Upstairs
and Downstairs
by Ganymede
Are you ready for a Ganymede’ Christmas story?
Outwardly, the Pearsons are the ideal American family, highly respected in the community, successful professionals, busy, engaged, a ‘10’ on the happy scale. David's a pediatrician, Abby's a lawyer; they’re blessed with two honor-roll kids, a ten-year-old son, Dylan, and a nine-year-old daughter, Ariadne. For good reason, they live at the end of a private lane. The house is a three-story modernist cube in the woods. Mother and daughter share the downstairs level. Father and son share the upstairs level. They meet in the middle...
How to hide a pedo family when both sets of grandparents and Dr. Klaus Küper come for Christmas?
Please insert the usual warnings, et cetera, so ons, and so forth, from here. If you’re a frequent visitor to the Great Archive of Nifty, you know them well. Especially, pay attention to making donations.
Your donations inspire me to write, and finish stories like The Eros Union.
It’s true I’ve been remiss in not sending more chapters. Other projects have intervened—some may eventually appear here. As my good friend and conscientious editor knows, I often have a half-dozen stories demanding my time. You can imagine his frustration when I abruptly stop work on the story he’s been editing (and making all kinds of great suggestions), and I send him ideas for other stories, then outlines, then chapters… On the plus side, I get to rethink the ending of The Eros Union. I expect other writers will agree that once writing becomes a chore, it’s usually a sign to stop for a while.
“Daddy?” Sweet, whiny; waking up sleepy, a little bit sulky.
Wriggling until his hot little body fused with his father’s side. Tousled-sable head snuggling on a grownup arm, snubby nose burrowing into an armpit, savoring manly. A little hand inching down, shameless investigating. Even limp, it was as big as a sausage. Holding it still made him feel light-headed. Not slippery, not even sticky.
“You sore, Butt Monkey?”
Dylan idly fondled the big balls that made him. “Uh uh. Itchy, mostly.”
With a towel underneath him, he hadn’t used the bathroom afterwards. What hadn’t dried on his father’s penis was still in his rectum. Content as a ten-year-old gay boy can be, he purred inanity, something about ‘cum-crust.’ Honestly, it wasn’t something he wanted in his mouth.
“You up for Chunky in Monkey?” he murmured, not unfocused, not awake enough to be aroused, still certain of what he wanted.
David ruffled long wavy hair, inhaling his favorite scent. “You will be sore if we do it so soon. Remember what Klaus said; too long, too hard, too often, it’s a problem.”
“Marathon tonight, then?”
“Oversexed little monkey. Short and sweet, maybe. Nothing rough.”
No longer dreamy, remembering. “Mom said we can’t do anything when they’re here.”
Petulant was rare for Dylan G. Pearson; however, it was Christmas Eve. By lunchtime, the house would be crowded, three days, two nights of grandparents, Pearsons and Knights; and Dr. Klaus Küper.
From downstairs, a strident Ariadne bellowed, “It’s your turn to make breakfast. Mommy’s on the phone with Gramma Knight. They’re leaving right now.”
David grimaced, doing math on the fly; 238 miles, four hours if the roads weren’t too bad. Arrival about noon, snacks and a late lunch, say 3:00 pm... It was time to get up.
“Sorry buddy.” Inhaling bed-smell for the heck of it. “Daddy’s boy needs a shower.”
“What smells is Chunky!” Cackling, more tickle than dick flick. “He was so bad last night.”
His fickle father retaliated, yanked back the down comforter, rearing up, any excuse to play before getting out of bed. He could be any proud father, wrestling his son into giggling submission. Pinned him to the mattress, armpit tickles and smooching until kissing became shameless, hot and wet, bare-fronted humping. Rolling his boy face-down, he played bongo-butt.
Wanting his chance to get even, Dylan shrieked, “Mommy, he’s pulverizing my butt again!”
Two floors below, Abby reacted, her hand cupped over her phone. “David! Give him a break, or he sleeps downstairs.”
Ariadne was quick to voice her opinion, loudly. “I don’t want him in our bed.”
Already agitated, Dylan shouted. “No way! Girl stuff makes me puke!”
“Okay, boy butt’s off limits,” David agreed with a smirk. “Not little-boy junk, though!”
He flipped his son onto his back, neglecting an unwavering penis, playfully clutching gonads and glabrescent loose skin.
Winking at his ‘monkey-boy’ lover; “Not so little any more,” he admitted.
Palpable, perceptible growth in the last three months; the implication was unsettling.
As soon as Dylan scrambled on top, grappling sex organs segued to hugging. The upstairs bedroom was for ‘boy stuff’; having fun, education and exercise went hand in hand until sex and play merged into one. Downstairs was ‘girl stuff’; emotions reigned.
Dylan sat on his haunches, evil-eyed his dad, temptation raging. “Chunky now, knob tonight?”
“Can we have waffles and fruit salad, Daddy?” Ariadne sounded much closer.
Both aroused males groaned, frustrated by a blond-headed nine-year-old girl peeking from the top of the stairs.
“Get lost, Ari.”
“Mommy said to lay off his butt until they’re gone.”
David scooped up his wriggly bare boy, slung him over his shoulder, and carried him off to their bathroom. Douched the little guy right away with warm saline solution to get rid of the itch. After Dylan squirted it out, they showered and shampooed. His son shaved him—in ten years, he’d never had stubble. Then, habit took over.
Ariadne and Abby had nine-tenths ownership of the couch, hair-combing time in front of the fire, crackling and hissing as flames flickered. With a heedful wink, David headed for the kitchen, daddy’s boy delaying to finish putting ornaments on the tree. Outside, sparkling snow crystals drifted, clumped on branches, brilliant and beautiful.
His menu decided, albeit selfishly, David was a chef with a smirk on his face; impossible to forget what his Butt Monkey did in the shower. Another Pearson family tradition, like his gastronomic Breakfast Bake; hash-brown potatoes, cheddar, crispy bacon, runny eggs sunny side up.
Done with glass balls and prickly pine needles, Dylan sidled up to his father.
“That egg white looks just like your semen.”
He ducked, plopped himself on a kitchen stool, surveilling the counter. On the cutting board; sliced onions, red peppers, and garlic—his father used enough to send evil spirits scurrying into the woods.
“I wanted to dice, Dad.” Grumpy and not ready to talk about why his mom had told him to leave.
“Waffles or fruit salad, take your pick Butt Monkey.”
“Girls; they’re all the same.” Glancing through the doorway. “Mom’s afraid I’ll see them do something. Snowflakes, both of them.”
“I ever tell you how special you are?” David confided, adding ingredients, more pepper, easy on salt. “Ari’s the dumb blond; you’re the bright beautiful brunette.”
“You’re biased. You missed your chance, Dad. Mom said no hiney hole ‘til after Christmas.’
Chuckling, stirring, scraping mush into a baking dish, parmesan and mozzarella on top.
“You’re the stylin’ kid in this family.”
Elf Boy, decked out in red and green, elf hat and elf shoes from last year’s dance-school holiday show, stretchy lime ballet-tights that showed off his boyhood, easy-to-pull-up red Banshees soccer-team top. His father’s black belt was way too big for his 21-inch waist.
“I’m taking it off before they come, Dad.”
“Never fear, I’ll come before they do... Remember last year? That was some fun.”
Dylan rolled his eyes, catching a wink, both smirking, memories revived from last Christmas. Big white splatters on his ‘elf pants’.
Chiding his dad, yet pleased as a gay boy can be, “Great big mess was what it was?”
Pointing where the worst of it had been, making a point of smacking his lips, loud enough that he might’ve been savoring the taste again.
“Chunky had an accident; no biggie. I got you cleaned up in time, didn’t I?” David defended.
“Stop doing kissy-face in there,” Ariadne shouted from the living room. “Mommy and me want hot chocolate... with whipped cream... Pretty please?”
“In your dreams Ari,” Dylan snapped back. “She told Mom about...” He glanced ‘up.’
His very own Santa in a maraschino-red Moschino tracksuit smirked, winked back.
“Go easy on her. You’re curious about what they do, too.”
“They lick each other’s pussies, Dad; big friggin’ deal.”
He scooted off the stool, backward shuffle in slippery elf-boots, stretched up on his toes to open a cabinet. Doing hot chocolate duty, while keeping a watchful eye on the man who made him, made love to him... Last night was a ‘Viagra’ special.
“Nearly an hour, Dad.”
David stooped, opened the oven door. “Sizzling hot. Like you.”
“The bottom boy is not amused.”
Lying, trying to keep a straight face, thinking about cuddling under their Mexican falsa blanket, man in boy in front of the TV, not really fucking, being joined by a knob, sleepy yet still sharing squeezes. Dangerously close to breaking the no-fuck rule with Mom and Ariadne sitting on the couch behind them.
Breakfast Bake in the oven, Dylan carried in hot chocolate mugs, Ariadne’s teddy bear cup overflowing with whipped cream from a can. Abby was done with hair-brushing, openly necking with mommy’s girl, red-satin Christmas onesie unzipped.
“Second floor’s supposed to be a no-zone,” he said, ten-year-old equanimity in control.
Ariadne wasn’t about to be put off. “Last night, he was going ‘ohh ohhh’, all through the movie!”
“So? We had our blanket over us.”
“Sex play’s okay if everything’s hidden,” Abby reminded her. “Dr. Küper said it’s a good for you to see each other sometimes. Curiosity about other genders is normal, even for gay kids.”
Dylan wasn’t about to argue. He gaped at his sister’s pale belly, her nipples already teased to firmness. Not teats, yet Ariadne’s nipples were much bigger than his tiny dots. Almost a year younger, his sister was bigger all over. Only his lint-catching bellybutton was bigger.
“Dy’s staring at me, Mommy.”
He’d seen his sister naked most-every day for nine years, yet his mother slyly relocated her hand, pushing away the onesie. He glimpsed his sister’s puffy pale ‘camel toe.’ Fascinated as his mother’s first finger pushed in to the middle joint, moving around inside her just like his father massaging his sphincter. Slightly in and back out. Wrist twisting, then lightly flicking the tiny pink flap in front.
Wondering what the big deal was, he sat on the rug in front of the fire, sipping hot chocolate spiked with Godiva Dark Chocolate Liqueur, trying to ignore giggles every time Ariadne twitched and wriggled on the couch. Sure, he twitched, wriggled, and giggled when he played with his father; however, it was different; having a finger probing his rectum was way more intense.
Noontime, grandparents were due anytime; the kids sat on polished pale maple, legs dangling over the stairs, side-by-side Christmas anticipation, assigned lookouts while their parents hustled snacks and prepared a beef-tenderloin lunch in the kitchen. Floor-to-ceiling glass offered an uninterrupted view over ‘white’, whether the elevated walkway to the car turnaround, their father’s studio, the outside stairs, icy trees enclosing the long gravel drive, all covered with snow.
“You didn’t come, Ari,” Dylan insisted for the third time.
“Did, too.”
He frowned at his sister. Disbelief came easily when dealing with an assertive nine-year-old girl, prone to exaggeration. Even if she had climaxed, he was still unimpressed. A single ‘grunt’ and a shudder, hardly seemed worth having; nothing worth bragging about.
A peek at his emphatic face made her defensive. “I cummed from her finger.”
“You came, Ari. ‘C-a-m-e.’ Past tense of the verb, ‘to come.’”
“Mommy said girls come different to boys.”
“Except girls don’t really come. You don’t have stuff to ejaculate. A dick’s packed with nerves to make it happen. Plus, there’s a build-up phase before a guy shoots, like it gets really hard, and my balls get all tight...”
“So?”
“Let me finish, will you? Mine jerks like crazy, even though I can’t make come. See, ‘come’ is also a noun; it’s semen, the white stuff that spurts out...”
“I know all that. Boys are show offs, that’s all!” she interrupted again.
“When Dad ejaculates, he kinda loses interest until he’s made more come. Right now, when I orgasm, nothing comes out, but I’m ready to do it again almost right away.”
“Mommy says you dry-come.”
“Wet or dry, it’s what makes an orgasm, Ari. I won’t make semen for a coupla years, only I get the same feelings as Dad does when he shoots, just no mess. Girls can’t make semen, so no orgasm. It still feels nice for you, just not mindboggling.”
“So males worship their stupid dicks, duh!” Ariadne tapped her head, sounding like her mother. “My ‘gasm is up here. It’s cere-something.”
“It would be cerebral, if you had a brain.”
Ariadne grimaced, made a mental note to get back at him.
“That supposed to be a zombie?” He ducked out of reach. “Maybe it’s a girl faking an orgasm?”
“There’s something inside a boy’s butt that’s as sensitive as his dick; that’s what Mommy said.”
Switching course in midstream was practice for preteen, anything to annoy him. Uncertain where she was headed, Dylan wasn’t about to explain ‘prostate gland’ to his sister; it was easier to shrug it off.
“Uhh-ahhh-oh,” she groaned. “That’s what you sound like when Daddy puts his dick inside you.”
It was a passable imitation of anal penetration. No dildos or plugs allowed downstairs meant she’d only experienced her mother’s fingers.
Dylan sighed. “How many times do I have to tell you? Men have cocks.”
Ariadne giggled, not at the male ‘c’ word, the man-boy sex act itself. It justified a glance toward the kitchen, her mother busy at the counter.
Brother and sister gazed through seemingly endless glass, warm and secure inside their white cubic house. Surrounded by woods, mere inches away from commingling with nature. Lonely, quiet, vast. In Spring, squirrels foraged, cardinals preened, fallow deer wandered all over. The kids walked around naked; no one else knew, or cared if they grew up sensual. No need for pretending, they were both sexually active, just not with each other.
Dylan sensed their father standing behind them. “It’s like living in the Garden of Eden.”
“Yes, it is.
“We need a family talk before they get here,” Abby said, watching from outside the kitchen.
“We know when to shut up, Mom.”
“Dylan, it’s more than what we say,” David rebuked gently. “It’s everything we do. Even the slightest thing out of place can draw attention. The way you and I look at each other is enough.”
“Like last night, the look on your daddy’s face, anyone could see he wanted to rip your pajama pants off,” Abby snickered.
Ariadne erupted in giggles. “He wanted in your boy-vagina so bad.”
“It’s boy-pussy, Sweetie... We need to be very careful,” Abby resumed.
Exasperated, Dylan looked at his father. “Dad’s always careful. So am I.”
“She means we all cool it while they’re here.” David regarded his son. “No sex play, okay?”
“That includes groping each other in front of the TV. Save it for the shower,” Abby teased.
The kids shared a look, mild disbelief, and nodded. They waited until their parents were back in the kitchen. Dylan resumed setting Ariadne up...
“You come if Mom fingers your butt, right?” It was all he could do not to smile.
“’course not! It just feels weird.”
“Aw, poor Ari. I butt-come, so there!”
“I know boys have anal orgasms; no biggie.” Making a point of sounding like him.
Dylan lowered his voice, no easier way of getting her attention than sharing a secret. “Don’t tell Mom; promise, Ari?” Giving her time to nod. “Having an anal-gasm is ten times better than a regular come.”
Grinning as she pouted; he laid it on.
“See, when he pushes in the right spot, it kinda hurts... Only it’s a nice hurt... makes me strain really hard. It gets better and better. Right when I’m about to go crazy, there’s this rush. It’s to die for.”
“Daddy’s been putting his cock in you like forever...” She trailed off, jealous barely checked.
He shrugged. “So? I still get all shaky.”
“He’s so big, but... Doesn’t it hurt?”
Dylan lay back, reflecting as he gazed up; two-storied space, cylindrical columns like smooth white trees, light-filled from a clerestory and the secret roof garden. The ‘master’ bedroom he shared with his father was open to below; it was like being on a stage, only hearing, not seeing.
“A little bit until I got used to it. Sometimes it’s sore inside. Like last night; it was marathon; really awesome.”
Ariadne pondered possible problems. “How does he even get it inside you?”
“At first, he only put the knob in. When you’re young, the muscle inside isn’t that strong so it gets used to being stretched.”
“Mommy said your hole got bigger.”
“I guess. Mostly, it got stretchier.” He tightened behind, a sensation more about awareness of what wasn’t there, empty. “If he’s inside for a while, I feel loose, way up inside.”
“Can I see, Dy?”
“No way... You don’t want me seeing what you and Mom do, Ari.”
“I’m not asking to see you doing it.”
Ariadne focused on tiny icicles under the window frame, like glass shards sparkling in the sun. The white world beyond was their very own fairy tale. Deer tracks to hidden grottoes, mysterious pine glades, frozen streams, squirrel nests. There was even a lonely lamp post, casting a shadow over the snow. A romantic whimsy, David had salvaged it from a demolished mall, converted faux-gaslight to solar power.
“Prince Caspian, I think we’re back in in Narnia,” she whispered.
Dylan groaned. “No way! I’m not dressing up while they’re here.”
“I won’t tell Mommy about the bottle if you show me.” She regarded him, an eyebrow arched.
He frowned, still hopeful she’d let it go. No way would she forget. The whole thing was embarrassing and painful, jamming his penis inside a wine bottle, getting an erection, then squirting WD-40 to get it out.
“If you must know, my hole’s still big from last night. He was in me for nearly an hour, okay?”
“I still want to see it. Mommy said it was okay to be curious. Please?”
Dylan groaned, pulling his legs to his chest, lifting up his rump. He tugged at the seat of his tights. Start Wars Christmas briefs followed.
“Your undies are dirty.”
He glared a warning, ‘look if you have to.’ Ariadne peered.
“I don’t know why Mommy calls it your boy-pussy. It’s nothing like a vagina.” Wrinkling her nose, yet the smell was fresh, lavender-scented. “Why’s it all wrinkly?”
“That’s what happens after Chunky stretches it... I didn’t say you could touch.”
“It’s pretty.” Ariadne drew back her finger, moist on the tip. “Is that Daddy’s come leaking out?”
“You know what come’s like, right? White and gooey.”
“Mommy told me...” However, she was a long way from certain. “Is it from inside you?”
“You’re such a doofus! Dad puts hand lotion back there so my butt stays soft.”
Dylan yanked up his lime elf-tights a panicked heartbeat after he spotted Grampa Knight at the top of the stairs. His ebony-black Cadillac was parked at the end of the snow-covered lane. Wheezing mist in the chilly air, he caught his breath, then, with a suitcase in each hand, started down the elevated walkway. Behind him, Grampa Pearson made cautious progress, his arms full with a single present. Two grandmothers brought up the rear, stuffed shopping bags in each hand.
“They’re here!” Ariadne screeched at the top of her lungs.
She scrambled up, running pell-mell toward the kitchen. Dylan raced upstairs in search of the cat—Gramma Knight was allergic to anything furry. He barricaded the feline behind a toddler-proof gate. Off with soiled Start Wars briefs. No time to switch tights for trackpants, he bolted back.
They waited at the door, Abby huddled next to Ariadne, Dylan protected by his most-favorite person, still small enough to fit under his arm. He shivered before the open door, grownups shaking off snowflakes, icy shoes leaving puddles on white marble, discarding overcoats and gloves, dumping bags at the top of the stairs.
“Don’t know why y’all have to live way out in the woods.”
Grampa Knight, grizzled and grumpy; his beard didn’t help, hugging his daughter and granddaughter, shaking David’s hand, observing Dylan, all but hiding.
“You’re still doing ballet, I see.” Reaching to ruffle Dylan’s dark mane, holding back deplorable thoughts.
“Jazz ballet, Dad,” Abby interjected.
“His soccer’s really improved because of it,” David added, resting his hand on Dylan’s upper arm.
“They get prettier every visit,” Gramma Knight sniped. “He hasn’t been plucking his eyebrows, has he David?”
Gramma Pearson nipped that bud. “Dylan’s eyebrows always remind me of my father.”
The war hero in the family, he died attacking a mortar position on Mount Suribachi, Iwo Jima.
David took a breath, let it out slowly. Holding his son’s willowy body, front to back, warm little butt pressed against his thighs. Inhaling orange-scented kid-shampoo, impossible to forget waking up to sweet musky boy-fragrance. The surge was spontaneous, always intense, demanding.
Dylan recognized the sensation, warm pressure in the middle of his back. Instinctive teasing, pressing back, barely perceptible wriggles to make it enlarge. Chunky manhood, extending firm and thick, rubbing his spine. He knew better, never do ‘stuff’ in public; however, it was impossible not to ‘play’ standing that close to his father.
“Ten’s not too old to start football. A smart boy like Dylan will pick it up quickly.” Grampa Knight went on, glancing at Grampa Pearson, not expecting support from an artist, even if his work sold in New York galleries.
Grampa Pearson stepped back from his turn to hug and kiss Ariadne, still grasping his oversized gift, surveyed his youngest grandson, budding artist, or maybe an architect.
“I like an elf with attitude. Soccer plus jazz... hm... I expect to see back flips when you score.”
Beaming at his favorite grandson, at times his best buddy. Bandaged hand extended to meet Dylan’s small paw, lightly touching fingers, silently admiring his grandson’s good looks, ignoring hair to his shoulders, not caring.
“Nice color, lime. Easy to spot in the snow.”
Gramma Pearson stopped hugging on Ariadne. “Ted Pearson, don’t you dare spoil it!”
Grinning Dylan finally managed to get in, “You want me to carry that for you, Grampa?”
Their usual hellos expanded with ‘Merry Christmas’ wishes, extra hugs and kisses lasting from the front door to the living room. Grandfathers ensconced on Italian-leather seats, grandmothers on the couch, pawing Ariadne, still attired in her shiny red onesie.
David busied himself stoking the fire, stayed turned away until his erection diminished. Blaming himself, although he wasn’t entirely responsible. Less obvious, he grabbed peeks at his unaware offspring, no mistaking the bulge of circumcised boyhood under lime-tights. Reassured; mutual arousal wasn’t new, yet it happened so quickly, and had never lasted as long.
Abby headed to the kitchen to bring in snack trays, assigning Dylan to collect drink requests.
“Ho, ho, ho. Who wants Dad’s mulled cider?”
Elf-attired, creepy falsetto voice was guaranteed to amuse, and apropos if he intended to annoy Grampa Knight.
“I’ll take a beer if you have one.”
Grampa Pearson waited until Dylan was in the kitchen. “Fall Honor Roll I hear, David?”
“Getting to be a habit for them.” Glee mostly concealed, David glanced sideways. “Dy’s still taking the special art class after school. Two days a week, plus jazz ballet, and soccer...”
“He ought to be on the football team,” Grampa Knight interrupted. “The kid’s got some of my genes. If he puts on a few pounds and works on his arm strength, he might be a decent defensive back.”
“He needs a haircut. A boy can be too good-looking,” his wife added, directed at her son in law.
“Dr. K just came up the lane,” David announced between sips of hot rum toddy.
“Better a half hour late, than never.”
Dylan squeezed between Gramma Knight and the counter, barely evading yet another critique of his elf outfit. Past the breakfast table set up as a lunch buffet; nothing held back for the Pearson-Knight family Christmas Eve; Norwegian red Christmas platters loaded with seasonal delicacies; Bauhaus plates, Danish silverware, Finnish glassware, Swedish whatever.
He joined his dad by the window, got a nuzzle, a pat on the butt, and a guzzle for his trouble.
“He’s got a new Beetle, Dad.”
“He mentioned a new car on the phone. I was expecting a Porsche, not a VW.”
They watched the Beetle go back and forth, edging closer to the stairs, its driver obviously worried about what could be hidden under the snow. Finally, parked next to the Cadillac, Dr. Küper got out, stretched, hauled a red Santa sack from behind the seat, cautiously crossed to the stairs.
He met them at the front door. A special hug for Dylan, burying his nose in soft curly locks and absorbing the warmth of vibrant young boy; a ‘special’ kiss would wait until later.
“I was attacked by a neighbor's dog, last night,” he explained, once inside in the house. “I bandaged myself, was doing okay until I alarmed myself by reading on-line.”
A pause to collect his thoughts, enough time for David’s outrage, and for Dylan to commiserate.
“A friend insisted on taking me to the hospital this morning. A very nice nurse cleaned the wound. He gave me a tetanus shot, a la derrière, which would’ve been fun if he was 15 years younger.”
“You want to be injected by a preteen?” Dylan giggled, skipping back out of reach.
“I’d rather inject one!” Winking at Dylan—'inject’ had singular meaning.
“Me, too,” David chuckled. “You’re here now, that’s what counts.”
“Did you stop at the pharmacy?”
Dr. Küper regarded Dylan, amusement barely contained. “Why would I do that?”
Put on the spot, he avoided his father’s gaze. “You said you were going to on the phone.”
Dr. Küper shrugged ignorance. “I assume everything’s going okay?”
David and Dylan nodded.
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Boy-dew or still dry as a bone?”
David spotted Grampa Knight, heading for the dining table, plate in one hand, beer stein in the other. He lowered his voice, segued to safer topics.
“He’s a mite possessive at times.” He nudged Dylan, playful, well-intentioned chiding.
“Am not!”
“Genitive is expected at his stage,” Dr. Küper confided obliquely, his focus on David.
Grampa Knight jiggled a Marcel Breuer Cesca armchair for effect, barely sufficient for a man of his size.
“What’s genitive?”
“Dylan, there’s no need to worry. It’s perfectly normal...” He lowered his voice. “A lot of gay boys get EBS as they near puberty.”
“What is it?”
“EBS is a psychosomatic pattern, both voluntary and involuntary, an emotional need that manifests in an intense physical response...” A glance at Dylan. “Being possessive is; well, it’s indicative.”
“What’s EBS stand for?”
“It’s not the end of the world, Dylan; in fact, quite the opposite.”
Dr. Küper turned to find Abby standing behind him, not vexed, amused.
“Could you stop teasing my kid until after lunch?”
“Dr. Küper says I have EBS, Mom; only he won’t tell me what it is,” Dylan murmured.
“This isn’t the best time,” David whispered, keeping an eye on the Knights, both seated, impatiently waiting for them at the dining table.
“It’s Empty Butt Syndrome. Think of it as a phantom penis, Dylan,” Dr. Küper confided. “You feel like your father’s erection in your rectum, but he isn’t.”
“It happens at school sometimes. It’s all I can think about.”
“All normal. Sometimes, the urge can overwhelm you with craving for a real one. At home, the best thing is to insert a plug and fantasize about him. At school, try to concentrate on tightening.”
Dylan thought about it, nodded. “What if I feel really hollow inside, kinda like I’m hungry?”
“Ah, the empty feeling; it’s the downside of being a loved boy. You can’t stop it, so learn to enjoy it. The sooner you have his penis inside you, the sooner it goes away; however, the longer you go without, the better it feels.”
Grampa and Gramma Pearson, with Ariadne in tow, carried their plates to the table.
“We’ll be right along,” Abby called, nudging David toward the kitchen.
Dr. Küper tousled Dylan’s dark locks. “I’ve seen a lot of fathers with gay sons over the years. There’s only one way to treat EBS... having him inside you as often as possible. That way, there’s no phantom feeling, and you won’t be empty.”
Christmas Eve dessert was courtesy of Dr. Küper’s Harry and David catalog, sure to please everyone, with almost no effort on his part. Two Swedish glass platters arrayed with all sorts of baked goodies, emphasis on chocolate, whether covering Christmas-tree-shaped cheesecakes, chocolate baklava, chocolate-swirl cream cakes, and chocolatey Christmas cookies. For the more-health-conscious, a mini-fruitcake, chocolate-covered strawberries, and a cranberry-orange loaf cake.
“Hey, Elf Boy; any chance of another one of your delicious hot toddies?” Dr. Küper inquired.
Sozzled after four, he’d come dangerously close to flirting with Dylan, albeit one-sided. The boy had eyes only for his father. Still, he gave good hugs and didn’t mind being teased about wearing elf attire.
Dylan scampered, returned with a fresh glass, whipped cream on top.
“No rum. Mom used Dad’s bourbon, the good stuff from Kentucky.”
He squashed onto the couch alongside Dr. Küper, getting a creamy guzzle for his trouble. Whispering together before he switched seats, settling into an armchair with Grampa Pearson, exchanging teasing peeks with his father by the fire.
In the adjoining chair, Grampa Knight fixated on his smartphone, ignoring his grandson’s giggles, carrying on about he-didn’t-know-what. So much noise from the boy, no point in talking about his phone’s real-time video links, world-wide satellite communication, and it took 4K photos...
“Weather’s turning nasty tonight. Canadian cold front’s dropping down. Flurries starting here around four p.m. They’re saying freezing rain tonight, then, six to eight inches likely by tomorrow morning, as much as 18 in the higher elevations. Temps in the twenties all day tomorrow.”
“Sounds like a good day to stay indoors. If we team up, we might beat Dylan on PlayStation,” David joked.
Every glance made his heart beat with renewed energy. His son, full of life, nodding, grinning at him from just a few feet away, actively homosexual, yet safely hidden from both sets of grandparents.
“Boys at his age are invincible.” Dr. Küper allowed a smile; young love was easy to see if a person knew what to look for.
Nervous excitement barely checked, eyes downcast or flickering interest. Afraid to peek, afraid not to, touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. Constantly crossing and uncrossing his legs; that was a symptom of Empty Bowel Syndrome, wondering if David realized its significance—his son needed fucking.
“It develops fast. Cute and cuddly one day, little tigers the next day,” Dr. Küper went on.
Cautioning the concerned parent without as much as a hint to Dylan, or anyone else.
“Any early signs I should be aware of?”
“Other than...” He jerked his head up. “... hallucinating. They think they’re unbeatable. It’s scary when it first occurs. A good tickle usually gets their attention.”
Gramma Pearson stepped into the kitchen doorway, Abby and Gramma Knight beside her. “We were just saying, the kids should be outside while the weather’s good.”
“Anyone up for sledding?” Dylan proposed.
Ariadne whooped. “I’m riding with Daddy!”
“He rides with me.” Dylan was adamant.
“Maybe not this time,” David chuckled, peeking sideways at his father and father-in-law.
Grampas Pearson and Knight exchanged glances, nods, more glances all around before fixing on Dylan.
“What’s up?” Dylan murmured, not uncomfortable, sensing the glances concerned him.
“We think you should get your big presents now, and the rest tomorrow morning,” Gramma Pearson said.
Dylan grinned, turning to look at the Christmas stash, ninety percent his and Ariadne’s.
Ariadne didn’t hesitate. “What about me?”
Abby took charge. “Seeing as it’s snowing tomorrow, Dylan gets some presents now and less tomorrow. Why don’t you be Santa’s helper, Ari, and decide what order he gets them in?”
“Open only the presents with yellow ribbons,” Gramma Knight added.
Still grinning, Dylan headed to the couch. Ariadne went to the tree, sorted through the pile and picked out one, the smallest with yellow ribbon. She carried it to the couch, half-pouting as she handed it over.
“It’s from Gramma and Grampa Knight.”
Within seconds he was tearing at paper and ribbon. His eyes lit up; his grin widened. He held up the box with a big Spyder™ logo on the side, a snowboarder in vivid color. Inside, Spyder Enforcer™ ski jacket and pants, blinding fluorescent yellow.
The next box was from Dr. Küper. It held a board bag and bindings, easily worth the kiss Dylan gave him. The third box, by far the biggest, was a K2 Vandal snowboard in flashy orange and black. Then, box #4.
“It’s to Snow Demon from Mom and Dad,” Ariadne read, tired of her brother getting attention.
Inside were gloves, boots, goggles, and a black helmet with yellow straps.
“Yay, it’s got speakers, Dad!”
Dylan tried on everything over elf tights and top. David nodded approvingly, everyone talking at once, concentrating on taking cellphone photos of his bright-yellow boy, so aroused he had to cover his groin with ripped-up wrapping paper.
Indian-file along the ridge, tromping on a deer track through the woods, crunching snow to ice until they reached the north slope. No bunny slope, yet not scary steep, no truly difficult obstacles, any number of options, boilerplate near the bottom where cold air gathered. First time strapping in, ratcheting, dragging a foot, getting used to the feel of a kid-sized pro-board. Both boots in bindings, rolling over. A fatherly final check; goggles on, plugged into his iPhone and blasting shred music as he strapped on his helmet. Dr. Küper took photos plus a one-minute video from various angles.
“No bombing,” David teased. “Your mom wants you back in one piece.”
Dr. Küper gulped as Dylan departed, quickly carving left. “Snow Demon’s amazing!”
“He’s just getting used to the board.” A straight father could never be prouder.
At the bottom, Dylan unstrapped, started trudging up the slope, stopped midway, cutting loose to shred a jump. Then, back to taking the short cut through tightly packed pine trees.
Dr. Küper watched him closely, spotted that gay something. “No doubt about it. He’s a happy little homosexual.”
Red-faced and breathless, breathing mist when he stopped before his father, grinning ear to ear.
“It’s awesome, Dad. I caught the edge kinda hard where it transitioned, no biggie.” Shouting and shivering, more from excitement pent up, than cold seeping through his bright yellow ski gear.
“You did great,” David chuckled, rapping on the helmet until shred volume decreased. “Should’ve brought a thermos of hot honey and bourbon.”
“There’s a better way to warm me up.” Giggling boy, putting his snowboard upside down, stepping closer.
“Sounds like my lover boy wants more than a toddy.”
“Horny is healthy, and normal after a thrill like that.” Dr. Küper winked.
Dylan grinned, a glance that wanted him gone for a while, yet reluctant to suggest it.
Dr. Küper took the hint and started toward the nearest pine trees. “What I need is a pee.”
“Do it against a tree. No one will know if you don’t leave a huge yellow stain on the snow.”
“I will, if you will.” He was teasing, mostly.
Dylan snickered. “Yours will be the first uncut one I’ve seen.”
“Dylan,” David warned.
“Ten-year-old boys thrive on teasing,” Dr. Küper interjected. “It’s part of their emotional development. Besides, it’s about time Snow Demon, here, was more extroverted about his sexuality.”
David regarded his smirking son before looking around at snow-laden trees. “I’m not sure about extroverted. Here, now, no one else will know what he does, or doesn’t do.”
“He has to start sometime, David. Better sooner than later.” Following the Küper Institut für Homosexualität game rules, step by step breaking down inhibition.
“Being extroverted, it means being open, not having hang-ups about sex,” David went on.
“I’m up for that. Little Snow Demon’s up, too, Dad!”
“Promise, not a word to your mom, or Ari, until I clear it, okay?”
“Promise.” Grinning at Dr. Küper, not exactly 'okay', worrying why he was nervous... not shivering, trembling.
“Being emotionally demonstrative in front of other people is especially difficult for a gay boy. I wonder if Dylan is ready for it.”
Authoritative and supportive, Dr. Küper possessed the serenity of snow-covered woods. Meeting David's steady gaze, both of them patient.
“Mom and Ariadne see us all the time, not hardcore, making out and stuff.”
“No one else knows about us outside the family,” David said. “That’s his point, Dylan.”
“If you kissed your dad, really made out with him, right here in front of me, it would be a start.”
Dr. Küper let the idea ferment, deliberately not making eye contact so as to not overdo it. Being in love with his father didn’t mean a boy was uninhibited about his sexuality. Homosexuality brought its own issues, difficult enough that gay boys erected barriers.
Still reserved, Dylan snickered softly. “You mean like French kiss and stuff, right?”
Dr. Küper inclined his head. “It would need to be mutual.”
Dylan took off goggles and helmet, dumped them against his board so they wouldn’t slide in the snow. Long dark curls mussed up, a confirming look at his father. A secret for as long as he could remember was about to be shared ‘outside the family.’
Based on experience with other ten-year-old gay boys, Dr. Küper expected a token display of affection; a familial hug, a tentative kiss, a few tongue swipes. However, Dylan was far more experienced. He jumped up, impulsive kid clinging to his father, seeming bashful, nothing out of the ordinary. They gazed at each other, face-to-face, sharing steamy breaths. Attentiveness years in the making. Last chance to step back.
“You’re all snowy,” David murmured, his voice tremulous, not afraid, skittish in public.
His son poked out his tongue. Cold quiet calm all around, then without warning, he licked his father’s chin, jammed his tongue into a willing mouth. A stunned witness gaped, mute like a tree crashing in the woods, riveting as father and son ‘made out,’ humping and tongue sucking. It went on and on, sometimes meek, mostly frantic, setting a new standard for man-boy passion.
It ended abruptly, urgent separation as if another second would be too long, less anticlimactic, more stepping back from releasing desires impossible to stop. Dylan released his grip, dropped to the ground. Crunchy snow again underfoot, clad in snow-covered yellow snowboarding gear, smirking at a visibly flustered Dr. Küper.
“How was that?”
Dr. Küper fawned at his melodious voice. Shameless man and boy wiping spit from their lips, one brushing off snow, the other giggling, both unfocused, glancing repeatedly at the other. Only David realized what had just transpired had changed their relationship, not a lot, yet there was no going back.
Friend, advisor, psychoanalyst, followed the plan. He understood their defining moment. No longer simply talking about their relationship, visibly expressing it, exposing their love for the first time outside the family.
He teased to lighten the air. “I have to assume both of you got hard. If not, we have a problem.”
Crouching in the snow, Dylan dusted off his helmet and goggles. He stood, his free hand clutching his insulated crotch, blushing before Dr. Küper’s watchful gaze. He caught his father’s eye, noted an encouraging wink. His heart surged; teasing, knowing instinctively what Dr. Küper wanted.
“Wanna see?”
Just minutes earlier, talking to another man about sex was next to impossible; in fact, doing anything involving other men had never been easy. Now, talking to Dr. Küper was the same as talking to his father, constantly teasing each other.
“He gets a boner if what we’re doing is remotely hot,” David murmured, proud of his son, how far he’d come. What they shared was special, unlike other fathers and sons.
“It's way too cold to take anything off.” Dr. Küper let the implication hang. “Besides, I want to see Snow Demon ride his board a couple more times before the snow starts.”
Dylan smiled back at him, dimpled rosy cheeks, eyes bright as he fiddled with his iPhone, searching for music. He turned, backing up to his father while keeping an eye on Dr. Küper.
“This won’t take long. I’ll twerk once Dad sticks his hand down my pants.”
His father’s grin went unseen as he increased helmet volume. No mistaking the Triggerman drum beat of New Orleans bounce music. Dylan did his hip-hop thing as he kept backing up, bending over, lifting his Spider jacket. David slipped off his glove, slobbered over his fingers and quickly slid his hand under the elasticized waist, under elf tights. No briefs was a godsend. Two saliva-slicked fingers following his son’s crack, finding the hot little hole. Dylan was already grinding, slim body oscillating, pushing back. No hesitation getting two fingers past the muscle.
“Fuck me,” Dr. Küper breathed, gaping.
There was no mistaking Dylan’s pelvic motion, backward, forward, side to side thrusting, driving his father’s slippery fingers deep into his rectum.
Already getting darker as the day ended and clouds filled the sky, picking up the pace going back to the house, trailing Dylan doing cross-country on snowboard, bright yellow flashes between creepy pine trees when he gained enough speed. The white-cube house finally came into sight, Narnia lamplight casting a yellow glow over snow, flurries adding glittery magic.
“I hadn’t realized twerking was invented for gay boys.” Dr. Küper was breathless from trudging.
“Abby saw Dylan doing it to warm up before dance class. Now, both kids do it for exercise.”
“A real turn on to watch...” He swiveled his hips, nothing like Dylan’s wild gyrations. “I thought it went well back there. Does he know what’s in store?”
“Some of it. Not that we’re going to Cabo the day after Christmas? Abby doesn’t want me to spoil the surprise,” David said, a pointed reminder.
“She’s okay with you sharing a bungalow with the Hansens?”
“Other than Dylan’s going to see up close what happens when he’s into puberty? Now that Kyle’s 13, Martin’s pretty much taken over bedroom duties.”
David smiled at his son’s antics, now using his snowboard as a sled, careening down the path toward the lamp, Narnia fantasy all around.
“Abby warmed to the idea once she realized she and Ari have a bungalow to themselves.”
“As I said back there...” Dr. Küper glanced behind him. “... Dylan’s a healthy little homosexual. Twerking like he did in front of me, he’s ready to come out... Easier with friends in the same situation.”
“Seeing little Martin with his dad will be good for him.” David enjoyed his next thought. “We’re taking it a step at a time until the boys are used to it. Kyle, of course, is into showing off.”
“Having an older role model is the best thing to break down inhibitions.”
“Dylan’s always been curious about other men and boys, what they do.”
“That’s good. My advice is be patient and don’t push. Let him initiate. If it happens, great.”
“I expect it’ll happen at Cabo. If not, there’s always the camping trip next March.”
“It’ll happen. Dylan’s emerging, I’m sure of it,” Dr. Küper confirmed. “I wish I was going with you. Martin’s a little horn dog, according to his father.”
Leaving his snowboard and helmet with his father, Dylan headed down the elevated walkway. He glanced back, curious about what his father was saying to Dr. Küper, both of them chuckling before they went into the studio. He was certain whatever they were talking about, it involved him.
Splattered with snow, he dumped his boots, jacket, and pants by the front door. Elf tights cramped his style, junk shrunk in front, yet the stretchy seam in the rear was digging into his crack. He itched where his father’s penis went in. Nothing new about that, it was likely a reprise of two fingers digging into his rectum, exacerbated by twerking frenzy.
Tightening instinctively, little firm buttocks clenching, remembering. Even now, his father’s erection was big enough to cause damage if they weren't careful about inserting. However, once the knobby head was inside him, there was no feeling like it. Connected. Inseparable. He liked being ‘knobbed’, his father’s plump glans stretching him. Not painfully tight, incredible awareness, glowing pressure on the other side of his grasping muscle.
He ogled his father through the window, tromping snow on the walkway, still talking with Dr. Küper—this long had to be important. Not thinking, he poked at his pleasure place, unaware he was being watched from the living room, unable to resist fantasizing. His father’s penis belonged inside him, nowhere else. Hot and swollen and alive, stretching his sex-hole until it gaped, leaving his semen behind to remind him...
“I’ll make hot chocolate, Snow Demon. You, upstairs and change,” David said as he closed the front door behind Dr. Küper.
“What on earth is wrong with that boy?” Gramma Knight said as Dylan headed upstairs, and his father went into the kitchen. “He acts like there are ants in his pants.”
“His butt itches. Probably because of EBS,” Ariadne said, louder than the situation warranted.
Gramma Knight was on it in an instant, fast even for an ambulance-chasing lawyer. She fixed her grim gaze on Ariadne.
“Your cousin, Ryder, had pinworms last time we visited; not pleasant at all.”
“I doubt he caught them from Ryder,” Grampa Knight muttered from across the living room.
“I’m not saying he did! Whatever EBS is, he must’ve caught it from someone, though.”
Gramma Pearson shuddered, pushed herself up from the sofa. “Ari, why don’t we see if your mom wants help in the kitchen.”
Snow brushed off, Dr. Küper sat with Grampa Knight, in austere black-leather Breuer’ Wassily chairs, not playing with David’s Bauhaus-cubist chess set, looking out the living-room window, a two-story expanse with spotlights illuminating steadily falling snow.
“For his age, Dylan’s snowboarding is outstanding. Of course, I’ve always been a skier, so I say that as someone who’s never been on a snowboard...”
Unimpressed by anything Dr. Küper had say, unless it involved basketball and football—the American kind, Grampa Knight was more interested in nursing his Moscow Mule. He did glance up when Dylan bolted down the stairs, jumped the last three stairs, and skid-slid across the pale-maple floor in purple-socked feet, triumphant arms raised.
“Dylan Pearson takes the last jump and wins the gold medal! Yay!”
Now attired in a Santa cap and maraschino-red Moschino tracksuit, the junior-jock version, he dominated the Christmas-kid-look without even trying. Grinning at Dr. Küper, he leaped and lunged, again skiing on socks, stopping when he banged into his grandfather’s chrome-steel and black-leather chair.
“Act your age, for heaven’s sake! You made me spill my drink!”
Dylan backed away. “Oopsy. I overestimated the coefficient of friction. Sorry.”
Inebriated on ‘Dylan’ after spending an hour in the woods with him, Dr. Küper patted his armrest.
“Sit with me, Snow Demon. I was just telling Mr. Grinch, here, what a great show you put on...”
Dylan leaned against his chair, butt planted on a curved metal rail. Itching again, he wriggled on the rail until it pressed into his crack.
“Suck up to the brat, why don’t you?”
Grampa Knight staggered up, abandoning his uncomfortable armchair. No sign of Abby or David to complain to, he tottered over to the dining table, barely avoiding spilling his drink.
“He’s always itching behind. It means he has pinworms, doesn’t it?” Gramma Knight said from behind Dylan, nose turned up.
Dr. Küper wasn’t sure he’d heard properly. “Pardon?”
“Or EBS?” She waggled her hands impatiently. “Apparently, he has it, whatever it is!”
“It’s not something I can discuss without David and Abby present,” he protested, his face glowing reindeer-nose-red.
“I am his grandmother.”
He delayed until she frowned, began beckoning to Dylan.
“If you must know, he has Exiguous Bowel Syndrome.”
“Exiguous... meaning what?”
“Incapacious, attenuated, constricted...” He glowered at Gramma Knight. “Dylan has a small rectum; is that clear enough.”
“It’s not small any more. Daddy stretches it every night,” Dylan snickered.
“... Only a pediatric endocrinologist can prescribe a blocker, and then it has to be for gender dysphoria or early-onset puberty,” Dr. Küper reiterated.
No reason other than it needed to be said, the full import recognized by both mother and father. He’d brought them up to date about ‘Exiguous Bowel Syndrome’ mere minutes after it happened, yet he still kept his voice low in the open-plan house, a whisper in the furthermost corner from the living room.
“Neither condition applies to Dylan,” he concluded.
A seeming quandary, the three of them watched snow falling outside, silvery flakes swirling in updrafts.
David nodded at his wife, unequivocal agreement. Their decision was monumental, far-reaching; yet not as difficult as his decision to have start having anal sex with his son. However, it also came with consequences, legal, moral, social, physical, and emotional. All reversible, yet legality loomed head and shoulders above the rest; it represented a risk to his medical license. Less certain and more worrying were side effects that could take years to appear.
“You’ll need to give him regular checkups,” Dr. Küper added. “A blood test, at least every three months.”
He met David’s eye; conflicted, of course. It was only to be expected from a father so much in love with his son that he’d never willingly place him at risk; at the same time, risking everything to make love to him.
“He’s asked about puberty any number of times,” David volunteered. “He knows what it means physically, without me spelling out the underlying issue...”
“Be honest, David. He doesn’t need you to spell it out,” Abby interrupted. “He hasn’t been positive about growing up since the last time we visited the Hansens. That’s when he realized what puberty means, for him, and for David...”
“He still has two, maybe three years before he’s at that stage,” Dr. Küper said solemnly.
Even now, he wasn’t sure of anything except when he’d decided pausing puberty was the right thing to do. It was while Dylan was twerking, ecstatic little Snow Demon impaled on two adult fingers. Close to orgasm, Dylan had glanced up at his admirer, unbridled sexuality, a look that begged for more time to enjoy boyhood. Seeing Dylan’s well-orchestrated ice-skater slide across the living room floor, that was icing on the cake, impossible to forget. A simple display of what it meant to be a boy, truly enthralling.
“The longer the better,” Abby added, meeting his eyes, a look that went beyond well-intentioned.
No question in her mind. If it was up to her, she’d do whatever was necessary to preserve Dylan’s boyhood, if that was what he wanted.
David felt their eyes on him. “I took an oath to do no harm.”
What was the harm in ensuring vitality and joy continued for as long as possible?
“Must I always be the realist in this family? He needs you to love him, David. What makes him so desirable will begin to fade when he starts puberty.” Abby hesitated. “It’s all he wants for Christmas.”
“This can’t be about me.” David sighed. “Being honest, I think it’s in his best interests.”
“Kids starting puberty at eight or nine, that’s wrong.”
“I agree, Abby. That said, I can’t speak for my son.”
“Which is why I’m here as a friend, as well as advisor and facilitator.” Dr. Küper paused, having given his word; yet there really wasn’t a choice. “I promised Dylan I wasn’t going to tell you. He and I talked on the phone a week ago. He’s adamant about wanting to put off puberty for as long as possible.”
“I figured as much. He’s worried I won’t love him.” David sighed. “I’m more worried about the side effects.”
“I think an implant would be the best way to go.”
David had expected Abby to be sympathetic. However, she was beyond that, more than just being supportive. In fact, her querying look at Dr. Küper made him feel uncomfortable.
“Twelve-months at a time so it’s easier to manage than monthly injections. Other than the possibility of complications at the implant site...” Dr. Küper glanced at David. “The side effects are the same, depending on his status when he starts treatment.”
David couldn’t avoid smiling at ‘status’. “There’s barely detectable testicle growth.”
He had volume memorized. His son’s testes were approaching three mL; they’d need to be 4 mL to qualify as early puberty. However, in June, they were two mL.
Dr. Küper had expected as much. “He’s between Tanner Stage One and Two. If he gets blockers right away, it’s not a matter to stopping what’s underway. There’ll be no weight gain, no hot flashes or headaches.”
“David’s more worried about a loss of sex drive,” Abby snickered.
“He’s experienced enough that it won’t be an issue.” David was snippy, she deserved it.
“I’ve seen his ass afterwards. The last time, it was gaping.”
“Did you notice, he wasn’t complaining?”
Dr. Küper enjoyed the family melodrama.
“Ultimately, the decision is yours and Dylan’s. However, the sooner the better; as they say, he won’t miss what he doesn’t have. A few years from now, what he’s missing will be more noticeable.”
“Meaning his physical development will fall behind his age mates.”
Abby was unwavering. “He’s smaller for a few years, is that such a big price, David?”
“Four years is as long as I’d risk,” Dr. Küper went on. “Once his friends realize, they might make fun of him, plus any longer will affect his bone density; his fertility, too; not that it’s likely to be an issue.”
He regarded Abby. As expected, her mind was made up.
“I think an implant is in Dylan’s best interest. David’s, too. By the time he goes back to school, it won’t be noticeable.”
“What you mentioned during our walk, Klaus; he loves surprises like that,” David mused.
“Ho ho ho,” Dr. Küper chuckled. “I came fully prepared. At midnight, then?”
Dylan was asleep when David came up the stairs, padded to the bed, placed his cellphone on silent-vibrate. Using its light, he gazed down. Tousled dark head snuggled into a red and green Christmas pillow, grasping a handful of white down-comforter. Smiling as he undressed, still two hours until midnight.
Lifting back the comforter, David exhaled, always enthralled by his son. He was nude, shameless, smooth, slender, sensuous. He eased onto the bed, careful not to disturb, drawing the sheet and comforter over them, sybarite luxury of silken sheen and goose down. Melting into Dylan’s soft warmth, embracing from behind, one hand drawing the boy’s little bottom against his crotch, his other hand clutching his cellphone.
The alchemy of lust raging, his erection extended, wedging into the fleshy crevice. Insides flushed, willing, and slippery. Ready. Sometimes, Dylan slept right through it. Small and large bodies merging, inhaling orange-fragrance... He awoke again when his cellphone vibrated. He had to look at the screen twice...
“’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse...’”
He nuzzled filament silk aside, licked a little ear, nibbled the lobe, began sucking a slender neck as his hand extended, gently cupped boyhood, soft and warm, still baby-delicate. Three mL testicles were still tiny under his fingers. After tonight, four mL was a long way off. He sighed, kissing a shoulder...
“’The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there...”
“Mmmm... mmmm.” Dylan’s muted signs were an unnecessary aphrodisiac.
“’The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.”
Dylan’s bottom slightly pressed back on his father’s hard penis. His father’s loving caress of his lower belly wasn’t needed.
His ear attuned and anticipating, David actually heard the latch click on the front door as it opened, then silence. Was that a clunk of a boot on the floor below, or an icicle falling from the trees above? A whisper from downstairs? Impossible to be sure, yet hoping Abby would keep to their agreement, no visitation without prior arrangement.
In the excitement, David forgot what came next. With scant moments remaining, he skipped ahead.
“’When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash...”
“I am so not getting out of bed to see Santa,” Dylan murmured.
Now awake enough that there was mistaking the feeling, big and hot. No question it was ready to press into him. He needed the sensation he’d come to adore, not closeness, actually joining together. Instinct took over, his upper leg drawing higher, offering.
“You’re supposed to get up, tear open the shutters and throw out the trash.”
“It’s throw up the sash, Dad.” Sighing, sleepy, a soft little giggle. “What time is it?
“A minute past midnight. Merry Christmas, Butt Monkey.”
“Another Christmas Eve has come and gone, Dad.”
David fondled stiff little boyhood. “I thought I heard Santa; that’s why I woke you up.”
“Um, Dad... There’s no Santa.” Dylan reached behind. “Admit it, you woke me because Chunky wants to go in Butt Monkey.”
‘Chunky’ and a hot clasping hand changed everything. David hugged his son, somehow retaining restraint. Lubed and relaxed made for easy insertion. Instead, he resorted to controlled humping between little buttocks, already slimy with drooling excretion.
“What does Butt Monkey want from Santa?”
“Already told you, and Mom, and Dr. K. If there really is a Santa... I want to be Peter Pan.” Dylan wriggled, aligned knob and hole. “Go in, Dad.”
David pressed, no longer gentle. Firm steady pressure. Not forcing entry, retaking by habit.
“Nearly.”
“Shhh.” No need to say it; he said it anyway. “Relax.”
Dylan loosened, dilation on demand. Bulging into him. Familiar and comfortable, his best friend.
“Hi Chunky.”
Little hips oscillated, kid-grinding on adult cock to make the impossible feasible. Sensations surged, urgent pushing back to force the knob through. Beyond Dylan’s sphincter. Just inside his rectum. They always stopped there.
Dylan quaked, testing himself with careful squeezes, ensuring stretching continued. Everything had to be bigger for Chunky.
“I want him in more.”
Whispering, “Shhh.”
For a moment, David worried someone else was standing at the top of the stairs, looking around the wall.
“You love being knobbed, don’t you?”
“Uh huh. I’m your little Butt Monkey.”
David eased a fraction. Dylan clamped. Their favorite game, sharing a glans. Ratchetting lust by barely moving, taking turns applying pressure on an immature prostate. Sometimes they did it while they watched Lord of the Rings.
Content, David resumed...
“’When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little Butt Monkey, so lively and quick...”
Dylan got it and giggled.
“’... I knew in a moment it must be St. Dick.’”
Father and son were years past the point of no return. Chunky knob pushed deeper, stretching boy-rectum, parental thrusting less than languid, intense and loving, increasingly purposeful, seeking the Holy Grail inside every boy. Still no more than an inch back and forth, one adult hand clasping immature sex organs, intent on keeping pressure on the juvenile prostatic zone.
Dylan was on the verge of throbbing; his lover’s glans was in the exact spot, his erect penis straining majestically, little balls scrunched up like one of the walnuts he’d shelled for his mom. Content as his father murmured, ‘I love you.’ Then...
“’Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!’”
Taking his cue, he whispered his line. Timing was everything.
“’On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!’”
Santa Klaus kept his voice low, his spirit distinctly Der Weihnachtsmann.
“Ho ho ho. Hello, little homo.”
Dylan panicked, jerked away from his dad’s clasping hand, slippery swollen knob sucking out with a pop.
“What the...!”
David clamped his hand over his son’s mouth, stifling the difference between naughty and nice.
“Why, it’s Santa Klaus! Here, on Christmas morning. How cool is that,” David managed to whisper without cracking up.
Hidden under the comforter, safely wrapped in his father’s arm, Dylan turned side on, giggling as he gazed at Santa, cloak trimmed with fake ermine. No red cap, but a sprig of holly hanging over his forehead and a ridiculous white beard.
“Supposed to be a red cloak, not green.”
“Actually, Santa Claus is an American invention. Thomas Nast based him on St. Nicholas, der Heilige Nikolaus. He had associates, Krampus...”
Dr. Küper glowered, growled, and glared at Dylan.
“... who punishes *naughty* children, and..”
His grimace turned to a jolly guffaw.
“Ho ho ho... Pelznickel, who rewards *nice* children with gifts. The question is, what might a cute little homo be doing in his daddy’s bed, this cold Christmas night?”
Dylan grinned back at him, ten-year-old boy charged with adrenaline. “He’s just warming me up... Dr. Klaus.”
Dr. Klaus muffled his cackle in a fuzzy red robe. “After traipsing around in the snow, I need warming up, too.” Catching David’s bemused eye, he added, “Watching boys be naughty never fails to warm me up. Much nicer than milk and cookies.”
“I think a show is in order.” David leaned over Dylan.
Their lips brushed. Each had a hand in repositioning, aligning, placing glans against anus, ensuring penetration.
Dylan sighed as his muscle stretched wide, accepted the domed head pressing in, inhaled as it passed beyond his sphincter. He tensed, tightening, sleepy-dreamy yet consciously keeping it constrained in his rectum. Pulsing, excreting, concentrating on sensations, scarcely aware his father had pushed down the comforter, everything important exposed.
“... Abby wanted to bring Ariadne up here,” Dr. Küper whispered distantly.
“After the EBS kerfuffle earlier, is that a good idea?”
“Abby thinks the more she realizes how important this is to Dylan, the more careful she’ll be.”
“Keep your eyes closed and pretend it’s just us,” David murmured.
“They aren’t here,” Dylan whispered, his voice cracking. “They aren’t here. They aren’t here...”
They were close, his sister and mom on his father’s side of the bed, Dr. Küper on his father’s side. He made himself take a breath, lifting his arm, draping it across his face as Ariadne leaned to look.
“Daddy’s penis is inside his butt, Mommy.”
“That’s how boys do it,” Abby whispered. “Well, one way.”
Dylan waited; not a word from his father. He wriggled back, a hint for more. His father squeezed gently, slow motion, sliding deeper. Halfway was ample, enough stimulation for both to reach orgasm. He still wanted more. He squirmed, doing the rest himself, so slick and loose inside that several thick inches disappeared. Up close, adult scrotum bumped boy buttocks, within an inch of bottoming out.
“Let her see, Dylan.”
He could feel her eyes on him, kneeling on the bed. His father still blocked her view.
“Please, Dylan?”
A frustrated sigh, he repositioned himself, staying impaled while rolling onto his back, one leg lifted up and draped over his father’s thighs. He pulled up his other leg. Completely exposed, his butt hung over a pillow. No secrets, now.
Now, the star attraction, his father withdrew awkwardly, the swollen head glistening, shiny and shaped like a plum.
“Daddy’s cock-head is bigger than all of Dylan,” Adriane murmured.
David was proud of the difference. “Eventually, he’ll get bigger.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “He’s so tiny. Isn’t the boy supposed to get stiff when he has sex?”
“Most times, not every time. He’s embarrassed, I expect,” Abby said. “David, show her how it goes in.”
David smiled, a restraining hand on Dylan’s shoulder, his other hand under a small buttock, his thumb widening the crack. Slow motion insertion, pushing closer, showing his daughter.
Ariadne touched under Dylan’s crinkled scrotum, not quite touching her father’s erection. Everything around it was stretched, shiny-slippery.
“How gnarly is that?” Dylan muttered, hoping she’d stop staring and leave with his mom.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It feels okay... mostly full.” Lifting his head to gaze at his father, the kind of look that made everything special.
“Still a bit tight, huh Butt Monkey?”
Not needing an answer after years of practice, David levered, prodding toward the tender node even as his son strained down. A wriggle, twitching legs turning wobbly, sharing mutual pleasure. Dr. Küper exhaled, jealous fascination they could get there so quickly.
Another gentle prod and Dylan quivered as pressure nurtured the impulse for more. In an instant, desire detonated. He gasped, clasping his father’s hand as he shuddered. Gritting his teeth so as not to whimper, a few moments until the spasm faded.
Ariadne peered where boy and man merged. “I want to see Chunky moving,”
Abby intervened; her voice was taut with anticipation. “We’ve gone this far, David, she might as well see you fuck him.”
David lifted a brow, not about to ask. He started his familiar motion, his own style of boy-loving, a magical rotation of pelvis, then a casual causal thrust inward, outward, another rotation. Engorged cock rutted in juicy hot rectum, swirling, stirring, provoking prostatic spasms. Dylan whimpered every time, driving him crazy.
Ariadne stared as the thrusts came faster, less rotation, less time for her brother to recover from sharp jabs, and the sudden withdrawal. Suddenly, Dylan shuddered, involuntary contractions each with a gasp, a groan, somehow merging into the slap-suck rhythm...
“Uh... Uh... Uh...” It sounded like each breath was being forced out him.
“Amazing. He got stiff again,” Abby murmured.
“Is Daddy hurting him?”
“No Sweetie. Remember when I said climax is different for boys?”
“Is he... coming?”
“Again and again,” Dr. Küper muttered to himself.
How else to explain a boy’s anal orgasm to a girl?
Semen came out eventually, a gush of dribbly globs, making a white puddle on the red satiny sheet. Dylan breathed slowly, deeply, resisting the urge to insert his finger, not daring to feel underneath.
Of course, he always gaped a bit afterwards; however, Ariadne had wanted to see how big his hole got. So, his father showed off, as much for her as her mother. He’d ‘popped’ him properly, pumping his swollen knob in and out. Each extraction sucked at his insides, each quick insertion forced the muscle to loosen, finally dilating completely. It felt like sex-goo was all over his butt; however, as Dr. Küper said, there was no better way of enlarging a boy’s anus, essential preparation for a man’s love.
His sister’s last words lingered; ‘Your boy-hole is huge.’
“What to do with a boy who’s nice and naughty?” Santa Klaus was back in character.
David regarded his son fondly. “Snow Demon’s special, so perhaps a special gift is in order.”
“New PlayStation?”
“Maybe next birthday. What else would you like?” Dr. Küper pressed.
“One thing, more than anything else,” David appended, trying not to sound hopeful.
Dylan chewed his bottom lip. “I already told you. Both of you. I want what we saw on TV, Dad; the implant they give trans kids to stop puberty; I want that.”
“You want to be a girl?”
“Duh! I don’t want to be big and hairy, that’s all. I want you that way, not me.”
“I want you to stay a boy, too,” David admitted quietly. “This is as much for me as for you. However, it’s still a big step, especially for you. Are you sure?”
“I’ve never wanted anything this much, Dad.”
David glanced at Dr. Küper, a slight nod for him to hand over.
“An implant lasts a year...”
“Then, I’ll need more than one. Kyle’s 13; I don’t want to be like him when I’m 13.”
Adamant, his gaze fixed on his father, the one person who truly loved him, who understood him, silently beseeching.
“I’ve brought an implant with me, Dylan.” Dr. Küper hesitated. “I’ll leave it and go. What your father does with it is between the two of you. No one else can ever know.”
He handed David a small gift-wrapped box and started for the stairs, a final fond glance behind.
“Is that why Mom took Ari downstairs?” Dylan whispered. Being a little nervous was only to be expected.
“Remember last Christmas when I told you girls typically start puberty a year or two before...”
“Did Ariadne get an implant?” he interrupted. With no answer forthcoming, he frowned. “Those shots Mom gives her every month...”
He stopped, hearing a whisper from the floor below.
“’Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.’”