I guess it may have been because of my mother-and of the strange beliefs my grandmother formed around her. Up until the time my grandmother's ill health coincided with me being old enough to go to college, I'd been kept in the dark about so many things. I knew that my mother must have done some really, really bad things from the way that my grandmother just tightened up, crossing her arms under her bust and screwing up her face and pursing her lips like she did any time that I asked about my mother. And let's not even talk about asking about my father. I learned early on that it wasn't a topic to bring up.
"Just go down the street and point out any man you see," Grandma would say in that tight voice of hers. And she'd be looking hard at Grandpa like he was just one more man on the street. He'd look away then, rustling that newspaper he was always reading, and mutter, "Let's just not go there, Marie. Remember your heart."
But my mother. I knew that they knew who my mother was, because she was their daughter. That was how I was their grandson. But they treated us like we were total opposites. And it was only recently that I realized that this was the goal: to make us total opposites. Any mention of my mother at all instantly brought tension into the room. She seemed always to be there, lurking somewhere, even though I didn't even know what she looked like. There was nothing in the house that physically could be associated with her. And the only time I asked Grandpa about her, he turned a stony face to me, peering from around the side of a newspaper page, and said. "Your mother is dead to us, son. We will not speak of that again."
Grandma, though, cleared that up. My mother wasn't really dead dead. She just was somewhere doing something that Grandma didn't want to talk about. And it was quite obvious that it was something I didn't need to know about-and certainly wouldn't be doing as long as I was in her house and with my feet under her table.
Other than that sore topic, though, my grandparents-well, mostly my grandmother-doted on me. Whereas nothing in the house spoke of my mother, at every turn there was a photograph of me: me seeing the Christmas tree for the first time; me on my first bicycle, with grandpa standing there, holding me upright and making me think I was doing that all by myself; Grandma putting a birthday cake in front of me. The weird thing about those photographs, though-and I only recently noticed that-was that the photographs were always just me-or me with either Grandma or Grandpa. There were no other people in my life. Not even any friends my own age. Maybe that's why later I gravitated to older men. I'd grown up with only old people around me.
That had been the way it was until I was ready to go off to college-which was only something that came to pass after a knock-down, drag-out fight between my grandparents, where Grandpa was saying that I couldn't be kept close all of my life and Grandma only seeing his point when she collapsed and Grandpa had to call in paramedics. When she was strong enough for them to talk again, Grandpa used her ailment to drive home his point, and Grandma just turned her face to the wall and didn't say another word.
Even then, though, I only went to the nearby junior college this past year. Up until then I'd been homeschooled.
I wasn't totally dumb about what my mother was doing that Grandma didn't like-or what growing up was all about. I'd done some experimenting, finding out all by myself what my body was about and how to gain pleasure from it. Of course I knew it was a forbidden pleasure-at least where my grandparents were concerned-and that it had something to do with my mother being a bad person. But it was only late in the summer that I realized that it wasn't just something I had invented-for myself-and then only because it gave me relief from some pent-up feelings.
This came about because of the slow awakening to the world that my grandfather was initiating. After getting Grandma to agree to letting me go on to college-and it wasn't because she wasn't doing a good job of schooling me, because I passed the entrance exams with flying colors even if it only was a community junior college-Grandpa also declared that I would have to help pay for the education, so I'd have to get a summer job. Where Grandma had been good about the textbook part of the schooling, Grandpa had been equally good at making sure that I grew up strong and trim. We had a basement gym room and he insisted that I follow an exercise and strength-training routine almost from the time I could walk. It was natural, then, that he set me up in a job where I would get good exercise.
He bought me two professional-level mowing machines-a big one for open stretches and a narrow one for trimming areas-and other equipment I would need to set up a lawn-mowing business. I started by offering to do work in the neighborhood and then branched out farther when I found that people were happy to pay someone else to mow their lawns while they went off to the gym.
What this is all leading up to, though, is Mr. Crabtree down the block-the football coach at the local high school I didn't get to go to. Now, he was certainly someone who could do his own lawn. He was always exercising and keeping his body toned and fit, and he was outside and on the field all summer getting guys ready to play football in the fall. So, mowing his own lawn would have been a lot cheaper than paying to go to a gym. But I guess he didn't see it that way.
I almost just bypassed his house when I was drumming up business, figuring he did his own lawn or, more likely, he got his football players to do it. But he jumped at my offer to do it. I mean really jumped at the idea. He was all smiles and glad handing and gushing about what a great idea it was and how in shape I looked and how he wondered how we could have been living in the same neighborhood all these years and never have come into contact.
* * * *
A lot of my customers this summer have been really friendly to me, but none more so than Mr. Crabtree. He always seems to be home when I come to mow, even though I know he is busy at school with summer practices. And he always insists that I come up on his back porch and have a cold drink and cool down after I've done the mowing. It's really been hot this summer, out there mowing. So hot that I was going through a lot of T-shirts, sweating, while I mowed. After the first couple of weeks Grandma complained about all of the extra washing she had to do and how stinky my work clothes were-so I began mowing shirtless. None of my customers complain, so I just keep on doing it.
Mr. Crabtree always has offered me a beer after I've mown, and I've always had to turn him down. I'm really not old enough in our town to be drinking beer and Grandma would have had a cow to hear that I drank anything alcoholic. Mr. Crabtree teases me about it, but he then goes back inside and comes out with a glass of lemonade or iced tea or Coke or something.
He's always done that: offered me the beer and then had to go back inside the house for something else for me to drink. The second time he did it was the first time I noticed that he had magazines sitting on the table next to the chair I sat on on the porch. When I first noticed them, I thought they had something to do with physical education-and thought it was natural that Mr. Crabtree would have magazines like that. But when I looked closer, I saw that they weren't like that at all. They had photographs of guys. And they didn't have a stitch on. Some of the photos were of just one guy, but others were of guys like wrestling with each other or something.
The third time I mowed his lawn, I couldn't help it. I looked closer at those magazines. They weren't just wrestling.
Well, that set my mind going, I'll tell you. And it had an effect on parts of me other than my mind too. I found myself looking around to see if Mr. Crabtree was coming back and listening for signs that he was. He's been taking an ever-longer time getting my drinks, though, so it's giving me a chance to look at those magazines more closely. Last week I thought maybe he'd caught me looking at them. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw some movement in the window, in what I think is his dining room, out onto the porch, but when I turned to look there, I didn't see anything but what looked like the back of a dining room chair-and ruffling curtains.
After cutting his grass since then, though, I've been going home and going straight to the shower. Now while I shower, I think about those photographs I'm seeing in his magazines. And I'm taking care of myself. Since seeing those photographs, I've had more of that tension than ever before, and I look for relief. I wasn't taught shit about sex education, but I've discovered some things myself. And there's the Internet to help. And I've found that those photographs I saw on Mr. Crabtree's porch don't just come in magazines.
I know now what I'm doing, because I've looked it up. I'm masturbating, or, in more crude terms, jacking off. I didn't know anything about that sort of stuff before. It's nothing that my Grandma covered in her homeschooling and nothing that Grandpa has ever mentioned either. I haven't brought it up myself, because it's very clear to me that it's tied up in whatever badness my mother is doing-and any subject bordering on that sets my Grandma right off. I don't think her heart can take that sort of irritation anymore.
* * * *
Miss Rogers, my English teacher, has asked me to come to her office at school after class today. She asked me while I was standing there at the end of class with Tom Strong and Glen Childress. This is the first day anyone has talked to me in class. I've gotten some friendly looks from some of the women, but this is the first time any of the men have said anything to me. The women seem to be older than me, mostly, but the guys are mostly like me-just out of high school and trying to work their way into college. They've been kind of standoffish, though, because I've been able to answer all of the questions that Miss Rogers answered-just like the women do-and I think the guys think I'm a show-off. Most of them didn't get very good grades in high school, I think. And I think that's why they're here instead of a better college. I'd like to work my way out of here and go to a better college.
I have to remember not to raise my hand in class when I know the answer to the question.
"You know what it means for Miss Rogers to ask you to her office after class, don't you?" Tom Strong asks with a smirk on his face.
"Means she's got the hots for you," Glen says. "Tom can tell you exactly what that means, can't you Tom?"
"She's old, but she's got as good a pussy as any of them do," Tom says, wagging his head. "Have fun, chum. Guess it pays off to answer her questions in class."
I'm not really sure what they mean as I go down the hall to Miss Roger's office. It's the last one down the hall of the teacher's rooms. The light is off in the room, and I almost don't go in. I almost just stand there at the end of the hall, waiting for her to show up.
"Is that you, Allen?" I hear her ask from inside her office. Her voice sounds a bit breathy. "Come on in and shut the door behind you."
As I enter her room, which isn't totally dark-she has a window and it's late afternoon-I notice that although her door has a glass window in it as they all do, hers is papered over from the inside.
She's sitting on her desk, one leg dangling in front of her and the other propped up on a chair pulled over to be right in front of the desk. Her skirt is pulled up over her knees, and I can see all the way up her plump thighs to hallelujah. She isn't wearing any panties. There's a V of curly brown hair that I can see up there where her thighs meet.
I'm think that's strange-the color down there-because the hair on her head is blonde.
"It's great having someone in class this year who is ahead of the curve, Allen," she says in that breathy voice that is a lot different from what she has used in class this first week of the course. "You really are a grown man for your age. And I can't keep my eyes off of you. Anyone tell you how good you look? What a handsome young man you are? I'll bet you smell as good as you look. Come here closer."
I shuffle closer to her, confused and a bit embarrassed, and she reaches out and pulls me between her legs.
The kiss is different from anything I've ever felt before, and I feel myself stirring. She has one arm around my waist, holding me close to her, and I both feel and hear my zipper being lowered.
"You want to please your teachers, don't you, Allen?"
And then I lose all control, although there's nothing I need to control. She's doing it all. Doing to my dick what I've been doing myself, in the shower and late at night in my bed.
She's telling me how big I am-and I certainly feel bigger down there than I've ever felt before-and she's purring about what a hunk I am.
I'm inside her. She's wet and warm. She's clutching my butt cheeks and pressing and releasing and I'm moving in and out of her. The friction is driving me crazy, and I feel tight and the buildup of my spunk all at once.
She's saying how she loves how I play the innocent but am so good at it that I must be fucking all of the women-and that all of the women must love being fucked by me. She's making animal noises and groaning like I'm hurting her, although she declares that I'm not.
I shudder and come. And then, in total embarrassment and fear, I push off from her and go running out of the room. I'm half way down the hall before I remember that I'm hanging out and stop to adjust my pants. Luckily, there's no one else there.
Tomorrow I think I'll get my English class changed. I can't bear the thought of sitting there in class and having her look at me-and knowing and, worse, maybe asking me to her office again. I check my feelings, but other than shooting off, I feel more fear-and disgust, and not all with myself-than any of the feelings I thought I'd feel.
* * * *
It's mid September. It's been a hot year, though, and it looks like the summer temperatures will go right into October. That's been good for my mowing service. I've managed to work that around my classes, and I think, with the extensiveness of the warm weather, I'll manage to cover the tuition cost for the full year.
Grandma's in the hospital, and Grandpa's spending most of the days there. I pretty much have to batch for myself now. Grandpa has told me that I'd better learn to cook and wash for myself, because it won't be long until I'm on my own-without anyone being able to do anything about that.
"You're going to have to be making more of your own decisions from now on," he told me.
I restrained myself from doing cartwheels. I'm sure he thought that would scare me, but ever since that encounter with Miss Rogers-and it bringing to mind the magazines at Mr. Crabtree more than anything I'll bet she wanted me to be thinking about-I've been worrying my mind over what I'm interested in, what I want. And I don't think that either Grandma or Grandpa would like to know what I've been thinking.
* * * *
I'm at Mr. Crabtree's, just finishing up his lawn. It isn't all that hot today, but I'm not wearing a T-shirt anyway. I'm not quite sure why I'm not doing that. I'm less sure of why I've worn gym shorts that ride low on my hips. But I suspect it has something to do with the way Mr. Crabtree is sitting there on his porch, watching me mow, and about what's been on my mind recently. He's in gym shorts too-and he isn't wearing any T-shirt either. And he's got a really, really finely worked body.
I feel all tingly and I'm hard down there. I know this is exactly what Grandma doesn't want me feeling or doing, but I'm feeling pretty free and euphoric. I like this feeling. I like it a lot.
"You're done?" Mr. Crabtree calls from the porch?
"Yes. Not too hard today," I call back. "It's getting cooler. That takes the strain off."
"That and you've mowed all summer," he says. "Your body's hard now."
He's not looking at my face. His gaze has gone down from my pecs to below my waist, and that doesn't change a thing in my arousal.
"Lookin' real good . . . real good," he continues, as he lifts his gaze to connect with mine and smile. "Come on up and have something to drink."
He stands as I climb the stairs to his porch. He's already got a pitcher of iced tea out here today.
"Unless you'll have a beer," he says, as he gestures at the tea. I see the magazines, as usual, are strewn on the table beside where I sit.
I also see something else. I see that his gym shorts are tented. I am aware that mine still are too-and I'm aware of that because I see where Mr. Crabtree's gaze has gone again.
I clear my throat. "I believe today I'll take you up on that offer of a beer, if it's just the same to you."
He smiles at me. It's a big smile, like we've made a step toward something he's been working on for some time. And, in fact, maybe we have.
"I don't have any out here," he says, holding the smile. He's moved his hand down to the waist of his gym shorts, which are pulled down in front because of that tenting. He sticks his thumb under the waistline and pulls them down a bit more. I can see the line of the curve under his flat belly and the creases on either side where the thighs meet the hips, dipping down toward the still-hidden center of him. I feel my breathing coming a little harder.
"If it's beer we want, we'll have to go inside. Will you come inside with me?"
"Yes, that would be fine," I say. It comes out more a squeak than anything else, though.
He smiles and backs up to the door, never taking his eyes off me, and pulls the screen door open. The other door into his kitchen is already open.
"Go on through to the living room," he says as I move past him. My shoulder brushes against his chest as I pass. It makes me shudder. I've felt the downy hair he has running on the underside of his well-muscled pecs. I'd already seen that the line of fine, curly hair came together on his sternum and moved down his belly, where it flared out as it disappeared under his waistband. With his gym shorts pulled down in front, I have seen that there is thicker hair curling up from beneath the waistband in front.
"I'll just be a minute," he says. "Just getting us a couple of beers from the frig."
I walk-almost stumble-on through to the living room, my trembling increasing as I go. I have no experience in this. This all could be natural. This might not be what I want to think it is. And I might not be able to go through with it even if it is. But I feel so ready for it. I've been like a bird in a cage all these years. I feel like I'm busting to do something. I thought maybe with women-but with Miss Rogers, there really was nothing. But what would Grandma say? How disappointing it will be to . . .
Screw Grandma, I think as I sink down on his sofa. Then I give a nervous little laugh. Grandpa said I had to make my own decisions now. And about time I did that. But what if I'm wrong?. Just how embarrassing that would be. And then what? What then in life? Do I go looking for something? How would I do that? I know nothing. I'm not prepared for anything like . . .
And then I see that I haven't been wrong at all. I haven't misread any signals. And knowing that makes me tremble even more than when I wasn't sure.
Mr. Crabtree is walking across the dining room, toward me. He has a can of beer lifted out in each hand. But that's all he's wearing. He's naked. And his dick is huge and hard and curved up. And he's walking like he's proud of his body, as well he should be. He's a Greek god. And he's walking like I know exactly what's going on and what I'm here for.
But I don't know. I mean I know why I think I'm here and I know what I think I want. But beyond that, I know nothing. What am I supposed to do now? Grandma would say I'm supposed to stand up and walk out of the house and just keep on walking.
But he's standing there in front of me, holding a can of beer out to me and smiling. Not a hint of doubt in his mind. Have I given him the impression that I know more about this than I do-that I'm fully sold on this? What should I do now?
But I don't really have to do anything. I take the beer. My hand is shaking so bad I'm afraid the beer will slosh out of the can.
"Don't be scared," he says. "I'm going to treat you right. I've waited all summer for this."
"I don't know. I'm not sure . . . ," I squeak.
"I walked into this room naked and erect and you're still here, aren't you?"
"Yes," I croak.
"So that means you know."
He takes a deep draw from his beer can, and, mimicking him because I can't think of anything else to do, I do the same with mine.
Then he takes the can from me and sets both of them down on the coffee table. And in one fluid motion he sits down close beside me; puts an arm around my shoulders; and, cupping the back of my head, brings my mouth to his and pushes his tongue between my lips. His taste is beery, that isn't a bad taste. His other hand is palming my belly, which feels like jelly under his touch. But it doesn't stay there long. It goes directly to my basket, grabbing my dick through the material of the gym shorts. I, of course, am still hard. Which tells him all he wants to know-about what I want and what he can do with me.
Although all of my senses are pinging off those two locations-his tongue inside my mouth and his hand gripping my dick, my mind is racing. What am I supposed to do? Where do my arms go. Am I supposed to reach for his crotch too?
In the event, I'm immobile. And Mr. Crabtree doesn't seem to care. He's doing what he wants to do, and I'm not resisting. So, for him it's all good.
I have to say that, as guilty as I now feel, so far it's all good for me too. This despite the voice of Grandma in the background telling me just to pull away, stand up, and get the hell out of there. I can even hear her voice screaming, "Get the hell out of there!"
He grips my hair and tugs my head back. I feel the pain of it, but it's exhilarating. And it's offset by the sensation of his lips now at the hollow of my neck. And then on my throat. On my right nipple. His teeth tug at the nipple and the rumble of a whimper comes up from my belly and I groan. I hear him laugh deep in this throat, and then he's working the other nipple.
His hand is under the waistband of my shorts, gripping my dick, flesh to flesh. How in the hell . . . when did he . . . ? I moan deeply.
"Please, please," I whimper.
"Yes, I'm going to be very good to you," he murmurs. "I'm going to fuck you good. Young stud. Love fucking young studs. I can do you good."
Has he misunderstood me? What in the fuck did my plea mean anyway? He said fuck. I said fuck. Oh shit. He's going to fuck me. He's going to fuck me! Oh shit, oh shit! I pant hard and moan deeply. He's slow-stroking my cock. Just the way I liked to do it. Just the way that aroused me the most, the fastest, when I did it myself. But someone else is doing it. A man. Not a boy, a man. Magnificent body. Could fuck anyone. Wants to fuck me. It means a lot that the guy doing me has a good body.
"We'll take our time," he says. "I'll do you right."
His dick's going to be inside me. Can I take it? How much pain? It's huge. Did you see it? It's a monster. You who? I'm hyperventilating. He's going to stick all of that inside me. Oh god, what am I doing?
I only now realize that I have a hand wrapped around his cock. He's breathing hard now too. He's moaning now too. I take my hand away, but only by commanding it to do so in my mind. And my hand has a mind of its own. Rather than withdrawing, it has laced his balls between its fingers and is gently tugging on them.
"Oh shit, yes," he moans. "You're good at this. We're gonna have fun. I'll fuck you good, baby."
Good at this? I've never done anything like this before.
His hand leaves my cock and I feel that arm coming around under my waist, as he moves lower on my body. My torso is twisted toward the arm of the sofa, and I lose contact with his balls and, not knowing what else to do with my arms, I raise them over my head and dig my fingers into the underside of the sofa arm that my head is now resting on. I arch my back and gasp as he takes a nipple in his teeth again. He lifts and tugs at my torso, pulling me into a reclining position along the line of the sofa. He's crouched over me on his hands and knees. I like what I see in the curving and bulging of his muscles. I'm glad the guying doing me first has a great body-a man's body.
His mouth moves down my sternum to my belly button, where his tongue does a darting in and out tease. Both of his arms come away and his hands are at my waistband, pulling the shorts and jock strap down and off my legs. He lifts my right leg up and moves it to the other side of his torso, trapping it against and rising up the back of the sofa.
He scrapes the fingernails of both hands down my chest and belly while taking my dick inside his mouth, and I arch my back and give a gasp and a little cry at the twin shocks and pleasure of these sensations. He sucks the bulb of the cock hard and I groan loudly. He is humming and I can feel the vibrations all through my body. His lips slide down the sides of the dick, once, twice, three times. My arms arc down to grabbing the back of his head.
I don't know if I'm trying to hold him to my crotch or force him away. The sensation of his sucking is overwhelming. I had no idea it would be like this. I had no idea how much pleasure could be gotten from it. If this is fucking, fucking is heaven.
But this isn't really fucking. Not yet.
He's tugging on my balls with one hand. His other hand glides up my body to my chin. A thumb is at my lips, and I suck it in, slurping it. Not knowing in the least what I should be doing, but knowing from the sounds he's making that he's happy with how it's going.
But he's going to fuck me. He's going to stick that big thing up inside me-and pump. He'll rip my guts out.
"Please, please," I whimper again.
He takes that as a request to pump his mouth harder on my cock. Down. Gasp. Up, groan. Repeat. His slick fingers are at my rear entrance. I start involuntarily to buck as they enter me. I feel crammed, full, and I've seen those fingers. And I've seen that much bigger cock. He's going to stick that inside me. Oh shit. Oh, fuccck! What's that the fingers are rubbing? I've read about the prostate. I've read what you can do with it. I never knew. Oh, fuccccck!
"I'm going to come!" There's no way he understood me. His thumb is stifling any ability I might have had to form words properly
I'm writhing, bucking, trying to let him know he's taking me beyond any control I might have.
And then I come.
He rises off me, laughing, cum dribbling down his chin. He rises over my body and goes into a deep kiss. I have my own cum in my mouth. It should be disgusting. It isn't, though. I suddenly feel very weary, glad that it's over but satisfied too-in a way I've never felt satisfied before. My cum tastes salty. Not much more I get from it than that.
But it's not over.
"God, I like them young. Young stud like you will be up for it in a couple of minutes again," he mutters and then he laughs.
And then he is crouching over me again, but our bodies reversed. His hands are rolling my butt up and his head is disappearing between the orbs. I feel his tongue run down into my crease and find the rim of my entrance.
I pant and moan. His cock pokes at my cheeks and my eyes. Then he finds my lips and I have little choice but to open to it and start doing whatever I can imagine is done in sucking a cock. He's not objecting.
I'm lost for several minutes with my attention focused both on what he's doing at my ass entrance and my attempts to accommodate and suck on his cock. How long has this gone on? How much longer? How much arousing pleasure can I get? Can I give?
He turns me on my belly along the couch, with him sitting beside my waist. I don't know where they've come from, but there is a string of attached condom packets on the coffee table and a bottle of what I assume is lubricant. I'm still trying to regularize my breathing, but I just can't bring it under control.
I watch him in fascination as he opens a packet, extracts a condom, and rolls it on his cock. "Yes, going to do you real good. Fuck you to heaven. Beautiful young body," Mr. Crabtree is muttering as he slathers lubricant on his sheathed cock.
This isn't helping to regularize my breathing.
He's going to fuck me. With that huge cock. "Jump up and run!" I hear the voice of my Grandma. "It's not too late!"
But if I do that, it might be too late for what I think I want in life. There's got to be pleasure in it. Maybe not the first time. But eventually. There are guys who want it. Who beg for it. Again and again.
"Please, please," I whimper.
"Want it, don't you? Can't wait for it. Sweet body. Bet it's a sweet, tight hole. We're going to have fun. Ream you a wider channel than any of your buddies have."
He crouches over me on the sofa and turns me on my back under him. I can't help it; I run my hands over his bulging biceps and under his pits to his pecs. And down his torso to his cock. Our cocks close together. I hold them together in a thick bundle and stroke, as he comes in for another kiss.
Pulling away from the kiss, he laughs a low laugh and yes, "Yes, you are so ready for it."
He turns me on my belly again underneath his crouching body. An arm snakes under my waist, pulling me up on my knees. A wet feeling at my entrance and then inside, the fingers digging, pushing lube inside. Feeling totally full. And those are just the fingers. He's going to fuck me with that cock. Ream my channel wide.
I cry out and writhe under him. "Oh shit! Oh fuck!"
"That's just the bulb," he says in my ear, his chest pressing on my shoulder blades, an arm still under my waist.
"Oh god, take it slow, please!" I warble. "I've never before . . ."
"What? You've never been fucked in the ass before?"
"No, none of it. None of what we've done."
"Oh, sweet jesus. Want me to stop?"
"No, please. I want it. I know it will hurt. Just . . . just go slow."
"Oh, fuckin' A. The first time? For real? Oh, sweet fuck. I love to get them fresh, but I rarely . . . oh, fuckin' sweet jesus. OK, we'll go slow. I'll treat you right baby. I'll be good to you. When I've done you, you'll want it again and again."
"Just give me time."
"I'm already half in, baby. My talking was to distract you."
I hold my breath and stiffen. I can feel him deep inside now. He didn't lie. It's in me. God, it's at least half in me. I've got a huge dick inside me. He's doing it. I'm taking it. I've taken a huge cock! I can do this!
"Breathe, baby, breathe. And relax. Yes, like that. Widen your stance. We'll tighten up again later. Yes, like that. See, you can take it. It's good for you, baby. Daddy's good for you."
"It hurts like hell," I whimper.
"Do you want me to . . . ?"
"Just make the hurt go away. Tell me it won't always be like this. Tell me it will be good."
"After this, you'll want it inside you all the time, baby. And I'm all in now. We'll rest for a minute and then we'll really be doing it and the pain will go away and all there will be is the pleasure."
"And the knowledge that I took it. That I have it all inside me," I whimpered.
"Yes, that too, sweet baby. Yes, that too, now, here we go."
I grit my teeth and try to suppress the scream as he starts to slow pump inside me.
"What a fuckin' sweet ass."
He is right. At length the pain drifts at least half way into pleasure. He keeps promising me it will get better and better. And he keeps pumping. Faster and faster. Pain, but I don't care. I'm lost to it, slamming my butt back to meet his thrusts, cum building up inside me-and . . . shooting off . . . again.
He keeps pumping. When he's ejaculated, he takes his arm out from under my waist and I collapse on the cushions. He lowers his body at a full stretch on my back and moves his hands around my body, stroking me.
"See, Fuckin' young stud. You're getting hard again. I'm gonna need more time, though. What a sweet fuck."
He turns my face to his and we kiss.
"That was one Grade A fuck, Allen, my boy. You were worth the summer investment. The beers gotta be too warm to drink now. I'll go get fresh ones. Then we'll fuck again. You'll like it even more the next time. And you'll love it the time after that."
Fuck again? I whimper wearily, not being sure whether that idea scares me or exhilarates me. Maybe both. And maybe that's part of the thrill of it.
* * * *
Both Grandma and Grandpa are in a home now. I visit them almost daily. I have the house all to myself and I'm doing well enough financially to stick with the junior college. My grades are good enough that I'll be able to transfer at the end of the semester this summer. I think I'll go to the university that I can commute to from here.
I like the freedom of having a house to bring guys back to. The table my feet go under is my own now. The men I bring back here usually are older men in their early or mid thirties. I meet them in bars. I always let them make the first move. I don't want anybody who doesn't want me so much that they'll make the moves. I like the older men. They have experience and they're still young enough to have a vigorous stroke. I like to have it deep and strong. And I like to have it big. I'm still enthralled with the idea of having something that big inside me-wanting to be there, needing to be there. And they are grateful a younger guy like me will give them a fuck. Some are so grateful that they are generous. That's helped me stay afloat. They've got to have good bodies, though. Of course I've had few with as good a body as Mr. Crabtree had.
I haven't been back to Mr. Crabtree's since last October. I don't regret him one bit and I would have kept on. But it turns out that he likes guys that are fresh. By the time mowing season was over last year, I could tell that he was itchy to move on. He's engaged a guy right out of high school to do his lawn this summer-and, no doubt, to be done by him before the summer is over.
My big project now is that I'd like to find my mother and see what she's doing-and just decide for myself how bad that is.