Old Man

The Runt is shooting like a fucking geyser today. Like Old Faithful, he’s spouting off at regular intervals. Big huge jets of the stuff. Every time, spouts erupt out of his rigid dick as his body shakes and quivers. He’s spunked all over the blanket, baptized the pillows and headboard, smacked me in the chest and face with his essence.

Every time, he looks at me afterward in panic and near distress. I can’t fathom what frightens him. He could be afraid I’ll assume he’s done, and cease the relentless grinding of my cock into his puffy red hole. Maybe he thinks his cries are loud enough to be heard by the neighbor upstairs. But I think secretly he fears he’s showing too much. The Runt plays his emotional cards close to his chest. Around his friends, his family, he’s pretending—pretending to be normal, pretending not to be gay, pretending to be a good and obedient boy who marches lockstep with the plans others have made for him.

The only time he’s anything close to being himself is when he’s naked and with me. In the dark, when I’m holding him so tightly by his trim waist that I’m leaving red marks on that smooth skin, when I’m shoving my obscenely enlarged fuckmeat into his soft, sweet guts, he’s free. He’s getting what he needs. He’s living the life about which he can only fantasize in the harsh light of day. I think that realization takes him aback. He’s unused to expressing the liberty he feels when he’s astride a man’s cock.

So when he comes, it’s loudly. Not like when he’s at home after the lights are out, fumbling himself under the covers. His narrow chest billows and dwindles, his breathing quickens and becomes harsh, his little dime-sized nipples shrink and pucker. His ass cheeks dimple and contract around my dick as he straddles it and rides. His lids open as if they’re revealing the world around him, and not merely hiding his beautiful brown eyes. He shudders and yells and then, right on schedule, his dick jerks back and forth. At each apex, it unleashes a stream of gooey white sperm. The first launch smacks me on the shoulder and flies off and over the bottom of the bed. The second lands at the bed’s foot. The third puddles on the blanket and begins to seep in.

His hair covers his forehead, falls in his eyes. It’s a wavy mess. Kids these days, right? His body rises and falls with every thrust of my hips. The Runt comes whenever I force my dick inside him. It’s the first penetration that triggers his spastic response, so I’ve been fucking him, left his hole rest and close, and then forcing it back inside. I’m cruel that way. Yeah, I’m a real bastard, all right, giving him climax after climax and then stretching his hole with my monster cock while he’s trying to recuperate. Sadistic fucker.

So I’m lying there sneering and being cocky about my prowess, and I don’t even notice at first he’s lowered himself on his hands. He’s looking at me. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

I rest my hips. I don’t tense up, exactly, but I’m on edge. The Runt doesn’t ask me things. We don’t talk. We pass comments back and forth sometimes. The last talk we had was when he broke down to tell me his dad had called him a worthless faggot. Even when I’ve asked how things are at home, since then, the most communicative he’s been has been to shrug his shoulders and pretend he hasn’t heard. “Anything,” I say, wondering if I can communicate supportiveness, neutrality, and encouragement all in one word.

My dick’s still hard and inside him. He settles down on it, as if to sit for a while. His mouth works with difficulty. I breathe in and out, but don’t prod. I wait for his words to come. At last he says, “You’ve got a birthday coming up.”

I’m surprised he remembers. The only time we’d discussed it was when I’d asked about his, months ago. “I do indeed.”

“It’s a big one.”

I don’t really need to be reminded of this fact. I’ve already got my dad saying Hey, you’re going to be really really OLD! I woke up the other morning and realized how OLD you’ve gotten and I was thinking to myself, ‘how do I have a son who’s that OLD?’ every time I talk to him on the phone. But you know, to someone with the Runt’s youth, I’m sure I seem like a creaky old antiquity. “It is.”

The Runt has sleepy eyes. They’re big baby-doll eyes—round and fringed by thick eyelashes. They’ll be devastating when he learns how deliberately to use them on a guy. His lids are heavy again now, though. He gazes at me as if he’s afraid of being hurt. “Can I be the last?”

I haven’t the faintest clue what he’s talking about.

The bemusement must be plain on my face. “I want to be the last one you fuck. In your forties,” he explains. His voice is soft. “Would that be all right?”

Oh. My lips part, as I consider his words. It’s not the actual offer of sex that pleases me. I know he’s exposing a vulnerable side of himself. And that, coming from anyone, is a gift in itself. Much better than anything wrapped in paper.

“You don’t have to.”

“It would be very all right,” I say, not letting him take the offer back. “But why?”

Those heavy lids close again. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be kind of cool, is all.”

That’s not what he thought at all. I just hoped you think I’m special enough, is what he’s telling me. I hope you remember me. He doesn’t need to speak the words. “I’d love it if you were the last fuck of my forties,” I say to him. Then, formally, holding his hands, I make him look at me. “Will you, Runt, be the last ass I fuck in my forties?”

Now I’ve made him shy. “Come on,” he says, urging me to stop.

“No, seriously.” I shake his hands a little. “Say you will. I’d not considered it at all until now. But will you?”

His lips work a little into one of his rare smiles. His eyes rest on mine for a second, then flit away. “Okay.”

I’ve pleased him. It makes my heart warm, and my dick swell. “What about me?” I ask. He flips away the hair from his eyes with a quick bob of his head. “Do I get to be the last man of your teens?” That milestone is approaching quickly.

He chuckles. His hands lift to the leather dog collar around his skinny neck. “How many dudes do you think I see?”

“How about the first man of your twenties?” I say. “Would you remember that?”

He nods. “I would definitely remember that. Both those.”

He looks over at the clock. It’s a nervous tic for him. He’s so used to having his schedule regulated by the needs of others that he’s unused to having any for himself. “Do we have to go?” I ask him. He shakes his head. “Then get your ass off my cock and get your mouth on it, son,” I whisper. “Make this old man feel good.”

I’ll let him gnaw on my bone for a bit. Then, when his ass muscles are relaxed, I’ll split him open again and force out another of his copious loads. Old Geyser’s gotta blow, after all. The Runt rearranges himself between my legs. He looks up at me and dutifully says,“You’re not old.”

He could give my dad some lessons in tact.

Runt . . . Cunt

So he’s lying on his mattress, staring at me with those big, helpless eyes, hands clawing at the sheets, feet paddling the air like a kitten. I’m straddling his chest, sitting on his rib cage. My weight’s holding him down, making him breathless. One of my hands is clamped over his mouth, muffling the whimpers and pleas. The other is reaching back to work on his sloppy butt. I’ve got four fingers plugging that gape; my first load has already seeped out onto the rumpled sheets, and into the palm of my hand. My fingers stink of semen and boyhole.

“That hurt?” I ask the Runt. To get the answer I want, I add my thumb to the cone I’m making and jab it in. Harder. Deeper. His eyes widen. His lashes are already fringed with moisture bordering on tears. “I said, does that hurt?”

The sound he makes is smothered by my hand, pushing down so hard on his mouth that his head is disappearing into the pillow. “What?” I snarl. “I can’t fucking understand you. Does it hurt?”

He tries to speak again, then realizes that I’m not going to let up on my grip on his face. Runt looks up at me and nods as best he can. His panicked eyes telling me all I really need to know.

It hurts.

His dick tells me the rest of the tale. He’s shot already during the first fuck, and not that long ago, but it’s hard again and red and glistening across the gentle downward slope of his abdomen. There’s a pool of precum sliding out of his dick’s tip. Sure, it hurts. But the little fucker loves it.

My eyes drill into his as my hand insistently probes his hole. His legs paddle helplessly. As he begins to accept the sensation of being opened wide, their fruitless motions lessen, then cease. His dick leaps up and points to the headboard. I feel breath on the side of my head from his nose, as he sighs deeply. He fucking loves what I do to him. He settles into the mattress and open his legs wider, inviting me in.

The Runt lives with his folks still. His room’s still a boy’s room. There’s a pile of laundry in a corner that carries the vaguely goat-like stink of boys his age. His desk is covered with video game discs and electronic equipment. His closet looks like it’s been used to contain the explosion of a hoodie factory. He doesn’t have an adult’s artwork on the walls; he’s got posters. I don’t fuck him at his home much. I drill his little hole in cars. I bring him to my place and ram the shit out of him. Anyplace I can get the little fuck on his knees, spread his cheeks, wet him up, and slam it deep.

Because when it comes down to it, the penetration is what he craves. Penetration is the defining moment of sex for him. It’s the point of fucking, to be put in his place, spread wide, and violated. There hasn’t been a time we’ve been together when he hasn’t let loose with his load, the moments I’m forcing myself into his hole. The rougher and more humiliating I make it, the harder this boy shoots. Oh, he’s still in it for the fuck. He grinds his ass and begs for my load. He loves cock in his shitter.

But the penetration is what gets him off—that sensation of being ripped into, of being entered, of giving it up to a superior cock. The more painful it is, the harder he climaxes. So I play it up and make sure he fucking feels it, every time.

I let go of his mouth. There’s a red print on his face from the pressure. His lips tremble and work to bring the blood back. “Get up,” I order him, as I swing my knee over his body and release him from my weight. I flop back on his stinky bed, let my head dent the pillows. He scrambles to his feet. Reflexively, his hand touches the collar around his neck. It’s the dog collar we bought together. It’s a talisman for him. He’d wear it 24/7 if I let him. “Fuck, son,” I drawl, letting some of my Southern cadences color my voice. “You’re a sloppy mess.”

He looks up and down his body. He’s covered with silvery dry traces of his own juice. With lube. His moon-white skin is covered with my pawprints. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“You look like a fucking whore,” I tell him. “You look like you’re just a cunt. Is that all you are? Just a cunt?”

There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s liking this. His skinny cock is still rock hard, and it’s projecting out in front of him. He nods.

“Go over to your desk,” I tell him. “Get one of those marking pens in that cup there.” He shuffles over his books and manga and pulls out a blue highlighter from the cup. “No,” I say, annoyed. “The black one. There.”

He comes back with a thick-tipped Sharpie, which he offers me.

“Uncap it.” He obeys, his eyes on me unwaveringly. I sit up, take the pen, and turn it so that the tip is facing him. “So you’re just a whore, huh? A little boy-whore?”

He nods. Another bead of pre-cum oozes from his dick and begins to hang down underneath the head. “Yes sir,” he says. It’s barely a murmur.

“Come here.” I reach up and pull him down by the collar. He thinks I’m going to kiss him. I do not. Instead, I hold him at a distance, so I can write on his chest with the Sharpie. His eyes widen as I scrawl a thick W over his right nipple. I put a H on his pectoral, and a O right in the middle of his sternum. An R follows, and then I finish off with an E over the left nipple.

When I release him, he staggers back and looks down at himself. It’s upside and backwards from his perspective, but I know he can read. “What’s that say?” I ask.

“Whore,” he says, faintly. His face is red. He looks mortified that I’ve written the legend on him. But that dick doesn’t lie. He loves it. Loves it.

“Is that what you are?” I ask. He nods. “I didn’t hear you.”

This time, he asserts his answer a little more loudly. “Yes sir.”

“Turn around. Bend over.”

He thinks I’m going to eat his cummy hole. Or maybe shove my fingers back inside. I do neither. “And this,” I say, brandishing the Sharpie, “is what this is.”

On his left cheek I write a large, dark CU. On the right, NT. Right above the crack, I draw an arrow pointing down.

“Look in the mirror,” I tell him.

He turns, and looks at his creamy white butt in the full-length mirror on his door. His cock leaps as he realizes what it says. “What are you?” I ask.

“A cunt, sir,” he says.

“And?”

“A whore.”

“Fucking right. Put this away.” I throw the marker at him. He nearly misses grabbing at it, but he caps it and returns it to the desk. “Now get over here.”

I pull him down onto the bed using his collar. Put him face down. Pull the pillows so they’re under his hips. Yank his ankles apart so that little butthole is exposed. Drive in two fingers. He gasps, and groans. I’ve arranged his dick so that the pillows are pushing it between his thighs. It’s pointing straight down at the mattress, exposed, hard, angry red. “What are you?” I ask.

“A whore,” he moans, into the bed. “A cunt.”

“You’re a fucking cunt,” I tell him. Then I take my cock, aim it at his hole, and shove myself into that warm, tight boyflesh. No mercy. No kindness. I plow all the way in, and and land on the little nub that’s his prostate. I mash my dick’s head against it.

He cries out, loudly. His body shakes. It’s almost as if he’s trying to buck me off, his reaction is so strong. But it’s only the orgasm taking over. His semen squirts down onto the bedclothes . . . one, two, three jets of the thick and sloppy stuff.

“I’m a cunt,” he whimpers. He’s saying it more to himself than to me. It’s a mantra to him now. “I’m a cunt. I’m a fucking cunt. Just a fucking little cunt.”

“Good boy,” I say, letting him hear the pleasure in my voice. “Lesson learned.”

I wait until his body stops shaking. Then I withdraw a few inches, slide in, and begin the real fuck.

Don't Do Anything

Two days before Christmas. I still have shopping left to do, and I’ve had a cold on burn for a week. I’m past the sore throat stage, past the worst of the stuffiness. But I’m drained, and tired, and even though I have the place to myself for an evening, all I really want to do is lie in bed in the dark, listen to some music, and work my slow way through the pounding in my head.

Runt texts me. thought we were getting 2gether 2nite, he says.

I text back to tell him I’m not at a hundred percent, and that I couldn’t be as aggressive as I usually am with him.

u r always making everything perfect 4 me, he writes back. now it should be my turn. even if its just me rubbin u feet. please?

In a moment of weakness I find myself tempted. Then he texts again. i am walking 2 the train and comin over, he says. Then a moment later, he sends me a smiley face.

He lives four blocks from the train station. I’m one stop and two blocks away from him. I’ve never made him take the train before, but it’s a quick and viable option. I’ll leave the front door unlocked, is the last thing I send him. Then I put my phone away, turn down the music, and wait.

The Runt is like a ghost when at last he slips into the room—a pale shadow, silent and luminescent in what little reflected light shines through the blinds. I remember too late that his dog collar is in the glove compartment of my car; he’s never gone without it since we bought it together. I’m too tired to get up, get dressed, and walk the block to where I’m currently parked, however.

Nor does he seem to need it. He’s obedient without it. I feel a touch of a hand on my foot. The warmth of a set of fingertips on my right calf. He uses my leg to balance himself as he removes his hoodie, his pullover. I hear his jeans hit the floor. There’s a soft, shushed rush when he frees himself from his underpants. My mattress quivers when he puts a knee on it.

I didn’t think I’d have the strength to muster an erection, but there it is, raging from nothing to full tumescence. It’s the scent of him, I think to myself. That careful, soaped, lightly perfumed odor he always wears. It’s sweet, like candy. Like candy, he’s easy to devour.

My hands reach up to hold him. I’m ready to grasp him around the waist and to shove him roughly into the mattress as I roll on top of him. I want to cover his mouth with mine, to rake his face with my beard. My cock wants to punish him, to make him pay for arousing me. But “No,” is what he says. It’s just a whisper. If I’d been sniffling, or clearing my throat, I would’ve missed it. “No,” he orders. “Don’t do anything.”

It’s cute. His hands are wrapped around my wrists. He holds my arms out to the side, pinning them into L-shapes onto the bed. I could break the hold easily if I wanted; his hands aren’t large. He’s not strong. I’m much bigger than he. I’m curious, though. I want to see what he’s going to do. So I don’t resist. I lay there, and let him hold me still.

I see the pale arc of his head as it moves down. I feel the warmth of his lips against my chest. They move to the side, to my left nipple. I gasp as his mouth wraps around it. His teeth close onto the tiny pyramid, fasten on. My dick becomes more rigid; I catch my breath. He chews on my nipple the way I’ve taught him, the way I like it. Not too soft, but not hard enough to draw blood. His knees draw in on either side of my hip. I can feel his little ass just out of my cock’s reach. I thrust up and forward, trying to make contact, but he presses down on my wrists and doesn’t let go.

My right nipple, now. The waves of pleasure he creates there radiate out over my body. I thrash a little, beneath his weight. I’d been content to lie still for a few moments, but as his mouth travels down, kissing and licking beneath my rib cage, across my belly, down my navel, across the hardness of my pelvic bone, I find I can’t stop moving. My legs writhe and kick; my back arches. I grind my dick into the dark air. But not for long. Soon I feel his mouth, warm and shallow, trying to take my length.

I had to teach Runt how to suck when we met. His efforts, when he met me, were amateurish at best. Too much teeth. Not enough moisture. He’s learned eagerly, though, and we’ve had plenty of practice. He’s scarcely got his mouth on me when I feel globs of his spit slipping from those pretty lips down onto my balls. I want to push his head down, to test the limits of his throat this week. But I respect his wishes, and leave my hands at my side. No, I pull them up and put them behind my head, so I won’t be tempted.

He’s not trying to get me off. Not with his mouth. That’s not how he’d want it. He’s just attempting to give me pleasure. I feel his hands on my nuts. His fingers trace a timid circle around my hole. He kisses and licks my shaft, going down on it as far as he can without choking—maybe just a little to the choking point, even. For long minutes I allow myself this pleasure, the enjoyment of this boy on my dick, sucking and slobbering over me in the dark room.

I hope he has more in store, though.

When he backs off my dick and adjusts his position so that his face hovers over mine, I try to look him in the eye as best I can. Mostly I feel his hair hanging down on either side of his face, as it touches mine. His lips brush across my own. I kiss him back, slipping him tongue. But no. He backs off at that. I’m too aggressive, again.

His hand closes around my dick. I feel the pressure of his body’s weight as he tries to connect the spike of my meat to his hole. We pause for a moment so he can find the lube on my shelf, and then start again. This time, my cock head reacts instantly to the slickness around his entrance. I don’t need to lunge my hips to get into him. He’s greedy enough for it, sliding down and forcing himself to the base.

He doesn’t shoot, though. I’m used to him ejaculating violently when I enter him. This time, he merely gasps, and shivers, and sits there as his body sorted through the various pains and sensations accumulated during the opening. Once processed, he starts rising and falling on my dick.

It’s pleasant, this. His ass is warm, and super-tight. I enjoy the sensations of his quivering legs, like a fledgling foal’s, as he pushes himself up and down on my shaft. It’s sweet. It’s lovely.

But it’s not especially erotic. Not like the sex we usually have. He senses it, too. After a few minutes, he says in frustration, “What am I not doing?”

“Let me,” I tell him.

He protests. It isn’t what he had in mine. “But—“

“No,” I say, echoing his words from earlier. “Don’t do anything.” I know what he needs. What we both need.

I lift him off me, and gently lay him onto the mattress. I put the pillow beneath his head. I kiss him roughly, until he responds by giving in. I can’t grab him beneath the collar like usually, but I keep his mouth fastened against mine by cupping the back of his head and pulling him against me until he’s short of breath. “You need me to fuck you,” I tell him. “You need a man to fuck you. You need a real man to fuck you.”

“Yes,” he breathes.

“You want my big dick?” I ask him. “Is that what you want?”

“Please.” He’s whimpering now.

“Yeah? Then take the fuck, son. Take the fuck.”

He’s already slick; his hole’s been opened by the minutes of sex we’ve already had. But when I spread his legs and drive into him in a single, savage thrust, it’s as if we hadn’t fucked at all. He’s tight as hell. His resistance gives way. He cries out into the dark with a long, piercing howl.

Then he starts to shudder. I feel his cock against my stomach, leaping and spewing sticky fluid. He’s still crying out in hushed sobs and genuine tears. This is what he needed, that sense of being taken, of being used. Sweet as his impulse was to take care of me, he can’t help the way he’s wired.

He’ll never be the kind of boy who’ll get off from gentle, kind, lovemaking. Lowering himself onto a dick and sliding up and down might satisfy a basic need, but it won’t get to his core. Not ever. He needs the force of a man bigger than himself, the roughness—the invasion. There can be a sweetness and romance of its own kind in that kind of fuck. There’s an intimacy to it of its own quality. But the heat between us now is roaring; since I took over, it’s a furnace compared to the mere lit candle of a few minutes before.

I let him finish his orgasm before I start pounding him. I hold his legs out to the sides, and take him, the way he was meant to be taken. My cock punishes his hole, stretches it. If there were more light, I know I could watch his hole turn from pink to scarlet. My own pleasure is swift. The intensity of his reactions always brings me to climax very quickly. My own howl matches the one he let out earlier, when I shoot deep inside him. He’s just as anxious for my load. I feel his hands on my ass, pulling me in, then refusing to let me go once my motions cease.

The bedroom is suddenly hot, and full of the sound of heavy breathing. For a long moment we remain in that position. “Don’t pull out,” he begs me.

I listen to him. I roll us both onto our sides. We’re face to face on the mattress. I’m lying on one of his legs; the other is atop my hip. We rest like that for a moment, and then he moves in close to hold me around my middle.

And it’s in this position that I end my last fuck of 2012. The Runt and I. Connected by flesh, glued together by my semen, as he holds onto me as if hoping I’ll never pull out of him.

Amazing

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.

He’s crying.

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.

Best Boy

The Runt’s got on his collar, like a good boy. He’s naked and sitting on my living room floor, his little butthole exposed and scraping against the carpet. His knees are drawn up; his hands hang between his legs. He’s squatting like a monkey. No inhibitions. No self-awareness. His mouth is on my cock, and the only mind he has for the moment is centered on that shaft of meat. He sucks at it greedily, his jaw opening as far as it can, as he struggles to take my dick to the base.

I’ve got his warm spit running down my sac; its skin contracts from the touch of his smooth chin, then expands from his hot, steady breath. My fingers run through his long hair, trying to clear it from his eyes. It just flops down again. I’m not saying anything, but I sigh. I gasp when he uses his tongue in what he clearly fancies is an exotic manner on the underside of my head. Finally I allow him to push me back into the depths of the armchair, where I sink into the cushions. Pleasure shackles me down. For long, endless moments, I’m his sweet prisoner.

“Do I make you feel good?” he asks after a long, long time.

The Runt rarely speaks when we have sex. We might make small talk when I pick him up from his place and drive us to whatever destination I have in mind. The minute he’s naked, though, his only remarks have been indications of assent. Breathy yes sirs. The occasional please. A fuck yes that’s little more than an exhalation. A question like that? Never. I drift to full consciousness like a man beneath layers of blankets waking to a cold and sunny morning. “What?” I ask. “Of course you do.”

When I open my eyes, he’s got his right hand wrapped around my cock. It’s slimy from his throat, big, distended. He’s still sitting on the floor, lips cherry red from the work they’ve been doing. His own cock, untouched, stands straight up. It points at his navel. It’s rigid, deep pink. There’s a slight browning at the tip of his foreskin. His eyes glisten with moisture from all his effort. “I want to make you feel better than anybody else,” he pleads. “I want to be the best you’ve had.”

I reach out with my hand. Like a puppy searching for a pat, instinctively he leans forward and rubs his cheek against my hand. I cup his chin in my palm, and pull him forward. “You want to be the best?” I say. He nods. I can tell from his eyes that he wants that more than anything. He wants to give me pleasure. He wants my pleasure more than his own. He wants it more than Christmas. “Then suck me.”

He looks at me with adoration, then opens his mouth and engulfs my still-stiff shaft. Briefly he looks up at me to see my reaction to his mouth, but I’m already lost in the rapture of the boy’s slick throat. My left hand hooks under his collar; my right holds the back of his head, pulling him down until I feel myself hitting a wall of resistance. I pull. His body buckles. He chokes, spitting a fine mist onto my pelvis. I can feel the noises of his gagging deep inside, but I keep him held down on my dick. “Make me feel good, son,” I urge. “Make me feel real, real good.”

I watch him struggle. His body is telling him to flee, to clear his mouth of the huge obstruction making him choke and gag. His dick, though, strains in the air and thrusts into nothing as it grows even harder and more needy at the command. His back arches in at attempt to push away; his hands clutch at me, refusing to let go. He’s releasing enough saliva from his pretty little lips that it’s slopping down my nuts and leaving a wet spot on the armchair cushion. It’s nothing, compared to the wet my meat is producing.

At last he comes up for air, his lanks of hair all but obscuring his eyes. His lower lip is trembling. It’s swollen and red. Almost beestung. He’s overcome with phlegm, and spit, and pain. “What do you say?” I asked.

“Thank you,” he whispers hoarsely. “Thank you.”

It’s the little amen to the silent prayer he’s been saying on his knees, this last half hour.

“You’re welcome,” I tell him, looking him straight in those tear-filled and unblinking eyes. “Now,” I add. “Make me feel good. Make my cock feel real, real good.”

He knows what to do. He scrambles to his feet and bends over, exposing his little pale ass. I apply my mouth to it and wet his hole. He tastes clean, like soap and detergent, and whatever body spray he’s applied in the belief I care how he smells. I could eat him out all night, but he waits until he’s slicked up, and then disengages.

I’m still wearing my T-shirt. He’s naked, and still stiff as an iron rod. He lifts a foot and steps onto the chair. The other foot follows. His toes dig into the space between the upholstered arms and the cushion as he lowers himself down. It’s an awkward position, but he’s young and flexible. “Do you really want to make me feel good?” I ask him. “I mean, really want to?”

He nods. He’s apprehensive about the fuck, I can tell. He always is. I watch him struggle between the need and the knowledge of how much it’s going to hurt, going in. The need wins out. “I want to be your best,” he whispers. “I want to be the best you have.”

“Then do what you have to do, son,” I tell him, stroking his cheek. He looks at me, trying to gather his nerve. I stroke his cheek, nodding. Giving him permission to do what he wants.

He takes a breath. His fingers grope for my cockhead, aligning it with his hole. Up and down his hips raise and lower as he makes a couple of false starts. Then he takes the head, and hesitates.

“Do it,” I command. “Do I have to force you, boy?”

Although for a moment, he looks as if he’s considering it, at last he shakes his head. Another deep breath. Then I feel all of his weight pressing on my cock. I make it swell, to withstand the assault. I feel the first ring open, and he begins to slide down. Then, after some struggle, the next tight ring of muscle gives way. He’s around me, and the pressure of his little hole is tighter and sweeter than anything else I could wish for at that moment.

The assault on his hole, self-inflicted though it was, makes him cry out sharply. The sound reflects around the wood and plaster of my living area, bounces into the dining room, echoes from the kitchen. His hole is twitching, he’s bucking around with his eyes closed, his nose wrinkled in a rictus of agony. “Fuck!” he yells out, with a wet catch in his throat.

He sinks all the way down until I’m buried in him. For a moment, he relaxes. Only for a moment. Because as it always does, the pain of entry triggers his first orgasm. He’s openly sobbing. The moisture in his eyes is now tears. His lips are stretched wide, pulled into an ugly shape.

But he’s the prettiest sight in the world, right now.

I feel the warmth of his semen on my chest, my left nipple, my belly. It slides down and puddles around my navel. He hasn’t touched himself once. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he says, like a little boy at the end of a spanking. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”

“Ssshhh,” I tell him. The feel of my hand against his chest calms him. His breathing subsides. His sobbing slowly ceases. His eyes open, and stare into mine. “It’s good,” I say. “It’s okay. You can’t help it.”

He shakes his head. Whether it’s to say he really can’t help it, or that I’m wrong and he’s still sorry, I don’t know.

“Now show me what my best boy can do,” I tell him, sinking back into the cushions once more. I let his warmth blanket me. “Show me who’s my best boy.”

He brightens at the words, and shines like that sun on a cold morning, bright, clear, and intent in its purpose. Then his eyes close, and his head tips back at the sensations he produces as he begins sliding up and down on my shaft.

I know I’m going to be in for a long, long ride.

It Hurts

“It hurts.”

The Runt’s brow is furrowed low. His lips are trembling; they’ve been pressing themselves into tight, wordless circles as I worked my fat head and most of the thick, engorged shaft into his skinny little butt. His legs are nominally perched on my shoulders as he stares up at me, but really they’re hovering. The hair on his calves is so wispy that it’s barely there, but it tickles my neck and collarbone in little butterfly landings as his feet tense and flail in the air.

He speaks again. “It really hurts.”

It’s not a complaint. I can tell by his tone he’s not whining, not mewling like a child. The words are simple statement. They’re a prayer. Breathy. Sincere. His dark, clear eyes stare directly into mine. I pause. This boy is so pretty. He’s been letting his hair grow a little long and wild this summer. It’s spread across the pillow in dark chocolate waves. He stares at me like I’m the only sun in his universe—though we both know I’m more the crescent moon, three-quarters shrouded in darkness.

I cock my head sideways, like a bird. His gaze follows. “You are so beautiful, son,” I whisper to him. Joy and relief spreads across his face like a splash of watercolor paint into a clear, clean glass. I watch it unfurl until it tints every reach of him.

He wants to show me how grateful he is for the praise. He strains to lift his head. I help him by slipping my fingers beneath the leather of the dog collar around his neck. It’s the only thing he’s wearing. The leather creaks and strains as I pull him into a kiss. Our lips mold to each other; our tongues connect. I shove mine into his mouth, deep, all the way. He goes limp again, reminded of the invasion taking place below his waist.

“God, it hurts,” he whispers.

“You want me to pull out?” I ask. I have no intention of pulling out. “I’ll do it. It’d be a shame to pull out, though.” I have absolutely no intention of pulling out. “It feels so damned good, but if you’re in pain, I will pull out.” There is no way I’m pulling out.

His cock lies on his abdomen, untouched. The stiff, red, wet muscle jumps, leaving another sticky thread of precum connecting its tip to his stomach. Deep down, the Runt needs to please me. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He knows that if I pull out, it's because he’s letting me down. It’s a weak and vulnerable point to which I apply the chisel, then hammer away. “It’s just that you feel so good,” I tell him in a hush. “And you look . . . so . . pretty. It drives a man like me crazy, just looking down and seeing how pretty you are. How . . . fuckable.” The word drops slowly, like a leaf. I feel his hole twitch around me. His entire body shivers. “But if you want me to pull out—“ I move a few muscles, as if I’m fixing to withdraw.

But I have no intention of pulling out.

“No,” he says. His fingers claw for my thighs, my arms, my hands, anything to keep me inside. “Don’t.”

“You sure, kiddo?” He nods, uncertain at first. Then with more vigor. “All right then,” I say with a smile, pretending it wasn’t going to end like this all along.

When I shift him back into position, he winces for a split-second. His meat jumps again. “How much more?”

I pull his hand around and up to where the two of us connect. “Two inches,” I say. “Maybe three.” Our eyes never unlock.

He nods.

I know how this dance goes. I’ve fucked him for months, now. He’s tight, but he’s not as tight as when we first started. I know that all I need to do is push, and smile at him, and coo encouragement, and keep the pressure on his hole. It’s the last stretch, the roughest part of this particular road. The last two inches. He’s straining and shoving back, determined that I should break past that second ring and into the deepest part of him. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He wants it as much as I do. Hell, he wants it probably even more than I do, at this very moment.

“Oh god, it hurts.” I feel his muscles rearranging themselves, inside. There’s a clutching at my cock’s head, a last show of resistance. Then I strain through. I sink all the way into him. My eyes flicker down briefly at the sight of his balls contracting, the sac moving from fluid to tight, to almost non-existent. His eyes close. His head rolls to the side. His throat strangles a low cry. “Yes,” he tries to say.

Then it happens. It always happens at this point, when I’ve opened that second hole. His hands are on his knees, nowhere near his cock. But his shaft pulses and jerks. His hips buckle. His knees open wide, then scissor shut, over and over again. A jet of sperm erupts from his dick. Another. Then another. He’s got pain and pleasure permanently hardwired together. One elicits the other. “It hurts.” It’s barely a breath. I can only hear the words because the world around us is silent. “Oh fuck, it hurts.”

I stare with satisfaction down at the scarlet, distended flesh engulfing my shaft. We both know it’s a lie. He’s never felt so good.

Dicking Down the Runt

One of the reasons I love sinking my inches into the Runt is that he doesn’t bug me with the same old shit that I get from bottom after bottom. He doesn’t ask me about my ‘top buddies.’ He doesn’t complain that I fuck too long, that he can’t maintain his position because his knees hurt. He doesn’t ask me to take a break, switch sides, talk to him about Gaga, to help him out with a few bucks for gas money. He doesn’t ask if I have poppers for him, or request dirty talk, or go through my drawers looking for a joint he’s not going to find.

What he does, he does well. He puts on his dog collar without question.

He removes his clothes when, from my living room sofa, I tell him, “Strip.”

He lifts his legs when I use my hands to spread apart his knees.

He takes my dick.

And he keeps his mouth shut, expect when I fill it. He doesn’t complain. Ever.

Doesn’t seem like a lot to ask of someone. But apparently it is.

It’s twilight, and he stepping out of his briefs. He makes an effort to dress pretty for me, when he knows I’m picking him up and bringing him to my place. He wears his cleanest jeans, or shorts, and puts on a shirt with a collar, and sprays himself with something that smells nice to his younger nostrils. He always wears underwear that he thinks will inflame my desire—today it’s some kind of black boxers. They’re oversized on him, and I’m glad when they hit the floor around his ankles.

Silhouetted in the last of the faded daylight in the window panels behind him, he’s slender, with the waist of a mere boy. His legs are long and skinny, his shoulders narrow. He holds one shoulder awkwardly with the opposite hand, so he looks even ganglier than he is. His hair is thick and dark; it hasn’t been cut in sometime. Idly I wonder how that skinny body can support the enormous weight of that thick, heavy mane.

“Suck it,” I tell him. My dick’s out, and standing straight at attention.

Now that he’s been given direction, he knows what to do. He steps out of the pool of clothing around his feet and kneels before me. His head goes down. For a second I feel his hot breath on my shaft, and then the sweet relief of his mouth around me. His eyes are closed. I’ve got my fingers slipped between the back of his collar and the soft skin of his neck, but I don’t need to direct him. He knows how to take care of my dick. The fingers are just a reminder—a tug now and again to remind him who’s boss, a subtle pressure against his Adam’s apple, a sharp yank when he gets too complacent. In the end I get a blow job the way I like it—with him gagging, and with his saliva slicking down my nuts in heavy runnels.

I’m getting too close. I like feeding him cum, but not the first load. Usually not the second. Now I yank on the collar and lift his head back until we’re face to face. “You know what I want,” I tell him.

It’s not a question. He’s uncertain whether or not to answer at first. Finally, he nods. He knows.

“You know it’s going to hurt,” I say.

Again, more hesitation. Then a nod.

“But you want it anyway. Right?”

For the first time since we’ve gotten out of the car, he speaks. “Yes,” he whispers. It’s barely audible.

We stare at each other for a moment, eye to eye. There’s a liquid quality to his gaze, a way he stares at me, so intense, so stripped down. He doesn’t even bother to conceal his emotions, like most men would. I can tell he loves me. I’d bet every penny I have that he leaves these sessions and jacks his little runt cock until it’s raw and sore. I’d wager that he thinks about me, dreams about me. We’re in the near-dark by now, but so naked and vulnerable is he that it’s as if he’s been lit by the high-powered kliegs of a football stadium. It’s not ego making me think it. The emotions are written plain in his face. Anyone could read them.

But this is not a love relationship for me. This boy is built for dick. Taking it is his talent. It’s his job.
I’m just putting him to work.

He’s on the sofa, knees spread wide, the soft roundness of his butt in my face. His hole emanates heat when I lap at it. My beard scrapes the softest skin on his body, rakes against it, makes him yell out. He wants to say something, I can tell, when the wordless cries nearly take shape into utterance. But he stops himself, or the mingled pain and pleasure of me chewing on his butthole prevents him from speaking.

I’ve got lube on the table. I use some of it on his tiny pucker. A good deal of it makes my angry red dick shine in the dark.

I wait.

The anticipation makes him anxious. I feel him shift on the sofa. His breathing is shallow, irregular. He senses every tiny sound I make, feels every shift in the air currents when I move. He knows that any moment, my cock will make him—

And then I’m in, sliding into that tight hole and pressing onward, ignoring the fact that he’s beating at the cushion and the sofa’s arm, that his neck is thrown back and he’s howling, yelling into the dark. Nobody can fucking hear him. There’s nobody around.

If he didn’t bring this out in me, if he didn’t turn me into a sadist with my demon dick, I would’ve gone easy on him. But he needs this as much as I do. He needs to hurt. I’m not even all the way in when he starts to shake. His body flies up; I catch his torso in my arms and hold him tight as he shakes. It feels like he’s trying to fight me off, but he’s not; I’m still lodged deep inside his ass. This is why he dreams about me—this is why he keeps coming back. Because when I force my way into his hole without stopping, I force him into another of those hard, enviable orgasms that the young have—the kind that wracks the body and leaves it burning with a white-hot flame. He might be a runt in size, but I know that somewhere between sofa and floor is a puddle of his man-sized load.

It’s just the first.

If I were a nicer guy, if I were less of a sadist and more of a lover, I might back off and go easy on him until he recuperated. I might switch to some other activity more fun for the both of us.

But I’m not. And like I said. He keeps his mouth shut, and doesn’t complain. Even when I’m stretching him past the point of discomfort and into outright agony. Even as I’m battering his tight hole with meat that seems swollen to twice its normal girth. Even when I’m spunking him with a load that feels as thick as pancake batter.

He takes it. He keeps his mouth shut. And he doesn’t complain.

And when I wipe off his face at the end with a cold washcloth, and attempt to brush his hair back into place with my fingers, and when I drive him home in my car and he’s so uncomfortable sitting that he has to perch on his hip, like a Victorian woman riding sidesaddle, he doesn’t joke or mutter a single word of discomfort. He’ll feed on that pain for weeks, until we can see each other again.

Then he’ll ask for more, without speaking a word.

I’ll give it to him.

The Runt in Bed

When I bring him into the bedroom, he’s like a puppy in a new household. His dark eyes dart around, landing on the books lining one wall, on the clothes that appear to be overflowing from the closet and into the basket below, then to be spilling out onto the floor. His nose quivers at the unfamiliar smells, from the bouquet of azalea and California privet just outside the window, to the scents of strange deodorants and body sprays and the overlooked odors of the ordinary that none of us notice because we’re so used to them. His neck swivels as he looks at the pictures and the desk covered with books and the weekend’s work, and the way the lights from the auditorium in the building next door filter in through the lowered shades.

“Take your clothes off,” I tell him.

The Runt and I have fucked several times since the definitely size-challenged young-ish man contacted me on Grindr a few months ago. It’s always been in the back seats of cars, though. In dark parking lots along the New Haven line. In the cold, with our hot breath crystallizing inside the car windows. But I’ve got a rare night to myself at my place, and a freshly-made bed that’s not my own, so the time seems right.

The Runt never says much. He always obeys, though. He removes his hoodie and jeans, and folds them neatly before putting them in a stack on the floor. Off come his adorably much-worn socks, so floppy that they don’t even make a pretense of staying up on his skinny legs. He shimmies out of his tight gray T-shirt. Last, he pulls off his black briefs. He’s standing before me completely naked save for the collar he’d pulled from the glove compartment and put on when I’d picked him up in my car.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him completely naked, standing up. He’s a skinny, short young man, and his head of wavy brown hair makes him look even younger than he really is. The sight takes my breath away. “Beautiful boy,” I grunt. “You know what you do to my dick when you look all pretty like that?”

He shakes his head. I use both hands to outline the hard meat in my jeans, so he’ll know exactly what he does. He’s trying not to betray his excitement, but his dick hardens while I watch. It rises from flaccid to fully erect in mere seconds, then throbs in pace with his quickening heartbeat. At his sides, his hands flap helplessly. He wants to cover his shame, but at the same time, he wants me to notice how excited I make him. Much as he pretends otherwise, the little slut is proud of his erection, the proof of his desire.

“Get on the bed,” I order him.

I give him a few seconds to sit on the edge of the mattress and pull himself into its center. He’s surrounded by sheets and pillows and smells and sights unfamiliar to him, but now he’s looking at me. Only at me. His little dick points up toward the ceiling when he settles back against the headboard. I’m still clothed when I stride over to the bed and mount him. His mouth opens automatically to receive my tongue. He shifts and settles until his dick is pressing against mine through a layer of denim. I feel him stiffen and gasp slightly when the cold of my belt buckle meets his skin, soft and supple as a pair of kid gloves. He smells like soap, and cheap scent.

The Runt’s hungry. Because of his living arrangements we haven’t been able to meet as much as I’d like, and he’s not getting it from anyone else. Already his hole is lifting up and pushing against me. I grind the head of my dick against it through my jeans, and listen as softly he huffs and exhales and catches soft breaths. He’s caught up in his need. It’s overwhelming him, rendering him completely and utterly pliable.

By the time I flip him over and lap at his pink little hole, the huffing and breathing has turned into whimpering. He sounds like a hurt dog, whining for aid. My hands seem enormous on those tiny cheeks. When he tries to pull away, tries to resist the pleasure he needs so much and yet seems so unwilling to accept in such quantities, all I have to do is pull in order to keep him in place. I pull insistently. I pull firmly. He’s not getting away from me. I can tell by the rasp in his voice that if I were to look at his face, right now, he’d be crying.

His face is still wet when I flip him over yet again. My dick’s angry, now. There’s something in small men like the Runt that brings out the sadist in me. I want to make him hurt. My dick wants to drive inside and make him yell. He makes me want to forget about his pleasure—he doesn’t need to know there’s such a thing as pleasure. All he needs to know is the force of my dick, splitting him wide open.

And when I drive in, my pants pulled only to thighs, he yells out in nothing but pain. My thickness stretches him in a way he hasn’t had in weeks. My length tunnels deep inside. Even when he’s beginning to bottom out, I still push in. His ass hot and almost liquid around me. My dick is fire, but he’s molten lava.

My hand covers his mouth for most of that yell. Over the side of my hands his eyes bulge. They’re full of fear, and pain, and the worry of more to come. His body is spasming as it tries to accept the deep thrust I’ve stabbed into him. His hips buckle. His legs grapple for something to hold onto, and then wave helplessly in the air. His face is wet with tears.

But he’s hard. Not just rock hard, but dripping at the tip of a dick that’s closer to little boy than the mature man he is. I’ve never seen him harder than when I shove into him brutally, when I cause him as much pain as my meat can manage. When I hit bottom, I shove in a little more, then wait until his yells subside once again into a quiet keening. “You want me to stop?” I ask him, taking my hand away. “I’ll stop and take you home right now if that’s what you want. If you can’t handle my dick, that is.”

Though the light is dim in the room, I can see the obsidian glint of his eyes. “No,” he begs. “Please don’t take it out.”

“You want it?” I ask him. He nods. “You want my dick in there, don’t you?” He nods some more. “Say it,” I tell him. “Say the words.”

“I want you in there,” he begs. “I need it. Please don’t take your dick out. Please don’t take it out. Please don’t—“

What he doesn’t know is that I wouldn’t have taken it out even if he’d asked. I just wanted to hear him beg.

We have more room to maneuver in the bed, but we don’t really use it. Not for the first fuck. I keep his little legs in the air, manhandling him like he was a a cheap prop. Though his tight hole is still aching, he’s accepting the fuck, taking it like a man. A little, underdeveloped man. I wrap my fingers around his ankles and fuck away, feeling my ball slap and rub against his butt cheeks.

He comes unexpectedly and without warning. Only his breathing—a quickening that catches and chokes in his throat—betrays that he’s shooting at all. That and the squirt of semen that hits his stomach with a squelch and begins running down toward his chest and face. I rip my dick out of his hole and cause him to protest. Then I slap some of that load onto my meat and shove it back in, fucking him with his own juices for lube.

I can only punish him for so long before I’m ready to shoot, myself. The load gushes from my dick into his guts. He stares at me when it happens, his lips parted, his eyes full of hope and awe and fear. Fear that I might kick him out, right then—fear that I might disengage and let my cock come slopping out of that tight, juice-filled hole.

I’m not done with him yet, though. Still connected, ass to cock, I fall onto my side and pull him into a position where I can both hold him and continue gently moving in and out. He’s in a fetal position, his hairy legs pulled up to his chest, while I hold hims as tightly as possible from the front.

“You needed that badly, didn’t you?” I ask, as the dark begins to settle around us.

His only reply is a sudden release of breath. It’s as if he’s divesting himself of some great weight that he’d carried, now we’re alone and past that first flush of need and desire.

I accept the answer for what it is. And I begin a second time to stretch him past the point of endurance.

The Collar

“Hang on a second,” I say, as we’re walking down the aisle, between supersized pails of cat sand on one side and stacks of small cans on the other. I pick up a box of Fancy Feast. Might as well, while I’m in the Petsmart, right? I’m pretty sure we’re running low at home.

At first I tuck it under my arm. Then I realize I’ve got someone to do the work for me. “Make yourself useful, boy,” I suggest, and toss the box to the young guy at my side.

He catches it, and hugs it to his chest, his face turning a deep shade of pink. It’s endearing on him.

In my head I think of him as the Runt, still. He’s got a name, but I don’t use it much. Because the guy is younger and slight of build, to his face I call him boy. Son, sometimes. He loves the nicknames.

Even now, I’m certain he’s flushing because I’ve used one on him. The people around us probably think of him as my son—and he technically could be, admittedly, by his age alone. We don’t look alike, save for a certain leanness in the body. He’s shorter, and small, slight in the shoulders. Soaking wet, probably most of his hundred and fifteen pounds would come from the halo of dark brown hair in a bush around his head. He’s smooth where I’m scruffy, dark where I’m fair. His eyes are big, wide, and brown, while mine are blue and narrow.

Still. The human mind takes immense comfort in being able quickly to classify and sort what its owner sees. When one passes a well-dressed older guy walking along the aisles of a pet store with his hand pressed between the shoulders of a much younger guy, one automatically thinks, dad and son taking home some food for the cat.

One doesn’t think, I wonder if that older guy is going to being fucking the brains out of that boy in another twenty minutes?

I’m guiding him, though. I know this Petsmart well—it’s the closest pet supply store to my home, a mere half-mile away, across from the Starbucks where I’ll hang out in the afternoons. I take him past the banks of cat treats and down the aisle in the direction of the pet groomers and the doggy daycare studio in the back. Then, the pressure of my hand a constant against his back, I steer him down another side aisle.

It’s when we stop in front of the display of dog collars that it suddenly dawns on him why we’ve made this detour, and that it wasn’t merely because I was nearly out of Fancy Feast. He looks at me, swallows, and then laughs a little. Once he realizes I’m dead serious, the laughter fades.

While he stands there, nervously watching me, I study the collars, look at the Runt, and then finally reach out to lift one from the display. It’s a deliberately-humiliating choice, made of narrow pink leather studded with some kind of sparkly plastic imitation gems. When he looks at it, then at me, I can see in his eyes he’s worried I’m serious. I put it back.

I go through several other collars until I make my choice. It’s a sturdy brown collar, broad and made for a big dog—or a smallish male. I tug at it as if to test its give and its strength, pretending I know what I’m doing. It’s all for display, though. He’s watching my hands surround the leather, not saying a word, but no doubt imagining where that collar will be in just a few minutes.

I exchange vague pleasantries with the clerk as we check out; I don’t need a back. Without a word between us, we head to my car and drive down the road, past all the industrial installations and the self-storage warehouse and into the quiet residential neighborhood beyond.

We’re parking again at the far end of the train station commuter lot. It’s dusk on a winter’s Friday night, long enough past rush hour that most of the cars have emptied out. I pull into a space in the darkest corner, far from the road, and turn off the ignition. “Get in the back,” I order him. When he opens the car door and still has the Fancy Feast in his hands, I add, “Leave the cat food.” He puts it on the floor.

I join him in the back, after I’ve pushed up the front seats to give us as much room as possible. “Clothes off,” I tell him.

He scrambles to obey. Through his curls he looks at me after he’s shucked off his T-shirt and hoodie all as one. He pulls off his scrubby gray socks, one after the other. They join his top on the floor of the car. Then he loosens his oversized belt and shimmies out of his jeans. I stop him before he yanks off his underwear. I pull down the elastic band in the front. His small cock, erect and already dripping with pre-cum, snaps out like an obscene jack-in-the-box. He lifts his hips as I pull off the blue briefs from his narrow waist.

I’ve got the collar in my hand. It’s still stiff and unworked, so I run it as a tight curve through my fingers a few times as he looks at me with wide eyes. “Is that for me?” he asks at last.

It’s rhetorical. I don’t have to reply. He knows what the answer is. He’s just filling the quiet with words. I’ll be filling it with his cries, soon enough.

“Lean forward, son,” I tell him. My hands loop around his slender neck. The leather’s edge scrapes a trail down the nape until it rests where I settle it. I’m pulling the leather through metal, gauging where to close it. When it’s finally fastened, it hangs a little loose. There’s enough give for me to slip all four of my right fingers through and pull his face to mine. “Whose are you?” I whisper to him.

He hesitates for a second. I can tell his eyes are glistening with tears. They’re not tears of fear, or of terror—though maybe there’s some of that, mixed in. No, those are tears of gratitude. This stupid gesture of mine, unexpected and so far from any of the tame experiences he’d had before me that it’s practically alien, this cheap collar that’s put me thirteen dollars out of pocket, has resonated so much with his needs that he’s trembling with gratitude. “Yours,” he whispers.

He’s brimming with emotion. I’m not having any of that. Roughly I shove him back until his head is nestled where seat and door meet. We don’t have much foreplay, the Runt and I. He’s there to be fucked, and I’m clear that I regard him as my hole, whenever I pick him up from home and drive him somewhere. I’ve got a tube of Astroglide in the console between the two front seats. It’s been chilling in the winter weather for over a week. It’s cold on my fingertips. I know it’s got to be torture for his hole when I jam my index and third finger inside him roughly.

I’m so hard that it’s difficult to pull down my pants in the cramped confines of the car. I manage, though. I’m desperate to shove inside him. “You ready?” I ask.

Another rhetorical question. I don’t really give a shit if he’s ready or not. I can feel the lips of his hole separating from the pressure of my cock’s head. The Runt is super-tight. Not so tight that he can’t be opened, though. He’s trying to be a good boy, a quiet boy here in this silent parking lot, but the pain of my cock tearing into his hole is almost too much; he’s panting and gritting his teeth and letting out cries of pain and anxiety and of deep, deep need. My dick, steel-hard and driving in, shows no remorse.

But I’m not the only one who’s hard. His own dick is pointing in the air and letting loose another glob of pre-cum. His thin legs are flailing in the air, trying to buck me off, to keep me from entering too deeply. At the same time, though, he needs it, and he knows it. His hands are clutching to the sides of my thighs, not letting me go. Pulling me in.

It doesn’t take me long to reach bottom—though it probably seems like an eternity to him. I feel my cock nudge against that spot of his deep within. His cock jumps. I pull out slightly and then shove against it again. Once. Twice. Three times.

That’s all it takes. Everything conspires against him—the collar, the darkness, the pain of my dick. Pressure against that point pushes him over the edge, even if he hasn’t touched himself. He lets out a cry that’s more anguish than pleasure, and then his cock begins unloading all over his midsection. I hold still while he gives in to the sensations of orgasm, feeling his tight hole spasm around my meat.

When his legs stop moving and I feel his body relax a little, I begin moving again. He groans at the discomfort of it, so soon after his climax. “My turn,” I remind him. “It’s what you’re here for.”
He doesn’t protest.

We fuck for over an hour. His three climaxes come at random, when I batter his prostate with the head of my dick at a certain angle. Mine are more deliberate, more calculated. Both times I grab his collar and pull him up so he can see my face as I shoot. I make him stare into my eyes and see what his hole is doing to me.

Only when my dick stops throbbing and swelling and letting loose the seed it’s delivering do I lower him by the collar back down again.

I make him remove it once his clothes are back on. At my instruction, he tucks it into the glove compartment. I can tell he wants to take it home with him, though. I can tell he wants to wear it when he’s alone, and to think of me, and the damage my cock can do.

Perhaps another time. For now, that collar is mine, something I can keep in my back pocket for when I need it. Just like I keep him.

Another Round with the Runt

The runt’s hole is a sloppy little pucker, red and raw from my teeth, tongue, and beard. When I draw my face away from between his ass cheeks, the car’s cold air hits the wet flesh. The shock makes it contract and expand, like a winking eye.

It’s quiet at this end of the parking lot, which runs alongside the New Haven line. Every few minutes a Metro North train roars by, obscuring his whimpers as it rattles along on the tracks and stops at the station this parking lot services. A few commuter cars still pepper this remote section of the lot, so far away from the station that it would take a brisk three-minute walk to make the train. By and large, though, this time of night the lot is deserted. In the back seat of my car, parked in a pool of shadow, we’re invisible from anyone who might drive by. Invisible from the banks of apartments that rise four stories above us, over the empty lot. Invisible from the world.

I’ve been eating at the runt’s hole for a good half-hour. He’s been loving it. His cock is dripping pre-cum like a faucet. I’ve told him not to touch his meat. His skinny legs are up in the air, sometimes resting on my shoulders, sometimes resting on the back of the driver’s seat. Most of the time, though, his completely naked body is curled into as tight a ball as possible. He’s conserving heat. He’s pushing up that hole, exposing it, giving me the maximum possible access. He wants more. He wants my face buried in that private place, and he’d take it forever, if we had world enough and time.

But I haven’t picked him up from his folks’ place to munch on his butt indefinitely. It’s awkward in the back seat, even with the seats pushed up, but I perch my left leg on the seat as my right squats on the floor. I raise myself up and align my dick with the boy’s hole. I use my right hand to spread a glob of spit over my meat. My left hand cups, then covers his mouth, pressing down firmly. I feel his head make a dent into the seat cushion.

Then I cock my head, like a curious bird. Ready? I’m asking him silently.

The runt begins to nod. I’ve already anticipated him. Before he’s given assent, I’m driving in.

I hadn’t planned it, but an Acela speeds by at that moment. The high-speed Amtrak is a rush of noise and wind that shakes my car as it passes—or perhaps it’s the runt’s attempt to escape the cock stretching open his asshole. He’s still yelling when nothing’s left of the train’s passing but a few still-vibrating signs, and the memory of an echo. “You want me to stop?” I ask him.

No. He shakes his head no, panicked I might pull out. His eyes have a watery film covering them that reflects what traces of light seep into the car.

“I could pull out and drive your scrawny ass home,” I drawl. “Is that what you want?”

No. He shakes his head more desperately, trying to dislodge my fingers. “Do it,” he says. It’s cold enough in the car that his breath spirals up toward me, like smoke. “Fuck it,” he begs. "Fuck that hole."

The little runt brings out the sadist in me. I shove the rest of my meat in, without mercy. My hand claps down on his mouth to muffle the rest of his yell. His legs flail helplessly in the air to either side. For a moment there’s panic in his eyes, but ultimately he knows there’s a price to pay for all that pleasure I’ve given him. He’s paying, now.

Soon enough, it starts paying back to him. Mere seconds after I’ve hit bottom, his body is shifting and accommodating me in ways that only come from an experienced hole. Then he starts nodding. Yes, he’s saying without words. Yes. Yes.

It’s okay to remove my hand. I pull it away from his mouth. His breath is ragged and heavy when I take one stroke, then another. His hole is the warmest thing on the earth at that moment, and my dick is growing harder and hotter by the second.

The third stroke triggers something in him. He’s already breathing like he’s run a four-minute mile. Now his chest heaves, and his ass bucks so strongly that I almost slide out of him. His hands grasp at my hips, though, keeping me in.

He’s shooting. The first spurt arrives with such velocity that I can hear it hit his skin, like a tightened drum. He shakes and quivers through the rest of it, loud in his pleasure.

I haven’t even touched him yet.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. I can hear him trying to moisten his lips. "Oh fuck. Sorry."

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I came too quick?” It’s more of a question than a reply.

“Do you think we’re done here?” I ask. I pull my dick out, all save for the head. That I leave inside, marking my place.

“No,” he says, in a tiny voice. Even in the silence, he sounds like he’s speaking from the bottom of a well.

“No. . . ?”

“No sir,” he amends.

“That’s right, son,” I tell him, pushing him back into the seat. Then I drive back inside him, hard. I’m awarded with a cry of need that borders on distress as once more I split open that hole.

I was just getting started.

Runt

This kid is hot. He’s a runt—small and skinny. But he’s a beautiful runt. His eyebrows are dark and thick, and give the impression he’s got a long way to go, to grow into them. His hair’s a mess, but only because I’ve been running my hands through it, just to enjoy the sensations of its length flicking across the sensitive webs of my fingers. His features are dark. He’s told me his mother was Brazilian. But his skin is pale and white, almost ghostly in the dark.

When he kisses, he keeps his eyes closed. He looks like he’s dreaming.

We’re in the back of my car. It’s not night, but it’s dark. Pitch black before six in the evening. I’ve been to this parking lot before with the Latin boy in the truck, last autumn. There’s almost no traffic coming in and out of the entrance from the sleepy neighborhood street nearby. That suits my purposes just fine.

I’m driving into his hole. He’s kicked off his pants, but he still has on a pair of thick, woolen socks. His thin legs wave helplessly in the air as I enter his hole. He’s tight, but I can tell from the way his chute opens and cedes to my stiff meat that he’s been used before. “That’s it,” I whisper to him.

He sighs. He’s happy. His legs crook and clasp around my back. His eyes are still closed as he surrenders his mouth to mine. My perch on the back seat is tenuous at best, but I make the best of it, and push in as hard as I can, until he gasps, and opens those big, brown eyes.

When he looks at me, it’s through a haze of lust and sensation. He probably doesn’t even remember my name. I don’t really give a shit. “You like that?” I ask. The words seem obscenely out of place as they break the stillness.

“Yes,” he says. He licks his lips and swallows. “Dude, don’t stop.”

I have no intentions of stopping.

I’ve complained before about Grindr in my area—that app that’s become the ubiquitous hookup tool for gay men with smartphones and GPS has never really worked for me. Once I get into Manhattan, I’m barraged by hookup requests. But out in the ‘burbs, where I live, it’s not of much use. I’ve had more hookups through Instagram, a photo-sharing app, than I have through Grindr. (And it’s not like the arty snapshots I post on Instagram are racy in tone, either.) But this guy contacted me through Grindr only a couple of hours before. He had no photo. He told me he had no place to fuck. And no car. It was the trifecta of loserishness, basically—and then he sent me his photos.

The first was of himself sitting on a sofa, head bowed to show off his thick dark hair. He wore nothing but a red plaid shirt and a pair of tighty-whities. His pale legs were crossed, and made even whiter by the proximity of the flash. Then he sent me a photo of his face. He’s a beautiful boy. So I said yes.

Fucking in the back seat of a car is the compromise we’re making. He doesn’t care. He just wants the cock. My cords are around my ankles, my boots still on. I’ve got my flannel shirt unbuttoned. It hangs around his hips and chest, as he jerks and twitches and pulls every bottom’s trick in the book to get my shaft deeper into his hole. Every once in a while the angle at which I’m hitting him will shift. He’ll grunt with pain. I’ll see it flicker across his face, feel his body flinch. But he doesn’t stop. Even when it hurts, he still wants to be filled. He needs to be used.

The knowledge makes me stab him hard. My dick seems to double in size. “So why can’t you host?” I ask him. “Think how hot this would be in a bed.”

The runt’s head is lolling like a broken doll. With every thrust, it bangs against the door. He’s panting slightly. His little dick, uncut and definitely a bottom’s cock, is oozing a snail’s trail across his hoodie. “I . . . live . . . with . . . people,” he pants out, a little at a time.


Lives with his fucking parents, I’m thinking to myself, but I don’t say anything. It’s not like I really give a crap. All I really care about is keeping the screw going. The car was warm mere minutes before, all the way from where I’d picked him up downtown and on the drive here, but with the motor off, its interior was growing steadily chillier and damper from our heavy breathing. The windows are fogging up, around the bottoms.

“God, you’re so . . . big!” he grunts. He looks like he’s in pain. I like that look on his face. Because no matter how much distress is causing him, he still wants more and more of it. He’s got one hand on the back of the driver’s seat, and the other helplessly clutching a seatbelt. He uses the leverage to lift up his hips and drive them against me, trying to get more dick, more sensation, more pain. His face contorts when I shove my cold fingers up beneath his clothing and twist his nipples. He looks like he needs a bullet to bit, or a wad of leather to shove between his teeth to cope with the pain. He wants it though. Every twist of his hips tells me that, every gasp and labored breath writes that story plain.

To an observer, it might look as if he’s trying to wrestle me off. He’s still trying to get me in deeper, though. His hands shove at me, but it’s so he can position me in a way he can lie more on his back. His skinny hips buck me, but not to shove me away. He’s not in control, though. I am. I drive home and hold it there, sadistically swelling my meat to make him gasp.

Too much. He’s shooting. There’s no warning. One moment he’s trying to cope with my big dick, the next he’s spilling a load all over his sweatshirt. The sensation of his ass contorting around my dick makes me decide it’s time. I’m close. “You want the load?” I ask him.

“Yes,” he says, eyes closed. There’s need in his voice.

“Where do you want it?” I ask. He doesn’t have much of an option. I just want to hear him say the words.

“In my ass,” he whimpers. “Please. Come in me.”

I’m closer still. “If you want this load, tell me who you live with,” I say.

"I—"

"Tell me," I growl.

“With my folks,” he admits. “I still live with my folks.”

The information’s irrelevant by now. I don’t care. All I know is that my dick’s on fire. My load gushes out almost painfully, filling the boy’s ass. He welcomes it with a smile and a half-laugh, as if he can’t believe he got exactly what he wanted. I feel his fingers scrabbling around the outside of his hole, where my dick is slopping him up. “Fuck yes,” he whispers. “Fuck yes.” Then he says the words over and over, in a soft, appreciative sigh. Fuckyesfuckyesfuckyes, until his lips make the words without sound.

The car smells like semen when I drive him home. I feel something on my shoulder. His head rests on me. His beautiful eyes are closed, dreaming again. He’s soft, and seems to weigh no more than a feather.

I let him doze. He stays there almost all the way home.