Merry Cuckmas, Alex! - Chapter Two

Gay Erotica; +18, Gay Cuckold, Voyeurism, No-Cheating, No-Angst, Guaranteed HEA

The trek back to the cabin was a blur of snow-lashed cheeks and tangled mittened hands. Robert pulled him through the whiteout, growling “Hurry, slowpoke” one time and “I’m gonna have to thaw you out after you turn into an icicle”. Their laughter punched holes in the flurry when Alex shot back a filthy quip about “warming from the inside.”

The banter turned into moans very, very quick. They fucked like rabbits, frantic and feral, coats half-shed in the entryway heap. Robert hoisted Alex like he weighed nothing and he carried him to the rug by the roaring fire they’d stoked that morning. Clothes vanished in a tangle. Alex bottomed like always, legs hooked over Robert’s thighs, Robert’s pecs heaving as he sank in slow, then hard. Alex clawed at Robert’s back, gasping dirty encouragement that had Robert growling back. It was the most intense fuck in months, edged with Cyrus’s ghost, the promise of more turning every thrust electric. They lay tangled after, fire crackling soft, Robert’s head on Alex’s chest as Alex’s mind spun in circles: if one café chat with Cyrus had them rutting like this, then Robert fucking that delicious piece of man would make their marriage not just thrive, but blaze scorched-earth fire, burning brighter than ever.

By the time they peeled apart, Robert had his phone in hand, thumbing open the fresh contact with a smirk. Alex watched from the couch, the thrill simmering low again. Robert fired off the first text; something flirty, no doubt, judging by the way his fingers hesitated, then flew; and the replies pinged back fast.

The whole afternoon blurred into a haze of it: Robert sprawled in the armchair by the window, snow soft outside, phone buzzing like a co-conspirator as messages flew. Alex didn’t ask what they said. That was the hot twist, strangely addictive: lounging on the rug in boxers, pretending to scroll his own feed but stealing glances at his husband flirting, openly, shamelessly, with another man. Robert’s deep laugh rumbling at a reply, warm eyes crinkling, cock giving a lazy twitch in his sweats like the words alone were foreplay. Every so often, Robert’s gaze would lift, catching Alex’s stare, and he’d just wink before diving back in, thumbs tapping secrets Alex could only imagine.

It was only at dinner time that Robert finally dropped the phone, tossing it onto the side table with a clatter. Alex was at the cottage’s small kitchen, sleeves rolled up on flannel, suds up to his elbows as he scrubbed plates. The oven hummed hot behind him, Italian lamb lasagna bubbling golden — Robert’s favorite, layers of ricotta and ragu that Alex had thrown together on a whim, because yeah, his husband deserved being spoiled. The scent wafted rich and herby, mingling with the fire’s smoke, turning the cozy space into a den of domestic heat. Robert’s arms wrapped around Alex from behind and for a second, the world narrowed to the solid wall of his husband.

“Missed ya today, babe,” Robert rumbled low.

Alex arched back instinctively into the hold. “I was right here the whole time, Romeo. If you’d peeled your eyes off your phone for two seconds, you’d see me.”

Robert’s chuckle vibrated through them both. Alex wanted, desperately, to demand the dirt: What’d you two talk about all afternoon? Pics? Filthy one-liners? Safe words? But he reined it in, curiosity an ache he let simmer, trusting Robert’s lead like always.

“Gonna see Cyrus tomorrow,” Robert finally mumbled against his ear, casual as calling out a lunch order. It sent fresh shivers racing down Alex’s spine. “Asked ‘bout that bedroom tour, y’know.”

A beat, his massive hand splaying flat over abs, thumb tracing a lazy circle.

“But we settled for a stroll through the Christmas market instead. His family’s crashin’ at his place, aunts and uncles crawlin’ everywhere, so that’s a no-go. That square with you, babe?

“Yep, that square with me,” Alex answered. He hesitated then, not wanting to shatter the sexy haze, but maturity nagged. They were adults, after all, and five years of marriage deserved a check-in, not just a wink and a thrust. Alex twisted halfway in the hold. “Should we... talk about it? Like, expectations? Ground rules?”

“Expectations? Hell, babe, I expect to bury my cock balls-deep in that man. What about you? Gonna direct traffic or something?”

Alex snorted,”No, I mean... like, what if we change our minds? Mid-market flirt, or... you know, tomorrow hits different?”

At that, Robert turned him fully in his arms until they faced off chest-to-chest. His brown eyes drilled deep, careful, searching Alex’s face like he was scanning smoke for the hot spot only he could spot. Whatever he found there must’ve been enough for him.

“I’m not changin’ my mind, Alex. You changin’ yours?”

“No, but…”

“I don’t think this big boy’s changin’ his mind either,” Robert cut in, voice dropping to a growl. His hand cupped Alex’s cock through the sweatpants, already half-hard.

“I’m not changing my mind!” Alex insisted, stubborn. “But I don’t know, shit happens, you know? Shouldn’t we prepare for it? Like... what the hell do we even say to him if it fizzles?”

“How ‘bout ‘Changed our minds, Cyrus, fuck off and take your hot butt with ya’?” Robert said, but when Alex hit him with a flat stare, the humor softened, his hand coming up to cup Alex’s nape. “Listen,” he said. “Cyrus seems like a nice fella. Decent type, you know? I don’t think he’s gonna blow a gasket if we pump the brakes. Comes with dancin’ with couples, I guess. He knows the score.”

“What if he does get angry?”

“Well, then we’re fucked, babe, that guy could knock us both flat with one paw.”

The image landed perfect and Alex cracked, laughter bubbling up bright and breathless, whatever knot of doubt had twisted in his gut unraveling fast under Robert’s humor.

“Good thing I got a nurse to patch me up after, huh?” Robert murmured then, leaning in to kiss his husband. Alex melted into it, hands fisting Robert’s jumper, the oven’s forgotten ding echoing like applause in the background.

Next morning came quick as fire ripping through dry wood, sunlight slicing the curtains in gold shafts that caught the blond fuzz on Robert’s chest as he stirred, beefy arm flinging out to snag Alex closer. They hadn’t fucked proper that night, first time since they arrived at.

Well, Alex had. After lights out, Robert had worshipped him on the fur rug, mouth hungry and mapping every inch, beard scraping fire trails down his throat, fingers rubbing his nipples to aching points, jerking his cock torturously slow. Then, two thick digits plunged merciless into his ass, curling ruthless to graze that spot, again, again, again, the overstimulation driving him to the edge in under five minutes, body seizing, hot spillinf over Robert’s fist. When Alex reached down, spent but eager, ready to return the favor, Robert caught his wrist gentle but firm, eyes glinting wicked in the low light.

“Gotta save this for Cyrus tomorrow, babe,” he’d rumbled. And fuck if those words alone weren’t enough to nearly tip Alex over again.

Now, Alex was nursing his second cup of coffee that morning as though he weren’t already wired enough. He perched on the edge of the cabin’s kitchen stool, eyes glued to Robert across the place as he got ready for his date.

The thought hit again: his date, his fucking date with another man. Surreal as hell, this flip, watching Robert prepping to stroll the Christmas market with Cyrus. Robert stood half-dressed in front of the mirror propped against the wall. He tugged the zipper, warm eyes flicking to Alex in the reflection with a half-grin that was pure cockiness. Grey or green, he had asked holding up two, the grey one soft wool, the green a chunkier knit, casual. Alex chose grey. “You figure it’ll snow again tonight?” Robert tossed over his shoulder next, casual as checking the forecast for a shift, turning to snag his boots from the pile by the bed. He looked completely calm, almost unbothered, that arrogant confidence rolling off him in waves. Alex had no clue if it was an act, that poker face hiding a storm of nerves, or if Robert was just that wired different.

Robert left at ten sharp, more handsome than a goddamn holiday postcard, his best coat draped over his shoulders, Alex’s own red scarf wrapped loose around his neck, the bright wool a splash of possessive color against the grey jumper. The sight hit Alex like a shot of spiced rum, warming his chest deep and liquid: Robert, claiming a piece of his for this date, like a talisman against the dark.

Alex leaned in the doorway, as Roberte buttoned the coat. Then Robert turned back at the threshold and pulled him in by his shirt, slowly, like he had all the time in the world. The kiss landed soft but sure, a romantic drag that tasted of toothpaste and promise, thumb tracing the line of his throat.

“I love you,” he rumbled then, voice laced with something deeper, a reminder, a vow. He lingered a beat, foreheads bumping, breath mingling hot in the frosty air. “Try not to go too crazy while I’m out, okay?”,

Then he left, red scarf trailing like a flag. Alex watched untill he vanished around the bend, door clicking shut soft behind him, the cabin suddenly too quiet, too charged, his body thrumming with that surreal cocktail of love and lust. He was half-hard already. Too crazy, Alex thought, because there was no way in hell he wouldn’t go crazy today.

The cottage fell into an echoing quiet, fire popping lazy in the hearth, the faint tick of a wall clock marking seconds that stretched endlessly. The day loomed ahead vast and uncharted. Alex didn’t have a clue what he’d do with the next few hours. He had a crazy vision of himself, disguised and inconspicuous, tailing Robert and Cyrus to the market like some lovesick spy, peeking from behind a pine wreath. Laughing, he settled what he was doing next.

He grabbed his laptop, forgotten since their boots hit Everpine’s welcome mat, flipping it open in the kitchen. Robert had dropped Cyrus’s full name over lasagna last night, and all he needed was quick Google search for “cyrus bullock author”, the irony of that surname hitting like a dirty punchline.

Results flooded the screen: relatively famous in mystery circles, shelves of covers staring back: shadowed figures in fog, titles like Shadows in the Stack and The Lockbox Lie, all racking up starred reviews and bestseller badges. Alex scrolled, somehow not surprised at all, nah, it slotted perfectly into the fantasy he’d spun of Cyrus as this talented, accomplished writer. “Bullock creates a masterclass in suspense,” one review gushed from a lit blog, “every chapter pulls you deeper into its web of secrets, each twist landing with the perfect mix of shock and satisfaction.” Another, from a Goodreads thread: “It’s one of those rare mysteries that keeps you guessing right up to the end, and even then, you’ll want to go back and read it again just to admire how cleverly it all fits together.” He tapped buy on the most famous one, All The Light Between, thinking it could be a nice distraction for later, maybe, but now, no chance, not with his cock still half-mast.

The Google rabbit also hole showed him Cyrus’s Instagram handle, @cyrusbullockwrites, blue verified tick and all, and ditched the laptop to snag his phone from the counter. Nearly 100,000 followers stared back, a grid of polished life that screamed accomplished as fuck. Familiar names showed in the follower you know list: a nursing school buddy from back east; Ethan Mansour, that guy from gym who’d gone influencer, and even @ffrobertch, glowing like a neon sign. Robert, the sneaky bastard, already stalking the feed. He barked a laugh as his thumb mashed the follow button. Ding, he pictured Cyrus’s phone pinging with the alert somewhere in the market haze.

The photos sprawled diverse and dizzying: older ones a wanderlust dream, Cyrus grinning wide in Parisian alleys with a croissant dangling from pretty lips, wind-swept in Jordan’s red-rock canyons, bald head gleaming under Petra’s arches. Glossy shots of book covers mid-launch; crowds at signings and conventions, his massive frame dwarfing fans with sharpies and smiles, lecturing on mystery panels. The most recent ones were pure Everpine Christmas: Cyrus mid-sleigh ride, those marvelous thighs crammed on a bench with two small girls giggling wild on his lap. His nieces, maybe? Him untangling Christmas lights on a towering pine, tongue tip peeking in concentration. Group hugs with what Alex pegged as his visiting family, all crammed in funny sweaters, arms slung wide, smiles blinding, everyone beautiful in that chaotic holiday blur, though fuck if anyone else held a candle to him: gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous.

Because fuck, the man was gorgeous. A living piece of art, body toned to sculpted perfection, every ridge and curve screaming hours in the gym, that dazzling smile he’d shot Alex yesterday in the café even more lethal frozen for the camera. Alex’s thumb hovered, breath shallow as he swiped deeper into the grid, heat gathering tighter in his gut: Cyrus by infinity pools in Santorini or sprawled on Brazilian beaches where the sand contrasted against his smooth chocolate skin; and Jesus, a couple shots in nothing but tiny, tiny trunks, neon scraps that barely contained the obscene bulge straining the pouch. He still couldn’t believe Robert was gonna fuck that man later that day. His husband was hot as hellfire, the hottest man Alex had ever tumbled with, the perfect storm of smoking hot body, massive cock, and effortless confidence that turned heads and melted knees. — but Cyrus was a whole other level. Alex groaned low, hand slipping back down to stroke himself slow through the fabric, teasing the ache, not chasing it yet, imagination running wild: Cyrus’s massive frame arching on their cabin rug, those trunks legs yanked aside, Robert’s cock splitting him wide while Alex watched from afar.

Alex’s thumb ghosted over another poolside shot: Cyrus mid-dive, water sheeting off his sculpted back, his mind snapping back to reality. What were they doing right that moment? Probably already boots-deep in the Christmas market’s glittery chaos, snowflakes catching in Robert’s blond hair, Cyrus’s massive frame cutting through the stalls like an iceberg. Were they riding the carousel, Robert’s laugh booming as the painted horses bobbed? Or huddled by the carolers’ stage, voices lilting “Silent Night” in four-part harmony, mulled wine steaming in their gloved hands? Were they playing it cool, like two old pals kicking snow, banter easy over roasted chestnuts; or leaning full into first-date vibes, that electric awkward-hot where every brush of skin sparks like lightning? Alex’s pulse tripped harder, imagining Robert’s hand at the small of Cyrus’s back, guiding him through the crowd in that protective way he always was with Alex. Or, shit, were they bolder, fingers lacing under the twinkle lights, Cyrus’ hand swallowing Robert’s whole, wedding ring and all? That particular thought sent a fresh jolt south, Alex’s cock thickening again in his sweats.

It made Alex’s blood boil, his cock hardening to steel in his shorts. He palmed it through the fabric, sending sparks skittering up his spine. Fuck, he wanted to masturbate so much, wrap his fist tight, stroke furious and fast to the reel of Cyrus’s beach pics looping in his head, that obscene bulge spilling from tiny trunks like a taunt. Maybe just a quick jerk, yeah? Ease the edge off, bank the fire so he could last longer tonight, watch everything without blowing too soon? ]

No, fuck, calm down.

Be patient, he chided himself as he forced his hand away, fingers flexing on the table edge. Wait for the show. You waited five goddamn years, you can wait a few more hours till Robert drags that dreaming man home. He dropped the phone face-down, severing the temptation of Cyrus’s near-naked glory before it yanked him over the cliff. Maybe a walk, pound the snow till his legs burned the lust out? Nah, too cold outside, frostbite on the balls wasn’t the vibe when heat waited in the wings. He glanced at the clock instead: 11:30, Robert gone not even two hours. How much longer till he got back? Alex groaned, slumping back in the chair as he crossed his legs tight, willing the clock to fast-forward through the simmer.

The cottage liquor cabinet, stocked with a half-forgotten bottle of bourbon Robert had snagged from the market on day one, called like a siren’s distraction, and Alex poured himself a finger or two, more to occupy his hands than quench any real thirst. He swirled it neat, no ice, leaning against the counter as the fire popped lazy in the hearth, thinking what now?, when the phone pinged sharp on the table, shattering the quiet like an explosion. Alex snatched it up, unlocking the screen to reveal the photo Robert had fired over.

There they were, grinning broad and bright like they’d hijacked Santa’s naughty list, Robert’s arm slung easy over Cyrus’s massive shoulder, face split wide in a wolfish beam under a lopsided Santa hat, red pom-pom dangling. Cyrus’ face was cracked in a smile too, his creamy sweater from yesterday swapped for a festive one of reindeer romps, topped with Rudolph antlers sprouting from his bald head and a cherry-red nose slapped in his his own. The whole getup was absurdly hot, like a holiday pinup gone gloriously feral. It was sweet as spiked cocoa, the pair cheek-to-cheek in the frame, Robert’s red scarf (Alex’s red scarf) knotted loose at Cyrus’s neck now, a borrowed claim that twisted something delicious in Alex’s stomach, warm and wicked.

Fuck, it was really happening. His husband, out there playing in the snow with this delicious man, the photo a breadcrumb trail straight to their cabin blaze. Alex’s cock gave a hopeful twitch in his shorts, tumbler forgotten mid-sip as he zoomed in on the details: bodies pressed casual, the glint of that diamond peeking through antler tinsel, Robert’s free hand vanishing off-frame like it was gripping something, or someone, just out of shot.

The second photo pinged through a few minutes later, jolting Alex from his bourbon swirl like a static shock, phone buzzing insistent on the table as he paced the cottage. He snatched it up, and there was Cyrus: close shot this time, alone in the frame but filling every inch of it, his handsome face tilted playful toward the lens, dark eyes crinkling with mischief under the market’s lantern glow. Cradled in his massive arms was a stuffed bear in blue scrubs, nurse hat perched crooked on its fuzzy head, stethoscope dangling limp, paws stitched in a perpetual thumbs-up. Look what I got for you, babe, Robert’s caption read, and Alex’s laughed as he wondered if his husband meant the toy or the man holding it.

Alex’s cock gave another insistent throb, and the third photo dropped not thirty seconds after, a cozy shot of two mugs steaming side-by-side on what looked like Aurora Café’s scarred wooden counter: one black, pure coffee; the other a sweet concoction swirling with milk, vanilla, and cinnamon, Robert’s weakness that always left a foam mustache for Alex to lick off. Wish you were here, the text read, and. It was 2 p.m. they probably ducked into the café to refuel. Alex’s stomach growled then, a timely rumble cutting the lust haze, yeah, and maybe he should eat something too.

Alex slumped at the table in the cotttage’s small kitchen, fork twirling mindless loops through the remnants of his half-eaten lasagna, his thoughts miles away in the market’s whirl. The notification pinged sharp then, and Alex dropped the fork with a clatter that skittered it across the plate, chair almost falling as he lunged for his phone.

What loaded almost did him in. Three photos in one this time, from one of those rickety old photo booths, the kind with faded velvet curtains. Robert and Cyrus, locked in a wild kiss that stole Alex’s breath, eyes widening as heat slammed south, his cock, barely cooled from the morning’s tease, snapping fully hard in a heartbeat, straining urgent against his shorts like it had a mind of its own.

Fuuuuck, he thought, the word looping crude and electric in his skull, the most sophisticated his brain could muster because it had straight-up short-circuited at the sight: his husband, his Robert, tangled up with Cyrus. Fuck, he thought again, hand fisting the table edge as he zoomed in, pulse thundering in his ears. The first photo caught them mid-devour: mouths fused fierce, Robert’s beard meshed with Cyrus’s clean-shaven jaw in a clash, eyes squeezed shut like the world narrowed to only the two of them, Cyrus’s palm cupping the back of Robert’s neck, pulling him deeper, hungrier, like they were starving on shared air alone. The second hit even stronger, heads tilted desperate at a new angle: noses bumping, lips slick and parted on a gasp Alex could feel, Cyrus’s hands framing Robert’s chin now, holding him steady for the plunder and Robert’s eyes cracked open just a slit, smoldering Alex with fire, as if he couldn’t stop staring at the man in front of him. The last one had them pulling apart a fraction, breaths heaving in the frozen click, Cyrus’s full lips latched on Robert’s lower one in a teasing bite, his dark eyes open and burning, locked on Robert’s face a desire so raw it leaped the screen. Robert’s face was pure bliss, head tipped back in surrender, arrogance melted to ecstasy.

It was hot, so fucking hot, searing into Alex’s retinas like a brand, his hand diving into his underwear in a heartbeat, fingers wrapping around his cock in a squeeze that punched a moan from his throat, like an apology for the wait. He could cum to that photo alone, he knew it, all it’d take were two strokes while his mind replayed the bite on Robert’s lip, and he’d burst all over the kitchen table like some desperate perv’s confessional.

His mind was wilder still, spinning fever-dream questions in a filthy loop: was that their first kiss, in the booth’s dim glow, or had there been others, quick pecks over cider mugs, a graze under the carousel’s whirl? Had anyone seen it, some market busybody slipping past the curtain with a gasp, “isn’t that guy married?”, wedding ring marking Robert taken while hands vanished into the velvet dark? Fuck, what if a stranger had snuck a peek, front-row to Alex’s biggest fantasy unfurling raw and real. Alex’s fist pumped once, torturous, his free hand fisting the chair to anchor him to the world, laughing at the absurdity: him, solo in the cabin, edging to pixelated proof to what his husband was out there living it.

Shower. Cold, Alex thought, right the fuck now. He bolted from the kitchen table and sprinted for the bathroom, shedding clothes in a careless trail, his cock heavy and aching toward the ceiling. The bathroom door banged wide, tile cold under his feet as he cranked the faucet with trembling fingers, thermostat slammed to maximum low. Alex dove under the spray, frozen water exploding over his burning skin in a shock that nearly buckled his knees, system seizing like he’d plunged into a glacial crevasse. It was almost painful, the icy assault needling every nerve, pebbling his nipples to diamond points and raising gooseflesh in angry waves down his body. Alex swore he could see steam hissing off him, cartoon clouds curling from shoulders like he’d stepped straight off a Looney Tunes set, the absurdity ripping a wild, breathless laugh from his chest. He slapped his forehead to the hard tile as the cascade sheeted down his back. His cock deflated slowly but sure under the assault, shrinking from steel to spent in merciful twitches, the ache ebbing to a dull.

Fuck, if Robert took much longer out there he’d have nothing left of his sanity, reduced to puddle on the bathroom floor.

Alex gasp’s turned to shudders as he twisted the knob mid-stream, coaxing the water to a more bearable warmth. He lathered quickly, fingers skimming his abs and thighs but ghosting way clear of his cock. Rinse, towel-dry in rough drags, and he stepped out. Comfortable sweatpants first, soft grey cotton, then a tight black shirt, the kind that clung like a second skin, valuing those recent gym gains Robert had coaxed out of him.Not bad, he thought , the reflection staring back at him handsome enough. He wasn’t built like Robert; hell, he’d never scrape close to the muscular perfection Cyrus flaunted in those Insta pics. Robert liked it, anyway. He loved it.

Would Cyrus like it too?

The fifth, final notification pinged at 16:07, slicing through the cottage, the screen’s glow cutting sharp against the gloaming outside. Winter’s early dark pressed blue-black against the windows, snowflakes fat and frantic in the last light. Alex had just flipped the warm secondary lamps by the bed, its amber haze blooming soft over the blankets they’d rumpled that morning. The fire in their bedroom was greedy now, flames licking up the logs he’d stacked with precise flicks of the poker. His phone buzzed on the nightstand and he lunged for it —we’re on the way read plain and loaded, Robert’s thumbs-up emoji trailing like a mic drop.

We, the word hit like a gut-punch, surreal and scorching: it had worked, Cyrus was coming home with Robert. It was gonna happen, Alex’s fantasy no longer pixels or what-ifs but flesh and fire.

Eternity stretched thin, the clock’s tick a torture, but about fifteen minutes later, he heard it: the scrape of key in the front lock, then, the door creaking wide on a gust of pine-scented cold that filled up the cabin.

—

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