“‘Sup,” is all he says as he pours himself into my car’s front passenger seat. That’s all. ‘Sup. Our eyes connect for a moment. His flick away. They’re black and shiny, like obsidian. Then he stares at the road ahead and bobs his neck back and forth, as if listening to beats from an invisible source.
I nod and make a U-turn. ‘Sup, indeed. I can see right through him. He’s all swagger and defenses, this one. He’s a little Latin boy wearing a baseball cap, big baggy sweats, and a hoodie two sizes too large. Beneath all that excess of jersey I can discern the outline of his shoulders—narrow and lean, like the hips that barely keep those jeans from falling to the floor. His knees are thin poles making his pant legs into tents. He’s looking out the window like all’s cool with the world, but those knees are scissoring together, then apart. He might be living in his first rented room after flying out of his mommy’s nest. He might like thinking of himself as bad. He might try to appear tough and impervious. But I know he’s a nervous little boy of twenty, behind that slick facade.
The drive to my place is short. He doesn’t speak again until I’ve pulled up in front of my home. “This is it, huh,” he comments. He oozes out of the car and tugs at the imaginary lapels of his hoodie like he’s casing the joint. I lead him up the porch and inside.
He’s silent as he follows me to the bedroom. I’ve already turned on the light. Before he plunges his hands in his pockets, he takes time to adjust that oversized Yankees cap he’s wearing. It’s set at a forty-five degree angle between forehead and ear, and another forty-five degrees up from the horizontal plane. It’s such a specific angle that I suspect he’s spent hours and hours testing it in the mirror. “So what now, boss?” he asks, when I stand in front of him. He chuckles at himself, as if he’s a regular wit.
I haven’t said a word this entire time. There’s no need for me to compensate for his tough-guy act. I’m not trying to impress the little shit. I’m not trying to get a second date. I know exactly what I want from him. I’m pretty confident I’ll get it. My lips part to say, “Strip.”
Then I fold my arms, and wait.
He pauses for a moment like he’s caught in the headlights. I watch him make the choice to brazen it out. “Aiiiight,” he says, his heavy lids hooding his eyes. He’s a handsome kid, I’ll give him that. He’s got beautiful eyes, a pretty face. There’s a tiny little fringe of hair at the very base of his lip that’s supposed to pass for a mustache, and a similar trace of the stuff around his jaw. It’s cute. But it’s a boy’s facial hair.
He shimmies out of the hoodie and the aqua tank top he’s wearing underneath. His nipples are brown candies, round and tiny. There’s a tiny trace of fur leading from his navel down the flatness of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweats. He tugs at the elastic and pulls them down to his ankles. He’s wearing basketball shorts beneath, and beneath those, briefs of neon yellow mesh. His uncut dick flops around, mostly hard, as he steps out of the three layers.
He stands before me almost defiantly, hat still on. I study his body, with the skin the cover of creamy coffee. It’s flat in all the right places, firm in others. Save for the thatch of dark pubes above his swinging meat, he’s almost totally smooth. “Now you,” he says. His jaw grinds with challenge.
I shake my head.
“No?” he says, surprised. “You ain’t gonna get naked?”
“I’ll get naked,” I tell him, keeping my tone level, “when I get naked. Get on the bed.”
Those black eyes regard me with something approaching hostility. “You act like you’re the boss or something.”
At least the kid is picking up on that fact. I let my eyebrows rise, incline my head toward him. “Listen,” I say in a low voice. “I know what you want.”
“You do, huh.”
“I know what you want.”
He stares at me. Then I see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “What do I want?” His voice is husky.
“Get on the damn bed,” I repeat.
Our eyes are locked for a moment. Then his break away. I’ve won the battle. Slowly he climbs onto my mattress. For a moment I think he’s going to argue with me some more. Then I watch as he spreads those bony knees across the mattress, puts his head down, and lifts his ass in the air.
Good boy. He’s learning.
I strip behind him, making sure he hears the sound of my belt buckle and my jeans hitting the floor. I’m naked when I slither between his legs with my body, and put my mouth on that hole. He hisses when I make contact. “Oh yesssss.”
He’s got a beautiful butt, this boy. Round, worked out, smooth as a baby’s skin. Just as I knew he would, he responds passionately to my rimming. He’s moaning, and clutching his hands into fists as he grabs at the sheets and tries to hang onto them for dear life. I chew at the hole with my teeth, rake it with my beard. I slap his cheeks and grab his balls and tug, just to get the reactions I want.
He’s not so tough now, this kid. That carefully-constructed front has tumbled as suddenly as if I’d blown all the trumpets of Jericho. He’s rolling his head on his neck and banging his forehead against the shelf over my pillows. That damned Yankees cap has fallen off his close-shorn head and onto the floor. He’s all reaction, now, that artificial personality drowned by tides of pleasure.
Like I said, I’m not romancing this kid. He’s just here to be fucked. I’ve got a thumb up his hole before he realizes what’s happening. But once he recognizes the sensation, he lifts himself to his hands and knees and looks back over his shoulder in my direction. Those black eyes are glazed and wet and angry. It’s the anger of someone who hates that someone sees right through him. I stare back, my face impassive as I squeeze a dollop of clear gel into my hands. I cover my dick with the stuff, then shove some up his little fuckhole. His mouth twitches. He’s trying to be tough again.
When I force two fingers inside him, though, he gives up and hangs his head. He nods when I shove my wet, red cock head up against his pucker. When I shove in, he pushes back. He yells as it slides home. When I’m all the way in, he pants. Resists—like it isn’t too late, now. Then gives in.
We sink together to the mattress. My weight is on him as I start to thrust in and out.
“This is what you want,” I tell him.
“Yes,” he agrees. His face is twisted in pain. I’m a big boy.
He follows my order without challenge. “This is what I want.”
“You love it.”
“I do love it. Oh god, I love it. I love it, I love it.” I’m fucking him harder now, enjoying the sight of my cock stretching his brown hole. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs into the pillow. It’s probably the first sincere thing he’s said since we met.
“You’re welcome,” I reply. I was raised to be polite.
When I shoot, he’s on his back and I’m pounding the shit out of him. His eyes are still half-hooded like a snake’s, but they’re regarding me in a happy daze. He’s the kid who got everything he wanted for Christmas morning. “I need it so bad, daddy,” he’s begging. “Please knock up my pussy. Please.” Now he’s whining. There’s a thin edge to the plea that’s raw and cutting. “Please give me your babies, sir. Please.”
We kiss for the first time when I shoot inside him. His mouth is open wide and hungry, taking my lips in his. His mouth is as open as his hole, at this point, and I’m in both of them, filling them. My load slides from my nuts to his insides, spraying his colon with my juice. His own cock is sticky against my belly. I push his hands away as he tries to jack it, while my thrusting subsides to a slight rotation of my hips.
Maybe I’ll let him cum after my second fuck. If I decide he wants it, that is.
One the ride back he sits low in the passenger seat, the Yankees cap brim pulled low over his eyes. There’s not a trace of his cockiness left when I pull in front of his house. After I shift into park, he sits there for a moment. Then he turns his head. “Thank you, daddy,” he says quietly. Then he pulls himself out, shuts the car, and shuffles to the side door.
I guess he was raised to be polite, too.