Date: Mon, 06 Mar 2017 21:06:33 -0500
From: 86tigers <86tigers@protonmail.com>
Subject: "Four Tales" Tale one: the Hitchhiker. Chapter Two: Negotiations

Chapter Two: Negotiations



Thank god I live alone, Miguel thought. The phone said 3:25 AM. He fished
his keys and everything out of his jeans, pulled off his belt, and shucked
himself like an ear of corn. He didn't usually sleep naked, but for some
reason he needed to strip. The cool cotton took him right to sleep.


He had manic dreams, lit with Vegas neon. Sexual tension soaked him
through, and he was looking everywhere at delicious boys, who seemed to
abound, sporting hardons in speedos, wearing feather boas and nothing else,
and tantalizing him with blown kisses. He woke up without
satisfaction. Dreams never deliver. Miguel touched his phone; it was
5:45. His bladder needed a trip, and he remembered--a homeless minor was on
his couch.


Stumbling down the hall, he peeked out, cupping his balls and as much of
his prodigious rod as he could. The sun was starting to come up, and Sam
was bundled in a tight curl on the couch. He looked dead to the world.


Miguel was still so hard he had to piss in the shower. He turned on the
water and watched, his arc shooting straight up. He was milking and shaking
off when he suddenly caught the sight of the boy in my periphery. Sam
didn't see, and walked right in with the alertness of a zombie.


"Goodmorning," Miguel said.


"Oh fuck!" Sam blurted, spun around, ran out the door "Sorry!"


"No big deal," Miguel said, in all earnestness.


He tried to shake off without actually hardening the copious flesh--he was
a shower, not a grower--guys snuck glances at his cock on the regular,
because it looked like a giant fucking softie that would turn into an
anaconda. However, it looked and stayed between five and seven
inches. Miguel dashed out of the bathroom, flopped back in bed on his
stomach. Just as he was drifting back to sleep, there was a knock.


"Hey," he said, blearily lifting his face from the pillow.


The door cracked open.


"Miguel," the boy whispered. A chill ran up the man's spine.


"Yeah?"


"How long are you leaving town?"



**********



They say only a few things. A charge builds between them, and hearts take
the driver's seats, and tell minds to sit in the back seat and take a
fucking nap. The boy says he wants to come. To run away. To throw his lot
in with a total stranger.


"I'm not safe in L.A. anyway," he says.


"Bull," Miguel says.


"It's true."


"Then tell me your whole story," the man croaks, still laying in bed,
nude. "But not like this. Give me fifteen minutes."


Both of them take turns brushing teeth and washing faces. Miguel boils
water and makes coffee in a press while toasting some leftover pizza. The
two of them still look bedraggled, hair unkempt and pajama pants hanging
low on Miguel's ass as he cracks an egg in the pan.


"Once you get coffee," Miguel says, "I do expect you to spill your
guts. But don't go into painful details. I'm not trying to dig up your
skeletons, or whatever."


"What do you mean?"


"Trauma is awful, kid," Miguel said. "I've been through just a little. I
know you have been through way more. So I don't expect you to tell me about
the things that make you feel unsafe. Don't dwell on things that make you
feel like you're going to live through it again, comprende?"


"Yeah," Sam whispered. "Exactly."


Once poured, it was too hot to drink still, and Miguel just opened the back
door and squatted on the fire escape. A blue sky peeked at the edge of the
valley, and the sound of traffic wafted in. Miguel lit a cigarette and
frowned back at the boy.


"Don't start smoking." His voice is garbled by the hypocrisy between his
lips. The lighter snaps.


"I already started and quit."


"Smart boy. Don't go back."


They sip their coffees, and both of them gnaw on day old pizza with green
peppers and black olives.


"So," Miguel says.


The boy swallows a gulp of hot coffee, and tastes the bitter potency all
the way to the back of his sinuses. He begins his story with a big summary.


He has lived for the past four months as a toy to some of the most wealthy
men in the entire valley; the kingpins of the gay porn industry. They scout
for new talent often, sending employees through social media to find their
prospects. These scouts flood the industry with underage headshots and
resumes from models, actors, and would-be youtube stars, or better yet,
amateur gay porn stars. Sam was one of them; his videos were scattered onto
every gay porn site on the planet, but especially on gay porn blogs and
databases that focused on twinks; he made the video at the age of fourteen,
and his face was omitted. As soon as they matched his gorgeous face to his
body, the studio was courting him. They wanted to sign boys to contracts
the day they turned 18. Before that, they were groomed and, in many cases,
made to pay sexual dues before they even began working.


"Before that even, I lived with a guy named Rick. He lived in the same
trailer park as my mom and stepdad. He meant nothing, he was just the way I
got away from my stepdad. He wasn't even sexual with me, he just felt bad
for me."


The boy goes on to mention many other chapters in brief. How he ran away
from Rick but the man still pays for his smartphone, how he used Grindr and
facebook to float around for a long time; how he started using coke and
poppers, and started having sex with older guys for money.


"But the worst thing is," the boy says, "it felt good. If it was always bad
and I never had those feelings, it would be easier for me to put it behind
me. Sometimes, I liked it. I wanted it. I loved taking blow and sucking
dick, it was the most incredible thing in the world."


The two of them sit in silence for a long time.


"I don't know what to say," Miguel says, wide-eyed. "I'm just really glad
you told me. I hope you know that none of that stuff means anything bad
about you. It's pretty normal. Alot of people who get hurt by their
partners feel excited about it from time to time. Just in the way that it
still gets them off, or that it feels pretty good. It doesn't make it your
fault."


"So," Sam says, feeling a spike of courage from the coffee: "Please take me
with you."


"I mean--how could we ever--"


"You're thinking about it."


The boy finishes his coffee in a single gulp, and leaps over to Miguel. He
hovers over the man with bright eyes, and dives down to kiss him full on
the lips. In not-yet broad daylight. The man feels the suction on his
bottom lip, the sweep of the boy's tongue across the underside of his upper
lip. When they part a millisecond later, Sam darts back into the living
room, dives into the sleeping bag, and tries to fall asleep. Maybe, when he
wakes up, Miguel will have come to his senses.



**********



The lights of the Rite-Aid were blinding, and Miguel was running on three
hours of sleep. He had never dyed his hair before, and had only seen his
sisters do it, but he was combing the colors for the right shade of
brown. Dark brown, but not black.


An hour later, he was painting it onto Sam's locks. A twinge of sadness
pinched him as he inked the boy's golden locks, but everything must change,
even the eyebrows. Indelibly. Just like the choice they were about to make,
this dye was indelible. They were going for it.


The most difficult thing was, it couldn't happen without a passport. Maybe
he could smuggle the boy across the Mexican border in his back seat, but
they'd need documentation at some point--the boy couldn't wander the world
as a stateless person.



***********



The dye was setting. They were, on Monday morning, going to attempt what
was probably a felony (or something). Sam looked much different, his hair
all pulled into segments and slathered with black.


"Can I have a beer?" said Sam.


"Just one. Or two I guess."


"Ok."


The man cracked an Olympia for his little dye project-in-progress. The boy
slurped the beer, and smiled.


"Thanks for helping me with this disguise," he said, and leaned back in his
chair.


"Four on the floor!" Miguel said. Sam plops the chair down, looking
genuinely sorry.


But Miguel is smiling. "I'm glad you follow the rules around here," he says
with a wink.


"I don't want to make trouble," the boy says in a coo.


"You're the best kind of trouble I've ever heard of."


Miguel made the boy come over to the sink. He said it's time to rinse that
shit out. It takes a while, under the hose. The dye flows out endlessly, it
seems, until at last the water runs relatively clear.


He towels the boy's head as Sam leans forward.


Sam already has a deep tan that reveals his mixed background. With brown
hair, he looked much less conspicuously like an anglo.


"We're going to commit a felony or something," Miguel said.


"So we might as well commit some misdemeanors," the boy quipped. He is only
part joking, and both of them know it. Where did the boy get such a wit,
Miguel wonders; and how serious is he? The man swigs back the rest of his
beer.



***********



The kiss that morning was overwhelming. Miguel was still meandering in a
dream, where all his fantasies were living and breathing before him, in the
form of this giggling, razor-sharp, modelling-agency-cute boy.


"So we might as well commit some misdemeanors," was the last thing said,
and Miguel just downed the rest of his beer and cracked another. He paced
around like a tiger for a while. He was born in 86, year of the tiger. He
always thought it was so cool, as a kid; in the whole Chinese Zodiac, only
the dragon is cooler. Maybe the snake.


"What year were you born?" Miguel asked. Just to hear how fucking crazy it
would sound when the boy said it.


"The year 2000."


"Year of the dragon."


"Yeah, how'd you know?" Sam asked.


"I used to be really into all that shit," Miguel said, waving a hand around
in the air. "I'm a tiger. You're a dragon. Tiger and dragon rule the earth
and heavens, respectively, they're they kings."


"Cool. Are--you okay?"


"Yeah," Miguel said. "I'm just thinking about how things seem to be getting
a little different between us."


"You could be a politician," Sam said, with a shit-eating grin.


The man blushed.


"Don't make me wash your mouth out with soap," Miguel said. Sam's attitude
seemed like a sign of higher spirits, a sign of trust. But Miguel didn't
want to entertain sarcasm all the time.


"I was trying to say something," Miguel said. "I mean, you're flirting with
me so hard it's leaving bruises. I can't take it, Sam. Don't play games
with me--I'll take you to Mexico no matter whether you do this whole charm
act or not."


"You saying I'm doing a performance?" Sam asked.


"Yeah, of course. We're all, always performing."


"Well, fuck off!" Sam blurted.


"I'm sorry!" Miguel said, "I just don't want you to get closer to me unless
you really mean it! I really fucking care about you, and I'm risking
literally everything for this."


The kid looked frustrated, and started to yell something, but Miguel
shouted over him.


"If we get caught, you get sent back to your shitty mom and stepdad, and
you'll run away again. If I get caught, I'll be prosecuted, or thrown in
immigration detention for God knows how long. Made into a goddamn slave or
some shit for the anglo American machine."


Sam nodded, and then his face screwed up like he was going to cry.


"This is crazy!" the boy whimpered, and then broke down. He sobbed and
pressed his head between his knees, hands over the back of his wet head. "I
don't want to get you in trouble," he moaned.


Miguel came over and threw an arm over the boy's narrow shoulders. He
pressed his nose into the top of Sam's scalp, the smell of the dye filling
his nostrils.


"I won't, babe," he whispered. "But I can't figure how we're gonna do this
without a passport for you."


"I have a passport," Sam murmured, his voice nasal with congestion.


Miguel's eyebrows raised. He had just assumed that Sam wouldn't.


"You do?"


"It's in an office building in Pasadena," Sam said. "Larry Kewick's
office. He's the producer who wanted to hire me when I turned 18. He got me
a passport, along with other stuff. He talked about taking me to Mexico or
Eastern Europe for business someday."


Miguel closed his eyes in confusion. Should he seek help from the law? Or
seek help from punks he knew?


At least he could trust the punks.



***********



It's hard to find somebody who's willing to be a getaway driver for a
break-and-enter. It's harder to find somebody who's willing to wear all
black, tie a bandana around her nose, and use her own battery-operated
glass-saw to cut through the window of a porn producer who's worth four
million. That was, however, exactly what Miguel found in two of his friends
in L.A. Laura and her partner Jan; two of the raddest punk dykes on
earth. The great bulldykes of the world can never be praised enough; their
mettle is peerless, their skill is adept. Strong and fearless,
knowledgeable about everything from interlibrary loan to vegetable oil
diesel engines to the finer points of breaking and entering.


They couldn't discern which of the many black windows were the right
office. Even the boy, who was with them there, all garbed like a ninja,
couldn't tell. They were pretty well lit and worried about cops; the
building was surrounded by its own parking lot, and they were completely
visible for about a hundred yards all around.


"Shine the headlamp in," he said.


Miguel pressed the light against the glass. The boy surveyed the room.


"This is it," he said.


"Scale of 1-10, how sure are you?" Laura asked.


"10."


"Scale of 1-10, how sure are you that your passport is in there?" Miguel
asked.


"6."


The two of them looked at him with expressions of pure horror, though their
masks hid the majority of the emotion.


"What?" Laura demanded.


"I can't promise anything," the boy said, "I just know that, even just a
few months ago, he kept all my things together in one file here. It's my
only hope though, we can't break into his house!"


Laura didn't say anything else, just started cutting. They had come this
far. Miguel realized they were probably being videotaped, but at this
point, they felt beyond consequences.


The saw whirred loudly and it seemed like an eternity of screeching while
Laura cut a two-foot square in the lower part of the window. Once she was
done, she booked wiped the edges with some sandpaper and then a wet cloth,
and picked up her shit and ran. She had an uber it to the shadows to be our
lookout. I'd stay on the phone with her the whole time.


We pried open a drawer at the bottom of an old chocolate-brown
filecabinet. Inside were giant manila packets labeled with names.


OSHEA, R.S.


Sam grabbed the package, opened the flap, and began pawing through, the
headlamp gleaming in. Miguel saw large glossy photos of the boy in all
states of undress, pictures of his full erection, buttocks, and every other
posture one could imagine. These were strewn in with receipts and prints
from blood tests for STIs and HIV, the emails


"It's not here!" the boy said, his dismay as foul as rotten onion.


"It doesn't matter," Miguel realized. "Are these other folders stuff on
boys like you?"


"Yeah, probably. I mean, I was one of the youngest, but there were two or
three other underage boys."


"Just grab as many of these as you can carry."


They ran out, arms full. At three A.M., all the way back in Koreatown, they
celebrated their escape with a shot of bourbon. They sorted through enough
so that Sam had a pile of four other boys he remembered as underage when
they got scouted.


Miguel was really starting to feel out of sorts--the past twenty-four hours
had changed him completely. If he needed a better image, there was none
more powerful than his present endeavor. Thirty minutes after the shot of
bourbon, he was making a call on a payphone--the last one he knew of in his
whole neighborhood. He read Larry number from a simple google search, and
left a message.


"We have compromising evidence about you. Your worst fears realized. These
initials should bother you: L.R.P., C.W.P., E.F.N., and R.S.O. Ryan Samuel
O'Shea. We have contacts both with the police and the Los Angeles Times,
and of course with a boy you know very well. He's safe now."


Miguel told the man that they didn't want any trouble, nor money. All they
asked for was the boy's passport, overnight mailed to the women's shelter
where the boy was staying.



The next morning, bright and early, a private courier delivered a package
to an address in Watts. Sam walked in the next day and claimed his
documentation, and even explained his story to a couple of the social
workers. He told them he was homeless until a few days ago, but now he had
a safe place to stay.


"Who's place is that?" the social worker asked, in genuine concern.


"My boyfriend's," Sam said, grinning.


The social workers looked concerned.


"Can you tell me a little about your boyfriend? How did you meet him?"


"He's sixteen," the boy said, making a romantic voice "he likes the same
music as me, and his mom is a nurse. We live with her in Inglewood."


"Oh!" the woman said. "That's great. My son is gay! Good luck, Ryan."



**********



It was all done. Tidy, by Sunday afternoon at 1:30, when they got back from
grabbing some food and beer for the road.


"We're gonna be like Thelma and Louise," Sam said. "Have you seen that
movie? We got to watch it in one of my film class."


"Whoah. Yeah, Thelma and Louise is a rad movie," Miguel said, laughing. It
was about the tenth time the boy had made conversation about things the man
would never have expected him to know about, much less care about. David
Bowie, Lord of the Rings, Beetlejuice, and Fraggle Rock had all come up in
the last hour.


They kicked off their shoes and went about settling in. Miguel was hot, and
the AC was barely doing anything, it seemed. He took off his shirt, and Sam
was unable to keep himself from following suit.


Now, the man thought, there's no avoiding it. Idle hands are the devil's
workshop.


"I'm going to bed," Miguel said. Wild lust had eaten all his inhibitions by
now, and he felt powerless to stop myself from biting at the lure. If this
was to be his death, or downfall, he was willing to risk it. Ryan Samuel
O'Shea was too fucking gorgeous to deny, and they were far too deep in
their plot for sexual deviance to make any difference in their fate.


"I'm gonna take a beer or two into the bedroom, and smoke my last joint,
and get off to porn, and go to sleep," Miguel said. "After that I plan on
sleeping all afternoon, and all the way to tomorrow morning when we leave."


"Can I get some of that jay?" Sam asked.


"Pot's bad for teenagers," Miguel said.


"Cigarettes are way worse."


"What's your point?"


"Just let me smoke some. It helps me relax."


Miguel was hoping for a pushiness. An eagerness. It made his task far
easier; otherwise he would have felt like a predator. He was using bait,
certainly, but the boy was not just biting but dancing in front of it.


"Okay," Miguel said. "Just a puff."


"Are you inviting me into your bedroom for that?" Sam asked, but his tone
was asking a larger question.


"Do you feel safe with me?" Miguel asked, voice soft as cotton batting.


"Yes. Always."


"I don't expect anything sexual, ok? I mean, it's on my mind, but I'm
attracted to you in another way, too."


Sam cocked an eyebrow. He looked curious.


"I'm under your spell, Sam," Miguel said, his voice shimmering with emotion
"I just want to hold you. I want more, too, but for now I just want to hold
you. I want to kiss you, and care for you, and live every day with you. I
have a mental disorder for you."


With a grin, the boy walked up to Miguel and lay his head on the man's
chest, his body close. His arms wrapped around the small of Miguel's
back. Miguel in turn wrapped his arms around the boy's smooth shoulders,
his big hands gripping each of the boy's underarms.


It felt so right. So, so right. The hug lasted a long, long time. Neither
of them had really smelled the other, yet; here and now this powerful thing
happened for both of them. Sam smelled a musk, an earthiness that was
salty, sweetened with the smell of good tobacco. Miguel breathed in a high,
sharp sweetness, like a lemonade, or a liquorice. They both sank together,
and Miguel put his hands into the boy's hair.


"Please, Miguel," Sam whispered. "Let me come with you,"


"You know I'm taking you. So long as you still want to run away to south
America like the ridiculous gringo you are."


"No, I mean--" Sam said, "I want to get off with you."



******



These stories are usually very caucasian, suburban, golden-retriever kind
of experiences. That perplexes me, and I wrote this because I think it
should perplex most people.



*********



So.


The man lit only a corner lamp, wrapped in a gauzy Turkish scarf. Paisley
of green and gold light upon it, Sam stands bare-breasted in the saffron
light, and tosses his hair, now set in a hue of brown that is remarkably
flattering, Miguel thinks, in spite of how beautiful his blonde hair was.


The boy looked around as Miguel light some incense. A queen sized bed sat
on the floor, with sheets and blankets tucked in, but there was little else
in the whole room. The bookshelves and desk, windows, walls, and dresser
shined, clean of anything. On the bedside, however, was the man's ashtray
with the joint planted in the rim, a book with a bright red cover, and a
magnum of red wine.


"What are you reading?" the boy asked.


Just the question gave him a big grin. "I'm working through some short
stories by Nabakov."


"Hm. Lolita is all I've heard of."


"Lolita is an outrageous novel. I mean that in both good and bad ways. But,
no, this is nothing like that. A lot of stories set in Russia, usually with
a kind of folksy atmosphere." Miguel said.


"I want to read one of those," Sam said. "You should pick one you think I'd
like."


"Done."


The A/C was already cranked to the highest setting in here 24 hours a day,
and it was by far the coolest room in the apartment. Miguel sat back on the
bed, scooting into his pillows to sit erect, and grabbed his computer.


"We can watch something," he said.


Sam sat, and scooted himself so he was close, but not touching. The boy
felt a little cold, and he grabbed a blanket at the bottom of the bed to
cover his shoulders.


"If we're gonna get high, I want to watch something funny," the boy said.


"Okay," Miguel said, "I'm gonna make you piss yourself."


They puffed and passed and watched the stupidest and most bizarre things,
and laughed so hard they got watery eyes, and shared a little sip of wine
back and forth.


After a while they switched to something visually astounding, but otherwise
not so dramatic--music videos, psychedelic displays, and that sort of
thing.


The boy soon made the first move, grabbing Miguel's hand and holding it
with both of his own. They watched music videos and sank closer together
until Miguel felt the boy's soft, cool hair and the weight of his head on
the man's shoulder. He sank down to accommodate their height difference,
and lay his own cheek against the boy's crown.


Sam hugged the man and pulled his knees up onto Miguel's lap, so that he
was near totally girded within the man's embrace.


"Can we sleep like this? Or spooning?" Sam asked.


"Sure."


"Can we still get off together?" Sam asked.


Miguel's pulse quickened, his heartbeat made itself known. He turned a
little, so that his nose and lips touched the boy's forehead.


"Not unless you really, really, really need to."


"Why?"


"Because you've had to use sex to survive," I said softly, "Right? I don't
want you to feel any of that pressure. I don't want you to think that you
have to do anything sexual with me"


"I just want to do things that are sexual with you because I want to do
things that are sexual with you," Sam whispered, and kissed Miguel's
throat, gullet, chin, and then lips.


The man broke his tongue in first, and the boy sucked on it with relish,
putting both hands up to stroke Miguel's beard. His newly dark hair fell
over his jaw, and the man tucked it behind the guero's tiny ear, all the
while suckling the boy's bottom lip.


He kissed the smooth, pyramid shaped dimple at the corner of the boy's
mouth, he smelled the boy's throat, he sucked and kissed at Samuel's
bow-shaped collarbones. The boy groaned and hugging Miguel's head with both
arms.


Miguel rose, his face flushed, his nose touching Sam's.


"What did you want to do?"


Sam smiled. "I've never been asked that question,"


"So it's extra important that it's all up to you," said Miguel.


With no forewarning, Sam began to move his lips downward, over Miguel's
bared nipples, kissing the soft curve beneath the man's navel, and fussing
with the belt until the man helped him. The buttons came apart easier, and
the boy put his nose right into Miguel's crotch.


Miguel jolted. "Oh!"


The boy began working his mouth over the base of his cock, tugging the
jeans downward and kissing the insides of Miguel's thighs with big, sloppy,
tongue-heavy bites.


"Stop, stop!" Miguel laughed, putting his hand under Sam's chin. "You are
like, really


experienced huh?" Miguel wondered aloud.


The boy lifted his head, and looked a little self-conscious.


"Yeah, I mean. I didn't have a choice."


Miguel's jaw dropped. "No, no," he murmured, "I mean, you're right, but I
didn't mean I


was judging you. It's amazing to be able to make somebody feel like this!"


"So?" Sam whispered, stroking the base of the man's cock, working the balls
in the other hand. "What do you want me to do?"


"Do you get off on sucking other guys off?" Miguel asked.


"I get off a lot of ways, but I love that one."


"Then suck me off, baby."


Sam grinned. Miguel watched in ecstasy as the boy pushed his pink lips
against the tip of his cock, bulging enormous from his neon blue
briefs. Sam stared up, big brown eyes full of plaintive, submissive, liquid
lust. He kissed the man's pubic mound, and at last pulled the elastic
waistband downward. The bright fabric peeled away slowly from the thick
underbelly of the man's cock. Sam dove in to tongue-bathe the shaft from
the bottom up.


Miguel groaned, and the boy finally released the swollen member; it swung
out in a big arc, uncircumcised, the ring around the cock the dark
purple-brown of cocoa.


Immediately, the boy grasped it and then bit down (without teeth of course)
on the tip of Miguel's head, then slid down and sucked as hard as he could
at the top half of the head, rolling his tongue around the tip twice before
breaking away with a popping sound. He plopped it back into his mouth, and
slid his lips down to circle an inch up from the base of the seven-inch
monster. Sam pulled back, eyes watering slightly, and then began to suck
the man at a rate and skill that Miguel never knew was possible. The
suction, tongue worship, and deep throating quickly got the man to a state
of extreme arousal; he cursed and grasped the boy's hair, told him to suck
harder, and felt his foreskin peeling away again and again as the boy's
tongue swept back and forth inside of it.


So overwhelmed with pleasure, Miguel scarcely noticed that Sam had his hand
down his own pants and was earnestly fucking his own palm. The boy slurped
and moaned. Saliva fell from his lips and ran down in a slick all over the
man's balls and pubic hair. When the music of the boy's ministrations
became too great for Miguel to bear, he felt himself come like something
had dislodged in the sky and come crashing to earth.


He pulled the boy's hair and pulled him down on his cock again and again,
loving the sucking and slurping noises as Sam slobbered up and down, his
cheeks flushed with exertion; at last, Miguel grunted and whispered, "I'm
coming."


If it was somehow possible, Sam sucked even harder, deep-throated Miguel,
and then let the man burst so deep he only had to wait it out, denying his
gag reflex, and then swallow once for all the semen to go down.


Miguel pushed the boy's nose into his pubic hair. Sam, fondling the man's
balls and perineum, felt the hard squeezes of the man's anus and groin as
the ejaculation came. He heard Miguel grunting over and over with a
ferocity that excited him; the salty, hot come was so far down his throat
he only tasted it a little, and his own orgasm started.


Sam bucked his hips wildly, took the dick as far down his throat as he
could, and came so hard that tears gathered in his eyes. Semen shot up as
far as Miguel's belly, and the boy ground his balls and perineum against
Miguel's lower thigh. The man felt every hot drop of come that landed on
his hip and pelvic bone, and watched with satisfaction as the boy tugged
his beautiful, lengthy, porcelain-and-pink cock.


At last, the boy pulled himself away, cleaning and swallowing the excess
saliva from the whole cock as it slid from his throat. He gave it one more
long lick, and laughed, and then cleaned both of them up with his
underwear.


The boy collapsed atop his man. His face was pressed against Miguel's
pectoral muscle, which felt thick beneath his jawbone. One of his hands
floated to the man's balls, which he held onto with the satisfaction of a
pilgrim touching a relic. The man kissed the top of the boy's head, and
sighed so deeply that he nearly died.



***********


Our present story only has a few episodes!  Like what you've read so far?
Or have a desperate suggestion? Let me know.

86tigers@protonmail.com