The Runt in Bed

When I bring him into the bedroom, he’s like a puppy in a new household. His dark eyes dart around, landing on the books lining one wall, on the clothes that appear to be overflowing from the closet and into the basket below, then to be spilling out onto the floor. His nose quivers at the unfamiliar smells, from the bouquet of azalea and California privet just outside the window, to the scents of strange deodorants and body sprays and the overlooked odors of the ordinary that none of us notice because we’re so used to them. His neck swivels as he looks at the pictures and the desk covered with books and the weekend’s work, and the way the lights from the auditorium in the building next door filter in through the lowered shades.

“Take your clothes off,” I tell him.

The Runt and I have fucked several times since the definitely size-challenged young-ish man contacted me on Grindr a few months ago. It’s always been in the back seats of cars, though. In dark parking lots along the New Haven line. In the cold, with our hot breath crystallizing inside the car windows. But I’ve got a rare night to myself at my place, and a freshly-made bed that’s not my own, so the time seems right.

The Runt never says much. He always obeys, though. He removes his hoodie and jeans, and folds them neatly before putting them in a stack on the floor. Off come his adorably much-worn socks, so floppy that they don’t even make a pretense of staying up on his skinny legs. He shimmies out of his tight gray T-shirt. Last, he pulls off his black briefs. He’s standing before me completely naked save for the collar he’d pulled from the glove compartment and put on when I’d picked him up in my car.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him completely naked, standing up. He’s a skinny, short young man, and his head of wavy brown hair makes him look even younger than he really is. The sight takes my breath away. “Beautiful boy,” I grunt. “You know what you do to my dick when you look all pretty like that?”

He shakes his head. I use both hands to outline the hard meat in my jeans, so he’ll know exactly what he does. He’s trying not to betray his excitement, but his dick hardens while I watch. It rises from flaccid to fully erect in mere seconds, then throbs in pace with his quickening heartbeat. At his sides, his hands flap helplessly. He wants to cover his shame, but at the same time, he wants me to notice how excited I make him. Much as he pretends otherwise, the little slut is proud of his erection, the proof of his desire.

“Get on the bed,” I order him.

I give him a few seconds to sit on the edge of the mattress and pull himself into its center. He’s surrounded by sheets and pillows and smells and sights unfamiliar to him, but now he’s looking at me. Only at me. His little dick points up toward the ceiling when he settles back against the headboard. I’m still clothed when I stride over to the bed and mount him. His mouth opens automatically to receive my tongue. He shifts and settles until his dick is pressing against mine through a layer of denim. I feel him stiffen and gasp slightly when the cold of my belt buckle meets his skin, soft and supple as a pair of kid gloves. He smells like soap, and cheap scent.

The Runt’s hungry. Because of his living arrangements we haven’t been able to meet as much as I’d like, and he’s not getting it from anyone else. Already his hole is lifting up and pushing against me. I grind the head of my dick against it through my jeans, and listen as softly he huffs and exhales and catches soft breaths. He’s caught up in his need. It’s overwhelming him, rendering him completely and utterly pliable.

By the time I flip him over and lap at his pink little hole, the huffing and breathing has turned into whimpering. He sounds like a hurt dog, whining for aid. My hands seem enormous on those tiny cheeks. When he tries to pull away, tries to resist the pleasure he needs so much and yet seems so unwilling to accept in such quantities, all I have to do is pull in order to keep him in place. I pull insistently. I pull firmly. He’s not getting away from me. I can tell by the rasp in his voice that if I were to look at his face, right now, he’d be crying.

His face is still wet when I flip him over yet again. My dick’s angry, now. There’s something in small men like the Runt that brings out the sadist in me. I want to make him hurt. My dick wants to drive inside and make him yell. He makes me want to forget about his pleasure—he doesn’t need to know there’s such a thing as pleasure. All he needs to know is the force of my dick, splitting him wide open.

And when I drive in, my pants pulled only to thighs, he yells out in nothing but pain. My thickness stretches him in a way he hasn’t had in weeks. My length tunnels deep inside. Even when he’s beginning to bottom out, I still push in. His ass hot and almost liquid around me. My dick is fire, but he’s molten lava.

My hand covers his mouth for most of that yell. Over the side of my hands his eyes bulge. They’re full of fear, and pain, and the worry of more to come. His body is spasming as it tries to accept the deep thrust I’ve stabbed into him. His hips buckle. His legs grapple for something to hold onto, and then wave helplessly in the air. His face is wet with tears.

But he’s hard. Not just rock hard, but dripping at the tip of a dick that’s closer to little boy than the mature man he is. I’ve never seen him harder than when I shove into him brutally, when I cause him as much pain as my meat can manage. When I hit bottom, I shove in a little more, then wait until his yells subside once again into a quiet keening. “You want me to stop?” I ask him, taking my hand away. “I’ll stop and take you home right now if that’s what you want. If you can’t handle my dick, that is.”

Though the light is dim in the room, I can see the obsidian glint of his eyes. “No,” he begs. “Please don’t take it out.”

“You want it?” I ask him. He nods. “You want my dick in there, don’t you?” He nods some more. “Say it,” I tell him. “Say the words.”

“I want you in there,” he begs. “I need it. Please don’t take your dick out. Please don’t take it out. Please don’t—“

What he doesn’t know is that I wouldn’t have taken it out even if he’d asked. I just wanted to hear him beg.

We have more room to maneuver in the bed, but we don’t really use it. Not for the first fuck. I keep his little legs in the air, manhandling him like he was a a cheap prop. Though his tight hole is still aching, he’s accepting the fuck, taking it like a man. A little, underdeveloped man. I wrap my fingers around his ankles and fuck away, feeling my ball slap and rub against his butt cheeks.

He comes unexpectedly and without warning. Only his breathing—a quickening that catches and chokes in his throat—betrays that he’s shooting at all. That and the squirt of semen that hits his stomach with a squelch and begins running down toward his chest and face. I rip my dick out of his hole and cause him to protest. Then I slap some of that load onto my meat and shove it back in, fucking him with his own juices for lube.

I can only punish him for so long before I’m ready to shoot, myself. The load gushes from my dick into his guts. He stares at me when it happens, his lips parted, his eyes full of hope and awe and fear. Fear that I might kick him out, right then—fear that I might disengage and let my cock come slopping out of that tight, juice-filled hole.

I’m not done with him yet, though. Still connected, ass to cock, I fall onto my side and pull him into a position where I can both hold him and continue gently moving in and out. He’s in a fetal position, his hairy legs pulled up to his chest, while I hold hims as tightly as possible from the front.

“You needed that badly, didn’t you?” I ask, as the dark begins to settle around us.

His only reply is a sudden release of breath. It’s as if he’s divesting himself of some great weight that he’d carried, now we’re alone and past that first flush of need and desire.

I accept the answer for what it is. And I begin a second time to stretch him past the point of endurance.