The Runt’s got on his collar, like a good boy. He’s naked and sitting on my living room floor, his little butthole exposed and scraping against the carpet. His knees are drawn up; his hands hang between his legs. He’s squatting like a monkey. No inhibitions. No self-awareness. His mouth is on my cock, and the only mind he has for the moment is centered on that shaft of meat. He sucks at it greedily, his jaw opening as far as it can, as he struggles to take my dick to the base.
I’ve got his warm spit running down my sac; its skin contracts from the touch of his smooth chin, then expands from his hot, steady breath. My fingers run through his long hair, trying to clear it from his eyes. It just flops down again. I’m not saying anything, but I sigh. I gasp when he uses his tongue in what he clearly fancies is an exotic manner on the underside of my head. Finally I allow him to push me back into the depths of the armchair, where I sink into the cushions. Pleasure shackles me down. For long, endless moments, I’m his sweet prisoner.
“Do I make you feel good?” he asks after a long, long time.
The Runt rarely speaks when we have sex. We might make small talk when I pick him up from his place and drive us to whatever destination I have in mind. The minute he’s naked, though, his only remarks have been indications of assent. Breathy yes sirs. The occasional please. A fuck yes that’s little more than an exhalation. A question like that? Never. I drift to full consciousness like a man beneath layers of blankets waking to a cold and sunny morning. “What?” I ask. “Of course you do.”
When I open my eyes, he’s got his right hand wrapped around my cock. It’s slimy from his throat, big, distended. He’s still sitting on the floor, lips cherry red from the work they’ve been doing. His own cock, untouched, stands straight up. It points at his navel. It’s rigid, deep pink. There’s a slight browning at the tip of his foreskin. His eyes glisten with moisture from all his effort. “I want to make you feel better than anybody else,” he pleads. “I want to be the best you’ve had.”
I reach out with my hand. Like a puppy searching for a pat, instinctively he leans forward and rubs his cheek against my hand. I cup his chin in my palm, and pull him forward. “You want to be the best?” I say. He nods. I can tell from his eyes that he wants that more than anything. He wants to give me pleasure. He wants my pleasure more than his own. He wants it more than Christmas. “Then suck me.”
He looks at me with adoration, then opens his mouth and engulfs my still-stiff shaft. Briefly he looks up at me to see my reaction to his mouth, but I’m already lost in the rapture of the boy’s slick throat. My left hand hooks under his collar; my right holds the back of his head, pulling him down until I feel myself hitting a wall of resistance. I pull. His body buckles. He chokes, spitting a fine mist onto my pelvis. I can feel the noises of his gagging deep inside, but I keep him held down on my dick. “Make me feel good, son,” I urge. “Make me feel real, real good.”
I watch him struggle. His body is telling him to flee, to clear his mouth of the huge obstruction making him choke and gag. His dick, though, strains in the air and thrusts into nothing as it grows even harder and more needy at the command. His back arches in at attempt to push away; his hands clutch at me, refusing to let go. He’s releasing enough saliva from his pretty little lips that it’s slopping down my nuts and leaving a wet spot on the armchair cushion. It’s nothing, compared to the wet my meat is producing.
At last he comes up for air, his lanks of hair all but obscuring his eyes. His lower lip is trembling. It’s swollen and red. Almost beestung. He’s overcome with phlegm, and spit, and pain. “What do you say?” I asked.
“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.”
It’s the little amen to the silent prayer he’s been saying on his knees, this last half hour.
“You’re welcome,” I tell him, looking him straight in those tear-filled and unblinking eyes. “Now,” I add. “Make me feel good. Make my cock feel real, real good.”
He knows what to do. He scrambles to his feet and bends over, exposing his little pale ass. I apply my mouth to it and wet his hole. He tastes clean, like soap and detergent, and whatever body spray he’s applied in the belief I care how he smells. I could eat him out all night, but he waits until he’s slicked up, and then disengages.
I’m still wearing my T-shirt. He’s naked, and still stiff as an iron rod. He lifts a foot and steps onto the chair. The other foot follows. His toes dig into the space between the upholstered arms and the cushion as he lowers himself down. It’s an awkward position, but he’s young and flexible. “Do you really want to make me feel good?” I ask him. “I mean, really want to?”
He nods. He’s apprehensive about the fuck, I can tell. He always is. I watch him struggle between the need and the knowledge of how much it’s going to hurt, going in. The need wins out. “I want to be your best,” he whispers. “I want to be the best you have.”
“Then do what you have to do, son,” I tell him, stroking his cheek. He looks at me, trying to gather his nerve. I stroke his cheek, nodding. Giving him permission to do what he wants.
He takes a breath. His fingers grope for my cockhead, aligning it with his hole. Up and down his hips raise and lower as he makes a couple of false starts. Then he takes the head, and hesitates.
“Do it,” I command. “Do I have to force you, boy?”
Although for a moment, he looks as if he’s considering it, at last he shakes his head. Another deep breath. Then I feel all of his weight pressing on my cock. I make it swell, to withstand the assault. I feel the first ring open, and he begins to slide down. Then, after some struggle, the next tight ring of muscle gives way. He’s around me, and the pressure of his little hole is tighter and sweeter than anything else I could wish for at that moment.
The assault on his hole, self-inflicted though it was, makes him cry out sharply. The sound reflects around the wood and plaster of my living area, bounces into the dining room, echoes from the kitchen. His hole is twitching, he’s bucking around with his eyes closed, his nose wrinkled in a rictus of agony. “Fuck!” he yells out, with a wet catch in his throat.
He sinks all the way down until I’m buried in him. For a moment, he relaxes. Only for a moment. Because as it always does, the pain of entry triggers his first orgasm. He’s openly sobbing. The moisture in his eyes is now tears. His lips are stretched wide, pulled into an ugly shape.
But he’s the prettiest sight in the world, right now.
I feel the warmth of his semen on my chest, my left nipple, my belly. It slides down and puddles around my navel. He hasn’t touched himself once. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says, like a little boy at the end of a spanking. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
“Ssshhh,” I tell him. The feel of my hand against his chest calms him. His breathing subsides. His sobbing slowly ceases. His eyes open, and stare into mine. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s okay. You can’t help it.”
He shakes his head. Whether it’s to say he really can’t help it, or that I’m wrong and he’s still sorry, I don’t know.
“Now show me what my best boy can do,” I tell him, sinking back into the cushions once more. I let his warmth blanket me. “Show me who’s my best boy.”
He brightens at the words, and shines like that sun on a cold morning, bright, clear, and intent in its purpose. Then his eyes close, and his head tips back at the sensations he produces as he begins sliding up and down on my shaft.
I know I’m going to be in for a long, long ride.