgotten on the floor, boxers tented but whatever—locker-room rules, no big deal. His eyes tracked down for half a second, then back up, smile widening just a fraction.

Feeling like a goddamn king, I grabbed fresh sweats from my drawer—and headed for the door first. Shower mine. Day mine. Everything back to normal.

◆◆◆

I swaggered downstairs first, fresh from the shower, skin still steaming, Axe layered thick enough to fend off any weird vibes. The house smelled like cinnamon and pine and that buttery turkey scent that hits you right in the childhood. Mom and Aunt Lisa were already in full chaos mode—prosecco popped, Christmas music blasting some Christmas remix.

Tate trailed down a minute later in the same fluffy robe, hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of a cologne ad. He looked good, but whatever. I was armored up today. Immune. Last night had been a system reboot—hard drive wiped clean. No lingering static.

“Merry Christmas, boys!” Aunt Lisa launched herself at us both, hugging hard enough to rattle ribs. She’d swapped the reindeer onesie for a red velvet robe with white fur trim, looking like Mrs. Claus after three mimosas. Mom followed with kisses on cheeks and fresh coffee mugs thrust into our hands.

We migrated to the tree, robes flapping, bare feet on the plush rug. Presents stacked high like a colorful fortress. I dropped onto the couch, legs spread wide—claiming space, owning the room. Tate settled cross-legged on the floor right in front of the tree, robe slipping off one shoulder, but my eyes didn’t even flick down. Progress.

Aunt Lisa handed out gifts like a game-show host. Socks for Mom, a ridiculous sequined wine cozy for herself, some high-end clothes and a new laptop for me. Tate got a stack of skincare crap and a new phone case with rhinestones that spelled something glittery. He lit up genuine, hugging Aunt Lisa tight, laughing at whatever inside joke they had going.

I watched him for half a second—how easy he moved between them, dimples flashing, voice light. Just… weird that he wasn’t orbiting me like the last few days. No sneaky glances, no brushing thighs, no humming that stupid jingle under his breath. He seemed totally chill, like last night hadn’t even registered. Laughing at his phone, showing Mom some meme, leaning into Aunt Lisa when she ruffled his hair.

My own phone stayed silent. I thumbed open Maddie’s chat—I typed out a quick “Merry Christmas babe, miss those tits” with a shirtless mirror pic I’d snapped in the bathroom steam. Sent. Blue ticks eventually. No reply. Typical Maddie. She’d hit me up later with nudes. Always did.

Tate sprawled on the rug now, scrolling something that made him snort laughter. He angled the phone toward Aunt Lisa. “Look at this—Braden’s mom made him wear the ugliest sweater for church pics.”

Aunt Lisa cackled. Mom leaned over, cooing. Tate’s grin went wide and real, the kind that crinkled his eyes. He didn’t look over at me once.

Great. I flicked on the TV, flipped to the NFL game. Perfect background noise. I sank deeper into the couch, coffee hot on my tongue, turkey smells building.

Hours blurred. More presents (protein powder for me—Mom still trying), board games Aunt Lisa insisted on that turned into tipsy charades, Tate acting out “The Grinch” in dramatic slow-motion that had everyone howling. He kept his distance, though. No foot nudges, no lingering stares. Just… normal cousin shit. Laughing with the moms, helping Aunt Lisa refill prosecco flutes.

It bugged me a little. Not that I wanted the teasing back—hell no—but the total one-eighty felt off. Like he’d flipped a switch overnight and decided I wasn’t worth the effort anymore.

Dinner hit late afternoon, table groaning under turkey, stuffing, those little cranberry cylinders Mom sliced perfect, Aunt Lisa’s “special” gravy that definitely had bourbon in it. Candles flickering, lights twinkling, snow still falling lazy outside the big windows. Picture-perfect chaos.

Tate sat across from me, robe swapped for a soft red sweater that hugged his frame just right. He carved turkey like he’d done it a hundred times, passing plates, joking with Aunt Lisa about her adding glitter to the mashed potatoes “for festivity.” Every time he laughed, head tipping back, throat working, something twisted low in my stomach. Not lust. Just… irritation that he was having such a good day without trying to mess with my head.

I piled my plate high, focused on the game highlights on my phone between bites. Maddie still hadn’t replied. Fine. She was probably hungover somewhere. I’d get mine when I got back to campus.

Aunt Lisa raised her glass mid-meal, already rosy-cheeked. “To family! And to my beautiful boys finally getting along like actual cousins. Look at them—thick as thieves!”

Mom clinked glasses, beaming. Tate lifted his with that easy smile, eyes meeting mine for the first time all day. Just a quick flick—neutral, unbothered—before he turned back to Aunt Lisa’s story about some neighbor’s exploding Christmas lights.

I drank deep, told myself the warmth in my chest was just the bourbon gravy.

The day rolled on lazy and stuffed-full. Dessert, more wine, some cheesy Christmas movie the moms insisted on. Tate curled up on the opposite end of the couch this time, legs tucked under him, head on Aunt Lisa’s shoulder for half of it, laughing soft at the predictable plot twists.

I stretched out long, arm along the back of the couch, feet up—claiming my territory. Every once in a while my eyes slid sideways, catching the way the tree lights painted colors across his face, the casual way he leaned into the moms like he belonged there.

By evening the house quieted down, full bellies and warm buzz settling in. Tate helped clear plates without being asked, humming some quiet tune under his breath—not the jingle, just something soft and pop. He bumped my hip once passing in the kitchen doorway, whispered “excuse me” all polite, and kept moving.

I loaded the dishwasher harder than necessary, jaw tight for reasons I couldn’t name.

Back in the living room Aunt Lisa was already plotting tomorrow’s leftover sandwiches. Tate flopped into the armchair, phone in hand again, thumbs flying—probably texting Braden or whoever. That same easy laugh bubbled out at something on the screen.

I dropped onto the couch, flicked the game back on low volume, and told myself everything was exactly how it should be.

The switch he’d flipped? Best thing that could’ve happened.

But as the credits rolled on the movie and the moms started yawning their way upstairs, something quiet and itchy settled under my skin—like waiting for a storm that never quite breaks.

Evening stretched ahead, house settling into that post-feast hush. Tate stood, stretched big—sweater riding up to flash a strip of skin above his waistband—then padded toward the stairs without a word.

I stayed put a minute longer, staring at the muted TV, thumb hovering over Maddie’s still-silent chat.

◆◆◆

Eventually I gave up, killed the TV, and headed up. I pushed the door to Tate’s room open, figuring he was already asleep or scrolling.

Wrong.

Tate stood in front of the full-length mirror on the closet door, adjusting the final touches on the exact outfit from that wrong-snap weeks ago: pleated candy-cane skirt barely skimming his thighs, sheer white thigh-highs with little red bows hugging his legs, cropped top riding high enough to flash the smooth dip of his waist every time he breathed.

He looked—soft and sharp at once. He caught my reflection, turned slow, and tilted his head. “You like?”

I stopped dead in the doorway, mouth dry. The skirt swished when he moved, bells on the thigh-highs giving a tiny jingle that went straight to my gut.

“Like?” I snorted, crossing my arms like a shield. “I mean… not my cup of tea. I’m not gay.”

He shrugged, smile small and knowing. “Whatever you say.” He stepped closer, skirt brushing his thighs. “You know if you ever want to do more, just say. Last night you said you wanted to fuck me.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “That was heat-of-the-moment shit. Not for real. Just dirty talk,” I waved a hand at the outfit, trying to sound bored. “Two guys letting off steam. One-time thing. No point dressing up like that for me—I’m not into it.”

Tate’s eyes flicked over me once, unreadable. “I didn’t dress up for you.” He reached into the closet, pulled out an oversized trench coat, and slipped it on, belting it loose. The skirt and stockings disappeared under the heavy fabric, but the bells still jingled faintly when he moved. “I’m going over to Braden’s. I’ll be back later tonight… or tomorrow. Figured you could use some alone time.”

He grabbed his phone, keys, and walked past me without another word—close enough that I caught the warm spice of that Rituals cologne mixed with something new, like vanilla and snow.

“Bye.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

“Bye…”

I stood there in the middle of the room, staring at the empty space where he’d been. Fury hit first—sharp, stupid, directionless. Who the fuck did he think he was? Waltzing out in that slutty little outfit to go get railed by Bible boy like I gave a shit? Like I’d be sitting here pining or something? I didn’t care.

I absolutely did not care.

I yanked off my sweater, tossed it on the floor harder than necessary, and flopped onto my bed. The room felt too big suddenly, too quiet without his stupid-ass humming or the rustle of him moving around. I grabbed my phone, scrolled Maddie’s silent chat again, thumb hovering over the call button before I locked the screen and threw it on the nightstand.

Finally I could jerk off in privacy, but the fucking traitor stayed half-interested at best, like even my own dick had decided to side with him tonight. I tried anyway—hand down my sweats, rough strokes, picturing Maddie on her knees, then some random sorority girl from last semester, anything that wasn’t the image burned behind my eyelids of Tate in that skirt, thigh-highs sliding up smooth skin, his ass every time he bent over.

Nothing worked. The anger kept short-circuiting everything—frustration looping back on itself until I gave up, rolled onto my stomach, and punched the pillow a few times like it had personally betrayed me.

He could stay at Braden’s all fucking night for all I cared.

I hoped the church boy bored him to death.

I hoped he froze his ass off walking there.

I hoped—

Fuck this.

I pulled the covers over my head, stared at the dark, and told myself tomorrow everything would be normal again. Tate would be back to teasing or ignoring or whatever game he was playing, and I’d be over it. Over him. Over all of it.

The house settled around me, snow ticking soft against the window.

Alone time. Exactly what I wanted.