I’ve never liked holiday parties. The crowds, the noise, the
strangers, the acquaintances you haven’t seen in ten years whose
names you’re somehow supposed to remember, the open-bar abuse,
the terrible music, the stupid games, the mistletoe that everyone thinks it’s so funny to maneuver
you beneath . . .
I don’t like weddings either, pretty much for all the same reasons, nor am I a fan of the wrath-ofnature-
tempting elitism that are gated beach communities. Which makes a Christmas wedding in
Boca Raton a whole new level of hell, even if it is a total kinkfest—just as much a collaring, really, as
a marriage under God.
So what, you may ask, am I doing here?
Well, for starters, I didn’t exactly have a choice. At least I can’t hear the music, and I’m well away
from the drunken crowd and the mistletoe. Fuck, I’m not even in the house. Which is probably for
the best, because the only thing I’m wearing is a Santa hat . . . unless you count the big red bow tied
around my cock and balls.
I guess that makes me a wedding present. Not sure why Sir stowed me in the barn, then, instead
of drafting me into wait-service like the rest of the Santa-hatted slaves I saw on my way past the
party, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. They’re all working their naked little butts off, while I get to
lounge in the climate-controlled barn and nap. Which, admittedly, would be easier if my own naked
little butt weren’t half buried in itchy straw.
On the other hand, I’d rather be serving Sir—even serving Sir’s friends—than be sitting here
alone. I wonder who’s bringing Him drinks, bringing Him food, licking His fingers clean and
following Him round the dance floor. I wonder if He’s thinking of me as He sips one of those girly
drinks He loves so much, dancing and laughing and maybe even taking His turn at reddening the
slave-groom’s ass when the boy’s master puts his prize on display.
A muscular naked man is
splayed out on a snowy
hay stack. He is wearing
a Santa cap pulled over
his eyes.
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
113
I wonder, briefly, what Sir’s intent was in gifting me. The happy couple already comprised a
slave; wouldn’t my presence just make the poor boy jealous? Or was he a switch, interested in
playing for a night alongside his master instead of beneath him? That thought excites me more than
I care to admit; the red bow around my cock and balls tightens like Sir’s talented fingers as my body
responds. I reach down to touch myself, just once, curl my fingers into fists and tuck them back
beneath my head before I can break Sir’s rules. But it aches, god, like a hunger, an unreachable itch.
And it won’t get better anytime soon; the blood is trapped by the ribbon-cum-cock ring, and my
thoughts have turned to dangerous places, to threesomes, to foursomes, serving the new couple and
Sir all at once, all night long, never allowed to touch myself, never allowed to come . . .
Shit. Enough of that. Truth is, I’m probably just the new dishwasher or something. The thought
makes me laugh until I’m breathless; if all they use me for is chores, it would be a sad, sad waste of a
gift.
*****
I fall asleep, wake up some time later feeling stiff and colder than before. The hay prickles and
pokes as I stretch, but I don’t get up. I kind of like it, for one thing, especially where it scratches
against the fading welts that Sir left on my back and ass the night before. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m
not supposed to move, that this is a test, even though Sir said no such thing. Why else would He
have left me here unbound, if not to see whether I’d stay put on my own? I’ve no intention of
displeasing or shaming Him or myself in front of a whole wedding full of Doms and subs.
Which is why I am most definitely not in any way even beginning to contemplate thinking about
touching myself without permission, despite my erection having turned nearly the same shade of
red as the big velvet bow that’s framing it.
It’s also why I’m so damn relieved when Sir at last comes to get me that I’m kneeling at His feet
and pressing kisses to His dress shoes without even knowing how I got there. He’ll rescue me from
myself, I know He will.
He always does.
He smiles at me, reaches down to pet my hair, then cups my chin and tugs me to my feet. The
kiss He gives me nearly unhinges my knees again, but He’s holding on tight. He always does.
“Good boy,” He murmurs against my ear, glancing approvingly at my cock, now weeping hard
against His thigh. He says it like maybe He’s a little surprised I behaved all this time without the aid
of bindings or His watchful eye, and I glow with the knowledge that I’ve pleased Him, impressed
Him, maybe even exceeded His expectations.
“Stand up straight now,” He says. “Arms out.”
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114
Someone’s boy is at His heel, I realize now, only a little surprised that I’d failed to notice the
slave earlier over Sir’s commanding presence. Yet he’s a lovely thing, truly, perhaps five years my
junior, just as fit, a face made just as surely for television as I’ve been told my own is so many times.
My jealousy takes me by surprise—no one should be at Sir’s heel but me—and I have to squash it
down with clenched fists and jaw when Sir waves him forward a step and takes two bundles from
his outstretched hands.
Said bundles do help a bit, though. One is a rope, and the other a jingle of leather and metal. Sir
passes the rope back to the boy, who takes it willingly, head down and cock erect. The leather He
shakes out and fits over my bare shoulders. It’s a harness of sorts, wide padded straps crossing over
my chest and buckling around my waist and at my back. More straps wend between my legs, a builtin
leather cock ring fitting snug beside the velvet bow, a long thin strap of leather dangling down
from it and brushing the barn floor. Sir finishes his buckling and reaches into the pocket of his
tuxedo jacket, pulls out . . .
A horse tail?
Oh, fuck. The barn, the harness . . . How did I not see this coming?
The grin He tosses me when realization dawns across my face is positively evil.
“Ass up, boy,” He says through that wicked grin, and I spread my legs wide, bend over, and grab
my ankles like He taught me. Cold lube squirts against my hole—He must have had a little packet in
there along with the horse tail—and then a plug that must be the size of His wrist is being worked
inside me. I haven’t been fucked in three days and I’m way too tight now for something that big to
go in easy (assuming a plug that big could ever go in easy). It hurts; my fingers are making dents at
my ankles and my poor neglected cock is standing up taller than ever, shouting Pay attention to me!
to anyone who will listen.
Sadly, no one is. At least not now. Possibly not at all tonight.
Which, of course, just makes it stand up taller yet.
“Almost there, Nicky,” Sir says, His free land resting warm and firm in the small of my back to
comfort me, or perhaps just to stop me from falling over. But He is true to His word; with one last
hot flash of pain the flare pops inside me, and my muscles clench tight around the neck of the plug,
drawing it in even deeper. Horsehair tickles at my asscheeks and all the way down to the backs of
my knees. I feel so full it’s like His whole fucking fist is inside me. Fuck, if so much as the breeze
blows too strong across my cock, I might well shoot my load, permission or no.
“Stand up now, boy,” Sir says, the unmistakable pride in His voice flushing me head to toe. My
eyes catch the other slave’s for a moment as I straighten, and this time, it’s him that’s jealous of me.
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
115
Sir reaches for the long thin strap of leather still dangling from the harness cock ring and runs it
up my asscrack around the horse tail, then buckles it tight to the harness near my shoulders. My
hands get buckled into the harness next, resting comfortably at the small of my back, no strain at all
on my shoulders or wrists.
Done binding me, Sir takes the rope from the silent slave behind him—actually two ropes; reins,
to be specific—clips them to a ring down near my balls, and runs them out behind me. A sharp tug
on one pulls my bound cock and balls to the left with a bright spark of pleasure-pain; a tug on the
other pulls my junk to the right. I suppose I won’t be needing a bridle, then.
Sir seems satisfied. He gathers up the reins in one hand, cups my arm in the other, and leads me
outside into the cold.
Well, more like into the lukewarm and sticky—your average cloying Florida night. A light breeze
blows against my bare skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. Walking is . . . difficult with this plug
inside me, every step jostling and turning it, rubbing it along my prostate (and possibly the back of
my fucking throat), making the horsetail swish and sway. A bug buzzes nearby and, denied my
hands, I find myself wishing the tail were real so I could swat the damn thing away.
But then Sir leans in and does it for me.
He guides me around the massive home, clumps of partygoers with drinks in hand watching
appreciatively as I pass them by. I duck my eyes like a good boy, but not too soon to miss more
jealous looks from naked boys and girls stuck carrying trays of food and drink. Fierce pride gathers
low in my belly (or maybe that’s just my looming orgasm?); any one of these pets could have been
chosen to pull the wedding carriage, but the grooms picked me. Sir picked me.
In the backyard now, down toward the narrow strip of sandy beach, the ocean churning steadily
under endless strings of party lights and a near-full moon, a band playing some romantic music and
couples swaying on the outdoor dance floor. A couple hundred others are seated at white-draped
tables, eating wedding cake and other delicacies from silver carts being wheeled through the tables
by pretty naked pets in silly Santa hats. I feel eyes on me and straighten my spine, square my
shoulders like Sir taught me and high-step toward the beach. Sir leans in and praises me, His breath
tickling the shell of my ear with the promise of pleasure, of reward.
My shiver runs straight down to my toes.
Sir marches me past the crowd, down to where the sand is packed hard and damp from the
receding tide. There awaits a magnificent carriage, decked all in white satin, room for two and two
alone on the padded bench seat above its tall wheels. I move to stand before it without being told,
hear the grooms climb inside while Sir hooks my harness to the carriage shaft. It doesn’t look any
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
116
heavier than the bike-drawn carriages tourists take through Manhattan, but added to the weight of
the grooms and the drag of wet sand, I suspect I’ll soon be getting one of the tougher workouts of
my life.
Sir hands someone my reins, and I’m treated to the pleasure-pain of two hard tugs again, first to
the right and then the left. I was ready for that, but not for the stripe of fire that lands across my
shoulders a second later; I yelp, jump, take half a step forward and feel the weight of the cart drag at
the straps around my chest. From somewhere just behind me, Sir chuckles and says, “That’s it, Bill.
Don’t spare the whip; he likes it.”
I grin to myself and roll my shoulders as the blaze fades to embers; truer words have never been
spoken.
Sir speaks again, but this time it’s to me. “Good ponies get apples and sugar cubes,” He says. “If
you’re a very good pony, I’ll rub you down and stud you when you get back.”
Well, fuck. This time, my shiver runs right down through the sand.
I don’t know where the grooms will have me take them, or how long I’ll be gone, or how raw my
back and balls and muscles will be by the time they’re done with me, but I don’t care. I don’t even
care that I’ll love every second of it, though of course I will. In the end, none of that really matters—
what really matters is that I’m Sir’s good boy, and that He’ll be waiting right here for me, counting
the moments until my return just as anxiously as I.
strangers, the acquaintances you haven’t seen in ten years whose
names you’re somehow supposed to remember, the open-bar abuse,
the terrible music, the stupid games, the mistletoe that everyone thinks it’s so funny to maneuver
you beneath . . .
I don’t like weddings either, pretty much for all the same reasons, nor am I a fan of the wrath-ofnature-
tempting elitism that are gated beach communities. Which makes a Christmas wedding in
Boca Raton a whole new level of hell, even if it is a total kinkfest—just as much a collaring, really, as
a marriage under God.
So what, you may ask, am I doing here?
Well, for starters, I didn’t exactly have a choice. At least I can’t hear the music, and I’m well away
from the drunken crowd and the mistletoe. Fuck, I’m not even in the house. Which is probably for
the best, because the only thing I’m wearing is a Santa hat . . . unless you count the big red bow tied
around my cock and balls.
I guess that makes me a wedding present. Not sure why Sir stowed me in the barn, then, instead
of drafting me into wait-service like the rest of the Santa-hatted slaves I saw on my way past the
party, but I guess I shouldn’t complain. They’re all working their naked little butts off, while I get to
lounge in the climate-controlled barn and nap. Which, admittedly, would be easier if my own naked
little butt weren’t half buried in itchy straw.
On the other hand, I’d rather be serving Sir—even serving Sir’s friends—than be sitting here
alone. I wonder who’s bringing Him drinks, bringing Him food, licking His fingers clean and
following Him round the dance floor. I wonder if He’s thinking of me as He sips one of those girly
drinks He loves so much, dancing and laughing and maybe even taking His turn at reddening the
slave-groom’s ass when the boy’s master puts his prize on display.
A muscular naked man is
splayed out on a snowy
hay stack. He is wearing
a Santa cap pulled over
his eyes.
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
113
I wonder, briefly, what Sir’s intent was in gifting me. The happy couple already comprised a
slave; wouldn’t my presence just make the poor boy jealous? Or was he a switch, interested in
playing for a night alongside his master instead of beneath him? That thought excites me more than
I care to admit; the red bow around my cock and balls tightens like Sir’s talented fingers as my body
responds. I reach down to touch myself, just once, curl my fingers into fists and tuck them back
beneath my head before I can break Sir’s rules. But it aches, god, like a hunger, an unreachable itch.
And it won’t get better anytime soon; the blood is trapped by the ribbon-cum-cock ring, and my
thoughts have turned to dangerous places, to threesomes, to foursomes, serving the new couple and
Sir all at once, all night long, never allowed to touch myself, never allowed to come . . .
Shit. Enough of that. Truth is, I’m probably just the new dishwasher or something. The thought
makes me laugh until I’m breathless; if all they use me for is chores, it would be a sad, sad waste of a
gift.
*****
I fall asleep, wake up some time later feeling stiff and colder than before. The hay prickles and
pokes as I stretch, but I don’t get up. I kind of like it, for one thing, especially where it scratches
against the fading welts that Sir left on my back and ass the night before. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m
not supposed to move, that this is a test, even though Sir said no such thing. Why else would He
have left me here unbound, if not to see whether I’d stay put on my own? I’ve no intention of
displeasing or shaming Him or myself in front of a whole wedding full of Doms and subs.
Which is why I am most definitely not in any way even beginning to contemplate thinking about
touching myself without permission, despite my erection having turned nearly the same shade of
red as the big velvet bow that’s framing it.
It’s also why I’m so damn relieved when Sir at last comes to get me that I’m kneeling at His feet
and pressing kisses to His dress shoes without even knowing how I got there. He’ll rescue me from
myself, I know He will.
He always does.
He smiles at me, reaches down to pet my hair, then cups my chin and tugs me to my feet. The
kiss He gives me nearly unhinges my knees again, but He’s holding on tight. He always does.
“Good boy,” He murmurs against my ear, glancing approvingly at my cock, now weeping hard
against His thigh. He says it like maybe He’s a little surprised I behaved all this time without the aid
of bindings or His watchful eye, and I glow with the knowledge that I’ve pleased Him, impressed
Him, maybe even exceeded His expectations.
“Stand up straight now,” He says. “Arms out.”
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
114
Someone’s boy is at His heel, I realize now, only a little surprised that I’d failed to notice the
slave earlier over Sir’s commanding presence. Yet he’s a lovely thing, truly, perhaps five years my
junior, just as fit, a face made just as surely for television as I’ve been told my own is so many times.
My jealousy takes me by surprise—no one should be at Sir’s heel but me—and I have to squash it
down with clenched fists and jaw when Sir waves him forward a step and takes two bundles from
his outstretched hands.
Said bundles do help a bit, though. One is a rope, and the other a jingle of leather and metal. Sir
passes the rope back to the boy, who takes it willingly, head down and cock erect. The leather He
shakes out and fits over my bare shoulders. It’s a harness of sorts, wide padded straps crossing over
my chest and buckling around my waist and at my back. More straps wend between my legs, a builtin
leather cock ring fitting snug beside the velvet bow, a long thin strap of leather dangling down
from it and brushing the barn floor. Sir finishes his buckling and reaches into the pocket of his
tuxedo jacket, pulls out . . .
A horse tail?
Oh, fuck. The barn, the harness . . . How did I not see this coming?
The grin He tosses me when realization dawns across my face is positively evil.
“Ass up, boy,” He says through that wicked grin, and I spread my legs wide, bend over, and grab
my ankles like He taught me. Cold lube squirts against my hole—He must have had a little packet in
there along with the horse tail—and then a plug that must be the size of His wrist is being worked
inside me. I haven’t been fucked in three days and I’m way too tight now for something that big to
go in easy (assuming a plug that big could ever go in easy). It hurts; my fingers are making dents at
my ankles and my poor neglected cock is standing up taller than ever, shouting Pay attention to me!
to anyone who will listen.
Sadly, no one is. At least not now. Possibly not at all tonight.
Which, of course, just makes it stand up taller yet.
“Almost there, Nicky,” Sir says, His free land resting warm and firm in the small of my back to
comfort me, or perhaps just to stop me from falling over. But He is true to His word; with one last
hot flash of pain the flare pops inside me, and my muscles clench tight around the neck of the plug,
drawing it in even deeper. Horsehair tickles at my asscheeks and all the way down to the backs of
my knees. I feel so full it’s like His whole fucking fist is inside me. Fuck, if so much as the breeze
blows too strong across my cock, I might well shoot my load, permission or no.
“Stand up now, boy,” Sir says, the unmistakable pride in His voice flushing me head to toe. My
eyes catch the other slave’s for a moment as I straighten, and this time, it’s him that’s jealous of me.
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
115
Sir reaches for the long thin strap of leather still dangling from the harness cock ring and runs it
up my asscrack around the horse tail, then buckles it tight to the harness near my shoulders. My
hands get buckled into the harness next, resting comfortably at the small of my back, no strain at all
on my shoulders or wrists.
Done binding me, Sir takes the rope from the silent slave behind him—actually two ropes; reins,
to be specific—clips them to a ring down near my balls, and runs them out behind me. A sharp tug
on one pulls my bound cock and balls to the left with a bright spark of pleasure-pain; a tug on the
other pulls my junk to the right. I suppose I won’t be needing a bridle, then.
Sir seems satisfied. He gathers up the reins in one hand, cups my arm in the other, and leads me
outside into the cold.
Well, more like into the lukewarm and sticky—your average cloying Florida night. A light breeze
blows against my bare skin, raising goose bumps in its wake. Walking is . . . difficult with this plug
inside me, every step jostling and turning it, rubbing it along my prostate (and possibly the back of
my fucking throat), making the horsetail swish and sway. A bug buzzes nearby and, denied my
hands, I find myself wishing the tail were real so I could swat the damn thing away.
But then Sir leans in and does it for me.
He guides me around the massive home, clumps of partygoers with drinks in hand watching
appreciatively as I pass them by. I duck my eyes like a good boy, but not too soon to miss more
jealous looks from naked boys and girls stuck carrying trays of food and drink. Fierce pride gathers
low in my belly (or maybe that’s just my looming orgasm?); any one of these pets could have been
chosen to pull the wedding carriage, but the grooms picked me. Sir picked me.
In the backyard now, down toward the narrow strip of sandy beach, the ocean churning steadily
under endless strings of party lights and a near-full moon, a band playing some romantic music and
couples swaying on the outdoor dance floor. A couple hundred others are seated at white-draped
tables, eating wedding cake and other delicacies from silver carts being wheeled through the tables
by pretty naked pets in silly Santa hats. I feel eyes on me and straighten my spine, square my
shoulders like Sir taught me and high-step toward the beach. Sir leans in and praises me, His breath
tickling the shell of my ear with the promise of pleasure, of reward.
My shiver runs straight down to my toes.
Sir marches me past the crowd, down to where the sand is packed hard and damp from the
receding tide. There awaits a magnificent carriage, decked all in white satin, room for two and two
alone on the padded bench seat above its tall wheels. I move to stand before it without being told,
hear the grooms climb inside while Sir hooks my harness to the carriage shaft. It doesn’t look any
Stuff My Stocking: M/M Romance Stories that are Nice and… Naughty
116
heavier than the bike-drawn carriages tourists take through Manhattan, but added to the weight of
the grooms and the drag of wet sand, I suspect I’ll soon be getting one of the tougher workouts of
my life.
Sir hands someone my reins, and I’m treated to the pleasure-pain of two hard tugs again, first to
the right and then the left. I was ready for that, but not for the stripe of fire that lands across my
shoulders a second later; I yelp, jump, take half a step forward and feel the weight of the cart drag at
the straps around my chest. From somewhere just behind me, Sir chuckles and says, “That’s it, Bill.
Don’t spare the whip; he likes it.”
I grin to myself and roll my shoulders as the blaze fades to embers; truer words have never been
spoken.
Sir speaks again, but this time it’s to me. “Good ponies get apples and sugar cubes,” He says. “If
you’re a very good pony, I’ll rub you down and stud you when you get back.”
Well, fuck. This time, my shiver runs right down through the sand.
I don’t know where the grooms will have me take them, or how long I’ll be gone, or how raw my
back and balls and muscles will be by the time they’re done with me, but I don’t care. I don’t even
care that I’ll love every second of it, though of course I will. In the end, none of that really matters—
what really matters is that I’m Sir’s good boy, and that He’ll be waiting right here for me, counting
the moments until my return just as anxiously as I.
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