M4M kink writing. Control and transformation of men. 18+ only.

Whisper what you’ll bring me

My husband Terry squeezed me awake, and I looked around the living room bleary eyed. I could never stay awake in front of the TV. The Christmas movie we’d started watching was over, and a poor cover version of “Jingle Bell Rock” played over the closing credits. Instinctively, I reached for my phone to check the time, hoping I hadn’t overslept.  

I felt his beard graze my bald scalp as he moved in to kiss me. The scratchy sensation sent shivers down my spine. “I’m sorry I passed out,” I said. I stood up and stretched, already missing the warmth radiating from his body. I rechecked the clock more surreptitiously this time. It was 11:54 p.m. Only six minutes until Christmas.  

“It’s okay,” Terry said, reaching out to me. I grasped his hands and pulled him into a standing position. We laughed as both of his knees cracked on the way up. “I love napping on the sofa with you, but if I don’t get in bed, I’ll be a pretzel when I wake up tomorrow.”  

He kissed me again. Terry turned 55 this year and had taken the early retirement package from his job just last week. We’d been discussing it for months, but the reality hadn’t yet sunk in for either of us that he wouldn’t return to work next week. I was excited that he’d have more time to travel and pursue long-deferred interests, but I couldn’t help feeling jealous. I was only 40, with a career on an upward trajectory. The responsibility of becoming the “breadwinner” of our relationship made me nervous, too.  

None of that mattered right now, though. It was just a few minutes before midnight, and as much as I loved Terry, something else occupied my thoughts now. Every year, I received a special visitor on Christmas, and I wasn’t about to miss him because of some minor relationship anxiety. “I think I’ll watch a bit more TV. I’m not ready to turn in yet.”  

“Come up whenever,” Terry said, giving my ass a playful squeeze. “I’ll be waiting.”  

I placed a palm on his beefy chest. My bearish husband’s fur was dense enough to feel through his shirt fabric. “Sure,” I said, “five minutes from now, you’ll be sawing logs.”  

“You know how to wake me up,” Terry fired back. He moved his hand from my ass cheek to my crotch and fondled my cock and balls. I was already hard from thinking about my Christmas visitor, and my husband’s attention only increased my arousal. If I were lucky, I’d fuck two men before the night was over.  

“Good night, Terry,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”  

“Merry Christmas, Ben.”  

We kissed again, long and slow this time, and my cock jumped as Terry’s tongue tangled around mine. After he went upstairs, I returned to the sofa and sat with my legs splayed wide. I turned the TV on to a random rerun of some old sitcom from the ’80s, but I fixed my attention on the fireplace. Any minute now, my secret visitor would appear. I shoved my right hand down my gym shorts and stroked my cock so I’d be ready to fuck him as soon as he arrived.  

I was 21 when jolly old Saint Nick first paid me a visit. By then, I’d long outgrown the idea of a whimsical figure who descended chimneys and delivered presents on Christmas Eve. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that not only was he real, but he was also sexy as fuck. His big, round body and full, white beard turned me on no end. I’d always enjoyed the company of submissive older men and obedient daddy figures, and Nick ticked every single box. Every Christmas since then, no matter where I lived or who I was seeing at the time, Nick visited and stayed just long enough for me to bend him over and fuck him silly.  

Memories of Christmases past played on a highlight reel in my mind as I stroked my cock to full mast. I loved my husband Terry—he was the submissive older daddy bear of my dreams 364 days out of the year—but I never looked forward to fucking my husband as much as I did to fucking Saint Nick. An irresistible, supernatural drowsiness overcame me, and it became harder and harder to keep up my rhythmic stroking. Nick was on his way.  

“The fuck do we have here?”  

The unfamiliar voice startled me back to stone-cold reality. A brown-eyed stranger towered over me, his expression a mixture of amusement and contempt. He stepped back toward the fireplace as I scrambled to get up from the sofa. My right hand was slick with precum, and my cock tented my shorts. It would have been hot if Saint Nick had sneaked up on me like this. But instead, I felt exposed and humiliated.  

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and looked at the stranger for the first time. He appeared to be about my age, but that’s where our similarities ended. I was thoroughly average in every way, with thinning hair, a bit of a belly, and patchy facial hair that had more salt than pepper with each passing year. This guy looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of Hipster magazine. His light brown hair was combed into a pompadour and held in place with pomade, reflecting the Christmas tree’s dim lights. The faded back and sideburns blended into an immaculately shaped beard, and his mustache perfectly framed his smirking mouth.  

Where I’d gone a bit doughy from years of working a desk job, this guy looked like he lived at the gym. He wore a red and green plaid shirt that must’ve been custom made for his frame, accentuating his sculpted deltoids and drawing attention to his prominent pec shelf. A wide, black leather belt framed his narrow waist, and snug leather trousers clung to his muscular thighs. By the looks of the bulge in his crotch, he was packing some major heat. Standing before him in my shapeless graphic t-shirt and gym shorts, I couldn’t tell if I should be intimidated, scared, or aroused.  

“Who the hell are you?” I said shakily. “Where’s Saint Nick?”  

“Retired,” the stranger said. “I’m the new guy. You can call me Nick, too.” He took a smartphone from his back pocket and tapped the screen several times. “Are you Terry or Ben?”  

“I’m Ben,” I said. Despite the presence of this massive hipster hunk, my hard on subsided. I tried to hide my disappointment that the jolly old Saint Nick I had fucked senseless every Christmas for nearly twenty years wasn’t coming. “This is kind of awkward, but I had a thing with your predecessor.”  

The new Nick chuckled. “Yeah, you and about a thousand others. That guy was a total slut.” He gestured at my state of undress. “I don’t know what you were expecting to happen tonight, but I think you’re going to be disappointed. This is just a job for me; it’s not a sex thing.”  

Nick returned his attention to his smartphone. I caught the hint of a full-sleeve tattoo peeking out from the cuff of his plaid shirt. This Christmas encounter hadn’t turned out at all like I had planned. There were some years when jolly old Saint Nick and I had barely exchanged two words before I pulled down his red trousers and fucked him.  

“If you’re not here to, you know, have some fun with me,” I said, feeling more awkward with each passing second, “what’s the reason for your visit? I don’t see a sack of presents over your shoulder.”  

Nick pocketed his smartphone and adjusted the sizeable bulge in his leather pants. “I’m here to grant a Christmas wish.”  

“Oh, wow.” I was overwhelmed. In all the years of no-strings-attached sex with jolly old Saint Nick, I’d never once been given the gift of a Christmas wish come true. A million different wishes came to mind, each fighting for priority. “I’m thinking a lot about my husband, Terry. There are a lot of changes in our relationship, and I want to make sure we’re still compatible, you know? I want him to know I’ll always be there for him.”  

Nick laughed. I could practically see the seams on his shirt strain each time his chest rose and fell. “I’m not here to grant your Christmas wish. I’m here to grant Terry’s. But I can find a way to give you what you want and have a little fun of my own, too.”  

Nick waved a hand at me, and I felt the supernatural drowsiness envelop me again. I fell asleep faster than I could move. I couldn’t get myself back to the sofa, and I braced myself to land painfully on the floor. My body felt unusually heavy, and my lower back and joints ached like I wasn’t used to. The last thing I remember was Nick standing over me, growing blurrier as I struggled to keep my eyes open.  

The sound of seagulls and the scent of ocean crept into the fringes of my awareness. I opened my eyes and saw a blazing pink-orange sunrise over an expanse of water. I clamped my eyes shut again to ward off the disorientation. The house I shared with Terry was in the Minneapolis suburbs, wasn’t it?  

“Merry Christmas, babe.” Terry’s voice anchored me enough in reality to reopen my eyes. He was as familiar as ever, propping himself up on one elbow beside me on the bed. The curtains swayed in the ocean breeze, and I saw a palm tree decorated with Christmas lights through the window. My surroundings felt familiar and foreign at the same time. I knew I’d never been here but remembered it as my home. The place Terry and I bought for our retirement.  

Our retirement.  

I threw back the blanket and looked at my body. Gone was the average 40-something frame I knew as mine, and in its place was that of a thick, chubby polar bear. My belly, tight and round like a beach ball, was covered in a pelt of white fur. I looked like I’d aged 15 years and packed on at least 100 pounds of muscle and fat. I ran my hands across my body and gasped with unexpected pleasure. My stubby fingers brushed against a thick mustache on my upper lip, and a horseshoe of hair ringed my otherwise bald scalp. Each touch increased the pleasure I felt, and as bizarre as the feeling was, I felt more at home in my body with every passing second.  

“Merry Christmas,” I said back. My voice was deeper and grittier. It was a surprise to hear but entirely in line with the other physical changes. I sounded exactly like I ought to. “Beautiful sunrise.”  

Terry kissed me, and the pleasure coursing through my body settled in my cock. I reached down to stroke myself and felt something unexpected. My cock and balls were locked in a metal cage.  

“What the hell?” I exclaimed. “I’m wearing a chastity cage.”  

Terry nodded, hooked his thumb into the waistband of his boxers, and pulled them down. His cock was caged, just like mine. “Me too.”  


“Haven’t we always?”  

My memory played tricks on me. Of course we had. Mutual chastity was an integral part of our relationship that we never questioned and, after so many years together, barely even acknowledged anymore. Some couples exchanged vows or rings, but Terry and I showed our commitment by locking each other permanently in chastity. What better way for a retired couple in their 50s to live?  

I pulled him on top of me, and our cages knocked against each other. It was the closest our cocks ever got to being stimulated, and the unexpected contact made us both jolt with pleasure. As we rolled around in bed, delaying the start of our day as long as possible, a handful of discordant memories flashed in my mind, dissipating in the ocean breeze. 

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1 Comment

  1. Metal

    Hell yeah, great story with an unexpected ending! Very clever!

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