Date: Mon, 23 Jun 2008 04:16:52 EDT
From: EddyRiha@aol.com
Subject: voice in the shadows

The usual disclaimers apply.  This is a work of fiction, and those folks
who are prevented from reading such fictional works either by age, by moral
preference, or by law should not read any further.

All of the characters presented here are fictional representations,
including the narrator.  I do not recommend actually doing any of the
things described here.  It's just a story.

All stunts were performed by professionals.  Do not attempt these at home.

Voice in the Shadows

by eddyriha

"Mister, what do you want?" the voice repeated.  The boy who said those
words was hidden by the shadows on the dark side of the 7-Eleven, with only
occasional gestures from his long, thin, tanned fingers breaking into the
slanting light from the parking lot.

"Whatever you think I want," I replied, playing along.  I had caught the
boy casting several glances at me as I picked up 20 oz. Mountain Dew
inside.  He had been standing by the ice cream freezer, seeming to give
serious contemplation to choosing between a Good Humor cone and a popsicle,
but the whole time his dark eyes, peering through the thick dark hair that
cascaded over his forehead, were following me around the store.  He was so
casual about it that I only figured it out because, well, at ten o'clock on
a Friday night in June, I'm keeping my senses attuned to any possible
interest in the people around me.  In a brief moments, I had sized him up,
a slender boy in his mid-teens, dressed in a baggy Red Sox t-shirt and
black jeans.  Normally, the baggy clothes would be a turnoff, since I like
to have a better idea of what I'm getting, if I say yes.  But there was
something about this boy that said, "I'm the real deal."

He seemed surprised by my answer, as if he expected me to say something
crude, so he would have the opportunity of laughing it off and calling me
something rude as he vanished in the night.  I'd encountered the type
before, queer boys who are afraid of their own feelings, so they bait men,
playing with fire without being fully aware of the potential danger if they
lead along the wrong guy.  Now I don't play that game, and if I find a boy
is going to do so, I'm the one who walks away.  But this boy--he seemed to
be wanting something more than a game.  And if he wanted that something
more, I was ready to give it to him.

"I'm not sure you have what I want," he replied, that voice from the
shadows that was husky, like he had recently dropped from his little boy's
voice into what would become, in time, his man's voice.

"If I didn't have what you want, then why were you staring at me all the
way around the store?"

He didn't have an answer for that.  I thought at first he might have
slipped away into the darkness, but then his right hand swung up through
the light as he pushed his hair out of his eyes, a common automatic nervous
response to an uncomfortable situation.

"Look," I said gently, "I'm not going to hurt you or do anything you don't
want to do.  Why don't we go somewhere where we can see what we both want."
It wasn't the kind of polished speech I might give if I were in the one in
control, the one seducing.  It was clear that, at least at this point, the
boy was in control, the one exciting me, instead of the other way around.
My cock was already stretching inside my boxers, yearning for freedom.  And
that meant that I had to lead the conversation somewhere, quickly.

"That sounds OK."

"So where do you think we should go?"  Normally, I'd be fine if he said he
wanted to go to my car, but to do that we'd have to cross the parking lot
in full view of everyone in the store.  And that wasn't necessarily a good
idea.  Besides, I had a lot of camping junk on the back seat.  And I wasn't
that familiar with this town, so I didn't know any good places where we
could park and be undisturbed for an hour or more.

"I dunno," he replied.  "Your place?"

"I don't live around here," I said.  "It would be a long drive to get to my
house."

"We could go to my house," he suggested.

"Aren't your folks home?"

"Yeah, but they never come into my room.  And we can get to my room from
the back, so we don't have to go past them."

I shrugged.  "Sounds like a plan.  Lead on."

At first, it was difficult to tell which direction he started walking, but
when he emerged into the dimly lit alley behind the store, I had my
bearings and set off after him.  He kept a good pace, not looking back at
me, not speaking, as if he were afraid to stop and look, as if he were
afraid.  Or maybe he was just confident, knowing I would come along behind
him if I were really serious.  As we walked, I wondered how many times this
boy had made this trip from the store, how many men had he taken to his
room.  The thought excited me even more, and I found myself almost unable
to keep up with him.  It's not easy to walk quickly when you've got a
raging boner trapped in your boxers, under your denim shorts.

After a few minutes' walk, moving in and out of shadows, crossing between
buildings, hearing the occasional passing conversation in nearby living
rooms or bedrooms, we reached the back door of a house, the yard
surrounding the door bathed in shadow.  The boy reached up, and I saw the
shadow of his right hand as it turned the knob slowly.  "Be quiet," he
whispered.  "My mom's home, but she never leaves the front room until her
programs are done on the TV."

I nodded, then realized he couldn't see that response, so I whispered back,
"OK."

He pulled the door open silently, slowly.  I had the distinct impression
he'd become an expert at this, and the thought that maybe many men had
preceded me through this back door made me even harder than before.

I could see down the narrow hallway toward the front of the house, because
some light was falling through a doorway to the right, just inside the
front entryway.  The noise of one of those primetime network game shows was
emanating from a TV.  In the hallway, all I could see of the boy were
glints of light off his dark hair and his resonant brown eyes.  I'd have
followed those eyes anywhere, into any danger, and I'm sure the boy knew
that.

He turned and started up the back stairs.  On the third step, just as I
began to follow, the board creaked loudly.  Both of us froze in place, as
from the front room a woman's voice called out, "David, is that you?"

"Yeah, Ma," he replied.

"You in for the night?"

"Yeah, Ma."

"Make sure the door's locked then."

"Already done, Ma."  I had heard him click the lock behind me as he had
closed the door.

He touched my shoulder and motioned upstairs, and together we began to walk
quietly.  I did my best to match him step by step, so it would sound like
only one person on the stairs, if his mother was listening.  From her
responses to the game show, it was clearly she was having some beef with
how Howie Mandel was handling the current contestant, so I could probably
have fucked her boy in the hallway, and she would probably never have
noticed.

He opened a door just off the upstairs hallway, and I followed him in.  It
was a small, dark room, with peeling paint on the windowsill and on the
back wall.  Here and there were posters of various popular rock musicians
and actors, all male, most with suggestive poses and bare chests.  Likely
his mother didn't know what that meant, but it wouldn't take a genius to
see what this boy wanted: men, men, men, men. . . .

After he locked the bedroom door behind me, he motioned toward the bed.
"I'm sorry there isn't much to sit on, just the bed and the desk chair."
He sat on the edge of that object, a cheap metal folding chair.  "You want
to watch anything on the TV?" he motioned toward the small color set that
sat next to his laptop on the desk, one of those old-fashioned rolltops
like the one I had as a kid.

"Nah," I replied.  "If I want to watch anything, I'll watch you."

He giggled.  "Whatcha want me to do, strip?"  He stood up and started to
pull up his baggy t-shirt.

"Nah, let me."  I leaned forward and pulled the boy toward me.  I lifted
the front of his Red Sox tee and inhaled the warm scent of boy underneath.
He smelled of a warm summer evening's sweat, playing stickball or
basketball with some buddies, drinking some Mountain Dew and spilling a
little on his skin, that kind of thing.  His skin was soft and tanned, and
he seemed a little ticklish as I ran my hand up his hairless chest.  The
shirt slid up and over his head, then off his arms, without any resistance.
There he stood before me, his slim frame, his smooth tanned skin, his large
dark nipples inviting my lips, my teeth, as I sucked them into my mouth one
at a time.  He sighed, then moaned as he felt the pressure on his nips.

I licked my way across his chest, between his nipples, then down to his
navel.  His hands were in my hair, holding me gently to his chest, his
belly.  I could see him close his eyes, throw his head back a little,
revealing the slim lines of his lower jaw.  I moved my lips up him, over
his budding Adam's apple, along the edge of his jaw, across his cheek onto
his lips.  He opened them as if in surprise, and our tongues met
tentatively, then slid along the length of each other, like they were
intimate friends.  Yes, David had been with men before, he knew how to make
a lover feel welcome to his body, his mouth, his bed.

While we kissed, I unbuttoned his black Levi's button fly jeans and they
fell easily to the floor, revealing a pair of black cotton boxers which, to
my fingers, revealed the boy's hardon, as well as the shape of his taut,
boyish ass.  The boxers fell to the floor as we kissed, but whether from my
hands or his or both, I don't know.

I stepped back from the kiss to look, for the first time, at the boy's
naked body.  He stood a little nervously, a little self-consciously, as I
ran my eyes and my hands over his whole body, touching, feeling, tasting,
saving his dark four-inch prick for last.  Like most American boys, he was
cut, which is fine by me: a cock is a cock.  I ran my fingers along the
underside of his cock, which was firm and already leaking precum, and his
whole body trembled with pleasure.  His eyes were still closed, and he
seemed to wait for me to make the next move.  Which I did when I sucked his
cock into my mouth and massaged the sensitive underskin with my tongue.  I
pushed my face in and breathed the musky scent of his pubic hair, which
clustered around the base of his shaft, but nowhere else.  He gasped and
moaned quietly, and in a moment or two he whispered, "I'm gonna cum!"  He
may have expected me to remove my mouth, but I stayed in place and
swallowed the wads of cum he fired into me.

With his cum still on my tongue, I slipped off his cock and pulled his face
down to me.  I kissed him again, mixing his cum with our saliva in our
mouths.

When we were done kissing, I said to him, "You taste awesome."

He giggled again.  "Thanks, mister."  Then he seemed at a loss for how to
proceed.  It seemed this was the usual pattern for the men who visited his
room: they would remove his clothes, then suck him off.  But what followed
next was always different, and he wasn't sure what I wanted.  I had kind of
expected him to tell me right up front what he would or wouldn't do.  Some
boys, especially the experienced ones, lay down the rules before they agree
to anything.  But David seemed almost willing to do anything.  Or maybe no
one had yet pushed him beyond a line he didn't know that he didn't want to
cross.  Boys who have those rules sometimes seem spoilsports, but they have
learned from experience that some men will exploit any advantage they find.

"Strip me," I said as I stood.  He fumbled a moment with my t-shirt, but
then got into a rhythm as he removed my shirt, my denim shorts, my blue
knit boxers, my white socks, my hightops.  When he finished, he could see
my full body, not as slender and taut has his, certainly with more hair,
more muscular, with my five-and-half-inch cock and large balls dwarfing his
own package.  He gently touched my chest, running his thin fingers through
my hair, then running them down across my navel, heading toward his goal:
my cock.  His fingers surrounded my shaft, gripping tightly, but gently, as
he felt the pulse of my heartbeat as blood surged into my cock in response
to his touch.  I almost blew my load right there, but I've worked too hard
at maintaining self-control to give in so easily.

He looked up at me, his dark eyes screened by the dark hair across his
forehead.  "What would you like, mister?" he asked in a whisper.

"What do you want to do?"

He shrugged.  "Whatever you want."

"Anything?"

"Anything for you."  He smiled, a delicate, sensitive smile.  I could see
his lips longing for a taste of my cock, but I wasn't in the mood for a
suck right then.

"OK, if you really mean anything," and I paused to give him the opportunity
to express any hesitations, "then I want to fuck your tight ass."

He continued looking up at me.  "If that's what you want."

I pulled him to me and kissed him on the lips.  Then I picked him up-he was
a lightweight as he looked-and I laid him down gently on his back on the
bedspread.  He still had his jeans and boxers around his ankles, since I
hadn't removed his sneakers and socks, but I pulled those off and with them
the wadded up jeans and boxers.

I pulled his legs up, pushing his knees against his chest and holding his
feet in my hands.  He had feet the same color as the rest of his skin,
delicate, firm feet with suckable toes.  And so I did, tasting the stale
sweat of boyish feet and breathing deep his aroma.  He closed his eyes and
relaxed, the touch of my mouth and my fingers on his feet giving him
pleasure.

Then I held his feet with my left hand, while my right took the tube of KY
I had brought with me and squirted some into his exposed hole.  I could see
a small gap in the center, and I knew this wasn't his first time.  He
probably had been penetrated by larger, thicker cocks than mine, and the
very thought made me even harder yet.  I ran a finger inside, pushing the
lube around to coat the sphincter and the inside passage.  Then a second
finger, then a third.  I began to wonder if I could put my whole fist
inside the boy before he complained.  He just kept his eyes closed and
smiled the whole time, especially when I rubbed his prostate.  He was
already leaking precum again, and I had a feeling this boy would cum as
often as I let him.  Some boys are like that: a continual orgasm machine.

When he was lubed, I knelt on the bed between his legs, aimed my cock at
his open hole, and pushed in, all the way, without resistance or
hesitation.

"Ohhhhh," the boy gasped.  "Fuck me, mister, please fuck me hard!"

I pulled back, then began pushing forward, driving the boy into the bed
with each thrust of my hips.  As I leaned into him, I licked his nipples,
kissed and nibbled them, kissed and nibbled his neck, his cheeks, his lips.
He was so sweet, so tasty, so boy.  I closed my eyes and in a rush of
feeling I unloaded my balls into his waiting hole, thrust after thrust of
cum soaking deep into him.

When I had regained my breath and my cock had slipped out, I found myself
staring into David's dark eyes, my lips against his lips, his arms wrapped
around me, his feet touching together over my back.

"That was wonderful," he whispered.  "You really know how to fuck."

"Thanks, David," I whispered back.  Now it was my turn to be unsure of the
next step.  Did he expect me to stay the night?  To leave?  Would he want
me to come back again?  Or was this a one night stand, nothing more?

"Hey, you want to do it again?" he asked.

"You sure?"

He nodded and kissed my lips.  "I've got all night. . . ."