Date: Tue, 22 Dec 2015 08:22:19 +0100
From: Zachyboy <z.blake@mail.com>
Subject: On the First Day of Christmas

ON THE FIRST DAY OF CHRISTMAS
By Zachyboy
t/b, oral, anal

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

This story is a work of fiction. Santa's elves made it in the toy
shop. They're robust little creatures, and they get up to no-good as soon
as they clock out for the day. Anyway, this is my "holiday special,"
whatever that means. I've seen other people write their "holiday specials"
every year. I giggle when I see that term in this context, and I put it in
self-effacing quotation marks, but, well, who wants to be left out of that
kind of fun, right? So, here's mine, and happy holidays.

It goes without saying, if this type of sexual material is illegal where
you live, or if you're not old enough to read it yet, you better be good
for goodness sake, and take the first sleigh ride out of here.

I'd consider it a great Christmas gift if you'd make a donation to Nifty in
my honor, or in honor of any of the other online erotica authors who
brought you pleasure in 2015. We do it because it's fun and funny and sexy
and sweet and we enjoy entertaining you and giving you a safe release for
your otherwise (quite-necessarily) unactualized fantasies in the real
world.

It's a pleasure to do that for you, but always remember, behind the scenes
after you toss your tissue away, it does cost real-world money to keep an
incredible archived fantasy site like this one up and running, so anything
you can send in the way of a donation to Nifty this holiday season, well,
I'd just consider that the best, most personal Christmas present you could
ever give me.

http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Tell them your donation is in honor of your secret Santa Zach, or for any
of the other thousands of authors who jingled your boy bells in the
beautiful year behind us.

You may take off your mittens now. You're gonna need to keep at least one
of your hands free.

Ho-ho-ho, and on with the show.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the first day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – a part of his
little bare V.

It started because he was trying to convince me his V was his butthole.

"No, Squirt," I explained to him patiently, showing him mine. "Your V is
here. See? It's the two crease lines that start up under your tummy-sides,
and then they go down into your weenis area."

He's 9, and still calls his little doink a weenis. I'm 14 and I call mine
whatever I god damn want.

"Nuh-uh," he said, shaking his head emphatically. "You got it wrong,
Bri. Your V is right here."

He pulled down his pants and underwear, turned around and bent over,
exposing his pretty, creamy skinnybutt to me, and ran his own finger up and
down his crack and wiggled it into his butthole a little. Lucky finger.

"See?" he said. "This is my V! It stands for vagina!"

I choked on my Coke.

"Where did you ever hear that?" I laughed.

"Logan Thiel told me!" he said defensively. "He said his brother does it up
inside his vagina, just like you do it to me."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head at the silliness of boys. I fumbled with
my belt buckle, unzipped and pulled my pants down to my ankles.

"Bend over the bed, Squirt," I told him, reaching for the lotion bottle on
my bedside table.

"Okay," he said cheerily, spreading his butt cheeks apart. "Have fun in my
V!"

I sighed. Kids.

But hey, I thought, as I worked my slim cock up his tight little squeezer,
if that's what he wants to call it today, far be it from me to stop him. He
can call it whatever letter of the alphabet he likes, as long as it's open
for business.

He sighed as I entered him, full-pubes deep.

Not that I had many pubes yet that year, but what I did have were now
tickling his ass.

Or tickling his self-proclaimed V, I guess.

"V for vagina," he grunted, pushing back against me and giggling.

I locked into place and sighed contentedly before I started pumping him.

I could stay like this forever. Locked in place in the secret, sweet heat
of him.

I was part of his little bare V.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the second day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – two nurple rubs,
and a part of his little bare V.

"We should play with our tits more," he said out of the blue.

"Yeah?" I shrugged? "You need a little nipple work, Squirt."

"Not nipples," he said knowingly. "Nurples."

"Nurples?"

"Yep. Logan Thiel's brother sucks his nurples before they hump. It gets him
good and horny."

"Fine with me," I said. "Bring your nurples over."

He lifted up his shirt, pulled it off and threw it on the floor of my
bedroom.

"You can also do purple nurples," he informed me with an air of authority
in his voice. "That's when you grab one and twist the bejeezus out of it."

"You want one of those?" I smiled.

"Oh, geez no!" he said with wide eyes. "Those hurt like a yowler."

A yowler was Banner's word for anything that hurt a lot. I'm pretty sure he
invented that word. I loved it. The first time we did it when he was 7 and
I was 12, he hitched up his pants when it was over, shook the sweaty hair
out of his eyes and announced simply, "Well. That was a yowler."

But today he was 9, and he'd moved on to nurples. So he came over to where
I was sitting on the bed and I sucked on each of them for a little while I
pulled his pants down and fingered his butt a little.

"You might want to be careful down there in my V," he told me casually. "I
had the runs at school today. Third period. Right after reading groups. I
had to get a hall pass. It gushed out like a faucet. Ker-splash!"

"Ew," I said, immediately removing my finger. "Maybe just blow me today."

"Fine," he said, taking my pants down and fishing my cock out. I wasn't bad
for 14. Slender. Maybe 4-and-a-half. 5 on a good day.

So my little brother gave me head, and I did that thing he likes where
instead of swallowing my load, which isn't much yet, but hey, it's a couple
of decent squirt-oozes, I blurb it out on his face instead of making him
drink it. And any time I do that, he closes his eyes and smiles. He likes
it when I goop it right on his eyelids, and frankly, I like to watch it
squirt out on him.

"It feels tickly and runny and warm wherever you shoot your spooey on my
face," he giggled once. "But it feels extra warm when it shoots on my
eyelids. Eyelids are sensitive for spooey, I guess."

So, I always try to aim for his pretty closed eyes, angelic and eager. My
aim was true on this day.

And this time when I was done, I scooped it off his eyelids with my
fingers, and I rubbed it like cream on his little pink dime nurples. A
little on the left one and a little on the right.

"Oooh!" he giggled gleefully. "Nurple lotion!"

And then I bent down, locked my lips around the left one, and sucked my
little brother's tits while he made sweet little giggle-moans, and I felt
his little hard spike pressing into my leg. I'd take care of that for him
in a minute, but first I needed to finish eating the rest of my sperm off
his goosebumps.

Getting my second boner of the session, I reached around and started
fingering his tight little asshole again.

And who cares what gushed out of him in school that day.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the third day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – three french
tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

"How come we don't make out more often?" he asked me. "You know, like men
and ladies do in the movies before they hump?"

"I don't know," I shrugged. "I guess it just never comes up. Do you want to
make out more often?"

"Uh-huh!" he nodded quickly with the most beautiful, eager eyes. "Because –
because –"

"Let me guess," I interrupted. "Logan Thiel's brother makes out with him
before they do it."

"Yep," he nodded, getting undressed.

I didn't know this Logan Thiel kid, or his brother, but I was fairly
certain Banner should bring both of them over for a sleepover party.

I took off my own clothes, opened my arms, and my little brother came to me
and let me envelop him like a blanket. I wrapped my arms around him, naked
skin on naked skin, always sweet and it felt so right. When we were naked
like this, and when I held him like this, we were like two perfect puzzle
pieces, fitting into place. Warmth to warmth. Brother to brother. Little
tiny heartbeat beating in his chest. Always happy. Always so pleased to do
this with me.

"If I kiss you," he whispered, "it's because I love you."

"I know you do, Squirt. I love you, too."

And we kissed.

He kissed me sweetly, his little tongue dancing and exploring, lips
sucking, teeth nipping, in a way that makes you grateful for 9-year-olds.

In a way that makes you grateful for little brothers.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the fourth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – four naughty
words, three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare
V.

My penis was already five inches up his rectum and I was giving it to him
rather hard that day.

"This one's a yowler," he grunted. "Yowl it up me good."

And I was sure giving him my most sincere attempt.

We were on our sides, spoon-fucking on top of the covers of my bed, and he
was actually grabbing a fistful of bed covers because I was pounding it
into him so hard, just about ready to come.

"Bri," he whispered. "I want to say my swears."

"Okay, Banner, say your swears," I grunted, headed for my finish.

"I want to say my really bad swears before your spooey goes up in my V."

"Okay, buddy," I told him through gritted teeth and a relentless fuck
rhythm. "Say as many bad swears as you want."

"Shitfuck!" he grunted as I deep-rammed his boyhole.

"Cunt!" he growled as he pushed back against me.

"Pissface!" he yelled as I pistoned his insides.

"Pussy!" he screamed as I grabbed his slim hips, and I hard-yanked him
backwards, and I blasted his womb with my babies.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the fifth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – five boner rings!
Four naughty words, three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of
his little bare V.

"I think your cock is getting chapped," he told me, looking up at me from
the luxurious blowjob he was giving me.

"Don't talk," I mumbled dreamily, pushing his head back down and nudging
his lips around my stick. "Suck."

But he came back up immediately.

"Nope," he said. "I'm pretty sure you've got some chappage going on."

"Well, what do you expect?" I told him. "We're off from school. We've been
fucking like crazy. Of course it's getting chapped."

"That's because of me," he beamed proudly. "I'm tight as a drum."

"You sure are," I smiled. "So chapping's to be expected."

"I'm gonna put a band-aid on that," he announced suddenly, standing up and
heading toward the bathroom we shared. Our bedrooms connect with a two-door
bathroom in the middle. I'm on the left side, he's on the right side, which
sure makes nighttime after-hours fucking a breeze after our parents go to
bed.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Get back here, Squirt. You're not finished sucking me
yet."

He giggled and came back with a box of Christmas-theme
band-aids. Infecti-Guard Kids, it said on the box.

Before I knew it, he was drying my cock off with the blanket and unwrapping
a Santa Claus, which he placed around my shaft, right under my tip.

"Hey!" I yelled. "That's going to hurt coming off!"

He giggled and unwrapped a Frosty and placed it underneath the smiling
Santa.

"That's two," he giggled.

"Oh man," I muttered, with a raging boner that wouldn't go down. "This is
going to be a mess."

"Three," he grinned as he put a Rudolph under Frosty.

I shook my head and rolled my eyes and let him have his fun.

Kids. I swear.

Then he got another Rudolph, then he got another Frosty, and after five
band-aids, we ran out of cock.

He looked at his handiwork and giggled.

"Ring-around-the-boner!" he cheered happily. "Ta-da!"

"These are never coming off," I grumbled, reaching for the lotion. "It's
gonna take a Christmas miracle."

I lubed my cock a little with the store brand intensive-care my mom always
bought. (I always urged her to buy the unscented kind, because then I could
still smell my brother's butt when I fucked him, although yikes, she sure
didn't know that was the reason).

I lotioned my cock, hoping that would peel the band-aids off easier, but my
brother giggled and had other ideas. He grabbed the lotion, squirted some
on his hand, fingered his own crack for a second or two, then straddled my
still-raging, fully-bandaged erection and slowly lowered his lubed butthole
onto it.

"You want me to fuck you with the band-aids on?" I asked incredulously.

"Yep," he giggled, already halfway down. Then when his skinny butt came to
rest on my sparse, light public bush he added, "Oooh! Scratchy. You're
scratching up my V!"

I began hip-thrusting in and out of him, and I have to admit, it was a
curious feeling. My dick was covered with band-aids, so the sensation was
puzzling, annoying, erotic and wild, all at the same time. I came up his
butt in no time.

He giggled and hopped off.  He slowly helped peel the band-aids off, which
were a little slippery now because they were covered in a white-frothy cum
and lotion glaze.

"Frosty, Rudolph, Frosty, Rudolph," he counted as I wince-hissed through
the skin pulls.

"Hey!" he hollered. "One, two, three, four?"

"What?" I asked.

"The Santa one came off in my butt! ACK!"

We both laughed.

I finished my own wincing ministrations with amusement as he stomped off to
the bathroom to sit on the toilet and try to air-fart Santa Claus out of
his ass.

"How's it going in there, Squirt," I hollered after a two-minute silence.

"Almost got him!" he yelled out cheerfully. "I got the mirror out and I'm
squatting! I can see a little red hanging out."

"Do you need the tweezers?" I offered helpfully.

"Nah," he said. "One more good one and he should fly right out."

I heard him let a big wet cum-fart followed by a sigh of satisfaction.

"There you are, you jolly red bastard," he giggled.

And then he came back in and sat on me some more.

"Sit on my lap, little boy," I whispered, "and tell Santa what you want
this year."

"Your weenis," he giggled. "Your weenis, Santa. Right up my V."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the sixth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – six cheeks a
spalying -- five boner rings! Four naughty words, three french tongues, two
nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

"So, which ones of my friends would you like to see their buttholes the
most?" he asked me in that really weird prepubescent sentence structure
that reminds me he's still only 9. Whenever he kid-butchers a sentence like
that, it somehow makes me want to fuck him even more. Seriously. I bone up
when his syntax flies off the rails.

He'd brought his yearbook into my bedroom in preparation for our playtime
today, and he was opening it up to his last year's class. My brother and I
go to a K-12 charter school, so we get an all-school yearbook every
year. And all the kids in the lower grades are included too. It's a fresh
edition of perv mug shots, every June.

"Just the boys in your class, or all of the boys from all the other
classes?" I asked him. It's good to check for clarity's sake.

"Three from my class and three from the other classes," he said, handing me
the yearbook and taking off all his clothes, bare naked, his little boner
sticking straight up in anticipation.

"Well, that depends," I said. "What do I get to do with them?"

"Just look at their buttholes," he said. "You know. A quick peek at their V
and you're out of there."

"It's not a V," I reminded him. "The V's up front."

"Not in my yearbook," he said. "All their V's are in the back."

"Fine," I said. "Let me take a look."

He handed me the yearbook. I scratched my head.

"And all I get to do is look at them with their cheeks spread apart?"

"Yep," he said.

"No blowjobs?"

"Nope."

"No bee-effs?"

"Nope."

"Man," I grumbled. "This is really lame."

I flipped it open to his class from last year. Mmm. There were a bunch of
cute boys in that class, that's for sure.

"Do I have to spread their cheeks open myself, or are they going to spread
their cheeks FOR me. You know, as a community service?"

"What difference does that make?" he griped. "You're so picky, Bri. Who
cares?"

"I don't know," I admitted honestly. "I just like a certain level of
participation on their part. Certain boys have that self-spreader look on
their faces and certain boys are clenchers. I like the self-spreaders."

"Fine," he said. "They all bend over your bed and spread their own butt
cheeks for you."

"Yay!" I cheered.

"You are SO lazy," he said.

"All right," I said, ignoring him and pointing to faces in the
yearbook. "In that case, this one for starters. Devin Baker."

"Oh no," Banner said quickly. "You don't want Devin. He picks his nose."

"I'm not going to be looking at his nose," I reminded him.

"Fair enough," he said. "That's one."

"Reece However-You-Say-It," I pointed, stumbling on a downright pretty boy
with a long last name.

"Reese R." my brother said. "Nobody can say his last name. Not even the
teachers."

"Well, Reese R. then," I repeated.

"Good choice," he said. "He's got a nice weenis. He shows it to everybody
in the bathroom before recess. It's a big one, with a very nice tip shape."

"His tip shape is ship-shape," I said.

He giggled. Rubbed his hard little cocklet.

"And, let's see," I said. "How about John Fingers. Ha! Is that really his
name? Poor kid."

"Yep. Fingerbang, you're supposed to call him. He says he fingerbangs Emmy
Wentless. I'm not quite sure what that means."

"I'll show you in a minute," I told him.

"How about Logan Thiel," he said, pointing to a blond boy down in the
R-S-T-U row. "He already gets it up the V from his brother. He's already
broken in."

"Nah," I shrugged. "I like `em fresh. Like you."

He giggled. Wagged his naked ass at me. Lord, I was ready for this game to
be over.

"And now pick three from the older grade boys," he said, flipping the pages
ahead for me.

I picked a fifth-grader named Philip James Roux.

"Oooh," my brother squealed. "That's Fiji. He has a good imagination. He
likes to do pretend games with the older boys at recess. Sometimes he takes
one into the bathroom with him for a really long time and they don't come
back out until the bell rings."

"Hmmm," I nodded, tucking that away for later follow-up. "Intriguing."

"Two more," he chirped, rubbing the lotion in his butthole again. "Hurry
up. My V needs your weenis."

"I keep telling you, Squirt. That's not your V."

"V for vagina," he insisted, turning around and splaying his cheeks and
showing it to me. "Read it and weep, cracker jack."

It was glistening with creamy lotion and looked good enough to fuck, and my
dick was already hard as a rock dying to get in there, and frankly, I was
tired of the yearbook game.

I quickly pointed to two random sixth-graders. Caleb Royer and Mark
Pitcher.

"Good choices," he said. "Mark Pitcher's one of the kids who plays with
Fiji in the bathroom, and he always comes back out all happy-looking and
sweaty."

"Come here," I told my brother. "I've got something happy-looking and
sweaty for you."

"Oooh," he giggled, eager to climb on.

I tossed the yearbook aside and watched my cock slowly sink up into his
rectum as he straddled me.

Pretty as a picture.

Put that in your yearbook, Fiji.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the seventh day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – seven sperms a
swimming, six cheeks a spalying -- five boner rings! Four naughty words,
three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

"How old were you when you first got your sperms?" he asked me out of the
blue.

I was trying to rim his butthole and suck his little weenis, so the
interruption of course annoyed me.

"I don't know," I mumbled, trying to suck his little marbles and get him in
the mood, which apparently he wasn't, since he was up there chattering
away. "12 probably. Right about the time I started bee-effing you."

"On PBS, it said each teaspoon of squeemen can contain millions of sperms,"
he recited proudly. "Billions. Gazillions."

I sucked his little cocklet a little harder, hoping he'd shut up.

"Oooh," he giggled when I started fingering his asshole, but he still kept
chattering away.

"How many sperms are in your squeemen, Bri?" he asked me.

"I don't know," I sighed. "Seven."

He giggled again.

"Seven sperms a swimming," he sang loudly, mimicking the old Christmas
carol. We both burst out laughing.

"Come on," I told him, reaching up and ruffling his hair. "Why don't you
fuck me today, Squirt. You start off on top and put some of that big weenis
of yours up my butt."

"Oooh!" he squealed as I lay down on my stomach and spread my cheeks and
raised my ass up into the air for him. It was a tricky mount because he was
smaller than me, but he always managed to find his target on those special
days I got a wild hair up my ass and I let him play big boy.

I heard him lotion up his little cock, he wiped a cold fingerful into my
ass-button –

"Ha!" he said. "Right in your V."

"That's not my V," I told him.

"Right in your vagina," he giggled as he lined his little weenis up, pushed
forward and with a surprising jolt of pain for a stiff little three-incher,
grunted it full-blast up my chute, grabbed my hips and started pumping away
like a horny little rabbit, giggling and panting, and hanging on for dear
life.

It only took him about 45 seconds of this and –

"BAM!" he hollered. "Right up your V! Seven sperms a swimming! Take that,
vagina man!"

He pulled it out of me and wiped his greasy little cock on my ass cheeks.

"That's not a vagina," I said, rolling my eyes and flipping him over and
lubing him up for my turn. "And you don't make sperms yet. Not even close."

"I will someday," he giggled, laying down on his tummy and spreading his
sweet cheeks apart for me. I lined my cock up with his butthole and I
slowly pushed it into him.

He clenched, winced, hissed, and sighed.

"I'm gonna make sperms someday," he promised me as I started pumping in and
out of him, a slow and leisurely one today. I was in no hurry.

"And when I do," he giggled, "Boy, are you in for a surprise."

I grabbed his hips and started pumping him harder.

"Yep," he said with little boy confidence. "You're gonna have my sperms up
your V, morning, noon and night!"

"Nope," I grunted, fucking him. "I like it on top too much."

"Aw."

"Tell you what, once you start sperming, you can fuck me on
Tuesdays. Tuesdays can be your Top Days."

He giggled.

"Your butt is going to be SO sore on Tuesdays. Sore and full of sperms!"

He was still giggling when I ejaculated inside him.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the eighth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – eight major
milkings, seven sperms a swimming, six cheeks a spalying -- five boner
rings! Four naughty words, three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a
part of his little bare V.

Today was Cocksuck Day in our house, an anal time-out Banner calls anytime
his ass is on the fritz, which apparently it was today, because when I
reached my hand down his pants in the morning and tried to finger his hole,
he simply shook his head, pulled my hand away and said, "Uh-uh. Cocksuck
Day."

I'm never quite sure what brings it on. Usually Taco Bell the night before,
and he's not feeling quite receptive down there.

But whatever it is, he deserves a day off every now and then, right? I
mean, really. If your little brother's nice enough to let you in there 29
days out of 30, give the kid a freebie and let him call a Cocksuck Day once
every lunar cycle for Christ's sake.

Plus, Cocksuck Days are kind of fun, because even though his ass is off
limits, he makes it a goal to see how many loads he can milk out of my cock
just using his hands and mouth. I think our record is something like 14.

Well, not 14 loads of course. Hell, my balls are empty after two. Then I
need to recharge in between rounds, and if I'm lucky if I can squirt a few
oozes the next couple times. After, geez, five or six, I'm shooting total
blanks, just like when I was Banner's age.

Still, he keeps milking me, hoping for more.

"Maybe if you took more vitamins," he suggested after my seventh orgasm of
the day, completely dry. My dick actually ached from all the times he'd
brought me off. "Or you know. Eat some yogurt or something. Maybe you'd
have more squeemen."

I coaxed his head down and he wrapped his pretty little lips around my cock
again. Even sore. Even dry-shooting, I could never get enough of this
beautiful kid's mouth on my cock, ever. He could do this all day as far as
I was concerned. And on Cocksuck Days, he often did.

I only made it to eight that night.

"Mmmph," he mumbled, gobbling my cock again. "Eat more yogurt, Bri."

And then he brought me off again, and we both fell asleep in my big double
bed, behind our locked bedroom doors with the bathroom in the middle.

He actually fell asleep with my cock in his mouth.

Cocksuck Day.

Believe me, it should come at least once a month in everybody's home.

It feels like Christmas morning.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the ninth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – nine gaybees
prancing, eight major milkings, seven sperms a swimming, six cheeks a
spalying -- five boner rings! Four naughty words, three french tongues, two
nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

"Look how gay they are," he giggled, pointing at them, dancing at the mall.

And believe me, I WAS looking at how gay they were. They were super
gay. And I was getting rock hard in my pants enjoying their movements in
their tight little costumes.

We were in the mall, shopping for our mom's Christmas present, and we'd
stopped to watch a bunch of kids from one of the local dance lesson studios
do their holiday performance on the little red and green holiday stage
across from the main court where kids were lined-up to have their picture
taken with Santa Claus. Helper elves were corralling the kids, handing out
candy canes, chirping "watch the birdie!"

We were on our way to Brookstone to get my mom a foot massager and my dad a
nose hair trimmer, but we got distracted by the 6-to-10-year-olds who were
doing a dance from the Nutcracker. There were a bunch of them, all in
pretty ballet-class tights and colorful costumes.

"How many of them to you think are really boys?" Banner giggled.

I counted. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, I think. Although I'm not quite sure
about 9 up there at the end."

Sure enough. We both walked closer and we couldn't tell if 9 was an outie
or an innie. And trust me, when they're all twirling around doing prancy
gay ballet stuff, they're not offering you any clues to their gender
identity.

"Yep, he's a boy," Banner finally said with confidence. "Squint hard and
you can see his weenis bump."

Sure enough, there it was.

"I bet he sits down to pee, though," I thought out loud. "He just looks
like that type."

Banner giggled.

"I bet you'd like to hump me in my V if I put those ballet tights on," he
whispered suggestively. "I bet you'd like to stick it right in me and make
me your little dancer boy."

My dick gets immediately hard when Banner flirts with me in public.

"Oh, I'll stick it up your butt, all right."

"My V," he said. "You'll stick it up my V!"

"It's not your V," I grumbled through gritted teeth. "And I'll take you in
the bathroom in the food court and prove it to you right here at the mall
if you keep talking to me that way."

I was horny enough watching the ballet boys' bottoms, and if Banner wanted
to fuck, believe me, I was ready to ram two scores of Tchaikovsky up his
ass.

"Oooh," he giggled. "I dare you, Bri. I double-dog-dare you."

Well, that's all it took.

I grabbed him by the hand. Actually grabbed him by the hand, marched him
through the food court, didn't even care that people were watching us,
marched him into the bathroom – no one there, thank God, opened the last
stall at the end, nudged him inside. He was still giggling, still
excited. Tiny hard boner showing in his pants.

I pushed him up against the wall. Unhooked his belt. Lowered his pants,
lowered mine. Spit on my cock, Spit-lubed his asshole and got my Christmas
cookies right there at the mall.

Merry Christmas, Santa's elves! Watch the birdie! Take picture of this!

I came up his candy-cane tightbutt with a ho-ho-ho and my yule log a-glow.

"Wow," he whispered, pulling up his pants when it was over, no more than 60
seconds later. You want to be quick in a bathroom at the mall. "That one
was a yowler for sure."

"Sometimes you smart off and you need your stocking stuffed, Squirt" I
shrugged as I swatted his butt.

He giggled and rubbed his sore asshole.

"That one was the old nutcracker all right," he mumbled, impressed. "I
betcha number 9's never had a yowler like that one up his twitchy little
V."

"Not yet," I smiled. "But he will."

"You think so?"

"Aw come on, Squirt. Look at him dance. He will for sure."

He rubbed his asshole again, gave me a nod, and we hurried off, swallowed
up in the crowd, to buy our poor father a nose-hair trimmer.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the tenth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – ten lads a
leaking, nine gaybees prancing, eight major milkings, seven sperms a
swimming, six cheeks a spalying -- five boner rings! Four naughty words,
three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

"Hurry up!" he whispered to me after his soccer practice the next
day. "Hurry up if you want to see the weenis parade!"

He'd tipped me off in advance that after practice, most of his teammates
who weren't allow to pee during the game – all of whom drank LOTS of
water to stay hydrated – ice cold water out of big plastic Gatorade
bottles – made a huge, postgame beehive straight to the only boy's
restroom in the indoor sports complex where they played.

"And there are no dividers between the urinators!" my brother said
gleefully. "You can see all their weenises!"

"Urinals," I corrected him. "No dividers between the urinals."

"Whatever!" he said. "The point is, it's a weenis parade in there!"

And sure enough he was right. I took my place five minutes before practice
ended, chose the middle urinal of three, fished my cock out and stood there
pretending, while ten sweaty soccer boys lined up on either side behind me,
taking their turns at loud, giggly rough-house and pee-time.

None of them seemed to notice at all that the big kid in the middle was
taking his damn sweet time and just standing there gazing at all their
perfect peckers. They just filed past me, left and right, pulling down
their soccer shorts, twiddling out their little dinkies, and peeing golden
streams of their fiery liquid Gatorade every which way but loose.

Man, you'd think if you've seen one 9-year-old weenis you've seen them all,
but let me assure you, that wouldn't be correct. I saw big ones and little
ones, skinny ones and plump ones, stiff ones and squidgy ones. One even had
a mole on the side. And one kid was so eager to pee, he just yanked his
shorts down and pissed like a fire engine, balls, butt, and the whole nine
yards blowing in the breeze.

"So?" my brother said later. "What did you think of the weenis parade?
Pretty good, isn't it?"

"Squirt, it was remarkable," I sighed, unbuttoning my pants and making sure
my door was locked. "I think you need to get down on your knees today,
buddy," I told him. "I think I need one standing up."

He dropped to his knees. He grinned and opened wide. I walked up to his
open mouth and let him suck me to a shuddering wet squirt load right in his
kneel-needy yap. It didn't take long for me to use his sweet mouth for a
cum urinal. A cum urinator.

Later, peeing boys still on the brain, I stood behind him and helped him
pee in our shared toilet that night. He giggled while I aimed his dickie
for him. I felt the buzz of his piss flow up through his tube and vibrate
my fingers as it squirted in the bowl. We got a little on the floor,
because while I was aiming for him, I was also rubbing my cock up and down
in the crack of his ass, hot dog in a bun style. He was still all slippery
and fragrant from soccer practice.

I put some spit on my dick, I put some spit on his ass, and I entered him
right there, standing up, while his piss tapered off. Just stood there in
the bathroom. Fucking him. Standing up. He moaned and said, "yes." He
whispered, "yes, do it harder."

He was so hot. So sexy I ached for him.

It was always like that with me and Banner.

Sometimes he made me so hot for him, I had to fuck him right there on his
feet. I couldn't even make it back to the bedroom and lay him down.

I had to fuck him right there where he stood sometimes.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – eleven poopers
wiping, ten lads a leaking, nine gaybees prancing, eight major milkings,
seven sperms a swimming, six cheeks a spalying -- five boner rings! Four
naughty words, three french tongues, two nurple rubs, and a part of his
little bare V.

"You know what Joshy T. asked a kid at school to do today?" he asked me
while he was taking his underwear off and checking them for skid marks.

"What," I said drolly, because I'd heard a few of his stories about Joshy
T. before, and believe me, I knew where this one was headed.

"He asked a kid in the bathroom if he could wipe his butt for him!"

Banner erupted in fits of giggles.

"Well," I shrugged. "That sounds like Joshy T."

"Yep," my brother giggled. "He has an anus mixation."

"Anal fixation," I corrected him. "And his is scat."

"Like you say to a cat when it gets on a table?"

"Well yeah. If the cat is pooping on the table at the time, sure."

"Hmph," he said, tucking it away for later. "Anal fixation. Scat with a
cat. Got it."

I thought that was the end of it, but five minutes later, in mid-buttfuck,
he brought it up again.

"Hey, Bri," he said leisurely while his legs were up over my shoulders and
he was staring lazily at the ceiling while I pumped him. "Would you ever
wipe another kid's butthole?"

"Um, probably not," I grunted. "Do you mind if I finish up in here before
we have a meeting on this?"

"Oh, sure," he said quickly. "Go ahead. I'll wait."

But nope, he piped up again ten seconds later.

"I mean, if I got the yearbook out and made you pick eleven butts you had
to wipe, could you do it? Like you know. Not super messy ones. Just sort of
regular ones."

"Oh for God's sake, Banner," I muttered, slowing down. "Do we have to
discuss this now?"

He giggled. "You always go too fast in me," he said. "If I throw some talk
in, it makes you slow down a little!"

"Is that what you need?" I smiled, suddenly understanding his need for the
chatter. "You want it nice and slow today?"

"Oh yes," he sighed, wrapping his little arms around me. "Make it really
nice and deep and slow today, Bri. I love you, big brother."

He smiled dreamily and looked back up at the ceiling again, counting the
cobwebs, content in me filling him.

"I love you too, Squirt. I'll make it really slow for you."

He sighed and hugged me. I didn't understand it yet, but we were really in
love. Even back then, we were really in love.

I adjusted my angle, my patience and my objectives, I cupped my hands under
his beautiful little bottom and began the sweet, slow in-and-out dance that
brothers have been doing since the beginning of time.

I loved him deeply that day. I started loving him deeply.

"You still have to pick eleven butts to wipe," he whispered with a giggle
as he felt me cumming inside him.

"Shhh," I grunted through gritted teeth so mom wouldn't hear. "I'm filling
your V."

"Yay!" he cheered. He squealed quietly in victory and pulled me into him
for a soft, sweet tongue kiss.

"I knew you'd finally admit it's my V," he whispered. "V for vagina!" he
added in a sing-song happy-chirp.

"It can be anything you want it to be, Squirt," I whispered, kissing his
sugar lips. "As long as we can do this, it can be anything you want."

He held me to him. Kissed me. I could taste the Skittles and root beer on
his breath.

"Do you love me?" he asked me.

"I love you," I told him.

"Forever?" he asked me.

"Forever and a day."

He giggled and hugged me to him, tightly, sweetly.

"Merry Christmas, Brian," he whispered, kissing my ear lobe. "Merry
Christmas in my V!"

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – twelve cummers
cumming, eleven poopers wiping, ten lads a leaking, nine gaybees prancing,
eight major milkings, seven sperms a swimming, six cheeks a spalying --
five boner rings! Four naughty words, three french tongues, two nurple
rubs, and a part of his little bare V.

Oh, that was so many sweet, perfect years ago. My little brother Banner in
my arms, the first time I loved him so slowly like that, taking my time,
telling him I loved him. His little 9-year-old body, so soft, so warm,
nestled into the safe solidity of my strong 14-year-old arms, spooning,
sharing secrets, growing up together, doing things that were private and
perfect, like a neverending story.

Later when we looked back at that time – that magic hourglass of
childhood – the one we never stop turning over and over again in our
minds – I asked him, "How many guys do you think ejaculated in you
before we moved in together? How many guys came up your butt? I mean, I
know there was me, but how many others?"

He smiled thoughtfully at our little Starbucks bistro table and stirred his
peppermint latte.

"I don't know," he grinned shyly, in a way that still made my heart
sing. "Seven maybe, including you."

"You let seven guys cum up your butt!" I stage-whispered, perhaps a little
too loudly, since the older lady at the next table turned a sudden shade of
red and tried very hard to stare into her Kindle instead of at my brother
and me.

"Well," he said in mock defense, because he still truly loved the chatter
of our playtime, "How about you, Mr. Butthole Virgin? How many guys' wads
did you take up your hot little squeezer once you got the hang of it? I
seem to remember it was pretty tight in there. A good place to visit!"

I shrugged. Feigned innocence.

"There was my weenis," he said with certainty. "Regularly, as soon as I
could cum," he grinned.

"Man, you were happy the first time you shot in me," I laughed.

"I know," he grinned. "I was so proud."

"Tuesday's were Top Days for Banner after that."

"Yay!" he cheered.

"Yay!" I grinned back.

"Well," I said, doing the math in my head; it was so many boyfriends
ago. "Let's see. There was you, and my roommate in college, and maybe three
other guys I dated before you moved in with me. So five in all, I guess."

"See?" he smiled. "Five guys came up your butt, Mr. Gulpy Hole. You're no
pristine angel. You still got your V plugged."

"Well," I said. "I only let five guys cum in me. You let seven cum in
yours, slut."

He giggled. Fully-grown, but the same sweet giggle I remembered from when
he was seven. And nine. And thirteen. And twenty-five. And thirty-two. All
the days and all the ways we'd loved each other, and still do, endlessly.

"Seven plus five," he smiled, sipping his coffee. "That makes twelve. An
even dozen between us."

"Twelve cummers cumming," I sang, mimicking the old Christmas carol, and we
both laughed softly, touching hands across the table. I reached up and
brushed a crumb from the corner of his beautiful mouth with my thumb,
lingering for just a second to touch the beautiful lips I've kissed a
million times.

"Come on," I said, grabbing his half-finished muffin and putting it back in
the bag for later. "Let's go home and I'll show you some Christmas cheer
the way I did when you were nine."

"I'd like that," he smiled, standing up, leaning down and giving me a quick
peck on my forehead. He wasn't shy about that ever. Public kissing. And
that time when he did it, the lady with the Kindle looked up at us and
smiled.

"Merry Christmas, ma'am," I nodded politely to her, and she smiled back so
warmly. So genuinely happy to see love at Christmas, in all its crazy
flavors. It's nice when they smile now instead of wince when they see
us. You have to admit, it's a changing world out there. Maybe that's the
greatest Christmas gift of all this year. Just maybe.

"Merry Christmas, boys," she smiled gently. "You two take care of each
other now."

"Oh, we will," I promised her. And I've never gone back on my word.

My brother took my hand and we walked outside into the peppermint sunshine
of a snowy Starbucks parking lot, two blocks away from our shared little
starter home.

I could hear carols from the outdoor speaker overhead and a Salvation Army
bell ringing from the grocery store next door. I took his hand and we
walked home smiling, kicking at the sidewalk, shuffling in the
snowflakes. I held his warm hand and he chattered away, remembering and
laughing at the kids we used to be.

On the first day of Christmas, my brother gave to me – his heart and a
future so free.

I heard the lyrics in my head.

I heard the tune of all those beautiful years blending together as we
walked back home to spend our Christmas day together in the happy little
home that love built.

I love you, Banner.

Merry Christmas, Squirt.

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

And to all a good night,
Zachyboy
December 2015
z.blake@mail.com

For my little brother S., with love.