One of the reasons I love sinking my inches into the Runt is that he doesn’t bug me with the same old shit that I get from bottom after bottom. He doesn’t ask me about my ‘top buddies.’ He doesn’t complain that I fuck too long, that he can’t maintain his position because his knees hurt. He doesn’t ask me to take a break, switch sides, talk to him about Gaga, to help him out with a few bucks for gas money. He doesn’t ask if I have poppers for him, or request dirty talk, or go through my drawers looking for a joint he’s not going to find.
What he does, he does well. He puts on his dog collar without question.
He removes his clothes when, from my living room sofa, I tell him, “Strip.”
He lifts his legs when I use my hands to spread apart his knees.
He takes my dick.
And he keeps his mouth shut, expect when I fill it. He doesn’t complain. Ever.
Doesn’t seem like a lot to ask of someone. But apparently it is.
It’s twilight, and he stepping out of his briefs. He makes an effort to dress pretty for me, when he knows I’m picking him up and bringing him to my place. He wears his cleanest jeans, or shorts, and puts on a shirt with a collar, and sprays himself with something that smells nice to his younger nostrils. He always wears underwear that he thinks will inflame my desire—today it’s some kind of black boxers. They’re oversized on him, and I’m glad when they hit the floor around his ankles.
Silhouetted in the last of the faded daylight in the window panels behind him, he’s slender, with the waist of a mere boy. His legs are long and skinny, his shoulders narrow. He holds one shoulder awkwardly with the opposite hand, so he looks even ganglier than he is. His hair is thick and dark; it hasn’t been cut in sometime. Idly I wonder how that skinny body can support the enormous weight of that thick, heavy mane.
“Suck it,” I tell him. My dick’s out, and standing straight at attention.
Now that he’s been given direction, he knows what to do. He steps out of the pool of clothing around his feet and kneels before me. His head goes down. For a second I feel his hot breath on my shaft, and then the sweet relief of his mouth around me. His eyes are closed. I’ve got my fingers slipped between the back of his collar and the soft skin of his neck, but I don’t need to direct him. He knows how to take care of my dick. The fingers are just a reminder—a tug now and again to remind him who’s boss, a subtle pressure against his Adam’s apple, a sharp yank when he gets too complacent. In the end I get a blow job the way I like it—with him gagging, and with his saliva slicking down my nuts in heavy runnels.
I’m getting too close. I like feeding him cum, but not the first load. Usually not the second. Now I yank on the collar and lift his head back until we’re face to face. “You know what I want,” I tell him.
It’s not a question. He’s uncertain whether or not to answer at first. Finally, he nods. He knows.
“You know it’s going to hurt,” I say.
Again, more hesitation. Then a nod.
“But you want it anyway. Right?”
For the first time since we’ve gotten out of the car, he speaks. “Yes,” he whispers. It’s barely audible.
We stare at each other for a moment, eye to eye. There’s a liquid quality to his gaze, a way he stares at me, so intense, so stripped down. He doesn’t even bother to conceal his emotions, like most men would. I can tell he loves me. I’d bet every penny I have that he leaves these sessions and jacks his little runt cock until it’s raw and sore. I’d wager that he thinks about me, dreams about me. We’re in the near-dark by now, but so naked and vulnerable is he that it’s as if he’s been lit by the high-powered kliegs of a football stadium. It’s not ego making me think it. The emotions are written plain in his face. Anyone could read them.
But this is not a love relationship for me. This boy is built for dick. Taking it is his talent. It’s his job.
I’m just putting him to work.
He’s on the sofa, knees spread wide, the soft roundness of his butt in my face. His hole emanates heat when I lap at it. My beard scrapes the softest skin on his body, rakes against it, makes him yell out. He wants to say something, I can tell, when the wordless cries nearly take shape into utterance. But he stops himself, or the mingled pain and pleasure of me chewing on his butthole prevents him from speaking.
I’ve got lube on the table. I use some of it on his tiny pucker. A good deal of it makes my angry red dick shine in the dark.
The anticipation makes him anxious. I feel him shift on the sofa. His breathing is shallow, irregular. He senses every tiny sound I make, feels every shift in the air currents when I move. He knows that any moment, my cock will make him—
And then I’m in, sliding into that tight hole and pressing onward, ignoring the fact that he’s beating at the cushion and the sofa’s arm, that his neck is thrown back and he’s howling, yelling into the dark. Nobody can fucking hear him. There’s nobody around.
If he didn’t bring this out in me, if he didn’t turn me into a sadist with my demon dick, I would’ve gone easy on him. But he needs this as much as I do. He needs to hurt. I’m not even all the way in when he starts to shake. His body flies up; I catch his torso in my arms and hold him tight as he shakes. It feels like he’s trying to fight me off, but he’s not; I’m still lodged deep inside his ass. This is why he dreams about me—this is why he keeps coming back. Because when I force my way into his hole without stopping, I force him into another of those hard, enviable orgasms that the young have—the kind that wracks the body and leaves it burning with a white-hot flame. He might be a runt in size, but I know that somewhere between sofa and floor is a puddle of his man-sized load.
It’s just the first.
If I were a nicer guy, if I were less of a sadist and more of a lover, I might back off and go easy on him until he recuperated. I might switch to some other activity more fun for the both of us.
But I’m not. And like I said. He keeps his mouth shut, and doesn’t complain. Even when I’m stretching him past the point of discomfort and into outright agony. Even as I’m battering his tight hole with meat that seems swollen to twice its normal girth. Even when I’m spunking him with a load that feels as thick as pancake batter.
He takes it. He keeps his mouth shut. And he doesn’t complain.
And when I wipe off his face at the end with a cold washcloth, and attempt to brush his hair back into place with my fingers, and when I drive him home in my car and he’s so uncomfortable sitting that he has to perch on his hip, like a Victorian woman riding sidesaddle, he doesn’t joke or mutter a single word of discomfort. He’ll feed on that pain for weeks, until we can see each other again.
Then he’ll ask for more, without speaking a word.
I’ll give it to him.