“Hang on a second,” I say, as we’re walking down the aisle, between supersized pails of cat sand on one side and stacks of small cans on the other. I pick up a box of Fancy Feast. Might as well, while I’m in the Petsmart, right? I’m pretty sure we’re running low at home.
At first I tuck it under my arm. Then I realize I’ve got someone to do the work for me. “Make yourself useful, boy,” I suggest, and toss the box to the young guy at my side.
He catches it, and hugs it to his chest, his face turning a deep shade of pink. It’s endearing on him.
In my head I think of him as the Runt, still. He’s got a name, but I don’t use it much. Because the guy is younger and slight of build, to his face I call him boy. Son, sometimes. He loves the nicknames.
Even now, I’m certain he’s flushing because I’ve used one on him. The people around us probably think of him as my son—and he technically could be, admittedly, by his age alone. We don’t look alike, save for a certain leanness in the body. He’s shorter, and small, slight in the shoulders. Soaking wet, probably most of his hundred and fifteen pounds would come from the halo of dark brown hair in a bush around his head. He’s smooth where I’m scruffy, dark where I’m fair. His eyes are big, wide, and brown, while mine are blue and narrow.
Still. The human mind takes immense comfort in being able quickly to classify and sort what its owner sees. When one passes a well-dressed older guy walking along the aisles of a pet store with his hand pressed between the shoulders of a much younger guy, one automatically thinks, dad and son taking home some food for the cat.
One doesn’t think, I wonder if that older guy is going to being fucking the brains out of that boy in another twenty minutes?
I’m guiding him, though. I know this Petsmart well—it’s the closest pet supply store to my home, a mere half-mile away, across from the Starbucks where I’ll hang out in the afternoons. I take him past the banks of cat treats and down the aisle in the direction of the pet groomers and the doggy daycare studio in the back. Then, the pressure of my hand a constant against his back, I steer him down another side aisle.
It’s when we stop in front of the display of dog collars that it suddenly dawns on him why we’ve made this detour, and that it wasn’t merely because I was nearly out of Fancy Feast. He looks at me, swallows, and then laughs a little. Once he realizes I’m dead serious, the laughter fades.
While he stands there, nervously watching me, I study the collars, look at the Runt, and then finally reach out to lift one from the display. It’s a deliberately-humiliating choice, made of narrow pink leather studded with some kind of sparkly plastic imitation gems. When he looks at it, then at me, I can see in his eyes he’s worried I’m serious. I put it back.
I go through several other collars until I make my choice. It’s a sturdy brown collar, broad and made for a big dog—or a smallish male. I tug at it as if to test its give and its strength, pretending I know what I’m doing. It’s all for display, though. He’s watching my hands surround the leather, not saying a word, but no doubt imagining where that collar will be in just a few minutes.
I exchange vague pleasantries with the clerk as we check out; I don’t need a back. Without a word between us, we head to my car and drive down the road, past all the industrial installations and the self-storage warehouse and into the quiet residential neighborhood beyond.
We’re parking again at the far end of the train station commuter lot. It’s dusk on a winter’s Friday night, long enough past rush hour that most of the cars have emptied out. I pull into a space in the darkest corner, far from the road, and turn off the ignition. “Get in the back,” I order him. When he opens the car door and still has the Fancy Feast in his hands, I add, “Leave the cat food.” He puts it on the floor.
I join him in the back, after I’ve pushed up the front seats to give us as much room as possible. “Clothes off,” I tell him.
He scrambles to obey. Through his curls he looks at me after he’s shucked off his T-shirt and hoodie all as one. He pulls off his scrubby gray socks, one after the other. They join his top on the floor of the car. Then he loosens his oversized belt and shimmies out of his jeans. I stop him before he yanks off his underwear. I pull down the elastic band in the front. His small cock, erect and already dripping with pre-cum, snaps out like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He lifts his hips as I pull off the blue briefs from his narrow waist.
I’ve got the collar in my hand. It’s still stiff and unworked, so I run it as a tight curve through my fingers a few times as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Is that for me?” he asks at last.
It’s rhetorical. I don’t have to reply. He knows what the answer is. He’s just filling the quiet with words. I’ll be filling it with his cries, soon enough.
“Lean forward, son,” I tell him. My hands loop around his slender neck. The leather’s edge scrapes a trail down the nape until it rests where I settle it. I’m pulling the leather through metal, gauging where to close it. When it’s finally fastened, it hangs a little loose. There’s enough give for me to slip all four of my right fingers through and pull his face to mine. “Whose are you?” I whisper to him.
He hesitates for a second. I can tell his eyes are glistening with tears. They’re not tears of fear, or of terror—though maybe there’s some of that, mixed in. No, those are tears of gratitude. This stupid gesture of mine, unexpected and so far from any of the tame experiences he’d had before me that it’s practically alien, this cheap collar that’s put me thirteen dollars out of pocket, has resonated so much with his needs that he’s trembling with gratitude. “Yours,” he whispers.
He’s brimming with emotion. I’m not having any of that. Roughly I shove him back until his head is nestled where seat and door meet. We don’t have much foreplay, the Runt and I. He’s there to be fucked, and I’m clear that I regard him as my hole, whenever I pick him up from home and drive him somewhere. I’ve got a tube of Astroglide in the console between the two front seats. It’s been chilling in the winter weather for over a week. It’s cold on my fingertips. I know it’s got to be torture for his hole when I jam my index and third finger inside him roughly.
I’m so hard that it’s difficult to pull down my pants in the cramped confines of the car. I manage, though. I’m desperate to shove inside him. “You ready?” I ask.
Another rhetorical question. I don’t really give a shit if he’s ready or not. I can feel the lips of his hole separating from the pressure of my cock’s head. The Runt is super-tight. Not so tight that he can’t be opened, though. He’s trying to be a good boy, a quiet boy here in this silent parking lot, but the pain of my cock tearing into his hole is almost too much; he’s panting and gritting his teeth and letting out cries of pain and anxiety and of deep, deep need. My dick, steel-hard and driving in, shows no remorse.
But I’m not the only one who’s hard. His own dick is pointing in the air and letting loose another glob of pre-cum. His thin legs are flailing in the air, trying to buck me off, to keep me from entering too deeply. At the same time, though, he needs it, and he knows it. His hands are clutching to the sides of my thighs, not letting me go. Pulling me in.
It doesn’t take me long to reach bottom—though it probably seems like an eternity to him. I feel my cock nudge against that spot of his deep within. His cock jumps. I pull out slightly and then shove against it again. Once. Twice. Three times.
That’s all it takes. Everything conspires against him—the collar, the darkness, the pain of my dick. Pressure against that point pushes him over the edge, even if he hasn’t touched himself. He lets out a cry that’s more anguish than pleasure, and then his cock begins unloading all over his midsection. I hold still while he gives in to the sensations of orgasm, feeling his tight hole spasm around my meat.
When his legs stop moving and I feel his body relax a little, I begin moving again. He groans at the discomfort of it, so soon after his climax. “My turn,” I remind him. “It’s what you’re here for.”
He doesn’t protest.
We fuck for over an hour. His three climaxes come at random, when I batter his prostate with the head of my dick at a certain angle. Mine are more deliberate, more calculated. Both times I grab his collar and pull him up so he can see my face as I shoot. I make him stare into my eyes and see what his hole is doing to me.
Only when my dick stops throbbing and swelling and letting loose the seed it’s delivering do I lower him by the collar back down again.
I make him remove it once his clothes are back on. At my instruction, he tucks it into the glove compartment. I can tell he wants to take it home with him, though. I can tell he wants to wear it when he’s alone, and to think of me, and the damage my cock can do.
Perhaps another time. For now, that collar is mine, something I can keep in my back pocket for when I need it. Just like I keep him.