Date: Tue, 09 Mar 2021 21:25:51 +0000 From: 29Oct <29Oct@protonmail.com> Subject: Brindle Gay Adult-Youth Brindle Summary: Alpaca sweater causes havoc. Disclaimer: The following story is fiction. Fiction describes activities happening between imagination and a keyboard, not in real life. Nothing below is intended to encourage unsafe, illegal or violent activities. Brindle Brindle is beautiful. Jagged stripes of black running through a brown coat of short fur, perfect camouflage in the woods. Every dog should be brindle. Moved from the woods outside Tallahassee to cooler climes to the north. Better job, more pay, maybe I would get myself a brindle dog, walk in the woods--manly pastime. Cooler weather meant I needed a sweater and happened to notice one at the drycleaners--black and brown in a brindle pattern. "Why is this sweater over here, not behind the counter?" "Someone left it. Don't have the room to hold anyone's cleaning longer than ninety days." Got the sweater for seven dollars. Hundred-percent alpaca. Goes with black, goes with brown, made my dark eyes sparkle, my blonde hair look fuller. Brought out the red in my beard; damn I'm a handsome devil. Devilishly handsome in alpaca didn't work at the bar. Too conservative for Boston studs, I guess. I'd try again next week in a sweatshirt. ... Going home, I see a burger joint and pop in. Past the dinner rush, the place is almost empty. In the corner is a boy playing on his phone. Only one a boy who glanced at me, then again. Cute kid with straight hair that fell into his face in home-cut chunks. Had to smile and nod. When I looked up from my fries, the boy is standing by my table. "Hey, mister, why're you eating alone--strike out at the bar? On the skids with your current lay?" "Smart-mouthed pipsqueak. Probably raised by roofers." I thought to myself. He stood by my table and tucked the collar of his water-proof jacket into the waist of his jeans, like an apron on his front. Scooted next to me began rubbing his face on the arm of my sweater. I offered him fries, he wasn't hungry but took my hand and placed it on his upper thigh under his jacket. Something off-kilter about a chance meeting where the boy allowed me to explore him under his jacket which wouldn't slip off and give away our non-victual related activity. Heck of a welcome-wagon. Sure, I gave him a thorough groinal rub. He huffed and puffed, and his sweet face reddened, then he smiled. "Thanks. I'm here every Tuesday and Thursday night, seven to eight-thirty. My sister's in ballet." "I'll note that. By the way, what's your name?" "You can call me Ryder." Did he just wink? Bizarre exchange and invitation for more.? Ryder was kinda cute in a cedar-shake way. ... Through that fall, my genial smile and amiable nature attracted more boys. Never had such luck in Tallahassee; had to think it was the sweater. The boys seemed to want to rub and pet it like a brindle dachshund. At the mall, in the library, shopping, walking through the park, I became a kiddo magnet. Not just any kind of boy, but assertive boys; sexually curious and a few leaned toward domineering. All immature, all charmingly poised for a private lesson; tutelage from a master, no doubt. Had to be the sweater, as soon as the kids switched to shorts in April, they ignored me. Blow to my vanity, that was. Good thing Boston's chilly almost half the year. ... The graphic novel section of the library was ground-zero for frottage. I sat next to a charming pale-skinned boy who slowly sidled close. Like the others, he began rubbing my sweater, smiling, laying his superhero comic over his lap. Left hand on sweater, his right on his dicklet. "Why aren't you scared of me?" I asked as I perused a book on pigeon care. "You just look... so... well, comfy, like yummy-comfy. Should I be scared?" A small hand came to my thigh, moving upward till his knuckles found on my burgeoning package. His eyes twinkled; lips stretched into a grin. "No." I slumped for greater access. "Does comfy mean easy, by chance?" Took a long time examining the light fixtures around the room, and without looking back at me as his little fingernails scratched against my glans through the ribs of my corduroy pants giving me a rip-roaring erection. "Easy? Sorta." "Does comfy mean sexy?" I was almost breathless and no doubt held a crimson-hued countenance. "Yeah." Wide grin with dimples and lifted eyebrows. Cherubically persuasive, "Bites are sexy, too." He whispered. That stopped my breath, had to think quick. "I live around the corner." ... He seemed quite at home for never having been in my condo. Found the refrigerator, inspected, shut the door, looked in the freezer and gave me a smirk. "Healthy crap. I hate it." By this time, my loafers had flown to the corner of the living room and I was pulling my shirttail out. He stood at the kitchen door, "Just the pants. I don't do nips." "My little elfkin, what should I call you other than lucky?" "Lucky's good. You got a big, hard one." My little Mr. Lucky had technique. He pushed my jeans and briefs down around my ankles and told me to sit on the sofa. On trembling legs, I obeyed and watched him strip off his jeans to an adorable pair of briefs. He tossed them at my face. Peeking through the leg of those briefs, as I took a deep snort and espied a tiny foreskin adorning a two-inch dick. It had an appealing curve to it. Carefully he placed one dirty shoe next to each of my hips, straddling me. Leaned forward. "Rub my rear and suck me. He stood so his springy dick rubbed against my nose, tight, crepey, hairless sack rubbed my lips. "When I say `bite' you bite. Not hard." I nodded with a handful of boy-cheek in each palm, I pressed him into my face noting a whiff of peckerino romano and his silky-smooth skin was incredible. Tilted my head to chomp around his nuts, sucking them hard, then back to his twig. Twirled my tongue around it; he grabbed my hair, "Yeah, like that." He was humping into my face, pulling my hair, then grabbed my beard. "Bite!" Blindingly fast he hunched a few times while I sneaked one hand between his legs to tug those tender little peanut-sized balls. I bit, making my teeth move fast, but not hard enough to cause any incriminating evidence. "Uhhh." He groaned a few times. "Whew. Been a whole week." When he recovered what sense he had, I asked, "Don't you get off by yourself?" "Better when someone else does it." With that, he plunked his naked ass on my lap, bending my over-excited pole. Ouch! Inspected my package, suggested I trim more often and gave me a rub with his dick. He was particularly interested in my juice. Stuck his little finger into my slit about a quarter inch and looked closely at my precum, smelled it, tasted it. My brother says when I start shooting, I'm so nasty my cum's gonna be like a bucket of green fingerpaint. Everybody'll know when I wank." Raucous thought, "Did he really? Brother's almost right. When boys first shoot, it comes out like a bucket of tar." Kept my head down and trying to control myself. "Good thing I was outside when it happened to me. Had to hose down half the back yard, but it was worth it." Can't say which was more invigorating, the conversation or that smooth groin, but I unloaded over both of us. Whew. ... Lucky began reorganizing my schedule to fit his. Had to be home at three on Mondays. Sunday evenings were filled with aroma of sweaty, unbathed lad. Came to enjoy it. Lucky taught me a valuable lesson: Yes, an adult male can experience full and complete orgasm while hearing about middle-school shenanigans. Easily accomplished with a man's hard dong as a mic. Alas, my lucky boy moved across town. ... Another fall came, the sweater made its appearance. Seldom walked the area alone; word got around. Middle schoolers are the worst gossips. Could swear they traveled in packs looking for me after school. Juice boxes filled the fridge, small bags of candies on the coffee table. Lost interest in the bar--these boys came willingly, didn't have to tread through all the unnecessary social maneuvering. These boys were experienced and I was anxious to try some three-ways. ... Teen football practice began, I went to the field. Younger brothers watched from the sidelines. A knot of six boys waved, running toward me. "Six? How would I manage an intimate melee with so many?" I wondered. Gathered round me, all tugging at my sweater, I see Ryder among them, he's the ringleader. "Mister, how ya' doin'? Want me to show you how to hut the ball?" Ever eloquent, that Ryder. "Hut?" "Yeah, you know," He lifted an eyebrow and cocked his head, "You lean over and I grab the ball through your legs." Sounded like fun. I leaned over with Ryder behind me holding a spongey football. I awaited the numbers and the "hut-hut." Waited, waited. The boys surrounded me, pushed me to the ground and began pulling my sweater off. Tried keeping my arms against my chest but dirty fingers creeped along my ribs, my inner thighs. Couldn't catch my breath for laughing as I felt my shaft filling with these boys all over me. Was that possible? Yes, it happened and went on quite a few moments but dang it! The tangle of arms and legs succeeding in stripping me of my beloved brindle sweater. "Careful! That's one-hundred percent alpaca!" They didn't care. Laughing and yelling, they ran away with my sweater. Jumped up and took off behind them when several parents saw me chasing the boys and were immediately in hot pursuit. "There he is--get him! Ran into the streets, jumped into an alley, dodged them by hiding behind a dumpster. Took forever for the perv-vigilantes to leave the area. Lonely, cold, I cursed every alpaca on the planet. Wanted to get even with those boys, but wanted my sweater back more. ... Bostonians are generous folks, couldn't help but scrounge through the bags left by the dumpsters filled with usable clothing, shoes, whatever the homeless may need. My sweater couldn't have left the planet. I gave up after several months of searching. Never again to lick a short cock, chomp small ball sacs, no knoblet-cheese on the menu, I was deeply saddened by the loss. ... Went back to the bar, needed to drown my sorrows and commiserate with the old timers. Sat between two white-haired guys, bad-mouthing boys. "Kids today, nothing but mean little tricksters." The yellowed case of advanced cirrhosis sitting next to me grunted. Looked past him to see a familiar pattern--brindle. Handsome redhead sporting a brown and black brindle patterned sweater. Watched him, stared, it sure looked like my sweater; same style, same cuffs and buttons, same everything, wondered if it was alpaca. Took my beer and closed in on him, seemed he was flying solo. "Nice sweater, looks like cashmere." Rubbed the back of my knuckles on the knit along his forearm. "Alpaca, hundred percent." He paused, gave me a long look, smiled. "Found it on the subway. Cleaner charged extra for removing the glue spots. It was splattered all over the fibers." We exchanged the usual chitchat about sports, workouts and restaurants while I assessed my options. He was slightly larger than me; couldn't roll him in the alley for it--too risky. Rude to ask him to buy the sweater off him. "Got some great, uh, candy at my place. Happen to like juice boxes?" Damn, my social skills had eroded to dust. "I mean, how about a beer some place more private?" I could disappear the sweater and tell him he left it at the bar. Slow smile, "You want this sweater and I know why." He grabbed my hand, "Does my boy need some attention tonight?" For any enjoyment you've had, make a donation to Nifty. https://donate.nifty.org/