Stocking Stuffers: Fruitcakes Read online

  Stocking Stuffers: Fruitcakes

  Reneé George

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2006 Reneé George

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  ISBN (10) 1-59596-550-5

  ISBN (13) 978-1-59596-550-9

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  Publisher:

  Changeling Press LLC

  PO Box 1046

  Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046

  www.ChangelingPress.com

  Editor: Chrissie Henderson

  Cover Artist: Reneé George and Bryan Keller

  This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  Chapter One

  “I’m telling you, doctor! He’s an Ogre!”

  “Now, Mr. Thomas. Lots of people think their bosses are Ogres.”

  “Yes, but most people don’t see a large, grotesque, gray-skinned, two-horned, tusked Ogre when they look at their boss.” Donner Thomas buried his face in his hands. Ever since falling off his ladder at home while stringing up Christmas lights, he’d been seeing strange creatures. They were walking, talking, and working among the humans. “I am crazy. Aren’t I?”

  He’d kept the “visions” of these creatures to himself, with the exception of his ex-lover, Tony, who also thought he was nuts. The psychiatrist didn’t respond right away, instead he kept his head down, jotting notes on a yellow pad. Donner looked around in disgust at the completely monochromatic room. Someone must have decided at some time or another that lunatics responded well to blue, because the entire office had been decorated in various shades of the color -- from the cornflower blue walls, to the indigo trim. The only other different colors were from the books that filled shelves to the point they were sagging.

  He leaned forward in the dyed cerulean leather chair, peering closer at the small, lean gentleman wearing a navy blue suit. I wonder… Nope, other than the receding hairline and the pop bottle glasses, there didn’t seem to be anything unusual about him to indicate that he was “other” -- the doctor’s taste in decor aside.

  Finally, Doctor Brown -- don’t think that the irony of the name was lost on Donner -- tilted his chin up and glanced at his patient. “We don’t like to use words like crazy, Mr. Thomas.” He put his pad and pen on the desk. “I think what has occurred here is what we like to call a psychotic episode. I truly believe it was brought on by your injury.”

  Shaking his head, Donner slumped in the chair. “I don’t know, Doc. Why would only a few people look like these creatures to me then? I mean, I could almost understand Mr. Weimer, my boss. He’s a total ass, but I’ve seen strangers who look like these supernatural beings as well. Like the grocery clerk Fairy, the Brownie pharmacist, the homeless Troll living under the bridge down by the river walk, and so many more. Some beautiful, some odd, and some scare the be-jeezus out of me.”

  “Like Mr. Weimer?”

  “Yes, exactly!” Granted, Donner probably shouldn’t have hit him over the head with the small fichus plant, but his boss’s urine-colored eyes had looked at Donner like he was going to be the mid-morning meal. Of course, screaming “Ogre! Ogre!” while at his job probably hadn’t been the best way for everyone else to find out he’d been seeing things. And, he supposed, being locked up at Western Missouri Mental Health Center on the fourth floor with the rest of the loons was a much better option than going to jail for assault.

  A light knock came at the door before it opened. An orderly, dressed in dusty-blue scrubs stepped in. “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Brown, but your next appointment is here.”

  After he’d been escorted back to his locked room, Donner slumped against the far wall and slid to the ground. He pounded his fist on the floor and then stood. Even before the breakup with Tony, he’d been lonely. His parents had loved Christmas, so much so they’d even named him Donner after one of Santa’s reindeer. They died last February -- a freak car accident -- and aside from Tony, they had been his main support system. This would be his first Christmas without them. He bit into his lower lip, staving off the tears that threatened to emerge.

  Distraction, he needed a distraction. He headed into the small cubicle the hospital called a bathroom. No razors, not even the safety kind, and the mirror was made from that silvered plastic that reflected but distorted. When he looked at himself -- his green eyes being stretched, elongated, his mouth narrowed, and his sharp cheekbones rounded -- he thought he almost could be “other” himself.

  He stripped his pajama shirt off and smoothed his hands down his chest to his hard abdomen, staring at his reflection. He whispered to the unrecognizable man staring back, “What’s wrong with you?”

  For three days, this small space had been his only privacy; a toilet, a sink, and a plastic mirror. The showers were in a different room, and the attendants monitored the patients, so they were never alone.

  Undoing the snaps on the cotton pants, Donner slid them down his thighs. He didn’t miss Tony, but he missed being touched, he missed touching, and since the head injury, he missed trusting what his eyes could see. “I am a man,” he said as he pumped two squirts of liquid soap into his palm. His cock didn’t respond. He turned the hot water on in the sink, and it warmed under his fingertips. Steam began to build in the tiny space as he wetted the soap and rubbed his hands together into a creamy lather. The smell of disinfectant nearly made him stop. Nearly.

  Donner started by caressing the sacs of his balls, then moving to the soft shaft, the flesh in his hands pliant, and unresponsive. “Come on,” he coaxed. He needed release, needed it more than he needed to be sane. Closing his eyes, he imagined Tony’s wide mouth engulfing his cock, sucking and licking, bringing him as he always could. Nothing.

  Leaning forward, he rested his forehead against the mirror. “I’m defective.” Then another man came to mind, one he didn’t know. He’d only seen him on billboards. Tony had pointed him out. Oh, now he’s fucking sexy, don’t you think, Donner? Mmm, mmm, good. He’d been trying to make Donner jealous, and that day, it had worked. Shaggy black hair, piercing blue eyes, pale skin, broad chest, wired muscles, not too thick, abdomen cut -- yes, he was damned sexy. His cock stirred under his fingers, lengthening, getting hard. Finally.

  He stroked his shaft, growing more alive with every thought of the model. Dark eyelashes, high cheekbones, a sweet bow mouth, lips barely parted… A picture of the model’s ass, firm, round, inviting entered his mind -- an ass made for fucking, Donner thought as he pushed his hips forward and thrust into his palm. Blood coursed in his cock, tightening the skin, his balls drawing tight, near, so near.

  He heard short breaths, pants of pleasure, a moan, as he fisted his cock faster, stroking harder from the tip to the base, squeezing. Tight, so very tight. Leaning forward, Donner braced himself against the sink, those blue eyes staring at him, beckoning him to come. “Oh, God.” They blinked, once, then twice. Donner’s balls pulled up against his groin and his cock went rigid. “Oh, God!” Body shuddering forward, his strokes nearly frantic, he came until his legs collapsed beneath him and he drop
ped to the cold tiled floor.

  In a moment of sheer clarity, he realized, I have no one.

  Chapter Two

  Bran O’ Byrne bellied up to the bar for another brew. He’d finished off his tenth pint in a timely manner, and his alcohol fuddled brain decided he should have one more. “Barkeep!” He slammed his fist on the counter. “I’ll be for wanting another mug of your best imported beer!” His slurred speech took on his Irish accent, which after not having lived in his native land for nearly six hundred years, rarely slipped out unless he was drunk.

  The large man behind the bar walked over. “I think you’ve had enough for one night, buddy. Let me call you a cab.”

  “I’ll be the one deciding if I’ve had enough, lad.” Bran was dead set on celebrating. Tomorrow he’d be catching the transport to take him to the North Pole and back to his real job. “If you’re not for being nice, I’ll have ye put on Santa’s naughty list.” He chuckled to himself. Like Santa would ever put someone on the naughty list just because he suggested it.

  The bartender reached out and put his hand on Bran’s shoulder. “Look, fella, I think it’s time for you to go.”

  Jumping to his feet and knocking over the stool he’d been perched on, Bran put up his fists. “Don’t ye be touching me, Philistine! I neither have the time, nor inclination to go.” Tonight, after all, would be the last time to tie one on before three days of hard, but rewarding labor in Santa’s workshop. “Do you even know who you’re dealing with?”

  “Uh, aren’t you that underwear model on several of the billboards around town?”

  Bran worried his lower lip with his teeth. “Yes… technically.” During the off-season, which was year round, he worked as a model for some of the local department stores in Kansas City. “But, most importantly,” he said pompously, “I’m one of Santa’s Elves.” Admitting that in public should have been his first clue it really was time to go, but Bran had a snootful and he wasn’t about to back down. “I’m good at two things, mister.” He held up three fingers. “Looking good.” He pushed his index finger down. “And making the shite out of toys.” He pushed his ring finger down next, leaving only the middle finger, giving the birdie to the large angry man.

  “You’re nuttier than a fruitcake, little man.”

  “I’m not little! I’m an Elf. Hell, I’m quite tall for an Elf.” In one quick leap, he jumped up onto the bar. “Call me wee one more time and I’ll be for kicking your arse, pudgy!”

  A crowd was forming around the bar and several of the patrons had taken to chanting, “Fight, fight, fight.”

  Now Bran had been in several brawls in his lifetime, but he was usually a lover, not a fighter. However, between the crowd and the ten pints, and the elation of going back to the North Pole, he couldn’t help himself. He squared up and kicked the bartender right in the nose. This, of course, led to him falling backward and landing back first onto the hard concrete floor.

  Cops rushed into the bar, pushing the crowd aside. They grabbed Bran by the arms and hauled him to his feet.

  “I can’t go to jail,” he screamed, kicking out at the police officers. “I’ve got a transport to catch. Santa’s not going to understand. You don’t know him like I do. If I’m late, he’s gonna sack me.”

  His protests fell on deaf ears as they carted him out of the bar.

  * * *

  Donner lay in his bed counting ceiling tiles, thinking.

  Even before Tony decided Donner was crazy, things had been progressively getting worse between them. The breakup had been in the works for a while. Donner just wished he’d been the one to do it, not Tony.

  In the last two weeks he’d lost his lover, his job, and his apartment. Maybe the psychiatrist had been right. Maybe all these visions of “others” had been a manifestation of a psychotic episode related to his head injury. If he could convince himself they were real, he could just as easily convince himself they weren’t.

  Crash. The noise startled Donner. “Damn it!” came a shout from outside his room. “Pin him to the wall.”

  “Hold still! Man, he’s freaking strong for a little dude,” said another voice.

  “Get your hands off me, bleeding morons!”

  Curiosity snapped Donner from his funk and he moved to the small window in the door, then staggered back a few startled feet when a young face smashed against the glass. Once he got past the distorted mouth and bright white teeth, he noticed a blue sheen to the man’s face. “Oh, no. Not here. Not here.”

  The door swung open wide and the small man fell into the room. “Blimey! You idiots.” He stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Didn’t have to shove me.”

  Grumbling ensued from the attendants as they shut the door behind them, effectively locking Donner in the room with the angry little blue “other” who quickly turned on him. “And who might you be? Another unfortunate like myself, or a real life loon?”

  Hands trembling, Donner pointed. “You… You’re…”

  The blue fellow sighed and flopped on the empty bed across from Donner’s. “Yep. I’m an underwear model.”

  Donner frowned. “Uh…” The small man was rather cute, from his broad chest, to the narrow waist leading down to a big… “That’s not what I was going to say.” He tilted his head sideways to get a better view of the small pointed ears poking out from under the shoulder-length blue hair. “You’re an underwear model?” No sense in confirming the fact he indeed was a “real life loon.”

  “Yes, yes. Damn, I’m starting to sober up, unfortunately.” The new roommate cast a sideways glance at Donner. “You can put your eyes back in your head now.”

  Automatically, Donner turned away. Who knew what this “other” was? He hadn’t seen one like him before, and he could have some kind of weird dangerous magic. “What’s your name?”

  “Bran O’ Byrne at your service. And you?”

  “Donner. Donner Thomas.”

  This seemed to pique Bran’s interest as he sat up and leaned forward. “Truly now?”

  “Uh… yes. My folks had a thing about Christmas. Favorite holiday and all.”

  Bran laughed and the sound was musical, nearly lyrical, causing a pleasant feeling to tingle through Donner’s body. “That’s fantastic!”

  Donner stiffened. “Well, as you can imagine, being named after a reindeer and all, I’ve had my fair share of teasing about it.”

  “Now don’t get your back up. One of my best friends shares your name.”

  “Really? It’s not very common. I’ve never met anyone with my name.”

  Bran stood and started pacing the room, checking out the vents, the barred window, and jiggling the door handle which was locked. “I’ll bet you haven’t, boy.”

  Boy? This blue guy barely looked twenty-one and he was calling Donner boy? “I’m thirty.”

  “Uh-huh.” Bran continued his tenacious search of the room, lifting the beds, pushing aside the dresser, giving a quick glance into the bathroom. “I have to get out of here,” he mumbled.

  “You really are nuts if you think you’re going to get out tonight.”

  “What?” Bran turned and smirked at Donner as if he’d just made a joke. “Oh, I am going to get out of here, young man.”

  What was with the young stuff? “How? With your lucky charms?”

  An iridescent ripple tripped across the skin on Bran’s face as his eyes narrowed in on Donner. “What did you just say to me?”

  “Uh, well… I only meant… Nothing. I didn’t say anything.” Note to self: don’t piss off an “other” while locked in a small room with one. Even if the “other” is cute as hell.

  Blue irises swirled with lavender smoke as Bran cocked an uncertain eyebrow at Donner. “So why are you in here?”

  He’d heard the words so often over the last couple of days that he repeated them verbatim. “I’m having an acute psychotic episode brought about by a severe concussion.”

  “Hmmm.” Bran scratched his chin. “You don’t look psychotic.”


  “I’m not psychotic. I’m having an ‘episode.’ Besides, just how are psychotic people supposed to look?”

  Waving his hands, Bran chuckled. “You know, wild crazy hair, withdrawn eyes, emaciated…”

  “Sounds like you’re confusing psychotic with drug addicted.” Donner cautiously watched the “other” as he crossed the room to the small window. “What are you in here for?”

  “Too much drink, apparently.”

  “Huh? Since when do they start putting people in mental hospitals for being drunk?”

  Stripping his shirt, Bran wiped his chest with the light cotton fabric and threw it in the corner. “It’s hot in here. Is this some kind of torture therapy?”

  For the last three nights, Donner had been alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. Alone for the holidays. And now he wasn’t. Now he was sharing a space with an antsy, amusing, and very sexy blue guy. At least Bran didn’t seem violent.

  Not yet anyhow.

  Staring at the well-formed muscular chest, broad shoulders moving down to a V shaped waist and six-pack abs, all hairless and exposed, Donner mused that it could definitely be worse. “Yeah, it’s a little warm.”

  Bran’s perfectly groomed left eyebrow rose. “How tall are you?”

  “I’m, err… why?”

  Pointing straight up, Bran gestured to an air vent in the ceiling. “Even with the bed, I think I’ll need a boost. I mean, I could jump it easily enough, but I’m going to need help being stationary long enough to undo the screws.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t be a silly.” Bran grabbed the corner bed and dragged it to the center of the room. “Hmmm. I’d say you’re six feet, six-one?”

  “Six-one.”

  “Good. Come stand on the bed.”

  Nervous, and a bit scared, Donner climbed onto the bed, standing centered under the vent. Bran leapt up onto Donner’s shoulder, and he expected to sag under the smaller man’s weight, but instead, Bran felt incredibly light. Firm legs straddled the right side of his neck, calves squeezing with even pressure down his chest and back. Donner’s cheek brushed against the zipper of Bran’s pants as the blue man squirmed for a hold. He smelled incredibly of vanilla and nutmeg.