Dear Sir

18, 5’6”, 160#, bottom.

The profile text is splayed across a photo of a bubble butt hugged by skimpy black cotton.

Fetishes: Hung cocks, hard cocks, cum, daddies.

Into: Oral (give only), fucking.

I absorb the slight information. It’s the sight of that ass that makes me click on the dialog bubble, where a red dot indicates a message. Very little gets my attention more quickly than a pretty ass, particularly this early in the morning. My hunch is that this kid knows how to show off the goods. It’s a suspicion corroborated by the series of photos with which he’s chosen to kick off our interaction: another of his butt and lower back, this time displayed in a pair of tight gray trunks that fall lower and lower around his thighs until they disappear altogether. The final pic is of the lower half of his face. The boy’s mouth is open, tongue out. His skin is pale as bone china; his lips, the prettiest shade of pink.

My juices are already flowing. I love what I see, so far. Then I read the message beneath the several photos he’s sent. Interested in a tight virgin ass…?

Ugh.

No, I’m rarely interested in a virgin ass, especially the tight ones. I know some men salivate at the thought of a young cherry, ripe for plucking. The thought of it makes me deflate. I’ve had my share—and then some—of first-timers. I know how quickly downhill that scenario often goes. It’s all giddy anticipation and pleasure on both sides until the moment comes to slide into that unused hole. Then, no matter how gentle and solicitous a lover I am, it’s complaints and whining. Kids these days have been watching internet porn before they even figure out masturbation; they imprint on experienced models who take monster rods without so much as a change of expression. They see holes opening to accommodate tops with horse-sized dicks, and assume their own puckers will magically blossom the first time they’re opened.

And the thing is, holes usually don’t work that way. They can, certainly. Over time and with practice, they will. But with virgins, the one thing that attracts them to me—the size of my dick—is usually the biggest impediment to anyone’s pleasure. Admiring sighs of It’s so huge! turn quickly into whines and complaints of It’s too huge! 

I don’t get off on inflicting pain. Deflowering virgins is very low on my list of enjoyments.

Listen, I tap back to the kid. You’ve got an amazing butt, but I’m usually too large for inexperienced hole.

His reply arrives in seconds. Thanks!! Hmm, I’m down to suck you and try fitting it in and if it does I’m sure it’ll feel great! I wish I had his confidence. I’m sure he’ll be howling once I’m in past the head. But before I can reply, he sends me another photo. This one’s of him completely in the nude, shot from behind. He’s kneeling on a mattress, legs spread, ass prominently on display, balls hanging heavy on the coverlet. Above the smooth cheeks rises his torso, back arched, his narrow waist rising to broad shoulders.

I feel my breath catch, a little. You truly are beautiful, son.

Thank you!!! Love that big cock, too. Don’t you want to be my first?

I’m a weak man. The triumph of that ass, so artfully on exhibit, has eroded my good judgment. Or nearly has, at least.

I do, I concede. But I really don’t want to hurt you. Sorry.

He doesn’t reply immediately. That’s okay. I almost expect no reply at all. A few minutes later, though, I check back to see another message. I got it. Can I ask something, though?

Sure, I tell him.

I would like you to reconsider your decision, sir. Can I file a formal appeal, with your permission?

My lips quirk upward on one side to the unexpected response. He’s managed to disarm me. I’d been so ready to dismiss the kid before, to shunt him into the expansive bin where mentally I toss all men whose appetites outsize their actual capacity to follow through. With this single twist, though, he’s made me curious to know more. What did you have in mind?

If you share with me your email, you’ll see. I hesitate long enough that he follows up with the promise, I won’t abuse it, sir.

It’s pledge enough that I take the chance and send him the address.

You won’t regret it. You’ll see.

Hours pass. By noon, I stop expecting an email. What would it have contained, anyway? More photos of that round little bubble butt? Maybe a video of the kid jiggling the jelly for the camera? I don’t know. I’ve forgotten completely about it until the late evening, when I crawl into bed and try to settle down for the night. I make one last check of my email. Only one subject line leaps out: I hope this is you. I read it through, several times in succession, clearing my throat repeatedly.

Dear Sir,

I hope you will consider this my formal appeal to your decision not to take my virginity. My reasons are as follows.

1. You are hot af and basically my dream daddy. Looking at your pics makes my insides gooey and I really want to look in your sexy blue eyes when you open me up for the first time. I don’t want to settle for anyone less and that’s a fact.

2. I know you are SO BIG and I am a virgin but I have a dildo that I’ve been working on myself with, so it won’t be exactly like I’ve never had anything up me before. I have been wanting big dicks in my hole for a few years and I finally am ready to do it, and I want to do it with you. (See #1.) Also I have watched videos and know how to get everything clean so don’t worry about that.

3. I promise to be obedient and do everything you say.

4. If I cry or complain and get on your nerves, I give you permission to slap it out of me if you’re into that.

5. I know you must get a lot of guys hot for you and your big dick (see #1 again) but I will be worth your time. I will focus on you and your big dick and what it wants and needs and not worried about mine. In fact I don’t care if I get off at all. I just want to make sure daddy enjoys himself in my hole.

6. I know that I have picked the right man to do the job. You look like you know what you’re doing (which is important!!) and I am guessing that you’re really a decent man as well. I am not looking to marry you (yet, lol!) but it would be really nice to have my first time with a guy who is going to treat me okay and I think that will be you.

7. By the way I am not a total virgin, I have sucked two dicks before and think I am pretty good at it, it’s my hole that’s virgin. Hopefully not for long.

8. If you don’t like me when you show up, you can just walk out.

9. I don’t intend for you to have to go to any trouble or expense to make this happen, because that’s not right, so I will schedule it to your convenience and pay for a room to meet. I would even pay for an Uber for you so all you will have to do is show up and fuck.

If you have any questions just ask me and I will tell you anything. I hope that I have eliminated any doubts about my qualifications and sincerity to serve. I am happy to submit any supplemental materials you require but mostly I just want to submit.

Thank you, Sir. I the undersigned attest to the best of my ability that all the above information is true and I anxiously await your response.

Please reconsider.

Jason

The kid has made only one miscalculation: I never merely show up and fuck. I’m in a darkened room of a mid-grade hotel chain adjacent to the freeway, my ass squeaking across the faux leather of its single armchair. Legs spread, my chin rests on the back of one crooked index finger. My free hand drapes across the denim of my jeans. This boy stands a few feet away from me, shyly twisting his naked torso, waiting for instruction.

I remove my finger from under my chin, point it to the ceiling, “Turn.” The soft syllable shatters the silence. “Show me.”

The boy obeys. From the moment he opened the hotel room door, a few minutes before, his sole instinct was to hurry. He needs to be taught restraint. When he’s lunged, I’ve pulled back. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it at my pace. He’s picking up on my cues, though. Now, at my whispered command, he hesitates. A hint of smile crosses his lips. His shoulders twist first, as his puppy brown eyes continue to watch me. Then his hips follow. When he faces completely away from me, he turns his head to look at me once more.

I nod. Slowly. Deliberately. Signal my approval with a lick of my lips. I’d already made up my mind to stay, the moment the kid had greeted me at the door. He’s got the All-American looks of a small town athlete—the tousled, sun-kissed hair, the square jaw, the Clearasil complexion. He’s short, but with a wrestler's build. I make it clear to him that I won’t be up and leaving, by kicking off both my sneakers. They join his t-shirt on the carpeted floor, near the dresser. “That’s a good boy.”

“Thank you, sir.” His voice is deep. Husky with desire.

I can sense he wants to lunge at me again, but it’s not yet time. “Socks.” He’s in such a hurry to hook them with a finger and rip them off that he hops on one foot and nearly topples over. “Slow,” I remind him.

He understands. He props his behind on the mattress. Leaning over, maintaining eye contact, he removes them one after the other, waiting for my approval. I nod at last, then signal for him to stand once more.

Around his narrow waist hug a pair of ridiculous boxer shorts imprinted with anime characters I don’t recognize. They’re the only article of clothing he has left. “You want to take those off, don’t you?”

The boy has his thumbs hooked beneath the band, ready to plunge them to the floor, before he remembers our unspoken game of Simon Says. “Do you want me to?”

I don’t answer. I signal he should turn again, then fold down my fingers. He bends to show me his ass from this new angle, supporting himself with his hands on the mattress. “You understand what’s going to happen, if you do.”

His catch of breath is unmistakable, in the room’s quiet. “Yes sir.”

“What?” I ask. “What’s going to happen. Say it.”

Looking at me from beneath his armpit, he rasps out, “You’re going to take my virginity.”

“I might.” Boys work harder when they’re given a carrot on a stick as guidance. “You know what that means, though?”

He hesitates, so badly wanting to provide the correct answer. “Tell me, sir?”

“Stand.” He obeys. When his arms unconsciously cross his body, it’s as if he’s ashamed of his nakedness. The real nakedness on display, though is his desire for me. I can see it in the way he hungrily looks me over, up and down, as I sprawl, relaxed in my chair. I can see it in the way his lips waver, in his posture, in the tent of his shorts. My own pants are becoming tighter at the sight.“Very nice, son.”

“What does it mean, sir?”

I crook a finger and beckon him closer. My hands grasp onto his hips and turn him around. I cup one of his cheeks; it’s a meaty handful. “If I decide to fuck you,” I say in a voice so low that he bends to hear, “if I decide, it means that you are going to do everything I say without question. If I decide to fuck you, you will listen, and speak when told to.” 

“Of course.” His hand flies to his mouth as he realizes he’s already made a mistake.

“If I decide to fuck you.” Repetition of the conditional sentence has hypnotized him into a glassy-eyed state. “It means you’ll have my big, fat cock shoved deep in your guts. It means I intend to fuck you until I shoot deep inside you. It means that you’ll be giving up your hole for my use. My enjoyment. You understand?”

“Yes, sir.” He can barely whisper his response.

“I didn’t hear you.”

The second attempt is stronger. “Yes, sir.”

Our eyes lock. I wait for a very long time before saying, “Take down your shorts. Slowly.”

He steps back, eyes watering and full of adoration. In this moment, the boy wants nothing more than to please. Head turned to observe my reaction, he lowers his boxers, inch by inch. There’s a moment when the elastic can no longer contain the restrained flesh; his bubble butt pops out over it, cheek by cheek. My gasp at the sight is genuine.

Our eyes lock again. He’s pleased at my reaction. “Spread your legs.”

His thick thighs spread apart as he separates his feet. Once again he grabs the bed’s edge, this time arching his back to show off the goods.

A soft sigh escapes my lips. “Beautiful.” I haven’t given him permission to speak, but mute gratitude fills his eyes. Every boy wants to hope he’s pretty, and this one truly is. I want to remember forever this moment, this perfect symmetry, this ideal application of the Euclidian geometry of globes. “Show me.”

He understands the command. His hands reach back and pull apart his cheeks. I see a whorl of sandy hair protecting his pink little hole. This time, I grunt. My mind might have been made up, minutes before, but from this point on, there will be no stopping me.

He doesn’t expect my hand on his naked flesh when I kneel on the floor behind him. “You have a perfect butt,” I whisper. My lips graze the porcelain-smooth skin; where it traces, my breath leaves in its wake a trail of goose flesh.

“Thank you,” he gasps, falling onto his elbows.

I cup his balls in my long fingers. He doesn’t shave them, but he’s fair-haired and smooth enough that they seem almost hairless. At my touch, the boy’s thick stub of a cock, rock hard, jolts into the air then flops back down to rap my knuckles. My nose nuzzles between his cheeks. Deeply I inhale, relishing the scent of the soap he’s used not too long ago. His thighs tremble as I pull apart those thick handfuls. Once his ass is open and the hole exposed, I lap out with my tongue, teasing the tip against the wrinkled pinch of flesh that aches for attention.

It’s not long before he’s prone on the strange mattress, ass high in the air, legs spread wide. His hands clench the hotel pillows and pummel them into submission; he bites hard into their foam depths to silence his roar. I know it must feel good, this first-ever phenomenon of mouth against hole. Never will he forget the sensations of wet tongue, of soft lips and the curious incursion of my fingertips, nor the abrasion of my beard against his butt, the scrape it between his thighs, as I lick and kiss and chew on his sweet pussy lips. I grind against the bed’s corner, uncomfortable in my jeans. I like this contrast, though, of his nakedness and of me in full attire—if anything might reinforce his vulnerability, it’s the fact that I could rise and walk out of this hotel room right now, and abandon him in this state of confusion and sheer need.

I have no intention of going, though. I stand and remove my socks. Undo my belt. Unzip slowly, letting the sound fill the room. Let my pants drop to the floor. I’m wearing a short-sleeved camp shirt that I unbutton slowly. He’s not watching, but he can hear the sounds as I disrobe. It excites me, knowing he’s picturing the scene in his mind and anticipating what’s to follow.

By the time I wrench down my trunks, I’m already hard and wet around the tip. My knees separate his thighs as I crawl up on the bed. The big head of my cock is already oozing precum when nudges his cheeks. “Oh fuck,” he says aloud, in a shocked voice. Clearly, the reality of the situation is dawning upon him. It’s one thing to dream about a big dick snaking open your tight hole. Being poised moments away from it actually happening is something else entirely.

“You understand,” I say, perched above him, “what I’m going to do to you.”

I’ve got my serious face on. My eyebrows stay in a raised position as he pulls himself up onto his elbows and looks at me over his shoulder. The kid is damned fine. Those slightly pouty lips, that pert nose, those liquid brown eyes framed by the longest lashes I’ve seen on a boy in some time—he’s a Renaissance sculpture come to life. “I’m worried it’s going to hurt,” he says in a soft voice.

I nod. It may. “This is what you wanted, though,” I remind him. “You still want it. Don’t you.”

It’s less question than confirmation. He nods. Eyes locked with his, I stick my thumb between my lips. Swirl it around. Get it good and wet. Pull it back out again, glistening, and apply it to his ass. The hole parts to accommodate it as he lets out a little gasp. “Are you going to fuck me now?”

I continue staring. Rotating my wrist, so that the top half of my thumb palpitates his hole. I allow myself to crack a smile. “You really need it, huh?”

He grins, then exhales a column of air when I push in a little deeper. “Yes sir. I really do.” I nod, still staring into those eyes. “So, are you going to fuck me now?”

“You will know when I’m about to fuck you.”

Because now is not the time. My plan is this: to draw out the build-up to the deed as long as possible, before consummating the act. That part will come. Oh yes. But this is what he’ll remember for the rest of his life: being told to strip, to show off his beautiful body. Being touched. Licked. Admired. Savored and appreciated. When in the future he masturbates, thinking of his first time, he’ll remember how deliberately paced was my deflowering. In another forty years, when he’s my age, maybe he’ll be thinking about the man who made it good for him, that first time.

That’s what he deserves, this trembling boy, whose hips gyrate with need, whose dry lips try to work out words as he experiences all these new sensations for the first time. A good memory. A good story to tell, even if he’s only repeating it to himself for years to come. He could’ve chosen some big-dicked asshole to pop that cherry, someone to spit and shove and stumble out into the night ten minutes later. He’s chosen me, though. To reward him for his exceptional taste, I’ll treat him right.

Which means that soon he’s ass-high again, with my mouth gnawing at his pucker. I stroke his boy dick, slick with what leaks from its tip, while he thrashes and bucks on my face. I seize his balls and tug to make him gasp; I spank his butt, just to see the reddening print of my hand across its white expanse. When he’s beyond words and the only sounds erupting from his chest are instinctive groans, I flip him over, hang his head from the bedside, and slide my monster into his mouth. He might have sucked two dicks before mine, but clearly no one’s taught him how to do it correctly. A little coaching, though, and I’ve got his lips wrapped around his teeth, his hands on my ass, and his throat opening to take me.

The kid loves it, too. Soon he’s deep-throating me like a pro, not even choking much. Feral snarls punctuate his efforts. Already he wants it harder. Deeper. More. I let him worship my dick. He holds it between prayerful hands, pulling me into him whenever I tease at depriving his young mouth.

But eventually, once I’m assured he’s worked himself into a cock-hungry frenzy, I step back. Tug him up onto the bed. Rest his head on the pillows. Once more I position myself between his legs and bring my face close to his own. The boy’s eyes are watery from the prolonged deep-throating. There’s slobber all over his face and chin. Hell, there’s probably liquid snot from his nose there, too. His bee-stung lips quiver, wanting to be put to use. “I am going to get your hole all slick with lube,” I tell him, low and slow. “We are going to make sure you are so, so wet and ready. Once you are, I’m going to take this big cock. I’m going to rub lube all over it until it’s pretty and shiny. Then I’m going to slide it deep into your boy hole. Understand?”

The kid takes a giant sniff and tries to collect himself. “Yes sir,” he says. There’s love in those eyes. This is the moment he’s wanted for—well, who knows how long.

I don’t often use the colorful plastic lube injectors I keep in my collection, but they’re handy for cases like this. They’re shaped like syringes, but with a nozzle at the tip where a needle might go. While he watches, I pull out the plunger to fill the pink tube with goo from a bottle by the bed, then use my thumb to prepare his hole for the invasion. He must have been telling the truth about using a dildo on himself, because he takes the few inches of narrow plastic into his hole without so much as a complaint. The lube is cool from sitting out on the bedside table, though, so he hisses when I inject it deep inside his guts.

“Hey.” I’ve positioned myself atop him. The snout of my dick knocks against his ass, requesting entry. The kid has his face buried in the pillow. He’s even pulled the sides up around his ears. It won’t do. He’s not going to get knocked up while blind and deaf. “Hey,” I repeat. “Look at me.” His jaws is slack and his eyes mere slits when he obeys. “It’s time, son.”

Now, I kiss him.

It’s the first time our lips meet. Not once had he expressed an interest in making out with me, but once our mouths connect, he turns over and wraps his arms around my neck as if he intends never to let go. Hungrily he opens for me. I expand my embouchure until my mouth surrounds his entirely. My tongue probes, unlocking flesh with flesh, inserting itself deep.

As above, so below. He doesn’t even realize my cock’s inside him until the halfway point, when suddenly he clamps down with a cry.

“Sssshhh,” I tell him, kissing his sweet face. “You’re doing great.”

“You’re inside me.” It’s equal parts terror and boast. “Oh my god,” he whispers, relaxing slightly. “You’re inside me.”

“Yeah,” I say, grinning. I laugh a little. “I’m inside you.”

“Oh, fuck! You’re inside me.” Just when I think that maybe, maybe, we’ve established that I’m inside him, his head lolls back. “Fuck me,” he whispers. I can feel from the way I’m already sliding deeper that he’s loosening up once more. “Sir, fuck me.”

We’ve somehow gotten ourselves into an awkward position, during our tussle; he’s got one leg pinned to my chest and the other against the mattress, halfway between lying sideways and on his back. Without pulling out, I maneuver us until we’re both spooned and on our left sides. I’m all the way in, now. When I make an experimental gyration, then a slight thrust, he responds with a soft, happy murmur.

This is how his first fuck goes, then, with my arms around him and my chin nestled on his shoulder, peppering his neck with kisses. “Does it feel good?” I whisper in his ear, from time to time.

Always, his answer is, “It feels amazing.”

“Do you love it?” I ask.

“I love it, sir,” he’ll respond each time, shivering as my hands slide softly up and town his torso, across his tender nipples, down his hips.

Most important, when finally I ask, “Are you happy?” his response is a purr of contentment. He reaches behind, over his head, to pull me in for another kiss.

I take my time in my hole. When he’s ready, I make my strokes longer, so that he might relish the sensations. At several points, I take his smaller hand in my big one, to draw it back so can feel how hard he’s made me. His fingers dance along the length of my shaft and even probe the point of connection at which it plunges into his own hole. “It’s so big,” he marvels, more than once.

There’s a dreamlike quality to the entire encounter. It transcends the squalid setting of the hotel and the steady drone of traffic on the highway just beyond. We are both in this humid room yet also nowhere on earth, so completely wrapped up in each other are we. There’s no world beyond the horizons of our merged flesh, no sensations not aroused by our hands, mouth, and my relentless dick. He dances to the rhythm of my thrusting, hips moving with mine; I set my pace to the small, animal noises emanating from his parted lips.

“You’re not a virgin any more,” I tell him as I come closer to my climax. His response is a loud groan as statement’s truth hits home. “And you know what?” To a response that’s one elongated vowel, I whisper in his ear, “I’m going to reward you by shooting my load deep into that tight little hole.”

The hole in question tightens for a second, but I’ve anticipated his response and driven in deep. “Pwee,” he blurts.

It’s close enough a sound to please that I assume he’s asking for it. “Is that what you want? My cum in your guts?” He attempts to nod. “Dad’s load, knocking you up? That’s what you want?”

“Oh please.” I’d been correct. His eyes gloss over as he gazes into mine. He manages to moisten his lips. Sighs. “Make my hole yours.”

“This is what you wanted,” I say, shifting him so I can drive home with more vigor. “You wrote me the sweetest letter, asking for it.” I’m excited now. My cock is a poker left too long in the fire, and I can scarcely tolerate how it burns. “I don’t like disappointing a pretty boy like you.”

“No,” he says, seeming to agree. He can’t summon a coherent thought to save his life.

“You want it,” I remind him.

“…want…”

“You want it bad.”

“…bad…” he echoes.

Once again I kiss the back of his neck. “Here it comes, son.”

I don’t so much pound his butt as lunge into it. Great long thrusts, punctuated with strains and pauses, until at last the pressure builds beyond bearing. I flood him with my load, searing his insides with what feels like lava. I hear him call out, am aware of his hands pulling me deeper into him, holding me there. Together we buck, and thrash, and cry. I hold onto him for dear life, and find myself squeezing him hard when the sensations recede. For a long time we lie there, until the ringing in our ears dims, and the sounds of the highway and footsteps in the hallways outside ebb back into consciousness. His hands still clutch at mine, where I hold him around the ribs.

And then he bursts into tears.

I’m horrified. In my post-ejaculatory low, I run through all the terrible things I might have done. I’ve hurt him. I’ve made him bleed. I ignored cues, pushed forward when he wanted me to wait. Maybe he’d wanted a six-packed muscle porn star for his first time, but he’d had to make do with my sorry dad bod, and only now is the gravity of that poor choice sinking in. I hadn’t expected tears. I don’t like hearing them.

But I don’t leap from the bed in horror. I don’t shove him away. He’s still holding my hands, after all. I hug him close, and kiss his shoulders. “Hey,” I say, in the consoling voice of a puzzled father. “Hey, now.”

A sob catches in his throat. He sounds inconsolable. Though I worry, I hang on through the storm.

My forearm is soaked when at last he subsides a little. Then, he hiccups. It’s a comic enough conclusion to the episode that I chuckle a little and try again. “What’s wrong, kiddo?”

“NOTHING!” The word erupts from deep in his chest, so loud that it makes my ears ring.

“Okay?” I don’t understand.

“It was AMAZING!” On a dime he’s turned, from sorrow to—I’m not sure what this emotion could be. Relief? Astonishment? He sniffs deeply to clear his nose, then frees himself to wipe the tears from his face. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Talk to me,” I urge.

My cock is slopping out of his hole with a wet squelch. He waits until it hits the sheets with a thud before flopping onto his back. “I thought it was going to hurt bad,” he says in his everyday voice. “I thought I’d have to beg you to take it easy. I was gonna buy this stuff that numbs your hole, but then I thought that if it numbs my hole it’d probably numb your dick too, and I didn’t want that, so I was just going to put up with the hurt, but—fuck!” He’s all adolescent energy, now, ready to bound to his feet or bounce on the bed or run in wild circles to work off his excess energy. “It’s like I didn’t even feel it.”

“Sooooo, you’re saying I've got a tiny, toy-sized cock,” I drawl, with good humor. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have a baseball bat-sized dong for a bottomless hole like yours, now that you’re a seasoned pro and everything…”

He gives me a light punch to the chest, then snuggles into my embrace. “No, seriously. You just made it feel…”

“Good,” I supply. He nods. “Well, I’m glad of that.”

He’s managed to defuse my worst apprehensions. I smile, happy at his mood. I can once again relax with the boy in my arms. “But why,” he asks, sniffing as he snuggles close. I shake my head, not understanding the question. “Why’d you make it so good?”

What's he betraying, with that question? That for years he'd anticipated nothing but the worst from his first fuck? That interactions with other men had left him expecting no more than the bare minimum—and maybe not even that? The answer is simple, though. “Because you deserve it.” My eyes close as I speak in a low voice. I hope he understands I'm being honest. “First time or not—you deserve it.”

Let him take that away, as the lesson.

“Thank you,” he says in a very small voice.

“Besides,” I say with wry candor. “That letter you wrote was fucking charming. That’s why.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I chuckle. Then I recite, in tones that are only slightly mocking, “Dear Sir. I, the undersigned…”

He interrupts my teasing by digging his fingers into my rib cage, forcing me to break out into defensive laughter. “It worked, though,” he grouses, before slinking down between the sheets to encircle my cock once again with his mouth.

“Oh, it truly did,” I sigh, as my cock stiffens once again.

Soon, neither of us are thinking about that letter at all.

No Guilt

The man’s fingers slip beneath the elastic of my waistband. Hairy knuckles graze my skin. I gasp at the touch. “Don’t freak out.” His voice is low. Reassuring. Gentle, even. “I’m gonna pull down these sweats, real slow. I just want to look at that big daddy hog you’re hiding under there. Okay?”

I hesitate, then nod my head. “Yeah,” I stammer out. “Sure. Whatever.”

Our eyes meet. Lock. Bore into each other. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, buddy. You’ll see.”

I take a deep, deep breath and release it with a convincing shudder. “Do it,” I order.

My new friend is a compact bulldog of a man. Big, broad forehead under a thatch of wavy dark hair. Beneath a thin layer of beard, a brutish jaw. Stubby, thick hands that help me raise my hips so he can slowly, gingerly lower my joggers to a tangle around my ankles. He’s got the thick build of a former jock. I wouldn’t exactly say he’s the body builder that he’s advertised himself as, but in the muscle tee with the sleeves ripped from the seams, he’s able to show off some impressive work on his shoulders and arms. “You ready?” he asks, now that I’m down to my trunks. I can feel his breath on my belly.

I take a long time to respond. “This is real new to me, bro,” is what I finally say.

“I know. I know.” The man sounds sincere in his concern, even as his fingers outline the distinct bulge my dick is making beneath a layer of black cotton. “I am gonna take real good care of this dick, though. You’re gonna go home to wifey afterwards and wonder why it took you so long to let a dude like me slobber over that big thing.”

There’s plenty of room in the back seat of his BMW X7 with the New York plates. Its rear windows have a dark tint; no one can see in, even with my back against the door and my head on the glass. I look around, though, feigning discomfort. “You sure this place is safe?”

“It’s real quiet. Nobody’s gonna come by.” I wonder how many times he’s done this before. Constricted though my ankles might be, his big barrel chest spreads my knees spread wide. His sprawl looks uncomfortable: he’s got his right knee on the back floor and his left leg hooked over the seat. “You don’t even gotta touch me. C’mon.” Now he’s whispering. Urgent. He rubs his cheek on my erection, hidden beneath the fabric. “Let a man make you feel good, for the first time.”

My heart’s thudding in its cage; my breath is already labored. The sexual tension is thick between us. For a moment, I even forget I’m not what I’m pretending to be. I take one last look around, seeing nothing outside but empty parking lot and a wall of spruce. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay. Do it.”

He pauses for a moment, making certain I won’t change my mind. “It’s only pleasure. There’s no guilt in accepting pleasure. Remember that.” Both his hands tug down my shorts so that my erection flies free and flops against my own skin with a slap. One of his meaty paws wraps around it—seizes it, makes it his prize. When he squeezes, the portion of dick above his knuckles reddens to a deep scarlet. Once again, he stares into my eyes. “Going in, buddy,” he warns me.

I let out a loud and honest groan as his mouth engulfs me.

It’s on Sniffies that he messaged me, earlier that week. Hey buddy, says his initial message. Gonna take a wild guess based on your pic and profile…up until now you’ve been 100% straight, married with kids. Never had a muscular cocksucker like me to take care of you. Think you’re ready to change that?

On the Sniffies map I can see he’s only a couple of miles away, somewhere along the interstate. He’s got a blank, anonymous profile. While I usually don’t respond to those, my curiosity is piqued. What in the world about my profile, posted on a gay cruising site, would make him think I’m one hundred percent straight? The only photo I’ve attached is of my erect dick, shot from above, hanging heavily between my thighs. I’ve stated my age and basic stats, but that’s about it.

He’s messaging again. You probably stroke thinking about getting your first head from a masculine man, don’t you.

I could correct him, certainly. Should I?

I am willing to bet good money that you’re toying with trying a guy’s mouth for the first time in your life. Am I right? If I am, I volunteer. I guarantee you won’t find a better mouth for your first experience.

So far, I’ve not tapped out a fucking word. I haven’t had to. This stranger is presenting me with his hopes, his yearnings, his deepest fantasies, elaborately wrapped and fastened with an especially lurid bow. My choices are to discard his overtures because I dislike blank profiles, or to take his gift for what it is.

I choose the latter. Wow, I reply. I can’t believe how close to the mark you came. Do I know you?

No. But I know your type. I’ve helped a lot of straight bros take that first step. Will you let me help you?

It’s at this point that I have to take a break and start preparing dinner. I boil some shells and stuff them with spinach and cheese. It’s a while before they’re sauced and baking in the oven, but eventually I return to the Sniffies page to discover he’s sent me a couple of photos. One of his face, with that bearded jaw, blunt as a cudgel, and those oversized, anxious eyes. Another of his body, a gym selfie, vascular arm curled and flexed in a mirror, amidst a field of weight benches and exercise machines. He’s the kind of ugly that somehow veers into hot, and my dick responds by swelling at the sight. Come on, he’s written. I know it’s scary but I promise it will be oh. So. Good.

I’ve played the straight guy before, with The Landscaper. I can do it again. Let’s talk, I write back.

“Does that feel good?” he asks. His fist slides up and down over my spit-slick shaft with a grip so firm it’s maddening, as he nurses my nuts with his tongue and his hot breath. “Looks like you’re enjoying it.”

My reply emerges as a whimper. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, don’t worry, I’m gonna take care of you, bro.” Once again his mouth opens to encompass my girth. My head bangs against the glass as he goes all the way down. When he comes up for air once more, he clears his throat and rasps, “Damn, you are huge. Want me to keep going?” When I struggle for words, he stares up at me again. “You can say you like it.”

“I love it,” is what falls from my lips. Sincere. Genuine. “You’ve got a fucking incredible mouth.”

He likes the praise. I can tell by the way he deep-throats my length. His throat opens up to accommodate the topmost inches both without gagging and without abusing the head. His saliva drips down the shaft to my nuts, where the the droplets trickle and chill my skin. “Better than the wife?” he asks, before plunging down again. I cry out. All the blood in my body seems to have flown into my engorged dick, which looks so fat, so bloated, so wet and red, whenever it emerges on his upstroke. “Better than the wife?” he repeats, this time refusing to continue until I answer.

I’m panting now. “So much better. No fucking comparison.”

“I told you, bud.” Now he’s combining the fist and the torrid interior of his throat. I lock my fingers around the back of his head; his thick dark hair rubs against my palms like a Brillo pad. “Yeah. You really must like it.”

“Don’t stop,” I beg.

But he does. “You’re gonna come down my throat, bud. You’re gonna blow your first load with a dude.”

My chest contracts and expands. “I want it.”

“Yeah?” When I nod, he finally agrees to end the torture of denying me his mouth. “Get ready, buddy.”

It’s a good thing I’m hard as concrete; my dick would otherwise have been mauled by his rough treatment. His fist churns around my shaft, his mouth clamps down, cushioned by his lips. I feel his beard rasp with every stroke. The fingers of his other hand stroke my balls. One of them creeps down my taint and seeks my hole, where it burrows into the warm crack.

It’s the last violation, welcome though it is, that sets me over the edge. “I’m coming,” I warn the stranger. From my depths erupts a gargled, strangled sound that seems overloud in the car’s interior. The noise inspires him to take the entire length of me into his throat. There I throb and shoot what feels like jet after jet of my seed. His finger remains in my hole; his wet hand encircles my nuts, first clamping down upon them, then as my climax subsides, massaging from them the last drops of fluid.

“Shit,” I announce to the roof, my eyes closed. “Shit.”

I can hear the smugness in his voice. “Told you. You good, buddy?”

There’s a distinct contrast to the tone of his voice—deliberately cheerful, like we’re stepping off the tennis court after a rough game—and the gentle, loving what he’s treating my deflating dick. From the console between the front seats, he’s drawn a wet wipe that he’s using to clean me off, dabbing at me with soft strokes. “Yeah,” I breathe. “Real good.”

“You took a big step.” His voice is still matter-of-fact. “Proud of you, dude.”

“Thanks,” I say. He helps me pull up my shorts and my sweats. It’s not until I’m fastened up once more that I gesture to his grown and say, “What about you?”

“Nah.” I can see the stubby erection in his gym shorts, but he doesn’t touch it. “I get my biggest pleasure from servicing straight men like you. I’m real good. Hey,” he adds, as if he’s just thought of it. “We’re gonna do this again. Right? Remember what I told you?”

He’s said a lot of things. I search about in my memory to pick out what he might mean.

“There’s no guilt…”

“There’s no guilt in accepting pleasure,” I echo, as I take a look through the glass around the parking lot, this time for real. No one’s around, so I open up the back door and step out.

“That’s right. No regrets.”

I grin, agreeing with him. “No regrets.”

“Good. We’re doing this again soon,” he says, from inside. I nod and wave, and shut the door behind me.

The insides of my trunks are as humid as a Virginia summer thunderstorm. I feel as if I’ve been assaulted and robbed of my bodily fluids. My legs are a little wobbly as I totter to my car, a good twenty feet away.

But I mean, hell. Why wouldn’t they be? I’ve just lost my man-on-man virginity, after all.

Pool Boy

I’m horny and I’m angry. I don’t like it.

I’m horny enough that my dick’s had a mind of its own all morning. It’s the last full day of my visit with my father, and offers on Grindr and Scruff have been flooding in. I’ve put off all the men by explaining I’ve got some chores to do before I’m free. Then, while I pound nails into the fallen trim on my dad's screened porch, I fantasize about which little twink or otter I’ll be pounding later in the afternoon. While I’m insulating some of the pipes in his basement, my own pipe is tenting my shorts, ready to spurt.

I don’t know what it is that’s making me so crazy. I’ve had two nights of a stranger rimming me relentlessly in my hotel room, followed by an afternoon plowing one of the hottest muscle twinks I’ve ever had. Perhaps the novelty of being the new meat in town is going straight to my littler head. When I order lunch through a sandwich shop app and drive out to pick it up, I’m basically violating with my eyes, over my mask, the cute guy behind the counter; he responds with a smile of regret that lets me know he registers and even welcomes my notice. His shift probably isn’t over for hours, though. When I pump gas for the trip back home tomorrow morning, the mere action of shoving the nozzle into the gas tank evokes in my gut a grunt that’s purely sexual.

By mid-afternoon I’m back at my hotel room. I’ve told my dad I’m taking the rest of the day for myself, and that I’ll stop off in the morning before I make the seven-hour drive home. After a quick shower, I flop onto the hotel mattress with my phone, ready to hook up. I’ve already made my choice. For a couple of years now, I’ve always wanted to get together with this guy who lives in the Fan. We’d originally talked on BBRT on one of my previous trips, and I dig his looks—mid-thirties, lean, long wavy hair, big soulful eyes. I have a couple of types that get my immediate attention, and this dude nestles snugly into one of them.

On this trip, he’s hit me up on Sniffies, so that’s the site I use to shoot him a message. I’m in my hotel room for a couple of hours. Want to come by?

I only have to wait a couple of minutes for his reply. I sure do. I’m showered and free now if you want me to come.

I want you to come, I tell him.

He asks for the address. I send it. Leaving now. I’ll be there in 15, he assures. Can’t wait.

Mission accomplished. My dick is raging already. When I review photos of the guy’s firm little ass, I lick my chops over how it points unflinchingly at the camera, ready to be impaled. The Virginia afternoon is hot as fuck, so I’ve turned up the rattly old air conditioning unit to fill the room with its chilly blast. Meanwhile, as a few more offers trickle in on the apps, I send some polite regrets. Sorry. I’m meeting someone in a few. Maybe later?

Fifteen minutes pass. Twenty. Twenty-five. For long minutes I anticipate a nervous knock at the door. My dick has wilted some time ago. I try to tamp down my disappointment. The interstate could be busy. There might’ve been an accident. So I attempt patience, and wait some more.

After forty-five minutes, the horniness hasn’t abated, but the anger has kicked in. I’m being stood up. Every time I look at Sniffies, there’s a little blue dot on the dude’s profile to show me he’s online, but his location hasn’t changed at all. Onscreen he’s an inch away to the right—which means in real life, he’s a mile away in the Fan, not moving any closer.

Motherfucker.

When I fire up other apps, I’m annoyed to see that he’s checked me out on them since we made our assignation. In fact, I can construct an entire timeline of what’s happened since I gave him the hotel’s address. Fifteen minutes passed, then he visited my profile on BBRT at roughly the time he told me he’d be knocking on my door. Ten minutes after that, his Grindr profile looked at mine. Then, ‘just now,’ he’s looked at me on Scruff.

What kind of fuckery is this?

An hour and a half has passed since he told me he couldn’t wait. I send the guy a message on Sniffies, since that’s where we made the date. Okay. I get the message that you’re not coming over. A pity, since I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.

As I expect, I get no reply. I’m horny, I’m furious, and I don’t like it. But I know sitting in my hotel room, stabbing at the screen with my index finger trying to find a quick replacement, will prove a recipe for regret. So I recalibrate.

My favorite barbecue joint is across town from where I’m staying. It’s worth the drive just to clear my head. My dad has accompanied me to barbecue spots across the city, but none of the chains he prefers compare, I think, to this locally-owned spot where I can order hush puppies and a side of corn pudding to accompany the generous helping of pulled pork the chef has slapped onto a rectangle of kraft paper on my tray. As I devour the spread, I flip between various apps on my phone—browsing the news headlines, looking at the subreddits I follow, and checking out the local grid on Grindr.

I’ve nearly spooned out the last of the corn pudding when I get a message on the latter. Hi Sir. It’s from a profile with no photo and very little information—a 23-year-old who’s less than a mile away, is all I know. I rarely respond to profiles that are blank or close to it. Just as I’m about to close the app, though, the kid sends a few more photos. The first is of him reclining on his bed, head tilted on his pillow. He wears a t-shirt of primary red; his hand rests just out of the camera’s view, between his legs. A good-looking kid. Clean cut. Well groomed. Whether from his natural, fair-skinned coloration or an acute case of sunburn, his nose is a bright red. The photo has a caption. Rudolph, it says.

All right. I like a little bit of self-deprecating humor.

The remaining pics are less boy-next-door than they are hungry-hole-down-the-street. There’s a shot of him bent over a bare mattress, knees spread wide and white ass in the air, taking a spit-slick Black cock. Then there’s a blurry shot of him on his knees, eyes unfocused and glazed, mouth agape, beneath a stubby dick that’s already left a spurt of jizz across his forehead. Finally, there’s a shot he’s managed to take of himself on his bed again. This one is both blurry and dark; he’s got his legs in the air and fingers probing a pink little hole.

Hey, I think this trio of photos deserves as reply. Nice pics, son.

I bet you have a big cock, Sir. I can’t help it: my dick twitches at this form of address. In lieu of a written reply, I send him a shot of my meat hanging between my legs, thick and engorged. Fuck yeah. I knew it, dad. Are you looking?

To myself I think: why not? I’m done with dinner. I’d left the hotel feeling nettled, in order to avoid fruitless hours of hunting for—and not finding—sex. And see? Here’s a pretty boy, throwing himself in my lap.

Yeah, I reply. I’m looking.

Already I’m thinking of the kid as Rudolph, though I know it was a joke and unlikely to be his name. My car’s in the shop, he tells me. Can you come get me?

You know someplace we can go? I could easily take Rudolph back to my hotel, but it’s a little bit of a haul by Richmond standards. Part of me, I admit, intends the question to see how serious this kid is. On my last pre-pandemic trip down here, I’d wasted an entire evening on some asshole without a car who’d expected to treat me like his personal Uber driver while he ran errands. When the kid responds in the affirmative, I have only one more question. How soon can you be ready? Because if it’s going to be an hour or more, I’m going to have to pass.

Now. Come get me, Sir. I want you inside me.

Now is good. I like now.

Ten minutes later and I’m pulling up to the address he’s given me—a squat Henrico bungalow boasting a rusted carport at the driveway’s end. I’ve scarcely pulled up in front than Rudolph flies out the side door. He’s shorter and smaller than I expected—no more than five-five or so—but his legs propel him down the driveway and into my front seat. Once the passenger door shuts, he points down the county road ahead. “Go straight. I’ll tell you where to turn,” is his greeting.

He sounds like he’s escaping from something. Probably still lives at home, I think to myself. I say nothing and pull away from the curb in the direction he’s indicated. It’s not until we’re away from the house and at a stop sign that I feel his hand on my leg. His fingers probe at my crotch. When I divert my attention from the road, he’s looking at me with liquid eyes, full of desire. “You’re hot, Sir.”

Under his fingers, my dick balloons. The kid’s pics hadn’t done him justice. There’s a redness to his face that I see often in the local men here, but only the very tip of his bulbous nose carries a touch of sunburn. He’s small for a twenty-three-year-old; I could almost carry him around by the scruff of the neck without much exertion. Cute. Definitely into me, from the way he keeps drinking me in. The boy exudes a puppy dog urgency as he paws at my parts and runs a hand over my chest. It’s all I can do to keep from swerving.

Eventually we reach his destination. Out here in the county, where the little ranch houses hold each other at arm’s distance, there are still stretches of undeveloped plots. At Rudolph’s prompting, I turn onto one of them, along a twisting gravel road that leads through thickets of wild saplings. Hidden beyond is a fenced-in property, overgrown with waist-high weeds. Its dirt parking lot, which could easily hold twenty or more cars, is almost completely invisible from the road. “Come on,” he tells me, letting his smooth little hands slide from mine once I turn off the ignition. “Nobody comes here.”

I swing my legs onto the dirt and click the remote to lock my car doors. The place must once have been a neighborhood pool; through the broken privacy slats in the chain link fence I can spy a rough slab of patio around a kidney-shaped outline. The pool itself has been filled with concrete long before, to prevent both liability and mosquitos. It’s eerily quiet back here. If anyone were to walk or drive down the only road in, we’d be sure to hear the crunch of gravel well in advance. I approve.

“Over here.” The kid beckons me to a large shed around one side of the property. Beyond the high grasses, there’s a padlocked chain, much distressed, linking the door’s handles. The kid retrieves an artificial rock stashed among several real stones in the weeds nearby, though, and flips it over to reveal a hidden compartment. He slides open a little door to produce a key. A few moments later and we're in the shed’s interior.

There’s not much in here. A few old empty plastic tubs that used to hold pool chemicals, but that’s not the smell that’s making my nose twitch. A pair of long-handled nets, neither of which retains any webbing. A stack of cardboard boxes lurks in a corner, slumping from gravity and damp. Two webbed folding recliners occupy most of the room’s length, set side by side. Rudolph positions me between them and pulls down on my neck. He stands on tiptoe so that my mouth can completely engulf his own.

We’re a contrast in sizes, he and I. I’m reminded of those porn sites that pair pint-sized boys with much bigger, older men. He seems to love the contrast, too. When I try to stand straight after our first, deep kiss, he jumps up and into my arms. When I catch him—barely, surprised—he wraps his legs around me. We kiss again. His mouth is hungry, wet and deep.

I can’t hold him off the ground indefinitely, so I try to let him down as gracefully as possible. “You’re so hot,” he says, reaching for my beard. “Do you like me?”

I remember the insecurity of that age. “You’re a sexy boy.” I look around the deserted shed. “You’ve brought men here before?” My question abashes him, I can tell. “You can say.”

“Yeah.” His eyes flicker from mine to the floor.

“Yes, Sir,” I correct.

“Yes, Sir.”

“So you just…pick up strange men online and lure them there, huh.” He’s wearing a pair of denim shorts faded almost to white, save at the seams, and a loose-hanging shirt made of something approximating linen. While I talk, I begin running my fingers up its placket, loosening the fastenings one by one. At some point, perhaps in his haste to escape his house, he’d mismatched the buttons to their holes. It gives him a lopsided look.

I watch as he licks his lips. “Yes, Sir. Is that bad?”

I neither nod, nor shake my head, reserving judgment. My hands move up, knuckles grazing his smooth stomach. “So you bring them out here. Where anything could happen.” His heart thuds so strongly that each beat stirs hairs on the back of my hand. He nods. “Yes, Sir,” I prompt again.

“Yes, Sir.”

The size difference between us is making my cock rigid. It demands to be shoved in the young man’s holes, but for now I keep it from asserting itself. The exertion of willpower hones my voice to a steel-hard edge. “You’ve been doing this a long time, I bet.”

“Yes, Sir.”

I’m at the last button. My fingers tweak it loose, so that the fabric falls to reveal his skin, opalescent in the indirect light. I turn him around and relieve him of the garment, then spin him once more so he faces me, gently as a father might get his kid ready for bed. “How long?”

“A long time.” His response is breathy, excited.

“Months?” He nods. “Years?” There’s a hesitation, but at last he nods. “I figured. A boy like you can’t do without cock, right?”

“Yes, Sir. I mean, no, Sir.” He barely aspirates the confession.

I unbutton his shorts. Slowly, deliberately, I pull down their zipper. The boy has a tiny waist. My long fingers might be able to encircle him if I tried, it almost seems. I turn him around again and draw him close, allowing myself to run my fingers over his skin before hooking my thumbs under the waistbands of both the denim and his shorts. “Then you bring them to this godforsaken place and make them do things to you.” His head falls back against my chest. His eyes are closed, his jaw slack. Down fall his shorts around his ankles; the boy’s cock, thin and short, pokes out like a flagpole. “Bad things.”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir.” As my hands move over his body, his cock, his lightly hairy balls, he shivers. “Real bad things.”

I let go of him. He drifts forward, eyes still closed, his naked body twirling, slow motion, in the shed’s twilight, until he’s facing me again. “Like what?” I direct his hands to my own shorts, where my cock demands attention. “Do they make you…suck their big cocks?”

“Yes, Sir. They make me suck their cocks.” His eyes open, seeking permission. I nod, giving it.

Down on his knees he goes. My shorts have no zipper. He yanks down the elastic waist to my knees. As my eight inches flop upward, his mouth opens; his tongue darts out. His hand clasps the lower half, seizing his prize. I feel the kid’s hot breath before I plunge between those pretty lips.

My own heart thuds in its cage as the boy goes to town on my meat. I lean back so I can have a clear view of him in action. He’s no dabbler; he knows what he’s doing. I watch his own skinny dick jerk and throb unattended, nearly slapping against the shed’s concrete floor. Already he’s leaking precum.

“Cocksucker,” I spit out, letting the word swing, pendulum-like, somewhere between praise and epithet.

He opens his eyes at the word and allows my dick to slip from his mouth. “Yes, Sir.” His words are sibilant and indistinct with the spit dripping from his lips. “Just a cocksucker, Sir.”

His address makes me harder. Redder. Thicker. I grab the back of his skull and hold it while I shove my cock as far as it will go. Though he can’t quite manage the last couple of inches, his lips greedily reach for the base, trying to make a show of engulfing the whole thing. I give him credit for trying.

“Your folks know what a dirty little faggot cocksucker they’re raising?” I ask. Through a mouthful of dick, he shakes his head. “But you go back home from here with a gut full of seed to lie to mommy and daddy about where you’ve been, huh.” It’s a shot in the dark, but he nods, his eyes gazing up at me with sheer adoration. “You don’t even know my name. Getting anonymous dick in some—“ I look around at our surroundings. “—skanky-ass lean-to.” He grunts, agreeing. “You let strangers fuck you too, don’t you.”

“Yeth Thir,” he attempts to say, but I don’t let him off my dick. Not yet.

“Figured.” I curl my upper lip in a show of contempt. “Little faggot boy, going ass up for who the fuck knows who.” I grab a handful of the kid’s sandy hair and thrust my hips in and out of his mouth, feeling his saliva on my balls. “Letting strange men sodomize that boyhole.”

When I withdraw most of the way, he raises his glance to me again and grunts. “That’s what my holes are made for, Sir. Faggot holes for men like you.”

“Someone trained you right,” I comment. He digs that, responding with grunts and an instinctive arch to his back. When I pull out from between his greedy lips, he responds with a whine of outrage, like a toddler deprived of a favorite toy. “Up,” I order. Then, “Around.” Once he’s obeyed, I turn him so that his hands are planted on the webbing of one of the recliners. “Well, well. Look at that ass,” I hiss, when it’s on display. "No wonder men like me want to fuck it." Automatically he spreads his legs, widening his stance.

The boy’s butt is compact. He’s still young enough that he still carries a slight layer of baby fat, which bounces when I slap it hard. “Ow,” he says—from instinct, not actual pain.

“Come on,” I growl, slapping it again, this time harder. The sound fills our tiny space. “Don’t try to tell me that ass hasn’t been smacked before.”

“It’s yours, Si—“ I interrupt his obeisance with another hard whack. His head flies up; his eyes widen. If I thought Rudolph loved me when he was sucking my dick, that was nothing to the look of sheer veneration he’s giving me now. “Fuck.”

“Damn right I will,” I say, deliberately misinterpreting the four-letter word as permission, or invitation. My fingers probe at his exposed, pink, hairless hole. “Jesus Christ, son,” I exclaim, as if my slippery fingers have discovered something foul. “You’re already fucking lubed up!” Rudolph can’t stand any longer. He tumbles forward onto the ancient lawn chair so that his face and knees dig into the woven fabric. He’s light, but I don’t trust the chair to support both our weights, so I remain standing as I finger his pucker. “You just checked out my profile, thought to yourself, This dude looks like the kind of man who fucks little faggots like me, and shoved a bottle’s worth of lube up your shitter before I picked you up, huh?”

“Please fuck me,” he begs.

“Please fuck me, Sir.”

“Please fuck me, Sir.”

I hesitate, as if unsure. “I don’t know. There’s no telling how many men have been up this boyhole before.” I’ve got three fingers in, now. Plus the tip of the fourth. He’s wide open and obviously well-used. It’s a hole that begs to be stretched even more.

“Fuck me, Sir. Please fuck me. Sir, please fuck me.”

He repeats the words over and over while I pretend to consider my option. At long last, as he squirms his hips and repeats his litany, I spit on my fingers and spread the fluid on my enraged inches. Then I shove it in, at long last.

He seizes up almost immediately, then relaxes as I force him back down onto the lawn chair. I slide to the base with little resistance. The kid has been fucked before, and probably often. That smell I’d wondered about earlier, the one tickling my nostrils—it’s not damp or chlorine. It’s probably the scent of dried sweat and semen from all the hookups little Rudolph has lured here over his sexual career. Thinking about the boy using this abandoned shed to collect seed makes me more aggressive.

“This what you wanted?” I ask. “Is this what you want, cocksucker?” I don’t need to hear his answer. I’m being rhetorical. The chair’s aluminum frame grates across the concrete as savagely I stab into the boy’s guts.

He’s the happiest little pup around, though. “Yes, Sir!” he carols, holding onto the armrests for dear life. “Fuck it, Sir. Fuck that hole.”

“Oh, I’m fuckin’ it, all right,” I snarl.

The chair’s top half comes to rest against the shed wall; Rudolph grabs onto a support beam to raise himself up and look back at me. “You can fuck harder, Sir,” he promises. “Get in there with that rape stick, Sir.”

Little turns me on more than a boy complicit in the abuse of his own hole. I seize the kid’s neck and hold it while I savage his rectum, one searing thrust at a time. “A man could do anything to a boy like you back here,” I growl in his ear. He nods, agreeing. “No one would ever know.”

“Yes…Sir.” The words are an effort for him. I tweak his nipples hard, making him cry out. “Right there,” he sobs. “Right there. Right there. Right there. Yes.”

I know I’m hitting the perfect spot. I can feel his little button jamming against my thick cock head. Again and again I stab at it, making him cry out each time. His tiny prostate has probably never been hammered so hard.

“Oh, fuck,” he at last says. He sounds shocked, and looks down at his dick. I thrust down onto the button and hold it, while I feel his ass convulse around my thick meat. Cum shoots out of his dick. One long strand hits the shed wall. Then a second. A third flies lower, onto the beam. Then a fourth, onto the lawn chair. While I hold him still, his body shivers and thrashes as cum continues to fly from the tip. “I’ve never—“

“Shut up, cocksucker,” I growl, as I pin him against the exposed wood. “Daddy’s turn.”

I don’t drop Rudolph back at home until after dusk. By the time I reach my hotel, the sky’s dark and I’m two loads lighter. It’s close to nine-thirty by the time I’ve showered the boy’s scents from my skin and flopped down on my bed. I fire up my phone, intending to catch up on any messages I might’ve missed while I was out pounding.

Sniffies is still open on my phone’s browser. I’ve got a couple of the usual ‘Hi’ messages from anonymous profiles that I can easily disregard. A couple of interesting offers that I might’ve contemplated, if Rudolph hadn’t hit me up. And then, at the top, a message from the wavy-haired fellow from the Fan who’d stood me up earlier. It’s time-stamped from only ten minutes before, while I was washing up.

Hey, says the message. Still looking? Lost track of time when my mom called.

I mean, there’s not even an apology attached. Apparently I’m supposed to swallow whole the belief that after he told me he’d be arriving in fifteen minutes, his mother called, and that he’d then engaged in conversation with her for six and a half hours. And that during those six and a half hours—particularly during the crucial first ninety minutes or so in which I was stomping around my hotel room, certain I was being stood up—he wasn’t able to to use his phone or any other device to send me a quick message to say Hey, I’m being delayed, but I’m still intending to be there when I can. Although over the course of an hour he was able to, you know, check out my profile on three other apps.

Right. No, I’m not buying it. Once again I feel that tide of anger rising.

But you know what? It’s not worth it. I roll my eyes, shake my head, and block the guy on Sniffies. I block him on Scruff. I block him on Grindr. And finally, I block him on BBRT. I don’t need to engage with that kind of gaslighting. And besides, my loads had found a better home.