What We Need

His key ring is a mass of metal, a bulky collection that rattles and jingles as his fingers tango through them to find what he needs. He looks over his shoulder as he at last inserts one of them into the door. The knob turns. It’s fairly warm in this low-ceilinged, refurbished basement, but when he opens the door, a rush of chilly air sweeps past us.

He looks up and down the little hallway. The lights are low. It’s deserted. There’s no one here. I can hear the hum and buzz of a city outside the glass doorway at the top of the stairway. In many of the other old townhouses on this street, the sub-street levels have been converted into storefronts, into little restaurants, into boutiques with chain names I’ve more often seen in upscale shopping malls. This old building, however, has only the stark and dimly-lit hallway, the door marked Electrical Closet, and the open door where now the kid is yanking out the key and putting the massive ring back into the pocket of his hoodie.

I follow him past a pair of storage lockers that obviously belong to the stores above. At the end of the second hallway are a pair of restrooms. We step into the one marked Men. Our arms graze when he reaches past me to latch and lock the door. We’re not cramped for space. There’s a fair amount of room here. He steps back, and his hands nervously reach for the strings of his hood. It’s chilly in this underground washroom. It’s quiet enough that I can almost hear his heart thumping. “You want me naked?” he asks.

It’s only the second sentence he’s spoken to me.

“Take off your clothes,” I tell him. I lean against the door. Cross my arms. Wait.

He seems doubly anxious at being watched like this. Off comes the hoodie. He kicks his sneakers from his feet, pulls off the gray socks. His jeans hit the floor; he’s wearing Fruit of the Looms. Finally he shucks his T-shirt and stands there in front of me, hands cupped in front of his package, hiding that already-hard bulge in those white briefs. His eyes flick up to mine. He stares at me, half with longing, half daring me to comment.

“How old are you?” I ask.

He’s taken aback by the question. “Nineteen,” he says.

I nod. He could be. “Turn around,” I say. He rotates awkwardly until his ass is pointing at me. “Stop,” I say. He obeys.

Then I’m down on the tile, knees spread, pushing down on his spine to get him to bend over. I yank down to the briefs. Spread the ass. He’s got orange-sized butt cheeks, each small enough to fit in the palms of my hands. His hole contracts in the cool air. When I breathe on it, the pucker distends. He gasps.

When I lick out and let the flat of my tongue slide up his crack, he nearly loses his balance.

We’ve only known each other for fifteen minutes. Know each other. Fuck that. We don’t know each other. I’ve never seen this kid before. Mostly I’ve seen the back of his head. I know the taste of his hole better than I know what his face looks like. I’m not sure I’d be able to pick him out in a crowd, to be honest.

But the ass sure tastes good on my tongue.

I was visiting a strange city last week, a place I’d never been. I had three hours to myself in the downtown area—time to sightsee, time to kill as I pleased. I walked around, got my bearings, took some photographs, visited the gardens, and then decided to relax with my book and a coffee. I could tell the Starbucks on the main drag was busy when I walked in, but it wasn’t until I’d claimed my order that I realized there wasn’t a single seat in the shop. Thus it was that I and two other hardy souls were sitting outdoors, in about fifty-degree weather. But it was sunny, and I had on a sweater. The coffee was warming. I had my tablet in my lap as I alternated between reading my book and simply enjoying the vibe of the city and its people as they strolled past.

Then the kid walked by. Locking eyes with him was like an electric shock. I woke up from my daydream, felt my bloodstream quicken. This sexy boy, this pale, skinny boy with the shaggy hair and the faintest wisp of a mustache on his lip, appeared from nowhere. His big blue eyes didn’t blink. They locked with mine. We stared at each other as he approached, neither of us looking away. He seemed so young; the young are usually nervous about staring at someone my age. I felt my breath catch when he came close.

Only a rail stood between us. Either of us could have reached out and touched the other. And then he passed.

As excited as I’d been moments before, the disappointment after he passed was palpable. Instinctively I sniffed the wake of air in he left behind, attempting to find some trace of him in it. It was there in the faintest whiff of berries or some sweetness in his soap or shampoo. But he was gone. I turned in my chair and found him looking over his shoulder. His eyes were sad and soulful. He, too, seemed to be melancholy at the increasing distance between us. People blocked our path. He moved further and further away. My last glimpse of him was when he turned the corner at the end of the block, still craning his neck in my direction.

Some things are just meant not to be. I went back to my book.

Five minutes later, he approached down the sidewalk again. I knew immediately he had circled around the block and come back. Our eyes met with a spark of recognition at the sight of each other. Book be damned. I stuffed my tablet into my messenger bag and tossed the coffee into a nearby wastebasket. By the time he reached the entrance to the Starbucks’ patio, I was standing there waiting for him as if I’d been loitering around for a friend to come pick me up.

He licked his lips nervously. “You want to go someplace?” he asked.

That had been the only other sentence he’d spoken.

So I’ve been eating his ass for ten minutes. Maybe a little longer. He’s got his hands on the wall, his legs spread. A sizable dong points at the sink, between his legs. He’s trying to keep it quiet, but he’s doing a piss-poor job of it. Under his breath he’s cursing, and growling, and making noises like a beast in distress, or pleasure, or both. From time to time I let the chill air of the washroom shock his hole, as I turn my lips and tongue and breath to his cock. I yank it back between his thighs and slurp at the head. I let the salty taste of his precum coat my tongue. I yank at his balls, just to make him yelp.

He wants to get fucked. He wants to let some total stranger bend him over and fill his hole. He doesn’t know who I am or where I’ve been; he’s operating on a primal level now, letting his body take over, letting his hole drive the bus. Or maybe he recognizes me—it happens occasionally, even in unfamiliar cities. Somehow, that would make it even nastier. When I drive a thumb into his wet hole, he groans, and pushes back. I feel the warmth of his insides around my digit. I know I want in.

“Sshhh.” It’s the only thing I say to him as I stand and spit on my dick and start to work it in. I don’t need to worry. The kid knows what he’s doing. He grinds his hips to let me in, inch by inch. My dick swells even harder as it splits his little ass open. He’s no novice to fucking. He knows how to take a man’s dick. I can tell. Who is this kid? Some employee of one of the stores above, with his own key to the basement restroom? How many men has he brought down here? For how many has he stripped and spread his little legs? Fucking little whore, putting out in his out-of-the-way locked restroom for any big-dicked top he can get.

He’s in control now, too. He’s got one hand digging into the sink, fingers clawing at the porcelain. The other’s bracing the wall. He’s looking back at me as he slams his hole up and down my shaft, setting the pace, keeping the rhythm. Inside, he’s doing something with his chute so that it feels like it’s clutching at the head with every thrust. Maybe I’m popping the second ring, again and again. I can’t tell. I’m not thinking too much about it. I’m just letting him do his fucking thing, because he’s doing really damned well.

Now I’m the one making the animal noises. Letting out the grunts. I’m just standing there, getting my stick waxed by this kid as he bucks and grinds. He’s the one who’s getting what he wants. Big dick, and plenty of it. Every twitch of his little hips makes me harder and hotter, and he can tell. He’s picked up the pace. His ass isn’t teasing. It’s demanding. He wants the load. He wants it now.

He shoots when I do. He brings his hand between his legs and with a very few short strokes, he brings himself off. His load drops to the floor in heavy, loud splats. Mine paints the inside of his ass. His hole continues to grab at me, to demand every drop. Only when I’m done does his insistence cease. His hips relax. His hole becomes looser. I slide out. A moment later, the better portion of my load follows, joining his on the green tile floor.

He’s still naked as I’m leaving, using a wad of toilet tissue to wipe up the mess. He looks at me very serious, and nods. “Later,” he says, as if it’s a possibility.

No thank-you is necessary. I know for a fact we gave each other exactly what we need.