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.