(If you're reading this section of Nifty, which consists entirely of fantasies spun by pervs for other pervs, you know what to expect -- so the whole idea of affixing a "warning notice" is totally absurd. This story is public domain -- not copyrighted -- and may be used however you want in addition to the way you usually use stories from Nifty. Fan mail and/or passwords to inspirational usenet groups may be sent to: firstname.lastname@example.org )
Randall and his Candle
It really was a day too beautiful to waste indoors, so I got some fishing gear out of the basement and we drove down to the river. Since I didn't think it was necessary to catch anything, I figured we could make do with the three or four spinners I hadn't lost the last time I'd gone fishing. I certainly wasn't going to bother with live bait.
Randall had a question. "Do gay guys go fishing?"
I had to think about that one. I don't know if my answer made any sense, but what I said was, "Well, sure gay guys go fishing. They just don't worry about who catches the biggest fish."
Actually, we didn't do a hell of a lot of fishing, and those spinners didn't spin much -- they mostly just sat on the bottom of the river while Randall and I sat under a big old live oak, leaning up against each other and occasionally exchanging a smooch or two. When it started getting toward lunchtime, we pulled in our lines and headed back to the car.
I wanted to stop at the supermarket and get stuff to make our own lunch, rather than eat some fast food crap, and Randall agreed. Since his house was pretty much on the way, I stopped there so he could get what he needed. By the way, I suggested a change of underwear and a toothbrush as well as his waxy friend. Nobody was home, so he went around to the back door to use an extra key that was hidden somewhere back there.
He came back with more than I expected. When he returned, tagging along behind him was another boy -- younger, skinnier, and extremely dirty. He had fuzzy blond hair that suggested a crew cut left untrimmed for a few extra weeks. Even though it was a very warm day, he wore a jacket with long sleeves, and his shorts were a size or two too large. Randall came up to the driver's side window and introduced him, sort of.
"Billy, this is my friend Jimmy John. We gotta take him with us for a while. Really, it's important."
Jimmy John was cute, in an undernourished sort of way, but I can't say I was happy about having him join us. I was thinking it was coming up on time for a little afternoon delight with Randall, and that adding some unknown boy to the mix was not a great idea. Just the same, I couldn't think of a way to say no. Randall said it was important that Jimmy John come along, and I wasn't about to disappoint my brand new lover.
"Whatever you say," I told him. Jimmy John climbed into the back seat, and Randall sat next to me in the front again. I noticed that, friend or no friend, he hadn't forgotten his mission. In his hand was a pair of boxer shorts, wrapped around a toothbrush -- and a candle.
As I headed for the supermarket, Randall turned to me and said, "Jimmy John's not gay, but sometimes he does gay stuff with me just for fun."
"Uh huh," I replied, as waves of paranoia washed over me. "Well, maybe not this afternoon -- okay?"
"Don't worry," Randall assured me, "he's cool."
I left the boys in the car and raced through the supermarket, grabbing lunch and dinner items at random, wondering how much Randall was telling the Boy I Didn't Know while I was gone. When I returned to the car with the groceries, Randall was in the back seat with his arm around his friend. In the rear view mirror, I could see the tracks of tears in the dirt on Jimmy John's face. Neither boy was talking. I drove.
Back at my house, I tried to lighten the mood. "Who likes grilled cheese?" I asked. "Grilled cheese and bacon!"
Jimmy John finally spoke to me. "I'm hungry," he said. "Could I have two sandwiches?"
"As many as you want," I answered. "Just take off your jacket, and Randall will show you where to wash up."
The bruises on that poor baby made me sick.
At first, he wouldn't take off the jacket. He could push up the sleeves a little and wash, he said. I had a feeling I knew what I was going to see when the jacket came off. He was too young for tracks, so it had to be bruises.
Randall convinced him. "You can show Billy," he said. "He'll help you."
"Nobody can help me."
To make a long story shorter, the jacket came off. The ancient Iron Maiden t-shirt came off, and so did the shorts, the worn out sneakers, and the ratty underpants. I made him a bubble bath with dishwashing liquid, and left him with Randall while I fried up our sandwiches.
When I got back to the bathroom, Randall was carefully bathing him, with a gentleness that made me want to cry. Still in the tub, Jimmy John gobbled down two sandwiches and started a third. He continued to eat it as I drained the water from the tub, and had him stand up so I could rinse him with fresh water.
His legs and back were bruised, as well as his arms. Some of the bruises were new, and plum red. Others had gone blue, and some of the oldest were tinged yellow around the edges. Something long and thin had left welts on his buttocks.
"Who did this to you?" I asked.
He looked over at Randall. Randall nodded.
"Parker," he said.
"Ma's boyfriend. Real shithead."
"Well, he can't do this to you. We're going to call the cops."
"Won't help," Jimmy John sighed. "Parker is a cop. My teacher last year saw bruises and reported them. He just told his buddies I deserved it. Then he beat me even worse."
Jimmy John had escaped what promised to be an especially severe beating the night before by leaping out a window and hiding in the woods. Later, he'd made his way to Randall's, where he sometimes was able to hide out while Parker cooled down. Randall was at my house, though, so Jimmy John slept in the shed with the lawnmower, the spreader, and an assortment of lawn chemicals. The way things were going, it looked like Jimmy John might not survive sixth grade.
Those of you who live in civilized places should bear in mind that this is the American South. Not only is corporal punishment of children accepted, it is endorsed by several major religious denominations. As for me, I didn't know what to do. I'd found out about Jimmy John's abuse because I'd been exchanging blow jobs with his friend, and I didn't think that put me in the best possible position to go up against the local cops.
I dealt with the problem in my usual way. I headed for the kitchen and poured myself a drink. Randall had his own approach, which probably did a lot more good -- he decided to kiss Jimmy John's boo-boos and make them better. So I sat in the kitchen drinking bourbon (because it was kind of a Southern problem) while Randall took his naked little friend into my bedroom to bestow some love.
About an hour and a pint later, I heard some interesting noises from my bedroom, and decided to have a look. The noises were coming from Randall. He was wearing the silk camisole again, but nothing else. Well, almost nothing else. He was wearing a candle in his ass, and Jimmy John was working it in and out.
I wasn't entirely sure what to do. For one thing, it was me who was supposed to be manipulating that candle and stretching that hot little hole. On the other hand, I wasn't about to put too much faith in an abused boy who lived with a cop -- even if the cop was the kid's abuser.
On yet another hand, it was totally hot. The candle was bright red, and a close match for the red silk camisole. Randall was jerking around with pleasure, moaning and spasmodically curling and uncurling his toes. Jimmy John, still naked, was giving Randall's ass virtually scientific attention. The candle plunged in to a depth of six or so inches, was twisted with a flick of Jimmy John's fingers, and slowly withdrawn -- only to be plunged in again.
Neither boy had seen me. I could withdraw and pretend I'd passed out drunk and didn't know what had happened. If I had another couple of drinks, I wouldn't have to pretend. I hesitated, and then it was too late. Randall had seen me.
"Hey, Billy. Sorry we didn't wait for you."
I plopped myself down on the bed. My jail time, I decided, would have to be worth it.
Jimmy John worked Randall's hard little cock with one hand while he worked the candle with the other. Then the candle was withdrawn with a pop, and Jimmy John had two fingers up Randall's ass -- then three. Then he was dilating his friend's rectum to a size I didn't think possible, having seen that tight little rosebud.
"Ouch," Randall cried, "not so hard! I don't have to take a fucking steamroller -- just little Billy!
Jimmy John pulled out his fingers, and Randall's hole reverted to its sweet, unstretched rosiness. He smiled at me. "Come on, Billy. Cock in my ass. Please?"
What can I say? I am not made of stone, and the part of me made of wood seemed to be doing all the talking. Just the same, I guess I held back. Fucking was so... so final, in a way. Once my dick was up Randall's ass, our relationship never would be the same.
It was Jimmy John who opened my pants and dragged them down to my knees. It was Jimmy John who pulled down my boxers too. It was Jimmy John who took my cock deep in his throat and sent me into paroxysms of lust. I don't know who that boy had been sucking before, but it's a dead cinch he'd had at least a little practice.
Concerned that I might inadvertently choke him, I pulled back, only to have him apply some amazing suction and tongue action to the head of my cock. It was so intense I might have forgotten Randall, had he not screamed out for my attention.
"Goddamn it, Billy, it's time! Now! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me! You stupid shit, quit farting around and fuck me now!"
Jimmy John spit me out, and suddenly Randall was straddling me. Jimmy John had my pulsing dick in his hand, and aimed it up at Randall's candle conditioned hole. Randall, shouting something or another to God, sat on it.
I plunged into that hot, lively rectum -- or, perhaps, you might say, it plunged onto me. Whatever. The flash of heat that shot through my body was enough to shut down the functioning of my brain. All I knew was the animal pleasure of plunging, again and again, into that sweet, succulent ass, and listening to Randall shouting, "Oh God, yes, more, harder, oh God..."
If you stop and count up the times you have heard people call upon the Lord, you might conclude that God lives in the sensitive neurons of our erogenous zones -- and, I must admit, fucking Randall was pretty much a religious experience.
Sometimes, when a boy is fucked, he goes soft. Maybe he makes the right noises, but if you're not entirely involved in your own pleasure, you know he's not exactly loving it. Randall was not like that. He loved it. He sat on me harder and harder, ramming my dick as far up his ass as it could go, and I have to admit I was thrusting at him with equal energy. Under normal circumstances, I'd have shot my load up his ass in seconds, but the booze, oddly enough, made me into a better lover. I stayed hard, grabbed his little boner in my hand, and just kept fucking, ramming it home even harder when Jimmy John straddled my face and rubbed his stiff little dick against my eager mouth.
Once his baby balls followed his little dicklet, my mouth was full and content, as I swallowed over and over, trying to suck his boyhood down my throat as far as it would go. Things became a little confused about then. The dick in my mouth seemed to get larger, and while I still could tongue the balls, they didn't seem to want to slide right down any more. At the same time, the silken chute encasing my cock got tighter, and even hotter.
Finally I shot my load, deep into... oops... at some point in that crazed ecstasy, it seems, Randall and Jimmy had exchanged places. At some point, it seems, my cock had been extracted from Randall's covetous ass and transferred into Jimmy John's, even as Randall's cock had replaced Jimmy John's in my mouth.
I have to tell you, I was suddenly frightened. As the two boys rolled off me, I saw blood on my cock. I'd hurt somebody, and pretty clearly, it wasn't Randall, whose hole was as elastic as repeated assaults with a candle and associated fingers could make it. Poor little Jimmy John, who wasn't even gay, according to Randall; who just needed somebody to love him had volunteered his virgin hole to my unseeing lust. And I'd hurt him.
You read the word right. Not saddened. Not guilty. Frightened. I'd left marks. He'd have to be taken to a doctor, and I'd wind up in jail. Goddamnit, Randall, why did you do that? And Jimmy John? Why did you two wait until I was out of my senses with horniness and booze, and switch places? It didn't make any sense at all.
Not until the next day.