Miracle on 34th Street

Miracle on 34

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Street

Pre-Holiday tragedy heals in time

I like to try to add a bit of Christmas cheer if I can. This is a one chapter story which demonstrates that even the worst tragedies can have wonderful consequences for some. All characters are over 18. © Brunosden 2024, All Rights Reserved

Carter and I had been friends since kindergarten. Actually before. We had had tumbling classes together at age three, but neither of us remembers those early years. We lived on the same block in Houston, 34

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Street W, played on the same teams, went to the same schools and dated the same girls, usually on double dates. In fact most of those dates were group dates. Both of us were active and athletic--gymnasts with various Texas trophies to attest to our success. We both had professional fathers and school teacher mothers—who doted. And yeah, we fooled around a bit. What teen boy didn't? Just strokes and jack contests. Nothing more.

Neither of us had a brother—so we were bros to each other. We're now 20+, a few months shy of "legal." And a year ago last September, for the first time, we made different decisions. He went to UT-Austin, and I went to Rice in Houston. We (at least I) did it deliberately. We were close—perhaps too close. So, I decided we needed space to develop our own separate personalities. Much like twins who separate for college for the same reason. Nevertheless, we spoke by phone or texted most days, comparing notes about our new experiences, including the new gymnastic teams we each had joined, our quirky roommates, and the beer bashes that served as recruiting events for various frats (at UT) or the residential houses and clubs (at Rice).

Then Carter's life irrevocably changed just before Thanksgiving of our second year. His Mom and Dad had driven up to Austin to pick him up for the holiday, and on the way home, two days before the feast, there had been a terrible accident. A semi going north on I-45 had braked to avoid a negligent lane change. The brakes had locked, and the driver had lost control of his flammable load. It launched over the Interstate guard rails and smashed headlong into several cars heading south, all moving at high speeds. They were in the right place, but at the wrong time.

Many died in the accident and the resulting fires, including both of Carter's parents. Their car was of course totaled, and EMTs had to cut through the burned sheet metal to extract Carter from the rear seat. He had a broken leg and sprained his right wrist—not life-threatening, but serious for a varsity gymnast. They didn't know anything else. So, he spent the entire holiday in the hospital under observation. Then he attended the funeral, largely arranged by neighbors led by my Mom, since there was little family and it was all outside Houston. He was clearly lost, almost catatonic at the instantaneous change in his life. I was there for him, but felt pretty helpless.

With some reluctance, but on advice of his new "guardian"—his father's former partner in the law firm--and the consent of the medical team, he returned to UT a few dats later, in a cast and on crutches—to finish the last few weeks remaining in the semester. But he had already announced he was planning to take the next semester on-line or off. But, exams and papers would temporarily take his mind from the tragedy—and would give him credit for the semester.

His natural effervescent personality was shattered. He had always been the joker and prankster. Now he was a very different boy. I tried my best to absorb his grief—but I'm young, inexperienced, and had known and loved his mother like my own. So I too was grieving. We invited him to stay with us, and he accepted. So starting a week before Christmas, he moved into the guest room adjacent to mine. He knew the arrangement as he had bunked in the second twin in my room in the past for our numerous sleepovers. We had enjoyed the widescreen and the game players on many occasions.

When I had decided to remain in Houston and attend Rice more than a year ago, Carter was genuinely surprised. He just assumed we'd continue on to university together. Little did he know that I had my reasons. For more than a year, I had been in love, or at least in lust, with the slim, handsome cowboy that he had become. I thought about him often, and dreamed about him even more. But, I dared not even mention the idea. I did not want to forfeit our friendship. I assumed that, if apart, my feelings would fade. I'd find someone else (presumably a she). We could then be just friends again.

My name is Paul Simpson. I'm 5-10, with straight light brown hair cut short, hazel eyes, tanned and with the lightly sculpted muscles of a lifelong gymnast and someone who carefully monitors carb intake. Except for hair (his—a little darker and with a little curl) and eyes (his are darker brown), we are nearly twins. We share the same height and size, thick lips, hollow cheeks, square jaws and bushy eyebrows of the children of Mediterranean parents. Thanks to gymnastics, both of us were shaved everywhere below the hairline, except for trimmed pubes. There was only one thing that was different. And we kidded each other all the time. Both of us had uncut dicks. But, his was long and thin with a peach shaped knob which the hood didn't quite cover; while mine was a little shorter but much thicker and of uniform girth from base to tip. My hood "closed" and covered the entire glans. So it was like a pole—while his was like a baton. He used to joke that the only way to tell us apart was to drop our jeans. And I used to joke that the jacket on his dick was several sizes too small. He needed to trade it in.

Neither of us ever had a problem attracting a date. And neither of us is a virgin. We had traded stories of conquests on many occasions, sometimes exaggerating—and even had been with the same girls—at different times, of course.

But, Christmas this year was going to be different from any that we had enjoyed together before. Even the block we lived on was a constant reminder of the loss. Ours was one of those semi-urban blocks where each house competed with Christmas décor—there were several nearly full-sized sleighs with reindeer and Santas; most houses were outlined in colored lights; wreathes were everywhere; many lawns held grazing lit faux-reindeer; one even had large crèche; and there were two with fake snow making machines. It was a winter wonderland—even in Houston's mild climate. During the holidays, a constant line of vehicles, filled with gawkers, crawled down 34

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Street gazing at the brightly lit, transformed houses. It was famous in all of Houston. All except one this year: the Paxton house was dark and empty.

I was walking on eggs. Looking for chances to open up light conversations with Carter. I wanted to pull him into a hug and make it all better. I wanted to take him with me to the Rice gym to work out, but the leg cast and sprained wrist would have been a problem—and a reminder of his loss and limitations. Even computer games were out—he couldn't maneuver a joystick with his right in the rigid glove, and his left hand was useless. He was severely right-dominant.

He needed help dressing and undressing—and in the shower (where we wrapped his cast in a garbage bag and somewhat successfully kept that leg out of the direct shower spray) while he held on to me for support. Thus, he was naked around me several times a day; my hands were on his body holding, soaping and helping; and, I was straining to keep my cock in check. It was a real task to maintain a happy "uninterested" face, a careful conversation and not betray what were becoming renewed and deep feelings for him.

We watched a lot of TV, mostly those inane Rom-coms with identical plots. Only the settings changed. Of course none of them portrayed gay relationships. Our comments were satirical and critical, laughing inappropriately at the various improbable romantic mishaps and non-situations. But under the laughter, Carter was deeply melancholy and confused about his future.

Things came to a head between us on Christmas Eve. It had been a full day of activities. We did some final shopping. He had a session with the orthopedic surgeon. I think Mom realized that Carter had taken a small step out of his grief because she made a celebratory Christmas Eve meal. It was the meal she had served often during our many sleepovers. We all talked, reminisced, even joked. The house was bright; the tree bedecked and glowing; "carols at the spinet"—no not really, but on the MP3; and the mood was festive.

We had showered and dressed for bed—in boxers and tees. Then he went to his room and I went to mine on either side of the bath. All was quiet—even though there was no "new-fallen snow" outside. But, the moon was bright and shining. And the night was indeed silent, very silent. We did have a chimney with stockings "hung with care." I was reading—and certainly not in a nightcap. Then I thought I heard a sob. I ignored it. But then another. And another. My sympathetic pain kicked in. My closest friend in the world was hurting. Hurting really bad. Enough to be sobbing. I couldn't ignore him. I couldn't sleep. So I pulled out of bed.

I walked quietly into his room, going through the shared bath to find him in a fetal position, facing away from me, crying softly into the pillow, his chest heaving with grief. My heart broke. So I threw away my reticence and my fear. I whispered his name, but got no response. I walked up to his bed and climbed under the quilt. My arm reached out above him, crossed his chest, and pulled him into a spoon, whispering words of comfort. He was warm and felt wonderful. But, he continued to sob. I massaged his pecs carefully; then moved lower to his abs, my fingers brushing those tight rippling muscles, petting and soothing as my hands moved over his moist, hot, spasming skin. I even tickled his treasure trail. I was totally silent—just there for him. Finally, he began to quiet and relax. And I could feel his breathing go regular. The chest spasms quieted. He snuggled back into my cocoon. And at last, I guessed he was asleep. He hadn't spoken a word.

So, against my better judgment, I stayed in his bed. Wrapped around the guy I loved. Until I too fell asleep.

The next morning, Christmas, I felt him push back into me. The room had chilled and he was unconsciously settling into my spoon for warmth. You can probably guess the next few moves. It was inevitable. My cock, a respectable seven incher, had snaked out of the fly of my sleep shorts and was planted deep between his naked thighs—steel hard and with the hood drawn back. He seemed to be rhythmically squeezing it, effectively stroking it with his inner thighs.

And fuck! My fist had drifted during the night and was inside his shorts gripping his equally hard member. I could even feel the loose hood which had drawn back into my fingers as he went erect, presumably exposing the head to the cool air. Without fully awakening, I automatically began to stroke—my dick sliding between his thighs and my fist on his shaft. I felt his butt push back into my gut. Once, twice. He was moving to enhance my stroking! My sausage between his thighs and my fist on his hot, hard pole.

It took only a few minutes. And then we both erupted, almost simultaneously. Fuck, that felt so good. I can still feel my spunk moving up the shaft as his thighs felt my final expansion and squeezed. I pulled him tightly into me and went silent. I blasted onto the sheets, several times and went still. By then, my palm was overflowing with his cum. The musky aroma of young sex rose into the cool room.

I was fully awake now. And fearful that I had spoiled everything. Then Carter whispered, "Fuck, Paul, I really needed that. And I guess you did too. I've been a good boy apparently, a very good boy. Thanks. And you are welcome. Definitely welcome. Anytime. Merry Christmas."

I got up and brought back a warm towel to clean us up—but the sheets were finished. I stripped the bed and headed for the laundry. I wasn't sure I wanted Mom to discover the spunk soaking through his sheets, but of course she'd suspect anyway since she did the wash. And my own night dreams were still pretty frequent. Then we showered and dressed for the day—both in the identical bright red sweats that Mom had left for us for Christmas morning. Neither of us said a word more. But, both of us knew we had crossed a threshold. Into what, we didn't know.

Christmas Day was quieter at our house than usual. Mom and Dad understood that they needed to be careful with the invitations and the obvious signs of merriment. Of course, we opened gifts, sat by the fire, watched a few games and feasted on Mom's turkey. Our friends would understand. Next year. Throughout the day, I watched for some sign in Carter; and a few times I caught him watching me out of the side of his eye. I couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking.

Then it was time to turn in again. We said our goodnights and headed up. As we reached the room, he whispered, "Will you sleep with me again tonight, Paul? I'd really like it if you would."

I couldn't believe my luck. He was giving me a great Christmas present too. On Christmas Eve, the doc had changed his wrist cast to one of those strap-on flexible ones, and he had changed the bulky plaster cast on his leg to a lighter, but still rigid one. But he still needed assistance. I helped him to undress, but he refused the sleep shorts and tee. He just stood there in the dim light and posed. Fuck! His cock was rock hard, bouncing off his abs as he moved to the bed. I watched every move. In a year of UT gymnastic competition, he had turned into a sculpted sex object. Every muscle was defined, not bulky, but cut. An eight-pac. Square slab pecs with dark aureoles and eraser-erect nipples. A deep vee belt. Defined bis, tris, delts. And that ass! With deep dimples and visibly hard glutes. He was lean, very lean. And he was erect and already leaking. It was like a Michelangelo—or the opening scenes in one of the Disruptive Studios porn flics. Just waiting for a partner to appear from the next room. My eyes widened; my gut clenched; and, my dick completed its hardening.

He climbed in and I followed. We lay close together in the twin, side by side on the pillows, staring up into the darkness, our dicks tenting the quilt. Silent. Each of us waiting for the first move by the other. He whispered and laughed, "It's our own version of Twin Peaks." Then he continued. "Paul, I need your help. Please do it again. I've gotta release to sleep. And I can't get off using my left hand."

He didn't need to ask twice. My hand squirreled over and gripped the pulsing manmeat. It came alive immediately and lengthened even more as he used his hips (or at least one of them) to thrust up into my hand. "I'd do anything for you, Carter. Anything. We'll get over this in time." He spread and I moved into the vee to use both hands. One cupped and massaged his balls. The other continued to stroke the shaft. I could feel him coiling. And I imagined him pulling in his gut with those fabulous ab muscles. And so I did something that I would never have guessed I'd ever do. I bent down, used my lips to retract the hood, and took the head, just the head, in my mouth, licking the pre-cum from the unsheathed glans and poking the tip into the slit. Carter gasped, breathed deeply and pushed up even harder into me. His left hand went to my neck to hold me in place. He definitely wanted this to continue. So I sucked him deeper as my tongue traveled around the head and as I breathed in his musky aroma. I took him deeper, but couldn't manage the whole shaft. So as I rhythmically sucked, my right hand short-stroked the base. He was face fucking me. And I was loving it.

It took only seconds. I felt the autonomic response kick in. The spasms began deep in his gut. His thighs and gut muscles tightened. Then he blasted. He hit the back of my throat with the first and filled my mouth cavity with the second and third. Then his ass fell back to the mattress, and I followed, holding him and his cum inside. He whispered so lightly that I almost didn't hear, "Oh fuck! That was by far the best blow I've ever had."

Then I realized that I had cum as well. Hard enough to soak his butt. My spunk was dripping off his butt onto the sheets. And I'm sure he realized that no hand had touched my still rigid cock. I had cum while blowing him. "I guess you liked that too. That's okay. But, I owe you one, Paul. Next time. I don't think I can do it as well as you. But, I'm willing to try."

I rearranged our position and pulled him into my arms. Then I kissed him. I know he could taste his cum. But, I was enjoying it—and we had always shared everything. We were quiet for a long time. Then he rolled over and pushed back into my spoon. Oh, to have a window on what he was thinking now! But now I knew Santa had indeed visited our place last night.

My thoughts were wild. If anyone had suggested even hours before that we'd be here—and have just done that—I would have laughed—or cringed. But, here we were. He was in my arms and spoon. Clearly enjoying it. I had blown him. And he had promised to reciprocate. What a terrific Christmas present! Thank you, Santa.

*******

The next few days were filled with Christmas activities. Wonderful meals. Visits by former classmates. A day at the Museums in the Park. I went to the gym every day, and Carter began to find ways to work out—despite his casts. We were inseparable. And his mood lightened just a bit. As we had been in earlier years.

But, there was a major change.

Carter and I fell into an easy routine. We didn't talk about it—or try to explain it or rationalize it. We just enjoyed the results. We slept together every night. We hugged and caressed each other to the edge of release. Then we'd practice our oral skills. Occasionally 69, but usually seriatim—after all he was still in a leg cast and his useless right hand was still encased in a wrist support. In the morning, relieving our stiff awakening woodies, and in the evening, relieving the activities of the day for a peaceful sleep. And we kissed, sharing spunk. Each time we seemed to push a little farther. We were getting deeper even if we had no words to explain the growing feelings.

Mouths began to suck and even hold balls inside as our tongues bathed them. Carter still had little use of his good hand, but mine began to press his taint, to massage his butt cheeks and pull them apart, fingers straying into the cleft. And my fingers, lubed with his precum began to rim his hole. The "progress" was slow. We never went back, however. I was pretty sure that I wanted him in that unique way that some men want other men—and only men. But he hadn't reached that point—at least not yet. And after each evening session, Carter moved easily into my nighttime spoons—now always nude—and I think I was helping with his grief. In the morning, after we spunked into each other, he seemed to enjoy having my "helping hands" massage his body under the shower, even on his cheeks and in his cleft, penetrating the anus with a fingertip lubed with conditioner.

Except for the Christmas Eve thank you and the Christmas night invitation, we rarely talked about what was happening to us. Still there were moments when I could see the pain behind his beautiful eyes. He was now alone. No family. Not at all sure where life was headed. That's about when I decided I wanted to be his family. Whatever it took. I'd be patient. But, I was determined.

I made a suggestion. And he accepted quickly. By the end of January when classes resumed at Rice, we had made arrangements for a "temporary transfer"—and he enrolled at Rice. The tragedy had moved Rice administration to bend the rules. My first semester roommate (yeah, even though we lived in Houston, I wanted to live on campus and experience the full residential experience) had taken a semester off. So we made arrangements for Carter to move into my on-campus house and room.