Date: Fri, 27 Oct 2017 23:15:37 -0400
From: The Paternal Watcher <mfvb@protonmail.com>
Subject: Hungry for love, chapter 3:  Sausage party

I didn't hear from Trevor again until the following Thursday. It took
supreme strength of will not to call his house. Well, strength of will and
fear about explaining myself if an adult answered the phone. I knew nothing
about his family situation. His father could be a cop!

When he did call, he was terse. "Scoop me?" he said. I knew he meant at the
McDonald's again. Thanks to cruise control I didn't speed on my way over,
and when he got in the car he again did the thing where he hunched down to
avoid being seen. I didn't think he was sexually experienced, but he
definitely knew the score.

Instead of suggesting a place where we could be alone, Trevor asked me if I
knew any parks nearby. I did; there was a big county one less than a mile
from his house which he apparently had never visited. It was filled with
people, but that didn't matter because all he wanted to do was drive around
the park loop a few times. He seemed to just be enjoying the greenery. I
realized that his neighborhood probably didn't have a lot of open space in
it.

"Okay," he said finally, "want to take me to your place?" I just nodded,
and tried to stifle myself from muttering "finally" under my breath.

In gay erotic fiction, when introduced to the home of his adult lover, the
teen boy is gobsmacked by the Olympic-sized swimming pool, drive-in sauna,
helipad with shiatsu massage, and the cereal bar that includes a live cow
to provide the freshest milk imaginable. In real life -- my real life,
anyway -- the boy finds a one-room apartment that was converted from the
garage of a suburban home that's no more amazing than his own home, maybe
less so.

Trevor took it all in with a stony expression, then turned to me. "You want
to fuck around?" He was expecting my answer, because he was kicking his
pants and boxers off over his shoes by the time he was done asking. His
dick was hard, and sticking out from under his shirt. I just reached out
and grabbed it, rubbing his stomach under his clothes with the other hand.

"I like the way your dick feels," I told him as I stroked it.

"Tastes good, too," he said simply.

It could have been a suggestion, a request, or an order, but I didn't
care. I sank to my knees and took it in my mouth. There was no sigh of
contentment, no outward sign that he was even aware of what I was doing,
save his hand, holding up the end of the shirt to give me access.

"Yeah, suck it," he said finally.

That praise, such as it was, got me to redouble my efforts, jerking and
sucking and fondling his balls and playing with his ass. All through it he
stood there, looking down impassively. I figured if there was too much
teeth he'd at least tell me then, and continued to do my best to do good by
this beautiful dick. He filled me and then some, and I took him to the hilt
sometimes, but not always. The taste of him was just like any skin, just
like any penis, but somehow more alive, more vital.

There was no contraction of balls, no playing basketball with my head, no
outward sign he was even aware of what I was doing, until suddenly he
came. It surprised me and more poured back out of my mouth than I was able
to swallow, and got all over my shirt.

Trevor pulled out when he was done, and seeing the mess, wiped end of the
his penis on my collar. "You have to change anyway," he said. "You gonna
jerk off?"

I was hard and incomprehensibly horny, and did just that. I would have
rather Trevor'd offered to help me out, but instead he surfed the internet
until I was done and then said, "You ready?"

Kids!