All over his body, his skin is taut. When I drop the ball of a finger on the flat planes of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, I expect to hear a hollow resounding, like a drum. What sparse hair there is around his cock is fluffy and untrimmed. It’s as fair as the messy curls on his head. A narrow trail of it leads to his navel, where it vanishes.
When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole.
His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly.
“Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone.
I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.”
I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home.
Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me.
He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper.
About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name.
Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy?
He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage.
But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking.
And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’
His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw.
This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked.
There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it.
He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can.
“You all right?” I ask him.
When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.”
“You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?”
He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy.
His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask.
Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.”
His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate.
“Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers.
Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life.
I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .”
He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order.
“All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?”
“You know I do, boy,” I tell him.
“Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs.
He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more.
When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside.
“I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.”
He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.”
“Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear.
We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks.
“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.”
“It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.”
He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.”
“How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?”
I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?”
Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.”
And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it.