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.