Date: Tue, 19 May 2020 12:27:13 -0400 From: Moon Store LLC Subject: Back Seat Angel Back Seat Angel -- Part One As an Uber driver in a small industrial city, I really can't be too picky about the fares I pick up. You know, I gotta take what comes along in order to make ends meet. So when I rolled to a stop in front of the local rec center where I'd gotten a ping, and a teenage boy scampered around the corner of the building and hopped into my back seat, I really didn't think too hard about the terms of service blah blah blah prohibiting unaccompanied minors. I don't care. Nobody does. Somehow, folks seem to get a lot more knotted up about a vulnerable young girl riding around in a car with a stranger. But young guys, apparently, are assumed to be able to fend for themselves, vulnerable or not. Not that any young girl would be endangered by riding with me, as hitting on female passengers is not my thing. One, I'm a professional, and I take my shitty job reasonably seriously. This is my living and I'm performing a public service, the way I look at it. Two, I'm really not into girls. I find teenage boys to be much more interesting perv material, and I always appreciate the opportunity my job gives me to ogle a few of them close up, whatever the terms of service say. As teenage boys go, this one rated about average for cuteness; your average Joe wouldn't look twice, but I did. A mop of brown curls on his head, covered by a shapeless oversized gray hoodie that, along with the hair, obscured most of his face. A couple of pale legs with little circlets of black straight hair beginning to grow down around the ankles, but the rest covered in soft, downy fur. A pair of thin nylon gym shorts at the top of his thighs, and flip flops on feet that were just a little too big for the rest of his body. I noticed he had soft, light-toned skin, indeterminate in ethnic origin; little tufts of hair on top of his slightly pigeon-toed feet, and a couple scrapes on the bony knuckles of his hands. I really couldn't see what kind of package, butt, or upper body he had, covered as it was by that big hoodie, but he seemed to move with that gangly grace that so many teen boys have, pliable childhood sinew working to develop into harder muscle over suddenly larger bones. A tantalizing combination of innocence and mischief, acute awareness of the changes in their own body, and complete obliviousness to the effect their appearance has on others. In other words, your average awkward American sex-crazed teen boy, angels with the devil inside. I got in a fairly long glance as he leaned and tossed a paper bag of trash next to the can on the sidewalk, turned, clambered into the back seat of my battered Ford sedan, and slammed the door. He slumped down into the seat and scowled out the window, ignoring me and my assessment of his body for now. In profile, I could see that he had faint wisps of hair on his upper lip and chin, indications of the transition from boy to man; caught in that in-between stage where there is too much hair growing to miss seeing it, but not enough to start trying to shave it. Red full lips under a slightly larger nose, brown sad eyes, clear, soft skin. A prominent Adam's apple poked out from the neck of the hoodie. The rest was concealed by curls of brown hair, and clothes. Back to business, I guess. I turned to face my dashboard-mounted phone and saw that, rather than the usual ten-block ride home most youngsters dial into the app for, this was a fairly long two-part trip; first, to the downtown bus terminal several miles away, then, to one of the long-term parking garages near the airport. Okay, this kid sure didn't seem like he was dressed for a long out-of-town trip, and no baggage or knapsack at all, but maybe whoever he was meeting had that for him. Whatever. I had had nothing but small fare rides all afternoon, and a fifty-five minute trip like this would salvage the day. I adjusted the rear-view mirror to point down towards the boy's head so I could see him answer me, noted name, destination, and estimated route from the app, then pulled out into traffic and headed down the road. "Um, Lorenzo, right? And we're going take you first to the city bus depot, then towards the airport. Any preferred route, or just drive following the app? Anybody that we're picking up at the first stop, or stuff?" He shifted his long legs and arms around nervously in the seat, distracted and antsy, still focused on the view out the window. I noticed he had pulled his bare feet up onto the seat, and was curled up into an almost fetal position, hugging his knees loosely to himself. "Um, Lorenzo? Dude?" With a start, he glanced up at the back of my head, seemingly realizing he needed to speak. "Sorry sir. No, just drive. And it's just me. I, um, I'm not, um, well, never mind," he stammered and then stopped. "Well, if you have any requests, Lorenzo, don't be afraid to ask. There's bottles of water and some paper napkins inside the armrest, help yourself. Get comfortable, we got about an hour ride here. I'm Jason, your Uber. If the car smells like stale pizza, sorry, but that's another side hustle of mine, I deliver. If you don't mind me asking, how's your day going?" He looked at me blankly, mute for a moment, and then mumbled, "Okay, I guess." With that, he turned back out towards the window, seemingly distressed. I mentally shrugged. Not my job to pry into other people's troubles, and although he definitely seemed a bit out of it, he wasn't causing me any problems, so I let it slide. If you Uber, you tend to see all the forlorn bits of the human condition; sorority girls barfing into the back seat after a night on the town. Mothers with crying babies throwing tantrums and binkies. Construction workers and nurses trying to slurp hot coffee and scarf down bits of breakfast, spilling half, running late on the way to a shift. Businessmen loudly arguing on the phone as they paw through their briefcases, oblivious to the fact that I can hear every bit of abuse and invective, and I can see through their ruse of looking for a document as they dump their trash on my floor. Most people don't mean to cause trouble for me, but their personal lives sometimes literally spill over onto my back seat, and it's my car, so my mess to clean up when they exit and move on with their lives. So a teenage guy with existential angst is not an issue, feet up on my seat or not, and, with a final glance in the rear view at his profile, half-hidden as it was by the hoodie and mop of curls, I turned back to navigating through traffic. A minute or two later, though, I heard a low moan coming from behind me, followed shortly by another. First thought -- Please. Don't. Vomit. But this didn't sound like a barf kind of moan; I know that sound all too well. This sounded more like an animal in a trap. I glanced in the rear view, but could see nothing; he had hunched over enough so that all I could see was the top of his hoodie and his shoulders moving and flexing in an odd rhythm. "Hey, buddy, are you all right?" I queried. Silence. Then, a moment later, another stifled moan. We rolled to a slow stop at a red light, so I twisted around in my seat to try to look at him directly. He was facing downwards peering into his lap, curls spilling over his obscured eyes. Naturally, I looked down at his lap too. Peering back at me was an enormous-looking glans; bloated, straining, and red, atop an impressive-sized shaft. And it was sticking out of the bottom of his shorts, and pointed right at me. Gasping, he suddenly threw his head back, his eyes squeezed shut, his knees spread, his feet on the seat with his toes curled; his hips bucked, and he clamped both hands around his engorged tool, squeezing, like he was trying to hold it down. Shocked, I gaped, at a complete loss for words. Suddenly, his meatus parted, expectant, and a thin dribble of shiny viscous liquid poured out onto the seat below him, followed by a huge blast of hot fluid that shot clear across the car, hitting me on the cheek and partly into my slack, opened mouth. He then proceeded to let loose with several more volleys, ropey and white, spraying my shoulder, my hair, the back of the seat I was in, the console, hell, even the dome light, as he spasmed and shook. Then, his blasts slowing to a thick pumping ooze that pooled onto the back seat and between his feet, he slumped back against the rear door, panting, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Holy shit, dude, what was that?" I squawked. His eyes flew open, terror stricken, and his body jerked. We stared at each other, dumbfounded, wordless, for just a split second, before a car horn blared behind us, which tore my gaze off his throbbing member and my thoughts back to surrounding reality. I whipped around, grabbed the steering wheel with both hands, and accelerated through the intersection, desperately trying to keep control of the vehicle as I felt his load dripping off my eyebrow and lip, onto my chin, and onto my shirt below. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I saw his face register waves of shock and dismay as he stared at the back of my head, seemingly frozen in place. I reached up a hand and wiped a bit of the mess off my face, distractedly wiping my hand on my shirt pocket, only to realize that another glob was where I swiped my hand, making my hand even gooier. Damn. Another swipe, this time on my pants-leg, and I was able to regain some composure, realizing that I had the taste of his sperm on my tongue, and could smell the sex-smell of his spunk on my hand, shirt, and upper lip. Wow. Holy hell. An absolute insanity of a situation. What the? How did? Shit. Yeah, I'm gonna need to regroup here. Focus on the road and don't hit anything. This would be a lousy time for a traffic stop. Yes, officer, just a totally unannounced and spontaneous orgasm from this underage boy in my car, and that's why my front end jumped the curb here, nothing to worry about, thank you very much. We'll just be moving along. As usual, my brain spun off onto a thousand different tangents as I grappled with what just happened. Focus and clarity under pressure were never my strong suits. (This is how you ended up a middle-aged Uber driver, my brain says -- thanks, brain.) Exhaling, I braked and eased the car over to the far right lane, and, spying an empty parking lot, I pulled over into an unobtrusive spot and put the car in park. Okay. It seemed like a million things had just happened, but in actuality, only about a half-minute had gone by. Hesitantly, I spun around and looked again at the boy in the back seat. He hadn't moved. His hands were still pressed against his gently-throbbing cock, which now had a strand of pearly goo drooling out of it, connecting the still-angry-looking head to the seat beneath. Drops of semen still hung from the back of the seat, his clothing, his hair. His mouth registered a silent O of horror as he stared at me, his eyes so wide that I thought they would bug out of his head. My brain suddenly decided that this looked a lot like those 80's slasher film scenes, done in spooge white instead of blood red, complete with terror-stricken facial expressions, and I started to giggle uncontrollably. "Um, most folks don't have that kind of reaction to my driving skills." I stifled another giggle. Gads, what a stupid thing to say. Get a grip, Jason. "Dude, that was hot," I blurted. Oh man, worse. Why do such idiotic things pop out of my mouth at times like these? I could see tears starting to well up into his eyes, and an absolute fear of what had just transpired was evident on his face. I needed to get my act together, be professional and manage the situation. Or something like that. I cleared my throat and took a deep breath, trying to maintain some calm. "Lorenzo, are you all right?" He glanced down, stared at the large cock sticking out from under his shorts, then back at my cum-smeared face, then at the mess on the car upholstery, glanced out the window, then back at me, and his legs now clamped shut over his hands and still-twitching tool, as a panicked look overtook his face. He shrank back against the door and let loose a stifled sob, and tears sprang from his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, so sorry, oh sweet Jesus in heaven I'm sorry," he wailed. He squeezed his eyes shut and, curling up into a ball, he rolled onto his side, rocking back and forth in a rather alarming and very not-sexy-any-longer way. "Oh God, forgive me, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hurt me, I don't want to be punished. Please, please, so sorry, so sorry." He hugged his knees to his chest and started bawling. What? Punished? Hurt? Okay, there is a definite disconnect going on here. I had absolutely no intention of frightening the poor guy, much less lashing out at him. I mean, yes, he just trashed my car, albeit in a very unexpected way, and I definitely am not going to be able to just drop this kid off at his destination and blithely motor off in search of my next fare with nut-juice dripping off my face and shirt. But his reaction of absolute shame and terror was completely over the top. And I got the distinct impression that he wasn't exactly apologizing to me; rather, his pleas to Jesus and God and the 'sorrys' were actually directed to, well, Jesus and God. I'm at a loss here. I've got a teenager who just blasted a load onto my face (Chalk it up as a win! my brain says -- shut up, brain.) and is now crying his eyes out in the back of my Uber at the prospect of my punishment -- no wait, not my punishment, some sort of holy retribution, for busting his nut and making a mess. For what it's worth, while I was raised as a child in a church, and to believe in God, and all the stuff about angels and devils and divine punishment and prayer, I long ago left that behind. Or thought I did. So, while I can understand when people actually say that they are asking Jesus for help, I know what they are saying, but just no longer comprehend it. Whatever God or Jesus there might be, I have long felt that my fascination with teenagers with dicks sort of disqualified me from salvation. So I have no prayers to offer anyone, although I pick no bones with those that do. But divine retribution for jacking off, even in the back of a taxicab? I think not, although it does leave a mess for someone to need to tidy up, that someone currently being me. Okay, well, first things first. Glancing around and seeing that we are, in fact, in a somewhat secluded corner of a semi-abandoned strip mall parking lot, of which this armpit of a city has many, I reach forward and I turn the engine off. First, got to clean up my face and shirt, and maybe some of the spunk from the back seat, too. Then, maybe look at getting this poor kid cleaned up and dropped off at his designated spot at the bus station, or the airport, or wherever he wants. I've got a fairly large stash of fast-food napkins, cadged from Taco Bell and the like during my numerous road meals, stuffed into the console bin beside me. And I know I've got a towel or two in the trunk, maybe some spray, usually reserved for spilled coffee and beer, that will get the majority of this 'happy ending' cleaned up. Okay, a plan. Thanks, brain. But turning the engine off had an immediate effect on the teen. He startles at the sudden absence of motor noise, and, looking directly in my eyes for the first time, he starts by flailing his arms, then, lets go of his member, grabs the door handle and holds on. "No mister, no! Please don't throw me out of the car, I'm sorry I made trouble for you and messed up, really, I'm sorry, I'll clean it up for you and pay you back, I promise, I promise, please don't let me out here, it's too close and I'll get caught, and, oh no, please, the men from The Center will find me and put me back, and please, I'm sorry, I promise, please don't throw me out, I didn't mean to do that and I'm sorry, please." He's babbling now, and still crying. What? Too close? Men from the center? What center? Throw him out? He's making very little sense, or at least very little of what sense I can make out. I was just going to step out of the car to get some towels. Who said anything about him getting thrown out? I'm just not the sort of guy who throws cute teenage boys out onto the street to fend for themselves, no matter what hijinks they got themselves into. I guess I'm just getting kinda soft. (Getting kinda hard, too, maybe, aren't you? brain says -- shut up, brain.) "Look, um, Lorenzo, nobody said anything about getting thrown out of the car. I was just going to clean you, me, and the car up a bit so I can take you to the bus depot and then drop you off at the airport, like I'm supposed to do." I glanced at the app, which still showed us as adhering to the route to the first stop, little icon patiently blinking, as if none of this had happened. "No!" he shouted, near-hysteria in his cracking voice, "We can't go there, they'll find us!" Whaaaa? I get the distinct feeling that I'm falling down some sort of rabbit-hole. We can't stop, we can't go to the destination on the app. And who in the hell is 'they' that is going to find us? And wait, what's this 'us' shit anyway? How have I been transformed from mild-mannered Uber driver to 'international man of mystery' secret agent by dint of being nutted on by this wayward teenager? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills here. I need to get some questions answered, or at least some help getting this sorted out in my head. "Lorenzo?" Silence. "Look, Lorenzo? Can you tell me what is going on here? Dude?" He looks up, realizing that I'm asking him a question, and that, for the moment, we are not talking about ejecting him from the car. He glances out the window, then, at the Uber app on my phone that traces out the requested route to the bus terminal and the airport for the driver, calculating estimated time and distance. He sniffles, takes a deep breath, lets go of the armrest, and wipes his nose with the back of one hand, which, like my hand, is still covered with globs of ejaculate, so has the effect of smearing cum on the end of his nose, rather cleaning his nose off. He hesitates, looks at the back of his hand, then, the other, reconsiders, and sticks his hands back between his legs, where his still-distended dick is lying, drooling and red. "I'm not Lorenzo," he mumbles.