Baby Face
His Tinder ad read: “Eighteen and finally free. First week at uni, no curfews, no questions — just air. Want to grab coffee and talk about everything we couldn’t say all summer?”
… I met Chad in the Quad just after nine, when the autumn sun cast warm light over the red-brick buildings, and students strolled lazily between classes. He was slouched against a low stone wall, small-framed, hands buried in the pockets of his oversized sport shorts. His auburn hair tumbled carelessly over his forehead, catching glints of sunlight that made each strand glow like copper. His gray eyes met mine with a mixture of curiosity and hesitance, scanning me as if assessing my intentions, and then softened into a smile that made the morning air feel lighter.
Before leaving campus, I teased him into showing his ID and driver’s license because, I said, he looked like someone who could be 14. He fumbled, his cheeks tinged pink, and then produced both with a shy pride. “Eighteen and a half,” he said, and a long index finger with an impeccable pink nail landed on DOB 03/20/06. I nodded, and his shoulders relaxed slightly. We walked to his car, and he was dead silent on the way, like perhaps rehearsing what to say. The car was modest but obviously brand new and impeccably clean, and—when we got in—I saw the tiny “Top Honors” badge swinging from the rearview mirror. My guess was immediate: my date must have aced his high school, and got a car as a gift from proud parents…
Chad drove us to the river. The car hummed along the road, all the windows were down, and the wind played with our hair. Again, my silent date said nothing, just stealing short glances at me, and shifting several times in his chair like finding a comfortable position.
The Mississippi lay wide and slow when we arrived, shimmering with early morning light. We settled on a bench overlooking a bend in the river, and he started asking me endless questions. Like what freedoms I’d found in my own studies when I was a freshman; how it felt leaving home; if I had had a boyfriend back then; if I aced my first semester; if I had known right away I was going to be a teacher; the questions kept coming and coming, and he couldn’t, still couldn’t bring himself to look at me. He would tilt his head slightly when searching for another question in his mind, fingers brushing along the wood of the bench absentmindedly. His voice carried a soft cadence, rising at the end of questions and falling again as he considered my answers. Every so often, he laughed — quietly, thoughtfully, almost like an echo — and the movement of his shoulders or the shift in his stance gave the impression that he was physically aligning himself with my observations, internalizing them in some silent ritual of curiosity.
… Around noon we stopped by a grocery store and I bought us two delicious lunch packs—sandwiches, chips, a couple of tiny cakes and ice tea. Chad said he knew a place in the forest where his parents would sometimes take him for a picnic. Chad’s little car carried us through winding forest roads, the smell of pine and dry earth seeping through the open windows. He navigated confidently, yet there was a careful patience in his handling of the curves, an alertness that reminded me he was still learning the limits of both car and driver.
We found the clearing that brought so many memories to him, and laid out a checkered blanket he found in the car’s trunk. The lunch was simple but very delicious — roast chicken sandwiches, barbecue chips, apricot tea. Chad allowed himself to rest his head on my knee and went on asking one question after another, about anthropology, the habits of strangers, the paradox of independence. Between bites, he traced shapes in the grass with his fingers, glancing at me with eyes that seemed to ask if my answer satisfied him. Occasionally, he paused, letting the sound of wind through the trees and the distant call of birds fill the space between questions.
He gradually started talking more; soon he laughed softly at his own observations, fidgeted with the edge of the blanket, tapped his fingers on his knee when thinking. There was a restlessness to him, yes, but it was gentle, a current running beneath everything he did. I found myself mirroring his pace, slowing down to match him, letting each observation have its time.
After lunch I suggested we visit a hilltop lookout, where I loved bringing my dates. Chad guided the car along a twisting road to an observation deck overlooking the endless forest. The trees below were a mosaic of amber, gold, and lingering green, and the Mississippi cut through like an endless silver sheet, slow and majestic.
We leaned against the railing and the questions continued. Chad wanted to know if I ever felt lonely, what I did when that happened, and whether I had ever thought of having a real family. I responded as honestly as I could, and he nodded wisely, my little man. Then he went quiet for a moment, and launched into a story about his parents and the small rules that shaped him, a self-conscious but honest laugh accompanying each sentence.
His hands moved constantly — tracing the railing, brushing hair from his eyes, adjusting his T-shirt sleeve — as if to anchor himself to the moment. His eyes darted over every detail before settling on me, searching for reaction, some sort of engagement. Even when silent, there was a pulse to his attention, a rhythm that matched the gentle sway of the trees in the wind.
… We drove back toward town as the sun began its slow descent. Chad’s hands were light on the wheel, eyes flicking to the road, occasionally catching the reflection of sun on water through the windshield. The car was cool, and the hum of tires on asphalt was almost meditative. Chad talked and talked about dorm annoyances, shared silly but funny campus humor, and wondered at small absurdities of freshman life — while the landscape outside slid by in amber and rust hues.
At the café by the river, we claimed a corner table with a view of the water. The warm glow of hanging lights mingled with the fading sunlight, casting soft shadows across his face. He ordered a burger, I had fried catfish. Conversation continued to ebb and flow naturally. He asked me about independence, about adjusting to university life, about learning to tolerate uncertainty. He sounded careful but somehow strangely fearless, leaning in across the table. His eyes, focused on me, were wide, attentive.
After we finished, we lingered over iced tea. The sun touched the horizon, turning the river into liquid gold. Chad’s voice softened. “I want to be comfortable not knowing what comes next,” he said. I nodded, letting the words sink, thinking of the day’s rhythms — river, forest, lookout, and car rides. Outside, neon signs reflected in the water, small boats drifted silently. He pushed back from the table slowly, running a hand through his messy hair. We walked outside together, the evening air cool against our faces, carrying the scent of the river and distant coffee.
When I invited him over, he never hesitated—a large smile lit his face, his loopy ears shone red, and his hands with impeccably trimmed nails made several restless adjustments to his clothes… “Yeah, why not,” he said, casually.
***
Love being 18. He came three times that day for me; I am sure you knew when reading about our afternoon that there must have been pauses; there must have been spots where his 18-year-old hungry mind wouldn’t wait. I know you remembered your own freshman year when cumming three times wasn’t a big deal; especially when you were on a date with someone who knew what you REALLY wanted.
The first time started just as we left the campus behind. The engine of his car hummed steady; Chad steered, quite confidently and fast, I must say, windows down, with hot wind whipping our hair. It was hardly a minute into the ride when his right hand dropped casually from the wheel, landed on my leg mid-thigh, and then began a slow migration—his eager palm skimming denim, knuckles grazing the inseam, fingertips drawing idle circles that quickly turned my semi into a full hardon. I exhaled, spread my legs an inch, and it was an invitation he eagerly took—his whole hand cupped me, measured me, gave me a gentle squeeze that sent heat rolling up into my throat.
I mirrored him: reached across the stick-shift, found the tent in his basketball shorts already pitching north. Under the mesh his briefs were stretched tight, the shaft pinned arrow-straight against his lower abs, hot even through the fabric. I traced the outline from root to crown, thumb brushing the damp spot where precum had already soaked through; Chad’s hips lifted slightly off the seat, foot twitching on the accelerator so the car surged dangerously, spitting gravel. We kept the speed, kept the touch, all the while pine trees blurred past us in green haze.
Chad’s fingers around my cock narrowed to just two—index and middle—pad and nail circling the small ridge they found under the denim. He traced my crown again and again, pressing the cloth against the hooded head so the fabric tugged lightly at the foreskin each time he rolled back up. Every circle felt like a hot coin rotating under my skin, friction building through the denim, each of my nerve endings stacking toward overload.
Soon the car hit a straight stretch and he sped up the tease—tiny drags that mimicked a mouth pulling back a sleeve of skin, sending a fast wave from groin to sternum, and it made my thighs tremble. I clamped a hand on his wrist. “Chad, wait—wait,” I panted, “this here is a single barrel.” I heard myself exhaling a half-laugh, half-warning, because I was seconds away from shooting right through my fly. He eased off but kept his fingertips resting on the ridge, all the while keeping his eyes on the road, saying NOT A WORD.
Meanwhile, not driving myself, I found my job easy, so I hooked two fingers under Chad’s waistband and peeled the shorts down, springing him free. His cock stood up arrow-straight, pale shaft rising at a sharp angle, cut head flushed pink and glossy; below, heavy balls nested in fine gold fuzz that caught the sunlight like wheat.
I kept my touch feather-light: I began with tracing just the underside ridge with one fingertip—slowly, steadily, from root to crown and back, never circling the head, letting the nerve strip flicker awake.
Then I spread the pad of my thumb and the index finger in a loose ring, slid it halfway up the shaft, then rotated gently, so the skin shifted, just micro-millimeters around the rigid core. It was just a lazy screw-like motion that made his hips lift an inch off the seat.
Next, I brushed the very tip with the back of my nail—tiny flicks across the slit, collecting the bead of precum and painting it in slow star patterns, each pass like a cool breeze on hot skin.
A tiny crease formed between Chad’s brows—it was a beautiful frown of concentration, like he were contemplating an exam question. And then the progression was quick: his butt lifted off the seat and his hips pumped three short, urgent strokes into my loose fist. Then, in a lightning fast move, he clamped my hand around his cockhead and held it there. In total silence—with only the hum of the engine in our ears—his cock jerked and three thick ropes pulsed out, hot and fast, sliding between my fingers in glossy strands.
One hand never left the wheel; the car stayed steady at fifty-five. I watched the last drop pearl and fall, stunned at the speed: zero to spent in under five seconds. Eighteen, I thought—blink and they’re already mopping up the evidence.
“Wow, you are fast,” I said, my voice breaking from the intense emotion filling me. My own cock throbbed against my fly, itching so hard I felt each heartbeat in the slit—seconds from firing, but I held it, breathing through clenched teeth; eighteen-year-old dicks reboot in minutes. Chad’s eyes stayed on the asphalt. “Tissues… glove compartment…” I leaned forward, popped the latch, pulled out the travel pack. When I uncurled my sticky fist the sight hit: come pooled in the small hollow of his glans, more pearly rivers webbing my fingers—three thick tissues to mop it all, and still he stayed stiff, shaft jerking faintly with leftover pulses, refusing to wilt. I dabbed him clean, folded the last tissue around the head, and threw the crumpled tissues into the wilderness outside the car window…
***
After spending some time on the river, we went to that forest clearing, remember? After lunch he actually pointed me—like made me look!—at the tent in his shorts and his eyes again looked at me with the wordless question.
Sunlight poured through the leaves like liquid gold and landed square on him. His erect cock angled almost vertical against his lower belly—perfectly straight, pale as fresh cream, the circumcised head a soft rose that darkened to salmon at the rim. Tiny sapphire veins threaded under the thin skin, pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Beneath, his balls hung loose in a crinkled sack the color of new brick, fuzzed with downy gold that caught stray beams and glowed. Every breath lifted the shaft a fraction; when a breeze stirred the branches the light shifted and the whole length seemed to nod, weightless, like a single stem of meadow grass. I knelt between his knees and just looked—cock and sky and summer air, a still-life I wanted to memorize before I tasted it.
I leaned in until my lips almost brushed the head, then stopped—just exhaled, slow and cool. The shaft twitched, a single jerk that lifted it off his belly and dropped it back with a soft slap. Chad’s breath caught; a hushed “ah” slipped out, more air than sound. I moved lower, opened my mouth wide and sent a steady stream across his balls; the downy fuzz stirred, sack tightening in ripples. “Let it go,” I whispered between breaths, “don’t hold anything back, scream out, let it go.” Another cool wash along the underside vein and his thighs quivered; eyebrows knitted, mouth twisted into a beautiful, almost painful grimace. Rhythmic moans started—small, involuntary pulses timed to the faint bob of his cock, each exhale drawing a tighter note until the whole clearing seemed to vibrate with his quiet, desperate music.
I began by pressing just the flat of my tongue beneath the crown; I pressed it down and held it there, unmoving, letting spit pool until a single drop slid down the shaft like slow syrup. Chad’s hips lifted a fraction; I stayed still, turning my head only enough to drag that velvet pressure in a quarter-circle under the rim—no suction, no stroke, just warm, steady flesh meeting flesh until a tremor rolled through his thighs and fell back to earth.
Next I sealed my lips an inch below the head and drew only the helmet inside, cheeks hollowed to a gentle vacuum. I held the pressure constant, tongue flicking the slit in micro-taps—left, right, center—each touch a pin-prick of pleasure. His breathing fractured into tiny huffs; I could feel the pulse in his crown beat against my palate, but I refused to descend, keeping him locked in that tight, twitching pocket of wet heat.
Finally I sank all the way down until my nose met golden fuzz, then froze. While he was buried to the root I swallowed—slow, deliberate gulps that squeezed and released the entire length, throat muscles rippling like a fist opening and closing around him. Between swallows I stayed perfectly still, letting the internal massage do all the work, until his hands clawed the blanket and a ragged whisper begged for motion I still wouldn’t give.
Since I remained motionless, he took the initiative. Chad’s hips snapped up off the blanket, driving his cock between my lips like he was shoving open a stuck door. The straight shaft slid to the hilt in one thrust, crown ramming the soft ridge of my palate, then yanked back until the rim caught on my teeth before slamming home again. Each plunge felt like a hot bar of steel nudging, twisting—head thrashing left, right, left, painting wet spots across the roof of my mouth, knocking tiny sparks behind my eyes. My throat stretched around him, muscles fluttering open on every entry, tightening on every retreat, the friction burning warm and slick. His moans now came low and guttural, the sound a lifter makes on the final rep—strained, victorious, desperate to finish yet needing the burn to last.
Each new thrust came smoother, angled—like he’d studied the map of my mouth in advance. On the third drive he tilted hips, crown kissing the soft palate just right; my throat opened on reflex and he slid deeper, my nose now buried in gold fuzz, my airways sealed around him for two heartbeats before I gagged—my muscles rippled in a wet choke that felt oddly welcoming. He pulled it out to the ridge, gave me half a breath, then pushed up again, slow but firm, feeding me inch by inch until the same barrier gave and he popped through. The second gag was softer, almost polite—just a flutter, a warm hug of esophagus around his shaft. Salty tears pricked my eyes, yet the stretch felt good: aggressive, yes, but filling in a way that made my own cock jerk against my thigh, proud to take whatever this suddenly expert freshman decided to dish out.
Then I heard him start a cummer’s chant—“oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck”—each word riding a thrust. Then his abs locked, hips stuttered, and the first shot fired straight down my throat—thin, hot, salty-bitter, sliding without resistance. A second pulse followed before I could swallow, third and fourth trembling out while his crown thrashed side-to-side inside my throat, battering the walls like a trapped bird trying windows. The shaft swelled, jerked left, right, up, smearing cum across my palate and tongue, nerves lighting up in random sparks behind my eyes. When the shudders ebbed he slipped back inch by inch, still half-hard, dragging the last ribbon of spit and seed across my lower lip before popping free, leaving my mouth open, stunned, tasting four rapid ghosts of an eighteen-year-old reload.
I licked him clean—no tissue was needed this time. One slow lap from root to crown gathered every stray drop, a second swirl around the slit caught the final pearl. Sitting back on my heels, I looked at him: same polite freshman who’d greeted me on campus several hours agao. Same shy hands that had trembled touching me for the first time. Yet minutes ago that mouthy boy turned into a wolf cub—hips snapping, cock thrashing, feeding me spurts like he’d been starved for weeks. The contrast buzzed under my skin: boy-next-door packaging, predator engine inside. I tucked him back into his shorts, patted the still-firm bulge, and thought—some pups grow teeth fast; best keep watching the moon.
***
Back in my room I barely hit the mattress before he flipped me, ass up, knees spread wide like he was arranging furniture. This commander of my body now had my chest pinned to the sheet, hips yanked high, his cock sliding in on the first thrust, no prep, just spit and hunger. He drilled deep, and I wondered at a growl rumbling in his throat, each snap slamming my prostate until sparks popped behind my eyes and my dick sprang back to full mast.
Then he rolled me over, hooked my ankles over his shoulders, folded me until my knees kissed my chest. His angle sharpened; he drove downward, crown battering the same sweet wall, breath hot on my neck, growl sharpening to a snarl—seconds away from an open palm slap he craved but hadn’t dared yet. My vision blurred, and my cock leaked onto my stomach.
Finally, he hauled me upright, spun me to hands-and-knees, chest to the headboard. One hand fisted my hair, the other clamped my hip, and he pounded—long, full strokes that bottomed out with a wet slap every time. The bed shook, frame knocking wall, his snarls filling the room while galaxies burst across my sightline; I was granite-hard, dripping, begging without words for the slap I felt charging in his twitching palm.
Although the slap never came, the climax hit like a belt pulled tight—first a deep, slow burn behind my balls, then an itch that spread through every vein in my shaft, exactly the same maddening sting I’d once got from a burly trucker twice my weight. I barked out a sound halfway between laugh and choke as the first rope fired—long, almost angry, tearing through me like it wanted to scrape the urethra raw. Spurt after spurt followed, each one clawing that same hot itch from root to slit, until four, five strands striped the sheet and my abs, the relief sharp and almost painful. Through the haze I realized the kid ramming me from behind—this slim, bright-eyed freshman—had just wrung the brutal orgasm out of me, identical to what a diesel-driving giant once had. The thought alone sent a final tremor through my drained cock while Chad kept riding me, unaware he’d matched a heavyweight memory.
Then his hips locked flush to my ass, cock buried to the hilt, and the third climax ripped through him like current through wire—almost dry, just a thin pulse seeping hot inside me, but his whole body paid the price. His spine arched, his head snapped back, his eyes rolled white; then a strangled cry cracked out, half-growl, half-sob, words lost in static. His arms gave first—he folded onto my back, tremors rolling shoulder to thigh, teeth chattering against my sweat-slick skin. I felt every aftershock jerk through his shaft, through his ribs, through the mattress beneath us until the shaking softened to shivers and the only sound left was his ragged breathing and my own heart hammering in the sudden quiet…
… In the shower I taught him kissing; but alas, the lesson was wasted, this particular exercise of tenderness was not his cup of tea. He apologized, wiped and rinsed his mouth, and continued soaping himself. His cock started rising again, but this time he said “Sorry, sorry, it’s a bit sore… next time, next time.”
Next time was not to be. Chad stopped answering my messages, and walked past me on campus without acknowledging my existence. Who knows why. Do you, my readers?
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