Syd McGinley

  THANK YOU LETTERS

  I

  finish my last thank-you letter, seal it up, and put it on the stack. I've never had to write so many in my adult life. I feel oddly disconcerted to have received so many Christmas presents. Usually I get some scotch and cigars from Ben and, just recently, seed packets from Cousin Tom. This year several boys had the nerve to send me small gifts and Mama P sent us a bread machine. She's worried Dave and I will starve. Several of Dave's presents were suspiciously domestic as well. I bet he hinted for the microwave his mom gave him. He acts as if I expect him to cook on a wood-fired range sometimes.

  Dave is still working on his thank-you list. He did get more than me, to be fair, but he's stretching the task out and whining about it.

  "I hate writing. You know I do," he says sulkily when he catches me looking at him. He's sprawled on the hearth rug, laboriously scratching out his gratitude expressions. He's already tried claiming no one writes thank yous anymore and that his family will be worried if they get one from him.

  "No dice! My boys have manners!" I punctuated that with a few swats. I did relent and show him how to structure a basic thank-you letter, and since then he's been muttering and scrawling away. He just has one left.

  "Sir! Really? Do I have to? I mean, writing to Charlie? About his stupid stuff?"

  I swallow a chuckle. Poor Dave—twink gave him a DVD of Elf to tease him as well as several other presents. He's a generous, if very silly, boy.

  "Yes," I say firmly. "Twink spent his allowance on presents. I wrote him a card back."

  Dave digests that news. "But he got you a good present."

  I feel a genuine surge of anger. Twink did get me a thoughtful present—a leather care set and a Harley Davidson gift certificate.

  "Dave! Write your friend a sincere thank-you letter within the next five minutes or I'll cancel your DVD privileges for the week." I've learned a spanking is worse than nothing as a threat with Dave. He'll act up to get one—the boy loves them.

  He chews the end of his pen. He's still even now trying to persuade me handwritten notes are stupid—why can't we e-mail everyone the same message?

  "Sir?" he says quietly. "I'm not being bad. I really don't know what to say. And then I imagine Charlie laughing at my letter, and I get more stuck."

  "I expect he will tease you. But he'll tease me, too. Are you implying you're above a chore I performed?"

  "No," wails Dave. "But... all the techniques you showed me for letters don't work on this one."

  I grin. "Use the one where you comment on how much you've enjoying using the item."

  Dave scowls. "But I haven't. He gave me stupid joke stuff."

  He looks so damn fuckable lying there. I see a thin line of red at the waist of his jeans and my smile grows. He's not often sulky—he's pretty sunny-natured—but when he is all stormy, his pout and the way he shakes his dark curls just drive me wild.

  "I think you're wearing one of his presents even though you said you hated it... and I think we can use it."

  Dave's eyes go wide as I kneel down on the rug beside him.

  "Jeans off, boy. Let me see what's under there."

  Dave gives a sigh of defeat—he knows he's busted. He wriggles out of his jeans and then his t-shirt and lies back down in front of the fire in his scarlet union suit. "I was cold," he mutters truculently.

  I get why he was mad at twink—everything in his present was elf-themed in some way and designed to tease Dave about his old mall job as a Santa's helper. Even the floor mats for the truck had an elf design. "I can't elf myself," hollered twink when he delivered it. Ben shook his head and whispered, "The real present, Dave," as he slipped my boy a hefty gas card to help keep the truck running, but I still think Dave was a bit hurt.

  But I can't be mad at twink. Dave in his union suit is a delight. And the cabin is cold away from the fire. It's not a stupid gift apart from how it was delivered. I mean, damn, I wear long Johns out here in the depths of winter and I always wore them on winter job sites.

  "Roll on your belly, boy." Oh yeah—that round rump ass pushing at the trapdoor flap? I think I owe twink a second thank-you note.

  I run my palms back and forth over the fabric and give my boy's ass a squeeze. There's nothing elfin about Dave's butt. He moans. I think he's starting to appreciate the genius of a union suit on a cold day.

  I unbutton his butt flap and admire the pale cheeks surrounded by red. He squeaks when I run an admittedly cold finger down his crack.

  "On your knees, boy."

  Oh, yes—Dave's sweet hole is framed perfectly by the open trapdoor. A little lube and I'm ready to fuck. And it is cold, so I just unzip and work my prick out through the fly in my long Johns. Hey, I said I wore them in the cold!

  Pioneer sex... oh, hell yes.

  A good fire, a sleepy dog who has been trained out of thinking sex is a trespass, and an obedient boy in his grown-up onesies. Damn.

  Dave's hard on makes its triumphant way out of his union suit front slit, and I reach around and give it an affectionate tug.

  "Oh sir!" he bellows, and we pump at each other until we shoot and sprawl in a combination of underwear, jeans, and stickiness.

  "So, boy. Do you have something grateful to say to twink now?"

  Dave wriggles. "Oh yes, sir. I think I can write a thank-you note about how we used and appreciated his thoughtful gift!"

 

 

  Syd McGinley, Thank You Letters

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