A Boy Called L_A Taboo Love Story

by Amy J. Heart

  I stare too, my eyes tracking slowly from the creamy skin of her forehead all the way down to those dumbass shoes, and back again. Something fizzes in the back of my brain—a feeling like déjà vu or something.

  Red lace. Long, brown hair. Wide-set dark eyes. Big tits. The whole package hourglass shaped and, strangely, kinda clean looking. No that isn’t the right word… innocent maybe.

  Or sweet.

  Funny that, considering the fucked-up event she’s about to participate in.

  Again, what the hell is Coop playing at?

  Given what he thinks I like to fuck, it’s hard to believe he hasn’t found the scrawniest girl in town, hoping she’ll confuse my dick into putting on a worthy show for these dirtbags.

  That makes me smile, because Coop doesn’t know. He has no fucking clue that sometimes when I look at a well-stacked female, my brain yells ‘hell yeah’ while my body—dumb fuck that it is—grumbles ‘hell no’.

  When that happens, I tell my brain to be sensible and listen to my dick. Because the sad fact is, that after all these years of shooting load after load with nothing to inspire me but a guy’s sharp angles and the thrill of causing pain, soft-fleshy curves won’t get me off.

  Not that I’ve properly tested that theory before. But, against my will, I’ve been programmed since childhood to get hard for the exact opposite.

  And there is no way I want soft and breakable. I need something I can hurt. Someone who can take a whole universe of pain—swallow down all my blackness in one greedy gulp, laughing the entire time. And, honestly, this girl doesn’t look very hungry.

  She stops a foot away, her dark nipples covered in red lace, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Oh, yeah. She’s scared alright.

  With great effort, I haul my eyes from her tits up to her face so I can check her out properly. Recognition hits like a wrecking ball.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  I’ve seen this girl before. With Coop. Years ago—four years ago to be exact.

  The night I met, Ariana, the lady who ended my homelessness for good, this girl stood on a rainy street smiling up at Coop, looking haunted every time he glanced away. And later that same night, when I bedded down on Angelo’s couch—safe for the first time in thirteen months—I thought about her. Her sad eyes. That sweet smile. And back then, I did something I rarely do. In my mind, I rode the twists and turns of her miraculous curves and brought myself off like the mother of all Fourth of Julys.

  Again, fuck.

  My insides are jelly. I can’t believe she’s standing in front of me. My sad-eyed girl.

  Coop has no idea what he’s unleashed, how much I want this. And how in an instant I’ve gone from not giving a crap to fucking terrified that I might fail. Not get to experience what I’d pictured all those years ago—back when I was eighteen and one girl’s suffering had whipped through the night air, slashing up my insides and setting me on fire.

  I’m shit scared, but I want this so badly. I want to feel normal for once in my life, silence the voices that fuck with my head—get turned on and touch a girl. It’s everything I’ve fantasized about since that rainy night when I fixed my twisted, futile longings on a pair of sad eyes. And a pair of killer tits. Just once I’d like to know what normal feels like—tastes like—sounds like.

  But I’m too afraid to move.

  The weasel hovering on my left speaks. It’s the nasal-voiced little fucker who gets his kicks out of these stupid scenes. Pays for it all.

  It seems that having my cock rammed up his ass isn’t enough to get him hot these days. He needs to see me fail at something. Well, someday I’ll knock the head off his fucked-up shoulders—success guaranteed.

  I wonder if he’ll get off on that?

  But, sadly, it’s not gonna happen today. Today I aim to please. I will do exactly what he wants and try to fuck a girl for the first time in my sob-story of a life.

  And like I said, the brain is very willing, but I don’t know if my body will get on board. It’s not trained for this.

  “It’s still not too late to take something, L,” says the sick fuck, holding out a packet of pills. “You don’t seem inspired by this pretty little filly. And we’ve paid a bundle to see you service her. I’ll speak frankly. There’s no room for pride today. If you require a little assistance, we won’t think any less of your prowess, will we gentlemen?” He points to his two anemic cronies, and they nod like sickly servants. “So come over here. I have a wonderful treat that will help you.”

  Hell will freeze over before anything that guy does helps me.

  Slowly I turn my head and stare at his pasty, smarmy face. Let the hatred shine through. He swallows, opens his cock-sucking mouth to wheedle on some more, but before he can get a sound out the girl speaks.

  “L,” she calls in a breathy voice, all sweet like she’s summoning me to the table for a piping-hot thanksgiving supper.

  A smile wobbling on her wholesome face, she picks up a green tube from what I like to call the fuck-bench. Then she puffs out her chest—wow it’s one hell-of-a rack—and grins as wide as the Grand Canyon. I’m dazzled by straight teeth and, oh look at that, two cute as pie dimples. Then she does something shocking—she waves at me.

  Fucking tinkles her fingers happily at me like I’m a quarterback and she’s boss cheerleader and we’re heading out on a date.

  “Hi! I’m Edie. How are you doing over there, Lightning?”

  My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. I shake my head. It’s all I can do. Edie. Her name is Edie.

  “Or perhaps you prefer L? Going by how cross you look, I believe you might. No comment? Okay, guess I’ll just call you L, then.”

  She flips the lid on the lube and sniffs, rubs some of it through her fingers. “Yuck. That’s awful. We can’t use that rubbish. Hold on. I’ll be back in a flash.”

  What’s happening?

  She kicks off her shoes and runs for the bathroom. Ten seconds later she’s rushing at me, holding out a glass jar. “Here, have a smell.”

  This girl is nuts.

  I dip my head and sniff. An exotic warmth floods my brain. I see sunsets on tropical beaches. My arms feel heavy, like I’ve been swimming all day. Or fucking.

  “I made it myself. I’m big into aromatherapy. It’s coconut oil with patchouli and sandalwood,” she says, looking more than a little proud. “Much better, huh?”

  “Uh. Yeah. I guess…”

  The three suited-up assholes snicker at the bizarre scene as they shuffle into their ‘front row’ arm chairs, shrugging out of jackets and mumbling away to themselves. I can’t make out their words, because this chick has just fried my brain.

  Raising the jar between us like an offering, she says, “Is it alright with you if I put some of this on my skin?”

  Instead of throwing her on the padded bench and inducing terror—usually the best way to make my dick work—I just stand there like a moron and frown. “Ah. Sure.”

  This has to be Coop’s weirdest set up yet. And given the crazy-ass scenarios he’s created over the years, that’s really saying something.

  The jar lid falls to the floor. Her eyes bore into mine as she scoops out a glob of white stuff and spreads it slowly over her arms, making long, sweeping strokes.

  Up and down. Then up and down again.

  And again.

  Transfixed by the show, I swallow hard. The exotic smell of oils makes me lightheaded.

  She rubs circles over her chest, not even bothering to dip into the red bra and touch herself up like other girls in this situation might. It’s weirdly chaste.

  And sexy as fuck.

  Well, at least my brain thinks so, my body isn’t sure yet.

  When she takes a step closer, her scent socks me in the face and my breathing goes strange. A sick kind of thrill hums through my stomach.

  “L? It’s your turn now. I’m gonna put some on you. Is that okay?” she asks, placing the jar on the bench.

>   “Uh…” I clear my throat. Fuck, what’s wrong with my voice? “Fine. Okay… yes.” Christ, I sound like I’m from planet Stupid and I’ve just leaped off the spaceship.

  She scoops out another lump of gloop and lifts a delicate, fine-boned hand. I can tell it’ll be soft.

  I swallow again, this time in surprise when her fingers wrap around my throat, moving in slow, light strokes, gently squeezing my tight neck muscles. Jesus. That isn’t the area I thought she’d get working on.

  Actual goosebumps prickle over my skin as she dips her hand back into the oil and this time puts both palms on my shoulders, working my neck and then down to my biceps. Waves of bliss break over me in hot gushes.

  Body loosening, my head spins, muscles melt like butter, stomach and balls growing tight. I’m heavy, weighted down.

  I fucking hate this feeling—weak—lost. Desperate to break the strange spell, I try to summon anger, the violence of lust. But it just isn’t happening.

  Instead I’m frozen where I stand, chest heaving, still-soft cock tingling, and my fingers flexing, itching to reach out. To touch her.

  Coop is going to be so fucking livid, because for this to have any chance of working, I need to be in complete control. And I need to be scaring the living crap out of her. It’s the only way I might be able to do it—fuck her.

  So this has to change right now. There’s no alternative. To get my blood pumping in the direction of my dick, I have to hear her cry.

  Or scream.

  Moving fast, I get up in her face, but she steps sideways before I can grip. Grab. Snatch. Yell.

  She turns away and I watch her ass as she bends to pick up a leather ottoman.

  “So now I’m going to kiss you, L,” she says as she drops the thing at my feet.

  What the hell?

  “Wow. Pretty tall, aren’t you?”

  Speechless, I stare, stunned by her words. Four years ago, I would have sold my soul to know what kissing her felt like, but my soul is long fucked and these days, I don’t want anyone to touch my mouth.

  “I think I’ll definitely need this.” She points at the stool on the floor between us and springs onto it, grabbing my arms to steady herself, laughing like we’re playing some sex-club version of musical chairs.

  “That’s better,” she says.

  The sharp tang of the oils makes me suck in a deep breath as her palms frame my face. Her hands tremble. She gives me a sympathetic smile—like we’re in this together—and my mouth opens in panic as her face comes close.

  And then closer.

  Shit. I think she’s actually going to… I’d better tell her not… “I don’t—” Her lips meet mine and I hiss the word kiss into her lungs.

  And then there isn’t any air to breathe out, because I’m drowning, spiraling down into blackness. Her mouth… her lips.

  Fuck. No. I can’t do this…

  It’s suffocating. I’m waiting for the voice to start. The one that tells me I’m good, then bad. Dirty. Filthy. Worthless. My fault.

  I wait and wait. But the words in my head don’t come. There’s only lust.

  My mind sizzles, then explodes as I fight the—what the hell am I fighting again?

  I must make a sound, because she breaks away and says, “Shhh. Shhh,” like she’s settling a freaked-out stallion, which I kinda am. And for some alarming reason her voice, her hand pressing against my cheek, works.

  I settle.

  Mutterings come from the sicko-voyeurs, but, staring down at her wet lips, I don’t give a fuck about them anymore. All I need is to feel it again. The kiss thing.

  When her arms wrap around my neck and her lush curves press against me, I step closer, my gut churning at the strange sensations.

  She is so soft. I can break this one easily. Snap her in half. Crack bones without even raising a bead of sweat.

  Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m sweating right now just standing here.

  She kisses me again, slow and coaxing, like she knows I need guidance.

  How does she know that?

  Shit, maybe my unco-moves tell the story. But, hell, it feels so good that I don’t even care! My shaking arms lock around her. I try to follow the push and pull of her lips, to learn the tempo. The glide of her tongue.

  Our teeth click together hard. Fuck! This is so frustrating. I really don’t know how to do it.

  My mind fractures, split between extreme panic, knowing that I’m making an ass of myself, and a crazy high.

  Oh, man. No wonder people do this. Fuck with their mouths. It’s a lot better than any drug I’ve tried and, living out on the streets, I’ve sampled quite a few.

  Panting, I practically eat her up, probably squeezing her too tight as I try to get closer. Take more. And more. And then more still.

  All rational thought disintegrates.

  The room we’re in disappears. The amazing city view. All those roof gardens and windows opposite that probably look straight in on us. Today I don’t care one bit.

  “Hey… hey,” she whispers, eyes on my mouth and puffing short breaths through her rosy lips. “Do you think you could slow down just a little?”

  While I stare at her like a wide-eyed lamebrain, even more softly, she says, “Because it’s all good. I wasn’t sure if you would be able to do it… but right now you’re as hard as steel. So… you know, well done.”

  In shock, I look down at my dick as though I can’t feel it pulsing against the lace she wears. I feel it alright, and it’s she who should be congratulated for producing this amazing response. It has nothing to do with the amateur moves I’m running with.

  “So I think we’ve got this, L. Everything will be okay.”

  Going by the mix of fear and relief in her dark eyes, she seems to think I’m worried about the situation. And maybe I am a little. Because if I can’t stay hard, can’t fuck a chick for these freaks, Coop might make some phone calls. The calls that he’s been threatening to make since I was a teenager.

  Nah, I’m too busy being astounded at how turned on I am to be worried. I put my hand on the back of her skull and pull her in and kiss her deep, sucking on her bottom lip. I’m getting the hang of this kissing business, and like I always do when I get a bit of confidence up—I go into full attack.

  “L, wait.” She pulls back; I press forward. The weirdos snicker, start unbuttoning shirts. They think it’s funny, me fumbling and groping at her, but that doesn’t stop them from getting off on whatever-the-heck stupid thing I do.

  Maybe that’s the whole point of the exercise. To watch me make an ass of myself.

  The back of my neck tingles where her fingers lay. She slides them down, rubbing and squeezing my biceps. The flames under my skin burn hotter. No one dares to touch me like this. No one ever touches me at all if I can help it.

  The air coils tighter, the only sounds sawing through it are our loud breathing and the buzz of the city traffic below.

  With her hand on my chest, she watches me pant. I sound like I’ve sprinted fifteen stories to the ground floor and then back again.

  “It’s good isn’t it? This feeling.”

  I can’t deny it, so I just frown at her. Brilliant move, L.

  “Well, if you want to, you can go even higher than this.”

  Ah, here’s the part where she pulls out her favorite chemical trick—meth or GHB. Or whatever party-drug she thinks will help me keep it up.

  “And it’s easy, too. You don’t have to hurt anyone, L. All you need to do is start slow. Pull back a little, let it build bit by bit. Tease. And it gets even hotter.”

  What is she talking about? I’m already burning up, aching to stick my cock anywhere I can as long as it’s inside her and ram her hard. I’m already thinking of that final moment. Those seconds when the killer rush hits and all notion, all memory of who I am and everything I’ve done, disappears.

  “So, that’s all you need to do. Just draw it out for as long as you can. Until the waiting itself hurts bad.”

&nb
sp; Now she’s talking my language. Hurt. Pain. Unfathomable darkness.

  “What do you think, L? Shall we try? Let’s ignore those guys over there and do it our way.”

  Liking the sound of that, I grab a handful of her ass, round and juicy as a summer peach, and press her against my cock. I take her mouth like a pro, like I’ve been doing it forever, and try to summon the focused anger that always gets me through these close encounters. Because outside of this, when I’m not fucking, I don’t get close to anyone. Ever.

  It’s only dark fury that can send me flying over the edge. Get me off. That black feeling kindles in my balls, in my gut, but as I grind against her, she makes these sounds. Soft little moans that tighten my thigh muscles. Then I realize the lace over her stomach is wet, my precum oozing on her.

  Shit.

  It feels so fucking good, but I don’t want it. I really don’t fucking want it. Not like this. Not soft and gentle.

  I lift her knee high, my mouth taking more, my hips grinding harder. She fights back by nipping her lips lightly against my hungry ones, persuading me to go slow. Gentling me.

  In about the stupidest move of my life, I let her lead. And the second I surrender—absolutely everything stops.

  The world blows apart.

  Even the perverts, moving their hands over their feeble, little dicks don’t exist.

  As we kiss she wriggles, making space between us. Just enough to move her palm over my skin. Over my chest. My stomach. Inching down. And while she gives me the slowest, softest hand job I’d never even bothered to imagine was possible, I hear these sounds, rough sighs becoming low moans. I fly so high I can’t even muster any shock that I’m the idiot who’s making these noises.

  And it’s exactly like she fucking said it would be. Better. Hotter. A crazy-making high. If she doesn’t stop, any second, I might come in a great freaking gush in her hand.

  I tell the stupid excitement building in my body to stop. To back off. Chill the hell out.

  I can’t let myself come yet, because Coop said I have to do it inside her. That’s the deal these weedy fuckers have paid for. Bareback fucking. And I’ve only ever used a rubber before. We’ve both been tested for this and they’ve paid, so… that’s what we’ll be doing.