So I’ve got him at home—my home—face down in the pillows. The sheets are everywhere. There’s a blanket slouched down onto the floor. Heat is pouring from the antique radiator beneath the room’s window. But the slow crimson blush that’s creeping across the Runt’s skin isn’t from the boiler in the basement. It’s radiating from his hole.
Over the last several minutes it’s blossomed from pink to red to a vivid flush of scarlet. I’ve been gnawing steadily at that pucker, getting my face in his skinny little ass until everything I smell is him. My beard smells like Runt. My mustache, just below my nose, is heavily scented with spit and Runt butt. My nose, my chin, my whole world is Runt-scented.
His dick is splayed out at an awkward angle, running parallel to his thigh. From time to time I’ve been yanking back at it, bending it the wrong way, letting my tongue scoop out the nectar puddling at its tip. He’s been twitching and yelping like the small critter he is, unable to fend off the predator feasting on him.
And with the Runt, I am a brute animal. There’s no call for anything else.
His ass is red. His hole is puckered and loose, gaping from the attention I’ve given it. His cheeks are raw and stinging from the manhandling, the slapping, the squeezing, the nasty brutish treatment he craves. His yells have been filling the pillowcases for nearly an hour. His fists sometimes reach out and beat a tattoo on the mattress. Sometimes they’re clenched onto anything he can grasp—pillows, sheets, the bed frame—or he’s braced against the wall, to keep himself from flying off.
My dick is hard. Angry. I’ve been denying what it wants. It refuses to be put off any longer. Like some sinuous Chinese dragon at new year’s I arch up and slide between the boy’s legs. My serpent is red, distended. Raging. I’m roaring inside as it spits and drools, ready to stretch open that begging boy hole. Inwardly, I feel the satisfied glow of the conqueror about to claim his territory.
Then, in that split-second before my hips lunge forward, I hear something I don’t expect.
At first I convince myself it’s just one of those sobs of breathy anticipation, a caught breath, a sigh captured on the wrong side. Then I hear sniffling, and wetness. He’s actually crying.
And I think to myself, Oh, shit.
He won’t look at me when I roll him over. His long hair spills in his eyes. He keeps his head turned away from me. He’s like a little boy who thinks, all evidence to the contrary, that if no one looks him in the eye, they won’t be able to intuit his distress. “Hey, did I hurt you?” I ask.
Silly question. We meet so that I can hurt him, so that I can make him cry on the end of my dick. But this is different. This is worrisome.
“No,” he whispers at last. It’s one of those tired whispers, the kind of susurrus of sound a man makes as he drifts to sleep mid-sentence in the gray of morning, after a long night of lovemaking and talking.
“Do you need me to stop?” I ask. He lies there, motionless. Passive. I wait for him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t. “Do you want me to take you home?” He doesn’t say anything. I ask the question I’ve been dreading. “Do you not like this any more? Do you want to stop?” I don’t mean the hole chewing. I know he’s liked that. I mean this whole thing. The collar around his neck. The things I use him for, the stolen moments in the back seats of cars in parking lots, or in slept-in beds when their occupants aren’t around.
I mean, us.
“No!” Suddenly he’s alive. He sits up and throws his arms around me, squeezing me as hard as a kid frightened of a thunderstorm. “Fuck. No. Please. It’s the only good thing going for me!”
He’s rocking against my body. I put my arm around him. My other hand goes to the top of his head. I ruffle and stoke his hair as gently we twist, back and forth, back and forth. He’s so warm. So soft. When I close my eyes and listen to our silence, I want to sing him a lullaby. I press my lips against the crown of his head. “Do you want to talk?”
No. He shakes his head. I can feel wetness between us, where tears are still spilling down his cheeks. They glue us together, cheek to chest. My little bird takes shelter beneath my wing, crying silently to himself.
I feel helpless. I’m not sure what to do.
“Hey,” I tell him at last. He can’t be entirely comfortable, hunched over like that. As if I’m putting him to bed, I lay him down in the hollow of the bed where someone usually sleeps. I’ve manhandled him before in less dignified ways. He lets me manipulate him now, and slide down in the sheets beside him. I pull up the blankets and try to get them back into order. “Come close,” I tell him, pulling him into a spooning position next to me. “Is that okay?”
His head nods. His lower lip is still trembling, but at least the tears have stopped.
“Talk to me, kiddo,” I tell him. We lay there in silence for a very long time. My arms are around him, making him safe. At first he lies there like a rag doll, limp and squeezed double over a child’s forearm. Then he snuggles back, cuddling into the safe spot I’ve made. “Or not,” I suggest. “You don’t have to say a thing. It’s all right.”
He’s having some kind of struggle. I can feel it in his muscles, the way they tense and relax, over and over. He tries to fight through whatever is inhibiting his tongue, and fails. Then he fights again. Half a dozen times I feel him struggle to make the words come out. “You wouldn’t. . . .” he finally says.
“I wouldn’t what?”
“You wouldn’t call your kid. . . .” His voice is very tiny. “You wouldn’t call him a . . . worthless faggot. Would you.”
I picture that word being thrown at him. Used to slap. To punish. I was roaring inside a few moments ago, but the anger I feel now is an entirely different beast. “No,” I say, calmly. “I would not.” He doesn’t seem to want to say more. He doesn’t need to. “Did your mom call you that?” He shakes his head. “Your dad?”
A nod, this time. Barely perceptible. He's afraid to allow himself to assent.
I sigh. I honestly don’t know much about the Runt’s home life. I know he still lives with his folks. I know he’s not independent enough to support himself. When he’s with me, we’re fucking. Not talking. This, though. He needs to get past these ugly words. “Hey,” I say to him, turning him a little so we can look each other in the eye, over his shoulder. “Do you think you’re worthless?” He looks as if he might start to parrot the words and agree with them. “Seriously,” I say. “Do you think you’re worthless?”
He shakes his head. It’s a tiny, tiny gesture.
“I don’t think you’re worthless,” I tell him. “I think you’re beautiful. And I think you’ve got an amazing future full of amazing things. You’re amazing. Not worthless. Watching someone with all that in front of him—“ I’m talking about him, but I’m thinking about Spencer. “—that’s the most breathtaking spectacle in the world. And it’s happening to you.”
He’s listening. He’s really listening.
“Fuck him,” I tell the Runt. “Fuck that narrow-minded, asinine bastard for using those words against you. You know the best way to get him back?” His head turns from side to side. No. He doesn’t know. But he wants to. “Fuck him. That’s how. If you need to hear someone tell you how un-worthless you are, you call me. I’ll tell you. But don’t listen to that shit. That’s his own worthlessness, trying to feed on you. That’s his problem. Kiddo, dig those feet in, endure and ignore, then get the fuck out when you get the chance. And you know the best way to get back at him?”
His eyes are shining. They’re dark stones in water, reflecting the room’s light. “How?”
“Prove him wrong. Prove. Him. Wrong,” I say, emphasizing each word. “You will. Just wait.”
For one disastrous moment I watch as his eyes puddle with tears. They spill out to the side. He blinks rapidly to clear them, and sniffles. “Yeah,” he finally says. Then he laughs, perhaps embarrassed at what he perceives as his own silliness.
“You will,” I promise him.
There’s love in his eyes when he looks at me this time. We don’t use that word. But it’s there. It’s that love between two people who care for each other, who’ve reached out and connected hands in the dark and are grateful for the company.
“You are amazing,” I tell him.
I watch as the words sink in. Maybe he doesn’t trust them yet.
We lay close for a long time. He’s scrutinizing my face. Studying my chin, surveying my nose, my forehead. What he’s cataloging in that brain of his I don’t know. His body weight shifts. He draws up his legs, his knees against his chest. Then I feel his hand, gripping my cock.
I’m still hard. I’ve been hard all this time. I haven’t been paying a whit of attention to my dick, though. His small hand clutching the horn of my erection reminds me of his physical presence, though. His carnality. He reminds me that I already smell of him, that my face will wear his stink until I wash it. When I feel his hand against my face, my eyes close. His lips meet mine. We kiss, more softly and gently than we’ve ever kissed before.
I like it. So does my dick. It roars back to demanding life.
He twists his body. Straddles me. My hands lie on the mattress, unmoving. I’m letting him take the lead. My dick swells when I feel him rubbing the head against his hole. He looks into my eyes, still studying my face, as his long skinny legs rise and lower.
The head’s in. I feel his warmth bloom around me. He makes a face of pain as he takes another inch, and then another. Now his eyes are closed as he tries to force himself down on the rest. My fat cock is stretching him wide. The length is making him whimper. His long lashes open. He looks into my eyes as he slides down. From the mattress I thrust up, meeting him halfway. I’m inside, and for the first time with him, I’m in no hurry.
“You are amazing,” I tell him with conviction.
He gasps a little as my meat swells inside him.
When he stares down at me, opens his eyes again, and smiles, I know that he’s beginning to believe me.
At least, I think he’s willing to consider trying.