Date: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 13:55:13 +0200 From: Sam Johnson Subject: Home is Danelaw - Part 1 Home is Danelaw – Part 1 by Sam Johnson (Comments welcome: samjohnson77@mail.com) If a story falls from cyberspace, did it ever exist? Donations to Nifty can be made at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html +++++++++++++++++++ We were cruising down the highway, making pretty good time, when I saw a flash of something I couldn't ignore. I dragged myself up from my prone position on the back seat and looked out the rear window. "Stop!" I yelled at Ed, the driver. "Stop the fucking car, Ed, for chrissakes!" "Jesus Sam," Ed muttered. "We ain't got the time, man..." "You stop this fucking car, Ed, or I'll drive us off the road," I said, leaning over his shoulder, threatening to grab the wheel. Ed had already slowed the big old station wagon dramatically. He'd seen the boy. A man has to have standards in this world. You don't drive past a boy like that. When Ed got fully off the road, he began slowly reversing along the shoulder. The boy stood with a bag at his feet, not moving, staring at the car slowly approaching. Even when we came to stop, just a dozen yards away, the lad just stood there, staring. I opened the back door and yelled at him, "You looking for a ride, kid?" "Um, yeah," he yelled back. "I'm hitchhiking." And still he stood there. I laughed. "Well get your ass in here: you're hitchhiking, this is a car – we're a perfect match!" So he picked up his bag and came toward the car, tentatively, but trying to bear himself like a man. He clearly hadn't done this before. As he got to the open back door, with me sliding across to make room, he leant in to ask, "Are you going to Grantham?" "Why not?" I said. "Huh?" "Kid, hitchhiking's illegal on this highway, so just get in." "Oh, yeah, right," he said, clambering in with his stuffed school bag. I took it from him and lobbed it over the back. "Geez, thanks for stopping," he said, conscientiously looking around for the seatbelt which didn't exist. As the station wagon pulled back onto the highway, he said, "It doesn't matter if you're not going to Grantham – I can get another ride from wherever you guys stop." "You probably could at that, kid," I said. He was gorgeous. He could get a ride at the north pole, as long as Mrs. Claus didn't stick her beak in. "I couldn't believe it when you stopped," he kept going, obviously a bit nervous. "I was only there for about two minutes – I wasn't sure how to hitchhike – I haven't done it before – you're meant to stick your thumb out, right? Does it matter how?" He gave a thumbs up sign with his right hand. "I would guarantee you – stand just like you did back there, and you'll get a ride inside ten minutes every time." "Huh, I thought nobody would pick up a kid my age." Ed from the front seat let out a loud HA! "So what's your name, anyway?" "Dane," the boy said. "I'm Sam, and that's Ed," I said, pointing. Ed waved and the boy smiled and nodded politely. "How old are you, Dane?" I asked. "Almost fourteen," he said, in a way that suggested it had been his standard answer from the moment he turned thirteen. He was right on the button, this boy, just starting to hit his pubescent surge, his slender form, in jeans and tee shirt, perkily lit up by the beginnings of his sexual development. "And what do you do for a living, Dane?" I asked He frowned seriously. "I'm still at school." "Ah! Yes, well, that makes sense. So why are you hitchhiking to Grantham?" He got more serious still. "I'm gunna live with my Auntie there." "Home no good?" He shook his head. "I'm not going back either." "What's the problem?" "Just...my step dad. He's a bastard. And now his two daughters are moving in and they just think they own the place. It's no good there anymore." "How old are his daughters?" "Older. Um, Sheryl's 17 and Dianne's 15 I think." "Well, they're not related to you – you could be fucking 'em." "Ha!" the boy laughed, trying to cover a sudden rise of colour in his cheeks, "You should see 'em – they're fat ugly hags!" He really was gorgeous. You see a runaway standing by the road, you naturally assume he'll be some sly little punk on the make. But not Dane. Very sweet and with a budding hint of masculinity to him – the way he sat, put his hand on his thigh, the well-mannered lad was determined to be a man well before he got there. I reached behind me, got two stubbies of beer from the esky, handed one over to the boy. He took it, reading the label. "Um, I'm not – I mean, I don't really drink beer, thanks anyway," and he held it out for me to take back. "What you've been through, Dane – having to make it to Grantham on your own – you've more than earned the right." I pushed it back at him, and he took it uncertainly. He fumbled impotently at the cap of the stubbie, then watched me as I twisted the screw-top off and tossed it back behind the seat. He immediately copied, winced a bit as the metal cap bit into the flesh of his palm, but soon heard the satisfying fizz as it gave. Holding the bottle top in his hand he motioned toward the back of the station wagon, asking my permission to also toss it behind "Hurl it over, buddy – we don't stand on ceremony here." "Ain't that the truth!" Ed called from the front. Dane took a sip of his beer, his lips forming a tight little O on the neck of the stubbie. As he removed the bottle, he carefully controlled any reaction that might be visible on his face. "You like it?" I asked. "Yeah, it's okay. I've had wine before, at my dad's wedding last year, but not much beer." "Have you ever had beer before?" "Um...not that I can remember. My step dad never drinks any alcohol. Mum never has either." The lad continued to take small, careful sips, and I did notice him pulling a bit of a face once or twice. A strange brew on first contact, to be sure. So we settled into the drive nicely. Cruising along in the big old station wagon, me and the boy leaning back in our respective corners, me with one leg hooked up to rest on the big bench seat, the boy a little more prim in his posture, although always with a slightly self-conscious manliness, arm slightly akimbo with hand rested on knee; full fisted swig of the stubbie, even if his sweet face pinched a little at the taste of it. We chatted easily, mainly about him – as much as possible keeping it about him. He lived on a farm, was a bit isolated by the sound of it. An only child. Dad split fairly early and mum hired a succession of farm hands to run the place while she worked in a local cafe. Not easy, and the boy had taken on an older boy's responsibilities very early on. It was a painful decision to "run away" but he felt he had no choice. His mum was absolutely stuck on this new guy, Frank Garth, and the new guy made it plain he didn't want the boy around. The two daughters sounded positively Cinderella-esque in their ugliness. And the older one, Sheryl – she seemed a right shocker. She was always barging into the bathroom while the boy was showering in the clear glass shower cubicle; always demanding he undress before her in the laundry to save her the trouble of collecting his clothes – it sounded very much like she was homing in on him. The incident that really humiliated and angered the boy was when she berated him, in front of all the others, over how "disgustingly dirty and stained" his bed sheets were. He had expressly said he didn't want anyone going in his room, but not even his mum would back him up on it. It was a testament to the beer and our quickly strengthening friendship that the boy would discuss such unpleasant personal business. Needless to say I sounded off against this Sheryl bitch in a way that had the lad laughing in scandalised delight. I edged the conversation toward girls a few times, just to get a rough guide to his sexual development. His interest seemed keen, his blushes deep, and his experience close to nil. Before very long the lad said, "Um, I gotta go to the toilet, Sam." "No worries," I said, leant over the back seat, found the empty two-litre orange juice container, and passed it over. He looked at it, frowning. "What..." "Piss in that. We can't stop now, we're running late as it is." "But..." the boy smiled falteringly, "Pee in this? You're joking. I won't be long – if we stop for a minute." I shook my head. "No, too risky, Dane. Any cop sees that he's gunna give us the once over. You're an underage runaway, and we've got open containers of alcohol – no way we can risk it buddy." The boy paused before handing back the container. "Nah, I don't need to that bad – I'll wait." "Sure," I said, taking the container back, but leaving it on the seat between us. "It's a good hour, hour and half to the next stop, though." The boy shrugged as if it was no matter. He became a bit quieter, though, staring out the window with a worried frown setting in. His position sitting on the big old bench seat started to alter. He sat more upright, tenser, finally bending forward a bit and and saying, "Geez, Sam, I'm really busting." "Let her rip, bud," I said, giving the empty plastic container a shove in his direction. "I can't go in that," he said, with a bitter laugh. "I mean, right here?" He gave me a beseeching look, appealing to my better reason – how on earth could he pee right here, into a bottle, in front of two men. Impossible, right? "Shit, Dane," I said good humouredly, "the bottle's got a big neck on it – I brought it specially. I've already done it myself just before we picked you up." The boy suddenly held the plastic container gingerly out from him, studied it, the tiny bit of cloudly liquid quivering in the bottom. "But it's empty." "Fill her up, then we just open the door, pour it out on the road – like they do in airplanes. Foolproof." The boy was starting to make classic little "busting" moves, clenching his legs together and rocking forward. The couple of beers he'd downed in quick succession were wreaking havoc on his immature bladder. "You know it's not good to hold it in too long," I said. I was actually starting to think I'd have to get Ed to pull over. But the boy suddenly grabbed up the container. "Uh, I better go." He slid forward on the seat, experimenting with how he'd hold the container between his legs, frowning, not seeing the logistics come together. "How will I...?" he muttered. I took the container off him. "Here, get up on your knees on the seat – I'll hold the container for you." He made a low protesting noise in his throat, but got up on his knees, having to crouch his head down to fit under the roof. As he unzipped his fly I held the container in position for him. The flush on his cheeks deepened considerably as he fumbled at his undies and – voila – suddenly flipped his uncircumcised penis out through his open fly – and he had a nice one! An impressive bit of early teen length, boyishly springy and smooth, showed some nice flop and curve as he adjusted his knees a trifle wider on the seat, pushed his hips forward, carefully directed the silken bud of his foreskin at the bottle opening, and then...nothing. He couldn't go. The longer he stayed there, not moving, not peeing, cheeks getting redder, the more hopeless it got – but then suddenly a small dribble of his urine came out, scattering unpredictably off the end of his foreskin bud, getting on my hand, down onto the vinyl seat. "Shit," he muttered, and girded himself, trying to follow up with a much-needed stream, but it was a false dawn. Then he suddenly started stuffing his penis back in his undies. "I can't go," he said, voice cracking with pained embarrassment. "Wait a minute," I said. "Hold this." I shoved the container at him making him take it and leave off from doing his zip up. "You didn't have your cock out properly – it was cut off by your undies – that's why you couldn't pee." It obviously wasn't true, but the boy said nothing. I thought if I could play round with him a bit, get him past his debilitating shyness, all would be well. I undid the button of his jeans and worked them right down to his knees, But as I reached for his undies he arced up in protest – grabbed the band to stop 'em being tugged down. He said, "Don't, Sam – I can wait till we stop – I don't need to go anymore." So we had quite a vigorous little tug of war with his undies. I played with him a bit, letting him just keep them in place, bumping and rubbing at his penis a bit, occasionally exposing his little tuft of pubic hair – all of which made him "Ooh" and giggle and angrily tell me to stop. We ended up stretching those undies to the point of ruining them. Let go, I'd tell him. With flashing eyes he'd say, No, you let go. Until enough was enough and I firmly moved his hand away and pulled his undies right down to join his pants at his knees. The poor lad's troubles were compounding in all directions – he was now almost fully erect! A good fistful and a bit of thickish boy-cock, made to look even bigger and ruder by the little baby-size fringe of pubic hair he had. You think he didn't find that embarrassing! I tilted my head to look at him. "You do enjoy a good piss, don't you?" But he didn't see the joke, furiously red-cheeked, dropped the bottle on the floor beside him and reached down for his undies and started pulling them back up with fierce determination. I didn't let him get them back up, though, tugging down on 'em, stretching the poor cotton briefs horribly out of shape, this time totally wrecking the elasticised band. "Sam!" he grunted. "Let me...fuck, let go." He was serious and pissed off and lit up and scowling and laughing. He wrenched at my hand that was tugging down his undies – so I shoved him in the chest, toppled him back, then yanked his jeans toward me, bringing his legs forward, flipping him onto his back, being careful to control his fall and not hurt him. His head ended in corner, as his arms flailed, grabbing at the back of the seat to try and pull himself back up. But he was badly compromised – his pants down around his knees made it very difficult and every twisty move he made just hurt him more with his painful need to piss. "Fuck, Sam." "Sorry, bud," I said firmly. "You had your chance, now I'm taking charge till the job's done, okay?" "No, it's not!" he said hotly, and made another attempt to get up from his trapped position lying back into the corner of the big bench seat. I reached down to his smooth boy tummy and pressed firmly on his lower abdomen, sending a brutal shockwave of piss pain through him. "Jesus fuck!" he cried, closing his eyes, bringing his legs up, almost assuming a fetal position, trying to lessen the anguish. "Fuck, Sam. Don't!" It allowed me to quickly yank his sneakers off, drop 'em on the floor. Then I started on his jeans, the boy trying to twist to prevent me, but I was in a position of domination now, and too much effort on his part hurt his distended bladder. So I got 'em down and off him, so that he was just in his tee shirt and socks and his ruined little pair of undies at half-mast. His hardness, if anything, had only increased, the tip of his fully sheathed shiv lying flat on the white of his lower tummy, the first of his pubic hair peeking either side of the base of his boy-cock, his tight ball bag a perfect smooth white mound. I got his legs up, put his big boy feet over my shoulders, got him lying flat on the back seat, just his head slightly raised against the door. "Sam...jesus..." he said, the pain of his embarrassment cancelling out the little bit of bladder-pain relief this position gave him. He turned to his sweet face aside, jaw clenched angrily. "Just relax, bud. Here," I said, handing him the plastic container. "Now hold it in place, and just relax and piss. You have to do it, otherwise you'll damage yourself. Okay?" With his legs over my shoulders I lifted his butt up off the seat a bit, his tee shirt falling down around his chest. He tensed up and made angry resisting noises as he looked at how I had him trussed. "Dane," I said. "Close your eyes. Relax. And piss. Nothing could be easier, buddy." As I spoke I ran my hands soothingly up and down the front of his slim thighs, avoiding contact with his aroused sex, just calming him down. He put the open neck of the plastic bottle to where his stiff cock was pointing down his body, got the foreskin-enclosed glans just inside the neck, and did as I told him. He finally made a conscious effort to relax, closing his eyes, letting me carry the weight of his lower body on my shoulders. It still took a while. The car hummed on with its gently vibrating motion, occasionally making us sway a little in unison, before finally a first tentative squirt of his pee trickled down into the container he held. That was quickly followed by another, then another, and he finally broke into a stream with a deep sigh. "Oh god..." he moaned as a vibrant, thin stream shot from his fully hard boy-cock. The car filled with his rich scent, a sweet dizzy cloud of the boy's surging testosterone. He actually moved his legs around a bit on my shoulders, lifting his butt up further, using his internal muscles to increase the force of his flow, sending his golden stream crashing and foaming into the bottom of the container. I slid a hand down one thigh and onto his smooth tummy, could feel the pain and tension draining out of him; his vigorously relieved grunts subsided into soft cooing. "Oh fuck...oh fuck..." he murmured in a gentle whisper. Maybe he drifted into a dream state and didn't realise. But well before his dwindling stream had finished, he absent-mindedly moved the bottle from its position, as if to hand it up to me – and he pissed onto his tummy, the urine flooding down and wetting his tee shirt, over his slim sides onto the vinyl seat, the floor... "Dane! Put the bottle back, buddy!" I yelled, not able to stop from laughing as the boy's eyes widened in horror; he frantically tried to shove the bottle back in place. I reached down automatically and cupped the still stiff end of the boy, feeling his warm flow flush in the palm of my hand, running out between my fingers. "Jesus, kiddo," I said, trying to encourage him to see the funny side, "When you start you don't stop, do you?" He finally got the bottle back in place – not easy now that it was heavy with his water – and his final few trickles and dribbles made their way in to the golden pond now gathered there. He very carefully shook his stiff cock, banging his knob from side to side in the bottle's neck, a good boy shaking off every last drop. Of course he was still rather wet with his own piss. And he didn't like it. I had thought we would seamlessly segue into me giving him a long hot hand-job, but it now wasn't to be. The first thing he did, after I'd taken the bottle from him, safely capped it, and put it behind the seat, was to sit up and peel off his tee shirt, the bottom third wet through with urine. I spread it out in the back to dry. So there he was, a divine slip of a stud-boy, sitting beside me in the back seat of my car, in a muzzy cloud of his own pheromones, completely naked except for a pair of white and orange socks. He was still fully hard, with even a tiny tip of pink showing at the end of his tightish foreskin now. I felt it would have been ungentlemanly not to reach out to him – but he was adamant in pushing my hand away. He said he stunk of pee and it was gross. I found some old newspaper he could use to wipe his tummy, chest and legs down – carefully avoiding his tender stiffness – but the smell of his urine remained strong in the car, and I wasn't for winding the windows down. Then he was quick to grab up his undies and jeans to get dressed again. He was dismayed to find these articles had also copped a bit of a sprinkling, and after he wrenched and bunny-hopped his way quickly back into them – ruthlessly squashing down his erection in the process – he sat back in the corner in a bit of a downer. The relief of the big piss had faded fast. I decided it was best to leave the lad be for the moment, and within ten minutes he was fast asleep, his naked upper torso forming a mini masterpiece reclining in the corner. When he lazily stretched an arm to scratch his head, briefly showing a smooth armpit, it stirred me to uncomfortable depths. Still, there was a long journey ahead of us, and I had, if anything, an increased good feeling about this beautiful boy. END OF PART ONE (Comments welcome: samjohn77@mail.com)