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Firstly, welcome. This site details adult situations involving oodles and oodles of HOMOSEXUAL sex. Please, if this is not your cup-of-tea, leave now - don't spend two hours reading every story and then email me saying how it's not your cup-of-tea.

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Furthermore, every single word of every single story is complete and unabridged fiction. It is not knowingly based on anyone's real life, in any respect.

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"Run with the swift."

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Getting to Know Dan

In this stand-alone story, the Author travels to the American mid-west, where he meets a teenage fan who is less than thrilled to see him. Things quickly escalate.

I recently received a...negative, shall we say, email from a reader, which has led me to writing this disclaimer. This story was written at the request of a friend and long-time reader of my stories. This friend is not a child, and the story here is the story they requested: one in which 'they' are taken advantage of (raped), as a high-school student. The finished product, which you see here, they liked very much, and they requested I upload under my own name. For this reason, the style and mindset of the protagonist is very different from what I usually write - it's a lot darker, not nearly as...whimsical, and most crucially (and most distinctly from my previous work), involves a person who is already weak - a gay teen - being raped, rather than a person who is traditionally strong being brought down a peg-or-two. For those who are not turned on by such extreme and uncompromising forms of control, this can make reading the story difficult, and an unpleasant experience; this should be considered a warning to those of you who would rather not read such fiction. This story should NOT, under any circumstances whatsoever, be construed as an insight into MY mind, or taken to mean that I harbour secret wishes to travel to America so I can threaten to 'out' a vulnerable teen. All these things are plot devices which, in the words of the person it was written for, 'really push my buttons'. And no, the boy in the picture is not the real Dan ;-)

Whilst it isn't explicitly stated, I originally envisoned 'Dan' as being around 16/17 years old, at the time of actual 'event'. 

Writing sex stories is not the thankless task one might imagine. The biggest positive (as I implied above) comes from people who contact you offering gushing praise. 

I respond to all emails. Sometimes, I might have a two-four email exchange with some, but it is rare in the extreme to ‘make friends’ with a person. 

Or at least that’s my experience, anyway!

I wrote my first story around…10 months ago now, about a boy-band called One Direction, who were aged between 16-18. One of the first emails I received for it was from Dan. His email was short, but it immediately perked my interest:

hey man, just wanted to write and say awesome job on your story so far! what a cool idea for a main character! im just a sophomore in high school, so I don't know much about writing, but I think it's crazy hot how you talk about kids my age. lol

Dan has sent me many emails since then. These emails often brighten my day in more ways than one, by including some…interesting pictures. A mixture of holiday snaps, guys he fancies, and his ass. He’s gay, and I guess he gets a kick out of the authoritarian kink of my writing.

We’re very different: I’m a professional living in Britain; he’s a teenager living in Colorado. But we’re united by my writing.

And yes, I’ll admit it: another reason why I treasure my friendship with Dan is because he’s a real cutie who teases my dick from 4500 miles away. Dark, dulcet brown eyes, crowned by an unruly mop of dark hair, the colour of wet, burnt wood. 

He’s a teenager, and has the round, happy face of such. This is complemented by a slight dusky tint to his clear complexion, giving him a somewhat exotic, sultry look. 

Whilst he had the long, lanky limbs of a teenage boy, all that mountain climbing and snowboarding resulted in the lad possessing a truly noteworthy ass.

I guess, looking back, I can see that I was becoming a little…infatuated with Dan. I held a very real ambition of fucking him silly before his taut teenage muscles began to slacken with age. 

My infatuation was stoked considerably by the fact that I doubted he would be very interested in me – beyond jacking off to my stories, of course. You know how bad an attraction gets when you know you can’t have it? Yeah, it was like that.

As you might imagine given that he was a teenager living in the heart of Red America, he was firmly in the closet, and a virgin. 

And our little exchanges, whilst a bit of a thrill for me, were all pretty harmless. I have no doubt that his…laissez faire attitude, with regards to his thoughts and pictures, was owed to the certainty of us never meeting. 

He lives in Colorado, I live in England; I mean, what are the odds? How could I even begin to track him down, were I to ever actually go to Colorado? And if I were to go, how could I even be sure the pictures matched the person who was emailing me? 

For all I know, ‘Dan’ could be a 78 year old New Yorker, laughing his arse off.

But I know he isn’t.

Because, you know, you’d be surprised how it easy to track down a person these days. Particularly when the person being tracked down doesn’t realise the value of the images he’s cheerily sending me.

One such image was a jock Dan had fallen for. Some blondie. He casually mentioned that this kid went to the same high school as he did. And what was in the picture? 

The jock, with the name of his high school plastered across the front of his singlet. Dan had mentioned that he was so enamoured with the guy, that he’d culled his facebook profile for pictures.

It was pretty easy to put jockboy’s name into the facebook search engine, together with his highschool, and come up with a bunch of profiles. 

I went through about fifteen before I found the relevant one. And huzzar! I could look at jockboy’s friend list without adding him. Going through the few Dan's he had, I found my golden boy.

So I knew his full name and the high school he attended.

Oh, and I was going to Colorado for a conference. Did I not mention that? Yeah, probably should’ve mentioned that first.

Anyway, I booked my return flight for a couple days after the conference ended. Thought I’d just turn up, unawares, and say hello to Dan, whilst I was in the area. Get to know him a little better.

Following in the footsteps of my own literary creations, I hatched a wonderfully contrived scheme to ensnare the boy.

My plan was a lot crappier in application then it was theory. I thought I’d wait outside his school in my car, observe him leaving, and get him.

Well, let me tell you, in America, you get a lot of kids in a single high-school. They were all piling out left, right and centre come quittin’ time, and I felt sure I’d missed him.

But, double huzzar, he was coming out late. I had two pictures with me; checking him three or four times, I knew it was definitely him, backpack over his arms, slunking home in jeans, purple T-Shirt and dark purple skate shoes. 
Red headphones covering his ears, black baseball cap covering his head. He was as I imagined; tall and lanky, but with a promising build which bode well for the future.

As I watched him turn and walk away from me down the road, I very much wanted to be closer. A lot closer. Close enough to reach out, grip his shoulder and pull him to me. 

I very much wanted to forget my troubles, bury my face in his delicately thick neck, and breathe in his scent whilst I stuffed my hand into his warm jeans so I could get better acquainted with his down-below parts.

I imagined he’d smell of pine, underlined by a spicy boyishness.

This’ll be so easy, I thought. I’d roll up alongside, say who I was, and he’d be all like ‘OMG that’s amazing’, and by way of celebrating all this, we’d get it on like dogs.

Easy peasy.

The ridiculously oversized SUV I had been given as a hire car gurgled into life, and slowly crept along the road until it was alongside the boy.

I lowered the window.

After a few seconds, he saw me looking at him, and pulled off his headphones, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Do I know you?” he asked, not stopping to talk to me.

“Yeah, I think you do,” I replied. His puzzled expression only grew when he heard my British accent. I continued, “I’m looking for the owner of this,” as I held up the colour picture of his tight bubble butt, which I’d printed off before leaving England. “Any clue where I might find him?”

He gulped, looking at me through wide, dark eyes. “I…I don’t…understand…”

“No. I can see that. Tell you what, why don’t you get in? Maybe I can explain it to you.”

“I, um…I…don’t really…wanna…can we just talk here?”

I looked at him for a second, then smiled. “Well, we could…but anyone could hear us. And our topics of conversation might be a little…racy.”

He frowned at my use of the term racy, and I guess he was well justified in doing so. I wouldn’t write characters as saying this crap, so why am I saying it right now?!

Before I could answer my internal question, he responded as anyone with a sane mind would be expect him to respond. “Just…I dunno you, man…just leave me alone, ‘k?”

At which point, he started walking away. Kids were still walking past, alongside the high-school, so I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.

I pulled up alongside him again, where he was pretending not to see me. “Dan, here’s why you should get in the car,” I began. “Because, if you don’t, I’m gonna be forced to be a dick about this, and, um, tell everyone you’re gay.”

Yikes. I can’t believe I actually said it. My stomach was roiling, like I had a nest of iron snakes in there. The colour seemed to drain from his face.

He scrambled toward the car. “What the fuck, man? Why, why would you do that? I mean, how the fuck even could you?”

“I’m the author-“

“I know who the fuck you are! You think I send all my emails with a picture of my ass attached? What are you even doing here? How do you know my school? Please, man, I don’t know you, just…please, I’m begging you, please just go, please. I’m…I’m gonna go home now. To my parents. Please, leave me alone. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

He turned and walked away. I looked down at the steering wheel. My two hands were still welded to it. I didn’t even realise. I must look like such a fucking tool.

This wasn’t how it was meant to be.

I closed my eyes. First, to rest them. Then more tightly, to make all this go away. What was I even doing here? This isn't a fantasy. This is real life. I’d spent money paying for an extra night at the hotel because I thought my life might turn out to be a fucking fantasy.

I still had another day here. And for what?! Memories from a day I’d want to forget, that’s what. A day I will wish out of existence. I’m such an idiot. Such a moron.

This never happened in my stories. This isn’t meant to happen. Not like this.

My eyes ached now. The muscle around each of my eyes ached with pain. My self-pity was morphing into anger.

'The reason it doesn’t happen like this in the story,' I told myself, 'is because in the story you’re not nearly so fucking forgiving. Your nice to people, so people think you’re a dick. That’s how it works, both in the fantasy world AND the real world.'

'How did you think this was going to go down,' I asked myself. 'That he’d just cheerily jump into the car and go along with it? Because he’s gay?'

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I opened my eyes. My vision was unfocussed and bleary, and my eyes were damp. I wiped my nose with my sleeve. I must have been crying.

Dan was about a hundred feet away from me now, still walking along the sidewalk.

My hand shaking, I open the car door, and stood.

I found myself shouting. Shouting as loudly as I could. My voice would’ve been uneven and uncertain, were it not for the volume which ironed out the inconsistencies.

“STOP RUNNING AWAY FROM ME YOU FUCKING PUSSY. I know, man. Do you understand? I know ALL ABOUT YOU, and I’m right fucking here. You can’t walk away from this, because I know. So why don’t you be a man for once in your FUCKING LIFE, Dan?”

He turned to look at me. A few of the passing kids looked at the pair of us, but none of them stopped moving on. I held up my hooked finger, and beckoned him toward me. 

When he was on the other side of the car, I leant across and whispered, “Dan, I know you’re a faggot. And I know that because nobody in this town knows about it, that’s terrifying. But here’s the thing; if you don’t get in this fucking car right now, I’m going to be forced to tell everyone at this school what a big fat homosexual you are, and I’ll have your emails and pictures as Exhibit fucking A. So, what’dya say we both just get in the car like grown-ups, and continue our little chat there – in private. ‘k?”

Dan grudgingly opened the passenger side door. Feeling like I was on the crest of a great big bravado-roll, I said “no.”

He looked at me puzzled. “Whaddya mean, no? You just told me to get in the fuckin car.”

“Get in…the back.” He stared at me. “You…won’t be seen so easily. From the outside,” I rationalised.

With that, he opened the rear door, and climbed into the back, removing his backpack and placing it between his legs. I got in alongside him.

I kinda got a cheap thrill when he was in the car. Was this actually going to happen? I still couldn’t really believe it. A few minutes ago I had nothing, and now…well, now I had what could well prove to be something.

I tried not to let my childish excitement show. But my voice was a lot shakier now I wasn’t shouting. “The important thing is…don’t worry, Dan. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I ain’t worried,” he retorted, arms folded across his chest.

I looked out the window for a moment.

I don’t know why, but all this time, it had never occurred to me that in real life he might be a little shit. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to it all.

“So what happens now? I got parents ya’know…I don’t know how it is in jolly old England, but here, when kids finish school, they go home to their parents.”

Without looking at him, my nearest hand jerked out toward him and cupped the front of his thick black jeans, squeezing the lumpen mass of flesh hidden by two layers of clothing.

He recoiled back into his seat, looking out the side window onto the sidewalk as he did. “Kids from my school are going past! S-stop! Stop it, I said!”

His right hand reached for my own right hand, now massaging life into the meaty tube contained within his boxers. Before he reached it, I bodily leaned over, gripped his wrist with my left hand, and slammed it against the window to his side. “AH-HAH” he cried out in pain, after his knuckles impacted the glass.

“Well done,” I replied, “now what’s going on in here is even more fucking obvious. You should try and think before you act, you know.”

He could’ve stopped me with his other hand, but he appeared shocked into acquiescence. “Please stop, man. PLEASE!”

“Well, how about we work out a deal? I’ll let go of your hand, and you call your parents and tell them you’re gonna be late home.”

“I’m never late on a Thursday-”

“JUST FUCKING DO IT.” I gulped, struggling to contain both my phlegm and my anger. 

I closed my eyes again, thought about the sweet morsel of boy-steak I was still fiddling with, and regained my composure. 

“Dan. The aim is not to devise a plot regarding your whereabouts so devious that it could fool Columbo. We just want to tell them something so they don’t call the police filing a missing persons report. Ok? So call them. Tell them you’ll be home later. Listen to them bitch and moan. Hang up. I know crap like this seems like a big deal when you’re young, but it isn’t: they’re not going to have the fucking locks on the house changed or anything. It’ll all be forgotten by tomorrow. Ok? Understand?”

Whilst I was speaking, I had undone the zipper of his jeans, and the tips of my fingers were stroking the rounded hump of his semi-erect length, entrapped within in his tight white boxer-briefs. 

The pad of my index finger zeroed in on the seam in the fabric – the seam caused not by manufacture, but by the indentation of the boys dewy glans, creating their own little bulge through the thin cotton material.

His eyes flitted between what I was saying, and my roaming hand. The rest of him seemed frozen; completely unmoving. The hand around his wrist squeezed, to signify the end of my sentence.

It was now his turn to gulp. “S-s-sure. You, um…you’re not going to…hurt…me, are you?”

I thought for a minute. “Just make. The fucking. Phone call.”

I let go of his wrist, at which point he reached into his coat and extracted his cell phone. 

Whilst he had the phone to his ear and was waiting for someone to pick up on the other end, he looked at me worryingly as I calmly undid the fiddly black plastic button on the front of his boxers and deftly reached in, bringing his erect cock out into the air of the car. 

His dusky organ was a good size, rising from his boxers like a dirty-pink candycane – a cane which lacked the sugary sweetness of a traditional stick, instead stinking of stale boyish pent-up desire, even from a distance.

Resist. I was naturally drawn to the source – I wanted very much to stuff my face down there, taking his perfumed Coloradan sausage into my mouth then and there, whilst he was dressed in his preppy branded high-schooler gear and on the phone to his Dad…but I resisted.

I don't know why, but it felt important to resist. To not just surrender myself to this teenager.

He was silent as I brought him out into the open, instead looking desperately – but not so desperate that it might look suspicious – at the few other kids late out of school and passing the car on their way home. I wondered if he knew any of them. 

I wondered if he was thinking about some conversation he might have had with them earlier today, and now here he is after school, in the car of some tourist, calling his parents to tell them he’ll be late home because he’s having his dick diddled by that same tourist.

I mean, you couldn’t make it up, could you?

By now he was so stiff, I thought he might faint from blood loss. I took a few moments running the flat of my nail up and down the tight body of his prick.

Either unconsciously or in an effort to reduce his exposure through the window, he slid further down the chair, his gangly denimed legs spreading more lewdly then he might like.

“Uh, hi Dad…”

As soon as he started speaking, I wrapped my hand around the stiff ruddy joystick, and gently pulled back the teen’s wrapping.

As I did so, I relished in each and every seemingly inconsequential rush of sexual heat the horned up little fuckbag had enjoyed that day. 

Every excited glance a boy he likes producing a trickle of presap, every unmanageable hardon producing a sweaty, humid need to get off, nowhere more humid then within the fetid confines of his foreskin. 

Every single incident realised in and contributing to that humiliating moment, when the fusty, delicately boyish animal scent of the teen’s stinky pheromones were expelled into the still atmosphere of the car.

He closed his eyes, and shakily tried to continue his conversation as best he could; but his humiliation combined with his clammy pink glans being revealed by another person for the time time made that…difficult.

His entire body briefly spasmed. Holding the phone with his right hand, his left coiled back around the headrest behind him. The chair shook with the force of his angst.

After briefly gurgling down the phone, he continued speaking in a higher tone. “I, um, I um won’t be baccckkk for a while, I’m s-s-Stayin’ at, umm, Zack’s house.” 

To give him an incentive to wind things up, I was slowly – real slowly – jacking him off, the nail of my thumb, dry and unforgiving in the dry heat of the car, scratching and fiddling with the sensitive pink knob flesh collaring the tip.

He was breathing deeply, continuing to look at the kids passing by the car.

“Y-y-yeah I know, Dad, I-erummmm-AHARGHI’ll do it tomorrow, I-I-I gotta go now bye.”

The phone fell from his hand, and he shut his eyes as I kept up my stroking.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” I asked, receiving no response from the boy.

The only sound in the car was that of his noisily loose foreskin, wetly slipping and sliding over his organ. When the rosy tip was exposed, my thumbnail would continue its previous melodic torment, but his foreskin would provide no relief for his itchy glans with my fist enclosing the head on each upward stroke; gently squeezing it.

Each squeeze making his pisser a little redder, and a little angrier.

What began as a foamy froth emitted from his peehole steadily grew into a translucent sticky drizzle, trickling down his shaft and the digits of my fingers, as if my small-town terrier was making his own-brand of syrup, just for me.

Alas, I had no pancakes.

Letting his prick slip from my fingers for the moment, my hand delved into the warm confines of his boxers, rolling his silky taut nutsack between my long fingers, smearing the juice that a few minutes previously had been on the inside of his sack, over the outside.

I wasn’t enjoying this as much as I thought I would. This was exactly what I’d wanted…more than what I’d wanted…but my stomach felt like molten lead; like I was going to throw up at any minute.

In the stories, I never felt like throwing up.

Maybe if I did something else? That might make me feel better. In the back of my mind was the concern that I would never have this opportunity again: that I had to make the most of it. That I had to do everything.

I withdrew my hand and quickly swooped, running my tongue flatly along the teenagers cock which was jumping and flexing with unspent sexual energy and previously unrealised need. 

I hoovered up the dank boy-stink delicately coating his organ, infused with the flavours built-up over the course of an active school-day.

And I gently nursed the head, taking in the musky juice his piss-slit was basting in. But this was only for the briefest of minutes: withdrawing, I stuffed his sticky hardon back into his shorts, and yanked up the zipper. As I did so, I licked the boy’s freshly brewed gravy from each of my fingers.

I sat back for a minute, catching my breath, and calming myself. He stared at me, with the look of a person who’d just been molested. In a quite robotic fashion, I reached out, hooked my hand behind his head, and pulled him towards me.

By the time he’d realised what was going on, it was too late. In seconds, I had him over my lap; my left hand pressing down on his neck, with my leg over his own to keep him from kicking.

His hat had fallen off during the altercation. I picked it up and returned it to his head, the bill pointing backward.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” I began, “but you left me no choice, you fucking prick.”

I raised my right hand, and brought it down on his backside.

The loud clap reverberated through the car, with silence reigning afterward.

My hand stayed on his butt. Stationary, to begin with, but I was roaming soon enough, my calm caressing the firm twin hillocks of his behind through the denim.

My left hand remained on his neck.

When I began sliding his loose jeans down over his ass, his hands began flailing wildly.

“You’d better stop,” I muttered, “some kids from the school are coming over. They probably can’t see you where you are, but if you suddenly appear from my lap…”

The hands stopped moving once he understood the implications of my lie. As I gently eased the thick waistband of the material over the hump of his cottoned rump, I continued, “yeah, they’re starting to walk past now. Won’t be long now. Just hold on a second longer.”

I had now lowered the back of his jeans to the tops of his thighs, baring his crisp white boxer-briefs to me.

When my hand snaked up the back of his boxers to cup his nearest cheek, he realised what was going on and again started struggling.

I removed my fingers from his smooth behind, reared up my hand, and came down on him again.

“FUCKIN LET GO!” he shouted.

I smacked him again. And again. And another time. By the fourth strike, he was again still, sniffling. I resumed caressing the domes of his two firm muscular bubbles for a few seconds, before I unceremoniously yanked down the rear of his boxers, too.

The ass revealed to me was exquisite, with steep inclines from his back and his thighs leading to two smooth, curved summits, separated by a midline dominated by a dark, almost ominous cavern of ass flesh, all of which was a dusky, ever so-slightly off-white skin-tone. 

His crack was lined with fine coppery hairs and centred by a jittery, overactive pink ass-hole.

I slightly moved my left leg (which was supporting him) to support his weight more effectively, and in the process came into contact with a steel poker still confined within the front of his jeans, pointing left towards his hip.

Acting more conciously now, I moved my leg again and more purposefully, so that his horny prick was sandwiched between his groin on one side and my leg on the other.

As my palm came into direct contact with his warm inviting ass for the first time, my leg gently shifted this way and that, agitating the trapped prick as it did so. 

Whilst the points of my fingers dug into the meaty flesh of his behind, sliding towards the centre and eventually dipping into the cavernous dark crack delineating the two halves of his peachy behind, I pictured his prick, hard and angry, chaffing against the soft cotton and unyielding denim of his clothes. 

Pulsing out sticky boy-dew…plastering the scratchy cotton to his sensitive flared knob, the boyjuice acting as an adhesive.

I pushed down with my right hand, and drove up with my leg, physically pushing the adolescent spike against the hump of my leg, compelling his irate cock to scratch, tickle and otherwise agitate against the material of his snug, heavy Wranglers.

Forgetting himself for a moment, he moaned in humiliating frustration.

“Don’t worry,” I began, “it’s just us boys here, Danny. You go crazy, ‘k? You know, I enjoyed our little email conversations, and whilst I was reading them, it occurred to me…when all’s said and done, your just a frustrated little puppy, lookin’ for something to hump. And that’s what I’m here for, kiddo. I’ve come all this way, to help you with your frustration. So just get on with it, alright?” 

His breathing was shallow, but he remained rigidly stuck to his position, reliant on my hand firmly gripping the deep muscle of his ass, and physically pushing him into my leg.

But even so, he groaned so, so sweetly.

I moved my right leg – the one I had placed over his own two legs, restricting his freedom of movement – slightly, to give him some room.

“I’ve moved my leg, kiddo, so what I want you to do is, stretch out your feet a little bit, and put your toes on the floor of the car. Come on, come on now,” I coaxed, like I really was speaking to a puppy, running my fingers through and stroking the hair coating the back of his head, obscured from view by his cap.

I smiled in triumph. “Good boy,” I said, my hand still on his soft ass: my fingers aligned against the deep sink of his crack.

With the toes of his skate shoes curled like a hawk under his feet so as to provide purchase, he slowly and gently started to thrust forward against my leg. 

I could barely feel him; no doubt he was trying to do it quietly, as if I might not notice the two arse-cheeks before me flexing and thrusting against the rounded curve of my thigh. My thigh, which was acting as a scratching board for his fit, hormonally charged bod.

With my left hand pressing down on his neck still, the blunt middle finger of my right hand tickled and poked his winking pucker, to keep him focussed.

Once he built up a melodic head of steam, lost in his own sexual reverie, I took the opportunity to slide my worming finger up into his bowls.

His legs stiffened in shock as he howled in response, “AH-HAH PLEASE…”

I stroked the rangy hair coating the back of his neck, still keeping his head firmly down, but caressing him as I did so. I scratched gently behind his ear, shushing him soothingly.

“Good boy, you’re doing very well…you’re a good lil’ country boy, aren’t you?”

I felt him nod.

"Yeahhh, good boy. Your my fit little Coloradan slut puppy, arent'cha Danny? The twinky fucktoy with the big brown eyes and the snowboard. Playin' games with your friends; climbin' mountains with your folks; and lookin' for somethin' to rub that prick against when you get some alone time, huh?"

The finger anally probing the boy moved steadily in time with his hythmic thrusting, the tips of his strong canvassed toes pushing more strongly into me; more urgently.

As I slid a second finger into his slick, sweaty hole, I said to him, “must be tough for you, huh? All those guys at school you wanna get on your knees and suck off…must be a challenge to keep it all contained. Betcha leak a load of pre in yer shorts, doncha kiddo? Teacher droning on about equations an’ synonyms, and poor lil’ Danny dreamin’ about wrestlers, drizzlin’ that sticky boy-sauce into his boxers."

I chuckled. "Yeah, your mum acts like she’s none-the-wiser, but she knows what it is. She’s probably proud. Her little boy, growing into a man…wonder what she’d say if she knew you were thinkin’ ‘bout boys whilst you brewin’ up those little man loads, eh? But yeah, she understands alright...she understands that bodies are funny things…always makin’ more of something than you need. Especially at your age."

I stopped for a moment before continuing, "bet you’re pretty pissed off about that right now, arent’cha? That well of baby sauce, distilled in yer' saggin' nutbag twenty-four seven, now just bastin’ yer prick…makin’ it all sticky and itchy. The real killer is, the more you scratch, you more you burp up, and the itchier it gets, right? Nasty. Poor lil’ puppy, all that spunk in his balls and nowhere to go…I guess I could make ya’ pop, kiddo. Would’ja like that? Have a nice, hard cum?”

He didn’t speak; the only movement he made was the workout he was giving his toes, flexing forward and back, to try and both soothe and heighten the painfully exquisite workout I was giving his appendage.

“I mean, I could do it right now…but if ya’ don’t say, how am I to know? I mean, I don’t wanna cross any personal boundaries here…”

The third finger I had added to his upturned arse curved around the other two. All three were sweating, rutting beasts, tearing up – in the nicest way possible - his delicate rectum. 

They succeeded in turning Dan himself into a sweating, rutting beast, thinking exclusively through his prick and, as of right now, his smooth varsity-toned butt. I would gently crook my digits into hooks - to prevent cramp, you understand – and Dan's cheeks would tighten and his arsehole would constrict with need.

That need compelled him to speak. When he did, his voice was a whisper, thick with lust. “Jus’…get it done, man.”

“Okie dokie,” I cheerily replied.

I had located his prostate pretty early on, but had avoided it since then, preferring to use my fingers to merely maintain his fuck lust and keep pushing him incessantly against my unmoving thigh.

Now I changed course, zeroing in on the little button deep in Danny's insides. As his feet would push him forward, my thigh would also push itself forward, his prick now effectively being corkscrewed into defiant submission, all without the aid of a relieving hand.

“Bet my hand dancin’ a tune on yer cock must seem pretty sweet in retrospect, huh? Well beggars can’t be choosers Danny, and right about now, I’d say you’re a beggar.”

Within a few seconds, my fingers were slamming into his fine teenaged butt with wild abandon.

The sky outside the car was darkening; the lights in the kid’s high-school just down the road starting to twinkle into life.

He was groaning, moaning and growling, his mind utterly dominated by the sexual yearning I had ignited within him. “Yer doin’ good, Danny. I reckon my little pup’ll cum any minute now. Just keep pushin’ and thrustin’, you’ll get there eventually.”

His neck flexed and push back into my unyielding hand, and I could tell he was about to pop, good and strong. “UH…UH…HAH, whattaboutmyUGHH FUCKKkk,” he screamed.

My fingers kept sawing into his damp butt as I cooed, “goooood boy, Danny. Good boy,” the fingers of my left hand went back behind his ear, scratching and tickling. 

His head curled slightly, no doubt from the odd sensation of it all, but he reminded me of my sister’s German Shepard, normally fierce about maintaining its own personal space, but compliant and docile whilst chomping on a treat, allowing me to pet him behind his hair-strewn earhole.

When he was done, he said weakly between gasps of oxygen, “pants. What…about my pants.”

I could feel pools of warmed batter seeping through his jeans. “That’s what mum’s are for,” I replied.

I moved one hand from his neck, and the other from his ass; the latter, with a pleasant pop. He neither moved nor noticed as I wiped the dregs of his roasting-hot ass off my hand and onto his purple T-Shirt.

“So,” I began, my stiff dick still pushing into him, “do you wanna suck it, or get fucked by it?”

He craned his neck around to look up at me. “What?” he muttered, looking kinda horrified.

The hand that was grooming itself with the aid of his T-Shirt reached for the stitched neck of the garment and pulled, catapulting the kid up from his horizontal position, briefly to the vertical, before collapsing horizontally again on the floor of the car, having tripped over my leg and landing on his ass. 

He banged his head on both the car ceiling whilst he was upright, and then on the car door when he fell, but he didn’t seem as fazed by that as he was by my aggression.

“Dan, you’re a fuckin’ slut, so spare me the god-damn doe-eyed innocence routine. I ain’t your Dad or you’re grandmother; I know you have a thing for guy’s dicks. I’m that guy you email, remember? I’ve actually READ your fucking emails. About how you want some guy to do this stuff to you…so, so, so…JUST FUCKING STOP IT. I mean, you…you enjoy this, don’t you?”


I spoke loudly, accusingly and shakily, as if I was the one who’d just been raped by him. “I know you enjoy this. You, you TOLD me. I know for a fact you enjoy this.”

My eyes bleary again, I noticed the protuberance in his pants, running down his thigh.

I reached down and squeezed the meaty wet mass still in his jeans. “See this? THIS means you’re enjoying it. You…damn…fucker…stupid, fucking kid. Fine. Fuck it. You won’t play along? Fine. You stupid fucking idiot.”

I grabbed him manfully by the shoulders, and yanked him up so he was lying face down beside me on the chair, his bubbly teen-butt still exposed to the world, his face mashed in the crux of the cheap car seating. 

I quickly yanked my own trousers down, and squeezed behind him, trapping him between myself and his seat.

I slid my painfully erect organ , first into the deep Grand Canyon (yes I know that's in Arizona; it's a metaphor) of his ass, wallowing in the feel of his searing hot boy cheeks enveloping my organ, and then taking my cock in hand and bending it so I could slide it contentedly up into the comforting warm folds of his rectum. 

The anguished groans that accompanied my first forays into his ass with my fingers were now replaced with a more subdued, but still defiant, grunt.

I stayed like that for a brief moment, delighting in the feel of his sloppy insides. After a few seconds, I pulled out as far as I could – which wasn’t far, just an inch or so – and drove myself forward again.

He laid there passively whilst I fucked him, and the difficulty with which I could complete my strokes compelled me to fuck short and fast rather than long and slow, with my thighs slamming into his own seemingly two or three times a second.

I took a good grip of his shoulder for support, but grew concerned that I was going to dislocate it. How’d I explain that to the doctor? ‘I guess I was butt-fucking him a little too hard in the back of my rented Ford Explorer. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a flight to catch’?!

Even so, I found myself slamming into him as hard as I possibly could, because it turned me on to watch his tight little ass wobble and jiggle like jelly as I was decimating it. 

Further in the background of my vision, pressed between my legs, were the brightly coloured soles of the boy's skate shoes, wrapped around his feet and each pointing inward toward the toe of the other.

His only response would be to murmur and gurgle, as if he was drunk or something. I kept on regardless. My other hand ruffled his hair and scratched behind his ear as I muttered, “good boy, good boy Dan; you’re such a good boy, aren’t you? Yes you are.”

As I felt my cum bubbling up from my balls, I took it more slowly; fucking him with more courtesy you might say. To help keep me occupied whilst I simmered down, I took firm hold of his hair and pulled his head back, so I could lean forward and suckle on his ear lobe, between playful nips.

Once I felt my orgasm subside somewhat, I returned to piling into him. The hand that had previously been on his shoulder, I switched to slapping his ass, making the pink mounds of jelly wobble all-the-more.

“Ah…AH….ARH-HAHAGH,” he whined; whether he meant to encourage or dissuade me, I don’t know, but I kept on going regardless.

I only stopped my rampant fucking of the boy to take firm hold of him again at the shoulder. Pulling my wet cock out of his hole, I flipped him over, and kneeled on the seat before him, my two knees either side of his slightly spread thighs.

Stroking myself once, twice, and a third time, I erupted. The first ribbon of pearly white jizz smacked the teenager in the eye, causing him to jerk back in surprise; the second ricocheted through his hair. By the time of the third, I had managed to slide my palm behind his head and pull him forward.

His lips had just encapsulated my knob as the third shot fired, clear down his open gullet. As he finished taking the dregs, dutifully gulping each mouthful down his throat, I slowly slid my cock further down his throat, my hand gently, but forcefully pushing him down on me as if I were sliding the hilt of Excalibur back into the stone where it belonged.

His eyes watering, he tongue lay dormant and unresponsive against the underside of my cock, sliding along the rounded seam until his nose was buried in my pubes.

We stayed like that for a minute, me still gently scratching behind his ear, telling him what a star he was. “And I’m pretty sure nobody saw us,” I muttered, looking down at his crotch to see two dark patches. Ah, of course; the sudden upsurge in moaning whilst I was fucking seven-bells out of him.

“Did you cum again?”

He nodded gravely, his tongue lapping against my deflating cock as he did so.

“Good boy. See, I said you’d like it, didn’t I?”

He nodded again. But he wasn’t smiling. But with my cock in his face, he did at least look somewhat contented.

But then again, all sluts do, don't they?

I drove to the end of the road, and kicked Dan out of the car. I was a tourist after all; how could I know where he lives. Might be bloody miles away for all I know. 

Although I hoped not, given the jizz he still had in his hair, in his ass, on his jeans, on his face and on his breath. I mean, even in Bumblefuck USA, you'd think anyone who say him walking home like that might put two and two together and realise something wasn't quite right.

Dan wasn’t really up for talking that day. And I could understand why. I think I’d just raped him. I left Colorado for the last time, early the next morning.

When I got home, I sent him an email. An email telling him all the things I truly believed; things I had wanted to tell him on that day, and would of, had things not...escalated, as they did. About how sorry I was, about everything. 

Not just about what I did, but about his circumstances. About how it wouldn’t always be like this. About how, sooner than he might realise, he’ll leave the town where he lives, and live somewhere where absolutely everyone he knows will be aware of his homosexuality, and not care. 

I told him that I know such places exist, because I’m fortunate enough to live in one of them.

I told him about how he deserves better.

Did I get a response? Trust me, if you 'knew' Dan as I know wouldn't have to ask.


  1. Possibly my favorite story of yours. So very hot. Also, the boy sounds like a natural slut!

  2. Hi, thanks for your comment. I'm glad you enjoy the story, particularly given the negative emails I've received about it in the past...and yeah, he totally is, and he loves it! lol.

  3. Fucking Hell. I shot a big load reading that. You're stories always do it for me, but that one was one of the best. The thought of your English cock sliding up his cute, young, American bum-hole is so hot. More please.

  4. Hehe; you're description of the story makes it sound hot, too! ;-) Thanks, glad you enjoyed it.

  5. Well, that made me blow quite a hefty load!
    Yeah, I'm thinking this one deserves a sequel...

  6. haha, glad the story did its job! ;-)

  7. Story can still make me blow a big fuckin load after all this time ;)

  8. It's been a while, Nick...but I'm pleased to see you haven't changed that much! ;-)

    You should email me :-)