Date: Wed, 1 Jul 2020 11:37:35 -0400 From: Moon Store LLC Subject: Back Seat Angel part 3 Hi folks! Here is the third installment of my little tale. It is complete fiction, and if you shouldn't be reading this sort of stuff, don't. However, please donate to Nifty for allowing us to share with each other. Help make the world a little more colorful, and keep the forces of drudgery and conformity at bay. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html Moonstore Back Seat Angel Part Three -- Driving towards home gives me a few minutes to collect my thoughts. Okay. I've got a self-proclaimed fugitive in my back seat, and I've had sex with him, and agreed to take him back to my own apartment to help him hide. (And have more sex! - Shut up, brain, I'm trying to think here.) I don't know if what he's told me is true or not. I don't know, even if it is true, whether I am in actual danger from the folks he claims to be running from. I don't know, even if these folks are actually malevolent, whether they are capable of causing me physical or legal harm. So far, from his own words, what I can make out of my passenger's predicament is this -- he is a resident, or captive, or perhaps patient, of a place he calls The Center, where he has been held, and, supposedly, fed some sort of drug to suppress his libido, which, when withdrawn, causes him to have spontaneous orgasms with massive cum shots. Failure to take the drug causes him to be "scourged" by someone, or with something, which, although undescribed, he is in fear of. This is why he ran away from The Center in the first place. He has been indoctrinated in some way to believe that his problems are in some part caused by "The Devil," and he needs to beg forgiveness in order to avoid punishment. And there seems to be all sorts of other crazy talk thrown in there. Since we've both nutted on each other, we are now `tainted,' and he is now going to follow me to my `unholy place' to hide from some sort of divine retribution. And he seems to trust me to be able to figure out how to avoid that. For my part, this is what I can make out of my own predicament. Here I am, deeply-closeted gay guy, fascinated by teenage boys, unable or perhaps unwilling to act on my desires, who now has a cute and ostensibly willing youngster in the car with him, headed towards home, the so-called `unholy place' being my cheap apartment on the wrong side of town, and likely a tryst of some sort. But the possibility of enjoying some time together satisfying our mutual desires is clouded by all sorts of crazy talk about religion, and the fact that he is on the run from people who, if they were to catch up with us, might do us harm. Not to mention the fact that I am completely inexperienced and unprepared for any of this, good or bad, and, given my personal and economic circumstances, I am unlikely to have any resources to protect either of us from any actual danger. On one hand, my instincts caution me against any involvement whatsoever; I am obviously wading into waters way over my head, and past experience has shown me that I am just as likely to get ripped off, or beaten up, or completely humiliated, than to actually be helpful or helped out. On the other hand, this kid seems to be willing to trust me, and, on some very deep level, I am just as much captive of some sort of fear of retribution, for expressing love and concern towards another, as he is. And I very, very, much want to unlock this side of who I am, and what I love, and this awkward, gangly, mixed-up bundle of flesh and hormones sitting in my back seat is awakening all sorts of ideas and desires in me, that I am utterly incapable of denying. I want to, if I am honest, suck his dick and be sucked. Maybe fuck him and even be fucked. Explore his body and have him explore mine. Fall asleep in each other's arms and enjoy each other's company without shame or remorse. But there is so much in the way before any of that can possibly happen. We appear to both be damaged in some deep way. And that scares me. I suppose at some point what I am going to need is more information, in order to sort out what the next moves on both our parts are going to be. Who is he? What does he want from me? Who else is going to wonder where he is, and what we are doing together? I guess the only way to start finding out is to start asking questions. Snapping out of my reverie, and realizing we've got at most ten minutes before we get to my neighborhood, I glance into the rear-view mirror, and see that he is equally lost in thought as we motor through the endless ramshackle suburbia that constitutes the world in which I Uber and live and breathe and work. He is back to his original position when he got into my car at the beginning of this star-crossed ride, bare feet up on the seat, one limber arm completely wrapped around his lightly-furred legs, the other tucked underneath. Sweat shirt hood pulled over the top of his brown curls, his smooth face in profile, he stares out the rear passenger window. Since he is still draped in that gigantic oversized gym-wear, I can see nothing of his upper body, but he seems relaxed and comfortable, leaning casually against the rear corner of the back seat. His full lips are slightly parted, jaw a bit slack. His nose, I note again, is slightly larger, hinting at perhaps Polynesian or Southern European ancestry. His eyes are wide, calm, and seem unfocused, simply staring at the passing scenery, or perhaps inwardly-focused and seeing nothing but the ebb and flow of his own imaginings. He's effortlessly and stunningly beautiful to me in ways I cannot describe, yet he fits absolutely none of the everyday categories of cute, or handsome, or pretty. The mental image I get is of a robed angel, perched at the edge of a cloud in heaven, gazing at creation in awe. Only this particular angel is dressed in Walmart bargain-bin raiment, scruffy, pigeon-toed and slightly bony, likes to diddle with his junk while he sits enraptured, and still smells a bit of spunk and sweat and teen musk. I clear my throat, as much to break the mood as to get his attention. "Uh, dude? Since you've told me that you are not Lorenzo, that you just used his phone to call a ride with me, and I've already introduced myself as Jason to you, what's your name? I hate to just call you `dude' over and over." He, too, clears his throat before speaking. "They call us Christian." "So, you're named Christian? That's, um, appropriate." "No sir, at The Center, we forgo our names, as self is vanity. We call each other `brother Christian' or `sir' or `child.' So I am called `Christian' or `brother' or `child' or `sir,' as befits the station of the person who is calling me." The urge to do a massive eyeroll is almost overwhelming. I have to wince and grit my teeth for a moment to avoid it. We are immediately back to the crazy talk. I was asking what I thought was a perfectly harmless introductory question. Small talk. Okay. I am not buying into this. If we are going to attempt to relate to one another on any level at all, we need to set some boundaries, and boundary number one is that I am not going to go along with whatever indoctrination this youngster has been subjected to, whether he believes it or not. "Look. We are not at whatever `center' you came from, in fact, you left that place deliberately. So, as much as I would like to call you `brother' or some other nickname, I'm not going there. We are not going to establish a rapport on that basis. So I need you, please, to suggest a name to me. I can't, just can't, constantly remind myself that you are on the run from some place that won't even let you have a name. Just calling you `Christian' is a title, like you calling me `driver' because I'm running an Uber gig. Do you want to go around calling me that?" "You wish to be called Driver?" I resist the eyeroll again with another wince. "No! My name is Jason. Call me that." He shrinks back into the seat, and I can tell that I've hurt his feelings a bit. It's not his fault; he was only doing what he has been taught, and parroting what he has been told to say. I'm in the wrong here, not him, and so I soften my voice, and gently say, "Dude, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be harsh. My little speech was uncalled for, and, if you wish, I'll call you whatever you like. But I would prefer to call you by some sort of name, not some generic title or `dude.' Didn't you have some sort of life before, or outside of, that center? Do you have a given name? I'd like to know it and use it if you'll let me." He clears his throat again, and looks out the window. I can tell his eyes are watering a bit, and my heart goes out to him. He's really struggling with this. "Nebuchadnezzar" he mumbles. "What? I didn't get that. Sorry. Really? Could you repeat that for me?" He looks me into my eyes from the rear-view mirror. He says again, firmer now, "Nebuchadnezzar. My name. That's what my parents named me. Are you happy now?" He doesn't look happy at all. In fact, he seems on the verge of tears. Hoo boy, I think I've fucked this conversation up good, before it even started. How was I to know? Open mouth, insert foot. It's the story of my life. "Okay. Look. I'm sorry. Really. And no, I am not happy. That's a really crappy thing to do, saddling anyone with a name like that, um, Neb, Neb, buck, and ned, aw, dang it, I can't say it at all. So I can see why you would prefer almost anything else. Um, uh, how about we come up with a nickname? I can't say your real name, and I think, since we are not at the `center' anymore, that calling each other `brother' is not a great idea right now. And, while I'm not going to suggest to you what you can and can't call me, I can tell you right now that calling me `Christian' is wildly inappropriate. (Yeah! Have him call you `sir'! How about `daddy'? -- shut up, brain, I'm trying to be nice here.) Some sort of new name might be a good idea. Um, how about `Buck'? It's part of your name, it sounds better than `Neb', and it's short and catchy. Can I call you Buck? Would you be okay with that?" He brightens considerably. "Buck" he says to himself, almost as if he is trying it on for size. "Buck," he says, this time more firmly. "Yes, my name is Buck, call me Buck. And you are Jason. Yes." "Yes, my name is Jason. My friends call me Jack. Pleased to meet you, Buck." "Jack." He grins. I grin back. We have met. By this time, having maneuvered the car on autopilot towards home, a task I have had to do many an evening when I am brain dead and bone tired after a long shift, we are parked in front of my apartment. It's a seedy, but to me comfy, old place of indeterminate age; the buildings set back from the nearby boulevard a bit, and ensconced among some large pin oak trees that give the place a bit of shade and dignity, unlike the newer, cookie-cutter places on the better side of my neighborhood. It ain't much, but it's home. I got my own parking spot, a private front entrance and back kitchen door, enough room and furniture to keep house and not feel cramped, and the neighbors are similarly inclined to not bother each other and don't mind comings and goings at odd hours. As an Uber driver, this suits me well. I don't need fancy fixtures like a security gate or a community gym, although a swimming pool would have been nice occasionally. But you get what you pay for and the landlady keeps the rent cheap by `allowing' us to do our own maintenance, so the place has that random, natural look that places without manicured landscaping tend to get, when they are lived in by folks who care for the place, but don't lavish money and attention on it. It's time to invite Buck to exit the car, and offer to have him come in to my home, and, honestly, I'm a little nervous. (Come here, little boy, you want some candy? -- Gawd, shut up, brain, you're making it worse. I'm trying to help this poor kid, not hump him. -- Liar! - Okay, brain, you're right, but can we do without the creep factor?) I want this to go smoothly as possible, both because we are obviously nervous, and on unfamiliar terms, and also, because we are still both covered in what is now drying and cold globs of ejaculate and need to move quickly before anyone else drives up into the parking lot and sees us like this. I could use a change of clothes, and I guess Buck could too, although any disrobing needs to take place inside my apartment, which is about twenty very long yards away from the car right now. I turn to the back seat and face Buck, a hopefully reassuring gesture, and am immediately un-reassured to see that he has pulled his prick out from the bottom of the gym shorts, and is playing with it. As I watch, his big prong starts to grow in girth and length, the head bloats and starts to turn crimson, and, languorously, the massive appendage starts to rise off the car seat and point upwards. Buck has begun breathing a bit raggedly and starts panting a little, as he wraps a hand around his shaft, giving it a couple twists and strokes. He is very much engrossed, head down, staring at his crotch, completely oblivious to the fact that I am also watching him slowly commence to massage his tool, on the way towards again scratching that infernal itch that teen boys seem to eternally have. All teens, yes, but especially this guy, and according to him, this is due to nefarious outside dynamics. Which might spell trouble. So, while very entertaining to me, his display is bound to raise questions if I let this go unchecked right now. I really, really don't want an audience for this right in the middle of my own apartment complex. And, I really, really want to get in on this little exercise, and not just watch the goings-on. If I don't stop him, it looks like we will be on our way shortly to another parking-lot explosion. So, gently, I reach out with my free right arm, and grasp his wrist as it begins stroking, holding it steady. He looks up sharply, seemingly surprised, concentration broken. He gives a low whine, a look of pain and need in his eyes, and tries to shake my hand free of his wrist. He gives a couple humps up into his now immobilized hand, and gives out a couple of soft "ugh, ughs" as he tries to gain a bit of friction. "Please, oh, the medicine, it's getting huge again, it hurts, Oh please, I need it. I gotta. Ugh!" He moans softly and squeezes his engorged pole. His eyes seem glazed, almost like he is feverish, and He seems unaware of his surroundings, or of me. Wow, whatever that `medicine' was, it sure takes him over the edge quick. "Dude, um, Buck. Hold back. We're right outside my house. We can step inside, just head over to that door right there marked number six, and then, we can both relax a bit. Holster your gun, man. Tuck that big thing under your hoodie, and we'll make the trip real fast. Ready? Buck? Hey dude, talk to me." His eyes, formerly lust-consumed, now snap back into focus and he looks up at me. He takes a deep, shaky breath. "Oh, I'm ready to spray Satan's seed again. I'm trying to hold it, really, I promise. But I need to get somewhere fast. Where should I go?" "Right over there to the apartment with door number six. Think you can make it? I'd point, but I'm afraid if I let go of your wrist, you'll pull a fast one on me, and rub one out before I can stop you." I grin. He grins back. Our eyes meet. "I just might. But, maybe you're right. Inside the unholy place is better. I could use your help." (Yay! Give the boy a big hand! Give him both hands! -- Shut up, brain! Patience, we're getting there!) "Okay, I'll open the car door, and I'll help you get out. Keep a bit doubled over, like you feel queasy, that'll help hide that pig-sticker you got there. And let me guide you up to the front stoop so you don't fall over from being so top-heavy." Another grin, followed by a look of concentration. "Okay, ready." We open our respective car doors in tandem, and he tucks his raging boner into the folds of his clothing. I'm glad the hoodie is three sizes too big. We both hobble over to the door. He grunts in discomfort, like his cock has been bent in an awkward angle. Not only is he hunched over with his dick covered, but, despite the fact that I just came gushing in the back seat with him not half an hour ago, I am also obscenely tented again, and the front of my chinos strains to keep my dick from sticking up and out too. While some of what he feels might be chemically-induced, not so with me. I am practically shaking with excitement myself, and I fumble with my keys as I attempt to open the front door. I can feel his warm breath on my shoulder as he leans against me, and can smell the damp odor of our previously expended spunk, and the spice of his natural musk rising from him as he holds on. I am possibly more eager to drop down and take him into me, and feel him let loose, than he is to getting off. For once, my brain says absolutely nothing. We are in complete agreement about what needs to happen next. The door swings open, we fall onto the living room couch right next to the door, and I kick the door shut with my heel as we tumble. I want this more than anything in my life. I just hope he feels the same. I reach out with my arms and pull him close, heads inclined towards one another. I whisper hoarsely, "Buck, I want to help you get off. I told you already, this is hot as fuck for me. Will you let me? Do you trust me? I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." I look over into his eyes and see the fear and doubt. "J-Jack, this is the work of the Devil. If I spill my seed with you, we are both going to be sc-scourged. D-Don't you want me to go into a p-purging chamber for the flagellation of self?" I have to smile at `purging chamber.' I suppose that's closer to the truth than `rest room' anyways. I push his hoodie back from his face and look down his body. He does the same. His rampant pole is sticking up out of his loose shorts below the hoodie, pulsing so angrily that it is weeping with a drop of pre-cum at the top. At this point, I'm damned impressed. He is at least half a foot shorter than me, and very much still a young kid by outwards appearance, but his member has got to be at least six-and-a-half inches, maybe more, and thick. Veins run up the side to where the glans flares, and the head glistens deep red, swollen and shiny. It looks like a man's cock, made the more so by the wiry black hairs sticking out from his shorts leg. His balls are still tucked underneath the pants, but then, I've already seen what they are capable of. We both still reek of the previous car session. I am mesmerized. My voice comes out, husky and thick. "Trust me. Please. I want this, and I think you do too. I fear nothing unholy. Not here. Not right now." He swallows, and then nods. "Okay, I trust you. Yes. Help me." What he may have expected was for me to grab hold of his shaft and start stroking it, much as he had done in the car seat. It's obvious to me right now that he has had very little sexual experience, despite the mature equipment. Not that I'm any professional sexologist, but I know exactly what I want right now, and it's not just a mutual jerk-off. I want to swallow him and have him inside me. I need that virile teen meat to give up its load. What was once desire in me, is turning rapidly into need. I gently slide down the couch until I can kneel between Buck's shaking legs. I slowly grasp hold of his warm, twitching shaft and pull the head of his dick towards me with one hand, the other hand softly holding his thigh to steady him. My lips are dry and I wet them, my heart thudding in my chest. "Dude, relax. Trust me, you are going to enjoy this. Whatever you feel like doing, just go with it. It's all good. Go with the flow. I fear no Devil." With that, I leaned down, and pulling the straining shaft ever so slightly forward a bit, I wrapped my lips around the head of his cock. Swirling my tongue slowly around the edge of his glans and the frenulum, I could taste the precum that was leaking out of his slit. I could hear him gasping and groaning, but, rather than distract myself, I concentrated on slowly sinking my mouth down his length. It tasted absolutely heavenly to me, and the combination of precum, warm skin, the musk and adolescent sweat and nut juice, all drove me towards the singular goal of getting as much of his pole down my throat as I possibly could, until I could rest my nose in his fragrant pubis. Mouth stretched, throat open as far as I could, I slowly impaled myself on his raging pole, savoring every inch, enjoying every throb and pulse, as I worked his huge dickhead down my gullet. It seemed like time stopped as I worshipped his tower of teen muscle, forcing it ever downward, the girth of it splitting my throat open, the length of it shoving itself deep into my craw. Finally, my goal a short and sweet inch and a half from my face, I gasped a breath, and, tears slowly streaming down my cheeks, I bayonetted myself on his proud sword, choking and heaving. I grabbed both of his thighs and lifted his butt off the couch, and wrapped my arms around his hips, pulling him to me. Mission accomplished, I stopped for a moment to listen. Ragged breaths tore from his throat, accompanied by deep gasps. Moans started as I tried to swallow, my attempts doing little to staunch the copious slobber coming out of my mouth as I struggled to stay skewered on his giant throbbing meat. I tried to hold back the imminent tidal wave of orgasm washing over him, but the working of my esophagus against the sides of his shaft served to put him over the edge. "Ungh! Ungh! Please! I'm going to do it in your mouth if you don't let go! Ohh! Unghph! I can't hold it back! It's going to come out! I'm gonna explode! Oh, right now! Aaiieee! Garrgh!" As he gargled his declarations, his hands went from gently holding my shoulders to slapping feebly at the sides of my head, then, I could feel his legs start to shake like a fallen colt. He hooked his feet under my torso, attempting to push, but this only had the effect of driving his enraged, leaking pole even deeper down into my gut. I felt his hands grasp hold of either side of my head, but rather than push me off, he suddenly grabbed my head tightly, shoved his hips forward, and I felt his monster swell to impossible hardness, like a steel cannon jammed deep into my gut. "Awwwwww...Nnngggfff!" The first shot felt like the opening of a garden hose, firing down my choking gorge straight down to my gut. Then, great gobs of slimy spooge came erupting out of his cock, and it was all I could do to keep swallowing to keep from drowning in goo. He clamped down on my head, jamming his cock as deep down into me as he possibly could, as torrent after torrent of cum came flooding out, and he gasped, unintelligible guttural curses rising from his throat. I hung on for dear life, unable to breathe, incapable of releasing myself from his iron grip and furious pumping pole. Finally, just before I thought I was going to pass out, he pulled his dick back from the depths of my gullet and released my head from his grasp. Gasping, I tore free for a split second to grab a franticly needed breath, and, near-sobbing, I went back down on his thrumming tool to taste the cumload still oozing from his slit. He grunted and huffed in apparent satisfaction as I drained his copious load from his balls, groaning in delight as I swallowed and sucked. And, as I lapped and bobbed on his magnificent, delicious prong, I realized that, during my brief ordeal as load-taking cannon-sheath, I had nutted in my own pants as well, warm jism spreading thickly through my soaked underwear. It was the most delicious offering I had ever tasted, and I felt at that moment such peace and fulfillment that I would have happily died from the wound that stabbing weapon gave me. My life-essence flowing out from my prick as his essence flowed into me, ouroboros, the snake that swallows itself. Then, as I slowly milked the last drops of juice out of his shaft with my fist, tongue savoring the drops as they oozed out, I finally stole a glance up at my benefactor, to see what his reaction was to my desperate impalement on his tool. Shock, mixed with wonder, mixed with awe, and beneath, complete and total satiation of the most primal of urges. All the emotions played across his face, and then, beatific, he smiled and slumped back against the sofa, sighing deeply. I realized that we had not even disrobed, that this frenzied, nihilistic coupling had had happened within three feet of getting in my door, and that, both of us now gasping, puffing and trying to suck in some air, we hadn't even shared a kiss, a gentle touch, or even a moment of foreplay. I pushed myself off his magnificent spent tool, and, clambering up onto the sofa, I sat, leaned into him and gently stroked the mop of curls on his head. After a few scant moments, our breathing slowly returned to a semblance of normal, and he turned his head to look deeply at me, and smiled. "Are you okay?" I asked. "Was that good for you? Because, honestly, I loved it." I grinned and shrugged a bit sheepishly. "Sorry if I took you by surprise there." He nodded, as if acknowledging the need for the feverish pace of our ascent to orgasmic bliss. Then, as he gazed at me, his eyes started taking on a glint, something a bit more piecing and direct than mere happiness. His grin widened, becoming something more akin to a leer. "More. I want more, Jack, please." His eyes, no longer smiling, bore into me. His smile no longer seemed simply friendly, but spread into a rictus of glee. He placed his hand on my chest, pushing me down onto my sofa, no longer awkward and unsure, and what I then saw in his face was not contentment and pleasure, but closer to madness, and tenacious resolve, and, above all, animalistic lust. "More, Jack. I need more. Now." The last words out of my mouth before our coupling had been, "I fear no Devil." I may regret saying that.