The following story is a work of fiction. If you find material like this offensive, then that's your problem I didn't make you read this. If you're under age, get out!! You're still there aren't you? Oh well I tried.
Seriously though, to read this story you need to be able to separate fantasy from reality and know when to keep it zipped. There is a large difference between words on a page and real actions. Remember that. The characters in this story are fictional and not in anyway meant to depict any real person living or dead.
This is my story and my own words, if you want to post, or make a profit on a story create your own! Thank you.
Now that all of that is out of the way, I should warn you this isn't going to be a jack off special. Or at least not at first, sex will come but it won't be in the beginning. I have read many stories on this site and to be honest the ones that stick out the most in my memory are the ones that take the longest to cum with.
As a new author here I value feedback, whether it be positive comments, constructive criticism or just a suggestion. Simply email me at email@example.com please put Sierra Inn in the subject line of your e-mail. I will try my hardest to reply to all e-mails.
I know what you're expecting me to say. You're expecting me to tell you how my parents croaked, and left me a not so small fortune, and how if I choose I don't have to work another day in my life. Then continue to tell you about my incredibly good looks with my horse sized cock dangling between my legs. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that's not me.
No, actually my parents are still alive, and well and not all that rich. My childhood was comfortable enough, but money wasn't exactly flowing out of the faucets either. I grew up in a run of the mill middle class American neighborhood in the southwest Phoenix, Arizona to be exact. I knew I was gay from the time I was ten, but didn't tell a soul until my senior year of high school. The first person I told was my Mom, she took it well enough at first then went into total denial. So now, ten years later my social life remains an enigma to all others except for me.
I am not bad looking, but a model I am not either. I guess you would call me average, 6'0" tall about 160 pounds brown hair and brown eyes. Recently I have taken to sporting a goatee though I am getting hints from various people that the thing needs to go. I don't have the time to go to the gym, so any muscle I have I get from lifting boxes or moving various items around, but since I'm only 27 fat hasn't really become an issue yet either.
After high school, I went off to college in Flagstaff, Arizona. I majored in hotel management and graduated right smack dab in the middle of my class. At my graduation the dean, in the middle of a very long protracted speech, told us if we can't find a job look for ways to create one for ourselves. So, that's what I did, and along with a group of friends from college opened my own highway side motel. Nothing fancy, 200 rooms, all equipped with cable and free wireless internet. It's called the Sierra Inn, and we do OK, although I say we loosely, my group of friends all but ditched the project half way through construction. I was able to through some friendly bank loans get my baby open, and in the last three years have developed a regular group of cliental of truckers as they pass through the Phoenix area on Interstate 10.
I have a small apartment one exit away from my motel, though I live mostly in my motel. I am fortunate enough to have a trustworthy staff. Laura, a nice middle aged woman I hired before I even opened the place works the front desk during the day five days a week. At the same time she is kind of my secretary, and in the three years we've known each other we have developed a fairly close relationship. At nights and on weekends Juan, a 24 year old high school drop out works the desk. I know on the surface that sounds like a risk but in reality he is very responsible and has matured past the days when he dropped out of high school, and now is going for his GED.
These two people have become my best friends, quite simply because they are the two people I see the most. My maid staff changes constantly, my original staff has all been deported and now thanks to new legislation and a stern warning from the Sherriff's department I have a totally new staff of maids who are all in the country legally.
My life really was cruising along with this set up, twelve to fifteen hour days of paper work, three days a week sleeping on an old couch crammed into the super tight space of my office in the back of the motel lobby. The other four nights of the week going home to my one bedroom six hundred square foot apartment, for a microwave dinner at ten o'clock at night and passing out while watching the Tonight Show only to awake at 5:00 AM the next morning to start the process all over again. Still I had everything I wanted, a thriving business (thriving is a relative term, my head is barely above water), and a brand new used 1997 Honda Accord. Hey at least this car has air conditioning. Those of you who have ever been to Phoenix in August will appreciate the importance of that amenity.
I come from a family of work-aholics and I never really saw myself bucking that trend. I was very content, in my own way, being married to my job and the Sierra Inn. Though as I am starting to learn, just when you are getting comfortable is usually about the time everything changes.
It was a late Monday night last January, Juan was working the front desk and I was in the middle of trying to figure out how to order toilet paper from a new supplier and resolving myself to the fact that it was going to be my third night in a row sleeping on the couch. Things had been unusually busy since Christmas, and we were running at eighty percent occupancy for the fifth straight night, which was why I was trying to order toilet paper at 11:30 at night. I had just decoded the cryptic language of my suppliers website when Juan comes into my office with a weird look on his face.
"Hey Kevin can you come out front for a second?" he asks.
Now Juan, is a big guy thick with muscle and brimming with confidence. Not only that he knows how to handle almost every situation that has ever been thrown at him while manning the front desk, so right when he asks me to go out front I know something is up.
I follow him out to the lobby which is empty, I look at the computer screen on the front desk, expecting to see the blue screen of death, but the screen is absolutely normal.
"What's wrong?" I ask. "Everything looks normal."
"Look out there," Juan says, pointing outside the front door to the curb. A small figure sitting there hunched over with it's back to the lobby.
"Is that a kid?" I ask, Juan.
"I think so," he says.
"What is he doing out there at this time of night?" I ask.
"Don't know," Juan says. "That's why I got you."
"Well is he a guest?" I ask.
"I don't know," Juan says with a shrug.
"Well then what do you want me to do about it?"
"I don't know," Juan again shrugs.
"Exactly what do you know?" I ask, getting slightly annoyed by Juan's new default answer.
"That I don't want to deal with it," Juan says, as he fights his lips to keep them from stretching into a smile.
"Fine, I'll go see what's going on," I say, shaking my head.
With a deep breath I make way out the door and into the cold desert night air. The figure hunched over on the curb is a boy with brown hair, and I can instantly tell his shoulders are shaking though I don't know if that's from the cold or if he's crying.
"Hey is everything OK?" I ask as I stay near the door to the lobby.
The kid looks back at me but doesn't say anything. His face is young, I take him for no older than eleven, I see he is dirty like he hasn't seen a shower or a sink for a few days. He looks at me, with this haunting look in his eyes. I am not into seeing souls or things, not that I don't believe in that stuff I'm just usually to self absorbed to notice what's going on with other people. But for some reason this kids eyes just go right through me, and I instantly feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Still he doesn't say a word but I know he is in some type of pain.
"Where are your folks?" I ask. "Which room are you staying in?"
I wait for a minute with this haunting silence surrounding us, and those blue eyes just starring back at me while totally blank they say everything.
"Look if you're lost or something, maybe I can help you find your folks. It's way too cold out here for you just to be sitting there like that," I say, hoping to get some type of response.
"My parents are dead," the boy says, in almost a whisper.
"I'm sorry," I say, not knowing what else to say. "So who do you live with?"
"With my foster parents," the boy says, still looking straight at me.
"And they're staying here?" I ask.
"No," he says. "I ran away, a couple of weeks ago."
The entire time he is speaking, there is no emotion in his voice. He speaks in the register of a boy who's voice has not yet changed but he sounds and looks like he's seen and been through a lot.
"Why would you do that?" I ask, still seemingly frozen to my spot right in front of the door.
My question is met by silence and I instantly know I've asked too much.
"Are you going to call the cops on me?" he asks, all of a sudden.
"No," I say, after thinking about it for a minute. "But I want to get you off the streets for the night."
"How?" he asks.
"Well I have a few rooms open I can let you have one," I say. "But if I lend it to you, you have to promise to be here in the morning so I can try to help you."
"What do I have to do for the room?" he asks, suspiciously.
"Do?" I ask, not understanding the question. "You don't have to do anything, like I said just be here in the morning so we can get things straightened out."
This was not the first time I've dealt with a runaway. In the neighborhood my motel is in it happens a lot, usually I chase them off my property with threats of calling the cops, but usually they aren't as young as this one.
"So will you take the room?" I ask.
"You're not going to make me suck you?" he asks.
"What?" I ask, shocked by the question. "God no, I would never do that."
I look at him, dead in the eyes now understanding exactly what this child has been through and it only makes me want to help him more. Though, I am not sure how I will be able to beyond tonight, I can't keep him in a motel room forever, not without the cops getting nosy.
"So what do you say?" I ask. "Free room, and shower no strings attached. And we have donuts in the lobby in the morning."
"Glazed donuts?" he asks.
"As a matter a fact, yes glazed donuts," I say, my mouth stretching into a small smile.
"OK," he says slowly.
"Good, come inside, and I'll find you a room," I say, suddenly realizing I don't even know this kids name. "What's your name?" I ask as he stands up and I open the door for him.
"Brian," he says, still looking up at me with those haunting eyes.
"Nice to meet you Brian, I'm Kevin."
The boy smiles at me as I hold the door open for him and we go into the lobby. Juan is standing behind the desk, typing what is most likely an erotic e-mail to one of his three dozen girlfriends, but quickly stops typing when he sees me come in.
"Juan can you get me a key to one of our available rooms," I say.
"Sure," Juan says, looking at me then at Brian. "What's going on?"
"I'll catch you up in a little bit," I say, not wanting to repeat Brian's story in front of him. "Which room is open?"
"One twenty," Juan says as he slides a key card through the programmer.
"Thanks," I say taking the key card from him.
I lead Brian out of the lobby and down the exterior corridor of the first floor of the motel, no words being exchanged. We get to room one twenty and I put the key in the slot and open the door.
"There are towels in the bathroom," I say as I start turning on lights. "Soap's on the counter by the sink and there's shampoo there also. T.V has cable, you like T.V don't you? I used to like T.V when I had time to watch it, don't have much of that anymore. Oh time, there's an alarm clock on the night stand there but don't worry you can sleep as late as you want. Sleep there's another thing I don't..." I suddenly realize I'm babbling and Brian is still standing by the now closed door with a blank expression on his face.
It's a nervous habit of mine, the babbling, I babble when I don't know what to say or when I get nervous. In this case both things are going on at the same time so it's a lucky thing for Brian I caught myself so quickly.
"Sorry," I say. "I get excited when I talk about my hotel," I say with a smile.
"It's OK," he says, and for the first time I see the corners of his mouth start to lift upwards.
"Cool," I say. "Well I'll give you some privacy and let you get some sleep, but remember your promise."
"Yeah, I remember," he says. "I'll be here in the morning."
"Good," I say.
I'm really not that stupid, I don't expect him to be here in the morning but I feel better for at least making him promise that to me. Like I said this isn't my first time dealing with a runaway, and while nine times out of ten I will just tell them to get lost I have on occasion tried to help. My motel is right off an interstate and not far from downtown Phoenix, shady things tend to happen in these areas. I try my best to run a clean operation. Though I know the occasional filth will infiltrate my domain, mostly in the form of prostitutes and their johns. Most of them don't come back a second time because they know we'll call the cops on them if we suspect any kind of such behavior. I also know that not all prostitutes are women with big hair, tits and asses. I've seen the middle aged men pull into the parking lot in the middle of the night, with the teenage boy ducking in the back seat, thinking he is invisible. It's happened enough I'm no longer surprised by it, and it always ends the same way. Juan tells the middle aged guy to get lost before he calls the cops, or worse deals with it himself and the guy goes running with his tail between his legs and usually the teenager left in the parking lot. The first time it happened I offered the kid, who was around sixteen a room for the night and made him promise to be there in the morning, just like I did with Brian, and that kid had promised just like Brian did. The next morning came and the kid was no where to be found.
Still I have never dealt with any runaway as young as the one now in room one twenty, the one with the piercing blue eyes. I know the odds are against any single person living on the streets, and the odds get worse the younger they get. That is why it is so important to me that this particular runaway stays safe in that motel room, at least for the night so I can figure out how to help him.
I walk back to the lobby in a daze, when I get there Juan is checking a new guest in, and I smile politely at the weary middle aged couple as I pass by and go back to my office. I sit down in my chair and just stare at the computer screen, like it will give me the answer to my new found problem. The entire time, the thought in the back of my mind is that I probably do not have any problem at all. After all what chance is there really of that runaway with the blue eyes being there in the morning?
To Be Continued...
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