Patrick and John 5

Patrick and John are travelling on a budget. Sniffing out the sorts of sunset business that stared vacantly as an underage boy gets winkled into farthest room, the farthest faux Lincoln Log cabin in the trailer court. The young men are getting closer to somewhere.

Trade bale for wobbly table, Patrick slips out unexpectedly. He bobs his bitch-slick cock over to the coffee maker and lifts the clippers. The men have a hundred vinyl ties and spend them effortlessly. Cut free, Fourteen unkinks his tired arm muscles. Fourteen is still an open invitation, knowing what the young man thinks of him now, and still catching a whiff of gun oil. He flings an arm over his sad-mad eyes. He is like that when Patrick ends the waiting. “Hold your legs little bitch.”

There is no threat in Patrick’s voice and not much authority in all the name-calling. Long firm strokes put the boy back in his place, the bottom of the sex food chain. Patrick and John are working to convince Fourteen he is just a distraction they picked up along the way. Drive the Bronco, ride the bitch boy: a plaything. “Are you ready for a fuck?” Or “I’ve got what you’re looking for.” As if Fourteen always waits for the gift of meat.

The boy’s face flinches as Patrick’s cock grinds. “Four years, it was a routine. They put me in the corner on the bottom.” Patrick is talking about the bed arrangements. Patrick is watching the tick in Fourteen’s face, the way his eyes widen slightly every time the tingling man shaft saws across his teenage prostate. “Every day, Fourteen, always at least one of them. Jack,” and Patrick spits the name out fear-tremble in his voice, “Jack is looking for you. Touch your baby bitch cock.”

Fourteen thinks this last is part of the story. His fingers are curl over the edge of the Formica table top so he won’t get pistoned off the sharp edge inching down his scalp. “Put both hands on your chubby, you cum sock.” Fourteen turns  mom just went there about my missing undershirt with a load of sheets in her arms crimson. He is Fluster Boy outed by his starchy yellow cape thingy. It is not mom though, it is an I want to be that toned preview of what Fourteen will morph into, allowing for his getting past this inconvenient orphaned sock stage. Fourteen picks up that sock reference.

Fourteen’s fingers dig into the table edge, thank you very much, and it seems to be a good moment to stop looking at the rock hard man belly shaking his casanetes. The heat is migrating away from his face and neck back to his cock. It’s a rude hardon jigging to Patrick’s tune. That starts the bite-my-lip crimson tide all over. Be the handy sock, Fourteen reminds himself, or take John’s .25 ACP in the temple. Little Patrick fucks trump one last moment with John any day, no brainer. “I’ll, I’ll slip off the table.” Fourteen wishes his cock could be that limp.

Patrick is loving all this shy boy antics. Part of him wants to be drinking a draft with John, luring a lady onto his snake charm like he knows he could. He stays with the hurt-angry-captive boy because his now is a world of hurt. No man is an island. The frightened teen Patrick was, taking the walk of shame back to Jack’s bored cock, needs to know he is not alone. Patrick’s after is all about knowing you are a bed-notching chick magnet, but the prison-bitch bred into you won’t let go. You will be draining adolescent cum for the rest of your life. “Please,” Fourteen meets his eyes in a final appeal.

“That pimple faced grease ball at the office? He knew you were a little whore.” Patrick stops again, let the shaft cool down with the odd jiggle. “He probably had his hands down his pants before you were out the door. Shot his first load before I walked you over here. Probably over there now with some limp dick fantasy that the phone will ring and I will invite him over to join us. Should I?” Patrick does not need to jiggle. The sudden sunrise across Fourteen’s neck and flat chest keeps Patrick hard.

Patrick feeds the boy’s hungry after. “Just a faggoty Freshman in a few weeks right? Oh man, Fourteen waiting to be sixteen and behind the wheel of some hand me down mom-car. Fuck you and your faggoty friends, those sixteen year old bull cocks in the other grades think you are nothing, right?” Patrick has forgot about the tangerine cape Fluster Boy usually wraps around his perky insignificance, but then, Patrick is not thinking about Fourteen. “Sixteen is cool. Two years and you have made it. Picture day one of school, you have that in your head? You’re sixteen cool with those buddies from the midway, maybe that little girl and her friends looking you over. Sweet sixteen for Fourteen, right?” Fourteen’s tight sleeve squeezes a yes, because at this point it’s just a mouth and when the popsicle is in, juices flow, lips press, and tongue has to swirl.

“Only, everyone standing there knows you are a cock whore. When some thirteen year old gang banger tells you that your fourteen year old roommate is waiting to tap your sixteen year old pussy bitch ass, that is a whole nother thing.” Patrick is trembling. “All the way to graduation, Fourteen. You are the cum sock for boys whose balls have hardly dropped. Have you thought out that far yet?”

Fourteen’s dick has thought about it. His sun-starved glans has ducked back into his foreskin leaving one glistening drop behind. Patrick has a problem, not quite the one Fourteen could expound about at great length with a psychologist, mark that on the calendar for the hopeful later. Patrick has a thing. Cock goes in, feel the boy thighs smooth against your hips, hold the legs till the bitch cooperates, otherwise, hands off the boy goods. The program says nothing about hands on slim hips, thumbs feeling the satin sugar and spice skin with its trim bush. The puppy dog tail needs to wag itself. Patrick only wants to see his own humiliation reflection in Fourteen’s face as Patrick keeps pushing the boy deeper into an after he can never escape.

“Okay, one hand,” Patrick concedes the necessary loss of symmetry. “Just do what you do to get yourself hard again.”

“Okay,” it’s a shaky capitulation. Patrick encourages the growth with a little movement. Eyes slip sliding between Fourteen’s face and the instinctual curiosity of one male with another’s technique. Fourteen is ambidextrous. No really, he can knock one out of the park holding left or right. He likes a firm two handed grip though. Left hand on his nuts, while right skins back his foreskin and fingers the goods.

Patrick keeps his mouth shut as he lures Fourteen towards fresh shame. Spread wide skewered, kid’s cock dripping a pool into a shallow innie, Patrick has him ready. “You match my strokes with your finger tips. I’m going in, you are going up. Got that?”

His ass stopped hurting days ago. Well, pretty much. Patrick coaches him along till he has found the pace. Fourteen’s lean legs are yoga stretching to plow pose with a little help from Patrick. Then Patrick brings them back, locking heels behind his back. Fourteen’s new mantra is the sensation of evacuation to the last hug of his slick anal ring, cup and squeeze his tight nuts, then as Patrick slides back to some mysterious cavity, his fingers trace a lazy path across the tight drum skin past the bunched ruff and onto the swelling prize. He’s full now and gravity free, feeling seven inches hard. The crappy shithole room is stifling hot. Pits sweat and boyish cavities on his torso glisten before it gets wicked up toward the spinning ceiling fan.

Fourteen is there there now. No selfish incarcerated man-child cared to bring Patrick to this point. Patrick’s cock cares less what’s wrapped around it now. He is as gone as the boy, caught in the same slow climax. Fourteen starts it, four days of tension get released in a groaning hands-free stream. Yin meets Yang between the tip of Fourteen’s burning cock as the shockwaves ripple down to his other lips. Patrick slams out a new rhythm for himself so inside outside cum marks Fourteen.

It is time to push Fourteen farther into the after. The bliss wonder of the boy’s orgasm needs to be pushed into the shame locker by Patrick’s man-sized fuck piston. “Sometimes after, they let me cum like that. They had their girls outside, pictures and stories, even the fucking twelve-year-olds. They said I’d only ever cum with a cock inside me.” Sweet release when Patrick proved that was not true. Soft lips stop kissing his cock and Fourteen’s long legs drop away.

***

Fourteen is in the shower. Patrick is shaving smooth cheeks, shampooed hair slicked back, hoping John will bring some beer back with him. Patrick thinks about the apartment they will share in Hershey; Bros with girls, two bedrooms, lots of takeout pizza. Their jobs are gunmetal grey, but they will have fun.

Fourteen is fastidious. There was a swatch sample of blood on the folded toilet paper. Staunch the flow, give it a shrug and get back on the board. All Patrick had to say to that anxiety-moment was, “Fourteen’s on the rag.” The young man shrugged from the shower. “That’s what they told me. Patrick’s period, he has PMS (Post Man-fuck Syndrome).” At the sink, Patrick is a bit bored with babysitting, wondering if he should message John at the bar. “Four years, sharing a shower like this, wondering which watching boy was going to fuck me next. Should I grab you by that chain and drag you to the bed?”

Water is sluicing over Fourteen as he soaks ass in the tub. What’s that line in Dad’s favorite film? Tears lost in rain. Something like that. Fourteen is soaping his groin. “How come you were in for four years? You said it was supposed to be less than one.” The foreskin is pulled back so Fourteen can clean.

“Fourteen wants a fuck. That is what they always said when I touched myself. Empty bed in Patrick’s room. Patrick can’t wait for the new boy, can he?” The little-boy hurt is in Patrick’s voice. Fourteen finishes and stands up in the tub. He looks at Patrick, waiting for the answer. “Bitches have sharp claws. After John was let out, I stabbed a guy. They slapped another year on.” Patrick shrugs at Fourteen. “There was another fight. John told me to lay low after that.”

“There must have been other bitches. I mean, poor guys getting molested.” Patrick has him on the bed beside him, watching Arrested Development. He is trying not to spill Doritos as he works through a large bag. Fourteen never gets enough to eat. He would kill for a simple salad. He would kill to get the leash off of Patrick’s sleepy wrist.

“Oh sure,” Patrick replies bitterly. “But I was like best in breed, sorta.” Patrick tugs at the chain around Fourteen’s neck. “Sit Ubu, sit.” Fourteen stops listening. He’s sitting on the bed, Doritos forgotten, chin resting on a shelf he has made with his arms. “You are best in breed now Fourteen. Do you wonder why I picked you? Asking yourself, why not one of my hot friends? What did I do to make this happen? What’s wrong with Fourteen?”

It is worth a cry. Fourteen feels the tears blur out the screen. “I think I just made a terrible mistake….” The tears fall silently onto his cheeks and he rubs at them angrily, homesickness overwhelming him. He wants to ask about the ransom again. Maybe talk to his mom on the phone. Mostly, Fourteen shies away from the details because when he lays out the well worn kidnapping cards, that last six chambered card in John’s fist always comes down to remind him how boys who know their kidnappers always end. It is inept to kidnap a kid with no money and let the victim know your names, see your faces. There is only one way to fix that problem. Fourteen knows John is going to fix that problem.

Will Arnett and Tony Hale are just too funny. Fourteen (naked) hugs his grief-fear-heartache, tangerine-bruised. Trembling shoulder blocks Patrick’s view of the big screen. Too funny, Patrick laughs and tugs Fourteen’s chain a tad. It chokes a soft, little-boy-sob. Smooth lines, smooth back. Too funny.