For those wonderfully assiduous readers who appreciate fictional fantasies and
for new readers who want the adventure of tales with differences.
Dear Maurice,
Your letter arrived yesterday. I’m happy to answer.
What you’re going through is something I’ve learned to handle. May I tell you how?
My Mateo was about the same age as your new heartthrob. From the photo you sent, Owen looks persuadable to our ways if handled with care. Cute. My god, he’s cute. Physically a keeper, if that is your aim. You say he’s brainy.
Any idea whether he’s been tried on for size before meeting you?
Whatever, here’s my advice.
Work from the tried and true: stir him into bouts of participation with trust-building activities. I showed Mateo how to make fudge brownies. Mix salad dressing. Load the dishwasher. Took him shopping at Goodwill and the Salvation Army stores. Better clothes bolster confidence, if you brag on his choices.
Let him try on everything in the store. I did with Mateo. Had him come out to show how he looked in each item.
Stay out of the dressing room.
At home, help him try different combinations before you take him out for a meal. Help, of course, with the dressing and undressing. Not too handsy. Your touches and adjustments will assure him of good intentions, encourage cooperation, and likely get the results you want.
Mateo liked me fitting his clothes – you know, how to fluff out a tucked in shirt, how far to roll up the sleeves (just two turns), how to get jeans’ back seams to ride in his crack (“It’s a feeling real men understand,” I told him.). Pretty soon, he was undressing down to his skin like it was nothing. I complimented his shoulders, told him he had a good back (nice spine alignment), and – out of the blue – asked if he liked to be tickled.
In no time, I had him writhing on the floor – so could get him in the arm pit, behind a knee, and pinch a titty, goose his balls, poke at his hole. All just fun. He mock-fought, but I called his bluff. Took off my clothes and dared him to tickle me.
Find out for yourself.
A couple of fun things I did with Mateo – to plant subliminal ideas: one, I divided a grape popsicle into two individual pieces and dared him to see who could suck his piece completely round first (Oh, that beautiful little mouth going purple!); two, I showed him how to roast a marshmallow, then when I had one nicely browned, I plucked it off the wire hanger, held its underside toward him and had him suck the soft, warm middle out of it while I ate the crust.
A natural, I tell you.
About the popsicle, it surprised him when I wanted to know how its taste sensation would feel in my mouth. Didn’t give him time to anticipate me. Just pressed my mouth to his purple lips and felt around with my tongue. Laughed and said, “That’s cold. And tasty!”
Oh, think about touching your popsicle piece to one of Owen’s nipples. When the cold makes him squeal, you can dive down to warm it up with a nibble or two.
Later, after his third or fourth fire-softened marshmallow, announce, “You are sweet!” With a marshmallow that’s not too hot in your fingers, have him try to go for it while you pull it away, temping, then accidentally squeezing it to fall directly on his crotch. Then say, “Sorry, I’ll get that,” and dive down with your mouth to suck it up. You can get a mouthful of dick and maybe some balls. Great fun!
Mateo gave in immediately to being sucked. I used some of the marshmallow goo on my finger and ran the tip just inside his hole when I was slurping away. He went nuts, even wriggled down for more. First time, I hit his prostate and he came like a cherry bomb. It was – his cherry!
We really laughed then. I blamed it all on him. Said he was tempting me, the innocent.
Pay dirt! Mateo proved precocious. He asked me what it would feel like to me if I put my dick in his butt. Can you imagine? “Let’s find out!” I fairly screamed. Got him on all-fours. Spat a gob on myself and walked it in. You know – this much, that much more, then a jab.
“Way better,” he said. So I got to work with straight ins and outs until his little ass was humming. So, like I said, go with the tried and true to start. Fancy stuff when the going’s good.
I ricocheted against his inside walls as if entering crisis mode. Ha!
He collapsed on his face, reached back, grabbed and pulled at me to rip off his own orgasm – alone. Shocked he was when I calmly remarked, “You sure took your pleasure without any sign to me. Guess it’s my turn to be selfish.”
Those words will work with your Owen, ten-to-one’s my guess.
I remember your question, “What if he starts to cry at some point?”
Simple.
Just say what I said to Mateo when he cried, “I understand. You’re just a novice. You didn’t realize what you were doing, how it would disappoint me not to share an orgasm with you. That’s okay, I’ll pull out and let you leave. I’ll look elsewhere. Someone else will want me.”
He blubbered a bit. Owen might, too. But wait. Deep inside he’s bound to express two things: his now-realized guilt and his desire not to be abandoned by you, sent away – whatever.
Mateo apologized and began to make an offer.
I considered what he was trying to say – for about two seconds – then screwed him senseless.
When done, I said, “I feel better about us.” Cryptically, I tossed out, “You’ll see.”
“You mean there’s more to see than this?” Priceless expression on his face, in his voice.
I pulled out. Turned him to his back so he could see. Wiped off my hardness, tweaked it to make him ‘see,’
“See this?” I dropped another wad of spit and rubbed it over and under. He flinched, but couldn’t take his eyes away. “This is for you.” My voice issued what had to sound like a challenge. “It’s coming your way.”
His legs scooped easily. I swooped in. Not a minute later, Mateo surged, rebounded as if spring-loaded, took me, his pulse racing. Told me later, he felt his ears pop as his eyes went blind in the explosion. Then his every part relaxed.
I was spreading his load across pointed nipples when he came to enough to say, “I wish we could be like this forever.”
Not to give in to the sentiment, I was practical, “We’d starve to death. That would be forever.”
He wasn’t quick to reply so I smacked him, pulled out, called him “Smarty-pants,” and said, “Let’s get some food. Fucking you made me hungry.”
After filling his belly with junk food he likes, he cooed gratefully. Opened readily. Got fucked. Came soon, due to my pronging. Heh-heh. I pulled out and said rather sternly, “When it’s right for us to have a next time, I’ll hold your cock and balls so that you don’t erupt prematurely.”
Dire, I know, but if you say something like that to your Owen – once he’s yours deep down – the threat will stick in his mind. It will stimulate as it scares him.
Your eyes probably have a glint in them about now. Has it dawned on you that, the next time, he’ll give himself totally to whatever you want to do?
I’ll now wax philosophical – time and will are mine (Mateo went to visit his mother).
The time between arousal and orgasm matters most. Unfamiliar sensations vie with those already known. Some muscles contract to cope with intensity. They twitch, they jerk. Shudders distort and defeat restraint. Initiators such as I devote themselves to their young subjects so that the desire to reach climax fights the desire for their participatory acts to be prolonged.
Drives them crazy. They cede everything to the man in hope he’ll seed them when least expecting it. Ramp up your cock’s directions as if urgent. Let them have no option but to relax into the fuck, then tweak hard on their tiny tits for distraction. Stop. Talk. Ask questions.
Interrupt the answers with probes or teases. They or he won’t know what to make of the postponed ecstasy and may be reduced to beg for it. Take a few stabs to show that you might be willing. Say nothing then or maybe, “Listen!” as you slap your body against his. Be violent enough to make the noises loud. They must register even if his mind’s clouded.
If he’s not fully stretched, that’s the time. Stuff him. When he cries out, compliment him on his good behavior. Pause, lurch into him. Demand he use his ass muscles to milk you. (Impossible, because they’re slack.) Mock his inability. Call him undeserving. Any try to tighten merits a “You’ll get there, baby.”
Here’s something that happened: After reinforcing my right to his tush, I took Mateo to the kitchen for peanut butter and grape jelly sandwiches with cold milk
Occupied thus for a while, I belched and said, “Excuse me.”
He replied with a small, polite burp.
“It’s miraculous.”
“What?”
“Every time I fuck you is different. You mix and match, contravene, lie there, do that trembling thing with your ass muscles, twist as if trying to get away, grab my dick like a vise, let go and become powerless, rev up, pull at me like a suckling calf, force me to bottom out when I don’t want to, do that choppy thing that drives me mad, and makes my head ring.”
I paused. Caught a breath. He was smiling benignly.
“Damn that innocent look. You’re…you’re…”
“The best thing you ever had in bed?” The look, malicious.
I thought of saying something unwise but reverted to my previous lavish observations. “All those things I was saying before, they happen in different sequences each time we fuck. I think I understand your skill at that. But what blows my mind is when you seem to do several of them at once!”
Mateo – who was becoming more loquacious the more my time with him – beamed the most luxurious smile, “You’re right about the sequences. They’re a specific skill-set, if..you..please. The simultaneous instances are purely instinctual responses, totally out of my control. When I’m lost in pleasure, my body takes over.” Then softly, “Happens only with you.”
Until that came out, he’d made me feel mellow. Only with me? Was the trollop seeing someone else while on the dole from me? Why, I’d taught him everything about being a bedmate, my bedmate.
He saw my face flaming up.
“Wait!” he said. “I meant, it only happens with you because you’re the only man I’ve had to know me the way you do.”
Wasn’t sure that made a lot of sense, but I ordered, “Get your diabolical self back to my bed. I’m going to fuck the devil out of you.” I meant it.
Did it, too.
We are very much in love.
Well, Maurice, my dear friend. I look forward to learning how you make out with Owen. Of course, in the time it takes for this letter to reach you, you and he may already have scored as a properly top-and-bottom pair. In that case, use what you can from my advice and experiences to spice up the relationship.
Best wishes,
Harcourt
* * * *
Dear Harcourt,
Your long letter arrived here six days after you posted it. Talk about timely, Owen wasn’t here most of that time. There was a family event – a reunion of some such. They’re getting ready for a cruise – without Owen.
When he returned, I couldn’t tackle him the way I wanted because my dick was sore from jerking off. He was worn out from being kissed by his mother, aunts, cousins. They act like it’s the end of the world for him not to be with them. He’s smartest of their lot.
I’ll skip the prelims. They went well. Back in college, remember oral exams? Owen wants to be examined orally before letting me wander his promised land. I know you think that’s disgusting, but it gets me what I want and makes him happy on the way. I’m getting better at it.
My mouth’s glands like it. They really do a number when I’m chowing down. Drool – man, there’s a lot of it. Soaks the sheet, but who minds?
Usually, it goes like this. He lets me strip him. The kid always gets hard like a brick when I wrench off his tighties. Lies back, lifts his balls, and tells me to start with them. So I prod them with my nose, lick – even suck them one at a time – until he wants my mouth on what has started to leak. I let him push his dick inside and wait for him to ask me, please, to do him.
I bathe his erection liberally – a word you’d use – until, in that funny voice of his when he’s hot and bothered, he says something like, “You can do better.” At times like that, he won’t let me come off for air. He’s strong for one so small.
I know when his fit is coming on because he revs up and gasps that he will give me “a good taste” of him. It’s so cute. He laughs if I gargle his stuff first then swallow.
So you see, what you used to call ‘backdoor love thrills’ aren’t really in our ballpark, but his balls are! He parks his balls in my mouth. Ha-ha, got you with that one, didn’t I?
If Owen ever turns over, it will be on his own. Then, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll do some oral there. That would be my first time, but I bet I could do it. Not of course if he’s dirty there. No. No.
So, you carry on the way you want and I’ll do the same at my end, or Owen’s. Ha-ha!
Yours truly,
Harcourt
* * * *
Dear Bobbie,
When you were first in the slammer, getting slammed in the butt day and night – I remember your vivid letters – did you ever think back to your start? I mean, were you slobbered over by some oral nut before he cored you the first time?
Reason I ask is that a friend of mine who has the most gorgeous young thing on tap is only blowing him. That’s practically criminal, isn’t it? He’s trapping the boy, name of Owen, into perversity of expectations. Goddammit, if I could get my clutches on pretty Owen for a few days, he’d soon know which end should be up.
It worries me that…oh never mind. It’s just that my Mateo is away to tend to a yard sale his mother’s putting on, so I’m frustrated. Do write, please, and tell me more about your early experiences and – oh yes – your sequestration with those French Legionnaires in Morocco – you know, before you tried to slip back to this country where the Feds got you on that old trafficking rap.
Nothing happened along the way to your present success where you are that involved oral, did it? Just passing stuff, right?
Oh, before closing, did you ever have contact with an itinerant, revival-style minister who calls himself Rev. Abraham Falconer? If, by chance, you know how I can reach him, let me know. I hear he’s got some gimmick for getting into boy butts. Might help me deal with my friend, sappy Maurice, and his failure to bring around Owen, he of dimpled cheeks and trusting mien.
Onward, persistent in seeking truth and justice for the unfucked –
Harcourt
* * * *
Bitch,
Not a word from you in ages, now this? You expect a lot.
At the least, you could have sent me some money through Western Union to use in the commissary. When you get this, OK?
I was maybe fourteen when first forced to snarf cocksnot. Smartass friend of my cousin’s, “Hairy” Harry Dalrymple, wouldn’t let go until I got it all and then some. Cousin Joe-Bob Croker wanted in the act. I gagged and puked. They liked that, being high school seniors. Then it was every afternoon after school – in the bushes or our outhouse where puking didn’t matter.
Their friend Tommy Roddenberry (I called him “Rottencrotch” because he never seemed too clean) came up with the bright idea that my butt would probably “do a number” on his cock while I was strangling on Joe-Bob’s six or “”Hairy” Harry’s seven. Turned out to be true. Everybody had to try that out, wouldn’t you know?
Good thing was I never had to jerk off on my own. Just happened. Anyway, all that passed when I ran off with the postman, Mr. B.D. “Big Dick” Brown. That’s when I learned brown was not just a color but a verb. Taught me to pick pockets. Well, we had to live, didn’t we, in between all the fucking?
B.D. went out to get us some grass after we’d pilfered the pockets of two goons, so I was in when the cops showed up. The two wallets, their $500-limit credit cards, IDs, and a combined total of $77.23 – which I was going through with the goddam front door standing wide open – got me nailed. The judge would’ve let me off with a warning except for the fact that I offered him a BJ if he’d go easy on me.
So, I went to Juvie.
B.D. found himself another sucker-fucker and never once came to visit.
Met a hustler who was sixteen – name of Donny – who clued me in on life in lockup. “They say blow, you blow. They say bend over, you bend.” So, I served my time without getting roughed up much. Sure gained experience! Was released after time served.
The, my big mistake – I fell in with the wrong crowd outside. You don’t want the details. Why should protecting yourself be a felony? Manslaughter Two they called it. Four fucking years. Plus, I didn’t know he was a federal marshal undercover.
I’ll be twenty-two when I get out. They’ll never let me out early – because my behavior’s too good!
It’s no picnic in here, but I’m taking a writing class (Can’t you tell?), getting three square meals a day and fucked, really fucked. The guards (called ‘screws’ – ha-ha!) visit, always wanting to verify that my butt’s OK and that my protectors among the old-timers aren’t passing me around too much.
“How’s Booty Boy?” they ask. It is a kindness. And if I complain about some jerk, he ends up in solitary. So there.
That Rev. Falconer guy wonderfully shows up now and then to conduct a chapel service. What a whopper he’s got! It gives old-time religion new meaning – when I’m face down on the altar singing “Touch Me, Lord” and “Jesus Came.” All the verses followed by a big A-men.
To conclude, if that piddly friend of yours doesn’t do his duty by that boy Owen, there’s no telling how rough life’s going to be down the road. Tell him, “The sooner the better,” and that comes from an expert. And, if he doesn’t, then convince Mateo to help you get the kid out of there – now!
Must go. Abe, I mean Rev. Falconer’s here, Sgt. Buster just told me. Wants me help him set up for Communion. He’s something else when he’s communing.
I hate you, you bitch –
Bobbie
P.S. Not going to put you in touch with Abe. Two reasons: one, I want him here for me; two, he’d abscond with Mateo and Owen – leaving you and your friend high and dry! See how thoughtful I am!
P.P.S. Remember to go to Western Union. Please, bitch.
* * * *
“Hello?” I answered cautiously, not expecting a call.
The voice rumbled, “This is the Rev. Abraham Falconer calling for Harcourt Manship. Are you he?”
-Shit.
“I am.” I waited.
“You have some doubts, I understand, about my interest in bringing the blessings of faith to young men on the verge of accepting life’s proper path.”
“Your reputation precedes you.”
He paused.
“No need for impertinence. We share similar interests. Further, I can supply references.”
“From above? Listen, I deal with the written word. Write to me. That way, nothing you communicate – nor I with you, if I do – can be left to the uncertainty of memory. Good bye.”
The phone rang immediately and kept ringing.
Mateo peeked in.
Quickly, I scribbled some lines on a piece of scrap paper, thrust it into his hands, and said, “Answer, read this, and hang up.”
Lifting the receiver, he liltingly read out, “Manship’s Masturbation Manor is currently closed. For appointments, please address your request to 3-2-5-7 Resurrection Route, North…”
Click.
Laughter collapsed us.
We hurried to bed. Mateo, hot as ever, laved my urgency not with gel but Vaseline. “It’ll last longer.”
I made a show of his being flat like a tire in need of pumping up. Fitted myself gingerly to his socket. Snapped through – bam! – and set up a pace he soon admired.
“That’s the way…Just like that…Oh man yes…Great strokes…Keep ’em coming…Now go faster…And harder…Harder, that way…Oh my…I’m…I’m getting there…Pork me you pig!”
As a man of words, I signaled appreciation of his alliterative phrase by acceding to his demand.
Piglet squeals meant happiness for the next quarter hour. They ceased when I ceased, deferring to lower back pain. But I wallowed atop my dear boy to remind him of his place. And of mine in him. A great place to soak one’s satisfied cock.
My prong did soak – lazily – until, Omigod! – it seemed as if being gobbled by some toothless mouth. Marvelous Mateo mandated more. Ravenous about it, too, he impelled his hungry butt backwards.
“Come on! Feed me your meat.”
Crude but effective. Like charcuterie, slice by slice?
Instantly, I put that boy on a fatty-pork diet. Crammed him with all I had and, with industry, coated his innards again with nature’s sauce aplenty.
Although oxygen deprivation had me in its temporary thrall, I flicked a glance at where we connected just when he thanked me, saying, “I’m full.” I was full, also, of proprietary pride.
Gradual effort filled my lungs. My bangers, empty, would need hours to recharge. What to do in the meantime?
The phone rang. I picked up, imagining the worst (you know who), but was taken with surprise by the sweetest boy-voice.
“Harcourt?”
“Indeed.”
“I’m Owen. Owen Bumstadt. Maurice…Maurice Oralsohn told me to call you. He’s gone to the hospital. I’m supposed to be with him this week. My parents – well, I don’t want to go home or on a big trip they want to take. Oh, I don’t know what to do.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’s this guy – some reverend somebody – wants to meet me. He was trying to get Maurice to let him visit – something about Maurice’s volunteer prison work – but Maurice said for him not to, only I slipped up when the guy called, and told him about Maurice taking sick. And…I think he’s coming over here. I don’t know what to do. I’m all shook up.”
“Don’t cry. Take a deep breath and listen to me. OK?”
Sniffling, then, “All right. I’ll try.”
“My boy Mateo and I will need maybe two hours to drive there, but we’re coming. Lock the doors, secure the windows, close the curtains, pull down the shades, bolt the cellar door. Do you have anything you can read to kill time?”
“Mmm…I have the letter about me you wrote to Maurice. Is that OK?”
“I can’t think of a reason why not since it was my way of showing interest in you, Owen. Take it with you into the kitchen pantry – there’s a light. Sit on the floor if you have to, but be sure the folding doors are closed. Don’t answer the phone or the doorbell or anything – until you hear us knocking on the back door. Three longs, three shorts, three longs – like SOS. You’ll be safe. We’ll rescue you.”
* * * *
One glad lad bounced around my house. ”Your place is so roomy, so nice.”
At the table, he could barely contain himself. “This turkey in mushroom gravy’s great!”
“So’s the broccoli,” Mateo admonished. “Eat it, not just your potatoes.”
“The more you eat the better you’ll feel about spending your first night with us.”
“Wow, Harcourt.”
* * * *
To kill time, Mateo pretended to let Owen show him how to make a pan of brownies. Ho-hum. Boy eyes lit up at Mateo’s addition to the batter of a heaping spoonful of instant coffee and a quantity of chopped walnuts and bittersweet chocolate chips. An hour later, the house’s aroma had everyone’s stomach churning and yearning.
Thirty minutes of “setting time” passed before vanilla ice cream was scooped over large, warm squares of instant-death deliciousness. Awed, Owen said, “This is the best thing ever. Better than anything in my whole life.”
Nothing about that suggested the smarts he was supposed to have.
“That’s only because you haven’t had real sex yet.” Mateo, matter of fact.
A napkin removed smudges brown and white to reveal a mouth that would have done Cupid proud. Its lips pursed pinkly for an instant before, “I read about it, but I’m scared.”
I put down my napkin, “Ignorance is all that scares you, Owen. Experience sends apprehension down the drain. Replaces it with confidence, quite glorious confidence in yourself, I might add.”
Fingers enlaced under his chin, Mateo grinned. “I ought to know.” He fluttered his lashes.
“Darling, take our guest for a clean-up before bedtime. I want to check on Maurice.”
* * * *
The news was not good. Really not good. That his nurse answered was clue number one. “He can’t talk now. Are you a relative?”
“His only relative,” I lied. “We are cousins, close as brothers.”
Hesitancy gave way, “You may be needed tomorrow or the next day. Do you have power-of-attorney?”
“Yes,” I lied again. Gave her this telephone number.
To ready my bed took the time necessary for freshened, naked boys to arrive. Saucer-round eyes gave Owen an E.T. look.
Question marks in the air were answered by Mateo. “Harcourt, Owen’s willing and interested only there’s a problem. His hole is tiny. Our smallest nozzle finally got through, didn’t it, Owen?”
A bob? A nod? Hard to know which.
Owen offered me a look. One that offered his body.
Actually, his butt – turned my way as he took position on his side facing away.
Mateo passed me both lube types, soluble and petroleum.
Finger at the ready, I moved onto the ringlet, circled it tantalizingly, whispered a little-nothing about Owen’s near future in my bed, and probed. Wonder! – a knuckle went where I intended.
“Go ahead. He’s getting hard,” Mateo advised.
My second knuckle produced an intake of breath but no complaint. In at my furthest, I held still before rotating. “This is precious to me, Owen. You will be, too, when this finger is joined beside it to widen you for me. You want it, don’t you?”
Mateo kissed the boy’s nearest ear, looking at me as he said, “Tell him you need it, or this will take forever. You know, when he was doing me for the first time, his patience exceeded mine. I had to beg for the second finger. Boy, was I ever glad I did, because that’s when the fun began.”
Not strict truth. A melted marshmallow had contributed to his giving way. Creative license – Mateo was resourceful. Besides, we were out of marshmallows.
Owen’s timorous “I need your other finger” gave me the go-ahead. His anus distorted perfectly. I found his prostate and treated it to pressure as though it were a button. His legs spasmed positions, his head flew back, up against my projecting chin, and he cried out, “What’s that?”
“He’s turning you on,” Mateo informed. “Told you the fun would begin. Push back when you can. Make a grab for his fingers. Show him how ready you are, ’cause he’s got some moves for you that you won’t believe – called scissoring.”
I reamed a while before I opened and closed my fingers, laterally, back and forth, up and down, out, then in, stretching to relax. Eager to assist, Mateo added gel to slick my way.
Thoughtfully, he lubed my cock so it would be ready to penetrate when sufficient looseness signaled.
Feverish to complete the act of deflowering compact little Owen, I tried.
No go.
“Owen, precious, it’s going to take three fingers.”
Small voice, “Oh.”
The start was a struggle. Mateo voiced an idea.
“Open wide, Owen. Suck on my three fingers. That’ll help. I’ll watch Harcourt and poke you from the front. Pretend your mouth is like Maurice’s when he was chewing on you.”
Through clenched teeth, Owen said, “No. Please be gentle with me. Go back to two.”
“Okay sweetheart, I aim to please us both.” Two fingers moved easily in his slipperiness. They could be spread now, better. Flexions of Owen’s own encouraged the exercise. I stroked the channel, rubbed his rim until it fairly nibbled at my tips, ran in and out, pressed downward to elicit twists of approval, swirled the area, closed the distance between my mouth and his downy neck, sucked the soft skin, tongued a bit, retracted my paired digits and reinserted three, this time without protest.
“He’s really hard again,” Mateo noticed. “Whatever you’re doing, do it more. Right, Owen?”
For the first time fully conscious of his pleasure at being spoken of rather than being addressed directly, Owen recognized a fact: He liked being an object for others to toy with. For Harcourt more than for Mateo. Mateo was okay, but a man like Harcourt!
-I want him to ravish me. Or maybe, to ravage my ass…while I am outside myself watching what he does with me.
Thoughts drifted with mesmeric effect. My cock had breached the boy and was being fed by inches deep within. Owen felt it only when he was flattened by my weight, his middle skewered, and it was too late to do anything but let a long sigh.
Working like a bellows kindling a fire, I brandished my tumefied sex into and from his mind-numbingly supine subject. This virgin already surpassed all in memory. Reserves of pelvic power were called upon as I shifted from start-up slowness to immerse my cock with regulated force. Each hip-roll bumped buttocks to score a responsive twitch of shoulders or head.
I wanted moans.
As you note, the situation was getting rather personal – for me. But could I have done otherwise?
Eyes down, I tracked the progress of cock as it plunged and stroked, rocked cradle-slow now and raked with fury then, lingered lovingly as if savoring something rare and drove urgently to make gains although the boy’s all was mine. Who but me was engaged in this battle?
The question jolted. Stopped to think.
Owen’s hands laced fingers beneath his chin. “Mmmph,” he murmured. His intelligence kicked in. Turned a dewy smile over his shoulder, drew a bead on this man’s puzzled face, and grinned a grin so high-voltage it shocked me, his occupant.
What came next astonished more.
“You want my ass for a homestead? Want to live in there, or just visit it regularly?”
“What?” came my incredulous question.
“You have it fully furnished,” Owen rallied with a chuckle, ass rippling around the big dick.
Mateo disbelieved the situation. Did not make sense.
-How’s this…this kid able to take over the way he is?
Suspected, it seemed, the newbie’s intelligence and adaptability might soon threaten his own situation with me.
-What if he’s more popular than little me?
I noticed Mateo’s frown, picked up the pace of my pleasure-seeking assault on placid Owen. It was an I’ll-show-you fuck that shook the bed. Like the ones to which Mateo was accustomed, totally possessive.
Phantom excitement churned on-looking Mateo’s rectum. He plucked at himself in front. Began to masturbate. Felt behind, wishing an adult cock – mine – were there. It wasn’t.
I levered down and deep, losing myself in that ancient rhythm that every man hid within. My chest expanded and contracted to oxygenate blood coursing through my system to keep the heated fuck intense. Primitively insistent as tribal drumming – it declaimed a trance-like state of possession, not of the boy but of this fine man by his id.
Grown monstrous, the specter drove me through a mind-reclaiming climax. I rode Owen’s ass, breathing huskily, until shudder after shudder opened his eyes to the aftershocks seizing us. His flow of ejaculate continued in time with his pulse which, although he was utterly spent, ebbed toward normal. The demon in him retreated.
My cock soaked in sex-scented liquids then leaking from my juncture with Owen. Ultimate post-coital ecstasy was his.
With notice that Mateo had collapsed on the floor splashed with his own effluent, I withdrew from sweet Owen’s nesting place. My parts dangled pendulously. Dripped.
* * * *
“Hello.”
“Is that?…”
“The Reverend Abraham Falconer. Who’s this?”
“Harcourt, Bobbie’s friend. He gave me your cellphone number so I could reach him during your visit. I’d like to speak with him.”
“He’s discommoded…I mean, he’s on the commode. I’ll take a message.”
The boomy voice and the presumption behind it aggravated me. I was about to say something smart when the voice interrupted.
“You’re the one who beat me to those boys, aren’t you? Mateo and Owen? Bobbie’s told me you’re serious competition.”
Cheered to think so, I pretended to be humble. “Hardly.” The distant sound of a toilet being flushed prompted me to ask again for Bobbie.
“When I’m done with him in about an hour, he’ll call if he can. I’ve a prayer meeting to hold a few miles away at the Victory Halfway House for Troubled Teens, so won’t be able to stay longer. Sexual abuse victims, you know, require special treatment.”
He terminated our connection after I heard him say something about his belt and assuming “the position.”
* * * *
Was there an earthquake? My dream – I dare not divulge its stupidly-illegal subject – fell into ruins. My body was under physical attack. I was being pummeled. My name was being bandied along with, “Wake up! C’mom, wake up.”
“What’s going on?” I struggled for words. “Is the house on fire? Call 9-1-1, but let me sleep. I’m so-o-o tired.”
Covers were stripped off. Cool air provoked naked skin. I would kill…
…Owen and Mateo?
“Huh?”
“It’s nearly eleven. You’ve been asleep for nine hours,” one piped.
The other, “Sit up. Sip this. We whizzed up black coffee with milk and chocolate ice cream to get you going. Even put in a raw egg.”
Ye gods, what was the rush? I was bushed from…
The icy chill in my throat caused shivers but the flavor woke taste buds from tip to back of tongue. I blinked and sipped and swallowed and got my bearings. Memory’s fog dissipated.
Let’s see, our fifth morning. Something agitated them more than before. Oh, yes. We overdid it last night.
“Dude,” Owen chirped, “you owe us. You promised, don’t you remember?”
They clambered, one to a side. “Yeah, you did,” Mateo seconded.
“My bruising’s gone down. That’s what we were celebrating. And I’m only a little red there today, so c’mon and fuck me.”
“Owen’s right. I’ll take seconds now, only you gotta get up and take a shower. It’s like you said, ‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’ Only you didn’t hear the ’phone ringing an hour ago.”
“Let me tell him, Mateo. Bobbie’s guard, Sgt. Buster, called to warn us that the preacher’s gonna show up here this afternoon and try to get us.”
Bolt upright, I swigged down the rest of my five-alarm wakeup drink and bolted for – well, you know.
* * * *
By noon, my anxieties were gone along with a load of cum into each. I was high on life. Two cuties wanting me. Bold about it. Supreme attraction in that! Best of all by now, my cock had tailored their asses for a perfect, snug fit.
Flat as pancakes, legs together or spread-eagled – they were mine to drill. Get this: two squirt-capable boys about the same size, only a year apart in age, exactly my size inside, but not the same to screw.
Mateo, who had been under me countless times, had an ass from the angels. A single glance at it in pants I bought for him, from day one had me panting. That’s still the case even as recently as a month ago. Without pants, even today, its rolling pink landscape raises respiration and sexual expectations. Ice to his tits keys passion, they’re so sensitive then. When we can escape Owen, he prefers being pressed to his back, legs raised and wrapped around me, my cock maxed in, and my mouth playing kissy-kissy.
Owen, preternaturally life’s finest anatomical collaborator, readily accepts my crushing him to the bed, crowding his inside space – bobbing, swaying, even torqueing into him. Rough sex empowers his resolve to have me grovel madly, shooting wads to the point of disorientation. “Yes!” he shouts with glee. If I try to exit, a guttural protest – “Oh no you’re not” – comes before he calls on the sphincter I was first to stretch. It clasps, coaxes, caresses, then pulls and sucks to draw retreating blood back until my cock expands, fully dimensional, for another round.
The interlude over, Falconer’s threat needed an idea. One came like a proverbial lightbulb being switched on. I had to look up the number for Daddy’s Gym. Called. Got a guy on the ’phone who, at my request, verified the presence there of the man I wanted. “Tell him my boys and I are on our way to see him with a proposition he won’t turn down.”
Traffic let us make good time. I had to admit, “Boys, I’m going to barter your bods…mmm… for the greater good of us all. Is that okay?”
* * * *
The boys’ circles had never intersected with gym rats, much less the reigning gym rhino. Bluto, pressing three-hundred-fifty pounds when we found in in the weight room, exceeded the size of any human either had ever seen.
Owen was agape, “If he stands up, he’ll blot out the sun.”
Mateo’s hands to either side of his cheeks and the look on his face reminded of Munch’s iconic, ironic, silent “Scream.”
“Harcourt? Is that you?” asked the incredible hulk, springing to his feet. Looming a shade under six-five and weighing close to two-hundred and eighty pounds I guessed, he put up a hand the size of a baseball mitt. Waved.
“We went to school together,” I asided.
Bluto’s auburn afro surrounded a square face sporting cauliflower ears and a broken nose. His tree trunk neck’s attachment to the rest of him lay shrouded in mounds of marble-hard muscles. There popped from his mountainous pecs nipples of coppery tone, thimble thick. Cobblestones the color of flesh stood out where others displayed abdominal six-packs. His navel’s curl suggested depth. Contained by its custom-made posing strap bulged maleness so unthinkable the boys stopped to gawp. Tattooed octopi coiled tentacles from the weightlifter’s hips toward, but not touching, his lewd promise.
I stopped – short of shaking hands, fearing breakage. “Bluto, you’re looking better than ever. Remember that favor I did for you?”
“Umm, yeah, I guess,” he scratched his brow. “A while back, when you sicced the cops on those guys who were messing with me and Bobbie?”
“Yes, I helped you get away. Bobbie, you know, ended up in the slammer.”
“Bummer. So?”
“I need a favor from you. My boys here – this one’s Mateo and this is Owen – are being threatened by a really bad man. Older, he’s big but not in shape the way you are. Would you come over to my place and give him a good scare?”
“Want me to off him?” Bluto’s eyes were stripping both lambs as if for a different kind of slaughter. A hand strayed to his crotch.
Bugging eyes watched the movement. Owen reached for the comfort of Mateo’s hand.
“Scare him enough maybe to get him to relocate to another city. You do that and we’ll be even. Plus…” I hugged the boys, “…these fine fellows will show you their appreciation.”
I thought I heard them both swallow.
* * * *
Here is what went down.
Falconer stormed up to my front door and was about to pound on it when the door flew open.
Bluto answered, his horrifying massivity pumped to its fullest, “What fuck do you want?”
A bluff might have been attempted but for the fact that Bluto’s left hand held up a wicked-looking pair of spring-powered gardening shears. “Take one step in this house and I’ll prune your plums.” Bluto stepped forward snipping the clippers toward Falconer’s belt.
Falconer flew from the porch, slammed his car door, turned on the ignition, and screeched his tires to make a quick getaway.
Mirth charged us.
The dust settled.
Room was found on my bed for Bluto and the boys. Cued by me, they began kissing, then nibbling his nipples, their fingers playing over his bumpy stomach to maneuver beneath the posing strap.
“What’s this?” Owen queried, in pretense. “A tumor?”
“Whatever it is, it’s suffocating,” Mateo joined the charade. “Let’s get it out of that thing so it can breathe.”
Impossible.
“Hey you, lift up. You’re hindering our rescue mission.” Owen, insistent.
They managed to Bluto’s amusement.
Wonderstruck, Owen and buddy went confidential, “It’s bigger than Harcourt’s.”
“Where can we put it?”
Bold as ever, I decided to make a pronouncement. “The answer is nowhere personal because you both need reopening by this,” I held out my throbbing readiness. “His thing’d rip you bloody. However, in time of need, I can be charitable, even generous.”
Cogitation ate up little time. Acceptance was in the air. KY was in my hands. Lust on my mind.
Precious bodily contact, especially of Mateo’s cock-craving innards, had the lad’s eyes peering up until Bluto could see their whites. The side of his mouth nearest a scar on his cheek cracked a smile. I was behind Mateo, who knelt over the bedside and, for stability, held onto the giant’s pole with both hands.
Yeses from Mateo’s mouth as I slammed his bottom, yeses from Bluto and Owen – testamentary approvals. I was going great guns, ramping faster, when Owen called, “Don’t you cum or there won’t be any left for me!”
“You heard him,” Bluto snorted. One immense arm snatched Mateo off me, the other almost threw Owen in my direction. Happened so fast that neither Owen nor I, hitching together on the carpet, saw Mateo being staked butt-down as if sitting on the giant.
His “YEOW!” “DAMN!,” “OH!” became “Oh,” “Ungh,” “Mmm,” and “Fuck me” as he bobbed up and down with carrousel regularity.
“Why’d you stop?” Owen complained over his shoulder. “Get my ass ready for that. Jeeze, look at them!” He bumped my pubis. “Aren’t you man enough?”
His young neck fit my hands. I squeezed to make him realize I was serious. Pulled his torso back toward me to ram stem-to-stern. A squawk or two made it past my clutch, then mercy overcame me. I shifted hands to shoulders and lit into his rear cleavage.
Neither Mateo nor Bluto paid any mind to my sluicing Owen with sperm. Their noises drowned ours. To control their fuck, Bluto gripped Mateo by the waist and burst repeatedly from below, washing his lowest bowel with enough discharge to cause overflow. They yelped.
For moments, the room quieted.
Mateo’s face seemed to be taking stock of an inner predicament. “I’ve got..to..go..now!”
He unplugged himself without ceremony and sprang for the bathroom.
Owen drew off me and, with equal spring, took the vacant place, spiked himself, sat with effort, settled back, lifted, smiled from dimple to dimple, sat, leaned forward, sat back, and began to rock. His pelvico-anal action – over I’ve no idea what stretch of time – drew a big grin from Bluto. Was love about to bubble up?
I moved to share facilities with Mateo, him flushing and wiping, me washing and wiping. “You were well-burrowed, I saw.”
“Yes, but Bluto’s more into Owen.”
I said, “He’s certainly into him about up to his navel,” and smirked. “I think Bluto’s smitten with you both in different ways.” His naked, small body against mine, I felt, would profit from a hug.
“Thanks. I like you, you know.”
“I never thought otherwise. Listen, I could get off again, if you’re up to it.”
Bless the boy, his expression said yes.
“Shall I just fuck or do you want love-making?”
“Fierce love-making, if you please. Like…mmm…what Bluto’s doing with Owen, okay?”
My hand on his butt, I gently pushed Mateo through to my small guest room where we came again to terms anatomically and made a pact.
* * * *
Dear Bitch,
Got the fifty bucks you sent and I thank you for it. I don’t understand why your note said it was from you and those two boys. What did they have to do with it?
Otherwise, life here is awful. Your damn fault or somebody’s. Abe Falconer’s in the wind – flat out gone. No word from him even to the authorities here. I’m in terrible shape although the guards fuck me whenever they can. Nobody roots me the way Abe did so I’m deprived. The other day at lunch, another general population inmate dubbed me the Penitentiary Penitent. Guys laughed. I should write my memoirs and use that for a title.
One said I should spend more time in the chapel on my knees– at prayer. Barf at that.
I got to see the warden. He told me to tend to the chapel like I have for the last years and he would see to it that I could earn merits (more freedoms to you, like anything’s free in here) giving BJs. Told him I wasn’t built that way, but he said to “get that way” because it would keep things from boiling over. Me and a few other short-termers with, he thinks, deep throats. “Start a choir,” he told me. “Help build morale.”
Who ever heard of a choir singing on its knees? Anyway, we don’t have the right sort of organ.
Sexual tension, you know. If I did it, he would arrange a couple of hours for me in solitary with arch-criminal Dirk “The Dagger” Hagman who has the meanest, biggest dick in the joint.
Maybe one day you’ll come for a visit. Sure would be nice.
I don’t hate you anymore.
Bobbie
P.S. What about Maurice?
* * * *
Dear Mr. Manship,
My wife and I appreciate our telephone conversations about and your interest in our son Owen. Enclosed please find our fully executed In Loco Parentis agreement and agreed check for his monthly maintenance and allowance.
On your recommendation, tuition has been paid to the recently incorporated Excaliber Tutoring LLC for in-home services including individualized physical education. As you say, that is important for a growing teen, now that Owen is one.
Owen is very excited to have you as his sponsor for the next year while we are on our around-the-world cruise with our extended family. Winning the Lottery has enabled so much for us.
For our son to have a close friend, Matteo, also living there means a lot. They can share the confidences that boys their age have. Our marriage counselor says that is important.
Don’t hesitate to contact us for anything else that you need to guide Owen in the months ahead. It is go good of you to take over for poor Maurice Oralsohn. He was the first man outside the family to take an interest in Owen. We sent a memorial gift to the fund in his name that provides services to inmates at the Federal Prison.
With all our trust,
Sincerely,
Martha and Fred Bumstadt
P.S. Owen says the birthday party you had for him was the best in his life. Could you send us the photos?
* * * *
Dear, Dear Harcourt –
It is the talk in the yard of every cellmate here and the guards. I’m a celebrity because of you! I’m talking about the new gymnasium provided by the Oralsohn Fund. That is one thing, but the other is Bluto the burly weightlifter who you got to plan and inaugurate the facility.
OMG. The room dedicated to internal massages – fantastic! Bluto christened my internals there like never before. He is so strong. His cock has traveled in me farther than Abe’s ever went. New territory he called it when he excavated it. When he jockeys it all the way in both directions, everything from the hairs on my head to the toes on my feet tingles.
If only I could get at him more than once a week when he comes here, I would get over my blackouts at orgasm. He starts to cum, I think I am, then my guts feel like a fire hose is going off, and I’m like cumming apart at the seams. That’s curtains for me.
But is it true what he says – that those two boys can handle him fucking them? And remain conscious??
He made that up, didn’t he? To kid me?
No more right now. I’ve got choir practice to run.
With all my love – and there’s a lot of it
Your greatest fan,
Bobbie
* * * *
Weeks, months packed with action followed. Were they detailed here, many pages would delay their outcome, itself the spectacle that life for all of us now is.
Money rained from Owen’s family. I bought larger accommodations and furnished them with appropriately reinforced furniture, the bedrooms in particular with attention to both rec room and living room.
Bluto, now that he had more to live for than when solely devoted to gym time, went on to achieve advanced titles in weightlifting. They brought him lucrative endorsements from jockstrap and posing strap manufacturers and purveyors of skimpy singlets, high-top-flat-sole shoes, wide back-support belts, knee sleeves, wrist wraps, and skin care products.
For his protection from exploitation, we moved him in. The income he draws from sponsors and personal appearances is another benefit. You would not believe the quantities of food he eats nor how often – between workouts with weights or the available butts. Nor what the entourage is when he travels. Guess.
Mateo, Owen, and Bobbie (!) have rooms of their own with double beds; Bluto and I had rooms with king-size beds. Multiply-equipped, tiled bathrooms link our personal spaces. Such plumbing includes bidets.
Except for hallways, kitchen and dining areas, mirrors line walls and ceilings so we can see how we are doing no matter the positions.
To bring you readers up with Bobbie. Warden Sigmund “Siggy” F. Thugman and I put our heads together over several projects involving both Bobbie and Bluto, one of which was to create a model satellite program for Atlanta’s Penitentiary. It won I.P.S. Awards for both institutions and was widely praised in broader prison circles. Thanks to an impressed judge, Bobbie was given probationary early release into my custody.
“Keep close eyes on him,” his honor told me. I promised.
Bobbie and Bluto really hit it off together with my other residents. Naturally, Bobbie lay under me first, ass at the ready from the moment we ushered him in. He was proud to be stripped and ‘processed’ by Mateo and Owen just as he was when they and Bruno sat on the sidelines while I threaded myself into his already spasming hole. The look on his face – delighted depravity – gave me pause. I crammed it against a pillow before I slid in to begin my plummets.
Straight down and rapid, they had him breathing in quick spurts. In no time, I hurtled harder flinging my fuck into him like a freight train. How my heart thumped!
Minutes winged into the past.
Delicate fingers I learned later were Mateo’s eventually cupped my balls. Bristled the hair on the back of my neck. Contractions washed through my parts – I snorted – and left Bobbie with exactly what he needed when I lifted off and Bluto stepped up to flip him on his back, pushed his legs ear-lobe close, and cannoned so deep we thought the ex-prisoner might faint.
He deployed his cucumber of a cock as if in assault, ramming aside what remained from my venture there. I thought to issue a word of caution but Bluto let out, “Great ass! Great ass! Oh god, what a great ass. I can’t get enough of it!” He pistoned his middle’s bulk so deftly that instead of killing Bobbie, it brought him back. With that, Bluto unleashed the chaos of climax in them both. They crashed. Trembled. Lay in a heap.
A sheepish voice said, “I wish he’d fuck me that way.” Owen.
Answered by Mateo, “He has, only you were out of your frigging mind at the time.”
“Did not.”
“I did, too,” Bluto looked at Owen. “And I’m about to again. Get over here. You,” he told Mateo, “get Bobbie some refreshment. He needs it.”
To me, as they left, he asked, “This one, think he’d like to see my lumpy nose up close?”
“Blaze a new trail. Its lump will give him something to study – for courage. Although, he’s grown fearless faster than anyone I’ve known as a virgin.”
I tossed Bluto a fresh tube of KY. Took a seat in my easy chair. Little Owen popped the cap, squeezed a blob to Bluto’s plumpest finger and, with a brave smile, waited for his ankles to be taken in one hand, lifted above his bottom, and the other to guide therein the most whopping cock of his young life.
Bluto, to his credit, swabbed himself and its designated receptacle with the cool gel. Then – well – he worked his broad, blunt way into the warm elastic of Owen’s opening and along his rectal casing. Progress – slower than his custom – seemed charged with concern to alert every nerve for rapture to come.
Owen took over the task of holding his legs where Bluto had started with them, parting his knees enough for the promised view of the massive man’s broken nose. No pain distracted him from scrutinizing details of the ever-closer broad face: its prominent brow, deep set, intent eyes, mis-set fractured bridge, widening nostrils, nearby scarred cheek, and narrowing lips. He read there what he felt pressing into him below, that Bluto was moving into him with what seemed to be love.
Several prods tested the boy’s rambunctious prostate to gear it for maximum pressure before sliding all the way into the wrinkle-free, recently widened, deep-ended canal. The face-on fuck from Bluto confronted Owen with where to put his hands. Try as he might, he could not reach the giant’s neck – too far away. Nor could he get a hold on the mighty arms although he wanted to steady himself as the cock bottomed and began its first retreat. Overwhelmed by his ass coming to life excitedly, his hands sought and found Bluto’s only accessible parts, his nipples.
Their touch and seizure by clinging boyish fingers electrified Bluto. His bellow, a raging bull’s, sent both of them into overdrive. Blindly, they collided against each other in ecstasy, Bluto continuing past Owen’s endurance. He might have endangered the boy’s frame but for my decision to intervene.
“Don’t kill him!”
Orgasmic furor deafened the man. Not until I beat on his butt cheeks with a fist, lowered my voice, and lessened my demand to “Let him live so the two of you can do justice to your feelings!” was Bluto able to hear me.
The crisis over, Bluto pulled back enough to place his face directly over Owen’s. Eyes searched and focused. Butterfly blinks of Owen’s and tongue-out breathing indicated survival. His chest rose and fell until he calmed.
Nary a soul moved. Mateo and Bobbie stood with me at the bedside, barely able to contain themselves. Both were steel hard with envy. So straight from their bodies were their pricks standing that they looked grafted.
Owen said, “I love your nose.”
Bluto responded by scooping the boy up, bolting from the bed, cramming him full of cock, and jostling around the room, fucking like mad and booming, “I love you!”
* * * *
Our household is settled – mutually. With lots of TLC. We two men are devoted to taking our three younger residents in rotation, each twice daily for anal maintenance and to keep our peace.
Policy, arrived at by consensus, dictates nighttime sleep alone in one’s own bed. Mostly.
Travel interrupts patterns as do understandable urges that require off-schedule fucks. Beautiful sunrises and sunsets provide other reasons. Special celebrations such as birthdays, new contracts, and holidays merit orgies hours in length and equal in affectionate ardor.
Hearty happiness is our hallmark.
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