Moments in the Woods

He stood in front of the Taco Bell with his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his baggy khakis. They were pants so faded and worn that I could almost see his knuckles through the threadbare pockets; the legs were two inches too long, so that the hems had dragged upon his heels and been trodden away until there was little left but hanging threads. He wore a plain white T-shirt, with its V-neck stretched and pulled out of shape. My first impression was that he looked everything like his photos—blond, blue-eyed, impossibly young, and even more impossibly pretty for a town of gas stations in the middle of Nowhere, Pennsylvania.

My second impression was that he looked nothing like his photo. The angle at which he’d taken the pictures he’d sent had obscured his body, leaving me with the impression that he’d be short and slight. The kid was short, that much was for sure. He couldn’t have been more than five-six. Slight, no. Beneath that much-worn T was a broad frame of steel and muscle—the buffed-up, worked-out body of a Madison Avenue ad campaign. The perfect test tube concoction of youth, masculinity, and roaring hormones. I sat in my car for a moment and watched him as he pulled out his hands and balled one up. When he nervously ground it into the other palm, his chest flexed slightly and his biceps rippled. I hadn’t expected him to be built.

I unfolded myself slowly from the car. Slowly, because I’d been driving for nearly nine hours at that point. He didn’t recognize me until I approached him. My own hands were stuffed in the pockets of my jacket. “Hey kid,” I said.

He feigned indifference, but his slightest movements told me how nervous he was. His eyes darted away from, and then back to mine. Back and forth, back and forth. “Hey,” he said at last, swinging his arms back and forth.

“You haven’t been waiting long?”

“Five minutes. About that,” he said. In his email the night before he’d told me he lived only a mile from this exit, and from the road I’d called him only shortly before to let him know I was near. He looked me up and down, nodding. No one was around. In a soft voice, though, he asked, “So. You still gonna bareback me?”

“Yes.” I maintained my gaze even as he avoided mine.

“Cool, cool,” he said.

“You still want it bare, right?”

Again he nodded. The briefest, most economical of head jerks. When I didn’t respond, he cleared his throat. “Yeah. I want it. It’s just. . . .” He looked away again.

“First time you’ve played raw,” I said for him. He thrust his hands in his pocket and looked up at me through those blue eyes, affirming it. He didn’t drop the tough act, but he looked almost shy. Vulnerable, even.

It made my dick hard.

“So where’re we going to do this?” I asked. When he jerked his head for me to follow, I watched as he sauntered over to a battered red Ford truck parked nearby. I climbed back into my own car and together we pulled out of the Taco Bell parking lot and onto the road where trucks and cars roared off the turnpike on their way to other places.

I’d placed a Craigslist ad for this region of Pennsylvania the afternoon before my driving trip to Virginia. I’d gotten about 36 responses in total. Though I thought I’d worded the ad fairly clearly, in the great tradition of Craigslist, apparently I erred. I’d stated that I would be driving through the county on April 23 and would be available around dinnertime for some play before I drove on; roughly half the people responding to my ad thought I’d been looking either for immediate sex, or that I’d be available on May 11 when they commuted through town for the South Central Pennsylvania Butter Worker’s Convention or some such idiocy. I’d said I was looking to top raw and fuck a load in a hole, and roughly a third of the responses I got began with some variation of “Hey I don’t do anal but if you want to meet. . . .” I concluded my ad with the words, “Only responses with clear photos will receive my reply,” and a mere eight of the people who wrote me included photos.

Only one of the respondents who’d sent a photo and asked if I could give him his first barebacking got my response, though. I followed him away from the oasis of truck stops and Subways and burger joints, down a two-lane road that wound through family restaurants, and then past houses, and finally past nothing but trees. For five minutes we drove until he came to an old car repair shop, long shuttered and closed. A sign resting against the dusty garage doors reflected an ancient and almost inconceivably low price for unleaded. Around the back of the filling station we drove onto a gravel-covered clearing. His tail lights flared red as he pulled to a stop.

He jerked his head for me to follow him into the woods. The air was chillier beneath the trees with their fresh leaves, than it had been back in the sun-baked asphalt of the truck stop oasis. It smelled greener, though. And it was quiet. I couldn’t even hear the turnpike that had to lie over the rise to the north. I followed him into the wood along a path that was little more than a wandering line of trampled leaves. We reached a tree that had fallen over sometime in the winter, and he stopped. Abruptly he sat down on the trunk, and swung his legs like a little boy. “This okay?” he said.

I nodded.

"Cool." Without a word or a signal from me, he kicked off his sneakers. Then he hopped up onto his sock-covered feet and with both hands, skimmed off the ratty white T. Beneath the cotton was a porn star’s body. I barely had a chance to admire the curves of his arms, the firm roundness of his shoulders, or the glory of his chest because he unbuttoned his khakis, stepped out of them, and tossed them onto the ground without even bothering to see where they fell. In his white socks and white Hanes he looked like a go-go boy at a gay bar.

The remainder of his clothes didn’t stay on for long. When he kicked out his legs to grab and shuck off the socks, the thick blond hair on his legs glinted. He then hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and yanked them down to the ground. Without my even asking, he’d completely stripped naked. No self-consciousness, no doubts, no hesitations. Just me and the woods and his naked shelf and his boner, a five-inch thick stub of uncut flesh. It throbbed.

He rubbed his hand around his jawline, up his sideburns, and into his hair, watching me stare “So am I good enough?” he asked at last.

I nodded again. Oh yes. He was more than good enough.

“What do you want?” he asked. I swallowed hard and cocked my head, then rubbed my hand across my stiff dick, which had raised a ridge along my right leg.

“Oh, I know how to suck,” he assured me as he dropped to his knees. The ground underneath us was soft enough for him to kneel. His fingers reached out and undid the button of my jeans. He briefly grabbed my dick through the material of my shorts; his finger tickled around the wet spot that had already soaked through. Then they joined the mess of denim around my calves. His mouth opened. “Fuck!” he said, before thrusting his head onto my meat. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to suck. I didn’t know who’d taught him or where he’d practiced, but he wasn’t hesitant or inexperienced. Within an instant he had me harder than hard and gasping. “It’s better than the pictures.”

I didn’t say anything. I just wove my fingers through his hair and pulled him onto my dick, setting the pace for him. Nice and easy, not as quickly or as frantic as he wanted and needed. His hands ran up and my legs. He played with my ass, then my balls. His eyes were closed as he sucked.

I don’t remember how long I let him work on me. It seemed like a very long time. I didn’t want him to stop. I still had another five hours to go on my trip, however, and I couldn’t linger for too long. “You like my dick?” He made a noise. I yanked his mouth off my meat. “I said, do you like my dick?”

“God yes.” A thin line of spit connected us for a moment. It snapped and splashed him by the eye. “Yes. Let me suck your dick. Let me suck you off.”

“My load is going in your ass, runt.” One of my blog readers had used that word in an email to me the week before. I liked the sound of it. Runt.

He liked it too. He stared at me from the ground with my dick the only obstacle between us. “Are you really going to bareback me?” I raised my eyebrows. He knew the answer to that question. I didn’t have to respond. “How do you want it?” he asked.

I gestured for him to stand up. He followed my command and turned around until he was propping himself up on the tree trunks, his meaty hands firmly clutching the bark. “You cleaned out?” I asked.

“Yes,” he assured me. He wasn’t lying. When I knelt down, the cleft of his butt smelled of Dove soap, as if he’d scrubbed it red moments before he’d left to meet me at the Taco Bell. He didn’t say a word when I licked and sucked at his hole, but when I spat on it and rubbed a finger against the raised pucker s, he hissed. The kid was so fucking young, I realized right then. His skin was so soft. So pink. The flesh was tight and rigid. His hole seemed to radiate heat. I continued licking at and fingering it while I added my own spit to what remained of his on my own dick.

Then I stood up and went in, slow. He seemed almost prepared for it to hurt. I think we were both surprised when it slid in without much resistance. “Is it in?” he asked, almost in a panicked voice. For a moment I thought he was going to try to struggle away, to undo what had already been done. “Are you in me bareback?”

“Oh, I’m barebacking you,” I told him.

His hands scrabbled back. His fingers clawed at his ass. I thought he was pulling at the cheeks in order to help me get deeper, but no. He wanted to feel it for himself. His fingers touched mine as I helped him feel my rigid rod slide in and out. He let out a cry from his chest, once it sunk in that what he’d craved, what he’d probably dreamt about for however long he’d been getting his little ass used, was really happening. It was the kind of moan a man makes shortly before he bursts into tears, but instead of weeping, he sighed deeply. “Shit, yes.”

He relaxed into the fuck. His cheek rested against the bark as he thrust his ass up and into the air. The kid didn’t seem to care that the mark it made might linger. “You like it, runt?” I asked him. His ass tightened at the question. “You like my big bare dick in that little hole?”

“I wanna come with you, dude,” he said. His fingers worked furiously at his little dick. “I wanna fuckin’ come when you do.”

“I’m not coming yet,” I told him. Gradually I ramped up the speed of my fuck, taking pleasure in the sensations of his ass, eventually thrusting so deeply his whole beefy body shuddered from every slam. His hole was open wider than I thought possible—though it was true he’d told me he’d been fucked before, but not barebacked. He didn’t even seem to noticed that I was pretty basically pulling all the way out and plunging back in again.

I might not have been coming, but he was. I barely noticed it at first, as he was so quiet about it. I knew it was happening when his legs buckled, though, and he almost jerked himself off my dick. Thick ropes of white cum landed on the leaves between his legs. I shoved myself back in and held my dick inside as deep as I could as his ass clutched at me. Not until he stopped shooting did I resume my rhythm.

He wasn’t enjoying the fuck as much now that he’d cum. It didn’t matter, though. I did. He didn’t object as I fucked harder. He rested his forehead on his forearm and took it, with his eyes closed and his butt still lifted to meet my thrusts. “Breed me,” he whispered, as I picked up the pace. “Fuckin’ breed me. Fill my boycunt. I want my first sperm load.”

“You want it?” I asked, pushing in and out faster.

“I want it,” he told me. “I want my first breeding. Give it to me.”

“What’re you going to do with it?” I asked him. “I don’t want you pushing it out when I drive on my way.”

“I’m keepin’ it,” he said. His voice echoed hollowly against the tree trunk. “I’m gonna keep that sperm in my all day and all night if I can. I want your sperm. Please give it to me.”

On and on he talked, asking for my sperm as I fucked. I’d wanted to hold back, to enjoy his young ass the way it was meant to be enjoyed, but it was tough. I knew I was close when my dick began to buzz as if it had been a struck tuning fork. Seconds later, I caught a harsh breath and began to unload in the runt’s hole. “Fuck yes!” he groaned. “I want it! I’ve wanted your sperm! Give me—!”

He was shooting again, I noted with surprise. The amount of fluid wasn’t nearly as much as the first time he’d shot, but it was still enough to make a thick splat onto the already wet leaves between his feet. His back arched forward, and he gasped and rolled his hips. My dick immediately began to slide out. He was done.

He kept his word, though. The runt clenched his butt cheeks together and sat down on the tree trunk, panting. I hadn’t taken off a stitch of clothing. All I had to do was pull my pants over my still-hard dick and fasten them. He sat there totally naked and watched me. Once again I saw the shy look in his eye when he asked, “Was I okay?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, grinning at him.

“I was good enough?” It was a serious question. He wasn’t merely fishing for compliments. I wanted to hug the kid right then, but I thought he might take it as condescension. I knew that someone in his life had to have told him that he wasn’t good enough at some point. Someone had to have. It was as plain and naked as he. I wanted to assure him that whoever that had been was a fool, and best forgotten. That he should get out of Nowhere and get the hell away from whomever it was, fucking with his head.

It was too big a liberty to take, though. “Hey,” I said, staring him in the eyes to make sure he knew I meant it. “You are more than good enough. For anyone.”

He paused for a second, then nodded. His arms crossed over his chest, and he spread his legs so that his softening dick hung between them. “Okay. You would know. I guess.” As he had been a few moments ago when he’d expelled me from his ass, I could tell he was done. “See ya,” he said.

“See ya,” I repeated. Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and left by the path by which I’d come in.

I saw him emerge from the woods a few minutes later, after I’d checked my phone and pulled my car around on the little gravel lot. He was dressed, and scuffing his feet in the dirt. He stopped at the sight of my car. When I pulled around the abandoned filling station, he stood there in the cloud of dust he’d kicked up, then raised his hand and held it in the air. He wasn’t waving, but letting me go with his unspoken thanks.