Jingle Balls – Part 7

Everyone in this story is 18+

I woke up because my dick was trying to murder me.

The traitor was so hard it actually hurt, a deep, throbbing ache that radiated straight into my balls like someone had tied them in knots and left them overnight, it was the worst ball ache I’d ever experienced in my entire twenty-one years of existence. My boxers were soaked, fabric clinging cold and sticky to my skin, and for one panicked second I thought I’d finally blown in my sleep like a goddamn teenager. But no—the heavy, bruised weight low in my gut told the truth. Zero relief. Just five days of buildup turned weapon-grade.

I shifted and nearly whimpered out loud. The onesie from last night’s pajama parade was half-unzipped, antlers flopped over my forehead like a sad party hat. Tate was already awake—of course he was—propped on one elbow, hair tousled, eyes bright and evil in the candy-cane light.

He took one look at the obscene ridge in my crotch and started humming that stupid fucking song again, louder this time, new verse and everything.

“Jingle balls, jingle balls, cousin’s got the bluest pair… one more day, he’ll beg to play.”

“Phhff,” I huffed, face burning, but the word “play” landed somewhere between joke and something else, twisting the ache tighter. I rolled away from him, trying to hide the evidence, except rolling just ground the soaked fabric against my skin and made everything ten times worse.

It was as if he could sense exactly how wrecked I felt after that pajama-parade disaster—how Aunt Lisa had barged in with her ridiculous reindeer squad and yanked me right back from the edge, leaving me aching and desperate for some kind of payoff.

I hadn’t even managed to slide a hand under the waistband to take care of things myself when—speak of the devil and her goddamn reindeer army—her voice ricocheted up the stairs like a festive foghorn on full blast.

“Boys! Up and at ’em! I’ve got gifts hidden in the trunk of the car and Di’s already elbow-deep in turkey guts while I’m wrestling this punch bowl. Make yourselves useful and go fetch them before the neighbors think we’re running a drug operation out there!”

Tate was already out of bed, grabbing robes from the hook like this was normal. “Come on, grumpy. Fresh air will do you good.”

I dragged myself up, every step sending fresh hell through my balls. We threw on the fluffy robes over our sleep clothes (mine still tenting flagpole) and shuffled downstairs. The moms barely looked up—Mom wrist-deep in poultry, Aunt Lisa dumping what looked like an entire bottle of rum into red punch, both of them already tipsy and singing along to whatever Mariah Carey nightmare was playing.

Outside, the cold hit like a slap. Snow crunched under our slippers, breath fogging in the grey morning light. The little SUV sat at the end of the driveway, trunk already popped open by some holiday miracle.

Tate hopped in first, humming that damn song again under his breath. “Jingle balls, jingle balls…”

I climbed in after him, mood blacker than the coffee I hadn’t had yet. The space was tiny, crammed with bags and boxes, wrapping paper rustling every time we moved. Most of the gifts were easy grabs, but a couple small ones had wedged themselves way in the back corner like they were hiding on purpose.

Tate leaned over me to reach, ass brushing my thigh. I twisted to help, and suddenly the space shrank even more. He lost balance for half a second, foot slipping on a loose bag, and dropped straight into my lap—straddling me, knees on either side of my hips, robe falling open.

His weight settled right on my hard situation.

“Shit,” he breathed, eyes going wide. “You really are hard as a fucking rock.”

The cold air, the friction, the sudden pressure—everything hit at once. I bucked up without thinking, hands flying to his hips to shove him off, except shoving turned into gripping because my brain short-circuited and decided holding on was the better life choice.

Tate wriggled, trying to get leverage, and the movement dragged his ass across my crotch. Once. Twice. Fabric rasped, heat flared, pre soaked through both layers in seconds.

I made this strangled sound I didn’t even recognize as human.

He froze, looking down at me, lips parted, breath fogging between us in the freezing car.

His weight settled heavier, robe gaping open, and the wriggling started in earnest—Tate trying to climb off, or pretending to, hips rolling in these slow, grinding circles that dragged the plush fabric of his onesie across my length again and again. Every shift sent fire straight up my spine, pre leaking in fresh waves, until the cold air couldn’t even touch the heat building low in my gut.

I gripped his hips harder, meant to push, ended up pulling because my brain had officially checked out. My breath came in these ragged bursts against his neck, the erection throbbing against his ass like it had its own heartbeat, balls drawing up so tight I could feel the orgasm lining up like a firing squad.

Tate stilled for half a second, felt it, and let out this soft little laugh that went straight to my nerves. “Fuck, cous… you’re right there, aren’t you?”

One more roll of his hips and I was done for—vision tunneling, every muscle locking, the first spasm already ripping through me—

I shoved him off with everything I had left, pure survival instinct, hands shaking as he tumbled sideways into the gifts. The orgasm backed off at the absolute last possible millisecond, leaving me gasping, hips jerking into empty air.

Tate landed half-sprawled among the bags, robe wide open, eyes huge and dark, lips parted like he couldn’t believe I’d actually stopped it.

I sat there panting, covered in my own mess but somehow still painfully full, balls screaming louder than ever.

“Jesus, is it that bad?” he whispered, voice rough.

“No!” I rasped, yanking my robe closed with trembling fingers. “Get the fuck off me before I—”

He scrambled up, grabbed the last stray gifts, and we climbed out of the trunk like nothing had happened, faces burning, robes hiding the evidence (barely). Snow crunched under our slippers as we hauled the bags back to the house, my legs barely working, every step rubbing sticky fabric against oversensitive skin.

Tate shot me one look as we reached the door—half awe, half something else entirely—and hummed under his breath, new verse already forming.

“Jingle balls, jingle balls, throbbing, dripping need. One wrong bump and Brad will cum— jingle all the way.”

I wanted to strangle him.

I also wanted to drag him behind the garage and finish what we started.

Instead we walked inside like good little cousins, gifts in arms, while my body screamed for mercy.

◆◆◆

The second we stumbled back inside with the gift bags, Aunt Lisa spotted us and clapped like we’d just returned from war.

“Perfect timing! The upstairs shower’s free for exactly ten minutes before I hop in, then your mom, then Tate—hot water’s on a schedule today, boys, or we’ll run out before the turkey even thinks about browning. Brad, you look like you could use it first, go, go!”

I didn’t argue. My robe was sticky, my skin prickled with dried pre and cold sweat, and the ache in my balls had reached a level where every heartbeat felt like a kick. I bolted upstairs, locked the bathroom door, and cranked the water as hot as it would go.

Steam filled the room in seconds. I dropped the robe, kicked off the soaked boxers, and stepped under the spray, eyes closing at the relief of heat pounding down my back. My hand went straight for the traitor—thick, angry, veins standing out like road maps—and I wrapped around it with zero finesse, ready to finally end five days of torture in one frantic, glorious—

Knock knock knock

“Hurry up, honey!” Aunt Lisa’s voice, way too chipper. “I’ve got punch to finish!”

I froze, fist tight, hips already rocking forward into nothing. The water hammered my shoulders, steam thick in my lungs, but the countdown in my head was louder.

I tried again—fast strokes, thumb swiping the head, chasing that edge I’d almost hit in the car—but every time I got close my brain flashed to Tate’s weight in my lap, his breath on my neck, those bells jingling, and the panic mixed with lust just made it worse. Faster, harder, water sluicing down my chest, over my fist, dripping off my balls that felt like overripe fruit ready to split.

Knock knock knock

“Brad! Don’t use all the hot water, some of us have hair to wash!”

I bit down on a curse, thumping against the tile. Still full. Still aching. Balls heavier than ever.

I rinsed off fast, wrapped a towel around my waist, and opened the door to Aunt Lisa already waiting in her robe, tapping her foot.

“My hero,” she sang, brushing past me. “Hurry downstairs, breakfast’s almost ready!”

I stood there dripping, trying to keep the towel from tenting, and realized the universe had personally declared war on my nuts.

A while after showering and eating breakfast, Aunt Lisa clapped her hands and declared it was time for the Annual Gingerbread House Competition, which meant dragging out those pre-made kits, tubs of icing that tasted like pure sugar glue, and bowls of candy that could rot teeth from across the room. Tate dove right in, tying this little red apron around his waist that he must have stashed somewhere, the ties ending in actual tiny bells that jingled every time he moved. The apron barely reached mid-thigh, flirting with the hem of his robe whenever he bent to grab a piping bag.

He leaned over the table to squeeze icing onto his roofline, bells tinkling, robe gaping just enough to flash smooth skin underneath. I tried to focus on slapping graham crackers together for walls that kept collapsing, but every time he reached for the gumdrops his hip bumped my thigh, and he’d glance over with this wide-eyed innocent smile like he had no clue why my hands were shaking.

Mom snapped a picture of him piping a perfect swirl. “Tate, honey, you’re a natural artist!” Aunt Lisa chimed in with “Look at those steady hands—Brad, take notes from your cousin!”

I forced a laugh while my sad little house leaned like the Tower of Pisa, icing dripping everywhere except where it was supposed to go. Tate licked a smear of white off his thumb, tongue curling slow, eyes flicking to me for half a second before he turned back to his perfect little cottage like nothing happened. My stomach flipped between wanting to shove the whole table over and wanting to grab a handful of that apron and yank him closer.

Karaoke came next because Aunt Lisa believes no holiday is complete without public humiliation. She and Mom commandeered the TV remote, queued up a playlist that was ninety percent Mariah Carey, and handed us the mics like we had a choice. Tate snatched one first, launched into “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” and pointed the mic straight at me every time he hit the “you,” hips swaying to the beat, bells jingling in rhythm. The moms ate it up, swaying with their punch cups, singing backup like this was normal.

I mumbled my way through “Jingle Bell Rock,” voice cracking on every high note because he kept dancing closer, apron ties brushing my leg, that innocent elf smile never leaving his face. Part of me wanted to laugh at how ridiculous the whole thing was, the lights twinkling, the moms tipsy and happy, snow falling outside the window like we were actually in some wholesome holiday card. Another part wanted to tackle him right there on the carpet and find out if those bells jingled when he was on his back.

Dinner blurred by in a haze and too much rum punch. Tate sat across from me, robe slipping off one shoulder every time he reached for the gravy, flashing the curve of his collarbone and the faint shadow of old hickeys. I stabbed my potatoes harder than necessary, annoyed at how the moms kept gushing about the snuggle pics again, genuine warmth hitting me when Aunt Lisa squeezed my shoulder and said she was glad we were “finally acting like real cousins,” and raw lust slamming back in every time Tate’s foot brushed mine under the table and stayed there.

Presents under the tree were mostly jokes—funny socks for Mom, another bottle of wine for Aunt Lisa, some cologne for me that Tate immediately stole a spritz of and declared “way better than Axe.” He handed me a small box wrapped in candy-cane paper with a ribbon bow that looked exactly like the one from that wrong-snap pic weeks ago. I opened it in front of everyone: inside sat a single striped candy cane and a folded note in his handwriting—“later.”

My face burned. I shoved it in my pocket fast, muttering thanks while the moms cooed about how thoughtful he was.

The night dragged on until the moms finally crashed mid-movie, snoring under blankets on the couch, TV flickering silent reindeer across their faces. I trudged upstairs first, body heavy, brain fried, every nerve still singing from the day’s nonstop teasing.

Collapsed onto my bed in the robe, stared at the ceiling, and tried to talk myself into just handling things quick. My hand was halfway there when Tate’s voice cut through the dark, soft and casual as hell.

“It’s after midnight. Technically Christmas. Want the early present?”

I froze. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Just rolled out of bed, grabbed his robe, tied it loose, and walked to the door. Stopped. Looked back with that half-smile that had been destroying me for days.

“Come with me.”

Then he was gone, barefoot down the hall.

I lay there like an idiot, heart hammering, dick already answering for me. Shit. Should I stay, finish solo, end the madness? One stroke and I could think straight again.

Except I was already swinging my legs off the bed, grabbing my robe, tying it crooked because my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The bathroom door was cracked on my way past, light on, empty. For one desperate second I thought about ducking in, locking it, unloading the biggest load in history against the sink and being done. But curiosity—or whatever this was—won. I kept walking.

Downstairs, the moms were out cold, TV still flickering claymation. Tate was at the front door, slipping on those ugly Crocs Aunt Lisa kept by the mat.

He looked back. “You coming?”

I grabbed my own pair—bright red—and followed him out into the freezing night.

Snow fell in fat flakes under the porch light. The cold bit hard, but my blood ran too hot to care. Tate crunched across the driveway toward the SUV, breath fogging, robe flapping open in the wind.

I caught up. “What the hell are we doing?”

He opened the back door, climbed in, patted the seat beside him. “Your gift’s in the car.”

I hesitated one heartbeat. Then climbed in after him.

The door shut soft. Heat lingered from earlier, windows already fogging. Tate turned to me, hand landing warm and sure on my thigh through the robe.

“You forgot one gift,” he said, fingers sliding higher. “I think you know which one.”