Date: Sun, 9 May 2021 18:17:58 -0400
From: Moon Store LLC <moonstorellc@gmail.com>
Subject: Back Seat Angel Part 7

Hi Folks!

It's been a long while!  Life has a way of diverting my attention to
lifey things.  Here is the seventh 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

--------

Part 6 --

"So, if you're really going to let me stay here, yes.  I want to.  With
pizza and a movie.  That would be, um, cool."

I leaned over and found the remote for the TV on the side table, trying
to decide what kind of movie would set the mood for us, then changed my
mind, and tossed the remote into Buck's lap.

"Here, you figure this out.  It's time you left the center of the
universe, and were introduced to the World."

-------

Part 7 --

Swimming up into awareness from a gray haze -

Cognizance forming recognizable shapes, like a chiaroscurist's sketch
defines volume through light and dark -- like a drunkard who claws out of
a blackout into leaden reality and must decode through the evidence at
hand whether the gray indicates dusk or dawn.

I'm not quite fully together yet, and blearily I survey my
surroundings.  The living room furniture is lit by an eerie blue
radiance, and I gradually become aware of the television casting it's
glow over the unlit room, scenes from the set shifting from image to
image as it displays the commercial products it wishes to coerce me into
buying.  The tabletop in front of me swarms into view, and I see empty
pizza boxes and scraps of crust sitting askew on it.  Another
overindulgence, I guess; that must be the cause of the blankness.

Then, I see the boy sprawled out on the floor, and everything snaps into
focus.

The boy, yes.

He is not unconscious; rather, his attention is fully immersed on the
television in front of him.  He channel-surfs, propped up on his elbows
as his hands grip the remote, and he swings his feet idly back and forth
as he clicks the buttons, his finger flicks causing the screen to glimmer
and jump from picture to picture, his leg kicks causing his delicious
rump to flex as he squirms his hips back and forth over the carpet.
He is the picture of teenage perfection and desire, lying there at my
feet, utterly unaware of my presence or his surroundings as the
electronic sparks on the screen draw in his rapt attention.  I can see
his toes wiggle, and the little circlets of hair around his ankles shine
like azure static in the TV glare as his feet wave.  His movements look
so innocent, yet underneath the diffuse boyish energy I can sense the
grinding urges of his emerging sexuality.  He is at that age.  His
movements aren't a random dissipation of hyperactivity, they have an
impending purpose to them, and his wriggles and fidgets are focused on
making that newfound toy between his legs feel good and get big and
hard.  I know.  Bubbling beneath the surface of every sweet-faced teen
boy is a satyr waiting to emerge, a being focused solely on that piece of
meat that demands all attention - that simply wants to push, to hump, to
stroke -- that wants to fuck and get fucked -- although only the dimmest
awareness of what it all means, and how to accomplish those goals, exists
within.

And that's where I come into the picture.

I can tell something is awry -- and I can tell that the whining, puerile
part of me that wants to pretend that this is some aromantic
knight-in-shining-armor adventure is dormant right now.  I don't have to
listen to the constant put-downs, the constant nattering about social
niceties, the constant warnings about what the neighbors might think.
Not now.  It's stupid, and pointless.  A man has needs.  A man ought to
be able to express them.  A man ought to be able to do what he has to do
to get what he wants.  It's time I got my fair share of what I'm owed.
And I'm going to do just that.

I slide down off the couch and kneel over the boy, and grab his feet to
stop them from waving around in the air.  He's doing that to get my
attention, I know it.  Well, now he's got it, and he better be prepared
for the consequences.  He giggles when I rub his soles, and I
not-so-gently push his legs open a little further, exposing the cleft of
his ass.  He'd better get his giggles out of the way now; he'll know
soon enough that I mean serious business here.  My hands slide from the
boy's feet, down the light fuzz on his legs, and begin rubbing up and
down his thin, tautly-muscled hips, moving closer to the pert mounds of
ass flesh that are covered so flimsily by the shorts he is wearing.
Shorts that will do absolutely nothing from stopping me from getting to
what I want.  I grab one cheek, then the other, and squeeze; I want to
feel the boy squirm a bit, to know who's in charge of this little
escapade, and my motions have the desired effect.  I hear a moan escape
from his mouth, maybe a little groan of discomfort -- good.  Now we're
getting somewhere.  I want him to know what's coming, I want him to know
that the time to dick around is over.  I want him to feel what it's like
when you push somebody past the edges of courtesy and politeness by your
reckless behavior.

I want him to feel fear before I take him.

The ego-pussy part of me that tells me that I need to be nice and play by
the rules rolls over queasily and tries to speak up, and I shove it
roughly back into the corner where it belongs.  This is my time.  This is
my play.  The community instruction-book isn't going to factor into this
one.  The part of me that tries to reason things out, that tries to talk
me to death, that tries to push me around and call me names, that tries
to pretend we're nice and belong to some absurd social structure that
denies our wants, our desires, our needs, won't get the upper hand
here.  No, you, who wants to pretend that I don't even exist, that I'm
some sort of distal part of the body that hangs around to regulate a
heartbeat, some ancestral remainder of distant past, you don't get a say
in this.  I have as much a right to existence as you do, and all your
sanctimony, all your self-righteous posturing, all your denial, isn't
going to stop me from my time to take charge.

Why do you think that you sit here, night after night, and bemoan the
lack of satisfaction in your life?  Why do you think other people get to
tear up the bedsheets, bang their bed headboards against the wall, get to
take it all downtown, while you sit here and tell yourself how good you
are, how you keep your base nature under control, how you behave so
nicely?  It's all bullshit and you know it, you feel it, and, now that
it's my turn, I'm going to show you how good it gets when you tear the
lid off the top and pour it all the contents out for everyone to see.

So, fuck you, fuck being nice, and, most importantly, fuck this cute
little boy ass that has invited itself so brazenly into our living room,
expecting us to play the game according to the rules they attempt to set.

This conversation is getting boring; I've got business to attend to.  Go
back through whatever wormhole you came from, you sniveling thing; you
have no power here.
The boy has gone from squirming uncomfortably under my grasp to
attempting to roll over, and I put a stop to that by laying on top of him
and putting the weight of my chest against his back, immobilizing him.
He may have agility on his side, but I've got strength and weight, and I
use it.  It's time to tell him the news.

"Buckaroo, I've got a flash bulletin for you.  It's gas, grass, or
ass, nobody rides for free in Jacko's car.  And you showed up with no
gas or grass, so, guess what?"

The boy turns his head to protest and I put a quick stop to that by
clamping a hand over his mouth.  No more talk, no more wheedling.  I grab
the hem of his shorts and shove them roughly downward, and I can feel
them catch against something as they slide past and down his hips.
Probably his hard-on, which means that, whatever protests he may be
giving right now, he wants this.  I know he does.  Boys don't like to be
taught, but they like learning the lessons, because it helps them to know
what to do when the carnival wheel turns and it's their turn on top.
Right now, it's his turn in the barrel.  Shut up and deal with it.
Whatever, I don't care.  This isn't about him anymore.

"Like I said, Buckarino, here, you figure this out.  It's time you left
the center of the universe, and were introduced to the world."

I spit into my hand and grab my hard tool, lube it up a bit to make this
work.  I hawk and spit again, and it lands in the crack of his ass,
followed shortly by my hot staff.  He mumphs into my hand in protest and
I ignore it.

"Where is your god now, jesus-boy?  Where's all the talk about
redemption and atonement?  Who's going to make me pay for my sin?  Who
ya gonna call, ghostbusters?"

He groaned again into my hand as I sneered at him, I maneuvered my cock
into place and pushed.  I felt his asshole resist, and then, I shoved a
little harder and slipped in.  I removed my hand from over his mouth and
let him howl.  I wanted to hear this.  And I wanted the nice-voice, the
pansy-act in my head, to whimper in dismay as the deed was done.

"I'm going in slow not because I want to take a little pity on you, but
because I want you to know without a shadow of doubt that there's
nothing you can do to stop it.  I also want you to know that you like
it.  When I come inside you, you're going to come too, and that's going
to tell you that all the bullshit excuses you make for yourself
afterwards are just that -- lies.  You want this, you like this."

The voice in my head tried to scream obscenities at me, but it sounded
like it had mental duct tape over itself.  Nothing cogent came out.
Yeah.

I pushed my way in deeper and started a rhythm that I knew would shortly
bring me to the boiling point.  No reason to deny the inevitable.  The
boy's cries devolved into crying and snuffles as I plundered his tight
hole; well enough, I had no truck with folks who protested a done deed.

"Welcome to the real world, Bucky Boy.  You thought it would welcome you
with open arms?  You thought you could preen and frolic around and the
world was just going to be your little cat sandbox, huh?  You thought you
could spray your jism all over the place and everybody was just going to
take your cumshot in the face and like it?"

I was picking up steam and really reaming his tender rosebud raw.  It
wouldn't be long now.  I was on the homestretch of a massive orgasm and
by the gods, I was going to milk this one for all it was worth.  I was
going to dump a huge load inside him, and I wanted him to know why.

"Yeah Bucko, the real world stinks, and I want you to feel the same
rage, the same hurt, the same miserable defeat, that we all feel.  I want
you to know what it's like to get degraded and fucked and have the world
piss on you and I want you to learn to like it.  I want you to cum from
having a big hard dick up your ass and then come back for seconds.  You
ready?  You gonna?  You savvy?  Cause I think you need some tough love,
baby.  You need to learn to take it."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement in the parking lot, then
nearer to the apartment door.  I quickened my pace of stroking and I
could feel my member swelling up into the boy's ass, stretching it to
the breaking point, just on the precipice of release.  Then, as I was
right on the edge, ready to explode on the next downward stroke, I saw
them -- hooded figures in long black robes, their cowls covering their
faces, moving stealthily.  And they had weapons.  One had a butcher's
knife, one, a poleaxe, another, a scythe.  A scythe, really?  Did they
think they were going to be able to swing a scythe in an apartment?  Were
they going to be able to intimidate me with medieval arms and monk's
garb?

I could see them moving furtively, then gathering outside the window, and
then I could feel their shock as they saw the wanton scene taking place
in the living room, just a few feet past the glass barrier.  I heard a
hard thump against the door but they were too late.  With a roar, I
plunged my enormous aching prong as deep into the boy as I could, and
unloaded fiery spurts of my seed into his gaping hole as waves of bliss
washed over my mind, and I could feel him shudder underneath me in what I
assumed was an orgasm of equal proportion.  I didn't need to check, nor
did I care.  He was deflowered.  He was defiled.  His so-called
protectors?  They could do nothing now.

The trio of avengers burst through the door, sharpened blades at the
ready.  I whipped my head around to confront them as the remaining spurts
of my seed shot forcefully into their boy's ass; I wanted them to see
the deed done before I took them out.  That was the moment of inner
distraction when the other side of my consciousness sprang out of hiding
and came rushing at me full-force.  It came charging at me, panic clear
on its face, and, as I turned to face my arch-foe, my oppressor, the
thing I hated above all else, it hit me full in the face with enough
force to stun me into blackness.

I woke up.

Like many of my frequent nightmares, I awoke with a racing heart, panting
for breath, and sweating profusely.  Like in times past, adjusting myself
to the present moment took an act of will -- the disorientation was real,
and strong.  Unlike most of my past nightmares, the events did not fade
into nothingness as my grasp on reality returned.  Everything that had
transpired in the last few, what?  Moments, minutes, hours? It all seemed
very, painfully, real.

To my relief, I saw no cowled monks with weapons of medieval warfare.  I
saw that the living room was, in fact, much like in the beginning of the
dream; pizza boxes strewn over the coffee table, television on bright and
low, lights dimmed.  The only difference was that Buck wasn't sprawled
out of the floor, he was kneeling on the couch next to me peering at me
with concern.  He must have heard me talking in my sleep.  Then, with
dawning horror, I realized that the warmth and wetness that I felt in my
crotch was also real, and not part of my sleeping imagination.  And this
was not spilled soda, nor had I pissed myself in fright.  This was cum; I
could see the stain quickly spreading in my thin shorts, and I could
smell the distinct bleachy odor of ejaculate in my nose.  Moreover, I
noticed Jack peering down into my crotch, and he wrinkled his nose as the
smell permeated the air surrounding us.  He knew too; I had a wet dream.

Ye gods, that nightmare of degradation and dreadful hatred was a WET
dream?  I dreamed of raping the young boy who snuggled trustingly against
me, of hurting and punishing him for no other reason than I wanted to
make him suffer pain, and this made me come without touching myself?
This was what I thought about doing when my guard was down?  This was the
end result of indulging in my idle fantasies and bringing someone young
and carefree into my life?  This was my imagining, that kids got off on
being abused in this manner?  This vile act was my deepest, darkest, most
secret desire?

Hastily, I pushed Buck away from me, buried my head in my hands, and
wept.

I was again unsure how many minutes had passed, but I became aware of
Buck's hand on my shoulder.  I shrugged it off -- the remorse and guilt
of how I felt was too much, even though I knew that the events in the
dream hadn't actually happened.  In the corner of my mind, I could feel
that hateful `other,' that part of me that had created and sustained
the nightmare that I had just endured, that truly got off on seeing
others feel misery and woe, gloating and cackling with glee.  It knew
that I knew, that the nightmare was not some random sequence that had
been brought up into my dreamscape by a stray bit of pepperoni or too
much beer.  No, its chance to assert itself and dominate my consciousness
was real.  This was exactly what it wanted, this was exactly how it felt,
and exactly how it wanted me to feel.  The barrier between my cautious,
reasoning self, and this abhorrent `other' was now weakened, enfeebled
by Buck's inadvertent intrusion inside the fragile shell of my
deliberate exile from humanity, my exile from passion and desire.

Now that `I' knew that I wanted and needed the love of someone like
Buck, `it' knew too, and it was going to seize every opportunity, twist
every random thought towards its goal, until it beat my defending,
reasoned, ego-self into the ground.  The hidden me was the `real' me --
that was the truth of it.  The decades-long war of denial was starting to
crumble, starting with, of all things, a random Uber ride.  I loved
boys.  I loved the imbalance of power between the two of us.  I loved the
pleasure of pain.  I loved domination and submission.  Pretending that I
wanted some equal partner for my life was a lie.  Pretending that I could
get along in the `normal' world without love was a sham, always had
been.  `It' wasn't the other, `I' was.  And that meant that `it'
was going to win, or `I' was going to go insane fighting it.  I could
feel it in every fiber of my being.  We were going to turn into an amoral
psychopath, or we were headed towards a psychotic break.  Either way, we
were inexorably going to turn into some kind of a monster, or a
vegetable.  I shuddered.

I once again felt Buck's gentle hand on my shoulder, and this time I
didn't petulantly shove it away, but instead allowed him to snuggle
against me and reach down to hold my trembling hand in both his own.
After my breathing slowed to something close to a regular pace, Buck
tuned to me and spoke.

"What happened, Jack?  Did you have a dream?  Was it a prophesy?  Will
you tell me about it?"

No, Buck, I thought, I can't tell you about it, you would never
understand.  I've got to keep this buried within me, while I figure out
a way to get you safely away from me, and put myself someplace far away
where, when the beast takes over, I do not seek you out and hurt you.

"It was nothing, Buck, just a bad dream, I'll be okay in a bit.  Just
let me rest, okay?"

"Jack, I can see it in your eyes, you have seen a vision, a prophesy.
You have been tempted by the Devil, or given a revelation by the
Almighty.  It will not rest.  I know these things.  I have seen others
who tried to shoulder the vision-burden in solitude, and they were not
victorious in their battle. So neither will you rest until you share what
has been revealed to you.  It will haunt you.  Please?  Trust me?"

I shuddered.  He knew.  Maybe not the details, but the gist.  "Buck,
yes, I had a vision, and it involves you.  You are in danger.  You need
to get back where you are safe, where you belong.  That's all I'm going
to say, all I should need to say.  Go."

Buck sat there silently, expectant.  He looked up into my eyes, pleading.

Whatever he was expecting me to say, it was obvious that saying nothing
more was not going to motivate him to leave.  Dammit, Buck, take me at my
word and get packing!  I mean nothing to you, this was just a casual,
accidental encounter, and now you need to go home.

I wanted desperately for Buck to decide that I was a random Uber driver
and hookup, not worth self-endangerment.  Buck seemed to want to convince
me to go all-in with his crazy pronouncements of salvation.

Minutes passed, each of us willing the other to speak first.  I caved.

I drew a shaky breath.  "The danger is from within me."

Buck studied my face, glanced down in my crotch at the spreading
cum-stain, and back up at me.  I saw realization in his eyes.  He knew.
Not just the gist, the details.  Even with that short, general
pronouncement, he had deduced the rest.  I honestly hadn't planned on
letting him know; young guys like him ought to be shielded from the evil
that lurks in men's hearts for as long as possible.  I had hoped to put
enough caution in him to make him want to seek the safety of his own
kind, without giving the whole sordid story to him.  I had hoped he was
still young and innocent enough not to know what I was talking about.
Now, it was too late.

Buck acknowledged his newfound understanding with a curt nod, and briefly
bowed his head and closed his eyes.  I supposed he was praying, given
what I knew about him.  After a pause, he looked up.  I searched his
eyes, expecting mistrust, fear, or even outright hostility.  I had, in my
mind, every right to receive exactly that from him.  I, his
tormentor-to-be.  Instead, his eyes shone with love, with compassion.
Maybe even a hint of gaiety and joie-de-vivre, as a warrior who has made
the decision to march into battle, perhaps never to return, embraces the
moment of verdict.  He spoke.

"We are going to ask the Maven."

"What? Who is that?" I asked.

"We are going to ask the Maven.  You will come with me to the Center.
You will tell the Maven your vision, and I will submit to the scourge.
You have been tempted by the Devil.  The Maven will understand; the Maven
is the center of The Center, the font of all wisdom, and will know what
we are to do."

"What do you mean we, Kemosabe?  Don't you understand?  You are in
danger from me.  I'm going to hurt you if you don't get away in time.
And you know exactly how I want to hurt you, don't you?  How could I
possibly explain that to some random woman I've never met?  And what in
the name of the seven hells makes you think that bringing me with you to
your home, showing me exactly how to get there and how to get in, is
going to protect you?  I have no right to involve you in this.  Are you
crazy?  No way."

Buck, however, was absolutely firm in his resolve.

"Jack, we are going to ask the Maven.  And I mean we.  The vision is
about me.  The temptation of Satan is about me.  The danger is mine.
Therefore, I will know.  All of it."

"Buck, what do you know about temptation of Satan?"

"Jack, the temptation of Satan always comes from within you."

Humph, he's right about that.

"Buck, what about the scourge?  Are you sure you want to go through
that?  Especially if you're doing it to get me help?  You're not
thinking this through."  I feel like I'm grasping at straws here; Buck
is winning this argument, and for the life of me, I don't know why I'm
even considering this.  Go visit a cult for existential answers?  You've
got to be kidding me.

"Jack, I am sure.  The Maven is older than both of us, helped found and
sustains The Center, and has already seen and done everything.  She has
told me so herself.  We are going to ask the Maven.  I had already
decided to face the scourge before you had your temptation.  You will now
face the scourge with me.  But first, I will prepare you for the
journey."

Buck beamed at me, as ecstatic as a young boy who has just been told that
he needs to pack his suitcase because he has tickets to Disneyland.  I
think what I've done is given him an excuse to proselytize, and he
thinks that converting me to his brand of religion is going to somehow
expunge my psyche of `the other.'  I have my doubts, despite the fact
that my resolve not to let this kid get any more mixed up in this than he
is already is wavering -- and despite my incredulity at the idea that
some cult leader is going to `help' me.  Take my money is more like it.

"Buck, I'm not sure about this.  This Maven, do we have to go
immediately?  What do you mean, prepare?  This is crazy, I'll have you
know."

"We do not leave immediately; we have to prepare ourselves.  You'll
see, Jack.  You will be sure.  You will have the power of conviction
before we leave this place of sanctity."

"Conviction?  How is that going to happen, Buck?"

Buck swung his leg over mine and plunked himself down on my lap, mashing
my balls uncomfortably into my still-cum-soaked lap.  He clamped his
furred legs down over my arms, effectively pinning me to my spot on the
sofa.  He leaned back to his full seated height, and as he did so, I
could see his rapidly-hardening penis poke itself out of the loose shorts
he was wearing.  His visage was no longer that of an excited teen boy who
wanted to convince an adult to take him to the amusement park; instead,
he appeared like an avenging angel who was on a holy mission.  He pulled
his shirt over his head, exposing his beautiful, smooth torso, his taut
belly, his prominent pecs and stiff nipples.  The smell of boy pheromones
wafted up to my nose, and I couldn't help but stare up at him transfixed
as my heart started to race.  His face was fixed into a smile, somewhere
between beatific and a sexy leer.  As my cock started to harden against
his tight rear, bringing me both pangs of terror and jolts of sheer
pleasure, he pushed back against me, causing my prick to harden even
more, and squashing my nuts painfully.  Strangely, it felt precisely
right that he should torture me in this fashion, and, as I moaned in
ecstasy and agony, he gazed down at me as if to affirm my thoughts, his
nostrils flaring.  His cock started to drool with precum and my mouth,
just a few tantalizing inches away from being able to lick it, drooled
right back.  Oh Great God in Heaven I wanted him so bad.

Buck drew himself up, took a deep breath, and stared down at me, stared
right into the depths of my soul, stared unflinchingly into the depths of
my depraved desire.  And I stared right back, I couldn't look away even
if I wanted to.

"Jack, I am going to witness to you.  You will hear the words of
conviction and know the power of the Almighty."

I had been in precisely this position a few hours ago, and dismissed his
words as role-play.  This time, I was going to listen.