Wild Boys

by Richard Labonté

  “Not fuckin’ yet you aren’t!” Danny shouted.

  He stopped whaling Conrad’s ass and pulled the man’s cock up between his legs, bending the inflamed appendage back like he meant to break it off. Then he dropped his head down and lashed Conrad’s purple cap with his tongue, licking up the tears of lust leaking from Conrad’s slit.

  The man groaned. Danny dropped his cock and picked up the ruler again, crashed it down on Conrad’s battered cheeks. He flailed Conrad until white ridges began forming on his flaming skin, obscene outlines of the vicious ruler. Conrad was beyond feeling pain.

  “On your feet, geezer!” Danny barked at last. “Time you got a taste of total obedience.”

  He shoved Conrad off his knees and the man tumbled down a couple of steps. Then Danny stood and pushed his shorts down to boot level, spreading his blond-dusted legs. His long, smooth cock stood out arrow-straight in the shadows. Conrad made for it, crawling back up the steps and grabbing on to Danny’s mounded buttocks, engulfing the punk’s mushroomed, pink hood in his mouth.

  “Yeah! Suck my cock, old man!” Danny cried, digging dirty fingers into Conrad’s silver hair as the man inhaled more and more of his engorged prick.

  Danny stood between Conrad’s legs, shaking, savoring the smooth lips and the velvet-sandpaper tongue sliding and gliding wetly along his boiling shaft, and the manicured fingernails biting into his trembling buttocks. The sensations filled his body and brain with wicked eroticism, sent him soaring with pleasure.

  “Jerk yourself off!” he commanded. “All over my boots!”

  Conrad grabbed on to his dick and fisted it as eagerly as he was blowing Danny. He clawed the fingers of his free hand between Danny’s asscheeks and hung on to the groaning young man, fast-stroking himself with the other while sucking the punk’s cock with his drooling mouth—right down to the thicket of blond pubes and back up to the bloated cap, over and over. Desperate to please.

  “Fuck, yeah!” Danny howled, jolted by ecstasy. His cock exploded, spurting white-hot gouts of cum into Conrad’s eager mouth as his own cock burst into a blazing orgasm, spraying semen over Danny’s scuffed black boots.

  Just like the punk had ordered.

  Danny washed and changed in the garage, entering his parent’s house dressed in a conservative white polo shirt and tan pair of chinos, a stack of textbooks under his arm.

  His father glanced up from his newspaper. “I thought the library closed at eight-thirty!” he said sternly.

  Danny smiled at the old man, brushing his soft blond hair to one side with his hand. “I had some tutoring to do afterward, Father,” he said pleasantly.

  His dad grunted, while his two sisters doing their homework at the dining room table giggled.

  A steely look from the old man put their heads back in their books again, as Danny headed up the stairs to his bedroom.

  “Are you aware that your son was brought home by the police again today?” Conrad’s wife shrilled as soon as he stepped through the door and into his house.

  His unemployed bum of a son was slumped on the living room sofa, an empty bottle knocked over on the coffee table next to him, while his sullen goth of a daughter, parked in front of the blaring television, yelled at her mother to shut the fuck up and have another drink herself, why didn’t she?

  Conrad hung up his trench coat and walked away from the chaos, down the hall and into the bathroom. Anxious to see his backside in the full-length mirror—see and feel the red stripes and white welts of cleansing discipline he’d received from the blond-haired punk.

  BOY FROM WILLOW CREEK

  Martin Delacroix

  Leopards never change their spots.”

  That’s what my mother taught me as a kid. “Once a thief, always a thief,” she said. “A cheater will always be a cheater.”

  I believed her then, and I guess I still do, but not entirely.

  Let me tell you why.

  A while back—about a year ago it was—I spent a summer in San Francisco, a true adventure for a guy like me who’d never traveled beyond Ohio’s borders. My uncle Roy, my mom’s brother, had died and left me a small inheritance. I was between jobs, and I thought: hey, I should go live someplace completely different, stay among people such as I had never known. I’d always been interested in the Bay Area: the Giants, the Golden Gate and, of course, the gay scene. So I thought San Francisco would be a good choice. I contacted a rental service and leased a furnished apartment for three months, a one-bedroom on Folsom. The rent was a bit high, but I found a cheap flight, and next thing I knew I was hailing a taxi outside SFO’s baggage claim, juggling three suitcases and breathing the bay’s salty air.

  I met the kid a few weeks into my stay. Our first contact was through the Internet, via a website called Lads for Dads. After trading several messages, we spoke a time or two by phone, and I thought we’d be compatible. A high-school dropout with a knack for computers, he was twenty-one and still lived with his folks. His grammar was okay, he seemed amiable and he was eager to leave his hometown of Willow Creek—someplace up north—to visit me in San Francisco.

  “I need to get out of here,” he said.

  “Sure,” I told him, “come on down. We’ll have a good time.”

  We met at Transbay Terminal. The weather was warm the night he arrived. I watched him move under ceiling lights in the bus, heading for the door. He was a small boy and his head barely reached the shoulders of some men he passed. Though I’d only seen his face picture, I knew it was him, right off. Even before he stepped onto the pavement, I recognized him because he moved with deliberation.

  From our phone conversations, I knew there was nothing reticent about him.

  I waved and he approached. We shook hands, standing on the sidewalk next to his bus, and he gave me a hundred-watt smile. He wore all black: T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. One leg of his pants was rolled to the knee, I don’t know why. Three days of stubble sat on his face and his black hair was in tangles. He walked curiously: his shoulders rocked from side to side, as if he were moving through a crowd and dodging people, only there wasn’t any crowd.

  During conversation his gaze never stuck with me long. He’d look at me with his dark eyes. Then he’d glance at something in the distance. After a few seconds, he’d return his gaze to me. I found this somewhat weird, but everyone has his peculiarities, right?

  Like many boys, the bulk of his weight was below the waist—in the ass and legs—but his shoulders were broad enough for a young man his height, and there was nothing feminine in his appearance or manner. He kept smiling while we walked down Mission Street, heading toward my apartment and speaking of things I can’t recall now. He smoked a cigarette as we walked, all the way down to the filter. His voice was deep for a guy his age, a raspy baritone. He carried a backpack and his laptop computer—that was it.

  Now, I’ll admit I was sold on him, even before we reached my place. The boy was good looking in a rough-around-the-edges sort of way. And, my god, he was young. A tension dwelt within him. His fidgeting never seemed to stop, as if he were plugged into a wall socket. Walking next to him, there on the street, energized me like amphetamine.

  I’d hidden my valuables—camera, wallet and so forth—because I feared he might be a thief. But as soon as I met him I sensed he wouldn’t steal, and this turned out to be true. He lived with me three weeks—I had all sorts of cash and credit cards lying about—and nothing ever went missing.

  We drank beer at my place that first night while we chatted. He was easy to talk with and his story was a bit sad. A week before, he said, his mom had broken some news to him: she told him he was an adopted child. She and her husband had found the kid through some agency up in Oregon, when he was a baby.

  For a long time before then, the kid told me, he’d suspected his parents were hiding a truth from him, and now he knew what it was. When he told me this, I tried to imagine how the kid must’ve felt about the situation, but I couldn’t. It’s hard for me to put myself in
someone else’s shoes. Know what I mean?

  He told me something else that first night: At age fifteen he’d taken a bus, alone, from Willow Creek to Portland, Oregon—a nine-hour trip—just to have sex with some guy he’d contacted over the Internet. At age fifteen. Crazy, huh?

  Also, like I mentioned before, he had dropped out of high school before graduating. He said, “Why should I stay in school when I can make plenty of money doing programming and website design? I’m smarter than those other kids. Why sit around in classrooms learning stuff I’ll never use in the real world? I already have several clients, and they pay pretty well.”

  That first night he arrived, right after we drank the beers, I looked into his dark eyes and knew I had to get him in bed. We sat on the sofa. I reached for the back of his neck and pulled him to me. We kissed a good long while, and I tasted the last cigarette he’d smoked. Sticking my tongue in his ear, I twirled it and the kid cooed while a shiver ran through him.

  I reached for the hem of his T-shirt and told him to raise his arms. I peeled the shirt off him and, my god, you should’ve seen his body. He wasn’t muscular or anything, but his chest was defined; he had a washboard belly. I placed his hands behind his neck and licked his dark armpits; they had a sour smell to them I found appealing. His nipples were tiny as raisins, and they hardened when I sucked them.

  I reached between his legs and felt his boner. Its size and firmness made me salivate. I’d never touched a boy his age before, and my hands shook with excitement. I popped the button at his waist, ran down the zipper, parted the flaps. He wore black briefs beneath and I slipped my hand inside them. My fingers passed through his pubic hair. I grabbed his cock and squeezed it, making him groan. My heart pounded so hard I thought I might pass out. I asked myself, Is this really happening?

  The kid took his sneakers and socks off, so I could get his pants and briefs over his feet. His thighs were smooth, his calves dusted with dark hair. His cock was uncut, about six inches and thick as a flashlight handle. The foreskin was crinkly, caramel in color, as delicate as tissue paper. I retracted the foreskin, exposing his bullet-shaped glans. I smelled his dick cheese; it excited me and I couldn’t help myself: I took his cock into my mouth and swallowed it whole, feeling the tip nudge the back of my throat.

  The kid groaned again while I worked his cock with my tongue and lips; I slurped away like a child with a lollipop. He sifted his fingers through my hair while he bucked his hips. My own cock throbbed between my thighs. This is great, I thought, truly unbelievable. And then I wondered, Will he let me fuck him? Probably not, but maybe…

  Holding his hand, I brought him to my bedroom. His cock bobbed before him. After lighting a candle, I killed the lights and turned down the covers. Then I got naked too.

  The kid whistled. “Your cock’s pretty big,” he said.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and motioned him to me. The candle cast our shadows on the wall: two silhouettes with raging boners. He sat beside me and looked at me with those dark eyes. My pulse raced while I stroked his temple with a thumb. “Tell me,” I said, “what you’d like to do.”

  He dropped his gaze and licked his lips.

  “What is it?” I said.

  He looked at me again. “I want you to spank my ass—hard.”

  His request took me by surprise. I’d never done such a thing. But I thought, Hell, why not?

  He positioned himself across my lap, face down, so his hips rested on my thighs. His hands and feet met the floor and his ass was right in my face. I patted his buttcheeks; they were firm and rounded, white as cream. A stripe of dark hair grew between them. His hole winked at me—a pink rosebud that flexed when I stroked it with a fingertip. The kid shoved his genitals back between his thighs, so I could touch them. I squeezed his cock, stroked his smooth sack and bulging nuts.

  “Go on,” he said, “make this hurt.”

  I gave him a couple of swats with an open hand, one on each cheek.

  He moved his shoulders. “Not hard enough.”

  Okay, I thought. Give him what he wants.

  I laid into him. The slaps sounded like pistols shots going off in the room, and I wondered if the neighbors could hear. The kid’s head jerked as I went to work; his toes dug into my carpet. In just a few minutes his asscheeks looked like a pair of ripe tomatoes. I mean, they must’ve been on fire ’cause they were hot to the touch. I spanked his thighs, got them nice and red, too. The kid panted, sweat beaded on his skin and he kicked his legs while I continued delivering swats.

  Now, I’m not a violent man; I don’t like hurting people. But this was what the kid had requested, and I figured I should perform adequately. I kept on spanking till he was crimson from his waist to the backs of his knees, until he whimpered like a six-year-old. His cock remained hard during the entire spanking, so I guess he enjoyed himself.

  I’ll admit I found the whole thing exciting, especially the kid’s submission to me, his acceptance of the discipline I’d administered. But again, I found his behavior curious. Was the spanking something he found arousing? Or was it atonement for some wrongdoing?

  “It’s enough,” he finally cried.

  He rose to his feet, rubbing his bottom. His face was flushed and tears glistened in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” I told him. “What now?”

  He sniffled, still rubbing his ass. “Whatever you’d like; just say.”

  Go on, ask.

  “Can I fuck you?”

  He nodded.

  And I thought, Oh, yeah…

  We didn’t rush into it. I took my time, holding him in my arms, stroking his hair while we tongue kissed. I patted his steaming bottom, pinched his nipples. He writhed like a snake and rubbed his skin against mine. His fingers gripped my cock; he thumbed my glans until I leaked precome.

  At my suggestion, we did a bit of sixty-nine. The kid knew how to suck, that’s for sure; he took all of me down his throat. His tongue caressed the contours of my cock. He used his stubble to scratch my ball sac, raising goose bumps on my arms and legs. When I asked if he was ready to fuck, he nodded. He said he preferred riding topside, which was fine with me.

  I reached for the lube and greased myself, then his hole. My cock was stiff as PVC pipe. He straddled me and looked into my face while he lowered himself onto on my cock. I pierced his pucker and felt the heat of his gut. He clenched his jaw and looked at the ceiling. Candlelight reflected in a film of sweat on his forehead.

  I worked on his nipples, pinching and twisting, drawing sighs from the kid. He commenced riding me while he used a fist to stroke his cock. His foreskin smacked like a man chewing gum. Scents of sweat, smegma and shit grew strong in the room. The bedsprings creaked and a breeze fluttered drapes at the window. I felt unworldly, like I dwelled on a distant planet, occupied solely by me and the kid. Already, his eyes had lost focus. His head rocked as I fucked him. My cock stretched his hole, again and again. Our shadows on the wall moved; we looked like two ancients performing some tribal rite.

  The kid came first; he cried out and his chest heaved. His cock flung gobs of semen onto my chest; they glistened like opals. A buzzing sounded inside of my head. A tremor ran through my limbs and my lungs pumped. I grabbed the kid’s asscheeks, squeezing his reddened flesh while my cock throbbed inside his gut. When I unloaded, my body jerked with each shot.

  Holy crap, was all I could think.

  Then the weirdest thing happened: the kid began to cry. He thrust his arms around my neck and buried his face in the crook between my jaw and chest. His body shook like a sapling in a gale. I didn’t know what to think; I figured his orgasm had overwhelmed him, or something like that. My cock was still inside him. I put my arms around his shoulders and held him, not saying anything. After a while, he calmed down.

  “Want to call it a night?” I asked.

  He sniffled and nodded.

  I blew out the candle and we climbed under the covers. He laid his head upon my chest, c
rossed one leg over mine and draped his arm over my stomach. His hair smelled like damp grass. I drew a breath and released it while I stared at the ceiling. I listened to traffic pass on the street below, wondering where all this was headed.

  When I woke the next morning, he was there, naked and beautiful, and I could not believe my good fortune at having him with me. Already, you see, I’d fallen for the kid. He had stirred emotions deep inside me, ones I hadn’t felt before. Everything about him—his lithe physique, deep voice and ready smile—enchanted me. You should understand something: I was in my early forties, and I’d never had a boyfriend. Right out of high school I’d married a woman; I thought I was supposed to. The marriage lasted eight loveless years. We didn’t have any kids, thank god.

  After my divorce, I finally worked up the courage to visit gay bars. Once in a while, I’d get lucky and pick up a guy. We’d have sex at his place or mine, but that was it. I never saw the same guy twice; I’m not sure why. Maybe I was afraid of emotional involvement. I spent most evenings alone, falling asleep in front of the TV, and I figured that’s how things would continue.

  But now, with the kid in the picture, I envisioned something more. I know it sounds crazy, but there in bed, that first morning, I told myself, This is your chance. You could build a life with him.

  I bent my arm at the elbow and propped my head against my hand, staring at the kid while he slept. He lay on his back and his chest rose and fell. His dark hair was tangled, going this way and that. I studied the curves of his nose, mouth and eyebrows; they were so…delicate. Fingering his earlobe, I shook my head in amazement. I told myself, Things are going to be great, aren’t they?

  Well…

  The boy liked his sleep. If he ever rose before noon, I don’t recall it.