Date: Sun, 08 Aug 1999 10:56:25 -0600
From: jwhstloo@ix.netcom.com
Subject: "Little Guy and the Tall Boys"(M/M interr raunch)

"Little Guy and the Tall Boys" (M/M) (interr) (raunch)
by Jack Fellowes
Copyright 1999 by the Author--All Rights Reserved

_________________
USUAL DISCLAIMER: Too young, too old, too anal, too puritanical, too
incompetent, or too repressed/oppressed to decide for yourself what you want/are
allowed to read? Then stop here! Otherwise, read on at your own risk and/or
pleasure.
_________________

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OK, guys, this one is a change of pace for me. If you like my
usual stories, you may not like this one. But then again... Just wanted to warn
you.  --Jack


Even out on the street, my city neighborhood smelled like the musty old homes it
was lined with--mostly century-old, three-story brick townhouses with limestone
front stoops and iron fences enclosing the postage-stamp-size front yards.

Long before diversity became a buzzword, Stevenson Park was a melting pot. We
had German, Irish, Polish, Chinese, Mexican, and even a few African-American
families. But we were all working-class folks, and our homes, which we (and the
banks and mortgage companies) owned, were our castles. It seemed that everyone
was competing to have the greenest grass, the best-trimmed hedges, and the
cleanest stoop.

I hadn't grown up in this neighborhood, but in one nearby. I moved here when I
inherited my grandmother's house just after I got out of the Army about 15 years
ago. Nevertheless, I was still considered one of the "new neighbors."

When I moved in there were still a lot of kids in the area, but now most of the
folks on my street were getting older, and most of the kids had moved out to the
suburbs or to other cities and states when they got out of school or got
married. One of the neighborhood kids I remember seeing when I first moved in
was Sammy Evans. He was the cutest, blackest, little dynamo I'd ever seen. He
must have been about nine years old then, tearing up and down the street on his
20-inch Schwinn, being Batman or Superman or Muhammad Ali. But he always spoke
when he was spoken to, and he was very polite to all the grown-ups. Oh, and he
was a dwarf, a little person. He was just three feet-something then, and his
mother told me the doctors said he wouldn't get much taller.

I kept a nodding acquaintance with Sammy as he grew up--not as friends, just
familiar neighbors. He ended up growing a little taller than the doctors
predicted--he was almost five feet tall by the time he was in high school. He
looked like a football running back, except he had a little kid's chubby arms
and legs. He kept riding that 20-inch bike all through school. He was very
polite to me, too, although at only about 15-16 year older than he, I hardly
considered myself part of the grown-up generation. After the Army, I was just
breaking loose, really being totally independent and on my own for the first
time. Besides my new freedom, I was exploring my newly discovered sexuality. I
had found out for sure I was gay while I was in the Army, although I'd always
attracted to guys. Oh, I didn't get dishonorably discharged or anything like
that; as a matter of fact, my company top sergeant was the one who showed me
what the gay scene was really like--the gay bars and after-hours clubs, even a
nude beach with a "nature trail" about 50 miles from base.

Back home after my discharge, my favorite hangout was a gay complex in an old
converted railroad hotel. It had everything a horny young man could hope for.
There was a quiet lounge on the second floor where you could find the more
mature and fatherly types, a disco dance bar on the first floor where the
hottest young studs shook their booties, a show bar on the third floor with drag
shows and gay comics, and a basement--well, I can't actually describe the
basement, because I never really saw it: I just sort of FELT my way around.
Needless to say, I spent many evening and pre-dawn hours developing my sense of
touch! Usually, I'd get home on Sunday about the time my more reputable
neighbors were heading out to church, but the way I was dressed--in dirty,
sweaty jeans and work shirt--must have given them the impression that I'd had to
pull another third trick at the steel mill. Hell, I'd usually have pulled a lot
more than three tricks, but at the flesh mill!

In the 15 years since I moved back to town, the old hotel complex had been
urban-redeveloped out of existence, and most of the gay bars around town were
pretty specialized, and not too welcoming to guys on the other side of 40. So
I'd settled down a lot, even if not necessarily by choice. My social life was
pretty much limited to a small group of close friends, mostly gay and lesbian
couples who kept trying to fix me up with some friend or acquaintance of theirs
at Friday night dinners or Sunday brunches. None of my "prospects" turned out to
be the ONE, though, so I was still unattached, and not terribly happy about it.
I didn't necessarily want to settle down with one person, I just wanted to sleep
with one or two or three or more on a regular basis. I wasn't lonely; I was
horny!

Sammy had been one of the kids who had moved out of the neighborhood. I heard he
started working at a factory in Springfield, about 70 miles away, after he
graduated from high school. So I was pretty surprised to run into him down at
the corner market one morning.

"Hey, Sammy," I asked, "are you back for a visit with your folks?" Then I
remembered his mom had died of cancer a few months ago. "I mean, with your dad?"

"No, Mr. Cooper, I'm back in the neighborhood," he said, with his familiar grin.
"I'm working over at the ornamental iron works now."

He was still one of the blackest human beings I'd ever met, and I noticed for
the first time that his arms were really well-muscled and the triangle of chest
that showed through his partially unbuttoned shirt looked fairly well-developed,
too. I was recording these facts in my library of mental images, when I realized
I should say something else.

"Well, glad to have you back, Sammy," I said, " and call me Jeff. You're not a
kid anymore." No, he sure wasn't! "You living with your dad again?"

"No, Mr. C-- Jeff. Daddy sold the old house, and we've each got an apartment in
the new development over on Belford Avenue. Mine's next door to his."

Another item in my mental notebook. I took another appraising look at him, said,
"Well, see you around, Sammy," and went on about my shopping. I glanced over at
the checkout when he was leaving and saw that he had bought some chips and four
24-ounce cans of malt liquor.

My only concession to exercise was to get out my old bike and take a couple of
turns around the neighborhood, usually stopping in the little park a few blocks
over to get a drink and sit and do some man-watching. Pickings were pretty slim
most of the time, though. I usually ended up back home, leafing through my
"Inches" collection or downloading hot pix from the Internet news groups.
Lately, it seemed the images that held my attention longest and did the most for
my imagination were of black men with hot bodies and big cocks.

One warm Sunday--when I had not been invited to another brunch by my matchmaking
friends, thank god--I decided to take a bike ride. When I got to the corner, I
subconsciously turned on Farrell Street, heading over toward Belford. When I
turned down Belford and looked toward the new apartment complex--really only a
half-block of attached two-story townhouses mixed with up-and-down duplexes--I
saw the unmistakable shape of Sammy standing in the street in the distance,
washing his dad's old Buick Park Avenue. As I rode closer, I saw that he was
wearing cut-off khaki shorts and apparently nothing else. His torso was
magnificent! Broad shoulders, narrow waist, deeply cut pecs and abs, and a sheen
of sweat and spray mist from the hose on his blue-black skin that made him look
like an oiled bodybuilder. If his arms and legs had been regular length, he
would have made a model like Joe Simmons look positively underdeveloped.

He smiled when he looked up and saw me riding toward him. "Hey, Mr. Coop--uh,
Jeff! Whassup?"

The closer I got, the hotter he looked. I had to bite my tongue not to answer
his question with "My dick!" I hoped he wouldn't notice. (Or did I?)

"Oh, just cruisin' the neighborhood, Sam"--he just didn't look like a 'Sammy'
anymore--"trying to keep the old legs in shape and the waistline under control."

"Hell, man, you look like you're in pretty good shape. You haven't changed that
much since I first met ya," he said, running the hose spray over the top of the
car. But you've sure changed, Sam, I thought, and I like it! Talk about good
shape!

"Well, you know how it is with us older guys, Sam," I said. "If we don't work at
it, everything starts going to pot." I tried to keep up eye contact while I
talked to him, but my mental scanner was attempting to ascertain what lay--or
hung--beneath those damp shorts of his. Whenever he twisted to the right a
little, I thought I saw something swing against the front of his shorts just
left of his zipper, and it looked bigger than the average pocket snake.

We made some more small talk for a while, and then I went on with my ride.
Instead of hopping directly into the shower when I got back home, I flopped down
on the couch in the living room and whacked off a load, conjuring up an image
combining what I had seen with what I had hoped I had seen. "Oh, Sam!" I
groaned, as I shot my cum all over my sweaty t-shirt. I repeated the five-finger
exercise a little while later in the shower, setting that ebony-skinned fantasy
pretty firmly in my imagination.

From then on, I made it a point to ride down Belford Avenue every time I went
biking. I didn't see Sam every time, but often enough to feed my fantasies, and
actually to get to know him a little better every time we had a chance to
exchange a few words--which was every time I saw him. I always wore baggy shorts
or sweats, too, because there was no way I could have hidden the inevitable
hard-on he gave me in Spandex bike pants

I found out Sam's dad, who was still working as a city bus driver, wasn't home
much. He was dating a new lady and frequently spent the night at her place--in
fact he was thinking about giving up his apartment and moving in with her. I'd
had some evil thoughts about Sam's dad, too. He was about 10 years older than
me, the same shade of black as Sam, but he was well over six feet tall, built
like a retired linebacker. He was intimidating as hell, but he'd always been
nice enough to me. I used to ride his bus every once in a while coming back from
one of my all-night excursions, and the sweatier and drunker I seemed, the
bigger his grin. He'd always give me a big OK sign,  joke about getting some,
and wave me on past the token box.

I also found out that Sam wasn't dating anyone at the time, and hadn't been
since he'd left Springfield. He'd had a girlfriend there, but she wasn't into
keeping up a long-distance relationship, so she had dumped him. That was the
only time we really talked about anything sex-related, and Sam did have some
pretty salty things to say about the "bitch" and the things she did for him that
he missed most--damn, I was almost ready to volunteer to take her place!

Most of the time we talked, though, it was just about sports or weather or work.
Metalworkers could always find something to gripe about with our jobs--the heat,
the dirt, the foremen who fucked us over, you name it. I didn't really let on,
though, that I'd moved out of the mill into the shop office a couple of years
back. Calling myself a "steelworker" always seemed to attract more attention, on
those rare occasions when I did find somebody at the bars, than "pencil-pusher."

One early fall weekend I caught him out on his front steps as I was riding by,
and stopped to talk. We eventually got around to the upcoming game between two
of the college football teams we both followed pretty regularly. It was the
annual grudge match between traditional cross-state rivals, and tickets had long
since been sold out. I complained that I probably wouldn't even get to watch it
on TV, since I didn't have cable and the local stations weren't carrying the
game.

"Hey, Jeff," Sam said, "I got cable, and I just got myself a new 36-inch TV. Why
don't you come over next Saturday and watch it with me? Daddy was going to come
over, but I think he's going somewhere with his old lady."

Why not!!! I tried to hold down my excitement at finally getting to be with Sam
in a little more private setting, and said, "That'd be great, Sam, but only if
you let me bring the beer and snacks."

"Deal, man," he said with a big grin, and high-fived me.  Our hands met for just
a brief moment, but it was enough to send a major tremor through my nervous
system--a good 5.0 on the Richter scale, if the jump my cock took in my baggy
sweat pants was any indication.  And when he stretched upward, the ambiguous
bulge in the front of his cutoffs took on a more definite shape--it was
definitely the real thing!

We talked for a little more, while I made sure I knew what beer and snacks he
liked, and then I finished my bike ride and headed home. That led to a repeat of
the scene after I'd first seen him shirtless, only this time I caught my load in
my left hand and licked it up, imagining it was not mine, but Sam's. Hell, I
didn't even know if I could get into his pants--he might even knock the shit out
of me if I tried--but at least I had one hell of a good JO fantasy to work with.

The rest of the week was a fog. Nothing I did made an impression on me--the only
thing I could think of was going to Sam's on Saturday--and that usually led to
another session of wishin' and hopin'--and beatin' it!  I got off at least twice
a day that week thinking about that hot little guy stretched out naked on his
couch with me nestled between his stubby, muscular thighs nursing on his big
love teat. I even turned down a free dinner at my friends' and another
good-intentioned fix-up on Friday night because I didn't want anything to divert
me from the Saturday session I had conjured up.

***

I got up late Saturday morning, so I took a quick shower to scrub off the dried
remains of the previous night's fantasy session. Then I checked the weather on
the radio. It was supposed to be a warm day, so I pulled on a baggy pair of
fleece shorts (no underwear) and a loose tank top.  Then it was off to the
package store to pick up the beer and snacks--a twelve-pack of Bud Light for me,
ten Colt Malt Liquor tall boys for Sam (twice what he said he'd drink), and a
couple of bags of nacho chips, salsa, cheese dip, and spicy bean dip.

The game was supposed to start at 2 p.m., so I was on my way over to Sam's by
1:30. Walking down Belford, I saw him pull up in his old Toyota pick-up, get
out, and start unloading a couple of laundry baskets from the back. He was just
carrying the first one up to the front door, when I got to his front walk. I set
my shopping bag down on top of the second basket, picked it up, and followed
him. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved work shirt with the tails out.

"Thanks, man," he said as he unlocked and opened the door after setting the
basket down on the stoop. "I had to do my stuff and Daddy's, and the laundromat
was full. I thought I'd never get a dryer in time to get back for the game. He
picked up his basket again, and I followed him in.

The front door opened onto a hallway that went straight back through the
apartment. He started down the hall, but turned and said, "Just set that down
there by the door, It's Daddy's, and I'll take it up to him when he gets home
later. The TV's in there." He pointed to the living room off to the left, but
then noticed my shopping bag. "Oh, you wanna put the beer in the fridge?"

"Sure," I said, "and I can open up the snacks and put them out if you've got a
couple of bowls."

"Look in the cupboard by the fridge," he said. "There should be a bunch of
different size plastic bowls. I'm going to put the clothes away and take a quick
shower and change--the laundromat was hot as hell, and I smell like a goat."

I debated whether to offer to lick the sweat from his tight-muscled body, but
thought maybe I'd better wait.  As he turned into the bedroom, which was the
next door past the living room, I hesitated a minute, wondering if he might
strip down with the door open,  but he pushed it halfway shut, and I heard him
opening drawers. I noticed the next door was the bathroom, and I saw another
door inside that connected to the bedroom. I headed into the kitchen, set my bag
down on the counter, and opened the fridge to put most of the beer in to keep
cool.

While I was bent over looking for snack bowls, I heard the bathroom door close
and the shower start running. Damn, another missed opportunity!

I put the nacho chips in a big bowl and the salsa and dips in three smaller
bowls. I found a tray on the back of the counter, grabbed a Bud for me and a
Colt tall boy for him and headed back to the living room. I put the tray on the
end table between the couch and a new-looking recliner, sat on the couch in
front of the TV, and picked up the remote.

While I was surfing around about a thousand cable channels trying to find the
one with the game, I heard Sam's bedroom door open. I looked up to see him
trotting barefoot toward me, his bare chest and legs shining at me, and his hips
covered only by a fairly tight and really short pair of cutoff sweat pants. This
apparition more than made up for the day's earlier disappointments.  He stopped
right in front of me, picked up the tall boy, popping the top and taking a big
swallow.  While his head was tipped back, I took another quick inventory of his
hot body. This time I could definitely see the outline of a long, limp piece of
meat hanging down the left side almost to the bottom of his shorts, and I could
definitely tell he wasn't circumcised!

"I needed that," he said, finishing his swig of beer. "I've been waiting hours
for a cold drink." Then he turned toward the food, helped himself to a handful
of chips and scooped up a little of all three dips. "I needed that, too," he
said, munching on the chips. I was doing laundry when I should have been eating
lunch."

To my disappointment, he didn't sit down on the couch beside me, but jumped up
into the recliner, which was angled slightly toward the couch. Just as quickly,
though, my disappointment faded when he leaned back in the chair and the leg
rest came flying up, putting the leg openings of his shorts right at the edge of
my peripheral vision. The only light in the room was coming in through curtained
windows, and his crotch was in the shadows, but I was sure I could make out a
cute little pucker of wrinkled foreskin just barely peeking out at me.

I finally found the right channel in time to catch a little of the pregame show,
and we both got started on our beers and made a big dent in the bowl of chips,
keeping up an aimless conversation generally centered on football until the game
got started. Then it was just swigging beer, crunching chips, and watching the
game, with cheering or jeering comments as the good guys or bad guys moved down
the field.  I was the self-appointed beer man, getting up to get a couple more
cans whenever it looked like Sam's was about empty. By just after half-time, I
had finished three Buds, but Sam was already on his fifth tall boy. The next
trip I made, I took the empties to the kitchen and brought us each back two cold
cans. I don't think he was really aware how much more than me he had been
drinking, and he was definitely starting to show the signs of healthy buzz.

For some reason neither of us had gotten up to go piss during half-time. I was
OK so far, but I knew he was going to have to take a whiz soon. I could tell by
the way his cock was starting to puff up some under his shorts.  I could see a
little bit more of the tip of his cockhead showing through a smoother ring of
skin each time he leaned back to take another swig.  But there was still plenty
of foreskin right up front.  When he finished his sixth Colt, he reached down
and pinched the skin together through the leg of his short, just realizing how
much he had to piss.

He leaned forward, and the leg rest came down. He tried to stand up, but fell
back into the recliner. "Hell, man," he giggled and slurred, "Gotta piss like a
race horse, don't think I can walk to the toilet."

He started to try to get up again, when I had a flash of inspiration. "Hey, Sam,
it's just us guys, why dontcha  just pull it out and piss in the empty can?"

He laughed, "Can ain't big enough to hold what I got stored up."

I finished the second of my two Buds, and offered both empties to him.  "Here,
your tall boy and these two cans will hold 48 ounces--that's two pints. That
oughta be enough!"

"I'm telling ya, man, when I gotta piss like this, I could fill up a gallon
jar," he said, squeezing harder on the head of his dick, with his hand now under
the edge of his shorts, pulling the foreskin together."

I gathered up my nerve. "Sammy, boy, if you still have to piss any more than
will fill up those three cans, I'll *drink* the rest!"

He looked at me funny for a second, processing what I'd said, then grinned
disbelievingly. But he still grabbed one of my 12-ounce cans and scooted forward
to the edge of the chair, at the same time hiking up the left leg of his shorts.
He pulled out a length of thick black cock--it looked like six or seven inches,
and it was still limp enough for the shaft to sag down while he held it by the
foreskin he had pinched together. He stuffed the first half-inch or so of skin
into the opening in the can, and then opened his finger grip.

It sounded like a hose filling a galvanized bucket, and it took only about three
seconds before he pinched the skin closed again and set the can on the floor on
the right side of his chair. "Hand me 'nother can, Jeff. That'n's full. " I was
so enthralled by what I was watching, I almost didn't hear him. "'Nother can,
man!" he repeated more urgently.

I grabbed up the second 12-ounce can, and he repeated the process: stuffing the
skin in the opening, releasing his grip, again filling the can in short order.
I was hypnotized by the sight, and my own cock grew achingly harder as I
watched.

"Hand me the tall one now," he said, putting the second can down beside the
first. I looked down and saw the empty 24-ounce can between his chair and the
end table, so I dropped off the couch on my knees to grab it and hand it to
him.  I was able to watch more closely as he went through the routine again, and
it sounded like he was still pissing as hard as he was when he filled the first
two cans. It took a couple of seconds longer, but I could tell that he was
easily filling up the tall boy, too.

He pinched his foreskin tight again and set the filled can beside the others. He
let a little piss flow behind his tightly pinched finger and thumb. The skin
covering the head of his dick swelled into an inflated satiny black balloon.

He looked at me with a silly grin, and said, "I got more, man."

I didn't say anything, just crawled over on my hands and knees between his
chunky legs, my face level with his dick, and opened my mouth wide. He grunted,
more like growled, and pushed his dick--finger and thumb still pinching the tip
to hold back the flow of piss--into my open mouth. I closed my lips around dick,
fingers, and all, and nodded up at his grinning face. I felt him release his
grip, and a quick gush of warm piss filled my mouth. I clamped my lips around
the foreskin-covered head of his dick, cutting off the flow, as Sam slid his
finger and thumb out of my mouth. As he moved his hand away, I reached up and
gripped the long, hot, semi-firm shaft and pulled more of his fat dick into my
face, releasing my lip lock a little to let the flow start again as he relaxed.

Controlling the flow with the tightness of my lips, I swallowed again and again,
each time feeling my mouth fill quickly once more with the warm, tangy, beery
liquid that gushed from his pisshole. As the flow began to slow, I started
milking his shaft into my mouth, feeling a stronger squirt each time I did.
Then it was just a dribble, and as I kept pulling his shaft, I felt it growing
firmer and longer. Finally, the flow slowed to an occasional drip, then stopped
completely, and I pulled back a little to see the marvelous length of cock I had
been sipping from.

By this time, I realized his hands were lightly holding the sides of my head. I
turned my eyes up toward his, never releasing my lip lock on his cock. He was
still grinning, but in a different way. It was almost the way a father looks
when he watches his baby son.

"No more piss, honey," he said quietly, "but I might be able to give ya
somethin' else to drink." He waited just a second for my reaction, which was not
to move except to dig my tongue under his foreskin, and then he gently pulled my
mouth onto his now-rigid cock, the big curving vein on top throbbing against my
upper lip. I took my hand off the thick shaft and let him pull my lips within an
inch of the tight black curls of his pubic hair, until the fat head of his dick
plugged the opening to my throat. He started a gentle rocking motion, sliding
his long meat bar halfway out, then pushing it firmly in as far as I could take
it--by the fourth or fifth stroke, that was all the way past my tonsils and
stretching my gullet.

I took over then, setting a much faster, more reckless pace, plunging up and
down as fast as I could, bruising my throat and half-gagging each time I reached
the base, gulping in a breath when I remembered to. But I couldn't stop. I had
fantasized about this so much that I was determined to make it the best blow job
Sam had ever had and the best I had ever given, just in case this was the only
time I ever had the chance to do it.

"Oh, man, oh, Jeff, suck it, man, suck it!" he panted, starting to match his hip
thrusts to my bobbing head. "Oh, man, I wanna cum so bad, I gotta cum... I wanna
fill you up with my stuff, I wanna give you what you want!" His stubby hands had
found their way to the back of my head, and we were working together like a
reciprocating engine, his fat piston plunging down my throat, building up more
pressure each time, pushing whatever air I managed to gasp in right down into my
belly.

Suddenly he let out a series of breathy moans, getting louder and louder.
"Swallow me, baby!" he said, as he thrust all the way forward, his cockhead
swelling up and plugging my windpipe, as his thick short arms hugged my head to
his groin, smashing my lips into his pubic curls, making my eyes bulge out.  He
let out a howl, and I felt his cock swell up even more and explode deep in my
throat--once, twice, three times. Then, as he started to relax his grip on my
head, I slid off far enough to taste the hot, salty-sweet sauce that continued
spurting across my tongue and sliding down my throat to join the quarts of
liquid I had already sucked out of him.

He fell back limply in the chair. Not yet ready to yield my hold on his cock, I
once again milked the shaft until I was sure I had gotten every drop of his
spicy load. I looked up, my lips still around the head of his dick, to see his
eyes closed and a blissful smile on his face, which, like his chest, was covered
with a sheen of sweat, making his skin look like polished jet.

I gently but determinedly continued to nurse on the rosette of foreskin that
once more extended beyond his covered cockhead. His shaft gradually lost its
firmness, but not its length.  My mood was as blissful as his, until I saw a
movement out of the corner of my eye and heard a noise at the same time.

Sam popped open his eyes and hissed, "Daddy!" just as I pulled my mouth off his
dick, letting it flop down between his legs.

Sam's dad ignored his son and grinned at me, reaching for his zipper. He slowly,
deliberately hauled out inch after inch of a long, fat wad of rapidly stiffening
dark meat that made his son's look anemic by comparison.

"Been getting some again, have ya, Mr. Cooper?" he chuckled. He stepped toward
the chair, towering over me and displaying his huge uncut cock in the
outstretched palm of his hand, offering it for my closeup inspection. He pulled
the ample satiny foreskin back to reveal a broad purple head so swollen and taut
it shined like polished rosewood, then he pulled the skin closed again.

"Ready for some more?" he asked in a deep bass whisper, bending his knees a
little to let his mammoth pole reach toward my gaping mouth... It was time to
pay for those free bus rides.

I never did find out how that damned football game came out--I had better things
to do on Saturday afternoons from then on.

Bless them all--the long and the short and the tall!