Good Boy

His neighborhood is dark—almost pitch black, in fact. The closest streetlight was at the intersection where I’d turned my car behind his, a full block behind me. He turns off his car’s lights, and I turn off mine. When he steps out and into the driveway of his house, he’s a shadow against shadows through my windshield.

My dick is hard, though. My pulse quickens as I pocket my keys and follow him across concrete and brick to the front door of his split level. There’s no light above the door. No lamps aglow within. There’s just us, the cloudy night sky, and the streetlight obscured by trees, far away.

“Do you know where you are?” he asks, pausing before he inserts the key.

“No,” I tell him.

“You mean, you don’t know where on the map you are?”

I can’t see his expression. “No, not really,” I say. The route we’d taken when I’d followed his car hadn’t been long—no more than ten minutes of driving, really. But once off the main routes and onto residential side roads I’d never seen before, I’d quickly lost my bearings. I’d kept focused on the tail lights of his dark truck.

“How will you find your way home if you’re lost?”

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

Then while I’m standing there, I remembered something from college. It was one of the first weeks of the acting class I took, the first semester of my freshman year. We’d gone through several afternoons in which we’d laid on the floor and relaxed ourself into a boneless stupor, and exercises in which we’d pretended to be fish out of water, or seeds bursting into life, or animals in a zoo. Before we could be trusted with actual scripts by real playwrights, however, the professor gave us sheets of paper a two-person exchange of identical lines, for an in-class task. The lines were fairly mundane—something along the lines of “Hi.” “Hello.” “Nice weather, isn’t it?” “I hadn’t noticed.” Our assignment, however, was to pair off and present the script to the class while enacting one of several secret scenarios the professor had given us. The class would watch while we’d speak the lines and mime a little, and try to guess the subtext behind the words.

I remember my partner and I were supposed to be a man and a woman in an elevator. I was supposed to be interested in her; she was supposed to react as if she thought I was hitting on her. Her Hi was neutral and cautious; mine was knowing. Her inquiry about the weather she made while stepping to the far end of the imaginary elevator; I said I hadn’t noticed while I tilted my head and stared at her backside as if I was too busy looking at her ass to notice anything else. I spoke one of my follow-up lines while reaching across her to push a floor button and moving too close; she replied with another of the bland sentences by flattening herself against an imaginary elevator wall. The class guessed what we were trying to convey almost immediately.

Some of the other scenes were of young lovers enjoying a picnic, or of a student trying to butter up a professor, or of a young person caring for an elderly grandparent. We all had the exact same dialogue to work with, but what the professor aimed to show us was that even when given the same material and even with the same scenery and props (which is to say, none at all), we could convey an infinite variety of scenarios in a recognizable way.

I’d met this guy only minutes before at the northbound cruisy car lot off the freeway, where after dark men looking for sex pull into empty parking spaces and wait for each other. The cold was biting, and I’d made a bargain with myself that if nothing happened within a half hour, I’d leave and warm myself at the nearest coffee shop. For twenty of those thirty minutes I’d sat fruitlessly in my driver’s seat, rubbing an erection through my jeans, while a bear in a pickup truck looked at his smartphone and snuck furtive looks my way. I’d given up on him and driven to the southbound lot, certain that he was just waiting to pick up a carpooling spouse, but he’d followed me there and then driven away almost instantly. With five minutes to go, I’d driven back to the northbound lot to see if he was there. He wasn’t.

Then the black truck had pulled up next to me. I could see the man driving—an older guy with a military cut. He was easily in his sixties or maybe even more, but he was very plainly taking care of himself. Even on this cold night he was wearing a short-sleeved T that displayed his brawny, muscular forearms. His face was handsome. He nodded at me, and I nodded back. He rolled down the passenger side window. I turned off my car, stepped out onto the gravel, leaned into the window, and nodded. “You’re hot,” he said, in a deep and masculine voice.

“So are you,” I replied.

“Follow me home?”

I didn’t need a second invitation. But then I stood there on his front stoop, while he asked if I knew where we were. And those memories of that college acting exercise surfaced. It struck me that the innocuous exchange could be interpreted in any number of ways. How will you find your way home if you’re lost?—the question of a man concerned about his guest. Or, How will you find your way home . . . if you’re lost?—the question of an axe murderer.

Read as a script, or narrated in a flat tone, it would be more than possible to find sinister overtones to the words he’d said. It would be equally possible to hear in mine the naive last words of a lamb led to slaughter. Or, as I’d assumed to that minute, he might just be that guy who didn’t want his trick banging at his door at midnight, complaining of not being able to find his way out of the cul-de-sac.

The moment’s doubt gives me pause, however. When he pushes open the door and the warmth from within rushed out, I hesitate. There are some genuinely bad people out there. I could end up in the bottom of a home-dug pit, rubbing lotion on its skin.

“Are you coming in, or what?” he says from the other side of the threshold. When I don’t answer right away, he reaches up with a hand, cups the back of my head, and pulls my mouth down to his.

Our lips pressed tight together, with our tongues exploring the back recesses of each other’s mouths, I manage to stumble inside. He holds my head tight between his palms, as if afraid I’ll try to push him away. I don’t. I need those kisses too much, and he does it so well. He smells like the shaving soap they used to use at old barber shops—the kind of vanished storefront with a rotating red and white pole in front. “Get up to the bedroom,” he growls in my ear.

I scamper up the stairs. From behind he guides me into the first door. There’s a large brass bed in the room’s center, a bedside table where a lamp burns low, and some drawn blinds. I can see now that the man is shorter than I could tell while he sat in his truck; he’s no more than five-four or five. He’s assertive enough, however, that when he shoves me back onto the mattress, I stay there. He regards me with glittering eyes as he steps back, puffs out his muscular chest, and removes his belt.

I swallow as he pushes down his jeans. He’s wearing a worn-out jock with a full pouch. Already there’s a wet spot formed on the front. I can see the outline of his hard cock beneath the gray fabric. With both arms, he shimmies out of his T-shirt. He’s a robust old man beneath that cotton. He’s in better shape than most guys half his age, and his eraser-sized nipples are already as erect as his cock. “You want to suck it?” he asks.

I look up into his face. He really is a handsome fucker, is all I can think. The man reminds me of a drill sergeant from an old army movie, all bark and needing to bite. “Oh yeah,” I tell him. I really want to suck it.

He yanks me to my feet. Pushes off my jacket. Pulls off my shirt and undoes my pants like they’re the fly-away clothing strippers yank off with a single tug. I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of white sweat socks when he pushes me down to my knees, bashes his cock against my face, and shoves the fat monster between my hungry lips.

He tastes good. Clean. Soapy, as if he’s rinsed off only a few minutes before hitting the car park. At first he holds my head still as he pistons in and out of my wet and sloppy mouth. Long, slow strokes, from tip to base. He’s only about six and a half fat inches, which isn’t that much to handle. But he’s determined to get deep in there, and he drives so far in that he’s hitting spots guys with more inches than him rarely touch. “I need this so bad, son,” he murmurs, as he strokes the underside of my beard.

Being called son by a handsome older guy hits all my buttons. My cock is fully erect, but I don’t touch it. I can feel it leap and beg for release, but still I keep my hands off. I look up at him with adoration as he fucks my mouth and throat. I’d do anything for this man, after that.

And he knows it. “You like it rough?” he asks. I nod, quick and hungry. “Nice,” he says, speculation making him drawl. “I wonder how rough you can take it.”

“Whatever you want,” I say, when he gives me a chance.

Before I know what’s happening, he’s manhandling me—a five-foot-four guy with twenty pounds and twenty years on me throwing my six-foot-three frame onto the bed. He grabs a couple of the pillows and shoves them beneath my neck and head, then straddles my shoulders. Then his dick is thrusting at my face.

I know what to do. I open up and let him have the access his dick needs. “Good boy,” he whispers. When I look up, he’s playing with his nipples. I try to reach up to do that for him, but he stops me. “Let daddy do all the work,” he growls. “You just take that dick like you’re supposed to.”

I want to be a good boy for him. I need to be a good boy. At this moment, I want nothing more than to be this stranger’s good boy, to give him exactly what he wants and needs. His meat seems to grow thicker in my gullet with every thrust. He’s pounding the back of my throat so savagely that it’s aching. I breathe when I can, trying to gasp in air in those brief fractions of seconds when he’s pulled out and before he rams back in.

“Nice,” he keeps saying, over and over again. “Good boy. Take it. Take all of it.”

My eyes begin to water. Tears are streaming down the sides of my face from the battering he’s giving me. I’m sure I’ve turned a deep red from both the cramped position I’ve had to maintain beneath his body, and from my lack of oxygen. He doesn’t seem to care, though. My mouth is just fuckmeat to him. He’s using a stranger to get his nut; he doesn’t really care about my comfort. He cares about how wet and warm my mouth is around his rigid dick, and that’s it. He cares about the tightness, the pliability. How willing I am.

And I am one hundred percent fucking willing, for him.

I can tell he’s close when he starts to grunt. His belly and chest curl around the top of my head; I can feel his arms cradling the back of my neck as he starts pumping even harder. I can’t breath at all, but I endure my airlessness for a half-minute while he finishes off with a series of animal noises. Like a feral beast, he drives to the back of my throat. He’s nearly crushing my skull. I don’t care. I want the load.

When it comes, it gushes almost directly down my throat. I can feel the heat of it, taste a little of it when I start to gag. Though his grip lessens a little, he holds me down on his dick until I’ve taken care of every drop of that semen. Then, gradually, he releases his hold. When he finally straightens upright, cracks his knuckles, and stretches, I’m still nursing on his softening dick.

He pulls it out with a plop. “Good boy,” he tells me.

“Thank you,” I say to him. I’ve never been so grateful for dick as I am at that moment. “Thank you,” I say again, as I plant several soft kisses on his pubes.

He’s done. He hands me my clothes. Dresses himself. Waits until I’m completely together before escorting me down to the front door. “So you really don’t know how to get home?” he asks.

“I’ll manage,” I tell him.

He nods. “Turn left at the light,” he growls, as he rubs my butt. “Take the road to the light after that. You’ll see where you are.” I thank him, and wave before he shuts the door. Sure enough, when I follow his directions I find myself on a section of the Post Road I’ve traveled many times before.

Turns out he was the concerned partner and not the axe murderer, after all. But damn, I loved the way he used his weapon.