Mr. B______, Part 2

“I’m worried,” he tells me. His blue eyes are guileless. When he makes the admission, he sucks on his lower lip.

I’m aware that my load is leaking out of his hole. Tim’s little teen butt is nestled between the bone of my pelvis. Every time he moves, a little more of myself oozes out of him. Since he’s got his cock in his hand and is thrusting back and forth as he stares down at me, he’s moving a lot.

I reach out and remove his hand from his dick. He’s not going to shoot. Not that way. “Why are you worried?”

“I don’t want to turn you off,” he says.

“You’re not going to turn me off.”

“What if I do something wrong?”

“What in the world can you do wrong?” I ask him. I hold his hands as we talk. His fingers twine through mine. I watch as his eyes search the ceiling for an answer. He finds nothing there, and grins a little at himself. “You’re not going to do anything wrong.”

I try to pull him down beside me. This is a conversation best suited for taking place in my arms. He’s a little bit stubborn, though. He remains sitting on my midsection, his knees digging into my rib cage. “What if it hurts?”

“Why in the world—?” Oh, I realize, with a start. He’s not worried about it hurting himself. He’s concerned about me. “Sweetie,” I say. This time, when I pull him down to me, I don’t allow him to put up resistance. My arms surround him. I nuzzle his neck, lay down soft kisses onto his jawline, and stroke the messy curls from his eyes. “I don’t think you’re capable of hurting me. Did it hurt when I fucked you?”

He shakes his head. “Oh hell no,” he says. “I loved it when you fucked me.” Is he trembling at the memory, or from the chill? It was the late afternoon when we slipped out of our clothes and into my bed. It’s past dusk now, and the air cascading down from the window high over the bed makes my skin break out in gooseflesh. With my ankles, I hook the blanket that’s lying crumpled and most of the way onto the floor, and pull it up over us.

We’re in a cozy nest now, cuddled together. A world consisting of us two alone. I continue to stroke his hair with the flat of my hand and look into his eyes. “I just don’t know whether I’ll make a good top for you.”

He’s completely naked for me now. Not just undressed. He’s stripped down, his soul laid bare. We’ve arrived at the unadulterated truth. He’s breathing swiftly and shallowly. Has he ever had to be this nakedly honest before? I doubt it, this early in his sexual career. “You’ve never topped,” I say, laying a palm on his chest. He’s so warm, so vital. So fucking young. “You told me you wanted to try it. Do you still?”

Tim’s afraid to say yes, but he manages to nod.

“Do you want your first time to be with me, still?”

His eyes are filling again. I can see them in the dim of the room, glistening like gems. “Mr. B______, I’ve been jacking off about you for weeks. What if I cum too soon, though?”

I place another hand on him to soothe him, before he becomes too agitated. “Tim,” I say, recalling him to himself. “This isn’t about you being a power top. You’re not being graded here.” He relaxes a little, hoping what I tell him is the truth. “What we’re going to do—if you want to do it, and if you want to do it with me—is about one man and one young man making each other feel very, very good. That’s all that matters. If you enjoy yourself, you’ve succeeded.” I pause to let my words sink in. “So let me make you feel very, very good.”

When I lean forward to kiss him, his neck cranes to meet me. His lips are soft, and slightly puffy. They’re the color of candy. He tastes sweet like candy, too. “Let me be your first,” I urge. “All right?”

“All right,” he says.

When I pull back the sheets, he trembles again. His dick isn’t just hard. It’s hard in that raging, all-encompassing way that teen boys manage at the drop of a hat. I reach for the lube on the bookshelf next to the bed and squirt some in my hand, then cup my fingers around the curve of his cock. He shivers, then bucks at the warmth of my touch contrasted with the lube’s coolness. His lips twitch. His hands dash out to stop me from masturbating him too much. Maybe he is close, like he worried.

“If you feel yourself shooting, just try to go in as deep as you can. It will be fine.” I’m speaking in my dad voice, my teacher voice, the voice of the wise elder imparting both advice and assurance to the young. “Okay?” I ask.

“Okay,” he says, very softly.

Another handful of the lube goes onto and into my hole. I am hardly practiced at lubing myself, but I fake it, shoving two fingers inside myself and getting the cold ointment as deep into me as I can. “Let’s try it this way,” I say, as I roll onto my side. I pull up a leg and leave the other pointing toward the fireplace on the room’s other side. “Just go slow,” I ask him, trying to sound confident and not beg. “It’ll be all right.”

He’s not huge. Maybe six and a half inches. But I’m not the most experienced bottom of late, despite getting my hole stretched by the Russian a couple of times. He’s very sweet about it as he points his cement-hard meat at my hole, though, and nudges it past the hairy outer lips. When he starts fucking the head back and forth just inside my hole, making every micro-movement count, I can tell he was paying attention when I fucked him for the first time a few minutes before.

At least he’s learned from one of the best, right? I’m prepared to have to put up with some pain. I’m expecting to have to bite the pillow and think of England, to have to cover up my discomfort with some acting. But once he’s past the first ring, I’m actually quite comfortable. He’s grunting to himself slightly as he slides in, but he’s got control; he’s opening me like he knows what he’s doing, not like a teen boy topping for the first time. I was never this smooth at his age, that’s for sure.

“You’re good,” I groan out. I really want him in my hole. There’s no endurance here, no covering up my real feelings. England is the last thing on my mind. “Just keep . . . yeah. Like that. Just like that.”

“Is it okay?” he asks. I can hear a little anxiety in his voice, but there’s more urgency than fear.

“Oh god. It’s better than okay.” The deep bass of my guttural voice shocks even me. “Is it okay for you?”

The only answer he makes is his respiration, which is harsh and heavy. My suspicion that he’s all the way in seems to be verified when he starts moving back and forth over me. I turn my head to look. His eyes are closed. He’s got his hands wrapped around his chest, hugging himself like a little boy. His hips have taken over, though. Tim is sliding in and out of me at first tentatively, but then with purpose. His hands drop to my ass, and lightly touch me there. Then he puts his weight onto me, and digs in.

He doesn’t last long. I’m very proud that he actually made it into the hole before he shot, though—a lot of first-timers don’t manage that. He’s in me for about a minute, making my hole hungry for more, when all of a sudden he starts muttering to himself and lunges, sending me sprawling forward a good six inches. “—deep as I can,” I hear him saying to himself.

I realize he’s repeating my advice to him. “Give it to me,” I growl, contorting my leg higher. I want him in there as far as he can go. I need that boy’s cock. He’s setting my hole on fire in a way I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. “Give me all you’ve got.”

My own dick is making a permanent impression in the foam mattress, it’s so rigid. I ignore it, though. This is all about him, and his first time. He sputters when he shoots, showering me with droplets of saliva fine as mist. I can feel his rod jerking and swelling and letting loose inside me. Then, mid-squirt, he slips out.

“Put it back in,” I urge. “Quick.”

He shoves back in, going in at the wrong angle at first, but then shoving his gushing meat all the way back in. I feel like I’ve taken a gallon of his cum; I can feel some of it on the back of my thigh, dripping onto my balls. He’s still jerking and bucking and thrashing, eyes closed, lost in his own little world.

Or so I think. Because he opens his eyes and says in a panic, “What do I do? Pull out?”

“Stay in,” I urge. And I reach up and help him maneuver down to the bed, still in me, until he’s spooning behind me. I tug the blanket over our tangled bodies. His arms reach around and encompass my chest. He squeezes me tightly, and buries his nose against the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.

I’m so happy, at this moment. So happy. And I hope he is too.

After a moment, I’m sure he’s asleep. But then there’s a rumbling in his chest. “I’ve never held a man like this,” he says, his voice wondering.

Of all the firsts this evening, that’s the most remarkable for him. I fold my hands over his, and let him hold me until he sleeps.

Mr. B______, Part 1

All over his body, his skin is taut. When I drop the ball of a finger on the flat planes of his stomach, his chest, his thigh, I expect to hear a hollow resounding, like a drum. What sparse hair there is around his cock is fluffy and untrimmed. It’s as fair as the messy curls on his head. A narrow trail of it leads to his navel, where it vanishes.

When he raises his legs for me, they’re trembling. His neck strains as he holds up his head and looks me square in the eyes. I recognize the expression on his face. It’s half dick-lust, pure craving and need. It’s half fear. My cock head is wet, shining, and engorged as it nudges against his hole. I let it sniff there like an animal, let it prod apart the sweet lips on the kid’s hole. Already there’s a connection between us. Strands, thick and glistening, of my precum mixed with the lube I’ve already thrust inside there, stretch and droop from my slit to his hole.

His own dick is shaped like a scythe—curved more than the average meat, from base to crown. His hand is wrapped around it, squeezing it until the head is red to bursting. I swat away his hand. I don’t want him shooting too soon. He obeys my unspoken command and puts his hands over his head. His brows knit into expectation. He wants me, I can tell. He wants me badly.

“Why me?” I’m moved to ask. This kid could have anyone.

I can tell he’s been afraid to open his mouth, fearful it would all come spilling out if he did. At my question, his expression softens. His dick lurches. Because of its curve, instead of pointing into the air, it arcs and targets his navel instead. “You want me to list why? You’re unbearably handsome,” he says. “Your smile makes me melt. This is right. You’re right.” He swallows, and his voice drops to a husky whisper. “Fuck me.”

I hesitate. I rarely feel handsome, but his praise makes me glow. My dick swells to proportions even larger than normal. I let the tip wallow in the softness of his outer lips for a moment more. Then I shove. His head snaps back. His back arches. I’m in, and driving home.

Earlier in the year I volunteered some time and some mentoring at the local high school. The amount of raw talent in the area guarantees that the kids in the drama department there put on shows like no other—and the shows are huge, too. This particular one had a cast of over fifty, a number that required some extra adult supervision and participation in the wings. So there I was, among the other parents and volunteers, shoving props in kids’ hands so they could make it onto the stage in time. It was a thankless job, but not without its moments. I confess I had a mild crush on one of the show’s leads, a senior with a lithe waist and a solid chest and ass for days who would regularly race backstage, strip shirtless, and make a sweaty costume change right next to me.

He was dreamy. The night he rested one of his meaty paws on my shoulder for balance, I went home and wrote his name with little hearts and arrows all over my fifth period Trapper Keeper.

About a month after the show was over, I was logged onto Manhunt when I got a message from a nearly-blank profile. I checked it out before opening the email. You know the kind. It’s a vast blue expanse of nothing, with a meaningless tagline like Anyone for fun???, a buttload of Ask mes instead of stats, and a default silhouette instead of a photo. About the only concrete details that I could glean were that the guy said he was 20, and that he was in my immediate area. Still, I’m pretty explicit in my profiles that I don’t reply to faceless, data-less profiles. I was ready to trash it unscanned when I opened it by accident and saw that the message inside read, Are you Mr. B_____? Only instead of the blank was my actual last name.

Intrigued, I wrote back. It turned out that the profile’s owner was an 18-year-old senior from the high school. He’d been in the production I’d worked, he told me, and he’d recognized me immediately from my thumbnails. My heart pounded a little bit when he offered to send me photos. Was he going to turn out to be the lead I’d found so dreamy?

He didn’t. In fact, I didn’t recognize him at all, though I made out as if I remembered him among the faces in the dim backstage.

But the texted photos and videos I received from the kid were fucking adorable in their own right—he was a golden-haired, chin-dimpled young scamp with big blue eyes, a snubbed nose, the faintest traces of freckles on his apple cheeks. Out of the baggy costumes they’d worn on the stage, and lying on his own bed naked in the photos and videos he sent me, his body was fucking amazing: lean-waisted, muscled, and breathtaking.

And now, here he is on my my shaft, with my cock inside him for the first time. His eyes are glazed, whether from pain or the pleasure of what he was feeling, I can’t tell. His curved rod is still rock-hard, though. He can’t be in that much pain. I pause and watch his naked chest rise and fall as he pants heavily. Its center is covered with wisps of golden fur. “Do you want more?” I ask softly. “Do you want it all?’

His eyes flick up to me. They’re glistening with moisture. He nods, slightly at first, then more affirmatively. When I push the remaining inches in, he sucks in air with his lips pursed, as if through an invisible straw.

This isn’t his first fuck. He’s told me that. Some other man had him as a fuck toy for a few times over the course of a year. What I am is the first man he’s ever asked to fuck him. The first one he’s picked.

There’s a difference between letting someone inside you after they’ve put the moves on you, and choosing your own top for the first time. I recognize and honor that fact. I’ll make this special for him. He’ll remember it.

He stirs when I’m all the way inside. He raises his arms helplessly, his fists half-curled. He blinks slowly, and lifts his hips. “Oh fuck,” he whispers. He looks as if he’s waking up from a deep sleep; what he’s really wakening to is discovering how he’s supposed to be opened. He hasn’t experienced such strong and compelling sensations with a cock inside him before. I can tell. I always can.

“You all right?” I ask him.

When he looks at me again, his eyes are puddled with tears. “Is it supposed to feel like this?” he says, confirming my suspicions. I nod, very slowly. I’m sliding in and out. I’ve used plenty of lube in the anticipation of him being extra-tight, but I didn’t need to. He’s relaxing around me moment by moment. “It wasn’t like this before.”

“You like it, right?” He nods vigorously. “If it doesn’t feel like this, the guy’s not doing it right.” I look down at him. My palms are planted on either side of his armpits. My hips have taken over. There’s a motor inside them that keeps them pistoning in and out, but the rest of me is very, very still. “Didn’t your other man take the time to make you feel good?”

He shakes his head, almost as if he’s afraid to betray the guy.

His lips have parted. He gazes up at me, half in rapture, half oblivious to anything save for the sensations my cock’s head makes as it rakes back against his insides. “Didn’t he give you as much pleasure as you gave him?” I ask.

Again, there’s hesitation. Whether it’s with his senses in an attempt to speak, or whether it’s with his inner decency against badmouthing a former trick, there’s a battle going on. “No,” he says at last. “Not like you.”

His little legs are hairy. I grab onto his ankles and drive all the way in. His head lolls. He groans. I can feel my cock head nudging his prostate; it dents the upper side when I get to the base. He’s not having the usual struggles of the near-beginner. His fingers reach down to claw at his little bubble butt, to pull apart the cheeks to give me greater access. He’s adjusting the way his shoulders rest on the pillows in order to push his hips up even higher. Experienced he isn’t, but his body is telling him exactly what to do in order to increase his own pleasure. He’s obeying every dictate.

“Please don’t stop fucking me, Mr. B______,” he whispers.

Fuck. The formality of my address swells my meat. It’s enraged, now. Like a drunken brute on a Saturday night, it’s angry and looking to punish. I turn him over. He looks back over his shoulder at me, almost shyly. The look changes to fear at the size when I drive in, then astonishment at the sensations. Then he’s back to being the horny little shit he is, lifting his hips to take more cock than he’s ever had in his life.

I’m gyrating my hips, grinding even more deeply into him. “Oh shit,” he says. His voice is astonished. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Mr. B______.” Again he’s prying apart his cheeks for me. I push his face down into the pillows and hold him down as I start power-fucking his little hole. “This is . . . I’m . . . I want. . . .”

He can’t talk. It doesn’t matter. I hear him slurp the drool that’s running out of his mouth. He can barely control that, either. “Tell me what you want, son,” I order.

“All I’ve ever wanted . . . your dick . . . Mr. B______,” he manages to huff out. “I always want it like this. Do you want to cum in me?”

“You know I do, boy,” I tell him.

“Then cum in me,” he says. I’m pounding the air from his lungs—I can barely hear what he says. But I know an invitation when I hear one. “Please. Just cum in me. Please. Cum in my butt. Please,” he begs.

He’s still drooling. Tears are running from his eyes, and he’s trying to sniff back against his runny nose. He’s already leaking from every orifice. Soon there’ll be one more.

When the fingers he’s been using to pull apart his cheeks stroke my nuts, I lose it. I let out a mighty roar and start spraying his insides with my load. On and on the orgasm rages, taking me to a place where all I see is black and red as I continue to hose him out with what feels like impossible amounts of semen. By instinct he’s clutching onto my hips. He refuses to let me go, awkward as it is for him. “Don’t pull out,” he begs, when I subside.

“I won’t, son,” I assure him. We turn together, still connected, until we’re lying on our right sides. When I let my hand graze his cock, it’s still rock hard, and still slick with his own wetness. His hand reaches to clutch it. “No,” I tell him, tugging it away by the wrist. “Not that way.”

He doesn’t protest. He’s too weak to put up a fuss. We lie there, panting and returning to our senses, until he speaks a few moments later. “I didn’t know it was supposed to feel good for the bottom dude too.” I say nothing. “I thought the bottom dude was just supposed to wait for it to be over, kind of.”

“Not if it’s done right,” I say in his ear.

We lie there in the half-twilight. He shivers when the passage of my hand draws gooseflesh. “Mr. B______?” he asks.

“You don’t have to call me that,” I say, trying not to laugh too audibly. “I told you my first name.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” I can almost feel the blush of embarrassment spread over his skin. “I guess I’m just used to it.”

“It’s okay,” I say, brushing away the hair from his forehead. “Truth be told, I actually kind of like it when you call me Mr. B______.”

He waits a moment to ask his question. “I don’t bug you when I text you or send you pics and vids and stuff, do I?”

I shake my head. “Not at all. I love your pics.”

“How about when I ask you questions about stuff guys do?”

I shake my head again. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“So. . . .” I’m not sure in which direction he’s heading with the questions. “Can we do . . . it’s okay if you don’t want to . . . everything we talked about? When I sent you pics?”

Oh. That. My dick starts to stir again. “Oh yes, son,” I tell him. I don’t want to pull out, don’t want to disturb this perfect peace we’re sharing. I regret having to slide out of his ass, but I want to look at him, face to face. My load spills out, after I withdraw my dick. The mess is my last concern, though. I turn him over so he faces me, and stare into those blue eyes. “We’ll do it all. Right now.”

And the look of gratitude he gives me as he melts into my hug makes having pulled out worth it.