Date: Fri, 12 Jan 2018 12:27:28 -0600 From: Jeff Moses Subject: The Kid Smelled This is a work of fiction. It includes scenes of consensual SM sex between males over 16. No resemblance to persons living or dead is intended. If you are underage, or if possession of this text is illegal in your area, leave now. Some of the activities described in this story may cause injury or transmit diseases, including HIV. Please play safe--and use a condom! If you enjoy this site, which you obviously do, or you wouldn't have read this far, click the "Donate" link and contribute to maintain it. Authors retain rights to and title to their submitted works. (Please consult Nifty's submission guidelines for more information.) The Kid Smelled The kid smelled--not sweaty teen boy smell, but slept-in-a-garbage-bin smell. And he was under-dressed for a mid-Western winter, and he looked like he would bite your head off if you approached him. So naturally, I did. "Hi." "Fuck off." "Want a cup of coffee, or something?" "I said, fuck off!" "Black? Cream and sugar?" "What're you, some goddamn social worker? Christian do-gooder?" He said "Christian" with a sneer. "Be right back," I smiled, and headed into the Starbuck's, keeping one eye on him while I waited for my order. I was pretty sure he wouldn't leave; I was more worried that someone would drive him away. But the few people who noticed him just modified their route, ever so slightly, to increase their distance from him. I got back to him as quickly as I could. "Hot chocolate, or coffee with cream and--" He grabbed the hot chocolate. I raised the coffee cup in salute and took a drink. We stood there, not quite close enough to be intimate, but close enough so that the pedestrians wouldn't dare walk between us. "Thanks," he mumbled, when it looked like about half the hot chocolate had been consumed. "You're welcome. My name's Alex, if that makes any difference. And I'm not a social worker, and I'm definitely not a Christian." "Kike?" "Wow! Didn't think anyone said that any more. No. I think I'm an agnostic, for what it's worth: not sure if there's a god around, or not." "There isn't. Trust me." He finished the rest of the chocolate. "Look, I'll be honest--there's something intriguing about you. It would give me pleasure to buy you something to eat, or something. Will you let me do that?" "I been thrown out of three places already--including the fucking Starbuck's." "Because you stink?" He glared at me for a second, then shrugged. "Probably. Or my clothes, or they know I haven't got any cash." For just an instant, he looked like he was going to burst into tears, or throw the cup in his hands at the window next to us. "I live about two blocks from here--no odor or cash limitations. I've got food, a shower if you want it, and a change of clothes." "You a fag?" "Yes." A bus roared by. He followed it with his eyes, and I waited for him to respond. Instead, he looked at the sidewalk. "No strings, nothing like that," I said, softly. "Anyhow, I'm pretty sure you could beat the shit out of me if I tried anything." He was silent. "Hey, I'm just trying to do my annual good deed here, okay? Want me to get rid of that cup, or something?" He looked at the cup in his hands, pulled off the lid and went after the last drop, then handed it to me. "Take care of yourself, okay?" I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and offered him a five. "Here." I smiled and turned toward the trash bin outside the coffee shop. "Thanks, man." "Jus..." I had no idea what to say, so I fell back on repetition. "Take care of yourself, okay? And, um...I usually go by here every afternoon, after work. So if you're here tomorrow...I'll see you, okay?" I smiled and started to walk away. It was the wrong direction, but I didn't want to spook him. I could walk around the block, easily enough. "Wait." I turned back toward him, my face as expressionless as I could make it. "You...you live around here?" "See that beauty supply place at the end of the next block? I live upstairs." "You ain't going to..." "I ain't going to do anything you don't want me to." A gust of icy wind whipped at us. "The apartment's warm." He shrugged. "Okay," he said, as if I'd asked to stab him with an ice pick, or something. I smiled and headed toward home. "Right this way." I listened to his footsteps behind me, rather than looking over my shoulder. I didn't want to make him more nervous. He pulled next to me at the corner. "Where were you going, before?" "Huh?" "When you said I should take care of myself you might see me tomorrow and all that." "Oh, that! Honest? I would have had to move closer to you, and I didn't want to scare you." "I'm not afraid of you. I could beat the shit out of you, if..." "No games, no bullshit, like I said. I'll feel better if you're warm and fed, that's all." We walked the rest of the way side by side. I unlocked the door and held it open. "Right up the stairs. Second door on the left." "You first." "Okay." I started up the steps. "Make sure that door's locked, please. Just turn the--" "I know how to lock a fuckin' door, okay?" "My bad. Sorry." Hunger makes people angry--I knew that from experience. He climbed the stairs behind me. We walked to the end of the hallway, and he stood aside as I unlocked my door. "Home, sweet home," I said, waving him inside. "Make yourself comfortable. Any food allergies?" "Huh?" "For dinner. I usually make a little salad, and I have some beef stew left over from yesterday. Sound good?" "Sounds great," he said, betraying a little eagerness. The way to a man's heart... He looked around the place while I started putting a salad together: winter tomatoes, lettuce, green onions and a sprinkling of grated cheese. "What sort of salad dressing do you like?" "I dunno. I...can I use your toilet?" "Of course! The door off the front hallway, there." "Got it." He moved quickly. I wondered if it was stomach problems, or just a long time since he'd had access to a bathroom. I decided on ranch dressing, quickly set my table, and waited. I heard a couple of groans, the rattling of the toilet paper holder--sounded like he was using about half the roll--and a flush. For a moment, I feared I would not hear the sink, but then I did. He emerged a few minutes later. He'd obviously made an effort to wash his face, as well as his hands, which made the rest of him look even worse. "What do you want to drink? I've got milk, tea or coffee, or there's cola and ginger ale. Or there's some beer, if you want that." I really didn't want him to choose the beer. But I did want him to trust me. "Coke's fine," he answered, and I poured it into a glass of ice. Fancy. We sat down. His odor did not go well with dinner, at least for me. But he devoured the stew, and even ate the salad. We finished off a left-over peach pie for dessert. He leaned back in his chair, put his hands on his belly, and actually moved his lips in a smile-ward direction. "Thanks." "Thank you for joining me. It's hard to manage decent meals for one person." I let a little silence fall, then plunged ahead. "You're welcome to take a shower, if you like, and then we can see if I've got any clothes you can wear." He didn't answer. "You can lock the bathroom door, if you want," I said softly. "Yeah. Okay." He got up. Then his face changed, he turned away, and made a quick dash to the bathroom. I'd anticipated something like that: a full meal after semi-starvation can overwhelm a stomach. I grabbed a towel and headed toward the sounds of vomiting. "I'm hanging a fresh towel on the doorknob," I said loudly. "Take your time." He groaned, but I couldn't tell if it was directed toward me. I went back to my tiny gesture of a living room and turned on the television. I watch the news, which is usually depressing and occasionally scary. I'm not sure why I do that, but old habits die hard. I was vaguely aware of the sound of the shower from the bathroom. I fully expected my guest to use every drop of hot water. The news over, I switched to a "Star Trek" rerun. There's something endearing about that first iteration: the exteriors of distant planets that all seem to look the same, Captain Kirk's inevitable sexual entanglements (all very PG, of course), the mixed-race casting (very daring, for its time). There was a crewman who appeared now and again who I preferred to think of as gay, since he never seemed to be with any females. And maybe Scotty was gay, as well--who knows? The shower ended just before the episode resolved, and I saw my guest's nude reflection on the screen, like some sort of imminent transporter fade-in between Spock and McCoy. "Feeling better?" I asked, without turning around. "I kinda made a mess in the bathroom," he said. His tone was genuinely apologetic. "You wouldn't be the first person," I laughed. "You can come and look at clothes, if you want, or just have a seat and I'll bring a few things out of the bedroom." "Do you have a bathrobe?" "Oh, shit! I forgot--it's in the laundry. I'll go get it." "It's all right. But my--your towel's pretty wet." "No problem." I jumped up and went to the bedroom, returning as quickly as I could with my robe and two more bath towels. "Here you go," I smiled, and looked directly at him for the first time. He had a more or less average build for a healthy teenager, and a nice treasure trail from mid-chest to the edge, at least, of the towel around his waist. His legs looked solid--no doubt he'd been walking a lot. His toenails needed trimming. His wet hair was a dark brown tangle. He needed a shave, as well. Probably just a typical boy-next-door look, once he got it together. "You're what--about six feet? Thirty-two waist?" He shrugged. "Whatever--I don't know." He looked at his waist. "Used to be a thirty-two, I think, maybe." "One moment, Sir. Let me see what we have to offer." I gave him a quick bow and disappeared into the bedroom as the end credits for "Star Trek" started to roll. His height wouldn't be a problem, but I didn't have any pants smaller than a thirty-six: I'd recently graduated, reluctantly, to a thirty-eight. I emerged a few minutes later with underwear, socks, and a pair of khaki slacks, left them on a side chair, and returned for a collection of shirts. I gave him time to get the pants on before I re-emerged. The khakis were almost ridiculously large. "Take your pick," I announced, spreading four shirts on the back of the sofa. "I'll get a belt." When I returned, I found him collapsed into the side chair, sobbing. I rushed back into the bedroom, grabbed the box of tissues I kept at my bedside, and set it on the tiny table next to him, then headed quickly for the bathroom. As a rule, guys don't like to have company when they finally let loose like that- -or so it seems, in my experience. So I busied myself mopping up the mess in the bathroom with a hand towel and the three decorative guest towels that nobody, including me, ever used. It didn't help much, but it kept me busy until the loudest of the sobbing ended. I came out of the bathroom carefully. "You okay?" He nodded, surrounded by crumpled tissues. "Need anything?" He shook his head, no. "Okay. You're probably just exhausted. You can take the bed, if you want. I'll crash on the sofa." He shook his head again, and again, it meant no. "I should leave." "Why?" "You've been great, but...I don't...I mean, it's your place, and--" "And you are my guest. Please. There's nothing out there tonight that won't be there in the morning. And I make wicked French toast." He turned to face me and wiped his eyes. "My name's Jerry." I smiled. "Alex. Be right back." I hurried to the bedroom, grabbed a clean sheet, an extra blanket, and one of my pillows, and reappeared. "Here you go. Sleep well, Jerry." "Thanks, man," he said. Sleep was already overtaking him. In the bedroom, I stripped to my underwear, tried to ignore my swollen cock, turned off the light and got into bed. This was a stupid thing to do, of course. I could wake up in the morning to an apartment stripped bare of everything sellable and light enough to carry. Hell, I could wake up dead--maybe he was a lunatic. Of course he wasn't a lunatic--he was a kid, living on the street and probably scared shitless-- well, obviously not shitless in the literal sense. I was just being a homeless shelter, that's all. Except homeless shelters usually had employees--or at least volunteers--awake all night. He was exhausted, and the sofa was reasonably comfortable. He'd probably just crash. Unless he was afraid I'd sneak into the living room and rape him, or something. He could beat the shit out of me, to be honest. And he'd be desperate--unless he attacked me, then I'd be desperate. He probably had been in a few fights on the street, although I hadn't seen any evidence on his body when he appeared in "Star Trek." But I hadn't exactly inspected him, though I had been tempted, I should admit that. I was obviously not about to get any sleep, so I turned on the bed lamp and plunged into a book about a "universal basic income." Economics is the best sleeping tonic ever, at least for me. I woke up and headed for the door, stopping myself just in time. There was, or probably was, at least, a sleeping kid on my sofa. Or at least probably sleeping. I grabbed a pair of sweatpants and cautiously opened the door. He wasn't--yes he was. I just hadn't been able to see him at first, because of the angle of the sofa. I tip-toed into the bathroom for a quick shit-shower-shave, then snuck back to my bedroom for some clothes. When I re-emerged, Jerry was sitting up, barely awake. "Good morning," I said, gently. "Sleep okay?" He looked at me, bewildered for a moment. "Oh! Yeah, fine, thanks." He stood up. "Can I use the bath- -" "Go right ahead, Jerry. French toast okay for breakfast?" "Sounds great," he said, still foggy with sleep, and headed into the bathroom, naked except for a slightly baggy pair of jockey shorts. I had all the ingredients on the counter, a bottle of maple syrup sitting in a pan of hot water and the coffee brewing, when he called from the bathroom. "Hey, man? You got a razor I could use, maybe? If it's--" "Drawer to the right of the sink. There's a bag of disposables. And the shaving cream's in the cupboard." I put butter into a pan and went to work on the batter while it heated. I splashed a few drops of water into the pan and they just sizzled--needed a bit more heat. I began soaking the bread and tested the heat again: the droplets bounced. Perfect. It was assembly line work, after that. Jerry emerged, pulled on the over-sized khakis and a shirt, and looked over counter. "Need any help?" "There's some orange juice in the fridge, if you want it. Or grab a glass of milk. Oh--pour me some orange juice, too." By the time he'd gathered the juice and milk, I had a plate of French toast ready. "Here you go. And here's the syrup." "What about you?" "Give me a couple of minutes. Be right there! Go ahead and start without me!" By the time I got to the table, he was stuffing the last piece of toast into his mouth. "Want some more?" I said, offering him my plate. "Yeah! No, that's yours. I'm okay." "Let me eat, and I'll make another batch." "You're a good cook." "Lots of practice, and real maple syrup, warm. That's my secret. None of that artificial crap." He was quiet, watching me eat until I was about half-way through. "Thank you," he said at last. "Can I ask--" "I told you: my annual good deed. I spent a night homeless when--"" "I forgot your name, I was going to say." "Oh! Alex. It's okay. I always forget names when I meet new people, too," I chuckled. "You were homeless?" "Sort of. It's kind of complicated, how it happened, but I wound up in Tokyo with nothing but a backpack, and no money for a place to stay. So I had to find a place I'd be safe, but it was Tokyo, and I didn't read Japanese--in fact, all I could say in Japanese was--" I rattled off the words. "Which means, 'Please forgive me, I don't speak Japanese.' I can say that in four languages." Jerry smiled. "I decided to stay up all night and keep moving. By the time I could get some cash in the morning, all I wanted to do was sleep. I know it's stupid to say that's anything like what you went through, but...I know enough to want to help." "How'd you know I wasn't going to rip you off, or something?" "You weren't smooth enough. You didn't try to talk your way into my place, I guess. Or maybe I just took a chance." "Because you thought you--because you're gay?" I shrugged. "Maybe. I guess if you'd been my age--" I stopped. "Okay, yeah," I admitted, defeated. "Otherwise, I guess I would have just tossed some pocket change at you, or something. I'm not a very nice guy, I guess." I got up. "I better go make some more French toast." I'll skip some of the next part, the delicate dance where two men begin to negotiate a relationship and gradually, ever so carefully, reveal themselves--especially if one of them's gay. There's a trick to that--not exactly a trick, I didn't want either of us to think I was playing tricks--call it a technique, say. You just listen. The last thing you want to do is hand out advice. Just listen. Jerry had been drifting aimlessly for almost a year, each job a little less rewarding than the last, doing his best to avoid the drugs trap, meeting a girl now and again, but nothing serious. "Sometimes, they're just horny," he said. "You gotta meet a lot of turkeys before you meet--" I was going to say, "Mister Wonderful," but I caught myself in time. "Ms Wonderful." "And the world is sure full of turkeys," he sighed. I spotted him money for a haircut, and we hit a second-hand store for clothes that fit better. "I swear I'll pay you back!" he said, carrying his choices to the dressing room. "One thing at a time," I replied. With his hair trimmed and decent clothes, he had that sort of dark good look you--I--drool over out of the corner of your--my--eyes. He made friends with Mister Cooperman's cat, when it escaped from the apartment across the hall. He held the door for Mrs. Minowicyk, who lived in the front on my--our side. Then he helped her carry her groceries up. I gave him his own key. He landed a job at Starbuck's. Given his work schedule, he was able to take over laundry and, most nights, making dinner. And he fixed things: little stuff like the dripping faucet in the kitchen, the loose soap dish in the bathroom, the loose hinge on the closet door. Jerry had a slight advantage, knowing I was gay. To his immense credit, he did his best to avoid taking advantage of it. I found myself wishing he would, scolding myself for doing so, rationalizing his silence as the awkward gratitude of a straight guy in a potentially compromising position of dependency. He stuck to the sofa, and I let him have that. I would have let him have anything, if--I scolded myself again. Why do we do this to ourselves: planting temptation in front of us and fighting not to give in? Why don't we just hang out with the unsexy-ist creatures we can find, or something? Or why do we--did I--fall for guys like Jerry the unobtainable? I came home one evening to find him replacing the mismatched drawer knob on my nightstand. I almost fainted when I saw the contents of the drawer spread out on the bed: two sets of handcuffs, two dildos and a butt plug, and a jar of lube. He turned to me, saw my face aflame, and smiled. "Good thing I didn't see this shit sooner or I would have been out the door like the place was on fire." I shrugged, wordless. My brain was utterly empty. I had to remind myself to breathe. "This your stuff?" I nodded. Why deny it? "I used to tie up the kid next door," he said. "We must have been eleven or twelve, and we had these big adventures in outer space. Some evil space villain would tie him up, or me, and then I'd rescue him, or he'd rescue me, and we'd have sword fights or something. He liked to get tied up. Sometimes, it took longer to get him tied up than the whole rest of the adventure. He got a hard-on, but neither of us mentioned it." I nodded. I was pretty sure I knew how the kid next door felt. "Do you do that kind of stuff?" he asked, waving in the direction of the evidence on the bed. "Used to, sometimes, occasionally, once in a while, if I ran into, you know, dating or something, there's this bar I used to go to, still do I mean not since..." "You pretty much put yourself in the closet for me, didn't you, Alex?" "Yeah. Well, you know...I... Yeah." "You ashamed of this stuff?" "Sort of." "Shame on you." He took a step closer--much closer. "Maybe somebody should punish you." I nodded, farther than ever from words. "What would that be like, getting punished?" "Um...I guess I'd get spanked, maybe. Handcuffed and spanked?" "Naked, huh?" "If--I mean, not if--it--it would be up to whoever was...you know." "Well, why don't you get naked, then? Wouldn't want to mess up your work clothes, would we?" "No, Sir." This must be what hypnosis feels like. I started to undo my necktie, then switched into high gear and stumbled around the room, trying to get everything off at once. Jerry just stood next to the bed with his arms crossed. Waiting. At last, I was naked and most of the clothes had been kicked in the general direction of the laundry basket. "Come here and turn around," Jerry said. Was there a hint of a smile on his face? "Yes, Sir." "Put your hands behind your back." "Yes, Sir." I obeyed and felt the cuffs close around my wrists. I heard him sit on the bed. "Turn around." I did. "You're hard." "Yes, Sir." "You know what that means, Alex?" "No, Sir." "That means more punishment, Alex. Get your ass in position!" He patted his thigh and I lay across his lap with my cock between his legs. This had to be a dream. I always woke up just before the real action started. I didn't want to wake up, but that's always what--Holy Shit He Spanked Me! "Count!" "Yes, Sir! One, Sir! Two, Sir! Three, Sir. F-four, Sir." "I think you deserve ten, Alex." "Yes, Sir. I do, Sir." His blows were sharp and hard. Real. I didn't know if I was in pain or ecstasy. Or both. "Eight, Sir. N-n-nine! Sir!" Ecstasy. Definitely, ecstasy. "Ten, Sir!!!" "And one to grow on." "THANK YOU SIR!!!" He was rubbing my shoulders. After a few seconds, he eased me to my feet, and I promptly dropped to my knees. "You came," he said, pointing to the whitish fluid that dripped off his pant leg. His voice was somewhere between amazed and amused. "Yes, Sir." "What should we do about that?" "I should lick it up, Sir." "Get on it!" "Yes, Sir." I did my best, then sat back and looked up into his eyes. "Sir? May I give you a blow job, Sir?" Jerry studied me for a few seconds. "Yeah. Yeah, why not?" He dropped his trousers and his briefs, and I went to work. It didn't take long: suddenly, he was pulling my head into his crotch. "Holy crap! Holy crap! Holy--" and cream shot out of him. Gallons, it felt like. At last, he released his grip and fell back onto the bed. I just stared at his softening shaft for a few seconds. "Been a while, huh, Sir?" "I guess it's true," he told the ceiling. "Guys give head better than girls." "Well, some of us do, anyway. I don't want to be sexist." "I never did it with a guy, before." "I'm honored." He sat up. "Does it make you feel...I mean, you never asked, or...Does it make you feel guilty?" I shook my head. "Embarrassed, I guess--I mean, until I work up the nerve to tell somebody. Or they get a look in my drawer." "I jack off about blow jobs. But I only had three. There was this girl..." "Why did you run away, Jerry?" "Huh? Oh, from home, you mean?" I nodded. "It's pretty...It's hard to talk about." "Okay. I don't--" But it was like I'd just popped a balloon. "No! I mean, look." He pointed to the stuff on the bed. "It's only fair, right?' He took a deep breath. "I walked in on my mom and...this guy, I don't know who he was, or anything, so I ducked out, real quick, and went to my room. A few minutes later, Mom knocked on the door. She said she wanted to talk to me, and then she just came in and told me she'd beat the shit out of me if I told anyone and then she cried and said she was sorry and it was all my dad's fault, and she just kept babbling away so I pushed her out of my room." He swung his legs to the side, stood, and started walking around the bedroom in circles. "I didn't know what to do, you know? I wasn't going to say anything, and then I was in the garage and all of a sudden my dad burst out of the house and pushed me against the wall and demanded to know who was fucking Mom, and the first thing I said was, 'I don't know!' and he said 'I knew it!' and he went inside and beat the crap out of her. She was screaming, so I called the cops, and all this legal stuff happened, and my dad said he was going to kill both of us, so I ran away. "I had some stuff in my backpack, but I spent my first night in the park and somebody stole it, so I didn't have shit, so..." He hung his head. "I let this guy fuck me for a bus ticket here, and it hurt like hell, and there was homeless shelters and shit..." He looked at me. "And then there was you, just when I was thinking I should just off myself. And when you said you were queer, I just about threw myself in front of that bus, but...I was so goddamn hungry, you know?" "Hunger can get pretty intense." Jerry nodded. "Where do we go from here?" I asked. Jerry smiled. "Dinner?" I don't recommend spankings and blow jobs for building a relationship, but in this case, it worked, more or less. Jerry dated one of the girls--women--from Starbuck's, for a while. Then he took up with this woman from the beauty supply store. I didn't mind that, because they were "nice girls," which meant that Jerry came home horny. One night, he asked me about the dildos. "Well, sometimes I like to get fucked, and with a dildo I can make sure it's done right." "There's a right way to...to do that?" I smiled, and explained about the prostate gland. He looked doubtful. "I told you about that guy, right? At the bus depot?" I nodded. "Sometimes, the fucker is a bigger asshole than the fuckee, if you know what I mean. See, I read somewhere that there's only maybe one gay guy out of three who actually likes getting it in the ass. Some guys just learn to put up with it, I suppose." I smiled. "There was one guy, shoved his cock into my butt, then fucked himself with the dildo." I pointed to the larger one. "No shit? How in hell--" "You ever look at your turds?" Jerry blushed, which meant yes. "Well, sometimes you shit a turd that's about as big around as your cock, don't you?" "You are not putting that thing in my ass, Alex!" "Of course not! Sex is supposed to be fun, Jerry. If it ain't fun, what's the point?" "Babies?" "You ever watched a woman give birth?" "On TV. I mean, they were just acting, but--" "Gal I used to work with said I should imagine shitting a basketball. Do you think any woman would go through that, if the sex didn't make it worth the pain? It has to be fun! Hell, humans must have been fucking before they figured out what caused pregnancy!" "Would you like...I'm not sure if I could--shit, and all that--but if--" "Oh, I'd clean out real good, Jerry. I could talk you through how to be a great fucker, if you want me to." "I don't know, Alex. I mean--" "I do. Just say the word. Give me an hour's notice to...get ready. I'd like it, to be honest." "You want me to fuck your ass?" "Yes, Alex. I would." "Huh! Maybe for Christmas..." For a kid who was paddling my butt every couple of weeks, Alex was a real sweetheart.