Stupid Faggot 2

The boy’s on all fours before me. His fingers are splayed out to give him balance, as he slowly pistons his mouth up and down on my erect cock. A long ponytail of raven hair hangs over one shoulder—but there’s no denying his essential masculinity. Not with his muscular body, his lean waist, the two perfectly round semi-globes of his ass that are clenching and bouncing close to the floor. Not with that heavy, uncut Puerto Rican dick striking the floor like a drumstick.

I’m trying to find fault with his performance. I need something to nitpick. He’s not giving me any opportunities. He’s not grabbing onto my meat with a too-firm hand and squeezing the fuck out me. He’s not grabbing onto me all, in fact. He’s doing a steady, sloppy, slow back-and-forth on my cock, and licking out at my nuts when he comes in closest to them. It’s hard to censure him for that.

Then my phone vibrates. It’s in the pocket of my jeans, which he’d removed and folded and placed on a chair. Twice it rings. Three times. He’s still staring at me, rapt in his worship of my dick. I see my chance. “Well?” I snarl. He backs off me, surprised. “My phone’s not going to fucking answer itself,” I snap at him. I place one of my bare feet on his shoulder and shove hard. He doesn’t seem to know what I want him to do. In exaggerated syllables, I point at my pants and say, “Bring . . . me . . . my . . . fucking . . . phone. Key-rist. Stupid faggot.”

“Yes sir,” he says, scrambling. He scurries across the floor, pulls my phone out of a pocket already bulging with tens and twenties, and brings it to me. Quick as he is, he still can’t avoid the fact that the moment he puts the device into my waiting hands, the vibration stops and the screen goes black. “Here you are, sir.”

I stare at him like he’s insane. “It doesn’t do me any good now, does it? Is my phone buzzing?” I hold it out to him. “Well? Is it? You know what buzzing means? Como se dice?”

“No sir. It’s not buzzing.”

“Right. So I missed the call. All because of you. Fuck. Can’t do anything right, can you?”

“No sir. I’m sorry sir.”

Abasing himself before me excites him. It’s what he wants. What he hires me to do. His dick was erect before, but now it’s rock-hard and glistening. I can see a drop of pre-cum forming where his slit winks out between folds of foreskin. His eyes are just was wet and wide. Every time I curse in his direction, he becomes more and more excited. “Fuck,” I say, examining the phone. It was a quarterly courtesy call from Wells Fargo that I would’ve let go to voice mail anyway. “That was an important call I missed. You little piece of shit. You fucking little stupid spic faggot.” Every invective I throw his way only excites him. I can see his nostrils flaring at the insults. He’s breathing the way men breathe when they’re close to orgasm. “Jesus. I’ve busted open piñatas with more brains that you.”

“I’m sorry sir. I’m just a piece of shit spic faggot, sir,” he says, breathlessly.

“And?” With a tone of supreme irritation, I raise my eyebrow and look down at him from my throne on his most comfortable armchair.

“And I won’t do it again,” he ventures. I shake my head. Incorrect. “And I’ll try to do better.” Wrong again. “And I’m just a stupid faggot, sir. I’m a little piece of shit.” I crook the corner of my mouth and stare as if I can’t believe what the fuck he’s saying. “What, sir? Tell me.”

I gesture at my cock, which is lying between my thighs, slick from his spit but otherwise unoccupied. “Christ,” I mutter. It’s supposed to sound as if I’m saying to to myself, but I want him to hear. “I have to tell this stupid fucker everything. You better not stop sucking,” I warn him, as I hold the phone to my ear. “Hello? Hey man. Yeah, sorry I missed your call there. Nah, I’m not doing anything important. Just getting my dick sucked. Nah, some spic boy.” I pause. “He’s all right.” I drawl the last two words so they collide. Aaahight.

The boy’s eyes are so dilated with excitement they’re little more than two oversized pupils. He stares at me with fucking adoration writ plain on his face. The more I insult him, the better the blow job gets. “Nah, not that good. Remember that kid we let suck the both of us off at that bar? Yeah, the one in the Village. Kind of like that.” My conversation, of course, is entirely imaginary. There’s no one at the other end of the line. I don’t even have the screen on. “Huh? You want to see? Okay, hang on.”

I turn my body back so it’s squared with the boy between my legs. This time I actually unlock the phone’s screen and fire up the camera and point it down at my dick. “Fuck,” I snarl at the kid. “You ain’t no model. Keep sucking.” When I snap his photo, it captures the ardor my disdain arouses. I take four or five photos in all. They all show the face of a young man who is totally into his task of worshipping and servicing a big dick. I go back to my imaginary conversation. “Yeah, I got a couple. I’ll text you in a minute. Huh? He’s just some Puerto Rican cocksucker. Dime a dozen.” I pause, then snicker as if the other guy has said something funny.

While I do, I pull my dick out of the boy’s mouth. “Oh yeah. I remember that one. Mmm-hmm.” I shove him down onto his butt. Gesture for him to lie down on his back in front of me. Then I shove my left foot into his mouth and use the right one to stomp on the base of his cock. “Yeah, well this one’s not worth shit. He gives me two hundred to visit. Fuck, I know. First time he tried to pay me in tacos. I know, right?”

The boy is still staring at me with puppy love in his eyes as he slobbers over my foot. When I absent-mindedly grind my bare heel into his nuts, he sucks in air through his mouth, winces, and whines slightly, but he doesn’t complain. It just makes him lick up and down my sole faster and harder, using his broad flat tongue like he might on an all-day sucker. “Yeah, okay,” I say, wrapping up my imaginary call. “Sorry about missing you before. It’s the faggot’s fault.” I chuckle again. “Yeah, I don’t know how I always end up with the stupidest pieces of shit out there. Long as they give me their holes though, right? All right. Later, buddy. What? Yeah, I’ll text them. Just remember he’s an ugly motherfucker. Okay . . . later. See ya.” I pretend to click off the call, and spend a moment pretending to text the photos I’d taken a few moments before. Then I throw the phone down onto a nearby pillow.

I stretch out my feet, drawing up the right leg a few inches and letting it land on his nuts again. He gasps from the pain of it and draws up his knees to cradle my foot. “Who was that, sir?” he asks, removing my foot from between his lips.

“Is that any of your fucking business?” I scowl.

“No sir.” His dick is rock hard against my ankle. He pushes into me, excited. “I love that you talk about me to your friends, sir. I love that you call me names to your friends. Thank you sir.”

“You know what I like?” I tell him. I pick up my phone again and check my mail, like I’m bored.

“What sir?” I wait a while to speak as I continue to check my messages and open up Facebook to see what’s new. It puts him on edge. “What is it, sir? Do you like my faggot mouth? Do you want my faggot ass? Please tell me. What do you like?”

I move the phone to the side, as if I’d forgotten he was there. “I like when you don’t fucking talk at all.” He sighs, and melts into the floor. “Now shut up and suck my dick again,” I order. “That's what your mouth should be doing. Stupid fucking faggot.”

Though he doesn’t say a word for the rest of the time we spend together that afternoon, he doesn’t have to. Those expressive eyes of his articulate how much he exalts me.