Snow drifted past the loft’s floor-to-ceiling windows in fat, silent flakes that melted the moment they touched the glass. Inside, the living room glowed amber from the crackling fire. Henry stood on the lowest rung of the library ladder, shirt sleeves rolled high, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand while the other threaded a strand of lights around a mass of green.
“Careful with the top third, babe,” George called from below. “Last year’s tree looked like it had a receding hairline, remember?”
Henry snorted, glancing down. George leaned against the sofa, eyes bright with mischief. His charcoal sweater clung to his belly, the hem giving the faintest peak of his furry treasure trail.
“This one’s perfect,” Henry said. “Tall, thick, stands up straight with a little help.”
George’s grin widened. “Exactly why we picked it.”
They moved around each other the way long-married men do, both effortless and proprietary. George handed over another coil of lights. Henry took it, then caught George’s wrist and tugged him in for a slow, deliberate kiss that tasted of cigar smoke. When they broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder.
“Focus,” Henry whispered into George’s mouth, but his hand had already slid down to palm George’s ass. “We’re not done decorating.”
George hummed. His thumb brushed the remote in his pocket, activating just a twitch of pressure. The faintest electronic purr and metallic click emanated from somewhere deep inside the tree but was quickly swallowed by the Christmas music playing on the TV. Henry smiled into George’s neck, nipped once, then turned back to decorating the tree.
Its branches caught the light beautifully, each one fluffed just so and trembling almost imperceptibly whenever the warm bulbs made contact. Henry ran an approving hand along the trunk, feeling the subtle rise and fall beneath the glossy surface.
“Best one yet,” he said softly.
George lifted his glass in a small toast. “To pleasant surprises.” He stepped back to survey their work, head tilted like an art critic. “Something’s still missing, though. The proportions feel… too natural.”
Henry laughed under his breath and gave the trunk a slow, deliberate stroke from chest height downward. The tree’s smooth, emerald surface wasn’t bark at all; it was latex, liquid-shiny, stretched drum tight over a warm, unmistakably male body. A tremor rippled beneath Henry’s palm so faint that anyone else might’ve blamed it on the heat kicking on.
George’s thumb circled the little black remote again. A low, desperate whimper slipped out, gruff and visceral, from beneath the soft glow of the lights. It came from the man—Ted—standing rigid and obedient, encased head to toe in metallic green latex in front of the windows.
The suit was vacuum sealed tightly onto Ted’s lean swimmer’s body and polished mirror smooth, except where sweat and strain pulled tiny creases across his flexed abs and the swell of his ass. A fitted hood fused to a towering posture collar forced his chin high, leaving only a rectangle of flushed skin visible. His wide, hazel eyes were glassy with unshed tears, his sweat-matted, dark hair was plastered flat beneath the hood, and a black platform gag jutted forward from his mouth like a perverse little airplane seat back tray.
Below the gag, silver nipple clamps glinted, each tipped with a delicate ring already holding the weight of three glass baubles that swayed whenever Ted dared breathe too deeply. Dozens more hooks adhered to the suit at his chest, ribs, thighs, and the curve where ass met back—ready for heavier ornaments. Between his legs, the latex bulged obscenely with the unmistakable outline of a clear plastic chastity cage, trapping him leaking and useless. And lower still, his feet were sealed into en-pointe ballet boots that made every ounce of his weight drive the fat vibrating plug deeper.
Ted’s eyes met Henry’s, then George’s. Pleading. Proud. Wrecked. A single bead of sweat slid from beneath the hood’s edge and traced the seam where latex met skin.
George smiled, the same smile he’d worn the night they brought Ted home the first time.
“There he is,” he said, voice warm with affection. “Our perfect little Tannenbaum.”
Henry circled Ted once like an artist admiring a sculpture. “Let’s show the HOA how much Christmas spirit we really have.”
George stepped in close, the remaining coil of warm white LEDs draped over his forearm like tinsel. He started at Ted’s collarbones, looping the strand in lazy spirals down his torso. Each bulb kissed the latex and stayed there, heat seeping through the thin rubber to the skin beneath. Ted’s breath quickened. The suit squeaked almost imperceptibly as his ribs tried to expand.
“Hold still, sweetheart,” George admonished—not to Ted, but to Henry, ignoring the man between them like the object he had truly become. George pressed another inch of the strand against Ted’s flank and thumbed the remote. A low, insidious buzz answered from deep inside. Ted’s knees buckled a fraction before the ballet boots locked him upright again. A wet, pathetic whine vibrated against the gag.
“Better,” George said approvingly and kept stringing lights.
Henry moved to the branches—Ted’s rigid, outstretched arms locked wide by internal braces. He gripped Ted’s right wrist and pulled it a fraction farther from the body, latex creaking. “Look at these branches, babe. Perfectly stiff.” He ran both palms down the gleaming limb, checking the tension, and admiring the way light slid over every strained muscle. “Not a droop in sight.”
“Christmas is still ten days away,” George said. “They always start dropping needles after a week or so.”
They worked in easy tandem. Delicate glass icicles on hooks peppered Ted’s chest. Tiny silver bells along his obliques chimed whenever his abs fluttered. Each new weight dragged a sharper breath through Ted’s nose, making the clamps on his nipples dance.
Henry saved the star for last. It was heavy lead crystal, sharp edged and dangling from a short silver chain. He held it up so Ted could see, letting it reflect the firelight. Ted’s eyes went wide.
“This goes right here,” Henry said, clipping the star’s clasp to the thin chain linking both nipple clamps. Gravity took over. The sudden pull wrenched a deep, guttural grunt from Ted’s throat. His back arched, latex squealing as every muscle fought the posture collar.
George didn’t even look up from his remote. “Shut up, tree,” he said mildly. “Trees don’t make noise.”
The grunt died into a shuddering silence.
George’s hand drifted lower, cupping the obscene bulge at Ted’s crotch. Beneath the thin green latex, the clear cage was hot to the touch, Ted’s cock straining uselessly against its prison. George squeezed once, slowly, feeling the rigid plastic bite.
“Still holding. Good tree.” His voice dropped to a purr. “Do. Not. Thrust. Stay perfectly still, or tomorrow the plug gets swapped for ginger. Understood?”
Ted’s entire body locked rigid. A single tear slipped free, tracking down flushed latex to the edge of the gag.
Satisfied, Henry lifted his whiskey and set it gently on the black platform protruding from Ted’s mouth. Condensation immediately beaded and dripped, sliding cold over Ted’s chin. George followed suit, balancing his own glass beside the first. Two heavy crystal tumblers resting on living furniture, whiskey sloshing gently with every thump of Ted’s frantic heartbeat.
They stepped back together, shoulder to shoulder, and surveyed their work.
Their tree gleamed with lights coiled tight, ornaments swaying, and the star pulling mercilessly at Ted’s swollen nipples. Ted stood frozen in the glow, a vision in green latex and desperate submission, every breath a quiet plea neither man intended to answer tonight.
“Magnificent,” Henry said.
George slipped an arm around Henry’s waist, fingers digging in possessively. “We really do pick the best ones, don’t we?”
Henry’s gaze slid from the glittering, trembling tree to George. He cupped George’s jaw and kissed him like no one was watching, slow, filthy, and possessive. George responded with a growl, his hands sliding under Henry’s shirt to rake nails down his back.
“Fuck, look at it,” George said against Henry’s lips, not bothering to lower his voice. “Our perfect little ornament stand, shaking for us.”
Henry ground forward, letting George feel exactly how hard this made him. “Remember when we thought we’d never get to do shit like this together?”
George’s voice cracked with raw gratitude. “Thought we’d be boring vanilla husbands forever.”
Henry bit George’s lower lip, rolling his hips again. “Best decision we ever made.”
Their mouths crashed back together, tongues sliding and teeth scraping. Hands roamed everywhere: George palming Henry’s ass, Henry pulling George’s hair. The air was thick with latex, whiskey, and the musk of two men who starved for each other. Behind them, the tree’s muffled whine rose half an octave as the plug pulsed on its low, cruel cycle, but neither of them looked back.
Henry dropped to one knee, the plush white faux-fur skirt folded over his forearm like fresh snow. He circled Ted, letting the fur brush his latex calves, then spread it wide around the hidden platform. Ted’s boots vanished beneath the skirt, completing the illusion: just a perfect tree rising from a drift of winter white.
George tapped the remote again, but instead of firing up Ted’s vibrating plug, a low, almost tender hum began beneath the skirt as the motorized stand came to life, beginning its lazy 360-degree rotation. Then he went back to the plug.
CLICK.
The buzz surged. Ted’s eyes rolled, and a broken, wet moan vibrated through the gag, making the whiskey glasses tremble. Droplets of melted ice and sweat slid down the green latex as the tree began its first, slow turn toward the dark windows and the city beyond.
George killed the overhead lights. The room collapsed into velvet dark, broken only by the slow pulse of the tree lights and the low amber flicker of the dying fire. Henry retrieved the two empty tumblers from Ted’s gag, kissed the corner of George’s mouth, and slung an arm around his waist.
“Leave him on program four,” Henry said. “Let the timer do the work.”
George’s laugh was soft, filthy, and delighted. “Presents later,” he promised, nuzzling Henry’s neck as they climbed the stairs, footsteps fading into the hush of the house.
Downstairs, Ted was left alone.
The platform turned him in an agonizingly leisurely circle, five minutes per revolution, the fur skirt whispering against his ankles. On the first pass, the black windows became a merciless mirror. There he was, glossy emerald, strung with lights, ornaments swaying from tortured nipples, eyes huge and shining with shame and pride and raw, unspeakable want. A living Christmas tree, gagged and caged and beautiful.
On the second pass, he looked beyond the glass onto the street below. An elderly couple had paused beneath the orange halo of a street lamp, collars turned up against the snow. The man’s mouth hung open, and the woman’s gloved hand flew to her lips, but her eyes stayed locked on the window, on Ted, glittering like a perverse Yule ornament for all to see.
Ted’s breath hitched. Panic and heat detonated behind his ribs. At that exact moment, the plug surged; Henry’s timer kicked it from medium to a relentless, throbbing high. A strangled cry rattled uselessly against the gag. His reflection shuddered, tears cutting silver tracks down the latex.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t hide. Could only rotate, shine, and burn while strangers stared.
Upstairs, Henry and George collapsed laughing into bed, tangled and breathless, happier and more in love than they’d been in years.
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