Lawn Boy: Part 2

(Continued from yesterday.)

I remember that I’d expected to be cooler in Mr. Morgenfeld’s study, once I was out of the heat and the sun. His office was stuffy, though, and not as chilly as the rest of the air-conditioned house. The only circulating air came from the door I’d just entered. I’d actually been more comfortable outside, moving around and keeping a light breeze on my face and skin. “I didn’t bring any water,” I told him. Can I get something to drink?”

It was a lie. I’d left the house that morning with my father’s old army surplus canteen, which was in kind of gross condition, never kept anything cool, and always imparted to whatever was inside a dark metallic taste like swamp water. I’d left it out beneath a bush, though, and if challenged, I was prepared to say it was empty. Mr. Morgenfeld didn’t attempt to contradict me, though. Instead, in a strangled voice, he choked out syllables until finally he managed to say, “Well, um, sure, honey.” I didn’t make a move to find the kitchen on my own, so at last he had to rise from the ottoman and expose his arousal.

He was still hard, that much I could tell. He kept his hands crossed over his crotch and remained hunched over in an entirely unnatural position until he’d gotten to his feet, and then whipped around to turn from me and scamper out of the room. With pity, I noticed he had a tiny hole in his white underpants the size of a pinky tip.

I felt very much in control that day, I remember vividly. I often did, with older men. Very seldom did they want to take charge when they were with me; I had to give them permission to do what they wanted. Sometimes it was harder work than mowing lawns. I was entirely without guilt or remorse as I stood and waited for what felt like a very long time for the man to return from his kitchen. When at last he did, bearing a cheerful decorated glass filled with ice and Country Time pink lemonade, his hand shook as he proffered it. “Mrs. Morgenfeld won’t mind if you take that right outside,” he suggested.

Unfortunately for him, I was single-minded enough not to take the hint. I took the drink and sat right down on an overstuffed armchair, where I slumped back, spread my legs, and took a slow and deliberate sip of the too-sweet liquid. Plainly uncomfortable, he sat back down on the ottoman opposite, nervously cracking his knuckles. I let my eyes drop down to his open legs, where his dick was bulging in his tighty whities. He’d softened some, but not by much. At my glance, he lifted one leg and crossed it over the other, at the knee. “So are you looking forward to school?” he asked.

I shrugged. We sat in silence for a few moments, me taking minuscule sips of the lemonade, he anxiously tapping his fingertips upon his hairy kneecap. Mr. Morgenfeld wasn’t a bad-looking guy, I decided then. The glasses and his profession had made me dismiss him as a sort of knock-off of my father. He might have been a little older than my dad, but he had a good face, behind those thick rims. And the curly hair was pretty cute on a man his age. Yeah, I thought to myself. I wanted to do this.

“What grade will you be in?” he asked. I didn’t answer. Instead, I placed the glass down on his coffee table, prompting him to uncross his legs, lean forward, and find a coaster for it. I decided to use the move that I typically used in the park or when I was street cruising, which was to let a few of my fingertips move to the place where my cock head lay beneath the denim of my jeans. His eyes flicked from my face down to where my legs were spread, then hastily back up again. “Do you have a favorite subject, honey?’

I’d been semi-hard before, but my bold action made me feel like a bad, bad boy. My dick swelled so that its bulge was visible. I curled my fingers slightly and rubbed against the underside of my shaft.

Mr. Morgenfeld gulped visibly. “Don’t you like the lemonade?” he asked. “Do you want something else? Iced tea?”

“Your dick,” I said. Then, more loudly, "I want your dick."

I’d thought it was a smooth, improvised line when it popped into my head. It shocked the hell out of Mr. Morgenfeld, though. “My . . . my penis?” he asked in a choked voice, so sincerely taken aback that for a moment I thought I’d gotten the wrong idea entirely about him standing in the doorway masturbating as he watched me—like, maybe he had the itchy heartbreak of psoriasis down there?

But no, I knew I was right. I had good instincts about these things. “I want it,” I said. When he didn’t say anything, I scooted forward from the armchair, dropped down to my knees, and parted his knees with my hands.

He stopped me in a panic, holding one of my hands very tightly in his while he stared into my eyes. His legs went rigid. Then, just as suddenly, he let go of my hand and let his legs go limp, so that I could continue to open them. The bulge in his pants thickened and twitched. Again, he halted my progress. “I don’t think you know what you’re doing, son.” Oh yes, I did. I ignored his words. “Have you . . . have you done this before? You can’t have.”

I’d gotten far enough with him that I knew he was going to go through with it. If he’d been serious about throwing me out, he would’ve done it long before. I stripped off my damp shirt so that my naked torso glistened in the office light. I didn’t care what I had to do. I was determined to get that dick.

I was reminded of that game kids play in which they slap one hand atop each other’s, and then remove the bottommost from the stack to slap on top, faster and faster. I’d use one hand to pull open his legs and he’d stop me; I’d use my other to push at his other leg, and he’d stop that. Then we’d start the whole thing over again. Finally I reached the goal, though, and grabbed a handful of his dick through the white cotton. It was mostly hard, but still spongy around the head. “You can’t want to do this, honey,” he said.

“Let me just see it,” I begged.

After a moment, he relented. He stretched out the waistband so that I could see his penis. It was uncut, which was a rarity in that particular area of the south. Mr. Morgenfeld had some of the biggest balls I’d ever seen, as well—a dangerous shade of red, they were. And his dick was thicker than just about any I’d had. It couldn’t have been any more than six or six and a half inches, but it was a hooded monster, and I wanted it. “Now, that’s enough of this nonsense,” he said firmly, trying to regain the upper hand. “Curiosity in a boy your age is natural, but. . . .”

“Let me suck it.” It wasn’t a request. I was announcing my intentions

He seemed to realize how deadly serious I was. “You can’t . . . you shouldn’t. . . .”

It was too late. He wasn’t seriously fighting me off. His protests were of the token sort that I was already learning men make out of weak habit and for the sake of propriety, than out of any real desire. Before he could really make a genuine resistance, I had a mouthful of that uncut dick, and a mouthful only, as he attempted to keep me off it by remaining bent at the waist. Gradually, however, and as he realized I wasn’t going to relent, he settled back in the chair. His legs parted more easily. He allowed me access to another inch, and then another, and finally the entire shaft.

Mr. Morgenfeld had a great dick, that’s for sure. I’ve always been surprised throughout my life when the most nebbishy and nerdy of men have the most solid and beautiful of tools. His hand rested on the back of my head for a moment. Then he jerked it away, as if afraid to betray the need such a simple gesture betrayed. At that moment I didn’t care whether he whispered endearments to me or treated me like shit. I just wanted to suck. I wanted his dick in his mouth, and I wanted his load, in that order. The style in which he gave them to me didn’t matter, so long as I got them.

I could tell by the way he wheezed and huffed that I wasn’t going to be sucking him long. At least he’d stopped fighting me, and was letting me do my job. I didn’t even have to use my hand on him. My mouth was doing the trick. I’d been sucking him for all of about a minute when his breathing became louder and more forced. He attempted to back away from me and pull his dick out of my mouth, but there was really nowhere for him to go. Besides, I wasn’t going to lose the load I’d worked so hard to get. Even as he bucked and attempted to reclaim his cock, I latched onto it with all my might. I felt his balls contract and shift and his hips involuntarily begin to lunge forward. Then I found my mouth flooded—absolutely flooded—with several large gushes of semen. The fluid was salty and thick and seemed to keep coming. I’d rarely met anyone who’d given me so much to eat, but in several gulps I swallowed it all. Only when it was down and I’d sucked off the last bits from the tip did I finally let loose of him.

He was staring at me, shaking his head. “You haven’t done that before. Right?” I didn’t answer. I grabbed my T-shirt and pulled it back on while he watched. I didn’t bother tucking it in. While I tried to tame my sex hair, he cleared his throat. “Man who lieth with man as he lieth with a woman, commits abomination.” My eyes evaded his and I edge toward the door. I didn’t hold much truck with the religious intimidation, not even then. If I was going to get a hypocritical lecture from someone who'd enjoyed his blow job as much as I, then I would rather walk out before it started. To my surprise, though, Mr. Morgenfeld followed up the verse with a chuckle. “But Lord above, seldom has sinning felt so good.”

I left Mr. Morgenfeld’s house with a twenty-dollar bill in my pocket that day, and the taste of his sperm still in my mouth.

I would’ve settled for the usual twelve.