Santa Took My Virginity – Part 4

Everyone in this story is 18+

Happy New Year’s Eve, everyone! 🥳🎉

I'm not quite ready to let go of Christmas yet. Have you ever wondered who Santa really is? I have—and I’ve finally discovered the answer. Stay tuned to find out! :)

Every day between Christmas and New Year’s, I’d made the same trek to the mailbox. Rain, snow, whatever. My parents thought I was suddenly really invested in the family’s junk mail or something, but no—I was waiting for one thing.

And today, it was finally here.

The envelope felt heavier than I expected, glossy and official. I grinned like an idiot as I carried it inside, my heart thumping. The swim team calendar, I thought. The one I bought to “support the new pool at school.” Right. Like anyone would believe that.

Let’s be real: I bought it for one reason and one reason only. Ezra Wood.

The moment I got to my room, I locked the door, tossed the envelope on the bed, and ripped it open. The calendar slid out, crisp and perfect, every page brimming with shirtless swimmers showing off their toned bodies and cocky grins.

But none of them compared to March.

I flipped to it, and there he was. Ezra.

He was standing on the edge of the pool in just a speedo, his body glistening with water droplets, his hair slicked back in that effortlessly sexy way he always seemed to have. The blue of his swim trunks clung to him, leaving just enough to the imagination.

I couldn’t help myself. My zipper was down in seconds, my breath shaky as I stared at the picture.

Ever since my encounter with “Santa,” I hadn’t been able to think about anything else. I’d replayed it in my head a hundred times: the stretch, the fullness, the way he’d groaned when I sucked him off. The way his cock had throbbed when he came inside me.

I’d checked Grindr every day since then, hoping he’d resurface. But there was nothing. “Santa” had vanished, leaving me with nothing but memories.

I wrapped a hand around my hardening dick, stroking slowly as I stared at Ezra’s photo, my thoughts bouncing between him and “Santa.” Could it really have been him?

And then I saw it.

There, on Ezra’s hip, just above the curve of his speedo, was a small, faint beauty mark.

My heart skipped a beat. My mind reeled.

It’s the same mark.

I could see it so clearly now, like déjà vu. The beauty mark was burned into my memory from that night—when I’d knelt between “Santa’s” thighs, my hands brushing his hips. The mark was on the left side, exactly like this.

“It’s Ezra,” I whispered to myself, my hand still moving instinctively. My brain was spinning with the realization, the connection snapping into place.

Ezra.

Ezra was “Santa.”

And I was going to see him tomorrow night at the New Year’s Eve party.

I wrapped my hand tighter around my dick, stroking faster now as my mind raced. The beauty mark. The encounter. Ezra.

I imagined him there with me, just like that night with “Santa.” His cock sliding into my mouth, his hands gripping my hair, the low groan of approval as I took him deeper.

“Ezra,” I whispered, the name slipping from my lips like a prayer.

My body tensed, the pressure building fast and sharp, my strokes becoming frantic. The image of him—of us—played on a loop in my head: me riding him, his cock stretching me, his smirk as he watched me lose myself. I looked at the meaty bulge in the speedo. Oh fuck!

The pressure built fast, sharp, and undeniable. My strokes became erratic as the thought of Ezra—his hands gripping my hips, his cock pounding into me, his smug, knowing grin—pushed me closer to the edge.

“Oh fuck,” I gasped, my body tensing as the orgasm hit like a rock.

My cock throbbed in my hand, thick ropes of cum spilling over my fingers and splattering across my stomach. The heat of it, the slick mess, only fueled the dizzying pleasure coursing through me. My hips bucked instinctively, a soft cry escaping my lips as the aftershocks rolled through me.

I stared down at myself, the sight of my own jizz smeared across my skin blending with the image of Ezra in my mind. Me on top of him, his cock buried deep inside of me, his breath hot against my ear as he murmured something cocky, something filthy.

My breath slowed, my chest heaving as I came down, my hand sticky and slick, the calendar still lying open beside me. March. Ezra. That beauty mark, faint and perfect, burned into my memory.

I wiped my hand absentmindedly on the side of my sheets, my mind spinning with what I’d just realized.

It was him. It had to be him.

And tomorrow night, at the New Year’s Eve party, I might get to have a redo!