Date: Mon, 11 Aug 2008 07:15:54 -0700 (PDT)
From: Tim Stillman <novemberhourglass@yahoo.com>
Subject: g/m incest "Brothers in Christmas Flight"

		       Brothers in Christmas Flight
				    By
		      Tim Stillman and Michael Smith

 Arch of wings. Tides of snow. Bringing me down from winter
clouds. Depositing me to a nearby city, thence the bus trip to small town
home once of mine. Meeting on dark buckled porch, in poor winter coat,
mom. Gray eyes, bowed head. Always knowing things will fall to pieces. No
hug. Though my hands are out to her, then fall to my side.

"You are so late," she winter moans. The plane, I try to say, but then
stop. No matter.  It would be my fault the wings iced and flight was
delayed.

"I was afraid I would have to stay home and take care of--not that I
mind-but he's a handful--gets into fights--failing classes--I have to get
away from--punish him--make it count something to him. He will listen to
you. Never to me. He doesn't ever."

I start to comfort her with words at least. But remember as I help the
elderly her down the mirror slick steps of wood to the concrete ice
sidewalk and into the cab, she likes it as it is. She worried incessantly.

In latest case, her other younger son, known as Timothy. Known as Tim.

"See to him, Michael," always Michael, never Mike, not for me. The older
brother, who likes to think himself not that far away from Holden
Caulfield. What college man does not?--he asks himself. The sensible one
with kind heart and soothing voice. The boy made man who longed to be boy
again. I promise her. The cab I have told to wait takes her off in a hush
of winter snow blow wind.

Heading to the bus station to take her to Aunt Edna's in another state. The
house is chilly, to save on heating bills.


It's about 4 in the morning, as I enter the huge dark house, with the night
still on, still pitch winter black, light snow, but very cold. I kneel by
the Christmas tree, where are the Christmas gifts I had mailed home, which
mom had left by the tree in their postal packaging.

I see the worried edges. Some tiny tears in the brown wrapping. Tim has
been tormented by wanting to know their secrets. I smile. Been driving him
nuts. I am a brother after all. He has been cussing me no doubt. I smile. I
take off the postal wrappings. And see the gaily smartly colored Christmas
paper my girl friend wrapped them with. And the tags of white on them.

Big letters: TO TIM FROM MICHAEL. I place the gifts.


After acclimating myself to the house, I go to Tim's room. Later, to my
own, which seems so big and strange. Shouldn't it seem much smaller? My
boy's bed seems right for me though I have grown into a man already. Who am
I now? It seemed so clear at university. Here it seems nebulous. I am
suddenly frightened. I frighten very few times. I lie and fall asleep.

I see the things I love. Used to love. And love still. Proudly. And
secretly. I fall asleep. I say Christmas. I say Michael. I say Tim. Who
seems real and in dreams comes to me.

Then, I feel a 12-year-old boy land on me, laughing, which jerks me out of
a deep sleep.

He quickly burrows under the blanket, beside me, both of us turned to our
sides, facing the same way. His cold feet with heavy socks on them. His
smell of cherry Luden's cough drops from a just gotten over cold. I bring
myself half awake, my arm around him. He is with me again. I am truly
home. He touches me not. He touches me with closed eyes.

Then blinking eyes. Then tentative smile. Then and then...

"How are you, Tim?" I whisper in his pink small ear.

His sweet tremble reed of a voice says, almost in disbelief, " Michael--oh
hi Michael--merry Christmas, bro--"

"Merry Christmas, Timothy--a merrier Christmas than we have ever seen
before--from Chuck Dickens and yours truly," I whisper back.

I run a hand across your chest, down your stomach.  Your pyjamas, I can
tell from the feel, are the red Spiderman ones.  They are too small for
you, and very thin and worn from years of wear. I feel also your love of
them. I feel the soft sweet summer years of you grown safe in a world where
there is too much winter.

You are warm under the blanket, and against me and I feel the boy size and
small technology that have come together to make a tiny miracle. I run my
hand down an arm, closing my fist around it, and down your legs.

 You giggle and move like you are made of jumping beans. I savour your
body. Your expectant Christmasy kind of breath. You plop a cherry Luden's
cough drop in my open mouth that knew was coming. A tradition,
Christmasy. Always Tim, winter cough.

In snow reflected through the curtained window, and bone moon shining, I
can almost see your eyes dance. The way only children's eyes dance at this
time of year. I see you. And remember me.


"You feel skinny," I say, "like before, but you're a bit taller."

I put my fingers under the elastic of your pyjama bottoms, and feel the
elastic of your underwear. Your skin feels so smooth, so warm. So
vibrant. Unlike my own skin, now, and then. A skin that feels like a rare
painting of beauty and impossibly perfect life. I can feel the pulses that
keep you a perpetual motion machine.


Tim holds me tightly, almost purring, He says "I wore Spidey for a
reason--remember the Christmas u gave 'em to me? And yep skin and
bones..grown an almost whole inch."

"You still have tighty whiteys," I say. And turn you on your back; pull up
Spidey top and blow kiss on your tummy and navel. You giggle and
frantically windmill arms and legs. Only 30 minutes ago I watched you as
you slept.

"Mom told me you might need some new under things. I know how much it sucks
to get clothes as a gift, especially at Christmas. But I got you some boxer
shorts, and some adult pjs, just the bottoms--they're very nice and comfy,
good to wear with an old t-shirt." I saw you sleeping.  Curled up under
heavy blankets in this huge drafty house, always cold on winter nights, to
save on money. We've little.

"I've been going nuts, Michael," you say still laughing, but in momentary
petulance. "Bad enough the Christmas wrapping. But the mail wrapping on it
too. Why you...." As I Three Stooges pull his nose and we fall in brotherly
heap. As I remember.

I watched you turn in your sleep. I wanted to take you and hold your
butterfly downy boy form, and protect you and make the world always
Christmas for you. Then after a long time, hearing you sleep, thumb
sometimes in your mouth, so delicate, and me so happy you are a part of me
forever, I had gone to my room. To wonder about the window of days and how
they collapse into one another. With days getting ended before they've
really begun. And a plane zoomed me home where I had never left.

Tim says "Hey Michael." Even Tim, I thought, never Timothy. Allowed to use
both. Me. But not when she is around. Damn mother for such overly mannered
politeness, hiding so much boiling underneath, out of control.

 "I'm gettin' to be a big boy now...oh Michael, I am so happy..I tried to
stay awake for you. I really did." I smile.  You snuggle closer. I feel my
erection. You put your coconut shaped head on my chest. "It doesn't suck to
get clothes from you, Michael. Oh I've been so counting on you for
Christmas. And then I go and fall asleep and miss saying hi." Be brave,
little trooper; thou liest, but are so understanding of our plight.

"We're saying hi, now, you little giggle box," and at that point a tickle
fest erupts. All ribs and bones and arms and elbows and such, from us two,
goofy as one, laughter.


Afterwards, we lay akimbo, tangled in each other, panting for breath.

Finally I say, "Tell you what Tim. I think I need a few more minutes of
sleep; why don't you go open the present with the red wrapping paper? It
has your new boxers in it, but first, go and give yourself a good
scrubbing, and we'll have a boys' Christmas. We'll open our presents in our
boxers in front of the wall heater. So, you can look nice and handsome for
your big bro."

I kiss him then. A brotherly kiss. That he returns with sparkle. I had
never liked to touch him much when we lived together. Nothing wrong with
it. Just never had reason to. We got along fine. I helped him with his
homework. And kind of looked out for him. Dad was gone. And mom was mom and
too busy working and worrying. But I had never felt feelings for him other
than a mild glad to have you around, though sometimes, you're a pain in the
pants kind of thing. Till he became this moment an island to stay with, all
that cold sea around us blue black dangerous.


Tim yells, "Yippeeeeee!!!!!!!!! Yes sir..right away.."  As he touches my
shoulder--still not true of mean awakening dream. Then onto his knees. Onto
the floor. Onto his feet running away..


I hear the bathroom's clogged frozen pipes rattling. Water taking forever
to even make a gurgle. Hurry up, in that ice room, freeze your nuts off in
there, Timothy. The cold floor memory of bare feet on it. The tub with
stains. The wallpaper brown and creased. The cold clinical bathroom of
unforgiving whiteness, then I fall back asleep for a bit, black ice dreams.

I go from my room. Wearing only my shorts. Rush. Hands rubbing bare chest,
new hairs, to living room, turn on wall heater, hop up and down in place to
get warm--I could have turned on the heater soon as I got here--mom
gone--but old habits..and you show up in your new shorts, rush to the
heater, shivering kneeling before it for warmth. Your almost naked body,
the shorts hanging off your frame, then you rub hands together, and stand
up; as you push out one hip, put hand on it and pose the black and white
blocked boxer's.  You say,

"Hey--classy, right? And smile boy sexily. Do you know that is how you are
smiling? Am I imagining what I never thought of before? It feels nice
regardless. It feels unlike the worlds of war. What could be worse? War or
two brothers having a nice Christmas? What I ask, dammit?

I say, with pride, ruffling your hair," yep, you've gotten taller; your
hair's too long though." My own is buzz cut. And cool I might add. Though
in this weather, way too so.

"Awww....mom's after me to get it cut. I like it long tho. Hey, bro, grown
almost entire inch..tallest boy in class..gonna be tall like you soon. Say
bro," you say, concerned.

"Does it hurt to be grown? Is it like coming out of a cocoon? But that's
your skin and you grow but stay---cocooned??" Dazzled in words.

"Growing pains, kiddo.  Don't worry. You'll do fine. You'll barely notice
it actually. Then one day, something will happen or not and you'll.." I
smile at you. "Come on. Great tree."

"I picked it out at the lot, myself," you say as we sit by tree light as I
plug in the cord, in wondrous beauty little boys still believe in. I still
believe in it.

We are cross-legged in front of each other, open our
presents. Pencils. Pens. Handkerchiefs. A book on grammar. Oh god, little
guy, why didn't I bring you something fun? Oh god, I am sorry. A gift to
give you Christmas day. But I brought sensible things, as she bought you. I
am so goddam sorry.


I try faking it, for I got the same kind of stuff, "They aren't great, but
mom did the best she could," and we don't say it loud but I think we both
feel that that means more than even super-expensive presents could have.

You throw yourself into my arms. We are touching now more than ever in our
lives.

"They are great. Especially yours. What kid in the world has a greater
brother and greater boxers than me?"

Then, we go to have hot chocolate and blueberry pancakes. I am
exceptionally good with making both. We eat fast and much and drink
chocolate greedily. We are putting memories of each other in ourselves as
fast as we can. Because:

I say, "hope you 're not too sore about me not being able to come home for
long."

You avoid looking at me. Not convincing voice, as you fork stab last bite
of last over-run with syrup pancake.

 "Oh, its cool. I love the great gifts. I got you--somethin' too.." Hand
over mouth. Giggly.

I sip chocolate, look at you, as you say, "aww..its an universit-y, not a
jail. You can stay longer..pleaasssseeeeee?" Lip out. Pouting.


"Overdoing it, kiddo," I say, as I playfully tug on your ear, "Don't think
I can; have to get back to work, putting myself through school, you know."

We head back through curtain dividing little kitchen from large shadowy
living room, as tree lights shine and red coils of wall heater burn. Too
hot. Too bright. I automatically turn it down.

We collapse to couch, stomachs full, as I say, "but maybe you could call a
bit more often. You did often, first left, then you stopped. Really missed
you, Tim."

You hop on my lap, shelter into me-arms round me--I feel your tiny erection
with the heel of my left hand. You must surely feel mine. " But mom says we
gotta save money--I want to call--you call me sometime-" then boy mind off
on the wing, " Hey..don't I feel bigger than last time? put on two whole
pounds!!!

I put my hand again on your stomach.

"Yep. Sure do."

I push you off lap.

"Here," I say, holding my arms to you.

I lay down. I direct Tim to lay his back on top of mine, his bum just above
my private area.

I rest my large hands on your stomach.

"Tim, mom told me you told her your plans for the future--the writing
thing--she told me that she switched you a good 'un for that too." I am
turned on beyond words. The feel. Muscles. The touch. Silk. The
vulnerability. Both, me more than him, I do believe. The intimacy. Closer
than ever with a girl.

It is hard to concentrate on mundanity. I feel like the scientist typing
notes on his typewriter with his one remaining human hand while his fly
head and fly appendage are turning him into something else. He slips the
notes under the locked door to his wife on the other side. She dare not see
him.

 What he has become. Is becoming.

"So, I say to him, voice held firm, "you wanna be a writer?"

"Uh huh. She sure did whip me though. I did it for you, Michael. She'd have
done it harder if she knew what I wrote...I love laying like this withchu."

Tim, cut out the baby talk. You're horneying me to death here.

"Me, too" I manage. Do I talk deeply as this? Is it now an act? Like lots
of stuff I took for true maybe? Maybe I need my little bro to help me. Now
how is that for a laff? I fake it through. Does mom fake it through also?
Do all parents? Teachers. My girl friends. My friends. Me? Damn I hate
these thoughts. Distract yourself now.


"Tim, mom's got a point; look how hard she has to work for us. And how hard
I have to work to put myself through school. She wants a better life for
us.


"I think, that if you want to be a writer, you've gotta understand, Tim,
that you're gonna have to work your little ass off like you never have
before, because being a successful writer is hard enough as it is, so you
gotta be serious about it--"

I tell Timothy to get up.

"Don't wanna. Warm here." I push him a little.

Our skin has adhered flesh to flesh, each in turn, I notice at the corner
of my mind.

"The big box I hid behind the chair over there. It's for you. Bring it
here."

Sleepy frown turns to bright beams.

You tug up your shorts, little boy legs running, my eyes fixated on them,
then you are back, and you kneel by me, with the package. You look at me to
nod. You tear the blue and red paper off. They are hard cover books. Four
in number. You love books. You handle them as they are alive.

You look at me. You look back at them. You touch the spines delicately as
if you are touching butterfly eggs. The ultimate rarity of the things. You
are in awe of the rich binding. The heavy hardback covers. Really they are
cheap paper and glue and cardboard. Best I could do.

But to you, they are worth king's ransom. I tell you they are books to help
you be a writer. They tell you the rules. They tell you how to
write. Grammar. Punctuation. Sentence
structure. Beginning. Middle. End. Every story has one. Merry Christmas,
little brother."

The books still dazzle you. You say you will read every word and be the
best writer you can be. You touch them over and again. Comparing print
sized and color schemes of covers. The smell of the different glues. The
bindings.

Then setting them down carefully, you lean over to side of tree, boy
crawling and stretching your stomach muscles, making the little bulge in
your boxers more noticeable. Were it lighter I could see through the
opening of the leg holes. Oh why can it be light?

You return.

You give me light, blue wrapped present. I open it immediately. There are
three hand-written notebook pages.

Your voice, a bit of quivering, says, "It's what I was writin' when mom
whipped me..she didn't see it tho..I finished it..it was for you..merry
Christmas.."

You and I are blushing supremely.

It is a story handwritten called "The Stem of Tim"--about Tim and a little
twiggy friend of his.

I reach over to turn on floor lamp. I read the story, Tim on me again. He
smiles at me. Looks at the tent pole in my red green boxers.


"Ah well--ah cough cough--this is real good Tim old man; you got some real
talent."


"Thanks big bro-- hehehhhe-well, I know u miss me so u can take me witcha."

We laugh. We maintain we are not horny as hell poses.

"However, I just spotted loads of reasons this won't even get close to
being published. So use those books I gave you, okay?

"If you do that, and only if you do that, you can do what you love and make
a decent living."

"Nobody in the world can ever love you like I do," Tim says to me. "Go to
the bottom of the sea. Go to the furtherest planet there is. And you will
find no one who will ever for even an instant love you like I do."

He said that forthrightly to me. No little boy voice. No younger than his
years tricks. It scared us both, I think. So in a necessity of haste:

We put our arms against each other. I caress your naked back as you hold
your arms around my neck.


We release each other as I give you a kiss on the cheek.

You sit beside me on the couch, we face the heater too far away, and the
books put down on your other side. Our legs are together, cross ankles.

"Tim, what's this about getting in trouble in school? And getting bad
grades this semester?"


(I feel warm against you, Michael, I will one day write. Using those books
you gave me far too long ago.

I encircle your knees with my hands. -From me, up ahead--I never forgot,
Michael, ever)

"Oh, I dunno..Its just..oh I keep gettin in fights u know...I'm tall..they
don't like me cause a that---but ..well...u know...

"...But they don't have u as bro..or these wonderful books. And they can't
write The Stem of Tim--hehhehe

"Or have my new ADULT shorts or jammies either."

We are looking deeply in lust.

"No, Tim, I don't know.  'fore I left, you promised you were gonna keep up
with your schoolwork--" Reverting back to my voice and words when Tim's
age--am I turning into a child or tuning into a child too carelessly, too
needily, too recklessly? God, I do not want to leave.

"Do you think you can do better this next semester?"

You move along carpeting, and lean against couch..playing with your
stomach.. brighten up.

"Yes, I will...it's just I miss you lots..don't have no one to talk
to...read my homework..help me with it..but I'll do better, I promise-
hey..Michael.. How's universit-y? How ya doin' there?"


"Top marks in every class," I brag, adding, "just like you always got up
until this semester."

" Yippeeee!" Bubbling sexy younger bro.

I play with your legs as I lie beside you.

"University is great--lots of great people, great fun, good professors,
nice classes, lots of women--"


A tickle legged Tim, blushing and laffing, "ehhehe."


"Yep, when you get in--I mean if you get in--which you will if you go back
to working hard in school--you're gonna love it there."

I touch your shorts near the crotch. I feel your little stiffy. I almost
die. I'm about to squirt.

You move your becoming willowy body to lay the back of your head on my long
hairy legs that feel so warm and good and comfy to you, you say--

" Good place--got you there-so gotta be--hey can I ask a
person---question?"


You lean your head back and tickle my upper legs with your long hair. I am
quite astounded. You know just what you are doing. Shy little you. And at
such an early age. What has happened the last half year? I am afraid to
ask.


I laugh. I put my hands on your forehead, and rub slightly, "You always do,
you nosy bugger," I say with a smile.

Tickle. Tickle. Be naked. Please. You and me. Together. All Christmas Day
long. Who thinks? Both.

You turn over and sit up, outlining your package with your hands, so
boldly. When did this boldness happen, Tim? And why am I out of my mind in
happiness it has?


"Don't know if you mind talking `bout it...but..well..My ah..thing is the
thing..ah I been playin u know with it"(blushing furiously)"and mom found
out and said it's real wrong-and I know you'll tell me the truth--"

You turn to look at me. Are you play acting? Play acting? I've not said
that since I was your age. What is wrong with me, Tim? Who are you. Who is
the almost fly in whose almost parlor?

You put your chin on my chest, narrow hurtful chin, and say, "See, you're
the closest person in the world to me-like we are in same skin sometimes it
seems..


After a long pause, you say,

" Ah..kinda hopin' just ya tell me its ok, cause its really well fun..You
know?"

You're letting me, an adult, you a kid, off the hook. I am momentarily
angered. Then relieved.

"Yeah, Tim. It's ok. Fun too." I hold my penis through my cloth a
moment. You see me.


"But alot of people don't think so, like mom, so try not to get caught,
ok?"

"Sure. Thanks, bro."

You turn and smile and kneel..putting your chin on my legs...


"Do ya still got switch marks on your bum?"


You nod..." Ah, well..yeah..afraid so..sigh..does a kid ever get big 'nough
to stop screwing up?"

"Sorry, it's a lifelong thing. but hopefully you won't screw up as much."

"Yeah--me too."

You rub my hairy legs, up and down. Then your smooth ones. Up and
down. Comparing. What kid doesn't compare a little..

"..little squirt..wish I looked like you..ain't got hair one.


"Haven't," I correct him, and place a hand on your thigh, just where your
shorts end, rub it a bit; "yep, still smooth as a baby--"


"Hehehehhe--not so bad when you touch it--was I a cute baby?"


With sudden sincere emotion that shocks me, I say, "Yep, and you still
gotta face that can melt a heart."

"Awww...hey..Michael..."

Then you lie beside me. Close. I feel your rabbity heart and remember so
much I thought was still mine but has instead left my cocoon long time
passing..


"Michael, I do somethin stupid after I--rub--it..Don't tell nobody.."

You lay your face over the hard nipple under which there is a heart that is
melting.

"Cross my heart--what do ya do?"

"I..cry afterward--"

You press your small hard on to my side. I want you, Christ, go figure, I
got the hots. Lord.


You are rubbing your penis in your boxers against my side.

"It feels good and all..it just..I dunno..I just get sad after.."

I place a hand on your chest and massage. Your sternum is still
growing. Your everything is. And comes a day soon you won't be you
anymore. Like I'm becoming me not anymore, but someone else. And I find
that inestimably sad.

"I think I might have a thought why," I tell you.

"It's cause it's over, and whoever you were thinking about, sort of leaves
your mind."

You stop gently rubbing and nod sagely.

"--Yep-u still got the right answers Michael. always tell it straight..been
trying to get mom to move us to a place close to your univ..can't
tho--yeah...after makes me lonely...just me again."

I say, my hand on your shorts, tentatively, "So, tell me Tim, what's wrong
with just you?


"Sure, can get a bit lonely sometimes.


"But you got that great mind of yours, that comes up with stories like this
one

I'm gonna read it every time I miss you."

You kiss my cheek. Rush your face away. Blushing. Reassuring me. But the
nagging thought. Are you really?

"That'll help loads, Michael."

I kiss your cheek.

You like it.


"So, Tim, stem of, let's see the damage."

You stand up in front of me. Facing away, as I pull down your shorts, see
the marks left by the switch.

"Yep, looks like a bad one, " I say. Your little butt looks delicious. The
little red lines of the switchings are pretty. Pale red against pink
cheeks.

I am transfixed, and then pull 'em back up for you.

You look at me as you say, "You used put cream on `em for me, `member?

I am now behind you.

"Dare you to pull them off," I say as you bend to the heater for warmth.

"Oh, so u dare eh?" says it little boy sexy brother of mine---"well maybe I
won't..  ...and maybe I"--rush to stand up, de-shorts and hops naked on me,
pushing me on my back---"willllll."

I laugh and hold you against me.

I say, "Your cock feels so nice. Can I see it?"  All bets are off here. The
sun is rising. The snow blue feeds winter into the house through window
shades open enough for Christmas Day to make its timely entrance.

Your body is one gigantic laughter machine.

You say proudly as I feel your naked back and wiggly warm butt, "Get
ready--it's a biggie--reallly--you're goin' to be amazed!"

We are beyond blushing or being scared or being shy or being wrong.

You rub your body on mine. You are my brother. Your name is Timothy. You
are beautiful.

You lie to the side of me as I quickly push down my shorts, then lie side
by side with you.

You are astounded at my hard on. At my adult body. Your cock goes k-thwong.

You display your own and open your legs for me to see all of you.


I say, ".. definitely gotten bigger than it was before when I had to give
you bath."


"Wowwww!!! man, Michael, you got a fantastic one!!! Never seen one that
biggggg--oh mine is a little nothin compared---can I...can I just touch..a
second."


I giggle a bit uncomfortably.

"Well, I suppose you should get used to it for when yours becomes like
this; sure, go ahead.

"Yep-great idea!!"

You touch the top with one finger.. gasp..Rubbery. Feverish.

Then the thick heavy head..Then touch the base of the top--such a
fascinating magic wand grown sexy adult size--fascinated..Eyes up
close..And the shaft--fingers dancing on tightly made skin. Taut.

" Bro, oh u got a great stem there--it's so hard and warm. Can I see you
know how you do it..rub it?

I rub it harder.  Pointing the slit at him.

"Hi, little eye," you say, rubbing your own little hardie.

"God, you are one turn on, dude." You say. Moving your legs. Working your
cock.

Watching me jerk off.

Watching you jerk off.

"Your cock is so heavy and beautiful. That's a cock that means business, by
God."

"Yours is too, bro."

"Really?  Hey, that's true. We got the best two cocks in the world."

I say, "Know that, my man."

His lovely little body and face are so ethereal, I want the all of him, for
here are where the sunrises are stored, in their time, so I say, " feels
good when someone else touches it you know?"


So I put my hand on your thigh, and then I take my two fingers and I give
you a little squeeze.


Then I let go quickly.


"See?" I ask

You giggle, and then say, "Oh..Michael..that was fun..Say..nobodys touched
me when I'm like this-cept me--could-u? for a sec?"

I begin to stroke you. Warm and pulsating. Little puppet balls. I rub it
gently.  Touch the slit. Rub under the tiny head of the stick.


 You shiver..nestle in crook of my arm.. You sigh and close your eyes as
you rub my cock too. Just right.

You open your eyes and say, "Michael, show me how to do it on a big stem?

I guide your hand to make a fist around it.

Then begin to move it for you, the way I like it.

We stroke each other. Almost the same rhythm for both of us. Miracles come
Christmas if you believe.  I've learned to believe again. Let Tim never
stop believing.

I close my eyes and allow myself to fall back into boyhood, to remember
what it was to have a small, hard penis like yours.

And as I continue to stroke you, I come.


"You're so warm, Michael..oh my god-"

You look closely as I cum. The cum flashes into your little left hand as
you dry come.

As you tremble, leaf in winter, reverberate..But keep my eyes and hand on
my cumming cock.

"God..Oh Michael it's so much..so lots..white as Christmas
snow..hey..wow.."


"And that we're bros.." I start.

"Just makes it better," you finish.

As you play with my penis and I play with yours.


We finally let go of each other, but I put my arm around you, make sure
you're ok, as I wipe your hands with my shorts.

"Close your eyes," I say, "lean against me, see?  No crying."

You smile at naked us. Wonderful...

Then you realize:

"Hey Michael--yep no tears-oh thank u.."


"Thank you too, that felt wonderful."

Sated, "Wow-I did it right and everything?

"You did it perfectly.

"You're a natural, you little perv.

"Hey, sun's up."

We mouth kiss an instant.

Then I say, "You know, since we've already done presents and everything,
let's go to the pond and go skating.  There'll be nobody there this early;
we'll have it all to ourselves."


"Great idea!!!!!!! It'll be beautiful..."

"Race `ya to get changed."

We run, our nakedness flapping.

Your naked little flanks propel me on.

I follow you into your room.

I grab your arm before you pull on your underwear.

You say sweetly, "Our stems are hopping together hehehhe."

I look and by God they are.

"Hey, Tim, I love you, more than anything, you're the best brother anybody
could hope for, got that?"

I look at u serious. I nod. Really choked up. I pull myself to you-"I'll do
better in school.lots.and read those fab books you gave me, and send you
stories..and.."

You press my penis,growing again, with your hand..

You say, "Hey-hi Michael's------cock--nice to know you."

I laugh, and playfully slap your hand away.
 hehehehe
 Ok hurry up, I wanna skate!

We get dressed.


We walk together, my arm around your shoulders, to the skating rink, where
we skate into the sunrise, both of us forgotten that I will be leaving that
evening, but even so, we have spent a day together that was worth a
thousand.

And that is how Christmas is supposed to be. Me and my brother skating in
the beautiful snow lit winter day. Which of us wrote what, which of it is
true and which is not--it doesn't matter in the end, because we decided to
bring a little Christmas early, and wanted to share it with whoever happens
across it.

We wish you happiness and love and someone to ice skate with. Cause
everybody should have a person to ice skate with him. If only in his
dreams.


From Michael and Tim.