A Modern Gay s*x Christmas Carol: The Complete Collection

Dickteaser Splooge's old partner (both in business and in life), Jacob Jism, was long since dead. In fact, he had died twenty years ago to the day, on Christmas Eve. There was no memorial service planned. No "thinking of you" cards arrived in the mail. Nobody called to ask how Dickteaser was doing and to reminisce about happier times. Nobody offered prayers for the repose of Jacob's soul. There were no pictures of Jacob anywhere in the office or in Splooge's condo. It was as if Jacob Jism had ceased to exist, even in memory, upon his death. That indeed would have been the case, if it wasn't for one minor detail. The sign remained over the office door, just as it had been twenty years earlier when Jacob died: Splooge & Jism Investment Management. Some might think that this was Splooge's way of remembering his deceased partner. They would be wrong. Dickteaser Splooge refused to change the sign for one reason only. It was the same reason that could explain both everything he did and everything he didn't do in life – money! He thought it would simply be a waste of money to change a perfectly good sign just because his partner died. It didn't matter to him that potential new clients referred to him sometimes as Mr. Splooge and other times as Mr. Jism. He responded to either name. What difference did it make what they called him as long as they parked their money in his firm and he earned a healthy commission for managing their investment portfolios? Money, money, money and more money! That's the only thing that mattered to miserly old Dickteaser Splooge. He could pinch a penny until Abraham Lincoln's cheeks turned red. He could stretch a quarter until George Washington and the eagle screamed out in pain. What he could do to a dollar bill is just too obscene too mention! Most people hated him and avoided him at all costs, which was exactly the way he liked it. Years ago, he was reluctant to purchase computers and Internet access. After all, he already had a typewriter and the phone bills were quite high enough. However, he was thrilled (as much as an old curmudgeon can be thrilled about anything) when he realized that business could be conducted online with computers which meant it was no longer necessary to have constant human interactions in order to buy and sell stock or to check account balances to watch funds accumulate. One unfortunate soul who did have to interact with Dickteaser Splooge was his poor assistant, Bob Crotchlick. Bob was overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated, and one hell of a sexy DILF type. His jet black hair was cut close cropped and he had wire-frame glasses with thin lenses. Bob's suits were always perfectly pressed. His classic ties contained a hint of color. In short, he looked like he stepped from the pages of a men's fashion magazine. It was a blustery, snowy, and particularly cold Christmas Eve as Bob Crotchlick and Dickteaser Splooge worked away in the Splooge & Jism office. Even though the stock market shut down early in the afternoon on December 24, Splooge refused to close the office. After all, he reasoned, there was still money to be made in after hours trading and a new client might come in at any moment with an open checkbook. "Seems almost like a blizzard out there," Crotchlick said looking up from his ratty desk as he rubbed his hands together trying to keep warm. "Hmmm," Splooge barely acknowledged while he gleefully refreshed his browser window at his own computer in order to see how much more interest he had earned in his many off shore accounts since the last time he had checked them just a few minutes earlier. "I hear the wind howling. There's a terrible draft coming in around the door," Bob said. "Hmmm," Splooge grumbled again, while this time typing a short email to the founder of a company that he had invested in. Splooge confirmed to the man that he had sold his share of stock earlier in the day at full price at its all time high. That massive sale had triggered the nosedive decline in the stock price for the rest of the day, leaving the founder and the other investors a good fifty percent poorer than they had been that morning. Getting no satisfactory response from his observations about the weather, Bob Crotchlick got up from his desk and made his way to the thermostat. It was set at a ridiculously chilly fifty-eight degrees. Hoping that Splooge was too engrossed in his emails to notice him, Bob casually reached for the thermostat control. "Mis-ter Crotch-lick!" Splooge's cranky baritone voice boomed out each syllable. "What do you think you're doing?" "Raising the temperature a degree or two to take the chill out of the air," the younger man replied meekly. There was no point in lying as his finger was on the thermostat control. Dickteaser Splooge rose from his desk and folded his arms. "Are you aware of the nature of oil?" he asked. "Sir?" "Oil is both temporary and expensive. Do you know what the price of a barrel of crude oil is going for on the world markets? Have you seen the price of a gallon of heating oil?" "Yes, Sir," Crotchlick answered. "It's quite exorbitant. Considering your extensive holdings in several international oil companies, you've been turning quite a profit from that industry in the last several years." "Indeed!" Splooge acknowledged with the tone of voice as if he were explaining a simple concept to a wayward child. "It is they, those fools out there," he said gesturing towards the window and the last minute holiday shoppers making their way through the winter snowstorm on the city streets, "who pay those high prices and put money in my pockets. I exploit the masses and the oil companies. They don't exploit me! Shut the heating system off completely. I don't intend to spend one more cent on oil for heating this office today. Is that understood?" "Yes, Mr. Splooge," he mumbled while sadly sliding the thermostat control switch to the off position. "Since you're so cold, there are other ways to keep warm..." Splooge said with an unmistakable glint in his eye. Bob Crotchlick was hoping it wouldn't come to this again, not today, not on Christmas Eve. In order to keep what precious little was left of his dignity, Bob offered a token of resistance. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. Splooge," Bob said with as much innocence as he could feign. Dickteaser Splooge changed tactics. "How long has it been since your husband lost his job?" he asked, full well knowing the answer, but forcing his employee to say it aloud anyway. "So long that the unemployment payments ran out almost a year ago," Bob told him. "And how long have you worked here at Splooge & Jism?" "About five years," Bob said dully as if the tone of voice could erase the humiliation of having to take a job as Splooge's assistant for less than half of what he used to make as a junior executive at his prior investment banking firm before it was closed by the SEC for insider trading. The closure and subsequent investigation also resulted in the loss of Bob's stock broker license, which severely limited his employment opportunities in the financial sector. "If you think it's cold in here right now, imagine how cold it will be in your apartment this winter if you have no income because I fire you for insubordination, which will prevent you from collecting unemployment." Bob shuddered when he imagined the look on his husband's face if he had to go home and tell him on Christmas Eve, of all days, that he got fired. They had already used up all their savings and were living paycheck to paycheck as it was. If that wasn't bad enough, last August, they had come up with a way to earn some extra money. They rented out their extra bedroom, which they had previously used as a home office, to a college student whom they nick-named Tiny Twink. He moved in at the end of August. Everything was fine until Columbus Day when Tiny Twink went home to visit his parents for the long weekend. While home, Tiny Twink told his parents that he was gay and they went ballistic. Not only did they promise never to talk to him again, they also cut off all his funding which included his tuition and housing money to pay Bob for renting the room. Knowing what happens to hot, young, broke, and homeless college studs on the streets of a big city, Bob and his husband couldn't possibly throw Tiny Twink out of the apartment. So, Bob's meager salary from Splooge & Jism was now supporting all three of them. He literally could not afford to say no to the s****l demands, as disgusting as they may be, of Dickteaser Splooge. Knowing that he had his employee between the proverbial rock and the literal hard place inside his pants, Dickteaser simply said, "Well?" Bob gave in, saying exactly what Dickteaser wanted to hear, "I think I could get warmer if we created some friction between our naked bodies, Sir." Dickteaser ordered Bob to lock the door (but only until their s****l business was finished, less they lose the opportunity for any financial business that might yet walk in at this late hour) and to close the blinds in the two large windows on each side of the entrance as well as the blinds which hung above the door, thus giving them total privacy from any passers-by who might be out on this winter afternoon. After doing as commanded, Bob turned around and instantly saw the hard-on tenting in the older man's pants. He tried to ignore it, pointlessly hoping it would go down and Splooge would call off the whole sexcapade. "Take my clothes off me," Splooge demanded harshly. Bob started with Splooge's suit jacket. It was dark blue and rather boring as far as suit jackets go. It was decently made, but rather old and out of style. Bob neatly hung it over the back of an office chair. Next, he unbuttoned and removed the older man's vest. Then, he undid Splooge's gold cufflinks, carefully placing them on the desk. As he rolled up Splooge's sleeves, a bit of skin was exposed on the forearms. The hair on Splooge's arms had not turned gray and Bob actually found hairy arms quite attractive. Bob felt the first stirrings of interest from his own c**k. Bob took a step closer to work on the knot in Dickteaser's tie. As he did so, Dickteaser reached up and grabbed Bob's head, pulling it towards his own. He firmly planted a huge, wet kiss on Bob's lips. Dickteaser's tongue felt its way along the outline of Bob's lips, enjoying the taste and texture of them. When he felt the pressure, Bob obediently opened his mouth and Splooge's tongue forced its way in. Another stirring in Bob's pants solidified his c**k as their tongues intertwined inside Bob's mouth. Bob's hand reached up and he ran his fingers through the older man's wiry silver-gray hair. It felt thinner than his husband's hair, yet somehow stronger at the same time. Bob decided that there must be some kind of strength infused by hair follicles that refuse to die when their fellow surrounding follicles give up the ghost. Dickteaser pulled his head away and told Bob to finish removing his clothes. His tie was the next article of clothing to come off. Bob loosened the knot and slipped it off his boss's head. He slowly unbuttoned the white dress shirt. As the fabric parted in the upper chest area, Dickteaser's salt and pepper chest hair become apparent. Bob admiringly wrapped strands of it around his fingertips. "Kiss my chest," Splooge ordered. That was the first order that Bob Crotchlick was eager to obey that day.