A Christmas Wish Comes True

by Jolyon Lewes

Through the deserted city I cycled, a solitary boy out for adventure. On the road, ice crystals sparkled in the light from the streetlamps. The grass was coated with hoarfrost that glistened in the clear night air. As you'd expect at two in the morning on a freezing Tuesday in early December, the city streets were deserted. It is, after all, a small and rather demure city and I was well clear of the main road that runs between Derby and the Birmingham conurbation. Even at that ungodly hour there was traffic on that road but in our part of the city all was quiet. I pedalled along, catching occasional glimpses of the cathedral, whose three graceful spires reached into the moonless but starry sky. I felt exhilarated, yet scared.

I was scared in case I was spotted by anyone I knew and exhilarated because I was daring to express myself in a way I couldn't explain to anyone. Except to Stuart, but we'll come to him shortly.

I'd wrapped my scarf tightly round my face to protect it from the cold, leaving a small gap for my eyes but barely five minutes after leaving home moisture from my breath had frozen on the scarf closest to my mouth, forming a hard, icy patch of material. My ears were snug inside my fleece hat but my gloved fingers were chilled to the bone. I wanted to waste no time achieving my aim.

I wasn't riding aimlessly, you see. I was following my traditional pattern, which involved a sort of figure-of-eight with Stuart's house where the lines crossed. It helped that his house was at the meeting of four roads; whichever way round I cycled I'd pass his house twice each circuit and it meant I didn't have to go endlessly up and down the same street, which would have looked very odd to anyone observing me and even odder when they saw what I was wearing.

A car hove into view and I had to divert briefly into a cul-de-sac, emerging only when the coast was clear. Inching past Stuart's house for the sixth time that night, I saw his bedroom still in darkness. How I wished he'd wake up and come to the window. His curtains weren't quite closed. Had they been like that last time? I'd been looking for a light in his bedroom but maybe – just maybe – he was looking out of his darkened room. My cock gave a little surge of joy.

My nocturnal bike rides always excited me. The thought of Stuart seeing me out there in the icy cold, alone and vulnerable, gave me feelings I can't describe. I had this crazy notion that he'd take pity on me, rush outside, gather me into his big, strong arms and whisk me into his bed to warm me up and then ... who knows?

My yearnings were strong but there was no sign of Stuart – there never had been – so as it was the coldest night of all I decided on just one more lap before going home. Deep down I knew that even if he did see me he'd not do anything about it but the thought that he might get a little thrill to see me kept my fantasies fuelled and had it not been so cold my cock would have been well hard. For the last lap I risked frostbitten fingers by removing my right glove so I could give my cock a little intimate encouragement. I could also rub my right leg, its normally smooth surface roughened by thousands of goose-pimples.

I don't think I've told you – I was wearing my secret shorts. They left my thighs entirely bare and allowed easy access to my cock as I cycled along, now wobbling a bit. No wonder my legs were freezing! Unfortunately, my poor little cock, despite my best efforts, was just too cold to join in the fun so I knew I'd have to achieve that aim later, in bed.

On arriving back at our rambling old house, I wheeled the bike round the back and tiptoed to the French windows which, mercifully, were still unlocked, as I'd left them. When certain my parents and brothers were still asleep I crept stealthily to my bedroom. I took off everything but my shorts and snuggled into bed.

Relief at not having been discovered washed over me and in no time I was warm and cosy. My cock was now feeling more enthusiastic so I pulled it from a leg of my shorts and began the slow but exciting work-up to a proper wank to celebrate my safe return from my little adventure. To help me, I pondered on what I might have done with Stuart, or to be more precise, what he might have done to me. It was a glorious wank.

Later, I put on pyjamas, so as not to frighten my mother when she came in next morning with my glass of orange. After she'd gone I raised the loose floorboard under my desk and returned my secret shorts to their hiding place. Then I dressed for school, my legs warm and safe in long trousers. I'd always hated being made to wear shorts.


So, apart from getting me worked up for a wank, what was the purpose of my little adventure? Well, as you'll have gathered, I was fond of Stuart. At seventeen, he was almost two years older than me and much bigger - I was only quite small - and I'd hero-worshipped him for months. Fair-haired and handsome, with a strong voice and shining eyes, he was good at everything. Self-confident, athletic, highly intelligent, he possessed attributes lesser boys like me could only dream of. I wanted him to notice me.

I wasn't the only boy who sought recognition from Stuart. Back in the summer, I'd often seen him playing tennis with Graham, a stunningly attractive boy in my year. To everyone's surprise Stuart chose him as his doubles partner and the pair went on to win the 1992 Inter-House Championship. The early nineties saw men's shorts become very much longer than they'd been in the seventies and eighties and I'm glad to say the fashion was reflected in what we boys wore for sports and for leisure. When playing tennis, however, Graham wore tennis shorts so short his bare bottom kept peeping out and for that and his angelic features he was teased remorselessly for being gay. I never joined in the bullying and one day I caught up with him as he walked home after school. I told him I didn't think he was gay.

"What's it to you?" he sneered.

"Well, I ... it's those tennis shorts you wear - they're a bit gay! Nobody has shorts that short these days so some people think you must be gay. And they say you've got a cute face. But I don't think that means you're gay."

"Course I'm not gay!" he snapped. Then, after a few seconds, he added "Sorry, Luke; I know you're not taking the piss. You're one of the decent ones. I can't help the way I look."

We walked on and he said "The truth is, I wear those stupid little shorts because Stuart likes me to. He gave 'em to me and makes me wear 'em. Says if I don't wear 'em I can't play tennis with him. And I have to wear 'em when I go to his place to see him. It's not me that's gay, it's him! He thinks a lot of 'imself and he's got wandering hands, if you get what I mean. But he's fun as well and he makes me feel good."

That night I wanked at the thought of Graham being forced by Stuart to wear such insanely short shorts and I wondered how Stuart would react if he saw me wearing something similar. But I hated wearing shorts of any kind, which is why I dreaded sports and always wore the longest shorts I could get hold of. But if I could engineer it so that Stuart was the only person to see my bare thighs ..... you get the picture.

I acquired – don't ask – some little grey shorts with legs only 3 cm long and in early October made my first night cycle ride. Amazingly, the very next day Stuart came up to me at school and called me Luke. I almost fainted. He knew my name! He'd never spoken to me before. Had he been watching from his bedroom window? Was there the tiniest chance he might fancy me? It rained heavily that night so no bike ride but I managed one three nights later. Next day there was no reaction from Stuart. I persevered with my bike rides but often had to abort them because of bad weather or parents not being asleep. Once we had a girl cousin sleeping in the dining room and she'd have seen me using the French windows. It was vital nobody knew about my activities and in November I managed only four bike rides.

Was I on a hiding to nothing? Well, possibly but the day after my last ride in November, Stuart came and grabbed my shoulders, turned me to face him and looked me up and down.

"Well, if it's not my sweet little Luke!" he said, grinning delightedly and patting me on the head. "And such nice little legs!"

What could he mean? Was he taking the piss? Had he actually seen me on my bike one night? I was very confused but I couldn't help feeling all warm inside. I tried to imagine what he'd have thought if he'd seen me riding past his house in shorts as shockingly revealing as those he made Graham wear and the thought of what Graham had called his wandering hands stroking my legs to warm them up sent me into near-delirium and gave me wanking fuel galore.

Feeling warm inside was not, however, a feature of home life. I can see now why my parents complained about my behaviour. I was a typical bolshie teenager. At nearly sixteen I thought I was an adult and couldn't understand why I wasn't allowed to do my own thing. Dad always wanted me to wear shorts in warm weather and I refused. He wanted me to wear a tie in the cathedral on Sundays and I refused. I didn't refuse to go to the cathedral because I'd been a chorister and loved the music but wasn't going to admit that to anyone now, as a young adult. I refused to have my hair as short as Dad liked. I was spending hours in my room, far longer than could be justified by homework. I pretended not to like tea or coffee just to be bolshie and Mum brought me orange juice in bed instead. Was she secretly on my side?

I spent so long in my room because I was writing narratives about what Stuart and I would do together when we became best friends. I can't draw for nuts so there were no illustrations, just descriptions in longhand that I had to keep well hidden from prying eyes. I imagined a world where boys like Stuart took younger boys like me away for dirty weekends - usually in a tent or sometimes in a youth hostel. If the latter, things tended to happen en masse; in other words, there'd be orgies in the dormitories. I'd been to youth hostels although not, of course, with Stuart but I'd never experienced an orgy anywhere, let alone in a youth hostel dormitory. So my descriptions were decidedly fanciful and usually involved Stuart taking me to hidden places where he'd strip me naked and his wandering hands would have their way with me. Stuart was always the dominant partner, I was always the submissive one. It gave me unlimited material for the most sumptuous of wankings. Those narratives now make me cringe with embarrassment, I can tell you!


A few days after the freezing bike ride I told you about earlier there was a family conference about Christmas. Dad said we'd all be writing our letters to Father Christmas and sending them up the chimney that night. Oh God! Even my youngest brother no longer believed in Father Christmas and I said it was a stupid idea. Mum said we'd always done it and told me not to be so grumpy.

"I take it you don't want anything for Christmas then, Luke," said Dad.

In a burst of spiteful pride I replied "Look – I'm a grown-up now and I don't play silly children's games!" I looked at my brothers for support but they both looked away.

"Right," said Dad. "Next item is Auntie Joyce and Colin. They'll be coming for Christmas and we must be nice to them. Even you, Luke."

Despite myself, I couldn't object to recently-widowed Auntie Joyce coming but I didn't know her son well. He was sixteen but much bigger than me. I'd have to entertain him but far worse, he'd have to sleep in the dining room, thereby blocking my means of getting out for secret night-time bike rides and back again. I put on my sourest expression.

"Listen!" said Mum, brightly. "When we write to Father Christmas tonight, we've all got to wish for an item of clothing and promise to wear it on Christmas Day, including at the cathedral. It'll be on show, so nothing too outrageous. I'll tell Auntie Joyce."

I groaned and said it was stupid but my brothers thought it was fun and Mum handed out post-it notes and everyone except me wrote their name and what they wanted and folded the paper in half. At bedtime the notes were made to convect up the chimney and Mum made us remember our promise.

"Yes!" trilled my brothers. I hadn't even sent a letter up the chimney but for the sake of peace I muttered Yeah in that tiresome teenage whine, the memory of which, years later, still makes me cringe.

I knew Dad would hang around after we'd gone upstairs, damp down the fire and read the post-it notes when they'd fluttered down onto the ashes. I felt a bit guilty and ungrateful but I was damned if I was going to let my family know that.

Next day, in my bedroom supposedly doing homework on my new computer, I typed a short story about a boy my age who kept some wickedly short grey shorts and wore them in secret not for nocturnal bike rides but in his bedroom when he was doing his homework. He imagined he was forced to wear those grey shorts for school and at home and for family outings, even in the coldest weather. The thought of it all got me incredibly hard.

I wanted to read the story later and maybe make amendments so I set the thing to double spacing and began to print it. Then my stupid printer ran out of paper so I had to run downstairs to ask Dad for some more, telling him I needed it for geography homework - lots of lists and tables and things. The doorbell rang and it was a mate from school who wanted to talk geography homework, which brilliantly supported my case and Dad looked impressed. I got rid of the kid as soon as possible and as I made to rush upstairs I met Mum coming down, carrying a pile of ironing.

"I've put some hot chocolate on your desk, Luke," she said, looking at me with a strange expression. "I hope it hasn't got cold."

Panicking, I dashed to my bedroom. On my desk was a cup of lukewarm chocolate. Had Mum seen what I'd been printing? If so, had she actually read it? I felt weak and sat on my bed, waiting for Dad's footsteps coming upstairs. But all was quiet. I loaded the new paper and finished printing the story then hid it under the floorboard next to my secret shorts.

Next day, there was no reference to anything I might have been doing on the computer so later that evening I re-read my little story. The only amendment I made was to have the boy wear little briefs under his shorts instead of his boxers which, being longer than his grey shorts, would have shown below the hems of the latter and that would have looked silly. I'd always worn boxers under my secret shorts and thought nothing of it but I hadn't looked in a mirror so for all I knew my boxers had been showing during my bike rides. My face flushed as I wondered what Stuart might have thought of that! Before my next bike ride I'd need to get hold of some briefs small enough to remain hidden, wouldn't I?

I stashed my story under the floorboard and thought I saw my little secret shorts wink at me from the safety of their hiding place. Could I follow the example of the boy in the story and wear them while doing my homework? If anyone came in how on earth could I explain myself? I decided to compromise and wear them in bed, just as I did after my nocturnal bike rides. That way my parents would never know.

As December wore on, some epic wanking sessions were inspired by wearing my little grey shorts in bed and re-reading and amending my story. I still hadn't acquired any briefs so wore no underwear at all under my secret shorts so the boy in my story had to do the same. He found his cock kept poking out of a leg of his shorts and a boy named Rory sat next to him on the school bus and accidentally-on-purpose kept touching his bare thighs and that got the boy's cock so excited it popped out into the open. Of course, I'd never wear my little grey shorts in public; only in bed or on my secret bike rides. They were secret shorts. Nonetheless, it was my earnest wish that Stuart would one day soon tell me he'd seen me in them as I cycled past his house.


Christmas approached and I hadn't bought any presents for anyone. I could think only of my precious little self and whether Stuart would give any sign that he was interested in me. I knew he'd be in the cathedral on Christmas Day so had no objection to toeing the party line and going to the service but otherwise I really didn't want to have anything to do with Christmas. On 22 December I managed another bike ride - no sign of Stuart - and next day Auntie Joyce and Colin arrived.

My uncle had died as recently as October and Auntie Joyce and Colin were still trying to come to terms with things. For all my bolshieness, I was touched by the way Colin stayed close to his Mum and gave her a cuddle whenever she looked like crying. That evening was sombre and I felt obliged to stay downstairs instead of sneaking off to my room to see what amendments I could make to my story. Our guests were talking about Christmas presents and trying to sound cheerful which made me feel guilty that I hadn't even bothered to send a letter to Father Christmas. Next day, Christmas Eve, I asked Colin if he wanted to go shopping. He said yes so off we went and I bought some little things for my family.

"What can I get your Mum?" I asked.

"Oh, you know, posh soap or something, or hand cream."

In one of those hippy gift shops I found something for Auntie Joyce. But what was I going to buy Colin? He provided the answer.

"Luke, you know we've got to wear whatever we're given tomorrow, however hideous?"

I'd forgotten the promise we'd all made. "Oh, er, yes...." I muttered.

"Well, let's get each other a really uncool tie. We'd only have to wear it tomorrow and then bin it but it could be funny and God knows, Mum needs something to cheer her up."

Colin's eyes were filling with tears. "Yeah!" I said, thinking he needed cheering up as much as his Mum. "That's cool. I really hate yellow; what's your worst colour?"

"Mauve," said Colin, a hint of a grin on his face. He had short hair, a flawless complexion and looked altogether nicer than me.

So, agreeing to meet in a coffee shop in ten minutes we separated to make our purchases.

That evening we all went to the carol service at the cathedral. It reminded me of my time as a treble in the choir and I liked it. There was no point being bolshie on Christmas Eve. I looked for Stuart and he was there with his family, looking very grown-up in a coat with astrakhan collar, instead of the fleeces and anoraks worn by us other kids – apart from the choir, of course. Afterwards I placed myself in the aisle so he'd have to walk past me but he barely glanced at me. Did I mean so little to him?

Later, in my room, I felt depressed that Stuart hadn't spoken to me so I raised the floorboard and made to take out my secret shorts. But it seemed somehow wrong to wear them on Christmas Eve and then I thought of Colin, away from all his friends, having just lost his Dad and spending Christmas on a camp bed in our dining room. I remembered the way he kept hugging his Mum and I remembered the tears in his eyes in the shop – and at the carol service – and I felt very, very selfish. I decided to do without a wank and went to sleep but if I'd known what was awaiting me downstairs I wouldn't have slept a wink.


Predictably, my brothers awoke very early and by seven-thirty, after Colin had tidied away his camp bed and got dressed, we were all downstairs having cups of tea. I managed to swallow my pride and drink some. Then, feeling sorry for Colin, I asked him if he'd like to sleep in my bedroom instead of in the dining room. His eyes lit up at the suggestion and Auntie Joyce said how thoughtful I was. Mum thought it a great idea and Dad just smiled.

At eight-thirty the present-opening began. Despite my failure to ask for anything my parents knew what I wanted. The racing saddle for my bike wasn't for racing of course, although I'd been saying how much I'd like one. The real reason I wanted it was because I guessed the hard, narrow saddle would feel really sexy when my cock was expressing itself on my night rides.

I hoped Colin would be amused by the mauve tie I'd bought him. It had a cartoon image of a naked woman on it. He could always pull his fleece over it in the cathedral.

"Now remember," said Dad, "we've all promised to wear these presents, however ghastly, for the rest of the day!"

Mum had three beige scarves and shrieked with laughter, saying she'd be proud to wear all three in the cathedral. Colin grimaced when he saw his hideous tie but promised to wear it. He'd bought me a tie patterned with awful little yellow space-hoppers. Dad got a pullover with little golfers embroidered on it. If there's one thing he really hates it's golf. But he laughed and promised to show it off to the cathedral congregation. Then he handed me a small parcel.

I was suddenly nervous but opened the package to find a tiny pair of white briefs. Mum tried to stifle a chuckle. "But if I wear these," I said, "nobody will see them."

"That's precisely the point of them, Luke," said Dad. "We don't want anyone to see them."

I couldn't understand what was going on and now everybody's eyes were fixed on the second parcel Dad was handing me. "But we do want everyone to see these...."

I felt a cold sweat as I fumbled with the parcel. I felt weak at the knees and had to sit on the sofa. What I unwrapped was a pair of grey knee-socks. There was a stabbing sensation in my chest. Dad gave me a third parcel and I'll bet you know what was inside: yes, a pair of grey shorts and they were incredibly short!

"Luke seems to have developed an interest in grey shorts," said Dad. "So he's going to wear these all day and he can't wear his boxers because they'll show so that's why he's got some nice little white briefs which, with luck, we won't quite see! And he'll have to keep his socks pulled up properly."

I must have gone as red as the reddest bauble on the Christmas tree and just sat there, shaking. Nobody said anything but they were all looking at me. My brothers were sniggering but Colin just stared at me, open-mouthed. I felt utterly ashamed.

"Let's all have some coffee!" said Mum.

"A word with you, please, Luke," said Dad.

I found myself following him to his study, carrying my little presents. God knows how my legs supported me. I felt numb all over except that my head sounded like it had a huge waterfall inside.

"Now look here, Luke. Mum saw a story on your computer screen and saw you'd printed a bit of it – until the paper ran out. She couldn't help reading it. What does it mean?"

"Dunno, Dad," I muttered, ready to burst into tears. Was he next going to say he'd found my secret shorts?

"Well, I'm not sure I like your interests, Luke. It's best we bring it all out into the open so you will wear your new shorts today and if they make you feel proud all well and good but if they make you feel ashamed then we really must talk about it."

"But Dad ..." I was crying now.

"You've been telling us how grown-up you are, Luke. Well, if being grown-up means developing a fetish for little grey shorts then Mum and I need to know more. Like I said, we'll talk about it later. Now, go up and get changed. And no boxers – they'd show!"

Once in my room I glared accusingly at the computer, collapsed on my bed and cried. How could I have been so stupid as to leave incriminating evidence for Mum to see? And then it struck me. Dad hadn't said he'd read the story himself so maybe he hadn't found where I kept the secret shorts and much-amended story. I sprang off my bed, lifted the floorboard and there were my shorts and the printed story, all safe. If Dad had seen the disgusting stains on the shorts he'd have gone ballistic. And he hadn't; in fact he'd said if my new shorts made me feel proud then all well and good.

If I had to wear the shorts I'd try to look proud about it, however improbable it might seem. I could say I'd seen the light after years of refusing to wear shorts and now I wanted my legs to feel the air and get a healthy tan but my resolve faltered badly when it came to putting on the white briefs, which left my buttocks mostly bare. The new grey shorts were only slightly longer than my secret shorts so apart from the top inch, my thighs were entirely bare! What a sight I made!

And then I remembered Stuart. He'd see me like this in the cathedral and surely he'd react in some way. If I sat next to the aisle he couldn't fail to notice me. OK, so would everyone else but I'd decided to show I was proud, hadn't I? Not as in gay proud, of course, just ordinary proud. I was sure that with Stuart eyeing me up I'd have an erection so hoped the new briefs would keep my cock inside the grey shorts – something my boxers could never have managed.


As I started downstairs I realised that although I wanted Stuart to see me in shorts I most certainly didn't want anyone else to. My guts turned to water but there, in the hall, was Colin, looking up at me and smiling sympathetically – with what seemed like a hard-on.

"Come on, Luke, it's not that bad." He'd obviously seen the terror on my face. "You look dead cool in long socks and little grey shorts! And that tie – it's totally gruesome!"

"So's yours," I said, trying to be brave but tingling with embarrassment, which heightened as my brothers saw me and collapsed with mirth.

I scuttled into the cloakroom to put on the longest coat I possessed. It reached only to mid-thigh but completely hid the shorts and made it look like I'd forgotten my trousers so I settled for my fleece jacket which reached only as far as my hips.

"You look fantastic!" said Colin.

For me the cathedral service was purgatory. Being the only person with bare thighs was incredibly humiliating and only slightly offset by the lecherous looks I was getting from Stuart. I've no idea how I could have thought his eyeing me up would give me an erection. My cock remained limp. I kept my eyes down but I knew he was looking and at the end of the service I glanced up to catch his gaze. He was smiling at me! As people began to file out I hung back till I sensed he was right behind me. Once outside I felt hands on my shoulders steering me to the right and a few seconds later I was in a secluded place with Stuart pulling my face towards his with one hand and sliding the other inside the left leg of my shorts to stroke my bare buttock. I felt his rigid cock straining against my tummy.

"Oh my little Luke, you're too gorgeous for words and I want you to have my babies! Merry Christmas, you little tease!"

He pushed me away after half a minute and departed, leaving me alone and hardly able to believe what had happened. He'd kissed me and groped me at the same time! And he'd said I was gorgeous. Had my Christmas wish come true?

"Come on, Luke - time to go home. It's lunchtime." It was Colin and he'd seen everything.

Stuart had vanished. All around were people peering at my unusual mode of dress. I wondered with a shudder whether any had seen me on my nocturnal bike rides. I saw Dad talking to a neighbour of ours and looking serious. Was he trying to explain why I was in tiny grey shorts? Overcome by shame I hastened home with Colin, who put his arm round my shoulder and shepherded me away from the cathedral and to the relative safety of home.

"Who was that tosser groping you?" he asked.

"He's at my school ..."

"Well, I don't like 'im. He was leering at you the whole time, the bloody pervert!"

There wasn't much I could say so I let Colin hurry me home to the roast turkey. Afterwards we all had to watch the Queen's broadcast and as I sat grumpily on the sofa beside Colin my thighs looked so bare I pulled a large cushion over them to try to hide them. My pleas to wear long trousers were rejected as we'd all promised to wear our Christmas presents until bedtime but I noticed Mum had shed all but one beige scarf and Dad said how warm it was and took off his hideous pullover but then, giving me a sly look, he slung it over his shoulders and I had no choice but to stay in shorts. The knee-socks were extremely itchy and I wanted to take them off but Dad told me to keep them properly pulled up and turned over neatly at the top – just like he'd had to when he was a schoolboy.

At six o'clock Dad beckoned me into his study. My heart sank even further.

"Now then, Luke, you've been dressed like a schoolboy of my generation all day. How does it feel?"

"Dunno, Dad," I muttered, pathetically.

"You're my son, Luke and I'm proud of you. But I'm not happy about this story of yours. You could've asked me how I felt as a boy your age wearing clothes like that. Well, the truth is, we all thought it was normal. I wore shorts at school till I was fifteen and so did most of my classmates. OK, the shorts were much longer than yours but it wasn't the sort of thing I'd think much about. Mind you, I was glad when I was allowed to wear long trousers at last."

I looked up at Dad. "There's a boy in my class who says he's forced to wear incredibly short shorts and he gets teased about it and I sort of wondered what he really thinks about it ..."

"Some people have very nice legs and like to show them off, Luke. I bet you know some girls who look nice in short skirts."

"Yes, Dad, course I do," I lied.

"Well, let's say no more about it. You can nip up and change into long trousers. You know, when I was a boy it wasn't the shorts that bothered me but those damned itchy socks!"


I needed time to think. I needed to be alone. Oh, why did I say Colin could sleep in my room? I looked in the mirror. I wasn't a bad-looking boy. Was that why Stuart had wanted me to have his babies? Was that why Colin sometimes seemed to get a hard-on when he looked at me? I put on some long trousers and went to join the others in the sitting room, burying myself in a book Auntie Joyce had given me. Later on, we all had some supper and, my brothers now in bed, we older ones had a couple of drinks. Understandably, Auntie Joyce began to cry again and Colin did too. I was glad he wasn't going to have to sleep alone in the dining room.

Up in my bedroom we set up his camp bed and got ready for bed. I still needed to do some thinking and was keen to turn out the light, saying we had to be up early because we were all going to Birmingham for the pantomime. Out went the light.

"You don't really want to go to the bloody panto do you, Luke?"

"No," I grunted.

"Well, good, cos I asked your dad if we could stay here instead and he agreed. He said I could be in charge and knock some sense into you!"

"Oh," I said, feeling a pang of panic.

"That tie you bought me," said Colin. "First picture of a naked woman I've ever had. Don't care much for girls. What about you?"

I kept silent but my cock began to stiffen.

"That tosser in the cathedral today, Luke - you were making eyes at him. I bloody saw you!"

I said nothing. Next thing I knew was Colin climbing into my bed. Instinctively I shifted to make room for him. I could feel his thighs alongside mine, which did nothing to placate my cock. Then he kissed me on the cheek.

"I've fancied you rotten for ages, Luke. You're bloody gorgeous! And in those grey shorts you look fantastic! What say we get some fresh air tomorrow and then come back here to get to know each other? We'll have hours before the family gets back from Brum!"

I lay on my back in a state of excitement. Before I knew it, I was saying "Yeah, cool."

My bedroom was so far from anyone else's we could make a bit of noise without being heard and Colin rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of him. As we lay there, gently snogging, I wondered what I'd tell him in the morning. Should I show him my story? Should I show him my secret shorts? What about my secret bike rides?

Taking charge yet again, Colin rolled me onto my side, grabbed me round the waist and began to thrust my pelvis into his. I soon had the rhythm and we cavorted lustily on the bed until we'd squirted onto each other's tummy. We giggled at the ensuing sticky mess.

"What a waste of good spunk!" he muttered before settling down to nibble my ear. "You're a wicked little boy who needs some sense knocking into him!"

That got me thinking about Stuart. I no longer wanted to have his babies. I wanted Colin instead. He knew how to handle me: gentle one minute and rough the next. I liked it.

We'd removed all our clothing and Colin was stroking my thighs. "Your legs, they're as smooth as bloody marble," he murmured, dreamily. "Far too good to keep hidden away, out of sight."

That was when I knew he'd want me in my grey shorts the next day. And the next. I knew I'd have to oblige. Colin would be my master and he'd take me away on camping trips and have his way with me. I knew he'd make me wear the tiniest shorts. I drove Stuart from my thoughts - he could make do with Graham for it was with Colin, my strong and handsome cousin, that my wish had come true at Christmas.

Talk about this story on our forum
Authors deserve your feedback. It's the only payment they get. If you go to the top of the page you will find the author's name. Click that and you can email the author easily. Please take a few moments, if you liked the story, to say so.

[For those who use webmail, or whose regular email client opens when they want to use webmail instead: Please right click the author's name. A menu will open in which you can copy the email address to paste into your webmail system (Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo etc). Each browser is subtly different, each Webmail system is different, or we'd give fuller instructions here. We trust you to know how to use your own system. If the email address pastes with %40 in the middle, replace that with an @ sign.]