The usual disclaimers and copyrights apply here. If you don't like stories about kids enjoying life--including its sexual aspects--then read no further, because that's what this story is about.
If you are reading this illegally where you live, good luck. Hope you don't get caught, but, if you do, I'm not responsible.
For examples of some of my other stories on Nifty, see What I really did last summer, a humorous look at brotherly love, and Whose hand is it anyway a humorous look at a bisexual experience.
However, this little tale started with another story I wrote earlier this year called A Kiss to Build a dream on.
He used a cherry ChapStick to protect his lips, and some boys said it left a mark down there when he'd finished. Like peeling the scab from a cut, they joked, if you went back enough times, there was the chance you'd stay marked. He'd tried other flavors, but the cherry was the strongest, and it covered up the smell of them which was damp and yeasty and so strong it sometimes overcame being tantalizing.
There were never more than two or three of them in the old locker room and none came every week. Few came without skipping two weeks between. He would take them one at a time on Wednesday afternoons in an inoperative shower stall, the walls of which were brick instead of greasy cinder block like those in the modern addition. It hadn't always been him, but whoever it was, it had always been here. The graffiti attested to it. DICK, it said in big letters on the wall, a penis-shaped arrow pointing down into an open mouth. When he'd first started, they'd called him "Dick," though his real name was Danny. Now, for some obscure reason, they called him Dolly. Perhaps the red lips reminded them of a Barby doll? Danny didn't know why, nor did he care.
He might not have been the first to occupy this space, kneeling, squatting on this particular piece of concrete; his turf; his space. He might not have been the first, but he was, all would attest to it, the best there ever was. He took his work seriously. They didn't call it a blow "job" for nothing. It was work, sometimes damned hard work. Five dollars a pop. But Danny wasn't good at collecting the money. Sometimes they paid, sometimes they didn't. He didn't care. He knew what the regulars liked. Some liked a feather touch with the tongue, almost, but not quite, nonexistent. Others liked heavy suction, wet and sloppy. They all liked to end it with a snarky remark They liked to pretend it hadn't happened; he wasn't there. But he was there. And they knew it, and he knew it. But they went on pretending anyway.
This was his fourth blow job of the afternoon. Unusually busy today. He was playing his own version of blind man's buff. He kept his eyes shut as the boys lined up He identified each boy by their individual smells, their tastes, and the shape and size of their dicks.
First had been Ramos--he never bothered with first names. Ramos's dick was rather average, but it always tasted a little like piss. "Got a urinary problem Ramos?" he thought.
Next had been Jonesy, a regular Wednesday afternooner. He of the fat short dick. Nearly stretching his lips to splitting, but barely touching the back of his tongue.
The third kid didn't yet have a name; this was only his third trip to the locker room. However, he was either very young, probably twelve, or he was a rather late bloomer. However, he had promise. The kid had no pubic hair, his dick was small, but the kid really enjoyed what Danny did to him. The two previous times the kid hadn't cum, but Danny never mentioned it, but today he came. Not a copious amount, just a few drops, but sweet tasting.
Before the kid relinquished his place in line to the last guy, Danny touched him on the shoulder and whispered in his ear, "You came today."
"Oh wow!" The kid's face broke out in a fantastic grin. After all, Danny took his work seriously. Pleasure given, pleasure returned.
Back to work: one more guy to service. This guy was older than most. A senior getting ready to graduate? A kid that flunked classes habitually? Just well- developed? Danny didn't know. He didn't want to think of these guys as persons behind the penis. Just ... customers. Just dicks.
There was something familiar about this guy though. What was it? Perhaps he'd seen the guy in the hallways at school, or on the street. Who knew, who cared. Then it came to him. It was Barry. No last name for this guy, he had been Danny's first penis. One always remembers the first penis they suck, Danny thought. But, in remembering, one's mind always gave it almost mythical proportions. Maybe it was because that first time was full of surprises. He had expected it to taste awful and it hadn't. Would he choke? Would his teeth leave the recipient's dick a bleeding wreck? Would, would, would! None of it had happened that way. He was in love; in love with an act, a sharing of pleasure.
"Hey Kid, remember no teeth," Barry said.
"I didn't have to tell you how to be an asshole," Danny said, "it came naturally to you. So, don't tell me my job." Danny regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. But he let them hang in the air, like the smell of a particularly foul fart.
After that he blew Barry quickly and efficiently. Nothing great, but it was a blow job well done, Danny thought.
"Hey, that was really good," Barry said, handing over his five dollars. "You look familiar. Do I know you? What's your name?"
"Some of the guys call me Dolly," Danny responded, though he secretly hated that name.
"I guess I was mistaken, I don't guess I know you." Barry said. "But, now that I know you're here, I'll see you next week."
"Next time be on time," was Danny's only response. A true bonified bitch, he thought.
"Ok, I will," Barry responded. "I'm Barry. Hello Dolly."
Danny ignored the hand that Barry extended. He was tired, ready to go home and get ready for next Wednesday.